The Many Adventures of Marisa the Gimp

People are all too eager to inform you about the stages of grieving when you're grieving. Anger, denial, sadness, insomnia, denial again, an inexplicable hatred of all men named Fred... I can see the indignation sweep across many of your faces as you point out to the computer screen that I just totally made up that last one. You sure about that though? My grieving process distinctly includes a phase where I downright distrust anyone named Fred. I guess that phase is only part of the Marisa-specific grieving process.

I am a certified expert by now in the phases of the shoulder-wound-healing process by now, at least as it pertains to me. Almost every day as the healing process progresses, I notice a change in my personality. Conveniently enough, each emotional state through which I've gone thus far can be personified by a Winnie-the-Pooh character. If you are unaware of who this "Winnie" fellow is, and you're scratching your head as you wonder why part of his name contains a colloquial term for feces, you can go ahead and stop reading. This rest of this post will make no sense to you. Also I'm really sad for your childhood if that is the case.

The first few days of my injury, I was Winnie the Pooh himself. He is kindly described by his own best friend Christopher Robin (annoyingly, a kid with two first names and actually a bit of a bully) as a "bear with very little brain," simply because he is blissfully unaware of bees and the hardships of life in general. I walked around in a Winnie-like state, convinced that this shoulder thing was nothing bad and would be healed by a magical woodland fairy and I'd be back climbing in no time. I was much like the lovable cartoon in the episode where he is hurled face first into the hole of a tree where he gets stuck but is completely unconcerned by that since the little tree cave is full of honey, his favorite food (how does he not have type two diabetes?). A bear with a higher IQ may have freaked the F*** out at the revelation that there was limited oxygen in there, and feel panicked and claustrophobic and almost certainly as if death were coming considering the unlikelihood that his friends could get him out of such an insane place with enough time to save him from suffocation. In fact, now I am freaking out about that episode because that is how it ENDS! With Winnie stuck in a honey hole at the top of a MASSIVE oak tree!! I assume he got down safely because he is in the next story. That Christopher Robin has a messed up imagination. Time to take that kid to a child psychiatrist.

Pooh! Things are SO FAR from okay for you!

So about three days in, I found I was still lying on the couch in a sling, and that there was no magical woodland fairy, and I was still not climbing. The blissful unawareness of Winnie quickly gave way to the extreme depression of Eeyore, the sawdust-filled donkey toy with a bow and nail pinning his own tail to his ass (the guy has good reason to be low). I suddenly noticed with shocking definition the intensity of the rainclouds outside. I realized that not only would my shoulder never heal, but that I would never climb again. Dark circles moved into the spaces for lease underneath my eyes with no intention of ever leaving their posts. I was my shoulder injury, nothing was good or even less than horrible, and life as I knew it was over. I was Eeyore. Inconsolable, always beneath an ominous raincloud, and on auto-pilot to ensure my doubt about whether or not a morning was good when anyone pointed out that it was.

I wasn't angry. Rather, I had fallen into a pit of depression as deep as a well out of which I could not see. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. I felt too sad to do anything other than mope about the things I used to have that were good, and would never be good again. Everyone and everything sucked. This character was probably another indication that Christopher Robin needed some serious help. My Eeyore phase lasted a couple of days, days that passed like a snail through molasses as I stared out the window entranced by the never ending rain.

In the next stage I morphed into a character who didn't technically exist in the Hundred Acre Wood (why does that sound dirty?), but potentially could have. I was still Eeyore, but angry Eeyore. Eeyore with turrets, if you will. My response to "good morning" would be to lash out angrily and argue that this morning not only wasn't good, but was horrible just like whoever it was who wished me a "good morning". Then I might grab Piglet by the ears and throw him against a wall. Anyone else want to wish me a good morning?! Huh!? I didn't think so. I wonder if Eeyore ever DID finally lose his mind and get angry behind the scenes. Maybe now he is sitting in an asylum in a straight jacket, rocking back and forth with eyes wide muttering something about how his whole life could have been different if that jerk Christopher finally gave him a tail that didn't require re-pinning fifteen times an hour. Sorry if I just ruined Eeyore for you with that disturbing image. What I meant to say was.... Eeyore finally got some Prozac and went to live with his cousin in upstate New York. He became a motivational speaker and lived happily ever after.

