Colleen Conrad

9/27/10

When I moved to Texas, everyone warned me about the hot summers.  They cautioned me to wear sunscreen; not to exercise outdoors in the afternoons; to plan ahead for the over-air-conditioned buildings.  I thought I was going to die of heat exhaustion and get sun poisoning.

But the truth is that I don’t mind the summers that much.

The season that hurts my heart—if you can call it a legitimate season here in ATX—is the fall.

I grew up with autumns marked by crisp days when I’d wrap myself in sweaters and break out the apple cider.  I’d be sure to bring layers for field hockey practice, and get distracted by the oranges and reds blossoming on the trees around me.  Wood stoves would fire up in houses, filling the air with the crackle and smoke that signaled the start of the new season.

The fall in Austin is nothing more than an extended summer.  Aside from the glamour of football season, there’s little to distinguish it from the stifling-hot summer and the warm-rainy winter. 

But, ah, today…Today I saw my breath billow in the air when I took out my dog in the morning.  Today there was just a hint of that fall-leaf smell, though I knew that it didn’t mean the colors would change.  Today, though I didn’t need a jacket, felt chilly and refreshing.

My somber mood mixed with nostalgia and homesickness.  I ordered a pumpkin spice latte at Starbuck’s, and felt a little bit like a phony.  Because even though it smelled and felt as close to fall as we get in Austin, I knew that it wasn’t here for real. 

I’ll embrace it as much as I can, perhaps even going overboard.  With highs of only 80 during the day and nights as low as 40 degrees, I’ll make hot soup with crusty bread to curl up with on the couch.  I’ll throw an extra blanket on the bed even as I open all of the windows.  I’ll burn candles with scents like “Autumn Leaves” and “Macintosh Apple,” because hell—those smells aren’t around here naturally!  If I had a wood stove, I’d warm it up and sit down with a good book and my dog.  If fall won’t come to me, I’ll just have to fabricate it.

10/11/10

And then there’s the good stuff.  The real stuff.

I made my third annual trip home for the fall this weekend.  The first time, it was for my Boston bachelorette party/bridal shower.  After five years without the fall, I was reminded just how much I missed it.  (Of course, the blue skies, comfortably-cool temperatures, and ridiculously bright foliage didn’t hurt.)  So I decided to go again…and again.

Maybe I’ve been bringing the nice Texas weather with me, because every visit has been gorgeous.  Sunny, bright, cool enough for long sleeves but warm enough to enjoy a walk on the Robert Frost trail, shrouded in fiery leaves.  In some ways, I’m forgetting how rainy (and, at times, miserable) the fall can be in New England.  This time around, I packed my trip full of quintessential fall-in-western-mass activities like cider doughnuts, pumpkin patches, and the Yankee Candle Company.  And, of course, ample time with family.

Something settles in me when I can sense a change of season, like my internal clock is slowing and righting itself.  Like I’ve stepped off the hamster wheel to take stock of the beauty around me.

People tease me when I say that I lose track of the time of year in Texas.  (And I suppose that they’re justified in doing so, considering the fact that I write the date on the chalkboard in my classroom every day and all.)  But I do sincerely miss the marked changes every few months in more variable climates. 

I never thought that I was the kind of author who writes about nature, yet here I am doing just that.  One of my current manuscripts takes place in Massachusetts, and many a reader has told me that I have a well-developed sense of place.  Some have even said that my description of the setting occasionally interrupts the flow of the narrative.  So I suppose that even if nature isn’t my central subject, it is frequently my inspiration.  And there’s no hiding the fact that I dearly miss the kind of nature that I grew up with.

Yesterday a Future Children’s Librarian friend and I went to see Easy A, a movie that follows the trials and tribulations of self-proclaimed “invisible” adolescent Olive.  When the high-tech teenage rumor-mill turns her into the school slut, Olive navigates the line between embracing the role and rejecting it. 

