Make-Believe, "Snake-Bereave"

There’s a playground right behind my office that belongs to the preschool program that shares our property. As I stood by the microwave this morning, sleepily waiting for my coffee to heat up, I found myself staring out the window at the dew-damp playground equipment. It’s your typical playground. Some toddler-sized swings, a few slides, and a miniature playhouse on stilts. Off to the side of the yard there’s a small wooden wall with some very tall flowers painted on its front. The circular section of both flowers are cut out so that the kiddos can put their faces through; you know...so that it appears as if this flower’s face is really the kid’s face. Not exactly genius design. As I stared at this, I thought to myself…

“That is like...SO lame. Why would someone put that on a playground? There’s nothing fun about putting your face through a wooden flower. Kids are so stupid. They get a kick out of doing such stupid things. ‘Whoo-Hoo! Look at me, everybody! I’m a flower! My face is in a flower! Hahahaha...I’m so awesome and life is so great and it’s so much fun pretending to be a flower! Yay!’”

I know. My inner dialogue was unnecessarily critical. But like I said, I was waiting on my morning coffee. Of course, I did a LOT of stupid pretending as a child. (I still do, for that matter.) Here are just a few things I “pretended” when I was a youngin:

For some reason, I convinced myself that there was a massive underground “Cat City” in the woods behind our house. The secret entrance was through a mossy knot on the front of a certain oak tree I was fond of. I pretended that I was the only human that knew about the Cat City, and that I was an honorary citizen. They’d lead me through the access tunnel and we’d spend the evenings at little cat clubs…wearing fancy party clothes…dancing to jazz music…all played live by little cat musicians.

I dabbled in a variety of professions as a child. I was a teacher. A chef. A circus acrobat. A trainer of wild animals. A soccer mom. A librarian (I was a crazy one, huh?). A medieval warrior. A bus driver. Shirley Temple. A rockstar. A tiger. A bride. A policewoman battling terrorists in extreme situations. A makeup artist. A model. Queen of the Underworld.

When I had nobody else to play with, I’d drag out a board game and several of my favorite stuffed animals. I’d sit them around the game and the 4 of us would play the game…turn by turn. This brought defeat for me every time because it was ALWAYS Sampson the Seal Pup that won. That Sampson was one smart seal pup.

I would use every single spare sheet, blanket, towel, table cloth, and other large cuts of fabric in the house to construct complex fortresses to hide in. I would drape and tie them over every piece of furniture and fixture that stood still. My architecture was impressive. I’d have tunnels and rooms and secret chambers that stretched from one wall of the living room to the other. They were a high-tech hideout that I lived in during nuclear meltdowns and alien invasions…built in the unknown depths of the Brazilian rainforest. I’d usually do this when nobody was paying much attention, and then I’d get berated because my family would walk in and see that it was impossible for them to maneuver around my cloth castle. Usually, my brothers would end up kicking the walls in or throwing pillows through the ceilings, and I’d be left with nothing but a pile of wrinkled bedsheets; exposed and vunerable to the alien infested wilderness around me.

More frequently than anything else, I’d pretend that I belonged to a family different from my own. This wasn’t because I didn’t like my family. My parents were wonderful to me, and my brothers weren’t COMPLETELY horrible. It was just that I thought that life with another family would be so much more glamorous than with my own. I had a perverse fantasy that I was really the love child of Tom Selleck and Shelley Long (have I shared this before???). They had been caught in a torrid love affair, and had had no choice but to give me up when I was born. I would watch Magnum P.I. and Cheers and wonder if they ever thought about me…the daughter they would never know. I would daydream about the trips we would have taken together, the horses we should’ve raised in the back yard, and fabulous birthday parties (with inflatable jump castles, face painting, and hot air balloon rides) I was missing out on every year, thanks to them.

Nowadays I mostly pretend the same types of things that all other adults do. I pretend…almost daily…that I’m in some type of mood other than the mood I’m REALLY in. (Complacent instead of concerned. Interested instead of irritated. Alert instead of sleepy and distracted.) Right now, I’m pretending that, instead of my office, I’m in a luxurious hotel suite in Aspen. My window view is of a breathtaking, snow-covered mountainside and not the dented bumper of my coworker’s car. There’s a steamy cup of latte and a plate of fresh apple danish and cinnamon rolls on the corner of my desk, none of which could possibly make me fat.

What are YOU pretending today?

"Thread Count"...A Measurement of Love

One of the many things I'm a tad bit obsessive about is my bed linens. First off...I have way too many of them. Most people have ONE comforter/bedspread/quilt (whatever), along with coordinating sheets and pillowcases that they use until they all fall apart. Or, at least until they go out of fashion. I have 4 or five sets, all completely different, that I rotate seasonally. I don't just rotate them seasonally, really. Sometimes I rotate them to accommodate my mood. I even have certain scents of candles and linen spray that I use to specifically compliment the colors and textures of each respective bed outfit. Secondly...I'm very particular about how my sheets are tucked in and arranged on the mattress. You know how some people sleep all messy and their sheets are never tucked and all the covers just lay balled up and twisted and they never care to straighten them out? (You're probably one of them, aren't you?) I CAN'T STAND THAT. Seriously, I can't handle it. It makes me want to scream and claw the air like a rabid mountain lion (that's quite the image, huh?). If I mess the covers up, it is imperative that they be amended before I get into bed again. Thirdly...sheets must be clean. We all know that it doesn't take a lot of imagination to picture the types of things that go on in our sheets and the types of cooties that, therefore, reside on our sheets. Yes. They must be clean and, more importantly, smell clean.

So, last night I was stripping my bed down because it was time for a sheet rotation. I spent a ridiculous 15 minutes obsessing over which ones to use next and ultimately decided to change everything. And it had to be done right then, or else I wouldn't have been able to think about anything else all night long. I put a lot of thought into this...as I always do. "What feel am I going for?" I asked myself. I settled on coolness and comfort.

While digging through my linen trunk, I came across a pair of sheets that I had forgotten I had. They were my grandmother's. I smiled with nostalgia upon seeing them and held them close for a moment. The cottony fabric is soft and so worn in places you can almost see straight through it. Staring at the swirly pattern of lime and aqua flowers, I noticed a corner where the colors, at some point in time, turned an orangy yellow. Hmm. I had forgotten about that corner. I like that corner.

