Tutorial: Bed Head to Classy Updo

I'm straying from my usual anecdotal tales of lessons learned the hard way in order to fulfill a promise to a few of my friends. A few weeks ago, I accidentally created a hairdo that I have since repeated a dozen times. I'm a big fan of cute updos but an even bigger fan of convenience. I hope that this 10 minute updo can be your go-to hairstyle for those morning you're running late but don't want to sacrifice cuteness. :) 

The end result!

1) Start with your hair down. Any texture or style (or lack thereof, in my case) is fine. This doozy right here is my air-dryed, no product mop. Sexxxxy. 

2) Back-comb the top of your hair a bit, to give it a little bit of a "bump." 

3) If newly washed and lacking natural oils (hence: hard to hold in place), spray with some product. You want to have enough product in your hair so that it isn't slipping through your fingers as you work.

4) Pull up the top half or so of your hair and make a half braid (just a plain old braid, nothing French or fancy) down to about your ears. 

 

5) Make a VERY loose ponytail at your neckline. 

6) This part is hard to capture on camera, since I'm not an octopus and am limited to my two lame human arms. You should make a slit above the ponytail and twist the ponytail up and through the slit. 

 

7) The result of the loose ponytail, slit, flip through process should look something like this. Except minus the squirrel looking end... that's unique to yours truly and is in no way required.

8) For longer hair, flip the remaining hair up again, as though you're going to pull the hair through the slit again, but pin it in place instead. For my medium length hair, I bobby pinned the rest of my hair (aka: the squirrel tail) into a messy bun of sorts, wherever it seemed to work best. This part is really open for interpretation using your own hair knowledge of what works best for YOUR hair.

9) Add any clips, pins, feathers, or other accessories you wish! 

10) Enjoy the quickest, easiest updo you could ever imagine. Rock this style with confidence because you, my dear, are gorgeous... even with bed head.

The Town That Built Me

A county road by Lake Sakakawea, home to many a bonfire and sleepless night

I grew up in Beulah, North Dakota, approximately 75 miles from the nearest Starbucks and 10 miles from a movie theater, which, might I add, hosts only two screens. Diversity at its finest. I was a freckle faced teen with two seemingly contradictory feelings about "my" town (as I so arrogantly referred to it): a great deal of hometown pride and the simultaneous urge to get the hell out already. I would sit in my high school sociology class, debating the importance of things that seemed to be so commonsensical to me at the time (i.e. equal rights for all Americans, regardless of race, sexual orientation, religion, or lack there of). But no matter how matter-of-fact I would make myself sound, no matter how many "STOP BEING IGNORANT"s I would throw in there, I felt as if my words were falling on deaf ears. I realize now that my name-calling and finger pointing probably weren't helping me to persuade and "enlighten" the masses. 

By my senior year, that urge to move away grew into a restless fever; I felt like I was suffocating in a town filled with people who knew too much about me, or at least thought they did. I was sick of the labels, the gossip, the judgment, and the rumors. I needed out - STAT. And so I went. I moved four hours away, fell in love with a guy way out of my league, and never moved back - not even for the summers that so many of my friends did. I was loving the life I had in a new place, with new people, and with new information. I never imagined moving back. I still had a soft spot in my heart for all things Beulah but, in all honesty, I was "over" it. I felt I had milked that experience for all it was worth and I was content with leaving it in the dust.

Sommershine Hill: winter days were spent sledding down then huffing and puffing my way back up

I soon learned that you can never quite predict an emotion until you are smack dab in the middle of it. If faced with the hypothetical of my parents moving away from my hometown, selling the house I grew up in, and taking new jobs in a town I knew hardly anything about, I would have told you that I would feel slightly heartbroken at first, probably have a good cry, but that I would quickly applaud my parents for taking that brave new step. In reality, it was the opposite. I was so happy for my parents when they told me that they were moving to Jamestown, about three hours east of my hometown of Beulah, and only about an hour away from my current residence. Good for them, I thought upon hearing the news. It will be so nice having them so close.And don't get me wrong, I am beyond thrilled for my parents. I admire them for taking new jobs across the state when most people their age are thinking about retirement plans.

But today on my drive home from work, buckled in to my Toyota Matrix and thinking about my parents' first week of work for the Jamestown Public Schools, I hear Miranda Lambert's "House that Built Me" on the radio and, suddenly, I am in tears. The man next to me at a red light gives me a look of sympathy. I smile politely through my sobs. He looks away awkwardly, as if he just caught me in the middle of something too personal for a stranger's eyes. 

