Number 8

8. Growing Up Poor

(Remember...I'm on this "10 Things That Define Me" kick.)

I've heard people say it doesn't matter when you're a kid. It doesn't. From a parent's perspective, I'm sure it is stressful and scary and sad (and probably words that don't start with s, as well), but kids don't know. Maybe I was always a little aware, but I never cared because I knew I was happy.

Ma drove an old 1960's Volkswagen van. It was olive green and had a huge-like majority of the front of the van huge--smash facing outward. Ma had gotten into an accident when she was first ever pregnant. It's why Dan was so premature and had to wear Cabbage Patch clothing for the first few months of his life. But, I'm glad it happened. The van had so much character and  if Daniel had been born on time, I wouldn't have been his same little sister. I wouldn't have been a Leo! The van was rickety and always had expired tabs, so we were always dodging police men. But, it had character. My aunt had a similar van--same make and and model, but it was pink and aqua and dent-less. My oldest cousin was embarrassed. She knew we were poor, and she cared. She made Auntie drop her off at least a block away from the school every morning. Auntie told me, "oh, you'll feel the same when you're older." She was wrong. Never a day in my life have I felt embarrassed about my mother.

I didn't know what evicted meant or what an eviction notice looked like, but I knew to never answer the door when the landlord came by. I knew most families lived in one house for most of their lives. I knew I hated moving, but I always knew it would happen eventually. When you ask me where I'm from, I always change my answer. Stability is boring.

Monday nights were chili dog nights. I hated chili, I hated hot dogs, but I loved Rob and it's all he could cook. Plus, Tuesdays were "impossible cheeseburger pie" nights and Tuesday nights were worth the wait. AND, McDonald's nights were the greatest nights ever. Cheap dining is the best.

We worked for our television viewing. The broken wire coat hanger really, really had to be just right--and we still only got FOX. If you ever wonder why I know every show that failed or succeeded on FOX for five years solid in the early 2000's, it's because of that. I still miss Boston Public. We rented a lot of old 99 cent movies, as well. I'm proud of my history with film because knowing all of Goldie Hawn, Steve Martin, Eddie Murphy and Bill Murray's movies is far better than knowing anything about anyone that was on cable TV when I was a kid. Plus, I can name more Simpsons characters than most people. Character building.

Ma would buy the new gaming system every tax return. I was indignant when I was a kid: it's not like I got a new set of dolls to counteract it. That being said, I'd rather play a video game than do most anything. Character building.

There are lines in rap songs not poor people don't understand. I have a greater appreciation for most things in life. It's character building.
"When I grow up/you just wait/I'ma be so straight and everything's gonna be so marvelous/No more borrowin' from the neighbors/no more haters/no more blowin' Nintendo cartridges."
And I always wondered why so many white, rich kids liked Tupac. They didn't get it. They still don't.

While getting ice cream sometime last year with a few friends, someone asked me why I didn't get a waffle cone like everyone else. I didn't know, I never really thought about it. My friend who also grew up rough commented, "she grew up poor. We didn't get waffle cones."

It's character building. And I prefer cake cones anyway.

Number 9

9. When I Stopped Overeating 

The classic love story is like: boy meets girl, girl falls for boy, boy eventually realizes how much he likes girl because boys take forever to do anything and they end up happily ever after. It's impossible to put a relationship with food into that formula, which is something, if ever realized, might help our obesity problem. The love story with food is more like: person meets food, person loves food, food will never love the person back and they do not end up happily ever after, but rather overweight and dejected.

My family was poor: I totally get that if you have no other option, it is so hard to "eat right." And honestly, food and our choices with it have changed a ton since I was younger. The 90's felt like the 70's (oh, cause I apparently know what the 70's felt like?). We had an excessive amount of sugary cereals, tons of "easy to make" food for working families (like Hamburger Helper, macaroni and cheese, chili dogs) and way, way too many carbonated, caffeine-spiked beverages. Healthkick was not for my consideration.

We were the really, really cool family with the really, really cool mom who worked a helluva lot so we always had stocked cabinets full of crap: big tubs of Jif, lots of Wonder bread and enough Hostess snack cakes that we could have passed for the outlet.  That and we always had a fridge jam-packed full of delicious store brand soda. To this day, I would prefer a Safeway Select can of anything to the real stuff. When I refer to my childhood fondly, it is almost entirely because of the excessive amounts of crap I consumed. Honestly. Who wouldn't want to gorge on pop and Chips Ahoy! and kiwi lime ice-cream floats while watching the history of Steve Martin's filmography with your brothers while your mom was working? Then, you wake up early and play Donkey Kong 3: Dixie Kong’s Double Trouble! on two player with your brother, getting up only to grab something else to snack on. Delicious life. That's the good stuff.

