The Art of Making People: Kealani Joy ~ February 16, 2009

My pregnancy with Kealani was relatively uneventful. Other than a short bout with sciatica at 7 months that left me unable to walk without extreme back pain for two weeks, it wasn't a major deal. (To read my thoughts on pregnancy in general, see Things No One Tells You About Becoming a Mom.) At the end I was anxious to meet this little human, and to go back to not feeling like an alien was inhabiting my uterus.

The evening of Sunday, February 15th, Jon and I were with our good friends Lynnea, Jen, and Brady. Valentine's Day had been my due date, so any miniscule sign that K was coming tended to make me want to rush to the hospital and bribe anyone present to get her out of me. I was having uncomfortable contractions, but they were no where near predictable, and I didn't feel any pain, so I tried not to get excited.

We made the obligatory nothing-better-to-do-on-a-Sunday-night-in-Templeton trip to Target and walked around, finding things to buy that we didn't need. While taking laps, I started having contractions that forced me to actually stop and catch my breath. We indifferently finished our shopping and headed back to our house.

My contractions kept coming, and though I knew they weren't close enough together, I couldn't help but think that Kealani was going to make her appearance sooner than later. Jen and Lynnea decided it would be a good time to learn the Soulja Boy dance and proceeded to Youtube the song and study the choreography. (Fun fact: Auntie Nae was wearing her Edward Cullen shirt because yes... she's just that hip.) I started writing down the time each contraction came, excitement building as I noticed they were finally getting closer together. After watching Black Sheep (or some other ridiculous Chris Farley movie), our friends decided it was time to go. They told us to let them know if anything else happened, and maybe they'd see us at the hospital tomorrow.

It was 9:00 pm when I told Jon I thought we should head to the hospital. The contractions were about five minutes apart, and painful enough that I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. We casually gathered our things and made our way downstairs. (No water breaking, panicking, or speeding to the hospital like in the movies... it's not our style anyway.)

Jon drove the mile and a half to Twin Cities Community Hospital while I cursed the speed bumps on Santa Rita as we seemed to hit one every time I was having a contraction. (Yes, it's one of two roads in Templeton with speed bumps... the route Jon chose.)

When we got there, I wasn't dilated very much so the nurse told me to walk around the floor for about an hour, and they'd check me again to see if I had progressed at all. One of my fears was being sent home, especially feeling the way I did... if I'm in this much pain now and they tell me to come back later, I think I will have Jon run me over in the parking lot.


Thankfully I progressed a couple centimeters by the end of my stroll (which felt like a marathon, pausing every couple minutes to grab Jon or the handrail attached to the wall as my contractions strengthened) and I was officially admitted around 10:30 pm. We got "comfortable" in our room, I climbed into the bed, arranging my sexy backless tent into a more flattering position, and we waited.

I went into this labor wanting to "go as long as I could" (hoping it would end up being the entire time) without asking for any medications. I lasted about an hour before I asked for the first round: intravenous narcotics, which are less invasive (i.e. paralyzing) than an epidural and supposedly "take the edge off". I believe it was close to another hour before I thought to myself, you have nothing to prove! You love to sleep! You WILL NOT sleep unless you take MORE DRUGS! And I asked for an epidural. Asking for an epidural does not mean you will get one in the near future. The anesthesiologist needs to be called, jarred from his REM cycle in the middle of the night, then he needs to show up, then he needs to be able to effectively insert the giant needle into your spine. So another hour later, after two stabbings into my back, amidst ever intensifying contractions, I felt sweet relief (numbness) and was actually able to sleep until 7:00 am!

Jon and I woke up to an incredibly stormy day, rain pounding on the windows of the hospital room. This made me somehow feel better, knowing I would have been trapped inside all day whether I was in labor or not. We watched some terrible morning shows, ate some terrible "breakfast", and continued to wait. Some family and friends were even able to come in and hang out with us for short periods. (Hey, when you can't feel your contractions, you can be jolly and welcoming instead of demonic and filled with rage.)

It was during one of these visits, in the middle of my labor, we learned that on Jesse and Moriah's way to the hospital (in the middle of the night when they heard Kealani was on her way... what dedication!), Moriah had hit a raccoon on the freeway and it had actually done some legitimate damage to her car. Funny at the time? To Moriah, no; to us, kinda. Funny now? Definitely. 

At some point mid-morning, a nurse came to check my progress and it was discovered that I had been stuck at 7 centimeters for quite a while. The on-call doctor, Dr. Thomas, came in to talk to me about my options. He told me that I could wait it out to see if I progressed any further, but also that they wouldn't let me wait forever, and there was a good chance that I'd end up needing a C-section anyway. I was ready to get this kid out of me... I was starting to feel the contractions again, which were plenty painful, and I didn't want to go several more hours just to wind up having the surgery in the end. Jon and I decided to get the ball rolling on the C-section.

