“I’m a one legged prostitute, I’m a one legged prostitute!” Yes, this is what I jumped around yelling in the middle of a public pool. After seeing the brilliant classic flick, Titanic, starring the hottie Leo DiCaprio, I thought all people with one leg were called prostitutes. Thanks to this wonderful film and my childish misunderstanding I decided to play a game with my self in which I was a ‘one-legged prostitute.’ Why I decide to imitate a one legged person in a pool is beyond me, but at the time, it seemed sensible. But as I later found out it is quite a difficult task if you’d like to remain afloat. In the shallow end of a three-feet deep pool, at my whopping height of 3’4,’’ there I stood, both of my hands were holding one of my legs behind my back and I violently bobbed up and down, repeating those five embarrassing words, “I’m a one legged prostitute, I’m a one legged prostitute!” The last I remember, although I desperately try to forget, is my cousins laughing at me, along with every one in a one mile radius, followed by the mother daughter chat that all kids avoid.
At the time, this event may have been very dramatizing, because no kid should have to be explained the true meaning of a prostitute in front of hundreds of strangers, but looking at it now I am able to find the humor that everyone else seemed to have enjoyed. My childhood was filled with many embarrassing moments that were so ‘utterly horrible’ that I’ve tried to forget them, however, as I searched my memory I came across one that I’m pretty sure I have not told anyone to this day.
It was another hot summer afternoon spent belly-flopping and searching for sunken turtles. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual routine of drinking Frutopias and eating sour cream and onion chips. Everything was perfect except for I hated the last 15 minutes of the hour, which was dedicated to adults. Adult swim is one thing that always blows my mind. I mean for starters, no one ever goes in the pool, and even if they do it is the one hairy fat guy, and too be honest he doesn’t need an entire pool, he can share the remaining 3/4s to the rest of us. Anyways that’s beside the point here we are stranded on the cement with nothing to do. So my sisters and I decided to lay, bellies down, on the cement to soak up the warmth. Everything was going great until I got the urge to pee, at this point I may have gotten a little too comfortable or maybe it was laziness, but whatever the case was, I didn’t feel inclined to move. I figured that I had to pee only a little, so if I peed slowly, and just a little bit, well, then, maybe nobody would notice. However, let me tell you I was terribly mistaken and all I know is that my plan when down hill. Once I started I couldn’t stop. So there I was laying there when I noticed a little pee river on my right side. I think I neglected to notice the slight slant in the cement because it was making a bee-line for my sister who was next to me. I didn’t have time to think, I could only react! So I figured I’d scoot closer to her so that the towel on my back would soak up the trail. Ahhh… mission accomplished, or so I thought. Next, since it couldn’t go out to the side, it went down. Down, down, down. There was no other way; I had to pretend I felt like rolling. So there I was, flailing this way and that, soaking up pee and trying to hide that it was me. If anyone noticed, it is hard to say, except for the life guard that watched my drop a wet towel with a slight yellow tint into the dirty bin. He must have thought I spilt my lemonade.
Although it appears I have thoroughly embarrassed myself, let it be known that I had the last laugh. In a second grade art class we were allowed to draw whatever we pleased. What I drew, I have no idea, but what I do remember is that my friend drew a three-legged dog. I sat back and smiled as she pranced around shouting for everyone to look at her three-legged prostitute.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
"Pizza" by Tony Davis
During Christmas break of 2005, I decided that it would be fun to trying skiing. I hadn’t skied since I was about five years old, so lets just say that I felt a bit rusty. I learned quickly, not how to ski, but rather that skiing for the first time, since the age of five, has significantly more “cons” than “pros.” In fact, I still do not know how to ski. However, I do know how to do the “pizza” very well. I felt a little embarrassed because the 3-5 year olds are the only ones that still do the “pizza,” unless you’re from Texas. Luckily, I was not wearing overall snow pants, a sweatshirt, and a backwards hat, so I couldn’t be mistaken for a Texan. Not to brag, but I could probably out-“pizza” any 3-5 year old brave enough to challenge me.
I was awful.
Everyone around me had been skiing their whole life. Except for Peter, we all know how athletic he is, but at least he knows how to turn, and when it is time for lunch, he flys down the mountain. I spent these two days of skiing behind everyone, even Peter. My slow zigzagging down the mountain became very difficult because I felt pretty sure the rental place had given me the crappiest bindings they could find. Bastards. I probably could have found some string and tied some Boy Scout knots fastening my skis to my feet and it probably would have worked better than these bindings. If the inability to ski, throbbing hip-flexors, and shame of being passed by Peter didn’t make my day stressful enough, the bindings were there to make sure that I felt sufficiently pissed.
I began the day fully aware that crossing your tips led to negative results, but it seemed a bit ridiculous that every time my skis even came close to touching, I would discover the absence one. I would find myself struggling down this mountain when, all of a sudden, I would get the feeling that something was missing. I believe that someone with the intelligence of Peter’s chocolate cake could figure out that it is more difficult to ski on one ski than two. And since I sure as hell could not ski with two, the panicked arm flailing, followed by the digging-in of an edge, followed by discovering myself airborne, followed by abrupt, firm earth-to-face contact, followed by more earth-to-face contact with a tumble or two mixed in, followed by landing, sprawled in a position previously thought to be humanly impossible, was inevitable. Oh yeah, a few curse words appeared in there somewhere. Then, if I did not feel embarrassed enough after skidding down half the mountain on my face, or skiing like a 3 year old when I was 15, I then suffered the embarrassment of hiking back up this distance, with snow-caked, cock-eyed goggles and helmet, to find my other ski. That is, if the brake popped down and I did not have to instead hike roughly 200 yards downhill to find my goddam ski buried in the trees. Let me tell you, one of the worst feelings in the world is face-planting, injuring some part of your body in the process, and looking up to see your ski still trucking down the hill, having the potential to not stop until it gets to the very bottom of the hill where it hits Peter looking for the starburst he dropped in the snow. Especially knowing that you are going to have to hike the whole way. Luckily, that only happened once, but it occurred at the end of an extremely stressful first day. Lets just say I felt a bit flustered, and people laughing at me from the chairlift did not help much.
Although I spent most of my day involuntarily eating snow, hiking, and accidentally inverted, I did have a couple minutes of glory. First, I threw a “360” off of a jump on my first day. I gloated over this for a while because it was my first day and I already tried it, I almost landed it too. Second, I did the most insane thing I have probably ever done, and jumped off of a 15-17 foot cliff on my second day. That is pretty frickin’ high. You are probably wondering why I did this. I jumped off this cliff because I thought I would be pretty “B.A.” if I did. In addition, something inside me, I do not know what, told me to. Also, there was the desire to show my girlfriend, who was trying to talk me down as if I was suicidal, that I would not die. The final two reasons are that some random guy behind me yelled, “Air it up Tony!” and the fact that I did not actually realize how big the cliff was. It was peer pressure and the idea that I would be pretty badass. In reality, I was the only one that thought that it was badass, everyone else just thought I was a total idiot.
These two days of skiing ended up being quite fun and satisfying. Despite all of the falls, humiliation, and anger, I felt very happy with my decision to ski. Although there were more “cons” than “pros,” I felt like the pros were more significant, even if they only appeared that way to me. Why did I feel satisfied when I spent most of my day hiking or digging snow out of my goggles? Why when I endured so much pain and frustration did I feel happy? It felt good to take risks and decide to put your skis in the “French fry” position knowing that after you go off of the 5 foot cliff in front of you, you will have more speed than you know what to do with, most likely cross your tips, possibly try to recover and end up with only one ski in contact with the snow, and end up in a pretzel where you could probably kiss your own ass. There is just satisfaction in knowing that, no matter what, somebody will be laughing, whether it is everyone or just your friends. In the end, you will all be able to laugh about it. Knowing that you had no reservations, and tried everything you had hoped, is a rewarding feeling. Having the courage to do stupid things, and knowing that you didn’t hold back, leads to confidence and a sense of pride in what you have accomplished. Yes, even if you accomplish it by going down the mountain doing the “pizza” almost all of the way.
I was awful.
Everyone around me had been skiing their whole life. Except for Peter, we all know how athletic he is, but at least he knows how to turn, and when it is time for lunch, he flys down the mountain. I spent these two days of skiing behind everyone, even Peter. My slow zigzagging down the mountain became very difficult because I felt pretty sure the rental place had given me the crappiest bindings they could find. Bastards. I probably could have found some string and tied some Boy Scout knots fastening my skis to my feet and it probably would have worked better than these bindings. If the inability to ski, throbbing hip-flexors, and shame of being passed by Peter didn’t make my day stressful enough, the bindings were there to make sure that I felt sufficiently pissed.
I began the day fully aware that crossing your tips led to negative results, but it seemed a bit ridiculous that every time my skis even came close to touching, I would discover the absence one. I would find myself struggling down this mountain when, all of a sudden, I would get the feeling that something was missing. I believe that someone with the intelligence of Peter’s chocolate cake could figure out that it is more difficult to ski on one ski than two. And since I sure as hell could not ski with two, the panicked arm flailing, followed by the digging-in of an edge, followed by discovering myself airborne, followed by abrupt, firm earth-to-face contact, followed by more earth-to-face contact with a tumble or two mixed in, followed by landing, sprawled in a position previously thought to be humanly impossible, was inevitable. Oh yeah, a few curse words appeared in there somewhere. Then, if I did not feel embarrassed enough after skidding down half the mountain on my face, or skiing like a 3 year old when I was 15, I then suffered the embarrassment of hiking back up this distance, with snow-caked, cock-eyed goggles and helmet, to find my other ski. That is, if the brake popped down and I did not have to instead hike roughly 200 yards downhill to find my goddam ski buried in the trees. Let me tell you, one of the worst feelings in the world is face-planting, injuring some part of your body in the process, and looking up to see your ski still trucking down the hill, having the potential to not stop until it gets to the very bottom of the hill where it hits Peter looking for the starburst he dropped in the snow. Especially knowing that you are going to have to hike the whole way. Luckily, that only happened once, but it occurred at the end of an extremely stressful first day. Lets just say I felt a bit flustered, and people laughing at me from the chairlift did not help much.
Although I spent most of my day involuntarily eating snow, hiking, and accidentally inverted, I did have a couple minutes of glory. First, I threw a “360” off of a jump on my first day. I gloated over this for a while because it was my first day and I already tried it, I almost landed it too. Second, I did the most insane thing I have probably ever done, and jumped off of a 15-17 foot cliff on my second day. That is pretty frickin’ high. You are probably wondering why I did this. I jumped off this cliff because I thought I would be pretty “B.A.” if I did. In addition, something inside me, I do not know what, told me to. Also, there was the desire to show my girlfriend, who was trying to talk me down as if I was suicidal, that I would not die. The final two reasons are that some random guy behind me yelled, “Air it up Tony!” and the fact that I did not actually realize how big the cliff was. It was peer pressure and the idea that I would be pretty badass. In reality, I was the only one that thought that it was badass, everyone else just thought I was a total idiot.
These two days of skiing ended up being quite fun and satisfying. Despite all of the falls, humiliation, and anger, I felt very happy with my decision to ski. Although there were more “cons” than “pros,” I felt like the pros were more significant, even if they only appeared that way to me. Why did I feel satisfied when I spent most of my day hiking or digging snow out of my goggles? Why when I endured so much pain and frustration did I feel happy? It felt good to take risks and decide to put your skis in the “French fry” position knowing that after you go off of the 5 foot cliff in front of you, you will have more speed than you know what to do with, most likely cross your tips, possibly try to recover and end up with only one ski in contact with the snow, and end up in a pretzel where you could probably kiss your own ass. There is just satisfaction in knowing that, no matter what, somebody will be laughing, whether it is everyone or just your friends. In the end, you will all be able to laugh about it. Knowing that you had no reservations, and tried everything you had hoped, is a rewarding feeling. Having the courage to do stupid things, and knowing that you didn’t hold back, leads to confidence and a sense of pride in what you have accomplished. Yes, even if you accomplish it by going down the mountain doing the “pizza” almost all of the way.
Cooking Bacon Naked, -Trip Stoddard
Cooking Bacon Naked
Cooking bacon naked hurts, that’s the down right truth of the matter, and it’s hard to admit when you have made such a painful, stupid mistake. It’s hard to remember the exact date of that horrid day; it was one of those things I tried to put in the back of my mind, trying my hardest to forget. I believe admitting my stupidity is the first step, then possibly I should try not to be ashamed of it, and then I think I need to learn from my experience. Anyways… Let me tell you what happened.
It didn’t seem like a special day, there seemed to be nothing significant about it. I woke up like I usually do on Saturdays, a little bit after noon, getting out of my bed painfully; acting almost like living my life is a complete burden. I don’t exactly remember the sequence of my actions the previous Friday night, all I know is when I did wake up that horrid Saturday I had no clothing on. I peeked my head out of my bedroom window looking at the world around, wondering to myself if it was judging me for wasting half my day sleeping. Quickly changing thoughts I asked myself if I should brush my teeth, but then realized I didn’t really have the time to with all the things I wasn’t going to do. Immediately, like some sort of lighting bolt it hit me, I was absolutely starving. That sometimes happens when you miss your first meal of the day. Realizing my painful hunger I, almost as if were in a hurry, shot out of my room and shouted, “Hello!?” There was no answer, not even a peep from inside my house. The fear crept up into my head: oh no, I might have to cook myself a meal. Afraid of such circumstances I yelled frantically, “Is there anyone home, anyone at all?” Again there was no answer; I simply didn’t know what to do. I sat on my staircase and tried to calm myself down. I figured it really was going to be okay, I would make myself something to eat and possibly even live another day. I began to trot down my stairs until about four steps when I looked down, I still had no clothes on, if I would have been observing myself at that exact moment I might have shouted out the term, “Weenie wagging.” I stopped slightly embarrassed for myself and looked up the stairs; oh well, it was to late now. I went down and began to cook some bacon, it sounded quite appetizing that morning and I just couldn’t help myself. Right when that raw meat hit the pan I knew it was going to be bad, I just couldn’t imagine how bad. When that first spec of grease hit my tender smooth skin I swore to never again make such a mistake. The unforgettable pain that made me cry out as if some man had wrongfully taken my lollipop, it was the most disturbing thing I have ever witnessed. I knew that this was no longer a typical Saturday; it was a day to remember.
