Dirty, Double-Pranking Rat

When I was little, my dad and I used to play a little prank on one another. I had one of those little plastic spider rings that kids get on Halloween, one with the really long legs that almost looks like a spider if you glance at it from afar. I don't remember who started it, but my dad and I used to take turns hiding it in various places in the house: under coffee cups, blankets, pillows, even ...inside the medicine cabinet. We were gleeful when we could get the other to yelp or squeal, though we were seasoned pranksters by now, and so a true scare was rare but priceless.

This continued on into my college years. On my last day of spring break, I had left it behind hidden underneath my dad's comforter, even forgetting I had done so. When I called him after my plane landed, he recounted how he had been so certain it was an actual spider this time, that he had approached the bed with a rolled up newspaper. These were tame pranks, certainly, much more vanilla than those that I have been a party to throughout my life, but there was something so satisfying about genuinely startling someone over something so small.

While I would like to say maturity had made me leave such behaviors behind, I'm not going to lie, so I won't. I will instead say that when I saw a lifelike plastic rat at a thrift shop down the street, I was particularly gleeful. Though I was shopping for supplies for an art project, I saw it and thought instantly of my husband who had what he described as a "phobia of all vermin, but rats especially, having grown up on a farm." I purchased it and began plotting my prank on the drive to the house.

At home, I was a human tornado as I threw open drawers and cupboards trying to find the best place for it. I placed it under pillows and blankets, and practiced pulling off the blanket as he would if he were getting ready for bed. The rat was bulky, however, and did not have the same covert abilities as the spider, so finding the right spot was proving difficult.

Perplexed, I turned to the kitchen. Looking from cabinet to cabinet, my eyes rested on the microwave. Suddenly, it hit me... The microwave! It was perfect! The first thing my husband does when he gets up in the morning is brew coffee. While he's waiting, he would grab his travel mug from the fridge with his Starbucks that he saved and would heat it in the microwave. Because it is so early when he gets up, he does this all in the dark.

Placing the rat in the microwave, I shut the door. The rat disappeared. Then, I turned off the lights, walked back over to the microwave and opened it. The door swung open, the light turned on, and there the rat was, in all its terrifying ugliness. "Mwahahahaha!" I thought.

I opened and closed the microwave a few more times, giggling to myself. Satisfied, I finally shut the microwave door, and returned to my art project. He wouldn't be home until late, and I wouldn't have to worry about the plan being discovered.

As I worked a little longer, however, I started to worry. What if he has an actual phobia? What if he gets angry? What if I start a prank war that he takes too far and he puts actual spiders in my bed? The more I thought about it, the more I thought I should call it off, but a little voice reminded me of how it was all in good fun between my dad and I, and Chris would feel the same. Shaking out the worried thoughts, I remained determined.

A few hours later, it was late, and Chris had still not arrived home. Wanting to wait up a little longer, I decided to make some tea. With a mug of water in hand, I popped open the microwave. Instantly, I dropped the mug as I screamed a bloodcurdling scream with the cup shattering everywhere and water splashing across the floor.

I had forgotten about the rat.

I had pranked myself.

Needless to say, I called it off.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

July 2011, I got tickets from a vendor for a Twins game. Bragging to the chef at work, I showed him the seats.

"You're taking me, right?" He said. I looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Actually, I don't know who I'm taking yet, I--" He cut me off.

"It's settled then. You're taking me. It will be a good bonding experience for us." I looked at him incredulously since he had literally just invited himself to the game. I'd only started working with him for two months, and was surprised he was so bold.

"Fine..." I muttered, snatching back the tickets. This should be interesting, I thought.

The day of the game, I was nervous. What would I even talk to this guy about? Plus, he is bossy... Is he going to boss me the whole day? What happened next ended up being not the awkward experience I thought, but the world's longest date in history.

We started as normal: hotdogs, nachos and soda. He showed me Kramarczuk's polish sausages and explained their local story to me. From there, we went to the organ player and took a picture with her.

Then, I ran into Dan Edwards, a media producer who I used to intern with, who let us sing "Take me out to the ball game" on the jumbotrom during the 7th inning stretch. We ran into our boss who was oddly suspicious we had just been singing on said jumbotrom, but he had had some adult beverages, so we made our escape.

After the game, we ran into an old friend of mine on Hennepin by the 508 bar. They were doing a Bombay Sapphire Bartender Mixology competition. We got a set of cool knives that Chris still carries in his chef set at work.

Then, we went out to dinner at one of my old hotels, and one of the chefs made an awesome 6 course meal for us with scallops and pork belly. Finally, 10 hours later, he dropped me off at home.