I could have gone another direction and compared my angry phase of shoulder healing to feeling like Rabbit. Christopher clearly gave up any and all attempts to be creative with that name. Maybe that's why Rabbit was so pissed- he just wanted to be called Eugene. Or even simpler, Bill. Anything but a description of what he was. How would you feel if people walked around calling you Boy Child, Christopher!? Inconsiderate kid... Ugh. Anyways, Rabbit was always pissed with good reason because ignorant wistful Pooh would steal all of his honey and then the rest of his food, and other characters ruined his garden "by accident" or would piss him off some other way when he just wanted peace and quiet and to be called by an actual name. Do you blame the rodent?!

I don't care about you or your problems. Just be thankful I didn't name you Bear. You were lucky enough to be named after a poo I had once that you somewhat resemble. That's right. I named you after a poo.

Today I've entered the next stage, which is the phase where I feel slight improvement in my injury and am therefore falsely hopeful and potentially about to do something stupid, like climb. I guess that would be Tigger? He was always causing trouble, that guy, and bringing others with him on his irresponsible endeavors (he was probably 100% responsible for the corruption of Roo- you don't even WANT to know what happened later in the life of the annoying infant Aussie pest- there may be a documentary about child actors whose lives went to hell in which he is featured. Proceed with caution.). At least he narrowly missed becoming another "Rabbit"- he probably only got his name because Christopher Robin sucked at spelling or speaking, and actually meant to call him Tiger. Close call, Tigger- count your blessings.

You know, as long as I never become Owl, the pedantic jerk who thinks he is all knowing and really just gives horrible advice, I'm happy to continue going through the emotions of cartoon characters from Winnie the Pooh. Oh, I also never want to be Christopher Robin. That kid is the WORST.

 This is the REAL Christopher Robin, by the way. Can't you just TELL he has a touch of the crazy??

Kids These Days!

I feel like I've already written a post with this exact same title. If that is indeed the case, it simply goes to show the sheer depth of my frustration with today's younger generations. They most recently flaunted their flaws on Halloween night, one that children look forward to all year 'round as it enables them to walk door to door and get FREE candy from their extremely generous neighbors (candy ain't cheap).

Sounds AMAZING, right? What a deal! You get to dress up as some awesome character or whatever you want really, walk around in the dark with your friends and get heaps of free, delicious, sugary candy that will give you a crazy high, make you bounce off the walls, and then pass out from exhaustion. What an evening, Halloween is....

That should be fun enough for today's youth, right? WRONG. I'll start this rant off by conceding that yes, there are many polite, well-mannered young people wandering around in this world, and we encountered a great deal of them on Halloween during trick-or-treat time. However, another great deal of children were snotty little ungrateful brats who acted in a way that I am sure no kids did when I was one.

I also concede that my roommates and I were not properly prepared candy supply-wise for the hoards of children that came by on Halloween night. However, even our need to rush out and buy more candy to restock was partly to blame on snotty children, namely those who took more than one in spite of our specific verbal instruction to take "just one." Some of them needed to work on their listening skills, like one child who said "well, I didn't get both types of candy!" and grabbed a second one.

Jerks.

Most of the candy-kid-drama occurred in the first portion of the night as we handed out bags of chocolate snack mix and lollipops. As my roommate handed a kid dressed as some superhero or another a bag of the snack mix, he stated that he didn't like that. In my day, we were never that rude! It's FREE! Just take it, smile, and say thank you! Other children asked what specific flavors of lollipops we had and immediately made a sour face when we said we didn't know (they all had the same wrapper). On that same note, one kid put back the candy he was given and demanded to choose his own. I repeat: smile, accept the candy, say "thank you." Three easy steps.

Once we ran out of the snack mix and lollipops, my roommate came up with a backup plan to hand out Halloween-themed temporary tattoos. We felt confident in this decision until we found out how extremely averse the trick-or-treaters were to temporary tattoos. One kid actually turned to the rest of his pack of friends when he saw that we had tattoos and shouted "let's go, all they have are tattoos!"

The candy-less period of the evening seemed to drag on slower than a snail moving through expired molasses (which, for some reason, I imagine is stickier and thicker than unexpired molasses. Actually, does molasses expire??). We made a very apologetic sign which many people ignored and when they rang anyway we broke the news to many disappointed kids. Some were bratty and rude about our candy shortage (partly caused by earlier children taking too many, I'll point out again), but some kids were kind and understanding which was refreshing. 

Too many kids these days are like this little "gem" of  movie character...

