February is by far the worst month. I won’t take up your time describing why that’s true, because it’s just a fact. It has no redeeming qualities. It’s the worst month.
I was born in February, in the middle of a tornado. Eight years later, I had a slumber party to commemorate the event.
At some point during that slumber party, after the cake but before my best friend Lauren helped me convince everyone there that I had a dead brother who haunted the guest room (eight year olds are idiots, and Lauren and I knew it), my parents blindfolded me and led me outside to get my gift. There are pictures. That side pony tail will live in infamy forever (any parallels with Pearl Harbor that are caused by the use of the word “infamy” are both intentional and admittedly distasteful, although I maintain that seeing pictures of the side pony tail in question caused a lot of psychological damage for me in later years).
My gift was to this day my favorite gift that I’ve ever received. I loved it. I still do. I’ve had it now for almost fourteen years, and I still play with it every time I go home.
It was the best game of scrabble that you ever did see.
Not really. It was a beautiful chestnut colored horse. I was in love. Still am.
Although I had spent months of my second grade year (I was born knowing how to spell, so second grade didn’t really do a lot for me. I had a lot of free time) drawing pictures of the horse that I would one day own and writing (in my most careful handwriting) the name “Marble” underneath it, I decided to let her keep her previous name as not to confuse her. She would (continue to) be called Sandie.
This was a mistake. Sandie is an awful name. I wish that I had changed it, but I did not. I felt a great sense of friendship, almost equality, with Sandie. We were going to be a great team, just like Ashley and Wonder in the Thoroughbred series (this was a children’s book series much like the Boxcar children but for horse lovers. It greatly affected my perception of the world, for better or for worse). Who was I to change her name? She had come to me already named, and I did not feel at liberty to change it. She wasn’t going to change my name, after all.
Again, mistake. Not my first or my last, though, and life goes on the way it does.
I hopped into the saddle and Sandie and I walked around my driveway. It was wonderful. My side pony tail bobbed with her every step, and I grinned from ear to ear.
The second time I rode Sandie another horse bit her on the rump and I got more or less bucked off. I say more or less, but it was actually less. She bucked so much that I was eventually unseated and flew into the air, only to land on her neck, in front of the saddle. I eventually rolled off into a sort of manure compost. These things happen.
As the years went on, Sandie has been a constant for me. We had adventures and learned lessons, together. Most of those lessons were just real world corrections of my incorrect perceptions of the world that I had learned from the aforementioned Thoroughbred series.
I learned that Sandie hated having her ears touched and did not respond well to men. She learned so much about me that she couldn’t be easily ridden by someone else, because we had our own little set of signals of which only we knew the meaning. This would eventually make me a worse rider, because I forgot how to tell horses what to do, and eventually became too lazy to bother with things like saddles.
When my church hosted it’s annual drive through nativity scene, Sandie and I dressed up and played the part of a Roman guard and her (his?) horse, running the audio cassettes and CDs back and forth from the exit to the entrance.
Sandie put up with a lot from me through the years, as I often decided that there were things I thought we should do in which she had absolutely no interest. For example, I taught her to stay still when I ran at her full speed so that I could eventually sort of vault up onto her back. I also put up with her when we went on a trail ride behind my house and she proceeded to buck me off and then run home without me. Like good friends do, we made up each time. I would give her a piece of an apple (she’s always hated carrots) and then let her lick my hand, which she’s always weirdly loved.
When I cried, I would run out to the stable (it’s a barn, but stable has such a ring to it) and sit in her stall. She would nuzzle my face, and I would feel overwhelmed with love for my big red horse.
When I was sixteen, Sandie was bred. I was thrilled. That was the most agonizingly long period of my life, since the gestational period of a horse is approximately one lifetime.
Early on the morning of March the 16 of that year, our next door neighbor called us to ask if the baby horse was supposed to be let our our not. Having absolutely no knowledge of the existence of the baby horse, we rushed outside.
He was beautiful. I spent the whole day in the stall with that little baby horse laying in my lap. I petted him like a dog, and he nickered, pressing his velvety white nose into my face. He pranced like a dancer, a painted white and red ballerina. I was ecstatically and transcendentally happy. My dreams of living the life of Ashley (of the previously mentioned Thoroughbred series) were reignited in a hot minute. This little baby and I were going to be best friends. I would come home from school and spend my afternoons in his stall, and we would fall asleep together in the dimming light of the Mississippi sunset. We would play together, and I would feed him carrots to reward him for learning new tricks. I would teach him everything there was to know about being the perfect horse, and we would race throughout the countryside the way only a young girl and a young horse can.
The next day, he tried to kill me.
I went to the stall, and he was in attack mode. Brand new teeth bared, gangly limbs flying, he was ready to end my life. I began for the first time to learn that terror and broken heartedness are feelings that keep each other’s company more often that not. My dreams were dashed. For months, I tried to tame that little horse. At one point, he actually rose up on his back feet and put his front hooves on my shoulders, trying to crush out my very existence.
Understandably, I gave up. I would never forgive myself.
As a few years went by, the little horse that I named Jag (there is no reasoning whatsoever behind this name) became the very large horse that I named Jag. Age mellowed him a little, and one day my uncle, who has always in my head been a real life cowboy, came to get Jag to break him.
For those of you who are not familiar with the equine world, breaking a horse means teaching them to wear a saddle and bridle and be ridden. There is no actual breaking involved. It is not, however, a pretty process. Watching Jag being loaded into a trailer for the first time was painful. It took four men and I think everyone, including Jag, was minorly injured in the process.
For several reasons, Jag is still at my uncle’s farm, over two years later. I drove down last weekend to see my uncle’s new twin boys, and convinced his daughters, who are eight and six, to walk down to the barn with me. We walked down the the pasture that Jag was in, and I let myself in through the gate. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Jag and I never developed the close bond that I had dreamed of, and it wasn’t like this horse had never tried to kill me before.
I tentatively walked up to my big red and white horse, and he stepped toward me, somehow authoritatively. My heart beat a little faster as he walked right up to me, and, in a move that his mother had made hundreds of times in my childhood, rested his neck on my shoulder with his head against mine and his chin on my back. We stood together and breathed as I rubbed my arms up and down his neck. I felt like a little girl again, completely in love with something bigger and more powerful than me, something that loved me back.
In a transitional period of my life that is filled with more questions than answers and less certainty than doubt, it’s really the little things that count.
You find peace in the strangest places.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Dealing Drugs (alternate title: A Visit Home)
I went home for two weeks at the beginning of August, and everything that happened in that two week period related in some form or another to a single theme.
That theme was drugs.
My mother, like I imagine many other suburban housewives with internet addictions are prone to do, fancies herself something of a pharmacist. She collects and hoards drugs in a cabinet in our kitchen. My family has so many medical problems (complex migraines, regular migraines, mild headaches, mysterious stomach ailments, back pains, about four different types of insomnia, a jaw that pops out of place, hyperthyroidism, high blood pressure, and so on and so forth) that over the years we have been prescribed literally hundreds (ok maybe dozens. or A hundred. but a lot. actually, maybe hundreds) of different types of drugs. Of course, prescribing drugs is a hit or miss game, especially with problems like insomnia and migraines. I have personally been prescribed around ten different drugs for insomnia over the years, and I still haven’t found anything that works for me.
Now, some mothers might throw away old drugs once a new medication is prescribed, a generic form comes out, or the FDA bans it for safety reasons.
Not my mom. She adds them to the cabinet and proceeds to dole them out in situations that she deems appropriate.
This may sound dangerous, but it’s not. No, she doesn’t have a medical degree- she’s got something better. She has access to Web MD.
Actually, my mother has been playing this game (this game being nonprofessional self diagnosis/diagnosis of one’s family) for much longer than the internet has been playing it. Somewhere in the recesses of our house lies a book that appears to have been passed down through generations but really has just been overused by my mother: Dr. Mom (I called her to verify the title of the book and she said "Oh! It's actually such a great book. Are you buying a copy to use when you nanny?" "No mom, I'm making fun of it in a story I'm writing" "Oh").
I think that every child has a point in the process of maturing that they realize that their parents are not always right, a point where they begin to question their parent’s choices. One of my realizations was that my mother probably shouldn’t be doling out other people’s drugs to family members. As a seven year old, I was very worried.
I’m not saying I don’t take the drugs, I’m just saying that I realize that it is both unsafe and inappropriate. This seems less than important when you are sick and your mother (you can always trust your mom, right?) is offering you medication.
Quickly upon my return, I realized that I seemed to have developed some sort of allergy to my home. Upon further inspection, I realized that the problem was most likely the fact that the top of the huge bookcase in my room hasn’t been dusted in (rough estimate) 4 years. That being said, the idea of my having an allergy to my home itself makes more sense emotionally, so I’m going to go with that.
On my fourth night at home, I broke down and asked my mom for drugs.
The way this really happened is that I begged her for drugs every night after the first one but she was always too busy (doing what? I’m not sure either) to look in her medicine cabinet until she finally decided that listening to my whining about feeling awful was more annoying than the prospect of ceasing her (almost) continual perusal of Yahoo(!) on the fourth night. However, the idea that I broke down and asked on the fourth night and was immediately given the necessary assistance makes me feel better about my home life, so, again, I’m going to go with that.
Visits home are all about the mind games.
Once I had finally caught her attention, I reverted to my previous occupation of bonding with (harassing) Brecken while she made herself dinner (at 11.30pm. don’t tell me she’s not ready for college).
After a few minutes, my mother presented me with a bottle of some sort of syrup.
“Here. Take this senzacarboloxin (or something like that. sort of like that.).”
I began to obediently take the medication but was impeded by my sister’s snatching the bottle from my hand.
“No, don’t take this. You can do better than that, hold out for the phenagran,” she advised haughtily. How dare I be silly enough to fall for this amateurish drug?
I’d like to take this moment to point out (kindly) that Brecken’s best subject is art.
I proceeded to look for a measuring cup to take the medicine, quietly pondering my family’s inappropriate relationship with pharmaceuticals. I realized that I didn’t know what dosage to take, and that my mom was almost out of earshot.
“Mom! How much to I take?” I yelled in the dainty, ladylike sort of fashion that I am wont to use.
“One or two teaspoons,” she bellowed in returned.
Brecken laughed and muttered, “Get a straw.”
I can never tell if Brecken is us or them.
That theme was drugs.
My mother, like I imagine many other suburban housewives with internet addictions are prone to do, fancies herself something of a pharmacist. She collects and hoards drugs in a cabinet in our kitchen. My family has so many medical problems (complex migraines, regular migraines, mild headaches, mysterious stomach ailments, back pains, about four different types of insomnia, a jaw that pops out of place, hyperthyroidism, high blood pressure, and so on and so forth) that over the years we have been prescribed literally hundreds (ok maybe dozens. or A hundred. but a lot. actually, maybe hundreds) of different types of drugs. Of course, prescribing drugs is a hit or miss game, especially with problems like insomnia and migraines. I have personally been prescribed around ten different drugs for insomnia over the years, and I still haven’t found anything that works for me.
Now, some mothers might throw away old drugs once a new medication is prescribed, a generic form comes out, or the FDA bans it for safety reasons.
Not my mom. She adds them to the cabinet and proceeds to dole them out in situations that she deems appropriate.
This may sound dangerous, but it’s not. No, she doesn’t have a medical degree- she’s got something better. She has access to Web MD.
Actually, my mother has been playing this game (this game being nonprofessional self diagnosis/diagnosis of one’s family) for much longer than the internet has been playing it. Somewhere in the recesses of our house lies a book that appears to have been passed down through generations but really has just been overused by my mother: Dr. Mom (I called her to verify the title of the book and she said "Oh! It's actually such a great book. Are you buying a copy to use when you nanny?" "No mom, I'm making fun of it in a story I'm writing" "Oh").
I think that every child has a point in the process of maturing that they realize that their parents are not always right, a point where they begin to question their parent’s choices. One of my realizations was that my mother probably shouldn’t be doling out other people’s drugs to family members. As a seven year old, I was very worried.
I’m not saying I don’t take the drugs, I’m just saying that I realize that it is both unsafe and inappropriate. This seems less than important when you are sick and your mother (you can always trust your mom, right?) is offering you medication.
Quickly upon my return, I realized that I seemed to have developed some sort of allergy to my home. Upon further inspection, I realized that the problem was most likely the fact that the top of the huge bookcase in my room hasn’t been dusted in (rough estimate) 4 years. That being said, the idea of my having an allergy to my home itself makes more sense emotionally, so I’m going to go with that.
On my fourth night at home, I broke down and asked my mom for drugs.
The way this really happened is that I begged her for drugs every night after the first one but she was always too busy (doing what? I’m not sure either) to look in her medicine cabinet until she finally decided that listening to my whining about feeling awful was more annoying than the prospect of ceasing her (almost) continual perusal of Yahoo(!) on the fourth night. However, the idea that I broke down and asked on the fourth night and was immediately given the necessary assistance makes me feel better about my home life, so, again, I’m going to go with that.
Visits home are all about the mind games.
Once I had finally caught her attention, I reverted to my previous occupation of bonding with (harassing) Brecken while she made herself dinner (at 11.30pm. don’t tell me she’s not ready for college).
After a few minutes, my mother presented me with a bottle of some sort of syrup.
“Here. Take this senzacarboloxin (or something like that. sort of like that.).”
I began to obediently take the medication but was impeded by my sister’s snatching the bottle from my hand.
“No, don’t take this. You can do better than that, hold out for the phenagran,” she advised haughtily. How dare I be silly enough to fall for this amateurish drug?
I’d like to take this moment to point out (kindly) that Brecken’s best subject is art.
I proceeded to look for a measuring cup to take the medicine, quietly pondering my family’s inappropriate relationship with pharmaceuticals. I realized that I didn’t know what dosage to take, and that my mom was almost out of earshot.
“Mom! How much to I take?” I yelled in the dainty, ladylike sort of fashion that I am wont to use.
“One or two teaspoons,” she bellowed in returned.
Brecken laughed and muttered, “Get a straw.”
I can never tell if Brecken is us or them.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Summer, In Conclusion
Imaginary readers, I have not updated you as to my current situation since this blog’s nascence, and for that I apologize. I can only imagine that you have been both insatiably curious and deeply concerned as to what I’ve been doing.
Translation: I know you don’t care about this, feel free to not read it. I’ll post something interesting soon.
I made the trip back to Jackson last Sunday, meaning that my summer is essentially over. I”m going to look back at (this post) and respond to it in an attempt to see what has changed in the (exactly - I counted) 60 days that I spent in Nashville this summer.
I mentioned that I had previously made attempts at blogging but never passed the three post threshold. This attempt seems to have stuck, with at least a greater degree of permanence than any other. I applaud myself for sticking with it (read: for having so little to do that I stuck with it) and you, imaginary readers, for actually suffering through it.
Seriously, I have really appreciated everyone who has told me that you have enjoyed my nonsense.
On an equally serious note, I have really appreciated everyone who has told me that you think I need to be committed. You make a valid point.
However, I am still roaming the streets at the time this post goes to (imaginary) press.
I’m glad I went with the “Blank Slate” title/theme, because even though it’s a touch on the completely lame side, I like the idea that you can start over. In some ways, I want to start over almost every day. I’d change a lot - you’re lying to yourself if you think you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t take all those stressful pre-med classes that turned out to be worthless and tanked my GPA. I wouldn’t have wasted all that time on that boy that I couldn’t respect. I’d get up and run in the mornings so I could see the sun come up. Continue to insert regrets, each more cliché than the next.
That was cliché too. See what I did there?
Sorry.
On one hand, I think that you can start over every day. To an extent, I’ve accomplished that this summer. It takes a lot of self-pep talking, a lot of perseverance, and a little bit of crying while you drive around beautiful Tennessee backroads. Saying you’re going to start over with a blank slate is like quitting smoking - it usually doesn’t take until the fourth or fifth or sixth try. But you hang in there.
On the other hand, I’ve realized that the idea of the blank slate, the tabula rasa, if you will, is an impossibility.
Consider this quote from Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men.
“It’s not about knowing where you are. It’s about thinking you got there without taking anything with you. Your notions about starting over. Or anybody’s. You don’t start over. That’s what it’s about. Every step you take is forever. You can’t make it go away. None of it.” - Llewelyn Moss
I wrote this down when I read it last summer, for no other reason than it spoke to me. It seems entirely more relevant now. What I take away from it is that I can’t change where I’ve come from, because it has made me who I am.
I like that. Even though I’d do things differently a second time around, I wouldn’t be who I am today if I had done things differently the first time around. Yes, I wouldn’t have taken all the pre-med classes that have turned out to be unnecessary, but I also wouldn’t have been able to explain to someone how and why goiters form when it came up at dinner the other night.
Don’t invite me to dinner. I’m disgusting.
So you can’t start over. I can’t change that I spent three years taking classes to get into medical school before I decided to not to go. I can’t change the fact that I have been a terrible judge of character with regard to whom I spend time with for almost my whole life. I can’t change the fact that Lori and I got Qdoba at 2 am last saturday morning.
Believe me, I would change that if I could.
I think what Llewelyn Moss misses in NCFOM is that while you can’t start over, you can head in a new direction. You are who you are because of where you’ve been, but you can still go anywhere you want.
Of course, I wouldn’t expect Moss to be very introspective. He does manage to get more or less everyone he knows killed, so introspection is most likely not one of his strong points.