FCL and I laughed our way through the film, and firmly agreed that we adored it.  Here are just five of the reasons why:

1.  Smart, Funny Girls

Alas, we don’t always see strong comedies firmly rooted in female characters.  When we do, they are often in the slap-stick, “oh, look at her teetering around on those ridiculous heels” kinds of ways.  But this film’s witty dialogue makes Olive (played by Emma Stone) hilarious, relatable—albeit slightly more intellectually advanced than your typical teen—and watchable from start to finish.  Replete with eye-rolling and zingers, Olive is the girl that I wanted to befriend in high school.  Or be, for that matter.

I’d like to add that it was a refreshing change not to see any cheerleaders (sorry, Fortune Cookie Junkie!).  While I acknowledge that today’s cheerleaders may be able to claim a spot in third-wave feminism, I did not miss the antagonistic cheerleader-rival character.  Sure, Amanda Bynes’s Christian-bitch Marianne fills that role, but it was a relief not to see any pom-poms or tumbling… except in a few select pep-rally scenes featuring Penn Badgley as the school mascot, “Woodchuck Todd.”  (Totally worth it.)

2.  Social Commentary

What kind of an English major/women’s studies minor/feminist would I be if I didn’t see a Deeper Meaning in the movies that I enjoy? 

In one memorable scene, Olive emerges from a bedroom at a party following a fake sexual tryst with a gay pal.  The boys waiting outside the door eagerly high-five her friend and pointedly step away from her.  The message is clear:  promiscuous boys are praised, while sexually active girls are shunned.  This movie makes a point about gender stereotypes, double-standards, and high school gossip, and I appreciate that.  There is a romance, but that plotline is entirely secondary to Olive’s coming-of-age story.  Ultimately, our heroine flips the script, holding a mirror up to her peers so that they can see the hypocrisy and sheer meanness in their high school world. 

And what better way to do it than to sew a scarlet “A” to your breast?  Sure, most other high schoolers won’t understand the reference.  But I loved it!  And that brings me to my next point…

3.  Literary References

The reader/writer in me relished the Hester Prynne parallel throughout the film.  I mean, how many teen movies actually give a synopsis of a classic piece of literature in the first thirty minutes of screen time?  Olive blasts the bastardized Demi Moore film version of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter; one of her classmates vilifies Hester Prynne for her actions during a discussion in English class; Olive herself embraces her Prynne-esque alter-ego.  Ah, how art imitates life imitating art.  Or something. 

Now, I know that this may be a stretch, but the movie also had me at “John Hughes.”  Arguing that John Hughes films are literary exaggerates the boundaries of the medium as well as the classical definition of the word, but come on—people thought J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye was a flash in the pan too, once, didn’t they? 

Hughes has a special place in my heart.  I know all of the words to The Breakfast Club, and I watched Sixteen Candles this morning over coffee.  I’m hardly objective.  But I think that Hughes was a visionary.  He had a knack for portraying the adolescent experience in ways that resonated with his audience…Even into their forties.  So when Olive yearns to kiss Jake Ryan over her birthday cake, or to have a big musical number like Ferris Bueller, I wanted those things right along with her.  Hell, I still want those things!

4.  Voice

The writers were smart to include a scene in which a peer tells Olive that she talks like a grown-up.  Because she does.  I’ve written before about how I’m occasionally given the critique that my characters use vocabulary too advanced for teenagers.  And that may be true; it’s something I’m working on.  But Olive’s banter is reminiscent of Dawson’s Creek, Veronica Mars, Gilmore Girls and my personal fave, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  She’s quick-witted, well-read, and worldly.  And sure, that may be unrealistic.  But it makes for outstanding one-liners piled on top of each other like layers in an indulgent dessert.  I ate them all up, without complaint, knowing the whole time that very few kids actually speak that way. 

But then, it makes sense for this character.  Olive comes from a family where her parents speak to her like she’s already an adult.  They are equally funny, grounded, and intelligent.  Which is a perfect segue to my last, self-indulgent point…

5.  Grown-ups Who Don’t Suck

Yes, I know.  Being a grown-up myself, it’s a bit selfish for me to make this one of my criteria.  Shouldn’t kids get a chance to have their movies, where the adults around them are irritating, out-of-touch and slightly abusive?  Probably so.  But I’m the one writing this review.

