I don’t get sick often. At all. So I am blaming this last year of illness on Boyfriend. I'm being serious. I had nearly perfect attendance all through high school, as well as freshman, sophomore, and junior years at GVSU. I was untouched by the taint of disease, and I got to laugh at everyone when they got the flu, and then I would drive them to the Urgent Care and offer them crackers. That's what friends do.
Until I got a boyfriend. I knew I should have stuck with my premise that boys have cooties, but he tricked me with his James Bond charm. And then, like an evil mastermind, got me sick all the time while never actually getting sick himself. What a goober.
Boyfriend still contends that my sudden onslaught of illness was not his fault. But, he is the only variable, so scientifically it is his fault. Also, it is because I say so, and last week I tricked him into agreeing that everything I say is right.
Never did I have to have someone drive me to urgent care before. Such a thing was unheard of. But, this year, I was driven to urgent care by either Boyfriend, Melania, or Jessica on four separate occasions. I caught everything, even the possibility of breast cancer. Seriously, they thought I had it. I got an ultrasound and everything, luckily it was just a cyst. Probably triggered by the fact I had been non-stop sick for 6 months. Or the stress of senior year. Or the stress of thinking I have cancer (stupid body). One of those things.
Anyway, my senior year I had strep, a sinus infection, the swine flu and cysts. Not to mention a near constant cold. I’m surprised I have friends left, I hated being around me, I cant imagine why they would have wanted to. I was basically an unpleasant mass on the couch that made ‘snorfle’ sounds into tissues all winter, along with occasionally hacking up god knows what.
No one likes people who cough stuff up. Especially me. Spitting out my own toothpaste makes me nauseous, I have to leave the water on so it goes away ASAP or I will seriously consider gagging in the sink and never brushing my teeth again. Coughing out unsterilized blogs of ick is even worse.
I bring this up because I woke up today with the pressing need to vomit like the girl on the Exorcist. So I did. And then I did it again. And again. And again.
Of course, this illness makes perfect sense because I hang out with… my mom, and well… I go nowhere? Nowhere. Why am I sick? Unless the Perfectly Normal Man, sensing that I am onto his shenanigans, is trying to possess me there is no good reason for this.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Tumbling Down
One of my greatest talents is climbing up things and falling off them. I know, everyone gets jealous, but I assure you, through these anecdotes you will learn how to gracefully clamber up anything only to awkwardly tumble off at a later time. If you practice enough, you could develop this into a charming personality trait that will find you friends, acquaintances, significants, even youtube fame. (I'm still working on the last one, but, like all truly great endeavors, its a constant work in progress)
One of my favorite pastimes, as a child and even now, was climbing up tall things. I was the first one to defy gravity of my sisters. Unfortunately, I didn’t really plan out my strategy as well as I could have, and I ended up trapped in a 4 foot tall apple tree, hanging by one stuck leg, sobbing, while Twin ran and got my mother. To be fair, four feet is pretty high when you are only like 2 feet tall, and I was wearing a dress so climbing down was really hard.
Thankfully, I did all of my early climbing in dresses, because I refused to pants until this kid in kindergarten (A ginger named Alex) made fun of me and I didn’t wear a dress again until I was 16. I feel this made me much more confident in my skills, while actually making me less adept at climbing.
Regrettably, no amount of dress climbing could prepare me for a lesson I learned several years later. I’m sure many of you have learned this lesson the hard way as well. It is the dead branch lesson. If you want your fall through time and space to make a truly magnificent impression, the dead branch fall is the way to go. I was perhaps eight at the time, and climbing a tree that stuck out from a hillside. I was a bold and daring adventurer. I was discovering a new world as my sisters and father cavorted below. I scoffed at them and their earth-bound natures.
I scoffed my way right onto a dead branch that snapped and sent me plummeting 16 feet to the ground. This was a fall so epic that my mother, in our apartment three floors up and 30 yards away, heard the crash and looked out to see her cherished oldest daughter sprawled out on the earth like a starfish. Thankfully, by the time she made it down the stairs I had stopped gasping for air and was reasonably sure I would not suffocate on the choking lumps of hindsight that were clogging my lungs and whispering 'I told you so'.
You would think, after my epic failure to defeat the laws of gravity as an 8 year old, I would become somewhat more circumspect in my adventures. You would be wrong. Over the following years I have fallen face first, fallen of cliffs, tripped over string and fallen into holes in the ground, fallen of roofs, fallen of fences, fallen out of at least 30 more trees, and fallen out of my van. I have perfected my art.
I did not know it at the time, but there was a reason for all this falling. You see, once again I was frolicking carelessly about, this time in a snowball fight at college. And, let me just tell you, all those years of war games with other military children paid off because I was winning. I was Alexander the Great, if he was conquering an icy driveway in boots and a sweater dress. And, like all tyrants, I fell. I didn’t just fall, I bit it. It was a cartoon character tumble, a feet-going-up-over-my-head epic spill. And that was when boyfriend noticed how stupendous I was.
Got out, little birds, and fall epically. It's how you make friends.
One of my favorite pastimes, as a child and even now, was climbing up tall things. I was the first one to defy gravity of my sisters. Unfortunately, I didn’t really plan out my strategy as well as I could have, and I ended up trapped in a 4 foot tall apple tree, hanging by one stuck leg, sobbing, while Twin ran and got my mother. To be fair, four feet is pretty high when you are only like 2 feet tall, and I was wearing a dress so climbing down was really hard.
Thankfully, I did all of my early climbing in dresses, because I refused to pants until this kid in kindergarten (A ginger named Alex) made fun of me and I didn’t wear a dress again until I was 16. I feel this made me much more confident in my skills, while actually making me less adept at climbing.
Regrettably, no amount of dress climbing could prepare me for a lesson I learned several years later. I’m sure many of you have learned this lesson the hard way as well. It is the dead branch lesson. If you want your fall through time and space to make a truly magnificent impression, the dead branch fall is the way to go. I was perhaps eight at the time, and climbing a tree that stuck out from a hillside. I was a bold and daring adventurer. I was discovering a new world as my sisters and father cavorted below. I scoffed at them and their earth-bound natures.
I scoffed my way right onto a dead branch that snapped and sent me plummeting 16 feet to the ground. This was a fall so epic that my mother, in our apartment three floors up and 30 yards away, heard the crash and looked out to see her cherished oldest daughter sprawled out on the earth like a starfish. Thankfully, by the time she made it down the stairs I had stopped gasping for air and was reasonably sure I would not suffocate on the choking lumps of hindsight that were clogging my lungs and whispering 'I told you so'.
You would think, after my epic failure to defeat the laws of gravity as an 8 year old, I would become somewhat more circumspect in my adventures. You would be wrong. Over the following years I have fallen face first, fallen of cliffs, tripped over string and fallen into holes in the ground, fallen of roofs, fallen of fences, fallen out of at least 30 more trees, and fallen out of my van. I have perfected my art.
I did not know it at the time, but there was a reason for all this falling. You see, once again I was frolicking carelessly about, this time in a snowball fight at college. And, let me just tell you, all those years of war games with other military children paid off because I was winning. I was Alexander the Great, if he was conquering an icy driveway in boots and a sweater dress. And, like all tyrants, I fell. I didn’t just fall, I bit it. It was a cartoon character tumble, a feet-going-up-over-my-head epic spill. And that was when boyfriend noticed how stupendous I was.
Got out, little birds, and fall epically. It's how you make friends.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
My farmer is selling grocery store produce.
Today my mother and I went out to get pumpkins. In between yelling demands for her to stop walking so fast so I didn’t have to hobble after her like an idiot, I noticed something.
Produce in Virginia is ridiculous. It took me a little while to be completely certain because I get abnormally excited about carving pumpkins, I'm gonna make a kraken or a unicorn on mine this year.
I already had some notion that this was going to be an issue, because every grocery store in my area has a produce section the size of a postage stamp. But today this issue was solidified when I went to a farmer’s fruit stand. Here is what he was selling:
Pomegranates
Sweet potatoes
Apples
Squash
tomatoes
Gourds
Eggplant
Boiled peanuts
Sausage
Onions
Green beans
Some other stuff
Here are the things that did not have GROCERY STORE PRODUCE STICKERS on them:
Sweet Potatoes
Tomatoes
Gourds
Green beans
Sausage
Really? I moved here? I live on a steady diet of steak, vegetables, and cool ranch Doritos. I don’t think I can handle my pound of onions costing MORE than my Doritos.
I cant believe this I happening to me.
Even worse, I am shocked at the fact that the farmer is buying stuff from the grocery store. I understand, farmer dude, it’s the end of the season and you can’t sell as much because stuff isn’t, well, growing. But I have a sneaking suspicion, since you are offering pomegranates, this is a regular occurrence. I think my farmer stand sells grocery store produce. And I think he sells it on a regular basis.
I feel so betrayed.
I am supremely disappointed in this state. How can produce be cheaper in Michigan?! Its practically above the permafrost line. Nothing grows as well there as it does down in the south where its warm and fertile and full of gruff farmers with southern accents and a stern disposition.
Produce in Virginia is ridiculous. It took me a little while to be completely certain because I get abnormally excited about carving pumpkins, I'm gonna make a kraken or a unicorn on mine this year.
I already had some notion that this was going to be an issue, because every grocery store in my area has a produce section the size of a postage stamp. But today this issue was solidified when I went to a farmer’s fruit stand. Here is what he was selling:
Pomegranates
Sweet potatoes
Apples
Squash
tomatoes
Gourds
Eggplant
Boiled peanuts
Sausage
Onions
Green beans
Some other stuff
Here are the things that did not have GROCERY STORE PRODUCE STICKERS on them:
Sweet Potatoes
Tomatoes
Gourds
Green beans
Sausage
Really? I moved here? I live on a steady diet of steak, vegetables, and cool ranch Doritos. I don’t think I can handle my pound of onions costing MORE than my Doritos.
I cant believe this I happening to me.
Even worse, I am shocked at the fact that the farmer is buying stuff from the grocery store. I understand, farmer dude, it’s the end of the season and you can’t sell as much because stuff isn’t, well, growing. But I have a sneaking suspicion, since you are offering pomegranates, this is a regular occurrence. I think my farmer stand sells grocery store produce. And I think he sells it on a regular basis.
I feel so betrayed.
I am supremely disappointed in this state. How can produce be cheaper in Michigan?! Its practically above the permafrost line. Nothing grows as well there as it does down in the south where its warm and fertile and full of gruff farmers with southern accents and a stern disposition.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Best Playground Ever
Once upon a time, when I was moderately young, and still very small (I hit my growth spurt late, like, growing an inch in college late) I apparently had my first boyfriend. I think his name was Kevin. I’m not sure because I only learned that he was my very first boyfriend because my twin sister told me. I just remembered him for existing. Also, because he had one blue eye and one brown eye, a characteristic that I found very dashing (apparently).
Kevin and I had very few interactions, I think we did anyway. I remember we jumped rope once, but he was too tall for my jump rope. Also, he stole my coat once and ran away with it. This was when I lived in Germany. Our playground was the size of several football fields, contained a real forest, and stood on the side of a mountain. Imagine my all-consuming horror when I moved to civilian schools. Cheese and crackers, safety Nazis ruined EVERYTHING for civilian kids, those playgrounds were a disgrace.
Anyway, he stole my coat and ran into the enchanted playground forest, so I ran after him. At this point most people would expect to hear about how we awkwardly kissed and never spoke again. Most people would be wrong. I tackled his ass to the ground, took my coat back (I remember, it was pink with gold stitching and was totally the most awesome coat ever) and informed him that boy scouts, like him, were a bunch of sissies. Then I walked away feeling like a CHAMP.
I miss that playground. We had grand adventures, we built awesome houses out of sticks and had epic wars where we annihilated other kid’s stick houses. There was this ancient wooden castle play structure. The bottom was our dungeon. I was only imprisoned once, because I was very small and agile, like a mongoose. The top of this castle was a place I was not allowed to go, because I wasn’t a cool kid even then. Twin could go to the top though, she was always cooler than I was. She said it was boring and the girls there didn’t do anything but talk about boring stuff. That made me feel better.
More important than the castle was the zip-line swing. I am certain that this swing caused enough injuries to make any sissy suburbanite faint and call their lawyer. It was a big swing on a high platform, and you sat on it, and it zoomed 100 yards down a wire and hit an anchor and swung high up in the air.
I had the best playground ever. We even found a clump of amethyst buried in it once. We had so many good times in the enchanted forest. We frolicked with unicorns, and battled hordes of evil creatures (boys) to protect whatever magical animal we envisioned flitting through the trees. It was basically the best playground in the whole wide world.
Kevin and I had very few interactions, I think we did anyway. I remember we jumped rope once, but he was too tall for my jump rope. Also, he stole my coat once and ran away with it. This was when I lived in Germany. Our playground was the size of several football fields, contained a real forest, and stood on the side of a mountain. Imagine my all-consuming horror when I moved to civilian schools. Cheese and crackers, safety Nazis ruined EVERYTHING for civilian kids, those playgrounds were a disgrace.
Anyway, he stole my coat and ran into the enchanted playground forest, so I ran after him. At this point most people would expect to hear about how we awkwardly kissed and never spoke again. Most people would be wrong. I tackled his ass to the ground, took my coat back (I remember, it was pink with gold stitching and was totally the most awesome coat ever) and informed him that boy scouts, like him, were a bunch of sissies. Then I walked away feeling like a CHAMP.
I miss that playground. We had grand adventures, we built awesome houses out of sticks and had epic wars where we annihilated other kid’s stick houses. There was this ancient wooden castle play structure. The bottom was our dungeon. I was only imprisoned once, because I was very small and agile, like a mongoose. The top of this castle was a place I was not allowed to go, because I wasn’t a cool kid even then. Twin could go to the top though, she was always cooler than I was. She said it was boring and the girls there didn’t do anything but talk about boring stuff. That made me feel better.