Thirty-two pages later, Anton Chigurh tells Moss’s wife that “Every moment in your life is a turning and every one a choosing,” and I think he’s hit the nail on the head, personally. You can’t ignore where you came from and what made you who you are, but you can always pick up and go where ever you want to.
Ignore the fact that I identify more with the homicidal maniac than with the good guy. If you’ve read (this post) you should’ve seen that coming. Although I must say, he does seem to know what he’s talking about.
The homicidal maniac is, after all, the one that survives.
I’ll quit with the literary analysis before someone shows this to a psychiatrist and gets me my very own made-to-fit straight jacket.
So there’s that.
I also wrote a to do list in my first post. It was really just for that day, but some parts of the list are more far reaching goals, so I’ll let you know how it turned out anyway.
1- Finding a job - Done. Sighs of relief were breathed. I did end up getting the job at Sweet Cece’s, and I love it. I don’t know that I am any more a functional member of society, but I can pay the rent. I’ve met so many great people. I’ve also started babysitting on the side, which I unexpectedly love. Something about people paying me to sit down is fantastic.
2- Starting a blog. I did that, clearly. Honestly, I really like it. There’s something really nice about putting thoughts down on paper (you get what I mean) that weren’t there before. I’ve started writing other stuff too, for no other reason than wanting to make something.
3- Reading Cien Años de Soledad- I got two pages in and was so overwhelmed by the number of words I’d written in the margin in order to remind myself to find out what the hell they mean that I promptly quit. I leave the book out on my desk so I can pretend to be reading it.
4- Learning all the words to Sorry, Mrs. Jackson by Outkast in order to increase my awesomeness levels- I sort of did this. I downloaded the lyrics and more or less know the words, but I still cannot sing along. I have no rhythm. It can’t be helped.
5- Working on the book I’m writing- If you read (this post), you know more or less how this is going. For those who have expressed doubt as to whether I’m actually writing it, fear not. It’s not a joke. It is being written.
6- Journaling again- This has been hard. I’ve been slightly reticent to be as honest with myself as journaling requires that I be, so I’ve more or less put this on the back burner. It’s always at the top of my to do list, but I never do it.
7-Restart my picture a day project - This is been a miserable failure. I’m thinking about trying to take a picture every day of senior year, because I like the idea. Also, I completely stole this idea from Caroline Tredway, which is where I got the original idea from as well. She’s recently started a blog detailing her own senior year, and I really like it! It includes her daily photos and great tips for people who know nothing about photography, like myself.
Caroline is one of those quiet people who sees everything.
(You should check out her blog).
8- Do something artsy- I painted my nails and called it a day.
So there’s my summer to do list, all wrapped up.
The beginning of fall semester seems like it’s far away, but time always goes faster than I think it will, so I’m going to make a tentative to do list for the fall.
1- Get my bank account back to where it was at the beginning of the summer! - Because dear God that thing could use some cash.
2- Make all A’s this fall! - It could happen. Right? Right. Plus, it would be nice to do that at least one semester of college.
3- Say those 3 little words more - I have a weird thing about not telling people that I love them when I don’t mean it and sometimes even when I do. It’s a good habit because I don’t throw those words around and people know I mean it when I say it, but it’s good to let the people you care about know that you care about them...right? Right.
4- Read all the books on my summer reading list - because I finished 2/14. I’m literallly just crossing our “summer” and writing “fall” over it. Whoops.
5 - Do things I haven’t done before! - I want to explore Tennessee (who is down to go apple picking with me this fall? comment on this post to sign up, because I don’t care if I have to go by myself, I’m going apple picking this fall), go on more road trips (read: revisit the Lost Caves of Kentucky), meet more people (Josh Turner), go to more concerts (3rdEyeBlindRaRaRiotTheNationalMGMTetcohmygod), and just get into all sorts of new adventures. I’ve got to come up with something to keep you people entertained, since I have a feeling hearing my descriptions of the interiors of Vanderbilt’s nine libraries is not going to keep anyone reading for long (feel free to make a joke about me going to a library, if you’re one of my close friends. I’m being optimistic that I might go.)
6 - Fiddle player. enough said. several of you already know about my life goals with regard to this.
So there you go. At some point I’ll report back on how those things went, and until then I’ll keep up you to date with whatever adventures (read: misadventures) that befall me (read: that I bring crashing down around my own head).
It'll be fine.
Translation: I know you don’t care about this, feel free to not read it. I’ll post something interesting soon.
I made the trip back to Jackson last Sunday, meaning that my summer is essentially over. I”m going to look back at (this post) and respond to it in an attempt to see what has changed in the (exactly - I counted) 60 days that I spent in Nashville this summer.
I mentioned that I had previously made attempts at blogging but never passed the three post threshold. This attempt seems to have stuck, with at least a greater degree of permanence than any other. I applaud myself for sticking with it (read: for having so little to do that I stuck with it) and you, imaginary readers, for actually suffering through it.
Seriously, I have really appreciated everyone who has told me that you have enjoyed my nonsense.
On an equally serious note, I have really appreciated everyone who has told me that you think I need to be committed. You make a valid point.
However, I am still roaming the streets at the time this post goes to (imaginary) press.
I’m glad I went with the “Blank Slate” title/theme, because even though it’s a touch on the completely lame side, I like the idea that you can start over. In some ways, I want to start over almost every day. I’d change a lot - you’re lying to yourself if you think you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t take all those stressful pre-med classes that turned out to be worthless and tanked my GPA. I wouldn’t have wasted all that time on that boy that I couldn’t respect. I’d get up and run in the mornings so I could see the sun come up. Continue to insert regrets, each more cliché than the next.
That was cliché too. See what I did there?
Sorry.
On one hand, I think that you can start over every day. To an extent, I’ve accomplished that this summer. It takes a lot of self-pep talking, a lot of perseverance, and a little bit of crying while you drive around beautiful Tennessee backroads. Saying you’re going to start over with a blank slate is like quitting smoking - it usually doesn’t take until the fourth or fifth or sixth try. But you hang in there.
On the other hand, I’ve realized that the idea of the blank slate, the tabula rasa, if you will, is an impossibility.
Consider this quote from Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men.
“It’s not about knowing where you are. It’s about thinking you got there without taking anything with you. Your notions about starting over. Or anybody’s. You don’t start over. That’s what it’s about. Every step you take is forever. You can’t make it go away. None of it.” - Llewelyn Moss
I wrote this down when I read it last summer, for no other reason than it spoke to me. It seems entirely more relevant now. What I take away from it is that I can’t change where I’ve come from, because it has made me who I am.
I like that. Even though I’d do things differently a second time around, I wouldn’t be who I am today if I had done things differently the first time around. Yes, I wouldn’t have taken all the pre-med classes that have turned out to be unnecessary, but I also wouldn’t have been able to explain to someone how and why goiters form when it came up at dinner the other night.
Don’t invite me to dinner. I’m disgusting.
So you can’t start over. I can’t change that I spent three years taking classes to get into medical school before I decided to not to go. I can’t change the fact that I have been a terrible judge of character with regard to whom I spend time with for almost my whole life. I can’t change the fact that Lori and I got Qdoba at 2 am last saturday morning.
Believe me, I would change that if I could.
I think what Llewelyn Moss misses in NCFOM is that while you can’t start over, you can head in a new direction. You are who you are because of where you’ve been, but you can still go anywhere you want.
Of course, I wouldn’t expect Moss to be very introspective. He does manage to get more or less everyone he knows killed, so introspection is most likely not one of his strong points.
Thirty-two pages later, Anton Chigurh tells Moss’s wife that “Every moment in your life is a turning and every one a choosing,” and I think he’s hit the nail on the head, personally. You can’t ignore where you came from and what made you who you are, but you can always pick up and go where ever you want to.
Ignore the fact that I identify more with the homicidal maniac than with the good guy. If you’ve read (this post) you should’ve seen that coming. Although I must say, he does seem to know what he’s talking about.
The homicidal maniac is, after all, the one that survives.
I’ll quit with the literary analysis before someone shows this to a psychiatrist and gets me my very own made-to-fit straight jacket.
So there’s that.
I also wrote a to do list in my first post. It was really just for that day, but some parts of the list are more far reaching goals, so I’ll let you know how it turned out anyway.
1- Finding a job - Done. Sighs of relief were breathed. I did end up getting the job at Sweet Cece’s, and I love it. I don’t know that I am any more a functional member of society, but I can pay the rent. I’ve met so many great people. I’ve also started babysitting on the side, which I unexpectedly love. Something about people paying me to sit down is fantastic.
2- Starting a blog. I did that, clearly. Honestly, I really like it. There’s something really nice about putting thoughts down on paper (you get what I mean) that weren’t there before. I’ve started writing other stuff too, for no other reason than wanting to make something.
3- Reading Cien Años de Soledad- I got two pages in and was so overwhelmed by the number of words I’d written in the margin in order to remind myself to find out what the hell they mean that I promptly quit. I leave the book out on my desk so I can pretend to be reading it.
4- Learning all the words to Sorry, Mrs. Jackson by Outkast in order to increase my awesomeness levels- I sort of did this. I downloaded the lyrics and more or less know the words, but I still cannot sing along. I have no rhythm. It can’t be helped.
5- Working on the book I’m writing- If you read (this post), you know more or less how this is going. For those who have expressed doubt as to whether I’m actually writing it, fear not. It’s not a joke. It is being written.
6- Journaling again- This has been hard. I’ve been slightly reticent to be as honest with myself as journaling requires that I be, so I’ve more or less put this on the back burner. It’s always at the top of my to do list, but I never do it.
7-Restart my picture a day project - This is been a miserable failure. I’m thinking about trying to take a picture every day of senior year, because I like the idea. Also, I completely stole this idea from Caroline Tredway, which is where I got the original idea from as well. She’s recently started a blog detailing her own senior year, and I really like it! It includes her daily photos and great tips for people who know nothing about photography, like myself.
Caroline is one of those quiet people who sees everything.
(You should check out her blog).
8- Do something artsy- I painted my nails and called it a day.
So there’s my summer to do list, all wrapped up.
The beginning of fall semester seems like it’s far away, but time always goes faster than I think it will, so I’m going to make a tentative to do list for the fall.
1- Get my bank account back to where it was at the beginning of the summer! - Because dear God that thing could use some cash.
2- Make all A’s this fall! - It could happen. Right? Right. Plus, it would be nice to do that at least one semester of college.
3- Say those 3 little words more - I have a weird thing about not telling people that I love them when I don’t mean it and sometimes even when I do. It’s a good habit because I don’t throw those words around and people know I mean it when I say it, but it’s good to let the people you care about know that you care about them...right? Right.
4- Read all the books on my summer reading list - because I finished 2/14. I’m literallly just crossing our “summer” and writing “fall” over it. Whoops.
5 - Do things I haven’t done before! - I want to explore Tennessee (who is down to go apple picking with me this fall? comment on this post to sign up, because I don’t care if I have to go by myself, I’m going apple picking this fall), go on more road trips (read: revisit the Lost Caves of Kentucky), meet more people (Josh Turner), go to more concerts (3rdEyeBlindRaRaRiotTheNationalMGMTetcohmygod), and just get into all sorts of new adventures. I’ve got to come up with something to keep you people entertained, since I have a feeling hearing my descriptions of the interiors of Vanderbilt’s nine libraries is not going to keep anyone reading for long (feel free to make a joke about me going to a library, if you’re one of my close friends. I’m being optimistic that I might go.)
6 - Fiddle player. enough said. several of you already know about my life goals with regard to this.
So there you go. At some point I’ll report back on how those things went, and until then I’ll keep up you to date with whatever adventures (read: misadventures) that befall me (read: that I bring crashing down around my own head).
It'll be fine.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Donuts, Rain, and the Whole Crazy Thing
You’re in a public place. Maybe it’s a coffee shop, or a clothing store, or a classroom, or maybe even a bookstore. Actually, it’s probably not a bookstore.
But you’re there. You’re going about your own business, because you are a functional adult in society, or whatever the modern equivalent of that is (read: you’re probably a codependent, chain smoking, Jersey Shore watching, McDonalds scarfing wreck, but this is pretty much par for the course these days. society has gone to hell). Regardless, you’re doing what you’re there to do. You’re drinking a cappuccino (skim milk, of course), shopping for a pair of pants (which you’ll buy a size too small, because you’re going to get back to the gym really soon), catching up on the reading you didn’t do the night before (again, Jersey Shore), and probably simultaneously texting.
Everyone is always texting. Have you ever thought about that? I am relatively certain that texting is going to play a rather large hand in the downfall of our society, which to me seems fairly imminent. Think about it. All over the world, people are constantly sending messages to each other about what they’re doing, what they’re thinking, what they’re seeing.
The ironic part, of course, is that no one is doing, thinking, or seeing anything, because they’re texting. Jogs are going unjogged, conversations unhad, scenic views unseen, and memorable moments unexchanged, because we are texting and we miss them.
Excuse my tangent. Return to your mental image. As you sit in your coffeehouse/store/classroom or what have you, behaving as well as you can be expected to behave given the fact that you were raised on Rainbow Brite and corndogs (thanks, mom), something happens.
You get annoyed.
It’s a girl, probably. It is in my mental image, at least, and I’m leading this parade. I will, however, allow you to imagine that it is a boy, in order to prove wrong some nasty accusations in 2007 that I “have some sexist views” (from my twelfth grade English teacher. about a paper I wrote. which she also called “very good”)
This girl is probably being too loud. She’s laughing uncontrollably about something that probably isn’t even funny. She’s making faces, or noises, or jokes. She looks like an idiot.
You’re judging her. She’s an adult, for God’s sake, and people are trying to go about their business. Specifically, you. You are trying to go about your business, and she is interrupting you. What is she laughing about, anyway?
Approximately sixty-two percent of the time, I am you. I am annoyed at that girl. I am trying to read Faulkner, or mourn the state of my checking account, or study, or stalk Benson Luk on facebook (heyyy Benson), or write my riddled-with-genius blog (alternate reality). She gets on my nerves and I take advantage of the situation to use her existence as an excuse to whine.
The other thirty-eight percent of that time, I am that girl.
Warning: I will hear nothing of my own hypocrisy. I love hypocrisy. I don’t even think it’s bad. I have accepted it about myself and expect you do to the same.
Excuse me, I just got a text.
Back.
So that girl is me. I’m laughing at that text, or at the book I’m reading, or at whatever I’m making fun of Daniel about, or at something that I actually said (yeah. sometimes I laugh at myself.)
And you know what? I’m having more fun than you are.
I started thinking about being that girl when I read one of the epigraphs of Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, which I am currently rereading. (read it. it really is genius.)
Here it is:
“‘I remember saying things, but I have no idea what was said. It was generally a friendly conversation.’ - Associated Press reporter Jack Sullivan, attempting to recount a 3 A.M. exchange we had at a dinner party and inadvertently describing the past ten years of my life.”
This epigraph resonated with me, because I feel more or less the same about the last seven years of my life. More or less, because when I think back, I remember a lot of laughing and silliness and happiness, and very few details. I like this.
When I originally read this quote, my first thought was of Tanya Tiwari. This meant, of course, that my second thought was of donuts.
If you know Tanya then you know what I mean. That girl is a ninety pound donut eating machine. Her ability to show a baker’s dozen of donuts where they can go (her mouth) defies the laws of physics, gravity and good sense.
The specific memory that popped to mind was of a rainy midmorning in the spring of 2007. We were seniors in high school, and we had a fifteen minute break before our Block 3 classes.
I was sitting in the locker area with Tanya when she glanced at me innocently. This is always a bad sign.
“I really, really want a donut.” she opened.
“Of course you do.” This was nothing new.
“I have some in my car,” she stated slyly.
“Are you serious?” I asked, completely unsurprised but hoping to help her see how ridiculous it was to hoard donuts in one’s vehicle.
“We could go get them...” she said, trying to make it my idea.
“Tanya. I don’t like donuts and it’s pouring down rain.”
“I have a huge umbrella!”
And so we ventured into the senior parking lot. The second that we reached her car, the innocent spring rainfall turned gale force and started whipping at our bodies from every angle, making the ridiculously large umbrella all but useless. I stood, battling the wind and rain and umbrella, while Tanya sat in her back seat wolfing down donuts from a Krispy Kreme box that appeared to have held at one point (presumably that morning) a dozen donuts. Maybe two. I chose to hold my comments until we had reached a dryer venue.
She finally finished at jumped back under the umbrella with me. Had I actually been strong enough to hold on to it, the sheer size of the umbrella might have actually offered some protection from the rain. As it were, it actually became a sort of wind surfing parachute that began to threaten to lift me right off the ground and whisk me away. It slipped from my fingers and flew across the field adjacent to the parking lot.
We were soaked in approximately two seconds.
Screaming with laughter and being pelted in the face with cold rain, we tore across the field and managed to recover the umbrella, which I promptly folded up and put under my arm for the run back to the locker area.
We returned just as people were beginning to pack up for Block 3 classes. We were soaked through (by the way, yellow skirts are see through when they’re wet), and laughing so hard that we could barely breathe. Tanya probably didn’t have donut crumbs on her face, but I choose to remember it that way, so that is the way I will tell it.
Tanya had donut crumbs on her face.
It probably doesn’t seem particularly funny, but I remember laughing hysterically at the whole situation. Maybe it was the fact that we were the only people who were wet at all, that we just suffered through that incident so that Tanya could eat a donut, or that we just felt overwhelmingly alive the way you do after you get caught in a rainstorm.
