I'm a creature of routine. I suppose most of us are. When my schedule/lifestyle/activities change drastically; my entire being gets thrown out of whack. Having moved to a new state...new house....doing nothing like I was doing previously on a daily/weekly basis has thrown me so far out of whack that I can't even see the whack anymore. (I can make out a smallish, blurry something that looks a little bit like "uwek"...and that's it.)
This out-of-whack-ed-ness has been apparent in many ways, and one of most prevalent ways it appeared last week was in my eating schedule. I don't know if it was so much that I wasn't hungry, or just that I forgot to eat meals when I normally do. Either way, I went about 5 days without eating anything much at all. Towards the end of week, I realized this and decided that I was, indeed, quite famished. My roomate had a large bag of cheetos in the pantry. They're a neato kind of cheeto that turn your tongue a nasty black color when you eat them. Their shape (supposedly) resembles a mini tornado, or something equally as corny, but they really look like orange dog turds.
Yeah...so I was stuffing my face with these things one night when my appetite rushed back to me. I wasn't stopping to lick the artificial cheese powder off my fingers or anything....just reaching my hand into the bag time after time. For some reason, I eventually paused and looked down. What I saw was one of the most disturbing sights that has ever been before me. I ginormous dead roach, or something resembling a roach, was nestled peacefully among the 'tos. I screeched a multitude of explicitaves, flung the half-empty bag at my roomate's head, and ran out the front door of our house. The only thing that seemed helpful at the time was to jump up and down in the front yard while frantically waving my hands. Helpful.....yes. In fact, I think I'll try that every time I get upset from now on. I'll send out a memo to warn the neighbors.
I managed somehow to not puke, brushed my teeth until my tongue was numb, and then brushed them some more. Visions of roach eggs developing and hatching in my bowels clouded my thoughts and I knew I MUST kill any possible trace of bug in my body. ( Wasn't it in Nightmare on Elm St. Part 27 that the chick from "Just the 10 of Us" turned into a roach? That's an image that still invades my sleep from time to time. I'll have to write about my ever-lasting fear of Freddy Kruegar some time. scary.) PineSol seemed extreme. The pistol I keep in my closet has no bullets. I couldn't quite figure out how to squash bug eggs in my esophagus with a baseball bat. So I resorted to chugging a large whimsically decorated cup of rum. Chugged it like a bottle of Aqua-freakin-fina (which, for the record, I quickly regretted).
The whole event prompted me to wonder about the bug content in all the foods we eat. A week later, I'm still wondering. From the feel of my pants on my butt today, though, it appears this paranoia hasn't kept me from returning to my usual gluttoness routine. Next time I munch the remains of an insect, I certainly hope some long-term good comes from it.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
cardboard fortress fantasies
Out in the hallway there's a large refrigerator-sized box leaning against the wall. I passed it on my way to lunch and immediately thought to myself: "Wow! That box would make a really cool fort."
What does that say about my maturity level?
What does that say about my maturity level?
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Migratory Oozing of Vomitous Elaborations
As many of you already know, I have just moved from Dallas to Baton Rouge. If you know me, then you know the reasons for my move. If you don't know me, then such details wouldn't interest you. To put it simply, I've followed the inspirational example of the great Kelly Clarkson to "take a risk, take a chance, make a change, and break away". They're aren't any palm trees around here to sleep under, and I don't plan on getting on a fast train any time soon, but I may try and find a tall building with revolving doors to play in later on today.
I have developed an acronym for MOVE. Migratory Oozing of Vomitous Elaborations. It's a stretch, I know; but it was the best I could come up with. My moving experience hasn't been filled with as many uh-oh moments as a Ben Stiller comedy or anything, but it has had its share of frustrations.
12 friends (all saints) helped me load my crap in Dallas last week. One even drove from Louisiana in order to do so. 6 of the 12 were guys....all teachers, coincidently. It was the making for a new cliche' opener for joke telling. "How many male teachers does it take to......". In this case, it was "How many male teachers does it take to load 2 couches and a bed into a 5'x8' UHaul trailer?" It took all 6, in fact. The whole process took about 2 hours and was more entertaining to watch than a LifeTime movie. There were no murders, kidnappings, or reunion of lovers; but there were minor injuries, team work, and even some furniture humping. Despite everyone's sweat and tears, we couldn't manage to fit all of my belongings into our vehicles. About a 4th of what I own still resides in Dallas. I was haunted by images of accidently leaving all of my underwear behind, thus being forced to cut holes in my pillow cases out of makeshift urgency.
Unfortunately, the very same weekend I chose to move, a monsoon hit the southeast. The drive from Dallas to Baton Rouge normally takes 8 hours. Our journey on Saturday was drawn out to a near mind-numbing 10, however, due to our frequent stops in the rain to repair the plastic tarping over the bed of my friend's truck. We even stopped at grody podunk Family Dollar during a thunderstorm to buy duct tape. We climbed up on top of the truck right in front of the entrance of the store. Everyone stared at the 2 dumbass white kids. I absolutely loved the white-trashiness of it all.
