A Beautiful Wreck

You know the scenes in movies where the main character is standing still but the rest of the world is moving at an accelerated pace? Like seasons change, years pass, new generations are born all in a matter of seconds?

Well, welcome to my morning!

I was the only form of a constant this morning. I spent 4 1/2 hours sitting in the same chair, at the same table, drinking the same Pumpkin Spice Latte, eating the same yogurt, and reading the same study guide in an effort to pass my Classical (or is it Contemporary?) Sociological Theory midterm as the rest of the world sped on without me.

I'm pretty sure I watched the seasons change because when I walked outside there was lightening, thunder, and rain... Which in turn would mean that those 4 1/2 hours were actually much much longer... And by the time I got up to leave I didn't even recognize the Starbucks staff, so it's possible that their children were the ones who sent me off with warm wishes of a pleasant day...

Maybe not, but still...

Once the blur of bodies rapidly moving past my stoop seized, I stopped studying Mill, Weber, Marx, and who ever the hell else was on my midterm this morning and began reflecting on the last few days and decided that people would probably get a kick out of watching my life pan out.

I'm utterly and completely a mess.

Not only do I revert back into a 12 year old girl at the thought of my current crush, but I have this wonderful ability to inappropriately ask my professors to tell me their life stories along with this amazing tendency to reveal my juvenile thoughts to my superiors. I find myself in horrendously awkward situations as a result of my constant curiosity and devotion to knowledge. But hey, I wasn't born with a social sensor, and I'm finding that it makes my life more interesting than yours.

I run around in the rain like it's the first time I've ever seen drops of water fall from the sky, and I trip walking anywhere and everywhere. It appears that I have two working feet, but I'm convinced otherwise. I get really really excited for free frozen yogurt which results in spilling half of it down the front of my child's size sweatshirt but I continue on with my conversation because I really just don't care...

My heart skips a beat when I see the edge of a certain teachers mysterious tattoo, and I turn around every time he says something charming so I can say exactly that to Anjuli... charming! (Okay, so for you professors out there who have told me you read this, I apologize. That might have been too much.)

I wear high socks with running shorts when I'm having a bad day. This doesn't actually make me feel better... in fact, people usually comment on my attire asking if I have been or plan on going to the gym. My response is usually that I just didn't feel like showering that morning.

I randomly break-in (okay I still have a key) to the house I lived in this summer and sit at the kitchen table waiting for my old roommates to come home so I have someone to talk to, complain to, jump around in excitement with, and scream ROOOOMMMIIIEEEEEE to at the top of my lungs. Because I miss them, and that house, and our summer adventures.

My dining room table and I have a really great relationship. In fact he feels very loved this week because he is completely covered in objects as diverse as the thoughts in my head. I have mental break downs late at night with him. I sit here and cry and yell in a whisper about my hectic life but calm down as soon as I see a nice cup of coffee sitting in front of me. I'm addicted to coffee, if you didn't already know.

I wish someone would secretly video tape me for a week (not in a creepy way of course) because I'd love to see just how ridiculous my conversations with Kara are, how much I over think and freak out, and the extent of the awkward situations I find myself in. Maybe no one would be thoroughly entertained by watching my life pan out... well my mom definitely would, and maybe my Aunt Kelli too, but I'm finding myself to be fascinating lately (this could be because I really haven't slept all week, and I broke my beloved coffee pot, so I'm probably 87% delirious right now).

My life is a beautiful wreck. A roller coaster of emotions in their most excited state. A story unique to me. :)

Because I have a paper to start, write, re-write and turn in by 5pm tomorrow and because I'm really good at procrastinating, I'm once again blogging about something trivial at the most inopportune time. But I think Dr. Sprinkle from the counseling center would say this is a healthy stress reliever. So Dr. Perez, your paper on Anzaldua's Borderlands is going to have to wait til later, much later, as in after I go out for froyo and coffee and pretend I have a social life later.

Excitement.

I gave up studying for Dr. Reifer's impossible midterm well before 9:00pm.