More important than the castle was the zip-line swing. I am certain that this swing caused enough injuries to make any sissy suburbanite faint and call their lawyer. It was a big swing on a high platform, and you sat on it, and it zoomed 100 yards down a wire and hit an anchor and swung high up in the air.
I had the best playground ever. We even found a clump of amethyst buried in it once. We had so many good times in the enchanted forest. We frolicked with unicorns, and battled hordes of evil creatures (boys) to protect whatever magical animal we envisioned flitting through the trees. It was basically the best playground in the whole wide world.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Dreamland
Of all the magical things I have had the (questionable) delight of partaking in during my time as an invalid, best of all has to be the cracked out nightmares that codeine is giving me. Mind you, I got off taking it during the day as soon as possible because it made me loopier than Mel Gibson, though thankfully not nearly as violent. Unfortunately by the time night rolls around my ankle starts throbbing and I end up caving and taking the drugs so I can sleep and stop counting every single throb. Apparently, counting throbs doesn’t work like counting sheep… shocking, I know.
Day one was by far the worst. I couldn’t actually fall asleep, I have no idea why, since the awesome nurse promised me that codeine would knock me out faster than Rocky Balboa. This was not the case. Instead, I eventually fell into that half sleep where you are almost conscious, but you cant move, and you feel all weird. So there I was, laying on the couch with my leg in the air, when the dogs started to move. Now, normally, I would think to myself ‘SOMEONE IS BREAKING IN,’ and then spend 5 minutes convincing myself its just the stupid dogs. Not this time, oh no.
Somehow I managed to convince myself that the dogs were giant centipedes clicking around the house looking for me. To eat me, I assumed, though they could have been there because of all the centipedes I murdered while doing archaeology. I couldn’t even run away because my ankle was destroyed, so I just laid there, panicking, wondering when the centipedes were going to find me and devour me. I was helpless as helpless as a baby sea turtle, but less charming. I did this until one of the centipedes licked my face at 3 am and I stayed awake watching infomercials and writing about how I wanted to be an octopus.
The next dream was much nicer. I had this long, drawn out, epic odyssey of a dream where I was Robin Hood. But I was still a lady; so I suppose it’s a good thing that Robin isn’t a gender specific name. It was a awesome dream! I had a bow and arrow, and I was riding a horse everywhere and laughing at all the inept henchmen and being a Hero. With a capital H. It was great. I literally lived out the Robin Hood story like Kevin Costner, but with lady parts. I highly recommend the experience to anyone who needs a self esteem boost, or a good adventure to break-up the boredom of every day life.
My brain and/or the codeine obviously did some planning during the next day. I don’t know if my subconscious worried I would develop a soft spot for this drug or what, but it made damn sure I was good and scared, too scared to sleep ever again.
Dream 3 was me, running through the forest from the fucking Huns. Yes, those Huns, with Attila and genocide and mountains of terror slogging through the countryside like the blob. Only, I couldn’t just run and hide, because I had my three-year-old nephew with me. Our entire family had been killed (probably brutally) by the HUNS and I was running through the woods trying to hide but I had to carry Nephew and he wouldn’t stop screaming and they were going to find us and it would not end well at all. The trees were like the ones in Snow White and were nearly impossible to get through and the ground was a foot of mud, so every step was a Herculean task. The only problem was, I was not Hercules, I wasn't even Robin Hood. I was a baby sea turtle.
Dream four was obviously going for the same message. I found myself sitting on a dock that went out over a swamp in the bayou of Louisiana. I was looking at the water thinking to myself “Urgh, I cant believe anyone would swim here.” It looked remarkably like the swamp next to Mordor, but with less dead elves and more gooey stuff. That’s when the bad guy from the Swan Princess kidnapped me with the help of giant spiders who had claws instead of legs and an entire tsunami of clicking water beetles.
At first I thought I was going to drown in the swamp he was dragging me through, but I started watching the timer at the bottom of the screen (yes, there was a screen) and realized that hours were going by and I had yet to suffocate. This was both a blessing and a curse, because if I died the spiders would stop digging their claws into me and I would no longer be kidnapped, but I would be dead which would suck almost as much. Then he put me into a dripping moldy stone room. Since it was a decrepit stone ruin I escaped out of it by jumping over a rock. Unfortunately, this was all in vain because I ended up back on the dock and had to do the whole thing over again. And again. AND AGAIN.
Day one was by far the worst. I couldn’t actually fall asleep, I have no idea why, since the awesome nurse promised me that codeine would knock me out faster than Rocky Balboa. This was not the case. Instead, I eventually fell into that half sleep where you are almost conscious, but you cant move, and you feel all weird. So there I was, laying on the couch with my leg in the air, when the dogs started to move. Now, normally, I would think to myself ‘SOMEONE IS BREAKING IN,’ and then spend 5 minutes convincing myself its just the stupid dogs. Not this time, oh no.
Somehow I managed to convince myself that the dogs were giant centipedes clicking around the house looking for me. To eat me, I assumed, though they could have been there because of all the centipedes I murdered while doing archaeology. I couldn’t even run away because my ankle was destroyed, so I just laid there, panicking, wondering when the centipedes were going to find me and devour me. I was helpless as helpless as a baby sea turtle, but less charming. I did this until one of the centipedes licked my face at 3 am and I stayed awake watching infomercials and writing about how I wanted to be an octopus.
The next dream was much nicer. I had this long, drawn out, epic odyssey of a dream where I was Robin Hood. But I was still a lady; so I suppose it’s a good thing that Robin isn’t a gender specific name. It was a awesome dream! I had a bow and arrow, and I was riding a horse everywhere and laughing at all the inept henchmen and being a Hero. With a capital H. It was great. I literally lived out the Robin Hood story like Kevin Costner, but with lady parts. I highly recommend the experience to anyone who needs a self esteem boost, or a good adventure to break-up the boredom of every day life.
My brain and/or the codeine obviously did some planning during the next day. I don’t know if my subconscious worried I would develop a soft spot for this drug or what, but it made damn sure I was good and scared, too scared to sleep ever again.
Dream 3 was me, running through the forest from the fucking Huns. Yes, those Huns, with Attila and genocide and mountains of terror slogging through the countryside like the blob. Only, I couldn’t just run and hide, because I had my three-year-old nephew with me. Our entire family had been killed (probably brutally) by the HUNS and I was running through the woods trying to hide but I had to carry Nephew and he wouldn’t stop screaming and they were going to find us and it would not end well at all. The trees were like the ones in Snow White and were nearly impossible to get through and the ground was a foot of mud, so every step was a Herculean task. The only problem was, I was not Hercules, I wasn't even Robin Hood. I was a baby sea turtle.
Dream four was obviously going for the same message. I found myself sitting on a dock that went out over a swamp in the bayou of Louisiana. I was looking at the water thinking to myself “Urgh, I cant believe anyone would swim here.” It looked remarkably like the swamp next to Mordor, but with less dead elves and more gooey stuff. That’s when the bad guy from the Swan Princess kidnapped me with the help of giant spiders who had claws instead of legs and an entire tsunami of clicking water beetles.
At first I thought I was going to drown in the swamp he was dragging me through, but I started watching the timer at the bottom of the screen (yes, there was a screen) and realized that hours were going by and I had yet to suffocate. This was both a blessing and a curse, because if I died the spiders would stop digging their claws into me and I would no longer be kidnapped, but I would be dead which would suck almost as much. Then he put me into a dripping moldy stone room. Since it was a decrepit stone ruin I escaped out of it by jumping over a rock. Unfortunately, this was all in vain because I ended up back on the dock and had to do the whole thing over again. And again. AND AGAIN.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Today I went to a substitute teaching workshop. Here is what I learned:
Blood-born pathogens are just like 4 piece puzzles. (only for stupid people)
The announcer has a 6 year old that she calls a princess who likes to wear band-aids and has absolutely no relevance to substitute teaching.
If you have blood on your hands don’t comb your hair.
I need to practice my crab drawings, they are unimpressive.
The call system that calls 1200 people a day about subbing is registered in Florida. This means EVERY single call it makes it long distance. I have a budget solution for the education system.
I was also treated to another round with the stupid-questions-asker. I thought that I was free of this remarkably dumb class of Homo Sapien (light on the Sapien) after I graduated, but I was wrong. You all have dealt with the SQA at some point in your life. If you have not, it is because you are the one who asks stupid questions in a pretentious tone of voice. News flash: Just because you speak like a Harvard Cliché doesn’t make your question any less asinine. Here are some examples:
“Do we have the right to search students should we suspect they have contraband, such as cellular phones, on their persons?” (CREEPER!)
“Are we expected to follow the dress code set forth for students?”
“I have a question, that answer is the fact that you just stated a moment ago, the fact that is clearly written on the PowerPoint slide right at this moment.” (this question happened 4 times. FOUR TIMES)
“My daughter does X and I do Y as punishment. Can I use Y on my students?”
“My daughter has a cell phone in school and she doesn’t get in trouble.”
“I have a daughter in elementary school and if you yell at her I will make you cry.”
(Obviously this lady needs to take a step back. Maybe children these days wouldn’t be so awful if they got yelled at when they deserved it. I’m not advocating bringing beating back into school, but when little Timmy learns he can take apart a ball point pen and shoot ink across the room like a frightened squid, a raised voice is in order. I lived in fear of getting yelled at when I was little. I came out perfectly normal.)
I am not sure why this old bag thought her ability to spawn somehow gave her an informative perspective on substitute teaching. Quite frankly I’m young enough that I have some grasp on how school systems work. I was in one only 4 years ago. This lady, however, was convinced that her reproductive success gave her a so much knowledge it actually eclipsed that of the person whose job it is to read PowerPoint slides to everyone. She wasn’t even asking questions at the end. She was just drawing out the session by giving WRONG ANSWERS to stupid questions other people addressed to the speaker.
Really lady?
REALLY?
My ankle is blowing up like a balloon in the back of this auditorium and you/re dragging out this session because you want to discuss your kid? Did no one ever mention choosing the appropriate venue to you?
And that was how I became certified to substitute teach.
Blood-born pathogens are just like 4 piece puzzles. (only for stupid people)
The announcer has a 6 year old that she calls a princess who likes to wear band-aids and has absolutely no relevance to substitute teaching.
If you have blood on your hands don’t comb your hair.
I need to practice my crab drawings, they are unimpressive.
The call system that calls 1200 people a day about subbing is registered in Florida. This means EVERY single call it makes it long distance. I have a budget solution for the education system.
I was also treated to another round with the stupid-questions-asker. I thought that I was free of this remarkably dumb class of Homo Sapien (light on the Sapien) after I graduated, but I was wrong. You all have dealt with the SQA at some point in your life. If you have not, it is because you are the one who asks stupid questions in a pretentious tone of voice. News flash: Just because you speak like a Harvard Cliché doesn’t make your question any less asinine. Here are some examples:
“Do we have the right to search students should we suspect they have contraband, such as cellular phones, on their persons?” (CREEPER!)
“Are we expected to follow the dress code set forth for students?”
“I have a question, that answer is the fact that you just stated a moment ago, the fact that is clearly written on the PowerPoint slide right at this moment.” (this question happened 4 times. FOUR TIMES)
“My daughter does X and I do Y as punishment. Can I use Y on my students?”
“My daughter has a cell phone in school and she doesn’t get in trouble.”
“I have a daughter in elementary school and if you yell at her I will make you cry.”
(Obviously this lady needs to take a step back. Maybe children these days wouldn’t be so awful if they got yelled at when they deserved it. I’m not advocating bringing beating back into school, but when little Timmy learns he can take apart a ball point pen and shoot ink across the room like a frightened squid, a raised voice is in order. I lived in fear of getting yelled at when I was little. I came out perfectly normal.)
I am not sure why this old bag thought her ability to spawn somehow gave her an informative perspective on substitute teaching. Quite frankly I’m young enough that I have some grasp on how school systems work. I was in one only 4 years ago. This lady, however, was convinced that her reproductive success gave her a so much knowledge it actually eclipsed that of the person whose job it is to read PowerPoint slides to everyone. She wasn’t even asking questions at the end. She was just drawing out the session by giving WRONG ANSWERS to stupid questions other people addressed to the speaker.
Really lady?
REALLY?
My ankle is blowing up like a balloon in the back of this auditorium and you/re dragging out this session because you want to discuss your kid? Did no one ever mention choosing the appropriate venue to you?
And that was how I became certified to substitute teach.
Monday, October 18, 2010
tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb
I figure this would be an adequate time to discuss my dogs.
You see, I couldn’t think of a thing to write about today. My brain is melting from a combination of drugs and boredom. But, as I was watching Bones and reading a book called “Stop Dressing Your 6-Year-Old Like a Skank” (a sentiment with which I agree entirely) I looked up because I heard a strange sound.
BAM!!!
My eyes were assaulted with the sight of my small dog, Whinny (like the horse), trying to get comfortable. It is not often that I see something so mind-bogglingly stupid, yet more delightful than a double rainbow, occurring in my very own living room. Getting comfortable was particularly difficult for Whinny as she had chosen to sleep on top of my crutches, which are propped up on the coffee table. I’m not sure why she has chosen to sleep there. She cant even stay on them, her shoulder keeps sliding off. Every 2 or 3 minutes she has to get up and re-adjust herself before carefully lying back down on her metal perch. Probably because metal bolts are digging into her FACE.
I got you a picture of her looking at me like I am a terrible, terrible person for not using crutches more conducive to sleeping on. You would think, after the dawn vomit fiasco, she would be frightened of the crutches. But no, she is not, I suspect because she is… kinda dumb.
I have no explanation for her dumbness. When one examines her, she appears to be a lab/beagle/border collie mix, all of which are dogs known for their intelligence. I would tell you exactly what she is, but when Twin picked her up from a box of free puppies I was more concerned with how our parents were going to murder us to death.
