Posts from the ‘Family’ Category

In Praise of Farmers’ Markets:

Farmers market? Farmer’s market? What is the agreed upon grammatical etiquette for that heavenly place where you get fresh produce and support your local economy?

Anyway.  On to the story.

This morning I made my first trip of the summer to the Farmers’ Market which my parents have been taking me to since I was a child.  I love this market.  There are closer markets, now, than this one, but I know the vendors and produce there like they’re family.  My parents used to get up obscenely early (or what seemed obscene when I was young) to go to the market and bring back fresh produce and roasted chilies to be turned into salsa, maybe even some artisan bread.

I have really strong, wonderful memories of the times I went to the Farmers’ Market with my parents, usually my dad.  We’d wander around an extremely congested street and get fresh food, especially green beans, peppers, those roasted chilies, and cherries (definitely cherries if Momma was there).  I forget every year how much I love cherries, so the first one is the best, because my mouth is remembering the flavor it loves so well.  I saw a little girl, she couldn’t have been more than two, with cherry juice all around her mouth and her fingers today.  I felt a fondness for her grandparents, because they carried on a tiny tradition that I held so dear.

There were the Saturdays closest to my birthday when I woke up to fresh peaches for breakfast, snack, and dessert.  Papi and/or Momma would go and get a goodly amount that were ripe enough to eat right away, put some on the counter for when I woke up, and start a couple more macerating for the peach ice cream to go with the cake (and, of course, after the presents).

There were the days when my parents probably would have been better served by a leash than the dog owners.  The dogs were exceptionally well-behaved (because the owners were smart enough to bring the kid-broke pups and not the jumpy ones); I was less so.  I’d run after dog after dog, petting every puppy that would sniff my hand.

Basically, Farmers’ Market days are some of the few days from my childhood that I felt normal.  I learned to love the Farmers’ Market as much for its smell and food as the atmosphere in which I felt good about myself.  I love farmers’ markets.

As an adult, it’s taken on a different meaning.  The Market is still dear to me, of course.  It’s restorative influence is perhaps exactly what I needed given the events of the past forty-eight hours.  However, as a struggling post-college student, I’ve come to appreciate the meaning of supporting local businesses.  I started learning it in college, since I went to college in a small rural town, but something about it clicked the past couple years.  So, last summer, I decided it was time to start supporting local vendors as much as I can.  I went to the Farmer’s Market as often as I could and got good produce for good prices and kept the money in Colorado.  It was all very sensible and responsible.

And I found the most gorgeous pasta and divine cheese in the world. I never would have found them if I hadn’t committed to going to the Market and supporting local farmers.

The pasta company is based in Denver, Colorado.  It’s a relatively small company, started in 1984 and still dedicated to its roots as an operation to make homemade, flavored pastas to be enjoyed.  It’s mostly online and market business.  It takes pride in being a “mom and pop” business that employs a few employees to make GREAT artisan pasta.

The cheese company started in Illinois with a husband and wife team.  Then the wife’s sister and her husband joined in.  Then, a couple they were friends with.  It became a family and friends company that made artisan cheeses and sold at several markets in Illinois.  Then, the friends moved to Colorado Springs.  And perfect cheese (seriously, their Chipotle White Cheddar cheese is THE perfect cheese) came to my home town.

I love supporting independent crafters.  I love Etsy.  I have vendors across the world that I have relationships.  As an adult, I’m proud to establish these relationships with local vendors.

You see, this is the beauty of supporting local vendors: you’re not just giving money to your community.  You’re becoming part of a community in turn.  This is my praise of farmers’ markets and of my Farmers’ Market – they create a community that learns to love each other, help each other, and become part of each other.  So many families are created and maintained around the table.  Is it any surprise that community families find themselves around the food of the farmers’ market?

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Sweet Southern Comfort Food

Any one else just feel right at home when they hear that song?

I went to college in rural Missouri.  Anyone who tells you Missouri is not South has never been to places like Marshall, Sedalia, Green Ridge, Cape Girardeau and/or Sikeston (to name a small few).  I’ll admit that it depends on where you are in the state how Mid-Western or Southern it feels, but my small patch was definitively Southern.  And there was nothing more Southern than the food.

Most of my memories at school surrounded performances and department drama, as comes with a small school.  There were the flowering trees in Spring and those weird winter storms in the winter that somehow felt like home, despite the annoyances of pollen and snow.  It wasn’t until I got home that I realized how attached I had become to the food.

