Afraid to Launch: Band Aids Can't Stay on Forever

Ripping off a band-aid hurts. I typically avoid the process. I always hope it will fall off when I'm in the shower so I won't have to deal with it. However, band-aids never seem to just fall off.   They must be torn off.

Unfortunately, I recently ripped off a particularly sticky band-aid which was then followed by an expletive.

Oops.

Yesterday, I encountered an experience that mirrored closely the process of ripping off this same band-aid. My parents and I were in the parking lot of the Salt Lake City DMV on something south and something west near state street (I'm still learning this system you Westerners call a "grid"). We had egg shells in our egg whites and we couldn't keep our yolks together (Mhm. The previous sentence is an example of why we should rely on well established idioms and not make up our own.) We were getting the run-around from the DMV to register my car, and it was getting old. As the frustration with the DMV elevated, my desires to be back home in Denver also grew.

I was far from excited. My parents were abandoning me in Taylorsville, Utah. I use abandoning for two reasons: 1) There is no Deseret Book within Taylorsville city limits. If it's not safe for Deseret Book, how can it be safe for me? 2) There are 247 crimes per square mile in Taylorsville. In all of Utah, there are only 39 crimes per square mile. The numbers speak for themselves.

Reluctant to begin the farewell process, I stalled in the parking lot. I asked questions and made a few last minute requests. I suggested we get in dad's car. Once inside, I parked myself on the back seat of dad's car with the heat on full blast. I turned the switch so all the heat came out near my feet; slowly, the hot air warmed the leather seat I was sitting on until my buns were nearly fried.

I continued putting off the goodbye until it was no longer my choice. Eventually, Mom and dad called it.

Time to rip off the band-aid.

 I took a few, deep breaths. I hugged both my parents. I got in my car, and I drove away. The actual good bye was very short. But, let's just say if you had been there, you may have seen a few more tears than this version mentions.

 I was gone from their arms as quickly as a band-aid is ripped off and tossed aside. You take a few deep breaths, cautiously place the pads of your fingers at the edge of the band-aid, and you rip the band-aid away. Without fail, band-aids always leave that sticky residue on your skin that never seems to come off.

 I say the following with all the affection I can offer: Mom and dad, you are that sticky residue left on the scrapes around my knees and elbows. 

No matter how many good byes must be said, you both follow me everywhere I go.  At the grocery store, I bring canvas bags just like you, mom.  At the movie theater, I remove my shoes just like you,  dad.  I reflect, frequently, on the pleasant memories of my childhood and the next memories that will be made with you both.

Luckily, ripping off a band-aid only hurts for a moment.  Then, whatever wound was healing under the band-aid is now ready to continue healing on its own without the constant protection of a band-aid.  The wound eventually heals and needs no protection.  And at some point, that sticky residue rubs off.

....But....

I'm not ready to get rid of that sticky residue just yet.  And, I still keep a supply of Barbie band-aids on my one shelf in the very tiny linen closet I share with five other girls.  No matter how unnecessary those Barbie band-aids become, I'll still be reluctant to rip 'em off because no matter how old I get, ripping off a band-aid still hurts.  



  

NEW BLOG

This is Melissa, sorry for my poor English skills please do not judge me compared to my little sister. Hard to believe but she actually made it to China! (I know we were all skeptical, at least I was :) I love you Laura, that just shows what a great accomplishment this is.

Anyway it seems like blogger is blocked in China (that's communism for you) so she has switched to wordpress, here is the new address http://ladyoftheorient.wordpress.com/

She already has so fun pictures about a bus trip and eating a scorpion that she actually liked. We love you Laura and Henry asked me this morning if he could come visit you...I wish!

Bathroom Buzz

I can recall several occasions, when to use a public restroom, I've been given a key attached to a 12 inch long, 2 inch diameter dowel of wood; the ultimate key chain! The wood is so big you couldn't find a place to put that key and lose it.