There have been many instances like this in my life and I am quite sure in everyone else’s to. Not exactly a painful memory that I want to forget, but a moment in which I sank to my lowest point and prayed to whoever was listening that I needed help, saying quietly I would not go another day without this valuable lesson. If you don’t know who I am I have made many mistakes in my life. I cheated on a person that meant most to me and who I was down right in love with. That brought me to a horrible low where I didn’t know who I’d become, who was I to allow myself to do that. I cheated on a test and got caught in junior high, sitting wondering where exactly I went wrong to allow myself to take credit for other peoples work. I have sped much higher than the legal limit, finally glancing in my rear view noticing that there were blue and red lights flashing behind me. I have even lied knowing how bad it was, and still being unable to stop myself. In all of these points I found myself sitting down usually with tears in my eyes vowing that I would learn from this horrible day, whatever day it happened to be at the time, and that I would not make that same mistake again.
With realizing this I remembered a wise man once told me that he was not concerned that I fell, but he was concerned on rather I was going to get back up again. I don’t really know what it was about that fateful Saturday that made me have this euphony that I really needed to get up from where I’d fallen. It could have been the grease hitting my inner thigh or just the sheer shock of wondering why I would let myself do such a thing. No matter what it was I realized that it was okay to make mistakes, and I have to live my life not being worried about every consequence. I knew from that day on it was about learning from every mistake and making sure I never let even one happen again. I’ve done pretty well after I put that rule in place, and believe me, I haven’t since, and never will again, cook bacon naked.
-Trip Stoddard
Altoids, Mcdonalds, and Mystery
In elementary school, the most magical man I knew was Mike the bus driver. His face was withered and tan like an old baseball mitt and he smelled like mystery. Sitting in the front row I learned all about whittling and making police radar guns. Mike claimed to have another job as a member of the team chosen to create the design for the police "laser gun," and sadly he could not disclose any of their secrets. He aptly simplified the police instrument, to an image in my head that looked like a sophisticated Nerf gun. I begged him for other life secrets, but was bored by details of his divorce. Plans for his upcoming space odyssey were not forthcoming, but I waited patiently.
I still pass Mike at school some times. His smell of mystery was actually cigar smoke and wet dog. His blond hair is long and flat and sticks to his forehead in a menacing way. I am beginning to doubt how much he knows about police lasers, and this depresses me. I am still puzzled over how much I admired this man, when it is clear that he was lying to me, just messing with me in fact. I still think he is a nice guy, but my childhood image of him is forever shattered.
Old people smell like knitting wool and milk, it’s a generally appreciated fact. Knowing this as a child is ok because it doesn't affect you in any drastic way. It is the same with daddy likes his gin and tonic and private parts are to be kept a secret. Growing up and examining why these things are the way they are is a typically sad and disappointing experience.
My babysitter Rose took care of me and my sister for the first ten years we lived in Colorado. She was a small lady with a completely indecipherable age. She could have passed for a sixty year old, or someone on the verge of ninety. This was due in large part to her yellow-tinted wig that was completely motionless and utterly frightening. Despite my deeply harbored fear of seeing Rose wig-less, I thought that she was perfect in every way. She could make perfect mac and cheese, introduced me to Altoids and McDonald’s fries, and never rose her voice above a loud whisper. I was very upset to find that she was completely capable of evil and had a wider repertoire of swear words stored in her arsenal than I. Just as I'm sure she was displeased to find that I liked to pee in used water bottles and hide them under the sink to see how much I could pee in a day.
The first time I learned of Rose’s wrath I was acting like a particularly awesome rogue because my friend Mark was over and we didn’t have to obey the normal bed time. We had these steps at my house that you could see through, kind of like the rungs of a ladder, so I distinctly remember looking at her pinched face through the tiny space in between steps. She insisted that bed time was bed time no matter who was over. Mark was at my back, egging me on. After first begging and then making angry empty threats I said the dirtiest thing I could think of: "You just want us to go to bed so you can have sex with your boooyfriend." This really makes no sense because not only did Rose not have a boyfriend, but I had recently met her husband at our Christmas party. Also, Rose was extremely old, and not one for sex in my opinion. At this, Rose basically shot out of her wig in an effort to catch me and make me apologize. I sprinted into my room and laughed until I realized that Rose would call my mom to report my misbehavior. I picked up the phone in the hall way and listened in on the conversation. I picked up on it mid-sentence:
"...right to my face, to my face!"
"That just doesn’t sound like Taylor, but he does seem to act this way around his friends. He seems especially keen to please Mark."
"Well either way, Sherrye, I’m sorry, but he is being a little shit."
I was in complete shock. That was a dirty, dirty word. I completely forgot about being covert, and screamed at Rose. Actually I don’t think I said anything, I think I just let out a high pitched whine that evolved into a sound a mother makes during childbirth, and then to uncontrolled sobs.
Things just weren’t the same with Rose from then on. Her mac and cheese was tainted to me, and having her hovering over my shoulder during my reading of Highlights the magazine made me cringe. This was only my first revelation in a series, others being that most every adult is unhappy, waterbeds are not all that they are made out to be, peeing out the window has its consequences, and McDonald’s makes you fat.
I still pass Mike at school some times. His smell of mystery was actually cigar smoke and wet dog. His blond hair is long and flat and sticks to his forehead in a menacing way. I am beginning to doubt how much he knows about police lasers, and this depresses me. I am still puzzled over how much I admired this man, when it is clear that he was lying to me, just messing with me in fact. I still think he is a nice guy, but my childhood image of him is forever shattered.
Old people smell like knitting wool and milk, it’s a generally appreciated fact. Knowing this as a child is ok because it doesn't affect you in any drastic way. It is the same with daddy likes his gin and tonic and private parts are to be kept a secret. Growing up and examining why these things are the way they are is a typically sad and disappointing experience.
My babysitter Rose took care of me and my sister for the first ten years we lived in Colorado. She was a small lady with a completely indecipherable age. She could have passed for a sixty year old, or someone on the verge of ninety. This was due in large part to her yellow-tinted wig that was completely motionless and utterly frightening. Despite my deeply harbored fear of seeing Rose wig-less, I thought that she was perfect in every way. She could make perfect mac and cheese, introduced me to Altoids and McDonald’s fries, and never rose her voice above a loud whisper. I was very upset to find that she was completely capable of evil and had a wider repertoire of swear words stored in her arsenal than I. Just as I'm sure she was displeased to find that I liked to pee in used water bottles and hide them under the sink to see how much I could pee in a day.
The first time I learned of Rose’s wrath I was acting like a particularly awesome rogue because my friend Mark was over and we didn’t have to obey the normal bed time. We had these steps at my house that you could see through, kind of like the rungs of a ladder, so I distinctly remember looking at her pinched face through the tiny space in between steps. She insisted that bed time was bed time no matter who was over. Mark was at my back, egging me on. After first begging and then making angry empty threats I said the dirtiest thing I could think of: "You just want us to go to bed so you can have sex with your boooyfriend." This really makes no sense because not only did Rose not have a boyfriend, but I had recently met her husband at our Christmas party. Also, Rose was extremely old, and not one for sex in my opinion. At this, Rose basically shot out of her wig in an effort to catch me and make me apologize. I sprinted into my room and laughed until I realized that Rose would call my mom to report my misbehavior. I picked up the phone in the hall way and listened in on the conversation. I picked up on it mid-sentence:
"...right to my face, to my face!"
"That just doesn’t sound like Taylor, but he does seem to act this way around his friends. He seems especially keen to please Mark."
"Well either way, Sherrye, I’m sorry, but he is being a little shit."
I was in complete shock. That was a dirty, dirty word. I completely forgot about being covert, and screamed at Rose. Actually I don’t think I said anything, I think I just let out a high pitched whine that evolved into a sound a mother makes during childbirth, and then to uncontrolled sobs.
Things just weren’t the same with Rose from then on. Her mac and cheese was tainted to me, and having her hovering over my shoulder during my reading of Highlights the magazine made me cringe. This was only my first revelation in a series, others being that most every adult is unhappy, waterbeds are not all that they are made out to be, peeing out the window has its consequences, and McDonald’s makes you fat.
My middle school relationship with Kyle Casey
I admit to having a crush on the lanky and uncoordinated Kyle Casey beginning in sixth grade. (When this “crush” ended I will never know because there was no interaction between us, and whether or not I liked him as we both developed over the next two years cannot be for certain. I always assumed he was indeed the hilarious and clumsy boy I first encountered, heard good stories about, and therefore continued to like, but I personally did not really know Kyle for two years.) Our relationship began with a planned meeting in the atrium of the middle school during which “I like you,” and “I like you too,” was exchanged. Arms were folded nervously behind our backs, heads tilted downwards, and jerky glances scanning the surroundings were made to 1) make sure nobody was watching and 2) to avoid any kind of eye contact with each other. Once those words were spoken it would be a couple of months until we spoke again. We would hesitantly unite at school dances in which somebody would locate Kyle and I and push us towards each other, forcing us to interact. I would uneasily place my palms on his shoulders and his fingers would find my waist. Standing as far apart as possible, our conversation would go something like,
“Are you having fun?”
“Yeah, are you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
And then we would both look away and observe everybody else who was having similar conversations. I would make eye contact with a couple of friends dancing close by, giggle, look the other way and then my gaze would find my swaying feet.
Dating in sixth grade is like eating too much candy. It’s all very good in the beginning, you get a little rush, and then you crash and avoid candy for a while. You have brief encounters during which neither one of the pair speaks to the other kind of like a hit and run car accident during which you accidentally collide, panic when you consider the damage done, and go off pretending it never happened. You exchange glances, turn and walk away at a fast pace. Every time you catch your crush looking at you, you make sure that they know you are interesting and liked by loudly participating in the conversation you’re having or consistently laughing aloud.
The only way Kyle and I kept in touch was through Instant Messenger during which we would build up the confidence to have legitimate conversations and brush the surface of really knowing each other. In fact, the only thing I really knew was that his birthday was October 29th, the day after mine. When either of us would go on vacation we would bring back meaningless junk such as the printed shark t-shirt I bought for him in Mexico, or the ceramic mask he brought back for me from Italy. What’s funny to me is that I have kept these things and can’t seem to give them up. The mask hangs on my wall and a once frequently worn necklace sits in my jewelry box, worn once in the past five years and only as a joke. The truth of the matter is, Kyle and I spoke more yesterday than we did in sixth and seventh grade combined.
Kyle and I never broke the awkward obstacle of avoidance while dating and I crudely ended the affiliation with a very forgiving email. How do you break that barrier and simply get over the embarrassment of “like liking” somebody?
Kyle and I reminisce about our “dating” experience and the fact that we were, clearly, in a very serious relationship. Looking through old yearbooks I come across hardly legible scrawls reading, “I hope you have a great summer. We should hang out, call me.” His number would be given knowing I would never call, and scribbled somewhere tucked in the corner of a page would be, Kyle ‘heart’ Lee, written by some stupid boy trying to embarrass me (most likely Mark or Craig). I would see his sentimental message and think, “clearly I’m not going to just pick up the phone one day and call you Kyle. Seriously what would our conversation entail? ‘Hey Kyle, this is Lee, you know, the girl you are dating. I’ve never really spoken to you much less called your phone…’”(you see how this would be unproductive and pointless)…He would probably pick up, giggle and ask something stupid like if I had gone swimming yet that summer and I would say, “Yea” and think, “Are you kidding? It’s freaking summer, the only reason I wouldn’t have gone swimming yet would be if I didn’t know how or if some stupid child had a bladder problem for the entirety of the summer and absolutely had to go to the pool.” So I concluded that we might as well have not talked.
“Are you having fun?”
“Yeah, are you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
And then we would both look away and observe everybody else who was having similar conversations. I would make eye contact with a couple of friends dancing close by, giggle, look the other way and then my gaze would find my swaying feet.
Dating in sixth grade is like eating too much candy. It’s all very good in the beginning, you get a little rush, and then you crash and avoid candy for a while. You have brief encounters during which neither one of the pair speaks to the other kind of like a hit and run car accident during which you accidentally collide, panic when you consider the damage done, and go off pretending it never happened. You exchange glances, turn and walk away at a fast pace. Every time you catch your crush looking at you, you make sure that they know you are interesting and liked by loudly participating in the conversation you’re having or consistently laughing aloud.
The only way Kyle and I kept in touch was through Instant Messenger during which we would build up the confidence to have legitimate conversations and brush the surface of really knowing each other. In fact, the only thing I really knew was that his birthday was October 29th, the day after mine. When either of us would go on vacation we would bring back meaningless junk such as the printed shark t-shirt I bought for him in Mexico, or the ceramic mask he brought back for me from Italy. What’s funny to me is that I have kept these things and can’t seem to give them up. The mask hangs on my wall and a once frequently worn necklace sits in my jewelry box, worn once in the past five years and only as a joke. The truth of the matter is, Kyle and I spoke more yesterday than we did in sixth and seventh grade combined.
