Our Brother's Hair. Like Samson's.

Photo by Sean Hopkins

From Coney Island, NY to here at home in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma all the way to Port Macquarie, Australia, Donny Vomit is known for his handlebar mustache (and his ability to hammer a nail up his nose). It's his personal brand. And I've often called his mustache his "swagger."

It's not that he couldn't eat light bulbs or breath fire or stick his tongue in a rat trap for the pleasure of a swooning crowd without it, but he just wouldn't do it with the same style.

I think perhaps there has always been some magic in Donny's hair. It sounds weird and a bit awkward to write, there's no poetry really in that phrase, other than I chose to stick the word magic in there. And a bit ironic since he has not a single hair on top of his actual head. But when he was a boy it's what made him look so much like the eighties kids on the screen from Wonder Years' Kevin to E.T.'s Elliot (today you'd probably say Harry Potter, to boot). He was just so freaking cute.

But even Donny who can evade throwing-daggers from hitting is tender bits, who can manuever swallowing-swords as to not puncture his esophagus, and can gracefully juggle chainsaws without lopping off a limb – even he could not avoid the cringingly unavoidable strike of teenagerdom.



Basically when cute just becomes painfully not-cute.

So Donny's wardrobe turned monochromatic, a spectrum of greys and blacks (he didn't own a colored article of clothing until well into his twenties) and he grew his hair out very, very, very long. And to top it all off, he donned a signature vintage top hat from mid high all the way through high school. We'd had this hat in our family for years, a gift to my mom from one of her hippie friends, the story being it came all the way from Woodstock. Donny wore that hat every single day, no matter the season or occasion, until it literally fell apart.

But you know what? We didn't mind. It was cool. Sure, we'd get looks when we'd go to the mall together to go clothes shopping. They have grey and black clothes as JCPenney. My mom says that to this day whenever she sees steampunk kids walking by, she thinks "uh, Donny totally invented that look and you don't even know it." Actually, our mom is probably a second away from actually telling them that out loud at times. Now that would be an embarrassing mall moment.

Truly the only time it was ever a "deal" was the morning when Columbine went down. The phrase "trenchcoat mafia" was all over the morning talk shows and news tickers. I remember our dad calling the house to track down Kathleen and then me at my college apartment in the same town. He was like "somebody stop Donny from going to school today in his trenchcoat, because I'm sure he's completely unaware of what just happened." He was afraid someone would do something really awful to Donny.

Donny, the most nonconfrontational human being in the world.

Who still did jigsaw puzzles with his sisters every weekend.

Who went on family vacations with us, and went to plays and bought souvenirs. Because you can still be a tourist in a black top hat.

You can also still visit your grandma and sit on her flower-couch and smile sweetly if someone pointed a camera at you. Now, your older sister (that would be me) might just still have the pissiest face ever, but that would pass with time, too. Ooh, check out my Doc Martens knock-offs! I was always good at mainstreaming it, and then just mixing it up the tiniest bit. But not good at smiling for pictures.

And you could still be a perfect prom date. All of a sudden your long hair is dashing and handsome.

And then you're over it. And your sisters (both of them) take you to get it all cut off.

Now, if Donny is Samson in this story, I don't want you to think that his two sisters were some sort of harpie-like, pushing-our-hair-agenda, Delilah-type sisters. This was something he wanted to do. We just happened to be supporters. It was probably the year 2000 by this point, the nineties were over, let's just do it bro.

But we didn't chop his locks without some ceremony. The hairstylist actually braided his hair down his back first. Then she cut it off all at once. We put it in a shadowbox. Seriously. After that, you would have thought he was a toddler getting his first cut the way we were just making such a huge deal out of it. We photographed the whole thing as he sat in the hairdresser's chair (of course I couldn't find those photos).

Actually, I couldn't find very many photos at all of Donny in the period between losing his long hair... and growing his mustache. His magic.

Photos by Lisa DiNicola

And now when Donny comes home to visit and we still do jigsaw puzzles and go to the mall, forgoing Hot Topic with a wry isn't-that-nostalgic-smile and heading for the Gap because Donny now wears more colors than black and needs a sweater in a rusty orange or a nice olive green.