I really enjoyed seeing parents (played by Stanley Tucci and Patricia Clarkson) who are supportive without being stifling, and laid-back without being neglectful.  Parents who are happy, wise, youthful and kind.  I kept thinking, “This is the kind of parent I want to be…if I ever have kids, that is.”

And then there is the teacher, Mr. Griffith, played by Thomas Hayden Church, who is attentive in his own sardonic, dead-pan kind of way.  It’s always a relief to see realistic teachers.  Educators who are clearly educated.  Who care about their students, behave like human beings, and who are actually good at what they do.  Crazy concept, I know, but those teachers do exist.  All over the place, actually.  They’re funny, they’re intelligent, they’re dedicated.  And aside from my own personal biases in this area, Mr. Griffith was just fun to watch.  His character was laced with the same thoughtful voice as Olive, garnering respect from his students…and his audience.

Now, my FCL friend and I are both addicted to young adult literature, and I’ll openly admit that Teen Movie may aptly describe my film genre of preference.  Easy A fit a niche for us both.  But I argue that it’s more than your typical adolescent flick, a la She’s All That (which I watched recently and found entirely disappointing the second time around).  Easy A is well-made, well-written, and chock-full-o pleasing teenage characters.  It may even have inspired me to pick up The Scarlet Letter again.  Or at least rent the Demi Moore version of the movie…

            Last weekend I visited a newly-unemployed lawyer-writer friend in Illinois.  As one of my husband’s best friends from college, he stood up in our wedding.  Every time I see him I’m reminded why he means so much to my hubby.  He’s hilariously witty, and completely down-to-earth.  So when my team was travelling to his town to play in a tournament, I immediately asked him if we could crash at his house.  Of course, he said yes.  (Why turn down a visit from 15 wildly attractive women?)

            I flew in early and spent the day with The Groomsman and his two adorable beagles.  At one point, before his mischievous dog escaped from his backyard and we had to enact Operation-Ryno-Retrieval, we were talking about the writing process…and its inevitable frustrations.  Groomsman has a blog that I quite enjoy, www.hirejimessian.com, and he’s been doing some local freelance work. 

            “Now that I’m not working, I have no idea how I ever wrote a thing before,” he said of the time required to really commit to writing.  I couldn’t agree more.

            Sure, having a few equally-motivated critique partners helps.  And making a schedule also aids in my efforts.  Then there’s the fact that I don’t have any kids.  (How do parents ever find the time?!)  But if the last month has taught me anything, it’s that I’m easily distracted.

            I left the SCBWI L.A. conference in August feeling inspired and motivated.  But no sooner had I returned home than I flew off for a family vacation.  Upon returning to Austin, I promptly began the school year.  I’ve been swamped!  Now it’s been almost a month, and I’ve barely eeked out any time for My Writing.  Where does the time go?

            In my case, it goes in a million different directions.  Teaching, captaining a team, practicing ultimate, working out, watching TV (yeah, I’ll admit it), spending time with friends, attempting to make time for my husband, sleeping in (when I can), making dinner, eating dinner…Am I willing to give up any of these activities?  How many choices do I have to make in order to carve out some precious time for writing?

            It’s been far too long. 

            Before leaving for a conference and then a cruise with family (yikes!) over the last month, I met up with a new writer friend who told me about her blog, www.theresolutionrevolution.wordpress.com.  She and I agreed to regularly share work, drink wine, and pump each other up about writing when we need it.  Since that first meeting, I’ve been following her blog and find it fun, thoughtful, and approachable.  Much like the author herself, actually.