As I got out of the car, I laughed, "I'm glad you invited yourself to the game." He laughed too. Little did we know we would be married two and a half years later.

So, today we celebrate our 6 month anniversary by again getting some tickets from a vendor, pigging out on polish sausage and singing during the 7th inning stretch (no jumbotrom today, though). Joining us was his daughter, and we celebrated being a family as well.

No Pasa Nada

Ten years ago I had to get across Paris in the middle of the night from one airport to a hotel across town so I could fly out early the next morning for my grandmother's funeral. I spoke no French, was beyond lost, likely looked like a terrified American college student, and had to rely on the kindness of the surprisingly hospitable passerby in a foreign land. I was passed from stranger to cab... driver to family to conductor to student, all without paying a cent, and all without question to help me get to my destination safely.

Tonight, I got to pay forward a little of the debt owed for my safety that night. A man from South America was at the front desk trying to check in who spoke no English. He was with a large group, another had booked the reservation for him, he had clearly been traveling for quite awhile and was at his wits end. The front desk agents were helplessly trying to explain to him they needed a credit card, even by pulling up Google Translate. I walked up, and with the little college Spanish left in my brain (that did not include sophisticated words such as "credit card" and "incidentals", so I too employed Google Translate) helped to explain the situation. Though it meant he would have to wait until someone with the card that booked the room arrived, he seemed satisfied, and was able to check in with a cash deposit.

An hour later, with my coat on and keys in hand, I saw him sitting by our fireplace, looking forlorn. I asked the front desk agents what was happening. They explained that someone had arrived, but it was only a translator and they had left and that the person with the credit card still needed to come. I looked at him, and looked at my phone to check the time, seeing it was pretty late and my husband was waiting with dinner. I sighed and walked over.

Speaking conversational Spanish, I asked him, "are you okay, sir?" He explained what the front desk agents had just told me. Then he paused and said, "I need to wait, but I'm really hungry." He patted his stomach sadly.

"You're hungry? THAT I can help you with!" I walked over to the front desk and told them I would be bringing him to my restaurant if his translator came back. I led him in, sat him down and brought over one of my servers.

"What do you like to eat?"
"Todo," he laughed.
"Hamburguesas?"
"Si!"
"Con queso?"
"Si!"
"Y papas fritas?"
"Si, si!"

He looked at me with a smile that made me have to turn away because he was so grateful, it embarrassed me. When he asked how much, I told him, "no pasa nada" or "don't worry about it."

I'd rather he pay it forward.

It's Not 'Just Hair'

There are those moments in a woman's life in which we might sigh loudly about our split ends, moan that our conditioner has suddenly stopped working, or even describe a curling iron burn like it's a wound of war.  Those moments happen, likely more often than we notice, but yes, we are aware we sound ridiculous, and that it is in fact, just hair.

Just last week, I had an appointment scheduled to get my hair colored with my stylist, Mary.  She had recently received a "promotion" which in the salon world is code for a two month advance booking window and $30 increase in price.  I had an attachment to this stylist, so I tolerated the increase, though the booking was difficult with my fluctuating work schedule.  When something came up last week in which I had to reschedule, I stomped around the hotel complaining about grown out roots, split ends, tired locks, the works.  I got a lot of withering stares.  I get it, it's just hair.

For me, it isn't just hair.  I don't think it is for any woman, really.  I am sure there are many women (or men, for that matter) in the world who have accidentally dyed their hair too dark or cut it too short, and didn't end up crying, and I tip my hair brush to them.  If you have had your hair fall out in clumps, in sizes as big as your fists, and you had no emotional reaction, however, then you are a stronger person than I, because that is what happened to me.

About two years ago, I had just gotten out of the shower after a long day of work.  Wrapped in a towel in the steamy room, I began to brush my hair.  Combing through the strands, I ran my fingers through to make sure I had pulled out all of the knots of my fine but thick hair.  Where the normally thickest hair would be, I felt an odd bareness.  I furrowed my brow as I ran my fingers along the area on the back of my scalp as my stomach began to turn.  Dropping the towel, I used it to wipe the fog from the mirror as I grabbed a hand mirror with my other hand, trying to frantically and awkwardly grab a glimpse of the back of my head.

What I saw was as confusing as it was unsettling.  A patch about the size of a dollar bill was completely bald on the back of my head.  It was bare with no hair, almost as if there had never been hair in the first place.  I felt it again, feeling sick to my stomach.  Chris was still at work, so I texted him with a vague, "come home now."  Obviously not thinking clearly, but more importantly on my mind was: where was the hair?