One of the great things about Southern food is how homey it is.  Something about chicken and dumplings always feels right.  Even my mother, who I would never accuse of being a Southern girl, adores pecan pie.  And no one does pecan pie like they do in the South.  Southern food is the food I instinctively crave when I’m feeling a bit lonely or ill.

Like a couple months ago, I was feeling low. So, I headed to a steak house–not because I was craving steak, but because I was craving Southern-style green beans.  When I went home with my roommates on the weekends, we would make dinner.  More often than not, she would pull out a mason jar of green beans that someone in her family had put up and make us Southern-style green beans.  Eating those is like curling up in front of a James Bond marathon with Auddie’s dad or a girls’ night with Auddie and Tink or a card night with twenty people from Auddie’s family making the stranger welcome.

Or last November, when I drove out to Missouri and quite literally cried when I bit into my first hush puppy in over a year.  There’s one (inconvenient) place to get hush puppies where I live, so that’s something I always make a point to consume while I’m visiting family and friends in the area.  Hush puppies are a reminder I’m going to a place where I am loved.  Eating hush puppies means that even the worst of roommates can get along and that the best of roommates will still fight over who gets the last one.  Hush puppies mean late night speed-walking two blocks so you can get that well-deserved snack after a horrific amount of studying.  Hush puppies mean home.

Or the never-ending quest to find a Mediterranean restaurant that is comparable to the jewel that was a teeny brick building in Sedalia.  Not exactly Southern food, but the best Greek food will always be Southern in my head.  It will be special and celebratory, because that’s where my best friend and I went to eat when she came to visit and where I had my graduation lunch with my parents.  Greek food means to me what it does because I discovered it during my time in the South.

It’s been a few years since I left Missouri, good years, even.  I still ache for the friends from school, the flowering trees, and snow in December instead of May.  And I can go visit the people, plants, and places that I miss, but not without great cost and that heartbreaking moment I remember I have to say goodbye.  Again.

Not so with Southern food.  Whether it’s Greek food that almost measures up, or going out of my way to get hush puppies, or heading to the steak house for Southern-style green beans, or a plateful of chicken and dumplings, these are things I can access with relative ease.  Yes, the food will be gone sooner rather than later, but there’s always another plate or bowl waiting to fill the hole in my heart that was left by those people, places, and plants . . . at least for the time being.  This is what comfort food is – the food that eases the aches and pangs of life while reminding us that the things and people we love are never too far away.  Maybe even only as far away as a bite.

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So what are your comfort foods?  And when did you find them?  And how do they comfort you?

My missionary: On being left behind.

So, as you’re well aware right now,  my baby brother, Elder Moose, is on his mission for the LDS church to Brazil.  He’s thousands of miles away.  And he only gets half an hour per week to write e-mails, which need to respond and go out to the entire family.  The next time I hear his voice will be on Mother’s Day, the first of the three phone calls over two years that he will place.  (That’s not me complaining, by the way.  That’s me letting you know why thousands of miles away feels a little more real than it usually does.)  So, mostly, I write letters.  I only have one response from him thus far, which is fine, but makes the distance seem . . . pretty big.

Of course I miss him.  But not like you’d expect.  It’s the sort of missing that you get when someone you love moves away, but you still talk on the phone EVERY NIGHT or e-mail EVERY DAY.  It’s the sort of missing that barely feels like missing.  I miss my best friends more than I miss my brother.

Now, lest you think that sounds terrible, that’s about how he feels, too, so far as I can tell from his e-mails.  Mostly, we just feel this incredible outpouring of love for each other and do our best to communicate that.  The love overwhelms the missing BY FAR.

Perhaps I would have been weirded out by how gone my brother is and how little I miss him if I hadn’t been through this on a much larger scale some years ago.

From 2008 to 2010 (with a short foray into the spring of 2011), my FIVE best guy friends were on missions.  I still had a couple girl friends around (and I got much closer to them in that time period when the boys were gone), but my rocks were away.  Three were on missions in the US (not that that made them any more available) and two were foreign.  These were the guys I had the best relationships of almost any of my friends, that I had invested in emotionally in a way I don’t think I ever will again (partially because it was that unhealthy .  And all five were leaving within about seven months of each other, to be gone for two years each.

