twenty thirteen.

It has been exactly 7 months and 7 days since I've composed a blog entry. Its been hard to whirl up a string of funny anecdotes around my real life as everything that has come out has sounded self-loathing and annoying. These things are the same: 1.) I am still afraid of strangers. 2.) I am still a teacher. 3.) Paul still works 2nd shift, which is still hard and sad and lonely and makes our dining room table look like its laughing at me all the time.

This trifecta of stress has made things easier and harder, like most things. I'm in therapy now for my anxiety disorder and while it has proven extremely helpful, I still find it comical that I have a therapist. It sounds so very East coast divorcee, especially when she encourages me to call her when I'm feeling panicky. Like when a song comes on at the bar and I'm feeling feelings? You know you have THAT song: mine is anything by The Cure. Woof. I have never wanted to be that person crying and hiding in a stall on the phone with my therapist encouraging me to be a person. That has to have been an episode of Seinfeld. That's not my life, right?

There has been a lot of good. Paul's stupid job has afforded a lot of traveling opportunities and we camped and camped and road tripped a lot of the summer away. I started working at a new school, which unfortunately had never made me question myself more professionally, but also gave me Oatmeal, who has taught me more about myself and relationships that I have never realized.

Oatmeal is my guinea pig companion that lives in my classroom from Monday to Friday and comes home with me on the weekends. I have had animals in my life as a kid, and love them, enough to only intermittently eat bacon and slim Jim's and other occasional meat snacks, but Oatmeal has become one of my very best friends. It's hard to describe how great it feels to have a tiny little face greet you in the morning with side kicks and squeaks and sticking his face out of the door of his cage to give his nose a little scratch. We share veggie snacks and I love him enough to contemplate buying five dollar cheeseburger wooden chew toys when he's feeling crabby and not like himself. But I've also felt a little less alone while Paul is working by being able to spend time with a little pig that unconditionally loves me.

Unconditional love is a funny thing. Everybody talks about it but I think it's really hard to do and that's why when an animal decides to be your friend, it's extra special because they are really good at this. You don't have to be witty or charming or funny or smart or listen well or brush your hair or iron your clothes. You just have to show up and they will be really cute and be excited and make a big deal of you just walking in the room. Besides best friends and tiny children and husfriends and life partners and family, where in the world can you get that kind of love?

Life asks too much of me, a lot of the time. I feel like I'm always in an impossible situation with my job and its 95% overwhelming. Emotionally it feels draining always, two of my best friends live plane-rides away and my husfriend works too much. I don't laugh enough.
But today at lunch, Paul started singing Jock Jamz, out of the blue, while we were waiting for our snacker basket. And I laughed so hard my neck hurt.
In the middle of Olga's, I'm laughing so hard while simultaneously cradling my neck with my shoulder and right hand, squeaking, "owwwww hahahahaha owwwww!"
Paul naturally asks, "What's wrong with you??!"

Sometimes I laugh so hard my neck cramps up. So I have to laugh sideways until it stops! It hasn't happened in a long time. But it did give me an idea, a first non-self-loathing blog for the new year.

Everyone looks to New Years for new beginnings and resolutions to keep but those always make me feel bad about myself, so I've decided to refocus and blog more, and share what I'm learning about being in education, navigating feminism and marriage, contemplating children, and how I'm committed to learning how to take better care of myself and my guinea pig friend. And some days I'm just going to post pictures of Oatmeal eating a radish.

My 2013 advice to myself and to you is to love the tiny things: 5 more minutes of sleep, your favorite Greek yogurt on sale, a simple smile from a non-threatening stranger, and in my case, a tiny little guinea pig that fills up a large part of my heart. I know it sounds easy and it isn't because you have to work at looking at the tiny things and force yourself to let the huge things that you can't control just be big and huge and overwhelming. My hope is that the tiny things will eventually add up to one big reserved hug when I really need it. And I hope that for you all, a big well-deserved squeeze, unless you hate hugs, in which I will hope it feels like drinking a large glass of orange juice?

Debbie-Downer tendencies aside, I tip my last Christmas-themed Little Debbie treat to 2013, to getting more chances to laugh sideways and love the good stuff. Happy New Year, dears.

Mother's Day

I know it might be weird to be this personal on such a public forum, but I've kept a lot of mom stuff to myself until recently, as I've been meeting children, adults, strangers, friends of friends all going through so many different stages of grief. I always look back and wish I had someone to talk to, or something to read, when I was mourning. So maybe I can be that to them. It also makes me feel better and it helps me to talk. 


Ok. Mother's Day. A lot of people ask me how I feel on this day. It's a question I don't want to answer because I don't know. It's awkward. It varies every year and honestly up until last year, it didn't really bother me. Its never a fail-safe formula for a nervous breakdown: I do that without provocation on a normal tuesday. I mostly just want to be by myself: not in a sad way, just like an "out of the way of the flower sales" way. Truth is that I cried for a moment, listened to Iron and Wine and watched the Indians lose on mute while doing a months worth of laundry. It was a day.

But what these kinds of events provoke is reflection, as many life events do. Reflection always makes me feel like I'm looking up at a giant mountain [insert skiing reference], sometimes the friendly green bean kind that makes me feel accomplished and proud, other times like a huge scary Agro-Crag that I am overwhelmingly exhausted to look back on.  


Giant Mountain #1, Agro-Crag style: My train-wreck teenage years to being a fully-functioning married career woman. I became mother-less at 16, creating a climate of growing into a "woman" kind of on my own. I mean, boys and the mall and hair and boobs are frightening on their own, but without a strong female influence is downright terrifying.  I think that made for the creation of my bravado when it comes to feminist issues. Kind of like, If I'm going to be a woman, I'm going to be superwoman. I'm going to read books and go to women and gender study classes and suit up for war against anyone who threatened my power, keeping most away in an effort to lessen personal loss.

I wonder sometimes if this is dysfunctional, as in, am I only concerned about gender inequities because I'm somehow trying to prove to my mom and myself that I, without a doubt, navigated myself through puberty and blossomed as a crusader for all things feminine?

Maybe not. It occurred to me that the urge to be an independent woman didn't just appear when my mom died. My mother was the strongest person, let alone woman, that I've ever met. Certainly I had been taught to be tough. This wasn't a new idea.


She was so much tougher than I could ever imagine to be. I needed a life-changing trip to the mountains to make me brave enough to order a bagel by myself. She got an idea in her head and made it happen.


Mom Giant Mountains (mole hills for her) 
#1: I want to be on the radio. So I do it. My mom was on two different radio stations in her life, one morning show, one during lunch hour. I was an intern in middle school and acquired a taste for coffee by filling up her mug for her during the summer.
#2 I want to be a private detective, pass the police test and catch old ladies stealing cheese at Safeway. So I do it. These were my favorite stories growing up. If anyone wants to hear a story about an old man trying to steal a hairbrush, I have the best one.
#3-5 I'm going to live in Haiti, live with an old nun named Sister Betty and build orphanages, teach 4th graders English, learn a second language, write a ton of songs on my guitar and modify my award-winning cookie recipe using Haitian ingredients. So I do it. She accomplished so many things there. I've never been to Haiti, but the culture is so tightly-wrapped around my childhood that I still use Creole words around my dad and brother.
Also, I'm going to do 8 out of 9 of these things all before I'm 27, get married and have kids. Rock. Star.


She just did stuff, without problems or fear. She was the most inspiring person ever. And my source of being sad on this day is that I just want to be like her because I want her to be so proud of my life and who I've become. 

Here is my clarity. I am who she dreamed that I would be. I am the person she wanted me to be when she decided to name me Sarah. I am successful and blessed in a million ways. I have an amazing life partner. I am loved and I am grateful for this life. I have the life that she dreamed up for her daughter. I am who she raised me to be. I know this is true because I know that a mother just wants their kids to be happy and do the right thing. I do this everyday. It's okay if I don't live in Italy and discover a new way to cook beets.  I have done a good job being a person, finally. 

Being this person, mostly strong, mostly silly, is paying my mother tribute as a parent. What is in me is what she and my father put there. I learned to walk because she taught me. I have valued my education because she valued it. I have found worth in myself because she loved me. What else does a mother want but to have her daughter take what she has taught her and apply it to her own life?



I've always considered myself strong because I lost my mom at a tough age and had to be strong. I've been holding onto this thought that I'm damaged and need to have a bravado to continue to protect what still hurts. But maybe I'm not so damaged anymore. Maybe I'm strong just because I'm Debbie Jane Ronau's daughter.


I miss her, more that my mind can actually process, but I've realized that the stronger I am, the sillier I am, the more I learn to love myself, I am making her memory prouder and bolder and never forgotten. That's nothing to be sad about.


And on days like Mother's Day, where I am inclined to feel sorry for myself, I'm going to allow a wallow or two, but remind myself to strike a firm balance between sadness and celebrating her life, her strength, her silly, and her love. I don't ever want to forget all of that about her. 

California.

On our last day in Tahoe, Paul and I took a ski lesson from this dude name Rich. "Skiing is dynamic," he said. "The conditions are always changing, you're always adapting and there is hardly ever constants in skiing." Rich had this deep bronze tan face that was half covered with his ski goggles and when he was talking serious, very rare and only about "feeling the snow,"his face showed these rivers of white smile lines, like rows and rows of little toothpicks stuck to his face. I liked to think skiing made him smile that much, enough for the sun to never see parts of his face.