            Given the fact that I’ve just begun a new academic year, and introduced myself to 180 new middle schoolers and their parents, I thought I’d take a page out of my friend’s book (so to speak) and write up a few of my own New School Year’s Resolutions.  There are way too many, and some of them are entirely too unrealistic, but I figure — aim high.  Go big or go home.  Or something.  So here we go…

• Be present.  I have a terrible habit of trying to do one thing while my mind is focused on twelve others.  That makes for sub-standard teaching and a lot of stress.  I want to be more in-the-moment for my classes.  It’s better for me and for them.  In other words, no more multi-tasking.  One thing at a time, Colleen.  One.  Thing.  At a time.
• Read aloud.  They may be twelve and thirteen years old, but they love it.  And I love it, too.  I’m an actress at heart, really.
• Take my classes outside more.  I live in Austin, where the weather is warm year-round.  I teach at a school with a lush, spacious courtyard.  The kids have a blast when we take field trips to the picnic tables for lessons.  And we all need a little Vitamin D now and then.  (Another bonus is that this also helps minimize the multi-tasking and encourages the reading aloud…)
• Take care of my body.  Eat well, get enough sleep, and exercise.  Sure, there is a vanity aspect of this resolution.  But maybe I can see that as a little perk rather than a necessity.  The real benefit is the simple fact that I will feel better if I follow these guidelines.
• Take care of my mind.  I’m a happier person when I write, when I practice yoga, when I give myself the space to reflect and focus on the good things.  When I take the time to think and breath. 
• Celebrate Austin.  Do all of those things that I love about this city.
• Resist the urge to over-plan and/or plan too far ahead.  (See above, “be present.”)
• Publicize BookPeople events and speakers to my students.  I love that place and what they do, and I know that many of my students would fall in love with it like I have — www.bookpeople.com
• Do the best I can with what I’m given.  There are things that I can change, and things that I cannot.  The materials offered to me, the students in my classroom, and the tests required by my state/district fall into the latter category.  I need to be grateful for what I have and make the most of it.  I’ll be a better (read:  happier) teacher if I understand my students, appreciate them, meet them where they are, and push them to be the best versions of themselves.  I can only control my classroom; I need to make that the best environment that I can.
• Teach units and texts that I’m truly excited about.
• Be disciplined and efficient with my time.
• Say no.  Odd that I should resolve to be a “no” person, but generally I’m one of those people who takes on too much.  Inevitably, then, I feel overwhelmed with responsibility and can’t do anything as well as I’d like.  I will be so much happier if I learn to set boundaries for myself and let go sometimes.

 

So there you have it.  I’ve thrown a whole bunch of stuff at the wall.  Let’s see what sticks.  Oh, and don’t forget to check out my girl’s blog.  We could all use a little resolve each month, in happy bite-size portions.  (Unlike what I’ve done above, of course!)

 

If I could just come in I swear I’ll leave

Won’t take nothing but a memory from the house that built me

 

–Miranda Lambert, The House That Built Me

 

I began my summer with a trip home. 

I spent almost two weeks soaking in the warmth of family and old friends who welcome me with open arms every time I return.  I sat in small-town coffee shops and read.  I slept in and snuggled with the dog we got when I was sixteen.  I went running in my parents’ neighborhood, waving at people I’ve known since I was a kid.  I watched my mom coach softball and celebrated my birthday at my favorite restaurant.  I saw a movie with my parents and my brother.  We all cried at the same scene, then laughed at our tears, and wiped at them with popcorn-stained napkins.  I had coffee with a friend I’ve known since we were babies, and went to a barbecue filled with people I worshipped in high school.  I had drinks with my senior year boyfriend and breakfast with my maid of honor. 

This trip set the tone for the rest of my summer.  After a very stressful, emotional academic year, going home grounded me.  It put me in the mindset I needed to enjoy the rest of my time off and make the most of it.

One morning, I ran into the mother of an elementary school friend at my favorite bakery in town.  Much to my surprise, she asked me if I was still writing. 

“I always thought you were very talented,” she told me, and the words made tears spring to my eyes. 

Here was this person I hadn’t seen for probably a decade and a half, maybe more, and she cut right to the heart of the person that I want to be.  It was like I was in fifth grade again. 

She reminded me that I was writing at nine, ten, and eleven years old.  She made me remember who I was back then, when the world hadn’t gotten in the way.  Before I allowed all of the distractions, the trappings, the expectations of adulthood to manipulate who I am. 

