International Coffee House

December marks the beginning of this month's new theme: International Coffee House

The traditional haven for aspiring youth, this month's essays were inspired by each staff member's visit to and flavors of a local coffee shop in an exotic land.

Allison starts by making the transition smoother for those of you that hate change with a combination Hiding Places and Coffee House essay from the most exotic of locals, Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Read on as Allison personally explores (i.e. battles) one the most dreaded foe each and every writer must at some point tackle: Good Enough.

Enjoy

Location: Jenn's Java in Manitowoc, Wisconsin.
Drink: Hot Chocolate
Notes: Other features of Jenn's -- lots of board games, and homemade everything. Baked goods, scarves, baby jumpers, hats, jewelry, a whole line of bath products, all made by Jenn herself. Allison would like to meet her.

The Proofread's 1st Annual Fort Building Contest Classic - Winners

Some people love forts. Others rise to the occasion and make them.

A heartfelt virtual fist bump goes out to this year's participants. While few may acknowledge it, these people are the aorta of human progress and preservers of awesomeness. But we do. We acknowledge it. Which is why today, all participants will receive a delicious treasure from the east!

So without further ado, the winners of the Proofread's 1st Annual Fort Building Contest.

3rd Place
Chris from North Dakota


Aesthetically speaking, i appreciate the radial symmetry of this fort. I also approve of the choice in furniture. Many forts are typically made only of blankets and a few support structures. However, this design appears very sturdy and could repel a dodge ball. Assuming that they didn't throw it onto the roof. On a side note, way to hijack the commons area in the name of forts. Props for the sign, too.

2nd Place
Chris from the University of Wisconsin


Chris's fort blends elements of old and new. Visually, there are many appealing traits of this fort, such as the combination of towel and fleece drapery to the ladder which appears to go to nowhere. However, really does any of that matter? What is important is there is a TV and a refrigerator. Chris is a hero to every kid. What child didn't dream of having a TV and fridge in their fort.

Also, because it may be hard to read, the sign says, "Chris's Super Awesome Fort! No Bullies" Which of course means this fort is allowed to have one.

1st Place!
Abby of Yurihonjo


A testament to modern fort design, Abby's fort is the apex of fort evolution. This fort possesses all the traditional elements which make a fort great, such as comfy looking pillows and complete cover. However, the defining feature is its green dog-faced blanket, which i am sure serves a twofold purpose. First, the big eyes scare away leery predators like cougars. Second, the cute eyes probably attract adorable animals like puppies and kitties. And what fort cannot be made better with young baby animals.

Congrats to all on entrants and thanks again for sending in your pictures. Your participation has made this contest a pleasure.

Oh, and for those interested.

Matt's Fort (exhibition only)



Notice the monkey lookout, a lamp which makes any fort's interior cooler, and Mad Libs in case i get bored.



This is also were the council of elders meet to discuss matters of great importance. Today's topic: Is man ready for the power glove, again?

Boy Fun: An Adventure Story

Okay, I’ll admit…It was entertaining. My downstairs neighbors were terrorizing the sorority that backed up to our duplex (terrorizing is a little strong but what else do you call running half-naked around a parking lot and yelling ‘Sororo-whores’?). We had an epic rivalry with that house. From my spot on a balcony overlooking the mayhem, I was alternately laughing at their antics and cocking a judgmental eyebrow at their immaturity.

But mostly I was paying attention to Jack Steele, the deliciously cute sledneck (that’s the Minnesota version of a redneck: someone really obsessed with snowmobiles and Fox racing jackets-so not my type…usually) visiting my downstairs neighbors for the weekend.

“Oh my god, what is Paul wearing?” I asked, squinting down at my slightly mentally unstable housemate.

“Is that a G-string?” Jack Steele wondered.

“I think so. Yeah.” We got the giggles. Somehow this didn’t surprise me about Paul. The fact that he owned a G-String went along well with his roommate Corey’s theory that Paul was a secret male stripper. Could it be true?

Jack Steele and I went on talking and cuddling. I was having such a lovely evening gazing into his Josh Hartnett eyes that you can imagine my surprise when I heard a voice from below me shout:
“I’m gonna break your fuckin’ door down!”

Unable to see where that had come from, I laughed. “Why?” I asked. Then Jack Steele was dragging me into the house, where Paul and his friend Taylor and some guy whose age kept fluctuating between 15 and 18 (we’ll call him Questionably Young Kid, or QYK) were already freaking out. It happened really quickly; I was completely disoriented. Before I could ask what was going on, Paul was hurrying us all downstairs into the basement. He unlocked our landlord’s huge utility room with the key that he’d once discovered hanging on the wall. This key gave us access to endless free cleaning supplies and keys to half the houses in the Dinkytown neighborhood. It was so against the rules.

“What’s going on?!?” I kept asking, but Paul waited until we were safely locked in the utility room with all the lights out before he answered me.

“Ellie, that was the cops. Either the sorority or the Christian housing collective next to them called them. You and Jordan are underage so we have to hide you.”

“So are you!” I protested.

“Ha. Please. I have a military fake ID. Cops don’t mess with soldiers.”

“And I’m not even drinking, I’m the only sober one here! They’re just here ’cause of your noise.” Not listening to me, Paul searched the room by the light of his cell phone, and found an empty metal utility cabinet that would fit both me and QYK.