I did pretty well. While Rich kept on barking the, "Pizza! French fries! Pizza! French fries!" chant to our German first-time skiiers, he graduated me to the beginning slope. Of course, I said, "You know, I'm just gonna ski Flying Jenny for a while" (our learning hill). And he looked at me, cocked his head sideways, and yelled, "Go ski on the Ponderosa, for Christs sake!" or something along those old-timey lines. He looked just like my Grandpa Smith when he said that, so I decided to listen.

Eve and Alex, who are more than friends, they are what I call my Mountain family, are Tahoe locals and professional skiiers in their own right. They lovingly stayed with us on the Ponderosa beginning hill the rest of the afternoon. And I fell about 9 times, some really hard, some goofy, some made me want to throw my skis in the snow and hike the rest of the way. But I didn't. Eve kept telling me how great I was doing and Alex reminded me that, "You're still skiing. You're still doing it." And that day, our last day in  Tahoe, made me question everything I've thought about my life, what I deem normal, and this silly thing I call "stranger danger".

I came to California with a lot of preconceived notions about what to wear, how to look and how I was going to feel. I was worried. If you've read this blog enough or are lucky enough to be around for my forever-whining about my social anxiety, you know that even the thought of new things, however exciting and fun, always have a level of terror in my brain. I was ready for a couple of meltdowns over having to talk to hotel staff about bed linens, ordering coffee at foreign places where the start to the lines are ambiguous or just general stranger talk on the airplane.

And I'm not new to travel. My dad has lovingly provided our family with tons of travel opportunities throughout my life, and it has always been the same. I've always needed a fetal position at some point in the new way of things.

This was an entirely different story. I've had some of the worst anxiety in the past couple of months, so I was bracing myself. But the strangest thing happened: I wasn't anxious once. Not one moment did I feel out of sorts, afraid, scared, unsure. In fact, I don't think I have ever felt more like myself than in the 6 days of California, and to this very moment, it is still, minute by minute, blowing my mind, completely.

San Francisco was a beautiful, diverse city with tons of great coffee, vegan options and tasty food. Every single stranger, from random people eating next to us, to bartenders, waitresses and cashiers, were all some of the nicest people I've ever interacted with. Sonoma was bursting with tons of small town charm and graciousness, but the minute we started the climb into Lake Tahoe, I felt completely centered and relaxed. I felt like I was home. I shocked myself in that I immediately wanted to pack up our life and move, but I've honestly never felt so at peace.

The little things that I've been missing for almost 6 months was there everyday: dinner with Paul every night, killer breakfast with our mountain family, a weekend roadtrip with awesome roadtrip music, sharing great coffee, a fireplace, funny Youtube videos and better conversation. Regardless of where you are, this is what makes life great. And I don't get that as a constant.

Frankly, we deserve this life. We need to have a life like this. And if that's not possible in Toledo, we need to find a place where it is. That place exists. Maybe it's Tahoe. Maybe it's Japan. Maybe it's Monroe, Michigan. Regardless, I'm not scared anymore. I'm ready to find our place where we can both do what we love and be together. This life is too important to not have that.

This is the lesson that California and the mountains and Eve and Alex has taught me. I am a good skier because I am still skiing. I am a good teacher because I'm still teaching. I am a good friend because I am still trying. I am good because I am still going. There is no test that I'll fail because it's not over yet. If I fall, it means I'm still going, I'm still doing something. If I'm not falling, it means I gave up. I've never been so thrilled with being okay to fall. And that fact has never ever been in my reality.

I'm not sure I believe in stranger danger anymore. Now, I realize that it has so much to do with me, how I react to the unknown, my terrifying fear of failing, of strange people that are dynamic, that are always changing. I know that I'm going to meet people in my life that will terrify me again, make me sad, make me cry, question myself, but maybe all of that is good. Maybe all of that means I'm at least still trying.

Rich was right. Skiing is dynamic. You can't plan not to fall. And so is everything else. I'm finally ending the chess game in my life and no longer need to be five moves ahead of everything. I have no idea where I'll be in 2 months, in 1 year, and I'm kind of excited about that. What I do know is that Paul and I will be together, we'll be with good friends and family that gently remind us to take some big adventures, we'll be loved and we'll take care of this moment. The rest is, finally, irrelevant.

And now, here is a photo movie of our travels. It is 13 minutes and 22 seconds long. I couldn't help myself....

Let's Go to Taco Bell.

 Paul called and said the Taurus is dead again and then the kitchen sink is broke and he has to call off because he doesn't have a ride so I think let’s borrow my dad’s car since he can borrow my grandma’s van at will so my dad drives me out to the farm and the dog is snoring and my grandma is watching basketball and so we start talking about the farm and the house and I bought that chair for 5 dollars and we have a lot of vets in our family and our German ancestors are from Alsace-Lorrain and I was born in that room right there and how she took care of her grandmother when she had had a stroke with two kids under 2 years old, only 20 something, and here I am complaining about sinks and cars and jobs when my grandma has been doing all of this hard stuff all of her life and six kids and 60 years later, she still smiles and talks about the barn dance that she met my grandpa at 

and so we take the dog out to the pond to feed the bluegill and I say, I feel like a big baby and dad says you’re missing the fish, because they come right up to you when you walk by, they can feel your footprints he says and so the fish start eating and the dog is barking and my dad and I are just sitting on the dock and I’m breathing in real good because farm air is so much better than anything we have around here, and I haven’t eaten dinner but I’m not jealous of the fish surprisingly 

and we go to leave and the van doesn’t start and my grandma says sorry which sounds so terrible coming from her, I feel so bad that she is sorry, she shouldn't have to feel sorry, but we leave without an extra car and I feel defeated and deflated and life is terrible and I don’t care if I’m a baby: this sucks and dad looks at me and points to the car window and outside our window, a car is on fire, no harm to anyone, but I missed it, I only catch a glance, and he says, you’re missing everything, the fish, the car ride and it’s just a sink and it’s just a car and it's just a job and you’re missing all the good 

and I cry and feel like a baby again and I come home to Paul watching History Channel in the dark and I say, let’s go to taco bell and we eat and I tell him I missed a burning car, how, and the fish were hungry and my grandma was born in the kitchen! and we watch Bull Durham and he makes shadow puppets to make me giggle and it works and I fall asleep wearing my glasses, like when he used to work in the daytime, and he puts me to bed and I sleep, really really deep, for the first time in two weeks and it’s fine because it’s only a job and it's only a sink and it's only a car and at least I know now that my grandma met my grandpa at a barn dance…..

My dad is better. Absolute truth.

I am beyond blessed to be able to have a dad that was raised on a strong sense of family and the importance of eating at the kitchen table; that success meant you had an entire room filled with books and your goal was to beat your dad in chess and not how much wealth you accumulate or social circles you enter;  that puzzles keep your brain sharp; that you can never be over educated; that it's okay to be a wallflower because people are weird anyways; that a smartly-developed conspiracy theory is healthy and even patriotic; that people will always be who they are and you either have to change how you look at them or move on; that the most important thing in religion and relationships is loving people and being able to show them....oh I could go on.....

I'm not being cute when I say that my dad is my hero. I know that people toss that word around annoyingly and use it incorrectly to express admiration and respect, but I sincerely mean it. If I ever become one ounce of the person my dad is, I'll consider that successful, except I did get his eyesight and it's not stellar. Regardless.

Although my dad grew up on one of the most beautiful 105 acres of land in the universe, the Ronau Farm, he still has an aversion to tomatoes after working in the fields for 14 hours picking them so he could pay for his private Catholic education and pay his way through college (that was possible back then!) Growing up when he worked at an IT job, we always gauged his day by how much his hair stuck up when he walked in the door at 5:30. And although he was lucky enough to marry my mom and have us kids, he unfortunately lost a wife way too early and had two kids to take care of, by himself.

That's some tough stuff.

Growing up, my dad and I were constantly at odds. I went through a lot, to say the least, when my mom died, and was pretty much constantly angry from 16-20. My dad was left to deal with my crazy rage, which probably makes him eligible for sainthood. I mean, I deal with angry 4th graders daily, but me constantly angry for 4 years? Oi. But my dad was there, through all of it, the anger, my craziness because of the anger, boys, unhealthy lifestyle choices, etc. etc. etc. I know it's silly to look back and wish you could change things, but I wish that I could take back being angry, all of it, every single ounce of anger and the product of the rage. I was so scared to be sad that I just wanted to be mad. That's generally my knee-jerk response to anything emotional: I just get really mad, and then really sad.

When I finally "figure out what I wanted to do" I think it was a turning point in how I saw my dad. Once I got really focused, stable and healthy, we were able to talk more. And the more we talked the more I realized that a lot of things in my life are motivated by how I'm desperate to be as intelligent and well-read as my dad, or even just successful in his eyes. When I was recently reeling over a comment made that I am "unfocused and unsuccessful," my dad sarcastically offered, "Why, because you have your master's degree, a demanding job you're doing well at and a great husband? Yeah, you're failing." And then he told me I baked my mom's cookies so well, that even she'd be proud. Who needs to be evaluated professionally when your dad thinks you're awesome?