When our reinforcements arrived with supplemental candy, things had died down a bit but drama ensued. Many kids greedily snatched handfuls of candy without even a mumble of "thanks" and without preceding their candy-grabbing by saying "trick or treat!" It's a pretty easy thing to say to get candy. As it got later, children who had already been by earlier came back and asked for extra candy since it was the end of the night. Seriously?! Take what you get and be THANKFUL! I guess being thankful is too much of a struggle for some, hence why society seems to ignore Thanksgiving decoration-wise and head straight for Christmas.

What about Thanksgiving?!

Perhaps the "highlight" of the evening...the high school kids who are way too old to trick or treat and really just irritate everybody. I felt horrible for my roommate when she answered the door from them. One of the two girls in the group said to my roommate "my friends drew something on my face, do you know what it is?" It was a penis. Nice end to the evening.

Post ranting, I will once again add the disclaimer that I in no way think this behavior applies to all kids. There were certainly polite kids who thanked us and used these things called manners. But this blog isn't about them.

Doodles and Mouses

How is it possible that EVERY child in Japan is a perfect artist?? Seriously, they can all draw amazing anime characters in mere minutes. I feel like they must all have a gene enabling them to do so. I graded papers today covered in mindless doodles of Disney characters that would have taken me hours to draw even half as well. 

This takes kids in Japan 30 seconds to draw perfectly

Speaking of Disney characters, I love that it is acceptable here for people of ANY age to have cute cartoon characters on EVERYTHING they own. Grown men and women have Winnie the Pooh coffee mugs, Snoopy pencil cases…anything cute is totally fine. I have embraced this wholeheartedly with my Mickey Mouse water bottle and my Moominvalley planner.

This would be totally normal for me to have here, and that is awesome

Speaking of Mickey Mouse, I realized today the ways that English can be befuddling to say the least for those learning it. When my students were writing about a famous cat character named Doraemon today as per my assignment, one girl wrote “Doraemon is a cat. He doesn’t like mouses.” When I explained that the plural for mouse is mice, her mind was instantly blown, her reaction like the one below:

Believe it or not, people ACTUALLY make that sound to express their state of surprise. It is hilarious.

Because they write cute sentences like “Doraemon is a cat. He doesn’t like mouses,” I end up keeping a substantial amount of the assignments I have the students do. For one activity, I made sentences, printed them out and cut them in half, and the students had to match the two halves of the sentences. One of the sentences was: If you get 70,000 yen, you should buy Miss Marisa many presents. Another was: If you are hungry, you should eat Indian curry. One group of students got really creative and wrote: If you get 70,000 yen, you should eat Indian curry. I let that one slide because, let’s be honest, I would DEFINITELY do just that if I got 70,000 yen.

Japan: Where a Kid can be an Extremely Overworked Mini-Adult

You heard correctly, all you kids out there wishing with all your might to be an adult! All you have to do to make all of your dreams come true is either go back in time to make Japan your country of birth or convince your parents to uproot the family and move to the island nation.

Kids here have no free time. I don’t mean it in the way that whiny spoiled American kids say “wah, wah, we have to do homework for 30 minutes tops after getting home at 3:30 from school.” No. By no free time I mean just that. No. Free. Time. Kids here arrive at school around 7:15 or 7:30, usually after walking about 20 to 30 minutes to get here. Classes go from 8:50-12:40 and then comes lunch which sounds as though it would be relaxing but the kids have to serve lunch to all of their fellow classmates which takes about ten minutes, leaving about ten minutes to shovel down the food before cleaning time. Yes, as if a dictator-like education system weren't bad enough, the kids are forced to clean the entire school for 30 minutes. Afterwards, classes resume until 3:30 when mandatory clubs begin. Every student must participate in brass band, art club, track and field, basketball, badminton, soccer, or more than one. 

After the clubs finish at 6:30 PM, the kids go home, usually on foot or via bicycle which takes approximately 20-30 minutes, they shovel down dinner, then do homework and go to bed. It would be even slightly more understandable that they live this way if they had a weekend to look forward to. Not the case. Kids have to sacrifice their SATURDAYS to attend their club activities at school. Seriously. 

A substantial number of the students have grey hair at the ripe young age of 12. That is terrifying, and either caused by their extreme, off-the-charts stress levels or from the aftermath of the Fukushima disaster. Who knows. Either way, I pity those children. 

What every kid in Japan is probably thinking,,,

A Slab of Salmon and Underestimating My Age...