I stopped drinking pop when I was 14 years old. At some point, you take responsibility for your own life and your own choices and I think high school is the perfect time to make decisions about what you choose to consume. Mom went away for two days, two goddamn days on a ski trip with her boyfriend. She assured we were well prepared for the weekend—it looked more like a bomb shelter in Candy Land. We had 48 cans of cola in the fridge when she left. That is at least a month's worth for normal families, but Tholmers don't restrain. Tholmers are excess. Still to this day, if I am standing in a cupcake shop (which happens quite often) and am given the choice between one of those precious tiny cakes or a big ol' cupcake with much more frosting, best believe I'm going with the big guy. Years and years of practice at this point have taught me that sharing is caring and less is more, but goddamn if I don't hesitate. So, Ma goes away for two days, leaves three of her kids (where the hell was Levi? I don’t remember. He couldn't be trusted with us!) and all of that bubbly. Upon her arrival Sunday night, we all panicked. We had consumed all 48 cans. Between the three of us! I'll never forget the desperation upon our realization. We tried to blame everyone else—Dylan was here, he probably drank…um, 12 cans of pop?! I thought it was the end of my life. I thought Ma would arrive home disgusted and so angry and I thought we would get pop privileges taken away. Noooooo more Coke? It was just about the most unimaginable punishment my mind could muster up. Mom did come home and never even mentioned it. She had assumed we would drink them, she knew would we drink all 48 cans, which I think grossed me out more than the actual rapid consumption. My mother assumed I would be one-third of a gorge-fest on a bunch of sparkling venom? I quit drinking it then, and never looked back.

But, the unhealthy relationship didn't stop there. I very promptly replaced sugary sodas with syrupy coffee drinks (thank you Starbucks, for all the frappuccinos) and my sweet tooth was just as sweet as it had ever been. I made the very adult decision to cut out what I knew was unproductive for me, but I just as quickly made the decision to caffeinate and sweeten elsewhere. Of course, eventually, I became a real coffee drinker—blended beverages and white chocolate mochas (oh, god, that's one of my biggest, grossest secrets) weren't good enough and I moved onto lattes and now I sit here with my black as night plain coffee. Coffee drinkers get boring after 10 years of downing the vital nectar.

Really, my problem started (or ended, depending on how you look at it) in college. You know that "Freshman 15" that some claim is a myth and some swear by? It's definitely legitimate, though I think for most people it comes from alcohol consumption. Not this sugar-loving kid. As soon as I moved out of my mother's house and could purchase my own groceries with my own federal funded money at my own big, fancy college campus, I discovered Ben & Jerry's. What a great idea! A mini ice cream gallon! Fun flavors! My family had only ever bought store brand ice cream (which is still delicious, by the way), but these guys really knew how to make it. The more jam packed the better. I loved rocky road as a kid (who doesn’t?) because every bite had something delicious in it. I'm not a plain Jane—the more complicated the better (with everything in my life). Ben and Jerry had tons of shit in their ice cream. Graham crackers, marshmallow swirls, peanut butter chunks, chocolate chips, everything but the goddamn kitchen sink. Bomb. I had met the new loves of my life. Every quarter of my freshman year, I think I spent the entirety of my flex points ("free money") on Ben & Jerry's. My favorite? Marsha, Marsha, Marshmallow, though that wasn't sold on campus, so I settled for Karamel Sutra (dear LORD, it is heavenly) unless I was wandering down to Sehome Haggen. No joke, I ate four cow stomachs worth of ice cream that year. I think I bled ice cream.

I stopped, though. All good things come to an end and a mere two years later, I quit ice cream. I'll never forget my last pint. It was January 2008, and by accident Lauren, Casee and I had come across the show The Biggest Loser. I already woke up on the first of the year and decided to take advantage of our university's beautiful recreational center. I wasn't trying to lose weight. I literally thought, "I pay $90 a quarter for this bad boy, I might as well check it out." That and Days of Our Lives was really good that year and I was always free from 1 to 2 pm, so why not? There are television sets all over our gym, so I hopped on the elliptical and spent some great time with Bo and Hope Brady. When we started watching The Biggest Loser, there was no way I could keep eating that ice cream. I mean, Bob Harper said a dollop of canned whipped cream on a snack-pack size cup of fat free Jell-O was okay, but I really didn’t think he would encourage three pints of Ben & Jerry's a week. So, one fateful Tuesday night in January, I finished off my last pint. It was Marsha. I bid my boys farewell and never looked back. I didn't eat ice cream again until my 21^st birthday seven months later (and fifty pounds lighter) in Las Vegas when I allowed myself some kind of banana/chocolate/Bailey's shake at dinner. I can count the number of times I've had ice cream since. When I hit rock bottom, I take it very seriously.

I lost fifty pounds that year. Sure, I was working out five times a week, I had started drinking nonfat milk, stopped eating a scone from the Bucks every morning and became a vegetarian…but when people asked me, I would tell them I quit ice cream. Everyone would usually laugh, but no one quite understood the severity of my situation. I am an exceptional person. I am not an average human being. I don't have a serving size of anything. I have an addictive personality and moderation is hardly in my vocabulary. Giving up ice cream was quite possibly the hardest, and likely most satisfying, decision I have ever made.

I had a milkshake the other day. I still feel weird about it, but if there's a cherry on top (literally a cherry on top. I love maraschino cherries), I can be convinced.  

Number 10

This is a list, just not necessarily a standardized one. I've been working on a list of ten things that describe me, but I'm finding it more and more complicated, for whatever reason. I don't know what to call it. Since I wrote my "aging" blog, I wanted to reflect more on instances that have meant a lot to me, or shaped me, or changed me. Whenever I run, I think about those kinds of things. I've been thinking about graduation a lot recently, and Gene's death, and losing my first job. I don't know...maybe it'll be the 10 things I think have shaped me the most? Or ten events that define me? I'm not sure. After I write about them all, I'll name the list and write it out.