In some ways I believe that I’m a better person now than I was as a kid.  I certainly want to be a better person, anyway.  But there are also parts of myself that I’ve lost; parts that I would very much like to have back.  I don’t know if it’s true that you can’t go home again, but if going home means remembering who I really am and holding on to that person, maybe it’s worth a try.

My amazing Austin friend Adrienne* recently took me to see the Indigo Girls play at La Zona Rosa.  Remembering how their music defined my teen years, I was sure it would be an emotional night for me. 

Lately I’ve been thinking about how good it would feel to move back to my hometown; to retreat out of the stress of adult life and pretend that I’m a kid again.  I know that part of my impulse in moving home is just a desire to revert rather than deal with being a grown-up.  And I’m aware that this is like putting a band-aid on a head wound.  That it wouldn’t really fix anything. 

Before the Girls came out last night, I told Adrienne, “You can go back to the place, but you can’t go back to the experience.”  In other words, I could visit my happy little hometown, but I wouldn’t ever be able to recapture the emotional place that I was in as an adolescent.  Not without becoming a complete joke, anyway, like Matthew McConaughey’s character in Failure to Launch.  (A movie I wouldn’t recommend to my worst enemy, by the way.)   

Well, Amy and Emily proved me wrong last night.  Their music marked my teen years, and hearing it performed again brought me back to all of the trials and tribulations therein.  I’m sure that I misinterpreted any number of their poetry, adapting them for the time and the place in my life, but they spoke to me nonetheless.  I had a moment, a memory, for every song.

“And now I’m serving time for mistakes

Made by another in another lifetime.”

 

As I finished junior high, I was often privy to older teammates belting out Galileo in the locker room.  The words would echo around the tiled walls, and I’d listen to the girls in mild admiration.  Being cool seemed so easy for some of those girls; why wasn’t it a simple thing for me?  I’ve often thought that I was paying my dues for past lives; for the people that I’ve been before.  Maybe my old selves were haunting the present-day me.  As a teenager, I did already feel like an old soul.  And not in a good way, either.  Not in the mature-for-my-age, wise-beyond-my-years sense.  Just somehow plagued by indecision and indulgent introspection.  Maybe I needed to call on Galileo for some answers, after all. 

 

“What makes me think I could start clean slated?

The hardest to learn was the least complicated.”

Ah, the summer of 1994.  Least Complicated got me through those endless, hot months, when I’d just gone through a messy break-up with my first real love. 

Nick and I dated for almost a year—an eternity in teenage time—and the whole thing fell apart when we both developed wandering eyes.  (Me for a geeky theater kid, he for one of my own softball teammates).  I sobbed over him for weeks, in the semi-privacy of my bright-yellow room, until I realized that Emily Saliers was right.  It seemed complicated, but it was really so simple:  We’d worked for a while, and we seemed like a great match on the outside.  But he was a high school relationship that was bound to fade.  To a certain degree, at least, we went out because it was expected, and because it seemed like the thing to do.  We made sense.  In the end, it was all so basic, so clear:  We weren’t meant to be together long-term.  It felt complicated, but it really wasn’t at all.  And we took forever (or at least what seemed like forever) to figure it out. 

 

“And the best thing you’ve ever done for me

Is to help me take my life less seriously; it’s only life after all.”

 

At the end of sophomore year, two of my friends and I sang Closer to Fine for a choir final, and I don’t think I realized at the time why this song resonated with me so much.  Sure, it’s one of Emily’s best songwriting ventures and possibly the most popular IG tune of all time.  It’s feel-good and upbeat; positive and insightful.  In retrospect, I realize that I should have paid better attention to the lessons that the Girls were teaching me.  Stop worrying so much; forget about searching for meaning in every mundane detail; quit your angst; live and be happy. 

I suppose I could start taking that to heart now.  Because if I’d started heeding their advice at sixteen, maybe I’d be a happier adult today.

 

 

“Because I burn up in your presence and I know now how it feels

To be weakened like Achilles, with you always at my heels.”