Apparently nothing happens quickly in the hospital unless there's a true emergency, or your baby decides to shoot out before anyone is ready to catch it. It took almost an hour for the nurse to come in with the paperwork I was required to fill out and sign before they would cut me open. Shortly after I completed everything, Jon and I were the only ones in the room, and I suddenly started having the most intense contractions yet, along with the feeling that I was pooping the bed. (If you can't live without more details on that, read Things No One Tells You About Becoming a Mom. I dare you.)

When our nurse returned, most likely to wheel me into surgery, I told her what I was feeling, and she said, "Oh, then you might be ready to push!" It seemed our little girl already had a mind of her own, and after hours of taking her sweet time, she wanted out right now. Dr. Thomas came in soon after that, and began making preparations. This is when every contraction really started to hurt. I assumed my epidural had worn off completely. It was the only explanation as to why I would now be in so much pain after being able to labor in my sleep all night long. (In giving birth to Leila without meds, I learned that no... my epidural had absolutely not worn off... more on that in her story.)

I was instructed to grab my own legs, right under the knees, with Jon on one side, a nurse on the other. Every time a contraction came, I pushed (which feels like trying to take a huge, painful dump). Each push was held for ten seconds, and I had to do this three times for each contraction. Kealani was slowly making her way down and out, but eventually Dr. Thomas decided the vacuum was needed. After an hour of pushing, one more contraction, and some suction, at 12:37 p.m., Kealani was born!

Someone immediately placed her on my chest, and she looked up at me, her eyes wide open. I couldn't believe I was finally making eye contact with the tiny human that I had only felt from the inside for so many months. Kealani Joy was 8 lbs 14 oz, and a very tall 23 inches (that height thanks in part to Daddy, and in part to the extra-pronounced cone head due to being vacuumed out of me... at her one week check up she was only 22 inches).

Nothing compares to the experience of giving birth. It's physical, emotional, spiritual, and completely different for each mother. For me it brought relief, joy, thankfulness, a new fear of our cruel world, an understanding of my parents I'd never known before, and a love so huge that it took a couple weeks to recognize it. Most importantly, it brought my first daughter, Kealani... the tiny human that Jon and I made together, and have vowed to be examples of faith and love to for the rest of our lives.

Kealani Joy

The Art of Making People

The next couple stories I plan on writing may take me longer than normal (I know, how is that possible since I consistently take 2-3 months to post a new one?)... I'll probably end up writing bits and pieces of them when both my baby girls are sleeping, or at the very least quiet. So yeah, it may take a while.

I decided that writing down both of the girls' birth stories would be fun for me. Having Leila three weeks ago made Kealani's birth come flying back into my always-hazy/forgetful/straight-up-unaware consciousness. I also figured it could be fun for them to, in the future, read a detailed account of their entrance to the world... rather than asking their 40-something mother what it was like twelve years after I've already completely blocked out the trauma.

I realize birth stories can be boring. I apologize in advance if you read them thinking they might be as entertaining as 16 and Pregnant and I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant (the drama!... the ignorance!). This is to help my Old, Future Self to remember. And for my girls.

Some day, some month, some date, 2025...

Me: Kealani, Leila, do you want to read about the days you were born?

Leila & Kealani:

Things No One Tells You About Becoming a Mom

My second daughter's arrival is right around the corner. This means that labor, childbirth, poop, sleeplessness, and countless other things that go with motherhood (specifically newborns) have been filling my already foggy pregnant brain. Something I realized last time I went through this is that there are things that people just don't tell you.

I think some of these things are straight up gross, so they are rude to discuss over a meal; some pass so quickly that experienced young moms forget to share them with their friends before it's their turn to experience them (leaving the newbies to wonder "WTF? A head's up would have been nice."); and some might just be so embarrassing that no mom would ever share them. Ever. Not even to save a close family member or friend's own embarrassment/feelings of utter inadequacy. No matter who your friends are or what books and websites you read, your experience will not be like any other mother's. But here I intend to list some of the things that caught me a little off guard.

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1. Being pregnant is not fun. 

There are women out there who claim that they enjoy being pregnant so much that they wouldn't mind being with child all the time. I've even heard someone say they'd rather be pregnant than have the actual kid. (Wow.) I say more power to you, girls. But for me personally: constantly feeling like I'm going to retch all my internal organs out with no relief for weeks on end; getting punched and kicked from the inside; being in pain, exhausted, and uncomfortable all the time (especially at the end); feeling like my privates have had a car battery dropped on them when I move too suddenly; and handing over my body, independence, and physical activity to a few-pounds ball of human I'm trying to grow... just isn't my idea of a good time.