I feel the same way every time I'm around my grandmother's linens. Sellers...that's what we called her. That's what everyone called her. When I was little, one of the things I liked best about visiting Sellers was sleeping in the bed she'd have made up for me. I don't know what it was, exactly, that made it so special. I remember being anxious to see what sheets she'd have pulled out that time. They were usually mismatched, but I liked them that way. Funky stripes (some in gold....from the 70's, and some just like them in purple), pretty florals, a weird geometric diamond pattern...I can see them all. I would climb into their welcoming, cuddly embrace and be soothed by the aroma of Downy and...sugar. Like spring-fresh, just-out-of-the-oven cookies. I always wondered how she got them so soft and fluffy. Even in my adult years, I've never been able to get my sheets that soft.

Reminiscing about bedtime at Sellers' house makes me think about all the other things that were so wonderful there. Grits and cinnamon toast and Tang for breakfast. Butterbeans and mashed potatoes at supper (she called it supper). The Coty powder box with the black and yellow flowers that she kept on her dresser. The little bookcase in the hallway that displayed all of Pappy's knickknacks; including the ceramic grandpa in the armchair and the flamenco dancer figurine my father brought home from Spain while he was in the Navy. (I have that bookcase in my bedroom now.) Family photos on the walls. The crayon box, coloring books, and hoola hoop she kept for me in the coat closet. Her Pyrex dishes. Her pretty little feminine hands. I would hold them and ask her where her "age spots" came from and make her laugh. Her melliflous voice telling me the story about the goat on the front porch that I asked her to tell EVERY time I saw her.

As I made my bed last night, I thought of all these things and I missed her so much it made my chest hurt. Over her beautiful old sheets I laid a thin, white, chenille bedspead. The bedspread isn't old, but I bought it several years ago because it LOOKS old...and it made me think of her when I came across it in a store. I set up a box fan in the hallway and let it blow towards my bed. The loud humming sound of a fan or window unit air conditioner reminds me of Sellers, too. Reminds me of sleeping in her house. On her sheets. Surrounded by her love. The Downy smell and the cool air danced around my pillow as I fell asleep and it made me feel small and young and safe. It was a good night.

On Mud and Its Radiance

When the plane landed, I wasn't nervous. It hadn't occurred to me to be nervous. I felt excited and confident; eager to dive head first into what would be my new and temporary life. The airport was small and dimly lit as I recall, but surprisingly clean and well-managed. It took quite a while to get through customs, and I bit the tongue of my impatience despite my anxious desire to get outside. When we were finally allowed to gather our luggage and exit the facility, we didn't hesitate to do so.

We walked outside in a group, ready to find our ride. I stepped into the intense heat and before I could determine my direction, my senses overcame me with a disorienting flurry of stimuli. I think what hit me first was the noise. The muddled sound of human voice was almost deafening. I say it was muddled because I couldn't understand anything I was hearing. I was an infant in a strange world of developed human language. I could distinguish emotions in the voices, but that was where my knowledge ended. There were people everywhere, coming at us from all directions. We were swallowed up by a crowd of the unfamiliar. Pressing in on every side were people asking me questions that I was unable to answer. What hit me second was the smell. Repugnant body odor unlike any I had ever smelled before. Gaseous dirt and disease relentlessly invaded my nostrils and throat. The third hit was to my sight. I was swimming in a blur of faces and colors; lost in a Madhubani painting. The haze cleared and I was suddenly able to focus on individuals. I saw mostly young men. They were pulling on my bags, offering to carry them for 20 rupees...15 rupees...10. I felt hands on my arms and some pulling on my t-shirt and pants legs. I looked down to see that one hand was disfigured; missing several fingers. My heart skipped a beat when I realized it belonged to a leper.

We made our way through the chaos and began loading the shuttle that had been sent for us. The plastic seats were cracked and dirty, but I was thankful to be in a contained space. I sat silently, barely breathing through the stifling, musty heat. From my spot in the small bus, I had an elevated view of the city that would be my home for the next few months. Even from my perch on the hilltop, the devastating poverty was unmistakable.


...I can't recall the exact date of my arrival in Kathmandu, Nepal. We had been in Thailand for a week...so I think our arrival was on a Saturday afternoon. It was the very beginning of June (maybe the first or the second of) in 2000. (It's hard to believe that it was so long ago.)

As I mentioned, we had been in Thailand for a week. This week in the small coastal city of Pattaya (on the Indian Ocean) was our orientation...a time of learning about what we could expect to experience for the next 3 months. We talked mostly about Hindi/Buddhist culture, how to be safe, how to behave, etc. We spent quite a bit of time out in the city trying to acquaint ourselves with, well...everything. Pattaya was, by no means, a wealthy city, but its' modernity was not dramatically behind what we were used to in the states.

We talked extensively about the indigence we would encounter while living in Nepal. We were told that the average yearly income in Nepal (at the time) was equivalent to 200 American dollars. We were educated about the widespread disease, the unhealthy living conditions, the lack of food and clean water, the human trafficking rings, and the abandoned/homeless children that spent their days and nights on the streets. I wasn't suprised by anything I heard. I had done my research. I had watched movies and documentaries. And I certainly wasn't new to the concept of poverty. I had worked with impoverished people all over the United States. I was ready. I was prepared. Nothing was going to shake me.


As we drove from the airport to our hotel in the middle of the valley, none of us said much. We didn't know what to say. Words wouldn't have been helpful in expressing what was going through our minds at the time, anyway. The crowded streets, apparently governed by no traffic rules, were overridden by pedestrians carrying oversized loads on their heads and backs, slow moving rickshaws, and gaunt cows. Bikes or motorcycles carried so many passengers at once they looked like clown transportation at Ringling Bros. If you've ever been to Hell's Kitchen in New York City, then you have a vague idea of what the storefronts are like in Kathmandu, only...there, they're about 50 times dirtier and 100 times less sophisticated. Grocery stores, tailors, electronics shops, post offices....they all looked the same.

Driving by the entrances of various bastis (or slum colonies), one could see down the narrow alleys that appeared to go on and on forever; a horizontal precipice into unfathomable despair. I never did enter any of those bastis, but I knew that following any of the alleys would lead me to hundreds of families living on top of each other like foul in a coop. Tiny one-room huts with tin roofs and tacked-up bedsheets for doors; communal bathrooms without so much as a toilet stall; no plumbing and no electricity; row after row after row of human doghouses. These bastis were all over, and every one I saw was sadder and more vast than the last.

