On Being Wrong

During my 31 27 Days of Reading Well, I made a big old stinking deal about the book The Saving Graces by Patricia Gaffney. It's so good! I said. I cry every time! The characters are so real!

Well, apparently there's something to be said about reading books in different phases of life. According to Laura, Catcher in the Rye is extremely poignant if you read it at the right stage. (I didn't read it until after college and found it rambling and ridiculous.) I didn't read Wuthering Heights until I was well along in my English major, and I adored it, while I know many who read it in high school found it abysmal.

I don't think I had actually read The Saving Graces since early on in our marriage. The summer before we got married, my daddy's best friend died from liver cancer at age 50 ... and looking back, I think perhaps that affected my reading of the book more than anything.

At 29, I've struggled with infertility. I am married with two kids. I've held a job, I've wanted to be a writer, I've gone through some deep depressions. I might have too much in common with some of the characters now.

I was eager to reread my battered copy after I wrote about it this October. But in those water-stained and creased pages I found none of that original emotion. I shed no tears. I felt no real pull to the characters.

Too far away from a cancer experience? Too long without intimate women friendships? I don't know.

I hate to recant my statements but in this case ... I wouldn't want anyone to buy the book, read it, and think I was nuts. Compared to most else of what I recommend to you, it's just not my cup of tea anymore.

I think reading tastes change ... and I think that is OK.

Are there any books that have led you to say, "What was I thinking?"

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Costumed

My mother sewed a hula hoop into one of her old prom dresses from the dress-up box. (We had the lottery of all dress-ups: my mom has four sisters, and thus bridesmaids dresses from their 70s weddings.)

The dress was brown and foofy, and, with the hoop, I was convinced it was positively Civil War.

I declared myself Beth from Little Women. I don't think I had ever made it farther than halfway through Little Women, so I didn't know Beth's fate ... just that she was quiet, peaceful, loving. Of course I wanted to be bold, confident Jo, who would chop her hair off and was a self-anointed author. But still buried in shyness, I couldn't even costume my desire. Beth was safe.

I didn't foresee the issue of waddling up neighbors' porches in a hula-hooped prom dress. I tripped. I bumped. I was embarrassed. I had to tell everyone who I was, and got quizzical looks in response.

Obviously not the Halloween costume, but around the same time.

 It's troubling to me how often I view myself as the clumsy, chubby, bucktoothed, bespectacled child I see in my mind's eye there. (Thankfully, braces got rid of the buck teeth.) I may still be clumsy, chubby, and bespectacled. But I like to think I've gained confidence despite - and because of - those things!

I am not an 8-year-old in a new school, frightened. I am not a 12-year old, dreaming of thin while being mocked in the cold hallways. I am not sweet 16 and never kissed; I am not 18 and unsure what college will bring and if relationships will break or boomerang.

I am a 29-year-old woman, a wife, a mother of two precious children. I am a homemaker, a cook, a writer, an editor, a reader. I am a lover and pursuer of Jesus. I am what I always wanted to do and be.

So why do I - do we? - live in these awkward memories instead of forging ahead?

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The Third Most Embarrassing Moment of My Life

In February 2008, in a post where I went on and on about being tired (because I was pregnant with Libbie and didn't know it yet), I promised to tell you about a very ... ahem ... special day in my young life.

Nothing like a two-year wait to build some interest, right?

Me. 8th grade dance. The whiteness is frightening!

It was a day like any other day at Salem Church Middle School. I was 13, majorly self-conscious, and in French class, where I sat in the front row with two friends and got a 100 on everything. (Don't think much of me--when I went to a magnet high school the next year I quickly discovered I learned nothing in that first year of French.)

Sitting with my friends, though, did make me feel a little powerful. One of them was the smartest girl in school. One of them was cool, unlike myself. We flirted mercilessly with the French-learners that sat behind us and answered every question correctly. Our French names were Christine, Marie-Christine, and Marie-Rose.

On this fateful day, however, all semblances of coolness were lost as I lost my lunch into the classroom trashcan. 

IN EIGHTH GRADE.

I still remember the torture of looking-on faces and the red that overtook my own face. The dash to the infirmary. The nurse's insistence that I WASN'T REALLY SICK 'cause I had the nerve to speak to someone else in the office. (Now that I think about it, that might have been another time. But it sounds really good here, right?)

