My Last Spring Break Ever

My younger brother Ryan has lived in Kona, Hawaii for the past four years, and I have visited him once - four years ago. For my birthday yesterday (happy spring, everyone!), my parents gave me a trip to go see him. Here are some of the things that I just finished putting into my suitcase:

1 tent
5 books
1 bike helmet
1 book of crossword puzzles
1 pair of hiking pants
4 pairs of opened-toed shoes
3 seasons of Arrested Development (Well, I borrowed these to take with me, but Ryan actually already owns them.)
2 swimsuits
1 pound of Sees candy

This has the potential to be one of the best weeks of my life.

Things I Hate, Part I: GUNS

The gap between gun owners and people who don't own guns - that is a vast gap in our country. It's two different cultures. - Ira Glass, host of This American Life

I went shooting last weekend. I shot a real gun, and I liked it. It was the first time my hands had ever touched a firearm.

It happened on a date with someone whom I had briefly met only once. When he proposed the date, he refused to tell me what we were going to do, but he promised that it would be "mind-blowing," and he recommended that I not wear heels. He was bringing a friend, and he told me I could invite one too. ("Hey Christy, do you want to do an unnamed activity with some guys I don't know?") She and I had dinner at Whole Foods before they picked us up in the largest, shiniest Ford truck I had ever seen. I think my entire Accord could fit into the truck's cabin. I couldn't help but ask: 12.5 miles/gallon.

Once we were in the car, they announced that they had brought their guns - my date owns about a dozen - and that they were taking us to an indoor shooting range. "You should probably know upfront," I said, "that I voted for Obama, I hate the NRA and I barely believe in the Second Amendment. But, I am always up for a new adventure." Which is true. Which is why I was actually pretty excited.

The first thing we saw when we arrived at the "range" were two dudes getting arrested for drug possession. Awesome. Undaunted, we got outfitted with bullets, goggles, ear plugs and targets - one of which was a creepy picture of Osama Bin Laden holding a machine gun. Christy had gone shooting before, but the boys very patiently taught me how to load, aim and shoot. Turns out, I'm a pretty good shot! I destroyed Osama's pocket and his beard, for which I credit my excellent teachers. We shot a revolver that had a strongish recoil and hurt my hand, and two different slick 22's. A few times, I forgot I was holding a gun and would turn to ask the guys a technical question, waving the firearm in the air. They calmly reminded me what was in my hand and asked me to put it down.

I think I understand gun appeal now. It's really empowering to control this intense machine and get it to do exactly what you want. The 22's we used were small, light and easy to handle. Shooting them was so simple; it really felt like no big deal. And that is exactly why I think guns are so pernicious: just a quick "no big deal" flick of the finger has power over life and death. That's scary.

I don't feel the need to go shooting again any time soon, but our gentlemanly friends did an excellent job of working to close the gap between gun-owners and gun-haters.

This weekend, I'm taking my date to a choral music concert. I hope it's mind-blowing.

The World Needs More Canada

I spent President's Day weekend stalking Canadians in the streets of Vancouver with my camera.

I started by running up behind people and taking pictures of their backs. Some I secretly followed for blocks until I got just the right shot. Then I got bolder and held up my camera as Canadians walked passed me, hoping they thought I was photographing the scenery behind them.

Finally, I started approaching random strangers and asking for photo opps directly. In typical Canadian fashion, every single person smiled and said of course. At first I thought they were being so friendly and gracious because they were trying to be good Olympic hosts. Then I realized the real source of their generosity: they have free health care!

It was all an attempt to capture the random and creative uses of The Great Maple Leaf that have made the streets of Vancouver come alive.

I do love being American, but all weekend, I really wanted to wear a red maple leaf too. It's kinda . . . hip.

Go Canada Go!

(Thank you, Laney and Christy, for being so patient with my incessant photo stalking, and thank you Cassie for working your photoshop magic to create this collage.)

Baby Picture Therapy Part IV

Final baby picture epiphany: I am lovable. Not in a narcissistic way, but in a theoretical way - the way everyone is lovable.

Once, a therapist put an empty chair in front of me and told me to visualize my six-year-old self. As soon as I could "see" her, I started to cry. I felt overwhelming love for that little girl; I could feel her worth.

That feeling was accompanied by the realization that, as a child, she had done absolutely nothing to merit love. She had not dated anyone or won any auditions or memorized the states in alphabetical order or earned her Young Womanhood medallion. She was just a regular kid who deserved to be loved because she was inherently good.

Then I thought of all the mean things people would say and do to her. But what hurt the most was realizing that I was the meanest of them all. I told her how sorry I was for all the lies I fed her, for the years when I called her fat and ugly, for the times I berated her for failing. It was a difficult conversation.

In the past year, I have fallen in love with a lot of babies. Thank you Libby and Sarah, Thorvald and Astrid, Schroeder, Gracie, Ramona and Lyle for reminding me once again that you don't have to do anything to be lovable. I love you because you are.

While I had that experience in therapy years ago, my little collection of baby pictures reminds me of that moment. They make me want to treat this little girl well - to encourage her, to cheer her on, to tell her nice things, to give her the best, to help her live up to her potential.