As I listen to the song, I realize just how many memories were made in that charming little house on Sheila Drive. The new owners have no idea how many times I sat in the closet connecting my sister's bedroom to my own, cup pressed up against the closet door, eavesdropping on her conversations with her countless boyfriends. I, on the other hand, had my chemistry set and my American Girl dolls. Womp womp. They don't know how many apple pies we made from the two apple trees in the backyard or how many hours were spent decorating sugar cookies at the kitchen counter. They don't know how many Christmas cards and prom pictures were taken by the fireplace in the basement. They didn't see the pride on my parent's faces when the new kitchen was finally complete. They have no idea that my ex-boyfriend carried me up those stairs with a broken toe after I kicked him in the shin. Mom and Dad, consider this my formal apology for lying. I didn't "trip" after all, but I'm sure you already knew that. You always did.

The good ol' days when a bunny costume didn't have to be a "sexy" bunny costume. I miss you, childhood.

Until a few months ago, I would have never thought I would miss the wheat fields of Coal Country. I would have never thought that a simple song on the radio would make my heart ache for a place I had cursed so many times.  But I miss it. I miss the way the football field looked in the fall, surrounded by trees hundreds of years in the making, decorated with orange and yellow leaves. I miss wandering around the schools, with the smell of markers and Elmer's glue lingering in the hallways. I miss familiar faces asking how I'm doing and genuinely wanting to hear the answer. I miss the kind of kindness and consideration that you can only find in a town as small as mine, the sort of homegrown sensitivity and "help your neighbor" attitude that inspires fleishkuekle feeds or pancake benefits for any residents in the middle of tough times.

I continue listening as MIranda sings, "Out here it's like I'm someone else, I thought that maybe I could find myself..." No matter how hard I search, I will never find that same sense of home that I used to feel in Beulah. There are moments I wish so badly that I could relive but I realize now that I'm wishing to go back to the way things never were. I heard an expression that goes something along the lines of, "The past is never quite as great as we remember it, the present never as boring, and the future never as scary." I can't get back the innocence and the youth that ran through my veins all those years ago. I can't relive my first kiss, my first dance, the first day at my first job, or my graduation day. What I can do is look back with a smile, thanking God for blessing me with a happy childhood, allowing me to meet some wonderful friends, challenging me with some painful experiences, and leading me to the life I have now. 

Beulah, my dear, we've had some tough times.. a love hate relationship if you will.. but you will forever be my hometown. Thanks for making me the woman I am, for better or worse. I love you for it.

P.S. Go Miners! 

Her Light is Still Shining

On May 25, 2007, my lifelong friend, Amy Kritzberger, wrote me a note containing the following sentence: 

"No matter how many miles we'll be apart, even if the hands of time separate us.. you will FOREVER be my first and one of the greatest best friends I've ever had." 

Though I smiled as I read those words the first time, comforted by the promise of a forever confidant and a continuation of the longest friendship I'd ever had, I was unaware of how much those same words would mean in just a few short months. On August 13, 2007, Amy was killed in a car accident on Highway 49 just ten miles south of our hometown. I remember hearing the news and cursing my mother for even daring to speak such a horrible thing, insisting she was misinformed, relying on my own selfish emotions more than the clear facts in front of me.

She wouldn't leave us. She was the backbone of our class, the reason we all remained so close over the years, the most genuine person I had ever known - she couldn't be gone. But the tears of my classmates, the flowers being placed on her boyfriends van as a makeshift memorial, the hallow feeling in my chest - countless signs kept reminding me that she really was... gone. 

Her words provided comfort when nothing else seemed to work. "No matter how many miles..." and "even if the hands of time separate us..." echoed the kind of intuitive wisdom that Amy always had. And like I always do when I can't find the right words to say, I wrote. The day after Amy died I wrote the following post, a tribute to a girl I grew to love, admire, and respect over our 15 or so years together.

Written August 14, 2007:

"She always told me that you have to live in the moment. Never settle. She was there for me when my heart was broken. She hugged me when I most needed it. She was the one person who knew just what to say at the perfect moment. 

So what do you do when the person who is always there to heal your heart is the person you are grieving for?  She is not here to make this go away.  She's not here to wipe away my tears and make me a burned CD of perfect songs to make me smile.  Our Beautiful Amy is gone and we can't say or do anything to get her back.

When we were only 3 years old, she became my first best friend.  I would crawl over my fence into her backyard and we would spend the whole day together.  We would make french fries in her little toy-oven and drive around in her play car.  

Our first, and only fight, came when we were about 5 or 6 years old.  I don't even know what started it but I remember her friend, Tyrel, flipping me the middle finger at one point... at the time, I didn't even know what it meant but I knew it wasn't good. 