(I got as far as defining 4 terms)

So I attempted to learn the lyrics to Tupac's Changes but then gave up on that too.

(I originally figured it might be beneficial to dictate these words on my midterm. Bonus points anyone?)

Because I epically failed at both the above I figured I'd make tonight productive by consuming half a box of wheat thins in less than 10 minutes and listening to Donavon Frankenreiter on repeat.

Life. Love. Laughter.

I had a good conversation with my best friend Saturday night about life and death. Which soon turned into an even better conversation about love. Which ultimately ended in laughter.

He pretends he doesn't know, but I adore him.

And I am forever thankful for our honest conversations even when they do happen at 2:30 in the morning.

Anyways. I also made tonight productive by thinking of everything I'm excited about.

Which wouldn't be tomorrow.

(There is nothing good about Tuesdays, they are the worst of my week every week. In fact, if I could eliminate any day it would be Tuesday. I hate Tuesdays.)

But I love Wednesdays!

I can't wait for Wednesday morning coffee with Rob.

(Although I'm probably gonna have to order my summer beverage of choice because of this out of place weather.)

For Wednesday afternoon playing with Titus and Piper.

(I missed them today :/)

And for Wednesday night spent in the library with 90% of my classmates frantically cramming for the midterm none of us believe we'll pass anyways.

I'm excited for Thursday after 10:45 am.

(my midterm will be over by then)

To watch a movie in my controversial english class and play in the computer lab during Stats.

I'm excited for a really good conversation with Kara during dead hours in CASA.

And I'm excited for the possibility of going out Thursday night.

I'm excited for my 10 yoga sessions with Doodle.

To go to Boston for the Resolve Conference in November.

For my (yet to be planned) trip to DC in January.

To push through the intimidating applications for life after college.

For my sister to visit me in the near future.

To find out if James really got housing through the 100,00 Homes Campaign.

I'm excited for cold weather.

For Christmas lights, pine trees, and fires.

I'm excited for Pumpkin Spice Lattes,

Jumping in rain puddles and spinning in circles with my arms stretched wide.

For trips to the snow, good books to read, and New Year Resolutions.

I'm excited to get to know someone new,

to relinquish my awkwardness, and embrace the unknown.

I'm excited and ready for so much.

I just need to get through tomorrow :)

Now that I have exhausted what little energy I had after spending an hour and a half in Dr. Reifer's office begging for test answers I think I'll go to bed because I'm excited for that too.

100,000 Homes Campaign

I'm a girl of many words, so when assigned to reflect on my experience with the 100,000 Homes Campaign I struggled immensely with the 1,000 word limit. But in an effort to not spend my whole weekend writing about registry week, I am simply posting my reflection assignment here for you to read. Surely I have more to say, more feelings I'd love to express, and more questions I'd like to ask myself, but here you have it... what I have offered my classmates and Dr. Schlichtman about waking up at 3:00am, surveying homeless individuals, and finding out the results of this particular campaign.

9/22/10 – 7:15PM

I am tired.

No.

I am exhausted.

Totally and utterly exhausted.

I am detached.

I feel unaffected.

I cannot process.

Why?

“I think it just means you are tired Taylor.”

“Give it time. Let it sink in. Sleep. Then process.”

Yes.

That is what I will do.

Sleep.

Then think.

Process.

Sleep first.

9/19/10 – 10:30PM

Waking up at 3:00am is too much to ask of an already sleep deprived girl.

I’m nervous.

A little scared.

I’m excited.

I’m curious.

Always and forever curious.

Who will I meet?

Try not to cry Taylor.

No.

Don’t cry.

It’s not okay to cry.

Dress warm.

Be safe.

Don’t get too close.

Don’t get too attached.

Be brave.

Be strong.

JAMES!

God, let us find James.

Let me find James.

Let SOMEONE find James.

I woke up Monday ready to take on the morning, but I was scared and timid. Part of me didn’t want to find anyone on the streets, part of me wanted to find everyone. We walked along the water in Sea Port Village.