Having just had my hair cut three weeks before, I was certain that the haircutter never would have overlooked that a giant patch of hair had gone missing from my scalp.  So, I began looking around my apartment for the hair.  I looked at my brush; no more hair than normal.  Pillow; same.  I checked the floor, my sweaters, coats, everywhere.  There was, what I thought, the normal shedding of a girl with long hair. When Chris got home, the kitchen looked like a crime lab for CSI in which I had laid out strands of hair for comparison as if that somehow had answers.  If the man had walked out the door and never looked back, I would not have blamed him.

After he soothed me slightly, he inspected the rest of my scalp which revealed two more smaller bald patches on either side of my head.  I cried.  "I know it's just hair, but it's my hair," I said, as fat tears rolled into my mouth between sobs.

I called in sick to work for the following day.  It was the first time I had called in sick to work since I had started, and between seventy hour work weeks, there was a slight panic in the feeling of not going to work when I needed to be there simply because of hair.  Regardless, I set my alarm so I could start calling the doctor's office as soon as it opened to get in.

As my doctor read over my chart on his computer screen, I stared at the top of his head, wondering if he had had a similar moment of panic the first time he realized he was going bald.  I was still staring when I realized he had been speaking to me for sometime.  He rolled closer to me on his chair with my chart and pen in hand.  I began to answer the same set of questions all doctors, family and friends would pose to me in near identical order after this first visit:

"Have you recently changed your diet?"

"No."

"No new supplements, any medications, anything like that?"

"No."

"Exercise more than usual?"

"No."

"Weight loss, weight gain?"

"No."

"Changed hair products, shampoos, conditioners, dyed it recently?"

"No, no, and no."

"How's your sleep?"

"It's fine, I guess."

"What's your stress level?"

"I mean, work is stressful.  But work is always stressful."

With a heavy sigh, he checked something on the chart, rolled back over to the computer screen and began to type.

"It's probably alopecia.  Here's a referral to dermatologist.  Make an appointment at the desk."  He stood up.

"Okay, what, wait," I stammered.  "I don't even know what that is..alo, what, can you spell that?  What causes it, what do I do, what's the dermatologist for, what's wrong with me?"  He looked at me with a face that epitomized the statement: "it's just hair."

"It will be in your aftercare papers," he said carefully, as if I were a small child. "It is likely caused by stress.  The dermatologist will decide what the next route is.  Call me if you have any issues before you get in to see her."

And that was that. I made the appointment.  The sad part of that experience was, with that little information, and the few questions I was able to have answered, I did have issues.  I lost more hair in the two weeks between when I saw my doctor and when I saw the dermatologist.  My doctor's nurse's response: "keep the appointment, try to reduce your stress levels."

"Someone please explain to me how to reduce my stress levels to prevent my hair from falling out when I am stressed out because my hair is falling out," I remember shouting at my cellphone during the two week gap between appointments.  There was no one on the other line, and I was alone sitting in my car outside of Target.  I had just been speaking to a very kind nurse, and after I hung up the phone, I was debating whether I really felt like going in to shop.  I did, but all I got when I went in were headbands and headscarves because the bald spots were beginning to show and I needed to do something to hide it at work.

Finally, the day of the appointment arrived, and all of my questions were answered by a reassuring and intelligent dermatologist.  She sat patiently with me, made eye contact, nodded as I asked questions, handed me reading materials, and pulled up sites online, all to explain exactly what was happening to me:

Alopecia is an autoimmune disease in which the body, often without known cause, thinks that the hair follicles are foreign bodies and attempts to attack them to get them out of the body, much like it would attack a virus.  Though the reasons are unknown, it can be stress related or due to trauma, such as a car wreck or tragedy.  There are treatments for the disease which may make it go away, but it may return for no reason or never go away completely.  The pamphlets she gave me showed people with missing eyebrows and eyelashes, so I assumed I wasn't forsaken.  She did a large biopsy of two places on my scalp, and then stitched me back up, and though it was quite painful, I felt I had more answers that day.

After confirming it was alopecia with the biopsy, I was given three options.  One, was nothing which was immediately dismissed considering I had already been perusing Jessica Simpson's line of wigs and had not found an appealing one yet.  Two, was to use a follicle stimulating cream on my scalp. Three, was steroid shots directly into my scalp.  The third option would be multiple shots all across my scalp every three weeks.  Because of the size of my patches, it would take 45 minutes each time to get all of the shots.  After conversing, we decided option three was the route with the best promise for regrowth, so I had my next appointment booked.