My dad picked me up tonight and took me out to dinner, which we don't get to do much because we're always so busy. We mulled over Greek food for an hour, murmuring about educational policy, the republican primaries and "Obama's social security number is linked to a dead guy from Connecticut" "Really, Dad?" that turn into a heated debate, literary group ideas, "You should read this book, even if it's just the first two chapters," and that had to be the best Tuesday dinner I've had in a really long time.

My dad inspires me, provokes my thinking, gives me hope in his ability to help me see everything bigger, that this isn't the end, I'm just on my way somewhere and although I'm tired and just want everything to be okay and easy again, I'm not ready for it to be okay and easy again. And I'm not sure if I would've come to that without my dad. He's my hero and when I grow up I want to be a very familiar version of him, a feminine version who exponentially improves her mathematic abilities, tends a garden, has wall-to-wall bookshelves with books in them and is able to defeat a 3rd grader in chess. Everything else, really, is just a bonus.

"Love is, is too weak a word for what I feel - I lurve you, you know, I loave you, I luff you, two F's, yes I have to invent, of course" - Annie Hall

I was asked to write an email about what works in our marriage for an engaged couples' pre-marriage retreat. Pretty cool. Here's an excerpt for all y'all engaged/together.

"Here's how I see it. A good relationship that turns into a lifetime partnership is completely about unconditional trust. Not just " I trust you to not lie to me." That's generally simple. That's when you're dating. The moment you're able to truly, seriously, trust your significant other to always keep you in mind on important decisions, have your best interest in mind when it comes to finances, believe he or she isn't taking advantage of you if the other makes less money, and overall believe that you are the love of each others life forever, then that's when you're ready for such a major commitment. It's easy to say I trust you, but there's so much to it. You have to be ready to believe with your HEAD that they love you just as much as you love them and that nothing, not even when it gets hard, could ever change that. You have to believe that your relationship is a TRUTH, a fact, not a theory or a fairytale, but a thing that nothing can ever question, change or alter. And that's hard if you're conditioned to be cautious with your feelings and be on alert for signs of infidelity, mistrust or betrayal. Being together means you give these up. You retire your spy hat forever...."

"The Past and Pending"

"Oh, Inverted World
if every moment of our lives were cradled softly in the hands of some strange and gentle child
i'd not roll my eyes so." 

The Shins "One By One All Day"


I'm listening to the Shins this morning and trying to drum up some positivity and apply it to my personal life. I'm feeling like a 20 year old again. I'm feeling like I'm going through a break up and the only cure is more coffee and even more obscure tragic songs I listened to in 2004. I'm annoying myself. Accentuate the positive. Look for the silver lining. Be the tree. I never thought I'd be telling myself these things and getting teary reading inspirational quotes after 6 p.m. We're trying. I'm really trying.

When I was romantically living on my own in Chicago taking unrealistically-expensive fiction writing classes, this dude titled all of his stories after Shins song titles. He wrote one about "Kissing the Lipless" where a diner waiter meets this girl that has a scarf over her face and he's in love with the scarfed mouth until he tries to kiss her and finds out she doesn't have any lips and it's weird. It was such a weird thing to be affected by, but I was always tragically affected by everything. I had so much TIME to be affected and analyze weird looks from strangers and bizarre weather patterns and overheard conversations. Tragically anxious, tragically lonely, tragically in love.

I've never had this much alone time away from Paul until now. I kind of feel like I'm living alone again and my boyfriend visits on the weekends. And I have a choice to either be really whiney and cry about this like I have been for the past week or see it as a chance to write again, see my dad more, learn calligraphy via the how-to kit Paul got me for Christmas, feel affected by something that doesn't make me annoyed with myself and figure this stupid dinner thing out before I either starve to death or go up 8 pant sizes and blame it on Rally Burgers. But I will not work more. I refuse to let work fill up my free time in a really dysfunctional way.

The Upcoming Dinner Week
Monday: Eat leftovers from the amazing dinner we are cooking tonight.
Tuesday: Alumni tent dinner @ the UT Football game with Pops (football is good for something).
Wednesday: Supper Club!
Thursday: Parker Fogle Time :)
Friday: It's okay to eat a Rally Burger here.
Saturday: Chicken Nuggets with the best niece and nephew in the universes.
In Between: Suck it up and be grateful about something.
Also: Learn how to get some sleep.
And: If I start describing my feelings using late 90's, early 00 indie band lyrics, please host an intervention.


"This is way beyond my remote concern
Of being condescending
All these squawking birds won't quit
Building nothing, laying bricks"

The Shins "Caring is Creepy"

(That's the last one, I swear.....)

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

This is a story all about how I love my hus-friend and hate that I'll never see him ever. Especially for dinner. I apologize.

Life has been pretty great this school year. There have been minor setbacks, but few tears of frustration and a clearer sense of what in the world I'm doing. I love those kids. Even the ones that throw food in the cafeteria and run during dismissal. Even them I love. And I'm lucky to have a job where I can hang out with cute kids and love them and try to teach them things like tying their shoes or how not to get so mad you want to throw a chair at someone's head or what the letters "th" make when their squished together. You know, stuff like that.

Then, I celebrated my 1st anniversary of marriage with Paul. This seems really weird to be all crazy about as we've been together for nearly 6 years and anniversaries always feel like a weird thing to celebrate, like you're celebrating the fact that you haven't started hating and severely resenting each other yet. Like, good job you made it a year? It's weird. Either way, we celebrated in Hocking Hills hiking and everything seemed to go wrong, which we eventually started laughing at, especially when a terrible blues band woke us up in our hotel lobby at 8 a.m. on a Sunday by playing so horribly loud that it woke us up with vibrations. But it reminded me of how incredibly lucky I am to have someone to drive around southern Ohio with, looking at barns we'll never own, talking about farmhouses we'll never buy or trips we only might, maybe take and understand how really really funny it is when someone plays "All I Want is You (Come Over)" by Christina Aguilera on the jukebox at Waffle House @ 10 a.m.  It's hard to find people that can fill up time and make it fun just with their presence and make you feel better than you did before, even harder to find a significant other to do that. I know, I'm lucky.

Then, Paul's position at his conservation job came to an end, like all grant-funded things eventually do, especially when you're trying to do something like save native plants, because who cares about those guys? So he was lucky enough to find work at a sub-contractor for Chrysler, factory job wah wah, but it's a good job. UNfortunately it's second shift, 10 hour days, 6 days a week.

My misfortune via numbers:
I wake up at 6, to work by 7, get off around 6. Paul wakes up at 10 a.m., goes to work by 4:30 p.m. gets home at 3:30 a.m. Our overlap consists of sleep time Monday thru Saturday. Oi.

My problem is that I really like my dude. Like, a lot. Not just in the way that you're supposed to when you're married, but I genuinely think he's the best person I've ever met, and I'm truly not being biased. After living together for over 5 years and being together for 6, he still kisses me in the bread aisle of Meijer, dances in the kitchen while we're making dinner and listening to music, thinks I'm really funny, is so nice to old people, tolerates my whining (TALL ORDER) and somehow always knows to tell me that I look amazing when I really need to hear it. I could go on and fill up the Grand Canyon with things that I love about him. And I feel like a big baby.

I know I should be thankful that he got a great job and took it in order to get us to eventually buying a house, traveling more, driving safer cars, blah blah blah. But is it crazy to not care about all that? Like maybe we just aren't cut out to own a house. Maybe we're just meant to live in this adorable duplex forever and make pizza out of mashed potatoes and biscuits and argue whether or not Pat Sajak or Alex Trebek is the better TV host (don't say Sajak, don't say Sajak). Maybe I'd rather drive a 2000 Focus and consider camping a vacation instead of eating a Soup at Hand and a snack size bag of potato chips for dinner on a Tuesday night. Is that so crazy?

I just want him to come home and make this dinner table feel less like my desk. Here's to hoping this gets easier because blubbering 27-year-old babies are pretty pathetic most times of year.

Update: I'm Alive

Nearly a month later, and I've tossed so many ideas around in my head.
1.) How my father has ultimately made me a good teacher. It must be the German thing?
2.) Babies. They are everywhere. And as a married person, I'm a baby conversation starter. Oi.
3.) The plight of the urban teacher as she struggles? No. As she daily, creatively, decides between being a social 27 year old and a spelling bee coordinator/mom/social worker/coach/nurse/organizational genius 60 hours/week.

Don't feel bad for me. I love it.

After this summer, I've realized that I woke up in fall with a scary sense of presence. Like, I can almost feel time just being poured out of the window, or even see it, and it's nuts the kind of perception that comes with it. This notion of being in the exact moment that you're living and seeing it from above? I think it's called mindfulness, but it's new to me and it's fantastic. It kind of makes you reassess being a babywhiner all the time because that's wasteful. I believe in conservation and preservation: of my water bottles, native plants, my positivity and my freaking time. It's all we have, right? Time?

This year, things are clearer at work. I go in honestly feeling like I need to be there and it's great. Spending so much time there lets me leave it there, most of the time, a luxury I didn't know how to use last year. So much is different that I feel like I am doing something completely different in a completely different location. It's all I've ever wanted.

Not to say that there aren't rough days, but I think there are rough days everywhere. It's what you do with the rough days that define how you live your life. I struggle, but try to remember this when I'm whining about something. It helps.