I hate to sound like a complainer. The end result of being pregnant is so mind-blowingly worth any and all of the things I've listed. Both of my pregnancies have been normal, uneventful, and as comfortable as can be (which makes me shudder to think about the poor women who have complications or are put on bedrest). But even as "easy" as pregnancy is for me, I don't like it. I'm selfish and I want my body back. Now.

2. You don't get your body back after Baby is born.


This one is pretty common sense, but I think the first time around I was so relieved that I wasn't pregnant anymore, I didn't quite understand that my body wasn't all of a sudden going to be "mine" again. Feeding a newborn around the clock prevents that pretty effectively. Feeling like you've been run over by a truck, wearing a pad the size of a decorative pillow because you'll be bleeding for about six weeks, treating your hemorrhoids, and running on a fraction of your desired sleep makes it hard to pamper yourself and "get back into shape" right away. (And I haven't even done it with an extra toddler running around yet. This will be fun.)

3. Part of labor is feeling like you are pooping yourself.


My doctor was ready to give me a c-section after I remained dilated at 7 cm for too long without progressing. While the nurses were dealing with my finished paperwork and getting ready to wheel me into another room for surgery, I suddenly had to ask Jon one question, "Am I pooping? Right now? It feels like I am pooping." After checking (what a great guy) and letting a nurse know, we learned that my body was telling me that Kealani was coming and it was time to push. This time I'll know it's almost over when I feel like I'm involuntarily taking a dump on the table.

4. You will instantly feel sorry for all the BS you put your mom through. I mean it, like instantly after childbirth.


The way you feel about your kid after she's born is indescribable, so I won't try. What I never realized is that I'd all at once feel dangerously protective of my baby while also feeling guilty about making my mom worry about me as much as I must have. Moms worry. I won't stop worrying now until I'm dead. That feeling is something that can't be explained, but I appreciated my mom (and dad) on a new level, and will most definitely continue to as my girls pass through each stage of life. (God help me through the teenage years.)

5. If breastfeeding was used as a form of torture to obtain information, all governments would know everything they need to know. At all times.


I'd read up on breastfeeding, had friends and my own mom who had experienced it, and always planned to attempt it. I was still rather unprepared for the pain. I think it goes under the category of passing so quickly that no one remembers to relay the tidbit "breastfeeding sucks so bad there will be times you wish you were dead" to their friends. It makes complete and total sense. Take a body part that is uber sensitive, latch a living thing onto it, and let it suck as hard as it can for hours on end. This will cause said body part high levels of pain.

Most reading materials and other moms told me this pain should only last a week or two. For me it lasted eight full weeks. There were times the sound of my daughter stirring, meaning she would be ready for a meal within minutes, made me cry. I truly thought I was mommy-handicapped because if it still hurt, I must be doing it wrong, right?? No, I was doing it right. So was my daughter.

Praise the Lord the pain eventually completely subsided. Like, I could pop her little face onto my boob, carry on a conversation, and/or build a model airplane while she nourished herself, and I hardly remembered she was there. Just a little encouragement for anyone who goes through this in the future: if you really want to breastfeed, and keep breastfeeding, the pain will go away. As long as there are no medical conditions, problems with milk production, or issues with your baby's latching/suckling reflexes, you're good to go.

If you want to prepare yourself ahead of time, follow these simple steps: Rub down your nipples with a square of extra course grit sandpaper, as hard as you can. Take a razor blade and add some cuts here and there, making sure there's plenty of bleeding. Apply rubbing alcohol with a shot of Listerine. Next, try to find a bra, t-shirt, or any other piece of apparel that you can wear without causing friction between said article of clothing and nipples. Do NOT sleep on your stomach. Repeat 6 - 12 times per day. Good luck.


6. Moms can be super judgmental of each other.

Hey, we're women. We judge, gossip, and hate on others for no apparent reason. It's not something to be proud of. But with my first kid I realized how much competition there is between new moms and moms with similar aged kids. Even the ones with kids in the next stage make comments like, "Oh, you think it's hard now, wait until...", and I've heard "well, you're lucky you have a girl..." more times than I have fingers.

Here's the deal. Being a mom is hard. The career of raising a human being does not receive pay, vacations, or breaks. You are ingrained with the "mother instinct" immediately after giving birth. It doesn't matter what your kid's temperament, stage, energy level, age, or gender is. Young moms are all doing it for the first time, and it's hard. There's no right way, and every child, parent, and family are different. There's no need to compete. If we're doing our best and our kids grow into somewhat productive members of society with good values and a sense of responsibility, we all "win".