I've also been pointed in the direction, numerous times, of difficult to navigate hallways or entrances into a restroom. For instance, when you have to carefully pass through the janitors closet, having been advised of the low ceiling clearance. At 5'2" it's typically not a problem, but some ceilings can get pretty low.

But, for the first time in my life today, I was buzzed into a bathroom.

Let me set up the scene for you.

It was a busy street corner in the west end of Malden, just outside of Boston. East or west, north or south; you pick, any direction outside of Boston and that's where I was. We were standing outside of a Dunkin' Doughnuts (the Einstein Bagels of the East Coast, they are EVERYWHERE!) when I decided to go in and use the restroom.

Respectively, a sign was posted on the door asking that only paying customers use the restroom. Knowing how much my mom loves Diet Coke, I turned around and generously offered to buy a soda for her. I then asked her for money.

I went inside, and decided to go to the bathroom first. While my hand was on the handle, the clerk said, "I'll buzz you in!"

I was not paying a bit of attention to her, and assumed she wanted me to purchase something. I said, "Oh, I'm just going to buy a soda after I use the restroom. I've had one too many drinks of water. A girls gotta go!"

She looked into my wild-wild-west eyes with her "I was born parallel parking" eyes, and slowly repeated what she had said the first time. It also appeared she didn't understand the meaning of, "A girls gotta go!" As if I didn't speak English, she raised those eyebrows and simultaneously buzzed me in.

Imagine in Seinfeld when they always buzz up Elaine or Newman, hesitantly. That sound, the unmistakable noise, signaling that you have permission to enter the building. That's what I heard.

The handle turned in my hand and I jumped back a little. Was I just submitted to a background test that I didn't know about? Is there a Do Not Let Enter the John list released hourly by the IJCSA (International Janitorial Cleaning Services Association click on link to learn more), comparable to the No Fly list maintained by the FBI?

That quasi-barista I encountered at Dunkin' Doughnuts must have endured hours of incomprehensible training to receive her buzzing power. I doubt anyone else in that store has the same power she does. They should just call her buzzer. Heck, make that her sole responsibility. Strip her of all other duties so she can fully dedicate herself to submitting prospective sitters-of-the-throne to a full background check, including any name changes.

Before I get sarcastic and start ranting, I must admit that I've never been in a cleaner Boston bathroom. There were plenty of quilted paper towels, a floor smelling of Pine-Sol and even Rose petals under my shoes. Complimentary hand lotion waited to soothe my dry skin after I finished drying my hands. It was a delightful experience.

So, if for the sake of cleanliness and unclogged toilets Dunkin' Doughnuts finds a buzzer position vital to their store and corporate operations, then so be it! We all deserve a comfortable spot, no? I just hope the CEO of Dunkin' Doughnuts is subject to the same background check as I endured today.

Hug Hug, Kiss Kiss

What is it with hugs? More specifically, hugs between coworkers? Today was my last day of work at Shane Co. Apparently, this calls for hugs from all fellow female employees. Males...meh. They just get handshakes and a head nod. You don't want to mess around with sexual harassment things these days. Messy.

The first hug was initiated by my boss. I stood on the opposite side of her desk saying good-bye when suddenly she got up and ran around to hug me. I didn't want to linger longer, so I just made that hug as quick as possible. I started walking quickly to the door; unfortunately, I was stopped with a gentle touch on the elbow. A fellow lady friend was requesting a hug as well. That's when it all went down hill. I took a deep breath, and realized that these hugs were not going to stop. Awkwardly, I stumbled from desk to desk, on a hugging marathon. They got shorter and shorter, on my part. I was hoping people would start to sense my urgency to just want to get out of there. 11.5 hugs later (.5 because I HAD to make the last one a one-armed-side hug to maintain my sanity), I was out the door and feeling normal again.