Who can say?
I remember people looking us like we were idiots. Which is fair, because we looked like idiots.
That being said, when I read Klosterman’s epigraph about thinking back on the previous years in a generally positive light, I agree and that situation pops to mind.
It was totally worth looking stupid, to have that memory of just being happy for no reason at all.
If you think that I’m going to wind this up by advising you to withhold judgement the next time you see that girl (or boy!) in a coffeehouse/store/classroom/zoo, I’m not.
I think she’s obnoxious too, possibly more obnoxious than you think she is due to my predisposition towards disdain.
I’m just saying, I’m not going to apologize when it’s me.
But you’re there. You’re going about your own business, because you are a functional adult in society, or whatever the modern equivalent of that is (read: you’re probably a codependent, chain smoking, Jersey Shore watching, McDonalds scarfing wreck, but this is pretty much par for the course these days. society has gone to hell). Regardless, you’re doing what you’re there to do. You’re drinking a cappuccino (skim milk, of course), shopping for a pair of pants (which you’ll buy a size too small, because you’re going to get back to the gym really soon), catching up on the reading you didn’t do the night before (again, Jersey Shore), and probably simultaneously texting.
Everyone is always texting. Have you ever thought about that? I am relatively certain that texting is going to play a rather large hand in the downfall of our society, which to me seems fairly imminent. Think about it. All over the world, people are constantly sending messages to each other about what they’re doing, what they’re thinking, what they’re seeing.
The ironic part, of course, is that no one is doing, thinking, or seeing anything, because they’re texting. Jogs are going unjogged, conversations unhad, scenic views unseen, and memorable moments unexchanged, because we are texting and we miss them.
Excuse my tangent. Return to your mental image. As you sit in your coffeehouse/store/classroom or what have you, behaving as well as you can be expected to behave given the fact that you were raised on Rainbow Brite and corndogs (thanks, mom), something happens.
You get annoyed.
It’s a girl, probably. It is in my mental image, at least, and I’m leading this parade. I will, however, allow you to imagine that it is a boy, in order to prove wrong some nasty accusations in 2007 that I “have some sexist views” (from my twelfth grade English teacher. about a paper I wrote. which she also called “very good”)
This girl is probably being too loud. She’s laughing uncontrollably about something that probably isn’t even funny. She’s making faces, or noises, or jokes. She looks like an idiot.
You’re judging her. She’s an adult, for God’s sake, and people are trying to go about their business. Specifically, you. You are trying to go about your business, and she is interrupting you. What is she laughing about, anyway?
Approximately sixty-two percent of the time, I am you. I am annoyed at that girl. I am trying to read Faulkner, or mourn the state of my checking account, or study, or stalk Benson Luk on facebook (heyyy Benson), or write my riddled-with-genius blog (alternate reality). She gets on my nerves and I take advantage of the situation to use her existence as an excuse to whine.
The other thirty-eight percent of that time, I am that girl.
Warning: I will hear nothing of my own hypocrisy. I love hypocrisy. I don’t even think it’s bad. I have accepted it about myself and expect you do to the same.
Excuse me, I just got a text.
Back.
So that girl is me. I’m laughing at that text, or at the book I’m reading, or at whatever I’m making fun of Daniel about, or at something that I actually said (yeah. sometimes I laugh at myself.)
And you know what? I’m having more fun than you are.
I started thinking about being that girl when I read one of the epigraphs of Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, which I am currently rereading. (read it. it really is genius.)
Here it is:
“‘I remember saying things, but I have no idea what was said. It was generally a friendly conversation.’ - Associated Press reporter Jack Sullivan, attempting to recount a 3 A.M. exchange we had at a dinner party and inadvertently describing the past ten years of my life.”
This epigraph resonated with me, because I feel more or less the same about the last seven years of my life. More or less, because when I think back, I remember a lot of laughing and silliness and happiness, and very few details. I like this.
When I originally read this quote, my first thought was of Tanya Tiwari. This meant, of course, that my second thought was of donuts.
If you know Tanya then you know what I mean. That girl is a ninety pound donut eating machine. Her ability to show a baker’s dozen of donuts where they can go (her mouth) defies the laws of physics, gravity and good sense.
The specific memory that popped to mind was of a rainy midmorning in the spring of 2007. We were seniors in high school, and we had a fifteen minute break before our Block 3 classes.
I was sitting in the locker area with Tanya when she glanced at me innocently. This is always a bad sign.
“I really, really want a donut.” she opened.
“Of course you do.” This was nothing new.
“I have some in my car,” she stated slyly.
“Are you serious?” I asked, completely unsurprised but hoping to help her see how ridiculous it was to hoard donuts in one’s vehicle.
“We could go get them...” she said, trying to make it my idea.
“Tanya. I don’t like donuts and it’s pouring down rain.”
“I have a huge umbrella!”
And so we ventured into the senior parking lot. The second that we reached her car, the innocent spring rainfall turned gale force and started whipping at our bodies from every angle, making the ridiculously large umbrella all but useless. I stood, battling the wind and rain and umbrella, while Tanya sat in her back seat wolfing down donuts from a Krispy Kreme box that appeared to have held at one point (presumably that morning) a dozen donuts. Maybe two. I chose to hold my comments until we had reached a dryer venue.
She finally finished at jumped back under the umbrella with me. Had I actually been strong enough to hold on to it, the sheer size of the umbrella might have actually offered some protection from the rain. As it were, it actually became a sort of wind surfing parachute that began to threaten to lift me right off the ground and whisk me away. It slipped from my fingers and flew across the field adjacent to the parking lot.
We were soaked in approximately two seconds.
Screaming with laughter and being pelted in the face with cold rain, we tore across the field and managed to recover the umbrella, which I promptly folded up and put under my arm for the run back to the locker area.
We returned just as people were beginning to pack up for Block 3 classes. We were soaked through (by the way, yellow skirts are see through when they’re wet), and laughing so hard that we could barely breathe. Tanya probably didn’t have donut crumbs on her face, but I choose to remember it that way, so that is the way I will tell it.
Tanya had donut crumbs on her face.
It probably doesn’t seem particularly funny, but I remember laughing hysterically at the whole situation. Maybe it was the fact that we were the only people who were wet at all, that we just suffered through that incident so that Tanya could eat a donut, or that we just felt overwhelmingly alive the way you do after you get caught in a rainstorm.
Who can say?
I remember people looking us like we were idiots. Which is fair, because we looked like idiots.
That being said, when I read Klosterman’s epigraph about thinking back on the previous years in a generally positive light, I agree and that situation pops to mind.
It was totally worth looking stupid, to have that memory of just being happy for no reason at all.
If you think that I’m going to wind this up by advising you to withhold judgement the next time you see that girl (or boy!) in a coffeehouse/store/classroom/zoo, I’m not.
I think she’s obnoxious too, possibly more obnoxious than you think she is due to my predisposition towards disdain.
I’m just saying, I’m not going to apologize when it’s me.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Dee and the Red Tricycle (Alternate Title: Ashton Contacts Strangers Online, Peskiness Ensues)
My great grandfather was alive until I was seventeen years old. We visited him a lot, and when I was little, one of my favorite things to do at his house was play with the red tricycle. I think it was originally my mother’s or my uncles, meaning it was a product of the mid sixties.
There was a sort of ceremony surrounding it. After an appropriate amount of begging, my grandmother would walk with me down the gravel road to the barn that my great grandfather built with his hands. (that still amazes me). We’d pull the heavy door aside and make our way through the well organized mess to the back wall. My grandmother would get the tricycle from its hanging spot on the wall and take it outside into the sunlight. It was then thoroughly washed down.
That’s the type of woman my grandmother is. Everything is thoroughly washed down.
(recently my grandmother asked if I needed a dress ironed for a funeral the next day. I told her that it was a dress that was supposed to look wrinkled and that it actually couldn’t be ironed. My grandfather sighed and said “sweetheart, she can iron anything. absolutely anything. even that.” he was right.)
After it was thoroughly washed down, I got to ride it. I really don’t remember actually riding it - that wasn’t the fun part. The fun part was the anticipation.
That’s the way things usually go.
I think that I loved the red tricycle so much because it was so old. It looked rustic, and when I wasn’t using it it hung mysteriously in the back of a dark, hot barn. My mother and uncle had ridden it when they were young, however long ago that was. It’s also possibly that I was just pesky and liked to annoy my grandmother about it.
Regardless, I loved that thing.
Oddly enough, this red tricycle would eventually lead me to contact a stranger online. I do not think my great grandfather would have approved.
I don’t actually think that it can be blamed entirely on the tricycle, in all honesty. It’s just that the tricycle to me represents the mystery of the past.
It must have been this fascination with the mystery of the past that led me to google my ancestry during my freshman year of college. That and a fondness for procrastination.
I’m a weird bird.
My great grandfather had died the year before, and my aunt and uncle had taken over his house. Nothing was the same, and I hated losing that link to him and to the past. So when I found a post by a woman named Dee that mentioned people that I thought I might be related to, my interested was piqued.
I also didn’t want to do my chemistry homework. So that factored in.
I responded to the post, saying that I thought I recognized some of the names and that we might be somehow related. I told her that my grandmother and great aunt could probably help her answer some of her questions.
I had no idea what I was getting myself into. This sixty-nine year old woman began emailing me relentlessly. I only replied the once, but she continued to talk to me in each email as if I had only missed responding to the last one.
I initially thought that she had made a mistake, and that we weren’t related after all. Of course, had I considered the crazed way that she was attempting to make contact with me, I would have seen that it was in fact extremely likely that she was related to me.
She is related to me, incidentally.
It seems irrelevant, but I would like to note that this woman’s email address, when we started emailing at least, was butterflywings@bellsouth.net. Of course.
Soon, I was routinely receiving emails like this one:
Ashton,
I have a distant cousin....Tim Ballard....
Tim is the great-grandson of Jane Alvin (Cocke) and George Ballard Jr. were married in Pike Co, AR. early 1900, lived in Thompson Township...Jane & George had children, Luke, Ezra, Estelle,& Bill....Jane Alvin died and George Jr. married another woman, Malissa Sturart (sp?). She and George Ballard Jr., in the late 30s and early 40s were in Ouachita Co, AR, they a son Norman Ballard (who died a few years
ago, around Ft Polk, LA), and a daughter (unknown, she went north and does not associate with the family....she may be dead!
Just thought that there may be a connection to you and this line....!
Dee
This woman was clearly confused as to my motives. I know almost nothing about my family. I answered the email using my knowledge of my family genealogy in its entirety - the names of two of my great grandparents. What was I supposed to do with this email? These questions? I hope the polite answer is laugh and not respond, because that was exactly what I did. If I wanted to answer questions, I could’ve just done the chemistry homework.
My favorite part is “she went north and does not associate with the family....she may be dead!”
Here are some additional excerpts from Dee’s emails. For simpilicity’s sake, my thoughts are italicized:
“You might ask you father, I'm assuming he is the Ballard....or you may be married to a Ballard....let me know if you find out anything about someone in the Ballard Family having a Ballard man being married around 1875 to early 1880....not sure exactly when? He would have died by early 1880.”
How in the world would I find out anything about someone in the Ballard (F)amily haivng a Ballard man being married around 1875 to early 1880?
Dee’s so crazy.
“Ask your grandmother if she will call me at this telephone number....318-868-****. Is she Jeanette Young Burford, daughter of Velma Cocke and Bryant Young Burford?”
I don’t know why I find this funny, but I find this funny. That is my grandmother, and those are her parents, so this should probably not be funny to me.
“I turned 69 June 14th and my sister is 78 and will have her 79th birthday in November of this year....We both live in Shreveport, LA”
Dee’s sister’s birthday, noted. On my calendar. (It really is, I don't know why. I have a weird sense of humor.)
“Will you please ask your grandmother if she has any idea who someone named Robbie and Deck might be? Someone from Olive Branch, MS....sent a floral tribute to my father's funeral in 1963, and I found this after my mother died....(she died in 1994) found it some years after her death....she had the registry book where people sign their names when they attend a funeral....mother also, kept all the cards that the florist had attached to the flowers when they arrived at the funeral home....and the funeral home gave those to her so she could forward Thank You's to the sender....When I saw the one from Olive Branch....I was so curious as to who that might be....I only started searching for the family, in 2002, when I got my first computer....”
From what I know of Dee, the fact that she is avidly searching for the identity of someone who sent flowers in 1963 in order to write a forty-seven year late thank you note is entirely in character for her.
I've never found my grandfather's death date or where he is buried....anything that you may know on the family that you could share with me I will so be grateful....! I have gone to Idabel, OK in search for his burial in Forest Hill Cemetery.
Of course she did. I’m surprised that I didn’t get the invite for the followup road trip.
Soon, probably.
Here's hoping that you will receive this and some of it will make sense....I try to give as much info. as I can and sometimes get too boggled....please, get back with me....
Your Cousin,
June Delores 'Dee' (Cocke) Hall
-
I am extremely unsure how we are cousins, or even related, although it seems that Dee has got it figured out for the both of us.
After receiving the last email, which bore the signature above, I realized that I was in over my head (causing an old and self-proclaimed “boggled” woman undue strife) and called my grandmother. With some trepidation, I tried to explained the three year tale of my online relationship with Dee in a way that would sound as not sketchy as possible. I then forwarded her the emails, which she in turn read.
She agreed that Dee was definitely related to us, but opted out of contacting her. The excuse was that she didn’t really know any more than Dee did, or something like that.
I kind of love that she didn’t contact Dee, who is so clearly salivating over the chance to get her on the phone.
Instead, she forwarded the emails to her older sister, who incidentally lives less than an hour from Dee in northwestern Louisiana.
I don’t think that my great aunt opted to contact Dee either, but I feel that my work is done. (read: feel slightly less guilty about contacting Dee in the first place)
On the surface, this story is only (very) mildly entertaining and seemingly meaningless. If you did a little deeper, you’ll find out that the view from the surface was pretty much accurate.
However, if you work a little, you might be able to extrapolate a few morals from this story.
I’m here to teach (read: be held up as an example so that others can learn from my mistakes).
Possible lessons include but are most definitely not limited to:
1) Don’t contact strangers online.
Actually, I’m just going to stick with that one. You’d think it didn’t need to be said twice.
But here I am.
There was a sort of ceremony surrounding it. After an appropriate amount of begging, my grandmother would walk with me down the gravel road to the barn that my great grandfather built with his hands. (that still amazes me). We’d pull the heavy door aside and make our way through the well organized mess to the back wall. My grandmother would get the tricycle from its hanging spot on the wall and take it outside into the sunlight. It was then thoroughly washed down.
That’s the type of woman my grandmother is. Everything is thoroughly washed down.
(recently my grandmother asked if I needed a dress ironed for a funeral the next day. I told her that it was a dress that was supposed to look wrinkled and that it actually couldn’t be ironed. My grandfather sighed and said “sweetheart, she can iron anything. absolutely anything. even that.” he was right.)
After it was thoroughly washed down, I got to ride it. I really don’t remember actually riding it - that wasn’t the fun part. The fun part was the anticipation.
That’s the way things usually go.
I think that I loved the red tricycle so much because it was so old. It looked rustic, and when I wasn’t using it it hung mysteriously in the back of a dark, hot barn. My mother and uncle had ridden it when they were young, however long ago that was. It’s also possibly that I was just pesky and liked to annoy my grandmother about it.
Regardless, I loved that thing.
Oddly enough, this red tricycle would eventually lead me to contact a stranger online. I do not think my great grandfather would have approved.
I don’t actually think that it can be blamed entirely on the tricycle, in all honesty. It’s just that the tricycle to me represents the mystery of the past.
It must have been this fascination with the mystery of the past that led me to google my ancestry during my freshman year of college. That and a fondness for procrastination.
I’m a weird bird.
My great grandfather had died the year before, and my aunt and uncle had taken over his house. Nothing was the same, and I hated losing that link to him and to the past. So when I found a post by a woman named Dee that mentioned people that I thought I might be related to, my interested was piqued.
I also didn’t want to do my chemistry homework. So that factored in.
I responded to the post, saying that I thought I recognized some of the names and that we might be somehow related. I told her that my grandmother and great aunt could probably help her answer some of her questions.
I had no idea what I was getting myself into. This sixty-nine year old woman began emailing me relentlessly. I only replied the once, but she continued to talk to me in each email as if I had only missed responding to the last one.
I initially thought that she had made a mistake, and that we weren’t related after all. Of course, had I considered the crazed way that she was attempting to make contact with me, I would have seen that it was in fact extremely likely that she was related to me.
She is related to me, incidentally.
It seems irrelevant, but I would like to note that this woman’s email address, when we started emailing at least, was butterflywings@bellsouth.net. Of course.
Soon, I was routinely receiving emails like this one:
Ashton,
I have a distant cousin....Tim Ballard....
Tim is the great-grandson of Jane Alvin (Cocke) and George Ballard Jr. were married in Pike Co, AR. early 1900, lived in Thompson Township...Jane & George had children, Luke, Ezra, Estelle,& Bill....Jane Alvin died and George Jr. married another woman, Malissa Sturart (sp?). She and George Ballard Jr., in the late 30s and early 40s were in Ouachita Co, AR, they a son Norman Ballard (who died a few years
ago, around Ft Polk, LA), and a daughter (unknown, she went north and does not associate with the family....she may be dead!
