And There You Are

Sometimes I feel as if that car kept driving through the midnight hour and took you both with it; a seamless transition to the other side. 

Over 4,000 miles and a boundless ocean separate me from the loss that devoured our lives four years ago, yet I now find your memory in the newest of places. Although you've never climbed the Swiss Alps or admired its sunrise, I can't help but think that you can now feel its warmth; that you are familiar with all its beauty. I've often thought that this land must be unquestionably close to the Heavens.

Your death awakened in all of us the fear we so desperately keep at bay---that one day our doubts, questions, and hopes of the afterlife will be fully recognized. Since that cruel November night, I've retold story after story and cried over your pictures.  Once in a while I will even happen upon a certain smell in the air and I am instantly taken back to your college apartment in DeKalb, where the thought of an abbreviated future never crossed our blissful minds. How often we look behind us for what used to be.

For so many years you have been frozen in time at twenty-four.  I couldn't quite seem to look past the date on your headstone.  It was Switzerland that brought me back to the present. 

Something about beauty in its most natural form brings out the spirituality in even the dimmest of us.  I have never felt so absolutely sure that Heaven exists as I do when I'm gazing toward the Swiss skies.  There is a peacefulness here I could not obtain elsewhere; a sense of endlessness that most certainly reminds me of you. 

I will be walking along a quiet brook when I notice the way the sunlight polishes the peaks of the mountains, and there you are in that moment.  My mind can be going in a billion different tangled directions, yet the chaos seems to halt and I can only think of you.  I thank God for those instants.  I thank Him for giving me such hope.

It may be true that grief never ceases in this lifetime; but it is also true that it changes.  The sadness once felt over your death is and will always be a dense fog in our lives, but it slowly lifts when I'm reminded of how infinitely happy you now are---not the type of happy from a successful round of golf and certainly not the type of happy from a late night college party, but true and genuine joy that this life can never give us. 

I think of you now in the present tense, though I will still hang on to these memories for awhile. I don't catch myself looking at your pictures quite as often, nor do I replay stories over and over in my mind.  There is no longer really the need. All I have to do is look around me. It is there that you are.

 

Star

My sister tried to rock over my tiny baby head when I was only five weeks old.  Fortunately for myself and the rest of mankind,  my mom grabbed her right before the wooden rocker crushed my adorable mug.  If you ask my mom for her side of the story, she will lace it with words like "accidental" and "unpremeditated," but I always knew exactly what was going through little Kelli Jo's advanced mind.

Unbeknownst to the family, I was imposing on Kelli's destiny of remaining an only child. From the moment they placed a Fisher Price microphone in her grabby hands, she became the star. For the next decade, she would write, direct, and perform as lead in all of her own theatrical works. Some sisters pull hair.  Others slap and claw.  Mine always made me play a dude in her bossy garage productions.  

Kelli and I probably never would have picked each other as friends had we not been born sisters first.  We've had over twenty years of difference and dysfunction to realize that we aren't really all that alike.  She was always the graceful, rhythmic one; I once knocked myself out by running into a parking meter.  She had the lovely, soprano voice for the high school musicals; I had the loud, obnoxious cackle that landed me the part of the Wicked Witch.

While Kelli always strove for perfection and order, I loved a life of disarray and improv. We never really saw eye to eye (perhaps because I was blessed with an extra six inches) on just about anything.  My friends soon became like sisters to me, and Kelli and I went our separate ways. Though we both thrived in the spotlight, there can only be one star to every show.

Eventually, Kelli and I missed out on knowing each other.  I never knew her favorite book or her first heartbreak; she never knew where I went on the weekends or my most beloved Britney album (it's Blackout, obvi).  We allowed ourselves to become strangers, and assumed we would always be so. 

It's 9:30 pm in Switzerland as I write this, and I am trying to finish this blog post while waiting for the guest bedroom sheets to dry.  I have a friend arriving on Sunday.  She also happens to be my sister.

If you told the childhood Steffo that people do change and that Kelli and I would one day get over all our stupid drama, I would have told you, "Right. And I'll end up living next to goats in Switzerland."