7. Your kid will probably fall on its head. More than once. Whether you tell other people is entirely up to you.


As if being a new parent isn't hard enough... there are accidents. Plenty of them. Feeling inadequate rises to a new degree when you turn your back for 1/16 of a second and your kid falls on her head. God made babies' bodies very bendable and they heal lightening fast. This is because He also made moms, and knew how out of it we would be sometimes.

8. When you're pregnant the second time (and I imagine every time after that), you pee yourself. 
    Often.


When those muscles have been stretched by childbirth once already, and now there's a new baby resting right on top of them, they don't work very well. I pee when I laugh, sneeze, cough, and exist. After I finish peeing on the toilet, no matter how long I sit there to make sure I am fully drained, within one minute of standing up, a few more drops WILL come out. I lean forward, backward, wiggle a little, but it never fails. I take the necessary precautions, but that doesn't mean it's not gross.

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I'm sure there are many more things that would be nice for future moms to know (I may add them as I think of them)... and really society. There are plenty of "complainers" out there who make the symptoms of pregnancy/motherhood more obvious to outsiders, but they don't represent all of us.

The only times I get peeved are when there's a "what does she do all day" attitude toward my job, or someone makes me feel like I'm lazy for not wanting to move much in this stage of pregnancy. But all I have to do is take a look at my gorgeous little girl and none of that matters. All I do is for her, and her little sister to come, and they deserve it. I love being a mom.

The First Apartment

Due to the exciting upcoming addition to the Richert household in December, I've been out of commission in the writing department... apparently for almost three months. Oops. While I used to use Kealani's nap time to write my stories, lately I've been using it to sit like a blob on the sofa, stare into space, take a nap myself, or, in the early stages of pregnancy, try not to vomit. 

But I'm back! And I'll try to be better this time. We'll see how long I can stick to that when Baby #2 comes along.

Our family will be moving into a new-to-us rental house with room for four in San Luis next month. It will only be the third place Jon and I have lived in together, and second since Kealani was born. This has gotten me all nostalgic... it has also brought up some charming memories of our very first apartment, along with the Moving Out Experience.

  Our first living room... don't worry, we added 
in vogue decor later... and yes, that's a bike rack.

Our first place was a typical young-marrieds' first apartment. Cheap and sketchy. Our actual complex wasn't necessarily sketchy, nor the townhouse-style apartment. But the area, on South El Camino in Atascadero, saw its fair share of nutcases and police cars. We loved it because we lived there together.  We hated it because we shared walls with strangers, paid to do our laundry, and had super classy neighbors.

There was the family across the lawn from us: a bilingual young couple with an out-of-control toddler boy who enjoyed playing handball against our wall (the upside to living on the end of the row). These people managed to own three nice cars and park all of them in our parking lot despite the one-space-per-apartment rule. They probably could have lived in a two story house in north A-town if they'd sold a couple of their automobiles. To each their own.

Next, the old man with his mail-order Filipina bride and their much sweeter and quieter toddler boy. The only time I saw her was in the laundry room, and she was pleasant enough. Just too young. For a sixty-five-year-old man.

My personal favorites moved in about six months after we did. This couple was, for lack of a better term... white trash. Friendly as can be, just... well, you know. I would arrive home after long days of substitute teaching, and eventually full-time teaching that included a wonderful commute from King City, to find both of them standing or sitting on my porch drinking matching cans of Bud Light. Now, when I was substituting locally, I got home around 3:30. Every day. I found them on my porch with their brewskies at 3:30 every day. Because they chose to park themselves in my business, I found myself politely nodding with a "hello", entering my home, and keeping my shades drawn. I hate artificial light. But Joe Dirt and his wifey were hanging out right outside my window, so there was only one logical choice. It got even better as we watched Mrs. Dirt during her two, very consecutive pregnancies not only continue her daily Bud Light tradition, but smoke several cigarettes as well. Thank God their two adorable (how did that happen?) little girls turned out okay. I wonder what ADHD medication they'll be on when they're in my dad's 3rd grade class in a couple years.

Our next door neighbors were the most "normal", and relatively friendly. But the teenage girl liked to sing. Loudly. When my brother Jesse lived with me for a couple months before Jon and I got married, he actually yelled one night, "What, are you trying out for American Idol?!" Luckily her karaoke machine was turned up too high to hear him.

A South El Camino Christmas

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Our landlord lived in San Luis and never made the commute over the hill unless there was something seriously wrong with one of his apartments. We saw him once in the two years we lived there. (It's because we had no water... turns out the rambunctious little boy across the way had turned a rather important red lever while using our hose spigot to fill up water balloons. Good thing Mr. Landlord drove up the Grade for that one.)

