Material Girl
December 1988. A year after high school graduation, and I had my first real job with a regular paycheck. I was a teacher at Kids Kollege, a daycare/preschool center near my home (the same place my parents bought a few years later). I took care of 12 three year olds.
I was convinced that their time with me was foundational. Preschool prepared them for kindergarten, and success in kindergarten would mean success in first grade, and so on, ultimately ensuring lives of exceptional achievement. I was sure of it. The other teachers must have been impressed with my work. What other explanation was there for the fact that they sent me their kids to watch too, while they ordered food and hung out together in the office?
I often stayed late after work, Xeroxing pages that would surreptitiously teach the children letters and colors while they thought they were merely coloring. I spent my own money on workbooks and storybooks and music that would expand their horizons. The soundtrack to The Man from Snowy River, for example, would surely develop in them a well defined taste for the better things in life.
The money hadn’t been as good as I had thought. A full-time college student, I spent much of my paycheck on books and paying back the short-term loan I had taken out to cover tuition. But I couldn’t think about that right now. Christmas was 3 days off, and I had a paycheck—$287. I was going to spend every penny of it on Christmas presents. Usually the Christmas season meant carefully allocating $30 dollars between 5 brothers and sisters, Mom, Dad, and a few friends. But this year was going to be extravagant. This year I was going to experience the world of the rich and privileged. I was going to be a good queen, generous and benevolent. I would be a December 25th hero—the source of happiness and awe for my family.
I worked the early shift at work—5:30 a.m. until 2:00 p.m. Usually that gave me time for a 30 minute nap before I got ready for school. But school was done for the semester, and I had no need of a nap. The adrenaline rush was too powerful. $287--and I would spend it all. Not carefully doled out here and there. There was too much dough to have to parse it carefully. I would walk into stores and just pick up things I wanted. This would be a time of plenty.
I stopped by the bank to cash my check and, feeling like a millionaire with all of those bills crowded into my wallet, I rushed home to pick up my little brother Leif. I could have gone with a friend, or one of my sisters, but it won’t surprise anyone in my family when I say that Leif was the ideal person to partner in such a venture. If you could convince him to join a project, he would come to it with as much enthusiasm and energy as he could muster—matching my sum of money to spend with his ample energy and attitude. Some people say “yes” to things, but aren’t committed and fizzle out. Not Leif. He didn’t say “yes” quickly or easily, but when he did, he was all in.
Once we thought it would be fun to see how my brother and his friend looked in girl’s clothes. They were initially both willing participants. We put them in skirts and got a good laugh. At that point, my brother’s friend backed out. He didn’t like the laughing; it threw off his initial willingness. But if Leif is in for a dime, he is in for a dollar. Struggling through hysterics, we added pantyhose, high heels, then broke out the curling iron, hair bows, and make up. We found a navy purse and some beads for his neck. I have the photograph somewhere—Leif on the front porch as a hideous looking girl. Posing in his 8 year boy’s imitation of a sexy woman—one hand on a protruding hip, the other hand behind his tilted back head. Leif, when he is in, is ALL in.
On this day, he did not disappoint. It only took him seconds to catch my mood and join me in the car. We took off as fast as we were able. Which was, as my Dad likes to say, about as fast as a herd of turtles.
The car we drove was my older brother’s light blue hatch-back. He was serving a church mission in Belgium, and my parents let me use it to get to work while he was away. But some valve related to the starter didn’t open as it should. I say “some valve” because I only knew it was a valve, and it tended to stick. One morning, trying to make a quick get away in between church meetings, my sister and I dashed out to the car and turned the key—nothing. Turned the key again . . . nothing. Not knowing what else to do, we opened the hood and looked in. I don’t know what we thought we would do then. We just stood alongside the car, staring at the complicated metal, plastic, and rubber contraptions that made up the car. But an elderly gentleman (apparently also dashing away after Sacrament meeting) came to our rescue. He listened and looked at the car under the hood while my sister turned the key. He then asked me if I had a pencil. I did have a pencil. I watched as he used the pencil to push down on a little round disc of metal attached to a hinge. If you turned the key and tapped the gas while the pencil was pushing the disc down, the car started right up, clean and clear. We closed the hood and drove off to Seven-11 to make taboo Sunday purchases. We used the trick with the pencil over and over again. It did pose difficulties when I was driving alone, without a passenger to turn the key while I held the valve open with a pencil. But I discovered a man’s long plastic comb would do the trick—the teeth would lodge the comb in place, holding the disc open so I could start the car by myself.