...are all it takes to win my heart. At school, I am reluctant to eat with the students since I often feel like either a circus act with all the kids laughing at me because I don't speak Japanese or the last kid picked for the sports team because no one wants to sit with me. Today, however, my faith in the kiddos was restored by one gleaming beacon of hope in the form of a 7th grade girl. I am scared to name her because of the terrifying Japanese privacy laws, so I will avoid referring to her by name.

Since my first day, I have been told numerous times about the English speech contest that will take place next month. Apparently it's their version of a spelling bee- it is prestigious and the students spend hours and hours of their free time preparing for the event. On day one, I began editing a manuscript from the school's top contender for the contest. Based on the quality of the writing, I assumed it was one of the older students since I could find very few mistakes. When I finally met the writer at lunch today, I was astounded at how little and young she was. Thankfully, she sat across from me at lunch and made conversation with me in flawless, native-sounding English. She looked quizzically at my sad salad and asked if I would be hungry after. I told her not to worry but she said that she hates salmon and offered me part of her school lunch. I greedily gobbled up what was some of the best salmon I'd ever had, and she looked extremely pleased. She instantly won herself a prime spot in my heart. I'm like a whale at Sea World- just give me a fish to make me happy.

All it takes...

After lunch, she asked if she could practice her speech with me. She read it with hardly any hint of an accent and I applauded her instantly, telling her how thankful she would be later in life that she mastered English so well at such a young age. Then she asked me to read it so she could hear it from a native speaker and after I finished she said "wow, that was amazing!" with the biggest awe-struck eyes I had ever seen. Then we looked through my photos and I asked her to guess how old I was. When she said "20" she earned herself even more Marisa brownie points. Perfect child. When looking at my photos she said "wow, everyone in your life looks so happy and joyful! I want to know them all!"

It's kids like her that make teaching completely worthwhile. 

Six Going on Sixteen

Sort of like the song from The Sound of Music with skipping a decade. All of the common phrases dotting her diction always made Katie, one of the kids who I babysit, seem older than her true years. However, it wasn't until she uttered the phrase "yeah, that's some serious false advertising" when I pointed out that her guinea pig's "non-drip" water bottle was leaking that the comical nature of this fact truly manifested itself. What six-year-old knows about "false advertising"? Her favorite word, hands down, is "whatever" and her favorite phrase is "so what, who cares?". Today, when I mentioned to her that she was about to be the main character in my blog because of her attitude, she folded her arms, raised one eyebrow and said, "ugh, that is SO not true!" Of course, I instantly pointed out that what she just said completely validated my point. When I ask her what she did in school she just says "oh, stuff" and when I ask her to do things she says "yeah, whatever, I will!" with a prissy attitude. I actually love it.

Little Diva

Her older brother, eight-year-old Diego, is also mature beyond his years but in different ways. He actually out-grammared me the other day, which, for anyone who knows me well, is quite difficult to do. Out of the blue in the car, he spouts out "hm, Sunday is a compound noun. Did you know that?" and I said that I did, and that I was tremendously impressed that he did as well. Then we began listing other compound nouns, and he said "toilet paper," and just as I began correcting him in saying that it was not a compound noun because it was two words he retorted that yes, it was- it is an uncompounded compound noun. Man that kid is good.

These kids are also some of the first that don't go haywire for macaroni and cheese. Unlike other kids, they do not beg and plead for me to whip up a box of cheesy pasta or to take them to a restaurant serving mac n' cheese. Instead, they beg for fish tacos, Vietnamese pho or Indian food. They also don't miss a beat when hearing songs on the radio. They called me out when a band said "crap" during a song, and Katie's inquisitive nature perked up when she heard the singer from Cake mention that he wants a girl who wants "a car with a cup-holder armrest."She couldn't understand why a man would seek out that trait in his ideal woman.

They do love their dessert, watching cartoons, staying up late, reading comics and playing video games. They hate brushing their hair and bathing and doing chores. So, I suppose they are not fully little adults just yet. Give it a couple more years. Or whatever.

Kid-Appropriate Language?

As an occasional babysitter for numerous families, I have come across every method of parenting you can imagine. I am more than happy to adhere to the rules of different parents; THEIR kids are the ones I am caring for, after all. The one thing I wish they could all come to agreement on is the kind of language I am permitted to use around their kids and that their kids are permitted to use around me. It's more confusing than the conundrum debating whether it was the chicken or the egg that first made its appearance to try and keep straight when I can say "crap" and when it is considered the worst swear word known to man. I did not know it was possible to be opposed to "crap" until quite recently. 