Once we arrived at our hotel, we walked a few blocks to the closest bank. I pulled out of my bag an American Traveler's Check for $200. I stared at it for a moment and realized that, in my hand, I was holding an entire year's income for a family in Nepal. I started sobbing uncontrollably right there in the bank. A travel-mate of mine was already at the counter when my emotion bursted out of me like a monsoon storm. The banker took notice and asked her why I was crying. Thinking quickly, she told him that we had just arrived in Kathmandu and that I was overcome by the beauty of the city. He believed her and was touched by the sentiment. He greeted me with a huge smile and gentle words and did the same every time I visited him that summer.

I didn't break down in that way again while I was in Nepal (except maybe when I left to go back home). However, I did cry many times after that, and, suprisingly, every cry really did express that I was overcome by the beauty of Kathmandu...the beauty that I learned to see. I learned to see the poverty as a birth mark. It was an imperfection that would probably never fade, but after I gazed at it for a while, I almost didn't even notice it anymore. Instead of detracting from the radiance of the figure, it enhanced it. Just as kudzu can overtake the side of a building or a forest, the beauty of the culture of that place grew over my soul. I became completely entangled in it, and to this day, I still haven't been able to free myself from its leafy grasp. I hope I never break free of it. So much physical freedom would mean that my soul has disconnected from what it learned that summer.

The draw-back...or maybe the benefit (depending on how you look at it) of my new job is that I'm faced with impoverished people on a daily basis. They are my work now; my sustenance; my heart. Sometimes it all gets to me. Sometimes I feel discouraged and dirty in the midst of the ugliness of poverty. It makes me feel diseased and injured and lame...just like the leper that begged me for money that day so long ago. But I think I'm re-learning how to see the beauty through the dirt. My soul is trying to remember.

Kick off Your Sunday Shoes

It's amazing how far I've come and how much my life has changed in the past year. This entry is one that I originally published a year ago tomorrow. It's one of my favorite things I've written. I happened to re-read it this morning, and it spoke to me as if it hadn't come from my own inner thoughts. (you should all really read through some of my archived entries from time to time. they're much heartier than recent ones.)


While stuck in the dizzying awfulness of searching for a full time job, I've been helping out a friend of my mother's who owns a daycare. She calls me off and on when she needs me, and my response is always eager. (it's funny how poverty makes you eager.) I worked at daycares throughout college, but now that I'm degreed and experienced, the environment is much more humbling. Social theory ain't real applicable when you're changing poopy diapers.

I was with four 1-year olds yesterday...watching as they scooted around the room in pursuit of various things to chew on...when Footloose came on the radio (I refuse to spend 8 hours at a time listening to Barney and BJ sing about sharing). Simultaneously, all four babies broke into freedance. Bottoms bounced, heads bobbed from side to side, arms waved in nonrythmic patterns, and it all made me smile bigger than I had done in quite some time. I couldn't help but imagine them all wearing 80's prom attire. Puffy sleeves. Powder blue tuxes. Mullets and Farrah Fawcett waves. I began to wonder what they'll look like in 17 years; who they'll become. Very briefly, I felt a faint hint of jealousy just then. The wonderful truth is that their futures are still blank canvases. They don't know worry or regret. They're still perfect. I wanted to join them in spirit; to dance inhibitiously with them and get drunk in the joy of innocence. I tried to concentrate on myself as an infant; a child; an adolescent; to connect with my former selves and borrow their ignorance. It didn't work, of course. None of us can go back to those places.

I remember a dream that I had 3 years ago. It's one of those dreams that will always stick with me. When the scene opened, I was walking into the courtyard of my preschool. It still looked the same. Or, at least, it looked the way I remember it in my head. I knew immediately that I was going to see myself as a 4-year old, and a wave of anxiety rushed over me. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't. Something was keeping me there. Across a playground, a group of children were playing duck-duck-goose. I saw her. Her hair was strawberry blonde then. The strands were softer and blew more easily in the breeze than they do now. Her face was round and happy....no sign of lines around the eyes that I now look into every day. Her limbs, not yet long and lanky, showed evidence of residual babyfat. She was more beautiful than any photograph has ever made her.

I stared at her intently while she played, as was suddenly overcome with emotion. Afraid she would hear me crying, I ran up a stairway and hid on an outside landing. I felt ashamed. I just knew that I had let her down and that she would never forgive me for it. What a dissapointment I must be to her....I was nothing of what she COULD have become. Choking on my tears, I wished had I had never come to see her. However, I couldn't escape her. She had followed me up the stairs and had been waiting patiently for me to compose myself. She put her right hand on mine, and I noticed the same freckle there that I have now. Looking into her eyes, I apologized silently. No words were exchanged, but I knew all at once that she forgave me. She loved me as I was. She was proud of me. And before she ran back to her game, she hugged me.

That dream was the best self-therapy I've ever experienced. Every time I think of it, it repairs a little piece of my soul. I guess that longing to be younger is inevitable, but childhood (or any other phase of our respective "youth") wouldn't offer any solution; even if we could access it. Regardless of our age, we always have a canvas that is awaiting completion of a masterpiece. Youth is all about perspective, anyway. We may lose our freshness and crave the days of not knowing, but the later we pick up a brush to complete a certain phase of life, the more experienced we are with the brush techniques. The inability to go back is a blessing, not a hinderance. Experiencing life more than once would be overwhelming, I think. It's hard enough to do it once. Feel free to celebrate like a toddler. Your younger self accepts you even if you dance like a whitey.

A Man Called Peter

I was telling someone not too long ago that I don't really have "a type". Meaning, there is not one "type" of guy that I tend to latch myself onto. I've probably mentioned this in many conversations because it has been true of me for a long time. I could produce a list of preferences describing what I think is my ideal match...we've all done it either mentally or literally...but I don't really buy into the list thing anymore. I used to hunt for the list, but anytime I've met someone who actually aligned with it, he's turned out to be FAR from what I thought I wanted. The characteristics of human beings are too complicated to be checked off like grocery items on a Post-It. ketchup...check. luncheon meat...check. tampons...check. nice sense of humor and interest in gardening...check/check. It just doesn't work.