In order to keep an "eye" on things, he employed an eighty-eight-year-old man who lived in the mobile home park next to the complex to "manage" the property. His name was Cap. We saw Cap almost every week. He would come by just to say hi and make sure everything was ok. The problem was that he was eighty-eight. He liked to tell stories. And in typical senior citizen fashion, he told the same ones over and over. We were thankful to have him, considering he responded so quickly to calls regarding our apartment (what else did he have to do besides trying not to die?), but I'd be lying if I said we didn't run and hide when we saw his car in the lot... much like a Jehovah's Witness sighting.

The time came for Jon and I to move out. (The circumstances of which I will write about later.) We were entering a phase that was exciting and full of unknowns, yet I felt a sense of sadness over the task of packing up our first home together.

One afternoon, a week or two away from our Move Out Day, Cap decided to stop by to see how things were going.

There was one small problem. We'd brought home a kitten three months before, and we weren't allowed to have pets. (Okay, Jesse and I brought the kitten home one night after a trip to Video Palace while Jon was busy sleeping off some form of the Man Flu. Tits McGee was in a box with two of his skinny, goopy-eyed siblings, and I fell in love. Jon couldn't very well turn him away once we'd brought him home and bought a litter box and food, right? Right.)

Resist this? I don't think so.

So when Cap stopped by, Jon and I were caught off guard. McGee's litter box was in the bathroom, his toys were scattered about the living room, we were moving out in mere days, and hoping to receive ourfull deposit back... not to be fined for having an illegal pet. Here's where it turned to slapstick.

Hearing the knock on the door, and being afraid of... well, sounds... McGee tore up the stairs in order to hide, most likely under our bed. Jon and I stared wide-eyed at each other for what seemed like minutes, the wheels turning in both our heads. Assuming Cap was just there for another senile story hour, Jon opened the front door, just as I was chucking furry cat toys into the bathroom and hastily slamming the door shut. I hope Cap doesn't have to pee. After overhearing Jon and Cap's greetings, and praying that McGee wouldn't choose to bolt down the stairs at any moment, came Cap's question: "Do you mind if I head upstairs and check your curtains? I'm here to see if they'll need replacing."

I wanted to respond, "those curtains look like a Motel 6's and should have been replaced in 1978 when they were first installed" but I had more pressing matters to think about.

Jon turned around and looked at me as if to say, Go upstairs right now and throw the cat out the window. 

Tearing through the both of them and sprinting upstairs would look rather suspicious, so I chose to stand, grinning like an idiot, and watch helplessly as Jon led the old man upstairs. I took the opportunity to bust into the bathroom and shove the litter box and previously chucked cat toys under the sink. You can't trust an almost ninety-year-old bladder. I just hoped Cap's sense of smell had disintegrated with his memory, in case he did end up using the facilities.

As I exited the loo and shut the door again, I could hear Jon's heavy footsteps crashing down the top of the stairs. I ran to the staircase, and before I had the chance to question, Jon was shoving a ball of fuzz through the railing at me. Within a second of receiving the bundle, I felt claws piercing through my skin. McGee had decided this was too much action, was trying to permanently attach himself to me, and started hissing at both of us. Jon scampered back up the stairs, just in time to answer a question Cap was in the middle of asking him, while I calmly, yet with purpose retreated to the back sliding door. I opened it, tossed McGee into the air, and watched as his legs spun in the style of Wile E. Coyote's, before he darted around the corner.

Closing the slider, I turned around and saw Jon and Cap coming back down the stairs. Cap was finishing up the 73rd rendition of his story about taking care of his disabled ninety-year-old sister as Jon threw me a look. I smiled pleasantly like a sixties housewife with everything in her home under control.

Later, hearing Jon's version of what went on upstairs made me once again thankful that our property manager was so ancient. It was only due to the fact that Cap could hardly hear that he missed the scuffling, hissing, and meowing that occurred right before Jon whipped McGee through the railing at me. I suppose we're lucky that high-strung feline ever came back... but a cat's gotta eat.

We got our deposit back.

Miss You, Rich

I took this post directly from my former blog. Today marks the one year anniversary of the passing of a great and well loved man who had an indescribable impact on my life.

A letter I wrote to Rich Fisher, my beloved youth pastor and friend. I am so thankful that his wife, Lynette was able to read it to him a couple days before he passed away on May 3rd, 2010...

April 30, 2010

Dear Rich,

I'm praying with all my heart and soul that God decides to perform a miracle and heal you completely. But if He has another plan for you I wanted to make sure you know how I feel about you and how much you mean to me.