The easiest kids to babysit are the ten-year-olds around whom I can say, literally, any swear word I want and they can reciprocate. Getting angry during video games is so much more simple when my mental filter isn't making me say ridiculous words like "shoot" and "drat" and "oh, fudge!". However, there is one catch to my sailor speech around these kids- I cannot use foul language in a manner that can be construed as directly insulting to the kids. That is kind of a no-brainer to me. I feel like anyone who calls a ten-year-old a "f***ing a**hole" is just asking to be targeted by social services. 

Thankfully, I can put up and tear down my foul-language barrier quite easily. Even some of my friends are more sensitive to certain derogatory words than others. It varies by nationality, too. For example, J.K. Rowling throws the "C word" around in her book The Casual Vacancy like it is no big deal whatsoever, an act which I imagine would shock most people from the United States. I learned that the "C word" is common vocabulary in Canada and Australia as well. 

Having the radio on around kids is another huge roll of the dice. Some stations bleep out the word "ass" whereas some leave the foulest of foul language perfectly in tact. I thought there were regulations on that kind of thing. If the kids are in the car and one or two swear words slips through the censorship cracks, I like to hope it is not the complete and total end of the world. I'm sure that people swore like sailors around me as a kid all the time in restaurants and other public places and I never registered it in my little brain. I don't consider myself permanently damaged, anyway. 

Bubbles

Some of the things that kids find entertaining truly astonish me. When the three-year-old girl went mental at the suggestion that we bring bubbles to the park, I admit I found it a bit of a head-scratcher. What is so exciting about soapy orbs floating along the air unless they contain Glinda the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz? However, the bubble-blowing session that lasted easily an hour ended up not only provoking giggle fit upon giggle fit from the little girl, but I actually found myself entertained as well. The simplicity with which children find amusement and happiness is such an enviable trait. I wish I could be a carefree little kid chasing bubbles barefoot in the grass trying to pop them.

She also insisted on sharing "facts" about bubbles with me. For example, according to her, a group of bubbles can either be referred to as a "crop of bubbles" or a "flutter of bubbles." So, every time bubble after bubble streamed from my bubble wand, she would jump up and down and squeal shouting "a flutter! A flutter!" Fine, I admit, it was quite precious. Maybe in depth bubble studies are in her future.

Then of course came the most comical moment of the bubble-blowing at the park. After I had pretty much mastered my bubble-blowing skills, the little girl turns to me and said "you know, you're really good at blowing." Wow. Even if I were a professional porn star I would have been offended by that comment. Then, of course, all of the teasing and innuendos cascaded forth from the mouth of the other babysitter at the park who fell into a crippling fit of laughter after the little girl's remark. For instance, "yeah Marisa, your mouth must get tired from all that blowing," or "try blowing a bit more gentle." Blah blah, we are all so mature.

Saving the World, One Fungal Infection at a Time

Since we arrived over a week ago, the younger boys at the different monasteries have all had strange, white, powdery-looking spots with no hair on their scalps. Maree, the wife in the New Zealand couple, and I had piqued curiosities which, of course, led us right to Google to see if it was some sort of infectious, contagious disease. Maree guessed from the start that it was ringworm, but I felt unsure about this diagnosis as I thought ringworm appeared as raised, red, bullseye-like marks on the arm.

"White spots on scalp" yielded photos closely resembling the heads of the mini monks, and the descriptions generally referred to the ailment as "scalp psoriasis." Maree and I were satisfied with this diagnosis for a few days, but the fact that there was no improvement in their condition along with the fact that psoriasis is not contagious and all the little boys had it led me to question our conclusion. After I searched "ringworm of the scalp," I knew that Maree's gut sense was correct. According to the website, scalp ringworm is common among children in unclean conditions (I would not be surprised if the kids shower once a month maximum, and wear the same clothes daily) and closely resembles psoriasis. Ding ding, we have a winner!

Of course, the fact that our students have ringworm coupled with the information that another class of kids has scabies did not bode well for a someone like me who is overly paranoid about contracting a crazy illness. Thankfully, it turns out that scalp ringworm can only be contracted by children whose immune systems have not developed enough to fight off the fungus. Specifically, according to patient.co.uk, "scalp ringworm mainly affects young children. It is uncommon in adults. This is thought to be because the normal skin oil (sebum) that increases on the scalp after puberty (in the teenage years) has properties that make it resistant to fungi." Yay for puberty!