But for now:

10. When I Stopped Believing 

When you are not raised to believe in anything, you are forced to make your own realizations. I am absolutely aware that some families work the opposite way that mine does: there are families with atheist parents who end up with evangelical children. There are families with God-fearing parents that end up with children that believe in nothing further than science and evolution, with not a thread of faith in their whole bodies.

My mother was raised Catholic. From my understanding, her grandmother, one of the last people my mother ever truly loved, was a strict believer. To the best of my knowledge, my mother went to church and possibly read the Bible and maybe even felt something toward any of it for most of her grandmother's life. I think her grandmother's passing affected her to the best of her capability to feel. I'm not saying my mother has no feeling; I'm saying her emotional range is more unique than some other members of her family and possibly most other females.  My mother's Catholicism clearly did not translate to her children. I remember a quite beautiful book on my mother's bookshelf, her large, solid oak bookshelf always prominently displayed in the front room of whichever home we were living in at the time. It might have been white—but it might have been black—I remember looking through it. A Bible. The first one I had ever seen. I looked at it as a child, but I never really got past the leaflet from great-grandmother's funeral that fell delicately to the ground whenever I opened it. It was haunting—a significant piece of my mother's life that I would never understand. It interested me more than the words written so minutely, so close together in the actual book. I wanted to ask my mother about the book, the leaflet, the funeral, the woman. I never did. I still haven't.

I was a clumsy child. I am a klutzy, forgetful, careless adult. Part of the reason I never opened the book any further was out of fear. Not of god, but of ripping those delicate, autumn leaf thin pages. I thought, Ma will be pissed. After all, I didn't know what the book meant to her, but Dan and I had just finished breaking the last of her precious Disney snow globes. Thought I shouldn't push my luck.

Dan and I went to Sunday school with two of our little friends once. I remember a gold star—I remember not getting a gold star. I think I cried on our way home, and we never went back.

We didn't have many knockers when I was a kid. I think we lived in weird spots for Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormons. I remember someone coming to the door once, though. Auntie ignored the knock on purpose, so for the rest of my life, I ignored the knock on purpose.

Levi's family is really Mormon. Gene wasn't, but his family certainly is: the kind of people who live up to all of the Salt Lake City stereotypes. The kind of people who have forty kids and name them all alliteratively: all "Br"s in their case. The kind of people who can't wait for their small children to grow up and reproduce so they can have grandchildren who will also spread the word. The kind of people who accept death in a "healthy," but terrifyingly unrealistic way. The kind of people who can hug a six year old and tell them over and over how much better off Kay is now. She's happy, Jessie. She's really happy. I never knew how they would know that. How does Julie know if her mother is happier now? At six years old, I definitely understood that Kay probably didn't want to be in a hospital bed, but I was still sure that she wasn't happier. Looking at Gene and seeing him accept the loss of his mother—that's more powerful than the delusion that Kay is happier where she is now. I'm sure the Mormon view of heaven is delightful, but Kay would prefer to be with her son, and her two daughters, and her grandchildren. Kay isn't happier where she is now. Kay never even met the brightest spot in her own son's life. Kay never met Levi. "Better off" wasn't convincing enough for me. And the insistence of an open casket freaked me out. Mormons are weird.

We watched a lot of The Simpsons. The Simpson family goes to church, but out of obligation.

"I was at Bible camp, learning how to be more judgmental." Maude Flanders (may she rest in peace.)

"If the Bible has taught us nothing else, and it hasn't, it's that girls should stick to girls' sports, such as hot oil wrestling, foxy boxing, and such and such." Homer Simpson

"You know the one with all the well-meaning rules that don't work in real life -- uh, Christianity." Homer Simpson

I still prayed, though. I always prayed as a kid. I don't recollect having many super religious kids around me, but there's an ever present religious shadow over all of us. Television shows, movies, subtle motifs in books I read. Even though I had basically solidified my discomfort with religion, I thought praying to god was the best idea for most things. I had a rougher childhood than most kids I knew. I was happy as a child, but everything was just a bit harder, a greater sense of hopelessness surrounded me, always. I never knew how to help my mom or my family. I didn't know how to make anything better past making sure the dishes were washed by the time my mom got home from work. I had no other options but to pray to god. I never got on my knees, it seemed extraneous, but before I fell asleep, I would thank him for everything we did have, and I would ask him for some help. God, thanks for giving me my brothers, even though we fight a lot. Thank you for Mom's job, even if it seems to stress her out. Thank you for our home, even if it's in the bad part of Marysville, thank you for dinner, even if it was Hamburger Helper and Kool-Aid, thank you for everything, amen. And hey, god? Can you maybe cut Mom a little break and maybe give her a raise at one of the jobs so she can quit one of the others? Or god, can we please not get evicted from this house because I so love my room? Or god, please assure Rob and Mom stay together because I actually love Rob and I don't love a lot of the other men she has dated. Thanks god, you're the best.

It never mattered. My mother always worked a lot of jobs, we never had extra money, we almost always got evicted, Rob and Mom did not stay together, nor did she ever stay with anyone I liked. (There was only one more I liked after Rob, in fact.) I say "Tholmers are quitters," but I'm usually kidding. I'm not a quitter. It takes a lot of pushes and pulls and struggles for me to give something, anything, up. A combination of my loyalty, my stubbornness and my pride (oh, all such terrible flaws) enable me to not just give something up. There was a final straw, though. There's always a final straw. 