My mom picked me up, toted me home, set me up on the couch, and warned me that there would probably be more puking. My sister had just had the same lovely virus. Patting my forehead with a damp cloth and sticking Jell-o in the refrigerator, she had to head back to work for a short bit while I slept. I see the blue couch where it rested in our Richmond family room; how she always pulled the coffee table close so we could reach our glasses of ginger ale and set a wastebasket by our heads.

Stumbling back and forth to the bathroom, it was that afternoon I discovered that I was "a woman now." Almost 14. Finally. But now?

Brilliant.

And thus began the lovely cycle of how my period makes my immune system die.

So you know, my French teacher proudly proclaimed in front of the class when I returned that I managed to get a 101 on the quiz we took that day despite all circumstances. Yep, I bet that made everyone think I was awesome.

Now, aren't you glad you waited two years for that story? Please, let the mocking begin!



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Overdue Grief

I was in sixth grade when my best friend's mother died.

After months and months of treatments and transplants for leukemia, she had gone into remission. The luminescent Cheryl, at whose house I watched Fried Green Tomatoes and learned to play penny poker. Her daughter--also Jessie--was my constant companion from the time we moved to Timbercreek Court. I remember meeting her when one of our homes was still being built. They sat next door to one another, separated only by a large oak tree.

I don't remember too much about Cheryl, except for her willowy blonde hair and calming presence. She was willing to let us try experiments in the kitchen or seclude ourselves in a bedroom with Sonic the Hedgehog.

As I can remember, she played a tune on a recorder infected by a sick someone. The cancer came back upon her weakened body.

I will never forget standing in our kitchen in Richmond. We were in the corner by the microwave. My mom turned to me and barely holding it together, said, "It's time for the big cry. Cheryl's dead."

I had the big cry. And months of feeling lost, of not knowing what to say to my very best friend. I didn't know what it was like to lose my mother.

Gradually, the other Jessie flew away from my life. She moved in with her aunt and uncle in another school district. We visited when she came to stay with her dad, but her house was full of smoke and go-carts and other women now, and it left me smelling disgusting and with a heavy heart.

I was always heart-sick that I didn't know the right words.

When my Michelle's mom died this past May of ovarian cancer, the same feelings washed over me. Why is it that when someone needs you the most you can't seem to eke out any words? I felt like the most useless friend on the planet. I still didn't know what it was like and I had nothing to offer. Not being able to see her in person, I couldn't even share a hug and cry with her.

I am sorry, friends.




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The Hanson Chronicles: On the Road

I really, really wish I had pictures to accompany this post. I know they exist somewhere, but of course in nondigital format and I honestly have no clue where they might be hiding.

So you'll have to settle for this hideous picture of me and Cynthia, doing who-knows-what in her room, in 2000 (we were high-school seniors). I spent a WHOLE lot of time in that room.

In the summer of 1997, Cynthia introduced me to a little band called Hanson. A severe obsession formed that lasted years. I've written a little about it here.

Hanson had the nerve to wait an ENTIRE YEAR from that time to go on tour. At the time it seemed like forever. When it finally came around, Cynthia, my sister, my sister's friend, my DAD, and I trekked it to Manassas, Virginia and actually got to sit in seats, for which we were very proud. I am pretty sure my dad read the newspaper during the concert, surrounded by a gazillion screaming teenyboppers.

I have a document in my scrapbook entitled "The Life and Times of Jessie and Cynthia at the Hanson Concert." Yes, I was 16.

Later that summer, we stumbled on the fact that Hanson was coming to the great Commonwealth of Virginia again, and there would be an online presale--THE NEXT MORNING. Cynthia and I rushed along, securing a credit card from my dad, permission from parents, money from our best friend Elise; and we nearly dropped dead when we also secured seats in the FIFTH ROW at the Virginia Beach venue.

Elise and me, circa 2001

We stayed up the entire night before and made gifts for Hanson, and delivered them to the stage at the concert along with a giant card we were sure would get their attention. And cause them to propose on the spot, perhaps.

The concert, though the same set, was quite different from the fifth row, where we could see what was going on. Eschewing our Hanson shirts for sexier attire, we tried to seem mature while screaming our lungs out and panting like dogs--at the "hotness" of the vocalists as well as a result of the swarm of young women surrounding us.

