Believe me....I was freakin adorable.......

So, I haven't written in a while. That's due to many factors....stress, illness, lack of inspiration, coworkers breathing down the back of my neck, a nasty fungal infection on my fingertips which prevents typing.....You all know how it is.

During my absence to the blog, a festering of annoyance and dissapointment has been infecting my very soul. Sounds serious, huh? My parents recently (like 8 months ago...if you can call that recent) moved into a new place. Mr. and Mrs. Packrat are the royal couple of disorganization, and their moving process was apparently quite a fiasco. In the year or so preceding their move, I had been slightly aware that my mother couldn't find my baby pictures. I am the youngest child of three, and, as is typical for youngest children, my parents weren't as concerned with archiving my childhood as they were my brothers'.

The lives of most baby girls are memoralized in cutesie pink and white gingham baby books with sentamentalities like "First word" and "First food eaten" and "First steps" and "First time drunk" filled in on the pages. I didn't have one of these. I remember seeing little blue ones all filled in for my brothers, though. There were goofy pictures of little boys with baseball bats and puppies running with their ears blowing behind them and Tonka trucks all over the vinyl covers. I was more than a little bit jealous of the care that had been taken to put these together.

The last time I recall seeing my baby pictures, they were all tucked inside a white paper bag. I had previously bought my mother a set of matching photo albums in hopes that she would be encouraged to organize the evidence of my young life. It didn't work, by the way. I'm not sure when or how the white paper bag was misplaced, but, alas, it happened. I inquired about its whereabouts many times, and my mother would blow me off. "Oh, they'll turn up. Calm down."

So, (going back to the aforementioned move) as my parents began packing and preparing for their move, I was sure my baby pictures would be found. My brother traveled to their home one weekend to help them pack, and, from what I understand, threw a great deal of items away with mad fervor so that our mother wouldn't decide that she needed to keep every issue of Redbook from the 80's....even the one with Mel Gibson (who then sported a facial feature closely resembling a uni-brow). It was a smart move on his part, but it seems that many would-be keepsakes were done away with in his rush. I fear that my pictures were one of them. My parents didn't see them once during the whole process.

What infuriates me the most is that neither of my parents consider this a signicant reason for upset. Last time I saw them, I was nearly in tears about the situation, and they both laughed at me. "Allison. Stop it. We have your pictures.........somwhere.............probably." That was all the consolment they could bring themselves to muster.

I lapsed into an emotional soliliquy about how my place on our family tree will be looked over when future generations can find no photographical evidence of my existence. I won't have the opportunity to pretend to be humiliated when future boyfriends meet my parents, and no naked bath-time shots are dragged out. My (currently) unborn children won't be able to see that mommy dressed up like a hobo when she was two; wearing a fishing hat and pushing around a tiny plastic shopping cart. No laughter will fill the room as people see me crying after smashing my face into my first birthday cake or holding an armful of newborn kittens on my grandmother's ugly green chair when I was three. Ugghhh......countless memories all gone. Is ANYONE understanding my devastation here?????


A torturing amount of salt was poured on the wound of my lost several weeks ago. I was sick with an exhausting strep-throaty, fluish plague. I made it through most of my week only half-awake; stammering in a four day-long NyQuil hangover. I left work early one day, and, after pumping myself full of Gatorade and Tylenol Flu, my kitty and I nestled into the couch for some mid-afternoon programing. Ellen Degeneres was interviewing Jennifer Love Hewitt. Or "Love", as her friends and family refer to her. Love was perkily recounting the story of her recent 26th birthday party. Something about McDonald's and Strawberry Shortcake decorations. I wasn't really paying attention. But then the bitch had the nerve to pull out the gift her mother had made for her. It was a carefully constructed scrapbook full of every birthday photograph from her childhood. Every party, every cake, every happy face......all displayed with loving care. As if being rich and generously busted isn't enough...she has all her baby pictures, too. I hate her.

Handling your Bond Needs

As I was opening the office mail today, I came across a brochure for Jurisco.

In big letters it says: "Do I need a Replevin Bond, an Attachment, or a Sequestration Bond?"