It is so difficult to believe, and always will be, that she isn't with us.  It just isn't fair that someone that young, that beautiful, that determined... can be gone without a moment's notice.

Amy's gorgeous eyes, harmonious nature, philosophical mind, free spirit, and gentle words of wisdom will forever live on in the memories of each and every one of us who loved her.  In the words of Miss Amy, 'Don't be afraid that your life will end... Only be afraid if it never begins.'  Amy's life began. She lived every day to its fullest and made the best of every situation.  She truly is an angel now."

I've been told over and over that time heals all wounds. Though I admit that the sting I felt that day has softened, the pain is more bearable, I would never say that I have healed. None of the people who loved Amy (and boy were there plenty of us) will ever feel quite as whole, as complete, as when she was here on Earth. There are certain people who carry light with them everywhere they go - the kind of people with infectious laughter and unlimited love. Amy was one of those rare and precious souls. She was a light in my life and in so many others. The beauty is that on the very day that her light was extinguished here on Earth, God passed that light onto each and every person who loved her. We carry a bit of Amy with us as we graduate college or get married or fulfill dreams or have babies or break down barriers or simply sit quietly by the lake, toes in the water, staring at a beautiful sunset. She's there. Always. And where she is now - her light shines brighter than ever.

At the butterfly release to honor Amy's memory, this beautiful monarch decided to hang out for a while before it flew away. We did get our goodbye after all. Thank you for that, Amy.

I Used to Lie a Lot

I was watching TV on a lazy Sunday afternoon recently when I heard a line in a typically cliche crime drama that impressed me for its incredible truth and uncharacteristic originality within an otherwise nearly laughable script. 

"The saddest lies are the ones we tell ourselves." 

I started thinking about the biggest lie I ever told myself.

He will love me again. 
Eventually he is going to remember all the reasons he used to love me. 
He just will.
He has to.

I would think about "Mission Win Him Back" in the loneliest hours of the night, particularly after I had one (or five) too many drinks. I tried in every flirtatious fashion to make him stumble and fall back into all the laughs and dreams and feelings that come with young love. I would put on the perfume he liked. I would wear his old t-shirts. I would offer him a piece of spearmint gum, a smell I just knew would trigger all those old feelings. 

But if they did he didn't show it. He was too far gone, so gone that he didn't even seem to remember those times with the same sweet nostalgia I did. He was cold and dismissive. His smelled like smoke and his shaggy blonde hair covered the blue eyes I fell in love with. This stranger in familiar clothes kept pushing me away as I was trying to pull him back in for reasons I didn't understand. 

For years I've wondered what kept me there, in that place of loneliness and desperation. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was youthful ignorance. But, more than likely, it was rooted in my naive assumption that love happens once. You marry your first (and only) love.

I've had outspoken feminist beliefs before I even knew what that word meant so to think that I actually believed that load of shit is pretty humorous. But I did. I may not have said it outright but I learned what I saw. Grandma and Grandpa. Uncle Larry and Auntie Pam. Auntie Karen and Uncle David. My cousin, Jeff, and his wife, Val. Mom and Dad. My sister, Paige, and her Geek Squad boyfriend, Clint (whom she did indeed marry). First and only loves living happily ever after.

I tried and tried, even risking my sanity and my dignity, to make my first love my only love. But I didn't get my happily ever after. 

I got better. 

I got years of experience with heartbreak, learning to pick myself up after crying so hard I couldn't breath. I got to embrace love as it came and accept it for what it was and what it wasn't as I saw it slip through my hands. I got to learn what I didn't want in a man - selfishness, indecisiveness, manipulation. I got to see how wrong he was when he told me that nobody would ever love me again. I got to kiss some major toads and watch as they didn't turn into princes. I got the truest love of all when I needed it most, which happened to be at the most unlikely of times, in the most unlikely of situations. I got flowers in my dorm room with a note asking to be his girlfriend. I got the chance to experience the kind of passion, forgiveness, and unconditional love that I used to dream of. I got to learn that commitment is a decision, a choice you make each and every day when you look over and see your adorable husband drooling on the pillow next to you. 

I still lie to myself. 

"Running out of clean underwear doesn't necessarily mean I have to do laundry today." 
"I'm sure those cookies were around 25 calories.. I mean they were pretty small." 
"Sunscreen schmunscreen. I don't burn like I used to." (Followed soon by blisters).

But there's a truth, strong as oak, that I can repeat in my head over and over again all day, every day. He loves me. As I am. With all he has. Forever and ever. 

And that's a truth worth repeating.