I'll take the Botox, the Brow Lift, and a side of Vaginal Reconstruction

There’s a new fad in the medical world, folks. Hymenoplasty. It’s actually been around for some time (although it’s news to me), but the popularity of the procedure is growing with fervor. Broken hymen, ladies? Well, here’s a new one for ya!

Apparently, women are taking advantage of this technology to attain a second chance at “virginity”. I put VIRGINITY in quotes because equating the concept of sexual purity with whether or not you happen to have an intact hymen is asinine. What a joke. If you’re TRULY concerned about your sexual purity, then surely you would understand that a little piece of skin really has nothing to do with it at all. I experience so many simultaneous emotions when considering all the ramifications of this subject…I don’t even know where to begin in expressing them.

This article (http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/05349/622923.stm) is almost a year old, but it covers a variety of different views on this matter. The quote…"It's the ultimate gift for the man who has everything," makes me want to vomit. And if you don’t understand all the reasons WHY it makes me want to vomit, then my explaining it to you would make no difference at all; you will never get it.

Spicing up a marriage? Wear some nasty lingerie. Experiment. Role play. Lose the baby weight and get more exercise. See a sex therapist. But please don’t resort to having your vagina surgically altered just so that it feels good for your husband….just ONE more time. If this is what he needs, then your problems are much bigger than you realize.

And don't you just love it when their little bloated bellies are covered in flies? It's to die for!

I frequently wear a white rubber braclet on my left wrist. You know the kind...it's the trendy thing to do now. (Not that I'm all that trendy, honestly.) Lots of people wear rubber braclets that serve as statement for or against a variety of things. (i.e. FOR Lent, FOR Abstinence, FOR macaroni and cheese, AGAINST regular noodles sans cheese.) My braclet is worn in support of ONE . ONE is a quickly-growing campaign to end worldwide poverty. (as stated on their website...ONE believes that allocating an additional ONE percent of the U.S. budget toward providing basic needs like health, education, clean water and food would transform the futures and hopes of an entire generation in the world's poorest countries. ONE also calls for debt cancellation, trade reform and anti–corruption measures in a comprehensive package to help Africa and the poorest nations beat AIDS and extreme poverty.)

I joined the campaign a while back, as did some of my coworkers. I sign online petitions from time to time that are presented to governing bodies. I keep up with what's going on around the world in efforts to reduce debt in third world countries. And the best part? I occassionally get emails from people like Will Smith and Matt Damon filling me in on ONE news. This, of course, makes me feel delightfully special despite the fact that these emails are sent to every ONE member and are probably not written nor even read by the people whose names are attached to them. (But, I like to picture Matt Damon, on his couch with his laptop, sitting indian-style in his sweatsuit and socks, typing away a personal message to lil'ol me.)

I was wearing said rubber braclet one day recently when I girl I know started eyeing it.

"So, what's the braclet for?" She touched it; rotated it around my wrist. "ONE. What's that?"

I eagerly explained to her the mission of ONE and that I wear it to remind myself of the condition of the world and that I should do something...ANYTHING...on a daily basis to contribute to the needs of others.

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "That's SO cute!"

I stared at her blankly for a moment before I spoke. I'm sure I rolled my eyes. I may have even drolled a little bit through my gaping mouth. "Cute? Worldwide poverty is CUTE? Billions of people don't have food to eat. Millions of children in Africa are orphaned and homeless. Dozens of people die every single minute in impoverished countries due to AIDS, a lack of nourishment, lack of shelter, and poor healthcare. Yeah, that's cute. It's toddler-with-teddy-bear, kitten-tangled-in-yarn, Susie's Zoo-on-a-onesie cute. It's f-ing adorable, really."

I wonder how she herself didn't choke on the dusty dry sarcasm in my voice. Who knew that a symptom of ignorance is a super-saturated throat?


ONEbyONE

Or, then again, maybe I'll just stick to kitty cats and goldfish.

It never ceases to amaze me how many parents there are in the world that really have no business at all being such. It’s truly alarming. Disturbing. We’ve all suffered the wrath of poorly disciplined children in restaurants and grocery stores and shot judging glares in the direction of their complacent mothers and fathers. It seems that lately I’ve been inclined to shoot a horrific number of these glares.

