- Moving in with Liar. I still want my $900 back.
- Reading the word "Szechuan" on a restaurant sign aloud as "Saskatchewan." In front of my junior high youth group and pastor. And then not reading their incredulous expressions before wondering aloud at the business viability of a restaurant devoted to such a specific Canadian cuisine.
- Moving in with Crazy Boss Lady. I absolutely regret moving in with a psychopath.
- Being a stupid over-achiever and electing to take high school chemistr. The reasons with decision was dumb is four-fold:
- I had already fulfilled my science requirements
- the teacher turned out to be a demoralizing jerk and also kind of pervy
- I could have been taking...art? I dunno. My school had very few electives, but anything would have been better than chemistry
- it was the only B I ever got in high school and was the reason I did not get to be Valedictorian
- Eating all the leftovers in my fridge at the end of college.
- I regret the stomachache
- I also regret that this was the moment I started gaining back the weight I had just lost
- Not trying out for volleyball in sixth grade when no one knew what they were doing and I would have probably made the team and thus been more active and maybe would not have gotten so heavy during adolescence and would not have had all those wistful moments freshman year when I realized I WAS interested in volleyball and that all the girls already knew what they were doing and there was no chance of me making the team.
- Blogging about Big Jerk Boss Man from the office. I've recently reread that post and...despite being true, it was MEAN. I'm about 97% sure he read it and I wish I'd never written it, because I know it must have hurt him. I cannot apologize, because he's gone now.
- Bangs.
- Veering toward the ditch instead of the wide open street while playing Bicycle Cops and Robbers with my brother and a neighbor kid. The resulting broken fingers from my desperate attempt to use the handlebar brakes and my hyper-extended fingers ramming into Neighbor Kid's shoulder blade kind of put a damper on that summer. Brand new rock climbing wall at the summer camp facility? Noooooope. Not with a cast on your hand. Swimming in the lake instead? Nooooope. No with a cast on your hand. Changes in barometric pressure fourteen years later? Suuuuuure, if you like dull aches that no painkiller will touch.
- Telling that girl in seventh grade my worst thoughts about myself and my fears about what other people think of me. It was seventh grade. We'd only been friends for a few weeks. How did I not see that coming?
- Those six months I overused the word "spiffy" because I thought it made me seem quirky and interesting.
- Thinking I could write poetry.
- Resting my head on Travis's shoulder and holding his hand during that play about Thomas Edison. I didn't even like him. I just thought that was what you were "supposed" to do. It wasn't really a big deal, but I still wish I hadn't been so...easily swayed by my peers..
- Allowing my mouth to say stupid things, like the time I told Corey I wanted to sleep with him.
- Putting so many of my worst decisions on this blog.
Showing posts with label These Things Really Happened. Show all posts
Showing posts with label These Things Really Happened. Show all posts
11.12.2013
Bad Decision Tuesday
The Dumbest Decisions I've Ever Made, A Bulleted List
11.10.2013
Something New (Two. Two Things New.)
Back at the end of September, I planned out NaBloPoMo on a calendar and scheduled Saturdays to be "new" things. Last week was a new habit (which I told you about and did not actually implement yet, sooooo...success?). This week was supposed to be a new place. I meant that in very broad terms, like "try a new restaurant" or "go to a museum" or something else that would force to to go explore Dallas more than I have in the last nine months. And while I DID accomplish some of that while my parents were here (we went to the zoo, the aquarium, the arboretum, two outlet malls, and a dozen new restaurants), I actually have a much more literal answer for this post.
I put a deposit on an apartment. New place, indeed! There's no reason my application should be denied, so it should be mine within the week. If all goes as planned, I move in January 1st. That's just in time for me to fly home to Far North at Christmas and pack all my belongings (yay, purple couch!) into a moving van headed for Texas. I'm really excited and also worried I've made a giant mistake. Which is how I feel about all decisions, large or small. Seriously, how important is which Chapstick brand I choose? Pivotal, apparently.
Anyway. Except for three months during relocation in Far North, I've never lived alone. I've never set up an apartment for myself. This is exciting and thrilling and very adultish. Also, it feels a little crazy that I'm doing this in TEXAS. If you asked me a few years ago, I never would have said this is where I'd be. And I am so glad this is where I've ended up. No regrets.
It also feels a little bit like moving away for a second time. In March, I got on a plane to move here. For all intents and purposes, I HAVE moved here. But getting an apartment (even more than getting a job) makes is really real. If that makes any sense, which it probably doesn't. Oh well.
I had planned for next Saturday to be about a new experience. I'll admit right here that I was stretching a bit when I wrote that. I had no idea what that was going to look like. It just sounded good on my calendar. And since none of you were going to see it, it didn't matter if I didn't do it.
Well, I have a new experience to report: I got pulled over by a cop last night. First time ever. Apparently, I had failed to use my turn signal. In a dedicated turn lane. It would have been illegal for me to do anything other than turn. And I used my signal to GET INTO the lane. But apparently, it turned itself off. Or I accidentally turned it off. Who knows? I did not end up with a ticket, probably partly due to the fact that I USED MY TURN SIGNAL to pull over for the cop. Because I'm a CHRONIC SIGNALER. Seriously, I signal EVERYWHERE. Into the driveway. In parking lots. EVERY. WHERE. I did not expect those words to come out go the cop's mouth (I had no idea what she was going to say, since I didn't think I was breaking any laws).
Now, I speed more often that I should (which is, ever. I should not speed ever. I know.). I sometimes don't come to a COMPLETE stop at four way stops when no one else is around or when I'm turning right on a red and the other lane is clear for miles. I break traffic laws from time to time and I shouldn't. And I have renewed conviction to fix these issues, thank you, Officer. But signaling HAS NEVER been a thing I break the law with.
I really don't know where I think this indignation is taking me. I did not get a ticket. It was a less-than-five-minute interaction. The officer was very nice--she even wished me a good evening. Nothing bad happened. And yet, I am indignant. Fruitlessly and ridiculously indignant. And at least it's a new experience. I wonder what I'll write about next Saturday?
7.03.2013
Polygamy Math Is Exhausting
I realized yesterday that I promised you a Hibachi Polygamy story. Wow. That may be the weirdest sentence I've ever typed. Anyway. Here is the story of Father's Day Hibachi and My Mistaken Identity as a Member of a Polygamist Cult. Maybe cult is too strong a word? Polygamist Family? I mean, it's a a very unusual way of life and usually has religious roots and for these purposes it actually DID, so I'm calling it a cult. Whatever. If you happen to be a member of a polygamist family and you resent the idea of your lifestyle being called a cult, feel free to email me with angry comments. This is so not the point. Let's just begin, shall we?
Except. Sorry, I have a small problem to solve before I can tell the story. You all know I'm anonymous here and that I don't use real names very often. But this story is hard to tell without names and I don't exactly want to just make them up or use initials, which can be confusing (especially since Bean's husband shares initials with both his sisters, one of whom is a key player in this story). I often refer to Bean and Baby Bean, but what do I call her husband? Husbean? That seems an overly cutesy title for a man who is not my husband. There's a part of me that would like to give him a brand new name that is so ridiculous that everyone will realize it's fake, like "Aloysius" or "Fitzroy Von Gibbon, the Earl of Gloucester". Bean just calls him J on her blog, so I guess I'll go with that.
It's Father's Day. J decides that hibachi sounds like an excellent Father's Day feast and that he'd like to invite his sister and her family along. He invites me, too, and I'm like "Hey! Entertainment using food? Why not?" so I tag along. Now, let's pause to add some background: J's sister has seven children. The oldest is 18 or 19 and the youngest is about two months. Oh, and you should also know that she and her husband are pretty conservative, so all the girls wear long skirts or dresses and have long hair. And we're back in.
We pack up the adorable Baby Bean and head over to the restaurant, which Bean has thoughtfully called ahead to reserve a table because WHOA six adults and seven kids is a lot of people descending on your eating establishment, even if you don't have pretty rigid seating capacities at your grills. We arrive and are led to our grill/table without much of a wait which is very nice. With one infant in a bucket car seat, two little ones in high chairs, and the oldest nephew not in attendance (fine crazy boy, hibachi is delicious; more for us), we just barely fit around a single grill. We space the children around the table so that there is at least one adult within arm's reach and we're good to go. I immediately steal (with permission, which is basically borrowing, but whatever) the baby out of his car seat and marvel at how ridiculously small newborns are, especially when I've gotten used to Baby Bean who would be more accurately Toddler Bean.
Soon after we sit down, the grill opposite us (basically a mirror image so that the chef can access both grills simultaneously) fills up with several different families and couples. There's enough distance between our table and theirs that we can't really share a conversation, but we're all basically staring at one another. If we're not staring at our menus, which is the polite thing to do, strange man sitting catter-corner from me.
We're a slightly raucous group, as you might imagine, trying to get all of the kids to focus on their menus for long enough to pick something to eat. We also have a small hurdle to overcome, since at least one of the children is allergic to soy and hey, we're eating Japanese cuisine that may or may not have soy sauce on ALL OF IT. Anyway, we finally settle on a dish for every one and we give our order to the very nice and somewhat genuflecting waiter. The room is noisy and increasingly sauna-like due to the grills. When our salads and soup come, J calls for our attention and, as is the custom in many Christian families, we all grab hands and bow our heads while J offers grace.
I snuggle the infant in one arm and try to eat my salad one-handedly while helping the child next to me and also trying to avoid the STARES of Catter-Corner Staring Man. I make faces at Baby Bean and talk with the adults and ask the kids about school and church and whatever else you talk about with your live-in-family's-family's children. The chef comes and lights things on fire and makes a smoke volcano with an onion and does whatever hibachi-ing one would expect from a Hibachi chef. The kids are enraptured by everything he does and we're all enjoying ourselves immensely. The other table watches, too, because their chef hasn't arrived yet. Probably because he is currently cooking our meal. They all seem to be just as entertained as we are. Except for staring man, who is (predictably) still staring. At me.
Now, I should probably describe the nature of his staring: It's not exactly rude, except for the, you know, staring. His expression is not judgey or even curious. It's actually kind of blank. Like he's recently been hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat and he's trying to remember where he is. His mouth's a little open and he's mostly...bored. Which is sad for his wife and two or three children (I can't tell if the one on the other side of his wife belongs to his family or the next one over, because, unlike HIM, I am not looking at them enough to figure it out). Really, it seems like they dragged him out for a Father's Day celebration. He's just present and not much more. It's weird, but I give him the benefit of the doubt and think maybe he's actually staring off into space out of boredom and it just happens to be in my direction.
This is where I would normally make some comment about HOLY HELL HOW MANY WORDS HAVE I TYPED I AM SO TALKY SOMETIMES but really we all knew from my lengthy title up there that I was going to milk this for all it's worth, so let's just jump back in.
We eat a lot of food. I try sushi. I don't die. When the baby gets fussy, I jiggle him a little and try to soothe him, thinking this is probably a rare opportunity for his mother to eat a meal without a human attached to her. When it looks like she's close to finished, I hand him back to nurse. I eat some more, this time with both my hands, and I have a re-established respect for mothers everywhere. I help with another child. At various times, both mothers and J's brother-in-law leave the table to take children to the bathroom and/or change diapers. I take Baby Bean for a little bit so Bean can eat and so she doesn't have a high-chair-related meltdown. Baby Bean and I walk around the table, trying to stay out of everyone's way and chatting with each kid as I pass them. Staring Man continues to stare, his eyes following me as I pace with the baby.
J's sister gets up with her infant and we decide to step into the front room, away from the grills and the noise to help the babies cool down. I am overly warm, too, even though I wore my hair in a ponytail. I am regretting not putting it all the way up into a bun, since it has gotten so long that it's still past my shoulders when it's up. I'm chatting with J's sister and making faces at her baby and mentally cursing my hair when Staring Man comes into the room and approaches.
"I hope you don't think I'm rude," he begins unwisely. His tone is not confrontational, but it's been my experience that if you think you need to start a conversation with that phrase, you are probably going to follow it up with something rude. "But...what religion are you?"
"We're Christian," says J's sister.
"Jesus. We like Jesus," I answer at the same time (if someone asks about my religion, I prefer to point to Jesus, rather than getting bogged down in definitions of religion and misconceptions about labels).
"Well, but what kind?" Staring Man asks, slightly more pushy this time. "Tell me more."
"Uh, we're just Evangelical Christians," J's sister says. She shrugs and we exchanged a confused look. "We're just Bible-believing...Christians..." She's not sure what he's getting at or how to phrase it so he'll understand. I super-helpfully mumble my line about Jesus again.
Staring Man just (predictably) stares at us for a long moment. J's sister and I shift the babies around uncomfortably, unsure what's going on. Staring Man opens his mouth a few times and then closes it, as if he can't find his words. I wonder again about that baseball bat.
Finally, he whispers, "Like, polygamist?"
We blink at him.
"Noooo...?" I say slowly. I am slightly unprepared for this turn of events. "Just...Christians." J's sister looks stunned for a second. My mind races and I realize that I, too, am wearing a long skirt and have really long hair and have been holding ALL the babies. Huh. Maybe he doesn't know where I fit? "There are two couples and then me," I say. I point at Baby Bean. "There's her and her parents. I live with them and help out with the baby."