We had just moved to Shoreline from Mukilteo, despite the incessant prayers on my part to not uproot me again, to not steal me ever so harshly from my three best friends and from my high school (changing high schools is so much worse than changing elementary schools) and my dear life in Mukilteo. It happened, though. I was already bitter. We hadn't lived in Shoreline for very long at all—maybe a month—and Spook disappeared. Spook was the most obnoxious, rambunctious, spunk-filled dog I had ever known. He was a German shorthaired pointer, but we clearly didn't train him to be a hunting dog like he was born to be. Because he never hunted, he was as wild as the call. A beautiful boy, a sweetheart when he was so exhausted he had no other choice but to pass out across your lap, he and I had our major differences. When we moved to Shoreline, he had moseyed his way into my boxes and chewed Crying Minnie—quite possibly the one piece of my life that I actually care about, one of so few possessions I hadn't lost or ruined, my little sense of comfort—apart. He chewed her up: she was missing a hand, a bow, most of her face and almost all of her twelve year old cotton when he was through with her. I cried harder than I think I had at that point when I came home to bits of pink ribbon and cotton fluff. I told him I hated him. I did hate him. 

And then you realize that as much love as one can pour into a ball of cloth and delicately sewn thread, there is so much more love involved in letting a dog into your heart. I had let him into my heart long ago, and for as much irritation as he brought me, he brought me much more joy. My favorite part of Spook was his relationship with my August. August Sunshine, the older gentleman dog: they were like Chance and Shadow in Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey. August was quite a bit older, in actuality and in spirit. He would literally roll his eyes at Spook while he bounded from one room to the other; while he shoved August aside to eat his food first like a prisoner, so fast he’d always gag afterward. August pretended with him—so distinguished he didn't have time for little puppies like Spook. He humored him, he mocked him, but he so definitely loved him. 

Spook went missing. We barely knew the area at that point. No one said it, but I think everyone, but me, knew he had been killed. It was a few days before we found out he had been hit by a car down the busy street by our house. Animal Control had found his body. I had spent days praying harder than I ever did each night he was missing. I was already mad: at god, at my mother, at everyone and everything, because of the move to Shoreline. The night before we discovered Spook's fate, I told myself that if anything had happened to him, my belief was through. I had never seen god, I had never felt him. For me, this was it…the last bit of hope I could muster that someone out there could be trusted. I came home from the school I hated, wet from March’s spring drizzle. Daniel paused his video game and carefully told me. I denied it because one German shorthaired pointer with the exact markings of our boy wasn’t enough finality for me. There were probably tons of other dogs with his description. I went up to the closet in my room and sobbed. Much harder than when I found Crying Minnie. I still had her. It was easy to stuff cotton back into a stuffed animal and fix the problem. Losing Spook felt like losing a brother. I had never felt like that. There was no plan, because why would this be in "his" plan? From that second on, there was no god.

Gene died. I didn't pray about it. I have never felt the urge to pray ever again. I don't believe in god, I hate organized religion, I have met more confused Christians than I have confident ones. When Gene died, he came to me in a dream. When I am lost, I dream through it. If I have a rough patch, I work it out. Things don’t always happen ideally: sometimes, you get evicted. Sometimes, your little brother loses his father. Sometimes, you lose your job. Sometimes, dogs die. I am a respectful individual, I will befriend religious people, I'll even date them (that should be past tense), but I cannot believe in a god again.

I stopped believing in god when I was 14. I stopped capitalizing "god" when I was 18. I will read the Bible for literature, not for guidance and I have never gone back to a church. All of this is a huge part of my identity.  

Aging

Credit goes to my dear friend Ben who makes us play this game sometimes. Go around a circle starting at birth and end up finding out a lot about your friends--heartbreaking things, eye-opening things, funny things, lovely things. Also, try forgetting your iPod on a jog. Your own life is the best distraction when you want to kill yourself halfway to Boulevard.

When I was a year old, my inattentive father was left to keep us alive while my mother showered. I sat in a car seat, big brother Daniel sat next to me—by the time Ma came out, he had decided to sit on top of me in efforts to smother me to death. He stopped trying to kill me when I was like...five.

When I was two years old, my first real memory: a California earthquake. We lived in Los Angeles, so it was bound to happen at some point. Maybe it’s not how it happened, but I remember being snug in the bed with Ma and Dad until the earth shook. Dad grabbed Daniel and pulled him to be with us and we were a family.

When I was three years old, we had moved to Marysville, Washington. When I was three years old, I became a Pacific Northwesterner—a person who would forever prefer the rain to the sun, 50 degrees to 75, fall to summer, sweaters to shorts.

When I was four years old, I saw Beauty and the Beast in the theater. I was forever touched by the delicate diminishing of the pink rose petals in that glass case. I was forever touched by the love of a beast by a woman. I forever wanted to read books in a giant library and wear dresses made of gold and to fall in love with someone who loved me unconditionally. I was forever touched by unrealistic cinematic magic.

When I was five years old, I went to kindergarten and read faster than all the other children, and had more friends than all the other children and talked more than all the children and had a crush on my teacher Mrs. Schilling. She had long, thick, dark hair and I knew then that curls were beautiful.

When I was six years old, my stepfather Gene's mother died and we went to the funeral and it was open casket and I saw my first dead body. The other kids dared me to touch her, so I did and she felt like one of Nicole's porcelain American Girl dolls. I thought she was beautiful—fake, and like she had never once breathed the air. I haven't turned down a dare since.