And he still gets looks from the little kids and the moms and even the steampunk kids walking by (but their looks are a bit awe inspired), and mom is less tempted to tell them "what's-what" and more likely to just pridefully whisper, "I think they know you're Donny Vomit." And of course we don't mind, either. It's cool.

Coney Island Mermaid Parade with "Legs Malone" aka Donny's nice girl Anna.

Oh, and he still makes a dashing prom date.

The Monkey Stays In The Picture. Pants Not So Much.

Ah, Facebook Timeline. If only the Thomas family could start their path this far back.

I pulled this fairly, oh... dull and brown and not-so-interesting group picture from my archive (I've decided to call it the archive now, because it sounds impressive). And at first I was like "ah, yes, just a typical picture of Kathleen as a tomboy tot with only half of an outfit on," next to some other kids hanging out with Donny that I don't even know.

Then I see there are so many levels going on here.

First, Donny and his toothy shark toy which has a better fake smile than his, standing awkwardly in the middle of this group of much more cavalier (and apparently sporty) random boys who were probably just one-week-only vacation bible school acquaintances (hence the t-shirts from the quaint and sweet small country church we went to as little kids).

Next, note Kathleen who decides she must also be in the picture... but wait! Not without her fur. Her monkey fur stole. Which looks almost exactly like the fur vest she wore for a coffee meet today. So the church ties might not have bound, but the how that monkey slung across her shoulders made her feel was a state of grace she never shrugged off.

Then I think about our mom taking this picture. And not really giving a second thought to Kathleen being in this picture like this. Which, justly so, she really shouldn't have. I mean, it wasn't like our mom was going to share the photo with two-hundred-plus of her closest friends and family on Facebook at the time, so really there was no reason to accessorize her little girl with a clever floppy hat and a giant sunflower, or a mini-pair of movie-star sunglasses, or stage it in a field in front of a bale of hay... or make her put on, say... pants. No one will see it but grandma, who she sent the 4 x 6 duplicate to.

Not until I post it two minutes after finishing this story, that is.

Happy weekend, this is my gift to you. And, seriously, didn't like at least half of you have this exact same monkey at some point in your lives? Or now? It's classic.

Teeny Tiny Pool

I love things that are an exaggerated scale. Either really big, like the larger-than-life summer ceiling danglers in the Target stores right now (my kids think the giant corn cob with melting butter that looks like it's going to plop on your head is the bees knees, not to mention the giant orange popsicle with one drop that looks like you could just stick out your tongue and catch it)... or really, really tiny. Like this cute bathing beauty that was living in a mini-terrarium Donny gave to me on his last visit.





She just happens to perfectly match this pop-up card I got in Japan last year by Megumi Ishizuku. Um... like as in Japan in Epcot. You know, the one in between Morocco and America. But Japan is the best store, followed by the one in the Netherlands with all the trolls and Helly Hansen fur-flap hats.



We used to go to the pool a lot when we were kids. Practice doing round-offs off the short diving board, steeling our nerve to leap from the tall and towering one. Doing as many somersaults as possible underwater in a row. Getting all pruney. Showing off our bathing suits for the summer (I distinctly remember having a Coca-Cola one, and also having a hot pint leopard print with the actual cat's face forming right in the center of my torso with sewn-in rhinestone pink eyes... unfortunately not pictured here.)

But there's also something to be said for the spontaneous fun of just filling up a kiddy pool on the back porch with the garden hose and just splashing away. Getting it all full of floating grass and dead bugs, like within seconds. Usually cutting yourself on the edge or on a rock or stick that got stuck underneath, and then the best part... draining the pool by sticking your foot down on one side, collapsing it as all the water (and dead bugs and grass bits) flood over your leg onto the lawn.

Add a sprinkler into the mix, and it's like your own freakin' water park. In fact, I distinctly remember the moment I decided it was time to have kids of our own. My husband was setting up the sprinkler on the front lawn around dusk on a summer evening. And I could just imagine a little kid jumping over it, getting grass all over their wet legs. And then getting cold, me wrapping them up in a towel three sizes too big for them, and feeling their wet chattery body through the terrycloth as I picked them up and carried them inside.