"That's my brother and his wife. My husband and I have seven kids," J's sister follows. "He's here tonight, too." She adds that last part in bewilderment and the man has the decency to look slightly embarrassed. Not very, but slightly. "We get asked about our religion a lot, but we're just regular Christians."
Now the man is uncomfortable and obviously doesn't know how to get himself out of this situation he's created. He continues to ask other, less controversial questions as if he didn't casually pry into our sex lives and just generally makes small talk to fill the awkward silence. Finally, he thanks us and heads back to the table. J's sister and I turn to each other with wide eyes and burst into laughter. J's sister immediately goes into "EwewEW!" mode because, "That's my brother." And all I can think is he must not have seen her husband at the table, although with all his staring, I'm not sure how he missed him. I mean, that has to explain it, right? One guy plus three women plus many children equals polygamy...?
J's sister had a pretty good laugh telling her husband the story, but allowed me to tell J, whose first response was, "He probably wanted to know how I managed to get you all to agree to it." To which his sister very pointedly said, "Ew."
Later that evening, I texted my dad and told him Happy Father's Day and that his job was complete, as I had just been mistaken for a polygamist and there probably isn't a more...interesting standard by which to judge your parenting than that. He was just as baffled by the story as I was.
And, being the logical creature that I am, I continued to be bothered, not by the social or personal implications of what the man had asked, but by the mathematical stupidity it required. Even if he didn't see J's brother-in-law, there were still four adults at the table. There were eight kids. My first assumption would be three moms and one dad, which equals a married couple and two women without their husbands. If you split the kids among us, it's not like it would be ridiculous to think that we were three families of two or three kids each. I mean, I don't know about you and your life, but my first assumption would be multiple families, not multiple wives. OR! Even that there were two families, one heterosexual couple and one same-sex couple, each with four kids. I mean, I'll admit my brain doesn't go there as readily as it does to missing husbands, but it definitely goes there before it jumps to POLYGAMY.
I have since gotten over the math, but I still think from time to time about what happened later on the other side of this story. I can just imagine that man slinking back to the table and having to explain to his wife what he had just asked us and the horrified face she likely gave him. And I can just hear her saying, "Honey, you can't just ask people if they're polygamists."
Except. Sorry, I have a small problem to solve before I can tell the story. You all know I'm anonymous here and that I don't use real names very often. But this story is hard to tell without names and I don't exactly want to just make them up or use initials, which can be confusing (especially since Bean's husband shares initials with both his sisters, one of whom is a key player in this story). I often refer to Bean and Baby Bean, but what do I call her husband? Husbean? That seems an overly cutesy title for a man who is not my husband. There's a part of me that would like to give him a brand new name that is so ridiculous that everyone will realize it's fake, like "Aloysius" or "Fitzroy Von Gibbon, the Earl of Gloucester". Bean just calls him J on her blog, so I guess I'll go with that.
Father's Day Hibachi and My Mistaken Identity as a Member of a Polygamist Cult Family Cult
It's Father's Day. J decides that hibachi sounds like an excellent Father's Day feast and that he'd like to invite his sister and her family along. He invites me, too, and I'm like "Hey! Entertainment using food? Why not?" so I tag along. Now, let's pause to add some background: J's sister has seven children. The oldest is 18 or 19 and the youngest is about two months. Oh, and you should also know that she and her husband are pretty conservative, so all the girls wear long skirts or dresses and have long hair. And we're back in.
We pack up the adorable Baby Bean and head over to the restaurant, which Bean has thoughtfully called ahead to reserve a table because WHOA six adults and seven kids is a lot of people descending on your eating establishment, even if you don't have pretty rigid seating capacities at your grills. We arrive and are led to our grill/table without much of a wait which is very nice. With one infant in a bucket car seat, two little ones in high chairs, and the oldest nephew not in attendance (fine crazy boy, hibachi is delicious; more for us), we just barely fit around a single grill. We space the children around the table so that there is at least one adult within arm's reach and we're good to go. I immediately steal (with permission, which is basically borrowing, but whatever) the baby out of his car seat and marvel at how ridiculously small newborns are, especially when I've gotten used to Baby Bean who would be more accurately Toddler Bean.
Soon after we sit down, the grill opposite us (basically a mirror image so that the chef can access both grills simultaneously) fills up with several different families and couples. There's enough distance between our table and theirs that we can't really share a conversation, but we're all basically staring at one another. If we're not staring at our menus, which is the polite thing to do, strange man sitting catter-corner from me.
We're a slightly raucous group, as you might imagine, trying to get all of the kids to focus on their menus for long enough to pick something to eat. We also have a small hurdle to overcome, since at least one of the children is allergic to soy and hey, we're eating Japanese cuisine that may or may not have soy sauce on ALL OF IT. Anyway, we finally settle on a dish for every one and we give our order to the very nice and somewhat genuflecting waiter. The room is noisy and increasingly sauna-like due to the grills. When our salads and soup come, J calls for our attention and, as is the custom in many Christian families, we all grab hands and bow our heads while J offers grace.
I snuggle the infant in one arm and try to eat my salad one-handedly while helping the child next to me and also trying to avoid the STARES of Catter-Corner Staring Man. I make faces at Baby Bean and talk with the adults and ask the kids about school and church and whatever else you talk about with your live-in-family's-family's children. The chef comes and lights things on fire and makes a smoke volcano with an onion and does whatever hibachi-ing one would expect from a Hibachi chef. The kids are enraptured by everything he does and we're all enjoying ourselves immensely. The other table watches, too, because their chef hasn't arrived yet. Probably because he is currently cooking our meal. They all seem to be just as entertained as we are. Except for staring man, who is (predictably) still staring. At me.
Now, I should probably describe the nature of his staring: It's not exactly rude, except for the, you know, staring. His expression is not judgey or even curious. It's actually kind of blank. Like he's recently been hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat and he's trying to remember where he is. His mouth's a little open and he's mostly...bored. Which is sad for his wife and two or three children (I can't tell if the one on the other side of his wife belongs to his family or the next one over, because, unlike HIM, I am not looking at them enough to figure it out). Really, it seems like they dragged him out for a Father's Day celebration. He's just present and not much more. It's weird, but I give him the benefit of the doubt and think maybe he's actually staring off into space out of boredom and it just happens to be in my direction.
This is where I would normally make some comment about HOLY HELL HOW MANY WORDS HAVE I TYPED I AM SO TALKY SOMETIMES but really we all knew from my lengthy title up there that I was going to milk this for all it's worth, so let's just jump back in.
We eat a lot of food. I try sushi. I don't die. When the baby gets fussy, I jiggle him a little and try to soothe him, thinking this is probably a rare opportunity for his mother to eat a meal without a human attached to her. When it looks like she's close to finished, I hand him back to nurse. I eat some more, this time with both my hands, and I have a re-established respect for mothers everywhere. I help with another child. At various times, both mothers and J's brother-in-law leave the table to take children to the bathroom and/or change diapers. I take Baby Bean for a little bit so Bean can eat and so she doesn't have a high-chair-related meltdown. Baby Bean and I walk around the table, trying to stay out of everyone's way and chatting with each kid as I pass them. Staring Man continues to stare, his eyes following me as I pace with the baby.
J's sister gets up with her infant and we decide to step into the front room, away from the grills and the noise to help the babies cool down. I am overly warm, too, even though I wore my hair in a ponytail. I am regretting not putting it all the way up into a bun, since it has gotten so long that it's still past my shoulders when it's up. I'm chatting with J's sister and making faces at her baby and mentally cursing my hair when Staring Man comes into the room and approaches.
"I hope you don't think I'm rude," he begins unwisely. His tone is not confrontational, but it's been my experience that if you think you need to start a conversation with that phrase, you are probably going to follow it up with something rude. "But...what religion are you?"
"We're Christian," says J's sister.
"Jesus. We like Jesus," I answer at the same time (if someone asks about my religion, I prefer to point to Jesus, rather than getting bogged down in definitions of religion and misconceptions about labels).
"Well, but what kind?" Staring Man asks, slightly more pushy this time. "Tell me more."
"Uh, we're just Evangelical Christians," J's sister says. She shrugs and we exchanged a confused look. "We're just Bible-believing...Christians..." She's not sure what he's getting at or how to phrase it so he'll understand. I super-helpfully mumble my line about Jesus again.
Staring Man just (predictably) stares at us for a long moment. J's sister and I shift the babies around uncomfortably, unsure what's going on. Staring Man opens his mouth a few times and then closes it, as if he can't find his words. I wonder again about that baseball bat.
Finally, he whispers, "Like, polygamist?"
We blink at him.
"Noooo...?" I say slowly. I am slightly unprepared for this turn of events. "Just...Christians." J's sister looks stunned for a second. My mind races and I realize that I, too, am wearing a long skirt and have really long hair and have been holding ALL the babies. Huh. Maybe he doesn't know where I fit? "There are two couples and then me," I say. I point at Baby Bean. "There's her and her parents. I live with them and help out with the baby."
"That's my brother and his wife. My husband and I have seven kids," J's sister follows. "He's here tonight, too." She adds that last part in bewilderment and the man has the decency to look slightly embarrassed. Not very, but slightly. "We get asked about our religion a lot, but we're just regular Christians."
Now the man is uncomfortable and obviously doesn't know how to get himself out of this situation he's created. He continues to ask other, less controversial questions as if he didn't casually pry into our sex lives and just generally makes small talk to fill the awkward silence. Finally, he thanks us and heads back to the table. J's sister and I turn to each other with wide eyes and burst into laughter. J's sister immediately goes into "EwewEW!" mode because, "That's my brother." And all I can think is he must not have seen her husband at the table, although with all his staring, I'm not sure how he missed him. I mean, that has to explain it, right? One guy plus three women plus many children equals polygamy...?
J's sister had a pretty good laugh telling her husband the story, but allowed me to tell J, whose first response was, "He probably wanted to know how I managed to get you all to agree to it." To which his sister very pointedly said, "Ew."
Later that evening, I texted my dad and told him Happy Father's Day and that his job was complete, as I had just been mistaken for a polygamist and there probably isn't a more...interesting standard by which to judge your parenting than that. He was just as baffled by the story as I was.
And, being the logical creature that I am, I continued to be bothered, not by the social or personal implications of what the man had asked, but by the mathematical stupidity it required. Even if he didn't see J's brother-in-law, there were still four adults at the table. There were eight kids. My first assumption would be three moms and one dad, which equals a married couple and two women without their husbands. If you split the kids among us, it's not like it would be ridiculous to think that we were three families of two or three kids each. I mean, I don't know about you and your life, but my first assumption would be multiple families, not multiple wives. OR! Even that there were two families, one heterosexual couple and one same-sex couple, each with four kids. I mean, I'll admit my brain doesn't go there as readily as it does to missing husbands, but it definitely goes there before it jumps to POLYGAMY.
I have since gotten over the math, but I still think from time to time about what happened later on the other side of this story. I can just imagine that man slinking back to the table and having to explain to his wife what he had just asked us and the horrified face she likely gave him. And I can just hear her saying, "Honey, you can't just ask people if they're polygamists."
6.21.2012
Funny. I promise.
Several years ago, I had this job. An assistant-y type job, where I did pretty much whatever my boss wanted me to do and didn't ask a lot of questions. One of my tasks was to look through the local obituaries and write condolence letters to anyone that my boss knew or to whom she was connected in some way (she was both prominent in the community and old, leading to A LOT of these letters). One day, I read an obituary that made me laugh out loud.
And then I sent Sister a long e-mail detailing what exactly was so funny about this man and his obituary.
I know, I know. I'm a terrible person. And since that's already true, I might as well go all the way to hell and write a post based on that e-mail and post it here where EVERYBODY can read it. And before you click away, I am not going to laugh at the WAY he died or get gory at all. I may be going to hell, but I'm not that awful.
TO: Sister
SUBJECT: Funny. I promise.
You're having a bad day and I promised you funny, so here goes:
I have to look at all the local obituaries and gather the addresses of family members for condolences. This is not funny. But just wait, I'll get there.
One of the men who died this week was Robert "Bob" Smith.* He was 85 and he passed peacefully. This is not particularly funny, either.
His wife's name was Elizabeth, but he called her Bunny. Funnier.
Actually, he seems to have called her "his Bunny." Like, "My Bunny, can you get me some more coffee?" or "Hi, My Bunny, how was your day with our 11 children?" See, the funny is starting to grow on you, right?
He had three sons. Pretty average. Not too funny.
They were named Robert, Jerry, and Clyde. Clyde's kind of funny. But only a little.
One of his sons goes by Bob. Also average; also not funny.
Except that it's his second son Jerry, not Robert, who goes by Bob. Funny.
He also had eight daughters. (See! I totally wasn't kidding with the 11 children thing up there) I'm guessing he didn't find that too funny when he paid for their weddings. I would, though. Lots of money is lots of funny.
His oldest daughter's name is Shereen. Maybe not funny, but weird.
Until you meet her sisters: Laureen, Tareen, Joireen, Kathereen, Mareen, and Janeen. Now we've arrived at the funny.
Now, you're probably thinking, "Hey, that's only seven!" And you would be right, you great counter, you. Joining Shereen, Laureen, Tareen, Joireen, Kathereen, Mareen, and Janeen is the baby sister: Carol. Poor Carol. FUNNY!