An example: A few weeks ago I was at a Chinese restaurant with a friend of mine when I witnessed a disturbing sight. A group of 6 or 7 small children was roaming the place under no supervision whatsoever. Their parents (several sets of them) were dumpy looking fat-asses, apparently too absorbed in their own gorging to pay attention to their spawn. Instead of accompanying the kids to the buffet or, better yet, choosing their food for them, they were left to wander the bar area as freely as they chose…picking shrimp up one at a time and popping them into their mouths…poking their fingers in the orange chicken…and making things float in the sweet and sour soup. (I know….another buffet story. I told you have an issue with these.)

The sight that angered and concerned me most was the 2 year old that visited our table more than a few times…usually to hand me a piece of eggroll or a fortune cookie message she’d happened upon. Not only did the parents of these brats not CARE what was going on; they couldn’t even SEE them because they were seated in another room entirely. I could’ve taken off with that baby and nobody would have ever known. (In fact, I tried to. But she smelled like pooh so I took her out of my purse and sent her on her way.) Every time I attempted to look in their direction to stare at them judgingly, they were lost in open-mouth-full-of-half-chewed-crap conversation. I ended up complaining to the cashier that I was appalled they let children tear through their restaurant with no supervision. He was completely confused as to why I would be annoyed by such a situation and had nothing of satisfaction to say back to me.

And then, on the other hand, there are parents who pay quite a bit of “attention” to their children; but the outcome is equally as alarming to me. My office is located immediately next door to an elementary school. Being in a poor urban neighborhood, most of the children that go to this school live close by in the community, and a good many of them walk to and from the school every day unaccompanied by an adult.

There’s one mother that picks a large group of children up every afternoon when the bell rings. She’s a monster of a woman; large, loud, and scantily clad. On a daily basis we hear her walking in front of our building, screaming obscenities at the tykes around her. She calls them a variety of vulgar names and often makes physical threats. Sometimes, when those two methods don’t get their attention, she’ll take off her shoes and throw them directly at the back of one of their heads or grab them by the bicep and shake them violently. I’ve heard some of my coworkers let out a chuckle at the sight of this and say “Well, at least she’s walking home with them. Most parents don’t even do that.” I can see the logic in such a comment, but it’s really just sad to me that our society is so quick to negotiate on standards of appropriate parenting.

I know I’m not a parent yet and some would say that I, therefore, have no right to judge the parenting styles of others. But it just seems like common sense to note how many people SUCK at being mothers and fathers. I don’t understand why we can’t do more about this problem. You have to pass a test to drive a car or to work in a fast food restaurant. You have to fill out a stack of forms and sign waivers to get a hunting license. Foster and adoptive parents are required to go through weeks, months, or even years of interviews and supervision in order to be “given” a child. So why is it that any idiot or sack-of-trash can pop out as many kids as they want to without any outside force determining whether or not they’re capable of such a responsibility? The older I get, the more intolerant I become of insufficient parents. Maybe it’s my maternal instincts starting to bloom. (Which I guess should be reassuring because I always wondered if they would ever bloom at all.)

Of all the potentially-future events and/or situations I occasionally and/or frequently feel unnecessary anxiety over, motherhood isn’t one of them. (Pregnancy is another story completely, however. We’ll discuss that at another time.) I’m mostly confidant that I will be a good mother, if I’m blessed with the opportunity one day. Yes, I’ll probably be overprotective. Being a “mother” to Bridget has already shown me that. Yes, I'll be strict in the areas of housekeeping and personal hygiene. And yes, I’ll threaten to sell my kids to gypsies when they piss me off. I may even seriously contemplate doing so. But other than that, I think I’ll be alright.

I’ll be one of those “cool moms”. You know the kind. Not the “cool kind” that gives the neighborhood kids sex advice. Not the “cool kind” that barges into the classroom, hair in a scrunchee, unlit cigarette in hand, to cuss out the teacher when he/she complains about her child’s poor behavior. I’ll be the kind that makes homemade chocolate chip pancakes for dinner on a Tuesday. The kind that makes them laugh so hard, milk squirts out of their noses. The kind that will dance in the rain in her socks and pajamas. The kind that doesn’t stifle creativity. The kind that establishes it’s OKAY to make mistakes; in fact, it’s propitious. The kind that puts plastic fruit in their lunchboxes on April Fool’s day (I stole that one from my aunt.). The kind that listens to great music…even when she’s over 40. The kind that doesn’t wear elastic-waist pants or “mom jeans”. The kind that really loves their father…and isn’t afraid to show it. The kind that loves her kids so much that they have no choice but to go out into the world spreading the superfluous love to others.