I suppose both of my dogs are kinda dumb. In addition to Whinny the dumb mutt, we have Max, the dumb Shar pei. It is not Max’s fault she is dumb. And yes, Max is a she, when we rescued her, her name was Juliet. But my father, in a stunning act of rebellion, demanded we name her Maximus Decimus Aurelius after the character Russel Crowe plays on Gladiator, because he was the only boy in the house. I know.
In addition to a stunning degree of gender confusion Max now suffers from, she is also a pure bred Shar Pei. Wanna know what happened to Shar Peis when communists took over China? They did their best to drown the shit out of the entire breed and only 7 survived. 7. Poor dog, she is an incestuous genetic pool of yuck. Drowning was particularly effective because Shar Peis are the only breed of dog that cannot swim. Max sinks like a rock when the air is too humid. Her fur just absorbs it. She would create a singularity if she actually fell into a pool of water.
(Yes, Max is sleeping with her head pressed against the metal table leg)
This has lead to her crippling fear of H2O. She gets bladder infections is it rains for more than 4 days in a row because she refuses to leave the house. If you pick her up and toss her out the door she will freeze in place and begin to scream loud dog shrieks of agony, as though the rainwater were burning her like acid. But she will not pee, not unless you walk her in the rain for at least an hour.
When paired together, Max and Whinny have many delightful adventures including such pastimes as:
Running away from the vacuum
Spilling the water bowl and panicking because wetness occurs
Farting
Falling when they transition from carpet to hardwood during a house patrol
Sleeping on dark staircases to trip me and then look at me like I am the dumb one
Running and hiding when my father yells at the TV (usually the Giants)
Running from the swiffer
Sleeping under beds and panicking when they get shut in a room
Not being able to pee unless the other dog is outside too
You see, I couldn’t think of a thing to write about today. My brain is melting from a combination of drugs and boredom. But, as I was watching Bones and reading a book called “Stop Dressing Your 6-Year-Old Like a Skank” (a sentiment with which I agree entirely) I looked up because I heard a strange sound.
BAM!!!
My eyes were assaulted with the sight of my small dog, Whinny (like the horse), trying to get comfortable. It is not often that I see something so mind-bogglingly stupid, yet more delightful than a double rainbow, occurring in my very own living room. Getting comfortable was particularly difficult for Whinny as she had chosen to sleep on top of my crutches, which are propped up on the coffee table. I’m not sure why she has chosen to sleep there. She cant even stay on them, her shoulder keeps sliding off. Every 2 or 3 minutes she has to get up and re-adjust herself before carefully lying back down on her metal perch. Probably because metal bolts are digging into her FACE.
I got you a picture of her looking at me like I am a terrible, terrible person for not using crutches more conducive to sleeping on. You would think, after the dawn vomit fiasco, she would be frightened of the crutches. But no, she is not, I suspect because she is… kinda dumb.
I have no explanation for her dumbness. When one examines her, she appears to be a lab/beagle/border collie mix, all of which are dogs known for their intelligence. I would tell you exactly what she is, but when Twin picked her up from a box of free puppies I was more concerned with how our parents were going to murder us to death.
I suppose both of my dogs are kinda dumb. In addition to Whinny the dumb mutt, we have Max, the dumb Shar pei. It is not Max’s fault she is dumb. And yes, Max is a she, when we rescued her, her name was Juliet. But my father, in a stunning act of rebellion, demanded we name her Maximus Decimus Aurelius after the character Russel Crowe plays on Gladiator, because he was the only boy in the house. I know.
In addition to a stunning degree of gender confusion Max now suffers from, she is also a pure bred Shar Pei. Wanna know what happened to Shar Peis when communists took over China? They did their best to drown the shit out of the entire breed and only 7 survived. 7. Poor dog, she is an incestuous genetic pool of yuck. Drowning was particularly effective because Shar Peis are the only breed of dog that cannot swim. Max sinks like a rock when the air is too humid. Her fur just absorbs it. She would create a singularity if she actually fell into a pool of water.
(Yes, Max is sleeping with her head pressed against the metal table leg)
This has lead to her crippling fear of H2O. She gets bladder infections is it rains for more than 4 days in a row because she refuses to leave the house. If you pick her up and toss her out the door she will freeze in place and begin to scream loud dog shrieks of agony, as though the rainwater were burning her like acid. But she will not pee, not unless you walk her in the rain for at least an hour.
When paired together, Max and Whinny have many delightful adventures including such pastimes as:
Running away from the vacuum
Spilling the water bowl and panicking because wetness occurs
Farting
Falling when they transition from carpet to hardwood during a house patrol
Sleeping on dark staircases to trip me and then look at me like I am the dumb one
Running and hiding when my father yells at the TV (usually the Giants)
Running from the swiffer
Sleeping under beds and panicking when they get shut in a room
Not being able to pee unless the other dog is outside too
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Blue-eyed Death
When I was small and living in the same room as the epic rattlesnake fiasco I had a nightmare. Explanations are here if you want them
http://kellcait.blogspot.com/2010/09/great-rattlesnake-adventure.html
In this nightmare I was sucked down into the world of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ but there were no Wild Things. There was only awful things and terrible things. I had a sneaking suspicion that the Wild Things had wisely left the place because it was the most horrible environment ever. Luckily, I was there with the Care Bears, who had also somehow been sucked down into this miserable pit of despair that was empty of Wild Things and hope. Unluckily, we were walking through a dark and scary tunnel while Brave-heart Lion explained the science behind why we would never escape and I was trapped here forever.
This was an extra slice of horrible in my 6 year old mind. I had been waiting for my entire life to meet that Care Bears and it was not going at all how I had planned. None of the other kids had had to deal with these shenanigans when the Care Bears came to help them. This was not fair. I was panicking while Cheer Bear and Lots-a-Heart Bear tried to calm me down. They assured me we would live happily in the scary cave of darkness and my Mommy wouldn’t be sad forever because I was gone. All I could think was the Care Bears could never replace my parents, and that if they really cared they would call a cloud car and we would all fly out of this mess. Then, quite suddenly, I woke up.
I was so relieved that it was a dream. I always wanted to live with the Care Bears, but in the clouds, not in the Wild Things lands; especially not when the Wild Things weren’t even there to keep the scary stuff away and I had to stay in a cave forever. I rolled over to get comfortable again, eyeing my stuffed blue Care Bear with suspicion. That’s when I saw them.
The Most Terrifying Eyes Ever.
They were blue and they were peering through the gap in the Venetian blinds. I could see his tan fingers pulling the slats apart so that he (I just knew it was a he, a girl would never do anything shocking and horrifying as this) could peer through with his huge, blue, bloodshot eyes. I started screaming and didn’t stop. I screamed with fervor. I screamed like a Twilight fan would if a real vampire ever came into their lives. I screamed like Gaston when he fell off the castle. I screamed like I had never screamed before and never will again.
I was pressed myself back against the wall, screaming, wondering why my mother and father weren’t coming to chase the horrible blue eyes away. In hindsight I'm wondering why I didn't move 6 inches to the left and go out the door. My 6 year old brain didn't think of that, instead, in between waves of panic it just repeated 'Surely they can hear me, perhaps mom and dad are mad at me for almost living with the care bears'.
The blue eyes paralyzed me.
They skewered me through the blinds. I became convinced I was going to die from the blue watching eyes staring at me.
Then my mom shook me awake and told me it was time for school. I have never been so relieved to be actually awake ever. What I did not know that morning was that I had developed a new fear. To this day, I have an irrational fear of Venetian blinds. That’s right, as a 22 year old adult, I still maneuver my sleeping space to be out of the line of sight whenever these blinds are in my life. I just know that once I go to sleep, even though the blinds are inside the window and it is physically impossible for someone to reach through the window and pull apart the blinds to look at me to death, that someone will. Someone with blue eyes the size of solo cups.
http://kellcait.blogspot.com/2010/09/great-rattlesnake-adventure.html
In this nightmare I was sucked down into the world of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ but there were no Wild Things. There was only awful things and terrible things. I had a sneaking suspicion that the Wild Things had wisely left the place because it was the most horrible environment ever. Luckily, I was there with the Care Bears, who had also somehow been sucked down into this miserable pit of despair that was empty of Wild Things and hope. Unluckily, we were walking through a dark and scary tunnel while Brave-heart Lion explained the science behind why we would never escape and I was trapped here forever.
This was an extra slice of horrible in my 6 year old mind. I had been waiting for my entire life to meet that Care Bears and it was not going at all how I had planned. None of the other kids had had to deal with these shenanigans when the Care Bears came to help them. This was not fair. I was panicking while Cheer Bear and Lots-a-Heart Bear tried to calm me down. They assured me we would live happily in the scary cave of darkness and my Mommy wouldn’t be sad forever because I was gone. All I could think was the Care Bears could never replace my parents, and that if they really cared they would call a cloud car and we would all fly out of this mess. Then, quite suddenly, I woke up.
I was so relieved that it was a dream. I always wanted to live with the Care Bears, but in the clouds, not in the Wild Things lands; especially not when the Wild Things weren’t even there to keep the scary stuff away and I had to stay in a cave forever. I rolled over to get comfortable again, eyeing my stuffed blue Care Bear with suspicion. That’s when I saw them.
The Most Terrifying Eyes Ever.
They were blue and they were peering through the gap in the Venetian blinds. I could see his tan fingers pulling the slats apart so that he (I just knew it was a he, a girl would never do anything shocking and horrifying as this) could peer through with his huge, blue, bloodshot eyes. I started screaming and didn’t stop. I screamed with fervor. I screamed like a Twilight fan would if a real vampire ever came into their lives. I screamed like Gaston when he fell off the castle. I screamed like I had never screamed before and never will again.
I was pressed myself back against the wall, screaming, wondering why my mother and father weren’t coming to chase the horrible blue eyes away. In hindsight I'm wondering why I didn't move 6 inches to the left and go out the door. My 6 year old brain didn't think of that, instead, in between waves of panic it just repeated 'Surely they can hear me, perhaps mom and dad are mad at me for almost living with the care bears'.
The blue eyes paralyzed me.
They skewered me through the blinds. I became convinced I was going to die from the blue watching eyes staring at me.
Then my mom shook me awake and told me it was time for school. I have never been so relieved to be actually awake ever. What I did not know that morning was that I had developed a new fear. To this day, I have an irrational fear of Venetian blinds. That’s right, as a 22 year old adult, I still maneuver my sleeping space to be out of the line of sight whenever these blinds are in my life. I just know that once I go to sleep, even though the blinds are inside the window and it is physically impossible for someone to reach through the window and pull apart the blinds to look at me to death, that someone will. Someone with blue eyes the size of solo cups.
I am going to murder the dog
Only moments after my last post, I watched my small dog wander past the couch.
It was then that I heard the sound. I think you know the sound. Anyone who has a pet knows that sound. It was the horrible "HOORRRRRRRNNNNNNNNK" sound that precedes animal vomit all over the floor.
I started yeling, because the stupid dog never vomits on the tile, wood, or linoleum floors which can be found in abundance about the house. No, she prefers the carpet behind the couch where I am trapped because Freddy is fighting Jason in my leg right now. So, still yelling, I struggled to get off the couch and grab my crutches and get the dog to go out the door. I was about as successful at this maneuver as a one legged duck is at swimming. I was so successful that she managed to lodge herself under the living room bookshelf and continue vomiting while I limped and waved my crutches ineffectively.
"HOOOOOOOORNK," she would reply to my efforts to get her outside while not crashing to the ground in a pile of metal and pain, "HOOOOOOOOOORRNK."
I finally got her outside, which was nice, because she immediately began to emit pitiful dog screams that echoed around our neighborhood at 6:15 in the morning. This could be because I have yet to master crutches, and couldnt slide the door closed because the force I would exert on the door was transferred to the rug and I was sliding merrily across the floor waving my crutch at my small vomiting dog who was convinced I was trying to murder her. She was right of course, I am going to murder her.
Problems with crutches I learned this morning:
1- I cant use sliding doors.
2- I cant carry the windex or paper towels across the kitchen and down the stairs to the piles of vomit soaking into the white carpet.
3- I cant navigate stairs or unsecured carpets.
4- I cant get my own sustenance.
At this point I considered screaming for my mother because I was ready to give up. Instead I hobbled out to the front room for a grocery bag, tied it to my crutches, hobbled back to the kitchen, filled the grocery bag with windex and paper towels, went down the three more stairs to our living room, fell to my knees, and began awkwardly cleaning the vomit in between bouts of throbbing agony from my ankle. While the little dog watched me through the window and emitted occasional screams and hornk sounds.
My mother, whose mom senses were certainly tingling, came down the stairs to see me, followed by a roiling cloud of obscenities, throwing away a grocery bag full of god knows what. She asked, full of motherly concern, if I was okay. I informed her that our small dog had puked behind the couch and could she please put the windex away because I had thrown away my plastic grocery bag and couldn't carry it. She obliged and tucked me back into the fort I have created in our living room since my bedroom is as far away as Neptune. Then my little dog licked me.
It was then that I heard the sound. I think you know the sound. Anyone who has a pet knows that sound. It was the horrible "HOORRRRRRRNNNNNNNNK" sound that precedes animal vomit all over the floor.
I started yeling, because the stupid dog never vomits on the tile, wood, or linoleum floors which can be found in abundance about the house. No, she prefers the carpet behind the couch where I am trapped because Freddy is fighting Jason in my leg right now. So, still yelling, I struggled to get off the couch and grab my crutches and get the dog to go out the door. I was about as successful at this maneuver as a one legged duck is at swimming. I was so successful that she managed to lodge herself under the living room bookshelf and continue vomiting while I limped and waved my crutches ineffectively.
"HOOOOOOOORNK," she would reply to my efforts to get her outside while not crashing to the ground in a pile of metal and pain, "HOOOOOOOOOORRNK."
