That means "I love you."

I met her when I was five.

She stood out to me, even as a child, because she was the only adult at the family reunion playing football with the cousins.

"This behavior!" gasped the relatives. "At the age of 82!"

She sent me letters, real mail, type-written on yellow stationery bordered with flowers. We drove to Minnesota to visit one summer, staying with her in her tiny house. We spent days swimming in the pool and exploring the surrounding gardens and lakes. She swam laps every morning. It kept her young, she said.

Before we went to sleep at night, she would reach over and take my hand, squeezing it three times.

"That means 'I love you,'" she explained. "My husband and I used to do that every night before we went to sleep. It was my secret with him, and now it's my secret with you."

I didn't see her much, but there were letters, always letters. I wrote back religiously, even learning to type on the electric typewriter that my parents kept in the basement. Then she got sick. She moved from her tiny house into a tinier room in a nursing home. The nurses continued to read her my letters, and I still received them from her, sporadically now, even as the cancer progressed, eventually forcing her into a wheelchair and then into bed.

She died when I was fourteen. Weeks later, I received a package. It contained her wedding ring, and several smudged photos of me. When I looked more closely, I saw that the smears on the photos where the places where she'd kissed the images, to say goodnight, or perhaps good morning, or just as a way to tell me she loved me, since I was too far away to squeeze her hand.

Her ring sat in a safety deposit box for years. Now, I wear it on a chain around my neck. It reminds me to hope. It reminds me that somewhere in me runs the blood of the woman who swam laps to stay young, and played football with the cousins, and loved unconditionally and well.

An inconvenient tuth

An excerpt from Thanksgiving dinner:

Brother: "So I'm thinking about getting a tattoo."

Mom and I, simultaneously: "Of WHAT?"

Brother: "Of the phrase, 'Are you comfortable with your truth?'"

Brooke: "What if they misspell something?"*

Me: "And then your back would say, 'Are you comfortable with your tuth?' You'd have to be a dentist."

I love the holidays.

*Disclaimer: This statement was not intended to degrade, demean, or disgruntle any tattoo artists who may or may not read this blog. Rather, the implication was that if one chooses to tattoo such a long phrase across one's back, one should fully consider all possible consequences.

What to do with a stray $2K.

Go here.

See this.

That is all.

Because being a ballerina isn't realistic...

I have exciting news, everyone.

At the age of 27, I finally know what I want to do when I grow up.

I've had quite the variety of jobs. I've even liked some of them. But I've never really come home at the end of the day just glowing because I've changed someone's life for the better. I've provided you with the following sample of My Crazy Resumé, just in case you were worried that I hadn't tried out enough jobs before reaching a conclusion on my future.

*Entry person at Sedgwick Co. Zoo. I sold tickets, and memberships, and was responsible for closing the front gates if Something escaped. Which happened more than once. Ask me. I'll tell you stories.

*Retail sales at Hallmark. This required a lot of dusting, and an insane amount of enthusiasm for angel figurines and Beanie Babies. And dusting. Did I mention dusting?

*KSU's infamous Van Zile Dining Center. I cooked, believe it or not. And provided candid opinions of what the main course was really like that day, and wore a really cheesy hat. (Speaking of cheese - the theme for our Holiday Dinner my freshman year was Harry Potter. I remember this because the VZDC employees were forced to construct a replica of Hogwart's out of cubes of cheddar cheese. Not kidding.)

*Wonder/Hostess bakery in Denver, CO. I learned to make ginormous batches of WonderBread and snack cakes, developed ferocious arm muscles from lifting the snack cake pans (each one weighs about 30 lbs.) and realized that I never, never want to spend 8 hours a day hand-packing gem donuts. (Yes, they're packaged by hand. Ask me. I'll tell you stories.)