Everyone deserves that.

Baby Picture Therapy Part III

Baby Picture Epiphany #3: I heart Tupperware.

As a lover and eater of leftovers, I've always appreciated Tupperware, but I never knew our connection ran so deep.

Maybe this explains why I really enjoy eating soggy leftover salad.

Maybe it also explains why I still get so frustrated when there are dozens of plastic lids and containers in the cupboard and NONE of them fit together. Yesterday I resorted to wrapping a Tupperware container in plastic wrap. Seriously, where do all the matching lids go?

This appears to be a mystery that I've been trying to solve since I was two years old.

Baby Picture Therapy Part II

Second baby picture epiphany: I am girly - or am I?

Most of my life, I have tried to be more dude-like. I was jealous that they got to go on "high adventures" with Scouts (I eventually created my own), that they got to leave on their missions earlier, and that they didn't have to exert so much effort primping - among other things. All my favorite literary heroines were tom-boys: Jo from Little Women, Leslie in Bridge to Terabithia, and Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird. I refused to paint my toenails, pluck my eyebrows or stop wearing overalls. (I did, however, shave my legs.)

But here I am at age five, wearing a pink-and-purple striped leotard, a tutu, and holding a baton full of sparkles. Socialization of gender norms? Probably. Innate girliness? Probably.

The problem is that I have always hated the word girly. I associate it with other dirty words like prissy, ditsy, superficial, boy-crazy, high maintenance, shallow and helpless. Mr. California Governor has made it clear that I'm not the only one with this list of associations.

Yet in recent years, I have gotten more in touch with my inner girl. I really like wearing strappy high heels. I try to dance like Beyonce. I have coordinated red accent furnishings in my yellow and gold bedroom. I love wearing BareMinerals powder and pomegranate-flavored lip gloss.

I am comfortable doing those things now because I am no longer afraid that they will define me as girly - I have already defined myself in other ways. But more importantly, I have realized that you can get facials and be intelligent. You can enjoy shopping for clothes and also have depth. You can be simultaneously sexy and concerned about economic inequality in America. You can collect doilies and have well-researched, informed opinions.

Let it be known that I still believe that how we present ourselves and how we spend our time and money reflect our values. However, I also want to apologize to women everywhere - and to my younger self - whom I may have negatively essentialized as girly.

I want to reclaim that word, but I don't know what I think it should mean. Complex? Provocative? Dynamic? Fascinating? I recently spent an entire evening with some friends trying to define the word feminine. We came to absolutely no conclusions.

I like the "dude-like" qualities I have developed over the years - whatever that means - but this picture makes me want to keep enjoying and appreciating the girl side of me too.

Baby Picture Therapy Part I

I snagged some pictures from some old family photo albums when I was home at Christmas, and then taped them to my bedroom wall in Seattle. (Sorry, Mom!) Surprisingly, looking at Little Jen every day has taught me a lot about 28-Year-Old Jen. The next four blog installments will detail some of those epiphanies.

First, I seem to have the gene for “posing in pictures with arms and legs outstretched like a star.” After repeated observation, my stance in this Ghostbusters picture started to feel familiar, and somehow, current.

So, I did a little research and what I found is below. It's kind of embarrassing that I still pose for pictures the same way I did when I was five years old. But I also kind of like the pose; it's as if I'm trying to fill a big, majestic space. Apparently, when I was five, that space was our back porch. 

It's fun to grow up.

Dominican Republic '09 - Angkor Wat, Cambodia '08 - Tillamook, Oregon '07 - Yosemite '09

Ethan

The boy who is in each of these pictures is named Ethan Townsend, and he died on September 4, 2009. He was hiking with a friend in a China when a rock slide crushed them both. He was 24 years old. I was his RA in the dorms (Twain) at Stanford in 2004-2005; it was his sophomore year and my senior year. He lived two doors down from me, and everyday he asked me how my day was.

Last spring, he randomly called me because he was cleaning out his phone and wondered if my number still worked. We discussed his physics PhD program at Colorado, our shared fascination with paragliding, past and future travel adventures, love disappointments, and when we were going to see each other in Seattle. I am so grateful for his call.

I went to his inspiring memorial service in his hometown of Ashland, Oregon. Hundreds and hundreds of people - aging long-gray-haired hippies from the community, college friends who flew in from Boston, Chicago, Boulder and L.A. - filled the bright high school gym. I sat with his other friends from Twain who were wearing white t-shirts with a cat drawn on them; this was Ethan's signature drawing (he called it a tiger) that he left on any whiteboard note or birthday card he wrote for them.

It was obvious from the stories how much the town of Ashland, the Townsend family, and mere acquaintances loved Ethan. One of my favorite stories was hearing about how he would give people night-time roof-top tours of Stanford because, as an expert lock pick, he could access all the buildings and staircases. He took a graduate-level philosophy class is sophomore year - just for fun - and aced it. He once rebuilt his computer inside of a mini-fridge because it was over-heating and the sound of the fans that he had been using was too loud. He never sat on a chair at his desk, only on a yoga ball. He would always patiently and graciously help people with their math and physics homework - homework that he had finished in minutes.