“What! No way,” I said, as QYK squeezed into the small space and Paul forced me into it also. In the dark I could just barely see the apologetic look on Jack Steele’s pretty face. “No way, no way, no way. I am so not a part of this! Just let me go to bed!”

“You can’t go upstairs,” Paul said with frightening force. “They’ll see you and we’ll all go to jail!”

“No we won’t! I haven’t been doing anything wrong! Just let me go to bed,” I said. Paul closed the door of the cabinet. “I’m the sober one here, you’re being unreasonable!” I yelled from inside the cabinet, but the other guys were gone already. I heard them creep out of the utility room. They were off to see if the cop car was still outside. “Ugh, this is ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” QYK agreed.

“Hiding from the cops. Why me? I wasn’t even doing anything! I wasn’t drinking, I wasn’t annoying that sorority.” I took my cell phone out of my pocket and used it to light up the interior of the cabinet. This might be the time you expect one of us to start having a panic attack. Claustrophobia’s quite a common problem, and the space we were in was extremely cramped. But if anything, I’m actually claustrophilic, if there’s such a thing; I love small spaces. And I love hiding. So beneath my terror of getting in trouble because of Paul’s decision to hide from the police officer, I was also loving the suspense.

“Paul’s crazy,” QYK stated.

“Yep. So how old are you?”

“18.”

“Why’d they say you’re 15?”

“Dunno.”

“If they would just let me go to sleep, I could get out of this whole situation.”

“I think it’s kinda fun.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I kind of think so too. But god, if we get in trouble for not letting the cops in…”
“We won’t. They’re not even busting us for drinking. They don’t give a shit about noise complaints. This is a college neighborhood.”

“True,” I said. “But I’m guessing they’re not going to be happy that we’ve barricaded ourselves in here. Let’s hope they don’t see it as a fun challenge. Find the hidden college kids.” We sat in silence. Dum-de-dum. From above us came the noise of the guys running up and down the stairs. I figured if the cops were still lurking outside, QYK and I did have the best spot in the house. I decided to stop fighting my forced imprisonment. I chatted with QYK about school (he claimed he went to community college but I wasn’t so sure), his juvenile record, and the dangers of being friends with Paul.

Suddenly the guys were back. They saw my cell phone and took it from me.

“The cop’s still here, he’s circling the house. Be silent,” Taylor said in his ultra-manly deep voice.

“Why are you wearing a G-String?” I asked Paul innocuously. He ignored me. They left again, this time leaving me and QYK in pitch darkness. We had nothing to say. I tried not to think about all the spiders inside the cabinet with us.

“Alright. I’ve had enough. I’m sneaking into my apartment and going to bed,” I said. “Mission acquired.”

“Good luck.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling into the pitch darkness. Okay, this whole snafu was getting kind of fun. I climbed silently out of the cabinet and braced myself for the impossible task ahead of me. I would have to creep up 5 flights of creaky stairs without running into Paul and the others. It would require ultimate stealth. They were running all over the house now, I could hear them. I began dashing quietly up the stairs, stopping at every landing to peer around the corner. Somehow, the coast was clear all the way up. I reached the door to my top-floor apartment and found it locked. Oh no. Was it worth it to wake up my roommates? Thinking back, I should have been worrying more about myself and less about interrupting their precious sleep. But it wouldn’t have worked anyway; I later learned that the door was locked because Paul had repeatedly banged on the door to be let in. Hypocrite. He knew my apartment was the safe zone. To me, he had claimed the cops would knock down every door in the house and arrest us all, even though they were separate apartments. I knew I needed to be on the other side of the door. My room was my only hiding place from the guys. But as I stood there deciding what to do, Paul ran up the stairs behind me and grabbed me by the wrist. I was again banished to the cabinet. He was obviously overreacting to the situation. I felt like the only rational person in the house.

It didn’t take long for me to wriggle my way out again and declare that I was going to be a part of the patrol team. I might as well join the fun they were obviously having. The cops were gone, but crazy Paul thought we still weren’t safe. It was strange to be the only girl running wild with a bunch of guys, especially when one of them was only wearing a black G String. This would never happen with my wine-swilling, socially-conscious, book-nerd girl friends. I realized this was what boy fun was like. It was kind of entertaining, in a one-time-only kind of way. It was like fart jokes or throwing burritos at your friends’ cars: even the most ladylike of us girls like to indulge in boy fun from time to time.

We were all sitting on the steps somewhere in the labyrinth of staircases. “Are you a male stripper?” I asked Paul.

He considered whether to tell me or not, but when you’re drunk you always want to tell secrets. “Yeah, I am. Men of Steel.”

“Oh my god! I mean, I sort of suspected it but…”

“Yeah, it’s a great job. I get paid to go party with hot older women. The company provides us with drinks and security guards. It’s awesome. I’ve been trying to get pretty-boy Jack Steele to be a stripper too. His name’s perfect for it.”

Jack Steele laughed it off awkwardly.

“This is the craziest night of my life,” I said. This running from floor to floor at the whim of Paul the Stripper continued for like an hour. He was sure that the police would come back and get us.
Finally, Paul got over his paranoia and we all went to clean up after the party he’d thrown earlier that evening. A few minutes into the process, there was a knock on the door and the words, “It’s the police.” We were all accounted for, so it wasn’t a prank.