Many authors of fiction will create characters by combining interesting tidbits from various people they've known in real life. I thought it might be fun to do this. Because almost every guy I've been ivolved with has been so very different from all the others (execpt for two that I dated about 2 years apart from each other who, eerily, were identical in almost every way.....a revelation that somehow didn't occur to me until way after the fact), it would take too long to describe them all. Not that anyone would be interested in reading that crap, anyway. Instead, I've pulled out some facts and a few opinions about these people and skillfully weaved them together to present to you a man I'll call "Peter". (I choose this name not only for it's obvious maleness, but because it's the only tolerable name I can come up with that I can't in any way associate with someone I know.)

Peter wasn't as attractive as some of the guys who had been in my life. I was attracted to him, of course, but it certainly wasn't his appearance that initially drew me to him. He stood (and still does, I imagine) about 6 feet, 8 inches tall. Curly blonde hair. His mother was Mexican, his father Philipino. Brown eyes. Actually, only one of his eyes was real. The other one was prosthetic due to an incident in his early childhood. He and his twin brother were jumping on bunk beds sometime in the early 70's when he fell and gashed his eye on the corner of the dresser. You couldn't tell that one of the eyes was a fake unless he told you so. Must have been some mighty esspensive fiberglass.

He was 12 years older than me at the time, which would make him 38 now. (Which also makes me much older than I care to be.) In those extra years of experience, he had done quite a bit on the way to careerdom. In his early 20's, he had been the lead singer of a heavy metal band. I can't recall the name of the band now, but I remember looking at their website. Somewhere along the way he grew a distaste for heavy metal and decided he rolled more comfortably with the likes of The Ramones and The Clash. He now has a small recording studio in Dallas where he mostly records his own music; none of which sounds anything like the aforementioned bands. (He once wrote a song about me and sung it in front of a large group of people. ) He worked as an orderly in a nursing home at some point long before I knew him, and it struck me as a redeeming quality that he would be willing to work in such conditions. Now I mostly think it kinda creepy. After that he went on to case work with the Department of Child Welfare, selling shoes, bank management, teaching math, advertising for pharmacueticals, and finally, real estate. Real Estate proved itself to be most lucrative, so that's where he stayed.

Peter had been married for a short while until his wifey flipped out, left him and their two kids, and fled to Canada. He has sole custody of their little boy and seemed to be one of the most amazing fathers I had ever met. I wasn't ready for motherhood, though....

Aside from his musical talents, Peter had a Jackassonian interest in "stunt work". He owned several cars...one of them being a 20 year old piece of crap he referred to as a "jeep". He and his friends would film themselves flipping this thing down enbankments and over fallen trees. He would climb on top of rooves just to jump off of them. Many bones were broken in many asinine ways. He almost killed himself in a motorcycle accident...twice. None of these activities would or could blow my skirt up (so to speak), by the way. They all occurred prior to me.

Peter's not a bad guy. In fact, he's what most people would refer to as "a good guy". He's friendly. He likes kids to the degree that he would actually address them in public when most people are only acknowledging parents. I always like that about people. He wasn't particularly intrested in getting to know my friends, though. I would always go out with his buddies, but he never put forth the same effort. He was selfish that way. He was selfish in lots of ways.

I've often compared Peter to The Fonz. He had an almost celebrity status at our small college. Everyone knew who he was. All the girls thought he was superdreamy and all the guys pretended to not think he was the cat's pajamas, even though they all knew he was. Unlike The Fonze, however, he didn't attain his Cool Status because of his way with the ladies or even through an elitist arrogance. He was just cool because he was....well, cool. If someone was cool by popular vote, I tended to ignore them just on principle. But we ended up sitting next to each other on a plane to Boston and spend the following week in Loopyville (...near Boston...) keeping each other warm and shopping for vintage clothing. We found several pairs of polyester pajamas...all of which we believed to have been previously owned by cats.

The first conversation we ever had was preceeded by a belching contest after eating pizza. We spent a great deal of our time together for the next 4 months in pants-wetting laughter. Eventually we ran out of things to laugh about, I guess. Or maybe we just got tired of doing so much laundry. Either way, it was a shame that things fizzled out because he was one of the few guys I've known that really tried to GET me. He dug deep; got knee deep into my soul. Peter remembered everything I ever told him, and he used all of those intricities to paint a more accurate picture of myself than even I could have painted.

On the other hand, I always felt that he used me. He used all the things I told him to label me as something I wasn't. He never let ME in and kept me away with the barriers he set. He had tiny feet. He was immature. He had no ambition. He smoked. He embarassed me in public. He didn't respect me. He had many aggressive opinions about things he knew nothing about. He had a skanky female roomate that he was probably banging during our relationship since he ended up with her soon after we split. He was unreliable. His unintelligence made him boring as Hell. He cried when I left. His hygeine could have been better. He was a borderline stalker. He belittled me. He was unimaginative. Even though we laughed together, he wasn't the slightest bit funny. And worst of all.....he hated kitties. I could've just listed that one first and been done with it.

Smell My Feet

Halloween was not a holiday that I looked forward to as a child. Sure, I liked to dress up; that was the part I liked. My mom made a costume for me almost every year. I wanted to be a clown more times than not, and I think my mom encouraged it because it was an easy costume to put together. My first grade year, I was a ballerina. I was kinda fat that year (I suppose from residual toddler pudge), and the pink leotard I wore made me look like a pig in a tutu. Another year, I was a hobo (again..an easy costume). I found an old Japanese Kimono of my grandfather's in a box a coupla years later. I wore it with white powder/red lipstick/hair in a bun....the whole deal. Not exactly p.c., right? I always wanted to wear the supercool costumes with the plastic masks and paperthin fabric I saw at KMart, but my mom would never buy me those.

The trick-or-treating part was okay. I liked walking door to door asking for goodies. I never managed to eat the goodies I worked so hard to attain, though. I was supposedly allergic to chocolate as a youngster (my mom made me eat carob instead), so all the really good candy was passed on to my brothers. And all the nasty chewy kinds made me gag (still do). So I was shit outta luck, as they say. Emptying my plastic jack-o-lantern was always anti-climatic unless I happened to find a flimsy spider ring or a Burger King certificate for free fries.