Just thought that there may be a connection to you and this line....!
Dee
This woman was clearly confused as to my motives. I know almost nothing about my family. I answered the email using my knowledge of my family genealogy in its entirety - the names of two of my great grandparents. What was I supposed to do with this email? These questions? I hope the polite answer is laugh and not respond, because that was exactly what I did. If I wanted to answer questions, I could’ve just done the chemistry homework.
My favorite part is “she went north and does not associate with the family....she may be dead!”
Here are some additional excerpts from Dee’s emails. For simpilicity’s sake, my thoughts are italicized:
“You might ask you father, I'm assuming he is the Ballard....or you may be married to a Ballard....let me know if you find out anything about someone in the Ballard Family having a Ballard man being married around 1875 to early 1880....not sure exactly when? He would have died by early 1880.”
How in the world would I find out anything about someone in the Ballard (F)amily haivng a Ballard man being married around 1875 to early 1880?
Dee’s so crazy.
“Ask your grandmother if she will call me at this telephone number....318-868-****. Is she Jeanette Young Burford, daughter of Velma Cocke and Bryant Young Burford?”
I don’t know why I find this funny, but I find this funny. That is my grandmother, and those are her parents, so this should probably not be funny to me.
“I turned 69 June 14th and my sister is 78 and will have her 79th birthday in November of this year....We both live in Shreveport, LA”
Dee’s sister’s birthday, noted. On my calendar. (It really is, I don't know why. I have a weird sense of humor.)
“Will you please ask your grandmother if she has any idea who someone named Robbie and Deck might be? Someone from Olive Branch, MS....sent a floral tribute to my father's funeral in 1963, and I found this after my mother died....(she died in 1994) found it some years after her death....she had the registry book where people sign their names when they attend a funeral....mother also, kept all the cards that the florist had attached to the flowers when they arrived at the funeral home....and the funeral home gave those to her so she could forward Thank You's to the sender....When I saw the one from Olive Branch....I was so curious as to who that might be....I only started searching for the family, in 2002, when I got my first computer....”
From what I know of Dee, the fact that she is avidly searching for the identity of someone who sent flowers in 1963 in order to write a forty-seven year late thank you note is entirely in character for her.
I've never found my grandfather's death date or where he is buried....anything that you may know on the family that you could share with me I will so be grateful....! I have gone to Idabel, OK in search for his burial in Forest Hill Cemetery.
Of course she did. I’m surprised that I didn’t get the invite for the followup road trip.
Soon, probably.
Here's hoping that you will receive this and some of it will make sense....I try to give as much info. as I can and sometimes get too boggled....please, get back with me....
Your Cousin,
June Delores 'Dee' (Cocke) Hall
-
I am extremely unsure how we are cousins, or even related, although it seems that Dee has got it figured out for the both of us.
After receiving the last email, which bore the signature above, I realized that I was in over my head (causing an old and self-proclaimed “boggled” woman undue strife) and called my grandmother. With some trepidation, I tried to explained the three year tale of my online relationship with Dee in a way that would sound as not sketchy as possible. I then forwarded her the emails, which she in turn read.
She agreed that Dee was definitely related to us, but opted out of contacting her. The excuse was that she didn’t really know any more than Dee did, or something like that.
I kind of love that she didn’t contact Dee, who is so clearly salivating over the chance to get her on the phone.
Instead, she forwarded the emails to her older sister, who incidentally lives less than an hour from Dee in northwestern Louisiana.
I don’t think that my great aunt opted to contact Dee either, but I feel that my work is done. (read: feel slightly less guilty about contacting Dee in the first place)
On the surface, this story is only (very) mildly entertaining and seemingly meaningless. If you did a little deeper, you’ll find out that the view from the surface was pretty much accurate.
However, if you work a little, you might be able to extrapolate a few morals from this story.
I’m here to teach (read: be held up as an example so that others can learn from my mistakes).
Possible lessons include but are most definitely not limited to:
1) Don’t contact strangers online.
Actually, I’m just going to stick with that one. You’d think it didn’t need to be said twice.
But here I am.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Why You Shouldn’t be my Friend (alternate title: How I Tried to Murder My Sisters)
So, I tried to murder both of my sisters.
Before widen you judgmental eyes and stop reading this post in order to hurry and delete me from your Facebook friends, give me a second to explain my side of the story.
Actually it’s pretty much how it sounds. Delete away.
I was the eldest child and did not take kindly to the idea of new additions to my family. Of course, this is a common phenomenon in children. I’m currently watching my cousins, who are 8 and 6, go through the same thing in reaction to their mother’s being pregnant with twin boys.
Fortunately, being a respected adult-type figure in their eyes (they also think I’m really cool. It’s fantastic), I have been able to provide them with good advice.
“It’s going to be fine. You’re just like me now! I was the oldest and I got two new sisters. I wasn’t sure about the whole thing either, but look how wonderfully it turned out!”
They are comforted by the advice of someone that they trust, the parallels that I’ve drawn between them and myself, and their erroneous belief that Brecken and Lacey are also cool.
I’m glad I’ve been able to comfort them, but this advice is a lie.
I was right the first time, and they’re right now.
Siblings are trouble that should be avoided if at all possible.
Unfortunately, it falls to the parents to avoid this situation, and since I’ve seen nothing but proof of my theory that people get stupider as they get older and specifically once they have children (think about it: how many teenagers have you sigh “oh my goshhh my mother is ca-ray-zee” - there’s got to be something to this), I feel that their declining intelligence leads them to believe that more children would be a good idea.
So no, this is not new, this displeasure for change, this dislike of any aberration a child’s world. They get over it. They move on. They learn to live in a world where they are no longer the sole focus of their parent’s lives.
I’ve was always a little more stubborn and a little more proactive than most children were. At a young age, I was very goal oriented, ready to face any challenge presented to me. I wanted to be a policewoman on horseback, for God’s sake- there was no reason to start bowing to a threat now, only to have to unlearn the nasty habit in order to rule the streets of Jackson with an iron fist from atop my trusty steed, Marble.
This situation was no different. Despite my parents’ assurance that I would adjust and we’d be happier than ever (good one guys- Brecken snored like a wildebeest for the first five years of her life), I wasn’t taking anyone else’s word on something so important.
Instead, I would take action.
Of course, I do not remember this incident exactly. I’ve been told the story enough times to have the facts down correctly, and I’m going to assume that my thought process would have been approximately the same at age three that it is at age twenty-one. I’ll make the necessary allowance for the cynicism and pessimism that creep into one’s consciousness with age, but know that I was a relatively disillusioned three year old.
Fortunately for me, my father’s parents (this post) had recently returned from an Alaskan cruise. Being thoughtful grandparents, they brought me a gift. They brought me Alaskan rocks.
I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but what were they thinking? Nothing good could come out of a gift of rocks. I was certainly too young to appreciate that they were from Alaska (did I even know about Alaska? probably not. and I have to say, I was probably better off. my brain is too full today of useless information like the existence of Alaska and Kansas). They were of the same value to me as rocks from my next door neighbor’s back yard, which was just about nothing. As I could not appreciate their origin, the only other possible outcome of a child having rocks is some sort of damage to body or property.
I kept this in mind.
A few days after her overly dramatic arrival (she threatened to arrive a bit early, which was cool because I got to have my first sleepover at Lauren Whitton’s house in our matching Little Mermaid sleeping bags, and get this...she didn’t even come that night. I would learn later that this was extremely typical behavior of my sister. for more on that, see this post), Brecken was brought home.
I questioned the sanity of my parents and every adult that came to our house. Honestly, with all the cooing I don’t know how they could’ve expected me to take them seriously. She’d been at our house for less than two hours and already my parents had lost their minds.
This did not bode well.
My grandparents came to visit, and everyone predictably crowded around my father as he held Brecken in a recliner.
“Ashton,” he beckoned, “come say hello to your little sister.”
I was put out. I would not stoop to coo over her and count her little fingers, especially not for the benefit of lookers-on.
I picked up my rocks and walked over. While every eye in the room focused on my three day old sister, I raised one fist two feet over her and opened it.
The rock fell.
This is not actually a big deal - I have horrible aim. I can rarely successfully manage the timeless crumpled sheet of paper and trash can obstacle.
My parents disagreed. Apparently attempted murder (if you are taking me seriously** now is a good time to note that I was not actually trying to kill her. I may be crazy but not that particular brand of crazy). I was quickly given a three day pass to my grandparents’ house.
The next episode would take place a few years (maybe- I am not extremely clear on the developmental timeline with regard to children. this story took place after the amount of time that it takes a child to learn how to walk) later, shortly after Brecken had learned to walk. I had finally given up my dream of getting rid of her, and ironically almost achieved it.
In an ill conceived attempt at bonding (these attempts would grind to a screeching halt shortly thereafter), I suggested that we play “dog”. Brecken agreed enthusiastically (she never has had any sense of self preservation) and held relatively still while I tied a jumprope around her neck.
Stop looking at me like that. There was some slack. More importantly (very, very importantly. really- pay attention to this part), I didn’t know any better.
We played dog for a while, meaning that she crawled around on all fours, barking, while I walked around behind her holding the other end of a leash.
This game is only for fun for so long; after a while I decided to park my dog and head into a coffee shop or something. Well, everyone knows that you can’t just leave your dog running around free- they’ll run into the street, for heaven’s sake.
So I tied her leash to the baby bed.
The problem that my parents (and anyone who’s not a fan of baby-killing) had with this little maneuver was that I did so while she was standing up, and that if she had fallen (a very real risk at this developmental stage), she might have hung herself on the jumprope a little bit.
Again, I did not have this in mind. I just wanted to play dog.
The third and last attempt probably had the greatest chance of actually resulting in death, or at least serious damage. I was seven years old and decided that I would give Brecken a rest and try to kill Lacey for a change.
Lacey was an infant that I personally considered to be ill-timed. We were in the beginning stages of building a new house when she arrived. In this particular instance, we were visiting the site of our new house, which then was nothing more than a concrete slab.
I was seven years old, and this baby did not daunt me so much. Brecken, however, was suffering psychological damage that I admit I do not think she has recovered from yet. (she couldn’t speak correctly and insisted on running around the house, hands over her ears, yelling “Make huwww stoooowwp” whenever Lacey would cry). I, o the other hand, was older and more responsible. I could actually help my parents out this time.
I took to the new responsibilities with the enthusiasm of a power hungry military dictator to-be.
On this particular occasion, I decided to push the stroller around the lot while my parents talked shop with whomever they were talking shop. At some point, I pushed her stroller onto the concrete slab that would soon rest under our house.
To make a long story short, I went too close to the edge, which resulted in a wheel catching the side of the slab and the whole stroller flying off of the slab, landing three feet down on the ground.
I was later told that had I listened to my parents’ jabbering about buckling the baby into the car seat, she would not have rolled so far after it fell.
Newborns.
I saw this all happening in slow motion, realized that I had probably caused irreversible damage to my youngest sister, and high-tailed it.
Seriously, I just took off running. I ran, and I ran, and I ran until I was breathless and my legs ached and threatened to give out. I sank to the ground by the foot of a huge oak tree.
At this point I was about three hundred yards from the point at which I had dropped Lacey. It would be eleven more years before I could run with any sort of skill.
I was devastated. I had probably killed Lacey. I could never go back home. I would be alone, a wandering vagabond for the rest of my days. This was extremely upsetting, as I had planned to be at least thirteen before I left home.
I cried.
Ten minutes later my father came and retrieved me. Lacey was only a little scuffed and I was forgiven.
Fourteen years have passed since I last chanced killing one of my sisters. I maintain that the earlier incidents were all accidents, and that I had no intention of hurting them.
Plus, I’m glad that things have turned out the way they did. At any given time, I like at least one of my sisters. It’s nice to have a spare to be mad at.
And it’s nice to have something to threaten them with.
“Remember that time...”
-
**Do not ever take me seriously.
Before widen you judgmental eyes and stop reading this post in order to hurry and delete me from your Facebook friends, give me a second to explain my side of the story.
Actually it’s pretty much how it sounds. Delete away.
I was the eldest child and did not take kindly to the idea of new additions to my family. Of course, this is a common phenomenon in children. I’m currently watching my cousins, who are 8 and 6, go through the same thing in reaction to their mother’s being pregnant with twin boys.
Fortunately, being a respected adult-type figure in their eyes (they also think I’m really cool. It’s fantastic), I have been able to provide them with good advice.
“It’s going to be fine. You’re just like me now! I was the oldest and I got two new sisters. I wasn’t sure about the whole thing either, but look how wonderfully it turned out!”
They are comforted by the advice of someone that they trust, the parallels that I’ve drawn between them and myself, and their erroneous belief that Brecken and Lacey are also cool.
I’m glad I’ve been able to comfort them, but this advice is a lie.
I was right the first time, and they’re right now.
Siblings are trouble that should be avoided if at all possible.
Unfortunately, it falls to the parents to avoid this situation, and since I’ve seen nothing but proof of my theory that people get stupider as they get older and specifically once they have children (think about it: how many teenagers have you sigh “oh my goshhh my mother is ca-ray-zee” - there’s got to be something to this), I feel that their declining intelligence leads them to believe that more children would be a good idea.
So no, this is not new, this displeasure for change, this dislike of any aberration a child’s world. They get over it. They move on. They learn to live in a world where they are no longer the sole focus of their parent’s lives.
I’ve was always a little more stubborn and a little more proactive than most children were. At a young age, I was very goal oriented, ready to face any challenge presented to me. I wanted to be a policewoman on horseback, for God’s sake- there was no reason to start bowing to a threat now, only to have to unlearn the nasty habit in order to rule the streets of Jackson with an iron fist from atop my trusty steed, Marble.
This situation was no different. Despite my parents’ assurance that I would adjust and we’d be happier than ever (good one guys- Brecken snored like a wildebeest for the first five years of her life), I wasn’t taking anyone else’s word on something so important.
Instead, I would take action.
Of course, I do not remember this incident exactly. I’ve been told the story enough times to have the facts down correctly, and I’m going to assume that my thought process would have been approximately the same at age three that it is at age twenty-one. I’ll make the necessary allowance for the cynicism and pessimism that creep into one’s consciousness with age, but know that I was a relatively disillusioned three year old.
Fortunately for me, my father’s parents (this post) had recently returned from an Alaskan cruise. Being thoughtful grandparents, they brought me a gift. They brought me Alaskan rocks.
I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but what were they thinking? Nothing good could come out of a gift of rocks. I was certainly too young to appreciate that they were from Alaska (did I even know about Alaska? probably not. and I have to say, I was probably better off. my brain is too full today of useless information like the existence of Alaska and Kansas). They were of the same value to me as rocks from my next door neighbor’s back yard, which was just about nothing. As I could not appreciate their origin, the only other possible outcome of a child having rocks is some sort of damage to body or property.
I kept this in mind.
A few days after her overly dramatic arrival (she threatened to arrive a bit early, which was cool because I got to have my first sleepover at Lauren Whitton’s house in our matching Little Mermaid sleeping bags, and get this...she didn’t even come that night. I would learn later that this was extremely typical behavior of my sister. for more on that, see this post), Brecken was brought home.
I questioned the sanity of my parents and every adult that came to our house. Honestly, with all the cooing I don’t know how they could’ve expected me to take them seriously. She’d been at our house for less than two hours and already my parents had lost their minds.
This did not bode well.
My grandparents came to visit, and everyone predictably crowded around my father as he held Brecken in a recliner.
“Ashton,” he beckoned, “come say hello to your little sister.”
I was put out. I would not stoop to coo over her and count her little fingers, especially not for the benefit of lookers-on.
I picked up my rocks and walked over. While every eye in the room focused on my three day old sister, I raised one fist two feet over her and opened it.
The rock fell.
This is not actually a big deal - I have horrible aim. I can rarely successfully manage the timeless crumpled sheet of paper and trash can obstacle.
My parents disagreed. Apparently attempted murder (if you are taking me seriously** now is a good time to note that I was not actually trying to kill her. I may be crazy but not that particular brand of crazy). I was quickly given a three day pass to my grandparents’ house.
The next episode would take place a few years (maybe- I am not extremely clear on the developmental timeline with regard to children. this story took place after the amount of time that it takes a child to learn how to walk) later, shortly after Brecken had learned to walk. I had finally given up my dream of getting rid of her, and ironically almost achieved it.
In an ill conceived attempt at bonding (these attempts would grind to a screeching halt shortly thereafter), I suggested that we play “dog”. Brecken agreed enthusiastically (she never has had any sense of self preservation) and held relatively still while I tied a jumprope around her neck.
Stop looking at me like that. There was some slack. More importantly (very, very importantly. really- pay attention to this part), I didn’t know any better.
We played dog for a while, meaning that she crawled around on all fours, barking, while I walked around behind her holding the other end of a leash.
This game is only for fun for so long; after a while I decided to park my dog and head into a coffee shop or something. Well, everyone knows that you can’t just leave your dog running around free- they’ll run into the street, for heaven’s sake.
So I tied her leash to the baby bed.
The problem that my parents (and anyone who’s not a fan of baby-killing) had with this little maneuver was that I did so while she was standing up, and that if she had fallen (a very real risk at this developmental stage), she might have hung herself on the jumprope a little bit.
Again, I did not have this in mind. I just wanted to play dog.
The third and last attempt probably had the greatest chance of actually resulting in death, or at least serious damage. I was seven years old and decided that I would give Brecken a rest and try to kill Lacey for a change.
