“Oh my gosh, Chloé, you have to write that!” my friend energetically yelled through my earbuds during one of our many quarantine phone conversations.  I’m not sure if it was the excited yelling, which I’m not used to experiencing in my solo quarantining, that compelled me but I immediately made the short jaunt in my studio apartment to my junk drawer.  I quickly grabbed the first pen I saw, which happened to be the beautiful forest green stylus styled pen from The Pelican Hill Resort where I spent a weekend at before the world halted.  I stopped listening to whatever it was that my dear friend was saying on the other end of the phone so I could properly put pen to the newspaper I found next.  It was oddly satisfying to be bossed around and urgently told to write a headline of my own, of my life,  my Chloé story.  


As I hunched over, the words I wrote, in cursive, were “I finally kissed the beard and I liked it,” disclaimer: he did not wear cherry chapstick although his lips were the color of beautiful, brilliant raspberries and I will admit that a tiny bit of me as a woman was slightly envious of the color as I’m sure he did nothing to achieve this while I have spent countless amounts of cash to achieve just that effortless berry lip “vibe”.  


I digress....or do I?  You want to know what it’s like eh? Or else you wouldn’t have made it this far.  HA!  I had never dreamed about this moment. Unlike most girls of this era, I don’t ogle the hipster bearded men nor had I ever dreamed of kissing one.  I prefer my men clean cut and clean shaven.  I don’t know; it’s just my thing. Okay?


I, of course, brought up my reservations and irrational thoughts to some close girlfriends who were so wonderful in reassuring me and not judging me.  One of them even said that I wouldn’t be able to go back to clean cut boys after I had my first taste of the beard. 


“But what if I can’t find his lips?” I screamed into my pillow.


“After examining the multiple photos you’ve sent, I can see his lips in every picture so there’s nothing to worry about you’ll know where they are.”


I know, I know.  Irrational.


“But what if the beard scratches and hurts my face?”


To which my girl squad replied, “he has a long enough beard so it’s not going to scratch you. His beard looks very soft and well groomed.” 


I know, I know.  Irrational. 


My ladies were being super helpful!  However, I’ll admit I still wasn’t convinced.  In fact, I will go as far to say that I was terrified.  I was terrified of kissing the beard.  But, inevitably it happened.  


It happened on one of those very few rainy and dreary days here in Los Angeles.  I had become the pro hugger at this point making a hug last a whole night without a kiss in sight.  However, on this not so fine afternoon a not so bad kiss occurred.  By now, I had pictured myself forcing my lips to obligingly meet his (consensual night I add) but in all honesty I got caught up in a moment, the moment, and next thing I knew, I WAS THE ONE who was pulling his lips towards mine.  I found them on the first go!  My girls were correct!  And the beard wasn’t scratchy at all!  My girls were correct!  I have actually had many more uncomfortable kisses due to a bit of stubble on my previous guys.  The kiss was wonderful.  I felt the endorphins that usually accompany this act but I also felt extra proud of my dumb self for finally kissing the beard!  How had I been so anxious about kissing a man with a beard. 


Now my story ends.  It ends for many reasons.  It ends because it still to this day is the only beard I’ve kissed.  It ends because now I can kiss no one; thank you quarantine and face mask life.  It also ends because this blog post must end.  


To quote the clean shaven Jay-Z “onto the next one” (beard).

There was a moment in my life when I thought I was going to lose my mom. I’d like to think that I saved her life, but I think I just rescued her before anyone else had the chance. You see, we were at my great aunt’s house in Northern Iowa for the 4th of July weekend to enjoy fireworks and a carnival near the lake. The house was full, so my mom and two sisters slept outside in a tent while I slept on the couch in the living room. One night, I woke up suddenly to the house moving and then someone was screaming. I bolted upright and ran towards the noise. My great aunt and both sisters were in the kitchen and the back door was open. The screaming was coming from outside so I kept running, through the door and down the stairs. I came face to face with a 40-year-old maple tree that had fallen over in the backyard. My mom’s screaming was coming from somewhere in the tree branches. 

I was around 12 at the time, but I didn’t let the pitch dark or the small space between the branches slow me down. I made my way through the branches toward the sound of my mom's voice. She was yelling “Help!” Over and over again, so I told her I was coming. She stopped screaming and started to talk to me so I could follow her voice. With it being pitch dark there was no way to tell for sure where she was, but I eventually got close enough to reach out and touch her. She told me she was okay, but she was trapped by something and she couldn’t figure out what it was. I started to feel around her and wiggle any branches that might have been trapping her. Eventually she said I had found it. It must have been something I stepped on because I hadn’t lifted anything, but her leg was suddenly free and she could stand. I helped her to her feet and we made our way to the opposite side of the tree and around to the front of the house. The tree was blocking all paths back to the house except the front door. Once inside, we realized she had a huge gash in her head, but that was her only big injury. She was taken to the hospital by ambulance, had staples in her head and was sent home with a clean bill of health. 