What was I going to do?

I quickly found out that, well, I was going to do nothing.  Except go on living my life, that is.

The Lord provided.  In so many ways.  Those two years, from the outside, looked like possible the WORST YEARS EVER for my support system to be swanning off to foreign lands . . . or states (though one could rightly call Utah a foreign land – I certainly wouldn’t object and I don’t know many who would).  They were my last two years of college.  In fact, these five best male friends, one of which was Monkey, missed my graduation.  I was the first of our group and the first of my siblings to graduate.  It was kind of a big deal.  And they weren’t there.  I had just quit cutting in February of ’08 – partially because I knew my friends were leaving and I didn’t want them to be worrying they were going to get the letter that said, “Joie is in the hospital/killed herself.”  But, I was still struggling when they started going off into the mission field and we all knew it.  I think one or two of them still feared that letter would one day arrive.  Worse, my grandmother died.  Nine days after my birthday, eight days before Monkey’s.  It was NOT the time to be away from home, nor was it the time to have very little support system at home.  Perhaps the worst part of the worst situation was that I was ANGRY with my grandmother.  Spitting.  She chose to go off treatment, you see, so we were in this limbo the entire summer waiting for her to bite it and trying to pre-mourn and I hated her decision SO MUCH.  I just didn’t think about it because, if I did, I could barely function.  I had no one to talk to about that anger, really.  I was so exhausted I could barely call my best friend and I was worried about talking to my family, as they were working through this decision themselves.  From the outside, those seemed like the worst possible two years from my friends to be gone.

And yet, I was fine.  I had the panic attacks, I had the anger, I had the crying and emotional exhaustion and the isolation.  And yet, I never ONCE felt like I was alone.  I was left behind, but I was not friendless.  I found better friends.  I found that the Lord was there ever so much.  I was blessed to wake up one day from a dream, no longer angry with my grandmother.  She died later that afternoon.  I’m not sure I would have had that with the five men there!  And yet, somehow, even far away, they were.  I did not mourn alone.  I was blessed to have so many friends congratulate me on graduation.  I did not celebrate alone.  I was blessed to have friends who came home and still loved me.  I did not go through those years alone.

So, fast forward to now.  I’m having a really rough year.  REALLY rough.  2013 is shaping up to be nasty, no bones about it.  And that’s okay.  Not because the five men are back.  The only one I still talk to and can claim closeness with on a regular basis is Monkey!  In many ways, my friends group is even smaller than it was back in 2008 when the boys started leaving.  In many ways, these next two years could be considered the second WORST YEARS EVER for Elder Moose to be gone.  He and I have a special bond, a very tender relationship.  Of all my siblings, I think he understands and responds to my needs the best.  If there were years I needed him, certainly this one would qualify.

And yet, I am fine.  I have the panic attacks, I have the anger, I have the crying and emotional exhaustion and the isolation.  And yet, I have not ONCE fell like I am alone.  I am left behind, but I am not friendless.  I’m closer to my friends and finding some new ones.  The Lord is ever in my life.  I was blessed to suddenly have a bunch of people express a love and appreciation for me I didn’t know existed in a twenty four hour period.  Just as I was starting to feel like I wasn’t wanted.  I’m not sure that would have happened with Elder Moose here!  And yet, somehow, even far away, he is.  I wrote a desperate and scared letter and, the next week, I got a private e-mail that let me know I AM NOT ALONE.  That Elder Moose is in my corner, even from Brazil.  I came out in January.  There was a letter in the mail assuring me that he supports and loves me and was thinking of me on that day.  I did not face my uncertain future alone.  I will not go through these years alone.

This is what it is to be left behind by a missionary, be you a sibling, a parent, or a friend.  It is to be loved, to be watched, to be supported, to be blessed, to NEVER be alone.

So, while I wish I were able to see him or hear his voice more often, I just don’t miss my brother.  He is there.  I am here.  We are NEVER alone.