Lacey was an infant that I personally considered to be ill-timed. We were in the beginning stages of building a new house when she arrived. In this particular instance, we were visiting the site of our new house, which then was nothing more than a concrete slab.
I was seven years old, and this baby did not daunt me so much. Brecken, however, was suffering psychological damage that I admit I do not think she has recovered from yet. (she couldn’t speak correctly and insisted on running around the house, hands over her ears, yelling “Make huwww stoooowwp” whenever Lacey would cry). I, o the other hand, was older and more responsible. I could actually help my parents out this time.
I took to the new responsibilities with the enthusiasm of a power hungry military dictator to-be.
On this particular occasion, I decided to push the stroller around the lot while my parents talked shop with whomever they were talking shop. At some point, I pushed her stroller onto the concrete slab that would soon rest under our house.
To make a long story short, I went too close to the edge, which resulted in a wheel catching the side of the slab and the whole stroller flying off of the slab, landing three feet down on the ground.
I was later told that had I listened to my parents’ jabbering about buckling the baby into the car seat, she would not have rolled so far after it fell.
Newborns.
I saw this all happening in slow motion, realized that I had probably caused irreversible damage to my youngest sister, and high-tailed it.
Seriously, I just took off running. I ran, and I ran, and I ran until I was breathless and my legs ached and threatened to give out. I sank to the ground by the foot of a huge oak tree.
At this point I was about three hundred yards from the point at which I had dropped Lacey. It would be eleven more years before I could run with any sort of skill.
I was devastated. I had probably killed Lacey. I could never go back home. I would be alone, a wandering vagabond for the rest of my days. This was extremely upsetting, as I had planned to be at least thirteen before I left home.
I cried.
Ten minutes later my father came and retrieved me. Lacey was only a little scuffed and I was forgiven.
Fourteen years have passed since I last chanced killing one of my sisters. I maintain that the earlier incidents were all accidents, and that I had no intention of hurting them.
Plus, I’m glad that things have turned out the way they did. At any given time, I like at least one of my sisters. It’s nice to have a spare to be mad at.
And it’s nice to have something to threaten them with.
“Remember that time...”
-
**Do not ever take me seriously.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Horror Stories of my Extended Family (alternate title: The Most Awkward Day of My Life)
Everyone has that side of the family.
I don’t even have to explain what I mean with my ambiguous that. You know.
Mine is worse than yours, as long as yours doesn’t include people (?) named Sister, Peanut, Monday, and Luvie Mae.
Disclaimer: these are distant, distant relatives. On my dad’s side.
But they’re there.
The only one I’ve met more than once is Sister, whose real name is Kathleen. I will not pause to ponder why in God’s name you would choose to go by “Sister” when you have Kathleen as a perfectly viable, and arguably more obvious, alternative.
That ship has sailed. She is called Sister.
Of course, that’s “Aunt Sis” to myself and my sisters. That’s right, “Aunt Sis” is short for “Aunt Sister”. You can imagine my shock at age sixteen when I finally put that together.
In all reality I know very little about Aunt Sis’s family, save for the fact that they have enough issues to fuel three seasons of Maury. Aunt Sis is often at my family’s holiday gatherings alone due to exclusion from her own family’s events for one reason or another. This is actually very sad and for the most part can be blamed on her other family members rather than herself. She’s can be a really sweet 84-ish year old woman with good intentions (sometimes).
Aunt Sis had a husband named Hubert (if you were more familiar with the area of Mississippi that these people live in, these names would seem less odd). Hubert died at a slightly early age of seventy-five, which I then thought was tragic but now, knowing Aunt Sis better, kind of understand.
Fortunately, Aunt Sis was able to procure for herself another husband by the time she was 80 years old. Russell’s addition to the family has, as far as I can see, made little to no difference. He has been attending family functions for the past five years and I have probably heard him speak a total of fifty words.
There was, of course, some drama surrounding Aunt Sis’s marriage to Russell. There were some strong objections on the part of Russell’s daughter. This is much more amusing if you keep in mind that Russell’s daughter is probably sixty years old.
Of course, when we later found out that Aunt Sis more or less forced poor, old, almost-mute Russell into marriage, we understood the problems that his daughter had with the marriage.
But still.
Also, it is rumored that she occasionally hits him.
Actually, that rumor has been substantiated.
But I digress.
Another interesting bit of information with regard to Aunt Sis is her relationship to my grandmother. For clarity’s sake, I will remind you that my grandmother is Aunt Sis’s brother’s wife.
Fortunately I am saved the trouble of describing the relationship between these two women, because popular culture has already done it for me. My grandmother (whom I love very much) and Aunt Sis have the exact same relationship as Rachel McAdams and Lindsay Lohan’s characters (Regina and Kady) in Mean Girls had.
Does this seem sad? It’s not. These are women in their mid eighties having petty teenage catfights.
It’s absolutely hilarious.
I’ll paint a picture for you.
One Christmas when my grandfather was still alive, he and my grandmother bought my sister a hot pink chair for her room. It ended up in the middle of the room after all the presents had been opened. Aunt Sis elected to sit in it.
My grandmother walked by and put her hand on the chair for support. My grandfather, in a tactless move that is rather characteristic of that side of the family, commented.
“Betty, don’t lean too hard on that chair, you’ll knock it down,” he suggested.
“Well,” she snapped, “It’s probably already broken from your sister sitting in it.”
For the record, the awkward silences that follow these situations does not become less awkward with repetition.
These are not isolated incidents. Last Christmas, my father had the gall the rearrange my mother’s seating arrangements, which are actually plotted out with his family’s dysfunctions in mind. The result of this thoughtless move was that my grandmother and Aunt Sis ended up sitting beside each other.
This is almost as good and idea as inviting the Montagues and the Capulets to a dinner party. The fact that we have as of yet escaped the amount of bloodshed involved in a Montague and Capulet function is due to nothing but luck, and possibly divine intervention.
There came a time in the meal when everyone had gone into the kitchen to get dessert, leaving only myself, my grandmother, Aunt Sis, and Uncle Ronnie, my grandmother’s eldest son who occasionally joins in these catfights, always siding with my grandmother.
The pettiness sounds even more ridiculous coming from him, as he weighs in somewhere upwards of three hundred (and fifty?) pounds.
Aunt Sis, apparently choosing (maybe) to forget the earlier argument about who had brought the most dishes (like it matters- everything either of them brings is always disgusting. sorry, but asparagus casserole is not a thing), starting telling my grandmother about the goings on of her church’s senior citizen group. My grandmother, like a petulant child, turns her head to the side and puts her nose to the air and proceeds to pretend that she can’t hear.
I do not exaggerate. It is entirely juvenile.
Again, this is awkward every single time. Uncle Ronnie always takes my grandmother’s side, which is extremely unusual in my eyes as her side has no rational argument whatsoever. Regardless, Uncle Ronnie pretends not to hear as well. Russell may have been there, but I wasn’t kidding before: the man doesn’t talk. Even in these sorts of situations.
Presuming myself the only adult at the table, I attempt to rectify the situation, or at least to make it a little less awkward. I start nodding and inserting “hm!”s and “ohh”s and “yes that sounds very nice!”s. Aunt Sis fortunately takes my lead and finishes the story, pretending that I was her intended listener all along. Then she picked up her plate and went into the kitchen for dessert, exercising what for my family should be considered staggering amounts of grace.
My mother later told me that Aunt Sis went into the kitchen to tell my mother that she had a brain tumor, a story which was quickly fact checked with her daughter and proved to be entirely false.
This seems somehow extraneous, but notable. Moving on.
This seemingly excessive amount of backstory sets the stage for what turned out to be the most awkward afternoon of my life. I say “seemingly excessive” because I want you to fully understand my relationship, or lack thereof, to this woman.
So here’s the story:
I was eighteen years old and Monica was dead.
If this sounds tragic to you, reconsider. I did not know Monica. My only information about her was that she was Aunt Sis’s daughter and that her dead body was encased in what had to be the hugest casket I’d ever seen.
Seriously, this thing was the polished mahogany triple XL of caskets.
My dad’s side of the family are not finnicky eaters. (Read: Luvie Mae, who died in the 1970s, once had a doctor actually request that she venture over to the farmer’s market to be weighed, as the doctor did not actually have a scale that would do the job. I wish that was a joke.)
If you still think there could be one single bit of sadness in my heart over Monica’s death (excluding the sadness that I was being forced to travel to Magee, Misssissippi, for the occasion), you should know this little tidbit of information:
Monica’s name was pronounced “Mah-knee-cah”. My mother and I only found out that her name was spelled “Monica” on the way to the funeral. We were flabbergasted at ourselves only for being so flabbergasted by this information, as this type of behavior is nothing but typical for my father’s family.
We arrived at the funeral home for the visitation with leaving as quickly as possible on our minds. I took one look at the casket, decided that I didn’t want to see the body inside, and headed towards the back of the room to see if I could find a potted plant to hide behind in order to avoid talking to anyone for the next two hours.
Unfortunately, I bumped right into Aunt Sis. Being Monica’s mother and therefore the chief mourner, it was, of course, her job to sit in a chair (she is eighty something, after all) and have people come give her their condolences.
For reference, the chair was a padded affair with immovable wooden arms curving around on either side: a pretty standard funeral home chair.
Before you ask, let me just say that I wish the description of the chair was irrelevant. I really do.
I patted Aunt Sis on the shoulder and gave my own condolences. In a move that I did not forsee, she wrapped her surprisingly strong arms around me and pulled me onto her lap.
In a funeral home. I was mortified and began planning how to console her as quickly as possible and then free myself.
We talked for a minute and then sat in silence for a few more before I offered to get up in order to avoid crushing her eighty five year old femurs.
She ignored me and clutched tighter.
Fifteen minutes later (I don’t think Monica was that popular), a man wandered over to give his own condolences. As I felt decorum dictated (if there is even applicable decorum for those situations where your stranger of a great aunt is forcing you to sit on her lap at her daughter’s visitation), I offered to get up so that they could converse.
Aunt Sis declined (read: refused vehemently) again. For that and every conversation that followed, I sat on Aunt Sis’s lap and was spoken around. This was not exactly easy. Aunt Sis is not a huge woman and I was covering up most of her. A lot of peering around my body in order to speak directly to Aunt Sis was done.
This lasted for two and a half hours.
You might ask: where was my family during this point? Well, I was asking that exact same thing for the entire visitation.
I disowned them all for abandoning me immediately after I found them and related my tale of the visitation and then reversed my decision after my mother’s reminding my that a disowned family was not exactly good for a ride back to Jackson.
I don’t even have to explain what I mean with my ambiguous that. You know.
Mine is worse than yours, as long as yours doesn’t include people (?) named Sister, Peanut, Monday, and Luvie Mae.
Disclaimer: these are distant, distant relatives. On my dad’s side.
But they’re there.
The only one I’ve met more than once is Sister, whose real name is Kathleen. I will not pause to ponder why in God’s name you would choose to go by “Sister” when you have Kathleen as a perfectly viable, and arguably more obvious, alternative.
That ship has sailed. She is called Sister.
Of course, that’s “Aunt Sis” to myself and my sisters. That’s right, “Aunt Sis” is short for “Aunt Sister”. You can imagine my shock at age sixteen when I finally put that together.
In all reality I know very little about Aunt Sis’s family, save for the fact that they have enough issues to fuel three seasons of Maury. Aunt Sis is often at my family’s holiday gatherings alone due to exclusion from her own family’s events for one reason or another. This is actually very sad and for the most part can be blamed on her other family members rather than herself. She’s can be a really sweet 84-ish year old woman with good intentions (sometimes).
Aunt Sis had a husband named Hubert (if you were more familiar with the area of Mississippi that these people live in, these names would seem less odd). Hubert died at a slightly early age of seventy-five, which I then thought was tragic but now, knowing Aunt Sis better, kind of understand.
Fortunately, Aunt Sis was able to procure for herself another husband by the time she was 80 years old. Russell’s addition to the family has, as far as I can see, made little to no difference. He has been attending family functions for the past five years and I have probably heard him speak a total of fifty words.
There was, of course, some drama surrounding Aunt Sis’s marriage to Russell. There were some strong objections on the part of Russell’s daughter. This is much more amusing if you keep in mind that Russell’s daughter is probably sixty years old.
Of course, when we later found out that Aunt Sis more or less forced poor, old, almost-mute Russell into marriage, we understood the problems that his daughter had with the marriage.
But still.
Also, it is rumored that she occasionally hits him.
Actually, that rumor has been substantiated.
But I digress.
Another interesting bit of information with regard to Aunt Sis is her relationship to my grandmother. For clarity’s sake, I will remind you that my grandmother is Aunt Sis’s brother’s wife.
Fortunately I am saved the trouble of describing the relationship between these two women, because popular culture has already done it for me. My grandmother (whom I love very much) and Aunt Sis have the exact same relationship as Rachel McAdams and Lindsay Lohan’s characters (Regina and Kady) in Mean Girls had.
Does this seem sad? It’s not. These are women in their mid eighties having petty teenage catfights.
It’s absolutely hilarious.
I’ll paint a picture for you.
One Christmas when my grandfather was still alive, he and my grandmother bought my sister a hot pink chair for her room. It ended up in the middle of the room after all the presents had been opened. Aunt Sis elected to sit in it.
My grandmother walked by and put her hand on the chair for support. My grandfather, in a tactless move that is rather characteristic of that side of the family, commented.
“Betty, don’t lean too hard on that chair, you’ll knock it down,” he suggested.
“Well,” she snapped, “It’s probably already broken from your sister sitting in it.”
For the record, the awkward silences that follow these situations does not become less awkward with repetition.
These are not isolated incidents. Last Christmas, my father had the gall the rearrange my mother’s seating arrangements, which are actually plotted out with his family’s dysfunctions in mind. The result of this thoughtless move was that my grandmother and Aunt Sis ended up sitting beside each other.
This is almost as good and idea as inviting the Montagues and the Capulets to a dinner party. The fact that we have as of yet escaped the amount of bloodshed involved in a Montague and Capulet function is due to nothing but luck, and possibly divine intervention.
There came a time in the meal when everyone had gone into the kitchen to get dessert, leaving only myself, my grandmother, Aunt Sis, and Uncle Ronnie, my grandmother’s eldest son who occasionally joins in these catfights, always siding with my grandmother.
The pettiness sounds even more ridiculous coming from him, as he weighs in somewhere upwards of three hundred (and fifty?) pounds.
Aunt Sis, apparently choosing (maybe) to forget the earlier argument about who had brought the most dishes (like it matters- everything either of them brings is always disgusting. sorry, but asparagus casserole is not a thing), starting telling my grandmother about the goings on of her church’s senior citizen group. My grandmother, like a petulant child, turns her head to the side and puts her nose to the air and proceeds to pretend that she can’t hear.
I do not exaggerate. It is entirely juvenile.
Again, this is awkward every single time. Uncle Ronnie always takes my grandmother’s side, which is extremely unusual in my eyes as her side has no rational argument whatsoever. Regardless, Uncle Ronnie pretends not to hear as well. Russell may have been there, but I wasn’t kidding before: the man doesn’t talk. Even in these sorts of situations.
Presuming myself the only adult at the table, I attempt to rectify the situation, or at least to make it a little less awkward. I start nodding and inserting “hm!”s and “ohh”s and “yes that sounds very nice!”s. Aunt Sis fortunately takes my lead and finishes the story, pretending that I was her intended listener all along. Then she picked up her plate and went into the kitchen for dessert, exercising what for my family should be considered staggering amounts of grace.
My mother later told me that Aunt Sis went into the kitchen to tell my mother that she had a brain tumor, a story which was quickly fact checked with her daughter and proved to be entirely false.
This seems somehow extraneous, but notable. Moving on.
This seemingly excessive amount of backstory sets the stage for what turned out to be the most awkward afternoon of my life. I say “seemingly excessive” because I want you to fully understand my relationship, or lack thereof, to this woman.
So here’s the story:
I was eighteen years old and Monica was dead.
If this sounds tragic to you, reconsider. I did not know Monica. My only information about her was that she was Aunt Sis’s daughter and that her dead body was encased in what had to be the hugest casket I’d ever seen.
Seriously, this thing was the polished mahogany triple XL of caskets.
My dad’s side of the family are not finnicky eaters. (Read: Luvie Mae, who died in the 1970s, once had a doctor actually request that she venture over to the farmer’s market to be weighed, as the doctor did not actually have a scale that would do the job. I wish that was a joke.)
If you still think there could be one single bit of sadness in my heart over Monica’s death (excluding the sadness that I was being forced to travel to Magee, Misssissippi, for the occasion), you should know this little tidbit of information:
Monica’s name was pronounced “Mah-knee-cah”. My mother and I only found out that her name was spelled “Monica” on the way to the funeral. We were flabbergasted at ourselves only for being so flabbergasted by this information, as this type of behavior is nothing but typical for my father’s family.
We arrived at the funeral home for the visitation with leaving as quickly as possible on our minds. I took one look at the casket, decided that I didn’t want to see the body inside, and headed towards the back of the room to see if I could find a potted plant to hide behind in order to avoid talking to anyone for the next two hours.
Unfortunately, I bumped right into Aunt Sis. Being Monica’s mother and therefore the chief mourner, it was, of course, her job to sit in a chair (she is eighty something, after all) and have people come give her their condolences.