Kyle and I never broke the awkward obstacle of avoidance while dating and I crudely ended the affiliation with a very forgiving email. How do you break that barrier and simply get over the embarrassment of “like liking” somebody?
Kyle and I reminisce about our “dating” experience and the fact that we were, clearly, in a very serious relationship. Looking through old yearbooks I come across hardly legible scrawls reading, “I hope you have a great summer. We should hang out, call me.” His number would be given knowing I would never call, and scribbled somewhere tucked in the corner of a page would be, Kyle ‘heart’ Lee, written by some stupid boy trying to embarrass me (most likely Mark or Craig). I would see his sentimental message and think, “clearly I’m not going to just pick up the phone one day and call you Kyle. Seriously what would our conversation entail? ‘Hey Kyle, this is Lee, you know, the girl you are dating. I’ve never really spoken to you much less called your phone…’”(you see how this would be unproductive and pointless)…He would probably pick up, giggle and ask something stupid like if I had gone swimming yet that summer and I would say, “Yea” and think, “Are you kidding? It’s freaking summer, the only reason I wouldn’t have gone swimming yet would be if I didn’t know how or if some stupid child had a bladder problem for the entirety of the summer and absolutely had to go to the pool.” So I concluded that we might as well have not talked.
deer skin
Sitting here, in this freaking cold room, I'm doing my best not to breath or look down. In front of me is a real dead animal skin. Where it is place on a dark wooden desk full of crumps. On the deer skin sits a basket full of books and a pair of scissors. As I'm doing my best not to look at the dead animal, I can't help, but noticing the white flakes on the fur. And it appears to be dandruff. You may think that the dandrums stop me from looking down and not breathing. But you are wrong. I'm doing my best not to breath because I'm afraid that I might be breathing in the bacterias. And as for why I'm doing my best not to look down is because the deer skin scares me.
Everytime when I'm accidentally looked down at the deer skin, I saw the animal got skin. Somehow in my vision, I saw the deer running around the mountain searching for berries, then suddenly there was a loud boom and the animal fell down. The hunter showed up moments later with his small knife. He slitted the poor animal's throat with his knife, and blood rushed out for a minute or two. Then the hunter carefully injected the knife into the deer's throat and work his way down to remove the skin. Like Conrad said, "Oh, oh the horror."
And because of these worries, I can't concentrate in class because everytime when I look down, I either see the deer getting skin, or instead of the deerskin on the desk, I see human skin.
Sometimes I wonder, why we have to kill animals and skin them without reasons. It is understanable to kill the animals for survival, but it is uneccessary to kill them in order to prove that man have power.
Human kills other animals to prove that they are more suprerior than other animals. But why associate killing to power? I guess the answer is, it's better to be fear than to be love. What I don't get is, why does violenve have to be the thing that defines power? And I'm just really suprise to see how many pepole act cruelty because of it. People running around the mountain with guns to make the animals there, afraid of them, so the animals wouldn't harm them. Some people even run around city with guns to get prossession and the gun is the one that gives them the power. The power to control the people to give them money, body, and prossession. But don't you think that people are having too much power, now a day? Instead of killing the deer for meat, they killed the deer for power, reputations, and in the name of winning a game. People are not killing to live anymore, but they kill to entertain themselves and to show that they have power. But what if someday we don't have power anymore. For instance, what if aliens invade earth and treat us, human, the way we treated animals. Have the hunter ever put himself in the deer's shoes before. How aliens come to earth and prove their power by hunting down and skin us.
Imagine this, instead of going to Dillards and buy a leopard coat, aliens buy a human coat.
Now we being treat like animals. How a man running around the mountain picking wild berries, and the next thing he knows, he's on the ground and an alien come over with a knife. It stabs the man's belly, and then works it way up and down, unitl it removes the man's skin completely from his body. The alien then chops the man's head and hang it on the wall. Turn his skin into a coat and feed his bones to the dog. I know that this is gruesome when this happens to human, but why isn't it bad when it happens to animals?
Believe it or not, this really happens to human in Africa. I can't recall if it on 20/20 or Dateline, but somewhere in Africa, this really happened. A group of men wanted to prove that they have the power by invading a shcool. Captured the teacher, and chopped her into pieces and made teacher stew. Then ordered the student to either eat it or die, and as human, we don't want to die. So the kids finished the stew.
It is ok for them to turn the teacher into stew and feed the kids with it. I guess their piont is, if we can do this to animal then we certainly can do this to human. So before the hunter kill the deer, he should think if it necessary to do it or not. Because he certainly doesn't want his skin to be on the dark wooden table, where the deer skin is. So, sitting here, in this freaking cold room, I let my imagination run wild as my face getting purple due to the lack of oxygen.
Everytime when I'm accidentally looked down at the deer skin, I saw the animal got skin. Somehow in my vision, I saw the deer running around the mountain searching for berries, then suddenly there was a loud boom and the animal fell down. The hunter showed up moments later with his small knife. He slitted the poor animal's throat with his knife, and blood rushed out for a minute or two. Then the hunter carefully injected the knife into the deer's throat and work his way down to remove the skin. Like Conrad said, "Oh, oh the horror."
And because of these worries, I can't concentrate in class because everytime when I look down, I either see the deer getting skin, or instead of the deerskin on the desk, I see human skin.
Sometimes I wonder, why we have to kill animals and skin them without reasons. It is understanable to kill the animals for survival, but it is uneccessary to kill them in order to prove that man have power.
Human kills other animals to prove that they are more suprerior than other animals. But why associate killing to power? I guess the answer is, it's better to be fear than to be love. What I don't get is, why does violenve have to be the thing that defines power? And I'm just really suprise to see how many pepole act cruelty because of it. People running around the mountain with guns to make the animals there, afraid of them, so the animals wouldn't harm them. Some people even run around city with guns to get prossession and the gun is the one that gives them the power. The power to control the people to give them money, body, and prossession. But don't you think that people are having too much power, now a day? Instead of killing the deer for meat, they killed the deer for power, reputations, and in the name of winning a game. People are not killing to live anymore, but they kill to entertain themselves and to show that they have power. But what if someday we don't have power anymore. For instance, what if aliens invade earth and treat us, human, the way we treated animals. Have the hunter ever put himself in the deer's shoes before. How aliens come to earth and prove their power by hunting down and skin us.
Imagine this, instead of going to Dillards and buy a leopard coat, aliens buy a human coat.
Now we being treat like animals. How a man running around the mountain picking wild berries, and the next thing he knows, he's on the ground and an alien come over with a knife. It stabs the man's belly, and then works it way up and down, unitl it removes the man's skin completely from his body. The alien then chops the man's head and hang it on the wall. Turn his skin into a coat and feed his bones to the dog. I know that this is gruesome when this happens to human, but why isn't it bad when it happens to animals?
Believe it or not, this really happens to human in Africa. I can't recall if it on 20/20 or Dateline, but somewhere in Africa, this really happened. A group of men wanted to prove that they have the power by invading a shcool. Captured the teacher, and chopped her into pieces and made teacher stew. Then ordered the student to either eat it or die, and as human, we don't want to die. So the kids finished the stew.
It is ok for them to turn the teacher into stew and feed the kids with it. I guess their piont is, if we can do this to animal then we certainly can do this to human. So before the hunter kill the deer, he should think if it necessary to do it or not. Because he certainly doesn't want his skin to be on the dark wooden table, where the deer skin is. So, sitting here, in this freaking cold room, I let my imagination run wild as my face getting purple due to the lack of oxygen.
"Falling," down the hill...
“Falling” down the hill…
The nasty wake up call at about 6:30 nearly killed me. I rarely wake up that early, but because I wanted to make it up to the mountains before it got too late I had to go through that pain. Now, it isn’t a surprise to many people I was up that early, if fact I bet many people wake up before 6:30 in order to make it to the mountains on time, but one finds extremely satisfying upon arrive at the beautiful mountains of Colorado.
Living in Colorado, the mountains have become a big part of who I am. I have had many childhood memories involving the mountains. Some people living on a costal part of land probably have memories from the beach, but I prefer the mountain memories. I started off skiing at a very young age of 4, but had spent a fair amount of time in the mountains from the very beginning because I have 3 older siblings and parents who absolutely adore the mountains. When it comes to snowboarding, I started when I was about 12; however, had I had it my way I would have started much earlier. Then I wouldn’t have been so behind the skill level of my older siblings and would have been able to enjoy the slopes with them. But I guess it was inevitable, just like most thing, some people are better than others no matter how much time and effort one has put into a particular skill.
Finally, I reached to point where I was skilled enough to make it down some of the more challenging blues, and eventually made it to the black diamonds, but never really to the double black diamonds. I avoided going with my older siblings when I knew they would be hitting the tougher slopes and hung out with either my dad, my younger sister, or just went with friend. One of my fondest memories was when a friend and I went to Telluride with my family, and went skiing with my family. We spent the day with an instructor, and just before lunchtime, on our last run when I thought I might out from the giant whole in my stomach from severe hunger pains, my friend decided she would get stuck in three feet of snow. Now this made absolutely no logical sense to me, but who knows, maybe she thought it would be funny. Much to my surprise, I thought it was funny as well, but only because I had realized she was stuck in three feet of snow and was going to have a very rough time getting out. Our instructor threatened to leave us for the next few hours while he went and got some lunch and said, “maybe ill bring you two back some food in a little while.” I had thought this whole escapade had been funny up until this point. I had lost my skis a few feet down the hill because I had not been paying attention while I was busy laughing, so I had realized now that I too, was stuck. I should have mentioned it to the instructor that he was getting paid, by my mother, to take us skiing, so it would be in his best interest to get my skis back and somehow get my friend out of the snow bank. It’s a mystery to me how she ended up in the snow bank in the first place, but none the less he was responsible for bringing us back to my parents and the end of the day. Eventually, he gave up on this silly joke he had tried to play, retrieved my skis for me and managed to pull my friend out, and we finally made it to lunch.
I have had many more memories up in the mountains including a birthday party, just a weekend with four friends, and numerous other occasions; however, one memory that with stay in my mind forever dates back to last winter. It was some Saturday out of the four month basketball that I wasn’t stuck in a gym all day and was actually able to go up, but ill save that for another story. My babysitter, my younger sister, Courtney, Tony and I were all driving up to Vail together. Tony and I had made prior arrangements to meet up with friends from school while my babysitter, Amber, and Courtney were just going to chill together for the day. As we inched our way closer to Vail the weather started to turn nasty. Nevertheless we decided continued to drive into, what seemed like, the heart of the storm. However, in my heart of hearts I would have been just fine turning back and staying home in my pajamas and sitting by a nice warm fire. Because, I have mentioned, my least favorite thing about skiing or snowboarding is trying to go down the mountain when the farthest u can see is the very tip of your board and snow is hitting you in the face every two seconds? I mean for all I know I could be running over people and mistaking them for, well I don’t know, let’s say a rock. I mean its just purely miserable, and the whole time all I can think about is how nice it would be to still be sleeping in my warm bed.
We finally made it to the parking garage where the snow couldn’t touch me, and as Tony, my babysitter, and my sister were racing to get their gear on, I simply took my time. What was the point in rushing myself to get ready just so I could be miserable and cold the rest of the day? Well, you’re right, there was not point, so I decided to just slow down the process a little bit. Eventually I made it out, Tony and I met up with our friends and we started heading up the chairlift.
Well, it turns out that just about EVERYONE I was up there with were very skilled skiers, or at least they were better than me, but then again that’s not saying much, so for most of the day I found my self bringing up the rear. Especially, in some areas, such as the back bowls of Vail Mountain, they are not my specialty. However, even the route to get to the back bowls was challenging enough for me. It included a catwalk. Now, if you have ever attempted to go down a catwalk while on a snowboard you know what I’m talking about. They just plain old suck. Or how about try going down a black diamond covered in powder. Yeah, well I had to try that too. Some might say, well that’s dumb isn’t powder good? And well yes it is, but not for me that day. I was going on terrain that I had never been on, not to mention the fact that I was not using my board. Because being the nice big sister I am, I let my younger sister borrow my snowboard while I used my sisters. Little did I know, my boots barely fit into the bindings, so it took about five minutes for me to strap in after getting off each chairlift. In addition to the fact that I was with six other people that were amazing at skiing while, I should most definitely not have been even trying to snowboard with them.
Tony and I ended up being the only snowboarders in the group and I was by far the worst. So as everyone else was facing down the hill with smiles across their faces, there I was basically being taken advantage of by the snow. I was getting either stuck three feet into the snow or I was falling down, what seemed like every two seconds. By the time I had made it down the rest of that hill I had about a pound of snow in my jacket, down my pants, and in my gloves. I could hardly feel my fingers, not to mention my toes and ears. At this point all I wanted to do was go home, get some warm clothes, sit by the fire and drink hot chocolate.
However, it just so happened that I was on the very back side of Vail Mountain and even if I had the energy to get all the way back, I didn’t have the foggiest idea what direction the town was. So I decided to suck it up and pretend like I was didn’t have pounds of snow everywhere, and pretended I was having the time of my life. Much to my surprise I think my friend bought it. Either that or they just enjoyed watching me suffer while basically “rolling” down the hill.