“That’s enough, I’m out of here,” I said, heading for the stairs to my apartment. Thankfully the door was unlocked now. I brushed my teeth and put on pajamas and crawled into my tiny little twin bed. Ten minutes later, there was the loud and distinct sound of Paul knocking on the door. He would do this all night if I didn’t answer the door-I would know. That was quite a frequent problem in our apartment. I sighed and got out of bed. I opened the door and Paul and Jack Steele were standing in the hallway.

I let them in. We sat on my bed and talked about the night.

“They can’t do anything if you don’t let them in,” Paul said, explaining his decision to ignore the cops once again.

“They can tell our landlord about this whole ordeal,” I said.

“Whatever, Ellie. Tom doesn’t mess with us. He knows we’re soldiers and we get what we want.”

“Okay, it’s five in the morning. I need to sleep,” I said. Instead of leaving, though, the guys climbed into bed with me. I was too tired to protest, though I made sure there were at least 3 blankets between me and Paul’s G String. Gross. Somehow we fell asleep like that.

Fake, Plastic Treehouses?

I don’t consider myself a particularly jealous fellow. Generally, I’m able to live with myself if someone has a sweeter car, nicer apartment, or larger slice of cheesecake. However, there is at least one man of whom I can say I am unequivocally jealous: Horrace Burgess of Crossville, TN. Why? Because he owns the sweetest treehouse in the world.

Now, I’ve built (read: mostly watched my grandpa build) a treehouse or two (read: one) in my time. And it was pretty sweet. There was (or, is; the tree’s still there) a tree in my backyard that was prime for housing. About ten feet or so off the ground, it split off, Y-shaped, and continued on. That joint was an excellent spot for some hot treehouse action. By building the base platform on both sides of the joint, we could create two—yes, two—rooms. Granted, one room was about two feet wide, but still: you could stand on either side. Awesome: my treehouse could hold three, and maybe even four, people at once. Now, I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is “yes”: there was a rope ladder. Were there hand-rails along the perimeter? You bet your ass.

I admit, though, that Mr. Burgess has me beat. Where my treehouse had 20-odd square feet of floor-space, Burgess can counter with 8,000. I had one story; Burgess has ten (and counting). This is enough to earn my jealousy, because treehouses are awesome. And this awesomeness gives the treehouse an important power; the concept of the treehouse is powerful enough to make a grown man sink a huge wad of cash into a treemansion. Even if the treehouse is to some extent fading from modern childhood[1] it remains a significant symbol of what it means to be a boy.

Of course, here is where the questions set in. Why is a treehouse a boy thing (at least in theory)? There’s no reason why girls can’t think treehouses are the bee’s knees. And gender questions aside, the treehouse is a symbol of a very specific, idyllic version of American childhood—one that probably obscures more than it reveals.

In its ideal pop-culture form, the treehouse serves as a powerful metaphor for boyhood. It’s outdoorsy and it involves a hammer, nails, and sweat; these are traditionally “male” traits, and girls who dare enjoy such things are often tagged with the “tomboy” label. Consider Calvin and Hobbes, the greatest comic strip of all time. His considerable vocabulary aside, Calvin is the prototypical boy, and so he must have a treehouse. His treetop fort is home to G.R.O.S.S. (Get Rid Of Slimy girlS), the secret society headed by Supreme Dictator for Life Calvin and President/First Tiger Hobbes. But G.R.O.S.S. lets Calvin do more than bestow upon himself impressive titles; its primary purpose is to exclude Susie, Calvin’s antagonist (and possible crush, but we’ll get back to that in a minute).

Children are powerless: they can’t drive, vote, or buy guns (not even at gun shows!). And as we all know, that helplessness can be maddening for a kid who is just getting old enough to realize all of his/her limitations. Enter the treehouse, where the kid is king—or Supreme Dictator for Life. (At least until bedtime.) It’s a space in which the child can control everything: rules, decorum, access. And as a preferred space, the treehouse holds several advantages over a child’s other choices. The bedroom is fine, but it’s only a province within the larger nation-state of the house, and as such occasionally (for example, when it’s time to pick up dirty laundry) falls under superior jurisdiction. Public places, like the mall, lack discerning taste in those allowed inside. Plus, no other choice is as ideal for SuperSoaker fights as is the treehouse.

The treehouse does have some limitations, though: namely, not having a whole lot to do once you’re up there. You can chuck water balloons, or install a piece of plywood on which to rest snacks. But really, beyond that feeling of control, the treehouse affords relatively little in the way of positive, active power. You can do anything, but there isn’t anything to do. And so, enter exclusion.

Indeed, the most important benefit of the treehouse (when properly equipped with retractable access) is the ability to pick and choose those allowed inside.[2] That’s real power—power which Calvin uses to its full effect in his ongoing struggle against the forces of cooties. As the name of G.R.O.S.S. makes clear, it is an essentially sexist organization, existing solely to isolate those lacking the slime-repelling Y chromosome.

Definition-by-exclusion is such a common adolescent process it probably doesn’t require much exploration; suffice it to say that when we’re just beginning to form self-identities, being clear about what we are not is an easy starting point. G.R.O.S.S. and the treehouse allow Calvin to physically manifest this idea, as he excludes Susie and occasionally pelts her with buckeyes.