For this time, I brought Chris.  As the nurse checked me in, she asked me if my "husband wanted anything to drink." We both giggled, because we weren't even engaged yet.  In the room, I laid on my side on the bed.  The doctor pulled out her large tray.  I could hear a lot of noises, but couldn't see.  I could tell she sensed my tension, because she asked Chris to come stand next to the bed to hold my hand.  I couldn't tell if he was squeamish, but he came over and made small talk as if he was interested in the exact mechanics of the procedure.  I felt like some restless farm animal that was being calmed down before euthanized.

The first needle went in and a tingle went through my scalp and down my neck.  It felt as if my scalp was getting tattooed.  A couple would go in without issue, and then one would go in that made me want to crawl out of my skin.  Chris told me later that when the needle would insert and the doctor would push in the syringe, the skin in that area would puff up like a little balloon.  I felt I had aged a year laying on that table, and when I saw the tiny scabs on the patches in my hand mirror, I realized how many shots there really were.

I had seven more appointments like that.  They became more routine, and the pain dulled as well. On the fourth visit, my dad came because Chris had to work.  I was okay to not have a hand to hold at this point and I think my dad was just fine not having a front row seat to watch the show.  Each night, after I would shower, Chris would comb my hair, looking for new spots.  If he found a new one, it would get added to the list of injection areas for the next procedure.

After awhile, the fifty dollar co-pays for specialty procedures, the insurance deductibles, the bland waiting room coffee, sterile procedure rooms and backless gowns started to make me resent the hair, and I often fantasized about shaving it all off.  I scrolled through websites at night trying to find lightweight wigs or statement earrings.  I recognized I wasn't anything close to a cancer patient, but I wanted to ask someone how they handled this.  Thinking it was "just hair and not cancer" stopped me from seeking advice.

This was how I found my current stylist.  I had been dragging around the same awful, uncut, undyed, raggedy, mangy hair for four months since I had gotten the diagnosis in fear of bringing it to some stranger to see how bad it was.  When I pictured it getting cut at this point, it was me in the bathroom with a men's electric shaver.  I needed to do something, however, so I called up a salon I used to go to when I lived near my dad's.

"Okay, so this is going to sound weird, but I have this condition, and I don't want someone asking a ton of questions, but do you have someone who can just cut my hair and make it look halfway decent?"  I blurted into the phone.

The woman on the other line said as kindly as the first nurse who reassured me to ease my stress levels. "Sweetie, we see this stuff all the time.  I'll give you Mary.  She's a doll."

That's how I met Mary.  And wouldn't you know, she gave me a beautiful cut, and when she spun me around to show how she styled it to cover the spots, I started to cry (which I don't think they see all the time). A few weeks later, she colored my hair.  A couple months after that, she was the first to discover the first little baby hairs of regrowth.  We hugged.

So you see, for some, it isn't "just hair" or "just stress".  Sometimes our bodies manifest stress in physical and scary ways that are imperceptible until it's looking at you, baldfaced in the mirror.  So, I keep those hair appointments, I do my self care, eat right and sleep well, see my friends and my family and try to get and give as much love as possible.  There is joy to be had in the world, and if you don't have it, you've got to change so you can find it.

Beginner Piano

There are a lot of terrifying moments in a person's life.  Public speaking would be one.  When I was about 14 years old, I had been studying classical piano for many years.  I had played in several recitals, a lot of them in intimate places where you walked 5 feet from your seat to play and then walked right back after.  I had a teacher who constantly pushed me to do better.  So, when the opportunity to enter a recital in which I would be playing in a grand forum came, I wasn't able to resist her urges to play. 

When we arrived, I looked about the venue and wanted to be sick.  It was grand, with vaulted ceilings and pillars, and seats that stretched back.  We wouldn't fill every seat in this place, I thought.  Yet, when I peeked behind the velvet curtains to see where my dad was sitting, I saw that every seat had been filled... And I couldn't find his face.  I stood waiting, and idly conversed with the emcee.  Three had already gone.

There was one boy ahead of me, and then it was my turn.  I stood in the eaves and watched the pudgy teen make his way to the piano.  As he sat, his shirt became untucked, and he tried to shove the shirt back into his pants.  He paged through his music sloppily and then finally settled on one.  He rustled through the pages again and then played the same chords again: one, two, three.  And silence.  He looked earnestly over his shoulder at the emcee standing next to me.  She gathered up the microphone and some notes and bustled onto the stage and dramatically sat next to the boy.   She turned the page to the beginning for him, and again, he played the same lackluster chords and stopped.  Realizing it was time to put the poor boy out of his misery, the emcee stood and gave him a warm congratulatory applause, to which the audience mimicked.  He moved off the stage, hiding fat tears that were rolling down his cheeks.  The emcee turned to me, gesturing that I come onto the stage.