For reference, the chair was a padded affair with immovable wooden arms curving around on either side: a pretty standard funeral home chair.
Before you ask, let me just say that I wish the description of the chair was irrelevant. I really do.
I patted Aunt Sis on the shoulder and gave my own condolences. In a move that I did not forsee, she wrapped her surprisingly strong arms around me and pulled me onto her lap.
In a funeral home. I was mortified and began planning how to console her as quickly as possible and then free myself.
We talked for a minute and then sat in silence for a few more before I offered to get up in order to avoid crushing her eighty five year old femurs.
She ignored me and clutched tighter.
Fifteen minutes later (I don’t think Monica was that popular), a man wandered over to give his own condolences. As I felt decorum dictated (if there is even applicable decorum for those situations where your stranger of a great aunt is forcing you to sit on her lap at her daughter’s visitation), I offered to get up so that they could converse.
Aunt Sis declined (read: refused vehemently) again. For that and every conversation that followed, I sat on Aunt Sis’s lap and was spoken around. This was not exactly easy. Aunt Sis is not a huge woman and I was covering up most of her. A lot of peering around my body in order to speak directly to Aunt Sis was done.
This lasted for two and a half hours.
You might ask: where was my family during this point? Well, I was asking that exact same thing for the entire visitation.
I disowned them all for abandoning me immediately after I found them and related my tale of the visitation and then reversed my decision after my mother’s reminding my that a disowned family was not exactly good for a ride back to Jackson.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
I'm Not Saying That Gingers Eat People
Imaginary readers, it is time to bring you up to speed on my latest project/life’s work.
I’ve realized recently that my calling is, without a doubt, to write a book that looks at today’s Ginger population from a sociological perspective.
To all the Gingers out there reading this: I make no apologies. I do not discourage you from reading this, but I will take no interests in your complaints and/or any parallels drawn between myself and any of the various dictators of the last few millennia.
Those parallels have already been drawn, Gingers. You’re too late.
That and I’m a girl whose own mother has accused her of having “too much self esteem.” I don’t really know what that means, but it’s probably because I don’t listen when other people talk.
Just a guess.
Back to the subject at hand. The book will be a study of today’s Ginger population and will be divided into four sections, each of which will both ask and attempt to answer the dozens, nay, hundreds, of questions that today’s society has about Gingers.
I’ll give you a preview of each section.
#1 - Introduction: This section will serve to outline my purpose for writing, for those of you who don’t know what an introduction does. For example, I’ll explain my title, I’m Not Saying that Gingers Eat People. I decided to let the title come to me after I started writing the book, and the other night at dinner, it did just that. My roommate and number #3 fan (no, Mom and Dad are #17 and #38, respectively), suggested that I explain to our tablemates, some of whom were little better than strangers, the project I’d been working on. I acquiesced and was soon met with opposition when I began to describe the chapter “The Flamingo Theory: Gingers’ Evolution from Vampires.”
“You think Gingers are cannibals!?”
“No, stranger, I’m not saying that Gingers eat people. I’m just taking an objective look at the mysteries that surround the Ginger.”
And there it was. I’m not saying that Gingers Eat People.
Because I’m not attacking Gingers. I am finding out if they need to be attacked.
I’m going to settle this once and for all.
#2 - Theories about Gingers: This section will explore the Ginger lore that has accumulated over the course of their existence. One chapter in this section is entitled “Life After Gingers: The Looming Ginger Extinction.” This chapter will look into the validity of the rumor that Gingers could be extinct within the next fifty years. It will draw comparisons to dinosaurs, determine whether the rumor is true or false, and explore the very real possibility that this rumor is being spread by Gingers themselves in order to distract us from the fact that their numbers are increasing and that a hostile takeover is in the works. This chapter will answer the question that we’ve all been asking:
Should we be afraid?
#3 - Ginger Studies: This section will serve both as a history of Gingers and as an all encompassing view of Gingers today. Chapters will include “Faux Gingers: Why would you do that to yourself?”, “Gingers in the Bedroom: Does the Carpet Match the Drapes?”, “Seeing Red: Imagery Inspired by Gingers,” and “Great Gingers in History.”
#4 - Ginger Culture: This section will explore life from the Ginger perspective. What is it like to be a Ginger? I plan to track down and extensively interview several Gingers as well as people who consider themselves lovers and friends of Gingers. I want to answer the important questions.
for example:
What is a Ginger’s preferred habitat? preferences? food? temperature? likes? dislikes?
What is life like for a “half-ginger” or “trans-ginger”?
How does it feel to be the non Ginger child of a Ginger parent?
How do Gingers feel about the spice?
#5 - Gingers in the Future: This section is going to take what has been discovered about Gingers in the previous sections and use it to advise action. People will be solidified in their options after reading this chapter.
Do we want to support some sort of Ginger pride parade?
Should we breed Gingers to avoid their extinction?
If underground Ginger breeding societies already exist, should we encourage them? Get rid of them? Ignore their existence?
Should Gingers be treated differently in a social sense? Medically? Do they respond the same to normal medication?
The book will additionally contain several appendices, lexicons, etc.
-
So there you have it. This is just a small preview of the sections, each of which has several chapter and addresses the important issues that it encompasses.
Just wanted to let you guys know what I was up to.
I’ve realized recently that my calling is, without a doubt, to write a book that looks at today’s Ginger population from a sociological perspective.
To all the Gingers out there reading this: I make no apologies. I do not discourage you from reading this, but I will take no interests in your complaints and/or any parallels drawn between myself and any of the various dictators of the last few millennia.
Those parallels have already been drawn, Gingers. You’re too late.
That and I’m a girl whose own mother has accused her of having “too much self esteem.” I don’t really know what that means, but it’s probably because I don’t listen when other people talk.
Just a guess.
Back to the subject at hand. The book will be a study of today’s Ginger population and will be divided into four sections, each of which will both ask and attempt to answer the dozens, nay, hundreds, of questions that today’s society has about Gingers.
I’ll give you a preview of each section.
#1 - Introduction: This section will serve to outline my purpose for writing, for those of you who don’t know what an introduction does. For example, I’ll explain my title, I’m Not Saying that Gingers Eat People. I decided to let the title come to me after I started writing the book, and the other night at dinner, it did just that. My roommate and number #3 fan (no, Mom and Dad are #17 and #38, respectively), suggested that I explain to our tablemates, some of whom were little better than strangers, the project I’d been working on. I acquiesced and was soon met with opposition when I began to describe the chapter “The Flamingo Theory: Gingers’ Evolution from Vampires.”
“You think Gingers are cannibals!?”
“No, stranger, I’m not saying that Gingers eat people. I’m just taking an objective look at the mysteries that surround the Ginger.”
And there it was. I’m not saying that Gingers Eat People.
Because I’m not attacking Gingers. I am finding out if they need to be attacked.
I’m going to settle this once and for all.
#2 - Theories about Gingers: This section will explore the Ginger lore that has accumulated over the course of their existence. One chapter in this section is entitled “Life After Gingers: The Looming Ginger Extinction.” This chapter will look into the validity of the rumor that Gingers could be extinct within the next fifty years. It will draw comparisons to dinosaurs, determine whether the rumor is true or false, and explore the very real possibility that this rumor is being spread by Gingers themselves in order to distract us from the fact that their numbers are increasing and that a hostile takeover is in the works. This chapter will answer the question that we’ve all been asking:
Should we be afraid?
#3 - Ginger Studies: This section will serve both as a history of Gingers and as an all encompassing view of Gingers today. Chapters will include “Faux Gingers: Why would you do that to yourself?”, “Gingers in the Bedroom: Does the Carpet Match the Drapes?”, “Seeing Red: Imagery Inspired by Gingers,” and “Great Gingers in History.”
#4 - Ginger Culture: This section will explore life from the Ginger perspective. What is it like to be a Ginger? I plan to track down and extensively interview several Gingers as well as people who consider themselves lovers and friends of Gingers. I want to answer the important questions.
for example:
What is a Ginger’s preferred habitat? preferences? food? temperature? likes? dislikes?
What is life like for a “half-ginger” or “trans-ginger”?
How does it feel to be the non Ginger child of a Ginger parent?
How do Gingers feel about the spice?
#5 - Gingers in the Future: This section is going to take what has been discovered about Gingers in the previous sections and use it to advise action. People will be solidified in their options after reading this chapter.
Do we want to support some sort of Ginger pride parade?
Should we breed Gingers to avoid their extinction?
If underground Ginger breeding societies already exist, should we encourage them? Get rid of them? Ignore their existence?
Should Gingers be treated differently in a social sense? Medically? Do they respond the same to normal medication?
The book will additionally contain several appendices, lexicons, etc.
-
So there you have it. This is just a small preview of the sections, each of which has several chapter and addresses the important issues that it encompasses.
Just wanted to let you guys know what I was up to.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Do You Want the Bad News or the Good News First?
I’ll give you the bad news first.
I’ve lost my mind.
Let’s face it, that trumps pretty much any good news ever (excepting, of course, my meeting any or all of the Followills. but these kinds of things are implied.) So I’ll spare you the good news.
I still have hope that I will be able to lead a fairly normal life. In the first place, it’s a good sign that I’ve realized that I’ve lost my mind. I heard somewhere once that you’re alright as long as you’re worried that you’re crazy, because crazy people think they’re sane.
In the second place, we’re all crazy. Which makes this entire post completely pointless.
Like it wasn’t already.
(took a small break to dance around in my room to the Led Zeppelin song that came on. this has nothing to do with being crazy, it’s just fun.)
I began to realize my downward spiral into lunacy over the course of the last week by way of several phone calls with close friends. I realized that time and time again I was telling people about things I’d been doing and having them exclaim in surprise at my deviation from my normal craziness.
In short, I appear to have undergone some sort of personality shock.
I kind of like it.
Speculation as to the causes or effects of these changes aside, I present the following reasons as evidence of my having obviously lost my mind:
1- I’m a neat freak now. I don’t know what happened. All of the sudden, I need my space/things to be completely organized. All the time. I got home from work last night at 1.15am and proceeded to spend about 20 minutes getting my sheets out of the dryer and making my bed perfectly before going to sleep.
2- I have a job. As someone who was heretofore extremely dedicated to wasting space, I am now a productive member of society who has places to be and gets a paycheck.
3- I learned how to cry. I cried three times in the past two years until recently. It just turned on. I can cry over absolutely nothing. A song I love, seeing my favorite flowers, a dream, being in my car too long, anything. I am the quintessential crazy woman.
4- I’ve started telling people how I feel about them. This may sound like something that’s not a really big deal, but I have until this point in my life been a fairly emotionally reserved person (See: No. 3 on this list). My little sister recently called my lack of emotional expression “Stalin-esque.” (the real question: how does she know who Stalin is?! she’s 12! incidentally, I recently found out that she is actually 14) I used to have this habit of writing letters to people and then burning them. I think that sounds way crazier than it actually was, but there it is. It helped me vent. Recently, I read over one of these letters and decided to just send it. It felt really good. I sent four more, to other people. They were all nice (no hate mail, don’t worry), and it just seemed like the right thing to do. It can’t hurt for people to know that you care, or that you’re thinking of them, right? As it turns out, that is right. By and large, I have experienced really positive reactions. People just appreciate hearing that you care, even if they already know it, and especially if they don’t.
Which they sometimes don’t, specifically if you have a tendency to remind relatives of Joseph Stalin.
5- I like all of these changes. It gets a little messier once you factor in the causes and effects (which is why I’m skipping that, thank me later), but overall, I feel good. I like who I was and who I am and where I’m headed, and I’m confident that this thing (my life) will turn out well.
I’m just that kind of girl.
So maybe losing my mind is not a bad thing. Maybe the bad news is the good news too. Maybe it needs to happen every once in a while so that I don’t get stuck in whatever it is that I inevitably get stuck in.
Alternatively, it’s possible that I’m actually losing my mind and that this is just the beginning of the downward spiral.
That’s an entirely possible hypothesis.
I’ve lost my mind.
Let’s face it, that trumps pretty much any good news ever (excepting, of course, my meeting any or all of the Followills. but these kinds of things are implied.) So I’ll spare you the good news.
I still have hope that I will be able to lead a fairly normal life. In the first place, it’s a good sign that I’ve realized that I’ve lost my mind. I heard somewhere once that you’re alright as long as you’re worried that you’re crazy, because crazy people think they’re sane.
In the second place, we’re all crazy. Which makes this entire post completely pointless.
Like it wasn’t already.
(took a small break to dance around in my room to the Led Zeppelin song that came on. this has nothing to do with being crazy, it’s just fun.)
I began to realize my downward spiral into lunacy over the course of the last week by way of several phone calls with close friends. I realized that time and time again I was telling people about things I’d been doing and having them exclaim in surprise at my deviation from my normal craziness.
In short, I appear to have undergone some sort of personality shock.
I kind of like it.
Speculation as to the causes or effects of these changes aside, I present the following reasons as evidence of my having obviously lost my mind:
1- I’m a neat freak now. I don’t know what happened. All of the sudden, I need my space/things to be completely organized. All the time. I got home from work last night at 1.15am and proceeded to spend about 20 minutes getting my sheets out of the dryer and making my bed perfectly before going to sleep.
2- I have a job. As someone who was heretofore extremely dedicated to wasting space, I am now a productive member of society who has places to be and gets a paycheck.
3- I learned how to cry. I cried three times in the past two years until recently. It just turned on. I can cry over absolutely nothing. A song I love, seeing my favorite flowers, a dream, being in my car too long, anything. I am the quintessential crazy woman.
4- I’ve started telling people how I feel about them. This may sound like something that’s not a really big deal, but I have until this point in my life been a fairly emotionally reserved person (See: No. 3 on this list). My little sister recently called my lack of emotional expression “Stalin-esque.” (the real question: how does she know who Stalin is?! she’s 12! incidentally, I recently found out that she is actually 14) I used to have this habit of writing letters to people and then burning them. I think that sounds way crazier than it actually was, but there it is. It helped me vent. Recently, I read over one of these letters and decided to just send it. It felt really good. I sent four more, to other people. They were all nice (no hate mail, don’t worry), and it just seemed like the right thing to do. It can’t hurt for people to know that you care, or that you’re thinking of them, right? As it turns out, that is right. By and large, I have experienced really positive reactions. People just appreciate hearing that you care, even if they already know it, and especially if they don’t.
Which they sometimes don’t, specifically if you have a tendency to remind relatives of Joseph Stalin.
5- I like all of these changes. It gets a little messier once you factor in the causes and effects (which is why I’m skipping that, thank me later), but overall, I feel good. I like who I was and who I am and where I’m headed, and I’m confident that this thing (my life) will turn out well.
I’m just that kind of girl.
So maybe losing my mind is not a bad thing. Maybe the bad news is the good news too. Maybe it needs to happen every once in a while so that I don’t get stuck in whatever it is that I inevitably get stuck in.
Alternatively, it’s possible that I’m actually losing my mind and that this is just the beginning of the downward spiral.
That’s an entirely possible hypothesis.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Broken Foot Chronicles - The Incident
I was having a rough morning.
On Tuesday, April 11 I did not wake feeling up to par. I determined that McDonald’s hashbrowns would fix this problem and acted accordingly.
On an unrelated note, I still can’t figure out why college has made me gain weight.
This particular morning brought with it the stress of an unfinished paper that was due at 11. I dragged myself out of bed at 8, headed to McDonalds (i don’t even care. those are God’s hashbrowns.), and then went to my apartment to work on the paper. I had structurally finished the paper the afternoon before, and after forty five minutes I had filled out the required ten pages. I glanced over it (this always makes me feel better about the fact that I don’t actually read my papers once they’re done), determined that it was the best paper I’d written for the class**, and submitted it electronically.
I briefly considered showering but decided to pass. It was late, and I had only one class in which I was friends with absolutely no one. I could shower later.
I shifted my left leg out my cross legged position and stepped onto the floor beside my bed. What happened next was a dangerous move that ended tragically and that I have lived to regret.
I stepped onto my right foot.
Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Do not be deceived. Unbeknownst to myself, my right foot was asleep. When I went to set it on the floor, I misjudged the floor and my toes curled under my foot. I look down just as I put all my weight on my right foot, just in time to see my foot bend diagonally (hard to explain because it should never, never happen) and hear the accompanying popping noise.
Imaginary readers, I hope to God that none of you ever have to hear that noise.
Possessing cat-like reflexes (and an unrelated hatred of cats), I did not fall down but stumbled and steadied myself on my newly injured foot. This hurt, so i proceeded to run around my room for about six steps before deciding to lay down on the ground.
Pain. A lot of pain.
My roommates were both in class and my phone was in the other room. I decided that maybe from now on I would just lie on the floor.
After a while I realized that lying on the floor indefinitely was not an option in light of my every increasing pain levels (remember JD’s chart? I was all the way on the right side). After considering the situation logistically, I decided to crab walk into the common room, keeping my right foot off of the floor. Go ahead, take a second to picture it. Laugh.
We’ve got nothing if we can’t laugh.
Five minutes later I had transversed the apartment and located my phone. I decided not to call anyone. I was going to feel really silly in half an hour when the pain subsided and I realized that it was nothing. I lied on the floor trying the “yelling for pain management” technique and shortly thereafter decided to call my mom.
I’ve make a huge mistake.
Calling my mom that is, not hurting my foot. That could’ve happened to anyone.
“Mom, I think I might have broken my foot.”