I told a teacher, after being in her wonderful classroom, that she was fantastic and she cried and hugged me. I gave one of my 1st graders a dinosaur sticker for attempting to walk to reading (it's scary for him) and he said "bye muss nuh-no'" for the first time and it was magical. I try to remember back to last year and swear that there are more and better successful stories this year already, but maybe I wasn't looking all the time for them like I am now. It helps.

In other news, 2 pregnant teachers are left and there are 4 new babies since May. That's a lot, I think. It's such a different mind frame to think about a family instead of just us two knuckleheads running around talking about Sponge Bob episode plot twists (maybe that is a foundation for family!) Everyone always says that there's no "perfect" time, but the time is definitely not now when I'm so into my career and we aren't exactly ready to set down roots in our fantastic, but small, mayo-colored duplex. I just don't get how people do it. I see new mothers struggle so much with leaving their child and I know with my history and present levels of neuroticism that I will be a crazyhead. And then how do  you work at a place where it's hard not to leave before 6 or go in on Saturdays? And how do people afford formula and stop themselves from buying all that stupid tiny adorable stuff alllll the time? I don't have a baby and that tiny stuff can be irresistible to me, too! Maybe you just do it and figure it out then, but the whole scene makes me so nervous, a future nervous. Maybe I should just send the nervous to the future and stop thinking about it.....maybe?

And, finally, my father. You know, I see these teen mom shows and think back to when I was a bratty teenager and it makes me sick to think how horrible I was to my dad. I know it's something everyone "goes" through, but now, seeing all of these kids growing up at school, I just wish there was something anyone could say that would make them less crazy to their parents as they grow up. Like, "Hey, there will be this one day where this switch gets hit and you will no longer care about anything besides crushing on people and chapstick and the mall. And anything that gets in your way of that will be destroyed, including relationships and medium-sized animals." But nope, they won't care. It's hard to gain insight to that until you can see it from ten years later. But I think how strict and direct he was really gave me a basis for being a good teacher with follow-through that doesn't let her emotions run the show. If a kid is throwing chairs at the wall, it's amazing how I can fake not freaking out and that faking it always diffuses a situation that could be escalated. It's all because of pops. I bet he did that ten thousand times, based on how much I whine as an adult. You want that Micky Mouse poster? Get a job. You want to skip school with your friends to go to Cedar Point? Never in your life. Thanks Dad. That extra day of English prepared me to be half of the grammar police at school. Bulletin boards and their font choices are safer.

I've Come to Realize....

“In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.” Albert Camus

If I can do this, I can do anything.

I start the official school year in one day and a half. At 8:00 a.m. Monday morning, I will be coaxing first name/last name out of first-year kindergarteners and relenting to writing down their descriptions in order to check them into breakfast. There are 150 of them this year, a fact that makes me dizzy with nervousness and eventual excitement.

I had a tough first year, for a host of reasons. It’s natural to feel like changing careers is logical when it get’s tough, but I didn’t think it would be that tough. I honestly rethought this whole inner city teaching, something I’ve dreamed about, researched, studied for a very long time.

It was weird. Halfway through the summer, I started feeling really excited about going back. I think I lost my nerve for a little bit, my perception hazed like the day after a rager.  I could think of a million different reasons as to why this happened, but I’m not sure the why is as important as how to change it.  A change in focus?

But after being back to work for professional development, planning and weighing in on interviews for new teachers, I was getting grouchy. It’s hard to go from doing nothing to doing a whole bunch, but then we had Family Night. We had a parking lot full of people, more than half being returning students, some 5^th graders coming to see the new building. I got really choked up seeing them register my face and then lighting up. Their excited faces running to hug me, at least half a foot taller than in June, might be the best feeling in the world.

This is why I’m here. This is where I want to be. It’s not for everyone, but I love these kids. It’s about them. I think we forget sometimes how important we are to them, how much we matter, and we forget about how much they matter to us. Providing a brand new beautiful school with tons of room to kids that never get to be in such a beautiful space is why we’re here. It’s why I teach in the inner city, why I don’t care about the money or the time or the really truly insanely hard work. Who cares about the rest.

I think we all struggle with trying to hang on to the enthusiasm we feel at this time of year. We get unbearably tired, things get crazy, kids go into crisis, we have a tough string of really bad days. But as one of my mentors used to say, “What’s the alternative?” I can’t think of one I’m happy with.

I’m proud of where I teach, I’m proud of my co-workers, I’m proud of my school, my environment and every single one of the 595 children that attend my school and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Just remind me to be the “tree” in October.

The Season Finale of "The Real Housewife of Lucas County..."

I'm back to having a career AND being a wife. Steinem would be so proud.

Yes, I'm back to work. It's been trickling in since the beginning of August, thankfully. I'm not cut out for long teacher summers. Maybe I'll be able to distract myself enough to enjoy it when I have a garden, dog or child, but alone in a duplex for 2 months and 1 week (exactly, I counted) was a bit insane. A lot insane. And no matter how much I tried, how many hobbies I tried to create (going to the mall 3 times a week is illogical on a teacher's salary) or how seriously I tried to take this blog or my summer "dreams," it was annoying to be without real structure.


I don't have a smart little bow to tie on to an entry about my summer. It was a stupid wave of emotions throughout and, honestly, I'm not sure if I've really figured it all out yet. There were so many highs, lows and mucky-swampy-weird moments that I'm just glad it's over. I'm excited about my job, my co-workers, a brand new addition to our building, all of it. I know the newness will wear off and I'll start thinking about why I didn't go into library science come mid-October, but for right now, it's good to be Ms. Ronau again.


And out of hilarity, a re-cap of what the heck I was supposed to be doing this summer:


Exactly 2 months and 1 day ago,
Summer Dreams
+ Learn how to tune a piano. 

(yeah right.)

+ Make a working bubble rocket. 

(failed)
+ Eat the bacon chocolate at Fresh Market and reflect. 

(nope.)
+ Learn to accentuate the right syllables in 4 new difficult words (such as su-PER-floo-us). 

(25%: new word: scofflaw.)
+ By August 9th (my last summer Tuesday), finish a Tuesday NY Times crossword in 45 minutes with 0-2 cheats. (Failed on two mondays in a row. Fail.)
+ Learn half of the dance in the new Chris Brown video, including the modified Cat Daddy. 

(Attempted, but looked extra Caucasian.)
+ Learn the sign for "giraffe." 

(SUCCESS! Make a C with your right hand, turn 90 degrees and slowly move vertically from your chest to your chin.)
+ Enter a sweepstakes. 

(Did not enter a sweepstakes. Watched "I Won the Lottery" on TLC.)
+ Find a yoga instructor AND someone that will guilt trip me into going to found yoga instructor. 

(Sorta? New 1st grade teacher is a yoga instructor? Guess I really didn't "find" her though...)
+ Use a shoe horn. 

(Did not have the opportunity.)
+ Watch a movie/read a book about Atlantis and/or dinosaurs. 

(Not even close.)
+ Maybe think about being a flamingo for Halloween. Iron out probable logistics. 

(I thought about it...I think I'd rather attempt to be Patti Mayonnaise!)
+ Avoid pregnancy. 

(YES!)
+ Acquire a new toast, animal-pun joke, or an anecdote that attempts to use both. 

(No. how disappointing.)
+ Learn how to use bleach. 

(I've thought about it and have picked up a few tips but this has not reached actual fruition.)
+ Attempt to enjoy playing the kazoo. 

(Kazoo is still a stupid instrument. Picked up the nose flute instead!)
+ Water plants, avoid being responsible for their death and research how to do that. 

(I didn't water them while Paul was gone for 4 days....they somehow survived...)

What I did realize after a long summer of nothing but this blog was that I need more than just an 'atta boy' for writing interesting things. I crave instant feedback and it's nice to hear that I'm a good writer after changing careers, but I can't live on that. I know that being an inner city special education teacher is one of the most stressful jobs in the world, but I can do it because of what I get back: the silly sign language animal signs, the insane things they say out loud, the sadly excited look on their face when you give them a snack, the breakdowns that become break-throughs. Honestly, sometimes that's not even enough to make your day less painful, but adding it all up becomes better than being a blogging housewife, to me. 

Ironic and funny: so many adults "envied" my time off, but I think the thought of it is so much better than the reality. You think it's just gonna be like when you were in college, but without anyone to hang out with, it's just kind of pathetic. There were no late night trips to B-Dubs on Thursdays or dramatic life-changing chats at Waffle House at 4 a.m.: just a really empty feeling when running out of things to dust around 3 p.m. with nothing interesting on TV to distract until Paul came home at 6. Woof.

My head's somewhere else now. I'm not sure if I can do both: writing clever things about my weird life and focus on my special ones. Here's to trying......and if it gets hard, I'll just leave it up to my worry dolls to fix (I have six of 'em meaning I can't have more than 6 worries at a time...good idea.)

And now......

Back to School To Do List Having Nothing To Do with Professional Goals As Those Are on a Separate Sticky Note in My Head

Fall Wishes

+ Smell like a bonfire at least once

+ Enjoy a half-time marching band show

+ Pick a punkin

+ Be married for a year :) (&hearts!)