I finally got her outside, which was nice, because she immediately began to emit pitiful dog screams that echoed around our neighborhood at 6:15 in the morning. This could be because I have yet to master crutches, and couldnt slide the door closed because the force I would exert on the door was transferred to the rug and I was sliding merrily across the floor waving my crutch at my small vomiting dog who was convinced I was trying to murder her. She was right of course, I am going to murder her.
Problems with crutches I learned this morning:
1- I cant use sliding doors.
2- I cant carry the windex or paper towels across the kitchen and down the stairs to the piles of vomit soaking into the white carpet.
3- I cant navigate stairs or unsecured carpets.
4- I cant get my own sustenance.
At this point I considered screaming for my mother because I was ready to give up. Instead I hobbled out to the front room for a grocery bag, tied it to my crutches, hobbled back to the kitchen, filled the grocery bag with windex and paper towels, went down the three more stairs to our living room, fell to my knees, and began awkwardly cleaning the vomit in between bouts of throbbing agony from my ankle. While the little dog watched me through the window and emitted occasional screams and hornk sounds.
My mother, whose mom senses were certainly tingling, came down the stairs to see me, followed by a roiling cloud of obscenities, throwing away a grocery bag full of god knows what. She asked, full of motherly concern, if I was okay. I informed her that our small dog had puked behind the couch and could she please put the windex away because I had thrown away my plastic grocery bag and couldn't carry it. She obliged and tucked me back into the fort I have created in our living room since my bedroom is as far away as Neptune. Then my little dog licked me.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The codeine made my leg hurt less, but did nothing for my pride.
Hello Friends! Today column is brought to you by (drum roll) Stupid Impulses! Everyone, think back and remember one of your stupid impulses!
If there is one thing that we can all learn from how I spent my day it is that we must control our horrendously idiotic impulses. If we don’t do this, then we end up in the ER racking up $2000 in health care charges for a sprained ankle.
My day started off nicely. I woke up and said to myself ‘hmm, I haven’t worked out in a week, I think I will go for a run!’ I made a responsible and healthy choice. Obviously I must have accidentally made the right decision because, as my immediately following actions will show, I am a fucking idiot.
So I popped on my running shoes, grabbed my mom, our two dogs, and my twin sister’s dog, and we all headed out for a run. Only, once we got about 15 yards down our usual route we came upon a problem. Someone's dogs had escaped, and were frolicking gaily about the road. Now, if I had been alone I would have petted the lost dogs, checked their tags, and tried to trick them into following me back to their home. But my mother and I were running with a 90 lb husky, a 70 lb shar pei and a 30 lb mutt, we wisely turned around.
This turn meant we were running down a super steep hill in our neighborhood. Mom suggested we stop and just go home in case the dogs came across our path again. Perhaps her motherly intuition warned her that my monumental idiocy was about to strike a terrible blow. But I declined, I wanted to run, I wanted to get fit for Colorado, I wanted to feel good and fit. I had a great feeling about running today.
Then, as we were running down the hill I had a monumentally stupid impulse. The impulse to jump. So I jumped, and then I jumped again. I just felt so good, to be out in the fall running with my mom, I wanted to jump to express my delight. I felt like I would leap and land on the back of the husky who would turn into a Unicorn. And then I jumped again and rolled my ankle forward. That’s right, I didn’t just roll it sideways, I rolled it straight ahead, like the captain of the Titanic rolled straight into an iceberg.
I went down hard, laughing because I was being stupid and I fell and it kinda hurt. And then it hurt more. And more, enough that my laughter was replaced with mild concern. More pain. More Pain. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD OUCH. I yanked my pant leg up, and was confronted by my ankle which was already larger than a golf ball and literally getting bigger as I watched it (which was disconcerting). It was like a real horror movie, happening on my leg. My mom jogged in place, waiting for me to get up.
“Mom… ummm,” I said helpfully, not wanting to admit what was happening and make it real.
“What? Are you okay?”
“My, umm, ankle, well uhhhh, look…”
“What? Its… OH MY GOD.”
She took the three dogs and began to run home and get the car while I sat in the dirt like an idiot on the side of the road. I congratulated myself for not crying and commenced worrying about gangrene. Thoughts of getting my leg chopped off occupied my mind until a car came and I tried to get off the side of the road. It was at this point I collapsed and several real tears fell from my eyes. I couldn't walk to save my life. God help me if zombies came. The driver, and the car behind her, watched and then drove away. Along with all the other cars filled with Stay-at-home-moms. They may talk about how much they value neighborly concern, but they are lying like Bill Clinton. Hypocrites.
Not only did they not help me, they glared at me while they drove by. Probably for sullying the side of their neighborhood association road. Way to be neighborly ladies, I‘m super glad we pay fees to be associated with you. (To all you classy moms out there, who follow the community values you wish to see, props to you. You will raise awesome children who will in turn try to make the world nicer.)
So my mom pulls up in my van, looks at my ankle and says, “We gotta go to the ER.” Which I protested vehemently, because I am not insured right now. So, after she convinced me that my leg could be broken and I shouldn’t be a complete idiot, she drove me to the ER. I walked (haha, what a lie) through the door to the sight of an overweight desk-nurse. My mom was parking the van. The desk-nurse asked me if I would like a wheelchair, to which I replied "yes, please". I was shuffling along and holding the wall, the wheelchairs were 16 feet away. Then she made me hobble to the wheelchair and set it up myself while she WATCHED.
Thankfully, I got into the wheelchair. At this point an amazing nurse who referred to me as “My Little Kumquat” for our time together rescued me from the fat and lazy desk-nurse. She drugged me, then made a splint out of this magical cloth that gets hard if you get it wet but still feels like cotton, after my x-rays had been taken. I couldn’t have a cheaper ankle splint because my ankle, which was still the size of a softball, wouldn’t FIT in one.
Then the money man came. Money man told me that I had to pay a $500 down payment for my ER visit. I cannot accurately describe the look on my face, but I think it is equivalent to the face a 6 year old would make if her father beheaded a real My Little Pony in front of her at her birthday party. He was a true gentleman, and said “Don’t worry, we can fix this, can you pay anything on it? If you can't, that’s fine.”
I gave him the contents of my purse, about $57. He gave me a 5 minute speech about how impressed he was with my integrity. He was pretty shocked I had tried to pay, since apparently most uninsured people just ditch the bill all together, which is probably why my bill costs so much. So thanks for that all you assholes who skip out on your bills. Then he gave me an orange sticker, which would let me leave without paying anything further. Lastly, he gave me a phone number for a lady who would help me set up a payment plan.
Interestingly, I never got an actual bill, which was why I burst into tears when I was on the phone with this poor woman when she told me my visit, which only lasted 2 hours and involved 3 x-rays, was going to be about 2 grand. She said about because she doesn’t know the exact cost yet either. I'm not sure why my medical bill is a secret, but I am sure I could find out state secrets more easily than I can find out how much exactly I owe this hospital. I find myself wishing this worked like Einstein Bagels, where if you don't get a receipt at the time of your purchase, you don't have to pay.
She calmed me down and offered me a payment plan after I explained to her that I was unemployed, broke, living off my parents, and uninsured. Fun fact, unemployed people who need medical care must pay $100 a month minimum on their bills. Where the hell is that money coming from?! This caused a new wave of tears as I told her “I c-c-c-c-cant p-p-p-p-pay that-t-t-t, I don’t have a-a-a-a j-j-j-job.” This was what made me actually cry. It was not the pain of a completely annihilated ankle, it was the knowledge that I somehow had to pay this bill and the only thing I could think of was selling myself or my possessions. And no one wants to buy my stuff. I bought most of it used.
I feel really bad for this lady. She has to tell unemployed people that they have to come up with $100 a month at least once a day, probably more. I bet she makes people cry all the time. I could tell she felt really horrible about it, I don’t think its fair that someone has to spend their days giving out upsetting information to sick people. Thankfully, she told me I might qualify for a government program. Boyfriend was a hero and confirmed I did by using his masterful research skills, since I was sitting on the couch in a pile reminiscent of the wicked witch of the west and rendered completely unable to do anything.
At this point my mother came back home from getting my prescription. Mind you, this is the first time I have actually taken prescription pain killers. When the horse fell on me I didn’t bother to fill the painkiller prescription, which was a mistake because I would have learned much sooner that vicodin makes me projectile vomit. Thankfully, my wisdom teeth adventure enlightened me to that fact, so I got a nice prescription for codeine this round. This drug is driving me nuts because I feel all weird and spacey and I am concerned that everything I say is annoying and kinda dumb.
Of course, everything I say could be kinda dumb because I very stupidly followed the impulse to jump while running with a 90 pound dog down a hill. Also, I wrote this whole blog with the help of my painkillers, so if you find an error please tell me so I don’t look any dumber that I feel.
*Some of you may notice a bunch of edits to this. I looked it over when I was not crazed from adrenaline and codeine and terror and it was... ridiculously awful. If you hate edits, I'm sorry.
If there is one thing that we can all learn from how I spent my day it is that we must control our horrendously idiotic impulses. If we don’t do this, then we end up in the ER racking up $2000 in health care charges for a sprained ankle.
My day started off nicely. I woke up and said to myself ‘hmm, I haven’t worked out in a week, I think I will go for a run!’ I made a responsible and healthy choice. Obviously I must have accidentally made the right decision because, as my immediately following actions will show, I am a fucking idiot.
So I popped on my running shoes, grabbed my mom, our two dogs, and my twin sister’s dog, and we all headed out for a run. Only, once we got about 15 yards down our usual route we came upon a problem. Someone's dogs had escaped, and were frolicking gaily about the road. Now, if I had been alone I would have petted the lost dogs, checked their tags, and tried to trick them into following me back to their home. But my mother and I were running with a 90 lb husky, a 70 lb shar pei and a 30 lb mutt, we wisely turned around.
This turn meant we were running down a super steep hill in our neighborhood. Mom suggested we stop and just go home in case the dogs came across our path again. Perhaps her motherly intuition warned her that my monumental idiocy was about to strike a terrible blow. But I declined, I wanted to run, I wanted to get fit for Colorado, I wanted to feel good and fit. I had a great feeling about running today.
Then, as we were running down the hill I had a monumentally stupid impulse. The impulse to jump. So I jumped, and then I jumped again. I just felt so good, to be out in the fall running with my mom, I wanted to jump to express my delight. I felt like I would leap and land on the back of the husky who would turn into a Unicorn. And then I jumped again and rolled my ankle forward. That’s right, I didn’t just roll it sideways, I rolled it straight ahead, like the captain of the Titanic rolled straight into an iceberg.
I went down hard, laughing because I was being stupid and I fell and it kinda hurt. And then it hurt more. And more, enough that my laughter was replaced with mild concern. More pain. More Pain. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD OUCH. I yanked my pant leg up, and was confronted by my ankle which was already larger than a golf ball and literally getting bigger as I watched it (which was disconcerting). It was like a real horror movie, happening on my leg. My mom jogged in place, waiting for me to get up.
“Mom… ummm,” I said helpfully, not wanting to admit what was happening and make it real.
“What? Are you okay?”
“My, umm, ankle, well uhhhh, look…”
“What? Its… OH MY GOD.”
She took the three dogs and began to run home and get the car while I sat in the dirt like an idiot on the side of the road. I congratulated myself for not crying and commenced worrying about gangrene. Thoughts of getting my leg chopped off occupied my mind until a car came and I tried to get off the side of the road. It was at this point I collapsed and several real tears fell from my eyes. I couldn't walk to save my life. God help me if zombies came. The driver, and the car behind her, watched and then drove away. Along with all the other cars filled with Stay-at-home-moms. They may talk about how much they value neighborly concern, but they are lying like Bill Clinton. Hypocrites.
Not only did they not help me, they glared at me while they drove by. Probably for sullying the side of their neighborhood association road. Way to be neighborly ladies, I‘m super glad we pay fees to be associated with you. (To all you classy moms out there, who follow the community values you wish to see, props to you. You will raise awesome children who will in turn try to make the world nicer.)
So my mom pulls up in my van, looks at my ankle and says, “We gotta go to the ER.” Which I protested vehemently, because I am not insured right now. So, after she convinced me that my leg could be broken and I shouldn’t be a complete idiot, she drove me to the ER. I walked (haha, what a lie) through the door to the sight of an overweight desk-nurse. My mom was parking the van. The desk-nurse asked me if I would like a wheelchair, to which I replied "yes, please". I was shuffling along and holding the wall, the wheelchairs were 16 feet away. Then she made me hobble to the wheelchair and set it up myself while she WATCHED.
Thankfully, I got into the wheelchair. At this point an amazing nurse who referred to me as “My Little Kumquat” for our time together rescued me from the fat and lazy desk-nurse. She drugged me, then made a splint out of this magical cloth that gets hard if you get it wet but still feels like cotton, after my x-rays had been taken. I couldn’t have a cheaper ankle splint because my ankle, which was still the size of a softball, wouldn’t FIT in one.
Then the money man came. Money man told me that I had to pay a $500 down payment for my ER visit. I cannot accurately describe the look on my face, but I think it is equivalent to the face a 6 year old would make if her father beheaded a real My Little Pony in front of her at her birthday party. He was a true gentleman, and said “Don’t worry, we can fix this, can you pay anything on it? If you can't, that’s fine.”
I gave him the contents of my purse, about $57. He gave me a 5 minute speech about how impressed he was with my integrity. He was pretty shocked I had tried to pay, since apparently most uninsured people just ditch the bill all together, which is probably why my bill costs so much. So thanks for that all you assholes who skip out on your bills. Then he gave me an orange sticker, which would let me leave without paying anything further. Lastly, he gave me a phone number for a lady who would help me set up a payment plan.