Had Maree and I not pointed out to one of the school administrators that the young boys' heads were covered in chalky-looking spots, they may never have noticed. After we told him, he immediately arranged for them to go to the doctor to obtain the necessary medication. The chances of seven boys under age 12 remembering to take anti-fungal meds? Considering they never bathe, I'd say not good. At least, thanks to our persuasiveness, they have the cure in their possession and hopefully someone harasses them to take it.

My New Respect for Teachers

After volunteering in a nursing home in Costa Rica, I had my fill of the elderly and cleaning their wounds. Therefore, I signed up to do childcare here in Bir, India. I expected to be changing diapers but it turns out they don't even wear them but rather just take care of their business in the grass. I expected a room full of needy, crying infants but it turns out that toddlers here are more independent than feminist business women. They rejected almost all of my attempts to play. I felt very slighted. Since the childcare project had more than enough volunteers with three people and the two Tibetan employees looking after only 8 kids, I switched to teaching English. If I had known what I was about to get into, I may not have done so.

The little boys in my class are a rambunctious bunch ranging in age from 6 to 12 and not even remotely in the same educational level. Maree and I can barely handle them all. The first day teaching them proved so trying that it almost deterred me from future volunteering altogether. I walked into the run down classroom and was greeted by a whirlwind of little boys screaming, fighting, and running amok. The first day, we spent the entire second part of the day trying to teach them about six words: happy, sad, upset, angry, surprised and tired. After seemingly countless exercises designed to beat this tiny number of words into their memories, I asked one of the boys, Tenzin, to read the word U-P-S-E-T and he enthusiastically shouted "HAPPY!" I wanted to slug him. Happy? Are you serious? In what universe is that even remotely close?

Needless to say, I was discouraged by the time 3 o' clock rolled around. Maree and I commiserated about how we felt we would never get through to them. Then, she came up with a brilliant idea- bribe them. Leave it to a seasoned teacher to come up with such a sneaky plan! The system is so simple I never thought it would work. We listed their names on the board and every time they went above and beyond and demonstrated exceptional behavior, they earned a star next to their name. The student with the most stars at the end of the day earned one Monster's Inc. sticker. Of course, they tried to cheat our system of corruption by going behind our backs and drawing their own star next to their name. Nice try, boys.

Yet after just one lesson, Norbu, Tenzin, Rinchan, Lacchu, Phurpa, Krishna and Ram transformed from uncontrollable gremlins to quiet cherubs. I really had no idea that one measly Monsters Inc sticker was such a powerful incentive. They also went mental for our lesson plan that involved reading them a book, teaching them some vocab from the story and then doing exercises revolving around the words. Now that we have an infallible lesson plan, I am confident that the remaining classes will go smoothly. It will take some getting used to being called "ma'am" all the time. I have definitely started to fall for the sweet little munchkins. The amount of work they do is certainly admirable- from the get go they are expected to learn Tibetan, Hindi and English.

One comical thing about these little Buddhist boys is that they have no problem beating the crap out of each other, but when it comes to the smallest insect they treat it with more compassion than Mother Theresa. At one point, a little lady bug landed on Norbu's hand and it momentarily looked like he was going to smash it and I almost cried out "no, don't kill it!" before remembering that Buddhist's won't kill anything. Instead, he cupped it with both hands, gingerly walked over to the window, and set it free.

As if a day of teaching crazy Tibetan boys English weren't enough, we go to converse with monks at another monastery in the evening. The first day, a little monk not older than 10 scampered through the door and sat next to me. It turned out he was a flirtatious little Don Juan, asking me to be his girlfriend and marry him. I told him that unless he forks over a solid gold ring with a diamond inlay, there was no chance. I wonder if anyone has clued him into the fact that since he is a monk, he is never getting married.

So anyway, that is my routine here. It is going to be hard to leave these little kiddos at the end of next week, I have to say they certainly earned a permanent residence in my heart.

Exclusive Style News!

I can't think of who would be interested in such a publication, but were InStyle or some other fashion magazine that hasn't gone under yet to chronicle the progression of my personal style, it would be entertaining at least to me. Well, since I can't think of a single fashion journalist who would willingly risk their budding career to chronicle this, I will do it myself.