Everything else about Halloween made me extremely uncomfortable. I was the epitome of "wuss"....unnaturally terrified of anything meant to be even remotely scary. I would work up the nerve every year to watch the Garfield Halloween special...and that felt like a huge accomplishment to me. The only thing that was actually scary about that show was the bad animation, but it was about all I could handle. I ventured into my school's haunted house in 3rd grade (eerily constructed in the Art room under the stage in the auditorium), and it took me months to recover. Any T.V. commercial that featured spooky music freaked me out. Every snippet of clip from a cheesy horror flic sent me screaming into the other room.

Most kids saw Halloween as a time to be someone or something other than themselves....a time to experience the thrill of chill bumps and racing hearts. I just saw it as another opportunity for something REALLY horrible to finally do me in. It was inevitable. I just knew it. Sooner or later the BoogeyMan from the Ghostbusters cartoon would bust through my closet door, stomp his cloven feet over to my bed, and steal me away forever. Freddy Kruger would dare him to make it extra torturess. Of course, this monsterous fate could have come about at any time of the year, but it was MUCH more likely to occur on October 31st.

Funny thing is...I was also scared of Santa Claus.

The Unmistakable Scent of Crayons and Pumpkin Pie

There is something immensely pleasant about old school buildings. (By “old”, I mean built in the 50’s or before.) My new job requires me to visit various elementary schools on a regular basis, and I think those visitations may just be my favorite part of the job. My own Elementary School (Simpsonville Elementary in Simpsonville, SC) had a definite venerable quality to it. And, while I don’t have an abundant amount of warm memories from that place, maybe that’s where my fondness comes from.

These buildings usually have an impressive stature…the authority of a second story, oversized entry doors, and castle-like stone bricks are the typical greeting. The dimly lit hallways are lined in ceramic tile and mismatched linoleum. The 20 foot ceilings support a skeleton of exposed piping that sings an incessant dirge of clanks and hums. Every classroom is framed by paint-chipped picture windows and olivy chalkboards. I know lots of teachers that brag about their “new” schools and the modern accommodations they provide. But those facilities just don’t have the same character; the same intimacy that older ones do.

Autumn is the best time of the year to be in a school like this. I don’t know that I can really explain why, though. There’s a quote in a movie I like about how Autumn makes you want to buy school supplies…”bouquets of sharpened pencils”. I totally get that quote. It’s partly because kids look so darn cute in sweaters and cotton tights. And I love those big metal accordion wall heaters that hiss and moan when you turn them on in cold weather. It’s partly the decorations….smiley scarecrows with their arms posed in motionless waves, paper mache’ pumpkins, leaves in velvety colors, turkeys with tissue paper tails. It’s partly the way the atmosphere suggests Holiday time….and how that suggestion seems to make everyone a tad bit jovial. It’s partly my own personal correlation between kids and Autumn. There’s something magical about that connection. Just thinking about it puts me in the mood to read the Richard Scary Bedtime collection all snuggled up in a blanket and drink cinnamon cocoa and dress up in a Halloween costume and watch “It’s The Great Pumpkin! Charlie Brown” and eat my grandmother’s stuffing and write an essay about all the things I’m thankful for (not necessarily in that order).

Now, where did I put my argyle kneesocks…..?

Mockingbird and 75

I'm sitting here looking out the window at Hurricane Rita, and I'm thinking about how life is so different now for so many people. It makes me wish for what used to be....in lots of ways. I've been back in Baton Rouge since Easter, and things here are just fine, but I miss Dallas. I miss Dallas like I miss my ability to take long naps. A good friend of mine moved here from Indiana around the same time I arrived. We often talk about missing our previous homes, and about how things sometimes just don't feel "the same" here. That's part of life, right? Our aptness to adjust to change determines our success. But we can still allow ourselves to long for some other place.

Things I Miss About Dallas:

1. My friends. Friends that had really become my family. Friends that will never become less a part of me...regardless of location. They're all so unique...so different from each other. They were like my own personal breakfast buffet.....grits, danish, and juevos rancheros all on the same plate.
2. My bathtub. I lived in this really great apartment with a supercool bathroom. I had not only a standing shower, but a giant garden tub. I could lay in that thing for an hour at a time. Almost deep enough to doggie paddle in. Almost.
3. Shopping. I never really had much money to shop with, but I have never lived anywhere else that had a mall on every corner.
4. Saturday mornings at Corner Bakery. Cold weather outside....endless coffee, the newspaper, Cinnamon Creme Cake, people watching, and deep conversation.
5. My church. Unpretentious. Creative. Sincere.
6. The Angelica and Trinity Pub...two of my favorite spots in the city. Experienced both in one night is the preferred dosage.
7. Dancing...Salsa, especially.
8. How every outing was an event. When we went out, we WENT OUT. We planned ahead, dressed up together...it always felt like something more exciting than it actually was.
9. Concerts. Something worth listening to every night of the week, if you're intersted.
10. The variety of atmosphere. Every 10 minute drive takes you to what feels like a completely different city.
11. The downtown skyline. So pretty. There's a song by Ben Kweller that mentions the lights of Dallas...how seeing them as you're driving in gives you a sense of HOME. So true.
12. Museums. I never get tired of walking through art museums, particularly. A painting you've seen 50 times can be a totally new experience each time...just depends on how you look at it.
13. Parks. Every neighborhood in Dallas has a nice park. There aren't many here at all.
14. Driving. 30 highways in one city might not sound pleasant to everyone, but I loved it. Something about learning my way around Dallas gave me a huge sense of accomplishment. If you can do THAT, you can do anything. I didn't even mind the traffic most of the time.
15. The sunsets. Most consistently amazing ones I've ever seen.
16. Winter ice storms. There's only one or two every year. Perfect taste of winter. More than two gets old, and less than two just doesn't feel wintry.
17. Feeling connected to something so much bigger than yourself. Like going to a Big 10 University. It's similar to school spirit, but you get that feeling without having to endure pep rallies and cheerleaders.
18. Mexican culture. Realizing the insignificance of your supposed "majority" status is extremely refreshing.
19. Stimulation. Boredom was a rarity for me there. Even sitting at home, somehow, seemed colorful.
20. Festivals. Every month....something new. The themes of celebration focus on everything from Butterflies (in Grapevine) to Germany (in Addison), but somehow always manage to involve cowboys and beer.