Just a summer day coming to a close. A garden hose. A teeny tiny moment. And it was exactly like I imagined it.

The Big Heads

Have I ever mentioned that we all have freakishly big heads in our family? For instance, none of these hats are actually fitting us in this picture and we're like kids! We got this from our big-headed Dad, who has to special order his ball caps and fishing caps.

Other Freaky Traits We Got From Our Dad:

1. Kathleen got his leg veins. They kinda pop out. Her legs are so gorgeous it's kind of something you overlook. Like Angelina Jolie's ropy arms.

2. I got his ingrown toenails. Eesh. I had to get them cut out when I was like eleven. Like three different times. So did Kathleen for that matter.

3. Donny got his sleepwalking big time. And his mustache. And his grumble.

But we all got the big head. And I like to think the big brain to match. Although none of us seemed to get our Mom's freakish ability to win any and every Scrabble match she has ever played anybody. She has lately discovered Words With Friends on her iPad, and so she's taking her power to the whole next level. Now that I think about it, her noggin is pretty big, too.

You would think all this big-headedness makes the prospect of natural childbirth a bit intimidating in our family. But the best trait our mom passed down to us is being able to pop out some babies. Well, at least passed down to me, since Donny is a boy, and Kathleen has yet to foray into the baby-making or popping-out stage in her life.

But, she will probably now read this post and say "aww... I want a big-headed baby." And I would just suggest stretchy baby caps.

Sunday Dresses & Studio Portrait Smiles

This is why Kathleen and I never smile with our teeth anymore. We're trying to come back from it, though. It's only taken twenty years.






This is also back when we used to have Sunday dresses, Sunday suits. We're a family lapsed. Case in point: a phone call I got from my mom two Saturdays ago.

Mom: "Don't forget the boys Easter baskets when you come down this morning."

Me: "Mom! It's not Easter!"

Mom: "Well, I know that it's not until tomorrow..."

Me: "No, like it's not Easter. At all. Not for like two weeks!"

Mom: "Oh. I have to go unhide all the eggs in the yard. Click."

We're about to drive down to my parent's this morning. It really is Easter this time. We won't be wearing ribbons, or ruffled collars, or checkered suits. It's raining, so the egg hunt in the backyard might be a little muddy. We like to take turns rehiding the eggs until they're a cracked mess. Kathleen, it's your turn! Charlie, it's your turn! Mom (that's me now) it's your turn!

And we'll be smiling. Teeth and all.

Running Like A Mother

So... I've sort of been "running." Like, for almost a year. It's been kind of a shameful secret (except to my neighbors who get to see me run by their houses every other day in giant mint green Forever 21 sunglasses being held together by safety pins and a purple sweatband, the tinny echo of Kanye and Beastie Boys and Fergie barely seeping out of my iPod earbuds as I have it cranked to full volume).

It's a guilty kind of admission, because I've always been an "indoor girl." The last time I ran anywhere was some fun run I convinced my dad to take me to at 5am in the morning with my then-best-friend, Patty, above.

Kathleen told me I pretty much did Couch to 5k without knowing it, since 3 miles without walking is now my standard and before I could only run half a block. Times I do take a walk break are a.) if I start crying during a sad song or even just a really cool song (it happens), b.) if I start thinking too hard about an ad campaign I'm working on, c.) if my elderly barely-four-foot-tall neighbor Dorothy literally throws herself in my path to gossip about our "hood," or d.) I have to blow my nose a lot (not from crying, like, from allergies.... or, er, okay crying. I tell Dorothy my face is sweating. On my cheeks. In a very specific track under my eyes. She's too short to tell the difference anyway.)

The deal was sealed back when I was only at about 2 miles running, followed by 1 mile walking, when I read the best book, Run Like A Mother, (isn't that a clever title?) on my Kindle during a plane trip a few months ago and I could not put it down. Not even when the captain told me to turn off all electronic personal devices. That pushed me over the edge to "just do it."

So if a weeping, indoorsy, trendy broke sunglasses wearing, Fergilicious mom doesn't make for one bad-ass Nike ad, I don't know what does.

A Family. A Fair.