Interestingly, I never got an actual bill, which was why I burst into tears when I was on the phone with this poor woman when she told me my visit, which only lasted 2 hours and involved 3 x-rays, was going to be about 2 grand. She said about because she doesn’t know the exact cost yet either. I'm not sure why my medical bill is a secret, but I am sure I could find out state secrets more easily than I can find out how much exactly I owe this hospital. I find myself wishing this worked like Einstein Bagels, where if you don't get a receipt at the time of your purchase, you don't have to pay.
She calmed me down and offered me a payment plan after I explained to her that I was unemployed, broke, living off my parents, and uninsured. Fun fact, unemployed people who need medical care must pay $100 a month minimum on their bills. Where the hell is that money coming from?! This caused a new wave of tears as I told her “I c-c-c-c-cant p-p-p-p-pay that-t-t-t, I don’t have a-a-a-a j-j-j-job.” This was what made me actually cry. It was not the pain of a completely annihilated ankle, it was the knowledge that I somehow had to pay this bill and the only thing I could think of was selling myself or my possessions. And no one wants to buy my stuff. I bought most of it used.
I feel really bad for this lady. She has to tell unemployed people that they have to come up with $100 a month at least once a day, probably more. I bet she makes people cry all the time. I could tell she felt really horrible about it, I don’t think its fair that someone has to spend their days giving out upsetting information to sick people. Thankfully, she told me I might qualify for a government program. Boyfriend was a hero and confirmed I did by using his masterful research skills, since I was sitting on the couch in a pile reminiscent of the wicked witch of the west and rendered completely unable to do anything.
At this point my mother came back home from getting my prescription. Mind you, this is the first time I have actually taken prescription pain killers. When the horse fell on me I didn’t bother to fill the painkiller prescription, which was a mistake because I would have learned much sooner that vicodin makes me projectile vomit. Thankfully, my wisdom teeth adventure enlightened me to that fact, so I got a nice prescription for codeine this round. This drug is driving me nuts because I feel all weird and spacey and I am concerned that everything I say is annoying and kinda dumb.
Of course, everything I say could be kinda dumb because I very stupidly followed the impulse to jump while running with a 90 pound dog down a hill. Also, I wrote this whole blog with the help of my painkillers, so if you find an error please tell me so I don’t look any dumber that I feel.
*Some of you may notice a bunch of edits to this. I looked it over when I was not crazed from adrenaline and codeine and terror and it was... ridiculously awful. If you hate edits, I'm sorry.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Its not just for large breed dogs...
One of the best parts of living at home with my parents is all the things I am learning about myself. Only today when I was out shopping with my mom did I learn that every time she sees Flo on the insurance commercials, she is hilariously reminded of me. This is a resemblance that I hadn’t noticed, but I am excited about none the less.
That’s right, you learn a ton about yourself when you live with your parents. For instance, I also didn’t know this but it would seem that my childhood memories of myself are wildly inaccurate, I have disassociate identity disorder that causes me to do things I cant remember and then be yelled at for them later (the idea that I didn’t leave the swiffer in the upstairs bathroom is laughable), and I do not have the ability to make oatmeal every morning for breakfast without my mother explaining it. I figured out that I have no idea who/what I am today when my mother was waxing poetic about how I used to have hip displasia.
I had, until today, thought that disease was limited to large breed dogs, but I was mistaken. Thankfully, this revelation sheds plenty of new light on my unexplained tendency toward awkward behavior. You see, when babies have hip displasia they do not need fancy surgery, leg braces, healing yak tears from Kazakhstan, or a presidential writ. It turns out not only are these things not useful, but may in fact be detrimental to the health of a small child.
You see my friends, babies with hip displasia just need to wear two or three diapers at all times so their legs stick out like antennae and attract judgmental stares from everyone the baby goes by. Babies don’t have feelings of shame, so its totally okay to do. So what if this leads to a tiny baby complex that eventually morphs into a full blown adult complex, especially when said baby is sitting next her perfectly normal twin sister? They can’t tell you they are embarrassed by their huge padded ass, because babies cant talk. Everyone wins!
Now, I know some of you are saying to yourself ‘Caitlin, extra diapers are for children that happen to be particularly adept at relieving themselves. I have no idea if you were or not, but I am fairly certain diapers do not help hips do anything but get a rash.’ Well, you are wrong, extra diapers also cushion falls.
Imagine hip displasia as a baseball glove and a baseball; only, the baseball is the size of a beach ball and your dog ate the long fingers off your glove so its tiny and wont hold the ball. That is what my hip was like. In order to fix that I had to not move my legs, so that the hip socket (baseball glove) would grow around the ball of the hip (baseball). But how will you keep the baseball in the glove that cant grip? Wrap a diaper around it. Duh.
I was born awkward.
That’s right, you learn a ton about yourself when you live with your parents. For instance, I also didn’t know this but it would seem that my childhood memories of myself are wildly inaccurate, I have disassociate identity disorder that causes me to do things I cant remember and then be yelled at for them later (the idea that I didn’t leave the swiffer in the upstairs bathroom is laughable), and I do not have the ability to make oatmeal every morning for breakfast without my mother explaining it. I figured out that I have no idea who/what I am today when my mother was waxing poetic about how I used to have hip displasia.
I had, until today, thought that disease was limited to large breed dogs, but I was mistaken. Thankfully, this revelation sheds plenty of new light on my unexplained tendency toward awkward behavior. You see, when babies have hip displasia they do not need fancy surgery, leg braces, healing yak tears from Kazakhstan, or a presidential writ. It turns out not only are these things not useful, but may in fact be detrimental to the health of a small child.
You see my friends, babies with hip displasia just need to wear two or three diapers at all times so their legs stick out like antennae and attract judgmental stares from everyone the baby goes by. Babies don’t have feelings of shame, so its totally okay to do. So what if this leads to a tiny baby complex that eventually morphs into a full blown adult complex, especially when said baby is sitting next her perfectly normal twin sister? They can’t tell you they are embarrassed by their huge padded ass, because babies cant talk. Everyone wins!
Now, I know some of you are saying to yourself ‘Caitlin, extra diapers are for children that happen to be particularly adept at relieving themselves. I have no idea if you were or not, but I am fairly certain diapers do not help hips do anything but get a rash.’ Well, you are wrong, extra diapers also cushion falls.
Imagine hip displasia as a baseball glove and a baseball; only, the baseball is the size of a beach ball and your dog ate the long fingers off your glove so its tiny and wont hold the ball. That is what my hip was like. In order to fix that I had to not move my legs, so that the hip socket (baseball glove) would grow around the ball of the hip (baseball). But how will you keep the baseball in the glove that cant grip? Wrap a diaper around it. Duh.
I was born awkward.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Noble Kiwi Bird
Consider, if you will, the noble Kiwi Bird.
Admire him, with his keen black eyes and swift sharp beak, offset by his adorably rotund body. Can he truly be considered majestic? Yes, yes he can. The Kiwi Bird is a miracle, a gift, a delightful surprise from mother nature. She created him in remorse over the centipede, sought to make the world better by offering to her human children the Kiwi Bird.
The majestic Kiwi makes up for its flightless state through a series of truly marvelous adaptations. The national bird of New Zealand, nocturnal by nature, has a truly mind-boggling sense of smell. While other foolish cultures rely on bloodhounds for their strong noses and jaws, natives use the kiwi bird for all their prisoner-catching needs*. The kiwi bird senses many things with its wonderful nose/beak, including unicorns, various precious metal ores and even fossilized dinosaurs*. Its beak can also be used like an assassin’s stiletto*.
But that is not all that we can appreciate about this delightfully pudgy avian. They are tremendously sensitive lovers.. The noble Kiwi Bird remains monogamous. It can be found getting it on once every three days in a love nest the pair constructed from glitter, diamonds and palm fronds*. This is all carefully stipulated in a highly ritualized contract creation process*. These creatures are truly reproductive masters. After they perform their carefully scheduled and articulated lovemaking (often lawyers are present to make sure that each term is met*) the kiwi female, who is the size of a chicken, lays an egg approximately 6 times the size of chicken’s egg. During this time she subsists on a massive diet, consisting of various flora and fauna that are both mythical and mundane in nature*.
The kiwi goes further than any other flightless bird when called to duty. This small but courageous creature is considered by Maori to be the guardian of both the tribes people and the forest itself. Though small, the bird is tenacious and quick witted. It uses its steel claws to defend the honor of everything in its path*.
Should the kiwi ever be rescued by an charitable human it will form a bond with the person who saved its life*. Upon this occurrence the brain of the man and bird will become one, allowing for telepathic communication that, if developed properly, can range over 60 miles in distance*. This has lead to a great demand for these linked pairs as spies in the New Zealand espionage force, particularly since the recent discovery of rich veins of adamantium in the high mountains of the island nation*. Duty for these pairs is performed both at home and abroad, in order to prevent other countries from taking advantage of this remarkably strong metal to create a legion of Wolverine-like soldiers*.
Kiwi birds also have their own stamp and shoe polish brand.
*I made that up… sorry :C
Admire him, with his keen black eyes and swift sharp beak, offset by his adorably rotund body. Can he truly be considered majestic? Yes, yes he can. The Kiwi Bird is a miracle, a gift, a delightful surprise from mother nature. She created him in remorse over the centipede, sought to make the world better by offering to her human children the Kiwi Bird.
The majestic Kiwi makes up for its flightless state through a series of truly marvelous adaptations. The national bird of New Zealand, nocturnal by nature, has a truly mind-boggling sense of smell. While other foolish cultures rely on bloodhounds for their strong noses and jaws, natives use the kiwi bird for all their prisoner-catching needs*. The kiwi bird senses many things with its wonderful nose/beak, including unicorns, various precious metal ores and even fossilized dinosaurs*. Its beak can also be used like an assassin’s stiletto*.
But that is not all that we can appreciate about this delightfully pudgy avian. They are tremendously sensitive lovers.. The noble Kiwi Bird remains monogamous. It can be found getting it on once every three days in a love nest the pair constructed from glitter, diamonds and palm fronds*. This is all carefully stipulated in a highly ritualized contract creation process*. These creatures are truly reproductive masters. After they perform their carefully scheduled and articulated lovemaking (often lawyers are present to make sure that each term is met*) the kiwi female, who is the size of a chicken, lays an egg approximately 6 times the size of chicken’s egg. During this time she subsists on a massive diet, consisting of various flora and fauna that are both mythical and mundane in nature*.
The kiwi goes further than any other flightless bird when called to duty. This small but courageous creature is considered by Maori to be the guardian of both the tribes people and the forest itself. Though small, the bird is tenacious and quick witted. It uses its steel claws to defend the honor of everything in its path*.
Should the kiwi ever be rescued by an charitable human it will form a bond with the person who saved its life*. Upon this occurrence the brain of the man and bird will become one, allowing for telepathic communication that, if developed properly, can range over 60 miles in distance*. This has lead to a great demand for these linked pairs as spies in the New Zealand espionage force, particularly since the recent discovery of rich veins of adamantium in the high mountains of the island nation*. Duty for these pairs is performed both at home and abroad, in order to prevent other countries from taking advantage of this remarkably strong metal to create a legion of Wolverine-like soldiers*.
Kiwi birds also have their own stamp and shoe polish brand.
*I made that up… sorry :C
Monday, October 11, 2010
The PNM: An Astounding Update
If you do not know who the PNM is, please visit this first so you can truly appreciate the gravity of the situation: http://kellcait.blogspot.com/2010/09/perfectly-normal-haunting.html
I know that many of you have been simply peeing your pants over what is going on between me and my otherworldly friend, the Perfect Normal Man. I apologize for leaving you in the dark for so long, but I had no further information on his existence. Thankfully, for my mind and your pants, I have discovered something, something that has shed significant light on PNM’s tragic and normal existence.
I having been living in a blissful state of existence where I did not know that under my house there is a boarded up room with no entrance, and apparently no floor, though I have been unable to substantiate these claims because my mother wont let me rip off the boards. That’s right. I had a secret creepy, boarded-up room in my basement and my parents have no idea what is back there, hidden away from our eyes. When I shine my purple flashlight through the crack in between a grayish piece of drywall and a wooden board all I see is thick, suffocating blackness. The pitch black that signals the coming of death and despair, of pain and suffering and horror. My mom says its probably full of bugs; I think they are bugs feasting on the flesh of the Perfectly Normal Man's hidden body.
And how did we discover this room you ask? Well, the floor in our living room gets bone chillingly cold. My mother, being the handyman and brains of the family, wisely said to herself ‘this shouldn’t be happening’ and began to investigate. She looked outside and realized that, oh my, there seem to be two tiny BARRED WINDOWS on the base of the house, but there is no basement on this side. How peculiar. So she moved several boxes and found a hastily constructed wall hiding a secret chamber (of horrors).
That’s right, just like the Amityville house, my house has a creepy crawl space. Just like Ryan Reynolds, I will crowbar my way back there and discover the ghosts of dead tortured people and then I will be possessed and it will be unpleasant for everyone. No one likes to hang out with someone who is possessed, and exorcisms are really hard to come by these days. Nearly impossible, in fact.
I mean, I was baptized Roman Catholic when I was an infant. Unfortunately, the first time I went to a service was when my cousin got married, and I had a really hard time paying attention because all I could think of was how the bible was created as a method of social control. And then I was worrying because I knew that God would be super mad at me for thinking about that during a service for him. And I couldn’t decide if I should eat the cracker or not, and it was all bad, and I am sure the priest talked to god and I am on the Do Not Exorcise list.
So now I am living in fear because I just know that there is a dead body under my feet as I type this. I have been working out 20 feet away from it every day for the last two months. I could have breathed its microbes and then the microbes would multiply in my lungs and my tuberculosis test will come back positive and I will have to live in a bubble.