There are so many people out there, including my best friend and my husband, who you have been a father to... You have provided for them a person to look up to, have given them guidance and direction in their lives, and been someone to just have fun and fart around with. :)

My story is different because I have an amazing dad. He and I share a very special relationship and I was never in desperate need of a figure in my life other than him. That doesn't mean I didn't find one, still, in you. Some of the best years of my life were spent at your house, and under your care and guidance. There were times when you knew more about me and my life than my own parents did, and I was and am so grateful to you and Lynette for providing that for me. Even though I have two loving, Godly parents, I still needed you guys and knew I could come to you for anything.

Whether it was watching westerns, getting shot (by YOU) point blank with an airsoft gun, watching boys play video games, eating delicious food, or talking about life, I have endless wonderful memories of you and what you did for me during a time when people need positive role models the most (Jr. high and high school). I continued to make decisions in my life through college and even now in marriage and parenthood that are based on foundations that YOU helped build for me. I will be forever thankful to you for that, and to God for providing you.

As I said before, I am praying for a healing miracle because I can't imagine not having you here. Lynette and the boys are constantly on my mind, and I certainly don't want them to have to be without you. But I also know that we won't always understand God's reasoning, or why He does things, but no matter what we think about it, He is GOOD. It's because of you and your teaching, loving, and guiding that I can even say that right now.

I love you so much, Rich. Thank you for being my 2nd dad and for teaching me more than you could ever know.

Love,
Heather

Stalking Finn

I haven't had too much experience with famous people. For the longest time my best story was that as a deli girl at Eagle Market, I made Josh Brolin and Diane Lane their sandwiches twice. This was well before Josh's resurgence as a real movie star with No Country for Old Men, and an Oscar nomination for Milk... I knew him from Goonies and Thrashin'. (What is Thrashin', you ask? Well, my friends, here's the synopsis given on IMDb.com: "Two skateboarding gangs battle each other for supremacy, and a member of one gang falls in love with the sister of his rival." I think that's all you need to know. Oh, also, it was made in 1986. Yup. I own it if you want to borrow it.)

I didn't know who Diane Lane was. When the pair chose Eagle Market for their sub sandwich needs and stopped in, I thought she was a child (she's extremely short and wasn't wearing any makeup) and Josh looked like a confirmed Lake Rat. Tattered boardshorts, a foul wifebeater, and greasy long hair made for a "celebrity" that I just wasn't too impressed with at the time. (If only I'd kept his sandwich order form... I'd have his autograph!)

This all changed the night my friends Jasmine and Erin took me out for my birthday a few weeks ago. We spent a pleasant afternoon in Cambria and planned on finishing the evening at Erin's apartment in San Luis with a low key dessert and TV watching spree. In the car on the way to the coast, I suddenly remembered something.

Me: "Oh! Lynnea told me that a band is playing at SLO Brew tonight named Bonnie Dune... one of the guitar players is a guy we knew in high school, and their drummer is FINN."

Jasmine: (confused look) "Like, he looks like Finn?"

Me: "NO. HE IS FINN. Cory Monteith is THEIR DRUMMER."

Jasmine: OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WE HAVE TO GO!!!

Erin: (thought bubble) My friends are certifiably retarded. And who is Finn?

If you don't watch Glee, you won't know who Finn is. Glee has become one of my favorite shows over the last couple years... as over-the-top ridiculous and at times inappropriate and unrealistic as it can be, I think the underlying message is sweet. And I'm a sucker for musical theater. Finn is the male lead in the show's high school Glee club. His character is dense, but cute, and he is a talented drummer. And he was GOING TO BE PLAYING AT SLO BREW IN MERE HOURS.

After deciding to head straight to Downtown SLO to see if we could finagle some tickets to this no doubt epic show, we drove past SLO Brew to find a line almost around the block, full of high school girls, waiting to get in two hours early. At that moment, we changed our plans and proceeded to Erin's abode, where we figured we would partake in our originally scheduled, tranquil girls' night in.

It only took about fifteen minutes in Erin's apartment after tossing down our purses and lounging on the couch/chair/floor before Jasmine said, "So... maybe we should go get dessert downtown and walk around. Maybe he'll be down there."

I immediately concurred and felt my pulse rise at the thought that we could just run into a famous person downtown. Not just any famous person, but the male lead in one of my favorite shows. Luckily Erin is up for anything, and despite not being a regular Glee viewer, and not knowing who in Zeus' name Finn was, she thought dessert sounded like an excellent idea.

Frozen yogurt is always my dessert of choice, and since it was my birthday celebration, I got to choose. This turned out to be a providential selection.

We had just arrived at the foot of the brick staircase leading up to Sephora, Yogurt Creations our end goal, when Jasmine and I both looked across the street at the exact same time. Three boys, all dressed in slim jeans, hoodies, and hiding their faces behind dark sunglasses were strutting abreast down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. They were the only people on that side of Higuera, we were the only people on our side. They must have noticed us gawking.

