Monday Dare (and giveaway!): Rich People Ambitions

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the complete list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Get outta here

As a kid, I wanted to lead the life of the rich, but not the Richie Rich kind of wealth. A robot maid and an amusement park in the backyard would have helped my popularity at school, but as the daughter of a mechanic and a stay-at-home mom, I knew I had to Keep It Real and bring it down a notch. I decided my two Rich Indicators would be a Marithe+Francoise Girbaud shirt and a trip to Europe.

Surprisingly, the first goal turned out to be easy. During after-school pickup one day, I pointed to a few kids who were already styling in Girbaud gear, and BAM, just a week later, I was the proud owner of not one, but TWO Girbaud items- a sweatshirt and a t-shirt. Turns out, both were conterfeits that my mom had picked up at a swap meet, but I still wore them around. Every day. Proudly.

When I broached the subject of Europe at the dinner table, my parents didn’t say “no” immediately. I took this as a promising sign. Instead, they insisted that I get specific about which country I wanted to visit. I picked Italy because my teacher, Mrs. Moulton, made such a big to-do about it being shaped like a boot. Her hype twisted my tiny little brain into believing that Italy was THE place to go.

For weeks, I was a one-person Italian Vacation Campaign. I sent away for free brochures and looked up facts about the country in the Britannica-wannabe encyclopedia from Sam’s Club that I got as a gift one Christmas.

I refused to eat Domino’s pizza or canned SpaghettiO’s because I didn’t want to dirty my palate with imitations when I knew the real thing was awaiting me.

After two months of looking through brochures that I had painstakingly highlighted and listening to me recite the Italian national anthem, Il Canto degli Italiani, my parents shattered my dream. “It wasn’t in the budget this year,” they said, but they wanted to make it up to me by going to a place that was almost as good as the real thing.

I closed my eyes during the car ride because I wanted the experience of Almost Italy to hit me all at once. Twenty minutes later, I heard the engine shut off, and my mother gingerly guided me out of the car.

We were in front of an Olive Garden.

Maybe this is where I’m supposed to tell you that it was a big disappointment and that I filed for legal emancipation soon afterwards. Just the opposite. That place was fucking magical. I had never been to Olive Garden before, and when they brought out the chilled plates for the salad, I nearly died. It was the gold standard for good living for the rest of my pre-adult years. I even celebrated my Sweet Sixteenth birthday at OG with my family.

Cal is now the same age I was when I first experienced high living, and I want to pass it on. Unfortunately, I spoiled her, and she’s already familiar with the unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks.

So I’ve decided to take her to Europe for several weeks instead. We leave this week for multiple stops in Germany and then Paris. Cal has diligently been looking up practical German phrases and working her French Rosetta Stone like a boss. I only know two German words- Volkswagen and Wienerschnitzel. The only thing I know how to say in French is “Why is the butter so expensive?” If Cal and I get separated, I’m fucked.

I would be grateful for your guidance. If you have any tips on how to travel smart (including jet lag tips, packing tips, and any other general travel tips), or places around Frankfurt and Paris that are a must-see, please DO share.

GIVEAWAY TIME, Y’ALL

When Dallas of Miro Notebooks first reached out to me, I was all “No thanks, thug, I don’t really do giveaways.” But Dallas sent a handsomely generous package my way, no strings attached. And I fell in love. The notebooks are not only functional, but also beautiful and sleek. And since I can’t keep good shit like this all to myself, I want you to have them. (P.S. The Journal Series is so popular, they are currently sold out. And they are part of the giveaway!)

Just leave a comment below, along with your travel tip, and you’ll be entered into the giveaway. I’ll announce the winner in next week’s Monday Dare.
Want to get the latest word on my European trip debacle? I’ll be posting updates on the Flourish in Progress Facebook page. “Like” the page and you’ll be the first to know if I end up in a European jail. If they have Internet access in jail. And they let me keep my phone.
first image via pinterest

Monday Dare: Running Away? Pack well. Trust me.

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the complete list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Share. Celebrate.

Remember that one time an essay I wrote ended up in a book? And some of you bought the book and I felt so goddamn lucky to know such awesome people? And other people *didn’t* buy the book, but I still felt so goddamn lucky to know such awesome people? Probably a little less awesome in my eyes now…but still a fairly good amount, so don’t worry.I’ve been looking forward to sharing this essay with you. We’ve gotten to know each other and like each other and commit crimes with each other. Wait, not the last one. Not yet anyway.

Thanks for listening. Thanks for being my friend.

____

“I am running away. I want you to have my CDs. Don’t scratch them.”

What did I know as an 18-year-old? I knew that I was pregnant. I knew that I was going to be a single mother. I knew that my parents wanted me to terminate my pregnancy. If I could just withstand their incessant prodding for five more weeks, I would pass the six-month mark, and the procedure would be illegal. I knew that I was running away. As soon as my best friend pulled into the driveway, I knew I would be without a home, without any money, and without a plan for the next five weeks.

I made the decision to run away the day before. I didn’t have to wait long for my chance. As soon as my mother left for the grocery store, I quickly called my best friend and I packed two garbage bags. With a teenager’s lack of forethought, I stuffed every pair of shoes I owned into one bag and three sweatshirts into the other plastic bag. I didn’t pack a clean change of underwear or any pants.

The only possessions I had given any thought to were my CDs. Every last cent I earned from odd jobs went into purchasing those CDs. They represented all my careless adventures and frivolous youthful indulgences.

I never let anyone touch them, but I knew I couldn’t bring them along. They would get lost or stolen while I shuffled around from one place to another, so I decided to leave them to my brother. But I didn’t trust him, and I couldn’t just leave them on his desk, lest the significance was lost on a 16-year-old. I decided to write a note.

“I am running away. I want you to have my CDs. Don’t scratch them.”

In that moment, as I wrote that note, I knew I was leaving behind any vestige of youth. I was stepping into adulthood.

I walked out of my childhood home with two garbage bags. As the car drove further and further away, I  couldn’t help but turn around and look one last time.

“He better not wreck those CDs.”

I never lived in that home again.

My daughter, Cal, recently turned 12.