Small Town Iowa

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I will be taking a break from writing for the next week as I head back to Iowa. So I will re-post some of my favorite blog posts and columns from the past few years.

iowatravel_1348849654_600I am so glad to be going home for so many reasons. But, I think one has been obviously glaring in the past couple days. A 15-year-old girl, Kathlynn Shepard, has been missing since Monday afternoon. Her abductor was later found dead, having committed suicide. Michael Klunder, of Stratford, was a Tier 2 sex offender and had committed quite a list of horrendous crimes. He was released from prison on Feb. 25, 2011, after serving half of a 41 year sentence. He kidnapped Kathlynn and an unnamed 12-year-old girl, who was able to escape.

http://www.kcci.com/news/central-iowa/possible-abduction-of-young-girls/-/9357080/20229204/-/o6jgt0z/-/index.html

This story is shocking and absolutely sickening. I remember seeing Klunder’s face regularly, when I was a reporter at The Daily Freeman-Journal. I would check the sex offender list quite often, to see if there was new faces or charges. The fact that he served only half his sentence, well, I could go on quite a long time about that, getting pretty angry, but no.

Instead, I want to focus on why I love central Iowa so much. Local media coverage, especially the Dayton Leader, have done a fantastic job getting the information out to the public. Law enforcement has done a spectacular job, and local businesses have been helping as much as they possibly can. The town and surrounding communities have poured all their resources into one task: Finding Kathlynn alive. According to the Dayton Leader, food, drinks, bug spray, you name it has been provided to search teams from a barrage of individuals. Yet, this is not unexpected out of small town Iowa. No, it’s kind of a given.

When a tragedy strikes, everyone gets together and tries to solve the problem. Whether it is someone dealing with an illness, a tornado disaster, or a kidnapping – as hard as it is to imagine happening in this area – people pull up their boot straps and get going. I love that about central Iowa.

While I wait for good news to pop up on my news feed at my desk in NYC, I thank all the people who are doing all that they can to find this little girl.

I and Love and You

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marriage-proposal“I don’t want to play with GIRLS!”

“Well, I don’t want to play with you,” I muttered, my arms crossed in front of my body. This boy who lived a couple blocks down, decided he could just join our neighborhood capture the flag game, a summer tradition, and rewrite the rules. Not on my watch. I mean, I wrote up rules on a piece of paper, put it in a “Capture The Flag” binder – I don’t remember putting this kid through our strenuous vetting process. And now, he wants to play this game without girls. Huh. Since I was the admin, it just showed how ignorant he was to the whole shebang.

I disliked Nate from the start. He was a know-it-all (so am I), and so in elementary and middle school when we crossed paths, I kept my distance.

In high school, we meshed again. This time, we became friends when I started dating his best friend. Band geeks to the core, we were always thrown together in jazz, marching and concert band. From my vantage point on the floor where the first clarinets would sit, I would glance back from time to time to Nate sticking his drumsticks up his nose for my amusement. I would roll my eyes, and this exchange would continue until our band teacher would sigh and scold us out for not paying attention.

We worked together at a local grocery store, and I would always look at the schedule, extremely excited when we would work the same shift. Slashing boxes and putting up canned goods, we made every mundane chore fun.

Things started to change, and I thought, “No, no way. He’s my friend. I don’t like him like that.” Also, I was going to college soon and he would still be in the whole high school scene. But still, this lingering feeling took hold.

Finally, the week I graduated high school, I did the mature thing. I asked my cousin Elizabeth to ask Nate’s friend Adam if he liked me. This process usually takes awhile, but when it was confirmed, I was ecstatic.

It was puppy love all summer. We’d hold hands on walks through our town’s cemetery, to awkwardly stop, extremely shy of one another. I don’t think we even kissed until a few months later. And then there was the time we declared our “love” for one another.

“I, um, you know, feel really good around you. It’s, like, really this feeling, of you know? You know?” I feel that this rambling speech went on for a few minutes.

“Me too.”