Leif was too young to start up the car. So I did what I did every morning when I drove myself to work. I popped the hood, inserted the comb, got back in the car and started it up, got out and removed the comb, closed the hood, and we were off! Lifestyles of the rich and famous.
First stop, Reams. Reams was an old ice-skating rink in Provo converted into a grocery and western wear store. It had a domed roof like the shell of a turtle and completed the look with green paint. A giant pair of Levis 501 jeans hung from the ceiling—Paul Bunyon sized jeans 20 feet long. They let shoppers know that more than groceries were sold here. The produce was kept in a strange little refrigerated corridor in the front of the store with swinging thick plastic doors you could push open with your cart on either end. Everyone knew it was the best place to buy Levis, cowboy boots, hats, and fresh fruits and vegetables. But not everyone knew that Reams also sold an impressive quantity of ceramic figurines and other rare and unique knick-knacks. They had ceramic bunnies at Easter, ceramic pumpkins and witches at Halloween, and cute little ceramic mice holding American flags for the Fourth of July. A bargain at $1.99.
I was looking for Christmas decorations. I was planning for my future, really. It was high time I started a collection of decorations for when I had my own home and family. I didn’t want to find myself in the desperate position of being married and facing our first Christmas together without any holiday themed decorations with which to adorn our humble home. Leif helped me chose carefully—three ceramic Santas, each with a different theme. There was a classic Santa in traditional red suit and hat. There was a cowboy Santa in a hat and boots, wearing a gun belt slung low under his fat belly, and a surfs-up Santa in board shorts and sunglasses. They were a prudent choice, I thought. Not only did they resemble each other enough in size and design to signal the beginning of what I hoped would be a substantial and valuable collection one day, they could also do double decoration duty—functioning as stand alone decorations or, given the gold thread attached to the tops, hang from a Christmas tree. Pricey at $2.99 each. But no matter, I was loaded.
We moved to the toy aisle, a special section of the store rigged up each year just for Christmas. It carried an eclectic range of options—dolls, puzzles, funny sweatshirts. As we browsed, Leif and I would hold up items and ask “do you think Patrick would like this?” “What about this for Kjrsten?” and so the choosing began. Exuberant. Extravagant. I never said no because of price, only if I saw something I liked better. We chose item after item. Our arms were overflowing. When we were finished, the bill came to more than $80. A mere drop in the bucket. I had hundreds left and had already accumulated bags of gifts.
With each selection, we felt more powerful and free. “Sure—let’s get it.” “How about two?” “Why not get the matching set?” Exiting the store, I experienced a rush that can be compared to, and I can only imagine here, the rush that the quarterback feels running onto the field at the Super Bowl, knowing he is at the top of his game and about to get a chance to demonstrate his quality. Once the car had been started, and we were settled in, Leif and I could both feel it. Sitting in the parking lot, we plotted a power move. We would go to the mall. The mall—where everything cost more, but where there were many stores with merchandise sure to tempt us into spending the rest of the money. There would be sales, and crowds, and probably some elementary school choir singing carols. This was the immersion approach to shopping. We would be bombarded with noises and smells and people and colors and textures and commodities. We were up to the challenge.
Before we drove away, we shuffled through the cassette tapes I kept in the car until we found what we were looking for—a tape by Madonna. I pushed it into the cassette player and fast-forwarded until I found the song. (You know it. Sing along.) Material Girl. We jacked the volume up full blast and belted out the lyrics along with her: “we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl. You know that we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.” We two, Leif and I, sang at the top of our voices. But singing wasn’t enough to channel the rush of energy. Parked in the car outside of Reams, we both began dancing—bouncing on the car seat, doing the swim with our arms, the head angling from side to side—“ a ma-ter-i-al, a ma-ter-i-al, girl . . . liv-ving in a ma-ter-ial world, liv-ing in a ma-ter-ial world.”
I suppose we made it to the mall. I’m pretty sure we spent all my money. I don’t remember what we bought. But I do remember in that moment feeling at home in the universe—a material universe that accepted me with money in my pocket. For a few minutes, I felt I belonged in the world that sponsored and validated me rather than standing at a critical, judgmental distance. The world and I were one—joined in our materialness.
Thinking back on that afternoon, it wasn’t really the material world that I was connected to. It was my little brother. While I was so focused on purchasing gifts for others, he was giving a gift to me—without which, none of the joy I had that day would have been possible. He did not just accompany me; he was my partner, celebrating with me, selflessly enjoying my joy and reflecting it back to me. Dancing in my car singing “material girl” at the top of his lungs was Leif’s beautiful gift to me. Thank you, brother.