(We could also take a second here to be a little bit sorry for Janeen, who missed out on the R that her other sisters got, including Carol. But I'm giggling too much to be that sorry.)
PLUS? Carol and Clyde were listed together. Last. Named with the same letter. I'd like to think they were twins. That would be funny. And twins as your tenth pregnancy? Even funnier. For everyone who is NOT Bunny, that is.
So, Mr. Robert "Bob" Smith. You had a long life. You did amazing things. You raised a (presumably) good family, albeit with odd monikers. And, you made a weary employee's day a little brighter. So thanks. God bless you. And God bless Bunny, Robert, Jerry "Bob", the 'Reens, and Carol & Clyde. Oh, and Janeen, who isn't actually a 'Reen.
Funny. I promised.
*I changed the last name to make this less google-able, but I swear the rest of the names are real. If you want to verify, e-mail me and I'll send you the link to the obituary. The reason I'm not linking it here is that it will give away my location, which is a closely-guarded secret. Also, you you happen to know this man or his family, I apologize for any offense, given or taken. Please e-mail me and tell me everything you know about these people, because I think I would really like them!
And then I sent Sister a long e-mail detailing what exactly was so funny about this man and his obituary.
I know, I know. I'm a terrible person. And since that's already true, I might as well go all the way to hell and write a post based on that e-mail and post it here where EVERYBODY can read it. And before you click away, I am not going to laugh at the WAY he died or get gory at all. I may be going to hell, but I'm not that awful.
**********
FROM: EliseTO: Sister
SUBJECT: Funny. I promise.
You're having a bad day and I promised you funny, so here goes:
I have to look at all the local obituaries and gather the addresses of family members for condolences. This is not funny. But just wait, I'll get there.
One of the men who died this week was Robert "Bob" Smith.* He was 85 and he passed peacefully. This is not particularly funny, either.
His wife's name was Elizabeth, but he called her Bunny. Funnier.
Actually, he seems to have called her "his Bunny." Like, "My Bunny, can you get me some more coffee?" or "Hi, My Bunny, how was your day with our 11 children?" See, the funny is starting to grow on you, right?
He had three sons. Pretty average. Not too funny.
They were named Robert, Jerry, and Clyde. Clyde's kind of funny. But only a little.
One of his sons goes by Bob. Also average; also not funny.
Except that it's his second son Jerry, not Robert, who goes by Bob. Funny.
He also had eight daughters. (See! I totally wasn't kidding with the 11 children thing up there) I'm guessing he didn't find that too funny when he paid for their weddings. I would, though. Lots of money is lots of funny.
His oldest daughter's name is Shereen. Maybe not funny, but weird.
Until you meet her sisters: Laureen, Tareen, Joireen, Kathereen, Mareen, and Janeen. Now we've arrived at the funny.
Now, you're probably thinking, "Hey, that's only seven!" And you would be right, you great counter, you. Joining Shereen, Laureen, Tareen, Joireen, Kathereen, Mareen, and Janeen is the baby sister: Carol. Poor Carol. FUNNY!
(We could also take a second here to be a little bit sorry for Janeen, who missed out on the R that her other sisters got, including Carol. But I'm giggling too much to be that sorry.)
PLUS? Carol and Clyde were listed together. Last. Named with the same letter. I'd like to think they were twins. That would be funny. And twins as your tenth pregnancy? Even funnier. For everyone who is NOT Bunny, that is.
So, Mr. Robert "Bob" Smith. You had a long life. You did amazing things. You raised a (presumably) good family, albeit with odd monikers. And, you made a weary employee's day a little brighter. So thanks. God bless you. And God bless Bunny, Robert, Jerry "Bob", the 'Reens, and Carol & Clyde. Oh, and Janeen, who isn't actually a 'Reen.
Funny. I promised.
**********
*I changed the last name to make this less google-able, but I swear the rest of the names are real. If you want to verify, e-mail me and I'll send you the link to the obituary. The reason I'm not linking it here is that it will give away my location, which is a closely-guarded secret. Also, you you happen to know this man or his family, I apologize for any offense, given or taken. Please e-mail me and tell me everything you know about these people, because I think I would really like them!
2.20.2012
PJs@TJ's Recap (Because My Title Cleverness Escapes Me Today)
I've been back for a week now and I haven't yet been able to write a decent wrap-up of PJs@TJ's. Part of this is because I have restarted WeightWatchers in full force, including twice weekly (early morning) yoga "classes" with Sister-In-Law (I put classes in quotes because what we're really doing is moving my furniture to the edges of my living room, popping in a DVD, and trying not too sweat too much on the hardwood). Also, on Thursday night, I started reading The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, which meant I spent the entire weekend alternating between consuming the trilogy as fast as I could and huddling in my bed wondering if they were going to give me nightmares. It doesn't help that Sister is out of town until March, so I'm alone in the house, sleeping in an unfamiliar room, and trying not to die by cat suffocation.
But really? The main reason I haven't written a recap of PJs@TJ's? Because it is so hard to put into words just how much fun I had. Or, at least, few enough words (as you'll sense by the length of this post). The weekend schedule was pretty simple, as promised. We mostly sat around TJ's living room, eating good food and trying to have six conversations at once. And when I write it like that, it doesn't sound that interesting. And that is just plain NOT TRUE. Because it was AMAZING.
My weekend started out on an interesting note. I had spent the entire week previous at Roommate's house in the Bay Area (I have all kinds of plans to recap that as well, along with some fun pictures. But I'll get to that later), so Roommate dropped me off at the San Jose airport. The airport which was FILLED WITH BIRDS. I'm not a real big fan of birds... I mean, it's not like I watched Hitchcock's famous movie and suddenly had the FEAR of birds. I just don't really love them. They're kind of dirty and always seem to be watching me. Plus, the whole "poop on your head with no remorse, even though it is almost impossible that it wasn't intentional" thing. Ick. I do like to watch them from a great distance, like eagles soaring and such the like. But a half-dozen swallow-looking things racing each other through the concourse four feet above my head? Not so wild about that.
The plane ride was uneventful, except for the fact that I got an exit row (my six-foot-tall frame thanks you mightily, Southwest) with two really nice gentlemen. But then I landed in Phoenix and I will admit to a small amount of panic. I sent this text to Sister:
I got my bag and waited for Brooke, of Building a Kingston Castle, to pick me up. And I sent this text to Sister:
But then Brooke drove up and was exactly who she claimed to be on her blog and was incredibly nice and I got over my fear. We met up with a few others and descended on TJ's house. Well, if you can count "driving through gate guarded by servicemen and women who are carrying very large, very lethal-looking guns who take your driver's license away for fifteen minutes and I'm sure put you in some kind of database or search for you in other kinds of databases and then kindly, but sternly warn you about the dangers of breaking the speed limit on base" as descending on TJ's house, then yes. That is what we did.
Now, I have to tell you, there is nothing quite so wonderful as walking into a room full of people you have never met before who spontaneously yell things like, "BAGELS! I'm so glad you came!!" That was pretty incredible (thanks, Linnea!). I told them my real name, though I think that may have just confused the process. And by the way, if you want to know my real name or where I'm from, all you have to do is invite me to your home and feed me. If you let me hold your baby, you might even get to learn Sister's name...
We spent the rest of the evening getting to know each other in person. And I think one of the coolest things was realizing that everyone was exactly who they were on their blogs--their voices and speaking patterns matched what I heard in my head when I read their stuff. And now, after knowing them in person, their blogs are even more alive with their voices.
Then we went back to our hotels. By the way, the Holiday In Express in Glendale, Arizona? Pretty nice. And even though it was already late, I talked WAY too much to my awesome (and patient) roommate, Kammah, and kept her up for quite a while. She was nice about it though, which tells me she's pretty cool.
Saturday was spent much the same way as Friday, gathering for breakfast and snacks, chatting and playing with babies, eating more than I should have but loving every second of it. Then TJ kicked us out to set up the house for the pajama party, so a lot of us when and got our nails done. Since Roommate and I had done mani/pedis three days before, I just sat and got to know as many of these awesome women as I could.
When we got back to the house, TJ did something so revolutionary and yet so simple, I'm not sure why someone has not thought of it before. She put a bed in the living room! I know. It sounds so simple, right? And yet? REVOLUTIONARY. All of us in attendance were pretty sure it would be a moment for the history books--in about fifteen years, children will ask their mothers, "What did people DO before they had beds in their living rooms?" And their mothers will answer, "They sat on couches, dear." And the children will look at them in amazement and wonder how people ever had comfort before the Living Room Bed.
So we all piled on the bed or the near-by couches and told stories (mostly of the Awful In-Law variety). Playing in the background, to give ambiance, was Dirty Dancing. When that was over, they put on Big with Tom Hanks. TJ explained her Tom Hanks Method of weeding out bad friends, which you really should ask her about yourself (I think it's somewhere in her archives). At some point, I was able to lull a sick Penny to sleep on my shoulder. And by "lull to sleep" I mean "practically bounce into oblivion while singing a monotone song we call Yayayayayayayaya-Uh-Yayayayayaya which she sang much better than I did." After than, we fulfilled TJ's goal of staying up past 11:00 pm with other adults, something that is actually a rarity with me (I know I complain about my slight insomnia, but that is always ALONE and never fun...).
Those of us with later fligths made it back to the house on Sunday morning to grab donuts and, wait for iiiiiiiiiiit, BAGELS! And also to say good-bye before we all rushed to the airport and the END of an amazing weekend that was not nearly long enough and yet so incredibly worth it.
And now that I've realized that this is the LONGEST POST EVER, I congratulate all of you who made it this far, especially those of you who WERE THERE AND THIS IS NOT NEWS FOR YOU. I'll just take one last second to say that TJ did a spectacular job preparing for twenty women and babies, dealing with the stresses that come with hosting that many people in a small home ON A MILITARY BASE, and still being able to enjoy herself and all of us. Despite the fact that her Pop Up Toasties have me craving things that are not PointsPlus friendly, I want to thank her very much for everything and hope she considers doing this again in the future (and allowing me to attend again).
Oh, and if you want to read other people's accounts of the weekend (which are more than likely MUCH better than this one), click here.
But really? The main reason I haven't written a recap of PJs@TJ's? Because it is so hard to put into words just how much fun I had. Or, at least, few enough words (as you'll sense by the length of this post). The weekend schedule was pretty simple, as promised. We mostly sat around TJ's living room, eating good food and trying to have six conversations at once. And when I write it like that, it doesn't sound that interesting. And that is just plain NOT TRUE. Because it was AMAZING.
My weekend started out on an interesting note. I had spent the entire week previous at Roommate's house in the Bay Area (I have all kinds of plans to recap that as well, along with some fun pictures. But I'll get to that later), so Roommate dropped me off at the San Jose airport. The airport which was FILLED WITH BIRDS. I'm not a real big fan of birds... I mean, it's not like I watched Hitchcock's famous movie and suddenly had the FEAR of birds. I just don't really love them. They're kind of dirty and always seem to be watching me. Plus, the whole "poop on your head with no remorse, even though it is almost impossible that it wasn't intentional" thing. Ick. I do like to watch them from a great distance, like eagles soaring and such the like. But a half-dozen swallow-looking things racing each other through the concourse four feet above my head? Not so wild about that.
The plane ride was uneventful, except for the fact that I got an exit row (my six-foot-tall frame thanks you mightily, Southwest) with two really nice gentlemen. But then I landed in Phoenix and I will admit to a small amount of panic. I sent this text to Sister:
I got my bag and waited for Brooke, of Building a Kingston Castle, to pick me up. And I sent this text to Sister:
But then Brooke drove up and was exactly who she claimed to be on her blog and was incredibly nice and I got over my fear. We met up with a few others and descended on TJ's house. Well, if you can count "driving through gate guarded by servicemen and women who are carrying very large, very lethal-looking guns who take your driver's license away for fifteen minutes and I'm sure put you in some kind of database or search for you in other kinds of databases and then kindly, but sternly warn you about the dangers of breaking the speed limit on base" as descending on TJ's house, then yes. That is what we did.
Now, I have to tell you, there is nothing quite so wonderful as walking into a room full of people you have never met before who spontaneously yell things like, "BAGELS! I'm so glad you came!!" That was pretty incredible (thanks, Linnea!). I told them my real name, though I think that may have just confused the process. And by the way, if you want to know my real name or where I'm from, all you have to do is invite me to your home and feed me. If you let me hold your baby, you might even get to learn Sister's name...
We spent the rest of the evening getting to know each other in person. And I think one of the coolest things was realizing that everyone was exactly who they were on their blogs--their voices and speaking patterns matched what I heard in my head when I read their stuff. And now, after knowing them in person, their blogs are even more alive with their voices.
Then we went back to our hotels. By the way, the Holiday In Express in Glendale, Arizona? Pretty nice. And even though it was already late, I talked WAY too much to my awesome (and patient) roommate, Kammah, and kept her up for quite a while. She was nice about it though, which tells me she's pretty cool.
Saturday was spent much the same way as Friday, gathering for breakfast and snacks, chatting and playing with babies, eating more than I should have but loving every second of it. Then TJ kicked us out to set up the house for the pajama party, so a lot of us when and got our nails done. Since Roommate and I had done mani/pedis three days before, I just sat and got to know as many of these awesome women as I could.