Throughout the years, we have argued, laughed, split up, gotten back together – the gamut. At times, we should have never gotten back together, but we did. We were horrible for one another, and then we’d be each other’s greatest advocate.

Last fall when we took that big leap and moved to New York, it said a lot to our determination to make this work. And it has. Our relationship isn’t perfect, but we try really hard. And the benefits have been worth it all. He’s my best friend.

So were we ready for the next step? Maybe. We talked it through many times, and I always thought he would propose on one of our many trips to Central Park. I kind of suspected something was going to happen soon.

So on Friday, when I took off my coat after coming home from work, his asking, “How was your day?” followed by my, “OK”, didn’t seem extraordinary. “Do you want it to be better?” Confused, I spun around and there he was on one knee with a diamond ring in a box. It definitely wasn’t what I had expected (which is good, because it’s nice to be surprised).

It didn’t take me long to let out ‘Yes” after he popped the question. And while I was flooded with emotion, a reel of our past – the good and the bad – started to play out in my head.

I never thought I’d end up with the stubborn little boy who didn’t want to play tag with me, but I did. And I’m glad.

Shoes … I like them

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If there is one thing I love more than makeup, it’s shoes.
A pretty common answer among girls, and I am totally okay with that.
When I was younger, I always looked forward to school shoe shopping. Each year, it was a new pair of athletic shoes. Oh, I always had a couple pairs of brown and black boots to accompany my leggings, but it was all about the Nike or Adidas sneakers. What color was in? Was it white or was black in this year? And another question: What length of socks was trending in the Midwest? Was the Champion sock calf-length, ankle-length, or were we finally hitting the no-shows (which was incredibly hard to get used to).
When college came around, my parents didn’t pay for my shoes anymore. And while, I felt that athletic shoes were appropriate for sports, my new school shoes had advanced a little further. I had discovered Gianni Bini and the world of fancy shoes.
Since familiarizing myself with high heels and having the knowledge that I can sprint in them quite easily, my feet have become used to the wear and tear – the blisters, bloody scars, infected toenails – the gamut of problems associated with uncomfortable footwear. Yes, my vanity is pretty high on the scale. No pain, no gain, right? :)
After moving to NYC, that shoe obsession hasn’t stopped. In fact, it has grown. On the subway, out on the street – someone has some kind of shoe that I covet and need. There’s just one problem: While walking around Iowa in painful heels was okay, at least I had a car or a place to crash nearby. I was always walking to a nearby destination. Here…well, there is always a commute. And always more walking than I have ever dreamed of doing. So wearing those cute heels or those straw wedges aren’t always possible. Oh, if you were only walking to a taxi and out to your destination, it would totally work. But when you are on a budget like me, that’s not possible. So yeah, if you think the Carrie Bradshaws of the world are out there, they are, just not all girls have money or capable of such long-standing pain. I see girls in spike heels out and about, and while they look cute, all I can think of is, “Oh God, that must be painful.” That idea of being That Girl, has all but left my silly little head.
I live in flats now, and even then, it isn’t super comfortable. Some don’t provide a lot of support and while cute, kill your arches. And it rains a lot. So, yeah – one torrential downpour and you can kiss your Steve Madden ballet slippers goodbye.
I have quite a collection of cute shoes, but most are unwearable when you trek as far as I do.
Yesterday, I broke down and bought my first pair of Aerosoles. I walked past the store, found some that didn’t look too old ladyish and took out my credit card. My feet thanked me although I feel somewhat disappointed in myself for giving in. I won’t give in and wear tennis shoes everywhere with my dresses, but I do have to think a lot harder when purchasing shoes. I can’t buy anything super cheap and I really have to try on and walk in a pair before buying at a department store. The “they’re so cute!” standard doesn’t hold up as a marker for buying shoes anymore.
So now, when I see that pair of coral pointy kitten heels on the girl on the PATH train, I think, “Yes, I want them. But how much support do they have?”
I’m getting old.