The Medieval Fair starts tomorrow in Norman, our home town. Chris and I will probably take Charlie along with my mom.

We'll eat some roasted corn. Listen to the bagpipes. Visit the mermaid's keep. Cheer on a joust. Wash down a humongous turkey leg or a piping hot meat pie with blue-glass bottle of sasparilla. Smirk at fifty-something fat friars with suspiciously modern Birkenstocks and middle aged wrinkled wenches getting sunburned cleavage on this first weekend of spring. Roll our eyes at fourteen-year old girls with fairy wings and glitter eyeshadow and their skinny pimply-faced boy counterparts trailing behind in dangerously tight leather pants and open-laced pirate shirts.

You know, like normal people do when they go to a Ren Fair. (That's insider lingo for Renaissance Fair. Why am I using insider lingo you ask? Um... well.... )

Yes, it's true. That's Donny the magician's squire (or something like that) in the foreground. And Kathleen the court jester in the background. Juggling. On a guy's shoulders.

When Kathleen and Donny were tweens (that was before they called them that) they were completely drawn in to the cloak-wearing, dagger-yielding, ye-olde-fake-accent-speaking world of Medieval Fair.

They belonged to a group (The Arthurian Order of Avalon to be precise) that practiced jousting and sword fighting and juggling and (okay, yes, role playing) year 'round in people's backyards or in the community rooms at the library or veteran's centers, or sometimes even on nature expeditions. But it all culminated with the Medieval Fair every spring.

Look at that cute little mouse on the end of Donny's staff (do you see it?!)

Our mom sewed so many awesome costumes for Donny and Kathleen over the years. And as they grew up, so did their characters. Kathleen was only a jester from about age nine to eleven. Then she was sort of like a little rascally tomboyish maid. But the last year she participated in the fair she had the most gorgeous Anne Boleyn costume. It was dark blue velvet and white silk and lace with tons of beading and detailing and that sucker was corseted on her so tight (and she was a complete waif) that she looked like a living doll. It was breathtaking really. I think she rode in on like a white horse even.

But Donny really grew up with Med Fair and the friends he made there. For years he just played the fool. He was always the court jester. The older boys, the more athletic boys (and don't let my skinny pimply-face comments above fool you, there were "golden" boys even in this Dungeons & Dragons circle of friends), like the Achemire brothers for example, blue eyed, bawdy, sulky, mysterious, beautiful boys who stole the heart of every girl, prancing in on their horses with chain mail and wooden shields and real swords and re-enacting these sweeping dramas for the crowd.

Meanwhile Donny the jester is practicing, practicing, practicing. Learning to juggle heavy knives and catch an apple in his teeth. Learning to breath actual fire. His sweet jester role soon evolved into the Evil Jester. The Arthurian group always does a living life-size chess match at every fair. There is the black and the white. Donny in tattered brocade and long black tresses, always did an impressive fire-breathing move as he took one of the white queen's pawns.

But on one of the later years, I think Donny was sixteen, one of the golden boys, was it an Achemire? Perhaps. He had a bloody accident in the joust earlier that morning. Like he broke his finger or something like that. And he was playing freakin' Lancelot (one of the star roles) in the chess match performance that afternoon.

Everyone was in a tizzy, the middle-aged wenches, the fat friars, the school-girl crush maids who could barely look up as they flocked around the Achemire, dressing his wounds, but all the same, joined the question... what would we do? Who could possible fill in for Lancelot, he had like 50 lines, plus three crucial elaborately choreographed fights!

And Donny piped up... "I can do it." He had been to every practice, watched every fight and heard every line from his jesters' spot for weeks. "Surely not shy Donny?" everyone thought.

But Donny. Literally. Slayed it. He came to life in front of the crowd. He nailed the lines. He swung that freaking sword. He wowed the onlookers with their roasted corn in one fist and turkey legs in the other. But mostly he wowed his peers. They talked about Donny all the rest of the day, and the rest of the month. "Who would have known?"

Donny was a golden boy, too. Just of a darker variety.

But of everyone, our mom was the proudest. Did I mention, um... so yeah, she was sort of like the queen.

