F*ck this sh*t. LITERALLY.

It all began with rather unflattering text from my husband asking (with an emoticon smirk) if I had plugged the toilet. What? Moi?? GROSS. Um, I don't think so, honey. And even though it turned out that I was, in fact, the last one to use the toilet in question, I don't mind saying that the delicate business I'd transacted was a rather unlikely culprit. And although my husband continued to firmly deny any wrongdoing on his part, in a case such as this, isn't the man of the house kind of the usual suspect? Finger-pointing aside, it turned out that neither of us was particularly interested, for the situation required attention, regardless of the party responsible.

After twelve hours, one would think that whatever the blockage was, it would have had adequate time to soften and disintegrate. Not so much. This mighty clog was still going strong a full 24 hours later. Lucky for HIM, my husband was called away on business. With him out of town for the immediate future, and myself (unfortunately) being the only other person that lives here, it would appear that the nasty business of toilet maintenance had fallen to me. Obviously, flushing repeatedly was getting me nowhere. Some elbow grease and a heavy duty extended-nose plunger resulted in little more than some disgusting backsplash all over my feet. Clearly, standard techniques were having no effect on this, the Clog of all Clogs. It may be time to try somethign a little less traditional.

Operator: "There is a 24-hour technician on call for all emergency services, would you like me to page him for you now?"
Me: "Oh. Haha! Well, um, I don't know if this would technically qualify as an emergency...so, ummm...[Feeling suddenly absolutely ridiculous for calling an emergency plumbing service after midnight on a Tuesday for the simple matter of a clogged toilet] Yes. Well, I don't think I need to bother anyone at this hour. Why don't I just call back in the morning?"
Operator: [silence] "It's up to you, ma'am." 
Me: [Mustering what remained of my dignity] "I'll call back in the morning, thank you so much for your time."

The gentleman in question arrived the next day. He was a lovely young man, clearly qualified, and looked vaguely familiar. (Such is the case when one is from Fargo and has worked in the service industry for (cough) many years.) As he "snaked" my toilet, he made polite and appropriate conversation about the appliance he was servicing. Had it caused many issues, or if we had children and if they could have, per chance, flushed something non-waste down the toilet just for fun. 

Me: "Nope, no kids." [awkward laugh] "Except for my husband, and he rarely flushes anything beyond the norm." [I laugh again as the plumber gives me a knowing look, like...sure he doesn't.]

Plumber: "Well? If there isn't anything unusual, and you don't have kids or pets...wow. Must be just some really hard stool."

I'm sorry...some really hard stool? This toilet hasn't flushed for DAYS. How "hard" could one incident of simple excretion possibly be? I'd imagine anything "hard" enough to create this kind of blockage would have most certainty done a number on both the internal and external pieces of the unfortunate human that deposited such a specimen. For the first time ever at this point in my life, I wished desperately for some in-house children to take the blame.

In conclusion: I was MORTIFIED to pay the slightly familiar-looking plumber the 3-digit bill for the unclogging of my toilet due to a rock-hard piece of stool. Pete thought it was hilarious, and we both blamed each other. In the end, however, the problem (however it was created) was solved. BY ME.

GINA: 1

TOILET: 0

The House that Built Me

With tears in my eyes and my daughter in my arms, I snap a selfie in the mirror of my old bedroom. It was my refuge from the world during my formative years. My sanctuary. A world of my own creation, with posters, photos, stuffed animals, and secrets. I'd spent so many hours in that room, singing, sulking, wishing, crying. Hour after hour listening to music, doing hair and makeup, chatting on the phone, and dreaming of the future. I'd stared at myself in my bedroom mirror, thinking that age sixteen was so far away...would I ever be old enough to drive a car?

The future I'd once dreamed about is now part of my past.

Today I said goodbye to my childhood home. It's a stepping stone on the path of life I suppose, but you're never really prepared to confront the enormity of ending a chapter in your life. It's not the physical house that I'm bidding farewell, nor the memories made within its walls. The memories are mine to keep. But facing the reality of the amount of time that has passed is almost overwhelming. The persistence of forward motion, with all of its gains and losses. Has it really been over two decades since my high school graduation? When my family and friends gathered in the garage, eating the cheesecake my mother made. We looked at big poster boards of photos, trophies and certificates of achievement. The warm spring breeze blowing through the giant screen that my parents bought to let the air into the attached single stall on the corner of 10th Street and 30th Ave North.