Many people stood during the open-mic portion of the service and gave impromptu tributes, including his kindergarten teacher, his sixth grade teacher's husband, his soccer coach, high school teammates, a friend for whom he had recently been a best man, a neighbor, an uncle, and almost all his freshman dorm mates. His parents even stood together and thanked everyone for the outpouring of support for them and their daughter.

What emerged was the picture of a man who who was a humble genius, who was kind to a fault, who prioritized people, who built and explored and created and loved.

One person at the service said that even though Ethan was not able to live a long life, he was able to live a remarkable one. I know that I will not feel Ethan's absence as acutely as those closest to him, but I will continue to feel inspired by who he was.

My Refuge, The Throne

Sometimes I sit on public toilets with all my clothes on. I cry. I sleep. I read. I think. I pray.

Over the years, I have had some very memorable personal moments in public bathroom stalls.

- When I was an accounting intern and desperate to escape the monotony of editing the annual report, I would sit on the john, put my head on my knees, and take 10-minute power naps.

- The first time I visited a boyfriend's family, I started to have a silent emotional freak-out at a Chinese restaurant with everyone there. So I excused myself, found the commode, and engaged in some urgent positive self-talk.

- The day after a close friend told me about his struggle with a decade-long addiction, I instantaneously burst into tears at my desk at work, so I made a quick escape to the nearest toilet.

- When I went to London to visit my friend Jane, I arrived at the train station about an hour before our scheduled meeting. It was too cold to wait outside, so I located the "water closet," sat with my hiking backpack between my knees, put my head on it, and slept. I awoke to the sound of Jane hesitantly calling out my name in the echoey bathroom.

- Once I snuck away from my desk and into a toilet stall with a book under my arm because I was dying to see what was about to happen in Brooke Shield's memoir Down Came The Rain. (I fully acknowledge that not everyone will find postpartum depression as suspenseful as I do.)

The toilet stall has become like a transportable temple: it's the only place in public where I can be alone, meditate, re-focus and find a little comfort.

There are, however, some hazards to this sanctuary.

One is the automatic flusher. All that rushing and splashing directly beneath your pants can be a rude wake-up call. It is also important to maintain your cover - which requires that you flush upon exiting regardless of how painful it is to watch all that clean water go to waste.* Then you have to wash your clean hands. The hand washing, however, provides an opportunity to look in the mirror and clean up the mascara that has probably smeared during the crying, sleeping or thinking process.

Finally, I recommend the handicap stall whenever possible - the better lighting and larger space make it that much more inviting as a refuge.

*(It wasn't until college that I realized that the flusher bar on the toilet is meant to be hit with your foot, not your hand. It grosses me out to think how many times I touched a lever that had probably just been kicked by a shoe.)

I got called out by a 17-year-old skater dude

Two guy friends invited me and two of my roommates to drive three hours to Portland on a school night to see a band that none of us really knew or liked: KISS. It required a lot of sophisticated cajoling, but we finally consented. And we did not regret it. Fire-shooting guitars! Flying performers! Men in platform shoes! Fireworks on stage! An audience full of old men with mullets! Blood spewing! (I closed my eyes during that part.) A thirty minute encore! Dancing and screaming! Confetti! Six hours on the road! What's not to love?

Two weeks later, I was in a therapy session with one of my clients. 17 years old. White. Thug-like. Smells like pot. Skateboards. Homeless at times (by choice). Philosophical. He tells me that he wants to remove himself and his girlfriend from the bad scene: "Like I don't want us to listen to junk like KISS anymore. Have you ever listened to any of their stuff? It's all about partying and getting high and being drunk all the time. There's no real substance to anything they sing about. It's just so vapid."

Like a good therapist, I smiled and nodded and tried to will my face not to turn red. Fortunately, therapists are discouraged from self-disclosure. I shudder to think how he would respond if he knew that I had seen Kelly Clarkson too.

Here are the other concerts (some more vapid than others) that I saw in 2009. It was a great year for concert-going in Seattle ... and Portland:

• Jenny Lewis - Searingly beautiful voice - 4 stars
• Beyonce - If only I could shake my booty like that - 5 stars
• The Killers - "Human" is such a wonderful song - 3 stars
• Bishop Allen - Not your best performance, but I loved dancing right up next to your stage - 4 stars
• Bob Dylan - If you're going to sing all cancerous-like, at least sing songs we know - 2 stars
• Ben Folds - You rocked the Seattle Symphony. You rocked that grand piano. You rocked my world. Again. - 5 stars
• Kelly Clarkson - I have more fun with you at the karaoke bar; take some performance tips from Beyonce - 3 stars
• Black Eyed Peas - Fergie almost got me to crowd surf - 4 stars
• Bumbershoot - Seattle's 3-day music festival where I saw B.E.Peas, Katy Perry (blek!) and lots of other great, small, indy bands - 5 stars
• KISS - See above - 5 stars