+ Avoid actual college football games while enjoying Lee Corso

+ Crunch leaves

+ Hike 

+ Hug a football mascot

+ Drink spiced apple cider

+ Fish before it freezes

+ Make an inspiring Halloween costume

+ Pass out Halloween candy

+ Remember to enjoy it all

Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady

I recently had lunch with three family friends that I hadn’t seen in at least 5 years, meaning they didn’t know I had graduated twice, got myself married, and had a career. Naturally, they wanted to know about my marriage. Forget that I feel quite successful and proud of what I’ve accomplished in my education and professionally; I done got myself a HUSBAND? Amazing. Who cares about that master’s degree?! What good is that if you don’t have someone to procreate with?!

Woof. Here comes the onslaught of questions and a breakdown of what their responses mean.

Lunch Guests (LGs): “What does he do?”

Me: “He’s attempting to save the world through conservation work.”
LGs: “Oh.” (Not a doctor? Failure.)

LGs: “What’s his name?”

Me: “Paul.”
LGs: “Saul?”

Me: “No, PPPPaul!”

LGs: [sidebar with neighbor] “Is she saying Call or Saul?”

Me: “Puh, puh PAUL!”

LGs: “Oh! That’s a nice name.” (Biblical. Good work.)

LGs: “So what’s your new last name?”

And here we go……

Me: “I didn’t change it.”

[Insert dramatic pause and blank faces and insert longer more uncomfortable pause after the faces]

Finally someone speaks.

LGs: “Wha….Why?”

If you’re wondering if I’ve exaggerated that at all, as I am known to do, I promise that is 100% of what transpired. It’s amazing what someone can do to your relationship with words and pauses and blank stares like they’re trying to see if I’m just “kidding”. Believe me: that happens so often and you’d think I’d get used to it, but it’s painful every time. Something so amazing and so great that I decided to happen to me, getting married, and my excruciatingly long journey to accept marriage into my life, the research and dedication to figuring out if I ever wanted to do that and THEN! I FINALLY DO! And it’s not good enough because I didn’t “finish the job” and become a Mrs. It’s like we never got married, like it didn’t count, like we’re just fooling ourselves, still just co-habitating and living in “sin.”

Background: When my first serious relationship fell apart, I went on a campaign to be completely independent and single for a while. Three days later, I met Paul. We dated on and off for about a year until I got my stuff together and realized that he was probably one of the best people I’ve ever met (still is and more) and that I wanted to see where a serious relationship with him would go. You could say it went well. We were so in love and happy, but that never signaled a reason to get married.

I don’t think I really ever wanted to get married back then. Everyone thought that was weird, as in most people’s heads, you fall in love, get married and have kids. We both just didn’t see the point. We didn’t have any married friends nor did we see it improving our relationship. At all. We were living together at that point and saw a lot of people who loved each other not allowed to get married and a lot of people getting married in order to have weddings. The whole culture of marriage, to us, was centered around religion (which we definitely didn’t have any strong ties to), kids (which we didn’t have and weren’t planning on having) or having a wedding (which we hated).  So really, why? We had everything we wanted and a great life without marriage. Now why go and screw that up?

I was used to defending myself when people constantly asked why we weren’t married. I’m non-traditional about a lot of things and the people that matter understood and didn’t really seem to think it was that big of a deal if I didn’t want to marry. So my inner circle reinforced my position, as well as attending huge, lavish weddings I would never dream of ever even attempting to finance. That changed when we went to Nathan’s wedding, a childhood friend of mine. The whole thing blew me away, underneath a gorgeous tree in the front yard of the bride’s parents house. These southern Ohio rolling hills in the background on this wonderful June day was magical, dogs roaming around waiting patiently for a possible back scratch. Their friend officiated the wedding underneath this amazing arbor covered in flowers and when the ceremony was over, we were all instructed to carry our chairs over to the tent. Ha! There was mucho food and amazing wine and slow dances to the Beach Boys and a Girl Talk dance party. No fluff, no haughtiness, just pure unadulterated love. I caught Nathan before we left to tell him, “Wow this was amazing. Maybe I’ll have one of these someday…”
Nathan: “I thought you didn’t want to get married!”

Ah, me too.

On the way home from Columbus, Paul and I talked for three hours about it.  If we could do that, whatever that was, we’d get married. Marissa and Nathan were just so cute and it was completely based on how much they were crazy about each other and not about trying to impress with the chair covers or a dimly lit dining hall. I suddenly wanted a moment to show our entire circle of people that we were crazy about each other, too, with polite dogs roaming around and a quiet, non-condescending cuteness that made people pause and reflect on how much they loved their significant others. Love Fest. Love Party. Jubilee. And it was born. A year and a half later, we had thee best Jubilee in the world and it floors me everyday how great it was. And I’m married and happy and amazed at how our lives are better, not because we got married, but because of our journey to get here and the fact that we did it on OUR terms, not when people called us weird or disapproved but when it hit us on the side of our faces one night in Columbus.  When we were ready.

It was important for us to maintain our lives before we got married. We didn’t want anything to drastically change or have the jubilee be the “best day of our lives” because it was a time to pause and reflect, but it didn’t signify anything starting or ending, just a celebration of what we have. It was a very important day and a wonderful day, but it didn’t define us. It was important for me to keep my identity and to keep a sense of independence. I didn’t want his life to be mine; I wanted us to have separate interests and share our lives, not make one.  And that’s my decision and no one else’s. My name is mine and I choose. Me not taking Paul’s name has nothing to do with our commitment to each other and it’s funny: maybe some people think that’s what makes someone married, but why don’t men change their names? Why don’t married couples create a new name and go by that? Then it would be a true sense of change, both genders. Yo-nau? (laugh!)

I never make any derogatory remarks about the 95% of the population that choose to take their husband’s name. That’s what people do, right? And I get that people don’t understand and therefore want to question me but it’s tiring to have to constantly explain myself. You have to have some sort of REASON not to, like if you’re a doctor, a published author or Jennifer Aniston.

I tried telling people that I married my cousin so Yay! I didn’t have to change it because it’d be the same! Jokes! Not sure if not changing your name or marrying your cousin measures the same on the social outcast gauge as I got the same reaction to both.

Stare. Pause. “Oh,” and the people with guts, “Why?” It doesn’t ever really go anywhere after that which is disappointing because I desperately want to understand why this is so uncomfortable for people to digest.

My answers?

“Why should I? Dudes don’t have to change theirs.”

“I’ve been Sarah Ronau for 27 years; why should that change?”

 And, ridiculously, the Jeep commercial resonates.

“Be proud of your name. It is what defines you. What makes you unique. Nobody can take that away from you. Not now. Not tomorrow. There is only one you.”

Moral of the story (finally, I know): The periph people, the strangers, the people that come in and out of my life for moments, are never going to be happy because they don’t get me. They’re not happy when I’m co-habitating, when I’m married without a married name. And it’s hilarious because I’ve been happy the whole time.

"I Love You, Let's Light Ourselves on Fire"

"sometimes the blues is just a passing bird/and why can't that always be/tossing aside from your birches crown/just enough dark to see/how you're the light over me." 

The Tallest Man on Earth, "Thrown At Me"

I don’t enjoy going to shows anymore.

There used to be an excitement of seeing someone that you connected with over the radio/cd player/Napster and it was pure magic to see them up close, playing for you, playing for a million other people, but playing for you, and you’d look over and see all of these kids be so intensely into whatever was happening on stage like you were witnessing something changing in them in front of your eyes which inherently reflected in you and you felt really connected with the whole mess of it all, the lights and the faint waft of devil’s lettuce and suuuuch cool merch. It was all something that made you feel less lonely.

Paul ruined it for me.

The first conversation I ever had with Paul was about Bright Eyes and yoga. Knowing this and knowing me, it’s obvious that we would be nuts about each other. Our early years were about making mixtapes and 6 years later, at least 3 times a week, we sit on the floor and watch baseball on mute, looking up songs we grew up on or just heard on the radio. 

Me: “You know, that song about Camelot? With the saxophone? Here I’ll look it up.”

My mother was a musician and was lucky and talented enough to be a disc jockey for a local Christian radio station. I grew up being able to go to Christian concerts, having my pick of any cd I wanted, just as long as it wasn’t Mariah Carey’s Music Box. My whole family played music in church. We were Partridge without the bus. Music was in me without me having a lot of say in it. We cleaned to Harry Connick Jr and Beatles. We danced to Roy Orbison with brooms as guitars. We seat-danced to Queen in the car, washed the car to Beethoven. We sang to old Christmas LPS as my grandma’s Christmas dinner. We had a very meticulous soundtrack. It made just doing the dishes come alive and I feel like I remember so much more with a backbeat to it. This does not make me an authority, it just makes me appreciate it.

I don’t think it goes hand-in-hand that in order to like a musician you have to see them live. I’m a huge music fan; I just don’t enjoy going to shows, meaning at big venues with lots of eyeballs and sweat. And I hate crowds. Hate them. At 27, I’m much better at not being a crazyperson in public w/o mood enhancers when I have to deal with crowds, but the feelings are still there, I just hide them better. They freak me out: too many faces, too many bodies standing around, posing, and sometimes I wonder if they’ll ever move, if they exit signs with be free of all those strangers, if the room will ever empty and I feel like I’m holding my breath until they all leave. Unless it’s an outside concert, an obscure artist that Shane got me hooked on, or for friendrock, I usually don’t go to shows anymore. I can’t justify the money, I’m usually waiting for it to be over and I’m getting more and more annoyed with the fans. I have a much better “real” experience just listening to an album on vinyl with some really good friends or looking up a new artist with Paul while we’re trying to pretend we clean the house (“excuse the mess, we live here”). And I’m not a production person. I don’t care about the light show, I don’t care about the 5 minute guitar solo and if I can’t hear what you’re singing about for 2.5 hours, I frankly don’t care. And it’s really hard to have fun without Paul at a show as he knows why I have crazy eyes and how to ease them.