But secretly, Calvin is torn. He puts up a macho front, but there’s a side of him that finds the opposite sex intriguing. That side is, of course, Hobbes, who frequently fraternizes with the enemy. (The enemy apparently gives good belly-rubs.) As long as we remember that Hobbes only exists in Calvin’s head, we can see how the combination of G.R.O.S.S. and the treehouse serve as a tree-top flirtation device. Since Calvin is only six, he isn’t quite ready to admit that (and part of him clings to a cootie-free philosophy), but the seeds are planted.

Assumedly, as Calvin ages his treehouse will take on a slightly different role in his life—perhaps the role illustrated in South Park. In the second-season episode “Clubhouses,” Stan and Kyle set out to build a treehouse. Since both lads are a few years older than Calvin, their goal has shifted. The treehouse is still all about girls, but now the idea is to bring them in, not shut them out; specifically, they must build a treehouse so that they can play truth or dare in it. Stan is sure that once they have a treehouse, they can use it to play truth or dare with girls, and he will get dared to kiss Wendy (his girlfriend). They still do some excluding, but instead of cutting out the girls, they organize against their friend Cartman (who proceeds to build his own treehouse). And while the rickety treehouse never does get Stan any action, in the end it saves his parents’ marriage: on the outs, Stan’s parents meet in the treehouse and rekindle their romance with a game of truth or dare.

The point here (insofar as an episode of South Park can be said to have a point) is to illustrate the power of nostalgia for one’s childhood—it’s strong enough to save a seemingly-doomed marriage. But the story of the parents, combined with what we see Stan and his friends experience, suggests something slightly different. The treehouse affects much more strongly the lives of the adults than those of the kids, because they can look back on tree-top encounters through the rose-colored glasses of time. The contrast between the experience of the kids and that of the adults is the key: the kids are living in a real-world, present version of their childhood, in which things are imperfect. But when the adults play truth or dare, they can rely on perfect memories of things that may never have happened.

Once you cut through the rest, South Park is suggesting that the way we look back on childhood deviates wildly from how it actually was. All the bad, awkward bits get forgotten over time—washed over in favor of a sterile, pleasant ideal. This is how the treehouse-as-symbol works generally within pop-culture. It is the ideal that maybe never was. But this is not the treehouse’s fault (because, remember: treehouses are sweet). Instead, it’s part of a much more general phenomenon.

Think of all the assumptions involved the aforementioned ideal treehouse childhood. For one, it’s male, erasing any female role except that of object (to be either excluded or lured inside). There’s an expectation of heterosexuality, too: no room for a group of boys playing truth or dare. And the whole picture is either suburban or rural. Calvin has a forest behind his house, and the South Park kids live in a quiet little mountain town. For any of this to work, a kid has to have at least a back yard with a tree in it. And once we’re into a rural/suburban environment, we’re talking about an overwhelmingly white setting.

The treehouse, as it exists in the popular conscience, is part of the larger tendency to consider the white, male, hetero, suburban experience the universal one. But, of course, that has never been an accurate picture. I don’t think I’m breaking any stunning new ground by pointing that out—embracing the ideal of the treehouse childhood ignores the way in which the vast majority of the country grew up.

Every time a TV talking-head makes a casual reference to white males as the “regular folks,” we’re dealing with the same tendency. Or when a major-party vice-presidential candidate talks about how small towns are the “real America.” Or when a craggy old pol writes a column titled “Traditional Americans are losing their nation,” and ends it by saying, “America was once their country. They sense they are losing it. And they are right.” When Buchanan, Palin, and Matthews use that kind of language, they’re calling on a very specific type of nostalgia—the treehouse America, where everyone left it to Beaver and occasionally took fishing trips with Andy Griffith. As I mentioned before, that isn’t the America that most people experience. The chattering class is embracing a supposedly-shared cultural memory that is more fiction than fact.

So, the treehouse seems to symbolize nothing more than pure invention. As a marker of a larger common culture, it has meaning only to a specific slice of the population. And as the South Park example shows, those of us who feel a particular personal nostalgia towards the treehouse are using it to symbolize a clean-scrubbed, idealized version of our own pasts. This is an understandable situation; after all, nostalgia is a powerful force. It gives us an escape from an imperfect present by offering an imagined version of that perfect past. Unfortunately, innocent bystanders like the treehouse get swept up in the nostalgic current.

That’s where Horrace Burgess comes in. What his skyscraper in the trees offers us is a way out of nostalgia’s grip. Building a ten-story treehouse in adulthood is a statement: he has decided not to rest on nostalgia. Obviously, Burgess has some fond memories of a childhood perch, but instead of simply succumbing to some kind of falsified memory of youthful awesomeness he acted to make his present tangibly kick-ass. That’s a hard thing to do. Memories don’t take any work. You don’t have to drive a few thousand nails to remember sitting on a rickety wooden platform when you were nine. Acting on that memory to make something enjoyable in the here-and-now is admirable.

And that’s why I envy him—not because he put a basketball hoop in a treehouse (although that is sweet as well), but because he had motivation and drive enough to create a present-tense piece of excellence that takes the role of idle (and generally falsified) nostalgia. That’s an impressive display of carpe diem, one worthy of some genuine jealousy.

