Fox Sweaters.

There's a Chinese girl in the dorm who's dating a Chinese boy from another dorm. It's her second boyfriend this year. The first had a reputation. This one wears matching clothes with her. Yes. Matching. Not similar colors. Not similar styles. The EXACT SAME sweater and the EXACT SAME sweat pants. The sweater is pencil-lead gray with the silouette of a white fox wrapped around the bottom left side. Apparently this is common in Asian fashion. No, not fox sweaters. Couples with matching clothing. From Huffpost women:

 

In eastern Asia, where PDA is still a taboo, couples have taken to synchronizing their outfits to display their affection. The trend is so popular that stores are starting to make outfits sold in pairs, and pictures of couples dressed identically have overtaken fashion magazines. When a couple who've been dressing the same break up, the clothes aren't worn again, which, on one hand, kind of sucks, but on the other hand ... POST-BREAKUP SHOPPING SPREE!!!!! We can sort of see the appeal.

While the idea of a couple wearing identical Bermuda shorts might make you want to gag, consider the alternative: couples swapping spit on the subway. Honestly, that's way worse than matching graphic hoodies.

 

With that explanation, this doesn't seem that weird to me. Am I rushing out to buy a matching LLBean outfit for Jared and me? No. But it does seem sort of sweet to see 15-year-old love. They wear them to the cafeteria. He wears his when he comes to visit her at the dorm, two teenagers snuggled as close as they can get in front of me on hard, scratchy dorm couches while he pretends he'd rather be talking to her than playing Super Mario Brothers on our big screen.

 

I just googled that sweater and (!!!!!!!) it's $495. They've been dating for a month. Tops. Sure, we know the odds are great they aren't going to get married. Or maybe even last until winter break. But matching clothing ($500 matching clothing, no less) adds a new level of committment to the relationship. It's a branding of sorts. I don't know that Jared and I could agree every morning on what we would wear. We can't even figure out a Halloween costume!

 

I have so many questions about this trend. Do they text each other in the morning with "fox swtr, gry swt pnts?" Or is it settled the night before? Who picks out the outfits originally? Who buys them? How long does this continue into the relationship? Is it a honeymoon phase type of thing or does it carry over into long term love? Does anyone ever keep the clothing from a past relationship? Is this offensive to the next person they date? Do people ever stay together because their favorite article of clothing happens to match the jerk they are dating? What if one person loses/gains a bunch of weight? Do they force their partner to abandon that piece of clothing?

 

And here's a question. What sort of weird things do Americans do like this?

 

47% Henry.

When I found out I was pregnant with Henry, I was unemployed with no health insurance. The next morning, I called a hotline and within a half hour, I had an appointment at a community clinic the next day and an appointment at the health & human services office to sign up for Medi-Cal later in the week.

My first job out of college was the Outreach Coordinator for the American Red Cross WIC Program. It was my job to not only know the WIC program, but to know all the community partners that provide resources for women and families. Even with this knowledge (I worked there for two years) and the years of nonprofit work after (six more years), I had a roughish time navigating the system.  

After confirming the pregnancy at the clinic, they set me up with appointments: five of them a month. Two with the doctor/nurse. One with the nutritionist. One with the social worker. One with the prenatal counselor. And at each appointment, I waited a least an hour, even when I arrived on time. If I’d had a job, a job that didn’t have healthcare and would require me to go to the clinic, I can’t imagine my employer would have allowed me to leave once a week for two hours for an appointment.

To sign up for Medi-Cal, the original woman on the phone told me the six pieces of paperwork I needed to bring with me to the appointment. Again I waited over an hour in a room filled (FILLED) with people. Lines so long by 8am that some of them wouldn’t be seen that day. I was called to three different windows and then sat behind a scratched desk and handed over the pieces of required paperwork, proof I was desperate. And after an hour in that back room, it was declared that I would most likely (it was still not for sure) receive assistance.

After this was settled and I’d attended a month of appointments, I signed up for the WIC program, returning to the office I once made bulletin boards in and counseled participants. They gave me vouchers for healthy foods and I took them to the grocery store each week. Jared and I studied the list of acceptable and unacceptable types of orange juice and peanut butter and inevitably were told at the cash register that we’d chosen the wrong one. Half of the cashiers were assholes about it and the other half treated us like normal customers.