I went to Indianapolis to see Bon Iver play at the Murat. I wasn’t originally supposed to go, but a last minute cancellation that day happened and I offered to go to support the troops. I loved Bon Iver’s first album for it simplicity and nervousness but I wasn’t too jazzed about Volcano Choir, his EP or his latest album, and from what I learned today, Gayngs. Woof. The very reasons I loved his first album was his proposed honesty, but the latter sounds so boastful and bossy that I just can’t get into it. There are moments of goodness, but it is definitely not my favorite, and the show was over the top. Frankly, it wasn't good enough to make me forget about feeling disconnected.

Don’t get me wrong: I was with great people. But there’s something about being able to connect/engage only when I feel safe and I just left feeling really underwhelmed and uncomfortable. I felt like I missed something, that I just didn’t get it. I don’t know if it was the music, the anxiety or just missing Paul, but it was a bummer of an experience. 

However, I learned, or rather realized, that talking about music is as controversial as politics and religion. If you dare say you aren’t into something that someone else had an experience with, you’re nearly shamed out of existence.

And it makes sense. When you’re changed by something, you obviously think it transcends space, time, logic and something so scientific should affect everyone similarly, like freaking gravity! When you find out that’s not the truth, you get mad, like someone just told you they think you’re mom is ugly, your dad is a sissy and make fun of your last name using a catchy, but not-even-clever animal pun. They are obviously lying or trying to be cooler than you, so you try to convince them, show them that they’re wrong, prove to them that Rex Manning is the living eeeeend for all of these ridiculous reasons that don’t make sense to anyone but you. It’s like you’re campaigning to convince someone to love something when really you’re just looking for validation. You’re just looking for someone to get the “why” and connect and understand.

Music is big. It makes people dance close to each other, dance alone, awkwardly, with their eyes closed, it makes people think and smile at each other when they hear cute things that remind them of how much they might be in love, it makes them buy JIF peanut butter because the song on the commercial was sweet and dreamy. They get triggered back to when they were young and impressionable, when they fell asleep on the floor talking to their roommates in the midst of “figuring it all out.” It’s the sad bastard anthems played at breakfast the night after a party that makes you feel like someone is conducting the soundtrack to your life. It's the reason why the Oldies exist, why the Beach Boys still have a job. Music gets us through a lot and continues to somehow make us feel different than before we pressed play. How is that? How can people playing instruments and recording vocals lead us to feel ways that the rest of the day cannot? It’s magic.

But all of those incidents involve people. And I think we’re missing the mark when we go to a show and expect to connect with the musicians. My hope is that what they really want is for you to connect with each other. And buy their records. But it’s not about fame. It’s about what you’re doing when their song is playing. It’s having Shane show you a new band “you’d really be into” and having it hit you so hard you’re glad you’re sitting down. And it's not about the what. I've had a music snob tendancy, but I get it: if a record makes you bite your bottom lip and seat-dance in the middle of Olive Garden, buy that record and play the crap out of it, even if it's a record I don't care for. So live your life. I’m sorry for all the melodrama, but it’s true. People wouldn’t pay $45 and drive 4.5 hours on a Monday night if they didn’t care.

I’ve been to my fair share of mind-altering live performances, but after going to what may be my last ‘large venue’ show, I’m fairly certain that the headliner had little to do with the way I felt being there. Now, in this part of my life, I don’t have to go anywhere to feel affected and changed and amazed: I feel that way every time baseball is on mute.

(I have to make a couple of clarifications: in no way do I think it’s stupid that people go to shows. Just because I don’t enjoy them doesn’t mean I think you shouldn’t. Just because I didn’t think Bon Iver was amazing doesn’t mean I think you’re horrible because you did. Just because I feel awesome with Paul doesn't mean I think you have to go to a show to feel the same way. See how music and politics and religion are the same? Sorry if I offended. It’s just how I feel.)

I'm 27.

My mother wore silliness like a perfectly styled fedora, like in a way when people say, “I would never wear that but you pull it off so well!” Same way with being ridiculous, it ran deep in her blood. One afternoon when I was still at Longfellow Elementary, she decided to call one of her friends and tell them in a thick Southern accent that there would be 3 dozen pigs delivered to her house and wondered if she’d like ‘em in the front yard or the back. Now, if you are the victim of prank call, you would discredit it if someone asked you if you ordered 3 dozen pigs, but to ask where you’d like them delivered? That’s talent.

She taught me a lot of worthwhile things, but it was always wrapped in so much silly.  I learned how to balance a spoon on my nose, how to win in an ice cream fight, how to name geese and give them voices, how to tell the weather by just glancing at a herd of cows, and most importantly, how to correctly celebrate your birthday.

It’s funny how we as a people tend to applaud children with small successes, like: “Linus can count to 20!” “Charlie can tie his shoes!” “Eric can almost make it into the toilet!” And we all pee with excitement. In addition, children’s birthdays are surrounded by so much of the same celebration of a big thing. Pinatas and gift bags and huge cakes and silly string fights and a mountain of presents and lots of screaming children every year until you’re “too old.” But why can’t adults have similar, cathartic silly birthdays? Aren’t we under enough stress to deserve it? I mean, when you’re young, all you have to do is keep breathing to have a birthday party with your friends each year, but I can count more than 2 dozen adults that may actually need a gift bag full of silly putty and bubbles. I don’t really think we ever grow out of needing to feel special or take a day off from being such serious Sallys.

My mother claimed the month of May as her “birthday month,” meaning she could do whatever she wanted but mostly she just used it as an excuse to get ice cream before dinner, (and after sometimes, too).  I maintain that she coined the phrase “Life is short: Eat dessert first,” and it was probably in May. Birthdays were about celebrating life through silliness, not taking yourself so seriously, wearing a clown nose that honked to inappropriate places (like....the bank) and justifying shopping sprees. Of course, being her daughter, my birthday was always a big deal. I remember waking up to a giant Mickey Mouse poster board that she drew herself the night before. Huuge Mickey hung on the stairway with a bubble coming out of his mouth that said, “It’s your birthday!” And that day was filled with all of my favorite things: apple cinnamon pancakes for breakfast, getting birthday outfits, going to the movies (yeah, I liked ‘em then..), and a giant birthday party for dinner. To me, birthdays always trumped Christmas.

When I spent my 16^th birthday in the hospital with her, birthdays went on autopilot. I didn’t even think about why I was doing it, just started trying extremely hard every year to do something over the top and wonderful, but mostly just to get everyone in the same room.  I didn’t actually realize I was trying not to think about her not being there until this birthday. Maybe it was because for the first time since I was 15, I had a true summer of nothing. I have no responsibilities, nothing due, no sense of urgency to be anywhere or produce anything. It’s surreal and a little maddening at times but I took the opportunity to throw myself a real bash, a ‘stache bash, and went a little overboard. This was my ultimate summer project. If this didn’t go well, well, I’d be devastated for so many weird, nonsensical reasons.

The momentum of this party was building in June. Paul suggested we have a mustache party since I’ve had a fascination with them for years, making a temporary mustache out of my hair and a duck face at least twice a month since we met. And it was perfect since now we have the space to have people over. It started out innocent enough but as I started planning, I started adding food, more drinks, more people, more activities, more craft items, spiraling out of control as more and more people kept expressing how excited they were about the party. Every time I heard someone say, “I can’t wait for your birthday,” I felt the need to compulsively add another game/sign/signature cocktail. There was hype. I was nervous. I cried at least 4 times. I changed the playlist 17 times. I obsessively dusted and stayed up til 4 a.m. most nights watching tutorials on how to make cheddar bread and how to tie headscarfs. I prepared like I was about to walk into birthday war. 

And my friends came, excited. They all showed up, were silly, had mustaches and/or glued/masquerade-sticked ‘em on.  They all fully embraced my tom-foolery, down to my fantastic hus-friend gluing mustaches onto tons of helium-filled smile face balloons. I had everything: tons of friends and tons of balloons, a fashion show, a melon head, salon-styled hair and fancy make up, lots of dining room dancing and hugs and air kisses, uploaded pictures from my other half, the rest of 'em taking pictures and videos of it all.  It doesn’t make up for her not being here to give me a Sharpie foot tattoo of a cat, but it helped. I woke up Sunday feeling an amazing sense of gratitude and contentment. If she’d been here, she’d be proud of how silly we all managed to be. All of us adults with our heads full of money worries, romantical drama, am I successful/funny/good-looking-enough? headaches. We all managed to let that go, with charitable help from Lionel Richie.

Can it be my birthday every day? No really, like in the sense of can we all just not be so serious all the time and laugh so much more like we all have hair underneath our nose constantly tickling us? Can we all just pretend like we’re all just people wearing fake mustaches that instantly produce hearty belly laughs, the kind that make you feel sore the day after?

If my mother was a mustache, she’d be an Englishmen: a winning, tasteful combination of class and ridiculousness and I hope to always be like her, even on days that aren’t my birthday.