[1] It doesn’t seem to be popping up as much nowadays—but then again, a reliable source informs me that a treehouse makes an appearance in a High School Musical movie. Maybe I’m just out of touch.
[2] “Inside” here used in a relative sense, of course. Unless you managed to build a roof, in which case: bravo.

How I Met Your Mother...or Tara

I originally met Tara during her freshman year of college when she submitted an essay about bench warming on her high school soccer team to a little Podcast that Sharkey and I were hosting.

Tara hasn't changed much since then. Her soccer skills are probably much worse then they were several years ago which would further contribute to her soccer bench warmer career if she chooses to pursue one, but her writing is significantly keener and wittier.

Enjoy Tara's take on hiding places and relationships.

Relationship Status: No really, it's complicated.

“So there’s this boy...”

Uh oh. Now I’ve done it – again. What started off as a casual encounter in the school library (he let me take the copy of The Secret Agent without the bent cover, and I helped him find the last 1984 amongst the cluttered shelves) has now become a full-fledged crush, complete with twittering heart, “Did I actually say that?” moments, and permanently crossed fingers that maybe my search for the one who would sweep me clean off my wow-I’m-just-realizing-how-awkwardly-large-they-are feet is finally over. I can already see it: my very own epic study abroad romance. We’ll hold hands in Camden Market and skip through Hyde Park and take a train to some quaint little European city with a name we can’t even pronounce. It’ll be perfect.

Well, almost.

This crush has a potentially tragic flaw. I’m pretending it doesn’t bother me as much as it does. Maybe I’m just being shallow. Really, he’s only a couple of inches shorter than me. It could be worse. I don’t really care about perfect posture and I loathe wearing heels anyways. Besides, if that couch-jumping wacko Tom Cruise and ex-Dawson’s Creek punk Katie Holmes can pull it off, then so can (not quite so) little old me, right?

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the first of many steps ascending to the DTR.

And what is a DTR, you might ask? Short for “defining the relationship,” the DTR is that conversation. You know, the one that is generally avoided for as long as possible because it can make things really awkward, really fast[1], and nobody wants to come across as one of those crazy control freaks who feels the need to put a label on things too quickly.[2] A successful DTR will result in both parties coming to a mutual understanding of where each one stands in regards to the relationship. Are we a couple? Are we friends with benefits? Are we breaking up, or just on a break? Are we ready to take our relationship to the next level… and change our Facebook statuses? Are we happy with the way things are but are agreeing not to label said things?

So you’re probably thinking this sounds complicated. I mean, when our grandparents were ruddy-faced lads and lasses, the DTR consisted of a simple yes or no answer to a single question: “Want to go steady?” And while I’m sure that “going steady” wasn’t always as peachy as sharing an ice cream soda at the malt shop, the traditional dating rules simply don’t seem to apply in a generation that sees casual dating as the norm and is overall much more flexible when it comes to relationships. In our society, it is conventional for non-married couples to live together, divorce is anything but uncommon, online dating, albeit being slightly creepy, is perfectly acceptable, and every other college student could probably name at least one “friend” with whom they’ve shared a little bit more than a love for beer pong and How I Met Your Mother. With so many different ways to define not only an individual’s relationship with another human being, but one’s relationship with the world of relationships, it’s no wonder that a DTR could get a little uncomfortable. But the irony of our generation exists in the fact that even though our options are endless when it comes to relationships, we still struggle to put some kind of label on them (my grandfather has never even heard of a DTR). That being said, the question that plagues me is this: Does what actually goes on in a relationship determine the relationship status, or does the pressure to have a status end up defining the relationship?

As if things weren’t complicated enough, DTR can also be seen as an ongoing process. Sure, at some point or another the mother DTR conversation is bound to occur, but that conversation alone should not serve as the be all end all of how a couple relates to one another throughout coupledom – especially considering the number of outside factors[3] that can, and often do, influence a relationship. The most influential of factors, however, may indeed be internal. Few things are more potentially disastrous to a relationship than one or both partner’s individual perceptions and expectations as to what being a couple should be like – especially when these criteria don’t match up. Most DTRs don’t address these questions, instead answering “how we feel about one another” as opposed to “how we feel about relationships.” If both parties agree that things should be more serious (or stay casual), then, generally speaking, that’s that. In that sense, it is almost necessary that DTR progresses as the relationship progresses, so as to avoid confusion and heartache for one or both sides. But the problem here in lies in the fact that liking someone – I mean, really liking someone – almost always means that we will go to great lengths to ensure that said someone likes us back. In the case of DTRs, that generally means concealing certain pieces of our “how we feel about relationships” puzzle that don’t quite seem to fit with our beloved playmate’s. Maybe I’m stretching the metaphor, but am I the only one who can’t stand the sight of a puzzle with missing pieces?