The Dark Queen, of course. Hey, if she's going to put in the man hours making all those costumes, she might as well get one herself! She could even fight with a staff! Plus the Arthurians really needed some adult chaperones. I mean, fourteen year olds? Fairy wings and glitter? Tight leather pants. It's like pre-Twilight hormonal craziness, but I'm pretty sure those kids weren't as abstaining as much as Edward and Bella.

Donny, Mom (before she went all dark) and John (the youngest of the two Achemire boys, and Donny's first true best friend.)

We even pulled our Aunt Lynda and our little wood-nymph cousin Kaitlyn into the act one year. Lynda was fittingly earthy, Kaitlyn had a real bunny in a basket.

Why no pictures of me in this royal picture? Um, yeah, I was nerdy enough already. I didn't need any more help! Honestly, it was the age thing. When Kathleen and Donny first got involved they were still practically little kids. I was fourteen already. And, I already knew a girl in my grade who was already all sucked into that scene, and she truly believed with her heart-of-hearts that she was a descendent of honest-to-god elves. And she told anyone who would listen all about it. And of course, being teenagers, we completely ostracized her for it.

So no matter how many Excalibur and Labyrinth movies I had watched as a child (also 'cause of mom), or how many Robin Hood tales and Choose Your Own Adventure novels I had read, and as much in my secret heart-of-hearts I really, really, really wanted to do it... my teenage pride just wouldn't let me.

But I was my family's biggest fan. (Go figure.) I went to every joust and every chess match. I even designed the t-shirt for the Med Fair one year. I supportively "huzzahed" and"oohed and aahed" at all the appropriate moments. And I still love it every year. Even though my own kin no longer grace the chess board or ride across the muddy jousting field there's still always an Achemire, god love 'em and their dreamy blue eyes, to be spied in there – like those high school quarterbacks who just never give up the glory days.

Today at lunch Kathleen and I were chatting about the upcoming weekend. She told me how she always "confesses" her Med Fair past only after she's known people for while. Like on a recent nature hike with friends, when she revealed, "uh, hey guys, the last time I hiked up this trail I was in leather and chain mail."

She's decided that she isn't going to go with us on Saturday. To clarify, we are just normal looking spectators now. Our freak flags... or should I say courtly banners... hidden from the casual eye. Kathleen sighed that it's too windy and the fair has gotten just too huge and crowded (thousands and thousands flock to it annually).. she's just gotten over it.

But I'd bet a giant turkey leg she'll cave at the last minute and tag along. Aw hell... I gotta just end with it. Huzzah!

Born This Way

So Kathleen has always been a bit of a paradox when it comes to her style, or even on a grander scale, her exterior manifestation of herself as she chooses to present it to the world. The photos above might lead you to believe that like many little girls she liked to envision herself as a princess or a doll or something very sweet and girly. But that sly smile gives her away. It's just a ruse.



I'd like to say this layered, aggressive, glittery, pouty stomp pose was a glimpse into her true self. But even that is simply too one-dimensional (if you can call anything about this look simple).



Now, the crazy-lady straw hat and red cape with pink jumper pants combo is sort of the closest to the truth because it is so self-created and not modeled after any one style. Or better yet, droopy onsie with a random piece of brown fabric fashioned as... oh, no that's not some headdress.. it's hair. Kathleen had very little hair, so she'd sometimes put skirts or fabric on her head to "feel what it's like." Our mom had very, very long hair, and sometimes me and Donny (her haircut was all short and 80's feathery by the time Kathleen was a toddler) but when we were baldies, we'd fan our mom's long dark frizzy 70's mane over our own heads and pretend it was ours.

Maybe that's why Kathleen's hair is always her best accessory now? It can be red or black or straight or curly or literally wild with a sentient intelligence all it's own, but it's always an extension of Kathleen. She never, ever, has a bad hair day. I'm not saying this in an enviable way. It's a fact. And it's one she has deliberately willed into being.

One thing us Thomas kids don't lack is an ability to just will (or work) our way into self-defined specialness. Kathleen by sheer willpower, and by all the means available to her as an adult (her tween self just didn't have the resources or the true courage, just the sporadic, quickly shattered kind) is declaring with every outfit or outfit post "I craft myself into a persona that is so special that I am undeniably someone you must look at. With mean glares and eye-rolls, or curiosity and sideways appraisal or sheer unblinking appreciation. Regardless, because you look, I am."