I looked out at the crowd, still not able to discern my father's face from the mass.  I walked out, sat at the piano, and stared at the bright keys.  It's time to play, I realized.  Go.  My fingers played a couple of chords and then my brain shut off.  I could feel the crowd shifting uncomfortably.  Play, my brain urged, go.  My fingers would not listen.  If there was ever a time in my life where I thought I was consciously having a medical emergency, this was it.  I looked around, wondering if anyone else realized what was happening to me.  I looked into the eaves at the emcee, and she looked at me with consternation: is this kid gonna play or not? I willed her to come sit next to me on the piano seat, to jovially turn the music and pat me on the back for not knowing the music.  Yet, she did not come.  I stared out at the audience, still not seeing my father's face.  I was alone.   I could try to play the music, the piece I had memorized to the point of exhaustion, I could hope that my fingers would suddenly do what my mind was urging it to do.  Or, I could get up and walk off the stage and leave this terrifying situation.  I stared hard at the keys... I played three chords and froze again.  Okay, you tried, I thought.  Time to go.

Seven years later, I was a senior in college.  I had taken a piano class to fill my requirement for a fine arts credit.  Originally hoping to move slyly through Beginner Piano, I was found out when the professor realized I could read music.  Once I was in intermediate piano, I saw what would be the biggest obstacle for me... It wouldn't be the music theory tests or the one on one exams... It would be the final exam which was being apart of final recital.  I had nightmares about it: naked, I would have to play a full sonatina with a crowd of people staring at me.  I counted down the days.

The day of my recital was a funny one.  I woke up with a full terror knowing I had a recital that day.  No backing down now... Time to just do it.  When I looked at my phone, however, something, somewhere, had a different plan for me.  My sister had given birth to my tiny nephew.  Oh darn it, I lamented, when I wrote the email to my professor.  I must, I repeat, must be with my sister on this hallowed day.  The message back from my professor was one of understanding but with a chilling final message.  "Any performer who is unable to attend the final concert will need to perform a solo concert with the department's music head."

Goddamit.  Is this worse than a concert, I wondered.  The day of my exam, I was more relaxed than any other day.  It was the end of my semester.  I had endured a firing squad for my thesis, I passed my exams... This was the last piece.  My degree literally depended on my passing of a basic piano class.  I walked into the exam room, it was a man I had never met before and a female assistant.  I handed them my music and sat down at the piano and began to play

Midway through the piece, I realized the same thing was happening... I had forgotten the music.  At this moment, however, I made a decision to keep playing.  Just go.  I could hear the professor quickly paging through the music to catch up with me, but it was too late.  I kept going and ended the song with a dramatic banging on the chords.  The professor looked up from trying to find where I was in the music to kindly clap.  He smiled.  I smiled.  It was done.

Ticklish and Out of Breath

Cooking in my kitchen,
Baked penne pasta and bread pudding.

Cuddling on chilled sheets while
Ticklish and out of breath.

Resting in a requiem on a small brown bench,
Nestled together as red sun rays anoint our heads.

Joining hands at our hips as we haunt a small pier,
water washing over our bare feet as we watch a ship leave port.

Climbing up a high cliff, overlooking a scenic landscape,
A couple asks if we came from a parade.

Lighting a candle, one for the past, one for the future,
one for our wrongs, one for our heart.

Tattered and torn out pages of much loved titles,
these novels sit in a nook marked "nostalgia."

We're not looking for a big revelation,
Just a lot of small little ones.

Taking pictures of our quests, laughing, smiling, loving...

We forge forward.

Still Recovering

For so long I'd held it all inside.
I fought so long.  I cried.

When did I grow up?
Why was I not told?
It's like I woke up one day and said:
"I'm three days older than three days before,
and I refuse to be a child anymore."

No one told me she almost died; she tried.
No one told me she almost succeeded at suicide.
And now I know.
She hasn't mentioned it
but I know.

And when I listen to her talk, I wonder where I'd be
if no one had walked in and found her lying there.

I wonder what pills she had or what drinks she slammed.
And I wonder if she thought of me when she spent two months in recovery.
I wonder why no one told me.
Or why I didn't wonder for those two months
why she didn't call.

No one told me,
but I know.
It doesn't show,
but I know.
I've got a lot left to live,
to give.
I'm not that child I once was and never will be.

I smile until my lips crack.
I want my childhood back.
But, I wonder where I'd be
if no one had told me.