The Pool Bag

It was the most beautiful bag my young eyes had ever seen. It was the latest thing from Xhileration at Target -- a green and yellow transparent plastic patchwork masterpiece. It was very 90s mod; all Austin Powers, Eurotrash, and oh so very Spice Girls. Naturally, I needed to have it.

All the best life decisions are based on these ladies.

Luckily, I had a "good" reason for needing such a bag. Ashley's pool party was coming up, and ALL the other girls in my Brownie troop were going to be there. If I didn't have a beach tote like they all had, I knew I would just die. I was already having enough trouble fitting in after our last outing -- horseback riding -- when all of the other girls teased me mercilessly for not having real riding boots (that incident made me so ashamed that I almost didn't go on the trip -- luckily my mom intervened).

This time was going to be different. This was Ashley's party, and she had invited me. Now, I grew up in the 90s, so there was a whole pack of Ashleys in my class, but this was THE Ashley. Petite, blonde, and popular -- she was the queen bee of my Brownie troop, and the girl that everyone else wanted to be. There was no way I was going to screw this up.

This wasn't just a popular party. No, this was a BOY/GIRL party, and I was reeling with excitement. The only boys I had ever had at parties were my cousins, so this was a huge deal. In my head, I showed up to the party looking svelte and beautiful, somewhere between an Olson twin and Cher from Clueless. I would sparkle, laugh, and have a good time, and he would see me. He would see me and want to hold the HECK out of my hand. It didn't matter that I was just a dumpy third grader with no social skills whatsoever: this party was going to change everything (and it was ALL because of my shiny new pool bag).

The day finally arrived, and I triple checked to make sure everything was perfect. My new bag was packed with my towel, sunscreen, and a copy of the latest American Girl magazine; all carefully and artfully placed, visible through the shiny, green vinyl. I had butterfly clips in my braid -- the kind with the wings that really moved-- and they matched the blue butterflies on my swimsuit (thank you, mom, for these concessions to my adolescent vanity). I felt like a totally unstoppable babe. I probably looked more like this:

I learned two valuable lessons at that party. 1) If an invitation seems unusual, it's because her mom made her invite you, and 2) Never, EVER wear the same butterfly clips as the most popular girl in school. No one even looked at my super trendy bag. I was immediately accused of copying the birthday girl, and spent most of the party trying not to cry in the kitchen, surrounded by a bunch of waspy moms who were drinking white wine and talking about sending their girls to cheer camp.

I'd love to say that this was the day I learned that appearance and trendy trappings have no effect on how people see you or how you see yourself, but this is not the case. I spent years after this doing the same goofy things, trying to get the attention of the same types of people. Even when I went through my gothy phase, it was because I had people I was desperate to impress.

I didn't learn this lesson until years later, when I was jumping into another pool (fully clothed) with a group of people that I had never had to try to impress. Years after the shiny green pool bag had been sacrificed for bigger and better things, I was resting on the still-warm pavement with my friends, watching the sunset and feeling more comfortable than I ever had before. There was no purchase necessary for this happiness -- no frills needed to make it a perfect day.

Growing up is never as perfect as we all seem to think it should be. No one ever learns a lesson the first time they make a mistake, and there are no dramatic transformations that immediately make us who we want to become. However, we are given one bit of peace in this whole mess: in spite of all of our mistakes and our eternal human fumblings and awkward moments, there are still perfect days to be had.

And I learned that all, indirectly (and slowly), from that glorious, shiny, cooler-than-cool pool bag. May it still be awesome, wherever it is.

Terror Time

I was talking to my friend Tabitha last night, and at one point we started sharing stories that we love from our favorite blogs. After I shared this post from Books of Adam (one of the funniest blogs out there - you should all read and love it immediately), we needed to start talking about Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, because one must. Every kid who went to Elementary School in the early/mid 90s has a passionate love/hate relationship with this book. It was an awesomely disgusting landmark of our childhood, and it needs to be discussed as often as possible.

Recently, there's been news buzzing around the internet saying that there are plans to add new illustrations to the book, toning it down to make the pictures a little more kid-friendly. I say that this is total crap. If an overly nervous eight-year-old me can handle a picture of this girl's spider-munched face, kids today certainly can.

When I hear about stuff like this happening, I can't help but wonder when people could have forgotten that WE ALL LOVE TO BE TERRIFIED. Scaring yourself silly is a universal pleasure - an adrenaline high for those of us who have no desire to jump out of airplanes or be chased by angry bovines through the streets of Spain. It's the reason why stories about ghosts and monsters are present in every culture, and why they've been passed down from generation to generation. It's why zombies are such a huge deal right now, and why people who make horror films continue to make a living. Deep down, we are all afraid of things that go bump in the night.

I have always been a bit of a terror junkie, though I couldn't tell you why. I scare easily, and I love to be scared (on my own terms, that's important), but it does tend to get the better of me sometimes. I remember one particular incident from my childhood, when I couldn't sleep for weeks after reading a Goosebumps book about a haunted amusement park. I was having nightmares about zombies with knives coming up through my bedroom floor, and while I can't say how much it actually had to do with the book, my parents wouldn't let me read them for the longest time after that.

Now that I am older and supposedly wiser, the only things that honestly frighten me are the real-life things that I can't control. Luckily, fear is a broad spectrum, and I can still enjoy having a little scare from time to time. I like to think it keeps me young.

I'm an adult, and I'm not afraid of the monsters under my bed.

Usually.

What are the things you love to be scared by?

Christmas Tree Memories

My family Christmas tree has always been a source of true pleasure in my life. The colored lights and the ornaments -- mismatched and lovingly gifted -- make our tree a representation of everything I love about our family and all of the holidays we've shared. It's dripping in Americana, and always beautiful to behold.

In the past few years we've been downsizing quite a bit, and that includes the size of our Christmas tree. The poor little thing is almost listing under the weight of all our memories, enough to make my mother suggest that we should pack up some of our ornaments next year.

That seems like a tragedy to me.

Now, the adult part of me knows that you can;t hold on to everything, and that it would probably be okay to leave some ornaments in the box (or even get rid of a few) just to clear up the clutter. The sentimental baby in me, however, looks at that tree and can't imagine it being without all the beautiful things I've known since my childhood. I can look at that tree and tell you why each thing on it is special and loved. Some favorites are...

Baby Mouse was made by my mother and has been my favorite ornament for my entire life.

We have two cherubs like this, and I think they are just gorgeous. This is my favorite of the two - I love how he's painted. I think they were gifts from my grandmother to my mother.

This is made of paper, and very delicate.

One of the many little bears my mother loves.

Bert, my Brother's heirloom ornament.

Chimney-sweep from Germany

One of the four angel bears that we hang near the top.

Emily's little goose girl.

A nod to our roots, made my one of my aunts. I'm not sure what makes the beaver particularly German, but that's part of the charm.

And there's eight thousand more dear little things on our tree. I'd post pictures of them all, including the butt-ugly tree-topper that my parents have had since they were married (that none of us can imagine being without, at this point), but I think that would get a little too sappy. Even for me.

Christmas trees that are perfectly coordinated are beautiful, and the huge ones in the mall could almost bring you to tears, but I don't think I could love any of them as much as I love this dorky little hodgepodge of my past. It's been a constant in my life, and as reliable as the fact that the Christmas box in our house is always going to smell beautiful when you open it for the first time (like cranberries, candles, and spicy dust. If I could bottle it, I would).

What makes your Christmas tree special to you? Let me know!

-- Kari