This trap is especially dangerous for women, who, by nature, tend to overanalyze every little text message or body signal and who have likely had every detail of their weddings planned since the age of six.[4] Furthermore, any women’s magazine will tell us matter-of-factly that successful couples are ones who plan romantic getaways, send flirty e-mails, and try a spicy new position every week. While there is nothing wrong with any of these suggestions, having such a destination-driven approach to a relationship unnecessarily idealizes the couple status – like being an official couple is some sort of club for which the big DTR is the entrance fee and the right to exercise nauseating movie theater PDA is one of many benefits. But as nobody really wants to wear black on Valentine’s Day or have a oh-so-cutesy, long-term “it’s complicated” Facebook relationship with their best (also single) friend, can you blame us for conjuring expectations of just how green the grass is – and should be – on the other side? But while this phenomenon is highly explainable, that doesn’t stop it from being destructive. Just because Lisa P. and Greg F. from Cincinnati surprise each other with poetry and weekend trips to Paris doesn’t mean a couple who stays in to make late night pancakes and watch LOTR three nights in a row is automatically lackluster. After all, a truly D’d R should ultimately revolve around how a couple feels as opposed to what it does.

But DTRs aren’t strictly reserved for couples. Perhaps the biggest crock ever invented is the glamorous single life. Sure, not having arm candy does leave you plenty of opportunity to grow as an individual. It’s less messy for a single person to transfer jobs to a new city, and it’s nice not having to share toothpaste or feel guilty for making eyes at a cute bartender. But let’s be honest, does every single gal really want to spend the next howevermany Friday nights buying her own G&Ts and rocking out on the dance floor to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies”? I highly doubt it, and I’m a girl who loves her gin. Can’t we singles simply not be in a relationship and leave it at that? Do we really have to throw anti-Valentines parties, eat popcorn for dinner three nights in a row, and/or mingle[5]?

It seems to me that hiding behind the façade of singledom is a pretty scary place to be. In fact, many women I know who have found themselves perpetually single have adopted their relationship status as a large part of their identity. One of my dearest friends has never had a boyfriend, and she has grown to perceive the dating world with much skepticism. This girl is striking – blonde-haired, blue-eyed, intelligent, socially conscious, spent a year living in Argentina – she basically has a lot to offer someone, but the right person just hasn’t come to sweep her off her feet just yet. She has expressed to me on many occasions how insecure this makes her, and I often observe her judging her worth based upon how invisible she feels to men.

My friend is by no means alone. The ever-thriving nature of the beauty industry alone is enough to make anyone wonder if not having a ring on it really is the life of the party. But while it breaks my heart to see my friend struggle with issues of identity, I realize the problem is much more universal than the dance floor during “Single Ladies” would suggest. Most women – and men – could probably think of a time when they have changed, hidden, or invented some aspect of their personality in order to impress a crush. For me, it’s not wearing heels – this time. In the past I’ve learned to snowboard (I hate being outdoorsy), dedicated all of my creative energy to photography (I’ve wanted to write since I could speak), and started listening to ska bands (ummm… what?). And while none of these new activities harmed me in any lasting way (ska did lose me a few style points), I concealed parts of who I was from the guys with whom I was supposed to be building an honest and healthy relationship. Human nature causes us to crave intimacy and connection, but how connected can we really be if we keep hiding the things that make us who we are?

Which brings me back to library boy. Interestingly enough, I found myself saying over red wine and curry something along the lines of “I’ve come to realize that most girls will do anything for the guy they like.”

Did I actually say that?

I really hope he didn’t get any bright ideas. And I really really hope I don’t end up fulfilling my own observation in a way that could end up hurting to one or both of us should the relationship develop into something more than dinner and puddle jumping on Brick Lane. Am I really willing (or able) to hide the part of me that has always been hyper-self-conscious about her 5’10” frame? And even if we did have a whirlwind romance in the shadow of Big Ben, he’ll be going back to Pittsburgh in December and I to Minneapolis. Am I really willing to push aside my deep-rooted belief that long distance relationships are doomed to fail?[6] I dunno, so I guess I’ll just avoid any sort of DTR for now. Besides, part of me is still holding out for Robert Pattinson. And I’m perfectly happy being Facebook married to my freshman year roommate anyways.

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[1] Because let’s be honest, any awkward situation is synonymous to a downright snafu in our generation.

[2] Because let’s be honest, keeping your options open is just so much more fun to our generation.

[3] Friends/family approval, emotional baggage, Cosmo quizzes, Edward Cullen

[4] Orchids, Vera Wang, and extra buttercream frosting, please.

[5] Single and ready to mingle? Excuse me while I vomit profusely.

[6] That, my friends, is another story. (I’ve always wanted to say that).

Out of hiding (PR #1)

Why write? Try this on for size: when you sit down, there is nothing. When you finish, there is something. Especially now that we’re all-digital and there’s no ink getting splashed on a page, writing is the act of creation—we are all gods. And in that spirit, on this venerable Halloween day, I welcome you.

We are The Proofread. So it begins.

What we do is simple: we write essays. But in that doing lies the creativity. We hope you agree. Each month, our team of five Proofreaders will create something around a central theme. The themes will vary wildly, as will the content; each author is free to take the basic theme in any direction they wish.

Matt bats leadoff—scroll down. The theme is “hiding places,” the essay is simply the greatest story ever told. Ever.

The Greatest Story Ever Told Ever

It’s dark. I am panting. However, I know I shouldn’t. Panting is for dogs. And the walking dead. Shadows conceal us, but they can never be trusted. If rays of moonshine from behind a cloud or the light of a motion sensor intervene, the darkness will abandon you. What is worse out here amongst the dark and the eyes: the enemy you can trust, or the friend you cannot?