I know you probably think I am being ridiculous. You think that it is just a crawlspace, but then why would they finish all of the basement except for a living room sized crawlspace in the corner that you wont even notice unless your mother searches it out like Sherlock Holmes? There is no good reason for that! There are, however, bunches and bunches of evil, twisted reasons like those found on Saw, Hostel and some Supernatural episodes. Evil, twisted reasons covered in centipedes.
All of that is happening. In my basement. Right Now. Which is why my house is totally haunted.
I know that many of you have been simply peeing your pants over what is going on between me and my otherworldly friend, the Perfect Normal Man. I apologize for leaving you in the dark for so long, but I had no further information on his existence. Thankfully, for my mind and your pants, I have discovered something, something that has shed significant light on PNM’s tragic and normal existence.
I having been living in a blissful state of existence where I did not know that under my house there is a boarded up room with no entrance, and apparently no floor, though I have been unable to substantiate these claims because my mother wont let me rip off the boards. That’s right. I had a secret creepy, boarded-up room in my basement and my parents have no idea what is back there, hidden away from our eyes. When I shine my purple flashlight through the crack in between a grayish piece of drywall and a wooden board all I see is thick, suffocating blackness. The pitch black that signals the coming of death and despair, of pain and suffering and horror. My mom says its probably full of bugs; I think they are bugs feasting on the flesh of the Perfectly Normal Man's hidden body.
And how did we discover this room you ask? Well, the floor in our living room gets bone chillingly cold. My mother, being the handyman and brains of the family, wisely said to herself ‘this shouldn’t be happening’ and began to investigate. She looked outside and realized that, oh my, there seem to be two tiny BARRED WINDOWS on the base of the house, but there is no basement on this side. How peculiar. So she moved several boxes and found a hastily constructed wall hiding a secret chamber (of horrors).
That’s right, just like the Amityville house, my house has a creepy crawl space. Just like Ryan Reynolds, I will crowbar my way back there and discover the ghosts of dead tortured people and then I will be possessed and it will be unpleasant for everyone. No one likes to hang out with someone who is possessed, and exorcisms are really hard to come by these days. Nearly impossible, in fact.
I mean, I was baptized Roman Catholic when I was an infant. Unfortunately, the first time I went to a service was when my cousin got married, and I had a really hard time paying attention because all I could think of was how the bible was created as a method of social control. And then I was worrying because I knew that God would be super mad at me for thinking about that during a service for him. And I couldn’t decide if I should eat the cracker or not, and it was all bad, and I am sure the priest talked to god and I am on the Do Not Exorcise list.
So now I am living in fear because I just know that there is a dead body under my feet as I type this. I have been working out 20 feet away from it every day for the last two months. I could have breathed its microbes and then the microbes would multiply in my lungs and my tuberculosis test will come back positive and I will have to live in a bubble.
I know you probably think I am being ridiculous. You think that it is just a crawlspace, but then why would they finish all of the basement except for a living room sized crawlspace in the corner that you wont even notice unless your mother searches it out like Sherlock Holmes? There is no good reason for that! There are, however, bunches and bunches of evil, twisted reasons like those found on Saw, Hostel and some Supernatural episodes. Evil, twisted reasons covered in centipedes.
All of that is happening. In my basement. Right Now. Which is why my house is totally haunted.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
And then I short-circuted and it was AWFUL
Dear friends,
I have been gone for several days. This was not my fault. I totally didn’t mean to do it.
You see Twin, Nephew and Brother-in-Law (BIL) came up to visit this weekend. This was wonderful, because I love seeing all of them, especially twin. Unfortunately, when there is a small child in the house my brain goes from moderately normal with only the occasional interlude of ridiculousness to complete malfunction. This causes me to be unable to perform more than the most basic function.
I feel bad when this happens, because I want to be like a normal adult abd be able to behave functionally around small children and loud noises but I can't. This may have something to do with the fact that children are very frail and their skull sutures are not yet fused; or that the first time I met my nephew he crawled up to me while I was reading and bit me on the nose.
Anyway, I have returned, and I apologize for being all gone and stuff.
The other day I got to perform what can only be described as a most awesome act. That is, sifting for gemstones in a manmade creek using a bag of dirt I bought for seven dollars.
Am I ashamed to pay for dirt? No, because I got a piece of flourite that is part blue and part purple and I bet you don’t even have a piece of flourite so suck it!
It was a delightful time, my mom and I tricked my uncle into going to the Luray caverns with us; we had an amazing time and took many pictures. My uncle grudgingly admitted that this was much more fun that sitting at home and watching the antiques road show. (You are welcome for the free publicity Luray.)
It was amazing, there was gorgeous cave formations that we could admire and an irritating toothless southern woman who refused to believe the guide when she explained the fractures in the cave ceiling we not man-made, but a naturally occurring process in the bedrock. After all, why would the cave tour guide know more than the toothless redneck grandmother?
Anyway, the caves were a delightful conglomeration of calcite, iron oxide and majesty; despite the efforts of TRG, who seemed intent on making sure everyone thought she was a complete idiot. (I always wonder about people like that. What drives them? What makes them think they can act the way they do? Are they secretly lizard people or CHUDS; each trying to blend in with us but failing?) My mother was disappointed by the lack of active formations, but the over-all impressiveness of the formations cancelled it out.
After that we went to the automotive museum. There were several delightful aspect to this museum. The first was the atrocious manikins, who were literally terrifying and just malformed enough to make them completely disconcerting. I took pictures, I am trying to figure out how I can put them up so you can share in my revulsion. The second was the awesome acne ridden asshole teenager who yelled at me for pointing at a car.
That’s right; I didn’t know this but it apparently I have extendo-arms and when I am 6 feet away from a car and pointing it means that I am actually trying to touch the 1932-whatever-the-hell-it-is. This is a major concern because we all know that if there is one delicate thing in the world, it is the pure fucking iron body of an old ford. You should also be concerned about how little I seem to know about my own physical capabilities.
Here is the mistake the stupid teenager made; I had no desire to touch the cars. I am a respectful museum go-er, I don’t touch shit or scratch my initials into the bust of Aphrodite or anything. But when you tell me that I cant touch the silly car in a voice that says this is the only authority you have and you enjoy exercising it more than you enjoy 3rd base, well that makes me want to touch everything. I want to turn into a giant fucking squid with tentacles and suckers with spines in them and completely destroy your entire world with my touch. I want to be a ray of light and shine down, touching everything for infinity! I want to lick your museum exhibit. I completely lose the ability to respect your stuff, is what I am saying. That is what happens when you scream across a room at me to not touch something when I am clearly unable to reach the object in question.
Thankfully, after we escaped the museum (where I neurotically looked around and touched everything) we went to another Luray museum that focused on the people of the area, rather than the transportation. I am always for these museums because I love how creative smaller museums like this get. I mean sure, the Smithsonian has the best exhibits, but the Luray Caverns people-focused museum was really creative about their display (example: burned parchment paper with italic writing on it describing each object) and their whole building theme was log cabin, and they had interactive exhibits and they let me have shiny minerals.
I have been gone for several days. This was not my fault. I totally didn’t mean to do it.
You see Twin, Nephew and Brother-in-Law (BIL) came up to visit this weekend. This was wonderful, because I love seeing all of them, especially twin. Unfortunately, when there is a small child in the house my brain goes from moderately normal with only the occasional interlude of ridiculousness to complete malfunction. This causes me to be unable to perform more than the most basic function.
I feel bad when this happens, because I want to be like a normal adult abd be able to behave functionally around small children and loud noises but I can't. This may have something to do with the fact that children are very frail and their skull sutures are not yet fused; or that the first time I met my nephew he crawled up to me while I was reading and bit me on the nose.
Anyway, I have returned, and I apologize for being all gone and stuff.
The other day I got to perform what can only be described as a most awesome act. That is, sifting for gemstones in a manmade creek using a bag of dirt I bought for seven dollars.
Am I ashamed to pay for dirt? No, because I got a piece of flourite that is part blue and part purple and I bet you don’t even have a piece of flourite so suck it!
It was a delightful time, my mom and I tricked my uncle into going to the Luray caverns with us; we had an amazing time and took many pictures. My uncle grudgingly admitted that this was much more fun that sitting at home and watching the antiques road show. (You are welcome for the free publicity Luray.)
It was amazing, there was gorgeous cave formations that we could admire and an irritating toothless southern woman who refused to believe the guide when she explained the fractures in the cave ceiling we not man-made, but a naturally occurring process in the bedrock. After all, why would the cave tour guide know more than the toothless redneck grandmother?
Anyway, the caves were a delightful conglomeration of calcite, iron oxide and majesty; despite the efforts of TRG, who seemed intent on making sure everyone thought she was a complete idiot. (I always wonder about people like that. What drives them? What makes them think they can act the way they do? Are they secretly lizard people or CHUDS; each trying to blend in with us but failing?) My mother was disappointed by the lack of active formations, but the over-all impressiveness of the formations cancelled it out.
After that we went to the automotive museum. There were several delightful aspect to this museum. The first was the atrocious manikins, who were literally terrifying and just malformed enough to make them completely disconcerting. I took pictures, I am trying to figure out how I can put them up so you can share in my revulsion. The second was the awesome acne ridden asshole teenager who yelled at me for pointing at a car.
That’s right; I didn’t know this but it apparently I have extendo-arms and when I am 6 feet away from a car and pointing it means that I am actually trying to touch the 1932-whatever-the-hell-it-is. This is a major concern because we all know that if there is one delicate thing in the world, it is the pure fucking iron body of an old ford. You should also be concerned about how little I seem to know about my own physical capabilities.
Here is the mistake the stupid teenager made; I had no desire to touch the cars. I am a respectful museum go-er, I don’t touch shit or scratch my initials into the bust of Aphrodite or anything. But when you tell me that I cant touch the silly car in a voice that says this is the only authority you have and you enjoy exercising it more than you enjoy 3rd base, well that makes me want to touch everything. I want to turn into a giant fucking squid with tentacles and suckers with spines in them and completely destroy your entire world with my touch. I want to be a ray of light and shine down, touching everything for infinity! I want to lick your museum exhibit. I completely lose the ability to respect your stuff, is what I am saying. That is what happens when you scream across a room at me to not touch something when I am clearly unable to reach the object in question.
Thankfully, after we escaped the museum (where I neurotically looked around and touched everything) we went to another Luray museum that focused on the people of the area, rather than the transportation. I am always for these museums because I love how creative smaller museums like this get. I mean sure, the Smithsonian has the best exhibits, but the Luray Caverns people-focused museum was really creative about their display (example: burned parchment paper with italic writing on it describing each object) and their whole building theme was log cabin, and they had interactive exhibits and they let me have shiny minerals.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Oh, the shame!
Recently, due to my complete over-excitement about having a job, I have begun to have the urge to use… god I am so embarrassed… OMG. And not to be silly, in serious conversations.
I know! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to do it, it was like Darth Vader took control of my hands and made me type it out into a text.
I cant even tell you where this urge is coming from. I mean sure, I use it sometimes when I’m being ironic and texting, or waving my arms around my head and squealing in real life; usually because I see a pony or a rainbow or a pretty bug.
But today, I typed it, and I-I-I- I MEANT it. I feel so ashamed. I was too pretentious to use it, even when I was a teenager. Granted, I hated how hard texting was on number keys so I only texted like twice a year. Seriously, texting might as well have been wizardry when I was 17. Twin and Little Sis would do it and I would see it and be amazed that they had the patience and dexterity to manage to type out all that crap. They would send like 5000 texts a month, apiece.
If I tried to send one text in class, I would short circuit my brain and fall out of my desk and then my phone would get confiscated. And everyone would make fun of me for failing at being a cool texting teenager. Granted, I don’t think I got a phone till I was 18. I wisely concluded if I had a cell phone, I could be reached, which was something neither of my siblings considered. Still, my parents decided I needed one, probably because I was riding a horse alone in a field most days.
I still remember the first boy I gave my phone number to. He was a bull rider, we met the first time I donated blood, which made me act like a drunken 6 year old. I remember trying to understand time as Twin drove me home and looked at me like I had grown tentacles. I think it was a combo of adrenaline from blood loss, blood loss, and adrenaline from giving my phone number to a sexy bull rider. That can take a lot out of a girl.
It takes even more out when he calls you 10 or 15 times a day.
That experience was worth an OMG. But I typed it today when I was texting Little Sis about a printer mom was buying her. I mean, used to work at a tech support desk, but the only time I went into a frenzy over a printer was when the Russian Spy and I figured out we could tattoo each other with the leftover pink toner in the pink toner cartridge.
I know! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to do it, it was like Darth Vader took control of my hands and made me type it out into a text.
I cant even tell you where this urge is coming from. I mean sure, I use it sometimes when I’m being ironic and texting, or waving my arms around my head and squealing in real life; usually because I see a pony or a rainbow or a pretty bug.
But today, I typed it, and I-I-I- I MEANT it. I feel so ashamed. I was too pretentious to use it, even when I was a teenager. Granted, I hated how hard texting was on number keys so I only texted like twice a year. Seriously, texting might as well have been wizardry when I was 17. Twin and Little Sis would do it and I would see it and be amazed that they had the patience and dexterity to manage to type out all that crap. They would send like 5000 texts a month, apiece.
If I tried to send one text in class, I would short circuit my brain and fall out of my desk and then my phone would get confiscated. And everyone would make fun of me for failing at being a cool texting teenager. Granted, I don’t think I got a phone till I was 18. I wisely concluded if I had a cell phone, I could be reached, which was something neither of my siblings considered. Still, my parents decided I needed one, probably because I was riding a horse alone in a field most days.
I still remember the first boy I gave my phone number to. He was a bull rider, we met the first time I donated blood, which made me act like a drunken 6 year old. I remember trying to understand time as Twin drove me home and looked at me like I had grown tentacles. I think it was a combo of adrenaline from blood loss, blood loss, and adrenaline from giving my phone number to a sexy bull rider. That can take a lot out of a girl.
It takes even more out when he calls you 10 or 15 times a day.