When we got back to the house, TJ did something so revolutionary and yet so simple, I'm not sure why someone has not thought of it before. She put a bed in the living room! I know. It sounds so simple, right? And yet? REVOLUTIONARY. All of us in attendance were pretty sure it would be a moment for the history books--in about fifteen years, children will ask their mothers, "What did people DO before they had beds in their living rooms?" And their mothers will answer, "They sat on couches, dear." And the children will look at them in amazement and wonder how people ever had comfort before the Living Room Bed.
So we all piled on the bed or the near-by couches and told stories (mostly of the Awful In-Law variety). Playing in the background, to give ambiance, was Dirty Dancing. When that was over, they put on Big with Tom Hanks. TJ explained her Tom Hanks Method of weeding out bad friends, which you really should ask her about yourself (I think it's somewhere in her archives). At some point, I was able to lull a sick Penny to sleep on my shoulder. And by "lull to sleep" I mean "practically bounce into oblivion while singing a monotone song we call Yayayayayayayaya-Uh-Yayayayayaya which she sang much better than I did." After than, we fulfilled TJ's goal of staying up past 11:00 pm with other adults, something that is actually a rarity with me (I know I complain about my slight insomnia, but that is always ALONE and never fun...).
Those of us with later fligths made it back to the house on Sunday morning to grab donuts and, wait for iiiiiiiiiiit, BAGELS! And also to say good-bye before we all rushed to the airport and the END of an amazing weekend that was not nearly long enough and yet so incredibly worth it.
And now that I've realized that this is the LONGEST POST EVER, I congratulate all of you who made it this far, especially those of you who WERE THERE AND THIS IS NOT NEWS FOR YOU. I'll just take one last second to say that TJ did a spectacular job preparing for twenty women and babies, dealing with the stresses that come with hosting that many people in a small home ON A MILITARY BASE, and still being able to enjoy herself and all of us. Despite the fact that her Pop Up Toasties have me craving things that are not PointsPlus friendly, I want to thank her very much for everything and hope she considers doing this again in the future (and allowing me to attend again).
Oh, and if you want to read other people's accounts of the weekend (which are more than likely MUCH better than this one), click here.
11.29.2011
Oh Fishsticks!
I am currently curled up on my couch with a glass of sweet red wine,
type-type-typing away on my novel. I need to complete a minimum of 5,000
words today and tomorrow each to get finished on time. I just crossed
the 43K mark, so I still have a lot of work to do. But as much as I hate
my novel right now, I cannot imagine getting to midnight on Thursday
morning and realizing I failed NaNoWriMo with less than seven thousand
words to go. That would be ridiculous.
However, getting to the same time on Thursday and realizing I failed NaBloPoMo by only two days would also be excruciating. So, I'm taking a break from typing that to type this. You're welcome? Probably not... Anyway, I thought I would tell you the sad sad story of Lola Betty, the Betta Fish and her true love Marty Allen, the Bluest Betta.
Lola Betty was my beautiful magenta betta fish... Wait, I should back up.
It was the summer between Junior and Senior year of college. Roommate and I had just moved into our new apartment, finally escaping Liar and the financial havoc she had inflicted. What with the move and finals and jobs and LIFE, we had kind of skipped over Roommate's birthday. I mean, we went to dinner and celebrated, but I hadn't had time to get her a super cool awesome present. Okay, who are we kidding? I am an awful gift giver. They are rarely super, cool, or awesome and are most commonly books.
Anyway, after ages of struggling to figure out what to get her, I just asked. I said, "Roommate, tell me what you want and I will take you out and buy it for you and hand it to you outside the store. And you can just pretend I was thoughtful and also that I wrapped it." Because I am an awesome gift giver.
It was around this time that we had been (half-)joking about getting a puppy--Roommate is not big on cats. But we knew our apartment wasn't really set up for either kind of pet. Plus we had no money and not a lot of time. And? Roommate had never had a pet (I know, right?!), so she was leery of starting with something so complicated. So I would say, "Let's get a kitten!" and Roommate would say, "No cats. How about a puppy?" And then I would say, "We have no money and no time!" and she would say, "Maybe a fish?" So for her birthday, I offered to buy her a fish.
She wanted a goldfish, but I had heard that they were actually rather finicky and died easily and you had to clean their bowls a lot. So when we got to the pet store, I steered her towards the bettas. I knew they were pretty hardy, so she was less likely to kill her first pet, which would be traumatizing and might ruin her for all pets in the future (hint... hint...). We also toyed with the idea of getting a plant first and seeing how it went, but I had great faith in her. So we looked at all of the teensy-tiny cups of bettas.
And look, I know they say bettas need very little space, but I think we go a little crazy with that concept. It's just mean! There were quite a few dead in those tiny cups and others looked nearly there. We wanted to rescue them all. But, like I said, we had very little money. So I ended up picking one for myself. A beautiful magenta female, with long flowy fins. Roommate kept wandering over to the goldfish and I kept telling her, "I'll buy you whatever you want, but I'd rather buy you something that won't die right away." Because I am an excellent gift giver.
Finally, she settled on a dark blue male betta. We carefully picked out glass bowls, rocks, plants, and decorations. I got glow-in-the-dark plastic rocks and a plant that we later discovered (in a very sleepy and strangely terrifying incident) also glowed in the dark. Glew in the dark? No. Glowed in the dark.
When we had everything we wanted, we took our fish and I paid for it all. And right before we got out of the store, we saw that there were some visiting shelter puppies up for adoption. I almost returned the fish--I'm just being honest. On the way home, we discussed names. We couldn't pick just one favorite name and they ended up with middle names. Which is a lot for such a little fish. She had Marty Allen and I had Lola Betty.
Because bettas tend to fight, we set them up in separate bowls. But we had this elaborate and ridiculous (and we knew it was ridiculous, but we thought we were hilarious anyway) story about how they were husband and wife, their love forever hindered by two pieces of glass and four inches of counter space. Sometimes, we thought they might even be communicating, since they would gravitate toward each other, watching through the barriers of their bowls. I'm not sure how often we leaned down to the counter and made stupid fishy-kissy faces at them, but it was a lot. They probably thought we were morons.
We took great care of those fish. We had a feeding schedule and everything. We took turns feeding them. We had a whole system for marking that one of us had fed them. It helped my flaky brain and satisfied Roommate that she wasn't going to kill her first pet. Our friends used to mock us, saying we were like a married couple with kids. "Did you feed Jimmy breakfast?" "Who's picking Sally up from school?" We didn't care. We loved those fish. And we both agreed it was nice to come home to something living at the end of a long day of work, school, and junk.
We had them for almost six months. Then Christmas rolled around. We were both leaving town for two weeks to see our families. It was the first time we were going to be away from the fish for more than two days. We went out and bought vacation feeders for them and Roommate arranged to have a local friend check on them halfway through the break. We finished finals, packed last minute (like always), and headed out of town. In the flurry, we forgot to give the friend a key. "Oh well!" we thought. "They have fresh water and vacation feeders. They're bettas. They'll be fine!"
There were two things we did not take into account. First of all, we had turned down the thermostat to save money while we were gone. Second, a huge storm hit our normally temperate city. The entire city was shut down for over a week due to snow and ice. Roommate's friend couldn't have gotten there to check on them anyway. In the end, all of the details conspired against us. When Roommate got home, she found their bowls covered in a thin layer of ice.
Lola and Marty were no more.
I felt incredibly bad for Roommate, who did everything she was supposed to do as a first time pet owner. We were so worried about forgetting to feed them or not cleaning their bowls often enough. I don't think either of us expected them to freeze to death. And I feel even worse, because when she called me to tell me, I think I made her think it was her fault. I was pretty much only mad at myself. Sorry, Roommate. You were an excellent fish parent. Don't ever doubt that.
It's kind of depressing to think of them slowly dying in the cold water. I imagine Lola shivering and Marty reassuring her that we would come home soon and rescue them. And even though it might be cruel to laugh at the expense of the pet I killed, I have a strange brain. All I can imagine of their last days is an epic, Titanic-style death scene. Freezing slowly, calling out their love for one another. Saying sappy things like, "I'll never let go!" I imagine few of those musical fish from that song on The Little Mermaid probably played a tiny string quartet as the water got colder. Lola wishing she was a salmon and built for this kind of water, Marty wishing he had a tiny fishy door to put Lola on...
Wait, I think I took the metaphor a little too far. I think NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo have broken me.Anyway, that is the Tragic and Totally True Tale of Lola Betty and Marty Allen, the Well-Loved and Very Loving Frozen Fish. The end.
However, getting to the same time on Thursday and realizing I failed NaBloPoMo by only two days would also be excruciating. So, I'm taking a break from typing that to type this. You're welcome? Probably not... Anyway, I thought I would tell you the sad sad story of Lola Betty, the Betta Fish and her true love Marty Allen, the Bluest Betta.
Lola Betty was my beautiful magenta betta fish... Wait, I should back up.
It was the summer between Junior and Senior year of college. Roommate and I had just moved into our new apartment, finally escaping Liar and the financial havoc she had inflicted. What with the move and finals and jobs and LIFE, we had kind of skipped over Roommate's birthday. I mean, we went to dinner and celebrated, but I hadn't had time to get her a super cool awesome present. Okay, who are we kidding? I am an awful gift giver. They are rarely super, cool, or awesome and are most commonly books.
Anyway, after ages of struggling to figure out what to get her, I just asked. I said, "Roommate, tell me what you want and I will take you out and buy it for you and hand it to you outside the store. And you can just pretend I was thoughtful and also that I wrapped it." Because I am an awesome gift giver.
It was around this time that we had been (half-)joking about getting a puppy--Roommate is not big on cats. But we knew our apartment wasn't really set up for either kind of pet. Plus we had no money and not a lot of time. And? Roommate had never had a pet (I know, right?!), so she was leery of starting with something so complicated. So I would say, "Let's get a kitten!" and Roommate would say, "No cats. How about a puppy?" And then I would say, "We have no money and no time!" and she would say, "Maybe a fish?" So for her birthday, I offered to buy her a fish.
She wanted a goldfish, but I had heard that they were actually rather finicky and died easily and you had to clean their bowls a lot. So when we got to the pet store, I steered her towards the bettas. I knew they were pretty hardy, so she was less likely to kill her first pet, which would be traumatizing and might ruin her for all pets in the future (hint... hint...). We also toyed with the idea of getting a plant first and seeing how it went, but I had great faith in her. So we looked at all of the teensy-tiny cups of bettas.
And look, I know they say bettas need very little space, but I think we go a little crazy with that concept. It's just mean! There were quite a few dead in those tiny cups and others looked nearly there. We wanted to rescue them all. But, like I said, we had very little money. So I ended up picking one for myself. A beautiful magenta female, with long flowy fins. Roommate kept wandering over to the goldfish and I kept telling her, "I'll buy you whatever you want, but I'd rather buy you something that won't die right away." Because I am an excellent gift giver.
Finally, she settled on a dark blue male betta. We carefully picked out glass bowls, rocks, plants, and decorations. I got glow-in-the-dark plastic rocks and a plant that we later discovered (in a very sleepy and strangely terrifying incident) also glowed in the dark. Glew in the dark? No. Glowed in the dark.
When we had everything we wanted, we took our fish and I paid for it all. And right before we got out of the store, we saw that there were some visiting shelter puppies up for adoption. I almost returned the fish--I'm just being honest. On the way home, we discussed names. We couldn't pick just one favorite name and they ended up with middle names. Which is a lot for such a little fish. She had Marty Allen and I had Lola Betty.
Because bettas tend to fight, we set them up in separate bowls. But we had this elaborate and ridiculous (and we knew it was ridiculous, but we thought we were hilarious anyway) story about how they were husband and wife, their love forever hindered by two pieces of glass and four inches of counter space. Sometimes, we thought they might even be communicating, since they would gravitate toward each other, watching through the barriers of their bowls. I'm not sure how often we leaned down to the counter and made stupid fishy-kissy faces at them, but it was a lot. They probably thought we were morons.
We took great care of those fish. We had a feeding schedule and everything. We took turns feeding them. We had a whole system for marking that one of us had fed them. It helped my flaky brain and satisfied Roommate that she wasn't going to kill her first pet. Our friends used to mock us, saying we were like a married couple with kids. "Did you feed Jimmy breakfast?" "Who's picking Sally up from school?" We didn't care. We loved those fish. And we both agreed it was nice to come home to something living at the end of a long day of work, school, and junk.
We had them for almost six months. Then Christmas rolled around. We were both leaving town for two weeks to see our families. It was the first time we were going to be away from the fish for more than two days. We went out and bought vacation feeders for them and Roommate arranged to have a local friend check on them halfway through the break. We finished finals, packed last minute (like always), and headed out of town. In the flurry, we forgot to give the friend a key. "Oh well!" we thought. "They have fresh water and vacation feeders. They're bettas. They'll be fine!"
There were two things we did not take into account. First of all, we had turned down the thermostat to save money while we were gone. Second, a huge storm hit our normally temperate city. The entire city was shut down for over a week due to snow and ice. Roommate's friend couldn't have gotten there to check on them anyway. In the end, all of the details conspired against us. When Roommate got home, she found their bowls covered in a thin layer of ice.
Lola and Marty were no more.