For now we are okay. Our enemies forget what it is like to be small and young. They don’t check for us everywhere; they don’t think we can hide behind the air conditioner. The longer we hide, though, the more powerful they become, and the more likely I will die, or worse, become one of them. Finally, an opportunity arises. The plan is risky, but the gamble is a calculated bet with a splash of divine intervention that loads the dice. This is the plan of legends, the type that turns peasants into heroes, heroes into legends, and makes the heavens envy man, if only for a brief moment. In a few minutes, our fate will be decided. As people shout names of our friends, we will soon be amongst the dead or will stand proudly on base, the winner of another night’s game of olly olly oxen free.

Hiding games like “hide-and-go-seek” and “olly olly oxen free” are perfect for children.[1] First, children are small, agile, and as a result of being mostly cartilage and having more bones than adults, they can hide and contort themselves into seemingly impossible shapes. Most kids like to hide, too. Perhaps hiding’s appeal stems from a vestigial instinct from our primitive ancestors (e.g. little prehistoric kids’ adaptation for hiding from saber-toothed cats and other carnivorous organisms), but regardless, this trait makes kids kickass hiders. The beauty of hiding games is their sheer simplicity. First, hiding games can be played everywhere.[2]Also, to paraphrase a great scholar, hiding games are “cheap as free.” Even Milton Bradley won’t attempt to box and market it; there is nothing to buy. The poor and the rich are true equals in the realm of hiding games. However, the trait that defines hiding games as the ultimate childhood activity is this: Everyone has at least one glory story. For some, this is a tale of how they hid in a pile of leaves for an hour, or how they scaled a roof to dangerously reach a goal their parents would not have approved of if there was adult supervision. There are as many ways to win as there are kids. For one glorious game in our youths, we were the kings and queens of hide-and-go-seek. Each child has his own story.

Not to brag, but my tale of glory rivals the ingenuity of that kid from The Shining,[3] though my story involves significantly fewer bleeding elevators. Let me set the scene. The location is a small suburban town during a summer night in 1991 or 1992. The only reason that I can be specific with the year is because the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles happened to be at the height of their popularity, and in response, I was wearing a black T-shirt with a neon Ninja Turtles screen print. That night, like many warm, not-so-late summer nights (my bedtime was well before 10:30 back then), the neighborhood boys all met up to play a hiding game called olly olly oxen free. We usually went to one particular neighbor kid’s house up the street for one reason only: He had the best backyard — dark, lots of trees and bushes, and connected with several other people’s backyards. My house was not an option, since our family had an unscalable six-foot-high wooden fence surrounding the perimeter of our backyard, a small Great Wall of Minnesota if you will. Good for protecting our home from invading Mongols, but bad for olly olly oxen free.

Before each night began, we always met to discuss the rules. In retrospect, these discussions were pointless. As kids, rules added an official feel to each game. This wasn’t simply a game of pretend; this was an intense competition. In a similar vein as those pregame meetings, I will describe the basic rules of that night’s game as a refresher for those of you who haven’t been a kid for a while, and because of the many existing regional variants[4] of olly olly oxen free.

As usual, there are two sides, the hiders and seekers. The seekers range from two to four people; the remaining kids, hide. The object of the game varies depending which side you are on. If you are a seeker, find the hiders and tag them; if you are a hider, get to “base.” Base, much like obtaining the Triforce in the video game Legend of Zelda, is the only way to truly win the game. But unlike the Legend of Zelda, base was not nearly as magical as a floating golden triangle; rather, it usually was something like a pole or a car. Oh, and of course, though this rule is a given, seekers could not “guard base.”[5]

The rules were straightforward that night, too. The host of the game decided his deck would be base. I preferred the tree; its 360-degree radial symmetry afforded easy access to victory from any angle. The deck base was more cumbersome to reach. A hider had to take a single set of stairs located in a conspicuous location, or climb over railings; either way I knew I could make do. The rules were like every other night’s rules, with one exception. To remove a hider from play, a seeker only needed to see you and shout your name.

This last-minute rules modification posed a serious handicap for me and the hiders. No longer could I rely simply on my ability to dart between bushes and nimbly leap over chain-link fences to escape my predators, as in games past. Achieving victory would require much more. There was no objection to the new rule, though; we just wanted to play. We divided into hiders and seekers. I was a hider. The seekers closed their eyes and dreaded countdown began. We fled.

The hiders left in a group. This pack mentality is how the first seconds of our games always started out. This group mentality is an effective strategy for prey animals like zebras and sardines. However, children are devils. They are not loyal like our animal brethren. Besides, packs mentality may work well in the Serengeti, but we were a different type of prey. We continued to run. None of us were counting, but we knew with each footstep we took, both sides were a few more counts closer to the beginning of the hunt.

We reached the opposite side of a house, and quickly, bodies began creeping into various hiding places. Some moved toward the coverage of dense foliage, wedging themselves within the branches and leaves, others to the shadows. However, not every bond was broken. Partnerships hold potential. In this case, a boy, whose house was in front of the water tower, and I team up. We move toward those veiled open spaces. A hider must constantly debate between visibility and flexibility. Hiding in bushes, under cars, or in old boats provides the best cover, but at the price of mobility. The consequences of discovery are high in those places, capture is inevitable. However, while detection is easier for those hiding in the shadows of trees and houses, escape for the hider is easier as well. Since we were both the same age, size, and speed, we preferred the shadows. Unlike the others, we could always rely on our speed to save us.