 

Of course, just like I had the predictable, good boyfriend in Nick, I also turned to someone unattainable and dangerous in Aaron.  We had a fiery, head-over-heels, exciting relationship…until it burned out, as these relationships do, like cheap fireworks on the 4th of July.  I remember falling so terribly hard for him, but knowing that he would never really be mine, and that he would always be just out of emotional reach.  I would play Ghost on my walkman (yes, walkman) as I walked to diving practice, sighing over Aaron and his terminal emotional distance.  Every time I gained some independence and began to move on, he’d show up again.  He did, indeed, haunt my teen years like a ghost. 

 

“I’m harboring a fugitive, a defector of a kind

And she lives in my soul, drinks of my wine

And I’d give my last breath to keep us alive…”

 

I sang Fugitive in my high school talent show with two of my friends, who were both sophomores at the time.  I was a senior, about to leave home for college, and I didn’t really know who I was yet.  And I knew that I didn’t know.  There was this girl hiding inside, waiting to come out…But she wasn’t ready yet.  And, as one of my new friends pointed out during freshman year of undergrad, I had a way of hiding her away even from myself.  Sometimes I wonder if I’m still digging her out from the cave that she lives in now. 

I’ve seen the Indigo Girls play at least half a dozen times, including once at a huge outdoor amphitheater just following my high school graduation.  They have since recorded several albums, most of which I’ve only listened to a little bit.  But that didn’t matter when I was swaying back and forth the other night at La Zona Rosa, arm-in-arm with my friend, two adult women riding high on nostalgia and girl-love.  Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was being wrapped around Adrienne (who’d have a few too many and needed me to hold her up), or maybe it was just the soulful lyrics that always seem to speak right to me. 

I cried twice.  Yes, cried.  In the middle of the dirty, sweaty, alcohol-slick floor. 

I sang as loud as I could during the songs I already knew.  I listened hard to the lyrics that were unfamiliar. 

The bright lights made my grown-up troubles seem so damn small, and my teenage years so bloody fresh in my mind.  I suppose that, while I can’t stay in that emotional place, I can at least visit.  Because I will always be the teenage girl who played her Indigo Girls CDs until they were scratched and worn-out. 

Or, at the very least, a somewhat older, slightly wiser version of her.

I sit in the bleachers next to my dad and try to pretend like I’m not crying. 

I watch my mom cheer along with a dozen high school girls, all in various stages of elation (tears, screaming, laughing), as one of them hoists a trophy over her head and presents it to the crowd as if to share it with them.  I can already see that image in the local papers, along with a similar picture of that very girl—the lone senior and captain on the roster—hugging my mother, her coach. 

My mom coaches varsity softball in my hometown, and over the last few years she has enjoyed an impressive series of winning seasons.  Tonight’s win marks her second regional championship, and redemption after a disappointing loss that unexpectedly knocked her team out of play-offs last year. 

I flew home to surprise my mother in the middle of the series, hoping to meet and cheer on the girls through to the last games of their season.  I’d heard about them in every conversation with my mom for the last four months—just see the recipe below.

And so it is that I hold back tears as I watch these girls celebrate.  I just met them, but I know them nonetheless.  What is it about girls’ sports that makes these moments so special?  In this case, with these teammates, it’s the level of support that they offer each other.  It’s the unique personalities that they celebrate, in turn, about each other.  I’ve experienced that type of respect and love enough times to recognize it when it’s there. 

When we get home from the game, I sit down with my parents for a celebratory drink.  My mom’s best friend—a teammate of hers from college, as a matter of fact—and her husband join us.  An outstanding athlete himself in his own day, Norman comments on the game:

“You know what’s different about girls’ sports?” he asks us rhetorically.  He talks about how when he played baseball, no one talked to you when you struck out at a critical point in the big game, or told you it was going to be okay.  You put your head down, he says, grabbed your glove, and waited in shame for the inning to end so that you could attempt to redeem yourself.  He points out that in tonight’s game, when one of the girls would strike out, her teammates patted her on the back, hugged her, and told her to keep her head up.  

We all nod at him in agreement.  I recall how, in the last of my mom’s games that I’d watched, the girls all hollered at me from the bus after the victory.