In defense of Disney’s faults:

The other day I got into a convo with a friend of a sibling (my family is very share and share alike with friends, which is awesome) about Disney (follow the link to see some snippets).  It was fun.  I mean, I am absolutely a member of the Disney generation (My first movie memory? Grabbing my dad’s hand at Beauty and the Beast because the Beast frightened me SO MUCH.  My dad’s favorite Disney movie?  The Little Mermaid because it was the first movie his daughters could really sit through and enjoy.), so I kind of love Disney no matter what . . . almost Stockholm-esque love, really.  Because, as you can see, I KNOW they are flawed.  I so know it.  Furthermore, I don’t like it.  I don’t like seeing my friends who bought into that schtick, who are waiting for some Prince Charming or Handsome Stranger or Magical Deus ex Machina to come and save their life from loneliness, boredom, or meaninglessness.  I don’t like that Disney managed to convince practically a whole generation of women that love and life are these kind, sanitized faerie tales that make it all better.  Because we all know faerie tales are creepy and wrong and that’s why we love them.  I don’t like that it took nearly sixty years to have a Princess of Color (and even then, Pocahontas was NOT a thrill).  I don’t like that they sold love as the meaning to life, the universe, and everything (FORTY-TWO!) .  I don’t like a lot about Disney.

But that’s kind of why I love Disney.

Bear with me for a minute.  All will be revealed.

So, as some of you may or may not know, faerie tales and mythology is my chosen field of study.  That’s where I’ve been headed since basically the third or fourth grade.  Seriously, ask my poor beleaguered parents and local library staff.  And, as some of you may or may not have seen my note just above, faerie tales are creepy and wrong.  Sorry, people who bought into the princess hype.  It’s true.  And they’re so much better for it!

So why do I love sanitized Disney?

Because it’s reflective.  Yeah, it’s racist and misogynist and riddled with inaccuracies and pro-colonial and anthropomorphic and pretty much any accusation you want to lay at their feet.  It’s true.  And it’s true of us.  And it’s true of our faerie tales and folklore and mythologies, even if Disney did do it’s best to ruin them.  I apologize if I offended anyone with that last assertion or this coming one, but we are no better than Disney.  We like to think we are, but we aren’t.  We are why Disney is all those things because we are the market they cater, very specifically, to.  We pretend it’s because Disney is run by persons who are a, b, c, or d.  We pretend that Disney is hopelessly backward.  We pretend we are not the reason Disney has been so successful.  But we are just pretending.  The culture Disney serves is as broken as the company.

But you know what’s wonderful about that sad fact?

WE ARE GETTING BETTER.  And so is Disney.

It’s taking more time than it should.  It’s taking decades and generations and major paradigm shifts to something that should have been blatantly obvious in the first place.  But we, as a populace, and they, as a company, are improving.  They are reflecting our improvement.

It gives me hope.  It allows me to see dreams slowly come true.

Isn’t that kind of what Disney was all about in the first place?

So yeah.  I love Disney.  And I think the more of us who are willing to encourage Disney to be better, whether it’s from the advocate or antagonist’s side, the more we’ll see true and reflective improvement.  We’ll see that acceptance and wonder that Disney’s words, if not images, preached.  We’ll be the reason Disney changes, grows, and teaches good things.

Go us.  We’re the ones that make the Magical Kingdom truly magic.

On being an older sister:

As some of you know, I am the older sister to two wonderful men.  I am about to acquire a younger sister (two months from tomorrow). Sometimes I even play that role for my older sister, who is a fantastic sibling, but–through no fault of her own–is in some ways the younger of the two of us.  We trade off, really.  There are times when I have been in the “older sibling” role for days or months for all my siblings.  There have been times when, in defiance of biology and convention, I have most definitely been the youngest in my family.  And this doesn’t even take into account all the non-blood related siblings I have.

But, when it comes down to it, I see myself as an “older sibling” probably 95% of the time and as a “younger sibling” maybe 5% of the time.  It shapes my actions in ways I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand.

In the last few months/weeks/days, I’ve been in several different situations that make me think about the responsibilities that come with my place in the biological order of my family.  I am far from perfect, but I earnestly desire to be better.  It’s made me examine how I do things.  I’ve learned a lot about who I am as a person and as an older sister.  A few things I’ve learned:

  • Whether you are my sibling or not (forget age), I will ALWAYS want to fix it.  This instinct is borne of years watching disappointed hopes and sickness and injuries and unavoidable failures, my heart breaking for the brothers who had to learn that life is not fair.  It will never be fair.  And, while I can’t fix everything, I can sure try to fix anything.  This is my first instinct in the face of trouble or sorrow and it can sometimes be a bother.  It is always meant lovingly.
  • I am fiercely protective.  There was this time when I was in fifth grade and Monkey was in third.  He came home one day, pride bruised (and his body, too, I suppose, but it was definitely the pride that stung the most).  He had been playing flag football with some of the boys in my grade and they had . . . chosen to ignore his reduced size and strength in favor of winning outright.  Then, they had rubbed it in.  I was FURIOUS.  I went up to the culprit Monkey named the next day and told him off.  This was my little brother and he would not be treated that way for the sake of a game.  I’m not sure I helped.  I may have even hurt him, as actions like that can make a child out to be a crybaby. But I don’t regret letting the boys in my grade know that I was not passive in the treatment of my younger brother.  He would be protected and defended as long as I could.  Of course, that meant that–one day–I had to learn that sometimes my brothers would need to be protected from me.  That, I believe, was a far harsher lesson than watching my brothers get bruised by classmates (mine and theirs).
  • Perfection is not possible.  Sometimes this is okay.  But when it comes to my siblings, this is where my perfectionism–and lack of actual perfection–is exacerbated.  I am SO AWARE of my many mistakes.  There’s no way not to be. But the mistakes are less and less acceptable when they involve my amazing and wonderful siblings.  Thankfully, as much as I mess up, my siblings are willing to forgive me.
  • Being far away is about the suckiest thing on earth.  I love being able to touch and love and hug my siblings.  I like being able to physically reassure them that no matter what comes out of my mouth–which always sounds so right in my head and so wrong vocalized–I love them.  Communicating that from far away is one of the hardest things I can and will ever do.  But I will learn to do it.
  • Being an older sister has made me a better person.  I empathize more, I try to understand more.  My little brothers and I don’t think the same way and we never will.  But  as we have grown and attempted to understand each other better, they have taught me how to understand all people better.
  • I will never enjoy suffering.  Being an older sister, with all that fierce momma bear and must fix it instinct, brings suffering into a new light.  When I see people hurt and–more painfully–people rejoicing in the hurt of others, I don’t see pain.  I see a child, often times a brother or sister (but does it really make it any better if they’re an only child and don’t have that support?), crying out for help.  I see a child being laughed at or told their suffering is good or just.  I see the person, but I also see my little brother after he jumped a metal sign and accidentally cut off a chunk of skin on his knee and enduring the iodine disinfecting bravely as he could.  I see my little brother aching because of a hateful sign posted on a door.  I see my older sister curled in a ball of pain as her body attacked her from the inside out.  And I see the boy in the fifth grade telling me my Monkey should toughen up.  I see me being the one who posted that sign that my Moose saw, intending to hurt.  I see the people who tell me that my Anli will learn so much from this trial of her health, as if that makes it hurt me or my parents or her any less. I see all these times and situations as I witness those who hurt and those who rejoice in hurting and I ACHE.  For the children inside all that pain as much for the siblings I saw in pain growing up.
  • I will always, selfishly and selflessly, want ALL the good things for my siblings.  I want the world to be kind to them.  Sometimes, these desires are at the expense of others and for that I apologize.  I don’t wish for others to fail, I wish for my siblings to succeed.
  • I will spoil my siblings until there is nothing left to spoil.  It is my job and my right as an older sister to make sure that all my siblings are taken care of in the little, big, important, and insignificant things.  It’s one of the few ways I feel like my “fix it” instinct can be satisfied.
  • I can be better.  If I have learned anything in my twenty-three years of being an older sister, it is that I can be better.  I can improve.  Sometimes it will be of the two steps forward, one step back variety of improvement, but I can and will improve.  My siblings will be the ones who support me and love me through those improvements, as well as the ones that inspire said improvements.  It will not be easy, but it will be worth it.
  • Being an older sister is a privilege.  I get to watch these men (and those women and men who aren’t technically related) grow.  I get to see how amazing they are.  I get to tease and make fun and have inside jokes.  I get to grow with them.  I get to be part of something and protect something wonderful.

Love to all those siblings, blood or not, who taught me to be better.  I love you, ever so much.

~J

Confusion over!

Or at least helped, I hope.

This is just a little bit of blog business!  I know my blog can be a bit confusing sometimes, with all the nicknames and people I talk about.

Good news!  I made a page of the people I mention most often and probably won’t be re-introducing.  I’m tired of it, so this helps me, too.