Facts:

1. a coworker once actually dressed up like Kathleen for Halloween

2. I stood in line with Kathleen once when she auditioned for Top Model and she got some of the "serious" and prone-to-start-a-fist-fight auditioners seriously riled up by being so irreverent about the whole thing (but in her heart deadly serious) as she practiced her now much more developed "stomp walk" for a local news cameraman

3. Kathleen wore a flight suit to school sometimes in fifth grade

4. Kathleen wore a men's tie at picture day in sixth grade (with a side ponytail)

5. Kathleen gets heartsick if she sees something that should be on her body that is not

Last week while we were eating a whole box of gluten-free nut crackers between the two of us in our mom's kitchen (it's that vegan thing she's doing) she told me she lost three blog followers when she posted about her girl crush on Lady Gaga. Now if that's not totally appropriate, I don't know what is.

If I start to sound all thesisy or philosophical when I talk about Kathleen, it's because I think how I feel about her is the most complex of anyone I know. I have to stop myself from talking about her in conversations (which I only succeed at about 50% of the time). It's hard for me to post about her as much, because I feel like I'm talking about myself too much, but a version of myself that is maybe a little too brash, or too all-caught-up-in-it-all, but is also hilarious and unafraid, and cool to look at. And cool to eat crackers with when she's pretending to be a vegan.

Thing is? Nine times out of ten? When Kathleen pretends something... it's only a matter of time before it becomes real.

Frankenbaby

This is one of the 500 baby pictures of me. Donny has about 150. Kathleen has about 50. And that's how it works when you are the oldest.

So lots and lots of attention and cute meticulously handmade outfits (with matching bonnets)... but also with a surplus of chub and a gigantic head.

Snow Motel

Another week. Another snow day stuck in the house.

Driving in the snow isn't really something the Thomas family relishes. I mean, we're not completely opposed to it, but on a scale from one to ten, I'd say we're a six or seven when it comes to snow-driving aversion. Although, after getting pushed out of snowy intersections twice last week by complete strangers, I'd say I'm becoming a little immune to the anxiousness of winter weather motoring.

But no one, I mean no one wants to be stuck driving in the car with my dad when it's icy or snowy. This is the person that says "left is death" if you make a left turn under normal conditions, and acts like he can't see the exit ramp off the highway if it's like twilight or even nearing twilight.

Which is why when an unexpected snow and ice storm hit the Okahoma-Texas region during spring break of (I think if I do my math right) let's say 1988, we spent three days stuck at what I now call... The Snow Motel.



Now when our family – Mom, Dad, Me, Donny and Kathleen – left home for our family road trip everything was peachy keen. Yes, that's our Ford LTD station wagon. Yes indeed.



But on the way back home a week later, the weather took a turn for the worse. As we tried to make it down the interstate we just finally encountered an icy overpass that our poor wagon couldn't pull the boat (oh, we were pulling Dad's boat)... that we couldn't pull the boat across.

So we pulled over in Gainesville, Texas and found one of the last available rooms at a motel there. We quickly realized that we made the right choice, as within hours the motel was at full capacity, stranded truckers and travelers were sleeping in the lobby and we were grateful for our one room. Mom and Dad on one bed, me and Grandma on the other (oh, did I mention we were bringing our Grandma back with us for a visit? Yeah, we're like the Griswalds here people!) Then we had a little cot for Donny and Kathleen I think.

We were stuck there, seriously, for like three days. So what is there to do at the Snow Motel in Gainesville, Texas?

1. Mom and Grandma would frequently trek across the street to some Red Cross station there where they would visit with other stranded travelers and drink coffee and get free donuts. This was mortifyingly embarrassing to me because a.) I was thirteen, so everything was mortifyingly embarrassing to me and b.) I thought that it was really weird and inappropriate of my mom and grandma to take advantage of the Red Cross services like that... I mean, that was for people who were in trouble. Geeez. I guess I imagined a gym full of refugees over there or something. But really, it was probably just a bunch of other moms and grandmas who were sick of being stuck in this shelter with their bored kids and anxious husbands.