Kelli still rolls her eyes when I have one too many drinks and embarrass her; I still hit ignore on her sixteen phone calls when I don't want to hear about her drastic new hair trim.  I have yet to ask her favorite book (although I would guess it has yet to be written since I am sure it will be her autobiography), and she still doesn't know that I eat whip cream directly out of the can when I'm feeling a tad blue.

We will never be the Kardashians or Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen, but we've finally made room for each other; we respect each other.  Dare I say we even admire the other. 

In a few short days, Kelli will arrive (in style, no doubt) with her Godsend of a boyfriend, Craig, and we will spend an entire week learning to share the spotlight.  Oh, and she says she's bringing a gift for Amelia. 

Here's hoping it's not a Fisher Price mic.

Blank Page

The blog ain't-a-growin when the words ain't-a-flowin.  To make this simple: I've got writer's block, folks. 

While any writer can give you numerous reasons and excuses for their brief absence of creativity, I need only relay three letters to my faithful followers. Care to buy a vowel?

In between bursts of sunshine, visitors from the United States, and my new found love for sushi, I somehow let the OCD back into the driver's seat.

Whelp, it was a sane run while it lasted. 

The thing I hate most about OCD is the darkness it brings along with it. My looming anxiety could shade any cloudless, summer day---it's its own SPF. 

Here's a quick rundown of this week's obsession rotation:

1. I will receive a Swiss speeding ticket which will cause the revocation of my driving privileges, therefore forcing me to use germy public transportation where I will surely catch this deadly new coronavirus that they're talking about all over the news

2. My husband will forget to shut the windows when he comes to bed and the neighbor's creepy cats will sneak into Amelia's room and sniff out her milk mustache

3. Someone will accidentally drop a pill at the village playground and Amelia will sneak it in her mouth while I momentarily step away to grab the hand sanitizer

4. That I will never have reprieve from this horrendous disorder that takes so many hours and days from my life; you stupid OCD robber piece of $h*t.

Alright, enough with the sob story. 

Sorry for the scatterbrained, writer-blocked blog dripping with self-pity, and sorry for those who know all too well of what I write.

When the OCD comes, it sure don't come easy.

Why Yes

I was always an advocate for adult-only planes until I was no longer an adult only. If you've ever doubted the existence of hell, I promise I could convert you by means of an international flight with my daughter.

Our first stop through the scorching flames: security. Why yes, TSA worker, that prescription diaper rash cream does happen to be for the baby on my hip. Why no, security lady, I wouldn't mind drinking from each of Amelia's seven pre-made bottles in front of an already annoyed line to disprove any possibility of explosive chemicals.  Why am I dramatically gagging after each taste of hypoallergenic soy formula?  Well, I've always been more of a chocolate milk kind of girl.

Next stop: bacteria infested gate wait.  Why yes, Amelia, please try and eat that newspaper off the airport floor while I search for my lost boarding pass. I'm sure a little extra fiber will do the body good.

And now damnation itself: nine hours of turbulent screaming, snotting, flailing, and bargaining with God for an hour of peace in exchange for a charitable donation.

As it would turn out, God's not much of a negotiator.

Why yes, male flight attendant, I would love to wait in my cramped seat with my daughter and her poop explosion diaper until the seat belt sign un-illuminates. It's truly my pleasure (insert smiley face here).

Inhale. Exhale.  Deep breath. Repeat.

Amelia's draining the last of  her bottle as her eyes finally begin to flutter. Sleep is on the horizon---I can feel it, taste it, almost grasp it. And then I hear it: the damn drink cart clanking down our aisle. "Ma'am, is there anything I can do for you? Perhaps a coffee or an alcoholic beverage?" Why yes, stewardess, do you also offer complimentary horse tranquilizers? (for me, of course...)

So we're five hours into the flight and I have to pee like a racehorse. Since airplane bathrooms are on my OCD top ten list of places most likely to contract flesh-easting bacteria, I've been holding it in for the last three hours.  Another thing I'm holding? Amelia. I carry her into the coffin sized lavatory and try to hold her in the air Simba style while I hover over the filthy toilet seat.

Amelia's amused; I'm horrified. She's also grabbing for anything she can touch which happens to be everything so I'm cringing in disgust when the tears just start flowing. Taking a one year old across the world all by myself?