I had only a short period on the chairlift before I would be called upon again to try and make it down the hill. We got off the chairlift, ventured our way down to the next run. Then before my eyes, was my very own view of a straight up cliff. I thought, there is no way we’re going to try going down that “hill.” But it turned out that’s where we were headed. Everyone started down the hill and I had no alternate route and no other form of transportation I was forced to go down. I had fantasized about the different options I could have used, for example, maybe faking an injury to get rescued by Ski Patrol, or maybe hypothermia. Soon reality set in and I had to just try going down, so I did. I finally made it down to the rest of the group using the standard “falling leaf” technique. I then looked around me and realized just where I was, and yes it was a giant valley, and the only way out was yet another cat walk.
Luckily before we attempted going down the cat walk someone pointed out that there was a cliff that appeared to be the perfect height to jump off of. By now there was a good five feet of fresh powder between the day before and that day. Some people did crazy tricks, including my favorite, a front flip, but I decided to stick with the simple jump with two feet and land on two feet technique. I should have planned on faking an injury now, and getting rescued, but that thought didn’t cross my mind in time. After playing around at the cliff for about an hour we all decided it was time for lunch, and based on the horrible stomach pains I was experiencing, I agreed whole heartedly.
We started down the cat walk, and it all seemed to be going pretty well up until the point I saw Tony stuck right next to a baby pine tree. So, as I was bringing up the rear once again, I decided to slow down to make sure he was ok. Well, that was a mistake. After giving Tony a little nudge he was out. There I was left in the dust to fend for myself. Who was going to save me now? Well the answer was no one, but not because there was no one else on the mountain, but because no one felt the need to help me. I presume they found it funny that there was a helpless girl stuck in the snow all by herself. I mean had I been the one passing by a girl I didn’t know I probably would have laughed and kept going too. Only I wished that there was someone who felt differently and was going to help me, but there wasn’t.
After about 10 minutes I got closer to the group, but then drifted off the path once again into the multiple feet of snow. So finally I said, “well, F*** this,” and took off my bindings, dug out my board and hiked my way down. It took a total of about twenty-five minutes for me to finally make it down to the group. Once I made it to the gathering, I still needed another five minutes to strap on my board. I know everyone was thinking, if I had known just how bad of a snowboarder she was going to be I would have come up with some excuse to get out of going with her. But being the good friends they are they didn’t say anything, or at least to my face they didn’t. Finally, by the grace of God I made it to the lunchroom with nothing but a few pounds of snow down my pants, and absolutely no energy. Conveniently, the snow started to slow up by the time we reached Elk Lodge for lunch. I had a delicious hot meal with a little hot chocolate, and after about an hour we decided it was time to go back out. As I recall someone, Tony, had lost a pair of gloves while in the lodge. This made me the slightest bit happier because it was the first time all day something unfortunate had happened to someone besides me. Except he only had to snowboard down one run without a glove because I had just received a phone call that my babysitter and sister were heading in for the day, so Tony and I went to meet them and he got my babysitter’s gloves.
The rest of the day went pretty well, a few bumps and bruises here and there, but for the most part we stayed on the front side of the mountain for the rest of the day. We went in the park a few times, but that was something I could do. Just avoid all jumps and rails as much as possible by just weaving in and out of them.
Finally, the day was over. We said goodbye to our friends, and grabbed some hot chocolate and a little food for the road. Then headed back to the car for the long awaited car ride home. They day definitely had its ups and downs. Some might have viewed this as the worst day of skiing ever, or some might have stories that don’t even compare. The way I look at it though, I had some good bonding time with my friends, it built a little character, and, hey, it makes for a good story. Plus, as I look back on it, it was kind of fun. I mean, what else is better than being up in the beautiful Colorado mountains with six of your best friends? Well, nothing…
Then it hit me. As much as I value my sleep, the friendships that were discovered, the good times we experienced together made waking up at 6:30 a.m. worth every minute of sleep I missed. Anything to spend a day with my friends in those mountains.
The nasty wake up call at about 6:30 nearly killed me. I rarely wake up that early, but because I wanted to make it up to the mountains before it got too late I had to go through that pain. Now, it isn’t a surprise to many people I was up that early, if fact I bet many people wake up before 6:30 in order to make it to the mountains on time, but one finds extremely satisfying upon arrive at the beautiful mountains of Colorado.
Living in Colorado, the mountains have become a big part of who I am. I have had many childhood memories involving the mountains. Some people living on a costal part of land probably have memories from the beach, but I prefer the mountain memories. I started off skiing at a very young age of 4, but had spent a fair amount of time in the mountains from the very beginning because I have 3 older siblings and parents who absolutely adore the mountains. When it comes to snowboarding, I started when I was about 12; however, had I had it my way I would have started much earlier. Then I wouldn’t have been so behind the skill level of my older siblings and would have been able to enjoy the slopes with them. But I guess it was inevitable, just like most thing, some people are better than others no matter how much time and effort one has put into a particular skill.
Finally, I reached to point where I was skilled enough to make it down some of the more challenging blues, and eventually made it to the black diamonds, but never really to the double black diamonds. I avoided going with my older siblings when I knew they would be hitting the tougher slopes and hung out with either my dad, my younger sister, or just went with friend. One of my fondest memories was when a friend and I went to Telluride with my family, and went skiing with my family. We spent the day with an instructor, and just before lunchtime, on our last run when I thought I might out from the giant whole in my stomach from severe hunger pains, my friend decided she would get stuck in three feet of snow. Now this made absolutely no logical sense to me, but who knows, maybe she thought it would be funny. Much to my surprise, I thought it was funny as well, but only because I had realized she was stuck in three feet of snow and was going to have a very rough time getting out. Our instructor threatened to leave us for the next few hours while he went and got some lunch and said, “maybe ill bring you two back some food in a little while.” I had thought this whole escapade had been funny up until this point. I had lost my skis a few feet down the hill because I had not been paying attention while I was busy laughing, so I had realized now that I too, was stuck. I should have mentioned it to the instructor that he was getting paid, by my mother, to take us skiing, so it would be in his best interest to get my skis back and somehow get my friend out of the snow bank. It’s a mystery to me how she ended up in the snow bank in the first place, but none the less he was responsible for bringing us back to my parents and the end of the day. Eventually, he gave up on this silly joke he had tried to play, retrieved my skis for me and managed to pull my friend out, and we finally made it to lunch.
I have had many more memories up in the mountains including a birthday party, just a weekend with four friends, and numerous other occasions; however, one memory that with stay in my mind forever dates back to last winter. It was some Saturday out of the four month basketball that I wasn’t stuck in a gym all day and was actually able to go up, but ill save that for another story. My babysitter, my younger sister, Courtney, Tony and I were all driving up to Vail together. Tony and I had made prior arrangements to meet up with friends from school while my babysitter, Amber, and Courtney were just going to chill together for the day. As we inched our way closer to Vail the weather started to turn nasty. Nevertheless we decided continued to drive into, what seemed like, the heart of the storm. However, in my heart of hearts I would have been just fine turning back and staying home in my pajamas and sitting by a nice warm fire. Because, I have mentioned, my least favorite thing about skiing or snowboarding is trying to go down the mountain when the farthest u can see is the very tip of your board and snow is hitting you in the face every two seconds? I mean for all I know I could be running over people and mistaking them for, well I don’t know, let’s say a rock. I mean its just purely miserable, and the whole time all I can think about is how nice it would be to still be sleeping in my warm bed.
We finally made it to the parking garage where the snow couldn’t touch me, and as Tony, my babysitter, and my sister were racing to get their gear on, I simply took my time. What was the point in rushing myself to get ready just so I could be miserable and cold the rest of the day? Well, you’re right, there was not point, so I decided to just slow down the process a little bit. Eventually I made it out, Tony and I met up with our friends and we started heading up the chairlift.
Well, it turns out that just about EVERYONE I was up there with were very skilled skiers, or at least they were better than me, but then again that’s not saying much, so for most of the day I found my self bringing up the rear. Especially, in some areas, such as the back bowls of Vail Mountain, they are not my specialty. However, even the route to get to the back bowls was challenging enough for me. It included a catwalk. Now, if you have ever attempted to go down a catwalk while on a snowboard you know what I’m talking about. They just plain old suck. Or how about try going down a black diamond covered in powder. Yeah, well I had to try that too. Some might say, well that’s dumb isn’t powder good? And well yes it is, but not for me that day. I was going on terrain that I had never been on, not to mention the fact that I was not using my board. Because being the nice big sister I am, I let my younger sister borrow my snowboard while I used my sisters. Little did I know, my boots barely fit into the bindings, so it took about five minutes for me to strap in after getting off each chairlift. In addition to the fact that I was with six other people that were amazing at skiing while, I should most definitely not have been even trying to snowboard with them.
Tony and I ended up being the only snowboarders in the group and I was by far the worst. So as everyone else was facing down the hill with smiles across their faces, there I was basically being taken advantage of by the snow. I was getting either stuck three feet into the snow or I was falling down, what seemed like every two seconds. By the time I had made it down the rest of that hill I had about a pound of snow in my jacket, down my pants, and in my gloves. I could hardly feel my fingers, not to mention my toes and ears. At this point all I wanted to do was go home, get some warm clothes, sit by the fire and drink hot chocolate.
However, it just so happened that I was on the very back side of Vail Mountain and even if I had the energy to get all the way back, I didn’t have the foggiest idea what direction the town was. So I decided to suck it up and pretend like I was didn’t have pounds of snow everywhere, and pretended I was having the time of my life. Much to my surprise I think my friend bought it. Either that or they just enjoyed watching me suffer while basically “rolling” down the hill.
I had only a short period on the chairlift before I would be called upon again to try and make it down the hill. We got off the chairlift, ventured our way down to the next run. Then before my eyes, was my very own view of a straight up cliff. I thought, there is no way we’re going to try going down that “hill.” But it turned out that’s where we were headed. Everyone started down the hill and I had no alternate route and no other form of transportation I was forced to go down. I had fantasized about the different options I could have used, for example, maybe faking an injury to get rescued by Ski Patrol, or maybe hypothermia. Soon reality set in and I had to just try going down, so I did. I finally made it down to the rest of the group using the standard “falling leaf” technique. I then looked around me and realized just where I was, and yes it was a giant valley, and the only way out was yet another cat walk.
Luckily before we attempted going down the cat walk someone pointed out that there was a cliff that appeared to be the perfect height to jump off of. By now there was a good five feet of fresh powder between the day before and that day. Some people did crazy tricks, including my favorite, a front flip, but I decided to stick with the simple jump with two feet and land on two feet technique. I should have planned on faking an injury now, and getting rescued, but that thought didn’t cross my mind in time. After playing around at the cliff for about an hour we all decided it was time for lunch, and based on the horrible stomach pains I was experiencing, I agreed whole heartedly.
We started down the cat walk, and it all seemed to be going pretty well up until the point I saw Tony stuck right next to a baby pine tree. So, as I was bringing up the rear once again, I decided to slow down to make sure he was ok. Well, that was a mistake. After giving Tony a little nudge he was out. There I was left in the dust to fend for myself. Who was going to save me now? Well the answer was no one, but not because there was no one else on the mountain, but because no one felt the need to help me. I presume they found it funny that there was a helpless girl stuck in the snow all by herself. I mean had I been the one passing by a girl I didn’t know I probably would have laughed and kept going too. Only I wished that there was someone who felt differently and was going to help me, but there wasn’t.
After about 10 minutes I got closer to the group, but then drifted off the path once again into the multiple feet of snow. So finally I said, “well, F*** this,” and took off my bindings, dug out my board and hiked my way down. It took a total of about twenty-five minutes for me to finally make it down to the group. Once I made it to the gathering, I still needed another five minutes to strap on my board. I know everyone was thinking, if I had known just how bad of a snowboarder she was going to be I would have come up with some excuse to get out of going with her. But being the good friends they are they didn’t say anything, or at least to my face they didn’t. Finally, by the grace of God I made it to the lunchroom with nothing but a few pounds of snow down my pants, and absolutely no energy. Conveniently, the snow started to slow up by the time we reached Elk Lodge for lunch. I had a delicious hot meal with a little hot chocolate, and after about an hour we decided it was time to go back out. As I recall someone, Tony, had lost a pair of gloves while in the lodge. This made me the slightest bit happier because it was the first time all day something unfortunate had happened to someone besides me. Except he only had to snowboard down one run without a glove because I had just received a phone call that my babysitter and sister were heading in for the day, so Tony and I went to meet them and he got my babysitter’s gloves.
The rest of the day went pretty well, a few bumps and bruises here and there, but for the most part we stayed on the front side of the mountain for the rest of the day. We went in the park a few times, but that was something I could do. Just avoid all jumps and rails as much as possible by just weaving in and out of them.
Finally, the day was over. We said goodbye to our friends, and grabbed some hot chocolate and a little food for the road. Then headed back to the car for the long awaited car ride home. They day definitely had its ups and downs. Some might have viewed this as the worst day of skiing ever, or some might have stories that don’t even compare. The way I look at it though, I had some good bonding time with my friends, it built a little character, and, hey, it makes for a good story. Plus, as I look back on it, it was kind of fun. I mean, what else is better than being up in the beautiful Colorado mountains with six of your best friends? Well, nothing…
Then it hit me. As much as I value my sleep, the friendships that were discovered, the good times we experienced together made waking up at 6:30 a.m. worth every minute of sleep I missed. Anything to spend a day with my friends in those mountains.
Everybody Loves a (Kind of) Nerdy Kid
Everyone does it. They stand in front of the mirror and observe themselves as they doing the right things to attract the opposite sex. Nobody practices being a complete idiot or acting nerdy; that’s just not human nature. Everyone tries to look best for the people they’re trying to impress. It’s just a fact of life.
