Dragon Pictures and "Banoo"s

I remember it like it was yesterday. 

8th grade band practice had just ended. I was struggling to get my metal folding chair onto the chair racks without dropping my baritone (which was about the same size as me, since I hadn't yet grown) when he approached me, scrawny body clinging to his tuba (which was much bigger than him), glasses falling down his face. 

(He needs a name. Let's call him Jeff.) 

Jeff had long been a thorn in my side. His behavior in 7th grade Spanish had nearly driven me to screaming several times. For, you see, Jeff had three of the most annoying habits anyone can ever have, ever: drawing detailed and sometimes sexually explicit pictures of dragons (think Napoleon Dynamite) and showing them to everyone, correcting everyone every time anyone bothered to open their mouth, and pronouncing "baño" (the spanish word for bathroom) as "banoo."  

Seriously. Banoo. 

Since I was a good student and kinda on the shy side, teachers tended to seat me next to their "problem" students. I think the assumption there was that I'd rub off on them, which everyone knows never happens. * Jeff was a problem student. Guess who sat next to him in Spanish, band, and (briefly) social studies? 

Yup. Me. 

And I was a nice kid. I didn't make fun of him like the other kids. I listened when he explained why his 34th dragon picture was different than all the others, tolerated his mispronounced Spanish in silence, and didn't punch him in the face when he said, "Actually, Ms. Rose, that's wrong" for the 5 millionth time. I didn't think much of it. We weren't friends, and as long as he never talked to me outside of class, there wasn't a problem. Sure, he was weird, but he didn't seem to be contagious. I had been raised to be nice to other people, even when they were a little bit creepy. And he was one person I was actually taller than, so he wasn't threatening.  

Anyways, as I wrestled my chair, I hear him say my name. "Mici!" I turned around to find him right behind me. "Um, hi, Jeff..." I said. I subtly glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed us talking. Safe for now. 

He cleared his throat and looked me dead in the eyes. "If I asked you out, would you say yes?"

"Um, no." I felt my cheeks go hot. Sure that someone must have noticed us by now, I turned to go.

"Will you go out with me?"

I looked back at him. "No." And I walked (ran?) away, leaving him and his tuba standing by the chair rack. I never talked to him again, preferring to ignore him. 

I told my friends about it later and we all shared a good laugh. After all, Jeff had asked me on a date, and, even though I wasn't exactly a prime catch, I was too good for Jeff... 

Right?

Well, years went by, and I didn't have him in any of my classes until Senior year. He walked into my math class. Nothing had changed. He still had the same annoying hobbies. I was still assigned to sit by him. We all made fun of him. 

But then, one day, he disappeared from school and never came back. Different stories circulated-- his father beat him up really bad, he tried to hurt himself, his mom left his dad-- but all anyone could confirm was that he wasn't dead. Even his girlfriend, who I knew from Marching Band, didn't know much. One thing was sure, though-- his abrupt disappearance wasn't a positive thing. Something bad had happened.

I still don't know what happened to him, and I don't think I ever will. I don't have many regrets in life, but one of them is making fun of Jeff. I don't feel bad about not dating him, I feel bad about ignoring him, laughing when other people made cruel remarks, and letting sarcasm ooze into all my comments to him. I'm not delusional-- I know we never would have been friends-- but I regret the little things that I did that helped make his life harder. 

As someone who's suffered quietly, I know what it's like to have to put on a brave face and pretend nothing's wrong, and I know how much little acts of kindness help. I also know how even the smallest comment can take a horrible day and make it worse. 

Here's to noticing the Jeffs of the world, the underdogs, the lonely, the bizarre, and the broken. Here's to making the extra effort to smile at someone just because, to not rolling your eyes at a comment you think is stupid, and to tolerating other people's quirks. You never know what they're going through. 

Happy weekend, dear Snarkites!

x, 

   m

*Actual result- I was well-versed in lock-picking theory, cuss words, half the school's sex life, and the soccer team's drug habits by the time I graduated from high school. 

Peaches

I know I haven't written in a while. There's a very good reason I haven't. But you're not going to hear that reason because it is boring and sad. Instead, I'm going to get a little personal, if y'all don't mind. I share this not for pity. I share this because I honestly believe it could help someone.