It's Hard to Be a Human Being

"It takes courage to grow up and turn out to be who you really are."
– e. e. cummings

Plainly spoken, without any flowery language or utilizing a really snappy string of adjectives, I went through the holiday weekend feeling a frump-ness that I haven’t quite felt since 19.

Ok, maybe not 19. Maybe just since April.

Being 19 was like living on another planet. I was in college at the time, which for me was a detox, a recovery period, from high school. High school was strictly about survival and it was only until college that I actually found more than two people that were interested in the same stuff I was: making fun of Mary Higgins Clark, "greeks" and anything on the radio. I think it made us feel important and like we belonged to a group of people that were really too smart, that found it absolutely necessary to question the homogenized population and what they liked. There was a bond made literally out of hating things and liking stuff no one had ever heard of, or listening to Cash Money Millionaires because it was ‘ironic’. How absolutely shallow and what a great time.

But that’s what my 19^th year was about: making poor decisions and being able to justify them based on my group of friends doing the exact same thing. We did everything together, so it stunted my guilt of making bad decisions because there were a half dozen other people doing the same things and there was always someone to eat with and be vegan with. Then I moved away four times. Then I graduated twice.  Then I got married and became an adult that gets excited about new dining room furniture and grocery shopping. And, sometimes, I’m jealous of the people who stayed behind, still in the group mentality, who kind of never graduated, never moved on, never started listening to the radio.

And so it goes. Without some sort of glue of school, work or marching band, people fall apart, break up, move away, find new things to do. I’m left with these strange remnants of friends groups that were formed under a common bond that is no longer there.

Being an adult doesn’t help. In a way, being a student for the majority of life is somewhat debilitating. I know I wasn’t prepared for the shock of  so many changes at once: change of work environment, adding 6 more ounces of coffee per morning, spending money on sensible shoes instead of bender-fuel, worrying about boring things like insurance and flooding basements and an increase in stress-relieving cheeseburgers while still trying to maintain a size 6. I do love having a career that is fulfilling, challenging and having something that I worked hard to get, but there are time where I miss that group mentality, forming a coalition of people that hated exactly who and what you hated and that thought alone brings you together on balconies and to crappy apartments and late night diners with coffee and cigarettes as actual dietary staples. Now something bugs you, but Cindy moved to Milwaukee and DeeDee married a jerk you can’t stand and Jerry has a second job and it’s Tuesday anyway so you have to swallow your angst til you have time to have a meltdown for the weekend, but once Friday gets here you either forgot about it or you’re too tired to deal with it, and you can't drink caffeine late at night anymore because you need your sleep! So instead, you make indifferent to good decisions about your life, like doing laundry before you have to wear your swimsuit underneath your clothes instead of talking someone’s ear off at Waffle House til 4 a.m. because you can.

Yes. Sometimes, I miss having time to thug out my angst on one too many coffee refills to an audience of kids that felt exactly like I did.  Maybe they did. They probably did.

But what’s the alternative? Being a regular at Steak and Shake to write tragically in my livejournal about how life is soooo complicated, updating Face Book with Modest Mouse lyrics about how things are soooo hard? I’m annoying myself. It’s the time in my life that I need to do something, move on, MAKE something instead of wallowing in how hard it is to do all of that. It’s always going to be hard or you’re not paying attention. With or without a constant Yukon full of close friends, life is a unhealthy relationship that makes me feel amazing and confused and sad, sometimes within the same day on a non-full moon night. And if I remember to look around instead of looking back, it’s constantly obvious that even though not everyone is together anymore, I have to start to be overwhelmingly thankful for all the pieces around the county/country that care about me more than what I used to be, because by default I don’t whine as much or talk in Bright Eyes lyrics. 

Clarity reached by an afternoon of coffee and conversation between a poodle-labrador mix and a babyhead and now I'm ready to celebrate the fact that I DID find myself. I GOT something out of my student loans and became a better version of Sarah because I've stopped talking (so much) and started doing (at least something). Maybe that’s not what Saves the Day songs are made of, but, thankfully, I can’t be a Saves the Day song forever. Thank god for that.

Lassie Lassie Adeline....

Plot twist: I went back to work for 4 hours this week. It was not spelling bee planning on my couch. I had a lapse in my sanity and decided to be a summer school sub.

The kids were crazy. Not only was it summer, but I was their second sub that week. Although I had a pretty good relationship with most of them, the minute they saw that I wasn’t their teacher, they came down with “sub” fever, making up new rules for the classroom, sneaking around for no reason, attempting to pop pieces of plastic so I would jump, but fortunately some of my students that I was lucky enough to teach everyday during the school year called them out: “Don’t play Ms. Ronau like that.”

Needless to say, it was a nutso morning, but there was a moment in reading group that made it okay, or even great. We read a story about a girl who was afraid of the dark, followed by a conversation about inferring what made her fearful. This, obviously, turned into them telling me what they were afraid of.

“Talking dolls.”

“Sharks.”

“Werewolves.”

“My mom doing my hair.”

Then one of my students signed the word “owl” to me.

Ms. Ronau: “You’re not afraid of owls!”

K: “Nope [insert cutest shrug ever], but you like ‘em, right?”

That’s why I’m a teacher.

Besides the strangerdanger situation, I think I’m developing immunity to fears that most people have. Spiders are okay if they don’t surprise me and are smaller than my thumb and I’ve stopped having to put my head in between my knees when crossing a big bridge. I’m getting used to thunderstorms, as I don’t count the seconds in between lightening flashes and thunder sounds anymore. I don’t watch most movies, let alone scary ones, so I don’t have to worry about being creeped by talking dolls. But I am scared of bleach.

I don’t know much about my great-grandmother, other than her name was Lassie Adeline, she was a tiny little German woman who raised tons of kids in a little blue farm house with a dog named Buddy and beautifully long, bony fingers. I also have this one fantastic memory of her slowly walking down the stairs of the house I grew up in, holding a mason jar full of jewelry in both of her knotty hands (is that why I like mason jars and jewelry?) She is also the reasoning behind my bleach phobia.

When she started showing signs of Alzheimer’s disease, my grandfather would try to jog her memory by chanting, “Lassie Lassie Adeline, took a dose of turpentine…..” and her small little head, that looked like an adorably dried applehead topped with a swirl of cotton candy, would nod and nod and nod or sometimes give a tiny, charming half-smile, acknowledging some sort of trigger, back there, somewhere.

The “drinking turpentine” song was apparently penned by Lassie’s brother, but the reason it was written got lost in multiple strings of family folklore. I’ve always clung to the story my mom told me.

“Well, your great-grandma was trying to stretch her bleach out so she could have enough to clean the house, so she mixed it with ammonia and the fumes made her vomit come out like a rope. So….don’t do that.”

A ROPE?! She puked a ROPE?

Terrifying. I’d rather be afraid of owls.

*Now, please don’t try this in order to figure out what kind of Boy Scout your insides are. Please.*

After doing some research on Wikipedia (peer-reviewed, no worries), I found that turpentine has no actual LINK to bleach! What? It’s hogwash? What else have I been taught that makes no sense?

Additional Smith Cautionary Tales

“Eating cookie dough will give you worms.”

“Swallowing watermelon seeds will make you defecate like a machine gun.”

“It’s ok to eat Vick’s Vapor Rub.”

Ok yeah, sure. They tell me these things so I won’t eat raw eggs or have a bout of seed constipation. (I cannot make sense of the Vapor Rub.) It’s sweet. But phobias exist because of the lack of knowledge or experience of a noun or verb and the deep understanding that that very noun or verb will cause you life-threatening danger if found in its presence, or relying on one piece of anecdotal evidence passed down through four generations-worth of twists, forgetting the punch line or just a really noisy game of Telephone.

It’s just like that with strangers. There are so many variables, unknowns, ways that it could go that I am unwilling to take the risk and just start talking about the heat and/or humidity. What if you say something inappropriate or creepy-weird? What if you make me feel dumb? What if I turn red because I’m embarrassed that I’m scared of you?

It’s the risk. I’m a horrible gambler. Honestly. I lose all the time at penny slots then get mad that I lost a dollar. But how else am I going to actually find out that using bleach does not (should not?) immediately put me at risk for knot puke? How am I going to convince myself that not all people are scary and mean, even though I’ve met those versions?

Take my Ms. Ronau advice?

“You shouldn’t be afraid of werewolves. If you aren’t threatening their home, they won’t attack.” Lesson learned: as long as I don’t show up at their house with a steak knife, I shouldn’t fear strangers.

Somehow that doesn’t help.

Every (wo)man is an island?

I genuinely feel like, at the end of the day, you come into and out of this world by yourself. It's not a stupid thing to carry that thought into caring for yourself and live with the understanding that you have only yourself to rely on when it comes down to it. It doesn't mean I don't get lonely.

I remember this strange conversation during school about loneliness. We were chatting about "husbands" (her word, not mine!) and the feeling of comfort some have that they are married. I questioned that line of thinking with, "At the end of the day, if he decides to take off and leave you with 5 kids, a jungle gym payment and nothing but a box of mac and cheese, then where do you get your comfort?"  Looking back, it sounded very lioness: like I had stalked being lonely and slayed it for dinner. I was too tough to be lonely. I didn't care enough to feel loneliness. Only peasants felt loneliness and obvi! I couldn't admit it existed. 