I’m not trying to complain about what a pain in the ass all this was. I’m still extremely grateful for the help I received during a joyful, but stressful time. I was lucky and had a healthy baby. I had prenatal care, was able to transfer to a birthing center and then the hospital where Henry was born. I’m still “friends” with other women from my birth classes on Facebook. Did I feel entitled to the care? To the resources? No. But on some level, I think those resources are somewhat like insurance. You pay into them, you contribute to society, and when you need them, they are there.

I’m writing about this now because I'm pissed off and scared. Because I’ve been watching the presidential debates and reading all the articles posted on Facebook (okay, not all of them) and hearing the discussion of the candidates. And President Obama repeatedly says they have a “fundamentally different” approach to the job. This, above all other things, summarizes it for me. For a while there, I was part of the 47%. I had my son as one of the 47%. Did I feel entitled to jump through hoops to get help when I really needed it? No. But I was thankful. Do I feel offended when a man who wants to lead our country infers, no, blatantly states to the people he wants to impress the most that half of our country is victims who will never help themselves and want to take advantage of the rest of the country? Yes. And disgusted. Mitt Romney is a mean girl. His presidency will not be about leadership and strength, but about power and suppression.

As anyone who’s ever stepped outside their front door knows all people are imperfect. We bite our nails or snap at people when we’re tired or forget to give the courtesy wave while driving. We can be selfish and unforgiving; short-sighted and unprofessional; or petty and cold. We can even be quiet during a presidential debate or not accomplish everything we set out to during a presidential campaign. But if we can, for the most part, be kind and patient with our words, gather as much information as we can to make prudent decisions, and keep the least of our people on the top of our minds, that’s pretty impressive. That deserves another go. That’s everything I would want my 47% son to be.

Root Canals and Cow Fields

Yesterday I took a girl to the dentist. We'll call her Kitty. She's the second girl in two weeks to have tooth issues. I hadn't spent much time with her before this and I know she struggles with English, so I was a little anxious. The dentist's office was in Hartland, a neighboring town only ten minutes away.

I'm normally very good with directions. Honestly.

The building wasn't marked. I mean, no address, no sign, no nothing. I went past it, turned around, couldn't find it and finally called the office. It was right across the street from where I parked to call them. I was not inspiring confidence in Kitty.

We went inside. The dentist takes some X-rays and then called me back.

"There's a lot happening here," he said, waving his hand in front of the X-rays. Diagnosis: one root canal, one filling and "maybe more." He gave us a referral and a prescription and sent us on our way.

In the car in the parking lot, I try to translate what just happened. Kitty's eyes were large and her hands almost shaking. She was afraid it would hurt and I told her she'll feel much better afterwards. She asked again and squinched up her face then typed something into her iphone.

"Will they have this?" she asked, showing me her phone. Under some Chinese characters in the Google translator it said: anesthesia.

"Of course!" I almost yelled and told her all about the numbing they will do.

She seemed happy after that so I started the car. It was 10:56am. Feeling chatty, I asked her about if she wanted to go to college and what she wanted to study. We talked about her parents and I felt like I was learning a lot about her. Learning so much, in fact, I wasn't paying attention. There weren't many turns to get there, so I'm not sure how I ended up on the wrong path. New England back roads in Fall look similar. Cows. Fields. Green. Trees. It took me a little while to realize I wasn't on the right road. But I figured if I just drove, I'd see something familiar. I saw a Route 152 sign (the road I drove in on) and took it. Again, it took me awhile to realize I wasn't on the right road. Too long.

"How close are we to school?" Kitty asked.
"Oh.... ten minutes?" I guessed, hoping I wasn't lying too much.

I saw a sign for Cambridge, a city I've only ever heard of as being in Massachusetts and pulled over. At this point, I noticed my gas tank was almost empty. No gas light yet. I pulled out my cell phone to call Jared. No reception. I carry the duty phone for work and tried that. When I told him where I was, from his pause I could tell he had never heard of Cambridge, Maine.

"I'm on 152. Going north, I think."
"Go south," he said.

At this point, Kitty was leaning against the door.
"I feel dizzy," she told me.
I rolled down her window a few inches. Have I already mentioned it was raining?

She leaned her head against the cool glass and silent plops of water started pooling in the armrest. I turned the car around and headed back through the orange and yellow and naked trees. The sloping hills and L turns. It would have been an incredibly, beautiful, scenic, idyllic ride if I didn't have a student in pain over a root canal, feeling dizzy, while it rained (both inside my car and out), on a back road in rural Maine with no cell service while running out of gas.