On the side is the headshot of a young man. Average looking...could possibly be the love child of Jerry Seinfield and Patrick Dempsey . Well dressed.....nice suit. The expression on his face is one that was probably an attempt to look bewildered, but turned into a fight not to burst into laughter.

I thought his posed acting perfectly captured what any of us with bond dilemnas would be experiencing.

Oh.....should any of you be in the market for bond services, the number is
1-800-274-2663. Ask for "Jimbo".

Damned Balloon Animals!

As a highschooler, I was an over-achiever. I made honor roll most of the time and ended up graduating 3rd in my class; which didn't say much because my highschool was clogged with a large number of lazy idiots. (I guess most schools are, though.) I joined just about every organization that I could. This was just as much a product of boredom as it was the determination to snag college scholarships (it accomplished both goals in the end). I was in everything from Acapella Choir to the Math Club (which is ironic because, after water-skiing, math is the thing that I'm least skilled at). I was even an officer in an athletic organization, and I didn't even play a sport. Not exactly sure how that one developed, either. The only thing that absolutely didn't appeal to me was cheerleading....it's an activity that just doesn't make room for bitterness and sarcasm. Not my bag. Even outside of school, I found multiple ways to reach out to "the community", if you will.

One activity I took part in is one that I've haven't told a large number of people about. I suppose I hadn't really concentrated on the absurdity of it until I recently mentioned it to coworkers. I was immediately serviced with depreciating laughter and rapid fire questions that illustrated their disbelief in the validity of it all. The fog over my past has evaporated to expose extreme embarrassment, but it's the kind of embarrassment that you're almost proud of....like scars from an idiotic, self-perpetuated accident. And, since the main purpose of this blogsite is to provide a service to you, my "community", it would be unmagnanimous for me to keep it from you.

I was a clown. Literally. I wore the goofy outfit and the makeup and everything. For some reason that I'm really not sure of, I joined a clowning troupe ( the "e" at the end meant it was super-fancy) in 10th grade. The force of a bizarre, backwards type of peer pressure must have been what prompted me. Everyone in the group had to go by a "clown name"...we weren't allowed to refer to each other or ourselves by our actual names when in costume. Mine was Star. I've since realized that that particular name is one used most commonly by strippers, but it seemed appropriate at the time. Although.......a clown stripper (or would it be "stripper clown"?) might be interesting. I've heard of clown porn, so I know that somebody has to be into it. I can't even begin to describe how disturbingly un-sexy I imagine that must be, by the way.

In case you are unfamiliar with costume makeup...it's really nasty. The only thing comparable I can imagine is Crisco mixed with food coloring. No matter how careful I was, it would inevitably get lodged in my ears and hair. I'd go through half a bag of cotton balls and still see white streaks in unusual places. My "character face" featured a greasy blue star that covered my right eye (hence the name Star, you see. cool, huh?). My costume was a red cordouroy jumper covered with giant pockets and striped knee-socks in a hideous rainbow of colors. Thank God I have no pictures in my possession that could serve as evidence. It was a site that only a mother would call cute; and mine probably did.

It's funny, but it's hard for me to remember what we actually did as a collective group of clowns. I recall various, painfully non-amusing skits in front of little kids and the elderly. Who else would tolerate our efforts to entertain, after all? I'm sure we did our best to spread joy and smiles in the typical clownish tradition, but no specific examples come to mind. I think I subconciously blocked it from my memory. That's what often happens when we experience horrific tragedy.

Needless to say, clowning didn't prove itself to be a lasting hobby for me. It was very short-lived....as well it should have been. Looking back, it was probably my failure at balloon skills that sunk my boat. We were trained in all things clown-like; including balloon-animal construction. I know it doesn't appear to be a difficult skill, but I'd like to see YOU try it! Anytime I managed to twist a balloon into a shape even somewhat resembling an animal, it would either pop or untwist itself. Ringling Bros. would have never wanted me, and that was just another potential rejection that I couldn't face up to.

No wonder I didn't have a boyfriend until senior year.