I was convinced that their time with me was foundational. Preschool prepared them for kindergarten, and success in kindergarten would mean success in first grade, and so on, ultimately ensuring lives of exceptional achievement. I was sure of it. The other teachers must have been impressed with my work. What other explanation was there for the fact that they sent me their kids to watch too, while they ordered food and hung out together in the office?
I often stayed late after work, Xeroxing pages that would surreptitiously teach the children letters and colors while they thought they were merely coloring. I spent my own money on workbooks and storybooks and music that would expand their horizons. The soundtrack to The Man from Snowy River, for example, would surely develop in them a well defined taste for the better things in life.
The money hadn’t been as good as I had thought. A full-time college student, I spent much of my paycheck on books and paying back the short-term loan I had taken out to cover tuition. But I couldn’t think about that right now. Christmas was 3 days off, and I had a paycheck—$287. I was going to spend every penny of it on Christmas presents. Usually the Christmas season meant carefully allocating $30 dollars between 5 brothers and sisters, Mom, Dad, and a few friends. But this year was going to be extravagant. This year I was going to experience the world of the rich and privileged. I was going to be a good queen, generous and benevolent. I would be a December 25th hero—the source of happiness and awe for my family.
I worked the early shift at work—5:30 a.m. until 2:00 p.m. Usually that gave me time for a 30 minute nap before I got ready for school. But school was done for the semester, and I had no need of a nap. The adrenaline rush was too powerful. $287--and I would spend it all. Not carefully doled out here and there. There was too much dough to have to parse it carefully. I would walk into stores and just pick up things I wanted. This would be a time of plenty.
I stopped by the bank to cash my check and, feeling like a millionaire with all of those bills crowded into my wallet, I rushed home to pick up my little brother Leif. I could have gone with a friend, or one of my sisters, but it won’t surprise anyone in my family when I say that Leif was the ideal person to partner in such a venture. If you could convince him to join a project, he would come to it with as much enthusiasm and energy as he could muster—matching my sum of money to spend with his ample energy and attitude. Some people say “yes” to things, but aren’t committed and fizzle out. Not Leif. He didn’t say “yes” quickly or easily, but when he did, he was all in.
Once we thought it would be fun to see how my brother and his friend looked in girl’s clothes. They were initially both willing participants. We put them in skirts and got a good laugh. At that point, my brother’s friend backed out. He didn’t like the laughing; it threw off his initial willingness. But if Leif is in for a dime, he is in for a dollar. Struggling through hysterics, we added pantyhose, high heels, then broke out the curling iron, hair bows, and make up. We found a navy purse and some beads for his neck. I have the photograph somewhere—Leif on the front porch as a hideous looking girl. Posing in his 8 year boy’s imitation of a sexy woman—one hand on a protruding hip, the other hand behind his tilted back head. Leif, when he is in, is ALL in.
On this day, he did not disappoint. It only took him seconds to catch my mood and join me in the car. We took off as fast as we were able. Which was, as my Dad likes to say, about as fast as a herd of turtles.
The car we drove was my older brother’s light blue hatch-back. He was serving a church mission in Belgium, and my parents let me use it to get to work while he was away. But some valve related to the starter didn’t open as it should. I say “some valve” because I only knew it was a valve, and it tended to stick. One morning, trying to make a quick get away in between church meetings, my sister and I dashed out to the car and turned the key—nothing. Turned the key again . . . nothing. Not knowing what else to do, we opened the hood and looked in. I don’t know what we thought we would do then. We just stood alongside the car, staring at the complicated metal, plastic, and rubber contraptions that made up the car. But an elderly gentleman (apparently also dashing away after Sacrament meeting) came to our rescue. He listened and looked at the car under the hood while my sister turned the key. He then asked me if I had a pencil. I did have a pencil. I watched as he used the pencil to push down on a little round disc of metal attached to a hinge. If you turned the key and tapped the gas while the pencil was pushing the disc down, the car started right up, clean and clear. We closed the hood and drove off to Seven-11 to make taboo Sunday purchases. We used the trick with the pencil over and over again. It did pose difficulties when I was driving alone, without a passenger to turn the key while I held the valve open with a pencil. But I discovered a man’s long plastic comb would do the trick—the teeth would lodge the comb in place, holding the disc open so I could start the car by myself.
Leif was too young to start up the car. So I did what I did every morning when I drove myself to work. I popped the hood, inserted the comb, got back in the car and started it up, got out and removed the comb, closed the hood, and we were off! Lifestyles of the rich and famous.