I walk slowly down the upstairs hallway of our home, now empty of the photos that once lined the wall. In the spring of '88, my mother chased me down that hallway and I slammed my bedroom door. It was the day of my first communion, and I was wearing a beautiful dress that would eventually be worn by two of my younger cousins for their first communions. My mother made my veil. I wore a pearly heart-shaped necklace that was a gift from my friend Sharon. My face hurt from smiling. I'd never endured as many photographs in my life until that day, and I was done. "Just one more before you take off your veil!" My mother pleaded from the other side of the door. "Fine." I smiled as big and hard as anyone has ever smiled. That photo is still in a frame.

I descend the stairs to the basement. Where the wall phone once hung, the empty socket of an obsolete phone cord stares lifelessly out at the family room. The kitchen phone offered no privacy, so I'd spend hours sitting on the bottom two steps talking on that basement phone with my friends. I can still remember some of their phone numbers. The old orange couch is long gone, as is the table at which I'd done countless jigsaw puzzles and homework. There is a recently-patched hole in the wall just outside the door frame of my basement bedroom. One of my hamsters had escaped and ended up trapped between the walls. It was after midnight on a school night when I woke my parents to drill a hole in the wall to rescue her. How can that be thirty years ago? Thirty years?

There is a space in the backyard where a rickety old shed once stood. In third grade, as my friend Kristi and I went tearing past the shed on our way to play soccer in the nearby field, the door blew open. A protruding nail sliced through my arm, leaving a gaping wound that would require sixteen stitches. The shed is now gone, torn down and replaced with an updated version on the other side of the yard. But I still have the scar.

In two weeks, I will be forty years old. The bizarre reality of this statement rings even more bizarre at this moment, as the memories of my young self wash over me, so thick and real. I've built a grown-up life, with a family of my own. I do grown-up things that once upon a time, in this house, seemed so far off that they were all but impossible. Now they're just what I do. The impossible is now my reality.

I back out of the driveway for what is likely the last time. A tear spills over as a slide show of memories plays in my mind. Birthdays, holidays, rainy afternoons and sweltering summers. The smells from the kitchen that has since been remodeled. The stains that peppered the sidewalk every fall when the crab apples fell from the tree in the front yard, a tree that's been gone for years. Time takes no prisoners, but it does leave gifts. My kids babble from the back seat, happily oblivious to the emotional toll of the situation. I wipe the tear, and silently promise those kids a lifetime of memories to take the edge off their future goodbyes. That is the best gift that time, and I, can give.

Pole Competitions: Conquering the Fear

It's that time of year again! The pole competition season really goes all year long, but the bulk of comps in the Midwest fall between October and April. So many pole students tell me that they have aspirations of competing one day, but for the nearly three years that I've been teaching, I've seen only a few take that leap. Let's talk about why that may be, and address a few common concerns that tend to hold people back.

"I'm not good enough." 
Um, yes you are. Despite the impression we may be under due to the abundance of stunning pro-level YouTube videos floating around out there, pole comps aren't strictly for professionals. Nearly all competitions offer the option to compete as a novice, which generally means that no inverted skills are allowed in performances at that level. Judges will focus primarily on clean execution of beginner-level skills, stage presence, and musicality (which is basically how well your choreography matches the music). Although level descriptions may vary slightly from comp to comp, you'll find that novice, intermediate, advanced, elite, semi-pro and pro are pretty standard. Each comp offers detailed descriptions of what is expected in performances at each level, to give you an accurate idea of which level is most appropriate for you. Some comps go as far as to break down each level into age category, to further even the playing field. No matter your skill level, pole comps offer an excellent opportunity to gain experience, meet new people, and have fun doing what you love.