And God forbid that I’ll EVER be one of those mothers that people shake their heads at in public as they mumble to their friends what a joke I am; that my children are hellions that need a good spanking. I shouldn’t even publish this because I’m sure that, one day, far in the future, my kids will find this and present it to me as some type of bribe. They’ll use it as proof that I vowed to be “cool”. The only comeback I’ll have is a weak, non-original one like “Because…I told you so! Yeah, that’s it! Because my rule is law!” And then I’ll have to send them to bed without their dinner just to reinforce my authority.

It's quite possible that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

There are 3 things in particular that are bothering me this morning.

1. You know the commercial about depression…with the sad music and the grey-shaded scenes and the people who truly look as if they’ve hit rock bottom? Well, there’s this doggie in that commercial that is sitting in front of his depressed owner…and they zoom in on his little doggie face…and he cocks his head to one side as if to say “I’m confused. And sad. And worried. Why won’t you play with me? Don’t you love me anymore? And, hey! I really need to pee!” Yeah, so….every time I see that little dog, my eyes well up with tears, and I nearly loose it.

What? Which part is the part that “bothers” me? Well, all of it, really. The idea that I “nearly loose it” when watching a commercial is what is most bothersome, though, don’t ya think?

2. All of the clothes in my closet have somehow, mysteriously and suddenly, transformed into ugly, unshapely garments that nobody over the age of 16 or under the age of 40 should ever consider wearing. How did that happen?

3. K-Fed is referred to as an “artist”. Who the hell made that decision?

Yet another reason why I should probably be in therapy

Me: “Yeah, so…don’t forget that David will be here this weekend. I guess we can all go to lunch or something.”

My Mother: “Well, Allison…you know I can’t eat Chinese food. All that MSG aggravates my asthma.”


The above snipit of a conversation with my mother clearly illustrates why I’m slightly nervous about the mentioned potential lunch date for this coming Saturday. David (who lives in Austin, by the way) will be meeting my parents for the first time. My nervousness stems solely from the fact that my mother and father are not the most socially graceful people you could spend an afternoon with. Lovely, they are. Sweet. Laid back. Non-threatening. But both kookier than Jerry Lewis when he’s missed his dosage.

The explanation of the snipit is as follows: David is from Singapore. While my mother believes this to be incredibly intriguing and pleasant, she is somewhat confused about how his heritage and ethnicity correlates with his personality and daily life. i.e. The assumption that, since he’s from Singapore, all he eats is Chinese food. “Chinese” food at buffet-style, American-owned restaurants, at that. “Yes, Mama. That’s all he eats. Ever.”

I’ve explained to her, in detail, more than a couple of times that David’s English is impeccable. (he’s been speaking it since infanthood, and his English is better than that of most native Louisianans, thank you very much) I keep having horrific visions of her meeting him and speaking slowly; exaggerating her syllables to make sure he understands her. Or of her asking him what he thinks of American television. Or attempting to explain to him what a microwave is.

My mother is not a complete idiot. I don’t mean to paint her as such. She’s just…well…a bit naïve. Yes, naïve. That’s a nice way to say it. She’s a classic example of someone who thinks primarily in stereotypes. These stereotypes cover the areas of race, culture, age, gender, religion, geographic origin, sexuality, profession, eating habits, and hobby preference. If you make “good money”, then you’re most likely pretentious. If you drink alcohol, then you’re most likely an alcoholic. If you’re thin, then you’re most likely suffering from an eating disorder. If you’re a black woman, then you’re almost certainly very funny and very loud. (And watch out…she’ll refer to you as her “black friend” in EVERY story she tells about you.) She’s always surprised if someone turns out to NOT match her predetermined stereotype. She’ll say things like: “Her husband is a lawyer, so they’re pretty rich. But she doesn’t seem stuck-up at all!!” or “He’s gay, but, can you believe I’ve never even seen him wear flowers!!”

Yes. So, I’m praying that she behaves herself….that she doesn’t reference her future grandkids or “jokingly” mention that she wants to have a say-so in how the mother-in-law suite is decorated. Or, …that there won’t be extended periods of awkward silence in which she just stares, giggles, and says repeatedly how cute we look together. Most people in my situation always fear the inevitable naked baby picture display. But, as you may recall, my mother has lost my baby pictures. So, at least there’s that.