*Wonder/Hostess research and development lab in K.C. Changed the icing formulation for Honey Buns to decrease moisture loss. Developed a flavor profile for the Raspberry Zingers (in stores now!) and Hostess Apple Spice Cupcakes. (Please do not blame me for the company's bankruptcy. I TRIED to tell them that while raspberry IS one of the more upper-crust artificial fruit flavors, Raspberry Zingers still do not qualify as a "sophisticated snack.")

*Beach Museum of Art. I greeted visitors cheerfully, answered questions, and made sure no one took pens into the galleries. I basically got paid to study and look at art. Using this blog to kill time? Check out Dieu Donné papermill, Dale Chihuly, and Patrick Dougherty!

* American Institute of Baking. Technical Information Coordinator. (Yes, it abbreviates to "TIC.") I put helped put together nutrition labels for different food products, and (briefly) edited a technical bulletin. My first big-kid job!

* Osborn & Barr Communications, a.k.a. O&B, a.k.a. Obliterate and Belittle. I wrote advertising copy ("tomorrow's trash!") for John Deere. We (by "we," I mean me and my designer) put out roughly 3,000 ads in 6 months. I burned out after roughly 3 months. I was laid off one year to the day after I was hired, and on the same day that I'd planned to give my two weeks' notice.

"Here's this severance package!" they said.
"I'll just tear up my two weeks' notice!" I said.

Actually, I just thought it. Then I reveled in the joy of that timing for months.

*I've also held various and sundry serving jobs, working everywhere from a Cajun restaurant to a college bar to the Cheesecake Factory.

Which brings me to where I am now. Nursing school. Anyone who reads this blog, talks to me on a semi-regular basis, or bumps into me on the street when I'm in a good mood (97% of the time, or when I'm awake) knows that I am starting nursing school in January. And after orientation yesterday, I could not be more excited. (I always think I couldn't be more excited. Then I get more excited.)

We heard about working in the neonatal ICU. (WE GET TO WORK WITH BABIES!) They talked about working in the Emergency Room. (WE GET TO WORK ON EMERGENCIES!) They told us what it's like to give an antibiotic via suppository for the first time. (WE GET TO SHOVE MEDICATIONS UP...never mind. That was further down on the list of things I'm excited about.)

Throughout my many and varied career experiences, one thing was always the same - I may not have gone home glowing because I successfully reformulated the Honey Bun mix, but I always went home happy when I could help Eddie Ray (his real name) figure out why his ads weren't running in the scheduled time slots, or when my tables left me notes saying that I'd made their day more special, or when someone was so appreciative that I could giftwrap their purchase after closing time on Christmas Eve.

You get the idea. It's corny. And it's a cliché. But I really, really like helping people. And now, I get to do it for a living! They're going to PAY ME to wear scrubs and geek out about new developments in microbiology! I get to hold babies! And hold hands! And yeah, I know there are going to be days when things are sloppy, and disgusting, and I'm going to come home with puke on my Pumas. But it's gonna be worth it. Because I am going to save lives, people! I'm going to save LIVES!

You can just call me Future Nurse Erin, The Overly Excited B.S.N.-to-be.

Don't you kids make me turn this plane around...

On the late flight back to Kansas City last night, I managed to score my favorite seat on the plane - first row/aisle, if you're interested. I love this spot because it is close to the door and has miles of legroom. It also provides an excellent vantage point for interesting interactions between captain and crew.

At one point, I briefly surfaced from Sleepytown to see the pilot, hands folded in front of him, standing at the front of the plane. He surveyed his kingdom, and then quietly said to the flight attendant, "Are they all asleep? Aww...that's so cute." It felt very family-vacation-in-the-minivan-esque. Now please go back up there and drive the plane, Captain Dad.

For your eyes only

Anyone who's worked knows that junior high behavior sometimes carries over into the workplace. Who knew it carried over into the White House?

(Note: the headline to this article changed shortly after I posted this link. It was originally "President Bush kinda puts pressure on Pakistan," which I find infinitely more amusing.)