Also, in case you missed it, a couple months ago, I started a list of Joie Facts.  If you ever see one pop up in a post and are curious about what they are/what the others are, just go there!

A couple months before that, I added the guest post page and about page.   Any inquiries regarding guesting or who I am, those should be enough to get you started.  Also, I WANT guest posts, so please inquire.

Thanks for coming!

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P.S. I also want to know who you are.  I’d love for you lovely readers (and I know I have some) to comment more!  I promise to reply to each and every one of you.  Well, the first hundred at least (I think my most commented post had three, so you’re in the clear). Love, me.

Good times.

Today I’m going to talk about the light of memory.

I have one of those brains that gloms (glomms?) on to trivium.  I completely come by it honestly.  My genetic heritage is a long line of “mush-brains.”  This is what my family calls people who can store tons and tons of seemingly non-pertinent information until that one perfect moment when the trivia is perfectly pertinent.  (Ken Jennings is THE mush-brain.) Spend one game night with my family and you will understand what I mean.  It must be experienced to truly be understood.

Thankfully, this mental capacity to latch onto something has made my memory recall a really interesting thing.  I don’t know how YOUR memory recall works, but I do know that I have more than once been informed that mine is different.  It’s this super-associative, super-weird combination between photographic memory, situational memory, and sensory memory.  I’m going to attempt to explain it, but this is MY brain we’re talking about so do not blame me if it sounds like a jumbled mess.

My brain flashes freeze scenes from the particular day, kind of like NCIS:LA does that picture overlap thing (tried to find an example, but couldn’t–it’s sort of a collage-y thing and yet not . . .).  Much of the time this is triggered by being in a similar situation or similar place.  I swear, I get brain ambushed at the weirdest times, often because I am facing the same direction that I was when a particular memory was made.  It’s weird and I have no idea why my mental camera depends so much on my visual perspective to recreate memories.  But it’s something I’ve dealt with my entire life and learned to use.  When I have trouble recalling conversations or events, I will actually turn around until I am facing the same way I was at the time, which almost always allows me to bring up the information I’m searching for.*  And as for the sensory, once my brain has flashed those pictures at me, often there are sensory bites (like sound bites, you know) that play out in conjunction with the flashy picture collage-y thing.  Smells, sounds, physical sensations–all these things are so firmly entrenched in these memories that they cannot be separated.

I love it.  It’s super weird and totally odd.  But it allows me to REALLY remember–there’s an insane clarity to my memories.  I have memories from so young I don’t know when they were, I can still feel Best Jess (a roommate from my Freshman year of college) pressing a kiss to the top of my head on her way out the door–just because, and every time my stomach lurches in anticipation I can still smell the light cherry blossom scent of the lotion that I used for the duration of my first serious relationship.

Super crazy, huh?

So, as you might be able to tell, memory is a really interactive and reactive thing for me.  Some days, it’s really intense.  But every day, it’s illuminating.  I’m constantly surprised by my own brain when a memory re-surfaces–what I remember best, what sounds and scents really impressed themselves upon me, the direction I was facing.

This morning, went into the restroom to do my hair (which hates me) and found myself ambushed by one of these memories: I heard Pookie (my other roommate Freshman year of college) cry, “Look at your cute Dorothy Hamill hair!”  The winter static has worked it’s magic in a GOOD way.  When I was a Freshman in California, this happened all the time.  Pookie was the first person to point it out, but there was a vendor on campus who nicknamed me Dorothy because of the feathery hair phenomenon.  Hearing him say, “Hello, Dorothy!” every day in his thick Asian accent was the next memory that came rolling in, and yes, I saw a picture of him in my head standing behind his booth, smiling at insecure, Freshman Joie.  All because my hair looked similar to those days back in California.

The wonderful thing about this is, I hadn’t thought of that cute little vendor in forever.  I certainly hadn’t thought about the joy that came from having Dorothy Hamill hair.  That first time my roommate complimented it was pretty funny (when I’m confused, I am often unintentionally hilarious) and it’s a beautiful memory.  The joy of having a stranger remember me and make a point of saying hello to me every day was a pleasure to recall.  This is why I love my weird, wacky memory.  One memory, something so insignificant as Dorothy Hamill hair, can make my day light.

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*For those of you who never knew why I spin around when I’m trying to remember things, now you know.  Thanks for just rolling with it.