I was no break in the mold in my younger days. I spent much of my time trying to act macho and thinking of the “cool” thing to say to impress the ladies. Of course I eventually started dating some girls, so I thought that I was practicing the correct techniques, if that’s what you’d want to call it. Some of these relationships went better than others, but one thing remained constant: I always seemed to find myself employing the things that I had often rehearsed in my head. I often times judged my relationships on how well these things were received, and often times this left me realizing that I must be the worst person to date. But I was ok with that, because I thought that I was doing all the right things.
This summer, another opportunity presented itself to me. I had started casually dating a girl, and I was ready to make things a little bit more serious. Her friends told me that she did too, so I get myself ready for our next date. After a fun night at a professional sporting event, I had finally mustered up the courage to ask her out on the way home. I began my rather long winded speech, and ended it with asking her to be my girlfriend (not very smoothly I might add). She said yes, and this was when I made my real mistake. In response to her saying yes, I responded by giving her a thumbs up, sheepishly grinning, and muttering something stupid like, “COOL!” Right then my well rehearsed freshman self would’ve hung his head in shame for my complete ignorance in dealing with women.
But then something surprising occurred. Instead of deciding that there was no way that she actually wanted to date a big nerd like myself who gave the thumbs up, the girl said yes. In a brief moment of surprise, I almost let another stupid comment slip, but this time I was able to catch myself. I apologized for my previous faux pas, and conversation continued as usual.
I still receive random comments about my notorious thumbs up moment. Friends give me the thumbs up in the hall and then turn around and laugh at each other. I’ve even had teachers remark on the incident to me. Even with all this embarrassment, I have found myself thinking less about what I should say, and just saying even more what comes to mind. Although in many situations, this isn’t the best idea, I’ve learned that in most cases things work out better if I don’t plan things out. I’ve let my nerdy side flourish (3,000 DUCATS), and become a more fun person. Now I have no problem suggesting watching Disney movies for a whole evening, but the rehearsed me wouldn’t have enjoyed that one. Only little kids like those movies.
I don’t regret all the time I spent rehearsing stupid things to say to girls, or dumb things to do when I’m around them. I mean that worked for a while and I’m alright with that. But looking back, that was just as nerdy as anything else. I mean really? Pretending to do something just to get girls. That’s ridiculous. But hey, what ever works.
I was no break in the mold in my younger days. I spent much of my time trying to act macho and thinking of the “cool” thing to say to impress the ladies. Of course I eventually started dating some girls, so I thought that I was practicing the correct techniques, if that’s what you’d want to call it. Some of these relationships went better than others, but one thing remained constant: I always seemed to find myself employing the things that I had often rehearsed in my head. I often times judged my relationships on how well these things were received, and often times this left me realizing that I must be the worst person to date. But I was ok with that, because I thought that I was doing all the right things.
This summer, another opportunity presented itself to me. I had started casually dating a girl, and I was ready to make things a little bit more serious. Her friends told me that she did too, so I get myself ready for our next date. After a fun night at a professional sporting event, I had finally mustered up the courage to ask her out on the way home. I began my rather long winded speech, and ended it with asking her to be my girlfriend (not very smoothly I might add). She said yes, and this was when I made my real mistake. In response to her saying yes, I responded by giving her a thumbs up, sheepishly grinning, and muttering something stupid like, “COOL!” Right then my well rehearsed freshman self would’ve hung his head in shame for my complete ignorance in dealing with women.
But then something surprising occurred. Instead of deciding that there was no way that she actually wanted to date a big nerd like myself who gave the thumbs up, the girl said yes. In a brief moment of surprise, I almost let another stupid comment slip, but this time I was able to catch myself. I apologized for my previous faux pas, and conversation continued as usual.
I still receive random comments about my notorious thumbs up moment. Friends give me the thumbs up in the hall and then turn around and laugh at each other. I’ve even had teachers remark on the incident to me. Even with all this embarrassment, I have found myself thinking less about what I should say, and just saying even more what comes to mind. Although in many situations, this isn’t the best idea, I’ve learned that in most cases things work out better if I don’t plan things out. I’ve let my nerdy side flourish (3,000 DUCATS), and become a more fun person. Now I have no problem suggesting watching Disney movies for a whole evening, but the rehearsed me wouldn’t have enjoyed that one. Only little kids like those movies.
I don’t regret all the time I spent rehearsing stupid things to say to girls, or dumb things to do when I’m around them. I mean that worked for a while and I’m alright with that. But looking back, that was just as nerdy as anything else. I mean really? Pretending to do something just to get girls. That’s ridiculous. But hey, what ever works.
More than Just a Name
Every time I enter the local Jamba Juice I have a set routine: I walk up to the yellow, wooden counter, the teenage cashier gives me a perky, yet forced, smile, asks for my order, and I reply, “ Razzmatazz.” When the cashier asks for my name, I nonchalantly answer, “Bianca.”
Being that both my parents are Persian, it makes sense that they would give me a Persian name. Of course, by the time I was able to attend school as a child, I chided my mother for not giving me an easier name to pronounce—a battle that would continue for the next ten years. I always became angry at my mother for not giving me a better known, or at least pronounceable, Persian name like Leila. If Eric Clapton could write a song about it, I think the rest of the world could catch on.
As a child I used to dread the first day of school because I was always so mortified, having to constantly repeat my name to the new teachers. It was the same pattern every year. I knew that once my new teacher would go down the class roll, they would pause at my name, and attempt something vile sounding. There would be quiet snickers in the background, and me, turning red as I’d correct the teacher and try to move on.
One of the most embarrassing teachers was in my freshman Biology class. It took her about half the year to quasi say my name. Everyday before class started, she would make a showing effort to attempt it. She would make some bizarre sounds—Punah, Poooneh, Ponagh— twisting her face, annunciating in all the wrong places, and looking at me for approval. I would awkwardly say, “Yeah, sure, it’s closer…” After Christmas break, she stuck with one of the versions of her pronunciations that she decided was right, and continued calling me it throughout the rest of the year.
In order for someone to begin to know you, they obviously first have to know your name. For me, the act of saying my name is more complicated than it is for most people because mine always has to follow with clarification. How do you say it again? What kind of name is it? What does it mean?
Over the years I’ve become weary of explaining myself to people I know I’ll never see again, so I find it pointless to explain myself to them when I don’t have to. I chose the name Bianca because it’s rare but also recognizable. Besides, it provides the satisfaction of having an interesting name, without the obligations of an explanation.
Being that both my parents are Persian, it makes sense that they would give me a Persian name. Of course, by the time I was able to attend school as a child, I chided my mother for not giving me an easier name to pronounce—a battle that would continue for the next ten years. I always became angry at my mother for not giving me a better known, or at least pronounceable, Persian name like Leila. If Eric Clapton could write a song about it, I think the rest of the world could catch on.
As a child I used to dread the first day of school because I was always so mortified, having to constantly repeat my name to the new teachers. It was the same pattern every year. I knew that once my new teacher would go down the class roll, they would pause at my name, and attempt something vile sounding. There would be quiet snickers in the background, and me, turning red as I’d correct the teacher and try to move on.
One of the most embarrassing teachers was in my freshman Biology class. It took her about half the year to quasi say my name. Everyday before class started, she would make a showing effort to attempt it. She would make some bizarre sounds—Punah, Poooneh, Ponagh— twisting her face, annunciating in all the wrong places, and looking at me for approval. I would awkwardly say, “Yeah, sure, it’s closer…” After Christmas break, she stuck with one of the versions of her pronunciations that she decided was right, and continued calling me it throughout the rest of the year.
In order for someone to begin to know you, they obviously first have to know your name. For me, the act of saying my name is more complicated than it is for most people because mine always has to follow with clarification. How do you say it again? What kind of name is it? What does it mean?
Over the years I’ve become weary of explaining myself to people I know I’ll never see again, so I find it pointless to explain myself to them when I don’t have to. I chose the name Bianca because it’s rare but also recognizable. Besides, it provides the satisfaction of having an interesting name, without the obligations of an explanation.
Brawny Man
Yesterday, I got into an argument with Alana about hunting. Hunting, the very word can strike up a debate so heated and irrational; it hardly seems fair to give that much attention to a seven letter word. At lunch Maxwell was recounting his weekend’s hunting results and stories to me, when Alana (a hardcore liberal and ardent Catholic, however that works…) starts on a number of tirades, some rational arguments, some less than irrational, against hunting. I don’t have a problem with anyone being against hunting, everyone is entitled to their opinion as far as I am concerned, and however there are good ways to disagree and obviously, not so good ways to disagree. After several loud exclamations and “storm-outs” that seemed more fitting for a Broadway melodrama. Max and I at first countered the usual anti-hunting arguments with rational comebacks that would have won a presidential debate. The arguments against hunting are only so many, so I suggest that if you ever find yourself on the “save the animals” side of the argument, you stop after you’ve made your point 4 or 5 times. After a while of “Didn’t we just answer that?” and probably 25 or so, “…But you KILL things” Max and I decided that we had to get creative. For instance we explained that hunting a duck for food, was nothing more than getting justice for the hundreds of thousands of flies and other underwater bugs that it had hunted, killed, and eaten in its life. Eye for an eye I always like to say. Or my favorite, we explained that she was lazy for having someone else kill her meat for her, hunters are go-getters and do it for themselves.
After our conversation I began thinking about why I did like the idea of hunting. I of course do not like the idea of killing things, nor do I enjoy killing them. It might be the guns and the explosions and loud noises, but its just as easy to go to a gun range or clay pigeon course to experience this, and that comes, while more expensive, with out the blood and gore.
I think I first got excited about hunting while visiting my grandparents in middle-of-no-where-redneck, Northern California. My parents have always been worrywarts; my dad grew up in suburbia Indianapolis, and got an early acceptance to Harvard, my mom had the convenience of just always being a worrywart, while growing up with my grandpa, which all amounted to me having to beg on my knees for a squirt gun, let alone ever shooting a real gun. During my visit grandpa decided to take me out target shooting one day, on the way pointing out the alien size satellite dish that he planned to either make an umbrella or a water fountain out of, and of course his neighbors’ fish pond made out of an old foundation for a house. We went past the shed where he built to store all of his firewood (the ranch only had a wood oven at this point), the security fence he was building out of scratch for my cousin who had theft problems at his workplace, and the river where he and my cousins would drill and pan for gold every summer. We set up a target can to shoot at and I discovered I was a rather good shot with a .22 for never shooting a gun before. From that point on when ever I go hunting or shoot a gun, (my grandpa gave me his grandpa’s 12 gauge for Christmas a couple years back) it reminds me of my grandpa and the rugged, do it yourself, Brawny man lifestyle that I never got a chance to live, but absolutely fascinates me.
If I ever got the chance I would give anything to be up at the ranch drinkin’ a cool beer with my friends under my satellite dish umbrella, watchin’ the fish swimin’ around in my foundation fish pond, telling huntin’ stories that grew into stories about fightin’ bears, which would be responded to with a resounding, “yup” “mmmhhmmm” “tell you what.” And later that night listening to my wife complain about how I can KILL things and still kiss her, all while serving me and the kids my afternoon's prize hunt.
After our conversation I began thinking about why I did like the idea of hunting. I of course do not like the idea of killing things, nor do I enjoy killing them. It might be the guns and the explosions and loud noises, but its just as easy to go to a gun range or clay pigeon course to experience this, and that comes, while more expensive, with out the blood and gore.
I think I first got excited about hunting while visiting my grandparents in middle-of-no-where-redneck, Northern California. My parents have always been worrywarts; my dad grew up in suburbia Indianapolis, and got an early acceptance to Harvard, my mom had the convenience of just always being a worrywart, while growing up with my grandpa, which all amounted to me having to beg on my knees for a squirt gun, let alone ever shooting a real gun. During my visit grandpa decided to take me out target shooting one day, on the way pointing out the alien size satellite dish that he planned to either make an umbrella or a water fountain out of, and of course his neighbors’ fish pond made out of an old foundation for a house. We went past the shed where he built to store all of his firewood (the ranch only had a wood oven at this point), the security fence he was building out of scratch for my cousin who had theft problems at his workplace, and the river where he and my cousins would drill and pan for gold every summer. We set up a target can to shoot at and I discovered I was a rather good shot with a .22 for never shooting a gun before. From that point on when ever I go hunting or shoot a gun, (my grandpa gave me his grandpa’s 12 gauge for Christmas a couple years back) it reminds me of my grandpa and the rugged, do it yourself, Brawny man lifestyle that I never got a chance to live, but absolutely fascinates me.
If I ever got the chance I would give anything to be up at the ranch drinkin’ a cool beer with my friends under my satellite dish umbrella, watchin’ the fish swimin’ around in my foundation fish pond, telling huntin’ stories that grew into stories about fightin’ bears, which would be responded to with a resounding, “yup” “mmmhhmmm” “tell you what.” And later that night listening to my wife complain about how I can KILL things and still kiss her, all while serving me and the kids my afternoon's prize hunt.
Why Does it matter to you?
After not seeing members of my extended family in about a year, it’s as though all they can possibly bring up in a conversation is college. I mean they are not the ones going to college, it’s me so why is it any of there business? I guess it’s because they care about me and are curious about my future, or possibly concerned about it, but still I have a year an a half left of high school, and to be perfectly honest I have no idea whatsoever of where I am planning to attend college.