One of them stood out because he was a head and shoulders taller than the other two.

"That looks like him!" Jasmine hissed through clenched teeth.
"It DOES look like him!" I hissed back.
"Should we follow him?"
"Let's follow him!!!"

At this point we knew we were stalking Cory Monteith, but that's all we knew. To where would we end up following him? Would we say something if he turned around and noticed us? What if he filed a restraining order against me? On my birthday?

None of these questions were important enough to abort the mission. We crossed the street as quickly as we could and kept about a block between the band posse and us. At one intersection, the big red hand started counting down obnoxiously at us. I was a few steps ahead of the other girls (my enthusiasm getting the best of me), and there was no way we'd all make it across in time. "Go!" they yelled at me, "We'll catch up!" (Thank goodness it was my birthday or my friends may not have put up with my ridiculous teeny bopper antics.) I ran ahead, and soon enough Garden Street was upon me. SLO Brew was around the corner, along with the doubled-in-length line of amped up sixteen year old girls. How ironic, I thought to myself, he just walked by all the girls who would trade their iPhones to see him up close, in person, and they don't even know! *evil mind chuckle*

Then: "Heather!!" From the middle of the line, two girls were calling my name. I stopped in my tracks, and squinting into the crowd, I noticed two of the Junior girls I counsel at church waving me over. I sprinted up to them, and panted, "No time!... I'm... stalking... FINN!!" They looked at me with "Whatever" looks on their faces and said, "Oh yeah, look at this," simultaneously shoving their phones and cameras into my face. They had already found Finn and taken pictures with him in line at Firestone! That's where he had been coming from when we spotted him across the street! "Well, FINE, I've gotta go!" I screamed at them, with just a tinge of jealousy.

I took a few lunges down the street, and spun on my heel as I approached Bubblegum Alley, frantically trying to pick up the scent once again. There, standing in the most disgusting tourist attraction known to man, was Cory Monteith with a group of four girls who had obviously been stalking him just as silently and jungle cat-like as I had been. Jasmine and Erin had caught up with me by now, and Jasmine was pushing me into the gum-encrusted alley, "Go ask him for a picture!" I tossed her my camera like a hot potato and as the other girls walked away giggling and twittering (so immature), I walked up to him and asked quietly, suddenly feeling like a 13 year old girl with a crush on the most popular boy in school, "Can I take my picture with you?" He gave me a lopsided Finn grin and said, "Yeah!" and proceeded to put his arm around me for the photo op. Jasmine made a funny quip as she took the picture about what a nasty place we were standing in, and even had the presence of mind to ask if he'd been to San Luis before. I stood there smiling silently like a developmentally delayed moron until it was time to say dumbly, "Thank you," and watch him walk away.

I was on a high for hours following my first experience as a true-to-life creeper, unable to process the fact that I had not only seen Finn, but followed, cornered, taken a photo with, and touched the love handles belonging to Finn. I had been closer than I'd ever been to famous person... a famous person I cared about! One I watched sing, dance badly, and misunderstand big words EVERY WEEK!

The night ended with Jasmine and me attending the Bonnie Dune concert (along with all the boppers we'd seen earlier, but added to the mix were 45-year-old moms with telephoto lenses... Finn would much rather a girl like me stalk him, right? Right?), which turned out to be a fabulous show.

Needless to say, I have a much more exciting "famous person" story now, but as my brother-in-law Dave pointed out, people like me are "why he was wearing a hoodie".

Roommate Woes & Broken Toes

College is a time in life brimming with extremes. During my freshman year, I alternated between tomfoolery with brand new friends and sitting miserably in the corner of my cell block dorm room in a state of depression, desperately missing my family and friends at home.

One of the most amusing things about college is finding out who you will be bunking with all year. I attended Westmont College in Santa Barbara, and bless the housing staff, they sent out contact information toward the end of the summer preceding my Freshman year. I was able to talk to both of my roommates on the phone about a month before actually meeting them. No, a ten minute phone call does not give you a true idea of who a person is, but it made us feel much more at ease when we did meet face to face on Move-In Day.

Sharing a room is a challenge. Especially when you've had your own room your whole life, and are suddenly expected to share a room no bigger than your bedroom at home, bulging with twice as much furniture, with two other people. People you've never met.

Sara, me, & Misty: our first day together... Page B 316

Misty was the first roomie I encountered. She was settling into our room in Page B when my family and I showed up. A musical theater student who dreamed of living in New York City one day, Misty and I didn't seem to have a whole lot in common at first. We still joke that if we'd attended the same high school, we may have never even met, let alone become friends. Misty was outgoing, organized, confident, talented, and seemed very excited to begin our first year.