Why a hug? Were my coworkers so overwhelmed at the doom of my upcoming absence that they were unable to effectively express their emotions with words? Would a nice note have sufficed? It would have worked for me. Now the last memory I have of each of them is being awkwardly smashed up into that awkward neck/shoulder concave everyone has. You know, where your head gets mangled into, mid-hug, because there is no where else for it to go. While I appreciate their sentiments and thoughtfulness, I'm not one for hugs unless there is a lingering smell of Georgio Armani on the hugger.

Until next time, hugs and kisses to you all!

Accepted

“The Puppets”
The olive-green color jumps out every time, just before I hit Navarro Place, the street where my grandparents live in Denver, Colorado. It’s hard to miss: weathered shingles, the aged tree and crumbling steps lead to a splintered door. I ring the doorbell and knock loud three times. Immediately, I hear an interrogating, “Who’s there?” from the other side. The suspicious voice on the other end is, without fail, my grandpa Dale. I tirelessly announce, “It’s your favorite granddaughter, Laura!”
Every visit to grandma and grandpa’s house requires this specific ritual, everyone in the family just knows. He opens the door quickly; I run in and slip into his open arms. I never know how many baseball caps I will see on top of his head. One summer years ago, he put on a second cap, not noticing he was wearing one already. The jeans he wears are soft and blue as the sky, so faded and washed a million times through the years. A beaten leather belt, with notches he punched in the leather himself, keep his pants high. He hugs me tightly, and my glasses crook out of shape and fog up a little. I twitch slightly when his scruffy beard scratches against my cheek. Despite my numerous visits before, within moments of entering I still tell myself, “It’s different here.”
I remove my shoes. The thick shag carpet is a surprise between my toes. I enter the formal dining room, running my fingers atop the hi-fi stereo, making a trail through the dust. Spanning the length of the wall the stereo sits silent: motionless, empty, blank. But it has a presence I cannot ignore. The rich mahogany wood has entrancing knots and rings, and stands almost as high as my hips. I linger on a thought of the past life the stereo had: the room filled with the music of Bing Crosby and the bobbity scat of Dizzy Gillespie, my grandmother light on her feet swaying her hips to the beat and grandpa in the kitchen preparing an array of bread and veggies for cheese fondue. Proudly atop the stereo sits my grandpa’s dog tags he wore stationed in Guam.
I move into the formal living room and the furniture is a blast from past. The monochromatic palette is hard to digest: forest, olive, lime, pale green. Everywhere. A low velvet couch matching the green exterior of the home serves as the main seating. Two regal chairs in a surprising toasted-marshmallow color sit next to the stereo. Opposite the couch sits the lamp that seems to take up as much room as another guest in the home. Too big and always in the way, it somehow is knocked over every time I visit.
The reason for seeing my grandparents today is a first. Stairs are getting harder and harder to climb for my grandma Marilyn, and getting out of bed is nearly impossible. When music plays on the stereo, only the dust in the air seems to move to the beat if observed closely enough. Sometimes grandma must use the wheelchair to get around, something I hate to see. I rejoice for every new sunrise, but my grandma holds on to each sunset, not wanting to be in the dark. She has started cleaning out her home and giving things away. Today, I am here to look through her puppets.