“AHHHHHHHH oh my - what in - how are - ahh”
“Mom! Probably not! I mean, I just stepped on it. It can’t have actually broken, that’s ridiculous. It probably just hurts right now. I’ll call you if I decide to go to the hospital.”
I hung up and moved from worrying about my foot to worrying about my brain function. Why in the world would I call my mother when I’ve known for years that the woman is seven seconds away from panicking at any given point in time? (don’t get her started on...anything. just don’t. those are dangerous waters.)
I called my friend Sima, who graciously skipped class and came to get me. I think she was a little stymied when she got to my apartment to find that I had called for her assistance but was now refusing to move.
It hurt.
Once Sima helped me find a shorts and a t-shirt to replace the dress I was wearing, (that’s right. I wear dresses even when I don’t shower. makes no sense) we approached the problem of getting me the to car. I will just say this: that was one of the most painful experiences of my life. We got me to the elevator and out the front door of the dorm, where Sima had a stroke of brilliance. She borrowed the reeve’s office chair in order to roll my across the quad and to the car.
Take a second to picture me being rolled across the quad in an office chair at 11 am.
Go ahead, laugh. That’s what I did the whole way across the quad. Of course, that may have been less making-fun-of-myself-laughter and more manical I’m-in-pain laughter, but that’s neither here nor there.
We got me into the car and drove to Student Health. Sima pulled up and told me to get out while she parked the car. I looked at her disbelievingly.
“How?”
She got out and helped me onto the sidewalk. I considered the situation and decided to lie down in the grass until she got back. A few minutes later a nurse and man with a wheelchair showed up and asked if I was alright.
I said yes. Again, I should have been more worried about my brain function.
They helped me inside and thus began the hours long process that ended in my finding out that I had indeed broken my foot by stepping on it. I was given crutches and an appointment to be fitted with a boot in a sports medicine clinic the next morning.
to be continued...
**As it turns out, my teacher did not agree with my assessment of the paper. It earned me an 83, the lowest grade I got on anything in the class. I really expected a few sympathy points. COME ON. (gob)
On Tuesday, April 11 I did not wake feeling up to par. I determined that McDonald’s hashbrowns would fix this problem and acted accordingly.
On an unrelated note, I still can’t figure out why college has made me gain weight.
This particular morning brought with it the stress of an unfinished paper that was due at 11. I dragged myself out of bed at 8, headed to McDonalds (i don’t even care. those are God’s hashbrowns.), and then went to my apartment to work on the paper. I had structurally finished the paper the afternoon before, and after forty five minutes I had filled out the required ten pages. I glanced over it (this always makes me feel better about the fact that I don’t actually read my papers once they’re done), determined that it was the best paper I’d written for the class**, and submitted it electronically.
I briefly considered showering but decided to pass. It was late, and I had only one class in which I was friends with absolutely no one. I could shower later.
I shifted my left leg out my cross legged position and stepped onto the floor beside my bed. What happened next was a dangerous move that ended tragically and that I have lived to regret.
I stepped onto my right foot.
Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Do not be deceived. Unbeknownst to myself, my right foot was asleep. When I went to set it on the floor, I misjudged the floor and my toes curled under my foot. I look down just as I put all my weight on my right foot, just in time to see my foot bend diagonally (hard to explain because it should never, never happen) and hear the accompanying popping noise.
Imaginary readers, I hope to God that none of you ever have to hear that noise.
Possessing cat-like reflexes (and an unrelated hatred of cats), I did not fall down but stumbled and steadied myself on my newly injured foot. This hurt, so i proceeded to run around my room for about six steps before deciding to lay down on the ground.
Pain. A lot of pain.
My roommates were both in class and my phone was in the other room. I decided that maybe from now on I would just lie on the floor.
After a while I realized that lying on the floor indefinitely was not an option in light of my every increasing pain levels (remember JD’s chart? I was all the way on the right side). After considering the situation logistically, I decided to crab walk into the common room, keeping my right foot off of the floor. Go ahead, take a second to picture it. Laugh.
We’ve got nothing if we can’t laugh.
Five minutes later I had transversed the apartment and located my phone. I decided not to call anyone. I was going to feel really silly in half an hour when the pain subsided and I realized that it was nothing. I lied on the floor trying the “yelling for pain management” technique and shortly thereafter decided to call my mom.
I’ve make a huge mistake.
Calling my mom that is, not hurting my foot. That could’ve happened to anyone.
“Mom, I think I might have broken my foot.”
“AHHHHHHHH oh my - what in - how are - ahh”
“Mom! Probably not! I mean, I just stepped on it. It can’t have actually broken, that’s ridiculous. It probably just hurts right now. I’ll call you if I decide to go to the hospital.”
I hung up and moved from worrying about my foot to worrying about my brain function. Why in the world would I call my mother when I’ve known for years that the woman is seven seconds away from panicking at any given point in time? (don’t get her started on...anything. just don’t. those are dangerous waters.)
I called my friend Sima, who graciously skipped class and came to get me. I think she was a little stymied when she got to my apartment to find that I had called for her assistance but was now refusing to move.
It hurt.
Once Sima helped me find a shorts and a t-shirt to replace the dress I was wearing, (that’s right. I wear dresses even when I don’t shower. makes no sense) we approached the problem of getting me the to car. I will just say this: that was one of the most painful experiences of my life. We got me to the elevator and out the front door of the dorm, where Sima had a stroke of brilliance. She borrowed the reeve’s office chair in order to roll my across the quad and to the car.
Take a second to picture me being rolled across the quad in an office chair at 11 am.
Go ahead, laugh. That’s what I did the whole way across the quad. Of course, that may have been less making-fun-of-myself-laughter and more manical I’m-in-pain laughter, but that’s neither here nor there.
We got me into the car and drove to Student Health. Sima pulled up and told me to get out while she parked the car. I looked at her disbelievingly.
“How?”
She got out and helped me onto the sidewalk. I considered the situation and decided to lie down in the grass until she got back. A few minutes later a nurse and man with a wheelchair showed up and asked if I was alright.
I said yes. Again, I should have been more worried about my brain function.
They helped me inside and thus began the hours long process that ended in my finding out that I had indeed broken my foot by stepping on it. I was given crutches and an appointment to be fitted with a boot in a sports medicine clinic the next morning.
to be continued...
**As it turns out, my teacher did not agree with my assessment of the paper. It earned me an 83, the lowest grade I got on anything in the class. I really expected a few sympathy points. COME ON. (gob)
Monday, June 14, 2010
Vignettes from My Childhood - "Do I Need to Call an Ambulance?"
Growing up, my sister Brecken was minorly demonic. At least that’s what it seemed like.
Sure, there were the trivial albeit annoying incidents that were just bothersome enough to irritate but too ridiculous to complain about aloud. Among these were the numerous Barbie dolls on whose feet she had an inexplicable affinity for chewing, the stupid faces she made behind our parents’ backs, and her habit of locking me out of our shared bathroom on a daily basis. This is not to say that I did not complain about these habits aloud, only that the complaints sounded ridiculous and petty coming out of my mouth. Even I knew it.
She kept up her routine of general orneriness on a constant basis to the effect that I was more or less always at an elevated level of annoyance. I think that I have to thank Brecken in part for the fact that today I am relatively slow to become very angry. Though I like this about myself, it is a trait that was hard won with years of tears, sweat, and probably even a little bit of blood.
On those occasions that she did manage to get my blood boiling, those occasions that I threw my passive derision to the wind and attempted to go head to head with her, the outcome was rarely pleasant. She undoubtedly had the upper hand. Firstly, she was younger and smaller, which meant that if things ever got physical I was automatically the bully and she the victim no matter what the turn of events leading up to the fighting had been. Secondly, she used the evil powers that I am sure are imbued to people with huge blue eyes like hers.
All people with blue eyes creep me out. Sorry.
Sorry blue eyes are so creepy, that is.
I’ll abstain from detailing the events that led up to the middle of this particular fight, primarily because I’ve forgotten them. Even if I hadn’t, they’re irrelevant. It had gotten to the point where I had taken as much of her hitting, pushing, and pinching as I could without making my own move. I knew it would be my downfall, but I did it anyway. I pinched her back.
Her only reaction was the sudden devious glimmer in her evil blue eyes. I stepped back, puzzled. Something was amiss. What could she be planning? I knew that something bad was afoot, but I had yet to discover what.
I watched with a sinking feeling of cold dread as she stepped back from me. What was she up to? She slowly lowered herself into a sitting position on the floor, a chillingly creepy smile on her face. This could not be good.
She slowly lowered herself on to her back on the tawny carpet. Continuing to smile, she arranged her limbs in a splayed formation and settled in. I watched, utterly confused, as she reached her right hand to her left upper arm and slowly scratched it with all four fingers.
Then she started to scream.
Oh, hell no.
My mother came running.
“What is wrong? What is wrong! Brecken! Brecken talk to me! Brecken, can you talk to me?”
My mother is completely unhelpful when you’re actually hurt. You’re writhing on the floor screaming because of whatever tragedy that has befallen you, and she’s screaming in your face for you to explain what’s wrong. You usually can’t. First, you’re busy screaming. Second, you’re probably not lastingly damaged; we’re all pretty dramatic. To the injured party, it inevitably comes across as my mom being selfish. This, of course, is not her intention, but when you’re getting screamed at because you’re in intense pain and have not yet been so kind as to describe the situation to her, it seems selfish.
“Brecken! Brecken! Do I need to call an ambulance? DO I NEED TO CALL AN AMBULANCE?”
I see where this is going. I lower my twelve year old body yo the floor. I have lost this fight. She is a cunning devil genius.
She makes her move.
She raises her tearstained face to my mother and points her shaking index finger towards me.
She is the devil.
“What did you do to her? What did you do to her! Ashton!? ASHTON.”
I debate the pros and cons of answering at all.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” I respond in a dull monotone.
It sounds ridiculous even to me.
She is the devil.
“Brecken what did she do to you?” My mother’s voice is reaching a fever pitch. Can she not see that her middle child, who is without a doubt known as the devious, dramatic trickster of the bunch, is fine? All limbs are attached. No blood is spilling. The most imminent danger is probably potential hearing loss on my part due to their combined decibel level.
Incidentally I have a tiny bit of hearing damage. My mother always complains at my volume preference when I’m watching television or playing music in the car.
Brecken points slowly to the red fingernail marks on her upper arm. The self inflicted fingernail marks.
She is the devil.
“Ashton Christine!” my mother gasps.
My mother has the ability to gasp like no woman I’ve ever heard. It is a sound of pure astonishment. She does it every time we hear a curse word on television, as if pretending that she is utterly shocked that something so despicable is allowed to be broadcast will serve to remind us that she does not approve of such language.
We know.
She trains her wide, astonished, angry eyes on me for ten long seconds.
“I cannot believe you would do this. She is eight years old. Go to your room. I will deal with you later.”
I have lost. I never had a fighting chance. I will no doubt be subjected to one of my mother’s yelling sessions that almost definitely will last until about ten minutes after whenever it is that I finally give in and cry. This generally takes about an hour.
It gives me a headache.
I walk slowly to my room, weighed down by defeat.
She is the devil.
-
Somehow mine and Brecken’s relationship has improved over the past few years. To be honest, it did not look good for a while. Such ploys as these did little to encourage sisterly bonding. Unbelievably, Brecken is about to start college, which is sure to be a good story in and of itself. I wish her the all the best. When we’re in the same town, which doesn’t happen that often, I try to spend as much time with her as possible, although wrestling her away from her boyfriend is a barely surmountable task.
However, I still do not intentionally cross her.
She’s still got it. You can see it in her creepy blue eyes.
Sure, there were the trivial albeit annoying incidents that were just bothersome enough to irritate but too ridiculous to complain about aloud. Among these were the numerous Barbie dolls on whose feet she had an inexplicable affinity for chewing, the stupid faces she made behind our parents’ backs, and her habit of locking me out of our shared bathroom on a daily basis. This is not to say that I did not complain about these habits aloud, only that the complaints sounded ridiculous and petty coming out of my mouth. Even I knew it.
She kept up her routine of general orneriness on a constant basis to the effect that I was more or less always at an elevated level of annoyance. I think that I have to thank Brecken in part for the fact that today I am relatively slow to become very angry. Though I like this about myself, it is a trait that was hard won with years of tears, sweat, and probably even a little bit of blood.
On those occasions that she did manage to get my blood boiling, those occasions that I threw my passive derision to the wind and attempted to go head to head with her, the outcome was rarely pleasant. She undoubtedly had the upper hand. Firstly, she was younger and smaller, which meant that if things ever got physical I was automatically the bully and she the victim no matter what the turn of events leading up to the fighting had been. Secondly, she used the evil powers that I am sure are imbued to people with huge blue eyes like hers.
All people with blue eyes creep me out. Sorry.
Sorry blue eyes are so creepy, that is.
I’ll abstain from detailing the events that led up to the middle of this particular fight, primarily because I’ve forgotten them. Even if I hadn’t, they’re irrelevant. It had gotten to the point where I had taken as much of her hitting, pushing, and pinching as I could without making my own move. I knew it would be my downfall, but I did it anyway. I pinched her back.
Her only reaction was the sudden devious glimmer in her evil blue eyes. I stepped back, puzzled. Something was amiss. What could she be planning? I knew that something bad was afoot, but I had yet to discover what.
I watched with a sinking feeling of cold dread as she stepped back from me. What was she up to? She slowly lowered herself into a sitting position on the floor, a chillingly creepy smile on her face. This could not be good.
She slowly lowered herself on to her back on the tawny carpet. Continuing to smile, she arranged her limbs in a splayed formation and settled in. I watched, utterly confused, as she reached her right hand to her left upper arm and slowly scratched it with all four fingers.
Then she started to scream.
Oh, hell no.
My mother came running.
“What is wrong? What is wrong! Brecken! Brecken talk to me! Brecken, can you talk to me?”
My mother is completely unhelpful when you’re actually hurt. You’re writhing on the floor screaming because of whatever tragedy that has befallen you, and she’s screaming in your face for you to explain what’s wrong. You usually can’t. First, you’re busy screaming. Second, you’re probably not lastingly damaged; we’re all pretty dramatic. To the injured party, it inevitably comes across as my mom being selfish. This, of course, is not her intention, but when you’re getting screamed at because you’re in intense pain and have not yet been so kind as to describe the situation to her, it seems selfish.
“Brecken! Brecken! Do I need to call an ambulance? DO I NEED TO CALL AN AMBULANCE?”
I see where this is going. I lower my twelve year old body yo the floor. I have lost this fight. She is a cunning devil genius.
She makes her move.
She raises her tearstained face to my mother and points her shaking index finger towards me.
She is the devil.
“What did you do to her? What did you do to her! Ashton!? ASHTON.”
I debate the pros and cons of answering at all.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” I respond in a dull monotone.
It sounds ridiculous even to me.
She is the devil.
“Brecken what did she do to you?” My mother’s voice is reaching a fever pitch. Can she not see that her middle child, who is without a doubt known as the devious, dramatic trickster of the bunch, is fine? All limbs are attached. No blood is spilling. The most imminent danger is probably potential hearing loss on my part due to their combined decibel level.
Incidentally I have a tiny bit of hearing damage. My mother always complains at my volume preference when I’m watching television or playing music in the car.
Brecken points slowly to the red fingernail marks on her upper arm. The self inflicted fingernail marks.
She is the devil.
“Ashton Christine!” my mother gasps.
My mother has the ability to gasp like no woman I’ve ever heard. It is a sound of pure astonishment. She does it every time we hear a curse word on television, as if pretending that she is utterly shocked that something so despicable is allowed to be broadcast will serve to remind us that she does not approve of such language.
We know.
She trains her wide, astonished, angry eyes on me for ten long seconds.
“I cannot believe you would do this. She is eight years old. Go to your room. I will deal with you later.”
I have lost. I never had a fighting chance. I will no doubt be subjected to one of my mother’s yelling sessions that almost definitely will last until about ten minutes after whenever it is that I finally give in and cry. This generally takes about an hour.
It gives me a headache.
I walk slowly to my room, weighed down by defeat.
She is the devil.
-
Somehow mine and Brecken’s relationship has improved over the past few years. To be honest, it did not look good for a while. Such ploys as these did little to encourage sisterly bonding. Unbelievably, Brecken is about to start college, which is sure to be a good story in and of itself. I wish her the all the best. When we’re in the same town, which doesn’t happen that often, I try to spend as much time with her as possible, although wrestling her away from her boyfriend is a barely surmountable task.
However, I still do not intentionally cross her.
She’s still got it. You can see it in her creepy blue eyes.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Beginning of a Story that Hasn't Happened Yet
This story ends with my being murdered.
For those of you who either don’t stay in touch with me or don’t know me (I’m talking to you, weirdo internet pervs), at the beginning of June I moved back to Nashville after a three week respite at home in Jackson.
Respite may be the wrong word. It was really more of a three week series of challenges to my sanity that I can with disturbing accuracy compare to a run of the gauntlet, fight with a bull, or some similar test of endurance, mental acuity and sheer inner fortitude that you know ahead of time you’re really not up to. Then again, any of these comparisons may or may not apply to almost any period of time spent with my family exceeding three hours. Unless we all have to be in the same room, in which case it’s more like fifteen minutes.