Home Is Wherever I’m With You

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Yesterday was one of those days.

It started off okay, but went downhill from there.

I mean, I woke up in a pretty good mood, besides tossing and turning in bed all night – so I guess I was a tad tired.

And then all the little things just seemed to add up. One after the other. By the end of it, only one word described my mood: Shitty.

While I headed to my train, I texted my boyfriend with this: “Want to grab a beer? LITM, Lucky 7 or Barcade? Like right now? I will buy.”

That is all I wanted right then and there, other than to crawl in my bed and wait for the next day to appear.

So when I hurried to our favorite neighborhood watering hole, low and behold, there he was standing there listening to his IPhone. For the first time all day, I smiled. I didn’t know a tall guy in a plaid shirt could cause that reaction (well, maybe a special one).

When we ordered our happy hour drink specials (he wouldn’t let me pay), he just said, “So what’s up? Did you have a bad day?” He then listened to my list of everything bad, my worries, concerns. Only asking questions or offering words of comfort. Wow…I really like you, I kept thinking.

I had planned on cooking a big pasta dinner with tons of fresh veggies, and had my work cut out for me. “Let’s just order some food here,” he said. So we did, and continued to talk for a couple of hours. By the time we left, I was pretty unsure what had gone wrong that day and just realized how much I truly loved this guy walking by my side. He had put aside grading papers, watching his beloved NBA games to listen to my problems. It wasn’t forced upon him to listen to me whine and complain. He just did it.

Today is definitely better. I couldn’t help but think I found something really, really good. And I could not stop listening to this hit by the Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros. I had grown tired of it long ago, but now I listen to it and smile. It’s definitely my soundtrack today.

Gatsby

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Yes, I saw it. Yes, I read all the reviews. My thoughts: It was pretty spectacular.

It was quite a few months ago when I saw the first trailer for The Great Gatsby in our favorite Hoboken theater. And when it comes to literature on-screen, I am the kind of person who will investigate a movie like crazy and then attend – bad review or not.

And so I went to the Rotten Tomatoes website, saw that it got a 49 percent “fresh” rating and read the problems. “Pretty boring”, “Overblown”, “Should tell instead of show”, one of the “biggest bombs”. Blah, blah, blah. So when I went to Richard Roeper’s review (the one I count on most) it said, “The best attempt yet to capture the essence of the novel.” Yes. Agreed.

We went to a movie theater in Union Square, and it was one of those epic NYC movies that I was glad to see in the city. Paying $19 for a 3D ticket was uncomfortable, but pretty much the norm here. From the start, it was a spectacle. Sometimes completely overwhelming, especially in the party and bar scenes. But that is what I wanted. It was literally a feast to the eyes and ears, almost as crazy and exciting as a “Flaming Lips” concert. The blasts of confetti, constant modern soundtrack, and blatant opulence basically rocketed me back into the novel, a book that I haven’t read for many years. I remembered the general extravagance and the Robert Redford film, and thinking “wow, this is pretty cray cray.” But this, perhaps a bit less story-based and more about the flavor of the novel, catapulted me into a world filled with bootleg liquor, complete excess, and lust.

There were a few instances when I thought the film could have been edited down, like with the words and letters falling through the sky (that was a bit too telling) and when some of the background actors seemed to be mouthing the now-a-day tunes, but the rest was pure candy. Some man-made, and others like the sky and the Hudson, just added to the constant high of the story. Nick tells a story far away from the Roaring Twenties lifestyles that NYC provided, and while it is “telling” and the audience doesn’t have to think too hard about decoding the central themes, hidden meanings – I think that was the point.

It was if you were in Nick’s head and the excess that he imagined, whether completely true or not, was right there waiting for you. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel was cynical and cautionary, and by the end of the movie, enough was enough. The overload made you almost grateful for the simple things in your own life and you didn’t want to be staring at a screen that was covered in gold glitter anymore. While Nick lamented the flaws of people who were no longer in his life, he seems relieved to be able to look at it from afar, like a dream. And that was how I generally felt, walking away from the theater and back to my humble abode.