It's a very happy memory.

I went on to see Hanson in concert once more, in Richmond, in 2000. While fun, it was never the same. I just don't love the music they do now, as much as I want to. And the fact that Taylor has four kids kinda freaks me out as he is younger than I am.

By the way, I've also seen The Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, LFO, and Joey McIntyre in concert. There's your laugh for the day! :)

So, what was your favorite band in high school? What's your favorite concert memory?

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This post inspired by a prompt from Plinky, which asked, "How far have you traveled to see your favorite performer?" While this isn't the farthest I've gone for a concert (I took my then-boyfriend/aka Mr. V to see his favorite band in North Carolina one year), it's definitely a more entertaining and involved tale. Thanks, Mary, for the link to Plinky!

The Question Everyone Must Ask (Please Don't Let Me Be the Only One)

My sister and me at Universal Studios. I was 16. Rocking the fanny pack, which was almost as awesome as Ashley's Hanson t-shirt.

Do you ever just want to go hit your 15-year-old self over the head with a tree branch? Perhaps shouting, "Why, self, WHY?" as you do?

I'm not sure what brought this into my mind today. I have a very vivid memory, especially of moment that cause me a lot of pain when I recall them--I suppose this is the plight of most women, courtesy our little buddy, the Devil. Most of the time I chant something along the lines of, "Be ye gone, Satan. I am forgiven." But today my mind just wondered.

I wish I could tell Libbie that, for the most part, dating in high school is a big ole waste of time and way to get your heart broken and develop a lifetime guilt issue. But I try to imagine telling 15-year-old Jessie that--when 90% of what I thought about was boys! Gah, I ruined a right many good friendships by developing interest, obsession, and then majorly screwing up by dating/not dating/telling said boy I liked him (mostly b or c...I only actually really dated one guy before my husband).

Let's call him Bob, for disclosure's sake. (And for those of you will know what I am talking about...let it be. Oh, and this isn't THE Bob, just a Bob!) Bob and I were really good friends. Which, when I was 15, translated into it took a few weeks before I developed a decent crush. But this time, I managed to keep it to myself, it went away, and all was well.

Well then something happened--in the form of notes--which let Bob know that I used to like him and me know that he did like me. And it doesn't take much for a shy, chubby, 15-year-old to become entranced with the idea that if someone likes her, maybe she does like him back...

(Where is that tree branch?)

A mushy birthday gift perpetuated the idea. No one had ever shown me romantic attention before. I'd spent years watching my friends have their first little boyfriends and sat by, feeding myself grotesque self-talk about being not good enough. I wanted to be wanted. Anyway, so we went out once. I freaked. We didn't talk. Went back to school in the fall. Slowly, we became friends again. Fell for each other again. And all I remember really, is that I broke it off in a not-so-nice way, because we really didn't talk again for a good two years.

It wouldn't ever have worked out, because we had different religious beliefs. But I still feel guilty for wounding a great guy.

And that is only one of the many things on my list of Stupid Things I've Done. Oh, if I could do those teenage years over again. I would be SO SMART. Just like I thought I was.

Do you relate? Were you the cool chick with many men, or the extreme introverted nerd, like me?

Fitting

Coming back from the grocery store on Sunday afternoon, I saw a group of kids hanging around the front of a neighborhood as I drove past. They were all decked out in black, piercings, spikey hair, boots, the work. And yet it struck me how eerily similar they all looked--all boys, all wearing skinny black jeans, pretty much interchangeable.

It's amazing how we want so hard to be different that we end up looking alike! It made me think of my 9th grade school picture. I was wearing my favorite puple and gray plaid "grunge" shirt over a purple baby tee. My hair was nearly blonde from being highlighted so often (looking at that picture is what has kept me from ever dying my hair with permanent dye again). That grunge shirt had allowed me to fit in with my little group in 8th grade...the shirt, the alternative radio station, and a certain love for all things smiley face.

On the first day of 9th grade, I wore that shirt. And I was too afraid to wear my matching puple nail polish, for fear I would seem too weird and NOT fit in with a new group of people. I went to a magnet school for high school, where I think I knew two souls before the first day of my freshman year. After a few days of the new school, I begged my parents to let me go back to my home school. My mom bribed me to stay with an outfit from the Limited.

