A Severe Digression of Memories

I've had several questions regarding my address....fishsticksandapplesauce. I told someone as I was brainstorming for web addresses that I needed to create one that was memorable and meaningful. I'm not sure that I accomplished either one of those things, and I'm also not sure why I thought that it actually matters one way or another.

Surely I'm not the only one for whom the meal of fishsticks and applesauce can associated with childhood. I can remember it like it was yesterday.....Saturday lunches at our house on Wemberly Drive. Four fishsticks on ketchup-soggy bread made the perfect sandwich. The kitchen was of the traditional 70's decor (although we lived there in the late 80's). The walls were printed in the classic orange/lime green/mustard yellow montage. Our table was the same limey green, but was usually hidden by one of many hideous table cloths that our mother had collected over the years. (Some were hand-sown from itchy fabrics, adorned with fringy-tassely things that coordinated with NO other colors in the room. Others were of the plastic variety....the ones that crack in spots and reveal white fuzz backing that pokes through the top.) A disturbingly large number of cats most likely lingered under chairs and around our feet waiting impatiently for falling morsels. Of course, I could have seached deeper in my vault through many other childhood memories for a web address.

Kermit the Frog. We had family wrestling matches with our Kermit doll. He was no ordinary Kermit, mind you. As legend had it, he was a "Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde" type of character who, after drinking Pepsi, of all things, would spin into an enraged fury. Tickles and teethless biting would follow until my brothers and I were limp and laughed-out piles on the floor. It was a terrifying event time after time.

Doll House raids. By default, I was a bit of a tom-boy growing up. My two older brothers dictated much of my free time, whether I liked it or not. One of my girly indulgences, however, was an elaborate doll house that Santa brought me one year. It was my pride and joy. It was decked out partly with ridiculously over-priced furniture, and partly with created pieces that my dad, formerly an interior designer, painstakingly made out of random household items. (styrofoam and fabric swatches, mostly.) My doll house family (we'll call them the Wilsons) were comparable to the Bradys. The mom and dad both sported sweater vests and trendy bowl haircuts. There were 2 daughters and a son in knee socks and delirious smiles.

The Wilsons would inevitably be involved in some type of quaint family activity when tragedy would strike. Unexpectedly, the humble adobe would be surrounded by military tanks and destruction vehicles and menacing G.I.Joes would pour out, ready for action. At the mercy of my brothers, the Wilsons would then endure the same cycle of devastation and torture as they were so used to. Furniture was disarrayed. Parents were tied up. Children thrown from the roof-top. Pets run-over repeatedly by relentless tank wheels. Miraculously, the Wilsons always maintained their goofy-ass smiles through the ordeal. Even despite machine gun beatings and attempted drownings. They were troopers. They still serve as an inspiration to me today.

Looking back, I have to wonder why the Wilsons were ever a target to these militia groups. Mr. Wilson was a simple man. Earned an honest living at an office somwhere (under my bed, I think). Mrs. Wilson busied herself with carpools and bake-offs, and was, by no means, an object of vigilante male attention. It had to have been little Timmy. I never did trust him. His shorty overalls obviously were a cover up for more than just pasty skin. He was probably involved in international drug and weapon trafficing. His bedroom was in the attic of the Wilson home; a big mistake on my part. Way too much privacy for a brilliant and disturbed child.