I’ve tried many times during my life to think about what my life would be like if that tree had hit my mom anywhere else. If she had been in a different part of the yard when it fell. If the tornado had just swept her away instead of knocking down the tree. It was silent, no one knew it was there. There was no weather warning. It just showed up randomly. My mom could have died that night and she wouldn’t have been there for some of the things that shaped who I am. She’s always there to talk me through anything that’s happened and support me with all my dreams and goals. She’s talked me through breakups, bad friendships, bad jobs. Supported me when good jobs came along, helped with 3 moves, listened to me gush about boys who are cute. Even when I screw up, she tells me, but is there to help me fix it. I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for her.

She called me at the beginning of this pandemic and said all she wanted was for me to be home. She wanted all her kids home and I’m the only one who lives out of state. So I packed my car, took my cats and drove home for the unforeseeable future. Not because I’m leaving LA and moving home, but because my mom needed me and I needed my mom. Because, I knew, if my mom got sick and died from this stupid virus, I would kick myself for not coming home when she said she needed me. I’ve spent every day with her, doing projects and getting creative, working outside and playing with my sisters kids. This is time that I won’t ever get again, so I’m enjoying it. I know she’ll never forget these moments, just like I’ll never forget the time I almost lost her. I thank God every day that I get to see her, because those could have been days that never existed. 

​

One of my many beliefs is that some of the worst people in the world are kids in middle school. If you happen to be between the ages of 12 and 15, chances are you happen to be a massive jerkwad. In early 2009, I was 14 years old and the world revolved around me (according to myself). 

The date was May 18th, 2009 and I had just gotten home from school in my freshman year of high school. I remember that particular date fondly because that was the day that Punch-Out!! (2009) on the Nintendo Wii came out. Punch-Out had been one of my favorite series for awhile now and they hadn’t released a new entry in the series since 1994 and I was VERY excited for this new iteration.

It was going to arrive in the mail today and I was gonna play the ever loving snot out of it!

“Did my game come?” I excitedly asked as soon as I entered the door.

“No.” mumbled my mother.

I could tell something was off, but I was too darn excited for this game.

“Anything you want to say to me?” my mom asked.

“Nope!” I joyfully said.

Was I in trouble?

She sighed and walked away. A good 30 seconds passed before I realized it.


Today was her birthday and I had forgotten it.


This forgetting-my-mother’s-birthday incident gave me a quick and harsh change of perspective. My mother is one of the hardest workers I know and I feel like I just robbed her of her one day of celebration for my own selfish wants. I was in the wrong in this situation 100%.

I’ve always had a strong relationship with my mother. She’s a big influence on the person I am today. She always went the extra mile for me and my siblings. Every time me or my siblings have a birthday, she would spend the night decorating the dining room to celebrate our birth. There were 4 of us too, so that was 4 times a year she would do this. On top of all that, she would make us breakfast in bed. That’s true love right there! She would leave her bed, make a hefty breakfast, and serve it to us like it was the gosh darn Mariott! Once again, true love.

Another tradition we have in the Agnew household is every Christmas we would all wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, drink hot beverages, and open gifts. Guess who would spend the entire night before wrapping gifts and the whole morning preparing the breakfast?

When I wanted to move to California and had no idea if I would be successful, my mother supported my crazy dream and helped me through some rough years in my adulthood.

She constantly encourages my work even though she doesn’t totally understand it.

She talks to me when I’m having a bad day.

She loves me when I feel unlovable.

A big part of who I am today can be attributed to my mom. I try to make others feel celebrated and loved. I like cooking big meals for others, especially breakfasts. When friends are being critical of themselves, my advice is to take a step back and focus on who they are rather on who they could be. It’s a basic “treat others how you would want to be treated” mentality that I believe is the best way to approach life.

I honestly could not have asked for a better mother. Even when I recalled the infamous 2009 birthday to her a decade later, she laughed it off. That moment didn’t matter in our relationship. It didn’t impact what she thought of me. I feel incredibly fortunate to have a mom like her. We talk to each other every week even though we are on opposite ends of the country. She still sends me care packages during holidays. She’s willing to watch the stupid content that I put out online. She loves me.


Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.


I love you lots.

​