First stop, Reams. Reams was an old ice-skating rink in Provo converted into a grocery and western wear store. It had a domed roof like the shell of a turtle and completed the look with green paint. A giant pair of Levis 501 jeans hung from the ceiling—Paul Bunyon sized jeans 20 feet long. They let shoppers know that more than groceries were sold here. The produce was kept in a strange little refrigerated corridor in the front of the store with swinging thick plastic doors you could push open with your cart on either end. Everyone knew it was the best place to buy Levis, cowboy boots, hats, and fresh fruits and vegetables. But not everyone knew that Reams also sold an impressive quantity of ceramic figurines and other rare and unique knick-knacks. They had ceramic bunnies at Easter, ceramic pumpkins and witches at Halloween, and cute little ceramic mice holding American flags for the Fourth of July. A bargain at $1.99.
I was looking for Christmas decorations. I was planning for my future, really. It was high time I started a collection of decorations for when I had my own home and family. I didn’t want to find myself in the desperate position of being married and facing our first Christmas together without any holiday themed decorations with which to adorn our humble home. Leif helped me chose carefully—three ceramic Santas, each with a different theme. There was a classic Santa in traditional red suit and hat. There was a cowboy Santa in a hat and boots, wearing a gun belt slung low under his fat belly, and a surfs-up Santa in board shorts and sunglasses. They were a prudent choice, I thought. Not only did they resemble each other enough in size and design to signal the beginning of what I hoped would be a substantial and valuable collection one day, they could also do double decoration duty—functioning as stand alone decorations or, given the gold thread attached to the tops, hang from a Christmas tree. Pricey at $2.99 each. But no matter, I was loaded.
We moved to the toy aisle, a special section of the store rigged up each year just for Christmas. It carried an eclectic range of options—dolls, puzzles, funny sweatshirts. As we browsed, Leif and I would hold up items and ask “do you think Patrick would like this?” “What about this for Kjrsten?” and so the choosing began. Exuberant. Extravagant. I never said no because of price, only if I saw something I liked better. We chose item after item. Our arms were overflowing. When we were finished, the bill came to more than $80. A mere drop in the bucket. I had hundreds left and had already accumulated bags of gifts.
With each selection, we felt more powerful and free. “Sure—let’s get it.” “How about two?” “Why not get the matching set?” Exiting the store, I experienced a rush that can be compared to, and I can only imagine here, the rush that the quarterback feels running onto the field at the Super Bowl, knowing he is at the top of his game and about to get a chance to demonstrate his quality. Once the car had been started, and we were settled in, Leif and I could both feel it. Sitting in the parking lot, we plotted a power move. We would go to the mall. The mall—where everything cost more, but where there were many stores with merchandise sure to tempt us into spending the rest of the money. There would be sales, and crowds, and probably some elementary school choir singing carols. This was the immersion approach to shopping. We would be bombarded with noises and smells and people and colors and textures and commodities. We were up to the challenge.
Before we drove away, we shuffled through the cassette tapes I kept in the car until we found what we were looking for—a tape by Madonna. I pushed it into the cassette player and fast-forwarded until I found the song. (You know it. Sing along.) Material Girl. We jacked the volume up full blast and belted out the lyrics along with her: “we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl. You know that we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.” We two, Leif and I, sang at the top of our voices. But singing wasn’t enough to channel the rush of energy. Parked in the car outside of Reams, we both began dancing—bouncing on the car seat, doing the swim with our arms, the head angling from side to side—“ a ma-ter-i-al, a ma-ter-i-al, girl . . . liv-ving in a ma-ter-ial world, liv-ing in a ma-ter-ial world.”
I suppose we made it to the mall. I’m pretty sure we spent all my money. I don’t remember what we bought. But I do remember in that moment feeling at home in the universe—a material universe that accepted me with money in my pocket. For a few minutes, I felt I belonged in the world that sponsored and validated me rather than standing at a critical, judgmental distance. The world and I were one—joined in our materialness.
Thinking back on that afternoon, it wasn’t really the material world that I was connected to. It was my little brother. While I was so focused on purchasing gifts for others, he was giving a gift to me—without which, none of the joy I had that day would have been possible. He did not just accompany me; he was my partner, celebrating with me, selflessly enjoying my joy and reflecting it back to me. Dancing in my car singing “material girl” at the top of his lungs was Leif’s beautiful gift to me. Thank you, brother.
I'm loving the sentimental flashboacks of your life! It is great to have record of our learnings and expereinces and family. keep them coming! I do read even if I have become a little lazy with my own blog or comments! Thank you for sharing a piece of you! We love you Trin!
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