2. Kathleen got super sick. Like fever hallucinating. We just let her sweat it out on her cot in the corner of our room. So basically the entire experience for her was a total blur.

3. We rented The Milagro Beanfield War on the pay-per-view box of our crappy little motel room TV on like the second night. Random. This was before iPhones and wireless, people.

4. And while everyone just waited and waited for the thaw, watching TV, drinking their inappropriate Red Cross coffee, and feverishly sweating on their little pathetic cot... Donny and I had the most, most fun.

I don't remember all the details. Just that this motel was basically like a snowy, locked-down labrynth of snowy stairwells and icy empty corridors (all the grownups and normal kids I guess were bundled in their rooms) as Donny and I concocted this awesome epic spy game. It really was the precursor to the Bourne Identity in my opinion.

We literally played from morning to night chasing each other around, hiding, plotting, dramatically peering around corners. So much fun that I forgot to be thirteen and mortifyingly embarrassed. Now usually Kathleen and Donny were the ones goofing around when it came to outdoor shenanigans, and I was the inside girl who locked her door and told them to go away.



Look at my cool coat. It was like a white sweater knit on the outside with pink and tan sewed on patches.



Grandma is totally going to throw that at someone and steal their Red Cross donut.



But, I guess what happens at The Snow Motel, stays at The Snow Motel.

Brownie Points. Bacon Badges.

Knowing my affinity for fake food, a friend sent me this link to this bacon patch from artist Lee Meszaros on Etsy.

It's part of her merit badge collection. This one is awarded to someone who, you guessed it, "brings home the bacon." And as a working mom/creative director, multi-tasking/multi-personality, busy-life/busy-body professional gal, I'm definitely bringin' it.



But in simpler times, I was a Brownie.





You have to be a Brownie when you're little (I was six here), before you become a Girl Scout. I think that's how it works? I wouldn't exactly know, since I was a Brownie for all of like one year and then my mom probably decided it was just more effort than it was worth. Piano lessons were more likely to benefit me in the long run, and required less... er, outfitting.

Because, man, was I all about the outfit. The beanie, the little snap tie, the sweet peter pan color, the brown striping, the zip-up jumper, the freakin little tassels that fold up under the top of the knee socks (my favorite part) and of course, the classic brown Hush Puppies.

The funny thing is, that I would wear this entire get-up to every single Brownie meeting. Whereas the other girls wore, oh, like a Brownie t-shirt and jeans. Maybe the striped blouse with kakhis. Definitely not the beanie. Or the sock tassels.

At the time I thought those other girls were just "too cool." But at the same time, while I perceived this, I was too little to be shamed into not wearing what I thought were awesome duds. It's like getting to wear a costume! Not even on Halloween! Hello?! But the conformity shame kicks in when your the ripe old age of seven. Hmm. About the time we quit Brownies. Maybe my mom was more perceptive than I give her credit for.

I did earn a few patches along the way. My own little merits. Probably for things like friendliness, honesty, helpfulness, sock flair. Soft stuff. 'Cause I don't remember learning any hard skills, you know, like building a fire with two sticks or tying awesome knots.

But if I had merit badges today? They'd probably be:



Tara Merits



Donny Merits

Donny was a Cub Scout for a brief stint as well. Long enough to build a little matchbox car. But he traded in his navy blues, his yellow neck kerchief and his Webelos beads for a black trenchcoat and Dungeons & Dragons at the age of eleven.



Kathleen Merits

Now, Kathleen's are easy to pick out. Miss healthy-fare/hiking-far. Miss still knows how to have a messy night out on the town. Miss invitation designer/inviting danger. And, no, she never wore a scout uniform even for the shortest amount of time. Why is no one surprised by this?

Christmas Morning

Christmas morning. A relative term. At what point does lying in your bed with your eyes wide open from about 3:30 am until 5:30 am become actual "morning?" I think a quarter 'til six was usually when we would finally snap and creep into our parents room.

Even though our early bird parents would roll out of bed with little resistance, we then had to wait for them to pull on robes, or god forbid go pee. This would probably take all of one minute, but it seemed like an eternity. Because in our family it was a strict rule that no one could run ahead into the living room on Christmas morning. That would be just utterly, utterly wrong.