The drive was made even more enjoyable by Bridget, my poor little kitty cat. I loaded her into my car in her pet carrier, but was too heartbroken by her cries to keep her in it for long. As soon as I cleared Dallas traffic, I let her out to sit in my lap. The first 2 hours of the trip were made with her sitting on her hind legs, facing me with her claws dug into the collar of my jacket. After that, Bridget displayed her previously hidden talent of impersonations. The mink collar: her favorite position while I was driving was draped around my shoulders with her nose in my ear. The ostrich: there was a 6" wide hole in the "mountain o' crap" directly behind my seat. It wasn't a space big enough for her entire body, but she found that she could stuff in everything except her booty and back legs. Once she wiggled into position, she'd stay there for a good 10/15 mintues. The mole: when the 6" hole got boring, she would dig a pathway (in the "mountain o' crap") and disappear. The first time she did this, I panicked a little. Okay........I panicked a lot. I pulled over and made my friend unload and rearrange in a gas station parking lot. When we finally found her under a pile of pillows, I couldn't reach her well enough to pull her out, and I couldn't see her face. After feeling her belly, I was convinced that she wasn't breathing. Once I was proven wrong and my overreacting subsided, I ate a hamburger and all was well again. Just like that.
Bridget and I moved into a house that already had 3 animals living in it. 2 dogs, 2 cats, and 3 women is WAY too many for one small house. The situation is the making for a cheesy ABC sitcom. Our show would be narrated by stereotypical (voices matching their personalities) voiceovers for the pets. Darby, the chocolate lab's would the voice of a young man...slow, stupid, meek. Bobby, the pipsqueaky, peacemaking mutt would be an older woman, possibly high pitched, but with Yankee accent. Webber, the hardheaded male cat would be an older man...always sounds inebriated and confused. And Bridget....cutesie young girl's voice....excited and mischevious. In reality, our pets would use lots of profanity, I'm sure; but this fantasy is in prime time. On our show, we'll encounter a multitude of the typical roomate/pet scenarios. My favorite epidsode will be when one roomate comes home drunk and catches the house on fire with a neglected scented candle. In her drunkened state, she passes out, and the animals (whom she previously hated) will drag her body out to safety. The episode will end with soft music, intervention, forgiveness, hugs, and a goofy neighbor making sense of it all with a corny joke.
Anyway.....living in this house is quite an adjustment not only for me, but for Bridget. Her normal "I'm not scared of anything or anybody...I love you, I love you, I love EVERYthing!!!!.....Yay!, your belly is a trampoline!" demeanor had taken a sharp fall the first few days we were here. There were a couple of violent exchanges between she and Webber, and Darby retreats and barks for hours on end after seeing her. I've felt like I've been running a freakin day care all week....and those are memories that I try to stay away from as much as possible. Just like with toddlers, if I turn my back for more than 2 seconds, someone gets hurt and starts cying, something crashes and breaks, or both. At least I'm not having to potty train 12 of them at once. But, alas......the sun is starting to emerge. The cats managed to sit within 10 feet of each other yesterday without fluffing tails, and the dog hasn't drifted into anxious barking nearly as much. And I feel a little bit less crazy being here with them all.
No fears....more updates will come. I must run now because I think I hear another sitcom epidsode developing in the next room, and I want to be a part of it. I must keep creative control....
I have developed an acronym for MOVE. Migratory Oozing of Vomitous Elaborations. It's a stretch, I know; but it was the best I could come up with. My moving experience hasn't been filled with as many uh-oh moments as a Ben Stiller comedy or anything, but it has had its share of frustrations.
12 friends (all saints) helped me load my crap in Dallas last week. One even drove from Louisiana in order to do so. 6 of the 12 were guys....all teachers, coincidently. It was the making for a new cliche' opener for joke telling. "How many male teachers does it take to......". In this case, it was "How many male teachers does it take to load 2 couches and a bed into a 5'x8' UHaul trailer?" It took all 6, in fact. The whole process took about 2 hours and was more entertaining to watch than a LifeTime movie. There were no murders, kidnappings, or reunion of lovers; but there were minor injuries, team work, and even some furniture humping. Despite everyone's sweat and tears, we couldn't manage to fit all of my belongings into our vehicles. About a 4th of what I own still resides in Dallas. I was haunted by images of accidently leaving all of my underwear behind, thus being forced to cut holes in my pillow cases out of makeshift urgency.