9/20/10 – 4:30AM

No one is here.

Why did we get assigned to a section where no one is?

Wait.

There!

Three people!

The first day was by far the hardest. I don’t know if it was because I only slept for 4 hours or if I hadn’t prepared myself for what I would face, but my eyes watered profusely all morning. I felt relieved to not have to survey the first 4 people we encountered. I wasn’t ready to hear their stories. I wasn’t ready to sit down with them at 4:30 in the morning and have my heart shattered. I wasn’t ready.

Why is this so difficult?

I’ve worked with homeless people before.

JAMES.

Reach out, Taylor

It’s okay.

You can do this.

I think Martha sensed my fear, my uncertainty, my uneasiness, and therefore encouraged me to sit down and survey Jay (the first person who agreed to take our survey).

9/20/10 – 5:30AM

Jay.

Not James.

22 not 79.

Wait?

My age!

No.

This isn’t fair!

I tried to keep my voice as kind as possible. I tried to remain professional, but I’m pretty sure I failed miserably. I allowed myself to be affected. I allowed myself to be broken by his story.

22.

Homeless for 3 years.

All he wants is food.

Love.

All I want to do is love him.

Does he know?

Does he know how much I care?

How much we care?

Jay is a face of homelessness I hadn’t seen before. He is merely a child, he is me. Yet less privileged, less loved, with less life chances. I find myself questioning why he is homeless and why I am not. We are the same. White. 22 year old. We live in Southern California. We have families that we grew up with, homes where we lived, high school educations. But while I have been studying Sociology at USD for the past three years he has been sleeping in parks, on street corners, under overpasses. While I have been working he has been begging. While I have had an abundance of food, he has had an extreme lack of it. We are the same. But we are completely different.

The last two days of the survey I found myself completely unaffected by the individuals I encountered. My heart wasn’t broken by their tragic stories. My eyes didn’t well with tears. I marched around downtown with a purpose. My purpose was to survey as many people as I could in the allotted 6 hours. My purpose was to gather their information in an effort to get them off the streets. My purpose was to do something - to make a difference.

9/22/10 – 5:15AM

Housing.

Survey everyone.

The one you miss could be the most vulnerable.

James.

Keep going.

Faster, Taylor.

Faster.

There are so many more people out there.

I can’t make sense of homelessness, and I don’t know that I ever will. The most I can do is keep an open mind. Keep stereotypes and negatives out of my thought processes. Love and fight for each individual equally, regardless of their situation or reason for being on the streets.

Who are we to judge? What gives us the right to deem someone lazy or deserving of the tragic life they live on the streets. Homeless individuals are as diverse as housed individuals. We are all unique in our stories. No two people I interviewed were similar. Everyone came from a different place, made different choices, has different life chances.

The number of spotted homeless individuals is infuriating. 1,040 people are sleeping outside in downtown San Diego. Yes, subtract 125 people from that number, but what about the remaining 915? The amount of work still to do is overwhelming, and quite frankly disheartening. Housing 125 people is a big step, but is nothing if considering the problem as a whole.

Homelessness isn’t going away, if anything, it is growing – spiraling out of control. Seeing first hand how large this population of homeless individuals is in a condensed area of 450 blocks makes it that much more real for me. Nearly 80% of the surveyed people reported being chronically homeless. How is that possible? We have to do something. I have to do something!

I think the brief-back session was the most telling for me. The images of the 125 individuals who will be housed in the near future renewed my sense of peace that was obliterated by this process. Three of the 22 people Group 21 interviewed appeared on the screen.

9/24/10 – 12:00PM

Jay.

Lupe.

I surveyed them!

I helped them!

Look!

JAMES?

No.

It’s not possible.

JAMES!

That’s James!

Last winter James was 79 years old, weighed no more than 80 pounds, and was suffering from a terrible cold. James appeared on the screen. Or who I believe to be James. I’m not ready to know if it really is him or not. But he is being housed along with 124 other deserving individuals and I, therefore, am eternally grateful for 100,000 Homes.