That experience was worth an OMG. But I typed it today when I was texting Little Sis about a printer mom was buying her. I mean, used to work at a tech support desk, but the only time I went into a frenzy over a printer was when the Russian Spy and I figured out we could tattoo each other with the leftover pink toner in the pink toner cartridge.
I am so excited for my new job
Today I am super excited because I got my welcome packet to the ranch I will soon be working at, Vista Verde. That right, a ranch, I am that much closer to being able to be a legit cowboy. I'm not all the way yet, but soon, Soon! I am so pumped that I think at any moment I will spew rainbows out of my nose on to the carpet that my mom just spent 2 days rug doctoring. And then the carpet would be 6 times better, and yet 6 times worse.
Anyway, I literally stumbled into this job at the ranch. I have been applying to an average of 10 jobs a week since the Russian Spy refused to talk to me until I started planning my future beyond ‘its not happening and I refuse to think about it.’ Russian Spy and Boyfriend both tag teamed me for a week before I cracked, admitted that I was graduating and would have to move, and applied to a job as a lab assistant in Montana. I thought for sure that I could make it without talking to either of them cause I’m pretty socially awkward; enough that I have gone through long periods without any meaningful social conversation.
Boy was I wrong. I lasted about 12 minutes at work before I was begging the Russian Spy to talk to me. Perhaps my sorority has rubbed off on me after all. (It has, for sure. They are a delightful bunch and made me way more delighted to be around people)
I applied for this job about 3 weeks ago after my aunt went to the ranch and fell in love with it and recommended me to the hiring manager. I had spent all the interim time puttering around getting business clothes and planning my awesome business days spent wearing my grey pencil skirt, pearls, and snazzy glasses. This was a great plan except for the total silence from almost every job I have applied for. A word to HR, grow a pair, learn some manners and send a fucking rejection letter. As much as I enjoy silence on whether or not you want me to be a secretary for you, its really rude and upsetting. I was optimistic, kind of, until one day I started sleeping until noon and staying up till 3 and changing into new pajamas after I showered. Literally, I have so little to do right now that my workouts are lasting an hour and a half and it doesnt matter if i change my clothes.
This job saved my soul. I am surprised my parents haven’t murdered me yet because I have been lurking around the house like a mother bear whose cubs were taken away by the Cub Protection Agency. This is like the first time I’ve been homesick in my life, which is nice because I am at home and realizing how irrational I am doesn’t stop me from being completely irrational.
And not only is it a job, it could very well be the best job ever. One of my jobs main requirements is to (get excited) dress like a cowboy.
You did read that correctly.
I am going to be a housekeeper, which will be fun because cleaning is good for the soul. My other job is to make sure everyone is happy and having fun. Which is great, because if you are happy and having fun, usually everyone else is. Unless you are Hitler, or Joaquin Phoenix, and I am a lady so I must not be them. I was worried for a second but then I remembered that, despite my best efforts, I cannot grow facial hair at all, and since both men rock face warmers, and I do not, I cannot be them. My logic is infallible.
Its gonna be wonderful, I can feel it in my bones. I can not wait to go out to the mountains and experience something new and awe inspiring and exciting!
Sorry I wasn’t funny today.
:D:D :D :D :D :D :D
(I don’t care I’m too excited)
Anyway, I literally stumbled into this job at the ranch. I have been applying to an average of 10 jobs a week since the Russian Spy refused to talk to me until I started planning my future beyond ‘its not happening and I refuse to think about it.’ Russian Spy and Boyfriend both tag teamed me for a week before I cracked, admitted that I was graduating and would have to move, and applied to a job as a lab assistant in Montana. I thought for sure that I could make it without talking to either of them cause I’m pretty socially awkward; enough that I have gone through long periods without any meaningful social conversation.
Boy was I wrong. I lasted about 12 minutes at work before I was begging the Russian Spy to talk to me. Perhaps my sorority has rubbed off on me after all. (It has, for sure. They are a delightful bunch and made me way more delighted to be around people)
I applied for this job about 3 weeks ago after my aunt went to the ranch and fell in love with it and recommended me to the hiring manager. I had spent all the interim time puttering around getting business clothes and planning my awesome business days spent wearing my grey pencil skirt, pearls, and snazzy glasses. This was a great plan except for the total silence from almost every job I have applied for. A word to HR, grow a pair, learn some manners and send a fucking rejection letter. As much as I enjoy silence on whether or not you want me to be a secretary for you, its really rude and upsetting. I was optimistic, kind of, until one day I started sleeping until noon and staying up till 3 and changing into new pajamas after I showered. Literally, I have so little to do right now that my workouts are lasting an hour and a half and it doesnt matter if i change my clothes.
This job saved my soul. I am surprised my parents haven’t murdered me yet because I have been lurking around the house like a mother bear whose cubs were taken away by the Cub Protection Agency. This is like the first time I’ve been homesick in my life, which is nice because I am at home and realizing how irrational I am doesn’t stop me from being completely irrational.
And not only is it a job, it could very well be the best job ever. One of my jobs main requirements is to (get excited) dress like a cowboy.
You did read that correctly.
I am going to be a housekeeper, which will be fun because cleaning is good for the soul. My other job is to make sure everyone is happy and having fun. Which is great, because if you are happy and having fun, usually everyone else is. Unless you are Hitler, or Joaquin Phoenix, and I am a lady so I must not be them. I was worried for a second but then I remembered that, despite my best efforts, I cannot grow facial hair at all, and since both men rock face warmers, and I do not, I cannot be them. My logic is infallible.
Its gonna be wonderful, I can feel it in my bones. I can not wait to go out to the mountains and experience something new and awe inspiring and exciting!
Sorry I wasn’t funny today.
:D:D :D :D :D :D :D
(I don’t care I’m too excited)
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
What a super way to start the day!
*Just to warn you, my day started out with an awful surprise that involves the word colonoscopy (ewwwwwwwwwwww). It could be scarring and otherwise upsetting. It definitely was for me.
How my day started off today:
My brain: “You should find your GRE scores so that tonight once everyone goes to sleep and you can concentrate and be on the computer without your mom asking you to look at her eBay business you can put them on your grad school applications. You could def finish your application to USF except for the letters of recommendation tonight.
Me: “Oh wow brain you are so right! Lets go do that right now and not worry about it anymore!"
20 minutes after grilling my mom in order to locate my folder because she moved it to a more convenient place that she cant remember.
My Brain: “I guess it is a better place… I mean, when they moved it was inevitable that things would get shuffled around.”
Me: “I suppose... I don’t know why she saved all the Sigma Kappa housing letters, or this print-out of a few Botticelli works… hmm. Hey brain?”
My Brain: “What is that?! I’m afraid! Caitlin I'm scared!”
Me: “this is… no. NO! NOT HAPPENING!”
My Brain: “Not this! Anything but this! Oh god!”
Me: “Why are the pictures from my dad’s colonoscopy in HERE?! WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE TO SEE THE INSIDE OF MY FATHER‘S COLON?! KILL IT KILL IT!”
My Brain: “AAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEE! We are not here, we are on a beach, we are on a beach, we are on a beach in the sun and there are gentle waves on the saNd and we are not here because we are on a beach. Repression! Repression!”
And that was how my day started.
How my day started off today:
My brain: “You should find your GRE scores so that tonight once everyone goes to sleep and you can concentrate and be on the computer without your mom asking you to look at her eBay business you can put them on your grad school applications. You could def finish your application to USF except for the letters of recommendation tonight.
Me: “Oh wow brain you are so right! Lets go do that right now and not worry about it anymore!"
20 minutes after grilling my mom in order to locate my folder because she moved it to a more convenient place that she cant remember.
My Brain: “I guess it is a better place… I mean, when they moved it was inevitable that things would get shuffled around.”
Me: “I suppose... I don’t know why she saved all the Sigma Kappa housing letters, or this print-out of a few Botticelli works… hmm. Hey brain?”
My Brain: “What is that?! I’m afraid! Caitlin I'm scared!”
Me: “this is… no. NO! NOT HAPPENING!”
My Brain: “Not this! Anything but this! Oh god!”
Me: “Why are the pictures from my dad’s colonoscopy in HERE?! WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE TO SEE THE INSIDE OF MY FATHER‘S COLON?! KILL IT KILL IT!”
My Brain: “AAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEE! We are not here, we are on a beach, we are on a beach, we are on a beach in the sun and there are gentle waves on the saNd and we are not here because we are on a beach. Repression! Repression!”
And that was how my day started.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Coral Gardening is the Bee's Knees
So I was watching the discovery channel yesterday. For those of you who also tuned in, you know that they were playing “Wild Pacific” and the “Life” series. So I blissed out for the entire day, marveled at the wonders of the world and felt safe and happy.
It was during this time that I realized my new life goal: coral gardener.
Can there be a better career? Nope. There cannot be. Except dinosaur clone-er, unicorn trainer, and bubble blower.
As a coral gardener you must grow beautiful hard-shelled polyps that create a magical colorful garden that looks like a wonderland adorned with glee and enchantment. Then your colorful garden of magic will attract beautiful fish, which are also nice to look at and often delicious to eat. And what will you need to do in order to create this beautiful garden of wonder and delight? Swim in the ocean like a graceful mermaid. Best job ever!
I must be a coral gardener.
I had no idea that this was a job option was open for me. But now that I know nothing can stop me; excepting an acceptance letter from one of the graduate schools I am applying to. I will create a technicolor wonderland on the sea floor and people will think I am doing it to be environmentally conscious, a good citizen of earth or whatever they‘re calling themselves lately. They wont notice that I am actually doing it because I like colors, snorkeling and octopi.
It would be the most magical job ever. I could swim among the coral reefs rescuing small corals that would die at the hands (branches) of bigger and more developed corals. I would be helping the earth grow more of her delightful sea jewelry. I could have giant clams! And once they died I could use their giant shells as bathtubs! Or a bed!
It would be like a normal garden, but there wouldn’t be that depressing part where all the flowers slowly age and die. I hate it when that happens. The coral will live long enough for me to not know when it dies and I wont have to think about it. Or, a piggish looking bad guy will attempt to destroy it and either Captain Planet or the Sea Ponies from My Little Ponies will come and rescue me/save my garden. That would be just as awesome and it fulfills one of my other life dreams.
There are so many more pluses to life spent gardening under the sea besides bath tubs and ponies, however.
1-You don’t have to listen to idiots under the ocean because it is very difficult to speak while under water. And any idiot who tries to speak to you will drown, so you are also helping elevate the human race to a new level of awesome by cleaning out the gene pool.
2-You can write off all of your awesome scuba gear as a business expense on your taxes.
3-You will win the unspoken ‘who has the best job?’ contest at class reunions.
3-You can get a thank you hug from an octopus, which is awesome because they have 8 arms, which means their hugs are 8 times better than everyone else’s.
4-swimming is an excellent full-body workout.
5-You got no troubles, cause life is the bubbles under the sea.
6-You will be really, really good at breath holding contests.
7-You can tell PETA demonstrators your job and make them feel like ass-hats for doing something as mundane as prancing around handing out stickers.
8-You can catch and eat your own seafood with an awesome homemade spear and be like Les Stroud who is way more awesome than Bear Grylls.
9-You have the chance of locating pirate treasure and selling it to a museum to fund your awesome coral garden.
10-Darling its better, down where its wetter.
11-You can ride a majestic sea turtle around your brilliantly colored domain.
12-The only laws you have to follow are the laws of the sea. They seem to result in death more frequently than the laws of the land, so be careful.
I am willing to share my awesome plan; we can build our reef on a reef of friendship! If you need me I'll be practicing snorkeling in my bathtub.
It was during this time that I realized my new life goal: coral gardener.
Can there be a better career? Nope. There cannot be. Except dinosaur clone-er, unicorn trainer, and bubble blower.
As a coral gardener you must grow beautiful hard-shelled polyps that create a magical colorful garden that looks like a wonderland adorned with glee and enchantment. Then your colorful garden of magic will attract beautiful fish, which are also nice to look at and often delicious to eat. And what will you need to do in order to create this beautiful garden of wonder and delight? Swim in the ocean like a graceful mermaid. Best job ever!
I must be a coral gardener.
I had no idea that this was a job option was open for me. But now that I know nothing can stop me; excepting an acceptance letter from one of the graduate schools I am applying to. I will create a technicolor wonderland on the sea floor and people will think I am doing it to be environmentally conscious, a good citizen of earth or whatever they‘re calling themselves lately. They wont notice that I am actually doing it because I like colors, snorkeling and octopi.
It would be the most magical job ever. I could swim among the coral reefs rescuing small corals that would die at the hands (branches) of bigger and more developed corals. I would be helping the earth grow more of her delightful sea jewelry. I could have giant clams! And once they died I could use their giant shells as bathtubs! Or a bed!
It would be like a normal garden, but there wouldn’t be that depressing part where all the flowers slowly age and die. I hate it when that happens. The coral will live long enough for me to not know when it dies and I wont have to think about it. Or, a piggish looking bad guy will attempt to destroy it and either Captain Planet or the Sea Ponies from My Little Ponies will come and rescue me/save my garden. That would be just as awesome and it fulfills one of my other life dreams.
There are so many more pluses to life spent gardening under the sea besides bath tubs and ponies, however.
1-You don’t have to listen to idiots under the ocean because it is very difficult to speak while under water. And any idiot who tries to speak to you will drown, so you are also helping elevate the human race to a new level of awesome by cleaning out the gene pool.
2-You can write off all of your awesome scuba gear as a business expense on your taxes.
3-You will win the unspoken ‘who has the best job?’ contest at class reunions.
3-You can get a thank you hug from an octopus, which is awesome because they have 8 arms, which means their hugs are 8 times better than everyone else’s.
4-swimming is an excellent full-body workout.
5-You got no troubles, cause life is the bubbles under the sea.