Cowboys and beer. What better combination?

My September 11th

Ever since my childhood, I've heard older generations recall their memories of monumental events. Many people can clearly remember where they were and what they were doing when....J.F.K. was shot, or when Neil Armstrong grounded the flag into moon dirt, or when the Atomic Bomb mushroomed into the heavens.

Of the things that my generation will be recalling in our older age, I suppose the events of 9/11 will be at the top of the list. As this crossed my mind today, it occurred to me how complex our memories can sometimes be.

Just like everyone else, I will never forget watching the news for 24 hours straight as airplanes crashed into buildings and people propelled themselves from office windows. It was horrifying. But in the past few years, when September 11th rolls around, my memories are clouded with specifics that are far more personal. I remember who I was with in those scary hours...a person I wish I could forget...the hotel room television...how I felt every single day of that entire week...the striped shirt that I looked so good in. That event just so happened to be the start date of a very bad time in my life; and I've never been able to seperate them. So, selfishly...this day makes my stomach churn for more reasons than the obvious.

What does that say about me?

Wet Sheets....But not how you think.

Have you ever seen any of Ellen DeGeneres' stand-up? I saw her do a bit once about "the worst thing". You know how people refer to certain things as "the worst thing".....be it a paper cut, or getting unmentionable hairs caught in zippers, or losing a finger in your blender while making smoothies....

To me, one of "the worst things" is not being able to sleep. I've had many nights recently where I'm exhausted, but can do nothing to propell myself into slumber. My mind will be racing through an indistinguishable number of unpleasant things, I can't get comfortable, I'm too hot, my cat won't stop licking her ass, the motion-detector light outside won't stay off, and when I finally manage to drift off, disturbing nightmares take their course like a Twilight Zone marathon. Yes. THAT'S "the worst thing".

I was having one of these last night, and I lay there trying to convince myself that it really could be worse. I tried recalling other nights from my past that had been awful and neverending. You know where I'm going with this, right? There's a story coming.....

Years ago, while spending a summer in Nepal, I spent a very long 2 days in Chitwan National Park. Chitwan offers year-round safari excursions. A small group of us got a really good deal on a weekend trip because it was smack in the middle of Monsoon season.....the slow season for the safari industry, apparently. Getting to Chitwan was an adventure in itself. We chartered a rickety bus that drove us at extremely fast speeds up and down cliff-lined roads. After what felt like an eternity, we reached a small village backdropped by a muddy river. We were instructed to haul our belongings to the riverbank to wait for our ride. Before long, two wide canoes rowed up. Our ride, indeed. In the canoes we traveresed through crocodile-infested waters to an overgrown little island, the Chitwan Resort Island.

Don't let the word "resort" mislead you. The entire peice of land was, as I said, completely overgrown with dense jungle. There was a dining hall which, suprisingly, served excellent food unlike any other I've tasted. There were various staff/administration buildings. And along the edge of rain washed stone paths, were the guest huts, wherein the origin of my story resides. I'll get back to these later.

We arrived at Chitwan on a Friday afternoon, and the resort manager was very eager to get our adventure started. He was a plump little Indian man with a pipe cleaner mustache who, unlike the rest of the staff, spoke very clear English. He enthusiastically informed us of the wildlife we would possibly see during our stay. Rhinos, sloth bears, and tigers were all there on the island but often hid during Monsoon season....which was the reason for our cheap accomodation prices. We were all excited the the prospect of seeing such creatures, but the rest of our conversation with the manager made me more than a little nervous. I jokingly asked how likely it was that I would be mauled and eaten by a tiger during my stay. He didn't catch on that I meant it to be a joke. Being a devout Buddhist, he insisted that only the VERY lucky would ever endure such a death. He himself dreamed of dying at the mercy of an animal so that he would return as royalty in his next life. Such a death "should be prayed for, not feared", he said. This wasn't really the reassuring answer I was hoping for.

Our first activity was a hike through the jungle. We were led single-file along a dirt trail. At the beginning and at the end of the line was a guide; a young man wearing nothing but shorts and armed with nothing but a not-so-big stick. As we walked, they would stop every now and then to point out fresh, gigantic claw marks in the mud. "See? See deees? Sloth bear joost mek", one would say as he bared his teeth and dug his pretend claws into the air. This made for the most nervewracking stroll I could ever imagine. I barely reached our destination without crapping my pants. The rest of my evening was spent on the back of an obstinate elephant.....another element to this adventure which I won't elaborate on at this point.

By the time the sun went down and we retreated to our little cabin/huts, we were exhausted and filthy. We hadn't spent but a few minutes in our rooms when we arrived, so we weren't completely knowledgable of what we were in for. Our room was about 12 feet across and 15 feet long. The outside walls were constructed of screened windows from the waist up, and two twin beds were pushed up against them. A small, doorless bathroom could be entered at one end. There was no electricity, and all we had to see by was one small oil lantern.

My roomate and I took turns rinsing off under the cold showerhead....in the dark...accompanied by various lizards, frogs, and other crawlies (I even saw a tarantula and several scorpians). Alarmingly, we found that within minutes of drying off, we were drenched again. The humid jungle air was unlike anything we had experienced before. The atmosphere was so thick with moisture that it was difficult to breathe. Our belongings were so damp, we could literally ring water out of them. The rough sheets on our beds were the same way.

We sat awake for hours....talking and listening to the many sounds of wildlife just outside the windows. To my horror, the screens didn't do a tremendous job of keeping the bugs out. It was too dark to actually see what was biting my neck and inching its way up my shorts, and the not seeing was most disturbing part. We pulled our beds away from the walls so that they were joined in the center of the floor space. We thought it would possibly give us some refuge from the bugs, but we thought wrong. My roomate eventually started snoring, and I suffered through the rest of night alone. I felt as if I was lying in a vat of warm pudding. The buzzing and hissing of insects that rung in my ears was interrupted every now and then by a faint growl or moan and the rustling of tree branches. I itched so badly I worried that I would scratch holes in my skin. I was disgusted, uncomfortable, and terrified. I don't know that I've felt that close to Hell many other times in my life.