I am still processing what I saw, heard, and experienced on the streets this past week. And I can only imagine that I will be processing for a very long time. But I am thankful for such an experience. I am thankful I got to see different faces of homelessness and that I witnessed heartbreaking moments. I have a lot of work still to do, on my own and in the community. But this week left me with a new perspective and a new sense of what I need to do as a community member and as a child of God.

We are one body, one body in Christ. And we do not stand alone.

Life Unexpected

If I could go back and pinpoint the exact moment that I decided that trading in free room and board for $800 a month in rent was a good I idea, I would probably revisit my "rational" thinking process and seriously consider slapping myself across the face a few times. However, despite the fact that time travel currently doesn't exist, I have absolutely no recollection of when my bad decision making days occured, so this scientific leap backwards thing probably wouldn't work to my benefit if it had been invented. Plus despite my utter lack of free time, and the loss of my beloved 8 hours of sleep a night, I am quite content with my hectic schedule - it keeps me on my toes.

Although I can feel the panic setting in, and the stress slowly creeping up on me I have managed to keep my tears in their ducts and my freak outs to a minimum. (Matt, my roommate, truly appreciates this and I'm pretty sure the Matt that is my best friend appreciates this as well).

Last May when my entire community graduated I was heart broken and fearful of what is now my current reality. I feared experiencing my senior year without close friends. I feared spending countless hours being angry at myself for not reaching out to people my own age when I had the chance. I feared I would spend an unhealthy amount of time alone.

To my surprise, not a single one of my fears is sound. I do walk around school aimlessly, wishing for one of my friends to randomly appear in my path, but I spend nearly every night of the week at Kara's laughing at our ridiculous quests to find love in the most random of places and take long power walks with Kendra on Friday mornings. I'm not angry I don't have friends my own age at USD, I'm actually quite happy because it makes it easier to disagree with my classmates opinions in heated discussions. And the one thing I miss, that I wish I had more of, is time alone. I find myself longing for nights where I can put on a movie lay on the couch in my sweats and drown out the rest of the world.

Not having my community readily available makes the time spent with them that much more amazing. It's what keeps me going until Thursday night when my week feels like it will never end. It's what keeps me up way past my bedtime when I have a paper due the next day. It's what keeps my heart happy.

This change that I once feared so terribly has been the greatest thing I could have imagined. I have three jobs in order to pay for rent, food, transportation, and all the added joys that being a senior in college and living at the beach brings - the result of my utter lack of rational judgement.

But each one of these jobs, although entirely stressful, are the source of the joy in my life that I feared would be gone. Titus and Piper, the two babies I nanny for, bring a permanent smile to my face every Monday and Wednesday. My quest to create awareness on campus about the issues of hunger and homelessness will never ever feel like much of a job, and smiling at people three days a week and wishing them well comes with an added bonus - amazing co-workers who keep my mind off my mile long to-do-list with their very attractive faces and warm personalities.

90% of the time I feel like I'm losing my mind. There are not enough hours in the day to accomplish what needs to be done and I often feel that my mental capacity is much to full for added information, but I can't imagine giving up a single aspect of my life at this moment. This unexpected life of mine.

Thank you Matty and Kara for preparing me for this year. For drilling into my head that change can be good and that you two will always be around. Thank you for putting up with my emotional breakdowns, for still going to Sandbar with me on Thursday nights, and for taking an interest in my life apart from you.

For the first time in a long while I am truly content. Insanely busy, but unexpectedly happy with where things are.

Hello Senior Year!

A Man Named James

On December 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

This man was born in 1931. He grew up in Texas and was one of six children. He served in the Vietnam War and lived on 1st and C in downtown San Diego.

On December 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

His name was James A. Barrera. I was assigned to be his escort at Project Homeless Connect. We shared a meal together and I walked him around the convention center stopping at all the free services.