6-You will be really, really good at breath holding contests.
7-You can tell PETA demonstrators your job and make them feel like ass-hats for doing something as mundane as prancing around handing out stickers.
8-You can catch and eat your own seafood with an awesome homemade spear and be like Les Stroud who is way more awesome than Bear Grylls.
9-You have the chance of locating pirate treasure and selling it to a museum to fund your awesome coral garden.
10-Darling its better, down where its wetter.
11-You can ride a majestic sea turtle around your brilliantly colored domain.
12-The only laws you have to follow are the laws of the sea. They seem to result in death more frequently than the laws of the land, so be careful.
I am willing to share my awesome plan; we can build our reef on a reef of friendship! If you need me I'll be practicing snorkeling in my bathtub.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Snails: A lifelong... parternship...
My mother got a bee in her bonnet when my twin sister and I were small and our skull sutures were not fused enough to make walking a good idea. Oddly enough, this never seems to stop parents from wanting walking to occur as soon as possible. This particular bee had to do with naming ‘something‘. Apparently, Twin and I were naming things the actual name of the whatever species our toys happened to be. Dog was dog, pony was pony, Australopithecus was Australopithecus. It was a big problem. I have yet to figure out why; I assume because I haven’t spawned, but she treated naming things like the next step in using string theory to skate across the universe like gold medalist.
Of course, since I appear to have been perverse from a very early age, I was the first to comply to my mother’s demand that we begin to name things names, rather than categories.
One fine morning, I pranced up to my mother from our backyard in California and presented to her the finest of gifts. A snail. It oozed sweetly across the palm of my hand, silent and squishy, like an alien. A delightful alien that carries its own home on its back and sings to the Little Mermaid when she needs convincing the sea, what with its fourth dimension of movement, is obviously the better place to live.
So, I showed her the snail as it goobered away across my small toddler hand. I had her just where I wanted her. That’s when I dropped the bomb:
Me: “Wanna know my snail’s name Mommy?”
Mom: “Yes! What did you name it?!”
Me: “Elizabeth!”
Then I squashed it. I squeezed my sadistic and tiny fingers together until the snail literally oozed out of them. Which is Disgusting and even now makes me want to cut my hands off and have new ones sewn on. Bionic ones, like Luke Skywalker.
To top it all off, I gave my mom a complex. My younger sister’s middle name is Elizabeth. I am sure my mother went straight into panic mode, since Twin and I refused to share with our new younger sister. We only shared with each other, thank you. Was this ‘Elizabeth the snail’ stunt a warning of my sibling rivalry? A cry for attention? A threat? Was her 2 year old smart enough to put together such a creepy metaphor for how she was feeling about having a new sibling? (yes, but it wasn’t a metaphor)
In order to alleviate my mother’s concern I did what any two year old does; not alleviate. I saw a reaction and began to do everything in my power to secure that reaction over and over again regardless of the emotions displayed in my mother‘s reaction. For days I would go into the yard, re-discover Elizabeth, show my mom, who would have to be happy I named something, shmush the poor snail to death , throw its sad corpse away, and repeat. My mother was horrified. I am now, but I didn’t bat an eyelash back then.
I later redeemed myself (to snail-kind, not my mother) because, in keeping with my love of snails, I kept many of them in a terrarium as pets while I lived in Germany. I fed them delicious vegetables and loved them with all my heart. I sobbed when I had to let them go because some goober at the airport knew that somewhere down the road he could crush the heart of a small child by making her abandon her pet snails to the wilds of the Black Forest. It was awful, I feel kind of weepy thinking about it now.
Of course, since I appear to have been perverse from a very early age, I was the first to comply to my mother’s demand that we begin to name things names, rather than categories.
One fine morning, I pranced up to my mother from our backyard in California and presented to her the finest of gifts. A snail. It oozed sweetly across the palm of my hand, silent and squishy, like an alien. A delightful alien that carries its own home on its back and sings to the Little Mermaid when she needs convincing the sea, what with its fourth dimension of movement, is obviously the better place to live.
So, I showed her the snail as it goobered away across my small toddler hand. I had her just where I wanted her. That’s when I dropped the bomb:
Me: “Wanna know my snail’s name Mommy?”
Mom: “Yes! What did you name it?!”
Me: “Elizabeth!”
Then I squashed it. I squeezed my sadistic and tiny fingers together until the snail literally oozed out of them. Which is Disgusting and even now makes me want to cut my hands off and have new ones sewn on. Bionic ones, like Luke Skywalker.
To top it all off, I gave my mom a complex. My younger sister’s middle name is Elizabeth. I am sure my mother went straight into panic mode, since Twin and I refused to share with our new younger sister. We only shared with each other, thank you. Was this ‘Elizabeth the snail’ stunt a warning of my sibling rivalry? A cry for attention? A threat? Was her 2 year old smart enough to put together such a creepy metaphor for how she was feeling about having a new sibling? (yes, but it wasn’t a metaphor)
In order to alleviate my mother’s concern I did what any two year old does; not alleviate. I saw a reaction and began to do everything in my power to secure that reaction over and over again regardless of the emotions displayed in my mother‘s reaction. For days I would go into the yard, re-discover Elizabeth, show my mom, who would have to be happy I named something, shmush the poor snail to death , throw its sad corpse away, and repeat. My mother was horrified. I am now, but I didn’t bat an eyelash back then.
I later redeemed myself (to snail-kind, not my mother) because, in keeping with my love of snails, I kept many of them in a terrarium as pets while I lived in Germany. I fed them delicious vegetables and loved them with all my heart. I sobbed when I had to let them go because some goober at the airport knew that somewhere down the road he could crush the heart of a small child by making her abandon her pet snails to the wilds of the Black Forest. It was awful, I feel kind of weepy thinking about it now.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Haunted House Hero
One of my favorite times of year when I was in college, had friends, sorority activities, and things in general to occupy my time, was October.
Why?
I got to work at a haunted house. It was AWESOME. More awesome than anything. More awesome than a swarm of killer bees teaming up with a pod of killer whales and attacking Nebraska. More awesome that the Large Hadron Collider not destroying the world with a huge wormhole of doom. So awesome that I can use the word awesome in its intended context. (That Awesome!)
They would give me free dinner which consisted of a cheap hot-dog, fritos and a diet coke, and it was delicious because hotdogs are the best. They are the best even though they are probably made out of eyelids and earthworms. And while I was eating my awesome dinner made of awesomeness they would dress me up; that was also awesome.
The first year was nice, because I was a grim reaper and I got to have a real live fake femur club and jump out of the wood beating on a (probably stolen) stop sign and scaring the living shit out of everyone. Except for those assholes.
You know who you are.
You prance around the haunted house to show how tough you are. You are not tough my friend, you are just incredibly silly. You went to haunted house, ruined it for your friends, and wasted your money because you had to prove how tough you were in the face of a 5’4 sorority girl in a nylon cape. (Nothing screams toughness like being tougher than a sorority girl.) That chick you brought with you? She’s gonna have a lot more fun if you hold hug her when she screams than if you walk around explaining how ‘gay’ everything is.
The next year I was a witch, (watch this kids) which was fun because they gave me one of my all time favorite things. Fire. Also, I got to dance around it like a hippy and I was far enough away from the haunted forest path that I didn’t have to hear Debbie Downer be logical at a Halloween attraction located in a forest in middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
My last year, that year was… intersting. I got this part because they asked me “Are you a screamer?” Now what I wanted to say was “That’s what she said!” and squeal with delight at my own cleverness. What I said was “Yes. Yes I am.”
I should have known right there that this could not have ended well. I was the girl being eaten by a giant spider. This was interesting because I was tied to a table in a bloody pink nightgown with spider web glued all over my face. On the plus side, I got to be in a room, so I didn’t freeze to death (Michigan is never warm, just tepid in the afternoons and it plummets to glacial once hte sun sets). Also, I got a friend who job was….hide in the shadows and lurk? I instantly congratulated myself on getting a way more awesome job.
Oh wait, her job was to make sure that the people I couldn’t see while I was tied to a table didn’t pick me up and carry me away just like the child snatcher in ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang‘. At first, this was hilarious. I thought “my very own body guard, I am finally moving up in the world, next I will get a segway, followed by a small but lucrative color crystal mine.” Until I felt the sweaty hand of fate on my neck. Oh wait, that was some guy and his friends who didn’t understand rules about personal boundaries and who were being tough in the face of a spider made of a trash can and crepe paper. Boy did I feel silly, thinking I was too tough for a body guard.
Dear asshole, don’t be that asshole. Also, you got chased off by my 5’2 sorority sister who weighs as much as a Holland Lop, but is slightly less threatening.
Why?
I got to work at a haunted house. It was AWESOME. More awesome than anything. More awesome than a swarm of killer bees teaming up with a pod of killer whales and attacking Nebraska. More awesome that the Large Hadron Collider not destroying the world with a huge wormhole of doom. So awesome that I can use the word awesome in its intended context. (That Awesome!)
They would give me free dinner which consisted of a cheap hot-dog, fritos and a diet coke, and it was delicious because hotdogs are the best. They are the best even though they are probably made out of eyelids and earthworms. And while I was eating my awesome dinner made of awesomeness they would dress me up; that was also awesome.
The first year was nice, because I was a grim reaper and I got to have a real live fake femur club and jump out of the wood beating on a (probably stolen) stop sign and scaring the living shit out of everyone. Except for those assholes.
You know who you are.
You prance around the haunted house to show how tough you are. You are not tough my friend, you are just incredibly silly. You went to haunted house, ruined it for your friends, and wasted your money because you had to prove how tough you were in the face of a 5’4 sorority girl in a nylon cape. (Nothing screams toughness like being tougher than a sorority girl.) That chick you brought with you? She’s gonna have a lot more fun if you hold hug her when she screams than if you walk around explaining how ‘gay’ everything is.
The next year I was a witch, (watch this kids) which was fun because they gave me one of my all time favorite things. Fire. Also, I got to dance around it like a hippy and I was far enough away from the haunted forest path that I didn’t have to hear Debbie Downer be logical at a Halloween attraction located in a forest in middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
My last year, that year was… intersting. I got this part because they asked me “Are you a screamer?” Now what I wanted to say was “That’s what she said!” and squeal with delight at my own cleverness. What I said was “Yes. Yes I am.”
I should have known right there that this could not have ended well. I was the girl being eaten by a giant spider. This was interesting because I was tied to a table in a bloody pink nightgown with spider web glued all over my face. On the plus side, I got to be in a room, so I didn’t freeze to death (Michigan is never warm, just tepid in the afternoons and it plummets to glacial once hte sun sets). Also, I got a friend who job was….hide in the shadows and lurk? I instantly congratulated myself on getting a way more awesome job.
Oh wait, her job was to make sure that the people I couldn’t see while I was tied to a table didn’t pick me up and carry me away just like the child snatcher in ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang‘. At first, this was hilarious. I thought “my very own body guard, I am finally moving up in the world, next I will get a segway, followed by a small but lucrative color crystal mine.” Until I felt the sweaty hand of fate on my neck. Oh wait, that was some guy and his friends who didn’t understand rules about personal boundaries and who were being tough in the face of a spider made of a trash can and crepe paper. Boy did I feel silly, thinking I was too tough for a body guard.
Dear asshole, don’t be that asshole. Also, you got chased off by my 5’2 sorority sister who weighs as much as a Holland Lop, but is slightly less threatening.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Why there is no post today
9:30 am- "Mom I need a ride to the health department for my TB test." (my van has a flat tire and is sitting on a block of wood in the driveway. I feel so southern)
"Okay Caitlin, let me just clean the ENTIRE HOUSE first." (it was pretty dirty, I helped by swiffer-ing!)
12:09 pm- "Hi, I need to get my TB test so I can get to work subbing for the school district."
Bitchy Receptionist: "We don't do TB testing, we do TB screening, there is a difference, and we don't do it past noon."
"Okay... Your website says that you run the SCREENING all day every friday."
Bitchy Receptionist with shitty blonde highlights that needed to be re-done last week "Well we don't even know who runs that website, we can't control what they put up on it."
"Do you do TB SCREENING any other time of the week?"
"No."
The word of the week at the health dept this month is responsibility, by the way. They have it written in red on a big sign, right out in front of the office.
5:00 pm- Mom: "OH MY GOD WHERE IS THE CAR?"
Me: "We parked here... I don't understand... Where? How?"
Mom: "WE GOT TOWED. HOW WILL WE GET DAD FROM THE AIRPORT!" (To accurately describe the panic I would need size 32 font in flashing red.)
9:30 pm- Me: "Dad, everyone knows airplanes run on love."
Dad: "Did you know in Mongolia they speak Klingon?!"
All that, right up there, is why.
"Okay Caitlin, let me just clean the ENTIRE HOUSE first." (it was pretty dirty, I helped by swiffer-ing!)
12:09 pm- "Hi, I need to get my TB test so I can get to work subbing for the school district."
Bitchy Receptionist: "We don't do TB testing, we do TB screening, there is a difference, and we don't do it past noon."
"Okay... Your website says that you run the SCREENING all day every friday."
Bitchy Receptionist with shitty blonde highlights that needed to be re-done last week "Well we don't even know who runs that website, we can't control what they put up on it."
"Do you do TB SCREENING any other time of the week?"
"No."
The word of the week at the health dept this month is responsibility, by the way. They have it written in red on a big sign, right out in front of the office.
5:00 pm- Mom: "OH MY GOD WHERE IS THE CAR?"
Me: "We parked here... I don't understand... Where? How?"
Mom: "WE GOT TOWED. HOW WILL WE GET DAD FROM THE AIRPORT!" (To accurately describe the panic I would need size 32 font in flashing red.)
9:30 pm- Me: "Dad, everyone knows airplanes run on love."
Dad: "Did you know in Mongolia they speak Klingon?!"
All that, right up there, is why.
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