Why yes, Stefanie, you are certifiably batshit crazy.

Protect this House He Will

It would seem that Amelia has given up sleep for Lent (although this wouldn't be much of a sacrifice on her part).  I find myself once again sleeping on a mattress in her nursery, singing her favorite lullabies and begging her to give up this boycott.  Usually by the third refrain of "Oops I Did It Again," her screaming turns to cooing and she finally gives up the fight.  I, too, being soothed by the abstract lyrics, give up the fight as well.

It was during one of these evening rituals that I was awakened to find myself in the middle of a low budget horror movie.  A sound of crashing and yelling echoed through the room and I immediately went into protective mama bear mode.  After peaking my head out from under the crib, I gathered the strength to enter the hallway and face whatever was at the source of this carnage. I wasn't prepared for what I was about to find.  After all, part of  the reason other than chocolate that I agreed to move to this country was its nearly non-existent crime rate.  People just don't get murdered here (although they may die of boredom).  I wasn't ready to discover that my peaceful world had been shattered!  But nevertheless, I opened the nursery door....and then I found him---my husband and his bloodied fist.

After questioning him extensively, I learned that he too was awakened in a state of fear to find a height-challenged intruder standing in the bedroom doorway.  Being the rational man that I love, he questioned the night prowler in a very assertive tone.  "Tell me who you are," he demanded three times.  When the intruder still would not answer (quite rude for being asked more than once), Matt jumped from the bed and landed a firm fist right to that burglar's face.  Not being able to withstand the strength of my ninja husband's blow, our trespasser crashed to the ground in obvious defeat.

Pretty freakin' awesome story, don't ya think---until I tell you that my husband sucker punched a fan. 

I am sure you can understand the confusion

There really is no moral to this story, unless you're a fan, and then I would warn you to watch your back. 

My Valentine

I'm bound to think there's a heavenly "skip the lines" pass for individuals like Mother Teresa, the Pope, and my husband.  Each and every moment that I see him endure my OCD right along with me, I can't help but think he should be eternally rewarded one day.  The man has seen me through it all, and nothing proves to be too shocking or exhausting for him.  He held my hand as I cried in fear my tight jeans would cause a miscarriage (turns out this fear was unfounded), he paid hundreds of dollars for an unnecessary skin cancer screening so I could get a few extra hours of sleep at night, and he allows me to buy only pre-cooked chicken because he knows the very thought of raw poultry is enough to make me bathe in hand sanitizer.

In all honesty, Valentine's Day usually makes me a little nauseated (I always figured it was the overdone romance, but perhaps it was the chocolate).  I've never been a fan of sentiment, but on days like today I can't help but find joy in all that has been given to me. I once again returned to my story vault and dug out this old piece I wrote after meeting Matt four years ago.  So much has changed since I typed out these words (one of them happens to be pooping in the corner as I blog this)but we still remain an unbeaten team.  To my champion of a husband: thank you for rescuing me from myself (and the psych ward) each and every day. 

****************************************************************

A thrift store wedding dress gave me a gruesome rash in our third grade theatre production. Once, right before reading a poem at my good friend’s wedding, I face-planted on stage in front of a crowd of 300 guests. In college, I discovered that talking with one’s hands while considerably intoxicated is also an effortless way to add a touch of unwanted red wine to the bride’s Vera Wang dress. Not my fault the floozy wore white…

I’ve gone into anaphylactic shock at a wedding reception, dropped my bridesmaid's sash into an unflushed public toilet , and once, during one of my finest nuptial moments, I plowed down the flower girl while attempting to master the “percolator” during a dance-off. I’ve decided to take the initiative, fore go medical bills, and self-diagnosis: I am, without a doubt, allergic to marriage.

I think in the back of my mind I’ve known this all along. While my friends cry and convulse through the wedding vows and pathetically elbow their way into the bouquet-toss gaggle, I sit back in horror and watch as the nightmare unfolds. “The happiest day of her life,” they all cluck and coo. Mine was turning 21.