Obviously, I lived through it all. I think I even managed to sleep for 5 or 10 mintues before the sun came up. And it's always helpful to have a memory to rely on when you ask yourself "Could it possibly be any worse than this?".......because it always can be.

If you aren't convinced already, I really WAS a nerd

It's not often that I purchase DVDs. In fact, I own no more than 8 or 10. Some of them I bought spontaneously; wheeled in by sale prices, and some of them were given to me by various people for various reasons. While discussing the ever-controversial subject of funny movies several nights ago, my cousin announced that he wanted to buy The Life Aquatic. We were all pretty jazzed by the idea, so the complete nerdy bunch of us piled into 2 vehicles (it was a stellar event) and headed to Best Buy.

Because, as I said, I don't often shop for these types of things, I wasn't really aware of the myriad of options that are now sold in DVD form. We wandered the aisles for 30 minutes and took turns pointing out the titles we spotted. I saw movies and sitcoms and cartoons that have resided only in my memory for years and years past. Someone had a story to share for just about every selection that was picked up. Two of us decided that this memorialization of our childhoods was like a trip to DisneyWorld...only quicker and without the long lines. Doogie Howser,M.D.; a post-Star Wars Ewok Movie; Pee Wee's Playhouse.... these were just a few of the ones we joked about. There was one DVD set that stood out above all the rest. Its beauty was illuminated by an imaginary spotlight. As soon as I grabbed The Quantum Leap collection, my cousin and I started laughing. Yes, there was a story to tell.....

Quantum Leap was my favorite TV show when I was in middle school. (I guess it was on between 1991 and 1994.) If you weren't fortunate enough to have watched it, the story line revolved around a scientist who traveled around in time in efforts to change things that went wrong in peoples' lives. It starred the chivalrous and handsome Scott Bakula. He was in his late 30's at the time....had an unfashionable, shaggy hairstyle with a grey streak in front. In my juvenile eyes, he was manly beauty personified. So obsessed with him was I that I insisted on watching not only the new weekly episodes, but the reruns that came on every evening on USA. This is where the sick part comes in: somewhere along the way, I decided that I needed even MORE of this show in my daily life. I drug out my boombox and some blank audio casettes. Propping it up in front of the television, I would record my favorite episodes, then listen to them with headphones when I went to bed at night. My entire family made fun of me mercilessly for doing this, but it didn't stop me. They finally forbade me to watch the reruns alltogether. Good move on their part. I eventually moved on and focused my obsessions on people more attainable. Well, people more tangible, anyway. I even stopped calling my pillow "Scotty".

As infatuated as I was with Scott Bakula, he wasn't my first celebrity crush. The first was Davy Jones of the Monkees. Next was David Hasslehoff in his Nightrider days. After that came Matthew Broderick. You know what would be interesting?.....Knowing all the celebrities that had crushes on ME. What a list that would be.

Healing Powder

The summer of my sophmore year in college, I worked full-time as a camp counselor at Sky Ranch in Van, Texas. My months there revolved completely around a very rigorous schedule of outdoor activities. My normal daily routine of eating, sleeping, studying, and socializing was replaced with swimming, sailing, canoeing, jet-skiing, repelling, belaying, rifle-shooting, softball hitting, horse riding, ladder climbing, and waterslide sliding (and this was just on Tuesdays and Thursdays). Needless to say, my not-so-much-in-shape-but-still-smokin-hot body had it's ass kicked up over its shoulders repeatedly while I was there.

The most painful of the afore-mentioned ass-kickings was shin splints. I developed these about a month into the summer. Having never been what you (or anyone) would call an athlete, I had never experienced such agonizing soreness in my legs. Because we counselors worked 23 hours a day, the only relief I found was in bi-daily trips to the nurse with my campers. Any kids in our cabin that were on meds had to be marched to the far side of the campus twice a day for administration of their Ritalin, Benedryl, Viagra....whatever the case was. Once arriving at the nurse's cabin, we would inevitably have to wait for 10-30 minutes while the other kids had their turns. I took advantage of these waits by putting my feet up and icing my legs with those sea blue gelly freezer pack thingys. It was 15 mintues of pure heaven.

My buddy and fellow counselor, Nate, was often at the nurse with his campers at the same time I was. During the time of my shin splints, he himself was suffering from some ongoing ailment that I can't recall. So, we would keep each other company for the random 20 second intervals when our kids weren't pulling on our hair or asking us to recite the names of all the North American Indian tribes (for which all of our cabins were named).

Most of the guys that worked at Sky Ranch carried bottles of Gold Bond powder around with them at all times. It was a bit of a camp-wide quip. You'd see it sticking out of the back of someone's swim trunks or tucked into a backpack.....flashes of that yellow label were everywhere. At the age of nineteen, I was pretty unfamiliar with the common male uses of Gold Bond. I suppose the reality of it had occurred to me at some point, but, apparently, I hadn't spent much time comtemplating the issue.

It was one day in the nurse's cabin that Nate inquired more intently than normal about my ailing shins. I reported that the ice packs helped temporarily, but I was still in pain most of the time. "Well, have you tried Gold Bond? You know that's good for shin splints, right?"

Now, I wasn't COMPLETELY naive. I was immediately suspicious. But Nate was just so convincing...so innocent and sincere in his offer to let me borrow his precious powder. "Will it really help, Nate, or are you just trying to make me look dumb?" He swore it wasn't a joke....why else would he carry a bottle of the stuff around with him all the time? Desperate for alleviation, I gave in. My legs were damp from the prespiration of the ice packs that had been resting there, and when he poured the powder on, it stuck in uneven, clumped patterns. I tried rubbing it in, to no avail. "Oh, just leave it that way", Nate urged. "It will sink in."

I walked around for the rest of the day covered in what looked like sugar cookie dough. I got some strange looks, and lots of questions, but I responded each time by holding up the bottle that Nate had let me borrow. I was aware that I looked like an idiot, and seriously considered washing off. But the funny thing was, my legs had actually started to feel notably better.

For a couple of days, I continued with Nate's amateur prescription. He finally approached me with a meek smile on his face. "So, how are your legs feeling?" I informed him that they were much better, thank you very much. Gently grabbing me by the elbow, choking back quiet laughter, he whispered in my ear, "Allison, Gold Bond doesn't really help shin splints."
Of course, I defensively explained that I knew the whole time that the treatment was a facade...that I was doing it just to be funny. As to whether or not he believed my guise; who knows. But at least he was kind enough to let me think he did.