On Decemeber 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

This man was homeless. He had been for the last 4 years. He carried all of his belongings in a handheld canvas bag. He slept on the corner of 1st and C in downtown San Diego.

On December 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

His story ripped my heart into a million pieces. I forced myself to hold back tears and not pity this man, for he didn't pity himself. I stood there and truly listened and heard God through this man's voice.

James returned from Vietnam to absolutely nothing. He no longer knew his brothers and sisters and his parents had long since left Texas. He took up working odd jobs like picking strawberries down in Riverside. James has been in and out of every shelter imaginable, and did so by choice. He compared shelter life to prison, and for a man of 79 I can only imagine how difficult the sterile walls, locked doors, restricted areas, mandatory programs, and curfews were to deal with.

On Decemeber 2, 2009 I left James with Kristen, a high school volunteer who was more than willing to be his escort for the rest of the day. I said goodbye to James, hugged him and wished him well. He left me with this... "If I could, I would buy you a hundred roses. Some day we will take a bus to San Francisco. Taylor, I'll see you in San Francisco."

He winked. I walked away. Broken hearted. Full of joy.

I returned to campus that afternoon for class smelling of solidarity. I hadn't noticed the intense smell of life on the street until I sat down in the CASA office. My hair, my clothes, even my skin smelled of urine and sour milk. I wanted to vomit, but was entirely amazed by how oblivious I was to this smell while I was with James. I forced myself to finish the day wearing the extra large green Project Homeless Connect shirt over my navy USD sweatshirt and my hair in my face. It isn't often that we, the privileged, experience even the slightest bit of what life is like for individuals suffering from immense poverty.

James broke my heart in the best possible way, the way in which I respond by pouring out every last drop of love I have in me. I drove down to 1st and C a few days after I met James so I could give him a jacket and a friend. He wasn't there. In the days that followed I returned time and time again looking for my 5'4" friend. I never saw him again. I pray that he is still alive and thriving on the streets, but in my heart of hearts I don't believe that to be true. 50 unidentified homeless individuals died in San Diego last year. No one was informed of their deaths; rather, a small group of advocates held a ceremony in memory of these 50 men and women whose lives were reduced to living on the streets and ended in the worst of ways.

I have a passion. A passion that continually angers me. Shatters my heart. Destroys my spirit. I will never forget James A. Barrera, the smell of solidarity he left on me, and the promise of reuniting in San Francisco. I will never forget the importance of a simple conversation, the warmth of a hug, and the face of this stranger.

I learned a lesson about life on December 2, 2009 - sometimes we must allow ourselves to be broken in order to love.

R.E.L.A.T.I.O.N. ship

We, as human beings, were created to be in relation with one another.

And regardless of the fact that I have been reminded of this over and over by the professors responsible for my over priced liberal arts education, my doubts have remained.

Many of us go through life staring at the ground, keeping our distance from strangers, and only associating with those in close relation to us. I say many of us because as often as I avoid others, others are avoiding me. I've taken a break once or twice from my sidewalk ogling and found nearly everyone I passed as intrigued by the tiny dots and cracks in the surface below their feet as I am. Therefore, I am not alone in my obsession with the ground, yet the University of San Diego's United Professors Gild (USDUPG) has it that we were created to be in relation with one another. Right.

Maybe it's because I'm terribly awkward, (okay, terribly awkward might be an understatement), or maybe it's that I get too caught up in my day dreams to bother with seemingly unimportant people, but for whatever reason, I'm not one to talk to others. I run from the guys who ask me to dance at bars, divert my gaze when I see someone coming towards me, and coop myself up inside my tiny beach house watching Weeds, reading, and blogging.

I'm a homebody. I always have been and am confident in saying that I always will be. I love my Taylor time. In fact, I need my Taylor time. More time than most people need. I certainly enjoy people - occasionally forcing myself outside of my comfort zone and mingling with new faces, having quality bonding time with the people I love, and sitting around doing nothing, or everything, with close friends, but for about every minute spent with someone, I need five minutes to myself.