"I've heard that competitions are catty and cutthroat."
This was a huge fear of mine before I attended my first comp. And yes, there are a few bad apples in every bunch. But I have personally found comps to be an overwhelmingly positive experience. The energy backstage is nervous, excited, and supportive. Everyone is worried about missing a trick, not sticking to the pole, or having a prop malfunction. Everyone wants to do well, and believe it or not, everyone wants YOU to do well, too. At the end of the day, each and every competitor has something in common: love of pole. It's incredibly motivating to be surrounded by so many like-minded individuals.

"I don't want to embarrass myself."
What does that mean, exactly? So, like, what if you fall off the pole? *shrug* So what if you do? The audience will gasp, and when you get up to finish your routine, the whole place is going to go nuts. They want you to do well. The judges will dock your score accordingly, and the rest of your routine will speak for itself. What if you place last in your group? *shrug* Oh, well. Someone finishes last, every single time. There are still a hundred polers at home who weren't brave enough to get up on stage and do what you did. And you'll come home with professional photos and video to show your family and friends, and they will think you are amazing, regardless.

"I'd have no idea where to start with creating a routine."
Use your resources. Talk to your instructors and fellow polers, and ask what works for them. Find inspiration in blogs and videos online. Keep in mind that many pros hire choreographers to help them develop routines, and although no one expects you to do that at an amateur level, private lessons with an instructor may help you find your groove. Most comps have a Facebook group for competitors to join and ask questions. People are always asking about things like if a certain skill is allowed in a particular level, costumes, and when/where they need to be on competition day. It's also a great place to find support if you're having trouble. Odds are, if you are struggling, someone else is too. Buddy up with a friend at your studio or online, and make a plan to support each other and keep each other accountable.

"I'm just too scared."
Competitions aren't for everyone. I know some incredible polers who have no interest in competitions or performing, and that is totally okay. But if it's crossed your mind and something continues to hold you back, consider why that may be. If you never enter a pole comp, will you regret your choice? Unfortunately, our bodies don't last forever. They have expiration dates. Poling at 40 is different than poling at 27. And circumstances change! We get new jobs, we move, we have children... All I'm saying is don't sell yourself short, and don't let fear be the reason you look back with regret. Worst-case scenario, you realize competitions are simply not for you. At least you'll know, and you won't have to wonder.

Bottom line, from me to you: GO FOR IT. You are good enough, you are worth it, and you do deserve your moment on stage. I had been poling for almost 5 years before I registered for my first competition, primarily because my studio prior to that time offered me no support, and I was unaware of the resources at my disposal. I dearly wish I could have those years back! The fun I could have had, the relationships I could have developed... If you're feeling lost, reach out. There is an entire community of people out there, just a few clicks away. We all know the feelings of insecurity and doubt. They fear of being judged by our appearance. We also know the sense of triumph, and the pride of accomplishment that comes with having achieved what we never dreamt was possible.

You. Can. Do. This.

My Mother's Feet

I have my mother's feet.

Feet that I always thought were crusty and gross. With heels that were rough and cracked, and ridgy toenails that were constantly exposed in her ever-present flip-flops, toenails that I wished she would paint. No matter how much lotion was applied, no matter how often she worked across the callouses with the pumice stone that sat on the edge of the bathtub, my mother's feet were tough.

I have my mother's feet.

Feet that I was proud of in my youth, with their broad, well-shaped toenails perfect for painting. With a strong arch that my dancer-friends envied, a graceful point, and five straight toes descending in height that never hung awkwardly over the edge of open-toed shoes.

Feet that are no longer so pretty.

Feet that are scarred from bunion surgery, that ached and throbbed in exponentially increasing intensity throughout and following my pregnancy. Feet that pounded the pavement at a thankless job that I kept for way too long so as not to interrupt my insurance with a baby on the way.

Feet that go up and down countless flights of stairs, doing countless loads of laundry. Feet that hustle and shuffle up and down the aisles of the grocery store and the big box
stores, hauling decidedly unglamorous bags of necessities to and from the trunk of the car.

I have my mother's feet.

Feet with heels that are rough and cracked, and uneven toenails that are rarely painted. Feet that swell painfully after a night spent in towering heels, that embrace the comfort and ease of flip flops the following day. Feet that are permanently calloused. Feet that will carry my child when he's too tired to walk, that will hustle and shuffle to keep him safe, happy, and healthy no matter the sacrifice. Feet that are tough.