Seriously, though......Gold Bond really does help shin spints.

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.

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.

My Day with a Goat--A Love Story

Hanging in my room is a photograph I took several years ago when I spent a summer in Southeast Asia. Most people would pass by the picture without even noticing it. There's nothing spectacular about it by any means. It's a black and white shot of a wet road. The road curves to the left and disappears into the tall trees that line it. The scene could have been captured anywhere....backwoods Mississippi, or the Oregon coastline, maybe. Nothing would distinguish it from any other stretch of shiny black tar. However, sometimes when I take the time to look at it with more intent than just in passing, I remember why I hung it in first place.

I remember that day quite clearly. It was a Saturday. I had been in Nepal for 4 or 5 weeks at that point, and had already traveled most of the Kathmandu valley region. On this particular weekend, a large group of my travel companions had gone to a tourist-attracting mountain village where they could watch satellite television and sip luke-warm orange sodas under the cloud shrouded spanse of the Himalayas. My pal Emily and I weren't interested in this excursion, so we had opted to find something else to busy ourselves with.

As I recall, we had become frustrated with everyone's quest for things "like home". Despite the fact that Nepal is a third world country, and is barely approaching the technology we had mastered by the mid-60's, the presence of the Western world is there if you look for it. There were several restaurants in the valley that served "American" food, for example. Of course, it didn't taste American. Or smell American. Absolutely couldn't fool your stomach into digesting it as if it were American. But how could we resist eating psuedo pizza in a semi-air conditioned room with soft rock mixes of Phil Collins and NSync humming in the background? Sometimes a dose of the familiar was what we needed to make it through a rough day.

Most of us had become acutely aware of the habitual dangers of residing in our comfort zones. Crazy Tina had been carrying a bright red flag to remind us all of this. Crazy Tina was a spoiled mama's girl from Tampa. None of us knew why she decided to join a group of strangers in the heart of the third world that summer. She had apparently been under the impression that she would be "roughing it" in the luxury of a Motel Six and taking long soaks in non contaminated jacuzzi tubs. (Motel Six was the freaking Ritz compared to The Hungry Treat Hotel and the closest thing I ever saw to a jacuzzi tub was gurgling sewage on the side of the road....every road.) Upon realizing her tragic misunderstanding, she had taken to hiding out in a European-owned coffee shop every afternoon and in her room every night with the curtains literally taped shut to "block out the city". Her insanity showed itself in many other hilarious, infuriating, obnoxious ways, too. My personal favorite memory of her was when I sarcastically called her "Miss America" on the Fourth of July and made her cry. But.....I digress.

So, it efforts to decomfortize ourselves, Emily and I let our spontaneity take over. We threw some faux- filtered water bottles and flimsy paper maps into our backpacks and took off. I don't think we even told anyone where we were going....I guess we figured the American Embassy would magically know where to find our mangled bodies in the event that we suffered an attack from a Yeti. We climbed into a cab, offered up all the rupees we could afford to spare, and basically asked the driver to take us as far as he could with that amount. We drove for about an hour.....maybe 90 minutes....out of the city and into the desertion of mountainous village roads. He finally dropped us off, probably mumbling "crazy white girls" to himself as he drove back home.

There was no turning back....our abrupt plan was set into action by default. We would be walking all the way back home. We kinda sorta knew where we were....map reading had become a survivor skill for us, so we weren't worried. During our 9 hour trek back home, we had all sorts of mini-adventures. And every single one of them unfolded in the pouring monsoon rain.

We befriended a herd/pack/swarm/pod of loud and affectionate mountain goats that stayed on our heels for several hours. A group of kids showed us a lake where, as Hindu legend has it, an evil snake king lives with his minions. (I think the story was that he had fallen in love with a human woman and pulled her into the depths of his kingdom so that they could reside together for eternity. ahhh....snake love....) We found ourselves in an open clearing surrounded by water buffalo; who, thankfully, didn't see the point in ramming us with their muddy horns. From a cliffside, we looked down on a factory of some sort that I'm sure I've seen in a cheap horror flick since. Monsterous trucks would pull into a warehouse every 15 mintues or so, and unidentifiable smells bellowed out in smoky curls. We were immensely intrigued by it for some reason. We watched a (very) elderly woman single-handedly plow a field with just a combing tool draped over her shoulders. Wearily, we crossed a wobbly wire bridge that had been erected over the choclatey Bagmati River.

I know none of these things sound all that thrilling, and, in truth, they weren't. Emily took a picture of me that day....I still have it. My hair was Jamie Lee Curtis short at the time and my cheap rain jacket had done little to keep me dry. So, I looked like a half-drowned 15 year old boy waiting for his school bus. But...I look really happy. I WAS happy. I don't think I've had many other days that were enlightened by such free-spirited spontaniety. That photograph on my wall reminds me that I should have more days like that.

Johnny Rogers or Kenny Carson?

Yes, very sad that Johnny Carson passed away yesterday. As a kid, I always had a strange fascination with him. I suppose there was something very mysterious about him in my mind. I wasn't often allowed to stay up late enough to watch The Tonight Show, and I just knew that I was missing out on something EXTRAORDINARY. It must have been so if I wasn't allowed to participate in its viewing every night. That's how parents are, you know; they veil all the really good things in life with stupid rules and bedtimes just to keep kid-dom from infiltrating and taking over. They figure kids have enough in their realm of entertainment; what with their Ataris and My Little Ponies and day-time Nickelodeon programming.

Anyway, one of the first times I did manage to witness the shrouded hilarity of Johnny Carson, he was wearing a funny hat and making a chimpanzee do something silly, no doubt. So I immediately pushed him up by the backside onto a pedestal of greatness. And there he stayed; even if I had to rely mostly on memories to enjoy him.

Despite my affection for this Wizard of Monkey Antics, I could never remember the man's name. I had it etched on my brain that he was Kenny Rogers. Always referred to him as such. I know this partly from memory , and partly because my mother mentions it from time to time. No telling why I could never get past this error. Even at age 25, the name Kenny Rogers still passes into my mind's eye when I see Johnny. I'll bet Kenny never sang with a monkey, though.

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.