My mother has reassured me that I will never meet anyone if I continue to live my life this way. And as fond as I am of my life, I am doomed. Unless of course I plan on marrying one of boys I've already met, closely associate with, and don't run from. Chances? Sadly... slim, but maybe I'll hold out hope so I don't have to change my life style and actually make eye contact, plant my feet firmly on the ground, and say hello to a complete stranger. Yikes. Someone come to my rescue. Any takers?!?

Anyways, this blog posting isn't going to be entirely about my less than hopeful quest for a soulmate outside of my current community...

I found my inspiration to blog about being in relation with others by three separate individuals in the same day. I think I'm a pretty happy person. I'm usually full of energy. I smile a lot. And I spin in circles with my arms spread wide and my head thrown back because its fun, really, really fun - plus it makes me a much more pleasant person. But, last Sunday these three encounters with total strangers made my day so much better and made me feel so much happier. Honestly. I sat in traffic completely content for three hours and only became frustrated twenty minutes from my destination because I had to pee so badly that I thought I was going to puke. Who has ever been that happy? Three hours. Bumper to bumper. Stick shift.

The first two comments happened within minutes of each other. I decided I needed caffeine, an excessive amount of caffeine, before embarking on my trip to Newport to surprise my mom for her birthday. So I pulled into the only spot left in the parking lot at the bottom of Linda Vista, and needless to say it was a tight fit. I had to carefully open my door, suck in my gut, and maneuver my ant like body out of my dreadful Mitsubishi. To my surprise I had an audience and upon slamming my car door shut an attractive 20 something year old guy said "NICE JOB!" I started laughing, awkwardly smoothed out my skirt and walked into Starbucks where my second humiliating yet surprisingly uplifting meeting took place. I ordered a $2.75 venti iced coffee with room and made my way to the... um... supply station? where I poured my beloved half and half into my caffeinated beverage of choice, when upon doing so an attractive 30 something year old man says "that's a lot of coffee for a Sunday afternoon." My response - "*awkward chuckle* I have a long drive." "Are you driving to San Francisco or something?!?" I should have responded with "EXACTLY! How'd you know?" to save myself from owning up to this stranger that no, in fact I am only driving to Newport but I have a terrible addiction problem and 20 ounces of coffee is by no means a lot for a Sunday afternoon thank you very much. Oh and by the way, I'm 21, not 17.

So why did these two statements make me glow for three hours in bumper to bumper traffic? Well, for starters, I was noticed. I love being noticed. Who doesn't? And secondly, I get a sick satisfaction out of aimlessly getting a response from people for doing something that seems completely normal to me but is entirely strange to another. I often tell people I don't know how to swim just to see what they say...

The third encounter came from a very attractive 4 year old boy on Balboa Island who ran out of his front door onto the patio with his shoes on his hands and shouted "HHHHIIIIIIIII!!!!" and proceeded to have a long conversation with my mom about what he was going have for dinner. He was my favorite, for multiple reasons. How cute are 4 year olds? And 4 year olds with shoes on their hands at that? 4 year olds also aren't intimidating and the cuteness factor doesn't have to be weighed. Plus, I look more like a grown up in the eyes of a 4 year old and less like a girl pushing 17.

All three of these boys/guys/men/males added a little something to my already wonderful day. They made it brighter, made me smile wider, and made me appreciate this "we were created to be in relation with others" business that I've learned so much about. People, yes, people, bring happiness to our lives. They also bring sadness, anger, and misery, but we are rational beings, we have the ability to reason, to think, to choose, to act. After Sunday I'm more of a believer in this theory or what-have-you; still skeptical, but slowly edging nearer to pit of belief-hood. If these three totally random and incredibly insignificant exchange of words brightened my day, I can only imagine what a conversation, or a compliment, or a question can do for me in the future. Like I said before, I'm not completely sold on this idea, and I'm certainly not ready to give up my cozy couch laying, frumpy haired, make-up-less, pajama-wearing evenings with myself to run off and say hello to strangers and make an ass out of myself, but I'm willing to take a break from my relationship with the ground and see what is standing in my five foot one and a half inch line of vision.