I felt incredibly bad for Roommate, who did everything she was supposed to do as a first time pet owner. We were so worried about forgetting to feed them or not cleaning their bowls often enough. I don't think either of us expected them to freeze to death. And I feel even worse, because when she called me to tell me, I think I made her think it was her fault. I was pretty much only mad at myself. Sorry, Roommate. You were an excellent fish parent. Don't ever doubt that.
It's kind of depressing to think of them slowly dying in the cold water. I imagine Lola shivering and Marty reassuring her that we would come home soon and rescue them. And even though it might be cruel to laugh at the expense of the pet I killed, I have a strange brain. All I can imagine of their last days is an epic, Titanic-style death scene. Freezing slowly, calling out their love for one another. Saying sappy things like, "I'll never let go!" I imagine few of those musical fish from that song on The Little Mermaid probably played a tiny string quartet as the water got colder. Lola wishing she was a salmon and built for this kind of water, Marty wishing he had a tiny fishy door to put Lola on...
Wait, I think I took the metaphor a little too far. I think NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo have broken me.Anyway, that is the Tragic and Totally True Tale of Lola Betty and Marty Allen, the Well-Loved and Very Loving Frozen Fish. The end.
11.20.2011
Head Injuries Make Awful Love Stories
After yesterday's anti-sleep propaganda post, I sat and twittered (tweeted?) for a while. Then I tried to novel. And my eyes crosses and everything got pretty blurry. So just as the sun was finally lighting up the world (about 9:45... yeah, I know, right?), I went and curled up on my couch and finally drifted off to sleep. Sister woke me at 12:45 to say she was leaving to go shopping with Mom and offered me her non-broken, lovely queen sized bed for further sleep. I slept until a little past 3:00. At which point the sun was hanging low in the sky. So basically, I got about 2.5 hours of daylight yesterday. Oh, Far North, how I have mixed feelings about you...
I'm happy to report that I got about 6 hours of sleep last night and about three more this afternoon, which will hopefully only keep me up until 1:00 or so tonight and I'll be back on track. Or I'll become a bat and only flit about the world at nighttime. Whatever... Not that ANY of you cared to know this much detail about my sleeping habits. Because, seriously? Who else cares but me? And maybe my mother (Hi, Mom!). Moving on.
Since I spent most of yesterday like a zombie (LIKE a zombie, not BEING a zombie--hold off on your blowtorches and machetes, zombie killers) and most of today churching or napping, I don't have anything really interesting to report.
Well, except that Papa was struck with a very painful headache last night (rapid onset and high level of pain) and actually AGREED to go to the hospital to get checked out, which was pretty scary. He hates going to the doctor, so you know his pain has to be ridiculously high when he agrees to go. Anyway, it turned out to be an abnormal presentation of a migraine, not a stroke or an aneurism (not that my mind jumped to those conclusions or anything), but they gave him some pretty hefty painkillers and sent him home. The only thing is, he still had a terrible headache, he was now just woozy and disoriented on top of that, because the drugs didn't touch the headache. So Sister and I spent a lot of last night waiting at my parent's house for news about his brain and then an hour or so trying to be helpful with a very sedate and funny Papa.
But, again, that's probably not that interesting to you guys either.So I thought I would tell you a story. The story of my first kiss. I know. Awesome, right? Are you ready for this?
I was four (shhhh! I'm telling a story; don't interrupt with your laughter). His name was Jordan and he was three (which is kind of funny, because I have never again liked a younger man). His mother babysat me a few days a week (maybe less, maybe more... I'm not sure; I was four) and Jordan and I would play together for a few hours. My favorite thing to do was to dress up like Belle from Beauty and the Beast and make him waltz with me all around their basement playroom. It was my favorite movie at the time. I had a satiny yellow dress like the one she wears in the ballroom scene and my mother made me a blue cape with a hood, just like hers. So I would make Jordan be the Beast and I would play Belle and we would dance ALL DAY. Because I was a nice friend and never monopolized out playing time.
We also played other things, including Tonka trucks, which I thought were kind of awesome. We also colored, played in his sandbox, and did all of the general "kid" activities one does with a friend at age four. His mother was the first to introduce me to rhubarb, which I hate to this day. His mom also gave birth to twins at some point that year, which was the first time I had ever encountered that concept. Let's just say, my mind was BOGGLED by the idea of two babies at once and the fact that they could possibly look EXACTLY THE SAME (these two didn't, because one was a boy and one was a girl). Actually, I'm pretty sure that's why I have always wanted twins. The funny thing is, if I had been just slightly older and had noticed how tired and frazzled she looked and how difficult it was for her to get both of them to sleep at the same time, I probably would have a life long aversion to the idea.
Anyway, do any of you remember doing that thing, where you're at a friend's house and your parent shows up to take you home and you hide? Anyone? It wasn't a naughty kind of hiding, like I hated my parents or I was going to refuse to leave this person's house or I'm hiding JUST to frustrate and annoy my mother. It was more of a, "Hey, let's be funny and hide in this closet and giggle as Mom walks past on her way to the playroom, then jump out and say HI!" type of thing.
One day, I hear my mother upstairs, talking to Mrs. Jordan's Mom and he says, "Hide!" And I giggle and run around looking for a spot. He opens the laundry closet, which is basically louvered doors in front of a space exactly the depth of a washer and dryer. In order to do laundry, you have to open the doors and you can't stand in there when they're closed. But if you're four, you can sit cross-legged on TOP of the washer and the door closes just fine. So I'm sitting on the washer and I can see Jordan through the slats of the door. I hear my mother call for me and I giggle again. Then Mrs. Jordan's Mom calls for him and, being a very obedient three-year-old at the time, he immediately opens the laundry door to tell me we have to go upstairs.
But as soon as he opens the door, I LAUNCH myself at him, all flying squirrel-like. I hit him in the shoulders, knocking both of us to the floor and squashing him underneath me. Then, impulsive like I have never been since, I peck him on one cheek, then the other, then his lips. Then I jump up giggling and flounce up the stairs as if nothing has happened. I'm pretty sure my mother told me to say goodbye to Jordan, which I just yelled down the stairs in his general direction, and we were out to the car before he appeared.
And that is the story of my first kiss. It was a good one, right? I wasn't ashamed of it or anything, but I also never thought to tell anyone about it. Until my first year of college. A bunch of us girls were sitting around talking about our first kisses and I was slightly embarrassed that I was eighteen and had never been kissed. And then I remembered Jordan. So when it seemed like my turn, I told that story, not letting on that I had not been kissed since. The girls thought this was an incredibly funny and also enormously original way to kiss a boy.
And it became this thing. They would say something like, "I really like him! Maybe I'll take him to the laundry room and just tackle him, Elise-style..." with a licentious eyebrow waggle in my direction. And I would remind them that: A. the laundry room was not private, by any means, so they would need to be cautious if "tackling him" meant anything other than kissing; and B. the laundry room floor was poured concrete, which meant they were far more likely to concuss their love interest than they were to kiss him. None of them ever seemed to listen to me. But none of them ever tried it either, as far as I know. No traumatic brain injuries occurred in the basement of our dorm building while I went there, anyway...
One of my friends, who had been there when I told the story, was completely enamored with one of our guy friends. She claimed he had given her all sorts of signals, but she was still waiting for him to "make his move." And even though each of us had gently tried to help her see that he wanted nothing to do with her whatsoever and had told more than one of us so, she remained smitten. In fact, she would devote significant portions of her day (and our conversations) to planning their wedding and naming their children. She was a little... off-kilter. But she was particularly fond of my story and the idea of "tackling him in the laundry room." And every time I hung out with him, I had the strangest urge to go all PROPHECY VOICE on him and say crap like, "BEWARE THE PLACE WHERE CLOTHES ARE CLEANED" or "DETERGENT AND SOFTENER MEAN DEATH TO ANY HE WHO ENTERS HERE."
But, instead, I stopped spending time with crazy people and boys who play with girls' emotions. Three years later, I ran into both of them, separately, around graduation time. All she was could talk about how much she liked him and wondering when he was going to make his move (!) and he didn't know who I was talking about at first when I mentioned seeing her. She's engaged now and I think he's a priest. So it all worked out for everyone, I guess.
Except for me, the girl who STILL hasn't been kissed. And I used to be embarrassed about it. But when I think back to all the stories those girls told, most of them regretted who they kissed or it was awkward and disappointing. So I figure it will happen when it happens and when it does, it will be GOOD. And until then, I am content in knowing that I was once bold and impulsiveand an example to amorous college freshmen and that I make an impressive flying-squirrel.
I'm happy to report that I got about 6 hours of sleep last night and about three more this afternoon, which will hopefully only keep me up until 1:00 or so tonight and I'll be back on track. Or I'll become a bat and only flit about the world at nighttime. Whatever... Not that ANY of you cared to know this much detail about my sleeping habits. Because, seriously? Who else cares but me? And maybe my mother (Hi, Mom!). Moving on.
Since I spent most of yesterday like a zombie (LIKE a zombie, not BEING a zombie--hold off on your blowtorches and machetes, zombie killers) and most of today churching or napping, I don't have anything really interesting to report.
Well, except that Papa was struck with a very painful headache last night (rapid onset and high level of pain) and actually AGREED to go to the hospital to get checked out, which was pretty scary. He hates going to the doctor, so you know his pain has to be ridiculously high when he agrees to go. Anyway, it turned out to be an abnormal presentation of a migraine, not a stroke or an aneurism (not that my mind jumped to those conclusions or anything), but they gave him some pretty hefty painkillers and sent him home. The only thing is, he still had a terrible headache, he was now just woozy and disoriented on top of that, because the drugs didn't touch the headache. So Sister and I spent a lot of last night waiting at my parent's house for news about his brain and then an hour or so trying to be helpful with a very sedate and funny Papa.
But, again, that's probably not that interesting to you guys either.So I thought I would tell you a story. The story of my first kiss. I know. Awesome, right? Are you ready for this?
I was four (shhhh! I'm telling a story; don't interrupt with your laughter). His name was Jordan and he was three (which is kind of funny, because I have never again liked a younger man). His mother babysat me a few days a week (maybe less, maybe more... I'm not sure; I was four) and Jordan and I would play together for a few hours. My favorite thing to do was to dress up like Belle from Beauty and the Beast and make him waltz with me all around their basement playroom. It was my favorite movie at the time. I had a satiny yellow dress like the one she wears in the ballroom scene and my mother made me a blue cape with a hood, just like hers. So I would make Jordan be the Beast and I would play Belle and we would dance ALL DAY. Because I was a nice friend and never monopolized out playing time.
We also played other things, including Tonka trucks, which I thought were kind of awesome. We also colored, played in his sandbox, and did all of the general "kid" activities one does with a friend at age four. His mother was the first to introduce me to rhubarb, which I hate to this day. His mom also gave birth to twins at some point that year, which was the first time I had ever encountered that concept. Let's just say, my mind was BOGGLED by the idea of two babies at once and the fact that they could possibly look EXACTLY THE SAME (these two didn't, because one was a boy and one was a girl). Actually, I'm pretty sure that's why I have always wanted twins. The funny thing is, if I had been just slightly older and had noticed how tired and frazzled she looked and how difficult it was for her to get both of them to sleep at the same time, I probably would have a life long aversion to the idea.
Anyway, do any of you remember doing that thing, where you're at a friend's house and your parent shows up to take you home and you hide? Anyone? It wasn't a naughty kind of hiding, like I hated my parents or I was going to refuse to leave this person's house or I'm hiding JUST to frustrate and annoy my mother. It was more of a, "Hey, let's be funny and hide in this closet and giggle as Mom walks past on her way to the playroom, then jump out and say HI!" type of thing.
One day, I hear my mother upstairs, talking to Mrs. Jordan's Mom and he says, "Hide!" And I giggle and run around looking for a spot. He opens the laundry closet, which is basically louvered doors in front of a space exactly the depth of a washer and dryer. In order to do laundry, you have to open the doors and you can't stand in there when they're closed. But if you're four, you can sit cross-legged on TOP of the washer and the door closes just fine. So I'm sitting on the washer and I can see Jordan through the slats of the door. I hear my mother call for me and I giggle again. Then Mrs. Jordan's Mom calls for him and, being a very obedient three-year-old at the time, he immediately opens the laundry door to tell me we have to go upstairs.
But as soon as he opens the door, I LAUNCH myself at him, all flying squirrel-like. I hit him in the shoulders, knocking both of us to the floor and squashing him underneath me. Then, impulsive like I have never been since, I peck him on one cheek, then the other, then his lips. Then I jump up giggling and flounce up the stairs as if nothing has happened. I'm pretty sure my mother told me to say goodbye to Jordan, which I just yelled down the stairs in his general direction, and we were out to the car before he appeared.
And that is the story of my first kiss. It was a good one, right? I wasn't ashamed of it or anything, but I also never thought to tell anyone about it. Until my first year of college. A bunch of us girls were sitting around talking about our first kisses and I was slightly embarrassed that I was eighteen and had never been kissed. And then I remembered Jordan. So when it seemed like my turn, I told that story, not letting on that I had not been kissed since. The girls thought this was an incredibly funny and also enormously original way to kiss a boy.