Our parents would always make us wait in the dark stairwell or hallway, while one of them went ahead into the living room to be sure the Christmas tree lights were turned on, and the camera was ready. That's what we're doing the photo above. Waiting in the wings with mom until we got the green light from dad.

And this is the last photo of Christmas morning where you will actually see our faces. Because the rest, although spanning almost a decade, all have one thing in common (besides varying degrees of brownish-goldish carpeting) our heads our down, our intent clear, our mission simple – opening presents.

1981

a. Blue Banana Seat Bike. Which I embarrassingly didn't learn to ride for another three years.

1983

b. Cowboys & Indians Fort. This is really hard to see in this photo, but that thing was amazing with all it's little miniature soldiers and warriors and log walls and towers. Donny is in love, you can tell.

c. Smurf Drum. I don't remember ever seeing this toy again. It's shelf life must have been short. Let's just say we were still stepping on miniature cowboys for years after, but the Smurf drum faded quickly into obscurity or the back of a closet.

d. Big Bird Alarm Clock. The most annoying alarm clock of all time. "Rise and shine! Wake up you sleepy head! That's right get one foot out of bed! Then the other!" But imagine Big Bird literally screaming this at you.

e. Kathleen. New baby, means baby toys, like...

f. Generic Stuffed Bear Number One. She could care less.

g. Generic Stuffed Bear Number Two. That might be a bunny. Still, no love there.

h. Generic Stuffed Bear Number Three. Yep, not so much a winner.

1985

i. Mini Trampoline. An eighties staple. Who didn't have one of these suckers in their house. I think they were made popular by the aerobics craze, but for most parents they were a compromise gift to kids who didn't get real trampolines. You could still hurt yourself or fall just as easily, though. The difference being you were probably inside where you would fall into, oh... a giant floor console tv set.

j. Boom Box. A much more iconic eighties staple. I would use this one to tape songs on the radio. Or sometimes we'd record our own radio shows. I didn't get my first store-bought tape until a couple years later. I remember picking it out at the store with my mom. What's the deal with the delayed full-realization of my gifts? It was INXS "Kick" of course.

k. Care Bears Nightgown. From Care Bears to "Devil Inside."

1986

l. Cute Blue Pajamas. Note the jaunty red cuffs.

m. Ridiculously Large Tree. No, really. Look how gigantic this tree is. This is just the bottom third of it, because we had a big lofted ceiling. Our dad would drive his boat across the lake where we lived at the time, and chop down a cedar tree from some secret lot, and then bring it back home strapped to his boat. This one was by far the largest. We literally once had a bird fly in through our back sliding glass doors and roost in it.

n. Generic White Bear. Hmm. Curiously still twisty-tied to it's box.

o. Not-So-Generic Care Bear. Cast aside. Face down. Ironically no one cares.

p. Alf Doll. And the clouds parted and the light shone down, and Kathleen found her first love. No cute button-nosed bears with red bow ties or hearts on their tummies for her. This was a formative moment for her.

1987

q. Playdoh Sweet Shop. Big hit. Fun for all ages.

r. Plus Came With A Hat. Kathleen of course snags the cool accessory first.

s. Donny Is Curiously Still Wearing The Same Pajamas.

1989

t. Look At My Pretty Hair. Only a self-conscious fourteen year old would bother to blow-dry her hair straight, and have it perfectly side-swept for early morning present opening, lest anyone see her look less than perfect. A fourteen-year old... or an adult Kathleen, that is.

u. Inline Skates. These were for then scruffy-haired Kathleen. She terrorized the neighborhood in them for years to come. And, briefly, in her early twenties was an honest-to-goodness roller girl. An honest-to-goodness roller girl with perfect hair. Do they come any other way?

v. The Same Dang Pajamas! I might be wrong, but I think these used to have footsies in them. They have been cut out so when Donny stands up they are like capri length pajamas. I think he finally had his growth spurt the next year. That, or he's literally going to show up Christmas morning in two days from now wearing them with his handlebar mustache and a cup of coffee.