On an entirely different and completely unrelated note, my blogs always turn in a different direction than I originally intend.

And my dad referred to me as Robinhoodette on Sunday.

Bye!

For My Daddy

Saturday mornings were exceptionally special in my house growing up.

I vividly remember walking down the hall through my parents bedroom and into the family room in one of my dad's white t-shirts and a pair of Limited Too pajama shorts (purple with cows jumping over crescent moons) hidden underneath the sea of Hanes fabric hanging down to my knees.

I didn't willing wake up, nor was I gently awoken by my dad rubbing my back whispering "good morning sweetheart" into my ear. I didn't smell the thick aroma of bacon and french toast emanating from the kitchen, or hear Abbey whining to be taken for a walk.

I woke up to

Let's dance in style, lets dance for a while

Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies

Hoping for the best but expecting the worst

Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?

and

I'm turning Japanese

I think I'm turning Japanese

I really think so

and

Mirror in the bathroom please talk free

The door is locked just you and me

Can I take you to a restuarant that's got glass tables

You can watch yourself while you are eating

and sometimes

When I'm with you baby, I go out of my head

And I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough

All the things you do to me and everything you said

And I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough

blasting out of the stereo in the family room loud enough to not only wake up our whole house, but our neighbors as well.

At my Los Feliz address, our Saturdays were spent cleaning and organizing our uncomfortably small house. We didn't go to the beach, the park, or even get to ride our bikes. We went to the hall closet, the kitchen, the backyard, and the bathrooms. The jobs were tedious and we fought over who was assigned to which job.

You might think cleaning out the Toy Closet was the easiest, but you're wrong. Because that included the dreaded red box (an old plastic crate that contained anything and everything from black widows to monkeys out of their barrel). Everything in the red box had a specific place and you had to figure out what each piece of plastic was, where it belonged and then put it back in it's respective home.

The pantry was a close second in the difficulty department. Sure you could sneak cookies when no one was looking and count how many boxes of jello were stashed away in the back of the cupboard but that just prolonged the process and left you sprawled out on the floor surrounded by cereal boxes, soup cans, and bags of chocolate chips with a wicked stomach ache.

I liked cleaning out the drawer in the kitchen the best because I got to sit on the green carpet of our family room and my dad would place the drawer in front of me. And because a 7-year-old girl lacks the ability to distinguish nails from screws, a flat head from a phillips, and an x-acto knife from a razor my Daddy helped me identify the objects and told me where to put them, then let me color code the coupons in the coupon book.

I'm pretty sure every child hates household chores and responded with complaints like "Morgan had the easiest job!" "No one is helping me!" "This is child abuse" and "I can't believe you're making me do this!"

But these Saturday mornings are among the memories that hold the most detail because from what we claimed to be child abuse and unevenly distributed tasks were days when my dad brought out the orange string ball and played catch with us in the family room and my mom made grilled tuna sandwiches for lunch that we would eat while sitting on the patio in the backyard. Saturdays always ended in a game of Sorry! with my dad on the floor of the family room and slices of pound cake and coke floats as rewards for our hard work.

And every time I hear a song by Alphaville, The Vapors, English Beat, or Depech Mode, my stomach does a flip and my eyes start to burn and I smile enormously wide because I think about waking up Saturday mornings and walking down the hall through my parents bedroom and into the family room in one of my dad's white t-shirts and a pair of Limited Too pajama shorts (purple with cows jumping over crescent moons) hidden underneath the sea of Hanes fabric hanging down to my knees.

We cleaned our house this Saturday - not my family, but Kenny, Kara, and I. We traded in waking up at 7:30 for 10:30, Alphaville for the Beach Boys, and cookies for beer. And although I became a little (okay a lot) nostalgic and felt a deep desire to blog about my dad waking me up ridiculously early to strange music, once again I am thrilled that I have such opportunities where new experiences constantly bring up old memories.