Forty-five minutes after leaving the dentist's office, I found the road I was supposed to be on. Kitty was half-sleeping, half-clutching her stomach at that point. I noticed her fist was clenched. We hadn't spoken since Cambridge.

"Are you okay?" I asked.
She nodded.

I breathed easier when I drove past the golf course and the tractor store. Through the neighborhood where some friends of ours live and Henry and I found the snapping turtle that one time. I was beyond relieved to drive through Hawthorne Park where they take the little league pictures and saw the Post Office up ahead. But as I turned a corner, maybe two minutes away from home, Kitty said, "Can you stop the car?"

I pulled over right away (right in front of a puddle, of course). She grabbed at the door and I fumbled with those stupid, automatic locks I'm always yelling at Jared about. At first she just leaned her head out and then jumped out all together. Wearing only a thin, white hoodie, Kitty stood in the rain, in the weeds, and puked.

I. Felt. Horrible.
Sooooooooo horrible.

"Sorry," she said when she got back in the car after maybe five minutes.
"No, I'm sorry," I told her.

Minutes later I dropped her off in front of the dorm and she bowed, slightly, as she got out of the car.
"Thank you so much, Mrs. McCannell," she said.
"Sorry again, Kitty!" I said, almost crying.
She shook her head and ran for the door. It was 12:10. I'd made her miss lunch.

And today she had a root canal.

Current City

Had lunch with another new (to me) faculty member today. When I told him where I was from he said, "Oh man, Maine must be a culture shock then?"

I've been asked this a lot. And, while it was shocking for the lady at the bank drive-through to know my son had been to the emergency room without me even knowing her name, the answer is not really. I've been thinking about how Facebook words it: Current City. Because I like thesaurus.com, I looked up "current" (see definition at the end). Present. Now.

I think more and more, like fashions, hobbies, friends, sleeping habits, food tastes and musical preferences, it's good for cities to be different at different times in your life. Would I have liked getting a divorce and trying to date in my late 20s in Pittsfield? Maybe not. But does it suit me now? Yes. Sometimes you need a place to be slower because life is fast no matter where you are. And maybe it takes living in traffic to appreciate long, snaking freeways when you can rarely see more than three cars at a time but you're bookended with thickets of deep green. And the flatline weather with a range of twenty degrees makes sticky sun, chameleon leaves and bare trees feel like something is happening. Time is moving and you can actually mark it.

Life doesn't feel slower here. My days are still filled with meetings and work and Henry and the girls and co-workers and eating and shortened conversations with Jared right before we both fall asleep. But now every day has breakfast, lunch and dinner and I don't have to do the dishes. I can go to the doctor or get my teeth cleaned and not worry about the bills. I can call my father-in-law with less than half an hour notice and drop-off Henry while I run an errand. I can go to Trivia Night on Thursdays at Mainely Brews with my coworkers (our team is named "Yes We Are!" and we won last week!!) and earn points for knowing Bruce Willis's three daughters names: Rumer, Tallulah and Scout.

Is it different? Yes. Do I miss San Diego things? Yes. But this is my current city. My size right now. It fits.

Main Entry:	current [kur-uhnt, kuhr-] Show IPA/ˈkɜrənt, ˈkʌr-/ Show Spelled
Part of Speech:	adjective
Definition:	contemporary; common
Synonyms:	accepted, accustomed, afoot, circulating, common knowledge, customary, cutting-edge, doing, existent, extant, fad, fashionable, general, going around, hot*, in, in circulation, in progress, in the mainstream, in the news, in use, in vogue, instant, leading-edge, mod, modern, now*, on front burner, ongoing, popular, present, present-day, prevailing, prevalent, rampant, regnant, rife, ruling, state-of-the-art, swinging, topical, trendy, up-to-date, widespread
Antonyms:	antiquated, old, old-fashioned, past, uncommon, uncontemporary

Bicycles and Celebrities Dancing

After a month-long story that doesn't need to be told, Henry went on his first bike ride last night. Well, he rode on the back of the bike as I awkwardly peddled and tried not to tip over my toddler. It was dark out and in the low 40s, but he said "WEEEEEE" a lot and was giggling. I didn't get a picture, but here's a cute one of him in his Thomas the Train helmet that he likes to wear even when not strapped to the back of a bike.