When I was seven years old, my youngest brother was born and I saw The Lion King in the theater. I cried for the first time in a movie when Mufasa died (and I've never watched that scene again) and I cried when Levi was born because he was a boy. Another boy. I wanted to dress him up and do his hair and maybe one day teach him how to put on makeup and give him advice about dating. I painted his nails for the first seven or eight years of his life.

Girls are lame, anyway.

When I was eight years old, I had my first crush on a boy. His name was Gary Carrier and he had dark, dark hair and bright blue eyes and freckles all over his face. He was funnier than the other boys, nicer than them too, and he could draw like a comic strip artist. He drew me a picture of Garfield and told me I was pretty once. Daniel made him cry on the playground by making fun of his mother. This describes every relationship I've had since.

When I was nine years old, I had to pick between “African American” or “Caucasian” on a form in school. I didn't know how to pick, and no one understood why it was such a hard decision. Your mother is white, pick Caucasian. But I'm not just Caucasian. I'll never be just Caucasian. I refused to pick a box. I don't know what happened to my form.

When I was ten years old, I saw Titanic almost once a week for something like three or four months straight. I only cried twice, I laughed every time, I memorized the way Rose's curls fell in front of her eyes when she looked at Jack's drawings for the first time. It took me three or four times to realize how beautiful Leonardo DiCaprio was. It was the blue eyes. I still watch Titanic at least once a month.

When I was eleven years old, I realized I was fat. My clothes didn't really fit well and my cousin dubbed me as Ashleigh Aston Moore's character when we picked which girl we would be in the movie Now and Then. (Even if she did grow up to be Rita Wilson, she was the fat one when they were kids.) I knew I was beautiful, though, because my mother told me all the time. I kept eating ding dongs and drinking pop. Fat girls can be beautiful too.

When I was twelve years old, I met Megan Rose French. She dressed nicer than I did, but she hated softball and PE and standing outside in the rain and I thought I had seen her in my Block class, so we talked. Her parents are like parents to me, her best friend is like a best friend to me, her husband is one of my dearest friends and I was a bridesmaid in her wedding this past May. Turns out, PE is good for something.

When I was thirteen years old, I started my period. I breezed through middle school without it, and a week before I turned fourteen, I became a “woman.” In The Cosby Show, Rudy gets her period and Clair wants to make a day of it—a “Woman's Day.” This doesn't happen. You get your period and it sucks and you don’t want to talk about it and it's there forever and there's no celebration. Very anti-climactic.

When I was fourteen years old, I had my first alcoholic beverage. I was abruptly uprooted from my heart's home in Mukilteo and the school I hated, but immediately loved when it was taken from me and while unpacking my stupid boxes in stupid Shoreline to start a stupid new stupid high school, I found some vanilla vodka. I mixed it with Coca-Cola and drank a large glass. The whole thing. I felt so guilty I never told a soul until right this second. Vanilla Coke came out a few months later and the taste of it reminded me so much of my dirty little secret that it made me gag and I never could drink it. Still. 

When I was fifteen years old, I met a boy named Seth Chernoff in my Spanish class. He talked to me because I had a “countdown to Christmas” (99 days) on my binder and he thought it was funny. He talked to me because I had a bunch of Harry Potter pictures on my binder and he thought it was charming. We were inseparable in Spanish and he changed my life. I doubt he knows it, but without him, I wouldn't have opened myself up to Shorecrest High School. When I was fifteen years old, I made a trillion new friends, I had a 4.0 all year, I excelled in Spanish and I became a Highlander. Once a Scot, always a Scot. Shorecrest power.

When I was sixteen years old, I fell in love—the one and only time I've truly been there. I knew him before, never really cared for him much, but then he got me a job at the movie theater—my dream job at a movie theater! My first day of training, the power went out and I had to go home almost four hours early. I was not driving yet, I didn't have money for a bus, I didn't have a cell phone and I was too shy to ask anyone to use a phone. I waited in the cold for no more than ten minutes before he pulled up because he heard the power went out and he assumed I'd be stranded. I'm rarely ever sentimental, but I can tell you it was 5:15 pm, I can tell you it was October 23, 2003, I can tell you the truck smelled like vanilla incense (like his apartment) and I can tell you he was wearing a black hoodie with a thumb hole in the left sleeve. I was twenty years old when I got over it, but I can tell you I'll always a little bit love him.

When I was seventeen years old, I graduated high school. Shorecrest holds a “Caen Lada,” a “moving up” assembly every year before graduation. It's much higher anticipated than graduation. I was the leader in the sign language performance—me in the center, and two girls on either side of me. My pedestal was highest, I picked the song, I organized the whole performance, but before the assembly, my brother Zachary told me he wasn't going to go. People like Zach don't go to things like Caen Lada. When I stepped up on the pedestal, before the beginning lines of “Landslide” (Dixie version) began, I saw Zachary in the stands. He waved. I willed myself to not cry for four of the longest minutes of my life. The song ended, I jumped down and lost it.

When I was eighteen years old, Gene was killed, my mother was arrested and I had just started college less than a month prior. When I was eighteen years old, I fought with my brothers for the last time. I didn't talk about anything that happened while I was at school or with my friends because if you don't talk about it, no one else can. I was strong for Levi, I was strong for my mother, I was strong so my friends wouldn't feel uncomfortable and so the new people I met wouldn't pity me so fast. When I was eighteen years old, I learned that I didn't need anyone else, so I've never leaned on anyone else because nothing can be that hard again. When I was eighteen years old, I detached. I'm trying to reattach. Still.