The Early Years

As is the case with most children (except for emancipated five-year-olds or exceptionally independent toddlers), my first fashion choices were dictated by my parents, relatives, and family friends. As a baby, this often means borderline cruel outfits selected to give others a chuckle at the wearer's expense. The onesies with "witty" messages are the absolute worst: one particularly disturbing example is listed below.

I'm ready to call social services on this family

Thankfully, our brains generally lack the development needed to store such potentially scarring memories, and therefore I do not remember being dressed in such garb despite a high chance that I was at least once. I wish I could say it gets better after the baby stage. A lot of this depends on if you are a younger sibling at the mercy of your older brother or sister's hand-me-downs. The worst, I imagine, would be being a girl with an older brother whose clothes you were forced to wear. As parents, that is just asking for your child to be a tomboy or a lesbian. Your fashion choices are still dictated until about the age of 10-15, depending on how overbearing your parents are. An easy way to learn about the parents of a kid is to look at what they are wearing. A passerby observing my childhood garb (wow, I just visualized a total creeper checking out a kid) would instantly have learned that my mother loved the color purple. From the moment I popped out until I realized there were more options to the visual light spectrum other than varying shades of violet, I was donned in purple leggings and purple shirts and dresses. My first pair of jeans in fifth grade were, you guessed it, a vibrant shade of indigo. I resembled a grape for many years of my life. At least I wasn't one of an identical twin with parents insisting on matching our every outfit.

Her face says it all about her sentiments regarding this getup...

Awkward Pre-Pre-Teen Phase

Eventually when kids go through the natural process of separating into cliques, they obtain the false impression that there are "cool" kids and "nerds" and try to change their wardrobes in order to be trendy and fit in. Although this could be considered as something that happens in teenage phase where kids finally have their own spending money, I contest that there is not so clear of a leap from the "parents choosing everything I wear" and being okay with that and the "I am going to choose my clothes now" phases. There is, in between, a phase where kids realize they look ridiculous and try to change that while still lacking the monetary power to do so. With me, that happened when I started hanging out with "Jessie," the cool girl in fifth grade who shopped at the overpriced kid's fashion boutique, Limited Too (is that place even around anymore?). Mom didn't cave, shockingly, when I asked for my Oshkosh wardrobe to be completely replaced by Limited Too wear, but she did humor me and let me get a couple of items.

Pre-Teen to Teen Phase

The misguided notion that we are judged by what we wear more deeply ingrains itself in the developing mind of the angsty adolescent. For me, makeup now came into the picture which meant hours of needless grooming and a shower before I would even consider going downstairs for breakfast. I have a sense that even if my house were ablaze, I would have stopped in the bathroom to line my eyes before making for the exit. During this phase, teens lose hours of each day primping, preening, and shopping in a desperate attempt to earn the approval of their current crush. I legitimately believed that this over-the-top morning ritual made me look better, whereas in reality it screamed "I am high maintenance!". This is also typically the time when girls experiment with different hair colors thanks to dyes being readily available in grocery stores. I wish someone had pointed out the horrifying, gothic affect that black hair had on my pasty face. Adolescents have slightly twisted perceptions of their appearances.

I thought I looked like this.....

In reality, this was more accurate.

The Revolutionary Young Adult Phase

This stage occurs at different times for everyone, I think. I finally decided that rolling out of bed and lazily bumbling downstairs in my robe with hair sticking every which way was far more enjoyable than meticulously applying makeup and showering prior to chowing down. This then led to the realization that I could, in fact, go out in public with wet hair, or, even more eye-opening for me, with UNWASHED hair wearing sweatpants. WHAAAT? This revelation turned my world upside down (in a good way), and all of a sudden I found myself with hours upon hours of free time previously spent applying eyeliner and foundation. Just a hint- no one under the age of 30 needs foundation, no matter what marketing may say. This newfound feeling of fashion freedom, though liberating, can be dangerous as it sometimes leads to the next phase...

The I-Just-Don't-Care-Anymore Phase

Sometimes, the aforementioned phase gets a little out of hand and people start wearing their polka-dot sweats with rainbow tie-die T-shirts they handmade in college to board meetings, earning them a slot on that TLC show "What Not to Wear". It is even worse when the offender is a celebrity- that is sure to get the attention of the fashion police! I like to think it is not too difficult to dress sensibly, but of course, I have had my bad days as well.

I'm sure the fashion police were all over this one...

See? Didn't that make a simply fascinating article? I thought so! I'm sure you were all just riveted...