“You’re good luck, Colleen!” they shouted.  They wanted to share their success with me—someone that they’d just met the day before.  They wanted everyone to be a part of the win.  I neglected to point out to them that they’d managed to win every single game already this season despite my absence up until that point. 

I’ve certainly been a part of teams that were more Mean Girls than The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants, but my mom’s current team is full of encouraging, kind, positive young women.  And that’s the kind of team that makes me want to cry, whether they win or lose.  They’re the young women that remind me why girls’ sports are so valuable. 

Aside from the confidence and positive body image that studies show girls develop through athletics, it’s the relationships and the team mentality that stand out to me now.  Amidst the cyber-bullying, teen mom reality shows, and vampire-boyfriend romances that dominate teenage culture right now, girls’ sports have stood strong as a place where young women love each other for their talents and for who they are, rather than what they look like or who they date.  They build each other up and work together; they accept each others’ flaws and admire their strengths; they mourn the losses and they revel in the wins together.  Just like Emily raising the trophy to the stands to share it with as many people as she can, these girls are selfless and sacrificing for each other.  They are a unit.  A thriving, cooperative, generous team in the purest sense of the word. 

I’m almost envious that they have each other, and then I remind myself that I’ve had that before myself, and that I’m a better person because of it.

Recipe for a Team 

Ingredients:

1 good-natured, college-worthy pitcher with a staggering record of strikeouts (junior)

1 powerful, smart, over-achieving catcher (junior)

1 fiery and fast-as-lightning short stop, preferably already having made a verbal

commitment to a college team (junior)

1 third-baseman with soft hands that pick up every bunt and eat foul balls alive (junior)

1 designated hitter whose self-esteem will benefit from media praise for her

performance (sophomore)

1 first-baseman who has also played the lead in the school musical, with a voice and

energy that can barely be contained on the field (junior)

1 second-baseman with a challenging home life, hailing from a famous baseball family

(sophomore)

1 quirky and clever, hard-hitting leftfielder (sophomore)

1 young right-fielder, still acclimating to life as a varsity athlete (freshman)

1 spunky, determined leader in centerfield (senior; captain)

*Blend pitcher and catcher until firm.  Repeat ground balls and double-plays with remaining infield ingredients and combine the two mixtures.  Pepper outfield with pop-flies and hard skipping ground balls until tough.  Add to remaining ingredients.  Sprinkle with team bonding activities, fund-raising efforts, and a challenging spring schedule.  Place on a newly-skinned field.  Add heat and enjoy the show.

I’m grateful for…

…the lessons that my middle school ultimate players teach me about character, sincerity, and laughter.

…Facebook.  No, seriously.  Living as far away as I do from many of the people I love most in the world, FB has helped keep me connected to them.

…this quiet Sunday afternoon to do with as I please.  No grading, no coaching, no talking, even.  Ah, blissful time.  Peaceful solitude.

…my fast-approaching summer break.  Sometimes being a teacher rocks.

…the dozens of gorgeous roses sitting on my counter from a group of amazing kids and parents.

…the truly wonderful friends that I’ve made in my life, scattered around the country and the world.

I recently wrote about vampire boyfriends.  You know the type—brooding loners with baggage who make the good girls swoon.  The boys who are equally dashing and damaged.  They’re so bad for us, but we can’t seem to stay away.  They’re our vampires; simultaneously dangerous and irresistible.  They bleed us dry, but we keep coming back for more.

But every Dylan has his Brandon, and every Edward has his Jacob.  For every blood-sucking vampire, there’s an affectionate and snuggly werewolf.  Just as Bella is drawn to Edward’s cold, desperate, controlling nature, so is she comforted by Jacob’s warm, safe, loyalty.  She’s torn between the cat-like vampire and the puppyish werewolf.  Ah, how to choose…

I’ve had my fair share of vampires, but my first real boyfriend was definitely a werewolf.

It was the end of eighth grade.  Nick* was a year older than I was, and I’d never really noticed him despite his friendly personality and his impressive athletic ability.  He was new to my town that year, and excelled at soccer, basketball and baseball.  He was an honors student.  Smiley.  Nice to everyone.  Teachers loved him.  He was good-looking in an un-intimidating, affable kind of way.  By no means hot, but certainly attractive.  His smile was absolutely goofy, but he used it so frequently that you couldn’t help but grin along with him. 