Sara showed up later. Sara was a sweet Catholic girls' school graduate who was very clearly, even from the first day, attached to her family. She was apprehensive at first, and seemed much more hesitant about starting school away from home. She was a health nut who ran at least four miles every day, like clockwork, and never put any kind of sweet treat in her mouth. She called her mom once a day, finished her homework weeks in advance, and started listening to Christmas music in October.

We discovered immediately that we each had very different schedules. Sara went to bed at nine and woke up at dawn whether she had class or not. I was the middle ground, finishing my homework somewhat late and turning in around eleven each night. Misty was our room's night owl, partly because of her internal rhythm and partly because she had night rehearsals for the plays in which she always earned starring roles, and couldn't start her homework until midnight some nights.

Me, Sara, Misty, & our next door neighbor
and dear friend, April... Winter Formal 2000

Another reality we quickly became aware of was the difference in our individual perceptions of "clean" and "chores". Misty and I had a respectable handle on keeping things tidy, and it drove us batty when our tiny room became even tinier with the haphazard placement of Sara's piles of dirty clothes and free weights. We learned that Sara had never done her own laundry at home when she asked us how to use the machines downstairs, and had to be told to separate her whites and colors. After a month or two of living together, Misty and I realized that we were the only ones taking out the trash and borrowing the third floor's shared vacuum (it took an average of 45 seconds to vacuum our room, since only about three and a half square feet of carpet showed). We passively aggressively experimented with "waiting to see how full the trash can could become" and "how many hairballs will get stuck between her toes" before Sara noticed and took it upon herself to contribute to our room's hygiene. This never worked because she never noticed. Misty or I, without fail, would either become so frustrated at throwing a piece of paper onto the top of our trash mountain, only to have it roll right back to us, or become nauseated by the smell of Sara's daily banana peels rotting in the can. One of us would eventually give in and huffily yank the bag out, tie it up as loudly as possible, and stomp out, hoping she'd perceive the hints. She didn't.

Misty finally had a brilliant idea: she fashioned a chore chart and taped it to the wall by the door. Yes, the same kind of chore chart you'd find on the refrigerator of a family with preschool children. The three of us rotated through the two chores required to keep our room livable, but we found that when it was time to complete our duties, we still had to prod Sara to do her share. (The first time she took out the trash, weeks after school had started, we had to tell her where the dumpster was.) As ridiculous as it seemed for three eighteen-year-olds to need a chore chart, it seemed to help get Sara involved.

 Outside study session SUNBURNS

The differences in opinion over acceptable living conditions came to a head one day in the spring. Things had gotten tense in the room. The weather had changed, tricking our brains into thinking it was summer, classes had gotten more demanding as teachers assigned even more homework, and the novelty of roomies-turned-built-in-besties had long since faded. The walls of our small living space were closing in on us, and the once seldom occasion that all three of us needed to be in the room at the same time grew increasingly more common, putting us all on edge. We were working furiously on homework one afternoon, when I heard Misty push her chair back behind me, and pad across the room to her closet. On the way back to her desk, I heard a dull THUD followed immediately by Misty's high pitched screeching. "SARA!!! WHAT ARE YOUR WEIGHTS DOING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM?!?!" She hobbled over to her chair and sank into it, her face red and her eyes glistening with tears of pain. (We were told later by our friend next door, April, that she was also studying and could hear everything.) Misty grabbed her foot and pulled it into her lap, inspecting the toes she had bashed into Sara's misplaced exercise equipment. Misty ultimately had to go to the health center and was told she'd broken her pinkie toe. Sara's constant state of disarray had finally resulted in a casualty: one of Misty's precious phalanges! 

Even after an entire school year, Sara still needed to be schooled in certain aspects of household cleanliness... and simple biology. Another day in spring, when the three of us were once again sharing our minuscule workspace to study, I was violently shaken from an enlightening chapter of my American History book to hear, "Sara! Why did you just throw your contact on the floor?!" (It was obvious by Misty's tone that she was absolutely disgusted.) I turned to see Sara sheepishly looking at Misty, her contact lens case and bottle of solution sitting accusingly on her desk. I could just barely make out the reflection of the overhead light in the tiny half moon on the floor, which had apparently been dropped on purpose. Sara looked back and forth at both of us, confused and defensively, before replying in all seriousness:

"It's okay! They're biodegradable!!"
 
I'm not sure how we survived that year together, but we did, and were able to remain friends. I'm assuming by now, ten years later, all of our living conditions and housecleaning skills have improved. I haven't visited Sara's house in Colorado, though... there is a possibility that she has a room with a pile of crusty, used contact lenses on the floor, waiting to biodegrade...