Collecting

It started with my grandmas.

One of them gave me the birthday angels every year. You know, these ones:

An angel for every year, with your new age and ever-increasing height. They each sent me other beautiful things that I collected and put on shelves. Glass animals, music boxes, tiny figurines; fifty white thimbles, each with a different state flower painted on. On my shelf, a green glass frog with white eyes and black dots for pupils sat next to a crystal kitten with pink-tipped ears.

My own collecting bug took hold: a pink plastic elephant that had topped my hamburger at a roadside diner took up residence next to an exquisitely painted doll from my grandma. To me they were both beautiful; I couldn’t tell the difference.

When I was very young I somehow broke a ceramic teddy bear music box that my mother had made. I never knew what I did that broke it- I was at that age of disconnection between my thoughts and my actions where I didn’t even notice that I had caused it to fall from the top of my dresser. But my mom was mad. I saved two little blue birds from the dustpan and put them on the shelf next to a newborn baby doll with a bisque glass face I had bought with my birthday money. It played Brahm’s lullabye when you turned a key in its back and I thought the blue birds looked nice against its white gown.

There were other collections. Most of the girls I knew collected cosmetic samples and miniature soaps. The tiny tubes of fragrance were the most coveted, and god forbid the girl that actually used a sample. She would never live it down.

I collected books, which probably could have gone without saying. And records. Later, I saved every issue of Guitar Player and Guitar for the Practicing Musician that I ever bought.

I hauled everything I owned, including my collections, with me when I moved out of my mom’s house.

When the time came for me to move to Dallas for an internship, I’d been living with a boyfriend for a while. He couldn’t decide if he was going to come with me to Dallas or not. I lived in this stressful state of limbo for months, unable to make plans because getting an apartment with another person is a completely different thing than affording an apartment all by yourself.

Until I finally realized that I wasn’t willing to put my life on hold for anyone.

I set up an apartment sight unseen, over the phone. I mailed my deposit. I bought a map.

I ended up leaving with just what I could fit into my car, which wasn’t a whole lot, being that it was a Dodge Dynasty. He promised that no matter what, he’d bring me all the rest of my stuff, soon.

And that’s the story of how I let go of every sentimental keepsake and collection that I owned up until age 24. Every yearbook, each baby book, all the birthday dolls, the clear green glass frog with the black and white eyes, my journals, a biography of Zappa that I was only halfway though, my winter clothes.

It’s also the story of how I realized that stuff is just stuff. Though it took a while to come to this point, I know my burden is far lighter with all of that gone and I am even grateful for it. The only thing I am genuinely sorry I lost is the white ceramic Nativity set that my mom had made and that she gave to me after I moved out.

Which is why, after all of that so many years ago, I find myself baffled to be compulsively collecting my used train tickets.

WTF?

On New Jersey Transit when the conductor takes your ticket, they punch it, and at certain stations (like mine) they give your ticket back to you because you have to put it in the turnstile to exit the station.

I started noticing that the holes weren’t the same every time. They’re like clouds; I’m always trying to figure out what they are. I’ll smack CC on the arm and go, Hey look! It’s a rabbit! {smack} Hey look! It’s Stonehenge! One of the conductors told me they’re issued their own specific hole punch and it’s like their ID. Everything can be traced through the shape of their punch.

I found myself digging them out of the wastebasket in my bedroom if I accidentally threw them away. They got their own box. Then they outgrew their box.

That’s when I was all like, why the hell am I keeping my used train tickets?

Today I’m letting them go. No matter how many I keep, they won’t ever magically transform into my mom’s nativity set. But I’m still going to be looking at the punches each night on the way home from work, guessing what they are. Maybe one day I’ll get a hole punch that looks like the Virgin Mary. I mean , it’s no Jesus in a tortilla but, hey.

Do you collect anything weird? Ever found yourself collecting something without realizing you were doing it?

One Zombie Sunday

Okay, here’s the deal.