When I was nineteen years old, we put August Sunshine down to sleep. I don't really like animals. I love not having hair on my clothes. I hate barking and I don't like snuggling with a bunch of fur and I used to hate walking dogs. But this was my saddest thing. My saddest thing. I never loved a dog, or many humans, like I loved him. RIP Big.

When I was twenty years old, I stopped eating meat. I stopped eating ice-cream. I stopped eating high fructose corn syrup and whole milk mochas with the whipped cream. I stopped eating scones and dessert after every meal and I didn't even look at a donut. I started watching Days on the elliptical, started wearing flattering clothing, started doing my hair. I lost fifty pounds, started working for Starbucks and had my first (and for the record, my last real) boyfriend. When I was twenty, I got selfish and I haven't stopped.

When I was twenty-one years old, my best friend and I fought for four months and then didn't talk for three months. I gained fifteen pounds, I had terrible acne, and my eye shrunk down to a red puff for a month and a half. We started talking again and the stars realigned. I graduated college not sitting next to her, but I was always sitting next to her. I am always sitting next to her.

We were both surprised it was only four years.

When I was twenty-two years old, I dated a boy all year. On and off, up and down, hot and cold, in love, out of it. Many more tears than laughter, much more stress and never a moment of relaxation. When I was twenty-two years old, I met a large handful of people through this boy I was dating—a large handful of people who fill my today life like a champagne flute. The bubbling, bubbling, bubbling almost unfair deliciousness of champagne—the sweet carbonation spilling down my throat, the joyful drunkenness I'm left with during and after consumption. When I was twenty-two, I was severely unhappy, but I would never have known. You've got to hit rock bottom before you can climb up. 

And I'm twenty-three. I am twenty-three and I have remembered myself. I stopped prioritizing a toxic kind of love, I feel lighter. I am lighter. I’m twenty-three and I am divinely aware of my priorities: to eat, drink and be so merry. To get up and work and work harder and more efficiently than everyone else. To dance like I won't be able to tomorrow, like Katy Perry and Ke$ha are going away, like Kanye’s words won’t reverberate through me ever again. To run and run and run because one day I may not have that long stretch of Boulevard park to take advantage of. I am twenty-three and I am happy because I get to see him grow and her grow and my Elliot grow and I get to travel to visit friends now and I get to roll out of bed and walk into the front room to visit friends and I get to have friends that make me bring my work clothes over because I've never caught the last bus home. I flirt and laugh and hug and kiss and scandalize and hold people and touch lives because I've always touched lives but I'm more aware of how many lives I am touching and I can touch and I should touch. I am feeling older, but not in the depressed way I carried when I was twenty-two. I am feeling wiser in a way that allows me to recognize how stupid I probably am right now. I am smarter and stronger and just as strong and weak because I know when I'm weak and what makes me weak and I'm humble, but ever-so-cocky as I've always been. I am beautiful and curvy and perfect and I'm twenty-three and I love twenty-three.

And I laugh. Like I used to, I laugh. 

Sexy, sexy

This is a big one. Cosmo's new issue has an atrocious top 15 list: "The Top 15 Hottest Songs to Have Sex To." First of all, seriously awful title. Secondly, seriously awful list. It's hackneyed, inappropriate (having sex to a song about cheating? Not hot.) and boring. I put a ton of thought into this list, and I've come to the conclusion that it is simply impossible to make just ONE list. So, this is the first 15 songs. There will be a hip-hop version, and a lovemaking version. Let's be real, there are a thousand fantastic dirty rap songs that need to be on a list.

(These aren't exactly ranked. To each their own.)

1. "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak.
This made Cosmo's list, and it should make everyone's list because Chris Isaak is incredibbbbbly sexy. The album has an instrumental version of this song that is just as hot as the original. I happen to prefer Isaak crooning, "strange what desire will make foolish people do." God, so true.

2. "Take You Down" by Chris Brown. (Eep!)
Listen, I'm just getting it over with. I think Chris Brown fucked up, too. This will not turn into a debate about terrible people because honestly, a lot of people YOU listen to probably have done some horrible things. How many of us love Frank Sinatra? He beat up a lot of women and cheated on everyone and if we're making a great people list, Brown wouldn't rank. But I'm talking about sexy songs, and this song is hot. The beat is slow, speeds up and Brown's (undeniably) soulful voice takes you through each step. "And girl I know where to start and what we're gon' do." Tsk, tsk, Chris. He never was very innocent.

3. "Simply Beautiful" by Al Green.
Those of you NOT in the know about Al Green--those of you who know Al as a sweet singer of "Let's Stay Together," are unaware of how unbelievably sexy some of his music is. I know I'm biased toward soulful singers (Black Power), but I think this is universal. Green's sultry, sexy voice drips over every single word in this song and you almost don't notice the subtle beat in the background. He stays slow throughout the song and in the last thirty seconds, we get "yeah, yeah"s and "ooh baby"s over the beat that picks up just a tiny bit. So. Good. "What about the way you love me?"

4. "Summer Love/Set the Mood" by Justin Timberlake. 