A Sermon of My Own

When Robert Kennedy became New York’s Senator, he began an untiring fight for educational and economic reformation. He began by concentrating on Harlem and Brooklyn before moving on to Chicago and Appalachia and the Mississippi Delta; speaking out for communities all over the United States. And then he started on the rest of the world. He strived to galvanize the human race to look beyond the inconvenience of poverty and into the faces that lived in it. He stood in front of South African university students in the summer of 1966 to give his Day of Affirmation speech. The entire speech is quite moving, but this is just a very small portion of it:

We must recognize the full human equality of all of our people; before God, before the law, and in the councils of government. We must do this, not because it is economically advantageous, although it is. Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do. Not because people in other lands wish it so. We must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do. Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of these acts will be written the history of each generation. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring these ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest wall of oppression and resistance.

When I read this, the part that stands out the most to me is “Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do….we must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do.” Many, many, many Christians serve others because of religious reasons. Because they believe that God would want them to. Because Jesus did, and would do, the same. I think this is great. This, to me, is one of the truest ingredients of Christianity. Perhaps THE truest (after serving God himself). But there are also many, many, many “non-Christians” that choose to serve others. The lot of them might very well serve because of moral conviction. There could be limitless other reasons. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter WHY someone chooses to love and serve by action, as long as they do it sincerely. What matters more is HOW they do it. What gives anyone the right to disvalue heartfelt service just because it might not be done in the name of Christ?

I’ve developed a conflicted opinion; I guess you could say, of individuals and organizations both that offer service/aid/help to people who need it…but with strings attached. It’s easy for us to offer “love” and “goodwill” on our own agendas and not even realize our fault (arrogance, really) in doing so. Why should any of us feel good about meeting someone’s needs with the attached condition that they attend a sermon or say a certain prayer or join a certain church? To me, all this says is that OUR sermons and OUR prayers and OUR church is the only one worthy of whatever love or service we’re providing. We’re saying “Yes, we love you. And we want to help you. But only if you believe what we believe. Otherwise, we’ve wasted our time and efforts.” And that isn’t really sincere love at all, is it? It’s conditional. It has a price tag. Shouldn’t we be delirious with satisfaction that we’ve bettered someone’s life just because they have the right as a human being to have it bettered?

A tiny example: A wonderful religious organization here in town has recently begun offering prescription drug cards for other area agencies to give to clients. They can be used at any pharmacy for any prescribed drugs EXCEPT for contraceptives. This is because, of course, their religion doesn’t smile upon birth control. They’ve offered these cards to all agencies that work in the same communities that I do. Our clients are poor and uneducated (for the most part). Quite a few of them have never been exposed to the concept of planned parenthood or responsible parenting, as is the case in the majority of impoverished communities all over the planet. They don’t practice safe sex or use any form of birth control because, first of all, they can’t afford it, and secondly, they’ve never been taught to. In my position, I’m not allowed to address or promote any practices either way in regards to the subject, so my involvement in this process is very limited. But I have a problem with the said organization denying clients the power of choice and control just because their religion says so. Instead, they’d rather see generation after generation continue to bring more and more children into poverty…children that cannot and will not be properly cared for…thus recycling some of the CAUSES of generational poverty…which is the organism that this organization supposedly strives to put to death on a daily basis. It just doesn’t make sense to me. It infuriates me. There are SO many other instances like this…problems with the system that we all hear about from time to time. I’m just incapable of ignoring them now that I work where I do.

I’ve vowed to myself that I will never again (even though I’ve done it before) offer myself to an individual or cause with the intention of convincing the world to believe the way I do. I love God. I love Jesus. I live my life fueled by this love, and I’ll discuss it with anyone who is interested. But I also love people. In my imperfection, I strive to love people the way I believe God loves people…and I won’t ever stop believing that people deserve the best of life’s joys and the best of God’s love no matter where they stand.

I may be desperate, but I'm no Michelle Phiffer

A major part of every week for me is sending out resumes. It's a very time consuming, mind-numbing process, but I do it with relentless passion. Well, it's something similar to passion, anyway. I send off so many of these things that, quite frankly, I can't always keep up with what I've sent where. So, last week, when I got a call from the state Department of Youth Development, I had to be reminded of the position I had applied for. "Youth Care Worker". Sounded right up my alley, so to speak. (along with a pack of no-good stray cats and a grody Chinese restaurant) With enthusiastic friendliness, the woman I spoke to set up an interview....and that was that.