Today, I want to talk about my personal battle with my self-esteem. Ever since I can remember, I've struggled to accept my body, my personality, and my mind as "pretty" or even "normal."The mirror has, I kid you not, reduced me to tears more often than I care to admit. This isn't just an "off-day"type thing-- it's something I live with and fight against every day. And no, it's not like I've never felt "cute" or whatever. I have periods of time that are better than others, months when the girl looking back at me from the mirror is satisfactory. 

A lot of this problem stems from the way I grew up, surrounded by conflict. I was often made to feel that I was the problem, even when I wasn't, but I didn't know any better. I learned that my mother didn't like herself very much, and I felt like she didn't like me much either. We later learned that her self-loathing was rooted in mental illness, and that her illness caused her to project her feelings about herself onto those around her. The first time I remember feeling ugly was when I was in 4th grade. 

I went through a phase in middle school wherein I was convinced I was some kind of genetic freak (though it can be argued that nearly everyone does). Kids told me I had a big nose. I felt stupid almost daily. I measured my self-worth by the number of people that said hi to me in the hallway. An adult once told me that I could be a model if they photoshopped my face out of the pictures. I grew up in this strange state of conflicted logic. Disliking myself was all I'd ever known, so I figured it was normal for me to feel ugly, dumb, and weird. On the other hand, I would compare myself to other girls and think, "If I looked like her, I would be happy," because I assumed that the pretty, smart, normal girls must be happy. As I grew older, I learned that getting attention from boys was where it was at. I measured my love for myself by my romantic prospects, as well as how many friends I had, what grades I got, and how severe my acne was on any given day. 

Then things changed pretty dramatically. My parents separated. My dad and I started talking a lot about my childhood, the way my dear mother's illness had effected both of us, and how we can heal from the damage that had been done. 

I resided in my convoluted logic for years and years. The script I ran in my head told me I was unattractive, stupid, inferior, unwanted, and unloveable. It wasn't until my senior year of high school that I realized the way I felt about myself wasn't healthy or good, and that maybe, just maybe, I didn't see myself clearly. The mental script that I read myself each time I saw myself was harsh, cruel, and perhaps untrue. 

I still struggle with loving myself, but I am making slow and steady progress, but I am a different person than I was a year ago. I see beauty in myself more frequently. I've learned to be gentle with myself, to allow error, and to accept that everyone's a little bit flawed. I've learned that God loves me, simply because I am me, and that He made me the way I needed to be to get the most out of this life. I have discovered unconditional love in places I didn't know I would. I have only just begun to realize my own potential for happiness and love. And I've only just begun to appreciate the girl in the mirror. 

There are two quotes that I adore that I'd like to share. These quotes have gotten me through my toughest days over and over again.

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." -Eleanor Roosevelt

"You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world and there's still going to be somebody who hates peaches." -Dita Von Teese

Please remember to love yourself... It's worth it. And the more you find beauty in yourself, the more you'll see it in others.

Have a lovely weekend!

x,
   m

Enjoy the Ride

This morning, my dear grandmother passed away. She battled cancer for 8 years, fighting the disease with more grace, bravery, and elegance than I ever thought possible. Everyone who knew her was blessed by her love.

Last week, she expressed her desire to live until Thanksgiving, but her rate of decline made it clear that she had days, not months, to live. So we gathered together to celebrate our own Thanksgiving. The meal was not traditional Thanksgiving fare-- We feasted on ham, toss salad, squash, scalloped potatoes, and two types of Jell-o salad. Everyone agreed that it was the best Thanksgiving meal they'd ever had.

After dinner, we gathered in Grandma's room. She had been bedridden for about a month, and unable to stay awake longer than a few minutes. We talked to her, and though she couldn't respond, I know she heard us. Her bedroom felt sacred. I felt the presence of angels in the room. She woke up to take a few bites, then fell back asleep.

Throughout the night, we all took turns sitting with her and holding her hand, having our private moments with Grandma. My dad, who was in Pennsylvania, talked to her on the phone. My cousins and I sang to her. Being there with her and my dear family was the most sacred experience I've ever had.

