My hope in all things good has returned. Maggie’s back.

Much of my childhood has faded into fuzzy memories. My best friend, Saboylovegg, has an uncanny ability to recall the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of every person she has ever met, including that kid, Scotty, who had the most severe temper-tantrums of anyone in the second grade. But I remember surprisingly little. There are a few teachers and some friends, but most of the rest is saved for me in Saboylovegg’s steel trap brain.

What I do remember clearly, was the time I spent in church. I remember most of my friends and the one and only time I went to church camp. I didn’t want to go back after I spent “five minutes in heaven” with a guy who wouldn’t kiss me. What’s the point? It’s not like I was asking him to grab a non-existent boob or something.

I remember the church itself, with all of the hidden hallways and cubby holes that were great for kids who were too hyper to sit through a service or go to class. I remember learning about other religions. I remember trying foods from different countries on international day and having my picture in the paper while I was wearing a Japanese baby carrier, from my parents days living there with baby Faris.

I remember instrumental concerts and singing and acting and May poles and laughing. And I remember having Sex Ed at church before we’d even touched it in school and feeling superior to my friends who had no clue about where babies REALLY came from…

Those nostalgic feelings have been close to me since I started mentoring. Due to terrible freeway construction, I’ve been taking side streets to get to her house and I frequently drive past my old church. The congregation has long since moved to a new home and the church of my childhood is now a synagogue. Still it still stirs feelings of comfort in me with each drive-by.

I was raised in the Unitarian Universalist church and I was shocked to hear about someone targeting a congregation in Tennessee, during a youth production of Annie. The fact that he felt such hatred for people who expressed such unconditional love to so many, leaves me feeling a little bit hopeless. I’m not sure why. I understand that intolerance leads to hatred and hatred leads to violence. And violence has always been with us. And violence will always be with us. It’s just that the memories that I have of my church have always comforted me with a sense of safety and now that seems just a bit tarnished.

But I still remember. Mostly, I remember a church that taught me to love and accept the people around me and to focus on making the world a good place and not worry so much about what happens at the end of my life. I try to do that and now I remember why.

When I was about 12, I was obsessed with the movie “Labyrinth.” It is among my first memories of any sort of sexual stirrings. I mean, David Bowie was wearing some sort of nut-cup, I’m sorry — codpiece, that shouted, “THERE’S A PENIS IN HERE!” I watched him flaunt his package everyday for months. And because of that obsession, I memorized (and will never forget) the dialogue to most of the movie.

This has been running through my mind for the last two days:
“Everything that you wanted I have done. You asked that the child be taken. I took him. You cowered before me. I was frightening. I have reordered time, I have turned the world upside-down, and I have done it all for you. I am exhausted from living up to your expectations of me.”

Because of the additional burden this has placed on my brain, I have apparently become unable to retain the ability to remember anything of importance. And, I’m not talking about the square root of 72 or metric conversions (as if I ever knew either of those things). The items that have been purged are more like…how to get through the day without suffering excruciating embarrassment and/or losing a limb.

At the salon last week, the stylist had just finished washing my hair when I tucked into the bathroom for a quick break before the cut. As I leaned over to flush, I watched in horror as the towel that had been draped over my shoulder, which I had completely forgotten, slipped silently into the pool of yellow. You will be happy to know that, although my gut reaction was to punch the screen out and throw the evidence through the window, I simply rinsed it with hot water and ‘fessed up.

Then, this morning, I walked out to my car, strapped on the seat belt, pulled out of the driveway and got to the THIRD stop light before I realized that I was not wearing a bra. Luckily, I had remembered the shirt. But, I’m not 16 and I’m beginning to look a little less like Sports Illustrated and a little more like National Geographic. For your sake and mine, I must have support.

I’m sure that as with plane crashes, faux pas happen in threes. Perhaps it would be best to take the rest of the week off and lay low. I could rent Labyrinth.

For work…
For shopping…
For inspiration…
For killing time…
For someday soon…
For now…
For planning…
For cooking…
For daydreaming…

Suck it!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Um. I kid, of course. Don’t suck it. Unless you want to. But that’s not really my business. Or is it?

Either way, have a good holiday weekend and expect me to return to cyberland next week, fully refreshed*.

*Although, I am technically still mourning the loss of maggie…

Work. That is all I’m going to say about that.

Play! I got my mentee. She’s 14 and kind of shy but she has the sweetest giggle. Plus, her name is very similar to mine. It would be like bandick and bandicka. That, to me, means written in the stars.

We have our first group ride tomorrow. There will be other mentee/mentor pairs but we’ll be a relatively small chunk of the expected 350 riders. I’ve never done a big ride like this before. I’m a little nervous of suckin’ wind and humiliating myself by, well, dying.

Remembering what it was like to be 14 and really not wanting to be around adults period, I asked bandicka if she would be embarrassed if I wore bike shorts. To my surprise, she said no. She’s a liar. I embarrass MYSELF when I wear those things. I’m stopping tonight to pick up a new bike rack and I couldn’t help but notice these when I was browsing the online store. One must retain some sense of style…

In addition to not dying, I’m hoping to not have to walk my bike up too many hills. Granted, this is only a 20 mile ride, but they mentioned “steep” and “hilly” on more than one occasion in the route description. Steep, hilly, and bandick have not necessarily been commonly used in the same breath — but I have a feeling that might change.