This past weekend I visited my extended family and as I scurried into my aunt’s house, I was immediately bombarded with the expected hugs and kisses, but this year there was another element to this so called experience. I walked into the musky hall of my aunt’s abode and even before I could thaw from the frigid Cleveland air, or take a whiff of the unmistakable smell of cats, I was cornered and questioned about my plans for college, it had just begun. I was first pulled aside by my uncle who attended Boston College, and had extreme pride for his school. He walked me out of the bustling room, as though it was not a subject to be talked about in front of others, and asked me, “So, Olivia, you’re a junior now right, so you’re starting to think about college right? Is BC on your list, o tell me it is.” I looked back at him smiling and replied, “yeah Jim, BC is on my list.” “Great!” He exclaimed, “so where else are you looking?” Truthfully I did not know how to answer this question because I had absolutely no idea! “Umm, well, I’m not really sure yet… probably the East coast though.” This was clearly not the right thing to say because I was then interrogated about what schools in particular. As I listed a few schools that I had heard of, but didn’t know much about, my mom rescued me. She brought be back upstairs and believing that I’d had my fix of college talk for the night, I was relieved and ready to have fun with the rest of my family… boy was I wrong.
The next interrogator on my list was my aunt Jean, who has a son who is a senior and a daughter who is a junior, so I figured that she knew that college was not a popular subject. But, once again I was wrong. I discovered that night that my aunt Jean is one of those women that lives through her children, and reads more into college than the administration department at any high school. “Well, as I was skimming the 2007 version of the Fisk’s Guide to College, I stumbled upon Loyola, which is a perfect fit for Andrew, even though he doesn’t believe me and was reluctant to put in an application, I knew that it was the school for him.” At this moment in my life I thanked God that my mom was not this involved. Jean then continued to inform me about how she wanted a school for Andrew that was a fit for his athletics as well. “Well, since he runs cross-country we needed a school that has a team for him, but nothing above the division two level because he’s not that good, you know his mile time has gone from 4:24 to 4:31, its just heartbreaking.” I looked at her in shock, a 4:31 minute mile; I guess I am not up to date on fast mile times, but in my book that is damn fast. Although this was more of a lecture than anything, it was still about college, a subject that I happen to be fairly clueless about at this point, and am not looking forward to talking about for the next year and a half.
Talking about colleges is a bizarre topic, because you know that no matter what, the person you are talking to is hinting at something, whether it be their desire to continue the legacy at their school, or that you should step up your game and make a list, there is truly a secret message behind these investigations. As the night continued I began to come up with excuses to not talk about college. One of my most brilliant ideas was to just flat out say, “oh I’m actually not going to college,” although I never actually said this I was curious about the response I would get. Would I be disowned, or just looked at in such a way that disapproval radiated from their eyes? I also came up with the idea of saying, “Oh, haven’t you heard, I am terminally ill and won’t be attending college.” I was also curious about the response I would get from this statement; probally just shock would be my guess. But being the tolerant, semi-patient person that I am, I answered each of these questions pertaining college, and although I did it reluctantly, I had talked to half of my extended family about college before the night was done.
In life I feel like there is a series of questions and or comments that either extended family or just people that you don’t see on a regular basis ask you. These questions are usually awkward and the response usually begins with, “ummm, well…” As a child, the comment is, “my have you grown!” I mean honestly how do you respond to that. I guess you could say thank you but what for it’s not exactly a compliment and it is part of human nature to grow. I suppose the honest reply would be “yeah that’s what happens to most people as they age as children.” As you get older and enter the teen years, the questions only continue. You have the standard, “Where are you going to high school” and of course, “where are you going to college.” Both of these questions are asked assuming that you are planning to attend high school and college, which is not necessarily an assumption that one can make. Once again there is an honest response to these, “why does it matter to you?” As you approach adult hood there is another series of questions that you are bombarded with. “What are your plans after college?” “Are you planning to get married?” “Are you planning to have children?” and best of all, “what are you planning to do with your life?” These are the type of questions that are simply asked to create conversation, or I guess to be overly nosey. I mean, it is clearly not anyone’s business but your own about whether you are planning to get married or have children.
People are inherently flawed with nosiness and the urge to know more than they are entitled to know. It may be because they care about you and want you to live a complete life, but to them a good life could be completely different than a good life to another person. It is a good thing that the majority of people are overly polite and tolerate these questions, because if they weren’t like this the brutal honest response would be the motto of the human race, “why does it matter to you?”
This past weekend I visited my extended family and as I scurried into my aunt’s house, I was immediately bombarded with the expected hugs and kisses, but this year there was another element to this so called experience. I walked into the musky hall of my aunt’s abode and even before I could thaw from the frigid Cleveland air, or take a whiff of the unmistakable smell of cats, I was cornered and questioned about my plans for college, it had just begun. I was first pulled aside by my uncle who attended Boston College, and had extreme pride for his school. He walked me out of the bustling room, as though it was not a subject to be talked about in front of others, and asked me, “So, Olivia, you’re a junior now right, so you’re starting to think about college right? Is BC on your list, o tell me it is.” I looked back at him smiling and replied, “yeah Jim, BC is on my list.” “Great!” He exclaimed, “so where else are you looking?” Truthfully I did not know how to answer this question because I had absolutely no idea! “Umm, well, I’m not really sure yet… probably the East coast though.” This was clearly not the right thing to say because I was then interrogated about what schools in particular. As I listed a few schools that I had heard of, but didn’t know much about, my mom rescued me. She brought be back upstairs and believing that I’d had my fix of college talk for the night, I was relieved and ready to have fun with the rest of my family… boy was I wrong.
The next interrogator on my list was my aunt Jean, who has a son who is a senior and a daughter who is a junior, so I figured that she knew that college was not a popular subject. But, once again I was wrong. I discovered that night that my aunt Jean is one of those women that lives through her children, and reads more into college than the administration department at any high school. “Well, as I was skimming the 2007 version of the Fisk’s Guide to College, I stumbled upon Loyola, which is a perfect fit for Andrew, even though he doesn’t believe me and was reluctant to put in an application, I knew that it was the school for him.” At this moment in my life I thanked God that my mom was not this involved. Jean then continued to inform me about how she wanted a school for Andrew that was a fit for his athletics as well. “Well, since he runs cross-country we needed a school that has a team for him, but nothing above the division two level because he’s not that good, you know his mile time has gone from 4:24 to 4:31, its just heartbreaking.” I looked at her in shock, a 4:31 minute mile; I guess I am not up to date on fast mile times, but in my book that is damn fast. Although this was more of a lecture than anything, it was still about college, a subject that I happen to be fairly clueless about at this point, and am not looking forward to talking about for the next year and a half.
Talking about colleges is a bizarre topic, because you know that no matter what, the person you are talking to is hinting at something, whether it be their desire to continue the legacy at their school, or that you should step up your game and make a list, there is truly a secret message behind these investigations. As the night continued I began to come up with excuses to not talk about college. One of my most brilliant ideas was to just flat out say, “oh I’m actually not going to college,” although I never actually said this I was curious about the response I would get. Would I be disowned, or just looked at in such a way that disapproval radiated from their eyes? I also came up with the idea of saying, “Oh, haven’t you heard, I am terminally ill and won’t be attending college.” I was also curious about the response I would get from this statement; probally just shock would be my guess. But being the tolerant, semi-patient person that I am, I answered each of these questions pertaining college, and although I did it reluctantly, I had talked to half of my extended family about college before the night was done.
In life I feel like there is a series of questions and or comments that either extended family or just people that you don’t see on a regular basis ask you. These questions are usually awkward and the response usually begins with, “ummm, well…” As a child, the comment is, “my have you grown!” I mean honestly how do you respond to that. I guess you could say thank you but what for it’s not exactly a compliment and it is part of human nature to grow. I suppose the honest reply would be “yeah that’s what happens to most people as they age as children.” As you get older and enter the teen years, the questions only continue. You have the standard, “Where are you going to high school” and of course, “where are you going to college.” Both of these questions are asked assuming that you are planning to attend high school and college, which is not necessarily an assumption that one can make. Once again there is an honest response to these, “why does it matter to you?” As you approach adult hood there is another series of questions that you are bombarded with. “What are your plans after college?” “Are you planning to get married?” “Are you planning to have children?” and best of all, “what are you planning to do with your life?” These are the type of questions that are simply asked to create conversation, or I guess to be overly nosey. I mean, it is clearly not anyone’s business but your own about whether you are planning to get married or have children.
People are inherently flawed with nosiness and the urge to know more than they are entitled to know. It may be because they care about you and want you to live a complete life, but to them a good life could be completely different than a good life to another person. It is a good thing that the majority of people are overly polite and tolerate these questions, because if they weren’t like this the brutal honest response would be the motto of the human race, “why does it matter to you?”
The Epiphany of Growing Up
Talking on the phone, pacing the sidewalk seemed a totally normal way to pass time by on a warm summer night. Geanece’s loud voice filled the phone, so that her voice carried into the silent summer night. Geanece was always loud, everyone knew her as being loud and they loved her for it. Catching me off guard, our simple conversation of the plain old “How are you…how’s the family…any new boys….” took a serious turn. Geanece suddenly stated the fact that we were growing up so fast and soon enough we would be adults. Having not thought about those ridiculous thoughts much before, I laughed and calmly stated that is was about time. Geanece, the happy person she was, cracked up about my unserious comment. She attempted to bring up the “real talk” moment again, and I realized how serious she was. Not being a very serious person, I knew this was important. I realized that I was now sitting, something that I hardly ever did while on the phone. I then looked around and realized even that exact moment I was becoming second by second closer to the rest of my life.
I’ve know Geanece since I was ten years old and barely starting the sixth grade, having been friends with someone for years, you recall memories with them about everything. I rattled off about when we first started hanging out with Lorenzo, Sibley, Zak and Dominic, how we’d make jokes about everything and we thought we were so cool. She added in the middle school dances and how unbelievably horrible they were. Caught up in our reminiscing we brought up the times when we all would tease Sibley and how Continuation was a huge step in our lives. Within no time, we realized that our years spent being friends had flown by. Everyone of our memories involved our “group” or friends and we came to the conclusion that are friends have always been there for us and make our memories what they are, which is unforgettable. Laughing at each hysterical memory made me understand that those memories and inside jokes would never be relived, never replaced and never forgotten. No matter where our lives would take us, we would always have those friends to fall back on and if not them, then the memories which represented them.
Our reminiscent conversation turned into a curious chat about our futures. Geanece questioned me about where I wanted to go to college, this made me revert to pacing the sidewalk, and up until that very point I hadn’t put much thought into it. She pointed out to me that we were about to be juniors and had recently turned sixteen. I understood where she was coming from and made the connection that just as quickly as those prior six years had went by, the next two years of high school would be gone within the blink of an eye.
Growing up and leaving all those memories, all those people I cared so much about, scared me. Explaining to her that in two years we could possibly be seeing some of the peers that we had practically grown up with, for the last time. Knowing that we would all venture off to different parts of the world and start the lives that we all had dreamt of, made my eyes water. Due to my lack of emotional control, Geanece also started to tear up. No longer would we be held in our safe CA community, but we’d be released into the world. Lorenzo and Sibley could potentially own their own recording label in New York, Zak could be a big, fuzy high paid fireman, and Alex could end up a chef in California. For all we knew, the Gustapo could end up taking over the world.
Later that night, I talked to my mom about my friend that had recently informed me that he was going to be a father. Barely at the age of eighteen and starting his senior year of high school, I looked at my mother in disbelief. It couldn’t be real! The thought of my immature friend taking care of himself, and a baby as well seemed outrageous. My mother brought up the fact that many people have babies at a young age now days, and I was reminded of yet another friend who had a baby already. This friend was Neto, he was only sixteen and had a one year old baby boy. Neto also had been shot to death a little over a month prior to this conversation with my mom. As my eyes watered, I questioned my mother about the way the world is. Neto was one of the sweetest kids you could meet, and that was exactly it, he was just a kid. My mother responded to me that he wasn’t just a kid in fact he had to grow up. I had always known of death paying its visit to elderly people and even sometimes to people in there thirties and forties. To find out that my sixteen-year-old friend, not that different from me had his life taken away. When I first found out about Neto’s death I was in disbelief, then my disbelief turned into pain, and finally into anger. He left behind his baby boy and many loved ones, how was it that I should have to cope with that? My mother’s only response was that as we grow up we have to deal with things that may be unusual and difficult, but that is part of growing up.
In twenty years every moment of my present life will be just a memory of my past. Those memories will be similar to the ones I spent three hours reminiscing about with Geanece. At the age of sixteen, a junior in high school, I have come to realize I’m growing up and my life is changing. Soon, I’ll be an adult and set free to be on my own, living my own life. Ultimately my memories will be all I have of my past. Even that exact phone conversation with Geanece that I spent laughing and crying will be one of those cherished memories that I will look back on while I sit with my unconditional friends on my couch in my house.
I’ve know Geanece since I was ten years old and barely starting the sixth grade, having been friends with someone for years, you recall memories with them about everything. I rattled off about when we first started hanging out with Lorenzo, Sibley, Zak and Dominic, how we’d make jokes about everything and we thought we were so cool. She added in the middle school dances and how unbelievably horrible they were. Caught up in our reminiscing we brought up the times when we all would tease Sibley and how Continuation was a huge step in our lives. Within no time, we realized that our years spent being friends had flown by. Everyone of our memories involved our “group” or friends and we came to the conclusion that are friends have always been there for us and make our memories what they are, which is unforgettable. Laughing at each hysterical memory made me understand that those memories and inside jokes would never be relived, never replaced and never forgotten. No matter where our lives would take us, we would always have those friends to fall back on and if not them, then the memories which represented them.