This morning, Grandma passed away. She was with my grandfather, her eternal companion. I got the call from my aunt at 9:28. Our family gathered once again to comfort each other and make some final arrangements. The love and support of family is a tender mercy of the Lord. Though this is a time of deep sadness, I can't help but thank God for all the many blessings He's given me and my family. It is beautiful and right that my dear grandmother's death should bring us all together.


Life is challenging and heart-breaking, but it is also sweet. In the turmoil of living, it's easy to forget that each person has the ability to create beauty in their own unique way. Our family, drawn closer by greif-- beauty, created from impossible circumstances.

I know I've said that the last two years have been tough, but they've also been filled with the most tender and radient experiences. The feeling you get when you find joy-- even briefly - in the midst of pain is the purest and most sacred feeling. Living, really living, isn't meant to be easy and smooth. It's meant to take you to the lowest of lows, so you can fully appreciate the soaring joys you're destined to experience.

Gordon B. Hinkley, former president of the LDS church, included the following quote in a devotiona he gave at BYU:

Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he's been robbed. The fact is that most putts don't drop. Most beef is tough...Most jobs are more often dull than otherwise...
Life is like an old-time rail journey—delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders, and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride.

And I do. Grandma, it was a blessing and a privilege to be your granddaughter. Thank you for your love of beauty, faith in God, and your always-inspiring example of what it means to be a strong, dedicated wife, mother, and grandmother. I miss you terribly, but I know you're no longer suffering, and that your parents and old friends are so excited to have you with them again. I'll see you in about 80 yeas. I love you.

Grandma, Dad, and Me

Here's to enjoying the ride, cinders, ashes, and all.

x,
   m

Glum-Be-Gone List- Part One

In the spirit of posting a glum blog, I thought I'd take some time to put together a list of things that make me feel optimistic, giggly, and like putting on real pants. I'm going to do this in parts because, frankly, I am constantly coming across new things that are awesome.

Micaela's Glum-Be-Gone List- Part One
Ten things to do when you just need to smile.

1. Listen to Here I Am Alive by Yellowcard. I just discovered this band a few days ago and I am totally in love with this song. It's catchy, the lyrics rock, and makes me wanna jam out. Seriously, great message: Here I am, alive.

2. Try to be Ron Swanson. If you haven't seen the show Parks & Recreation, I implore you to get on Netflix, Hulu, or whatever and watch the crap out of this show. It is the best show on TV (tied with Community, of course) and it is 100% worth your while. Parks & Rec follows tireless government worker, Leslie Knope (played by Amy Polher), and her eccentric crew of colleagues as they take care of business in the Parks Department of Pawnee, Indiana. It borrows the "mockumentary" style of The Office and is comedic genius.

Ron Swanson, the manager of the Parks department, is, to put it lightly, thebomb.com (yes, I'm bringing that back.). Ron has a strict policy of hating the system, loving bacon, and being manly as heck. Check out this clip of him explaining the Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness to a bunch of ten-year-olds.

3. Eat / stab Jell-O. You guys, I love Jell-O. It's fun to say, fun to eat, and it comes in every fun color you can imagine. It's also fun to attack with a fork if you're super duper pissed off. Avoid the sugarless crap at all costs.

4. Jam out to The Key of Awesome's One Direction parody. I'm pretty sure I watch this at least once a week because it's flipping hilarious. I almost have it memorized-- True story.

Highlight: Let's all point and run! Pointing at stuff is such fun.

5. Walk around Target. My dad and I discovered the magical healing properties of Target in December and we've been going back ever since. I don't know what it is-- the lighting, the sedatives that they [allegedly do not] pump into the air, the sweet smell of consumerism-- but going to Target always makes me feel better about life. I usually don't even buy anything, I just wander around for an hour and think about my life, look at the Barbies, smell the popcorn, and read the first chapter of a few books. And then I feel 67% better than I did before.

Pro tip: Don't go durring the busy hours. My dad and I always go at 10 pm or later. There are almost no people, and the people that are there are not at all like WalMart 10 o'clock-ers (involuntary shudder). They're worn out college students, single older people, and people doing last minute birthday shopping. These are pleasant people to be around when you're feeling icky because they feel kind of icky, too. They aren't judging you. And even if they are, no one you know will be there, so you're safe. Also, Target has a large supply of...