I had been instructed to show up at an establishment called a "Youth Center". I drove through ghettoed (made up word) outskirts of town for 45 minutes until I found this place. Normally before going on an interview, I'll research the respective business/organization so that I know what I'm dealing with. However, I had been unable to find any information on this place via the internet. As soon as I approached the barbwired perimeter of what was OBVIOUSLY a prison, I wished my research had been more fruitful. Funny how the woman I spoke to numerous times on the phone had failed to mention the phrase "Correctional Facility". Giggles all around. I parked and then sat in my car for several minutes; debating whether or not I wanted to go inside. I quickly convinced myself that I didn't drive all the way out there for nothing.

The guards at the entry gate laughed at me as I walked up. Seriously....they laughed at me. They both spoke to me like I was a 6 year old selling Girl Scout cookies. I felt like an idiot, but I didn't let it discourage me. Job interviews bring out an uncharacteristic perkiness in me. A big smile goes well with a dark suit; that's what I always say. My three interviewers seemed initially pleased with the smile and the suit, but I realized in due time that their warmth was actually heat seeping out from the fires of hell that surrounded the building.

The beginnings of our conversation were padded with lots of Social Worky terms. The position of "Youth Care Worker" was one that would better the lives of young people; establish life-changing relationships; and be filled with lots of challenging, yet rewarding obstacles. Before detailed specifics were mentioned, the director asked me "Do you want to continue with the rest of the interview?" I knew right then that it was going to be all downhill from there.

Job Description: The facility currently houses several hundred young men between the ages of 14 and 21...many of them are murderers and violent sex offenders. I'd be working in their "dormitories", sometimes all night long, one-on-one and in groups with these guys. "Because you're a young woman," I was told, "these men will try anything to undermind you. They'll masturbate in front of you, make vulgar threats, and sometimes they'll even hit you. How do you feel about that?" My initial gut reaction was to admit that I actually enjoy a little masturbation for my benefit every once and a while, but I refrained. Instead, I dropped my attempts to sell myself all together and told them that the job sounded anything but good. I've always fantasized about screaming to authority figures..."Take this job and shove it!!", but again....I refrained. Besides, an angry blurt like that would really only make sense in a quitting scenario.

As I left the building and walked the half-mile stretch of gravel road back to my car, I laughed out loud to myself. I imagined that my interviewers had found our meeting just as amusing as I had. After spending 20 seconds in my presence, it would be apparent to ANYONE that I was, in no way, cut out for that job. Anyone who thought otherwise would be in need of a check-up from the neck up. Perhaps if I were the big scary butch type.....but even then, it would be the makings of a disaster. Apparently, these people are desperate for employees, because they called me yesterday to schedule my drug screening. Needless to say, I gave them permission to scratch me off their list of victims. I can't decide if the prospect reminds me more of a cheap porn flick or a Lifetime version of "Dangerous Minds".

Outrage

Sometimes, when viewing current fashion trends, I feel like an overly-strict mother. I'll internally spout various critiques...passionately exclaiming the asininity of certain pieces.

There's something immensely creepy about little girls wearing things that say "Flirt" or "Sexy" or "Boy Toy". Phrases like this give girls the impression that they should somehow strive to be those things just to get boys' attention. It fosters a huge detour from self-respect....and (for boys), one from respect for females. "Sexy" should not be part of any child's vocabulary, anyway. If you aren't old enough to have sex, then you don't need to know what sexy is. And, while maybe less creepy, it annoys the hell outta me when grown women wear this crap. The sight of a 35 year old woman wearing a tee that says "Spicy" or with the word "Juicy" on her ass makes me
want to: a. Trip her ,b. Recommend that she visit a physician ,or, c. Eat fajitas.

My girlfriends and I have discussed the troubling changes in little girls' clothing. When we were in elementary and middle school, we still dressed like....little girls.....which we were, technically. We didn't wear jeans that rode so low that our cracks showed, push up bras with low cut tanks, or ruffly skirts that were too short to sit down in. It wasn't because myself and all of my current friends weren't trendy at the time; it was because those things didn't exist as options for our wardrobes. Stores didn't encourage us to dress like women back then. We couldn't have purchased those things even if we wanted to. We all thought it was cool to wear oversized tees with Disney characters on them, palazzo pants, embroidered vests (oh.....the horror!!), and plaid polos. When did our society decide to exploit the innocence of young girls?