I actually had an uncharacteristic bout of homesickness shortly before my return to Tennessee. I love Jackson. I love getting iced coffee with espresso ice cubes from Cups and chatting with my favorite barista, Eamonn. I love sitting at Julep splitting a ham and cheese sandwich with Lauren, a girl that I have been and will be friends with for my whole life. I love driving to Brent’s with Madeleine, getting chocolate milkshakes, and ridiculing everyone we see.
Ok, I mostly like eating there. Whatever. There’s no place like home, and all that.
So what was I doing spending what could be some of the last weeks that I’d live there with any degree of permanence galavanting about in Nashville where I didn’t even have a job yet, for God’s sake? Not that I was really worried- that would be quickly remedied upon my arrival. (dear past Ashton, you are an idiot.)
I pondered these things on a sunny Monday while applying sunscreen before going out to the beach until mother’s voice jolted me from my reverie.
“Ashton, last week in my Sunday school class we talked about girls who sin by showing too much skin.”
“Mom. It’s a bikini. There’s not exactly a turtleneck option. Plus, I’m about to go lay out. Showing skin is kind of the point.”
“In my Sunday school class, we talked about how those girls look like they’re selling something, and how it sends out the wrong message.”
“Mom, please stop calling me a prostitute.”
This to say, my brief foray into homesickness/dementia passed quickly and I was exceedingly happy to make my way back to Nashville. Jackson would be there when I got back.
As Miranda and I finished our nine hour drive back to Nashville from the beach (yes, the poor girl went to the beach with my family. not something a lot of people bounce back from.) I felt a peaceful, calm feeling set in. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being where you’re supposed to be, when you’re supposed to be there. I moved in to mine and Lori’s apartment (alt. title: The Love Nest), which we both adored despite the ever present multitude of reminders of exactly how weird the people we’re subletting from actually are. I can’t even get into the specifics of how weird they are right now, and Ben and Mary warrant their very own post anyway. I unpacked and arranged my room, which I love. I spent the next few days watching Arrested Development, going merrily about my job search (idiot.), getting together with friends, and reveling in the fact that I live a two minute walk away from everything in Hillsboro Village. Life was perfect.
Then I realized that I live next door to a murder house.
You might ask, as many people have, “What is a murder house?” Don’t. Don’t ask. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Use your brain.
The murder house is teal. Teal. It is surrounded on all sides by a tall fence. Despite the fact that the fence is too tall to climb over, the owners (read: murderers) opted to cover the entire expanse of their yard with chicken wire that is connected to the top of the fence as well as the sides of the house. The entire chimney is covered with an excessive amount of plastic wrap, which is then reinforced with approximately three entire rolls of duct tape. Some sort of weird noose-like structure hangs from the east side of the house. (fine, it’s just a long rope. but really. why.) No one goes in or out, and lights come on only at night. Sometimes, if you sit on my back porch late at night, you can hear a grinding noise for an extended period of time.
Murder house.
It’s the only explanation that fits.
Now, you may have an alternate explanation, some way to reason away all these tell-tale signs.
I don’t want to hear it. You’re wrong. It’s a murder house.
I’m really only interested in “constructive compliments” (Michael Scott), never constructive criticism, and never ever regular criticism. Act accordingly.
So there you have the beginning of a story that hasn’t happened yet. I don’t know the gruesome details of how it will pan out, but, come on- I live next door to a murder house.
This story ends with my being murdered.
For those of you who either don’t stay in touch with me or don’t know me (I’m talking to you, weirdo internet pervs), at the beginning of June I moved back to Nashville after a three week respite at home in Jackson.
Respite may be the wrong word. It was really more of a three week series of challenges to my sanity that I can with disturbing accuracy compare to a run of the gauntlet, fight with a bull, or some similar test of endurance, mental acuity and sheer inner fortitude that you know ahead of time you’re really not up to. Then again, any of these comparisons may or may not apply to almost any period of time spent with my family exceeding three hours. Unless we all have to be in the same room, in which case it’s more like fifteen minutes.
I actually had an uncharacteristic bout of homesickness shortly before my return to Tennessee. I love Jackson. I love getting iced coffee with espresso ice cubes from Cups and chatting with my favorite barista, Eamonn. I love sitting at Julep splitting a ham and cheese sandwich with Lauren, a girl that I have been and will be friends with for my whole life. I love driving to Brent’s with Madeleine, getting chocolate milkshakes, and ridiculing everyone we see.
Ok, I mostly like eating there. Whatever. There’s no place like home, and all that.
So what was I doing spending what could be some of the last weeks that I’d live there with any degree of permanence galavanting about in Nashville where I didn’t even have a job yet, for God’s sake? Not that I was really worried- that would be quickly remedied upon my arrival. (dear past Ashton, you are an idiot.)
I pondered these things on a sunny Monday while applying sunscreen before going out to the beach until mother’s voice jolted me from my reverie.
“Ashton, last week in my Sunday school class we talked about girls who sin by showing too much skin.”
“Mom. It’s a bikini. There’s not exactly a turtleneck option. Plus, I’m about to go lay out. Showing skin is kind of the point.”
“In my Sunday school class, we talked about how those girls look like they’re selling something, and how it sends out the wrong message.”
“Mom, please stop calling me a prostitute.”
This to say, my brief foray into homesickness/dementia passed quickly and I was exceedingly happy to make my way back to Nashville. Jackson would be there when I got back.
As Miranda and I finished our nine hour drive back to Nashville from the beach (yes, the poor girl went to the beach with my family. not something a lot of people bounce back from.) I felt a peaceful, calm feeling set in. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being where you’re supposed to be, when you’re supposed to be there. I moved in to mine and Lori’s apartment (alt. title: The Love Nest), which we both adored despite the ever present multitude of reminders of exactly how weird the people we’re subletting from actually are. I can’t even get into the specifics of how weird they are right now, and Ben and Mary warrant their very own post anyway. I unpacked and arranged my room, which I love. I spent the next few days watching Arrested Development, going merrily about my job search (idiot.), getting together with friends, and reveling in the fact that I live a two minute walk away from everything in Hillsboro Village. Life was perfect.
Then I realized that I live next door to a murder house.
You might ask, as many people have, “What is a murder house?” Don’t. Don’t ask. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Use your brain.
The murder house is teal. Teal. It is surrounded on all sides by a tall fence. Despite the fact that the fence is too tall to climb over, the owners (read: murderers) opted to cover the entire expanse of their yard with chicken wire that is connected to the top of the fence as well as the sides of the house. The entire chimney is covered with an excessive amount of plastic wrap, which is then reinforced with approximately three entire rolls of duct tape. Some sort of weird noose-like structure hangs from the east side of the house. (fine, it’s just a long rope. but really. why.) No one goes in or out, and lights come on only at night. Sometimes, if you sit on my back porch late at night, you can hear a grinding noise for an extended period of time.
Murder house.
It’s the only explanation that fits.
Now, you may have an alternate explanation, some way to reason away all these tell-tale signs.
I don’t want to hear it. You’re wrong. It’s a murder house.
I’m really only interested in “constructive compliments” (Michael Scott), never constructive criticism, and never ever regular criticism. Act accordingly.
So there you have the beginning of a story that hasn’t happened yet. I don’t know the gruesome details of how it will pan out, but, come on- I live next door to a murder house.
This story ends with my being murdered.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Yet Another Day One
I have three chief reasons for making another effort at blogging. First, I am unemployed and have a lot of time on my hands. Second, everyone else seems to be doing it. Finally, I like the sound of my own voice/whatever the technological translation of that sentiment is. Really though, I’ve made a few previous attempts at blogging in the past, all of which have floated off to wherever it is the projects that I start and inevitably abandon three days after eventually end up. I kind of like the idea that they’re all together out there somewhere, not getting too lonely or worrying about me thinking of them again.
So although there is no guarantee that I will ever post here again, I’m asking you (you being my imaginary readers, since i just realized that I have never even told anyone about any of the blogs I’ve started and, more importantly, I doubt anyone cares - not that they should. I have very little to say and will most likely ramble about myself. you should probably stop reading this, actually. Have you checked out stumbleupon.com? Great way to waste time.) to give it a chance. Unless you don’t want to, in which case you have no business here and I ask that you leave. Good day, sir!
I called this blog The Blank Slate because that’s kind of where I am right now. I won’t ramble ceaselessly about my life/issues, because I honestly want to hear about that less than you do. (But don’t get comfortable, any potential readers are not safe from my life/issues. No one is, really. Ask the guy who was the cashier at Fido on May 26 at 8am. Poor guy.) Regardless, I like the idea that you can always start over. In a rare but valuable gem of a real conversation that I had with my dad last spring, he told me that he thinks the key to being happy is never being afraid to change your situation and start over if you’re not happy. Whether that pertains to your career (ha), job (nothing to change there either), school, friends, or lunch choice, I think he had a point. For a series of reasons that I won’t divulge now (again, lucky you), I’m at a place right now where I have a chance to start over with regard to an overwhelming majority of the aspects of my life (don’t freak out, don’t freak out). And I want to do it. I’m going to go new places, hang out with new people, listen to new music (probably not, I still like mine better than yours), find new hobbies, and sleep on a different side of the bed (just kidding, wall side forever). If you are interested in assisting me in any of these endeavors, ask me. I’ll say yes.
If this blogging ridiculousness is to continue, there will be no format/theme/pattern. I have no structure in my life and do not see that any reflection of my life should be extended the courtesy of organization.
For today, I think I’ll give the aforementioned imaginary readers (none of which are gingers) an update on my current projects in the vain hope that the act of writing said projects down will make them somehow more real and therefore more likely to come to fruition. Do not be too optimistic, my success rate here is devastatingly low.
1- Finding a job - This is not going well. Yesterday I thought I had a potential hire in my net (Sweet Cece’s Hillsboro Village please, please please hire me! I will be so smiley and helpful! Please) but it may have swum out, as I have not received a call back today. Having previously been someone who is generally worthless in terms of contribution to the workforce/society, I was misinformed with regards to the level of difficulty involved in procuring a job without benefits like of any sort of talent or work history. P.S. thanks, woman who said she’d hire me as a nanny and then quit contacting me back/didn’t answer any of my emails. I’m not pretending to be a math genius, but I am learning a little bit about the effects using your debit card a lot without ever depositing anything can have on the bottom number of my regions.com balance checker. Oh well, it was about time to delete that from my toolbar anyway.
2. Starting a blog - BAM. goal achieved. Sort of. Technically I’m still writing this in Pages (long story short - my microsoft word committed suicide). But surely I wouldn’t write this all out and then delete it....Right?
3. Reading Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquez - This is one of two Spanish books on my summer reading list that I made for myself. (Don’t make fun, nerds need love too!!**) I’m pretty sure my reading comprehension in spanish is très far from where it should be, so I’m attempting to work on it.
4. Learn all the words to Sorry, Mrs. Jackson by Outkast in order to increase my awesomeness levels - I feel like this is relatively self explanatory and indubitably necessitates action.
5. Working on the book I’m writing - I’m not going to say a lot about that right here. Suffice it to say, it’s going to be fantastic and is owed more space than a spot on a list in a blog. In fact, it needs a whole book.
6. Journaling again - I used to write all the time just about what was going on in my life. I never show it to anyone, but I love it. I love going back and reading what was important to me in mid april of 2007 or whatever. It helps me work out my endless conundrums (seems like there should be a cooler plural for that word) and generally just makes me feel calm. Sometimes I get a little freaked out by my life and can’t deal with thinking about how real it is for long enough to write it down; that may have happened lately.
7. Restart my picture a day project - This was a terrible project for someone who has such problems with commitment/continuity/consecutive brain waves. But I like it. I also have a lot of time and a new backup hard drive. And Nashville is absolutely beautiful right now, so there’s really no reason not to.
8. Do something artsy - I am not functionally artsy. That is to say, there’s an artsy pseudo indie girl inside me who is perpetually drowning in her artsiness because I have not provided her with any talent through which she could channel said artsiness. Regardless, I have some paints and paintbrushes, so maybe I will sit on the floor in my room and try. I’ll probably either throw it away or draw stick people on it and put it on our refrigerator and say my cousin made it. Note: of all the things on this list, this is the least likely to happen.
So wish me luck on those projects. My goal for the day is to work a little on all of them, as I am telling myself the job I interviewed for yesterday is going to call me back so I therefore have no responsibility to go look for new opportunities now (for real, Sweet Cece’s, I’m begging).
If you just read this whole thing, maybe you should make your own list of things to get working on. Just a suggestion.
**This is actually a lie perpetuated by nerds themselves in order to gain an advantage over their stronger, more street wise non-nerdy counterparts. Nerds do not need love. They are robots.
So although there is no guarantee that I will ever post here again, I’m asking you (you being my imaginary readers, since i just realized that I have never even told anyone about any of the blogs I’ve started and, more importantly, I doubt anyone cares - not that they should. I have very little to say and will most likely ramble about myself. you should probably stop reading this, actually. Have you checked out stumbleupon.com? Great way to waste time.) to give it a chance. Unless you don’t want to, in which case you have no business here and I ask that you leave. Good day, sir!
I called this blog The Blank Slate because that’s kind of where I am right now. I won’t ramble ceaselessly about my life/issues, because I honestly want to hear about that less than you do. (But don’t get comfortable, any potential readers are not safe from my life/issues. No one is, really. Ask the guy who was the cashier at Fido on May 26 at 8am. Poor guy.) Regardless, I like the idea that you can always start over. In a rare but valuable gem of a real conversation that I had with my dad last spring, he told me that he thinks the key to being happy is never being afraid to change your situation and start over if you’re not happy. Whether that pertains to your career (ha), job (nothing to change there either), school, friends, or lunch choice, I think he had a point. For a series of reasons that I won’t divulge now (again, lucky you), I’m at a place right now where I have a chance to start over with regard to an overwhelming majority of the aspects of my life (don’t freak out, don’t freak out). And I want to do it. I’m going to go new places, hang out with new people, listen to new music (probably not, I still like mine better than yours), find new hobbies, and sleep on a different side of the bed (just kidding, wall side forever). If you are interested in assisting me in any of these endeavors, ask me. I’ll say yes.
If this blogging ridiculousness is to continue, there will be no format/theme/pattern. I have no structure in my life and do not see that any reflection of my life should be extended the courtesy of organization.
For today, I think I’ll give the aforementioned imaginary readers (none of which are gingers) an update on my current projects in the vain hope that the act of writing said projects down will make them somehow more real and therefore more likely to come to fruition. Do not be too optimistic, my success rate here is devastatingly low.
1- Finding a job - This is not going well. Yesterday I thought I had a potential hire in my net (Sweet Cece’s Hillsboro Village please, please please hire me! I will be so smiley and helpful! Please) but it may have swum out, as I have not received a call back today. Having previously been someone who is generally worthless in terms of contribution to the workforce/society, I was misinformed with regards to the level of difficulty involved in procuring a job without benefits like of any sort of talent or work history. P.S. thanks, woman who said she’d hire me as a nanny and then quit contacting me back/didn’t answer any of my emails. I’m not pretending to be a math genius, but I am learning a little bit about the effects using your debit card a lot without ever depositing anything can have on the bottom number of my regions.com balance checker. Oh well, it was about time to delete that from my toolbar anyway.
2. Starting a blog - BAM. goal achieved. Sort of. Technically I’m still writing this in Pages (long story short - my microsoft word committed suicide). But surely I wouldn’t write this all out and then delete it....Right?
3. Reading Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquez - This is one of two Spanish books on my summer reading list that I made for myself. (Don’t make fun, nerds need love too!!**) I’m pretty sure my reading comprehension in spanish is très far from where it should be, so I’m attempting to work on it.
4. Learn all the words to Sorry, Mrs. Jackson by Outkast in order to increase my awesomeness levels - I feel like this is relatively self explanatory and indubitably necessitates action.
5. Working on the book I’m writing - I’m not going to say a lot about that right here. Suffice it to say, it’s going to be fantastic and is owed more space than a spot on a list in a blog. In fact, it needs a whole book.
6. Journaling again - I used to write all the time just about what was going on in my life. I never show it to anyone, but I love it. I love going back and reading what was important to me in mid april of 2007 or whatever. It helps me work out my endless conundrums (seems like there should be a cooler plural for that word) and generally just makes me feel calm. Sometimes I get a little freaked out by my life and can’t deal with thinking about how real it is for long enough to write it down; that may have happened lately.
7. Restart my picture a day project - This was a terrible project for someone who has such problems with commitment/continuity/consecutive brain waves. But I like it. I also have a lot of time and a new backup hard drive. And Nashville is absolutely beautiful right now, so there’s really no reason not to.
8. Do something artsy - I am not functionally artsy. That is to say, there’s an artsy pseudo indie girl inside me who is perpetually drowning in her artsiness because I have not provided her with any talent through which she could channel said artsiness. Regardless, I have some paints and paintbrushes, so maybe I will sit on the floor in my room and try. I’ll probably either throw it away or draw stick people on it and put it on our refrigerator and say my cousin made it. Note: of all the things on this list, this is the least likely to happen.
So wish me luck on those projects. My goal for the day is to work a little on all of them, as I am telling myself the job I interviewed for yesterday is going to call me back so I therefore have no responsibility to go look for new opportunities now (for real, Sweet Cece’s, I’m begging).
If you just read this whole thing, maybe you should make your own list of things to get working on. Just a suggestion.
**This is actually a lie perpetuated by nerds themselves in order to gain an advantage over their stronger, more street wise non-nerdy counterparts. Nerds do not need love. They are robots.
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