And it became this thing. They would say something like, "I really like him! Maybe I'll take him to the laundry room and just tackle him, Elise-style..." with a licentious eyebrow waggle in my direction. And I would remind them that: A. the laundry room was not private, by any means, so they would need to be cautious if "tackling him" meant anything other than kissing; and B. the laundry room floor was poured concrete, which meant they were far more likely to concuss their love interest than they were to kiss him. None of them ever seemed to listen to me. But none of them ever tried it either, as far as I know. No traumatic brain injuries occurred in the basement of our dorm building while I went there, anyway...
One of my friends, who had been there when I told the story, was completely enamored with one of our guy friends. She claimed he had given her all sorts of signals, but she was still waiting for him to "make his move." And even though each of us had gently tried to help her see that he wanted nothing to do with her whatsoever and had told more than one of us so, she remained smitten. In fact, she would devote significant portions of her day (and our conversations) to planning their wedding and naming their children. She was a little... off-kilter. But she was particularly fond of my story and the idea of "tackling him in the laundry room." And every time I hung out with him, I had the strangest urge to go all PROPHECY VOICE on him and say crap like, "BEWARE THE PLACE WHERE CLOTHES ARE CLEANED" or "DETERGENT AND SOFTENER MEAN DEATH TO ANY HE WHO ENTERS HERE."
But, instead, I stopped spending time with crazy people and boys who play with girls' emotions. Three years later, I ran into both of them, separately, around graduation time. All she was could talk about how much she liked him and wondering when he was going to make his move (!) and he didn't know who I was talking about at first when I mentioned seeing her. She's engaged now and I think he's a priest. So it all worked out for everyone, I guess.
Except for me, the girl who STILL hasn't been kissed. And I used to be embarrassed about it. But when I think back to all the stories those girls told, most of them regretted who they kissed or it was awkward and disappointing. So I figure it will happen when it happens and when it does, it will be GOOD. And until then, I am content in knowing that I was once bold and impulsive
11.11.2011
Sometimes I Forget Who I Am and I Do Semi-Cool Things
When I was in high school, I knew this boy named Chris. As I've said before, I grew up in a pretty small town. There were maybe four or five elementary schools that fed into my middle school and my middle school fed directly into my high school. So in about 6th Grade, I had met most of the people I would be going to school with for the rest of my adolescence. But Chris was a transfer during seventh grade. I can't remember from where--I think his family had moved here from the next town over. He fit in right away and was always around, but usually on the periphery of my school activities.
In high school, Chris and I had a lot of classes together, but we had never really spoken. He was in all the honors and advanced classes like me, but he also wrestled and I think he even played football. He was like the poster child for being well-rounded. He was also pretty cute, in that adorable nerdy-boy-next-door-who-also-plays-sports-and-will-probably-run-the-space-station-someday kind of way. Completely untouchable by the likes of me, especially once he started dating a sweet girl named Allie who could have easily have been a movie star.
And it wasn't that I liked him, per se. But he was a good guy, smart and funny and likable. Every once in a while, he would catch my attention and I would think, "Yeah, he's the kind of guy I want" or even "He'll probably grow up to be the kind of man I'd marry." More observation than crush, more appraisal than interest. Though I wouldn't have minded being his friend.
But I didn't have guy friends in high school. I barely had girl friends. I always wanted to be a part of an awesome group that teenage television sells you every weeknight and that my siblings seemed to find so effortlessly. But, on the rare occasion that I got invited to hang out with an already established group of people, I would feel like an outsider and would quickly become a wall-flower. I tended to have one friend at a time, a best friend. Or even a few at a time, who were unconnected to each other. I did better one-on-one (okay, so rereading that makes me realize that maybe I'm just an attention whore).
Anyway, somewhere during junior year, Chris and I started being paired up occasionally. In Spanish, we were in a group together, with the assignment to write and perform a skit in Spanish. As much of an overachiever as he was, his Spanish was absolutely horrible. Oh, he knew all the words by memory and used the correct grammar, but it was like listening to a robot. A robot with a Canadian accent. Which was doubly impressive because Chris didn't have an accent when he spoke English... I'm off track. Hold on.
Oh, yes. So he and I were spending more time together. We were chemistry partners for a while. I helped him edit a few of his English papers. He tried to help me learn calculus--it went...okay. We were even a part of a calculus study group that met at our friend Carlie's house. Even in all of this, we weren't really friends. Not the kinds of friends that saw each other outside of school or talked on the phone or anything. Just, study buddies, if that. We were even sometimes competitors, but not in an adversarial way.
But near the end of senior year, we were seeing even more of each other. It quickly became clear that he was going to get Valedictorian and I was not (stupid Chemistry class!), which was something I had always wanted. But after he wrote his speech for graduation, he brought it to me all self-conscious and wanted to know what I thought. I thought that was kind of sweet and I can't resist helping pretty much anyone. So I helped him edit it and polish it. And I failed at talking him out of the three redneck references, including "Git Er Dun!" as the closing line of the speech. This broke my heart a little, but I healed.
It was around this time that we found out he had gotten a prestigious internship that I had also applied for. Instead of being jealous--oh, that's a lie. I was completely jealous. But when he told me he got it and he was so excited, I didn't want to come off as a totally self-centered jerk. So, in order to say something, I casually suggested that he send me e-mail updates. I told him it would be the next best thing to actually going. Inside, I was thinking that was the worst way to combat the jealousy, but I never thought he'd actually do it.
But he did. A few days after graduation, I opened my inbox and saw a long e-mail from him, detailing all of the fun things he was getting to do and the big names he was getting to meet. And I wasn't jealous, strangely. It was awesome to hear about it and I wrote back with more questions. We wrote on and off for his whole internship. He left the internship a few days early, because he was headed into Plebe Summer at the Naval Academy. That's right, he was smart, cute, athletic, and IN UNIFORM. He was like the perfect man!
Once he got to the academy, I figured I wouldn't hear from him again. Then, one strange summer afternoon, I got a call from his mother. She said he wouldn't have Internet access until the end of the summer, but she knew we had been writing and thought it might be nice for him if I continued writing "the old fashioned way." She cautioned me not to put my first name in the return address or he might be teased for getting mail from a girl. I was tempted to do that anyway... But I never did. We wrote letters a few times and on one of his rare breaks, in which he got to use the phone, he called me.
It was a strange and uncomfortable conversation, since we hadn't ever spoken on the phone before and things that I found so easy to write (just my day-to-day activities, nothing super personal) seemed weird when spoken. But he told me about the things he was doing and how it wasn't as difficult as he had imagined, but also harder in other ways. Before we hung up, he gave me his new Naval Academy e-mail address and we said we'd keep writing. But then the e-mail didn't work right at first and we never really got back into it.
And I never heard from him again. I would see him on Facebook sometimes and message him that way, but he didn't respond and I didn't have anything that interesting to say. Or anything that I wanted all his friends to read on his wall. So we lost touch, like we would have done right after graduation, had it not been for our common interest in that internship.
But every once in a while, I think about Chris and our "summer of letters" (probably a dozen e-mails and a handful of letters, just in case I've overstated how involved this actually was). I think about that time and I wonder WHAT THE HECK?
That was so not me! I was NEVER friends with boys. I am shy and kind of reclusive and not at all the kind of girl who does things like that. I don't write letters to acquaintances or TALK TO THEM ON THE PHONE about the things I wrote to them in letters. What the heck, self? Who were you that summer? And then I think: why can't you be like that all the time? Maybe you would have a relationship right now if you weren't so "shy and kind of reclusive and not all the kind of girl who does things like that."
And during the time I was writing those letters, I never once had this overwhelming feeling of needing him in my life or anything. But the hopeless romantic side of me would butt in occasionally with, "Wouldn't this make a great love story? Started as friends, wrote letters all summer, fell in love, and got to tell this story to your grandchildren?" But even when I was saying that to myself, I knew it was ridiculous and that I didn't really like him like that. But I would also find myself doing interesting things, just to have something to say to him. Or I would suddenly check a petulant attitude, because I would think about how it would sound to Chris through a letter and didn't like what he would read. And I would sometimes wonder at myself, at the fact that I was involved with something so...different, but I kept going, seeing where it took me.
A few years later, I got into that same internship, as a college intern instead of a high school intern. And it was a GREAT experience--better than it was for the high schoolers, because I had so much more responsibility and freedom. And I thought of a few of the stories he had told me. But mostly? I just enjoyed the experience and rarely thought of him.
Now, years later, I think about him about once a year or so. I think about those letters and how out of character it was for me to write them. And I wonder what he's doing, And then I remember he got married a few years ago. I saw the pictures in my newsfeed on Facebook. She's lovely and tiny and perfect for him. And I remember noting, at the time of his wedding, that I had no feelings of jealousy or regret or anything like that. I wasn't even particularly happy for him (other than what is usual and customary), because aside from a few letters and one phone call, I really didn't know him at all. And then, when I would think of him again, I would have to remind myself that he got married and graduated from the academy and is some kind of aeronautical engineer (come to think of it, I'm not even sure if that's what he does), not a boy on his way to an internship and Plebe Summer.
Today is just such a day. For some reason, today is a Chris Day. And since he was on my mind, I thought I would tell you guys this story. A story that never goes anywhere and doesn't have a happy ending (or a particularly sad one either). But also a story that reminds me of the things I can do if I just let go of my fear or hesitation or limitations and just live in the moment, just see where things take me. That is what a Chris Day is really about. Wishing and hoping I can find a small part of the girl who wrote those letters. And reminding myself that interesting things are available all the time, if I can just take the opportunity when it presents itself.
I wonder if anyone else has an occasional Chris Day or if this is some weird phenomenon with just me. I mean, my story is kind of lame (most people would not be stunned by my completely normal and probably pathetic letter-writing behavior), but it's my story. And I'm sure you have one of your own. So tell me about your Chris Days.
In high school, Chris and I had a lot of classes together, but we had never really spoken. He was in all the honors and advanced classes like me, but he also wrestled and I think he even played football. He was like the poster child for being well-rounded. He was also pretty cute, in that adorable nerdy-boy-next-door-who-also-plays-sports-and-will-probably-run-the-space-station-someday kind of way. Completely untouchable by the likes of me, especially once he started dating a sweet girl named Allie who could have easily have been a movie star.
And it wasn't that I liked him, per se. But he was a good guy, smart and funny and likable. Every once in a while, he would catch my attention and I would think, "Yeah, he's the kind of guy I want" or even "He'll probably grow up to be the kind of man I'd marry." More observation than crush, more appraisal than interest. Though I wouldn't have minded being his friend.
But I didn't have guy friends in high school. I barely had girl friends. I always wanted to be a part of an awesome group that teenage television sells you every weeknight and that my siblings seemed to find so effortlessly. But, on the rare occasion that I got invited to hang out with an already established group of people, I would feel like an outsider and would quickly become a wall-flower. I tended to have one friend at a time, a best friend. Or even a few at a time, who were unconnected to each other. I did better one-on-one (okay, so rereading that makes me realize that maybe I'm just an attention whore).
Anyway, somewhere during junior year, Chris and I started being paired up occasionally. In Spanish, we were in a group together, with the assignment to write and perform a skit in Spanish. As much of an overachiever as he was, his Spanish was absolutely horrible. Oh, he knew all the words by memory and used the correct grammar, but it was like listening to a robot. A robot with a Canadian accent. Which was doubly impressive because Chris didn't have an accent when he spoke English... I'm off track. Hold on.
Oh, yes. So he and I were spending more time together. We were chemistry partners for a while. I helped him edit a few of his English papers. He tried to help me learn calculus--it went...okay. We were even a part of a calculus study group that met at our friend Carlie's house. Even in all of this, we weren't really friends. Not the kinds of friends that saw each other outside of school or talked on the phone or anything. Just, study buddies, if that. We were even sometimes competitors, but not in an adversarial way.
But near the end of senior year, we were seeing even more of each other. It quickly became clear that he was going to get Valedictorian and I was not (stupid Chemistry class!), which was something I had always wanted. But after he wrote his speech for graduation, he brought it to me all self-conscious and wanted to know what I thought. I thought that was kind of sweet and I can't resist helping pretty much anyone. So I helped him edit it and polish it. And I failed at talking him out of the three redneck references, including "Git Er Dun!" as the closing line of the speech. This broke my heart a little, but I healed.
It was around this time that we found out he had gotten a prestigious internship that I had also applied for. Instead of being jealous--oh, that's a lie. I was completely jealous. But when he told me he got it and he was so excited, I didn't want to come off as a totally self-centered jerk. So, in order to say something, I casually suggested that he send me e-mail updates. I told him it would be the next best thing to actually going. Inside, I was thinking that was the worst way to combat the jealousy, but I never thought he'd actually do it.
But he did. A few days after graduation, I opened my inbox and saw a long e-mail from him, detailing all of the fun things he was getting to do and the big names he was getting to meet. And I wasn't jealous, strangely. It was awesome to hear about it and I wrote back with more questions. We wrote on and off for his whole internship. He left the internship a few days early, because he was headed into Plebe Summer at the Naval Academy. That's right, he was smart, cute, athletic, and IN UNIFORM. He was like the perfect man!
Once he got to the academy, I figured I wouldn't hear from him again. Then, one strange summer afternoon, I got a call from his mother. She said he wouldn't have Internet access until the end of the summer, but she knew we had been writing and thought it might be nice for him if I continued writing "the old fashioned way." She cautioned me not to put my first name in the return address or he might be teased for getting mail from a girl. I was tempted to do that anyway... But I never did. We wrote letters a few times and on one of his rare breaks, in which he got to use the phone, he called me.