6. Peanut M&M's (Specifically eat them). They are my favorite edible thing in the whole entire world. You guys, colorful chocolate candies with peanuts in the middle. And the peanuts almost make it okay to eat them a lot because it's protein or something.

7. Write strongly-worded and extremely eloquent letters to people that really piss you off, but not sending them. Pretty much explains itself. I always adhere to the following rules:

- No swearing. That defeats the point.
-Use big words just because you can. Suggestions: irrefutably, exemplary, shenanigans, disconcerting, negligence, unscrupulous, etc.
-Always hand-write. No anger letter is valid unless you get to really slam those words down on a real life piece of paper with an honest-to-goodness pen.
- Never ever send it. I'll be honest, I do have one letter I'm saving that I plan to send on my 50th birthday, but I would never send one in the heat of anger. And I'll probably lose that letter by next week.

8. Watch this: 

9. Talk to people who love you. Everyone knows at least one person that can always make them smile, no matter the scenario. Go to that person. Tell them why you feel like crap. Let them work their magic. When you're feeling cruddy, it's not always good to be alone because you'll start wallowing. 

My favorite person to talk to is my dad. Some people love talking to their mom, sibling(s), a close friend, extended family member, or dog. I'm serious about the dog. Dogs understand, don't ask questions, and don't care if your mascara is running.

Here's a picture of me and my dad because we are adorable:

10. Research pygmy elephants or munchkin cats. Because they exists and they are adorable. 

Hope y'all are having a great weekend. Thanks for all the support, you guys. It means a lot. <3

x,

   m

Micaela's Handy Guide to Grieving

I know I've been absent from the blog-o-sphere lately. I've tried to write about ten times, but I haven't been able to force my ideas into something coherent. When I have to force the words, I'm usually not comfortable publishing them on my blog. It's too embarrassing.

I realized that if I don't just write what's on my mind, I'll never get back to blogging, and I really, really like blogging. So forgive me if this isn't my usual sarcastic commentary on human existence.

Pretty much, I have been sad. So incredibly sad that I've had trouble talking, let alone writing.

"But, Micaela, why are you sad?"

You know how some days everything seems to go horribly wrong? You wake up late, can't find your other shoe, staple your finger to your report, stub your toe twice, and before you know it you're in a bathroom stall taking deep breaths and willing yourself not to dissolve into tears.

That, my friends, has pretty much been the last two years of my life. Except instead of stapling myself or stubbing my toe, my parents split up, I had random fainting spells, I moved across the country, and my grandmother is dying. And a lot of other stuff happened that I don't need to talk about. And right now I'm in the proverbial bathroom stall, holding back very literal tears.

I'm in the grieving process right now. About twenty times a day, I have to step back and say, "Be gentle with yourself, Micaela." So I am. I sleep more than usual. I don't worry about my pants size. I've stopped trying to force myself to smile. If someone makes me feel "less than," I just avoid spending time with them. I bought sweaters that are both extremely comfortable and mildly fashionable that I wear almost all the time. You guys, I've even started watching Gossip Girl again, marathon style, on Netflix. It's ridiculously therapeutic to watch TV that requires zero brain function. (And, let's be honest, in my head I'm totally dating Nate Archibald.)

But grief is dangerous. Sadness easily morphs into anger, and anger is impulsive, boundless, and self-destructive. When I get mad, I have to sit down and remind myself that I'm grieving, and that anger is just a crude mask for sadness.

I'm learning to ask for help. A hug does wonders, as does a Jell-O cup, going for walks, listening to hymns, talking to my dad on the phone, singing along to Le Mis, doing laundry, wearing sweatpants...

I guess my point here is that it's okay to be sad if you do it in the right way. And you realize when it's gone too far. And you ask for help. And you remember to put on pants and stuff.

Thanks for your understanding. I've gotten so much good feedback from my blog thus far, and seriously, it means so much when people tell me they read/like/acknowledge The Epitome of Snark. If you have any ideas of things I should blog about, hit me up.

x,
   m

p.s.- My readers are seriously the best. <3