So summed up? It was worth the $19 ticket. Maybe Baz Lurhmann’s attempt at such a complicated and daunting work was not some people’s cup of tea, but for me, he was pretty much right on the money.

Does anybody really know what time it is?

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When 7 a.m. rolled around, I was still not there. 7:10, maybe, if you were lucky. I’m one of those … the people who can’t get anywhere on time. It started in high school. Before that, I was almost too on-time. I remember being one of the first kids in the building at middle school. I’d sit and read next to my locker for 45 minutes, waiting for the first bell. That all changed when I started overextending myself like many high schoolers do.

First, there was band. We’d have early morning practices for marching and jazz, and after school there was some sort of running practice for cross country or track. And almost every night I had theater practice – either at school or at the local community theater. And work. I worked any free night and weekends at the local grocery store. So I wasn’t exactly home much during that time period. Except to sleep. And I sure needed it. So when that alarm clock would sing, I’d shut it up – for probably a good 20 minutes more of sweet slumber. I’d usually rush to school with wet hair from the shower after a 15-minute get-ready rush.

Nothing really changed in college. I always took a large class load, 15 hours minimum/21 hours maximum. I was in plays with rigorous practice schedules, always had a job or two, and had found my way to a few university committees. Overcommitting myself is what I do best. And I always pushed the envelope on time. So I ran, disheveled to my classes, tried to shovel down food when I could, and that poor alarm clock was my most hated enemy.

Since that hectic, crazy time period, I can’t seem to get my clock to run right. I will try to get somewhere early, and something inside me says, “five more minutes.” Whether it was to work, to a party, to some sort of meet-up, it became kind of a joke that I would be the last to show up. Oh, I’ll get to doctor’s appointments right at the nick of time, but everything else was on the back burner.

Especially in the last few years. I worked at the newspaper from 2 to 10 p.m., and would get up to work from 7 a.m. to noon, most days, at a local coffee shop. It was, again, a rigorous schedule that didn’t allow for much sleep or downtime, so I fudged that time as good as I could. Of course, I always made it up, but still. One day, someone pointed out a quote about being late. It read something along the lines of, if you are late, you show how unimportant you feel that appointment (or person) is to you. And honestly, I agree, but that was never the reason why I was late. I was just so dang tired. But it abruptly slapped me in the face…for about a week. I returned to my ways soon after.

Since moving here, things have changed quite drastically. Perhaps it was because I became money hungry after not having a job, or because each appointment was far and few in between that I looked forward to something to break the monotony of my day. In any case, I’ve had to throw more than 10 years of being late conditioning out the window. Whether it was bartending, babysitting, or grabbing a drink with some friends, I have been on time. And with the first couple months of my writing and editing job under my belt, besides a couple train delays, I’m proud to say that my track record is flawless. There have been a couple instances where I have gotten lost in the city, but even then, mustered only to be a handful of minutes late.

If you miss a train, another one might not be around for 20 or 30 minutes, depending on what time of day and what area of town you are heading. Or you will miss your connection to another train. Time really is money here. So, unless you want to get fired or eventually have your friends just stop calling you to go out, you get your butt out the door.

That threat has made it simpler, but I have had to do other things as well. Instead of writing down chore and shopping lists like I have done in the past, I have written down a schedule for myself. Detailed with times I will complete the task at hand. Maybe that seems a bit childish, but it has been necessary for me. My cell phone alarm clock is set for various times: One to wake up, one to exercise, and one to get into the shower. And I have set things that I do within my day. At exactly 8:45 a.m. each morning, I have my daily video chat with my mom and niece Quynn. At that time, I have my lunch packed, bags ready, and am able to unwind and relax until 9:15. I say goodbye and head out the door by 9:20 a.m. for my train to work.