I have my mother's feet.

Conduct Unbecoming of an Officer

It is with a heavy heart and no small amount of disgust that I sit at my keyboard today. With a pile of work that needs finishing, my thoughts are held captive by the incident I witnessed last night.

After over a decade in the service industry, either serving drinks or dealing cards, I've seen my share of human behavior. I would never be so brazen as to claim that I've seen it all, but I tell you my friends, I have seen a LOT. Last night turned my stomach.

Late in the evening, after many bars hopped and many drinks had, a clean cut young man approached a female and her friend at the bar. He made a drunken remark to one of them in regards to her non-white descent. He proceeded to another female, also of non-white descent, and addressed her in an unseemly manor. He asked her name and race. Not being the shy type, the female responded and was met promptly with a racial slur and a punch to the face. Chaos erupted in the bar, as friends of either party and bystanders jumped into the scuffle. Shirts were torn off and punches were thrown. Efforts by the bar staff to get the offender to leave were unsuccessful, and the police were called. The young man was arrested and charges will be pressed.

Bar fights are a dime a dozen in my world, but never in my LIFE have I seen something so disgraceful as that drunk piece of garbage standing in the doorway of the bar with his friends holding him back, after having assaulted a woman, hurling racial slurs and screaming, "I'm a United States Marine!"

Wow. A United States Marine. Really? Now, I'm not so naive as to think that every American soldier is an angel in uniform. But on the heels of a holiday that was created in order to honor the fallen service men and women who gave their lives to ensure the safety and freedom of others, this behavior is indescribably disgusting. After the smoke cleared, Facebook-stalking of the assaulter commenced. Sure enough, there he was: smiling wide in his impeccably pressed uniform, with his mother glowing  proudly his side. I wonder how proud she would have been of his behavior last night? Scrolling through his posts, I came across a hateful piece of art (slurring multiple religions, Asians, and transgenders) that he deemed "hilarious" in his comments, and updated to his cover photo.

I am without speech.

I don't know what kind of consequences a staff Sargent may face after having been arrested for disorderly conduct in this manner, but I hope they are severe. "Conduct unbecoming of an officer" is a thing, right? For in my eyes, this man has disgraced his uniform, his family, and his country. I may not be much for politics, but I am a proud American. I am proud that this country fought for its own freedom from tyranny, and built itself into that most powerful nation in the world. I am proud that millions of people have come here to build a new and better life. And I am proud that after 240 years we are still striving to be a better society, evolving our laws, lives and hearts. Growing and changing our perspectives in hopes to one day grasp the happiness we have been granted the freedom to pursue.

No. I don't post pictures of my kid on Facebook.

I've been asked on more than one occasion why I rarely post pictures of my kid on Facebook. As though I am somehow lacking as a mother for having deprived the world of his cuteness. "That's what Facebook is for!" [shrug]. I don't know, is it? Because I thought Facebook was a tool to be used for my own amusement, in whatever way I see fit. Whether it be to blast my selfies out into the world, to share eye-rolling memes, or to promote my business.

There are three reasons that I keep photos of my son to a minimum on Facebook.

1) There is more to my life than being someone's mom.

I love my son, obviously. He's adorable and ridiculous, and even when he sucks he somehow finds a way to make my day. :) However, I am still ME. I have my own thoughts, opinions, and activities. I am a grown woman with a multi-faceted career, and every day in my life is an adventure, just the way I like it. My son is part of that adventure, but he's far from the only ride in this carnival.

2) Because, creepers.

Of my 380 "friends" on Facebook, many of them have never actually met my son in real life.  I was eating at a restaurant once, when a young woman (whom I did not recognize) came in with a child that looked strangely familiar. I spent the majority of my meal staring at them, trying to figure out who they were. Eventually another young woman arrived, whom I recognized (despite the fact that I had never met her) as the ex-wife of an acquaintance that I hadn't seen more than a couple of times over the past 5 years. The child was their son, whom I had only ever seen on Facebook. I found it unnerving to think that I could be sitting in a restaurant with my son, and some weirdo whom I had never even met could be staring at us from across the room, knowing exactly who we are. Even though I was the weirdo in this scenario, it didn't sit well with me at all. I don't see any reason that strangers should be able to pick my kid out of a crowd. After all, many of my Facebook friends are co-workers, acquaintances, old high school buddies, business contacts, and friends of friends. How well do we really know our "friends"?