Our reminiscent conversation turned into a curious chat about our futures. Geanece questioned me about where I wanted to go to college, this made me revert to pacing the sidewalk, and up until that very point I hadn’t put much thought into it. She pointed out to me that we were about to be juniors and had recently turned sixteen. I understood where she was coming from and made the connection that just as quickly as those prior six years had went by, the next two years of high school would be gone within the blink of an eye.
Growing up and leaving all those memories, all those people I cared so much about, scared me. Explaining to her that in two years we could possibly be seeing some of the peers that we had practically grown up with, for the last time. Knowing that we would all venture off to different parts of the world and start the lives that we all had dreamt of, made my eyes water. Due to my lack of emotional control, Geanece also started to tear up. No longer would we be held in our safe CA community, but we’d be released into the world. Lorenzo and Sibley could potentially own their own recording label in New York, Zak could be a big, fuzy high paid fireman, and Alex could end up a chef in California. For all we knew, the Gustapo could end up taking over the world.
Later that night, I talked to my mom about my friend that had recently informed me that he was going to be a father. Barely at the age of eighteen and starting his senior year of high school, I looked at my mother in disbelief. It couldn’t be real! The thought of my immature friend taking care of himself, and a baby as well seemed outrageous. My mother brought up the fact that many people have babies at a young age now days, and I was reminded of yet another friend who had a baby already. This friend was Neto, he was only sixteen and had a one year old baby boy. Neto also had been shot to death a little over a month prior to this conversation with my mom. As my eyes watered, I questioned my mother about the way the world is. Neto was one of the sweetest kids you could meet, and that was exactly it, he was just a kid. My mother responded to me that he wasn’t just a kid in fact he had to grow up. I had always known of death paying its visit to elderly people and even sometimes to people in there thirties and forties. To find out that my sixteen-year-old friend, not that different from me had his life taken away. When I first found out about Neto’s death I was in disbelief, then my disbelief turned into pain, and finally into anger. He left behind his baby boy and many loved ones, how was it that I should have to cope with that? My mother’s only response was that as we grow up we have to deal with things that may be unusual and difficult, but that is part of growing up.
In twenty years every moment of my present life will be just a memory of my past. Those memories will be similar to the ones I spent three hours reminiscing about with Geanece. At the age of sixteen, a junior in high school, I have come to realize I’m growing up and my life is changing. Soon, I’ll be an adult and set free to be on my own, living my own life. Ultimately my memories will be all I have of my past. Even that exact phone conversation with Geanece that I spent laughing and crying will be one of those cherished memories that I will look back on while I sit with my unconditional friends on my couch in my house.
Babay Sitting Hell
It was the day before Halloween and my friend Taylor had asked me to help out at a Halloween-birthday party for kids that she occasionally baby-sat. The birthday kids were 8 year old triplets: a birthday boy and two birthday girls.
As we drove up to the house I remember almost hitting a kid dressed as Batman who decided that it would be a good idea jump in front of the car. The driveway was littered with fairy princesses and grim reapers holding sparkling wands and scythes respectively. One bloody hockey player was trying to luge down the hill on a skateboard, oblivious to the suddenly heavy traffic on the private drive trying to drop off their little goblins. The dogs ran around, overwhelmed by the face paint and plastic costumes, contributing to the chaos outside. Taylor and I looked at each other . . . well here went nothing.
We walked up the gravel pathway to the front door, trying not trip over any witches on the way. Mrs. Hillman answered the door dressed in a blue velvet cape and hat with gold stars and moons on them with a glass on red wine in one hand.
“Oh thank you so much for coming!” she smiled at us as she thrust a pad of paper and a pen into my hand. “The kids are just about to open their presents so could you write it down?”
Agreeing Taylor and I made our way to their family room where all three birthday kids were buried under piles of gifts, ripping off wrapping paper.
“Wow cool!” Jack said as he put down the newly opened remote control car and proceeded to open another present. I tried to ask Jack who the car was from so that I could write it down but Jack merely shrugged his shoulders before unwrapping the next gift. Kate and Ruthie were also opening their gifts on pace to set a new world record of who could open the most gifts the fastest. Taylor and I were helpless against the power that their gifts wielded over Jack, Kate and Ruthie and, combined, probably wrote about 5 things down.
Forging our way through the wrapping paper living room, Taylor and I headed downstairs where Mrs. Hillman gave us a boom box and 30 kids to entertain before she climbed back upstairs with a smile on her face. Taylor’s face on the other hand bore a slight resemblance to Eeyore as the kids ran around the basement. Trying our best to hide the fact that we were dead terrified of having to entertain the kids under the influence of high fructose corn syrup and caffeine we tried to organize “Freeze Dance.” But before we could stop the music once a little girl dressed as a mermaid tugged on my pants. She was crying and in between sobs she asked me where her mother was. Her blue eyes were so watery and so full of panic so I left Taylor to work the music while I tried to console the little girl.
Little mermaid girl was three years old and her mother had left her at the party of 8 year olds on a “Halloween high”. Whenever a kid puts on a costume they can transform into that character. Well that’s all ok until the kid decides to inherit the personality of the character. If a kid dresses up like batman all of a sudden the rules don’t pertain to him because clearly superman doesn’t have to listen to anyone. He just flies around in his bat mobile speeding through the city looking for crime. A room full of out of control superheroes would put anyone on edge but it flat out terrified little mermaid girl. After a good ten minutes little mermaid girl understood that her mother would be back after the party and she went to the bathroom to find a tissue. Covered in snot and little kid goop I went back to help Taylor with the dancing.
“We’re bored. Aren’t there any other games?” whined a little cowboy. Taylor looked at me. Do you have any ideas? Her eyes pleaded.
“Does a scavenger hunt sound like fun?” I asked the three-foot tall crowd. As that idea was met with some approval Taylor and I thought of things for them to search for. Because the only thing we had for child entertainment purposes was the boom box we couldn’t really hide anything.
“Okay, so why don’t you get in groups and go outside. Don’t come back until you find 7 pinecones and . . . ummmm . . . three pieces of trash” Taylor suggested. Maybe this would preoccupy the kids for a while.
We were wrong.
The kids ran back less than a minute later with pinecones and trash that could fill the Superdome. I just sighed and started laughing. You know that something is bad when you just start laughing. Like when you are handed a physics test and the first question reads: Constance is running towards Sam at 1.61 m/s and Sam is running away from Constance at 1.59 m/s and the friction created by Sam’s shoes and the grass is .41 µ and the friction created by Constance’s shoes and the grass is .35 µ and after 10.18 seconds Constance yells at Sam who hears the sound how many seconds later if the temperature is 24.32 degrees Celsius? First you sort of want to cry, and then you want to laugh because honestly who cares about Sam or Constance. Well awesome . . . high five! That is sort-of how it feels to be trapped in birthday party hell.
After a couple of hours the parents finally emerged from upstairs with pizza, punch and of course ice cream and cake. The rest of the party is sort-of hazy. The kids ate until their stomachs were ready to pop like over-filled balloons. As Taylor and I dragged ourselves out the door Mrs. Hillman slipped us each a five and with a wink said “Thank you so much!”
So who really cares how you do on this one physics test. Putting things into perspective I guess that entertaining kids at a birthday party doesn’t really matter in the long run. I’m sure the kids won’t really remember how lame the girls were who ran that one party or, for that matter, they spent two hours they looked for pinecones. I guess there could be a worse way to spend a day as an eight year old, so if they’re not worried about it than should I?
But seriously, five dollars?
As we drove up to the house I remember almost hitting a kid dressed as Batman who decided that it would be a good idea jump in front of the car. The driveway was littered with fairy princesses and grim reapers holding sparkling wands and scythes respectively. One bloody hockey player was trying to luge down the hill on a skateboard, oblivious to the suddenly heavy traffic on the private drive trying to drop off their little goblins. The dogs ran around, overwhelmed by the face paint and plastic costumes, contributing to the chaos outside. Taylor and I looked at each other . . . well here went nothing.
We walked up the gravel pathway to the front door, trying not trip over any witches on the way. Mrs. Hillman answered the door dressed in a blue velvet cape and hat with gold stars and moons on them with a glass on red wine in one hand.
“Oh thank you so much for coming!” she smiled at us as she thrust a pad of paper and a pen into my hand. “The kids are just about to open their presents so could you write it down?”
Agreeing Taylor and I made our way to their family room where all three birthday kids were buried under piles of gifts, ripping off wrapping paper.
“Wow cool!” Jack said as he put down the newly opened remote control car and proceeded to open another present. I tried to ask Jack who the car was from so that I could write it down but Jack merely shrugged his shoulders before unwrapping the next gift. Kate and Ruthie were also opening their gifts on pace to set a new world record of who could open the most gifts the fastest. Taylor and I were helpless against the power that their gifts wielded over Jack, Kate and Ruthie and, combined, probably wrote about 5 things down.
Forging our way through the wrapping paper living room, Taylor and I headed downstairs where Mrs. Hillman gave us a boom box and 30 kids to entertain before she climbed back upstairs with a smile on her face. Taylor’s face on the other hand bore a slight resemblance to Eeyore as the kids ran around the basement. Trying our best to hide the fact that we were dead terrified of having to entertain the kids under the influence of high fructose corn syrup and caffeine we tried to organize “Freeze Dance.” But before we could stop the music once a little girl dressed as a mermaid tugged on my pants. She was crying and in between sobs she asked me where her mother was. Her blue eyes were so watery and so full of panic so I left Taylor to work the music while I tried to console the little girl.
Little mermaid girl was three years old and her mother had left her at the party of 8 year olds on a “Halloween high”. Whenever a kid puts on a costume they can transform into that character. Well that’s all ok until the kid decides to inherit the personality of the character. If a kid dresses up like batman all of a sudden the rules don’t pertain to him because clearly superman doesn’t have to listen to anyone. He just flies around in his bat mobile speeding through the city looking for crime. A room full of out of control superheroes would put anyone on edge but it flat out terrified little mermaid girl. After a good ten minutes little mermaid girl understood that her mother would be back after the party and she went to the bathroom to find a tissue. Covered in snot and little kid goop I went back to help Taylor with the dancing.
“We’re bored. Aren’t there any other games?” whined a little cowboy. Taylor looked at me. Do you have any ideas? Her eyes pleaded.
“Does a scavenger hunt sound like fun?” I asked the three-foot tall crowd. As that idea was met with some approval Taylor and I thought of things for them to search for. Because the only thing we had for child entertainment purposes was the boom box we couldn’t really hide anything.
“Okay, so why don’t you get in groups and go outside. Don’t come back until you find 7 pinecones and . . . ummmm . . . three pieces of trash” Taylor suggested. Maybe this would preoccupy the kids for a while.
We were wrong.
The kids ran back less than a minute later with pinecones and trash that could fill the Superdome. I just sighed and started laughing. You know that something is bad when you just start laughing. Like when you are handed a physics test and the first question reads: Constance is running towards Sam at 1.61 m/s and Sam is running away from Constance at 1.59 m/s and the friction created by Sam’s shoes and the grass is .41 µ and the friction created by Constance’s shoes and the grass is .35 µ and after 10.18 seconds Constance yells at Sam who hears the sound how many seconds later if the temperature is 24.32 degrees Celsius? First you sort of want to cry, and then you want to laugh because honestly who cares about Sam or Constance. Well awesome . . . high five! That is sort-of how it feels to be trapped in birthday party hell.
After a couple of hours the parents finally emerged from upstairs with pizza, punch and of course ice cream and cake. The rest of the party is sort-of hazy. The kids ate until their stomachs were ready to pop like over-filled balloons. As Taylor and I dragged ourselves out the door Mrs. Hillman slipped us each a five and with a wink said “Thank you so much!”
So who really cares how you do on this one physics test. Putting things into perspective I guess that entertaining kids at a birthday party doesn’t really matter in the long run. I’m sure the kids won’t really remember how lame the girls were who ran that one party or, for that matter, they spent two hours they looked for pinecones. I guess there could be a worse way to spend a day as an eight year old, so if they’re not worried about it than should I?
But seriously, five dollars?
You Can Park in the Handicapped Spot
“Can you scoot over? I just can’t write comfortably if I sit next to some one who’s left handed.” Despite the initial rudeness that I experience every time I hear things like this, I am not surprised by my classmate’s request. What I thought was an interesting quark when I was little has turned against me over the years and become more of a disability then a show and tell subject. Being left handed now a days of course is no comparison to the slaughter of my people in the Middle Ages, but I like to think that my generation is still here to represent the plight of past south paws. When I hear the grunts of my peers who sit to my left, I oblige with out complaint to move the required two feet so they are comfortable, always thinking of my ancestors whom probably had to move two feet away while making fire in their caves. But who can really blame my right handed superiors; I’m lucky that I’m even allowed to go to the same school.
My “situation” is on my mind a lot when I think about my future. I dread the day when I apply for a job and my right handed superior is chosen over me.
“All right Ms. Ball, you’ve got the job. If you could just sign here- wait why are you holding the pen with your left hand? Are you left hand? Ya…forget signing; we’ll get back to you.”
I owe this to the fact that I believe that Americans don’t like change. Though my breed has been around since the beginning of civilization, it takes awhile to get used to something different. I get it, really, I do. But years from now, I dream of a country when a left hander and a right hander can join together in a perfect world, but maybe I’m just being ridiculous.
But disregarding my future, my present is a little cloudy. The usual "handiest" comments that come from my right handed classmates are something I can take, but my “disease” only starts to bother me when a teacher makes note it.
“As you can see here, Cuba was liberated in- oh my god, Alex your left handed?”
“ O, look at that, I guess I am,” I respond robotically.