I think I'll take my favorite pair of sweat pants to an airbrush shop, and have "Cynical Bitch" sprayed on the ass. Wouldn't that be like SO totally sexy?

if only throwing it over my shoulder would help

My parents have asked the same exact question at the beginning of EVERY meal my mother has EVER prepared...."Does it need salt?" As dishes are being served and plates are being helped, I await with annoyance to hear it. They both wait until I...or whoever else is present...have taken a first bite before belting out this inevitable inquiry.

This annoys me on several different levels. First of all, I RARELY add salt to anything after it's prepared. So, my answer to them is always indifferent. They've never accepted this as fact, for some reason. Secondly, it makes me want to punch them in the teeth that they can't just taste the damn food on their own and determine for themselves what seasoning is needed. Thirdly, no matter what anyone else's opinions are, they always add salt, anyway....and always before they've taken a single bite.

I know nobody cares, but I needed to vent. This is one of the many issues I'll bring up when I finally have my day on Oprah to blame everything on my upbringing.

I wonder if he thinks I'm cute

I'm currently experiencing something new. Actually, I've been experiencing lots of somethings new lately....new emotions, new fears, new doubts, new hurts, new challenges.....

But, this particular something new is more of a revelation, I suppose. I'm a little bit betwixted about it. Bewildered. Confused. Muddled. Perturbed, even. I can't seem to wrap my brain around this. Having just relocated, my social life has drastically changed; as has almost every other aspect of my life. In the (almost) three years I lived in Dallas, I made many, many friends. I also was lucky enough to recreate and strengthen friendships from my past. Close ones. True ones. Some of them belonging to a caliber of relationship that I was previously ignorant to. I've been more thankful of this than I can possibly express. These people have nurtured me, loved me, accepted me, held me accountable, made me laugh, pissed me off, partied with me, and struggled with me. I'm not saying that all all of my confidants are in Dallas...God was spread them out all over (my new location included). When you're in the midst of good relationships, surrounded by folks you enjoy and respect, it's easy to forget that not EVERYONE is like them. But, if everyone was, then what would be so special about them, anyway??

Socially....I think I'm pretty damn good. I've always made friends easily. Historically, I've adapted quickly and efficiently to lots of different types of people/groups. And, I LOVE meeting new people....expanding my relationship base. But recently I've felt like a 13 year old again (sing it loud, Alannis). Because I haven't met many new people on my own, I've been attempting to mesh myself with the friends of friends...just for the sake of being social. I do it, and I put on a face as best I can. But it just feels so awkward. Or, more honestly, I feel awkward. At first, I was kinda hard on myself about this. It initially felt like rejection. What I've decided is that it IS about rejection, but I'm the one who's doing the rejecting.

I've said this before, and I'll say it many more times: I'm too old for playmates. In my "adult" life, such as it is, I simply do not have the time or the desire to devote any portion of my schedule or being to anyone who is not going to enrich my life. And I'm not going to give you a second thought if you don't want the same from me. I no longer (thank GOD!!) feel the need to impress you or sell myself. I refuse to immesh myself in a continual, self-recyled scene of "How many guys can I get to like me?" I want to know you and to be known, and that process involves more than just discussing our dating lives. I want our conversations to begin with phrases other than "Guess who text-messaged me last night?" I would prefer NOT to regress to 11th grade behavior in every social situation.

Is all this too much to ask? If it is, then I suppose I'm destined to be lonely. The part that confuses me is that I'm a little suprised that so many people over the age of 21 seem so content residing in their high school mentalities. It amazes me. And why have some of the very people you were actually IN high school with still there while others have moved on? For those of you in my life who have, indeed, moved on and grown up (and you know who you are)....I applaud you. Let's grow old together.

There's a Crouton in the Mashed Potatoes

Have you ever been to one of those "buffet style" restaurants? There are those of the quaint variety....mostly elderly people....a line of workers behind glass shielding help your plate as you make selections. You can start off with the green jello salad before moving on to the corn on the cob and sliced roast beef. Everything looks fairly sanitary and well organized. Everyone is calm. Everything is how it should be. Yeah, those aren't the type I'm referring to. Normally, I try to stay away from these places. My experience the other night at the local Golden Corral reminded me why.