Unfortunately, the very same weekend I chose to move, a monsoon hit the southeast. The drive from Dallas to Baton Rouge normally takes 8 hours. Our journey on Saturday was drawn out to a near mind-numbing 10, however, due to our frequent stops in the rain to repair the plastic tarping over the bed of my friend's truck. We even stopped at grody podunk Family Dollar during a thunderstorm to buy duct tape. We climbed up on top of the truck right in front of the entrance of the store. Everyone stared at the 2 dumbass white kids. I absolutely loved the white-trashiness of it all.
The drive was made even more enjoyable by Bridget, my poor little kitty cat. I loaded her into my car in her pet carrier, but was too heartbroken by her cries to keep her in it for long. As soon as I cleared Dallas traffic, I let her out to sit in my lap. The first 2 hours of the trip were made with her sitting on her hind legs, facing me with her claws dug into the collar of my jacket. After that, Bridget displayed her previously hidden talent of impersonations. The mink collar: her favorite position while I was driving was draped around my shoulders with her nose in my ear. The ostrich: there was a 6" wide hole in the "mountain o' crap" directly behind my seat. It wasn't a space big enough for her entire body, but she found that she could stuff in everything except her booty and back legs. Once she wiggled into position, she'd stay there for a good 10/15 mintues. The mole: when the 6" hole got boring, she would dig a pathway (in the "mountain o' crap") and disappear. The first time she did this, I panicked a little. Okay........I panicked a lot. I pulled over and made my friend unload and rearrange in a gas station parking lot. When we finally found her under a pile of pillows, I couldn't reach her well enough to pull her out, and I couldn't see her face. After feeling her belly, I was convinced that she wasn't breathing. Once I was proven wrong and my overreacting subsided, I ate a hamburger and all was well again. Just like that.
Bridget and I moved into a house that already had 3 animals living in it. 2 dogs, 2 cats, and 3 women is WAY too many for one small house. The situation is the making for a cheesy ABC sitcom. Our show would be narrated by stereotypical (voices matching their personalities) voiceovers for the pets. Darby, the chocolate lab's would the voice of a young man...slow, stupid, meek. Bobby, the pipsqueaky, peacemaking mutt would be an older woman, possibly high pitched, but with Yankee accent. Webber, the hardheaded male cat would be an older man...always sounds inebriated and confused. And Bridget....cutesie young girl's voice....excited and mischevious. In reality, our pets would use lots of profanity, I'm sure; but this fantasy is in prime time. On our show, we'll encounter a multitude of the typical roomate/pet scenarios. My favorite epidsode will be when one roomate comes home drunk and catches the house on fire with a neglected scented candle. In her drunkened state, she passes out, and the animals (whom she previously hated) will drag her body out to safety. The episode will end with soft music, intervention, forgiveness, hugs, and a goofy neighbor making sense of it all with a corny joke.
Anyway.....living in this house is quite an adjustment not only for me, but for Bridget. Her normal "I'm not scared of anything or anybody...I love you, I love you, I love EVERYthing!!!!.....Yay!, your belly is a trampoline!" demeanor had taken a sharp fall the first few days we were here. There were a couple of violent exchanges between she and Webber, and Darby retreats and barks for hours on end after seeing her. I've felt like I've been running a freakin day care all week....and those are memories that I try to stay away from as much as possible. Just like with toddlers, if I turn my back for more than 2 seconds, someone gets hurt and starts cying, something crashes and breaks, or both. At least I'm not having to potty train 12 of them at once. But, alas......the sun is starting to emerge. The cats managed to sit within 10 feet of each other yesterday without fluffing tails, and the dog hasn't drifted into anxious barking nearly as much. And I feel a little bit less crazy being here with them all.
No fears....more updates will come. I must run now because I think I hear another sitcom epidsode developing in the next room, and I want to be a part of it. I must keep creative control....
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Handling your Bond Needs
As I was opening the office mail today, I came across a brochure for Jurisco.
In big letters it says: "Do I need a Replevin Bond, an Attachment, or a Sequestration Bond?"
On the side is the headshot of a young man. Average looking...could possibly be the love child of Jerry Seinfield and Patrick Dempsey . Well dressed.....nice suit. The expression on his face is one that was probably an attempt to look bewildered, but turned into a fight not to burst into laughter.
I thought his posed acting perfectly captured what any of us with bond dilemnas would be experiencing.
Oh.....should any of you be in the market for bond services, the number is
1-800-274-2663. Ask for "Jimbo".
In big letters it says: "Do I need a Replevin Bond, an Attachment, or a Sequestration Bond?"
On the side is the headshot of a young man. Average looking...could possibly be the love child of Jerry Seinfield and Patrick Dempsey . Well dressed.....nice suit. The expression on his face is one that was probably an attempt to look bewildered, but turned into a fight not to burst into laughter.
I thought his posed acting perfectly captured what any of us with bond dilemnas would be experiencing.
Oh.....should any of you be in the market for bond services, the number is
1-800-274-2663. Ask for "Jimbo".
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
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.
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.
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