I don’t do romance. I hate flowers, I loathe candlelight (fire hazard), and I utterly despise the idea of whispering sweet nothings into a dirty, unkempt ear. Relationships are stuffy and airless---a suffocating, selfless existence where identities and social lives are de-prioritized and abandoned. They’ve always been a source of oppression in my life; a modern form of captivity and bondage.

I painted a picture in my mind of a girl in designer boots and a cashmere scarf promenading her way down the streets of Manhattan---no one on her arm but Marc Jacobs. She would press the elevator button with her gloved hand and stroll confidently into her corner office, pausing to take in the view. There was no “he” in this painting, no man to interfere with his endless demands and overbearing wants and needs. I tucked men away into an “Only Good for Buying Drinks” file and called it a day.

Then in he walked…or stumbled for that matter. With a sideways smirk and the worst of intentions, there he was---my male counterpart; my saving grace.

There is nothing glamorous about him. He isn’t flashy or romantic; his idea of a perfect date is a case of beer and a handful of cheap feels. He never holds open the door, and he thinks kissing is a lame 8th grade invention.

He doesn’t ask questions; he demands almost nothing and needs only what I can give. He forgets to call back, prefers limited touching, has absolutely no filter on the words exiting his mouth, and sometimes, when all the world is perfectly aligned, he just so happens to take the breath from me.

He doesn’t care that wedding dresses and save-the-date magnets and bouquets of coordinating flowers terrify me---we share a common allergy. He prefers wrestling to cuddling, television to listening, and the majority of the time, he wishes I came without sound.

He is messy. He seldom says the "right" thing, and he always leaves up the toilet seat despite my constant reminders. He lacks sensitivity and is absent of affection, yet he emblazons my life and makes beautiful the wreckage. He is disastrous and impeccably flawed; but somehow in his arms I am put back together. He is a certainty, a crooked kind of wonderful, and so very, very necessary.

It's Raining Sin

If OCD had a face, I would gladly punch it right about now.  Be it the lack of sunshine or perpetual rainfall, my disorder has succeeded once again in making me miserable, paranoid, and craving Big Macs.

Due to our weekly monsoons, I sometimes have to check the map to ensure I am actually in Switzerland and not in Seattle. Unfortunately for me and my serotonin imbalanced brain, this has led me to a catastrophic discovery: Google Earth. 

I suppose I was always semi-aware of this satellite technology, yet being geographically challenged and not the least bit interested in any location except the mall, I never took the time to actually sit and study it.  Turns out, Google Earth sees just about everything. 

A common thread between myself and many other OCD sufferers is a debilitating paranoia and fear of being caught doing something sinful or illegal. This anxiety goes way beyond the typical "I hope that cop didn't see me run that stop sign" to "I wonder if Google Earth has footage of me consuming an alcoholic beverage when I was underage." 

After sitting in front of this app on my iPad and retracing every illegal step I may have made on planet Earth, I decided to give my paranoid mind a break and take Amelia for a nice walk now that the rain had finally ceased.  About a third of the way home, I noticed two teenage girls walking behind us and snickering uncontrollably.  Since I've been too busy researching ailments on the Internet to learn any of the French language, I couldn't make out what these little trolls were saying about me.

For a good ten minutes I listened and walked as the girls continued to insult me.  First I assumed they were laughing at my American tennis shoes.  Then I wondered if they were taunting my child.  Before I had time to decide which one it was, I was approaching the road to our house so I began to cross the street.  Not even quite to our sidewalk, I gasped as I heard loud "moo-ing" behind me.  Those little witches were calling me fat! They were actually mooing at me! I spun around as fast as my American shoes would let me, ready to let them have it in my broken Frenglish, but to my surprise, the girls were no longer in sight.

I did a full visual of the area, and just as I was about to give up, I inadvertently made eye contact with an actual cow just grazing in his pasture. I quickly put moo and moo together, and realized he was the one bellowing at me.  Those girls didn't call me fat after all!

I sighed a deep sigh and reminded myself not to let paranoia control the rest of my day.  I wasn't fat, Google Earth didn't capture me jaywalking, and this weather would eventually bring sunshine back to Switzerland. In a moment of clarity and balance, I laughed at how ridiculous I had been for the past two days.

And then it started raining.