It was a strange and uncomfortable conversation, since we hadn't ever spoken on the phone before and things that I found so easy to write (just my day-to-day activities, nothing super personal) seemed weird when spoken. But he told me about the things he was doing and how it wasn't as difficult as he had imagined, but also harder in other ways. Before we hung up, he gave me his new Naval Academy e-mail address and we said we'd keep writing. But then the e-mail didn't work right at first and we never really got back into it.
And I never heard from him again. I would see him on Facebook sometimes and message him that way, but he didn't respond and I didn't have anything that interesting to say. Or anything that I wanted all his friends to read on his wall. So we lost touch, like we would have done right after graduation, had it not been for our common interest in that internship.
But every once in a while, I think about Chris and our "summer of letters" (probably a dozen e-mails and a handful of letters, just in case I've overstated how involved this actually was). I think about that time and I wonder WHAT THE HECK?
That was so not me! I was NEVER friends with boys. I am shy and kind of reclusive and not at all the kind of girl who does things like that. I don't write letters to acquaintances or TALK TO THEM ON THE PHONE about the things I wrote to them in letters. What the heck, self? Who were you that summer? And then I think: why can't you be like that all the time? Maybe you would have a relationship right now if you weren't so "shy and kind of reclusive and not all the kind of girl who does things like that."
And during the time I was writing those letters, I never once had this overwhelming feeling of needing him in my life or anything. But the hopeless romantic side of me would butt in occasionally with, "Wouldn't this make a great love story? Started as friends, wrote letters all summer, fell in love, and got to tell this story to your grandchildren?" But even when I was saying that to myself, I knew it was ridiculous and that I didn't really like him like that. But I would also find myself doing interesting things, just to have something to say to him. Or I would suddenly check a petulant attitude, because I would think about how it would sound to Chris through a letter and didn't like what he would read. And I would sometimes wonder at myself, at the fact that I was involved with something so...different, but I kept going, seeing where it took me.
A few years later, I got into that same internship, as a college intern instead of a high school intern. And it was a GREAT experience--better than it was for the high schoolers, because I had so much more responsibility and freedom. And I thought of a few of the stories he had told me. But mostly? I just enjoyed the experience and rarely thought of him.
Now, years later, I think about him about once a year or so. I think about those letters and how out of character it was for me to write them. And I wonder what he's doing, And then I remember he got married a few years ago. I saw the pictures in my newsfeed on Facebook. She's lovely and tiny and perfect for him. And I remember noting, at the time of his wedding, that I had no feelings of jealousy or regret or anything like that. I wasn't even particularly happy for him (other than what is usual and customary), because aside from a few letters and one phone call, I really didn't know him at all. And then, when I would think of him again, I would have to remind myself that he got married and graduated from the academy and is some kind of aeronautical engineer (come to think of it, I'm not even sure if that's what he does), not a boy on his way to an internship and Plebe Summer.
Today is just such a day. For some reason, today is a Chris Day. And since he was on my mind, I thought I would tell you guys this story. A story that never goes anywhere and doesn't have a happy ending (or a particularly sad one either). But also a story that reminds me of the things I can do if I just let go of my fear or hesitation or limitations and just live in the moment, just see where things take me. That is what a Chris Day is really about. Wishing and hoping I can find a small part of the girl who wrote those letters. And reminding myself that interesting things are available all the time, if I can just take the opportunity when it presents itself.
I wonder if anyone else has an occasional Chris Day or if this is some weird phenomenon with just me. I mean, my story is kind of lame (most people would not be stunned by my completely normal and probably pathetic letter-writing behavior), but it's my story. And I'm sure you have one of your own. So tell me about your Chris Days.
Today's Word Count: 0 (because I write at night)
Monthly Total: 18,065
11.08.2011
CAPSLOCKTRAINWRECK
Today was a weird day. And usually, this kind of weirdness
would make for excellent blog fodder. Except that this weirdness is SO WEIRD that
I’ve been asked to keep it confidential. And not like, “Hey, Elise… Could you,
maybe, keep this between us?” kind of confidential. More like “This is a
legally binding confidentiality agreement that stops just short of you SIGNING
DOCUMENTS saying as much.” So… this whole paragraph just served the same purpose
as me holding cookie in front of your nose and not allowing you to eat it. That
was… unkind… and not entirely intentional. Sorry.
BUT! On my way to do the thing I cannot tell you about even
thought I really want to, something weird happened that I CAN tell you about. I
stopped for some food (this is not the weird thing, please be patient). At
Wendy’s. And while that was a bad decision (hey, it’s Tuesday, what can I say?),
especially if I want to stop looking like an Oompa Loompa, it is ALSO not the
weird thing. The weird thing was that the car ahead of me contained none other
than the Conniving Ladder-Snatcher of a Former Co-Worker and her incredibly
stupid and co-dependent dog named Buddy (seriously, he goes EVERYWHERE with
her, including work, where he sits sadly in her car all day waiting for her to
come back and LOVE HIM OH GOD PLEASE LOVE HIM!).
And the thing I was on my way to do, the weird thing I can’t
talk about? WAS ABOUT MY LAST JOB! In a rather roundabout way and I’ve probably
already said too much, but it was really WEIRD! I haven’t seen her since my
last day, during which she said less than ten words to me and tried to pretend
she hadn’t thrown me under the bus with my former boss. And then, out of the
blue, I have to go do this THING, this THING I can’t tell you about but wish I
could. This THING that relates to her and my job and ALL THE THINGS I CAN NEVER
TALK ABOUT. This thing I was not looking forward to DOING. Which is already
weird, the way THAT all came about. And then? WHO HAPPENS TO BE AT WENDY’S? Victimpants
McLiarson, in the flesh. Fleshy flesh.
Luckily, I don’t think she saw me. Because at the last
second, I allowed a truck to go ahead of me, so there was a VEHICLE BUFFER
between us. But it was STILL WEIRD. And there is no way she could have known
what I was on my way to do. And it’s not like she would have gotten out of her
car and tried to make conversation with me or anything. NOTHING would have
happened if she had seen me. She probably would have pretended that she HADN’T
seen me. And I’m completely overreacting and I am AWARE and I am overreacting. But
STILL. IT’S JUST WEIRD, RIGHT? For me to see her on the SAME DAY as this other
THING? Maybe? Slightly odd? Somewhat notable?
This blog post has gone nowhere. Or, nowhere good. At best,
none of this makes sense to anyone but me (and even then, I’m not so sure). At
worst, I just breached an ORAL CONFIDENTIALITY AGREEMENT or something equally
terrible. Except you have no idea what I’m talking about. SO…. Anyway… I’m just
going to go whistling in the opposite direction of the Internet and pretend I
did not just create a CAPSLOCKTRAINWRECK on my blog.
How’s your day going?
11.02.2011
Job Fairs and Dumb Fears
Sister and I are on our way to the city (about an hour away) to a job fair, in the hopes that we can capture one or two of those elusive beasts called incomes. I have fifteen copies of my pathetic little resume in a cute pink plaid folder and I'm not wearing my yoga pants. So. You know. Chances are pretty high that I-- well, no, the chances are pretty much the same as before.
Anyway, this means I'm blogging from my phone. In the car. On the highway. CALM DOWN, Sister is driving. Despite being unemployed, single, and heavier than I ever planned on being again, I am NOT suicidal. I can barely focus as a PASSENGER (more on that later).
I know I said this post would be about Satan's Cat, but all of the photos I want to show you are on my computer. So that won't happen right now. And if I wait until I'm near my computer before I post, I will probably break my NaBloPoMo promise, too.
[Hey! Side benefit of me posting from my phone: I can't type nearly as fast and get tired of it pretty quickly, so I won't be nearly as ridiculously wordy as I usually am. Which is a benefit to you, I think...]
In an effort to try to keep part of my promise, I'm going to tell you about my new phobia. I am afraid if cars. You remember? Those giant metal objects with the ability to maim human flesh? Yeah. Those.
You see, my father and I were in an accident a few Christmases ago. I was home from college for Christmas. He was driving us to the city about an hour away (the city I'm currently job fairing in, coincidentally). It was snowy and icy and we were in his truck. The bed of the truck was empty, so it was very light. Suddenly, the back tires lost traction and we were swerving. Then spinning.
On a bridge.
We hit the guardrail. We left our seats for an instant, held by our seat belts only. My feet somehow found themselves ABOVE the dashboard. The back of the truck left the pavement and we tipped toward the edge. I caught a glimpse of the icy, raging river 50 feet below.
An million moments and prayers later, the rear tires slammed back to the roadbed. We continued to spin to the far end of the bridge and onto solid ground. We settled in the ditch on the opposite side from the impact, buried in the snow up to the tops of our tires, but upright and still in our seats. Alive. Mostly whole.
When we finally stopped moving, I did a rapid mental self-check while asking Papa if he was okay. It seemed I was mostly just scared. But Papa was pretty disoriented and said his neck hurt. A firetruck/ambulance, some refused care, a tow truck, a little dinner, and (finally!) a hospital visit later, it turned out he had broken his tailbone when we came out of and then forcefully returned to our seats. Plus some whiplash and probably an undiagnosed minor concussion. I never saw a doctor, because I felt fine. Or fine enough.
Several hours later, the muscles around my shoulder were in spasm and I was sore. Whether from the adrenaline letdown or from the accident itself, I didn't know. It wasn't until the next day that I found the bruises, one diagonal stripe from right shoulder to left hip and another from left hip to right hip. Oh. Seat belt. Duh.
Once i was back to college, our insurance company mailed me a letter informing me of my right to sue my father for any damage his driving had inflicted on my person. I declined. But I teased my dad that he had to financially support me for the next two years, which was the statute of limitations.
In the end, we were both fine, the truck was repaired, and we went on with our lives. Every once in a while my shoulder will go into spasm, but it's been less and less often for shorter periods of time. In fact, I can't remember the last time it did it.
However, the next winter saw me living back in my hometown. I was driving my current car--a 2000 Plymouth Neon (built for snow, right?). The snow tires (do you people know about studs? as in: studded tires? we use those here) were crap--probably bald from past years' use. One evening on my way to go Christmas caroling, I lost control of my car and spun into the ditch. Usually not a big deal here in the Far North. You dig out or call a tow or get a neighbor to help. But for me, it was terrifying. Because as I was spinning, I wasn't seeing the flat, straight road I was on. I was seeing a bridge. With a 50 foot drop and icy water. I was having a flashback.
Now it's three years since the first accident and two days since the first real snow. I find myself short of breath and long of adrenaline and clenched muscles every time I get into a car. It's better if I drive myself, because at least I'm in control. But still white-knuckley.
I spent Sunday in various stages of panic attack. That was the first snow. The first ice. And that was the day we decided to drive up a winding road into the mountains to babysit for a friend. Winding! Mountain! Icy! Roads! Without snow tires!
It's gotten better since all the vehicles I ride in or drive have gotten studs put on them. And some of the ice has cleared.
And we can totally justify this by my experiences and the "trauma" and whatever.
BUT? It was like an INCH of snow. I usually MAKE FUN of all those other places and people who freak about a tiny bit of snow. I'm usually like, "Big fat chickens! You shut down your city for THAT? It's like the apocalypse for WEENIES! Come to the Far North and we'll teach you how it's done." And? I even knew I was being ridiculous while I was crying in the front seat of Sister's car with my fists and MY FEET so tightly clenched that my bones hurt. I could tell I was being stupid. And yet? There was no convincing myself that I was safe. And I totally was. Sister is a good driver, her car is safe (lots of airbags, if all else failed), and most of what I was feeling as sliding and low traction WASN'T ACTUALLY HAPPENING. It was phantom slippage.
And rather than think about the therapy and pharmaceuticals that could be in my future if I don't get a handle on this madness, I'm just going to MAKE FUN of myself, like I deserve. Because, self? You live in the freaking FAR NORTH! How the heck are you going to function. at. all. if you cannot get in a vehicle? You live TEN MILES from anything important. It's not like you can walk anywhere. Even if it's NOT -15 degrees, which IT WILL BE in a few weeks, you've never walked ten miles in your life! And? YOU LIVE IN THE FREAKING FAR NORTH. There's going to be SNOW. For like SEVEN MONTHS OF THE YEAR. You call it FAR NORTH for a REASON! You'd better just move now if this is how you're going to behave, self! Stop being a weenie.
How about the rest of you guys? How do you deal with semi-traumatic events and/or phobias? Are you afraid of anything that you know logically is completely silly to be afraid of, but you CAN'T NOT clench your feet and cry about? Please tell me I'm not alone.
Anyway, this means I'm blogging from my phone. In the car. On the highway. CALM DOWN, Sister is driving. Despite being unemployed, single, and heavier than I ever planned on being again, I am NOT suicidal. I can barely focus as a PASSENGER (more on that later).
I know I said this post would be about Satan's Cat, but all of the photos I want to show you are on my computer. So that won't happen right now. And if I wait until I'm near my computer before I post, I will probably break my NaBloPoMo promise, too.
[Hey! Side benefit of me posting from my phone: I can't type nearly as fast and get tired of it pretty quickly, so I won't be nearly as ridiculously wordy as I usually am. Which is a benefit to you, I think...]