 

"Did you like bike riding, Henry?" I asked.

"Yeah, I like it. That fun, Mama," he said.

Afterwards, with slightly frozen hands, we came back inside to get him ready for bed. Then, because it had been a long day and Henry'd taken a long nap, Jared and I sat on the couch (for what we said would be just a few minutes) and Henry dragged around his trains. We flipped through channels, not really knowing the stations yet because the TV, if on, is set to the Super Reader channel. We came upon Dancing with the Stars in the middle of a complicated dance, a woman with her head resting inches off the floor on a man's foot. We watched it for the three-ish minutes it took to finish and when the music stopped and the dancers hugged eachother, we realized Henry was clapping.

"Yaaaaaaay!" he cheered over and over.

"Did you like the dance?" I asked him.

"Yeah, I like it," he said, "So cool. I dance!" And he stood up and spun around a couple times.

I thought of both of these snippets of Henry when I heard on the radio today that children do something 400 times a day that adults only do 15. Any guesses? Scroll down for answer.



































Laugh. Did you get it right? Apparently not, if you're an adult.
We all need a little more "weeee" and "yaaaay" and laughing in our lives.

One Direction

I keep putting off blogging because it's been so long and I feel like I need to write about everything that's happened in between now and when I last wrote. But, this isn't a journal. And not all things are interesting. And, no one wants to read that long of a post. Right?

So fast forward to now. Now when I'm sitting on duty in my dorm's main lounge and four Chinese boys and one girl are coloring in pages of the digestive system and trying to make a music video for a song that starts with chewing and ends with poop and is set to One Direction's "What Makes You Beautiful."

The girl is one of my advisees. Let's call her Mabel. She's failing Health class. The teacher, who is also one of the other dorm supervisors, gave them the assignment to write the song. The video is extra credit. A chance for Mabel to not be failing.  This weekend, every time I'd see her, I asked, "How's the video coming? Do you have the song written? How can I help?" She'd smile at me and nod. Then say, "Ehhh, I will work on it." English is Mabel's second language. Most kids learning another language don't have to learn words like masticate, esophagus, or rectal cavity. She's taking it a like a champ.

Yesterday, she came to my door as timid as a deer. I saw her walking up to the screen and it looked like she was going to veer off at the last minute, retreat to the kitchen downstairs. But she knocked, lighter than a knock, more like finger tap.

"How's it coming?" I asked.
"Could you help? Mabel asked.

Minutes later I was in her room watching a YouTube video of two girls explaining the digestive track to K$sha's "Tik Tok".
"does it have 2 use the scientific words? can it b funny?" I texted the teacher.
Mabel'd written "a song." It was just parts of her notes recopied. She said it went to "What Makes You Beautiful." I told her she needed a chorus.

It took everything (read: EVERYTHING) I had not to take her paper and write it for her. I like writing. I like creative projects. I like pop music. I wanted to write it soooo bad. Instead, I looked down at her gray-with-black-sketches-of-Paris-sites bedspread and said, "This song is about a boy singing to a girl. What if you sang to your body?"

She stared at me.
I gave her a first line. "Baby, you digest my food like nobody else."
She smiled.
"Why do you eat food?" I asked her.
"To get energy." She said after a very long pause and confused look.
"Right!" I almost shouted. "And what does energy and food do?"
Another pause. Another look. "Makes strong?"
"Perfect," I was practically gushing at this point. "How about 'The way you give me energy makes me very strong.'"
Another smile.
"I like it," she whispered.

And now there's a boy singing this song over and over in the dorm lounge. :)

I'm thinking again what great practice this is for me. Squelching my tendencies to take over completely and lead Mabel in one direction. To rewrite her song without asking questions. I know this is my way. I'm already doing it with Henry. When we used to walk to the park and I'd rush him to get there, thinking that was the point of the outing. Pushing him along as he put his tiny, round nose up to petals and blew air out. Telling him to turn around and walk when he pointed out the white and the dark, gray rocks. Looking at my watch when he counted the cars and trucks on the street. Maybe I'm mixing my sayings here:
Stop and smell the roses.
It's the journey not the destination.
Teach a man to fish...
But all of those remove haste. All of them mean thinking of something else, outside myself. All suggest asking different questions. Stopping and consideration.
Because that's what makes us beautiful. ;)