Trust that I had a hard time picking just one JT song--this boy is sex. The album is called "FutureSexLoveSound" after all. Cosmo has "What Goes Around Comes Around" on their list--so, so wrong. It wouldn't even rank my top five JT songs to have sex to. This song, though...starts out hot with Timberlake pursuing a woman with his weak-in-the-knees lines like "I can make it hot, make it stop, make you wanna say my name, girl" and gets really, really sexy four minutes in with the "Set the Mood" part. Missin' out if you're a Justin hater. You are missin' out.

5. "I'm on Fire" by Bruce Springsteen. 

It's not my generation, that's for sure, but The Boss is sexy. His rough voice, the way he mumbles over his words, his disheveled hair. We all know a lot of Springsteen songs, but this one is my vote for his hottest. Nothing like hearing "I can take you higher" from Bruce Springsteen.

6. "Big Love" by Fleetwood Mac.
Alright, bear with me. This might be a weird choice, but I kind of just think Fleetwood Mac is sexy in general. We all want big, big love, though, and the sexy grunts toward the end? Hot.

7. "Pencil Skirt" by Pulp. 

I'm the first to admit I'm hypocritical, and this song is totally about cheating, but. I'm only human. There IS something scandalous about an affair that we can all admit is slightly appealing. "Oh yeah, I'll show you how you're doing it wrong." Oh yes please.

8. "Do Me Baby" by Prince.
Someone said, "no one wants to have sex to Prince." I say, no, EVERYONE should want to have sex to Prince. In fact, I don't even like Prince very much, but he's sex. Let's be real. Prince's bizarreness only adds to the effect. "Whenever we're not close to one another, I want you so bad." Plus, the classic soul beats are bomb. The song is CALLED "Do Me Baby." Come on!

9. "Beast of Burden" by The Rolling Stones.
"All I want is for you to make love to me." The song gets better from that line. The begging desire of the lyrics over the perfectly paced tempo? Sexy. Get some, Rolling Stones.

10. "Speechless" by Beyoncé .
SERIOUSLY, Cosmo picked "If I Were a Boy" for their list. Let me tell you what isn't sexy: a song about female empowerment and how awful men are. I mean, sexy for women, I guess, but what kind of a man wants to have sex to "If I Were a BOY"? Worst choice ever, especially considering Beyoncé has about a million sexy songs to choose from. "Speechless" isn't well known, but it should be. The music is provocative like an old porn movie, Beyoncé is seductively letting us all know that he had her speechless. My favorite Beyoncé is the one that takes a verrrrrry long time to sing her words. Cosmo knows NOTHING.

11. "Red Light Special" by TLC. 

From the very first second, this song is inappropriately delicious. When we were kids, my cousin told us all that we shouldn't be listening to TLC because they talked about (scandal!) sex too much. I'll tell you right now that the album I listened to the MOST when I was a kid was CrazySexyCool--especially after being told not to. Every line in this song is direct and provocative. The sexiest part is the three ladies directing their lovers to do exactly what they want them to do. Women in power. Bam. "I know that you want me, I can see it in your eyes."

12. "Turn Your Lights Down Low" by Bob Marley and the Wailers.
...featuring Lauryn Hill. Reggae has the sexiest beats of all genres of music. I said it. I don't even love reggae, but I'll admit that much. You know who has the sexiest voice ever? Lauryn Hill, so make sure you get the version with that Nubian queen. Classically sexy: "I wanna give you some good, good lovin'."

13. "Rock the Boat" by Aaliyah.
May she rest in peace, Aaliyah was a stone cold fox. Cosmo has her "One in a Million" on their list. It's alriiiight, but everyone knows "Rock the Boat" is the sexiest Aaliyah song. She SAYS "stroke it for me" like a million times. Can't argue with that. Rock the boat, babies.

14. "Untitled (How Does it Feel)" by D'Angelo.
I'll admit right now that I'm only putting this on the list because the video shows almost all of sweet, sweet D'Angelo's body. No, seriously, this song is sexy, though. This song isn't even subtle. D'Angelo wants to know how it feels, and he has no problem letting you know.

15. "Makin' Me High" by Toni Braxton.
"Secrets" was my first album. Every song was so sexy to me, before I knew what "sexy" really meant. This song was wildly popular, and for good reason. Braxton's low, sultry voice is enough, but when she's crooning lines like "all I want is moonlight, with you there inside me," she becomes EVEN sexier. This song, of all of my personal biased choices, is my favorite. Team Toni.

2011

For those of you who don't read my livejournal (almost all of you, and I would never let anyone new read it), you don't know that I make a strict goal list every year. I have done it since 2007, and I take them very seriously, and there was one year in particular (2008) that I feel like I changed my life based on my goals. It's a thing with me, and now that I've got my Top 10 blog, I can post them somewhere else, as well! How exciting.

In Jessica Tholmer fashion, this is how to start a new year. Happy 2011, everyone. 

2011 Goals

1. A few of these things are very superficial, but I like to have really lighthearted goals as well as very serious ones. Wear more lipstick and wear more sparkles--fun and super easy. I have always been a lip gloss girl, and my lips always look nice, but man, wearing lipstick is DELIGHTFUL. Plus, I'm a lovely lady and lovely ladies wear sparkles. 

2. Last year, I wanted to send more mail. I didn't. I'm sending birthday cards. This year, I'm committing to sending at least a birthday card to at least each member of my family. Samuel's birthday (18th!) is on the 4th. I'm all over it.