In an effort to try to keep part of my promise, I'm going to tell you about my new phobia. I am afraid if cars. You remember? Those giant metal objects with the ability to maim human flesh? Yeah. Those.
You see, my father and I were in an accident a few Christmases ago. I was home from college for Christmas. He was driving us to the city about an hour away (the city I'm currently job fairing in, coincidentally). It was snowy and icy and we were in his truck. The bed of the truck was empty, so it was very light. Suddenly, the back tires lost traction and we were swerving. Then spinning.
On a bridge.
We hit the guardrail. We left our seats for an instant, held by our seat belts only. My feet somehow found themselves ABOVE the dashboard. The back of the truck left the pavement and we tipped toward the edge. I caught a glimpse of the icy, raging river 50 feet below.
An million moments and prayers later, the rear tires slammed back to the roadbed. We continued to spin to the far end of the bridge and onto solid ground. We settled in the ditch on the opposite side from the impact, buried in the snow up to the tops of our tires, but upright and still in our seats. Alive. Mostly whole.
When we finally stopped moving, I did a rapid mental self-check while asking Papa if he was okay. It seemed I was mostly just scared. But Papa was pretty disoriented and said his neck hurt. A firetruck/ambulance, some refused care, a tow truck, a little dinner, and (finally!) a hospital visit later, it turned out he had broken his tailbone when we came out of and then forcefully returned to our seats. Plus some whiplash and probably an undiagnosed minor concussion. I never saw a doctor, because I felt fine. Or fine enough.
Several hours later, the muscles around my shoulder were in spasm and I was sore. Whether from the adrenaline letdown or from the accident itself, I didn't know. It wasn't until the next day that I found the bruises, one diagonal stripe from right shoulder to left hip and another from left hip to right hip. Oh. Seat belt. Duh.
Once i was back to college, our insurance company mailed me a letter informing me of my right to sue my father for any damage his driving had inflicted on my person. I declined. But I teased my dad that he had to financially support me for the next two years, which was the statute of limitations.
In the end, we were both fine, the truck was repaired, and we went on with our lives. Every once in a while my shoulder will go into spasm, but it's been less and less often for shorter periods of time. In fact, I can't remember the last time it did it.
However, the next winter saw me living back in my hometown. I was driving my current car--a 2000 Plymouth Neon (built for snow, right?). The snow tires (do you people know about studs? as in: studded tires? we use those here) were crap--probably bald from past years' use. One evening on my way to go Christmas caroling, I lost control of my car and spun into the ditch. Usually not a big deal here in the Far North. You dig out or call a tow or get a neighbor to help. But for me, it was terrifying. Because as I was spinning, I wasn't seeing the flat, straight road I was on. I was seeing a bridge. With a 50 foot drop and icy water. I was having a flashback.
Now it's three years since the first accident and two days since the first real snow. I find myself short of breath and long of adrenaline and clenched muscles every time I get into a car. It's better if I drive myself, because at least I'm in control. But still white-knuckley.
I spent Sunday in various stages of panic attack. That was the first snow. The first ice. And that was the day we decided to drive up a winding road into the mountains to babysit for a friend. Winding! Mountain! Icy! Roads! Without snow tires!
It's gotten better since all the vehicles I ride in or drive have gotten studs put on them. And some of the ice has cleared.
And we can totally justify this by my experiences and the "trauma" and whatever.
BUT? It was like an INCH of snow. I usually MAKE FUN of all those other places and people who freak about a tiny bit of snow. I'm usually like, "Big fat chickens! You shut down your city for THAT? It's like the apocalypse for WEENIES! Come to the Far North and we'll teach you how it's done." And? I even knew I was being ridiculous while I was crying in the front seat of Sister's car with my fists and MY FEET so tightly clenched that my bones hurt. I could tell I was being stupid. And yet? There was no convincing myself that I was safe. And I totally was. Sister is a good driver, her car is safe (lots of airbags, if all else failed), and most of what I was feeling as sliding and low traction WASN'T ACTUALLY HAPPENING. It was phantom slippage.
And rather than think about the therapy and pharmaceuticals that could be in my future if I don't get a handle on this madness, I'm just going to MAKE FUN of myself, like I deserve. Because, self? You live in the freaking FAR NORTH! How the heck are you going to function. at. all. if you cannot get in a vehicle? You live TEN MILES from anything important. It's not like you can walk anywhere. Even if it's NOT -15 degrees, which IT WILL BE in a few weeks, you've never walked ten miles in your life! And? YOU LIVE IN THE FREAKING FAR NORTH. There's going to be SNOW. For like SEVEN MONTHS OF THE YEAR. You call it FAR NORTH for a REASON! You'd better just move now if this is how you're going to behave, self! Stop being a weenie.
How about the rest of you guys? How do you deal with semi-traumatic events and/or phobias? Are you afraid of anything that you know logically is completely silly to be afraid of, but you CAN'T NOT clench your feet and cry about? Please tell me I'm not alone.
10.05.2011
How I Quit and Then Got "Fired" and Then Didn't Care
Hi guys! I know I’ve been incommunicado this week. No, I didn’t
get lost on my way home from retreat. I’ve just been dodging lemons and the bruises they leave. I think I even caught a few and am in the process of making
lemonade (I think I have just killed that metaphor, but I’m not going back and changing
it now). Anyway, life’s been weird and crazy and good and also awful and surprising
and… You know what? Here’s a timeline of what’s been going on in my life for
the last week and a half, for your edification.
Monday, 9/26/11:
- I resign from the oppressive soul-sucking borderline mental health issue that I called my job.
- The Jerk (my boss) accepts my resignation and the October 14th effective date.
- This day becomes known, the world over, as All Quitter’s Day.
Tuesday, 9/27/11
- I go into work, even though I wish that Monday had been my LAST DAY.
- Coworker decides it’s time to clean out two giant file cabinets, but that it’s my job to trek to the dumpster with the piles of paper while she sits on her chair pulling the paper out of the drawers and dropping it on the floor for me.
- I make seven trips to the dumpster in my heels, trying not to curse her.
- I get a call for a job interview for a position I applied for over a month ago and had written off. I schedule the interview for 4:00 pm on Wednesday, because that’s the latest they can do it.
- Coworker puts up a stink about how SHE has to go meet her cable guy at that time and we can’t leave the office empty.
- I tell her I’m going anyway and she can figure it out—The Jerk is out of town all week, so she can leave, too, and the office will be fine. The day ends at 4:30, anyway, so CALM DOWN.
Wednesday, 9/28/11:
- I trudge to work again.
- Coworker isn’t really speaking to me, but she does send me a passive-aggressive e-mail in list form of all the things she needs me to do before I leave.
- Most of these things are her job, but she is too lazy or incompetent to do them and thought she’d use me as slave labor.
- I attempt a few of the tasks, but in a slightly passive-aggressive manner (i.e. when asked for “step-by-step instructions” for one of my duties, I draft it so that a monkey could do the job).
- I leave early to make it to the next town over for my interview.
- Coworker smiles and waves and wishes me both a good weekend (I'm leaving for retreat the next day) and good luck on my interview. FORESHADOWING ALERT.
- I go to the crazy interview.
- I go to Youth Group, then I stay up until 1:00 am packing and writing a blog post about the interview (which I think I schedule for 8:30 am on Thursday, but I actually schedule it for 8:30 am on Friday because I am SMART!).
Thursday, 9/29/11:
- I get up and finish packing, then we pile into the car and begin the 4.5 hour trip to the retreat.
- We stop for lunch and I eat a burrito the size of my head. This is not important to the story, except that it was a REALLY GOOD burrito!
- I check on the blog post to make sure I'm not a schedule spaz and realize that, yes in fact I am. I publish from my iPhone with on extended coverage, which is FUN! Not.
- I enjoy the evening session and the worship and the fellowship.
- I fall asleep to the dulcet tones of three women snoring in a slightly smelly cabin.
Friday, 9/30/11:
- I wake up at 6:15 in order to get a somewhat warm shower, in which I pretend not to be creeped out every time the nasty shower curtain gets stuck to my leg.
- I eat whole wheat pancakes for breakfast. They are pretty yummy for being so healthy, but that may have had more to do with the syrup and whipped cream on top of them…
- I enjoy the morning session and the worship and the fellowship.
- I go to a workshop on Bible memorization and the facilitator quotes the entire book of Philippians from memory in under fifteen minutes, making the letter from Paul to the church at Philippi more real than I have ever read it.
- I sit amazed.
- The Jerk calls my cell phone. It silently vibrates in my hand. I figure he’s butt-dialing me.
- I determine in my head that I will not be answering this call, but before my face can convey that, Sister grabs my phone and throws in on the floor far away from me and says, “He can call back.”
- I smile.
- A while later, Sister hands the phone back to me. There is a call, a voicemail, and a text from The Jerk. Plus a call and a voicemail from my friend who works next door to my office. For a moment, I wonder if the office building burned down (I do not hope, just wonder... GOSH, do you think SO LITTLE of me?)
- The text says, “Elise, I accept your resignation effective immediately. Please come in on Monday to turn in your keys and gather you things.” I am confused, since I thought we already did this.
- I call the friend. She has no idea what The Jerk is up to, but she said I was on her heart and she thought she should call me. This makes me smile. But I am still worried.
- I call The Jerk back. He doesn’t answer. I call him a while later and he says that his text said it all and he cannot tell me why any of this is happening.
- I get an e-mail from another work friend asking me what I did. Apparently Coworker has been using my vacation to tell everyone in the building that I have “done something terrible,” that I’m “not the person they thought I was,” and that she couldn’t really talk about it, but that I know what I did.
- I freak out
a littleSO MUCH, but I try to focus on the retreat. - I get an e-mail asking me to interview for a job I applied for in July that I was pretty sure I was unqualified for and never thought I would hear back on, but that I really wanted. I am excited and I feel like I’m on a roller coaster.
- I hate roller coasters.
- Later, I dress like a pirate and eat fried chicken.
- Someone inadvertently tries to light the building on fire with the votives on the banquet tables. Sister-In-Law’s sister stomps out the fire. No one is hurt.
- We take pictures as pirates.
- I enjoy the evening session, the worship, and the fellowship.
- I get a voicemail from the same friend who had called earlier, telling me that she ran into The Jerk and he told her that he had to "fire" me because he “found out some things about me" and something about "I cannot believe she calls herself a Christian and would do that” something similar.This. Feels. AWESOME.
- I freak out a little more.
- I go to bed and sleep terribly.
Saturday, 10/1/11:
- I wake up and shower with my eyes closed so as not to anger the gods of the slimy shower.
- We pack most of our things.
- We go to the last of the workshops, then the last session.
- We finish packing and pile in the car, only to stop ten minutes later for mediocre Chinese food. I am sad it is not better Chinese food. My fortune claims that I am about to find my lost treasure. I eat another cookie that claims I'm about to get my luck back.
- I am wary of trusting baked goods.
- We drive home in a deluge of rain and we can see that it is snowing just slightly up the mountains, so we pray we get home safe. We do, although Sister may have the stress hunchback forever.
- Sister and I spend the rest of the night watching The Office and I try not to think about how angry and betrayed and confused and annoyed I am.
Sunday, 10/2/11:
- I get teary at church a few times because I cannot believe that Coworker would say these awful things about me, especially since I have been incredibly kind and compassionate to her (even when I didn't want to be nice, I was).
- Sister and I go to lunch at Red Robin with my parents, my pastor, his wife, and his son (who is also a pastor) and we have a really strange conversation about the movie Untamed Heart.
- I spend Sunday trying not to think about my life.
Monday, 10/03/11:
- I go into work, turn in my keys, gather my personal things, and finish the paper work.
- No one will tell me what I’m supposed to have done wrong.
- The Jerk will not answer his phone.
- I have been banned from the computer, so I cannot even send my goodbye e-mail.
- Everyone, including other bosses, tells me that they know me and know that these rumors are not the truth. Some advise me to get a lawyer. I feel a little better, but SERIOUSLY? Why does this need to happen at all???
- I go home and watch many, many hours of The Office while playing board games and doing puzzles with Sister. Because. Why not?
- The Jerk finally calls me back, denies everything I have heard, dodges every question, and tells me I am “an unhappy person.” He also claims that his reasons for letting me go early are “personal and confidential” and refuses to tell me anything.
- I am done with this job.
- Thank the Good Lord.
Tuesday, 10/4/11:
- I go to my interview for that really cool position and it goes really well, but I have no idea how many other people had really cool interviews, too.
- If they like me, I go in next week for a second round.
- I go to lunch with Sister and Mom and then spend most of my day watching TV and eating things I shouldn’t (not like light bulbs and batteries or anything, just, you know, junk food) at Mom’s house while Sister applies for jobs.
- We clear out our DVR of all the unwatched shows from the last two weeks. Then more of The Office.
- We stay up till 2:00 am. Because I have no reason to get up at a normal hour any more.
Wednesday, 10/5/11:
- I woke up at 10:00 am today with absolutely no where to go…
- Life is good.
UPDATE: We’ve decided to go eat Monte Cristo Sandwiches the size our heads. And if you don’t know what that is, I not only feel sorry for you, but I’m not sure I can allow you to continue reading this blog. Because I’m pretty sure if you won’t eat one, you’re too classy for me and I don’t want to drag you down to my level.
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