This has all come flashing back as I've prepared to go to Blissdom this weekend. I don't remember ever being so concerned about what I'm wearing before. It has skyrocketed to the point of ridiculous. I was nearly in tears Monday night as I can't even find a shirt that I think fits well over the lovely nursing rack I got going on.

I spent so many years walking into a crowd of people assuming that everyone hated me unless proved otherwise. A few years of Paxil really helped that! And I feel I am more confident now, more of a woman. And yet the thought of wearing the wrong thing to a little cocktail party is enough to make me want to hide under the covers.

So, Blissdom, I'll probably be wearing the wrong thing. I have no fashion sense. I am lumpy.

But I'm still the same Jessie who writes here. I think I'm a likeable person. I have a great smile that I think attracts people, and I will be wearing an adorable baby who will hide whatever I'm wearing underneath anyway!

It's time to move on.

'Fro Me to You: The Hidden Years

I don't have a scanner, so I'm not usually able to post old pictures. But my sister posted this picture on Facebook the other night. She's the one in the pink jacket. The cute one. I am the strange-looking one behind her.

This post is for WeareTHATfamily's bloggy carnival for pictures that would never make it in a scrapbook, but still tell a story.

I don't have a clue who took this picture or why they took it. It is in the church library of the church we grew up in, Webber, in Richmond, VA.

I use the term library loosely. It was a small, wood-paneled room with a desk and three walls of books. I spent a whole summer as part of a library organization team, where we tried to revamp the library so people might want to use it. The team consisted of one older person, me, and a boy who I was "in love" with that summer (and for, oh, four or five years. Can we not talk about that?).

The immediate feeling I get from this picture is that it was taken in the height of my awkward years. Maybe where I was just starting to feel self-conscious. I've struggled with my weight from the time I was in 4th grade. This was probably about 5th grade as best as I can tell. And I was just starting to realize that it was an issue, something that needed to be dealt with...something that might make me cave in to myself and become ferociously shy throughout middle and high school.

Ashley, my sister, looks so free and childlike. I look hidden. This picture just reminds me of the years of yearbook photos I hate; of the vacation videos where I was wearing elastic-waist jeans at 11; of having to wear my mother's purple dress to GA graduation in 6th grade.

Wow, I really didn't realize where this was going when I started writing.

I hope my daughter will never feel like I felt, and sometimes still feel like. I want to encourage her to be healthy, always tell her she is beautiful, and help her have more self-confidence than I could ever muster. I want her to be Ashley in that picture.

Coffee-Induced Memoirs

This afternoon Adam and I went to Starbucks in Cool Springs because I had a giant headache and was extremely tired. How dependent on caffeine am I? It's pretty sad. Seduced by the new skinny latte sign, I ordered a caramel skinny latte instead of my normal caramel macchiato (I know, a big adventure, right?!).

I have this thesis that I have no left brain, no real critical side. I am all imagination and senses. Many songs, sounds, smells, and apparently tastes are connected to memories for me. When I had my first sip of latte, I was immediately taken back to another time.

I'm not sure when exactly The Coffee Spot opened--sometime in my senior year or high school or freshman year of college. This was pre-Starbucks in Chesterfield County, and we were ecstatic to have a local coffee shop, a fun place to go to listen to music, relax, hang out with friends. My parents quickly became friends with the owners, Pam and Greg, and we were at Coffee Spot several nights a week. My mom has a severe coffee obsession, someone who doesn't wake up until she's had three cups (she is now one of those people who always has a Venti Starbucks cup on her desk). My normal order was either a caramel or butterscotch latte--or one of their special chocolatey drinks.

When Adam and I had been "going out" for approximately three days, I had a choir concert at school that my parents came to. Afterwords, they somehow convinced us to come back to The Coffee Spot with them and Adam met all of my parents' closest friends....three days!!! Adam was a gem: he charmed the friends, he played chess with my sister's boyfriend's little brother, and it was all for the best considering the many times I drug him around to hang out with my parents' "clique" in future years.

The Coffee Spot closed after a few years, but Greg and Pam remained great friends. When my daddy's best friend died in 2004, Greg and Dad were both pallbearers. Ashley went on a date with their son once. We've fried turkeys in their backyard, played with their giant dog Hagrid, Pam made centerpieces for my wedding. Our families are linked forever, all because of a tiny little coffee place in a strip mall.