3. Almost every year since I've made goals for myself, I have something about finances--save, pay off my credit card, etc. This year, I'm serious because I'm turning TWENTY-FOUR this year, and I don't want to end up clueless in the finance department like everyone in my family. I'm withdrawing some saved money to pay off that Capital One card, and if that process is too long (I'm calling Fidelity on Monday), I'll use part of my tax return. I am very serious about this this time. Know my money.

4. Write. I've already started my year off brilliantly by applying to writing internships. I'll apply to many, many more until I get my foot in the door of working for a magazine. My boss is also looking into corporate jobs for me in the area of my interest. That and I commit to keeping up my blog, my notes and my livejournal. 

5. Run the Seattle Half Marathon. I promised my boss that I'd do it this year, and Kels, Brittney and I were supposed to "fake train" (How to Train Your Campbells) for a half marathon anyway. THIS, if accomplished, will be the coolest thing I do all year. 

Plus, look how freakin' cute we look running.

6. This has been a past goal, as well, but I really want to get my passport. I really, really do! 

7. I will treat myself to a new reusable cup, and I want to stop wasting cups. In my defense, I don't waste as many cups as most Americans, probably--I mean, we drink from "for here" cups while working, and I honestly don't get Starbucks that often when I'm NOT working. But, for the times I do, I'm using a cute personal cup. 

8. I LOVE holidays, and I'm celebrating all of them. Even by sending a card or something--cause I don't wanna celebrate Easter. 

9. Read nonfiction. I read two nonfiction books last year, and I plan on reading many more this year. I want to know things, and reading is our best resource for learning.

10. Relearn my presidents. MAN, did I love when I could rattle those bad boys off. I miss that so much, and I'm going to teach myself again. I'm so good at memorizing, but even better at forgetting stuff. 

11. Learn some party tricks. Know what I can do? Eat an apple core, though Popek wouldn't let me because of the apple seeds. I can also catch champagne as it's overflowing with my giant mouth. I can dance, though that's not much of a trick. I'm going to think of something cool. Juggling? 

12. Stop losing friends. I thought I had made it a whole year without falling out, but then I remembered Nikki and Erik. Duh. That was a HUGE one. This year, nothing is happening to my friendships, dammit! Drifting apart is different, but I refuse to fight and stop talking and delete, delete, delete from facebook, twitter and text message threads. I promise. This year, I'm going to be a fighter again--even if I have to get it tattooed on my right wrist to remind me. 

13. Still haven't, still want to. 2011 is my year for karaoke. I only have five bajillion karaoke songs lined up in my mind. I'm doing it this year. Someone have a karaoke birthday, please. 

14. Buy Hunter boots. Brittney has inspired me. I want to tromp through puddles too! Fuck these cute Target fashion boots that can't even be NEAR water without getting wet. And yes, I'm getting yellow. 

15. Shut up and put your money where your mouth is, that's what you get for waking up in Vegas. Well, this will be easy because we are going for Kelsey's birthday. It's nice to have a "for sure" goal, though. 

16. I lose everything, and everyone who knows me knows this, and has likely been frustrated with me at LEAST once for it. I'm not losing things this year! I'll let myself lose bobby pins and hair ties, but that's all. No wallets (I didn't lose my wallet last year!), earrings, DVDs, phone chargers or cash. Last night, it was my goal to keep all of Chelsea's jewelry safe and sound and with me, and I did. My other goal was to make sure the three champagne flutes we left the house with returned with us, and I took that goal very seriously. They're washed and safe and back in their place. Startin' off right. 

17. Open up more. Alright, my one really serious goal. A lot of people know me, because I'm a relatively easy person to get to know. There is only thismuch of me that people know, though. There is an entire part of me that very few--very, very few--people know and I like it that way. I make a lot of jokes about my emotional detachment, or my "running away" tendencies or I'll reference my family...but I think I should be okay with talking about myself more. The person I last dated told me it drove him crazy that I wouldn't talk about myself. It was early in our relationship, and in the back of my mind, I thought, "you will never know a thing about me." God, that's depressing. I can just tell if a new person is going to be like Lauren Campbell (who totally, totally knows me) or like most of the friends I've made in the past few years. I will tell you that a dear coworker of mine and I sat in her car for over an hour the other night and I said a lot of things I don't usually tell people. And two weeks ago, I had a very serious conversation well into the middle of the night with someone that means more and more to me all of the time. I said less than he did, but he said things that pegged me--like pegged the me that I don't let people know ever. And he's a boy, and that never happens. Two of my best friends and I went to Temple Bar, and then the Beaver and then Rudy's the other night--one of my girls was really upset and she cried, in public, in all three places. She spoke of her true emotions, her raw feelings, the literal thoughts that were crossing her mind as we sat there. I never do that. I don't like to cry in front of people, I don't like to look weak or feel weak or seem weak. I don't like to share what's going through my mind as it's happening. I like to filter and feel it out with myself first and deal with my own problems and then maybe discuss a quarter of what's going on in my life later with maybe one or two people. Sometimes, most times, I write it out, but even that stuff stays in my black moleskin journal and isn't discussed. This year? Maybe this year I'll call someone crying. Maybe I'll let my friends that are far worthy enough of knowing me--maybe I'll let them know me. Not maybe. This is a goal. I mean it. 

Oh, open your heart to me, Rose.

Happy new year, babies.