3) It's all about me.

My Facebook is my Facebook. I choose what to post. No one gets to tell me that I post too much of one thing, or not enough of another.  When someone starts to post too many political opinions that don't align with my beliefs, or one too many pictures of whatever they're having for dinner that night, I can choose to ignore, unfollow, or unfriend. I am totally guilty of hiding the feed of persons unnamed who post nothing but pictures of their children. I want to message them and say, "Don't you have a life of your own?" But who am I to say what they should or shouldn't post on their Facebook. Because it's their Facebook. It exists as a tool for their own enjoyment, as much as my Facebook exists simply to amuse me.

The great joy in all of this is that not only can we choose what we post on Facebook, we can also choose what we see. I am constantly adding, deleting, friending, unfriending, and unfollowing. It's really nothing personal, it's just Facebook. :) The bottom line is, if you want to see my kiddo smile, come on over and bring him a present. Heck. Bring me one, too!

Three Completely Random Thoughts for a Wednesday

1. I frequently find myself inspired to write at the most inconvenient of times, such as when I am working, driving, showering, or on the toilet. (Don't act surprised. Like you've never had a Deep Thought while perched on the porcelain throne?) By the time I am able to seat myself at a writing device with a proper keyboard, the inspiration is gone. Without that spark, the writing feels empty. Fake, somehow devoid of authentic emotion. In similar fashion, I will occasionally begin writing, but when interruptions inevitably crop up, I'm forced to abandon the piece on which I was working. I don't feel right about publishing anything that I don't consider to be a complete work, and as a result, I have dozens of half-finished pieces sitting in my draft folder. I find this personally annoying. I enjoy writing, and other people seem to enjoy reading what I write, so what is the point of of a talent that I'm not able to share? In short, I am going to make an effort to publish more often, even if it's in a less formal fashion.

2. My kid's first birthday is tomorrow. It's an astonishing feat to have kept him alive for this long, when he attempts to thwart my efforts on a daily basis. That child isn't afraid of anything. If I leave the door to the garage open, he could literally be three houses away before I note his absence, and he is ONE. What is going to happen when he learns how to open doors by himself? I shudder to think. His favorite passtimes at age one include, banging his toys on anything that he could possibly scratch or dent, slamming doors, pushing big things with wheels (which is a problem at the grocery store when he wants to push the cart himself) and watching tv. (Yes, my one-year-old watches tv. The Baby Channel. Judging Panel: Go ahead and judge.) We'll be celebrating the amazing accomplishment of maintaining a healthy human for 365 days by throwing a big party and enjoying copious amounts of food and alcohol. The baby is invited.

3. I waste an unbelievable amount of coffee. Every two days, I brew a large pot, and pour myself a nice fresh mug. I add milk, sweetener, and occasionally a flavored creamer. If it's my day off, I'll throw in some Rumchada. (Yes, I put booze in my coffee. In the morning. BEFORE NOON. Again, I defer to the Judging Panel.) I will take a few sips, and then get distracted. Laundry, child care, shower...all of these things eventually lead to cold coffee. I will reheat the mug and maybe get a few more sips before it becomes cold again. At this point, I generally abandon my efforts, and make a mental note to prepare myself a fresh (reheated) cup before work. A few hours later, I will do exactly that. Reheat a fresh cup of coffee in the microwave, add the proper accouterments, and transfer into a travel mug for work. I will leave the travel mug on the counter, so I can grab it on my way out the door, and fifty percent of the time I will forget it entirely. My husband will find it a few hours later, standing alone on the counter. He will either dump it, or put it in the fridge for me to reheat the next morning. By the time I see the day-old coffee in the fridge, I will already have prepared a fresh cup, and it will get dumped out anyway. The other fifty percent of the time, I will remember to bring the mug to work, and (after spilling some of it on the console on the way there) it will become too cold to drink and I will move the travel mug out of everyone's way and then forget the mug at work. I repeat this cycle almost daily. SIGH. You're welcome, Folgers.