My grandma spent years in Denver Public Schools traveling from student to student with her puppets in tow. As a speech therapist, she encouraged students to use puppets to improve their speech. Numbering over two-hundred puppets, they are laid before me in the living room like a museum exhibit, each puppet a distinct and unique artifact that has been carefully preserved. With so much to look at, my eyes quickly move from color to color, not knowing which to focus on. After scanning the exhibition, I return to two distinct puppets. The Beaming Rose and Raggedy Anne Doll puppets strike me as special, but my favorite is the Beaming Rose. I ask my grandmother to tell me the story of the Beaming Rose puppet.
Many decades ago at the Rose bowl Parade, grandmother noticed a peppy pink rose puppet. She looked at the price tag and was appalled. A thrifty mother, she refused to pay eighteen dollars knowing she could make it herself for half the price. She studied it meticulously. Upon returning to Denver, she stopped at the local fabric store, Cloth World, before unpacking her suitcase. Within two days, the children at Washington Elementary were learning to pronounce their r’s as they manipulated Rosie, the Beaming Rose. Grandma used hot pink felt for the petals and googly eyes to bring Rosie to life. The rose grandma made was similar to the original puppet she admired, but better.
Next to Rosie lay the darling, worn Raggedy Anne doll. On her face are the same freckles that dot the bridge of my nose. Looking at her, I am looking in a mirror. There is a smudge of dirt on her chin. I remember turning over rocks and searching for slugs in the mud of our front yard at our house on Newhall Drive as a kid. The dress on the squishy doll body is not typical of most Raggedy Anne dolls. It is made from remnants of the pink gingham Easter dress my grandma made for me when I was eight. I slip my hand into the trunk of the doll. A folded circle of cardboard gives the mouth a stiff shape, and I am able to open and close my hand to manipulate the mouth.
I realize, my grandmother’s hand has been in this same space before. Within reach of the record turntable, I stretch my arm out and touch it, another place she has been. Cautiously, I place the rose puppet on my other hand. Upon doing so, the bank of wisdom my grandmother treasures surges into my schema of how the world works. Bestowed upon me is the ability to call upon my grandmother’s lengthy, How-to Book for Life wherever I might be. I stand in the room, grandma curiously watching me. She wheels herself to me. I kneel to her eye-level and she takes my hand. Tenderly, she tells me, “Take the puppets home. And please, find a way to use them.” I do just that. Regretfully, not sure how to display the puppets, I pack them in a box and put them high in my closet.
Several months later, I sit on the couch in my living room frustrated with my wailing eight month old nephew, Henry, squirming on my lap. Having tried everything to calm him, I think there isn’t a toy left he hasn’t seen. I sit looking around the room, wishing there was someone to hand him off to. On the wall hangs a wedding portrait of my grandparents. Barely older than me in the picture, I survey my grandmothers youthful eyes, and then I remember.
I tightly wrap my arms around Henry as we dash up the stairs into my bedroom. Cautiously, I set him on the floor and close the door so he can’t escape while I climb on a chair to reach the box. Hurrying, I tear off the lid and tissue paper flies above and under me. There is Rosie, the Beaming Rose. I place her on my hand and relive the sensation felt months ago. I find a high pitched happy voice and immediately begin to play peek-a-boo with Henry and the puppet. Rosie even eats Henry’s nose as his tears subside and a smile begins to show.