When I was a kid, my dad was a corporate interior designer. One of his many ongoing projects was the Ryan's Steakhouse chain. Apparently, this was one of the first popular buffet joints. It actually was a pretty nice place to go....15-20 years ago. Anyway, I suppose in support of my dad's creative efforts, our family dined there often. To my brothers and I, the smorgasbord set up before us was the epitome of excitement. It was almost too good to be true. My mother always kept us on pretty regimented diets. We weren't allowed to eat fun, kiddy cereals. Only the boring, no sugar kinds. We had balanced meals....vegetables and fruit were always included. And desert was allowed only if we cleared our plates first. But at Ryan's we were allowed to let loose with reckless abandon. There was always a sick contest to see who could make the most trips for seconds; thirds; or even fourths. This contest was never fair, of course. I was no match for the boys.

It was on one particular visit that I set my mind to becoming the Champion All-You-Can-Eat-er. You've all heard the expression "eyes too big for the stomach", right? Sometimes those sayings aren't crap, after all. I had become so focused on the finish line, I didn't stop to evaluate the progression of my fullness. When it finally became clear that I absolutely COULD NOT win, I dropped my fork with a bitter hesitation. I sat in silence as the rest of the family finished their runny ice cream and stale brownies. Slowly, menacingly; with a panther-like stealthness; a rumbling began in my tummy. Before I knew what was happening, I was vomiting onto the cleared plate that sat before me. My parents and brothers, who had obviously stopped eating at this point, stared at me....mid-chew....motionless. When the awful wretching was over, I looked around me and immediately broke into tears. Quickly "shooshing" me, my parents covered the puke with a thin layer of cheap cloth napkins and herded us out of there as if rabid turkeys were attacking nearby tables. Good thing we paid BEFORE we ate. We never returned to that Ryan's, but I've always felt sorry for the bus boy that must have cleared our table after we left. Poor bastard probably turned in his resignation that very night.

So...when I was invited to tag along to Golden Corral the other night, I wasn't very excited. Since the Ryan's incident, I've only gone to restaurants of this type when forced. (i.e. various bus trips in college when buffets would be quickest for the 30-ish people aboard) Upon entering, it became immediately clear to me that I wasn't in the necessary mindset to enjoy the upcoming meal. I sat down at our table with the tray and silverware that had been handed to me; and was almost nervous to begin my food-finding. Nobody else in the restaurant seemed to be experiencing the same feelings. The scene resembled the giant goldfish ponds you see at zoos and parks. You know the kind.......you drop bread in the water, and dozens of fish swim all over each other; all with their big slimy lips opening and closing in unison; all intensely focused on the one morsel of bread; all oblivious to the other fish. It's a sight that disgusts and frightens me, to be perfectly honest.

Even though I am QUITE the sophisticated socialite (and WAY above such establishments), I eventually did dive into the pond, if you will. As I strolled around to check out the available food choices, I was disappointed. Confused. Nothing looked palatable. In fact, not much even looked edible. But people were rushing from one bar to another in a rushed panic. I was bumped about a half dozen times by individuals wanting nothing more in life but another scoop of mashed potatoes or another drizzle of ranch dressing on their wilted salad. I made it back to my table with a small helping of macaroni and cheese and a piece of "roasted" chicken.

As I sat and ate, I was totally distracted by everything around me. There were plates piled high on each table...people were stuffing themselves silly just because they could. I watched as children, adolescents, and adults alike cleared helping after helping of fried okra, cherry pie, buttery rolls, chili covered nachos, and then back for more pie. I noticed that many of the families/couples/etc. weren't even making conversation with one another. They were eating in silence; eyes fixated on their silverware. A large man in Harley t-shirt with the sleeves cut off sat near me. He had two plates of barbecued ribs before him. His wife and little daughter attempted to talk to him, but to no avail. Their heads could have caught fire, and he would have kept on shoveling it in; stopping only to gulp Dr.Pepper from the giant cup that the server refilled every 5 minutes or so. He had barbecue sauce in his beard and on his shirt. Irrationally, I wanted to yell at him, but I wasn't sure why. I forced myself to look in another direction, and spotted a large group of kids clamoring around the salad bar....digging in with their fingers....eating straight off the line and licking their fingers as they went. Nobody seemed to mind this but me. This was the last straw. I could take no more. I apologized sincerely to my dinner-mates and high-tailed it out to my car. My senses were on overload....and not in a good way. Any more stimuli, and I would have been gathering napkins once again.

On my way out, I passed the kids devouring the salad bar. The tallest boy in the group had a mouthful of sesame seeds. Placing my hand on the nape of his neck, I slammed his head against the heat lamp and laughed as the seeds flew out of his mouth and into the peach syrup. It made the whole experience worth while.

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.