There’s this race I really want to run in. I’m only sort of a runner. Like, mostly I run on the treadmill, because it hurts less and I don’t trip as often as I do when I run outside. Plus, I don’t trust you people on the road- have you seen you drive?

The race is a 5k obstacle course. With zombies. Who try to eat your brains.

I know, awesome, right?

I’ve been asking around to try and find some people to run it with me. The race closest to where I live is just outside of Philly, on a Saturday in June. I’ll have to take two shows off work to do it, which means that anyone I work with would have to do the same (which means, Jonny, you can’t do it, because somebody still has to mix the show).

So far I have no takers. People at work don’t want to lose the shows. The young people in my house don’t want to exert the effort. The women that I train with- who are all fitter and younger than me- say they’re afraid of getting injured and then their households will fall apart without them. I hadn’t considered injury as a real possibility, but I am pretty sure that my household will be Just Fine if that happens.

The race is called Run For Your Lives. Are you in? Or am I gonna have to do this all by myself?

Don’t want to run ? You can be a zombie! Or a spectator. (Go Jules Go, I’m talkin’ to you!)

Prombie — Photo by ismellsheep via WANA commons

That was your picture. Here are your links:

So this woman named Beth Howard lives in the house from the American Gothic painting. You know, the one with the pitchfork and the farmer father and his spinster daughter? Yeah, she totally lives there! She wrote this great book too, called Making Piece and is pretty much on a mission to make the world a better place through Pie. Yes, Pie with a capital P. She runs the Pitchfork Pie Stand at the American Gothic House and teaches all kinds of people how to make pie, including urban high school students. This just may be one of my favorite blog posts from anyone of all time. Wuz Up Wit Dat Hip Hop Pie Class on The World Needs More Pie.

Did you know Home Depot has a bondage aisle? 5 Things I Learned in Philadelphia or How To Love Your Double Life on 50 Dates in 50 States.

I’m including this one for my high school kids and anybody who has ever had to write a stupid repetitive essay: Since The Beginning of Time Mankind Has Discussed on The Onion.

In Thailand, 6 feet vomiting is still less expensive than 3.5 feet bloody. Just so you know. 3.5 Feet of Bad Blood on The Good Greatsby.

And finally, I leave you with a video that my Cirque du Soleil stage manager friend hipped me to. As she said, Layoffs? Not Funny. This Video? Funny!

Happy Sunday.

Aidan’s Book Corner

A while back, I wrote a post called Grace about my nephew Mark, born with anencephaly and my niece Colby, born with Trisomy-18. When babies like Mark and Colby become a part of your life, you grieve; in your grieving, you look for ways to honor their brief lives.

My sister-in-law Melissa just told me about a great thing that has begun at the hospital where Colby was born: Aidan’s Book Corner.

Aidan’s mom is Maggie. Aidan and Colby were born the same week at Community North Hospital in Indianapolis. He passed away at 8 days from a massive brain bleed.

Maggie and Melissa began going to grief support meetings at the hospital in March 2010 and became very close.

They went through grief training and are both now volunteers at the hospital in the Open Arms bereavement department. Aidan’s Book Corner is something Maggie started to honor her son because they read to him in the hospital everyday. New books are collected, and there is a cart that someone takes around the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for parents to choose a special book to keep for their baby. Barnes and Noble is now also involved and people are able to donate books directly at the a few of the local stores.

Maggie and Melissa and everyone involved in Aidan’s Book Corner are working to create a National Aidan’s Book Corner Day and have chosen February 1 for the date.

I’m gonna go out on a limb and say International. Canada and Australia, I’m looking at you!

Here’s where you come in:

Donate a brand new children’s book to your local Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Please Tweet it, pass it on, email it, or facebook it. We want this to be an amazing day across the country, where parents in the NICU will feel a little support from the heart of someone who cares.

Every single act of kindness has monumental impact when your baby is in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Don’t underestimate the power of a small, good thing; this is a great way to honor the lives of Aidan, Colby, Mark, and the countless other babies who shared with us a brief and beautiful grace.