My hand in hers

I left my heart on the page with this one. This one goes out to you Julie!

Love,

Child #4

I remember going to the store as a child. Upon rolling open the heavy door of our minivan once we arrived to our destination, my mother would be standing there, partially blocking the sun from my eyes. A smile on her face, she stood with her feet firmly on the ground. Her clothing was nothing fashion-forward. Typical of the mid-1990’s, she wore shorts which more resembled pants, and a shirt which more resembled a floral bed sheet. Adorning her waist was a slouchy, front-loaded, water-bottle holding fanny pack. I stood at about the height of her waist, and her fanny pack always seemed to fall to her right side. I learned to avoid walking on that side of her.
Mom always stood with her hand outstretched waiting for me to exit the car. Her hand was always cupped gently, just to the degree to hold my hand perfectly. She knew my little sausage fingers well, and I certainly was comfortable with her fingers. Hers did not resemble sausage links. Rather, long strips of lean bacon. She had a solid grip in parking lots. But I didn’t mind. With my hand in hers, life was good.
Upon entering the grocery store, my mom would let go of my hand to drive the shopping cart. We would eventually overflow it with fish sticks and Jello, and a cart with eight bags of frozen fish sticks inside gets really heavy. While she compared the price per ounce for brand name Cream of Wheat cereal to the knock off Malt-O-Meal cereal, I found myself slyly dashing to the makeup aisle. If she wasn’t holding my hand I was fully unleashed.
I was on the hunt for Root Beer chap stick, made by Lipsmackers. I knew it well because my sisters used it constantly. They were lucky and responsible enough, said my mother, to have their own chap stick with their initials on the bottom. Our family does not share chap stick. With the distinct smell of a crisp, ice-cold root beer, I knew it had to taste like root beer. My taste buds brought me to the makeup aisle of the grocery store.
The aisle shelves were four times as tall as me. I could not see anything but lipstick tubes when I stuck my nose in the air looked directly up. But I knew there was something just above and beyond those tubes. I always wondered, why are the stores so secret about what’s on those top shelves? What’s up there that little people like me can’t see? People were always talking about “adult movies” as a kid, so I figured this is where they kept the “adult makeup.”
At the store, not holding my mother’s hand, was really my only chance to try the Root Beer chap stick. One particular day, the aisles surrounding me were deserted. Just me. As quietly as I could, I ripped open the package of chap stick. I got a little stuck trying to tear away the protective seal holding the cap on. My mother’s elegant fingernails would have been great in that moment, but she was picking out cereal. As I put the tube up to my teeth to try to scrape away the seal, a big black boot and large set of jangling keys on the most hairy arm I have ever seen stopped me. A grumpy person, be it a man or woman I don’t know, asked me where my mother was. I said, “I’m not sure, but I need her” and the tears came. The person said, “Little girl, you need to come with me so we can find her. What you are doing is wrong.” I followed the person. I knew they worked at the store because they were wearing a name tag. I imagined myself in an over sized orange jumpsuit being served what resembled baby food through a door the size of a mail slot, and I listened to every word the authoritative person said.
Luckily as we moved closer to the food section of the store, we crossed paths with my mom. I darted to her. My head buried in her fanny pack, I sobbed as the person explained what they caught me doing. I remember shaking, sobbing and desperately trying to hold my mother’s hand again. She kneeled down so we were eye to eye. While I do not recall her words, I recall a patient, forgiving tone. Furrowed eyebrows expressed disappointment but not anger, and a firm grip on my hand made me feel safe, not threatened. I apologized to the store employee, and my mother and I proceeded to the nearest checkout stand, my hand in hers.
It was the following summer when I experienced another frightening moment.
My mother was speed walking next to me as I was ahead on my bicycle. It was the first adventure without training wheels outside of our cul-de-sac. We were making our way down the sidewalk following Quebec Street, a road we traveled often close to my house. I was hesitant to ride without one of my mom’s hands on mine helping me steer, the other hand supporting my back for good posture and balance. But no kid can resist their first taste of independence.
The concrete pathway was an expansive sea, leading my eyes to the horizon ahead, a place I wanted to pedal to with no help. I was leaps ahead of my mom on my bike, rhythmically pushing myself forward. I balanced beautifully to keep a straight course, and moved the wind about me, ignoring the cars on the street.
I turned my head to throw my voice in the direction of my mother. While I tried to yell something at her, I slowly veered towards the street, the direction I was looking. I hit it; that awful, uneven ledge in the sidewalk. My mom says I lost control and flew directly over the handle bars into traffic.
There I lay in the street.
Over my head bowed the hissing grill of a black Ford Explorer. The sticky tar glued my elbow and chin to the sweltering asphalt. My hip was continuously stinging, like the stun of a fire alarm on unexpecting ears.
A gentle breeze filled the void in my right hand where the handle bar had been. If only my hand had been in hers..
One, single car door slammed. It was accompanied by two pairs of syncopated, pounding feet swarming to me. I was moved out of the street by familiar hands and laid down in the shade of an aged Aspen tree.
Above me was my mom. Kneeling over me, her tears fell on my face and merged with the tears streaming from my eyes. Her head was blocking the sun, and her hand cupped gently around mine.