This new, changed “me” hasn’t been easy, but it has been necessary. And as I add more time scheduling to get personal writing done in the morning, I know that this scheduling technique will continue to be necessary for a long time down the road. And I’m hoping when I eventually move to a place where I don’t have to take the train every day and where a commute isn’t as hectic, I’m planning on taking my newfound “on-time-ness” with me. Not just because I want people to feel important, but to know that my own life is important and that time shouldn’t be squandered.

A Summer Not To Remember

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Those lazy, hazy, incoherent days of summer.

Those lazy, hazy, incoherent days of summer.

Summer.

It’s coming up, and boy, is the season sending a lot of memories my way. And not the good kind. I’ve had a lot of depressive episodes during those sunny months – especially in the past decade. Okay, maybe two summers of holy hell, but still. One of these summers was somewhat comical and just a bit sad. I’ve repeated the funny quippy tales far too often, while leaving out most of the other details.

I worked at a state fair in the marketing department. And while it was something I had been looking forward to, it happened at a pretty inopportune time of my life. I was just experiencing my first big break up, and was ill prepared to deal with the consequences. One, I didn’t want to deal with it, and two, I couldn’t let go. So there was that. And while I was excited for this experience, I was also very immature at the age of 21.

So many things to go wrong.

One, I stayed at a frat house at an unfamiliar college. It was basically the most disgusting and noisy place I’d ever slept in. I was angry all the time, and ended up going home every weekend. Twice, I slept in my car (in a really bad neighborhood) just to get away from all of the partying. My parents ended up giving me gas money so I could make the hour and 20 minute commute back to my hometown each day, because I hated being there so much. It was my own damn fault, because I could have easily found another place but chose to be there instead.

Two, to cope with my breakup, I did a couple things. Stopped eating and replaced that with drinking. I’m not a large person in the first place, so when I go down to less than a size zero, at my height, yeah, not good. So a couple drinks would make me drunk. A few more would lead me to black out. The eating wasn’t because I wanted to weigh less than 110 pounds, no, I just couldn’t keep food down. When I get super upset, my anxiousness makes it impossible to eat a cheeseburger. I found it to be a good day when I could keep a can of chicken broth and a Snack Pack pudding cup in my stomach.

Three, I was coaxed to go out on dates with guys who had shown any interest in me. To you know, get over the break up. Don’t ever recommend that. I was a complete bore, hated myself for being there, and there was never a second date. I knew that from the get-go. Instead of breaking me from my cursed sorrows, I just drowned in them. I remember one date, going into the Cheesecake Factory bathroom and crying on top of a toilet in the middle of the date. I’m not sure how I explained my swollen eyes, but, yeah, that happened.

Four, back to the drinking. Part of my job was being the fair mascot at events. While I have some humorous stories about that aspect, I had one that wasn’t. I was the mascot at a baseball game. While that went without a hitch, I was supposed to drop off the costume early the next morning, which wouldn’t normally be a problem. But I decided to go out with a bunch of friends and get wasted. I pulled myself out of bed the next morning a couple hours too late to one of the worst hangovers I had ever experienced. Not only did I not return it on time and got rightly lectured by my boss, I puked all over the parking lot in front of her. A stellar moment in the life of Carrie Olson.

Oh, there were a few shining moments that happened during this time period, but they are pretty marred and masked by all of my mistakes. It’s just when I try to describe this time of my life, I usually gloss over it and pick out those highlights that were few and far between.

I can’t totally blame it on the breakup. I was young, stupid, and unsure of myself. And I don’t look back and think, “oh, those wild and crazy college days.” No, instead I see someone who wasted some opportune time of their life. Yet, I can’t regret it. It’s taken me a long time to see those parts as being learning moments, but, like a Full House or Brady Bunch episode, I’ve reached the last three minutes for that lesson with the mundane background music playing behind. Lesson: Why I don’t like losing control and being known as the messy, drunk but fun-loving girl. Yeah, don’t want that title anymore.

When summer comes, I remember these sad moments starkly. Just like those PSA ads for people to stop smoking, it plays out in my mind as a “don’t let that happen again”. And I’m not planning on it.