Immediately after we started going out, Nick and I fell into a comfortable routine of talking on the phone every night, seeing each other every weekend, and spending time with each other’s families.  It was so…easy.  So uncomplicated.  Nick was every bit as kind, gentle, and dedicated as Jacob Black.  Just as hopelessly romantic, and just as endearingly protective (even to the point of being whiney). 

Perhaps the best part about werewolf boyfriends is how they make us feel.  I was never self-conscious with Nick.  He made me feel good about myself, and secure with our relationship.  He never acted “too cool” around me to his friends.  He told me I was pretty and smart.  For every game of his that I attended, he’d cheer me on at my sporting events.  In some ways, I have him to thank for the level of academic success that I experienced in high school, because he encouraged me to sign up for a notoriously-challenging advanced history class as a freshman.  I still remember his response when I asked him what he thought about the class. 

“I think you can do it,” he said, quite simply. 

And so I did.  And it quite likely changed the trajectory of my academic career.

Now, like any wolfboy, Nick had his flaws, too.  He was weepy to the point of irritating at times.  He was mildly possessive, and reluctant to take risks.  While I enjoyed the security of the relationship, it naturally grew boring and we eventually parted ways after close to a year.

My next serious boyfriend was Aaron.  A vampire, of course.

So who is the preferred choice?  The risk-taking vampire, or the reliable werewolf? 

I suppose that if you’re an adolescent girl like Bella, looking for adventure and someone who will make your heart beat wildly in your chest, it’s probably Edward the vampire.  But I think that every teenager needs a werewolf, too.  Because for every time that the vampire lets her down, she needs a werewolf to pick her back up again. 

Hmm…Calling all vampire-werewolf hybrids…

*Name has been changed

I hated 7^th grade.

Hated.  It.

My best friend at the time was Marie Kendricks,* and looking back I still think she was one of the best friends I’ve ever had.  She was loyal and gentle and smart.  We spent our Saturday afternoons riding our bikes around my neighborhood and writing stories about her horses.  We were friends because we genuinely liked each other.  She was there for me during the tumultuous transition between elementary and junior high school; childhood and adolescence.  A time when I was still figuring out who I was, and whether I actually liked that person at all. 

I was also tangentially friends with the “cool” clique.  But I always felt like I was friends with them only by association.  Like they never actually called me or wanted me around or really knew me the way that Marie did. 

So despite my friendship with Marie, I was unhappy.  Regardless of the fact that I had a supportive family, was voted class athlete, and went out with some of the cutest boys, I felt like a loser.  I was miserable.

By 8^th grade, I’d figured things out a bit more.  I developed a circle of friends that I really felt close to.  Girls I trusted and liked.  Marie and I drifted apart as kids do, but my new friendships were based on some of the same properties.  I felt satisfied.  Comfortable. 

At the end of 9^th grade, a friend commented to me that I’d been part of the “popular crowd” back in 7^th grade.  I was flabbergasted. 

I realized then that while others may have seen me as an insider, I’d felt like an outcast and a wannabe.  The perception didn’t matter.  Apparent popularity sucked.  It was hollow.  Empty.  Lonely.  (If only I’d seen Heathers sooner!)

Many years later, I often find myself in the same position.  Still striving.  Still feeling hurt when I’m not invited directly to a happy hour or a party.  It doesn’t even matter if the event includes people I like or not, or if it’s something that I want to attend.  I still feel bad when I’m left out.  Granted, these emotions don’t dominate my life in the way that they did when I was in junior high, but they’re present nonetheless. 

I know, I know…It’s terribly lame and pathetic, and I should have long-since outgrown it.  One could even argue that I’m asking for too much, because I know full-well that I have more than my fair share of amazing friends.  But what can I say?  I suppose I’m still a 7^th grader at heart.  I’m thirty years old, and I still want to be part of the popular crowd!  I still want everyone to like me! 

Do any of us ever really get over middle school?

*Names have been changed.