But perhaps, not in today’s game. In traditional olly olly oxen free, we could use our combined agility and tactics to outwit an indecisive seeker. More often than not, the person with too many choices will choose none at all. We sat silently. And we heard the names. I, for the life of me, can’t remember those names, but I remember the cringe, the little drops of cold sweat on my brow. Each name heard was a lost comrade, a fellow lost to the voice of the seekers, tagged out by sound. We waited. The two of us were young, but too mature to act hastily. We knew we couldn’t hide forever, though. Even if we could, we both wanted to get to the base. A stalemate was the true mark of a kid who never lived.

Another minute went by. From the beginning, I knew I was at a disadvantage that night for one reason: Ninja Turtles. While I believed that the faces of Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael enhanced my strength and agility,[6] none of these provided the camouflage I desired. If exposed, my neon-print Ninja Turtles shirt would make me instantly recognizable. We sat pondering. The stars came out, but the sky became darker and darker. I refused to believe Ninja Turtles could ever betray me. They always won. They were ninjas and the good guys, after all. If countless episodes of their cartoon taught me anything, it was that pizza was king, “cowabunga” was the greatest catchphrase ever, and you could wear bright-colored bandanas and have shells equivalently as bulky canoeing backpacks and still be the stealthiest ninjas the world has never known.

I cannot recall exactly when, but at some moment of heavenly inspiration, I channeled the fictional cosmic energy of either Donatello, Raphael, or a combination of the two. Perhaps they could help me win. Donatello was indeed the smartest ninja turtle. He was a strategist. While the others would try to beat the enemy with force, he usually devised a plan to outwit the enemy, (typically with machines[7]). Raphael was cool and rude, but also a straight shooter. When he wanted to go out on the streets in the 1990 film Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, he didn’t get intimidated by the fact that he was a giant green mutant in a half-shell. He put on a trench coat and went incognito. The power of Leonardo or the groovy moves of Michelangelo wouldn’t win this game. A Raph and Donny mindset could, though.

Still entrenched in shadows with my mentors in mind, I discovered the ultimate strategy: I would become someone else. Speed and anonymity were the ultimate defense. If they didn’t know my name, my opponents’ weapons were useless. However, I couldn’t be a stranger. I needed to be someone they knew. At this point, I realized the great temporary sacrifice necessary to win, but I believed (and still do to this day) that my Japanese reptilian guides understood. I took off my shirt and told the boy to give me his.[8] Like Raph becoming your average Noir-looking detective in 1990s New York, my friend would be my disguise and his disguise would be me.

Next, we crept from the darkness. While we were fast, we could still be caught by the quick, older boys. With the logic of Donny, we decided to stalk the seekers. Finding them was easy, but staying hidden took skill. We had disguises, but we couldn’t reveal ourselves too quickly. Instead we found a point at which we were far enough away so they could see our shirts, but not our faces.

We planted ourselves in position. I stood out in the open with my back to them. My friend hid. The plan wouldn’t work if we were together. If they saw both of us and shouted both our names, the disguises wouldn’t matter; it was vital that only one person was spotted. Soon the seekers came. And soon they saw me. I sprinted and they chased while shouting a name.

“John!”

Their words were not my name.

“John, John, John.”

They kept shouting that name over and over and over. As I ran, my friends slipped behind them a reached the base.

“John!”

The seekers, in their hubris, kept chasing me. Perhaps, they wanted to catch me, tackle me, and hold me down until I confessed to cheating.

“John!”

I ran though. The loophole would soon be exposed. I ran past an oak tree, between a white truck and a basketball hoop.

“John!”

Then down a grassy hill alley. I wouldn’t stop to reveal the genius of my reversal, my great doppelganger foil.

“John!”

Finally, I ducked around the corner of the house. The deck was in sight. And no one was around except for a few of the captured, and my friend. As I stepped onto the varnished wooden steps of victory, I was greeted by four other familiar neon-printed faces. From that day on, I knew at least two things to be true, in my heart: This would go down as the greatest game of olly olly oxen free ever, and what I always suspiciously knew was confirmed true — Ninja Turtles could do anything.

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[1] Perhaps barring those with physical impairments, though I won’t put anything past them; they often have mad skills.

[2] Except perhaps the vacuum of space, but with no air there, kids would have more to worry about than lack of places to hide.

[3] Spoiler Alert: The little boy in “The Shining” finally escapes a crazy (more so than usual), ax- wielding Jack Nicholson by walking backwards in his own snowy footprints and then hiding. Jack follows his tracks only to find that they just stop, and the kid is nowhere in sight. The kid escapes while Jack gets confused and goes crazier; Jack freezes to death in his madness.

[4] While I have not written a thesis on the evolution and regional diversification of hiding games throughout the continental United States, I encourage someone to do so. That would make for one hell of Ph.D. defense.

[5] Duh.

[6] Just like racing stripes make any car faster.

[7] As the theme song says, “Donatello does machines.”

[8] Of course his shirt was 50 times less cool than my Ninja Turtles shirt since his shirt was not a Ninja Turtles shirt.