I hate feeling that way and hate feeling like I'm not tough enough to figure it out. Having anxiety usually means you miss out on a lot and spend a pretty substantial amount of time by yourself. Sometimes this feels like applying aloe to a sunburn and other times it's pretty awful. In those moments (which are pretty infrequent in my old age of 26), I just wish that I could walk into the bank without driving right past it, without having to go home and tell myself: "We'll try again tomorrow." But, SPOILER ALERT! Marriage didn't cure my social anxiety. Marriage doesn't guarantee a perfect life. Everyone assumes that my life is "easier" now that I'm married, but as my other half/best friend points out, "Now you have to worry about not screwing it up!" Either way, loneliness to me is not having people around you that "get" it. I'm not sure if the general population agrees with this or not, but apparently the best place to figure it out is at Arnie's.

If you are not familiar, Arnie's is a bar and grille dangerously close to the university. Arnie's, on a Saturday night, is so packed that it's amazing anyone ever moves to do anything, as I'm not sure I've ever witnessed anyone blink, breathe or talk during the duration of their visit. Now, one would think that Arnie's had something to offer. Well? No. The architecture is more impressive in a K-Mart bathroom, their drink selection rides heavily on domestic beers (only), they almost always run out of something, there's never enough bartenders and the lines to the bathroom easily take you 30 minutes to navigate. Have I mentioned that I've never seen a chair? The patronage is strangely homogenized as it seems as though 300 people all magically planned to wear the same thing, without being a legitimate flash mob. And they aren't necessarily friendly, as you must subscribe to their culture's idea of recreation, fashion and social customs; otherwise, you are immediately tagged as a suspicious outsider and stink-eyed. 

I once read that Facebook is becoming what neighborhoods were in the 50's: all about keeping up with your neighbors, except now, Facebook makes it easier to paint a beautiful picture of your life for your contemporaries. I could infer Arnie's mimics this notion of see and be seen. Testing my theory of loneliness here was disappointing. No one was talking, just wearing sunglasses inside and strangely dancing as much as they could without hitting the person next to them (think frozen, half-torso-waddling penguins). No one seemed to be interacting at all. I think they would've talked more if they were all on Facebook at the same time (maybe they were....). But could this be their way to connect? To go to a place with so many people that look like them, talk like them, move like them, wear the same graphic tee and pretend to/actually have a fantastic time? Is that what cures the masses loneliness: finding and penguin-dancing with your doppelganger? There has to be a legitimate reason why so many people will drink horrible beer and wait in line for it for hours, unless I'm not aware of a free car wash they are all bribed with. Maybe they were all drunk.

That just doesn't work for me. Arnie's made me feel more alone than I did before. I blame the fedora, but I even think walking in there in a cocktail dress, stilettos and a spray tan wouldn't really make a difference. Marriage didn't solve all my problems (weird!), I didn't slaughter loneliness in grad school with my feminist ethos and I don't really think that's the point. I can either figure out a way to morph into another life form, or find other people that understand that life is complicated, that you can still be happy if you're unhappy sometimes, that life isn't a perfectly manicured set of toes, lawns or sideburns, and being around people that pretend there isn't anything wrong will make you feel pretty lonely all the time because then you have to question if you're the only one that can't go into public places sometimes without a Xanax or friend. Then you question if there's something wrong with you and if you're the only weirdo on earth.

I am, frankly, thankful that I've met other weirdos. They make patronizing Arnie's humorous, have no problem walking into a restaurant first and, somehow, make being married pretty fantastic.

Baby, You're a (socially anxious) Firework!

I think I have a problem with having to know things. Seriously, I need to know a whole lot of information to function. Maybe not function, maybe just feel comfortable. If I don't, I walk around like I have a rock in my shoe. Par example: Comet Coffee in Ann Arbor. Been dying to go. Coffee tasting? Yes, please. Walked right by it. Didn't know how it worked. I need to have the signs like Subway does "Order Here," "Pick Up Here," or even "Stand here and wave to the person at the counter if you have no idea what to do and need someone to be nice to you and explain the instructions for how to choose your own adventure." But a bunch of people all standing in a row at a counter without any structure, menu or direction gives me anxiety. Where do you stand to wait? Are they all just actually shopping for jewelry? I need you to make sense.

I'm comforted in knowing small details about the structure of a restaurant visit, such as the location of the bathroom, if you have to take the check up to a counter or if the waiter does this for you, where the drafty seats are and which booth has a broken spring in the bench seat because I'd rather sit on the floor than feel like I fell in the toilet for the duration of a meal. And I don't feel as though I can ask to change tables or areas because I feel like it's my fault for saying "Ok" to their question of "Is this table OK?" But really it's like asking you if your food is okay before you even figure out what you want to order. Based on you leading me to the nearest open table using no said logic or algorithm, I actually have no data to comment on your table- picking abilities, other than you sat us in the same restaurant that we showed up to and you did not seat us in a dumpster or shark tank. It would also be encouraging to know the psychographics of eating-others as you just have to guess why the smarmy old one is staring at you: a.) because you're wearing 4 inch wedges and that makes you "for sale," b.) she doesn't know why you're not wearing a red A on your shirt to warn others of your intentions based on your tawdry bare neck, or c.) maybe it's just because that's what her face looks like. It's a genuine miracle how I ever leave the house.

But I do. Some days are better. I recently revisited the small silverback gorilla population that is men's softball on Mondays. Do you know what's hilarious about their habitat? When they play softball (hardball!) right next to 10 year old girl's softball.
Real scenario #1: Juicemonkey hits a blooper to right center and as he struggles to run to first base, a mother in an adjacent field screams, "Run out that base, Manda-honey!"
Real scenario #2: In between innings as men walk back off the field, same mom yells, "You can do it girls!" Some genius planned this to make my summer Mondays better.
(It also works conversely: I glanced at the nearest girls game just as one of the primates yells, "Hit that ball, King Smoke," as a portly-sized pre-teen named Kay Kay curiously tilts her purple helmet towards her bat....how beautifully inappropriate.)

Update on Summer Goal Attainment:
So after the excitement wore off that we were having pizza rolls for dinner, I asked the obligatory "How was your day?" because hus-friend's banter about nature and the strange plant he found while trolling the preserve for invasive species is a host more exciting than my new high score dancing to Katy Perry's "Firework" in Just Dance 2. But of course he mirrors my question. How was my day? As a stay-at-home wolf? After I figured out it was Monday due to Bravo's advertisements about their line-up that night, I purchased a New York Times and......"I failed at Monday's crossword, even cheated once." Typing that out loud brought the dirtiness back to light. Sick. Note to self: summer goal stunted; depressingly far from fruition. I mean, how can I even attempt to figure out Tuesday if I freeze at cleverly describing 'cowardly' in 25 spaces across on MONday? I need to re-prioritize my stupid life. Hus-friend's response, "I expect more out of you."

Finally, in a strange turn of events, I have now started eating waffles for breakfast in lieu of cereal.
I ain't mad atcha, Kashi Island Vanilla.

Wild, Wild Weddings

I hadn't been to a wedding since 2009. This is strange, if you think about it. I'm in that sweet spot of age where everyone is getting married as we all graduate, settle down, get careers, and BOOM! now we need fiances and cupcake dresses. My hus-friend was a groomsmen and ironically, the only one married on the groom's side. Although the mister to be married and I had had a sorted history, we had recently started fresh and I was honored to had been invited to the entire weekend of festivities, including the rehearsal dinner.

Here comes the nerves. It's one thing to know the groom's people, but I don't do well by myself in strange social situations. There were people from my past that I hadn't necessarily done well with in my earlier years and without someone to gaze at knowingly, I was slightly spooked. Shame on me. I have a snobby part to my personality sometimes and when I really sit down to thinking about it, it makes me sick. I do assume that 75% of my life will be sharing space with people who don't "get" it, whose maturity just isn't "there," who aren't respectful of how "I" feel. Pair that with the Ronau bravado that comes on when I think these things.

But this weekend floored me. Not only were past people mostly gracious, open-armed and respectful, but I made a TON of new friends (yes, friends) including the officiant's wife that instantly became my stylist, shopping AND dancing partner, partook in some wonderful conversation about a whole host of topics, met 4 attorneys, danced enough to acquire well-worth-it toe blisters, saw my hus-friend in a tuxedo for the first time, because a pocket square-folding aficionado (for 9 men!), and was able to brush off any immature fodder with grace. I impressed myself and felt pretty good at it, and if only for a moment or weekend, regained my faith in most people.

Now, mostly, I don't really care for weddings. This is no secret as I made my "wedding" into a "jubilee," whole-heartedly. However, when the FOG (father of groom, I love this), gets teary right off the gate, the bride can't even talk because she's too choked up and the groom goes to her face to make sure her makeup wasn't melty, it's a beautiful thing. I know I cried.

But weddings, if done right, are about more than just the bride and the groom getting married. It's a PARTYBUS full of people that love each other in some way, enough to dress up like a penguin in the middle of June. It's little kid dancing and cheek kisses from old people. It's an excuse to wear a cocktail dress and fuss over your nails. It's a camera full of silly dancing pictures. Where on earth do you ever get that much positive social interaction? Secret's out! Wedding snobbery aside, I had a fantastic wedding weekend.

So? What are you gonna do with your life?

There's a sleeping possum and a globe and  star light that doesn't plug in and a squinty cat and 750 ml of shiraz and two kinds of beans.

So? what do you want to do with your life?