“I had no idea; your parents didn’t mention anything at conferences.”
“Ya…they try to ignore it.”
I like to think that they only act this way to some how add excitement to the class by noticing my handicap, but I’m only kidding myself. I am reminded of the discrimination I receive at home when my teachers bring up my parents. One knows they are in trouble when their own father only allows them to sit at a certain place at the table so he can eat without having to knock elbows. I have yet to tell him that his snorting when he eats sounds like a whale in mating season, but I don’t like to point fingers.
One Christmas, I was given a left handed calendar with funny anecdotes about people who are south paws. It was supposed to be in jest; a gift from my right handed parents. And while they thought I would probably just throw it on my desk to be lost in the avalanche of papers, I studied that calendar; taking in the history of my peoples. For example: Mark Twain, Ronald Reagan, Leonardo Da Vinci? All left handed. Granted Da Vinci’s right hand was paralyzed, but hey, that left hand did some pretty good shit.
After reading about left handers of the past, I was becoming more and more confident in my special gift. I began to over exaggerate my arm space when writing in class, purposefully hitting elbows with the person next to me as if to say: I’m left handed, and damn it, I’m proud! It wasn’t until my neighbor physically moved my chair that my revolution was stifled but my passion wasn’t. From that moment on I used every chance I got to mention that I was left handed. When a teacher asked me to turn in my paper, I would respond: “ O this paper? The one that I typed but could have written with my left hand? Ya, no problem.”
I was on a rampage and was only knocked off my soap box when I found out that I wasn’t the only left handed person in the school, go figure. Eventually I learned to embrace this fact and am now comforted when I see a fellow underdog enter the class room and I know that it is at least two against fifteen.
I think my favorite thing about being left handed is the conversation that goes on after people find out that I am, indeed, different.
“ So, you’re like, left handed?” asks my new friend.
“ Ya, basically.”
“Could you, you know, write something with your right, just so I can see?”
“Sure…” I respond hesitantly.
I then proceed to pick up a pencil awkwardly with my right hand and write something that looks as if my lead threw up on the paper.
“ O my God! You’re a freak! Hey John, come look at this left hander!”
Normally, this would bother the usual person but I like to put on a show, give the kids something to talk about.
At the end of the day, I’ve come to face my “difference” with confidence and poise, now and again letting my insecurities get the best of me, but I like to think that I’ve matured. However, I still await the day when I proudly sit down at the table and bump elbows with my dad. When asked to move, I will calmly address his snorting, saying: “Hey, Shamu! Bite me!”
My “situation” is on my mind a lot when I think about my future. I dread the day when I apply for a job and my right handed superior is chosen over me.
“All right Ms. Ball, you’ve got the job. If you could just sign here- wait why are you holding the pen with your left hand? Are you left hand? Ya…forget signing; we’ll get back to you.”
I owe this to the fact that I believe that Americans don’t like change. Though my breed has been around since the beginning of civilization, it takes awhile to get used to something different. I get it, really, I do. But years from now, I dream of a country when a left hander and a right hander can join together in a perfect world, but maybe I’m just being ridiculous.
But disregarding my future, my present is a little cloudy. The usual "handiest" comments that come from my right handed classmates are something I can take, but my “disease” only starts to bother me when a teacher makes note it.
“As you can see here, Cuba was liberated in- oh my god, Alex your left handed?”
“ O, look at that, I guess I am,” I respond robotically.
“I had no idea; your parents didn’t mention anything at conferences.”
“Ya…they try to ignore it.”
I like to think that they only act this way to some how add excitement to the class by noticing my handicap, but I’m only kidding myself. I am reminded of the discrimination I receive at home when my teachers bring up my parents. One knows they are in trouble when their own father only allows them to sit at a certain place at the table so he can eat without having to knock elbows. I have yet to tell him that his snorting when he eats sounds like a whale in mating season, but I don’t like to point fingers.
One Christmas, I was given a left handed calendar with funny anecdotes about people who are south paws. It was supposed to be in jest; a gift from my right handed parents. And while they thought I would probably just throw it on my desk to be lost in the avalanche of papers, I studied that calendar; taking in the history of my peoples. For example: Mark Twain, Ronald Reagan, Leonardo Da Vinci? All left handed. Granted Da Vinci’s right hand was paralyzed, but hey, that left hand did some pretty good shit.
After reading about left handers of the past, I was becoming more and more confident in my special gift. I began to over exaggerate my arm space when writing in class, purposefully hitting elbows with the person next to me as if to say: I’m left handed, and damn it, I’m proud! It wasn’t until my neighbor physically moved my chair that my revolution was stifled but my passion wasn’t. From that moment on I used every chance I got to mention that I was left handed. When a teacher asked me to turn in my paper, I would respond: “ O this paper? The one that I typed but could have written with my left hand? Ya, no problem.”
I was on a rampage and was only knocked off my soap box when I found out that I wasn’t the only left handed person in the school, go figure. Eventually I learned to embrace this fact and am now comforted when I see a fellow underdog enter the class room and I know that it is at least two against fifteen.
I think my favorite thing about being left handed is the conversation that goes on after people find out that I am, indeed, different.
“ So, you’re like, left handed?” asks my new friend.
“ Ya, basically.”
“Could you, you know, write something with your right, just so I can see?”
“Sure…” I respond hesitantly.
I then proceed to pick up a pencil awkwardly with my right hand and write something that looks as if my lead threw up on the paper.
“ O my God! You’re a freak! Hey John, come look at this left hander!”
Normally, this would bother the usual person but I like to put on a show, give the kids something to talk about.
At the end of the day, I’ve come to face my “difference” with confidence and poise, now and again letting my insecurities get the best of me, but I like to think that I’ve matured. However, I still await the day when I proudly sit down at the table and bump elbows with my dad. When asked to move, I will calmly address his snorting, saying: “Hey, Shamu! Bite me!”
In the Real World Some People Have Split Ends
I was just sitting there, minding my own business and taking notes in class when the girl behind me rapped rudely on my shoulder. I turned around quickly, thinking she probably had a question for me. She was one of those people who were always asking questions like, “Wait…What are we doing?” or “Wait… What page are we on?” You know, questions that make you realize teachers are blatantly lying when they say there is no such thing as a stupid question, or person. And then it happened. I began to turn back around and regain my focus after having responded, when suddenly I felt a tug on a large chunk of my hair.
My head jerked back a bit and I found myself turning back around to the questioner behind me. My head was cocked at an awkward angle because she continued to hold the hair tightly in her well-manicured hand. I looked at her not knowing what she was thinking. Had I said something wrong that had upset her? I couldn’t think of anything. Had I given her the wrong page number? She wasn’t one who had been known to retaliate violently. And then, with the smell of her lip gloss penetrating the air and her wispy dyed hair perfectly framing her face she said it. “You have split ends. You might want to get a hair cut.” And she let go.
I replied with a reply awkward enough to rival the positioning of my head just before, “I don’t know, maybe.” What else was there to say? I chose to say nothing more, but this one small comment started an outburst of emotion in my mind. How dare she tell me that! I was the one constantly helping her get through class in an appropriate fashion. Without me she never would have known what we were doing and likely would have failed, but outwardly I kept my cool. I needed time to think it over and to understand what my answer should have been without being angry. But there was anger inside of me. I wanted to scream at her and tell her that wasn’t her place, that I thought my hair looked just great thank-you-very-much. This anger lasted for nearly a week, until I recalled a memory from the summer.
In the summer, everyone had been excited about the Real World being filmed in Denver, and I along with everyone else participated producing in countless plots to meet the people, see the house, and get on the show. We wanted to see the house from the outside, so we drove by it. Multiple times. One time, a few of my friends even saw one of the roommates leaving the house and followed her in her car. They lost her at a red light, but they ended up with a good story to tell, and a good hope that they might make the show.
My best friend Meaghan and I wanted to interact with the roommates, so we devised a scheme. We would pick out a few of our friends, based on looks, and use them to bait the roommates either out of the house, or to get us into the house. We had to be careful in who we chose, they couldn’t know that’s what they were doing and they needed to be in their normal state of charm and prettiness. So naturally, we called Quint Brown and the girl who would eventually degrade my hair. The plan was all worked out, and the bait came through. After all the careful planning, it fell through, thanks to one of our more logical friends, whom I like to call Mr. 800 on his SAT Math, who pointed out that security might be an issue.
So when I recalled this memory, it was clear that I couldn’t be mad at the hair grabber. I had attempted to use her to bait the Real World roommates out of the house and get my 15 seconds of fame. And even though it didn’t work out, I felt a little bit guilty. The anger I felt when my splint ends were put on display, leveled out that guilt. My anger would likely have been matched by hers if she found out our intentions for her at the Real World house. Everything had seemed to even itself out in the end, even though it took a few months. The whole scenario, from summer and the classroom gave me hope that the old saying “it all comes out in the wash” is true. Lucky for me, she never found out about those intentions and my guilt was eventually extinguished. Lucky for her, she will have to wait a few months to sit behind me and see my split ends, because the next day I went out and got a haircut.
My head jerked back a bit and I found myself turning back around to the questioner behind me. My head was cocked at an awkward angle because she continued to hold the hair tightly in her well-manicured hand. I looked at her not knowing what she was thinking. Had I said something wrong that had upset her? I couldn’t think of anything. Had I given her the wrong page number? She wasn’t one who had been known to retaliate violently. And then, with the smell of her lip gloss penetrating the air and her wispy dyed hair perfectly framing her face she said it. “You have split ends. You might want to get a hair cut.” And she let go.
I replied with a reply awkward enough to rival the positioning of my head just before, “I don’t know, maybe.” What else was there to say? I chose to say nothing more, but this one small comment started an outburst of emotion in my mind. How dare she tell me that! I was the one constantly helping her get through class in an appropriate fashion. Without me she never would have known what we were doing and likely would have failed, but outwardly I kept my cool. I needed time to think it over and to understand what my answer should have been without being angry. But there was anger inside of me. I wanted to scream at her and tell her that wasn’t her place, that I thought my hair looked just great thank-you-very-much. This anger lasted for nearly a week, until I recalled a memory from the summer.
In the summer, everyone had been excited about the Real World being filmed in Denver, and I along with everyone else participated producing in countless plots to meet the people, see the house, and get on the show. We wanted to see the house from the outside, so we drove by it. Multiple times. One time, a few of my friends even saw one of the roommates leaving the house and followed her in her car. They lost her at a red light, but they ended up with a good story to tell, and a good hope that they might make the show.
My best friend Meaghan and I wanted to interact with the roommates, so we devised a scheme. We would pick out a few of our friends, based on looks, and use them to bait the roommates either out of the house, or to get us into the house. We had to be careful in who we chose, they couldn’t know that’s what they were doing and they needed to be in their normal state of charm and prettiness. So naturally, we called Quint Brown and the girl who would eventually degrade my hair. The plan was all worked out, and the bait came through. After all the careful planning, it fell through, thanks to one of our more logical friends, whom I like to call Mr. 800 on his SAT Math, who pointed out that security might be an issue.
So when I recalled this memory, it was clear that I couldn’t be mad at the hair grabber. I had attempted to use her to bait the Real World roommates out of the house and get my 15 seconds of fame. And even though it didn’t work out, I felt a little bit guilty. The anger I felt when my splint ends were put on display, leveled out that guilt. My anger would likely have been matched by hers if she found out our intentions for her at the Real World house. Everything had seemed to even itself out in the end, even though it took a few months. The whole scenario, from summer and the classroom gave me hope that the old saying “it all comes out in the wash” is true. Lucky for me, she never found out about those intentions and my guilt was eventually extinguished. Lucky for her, she will have to wait a few months to sit behind me and see my split ends, because the next day I went out and got a haircut.
Disastrous Competitions
When I was about 12 years old, my friend Megan and I, were walking on a trail by my house, when suddenly we spotted one of those playground merry-go-rounds. We were both really excited, because they have been taken out of a ton of playgrounds, because they are so dangerous. That thought, of course, did not occur to us when we decided that it would be so much fun to go play on it. It started out as just two people having a really good time sitting on the playground merry-go-round, but it turned into a competition. When you think about it, doesn’t everything people do turn into a competition in one way or another? Whether it is playing sports, or who got the better grade, nothing in life can just be simple.
Megan and I had the brilliant idea, that it would be lots of fun to see how fast we can spin the playground merry-go-round, with one of us on it, and then see how far we can jump off of it, while it’s spinning. Well, come to think of it, the idea came from Megan alone, but being the competitive person I am, I joined in on the idea. Megan decided that she would go first, so she sat down on the playground merry-go-round, and I spun her as fast as I could, until I eventually became very dizzy. The next thing I knew, Megan was standing up on the equipment, while it was spinning, and I see her jump off. She flew off that thing so far, I couldn’t believe it! My competitive nature kicked in, when I jumped onto the merry-go-round, saying, “What? That’s all you’ve got? I can jump so much farther than you just did.” I should have known right then, that my cocky and competitive attitude when turn around, and end very badly for me, but of course, I never think about that until its over.
I get on the merry-go-round, and I don’t even sit all the way, I just kneel down, hoping that I would get more distance if I got up quicker. I know, that is the stupidest thinking ever, but who knows what is going through people’s minds, let alone mine, when they have a mission to complete. When Megan started to spin the merry-go-round, I got up really fast and jumped as far as I could. I ended up landing on the toy teeter-totter that was next to us, and got the air knocked out of me. I don’t have any knowledge of having as much pain as I did right then. I couldn’t even cry, because I couldn’t breathe well enough to start crying. When Megan saw me just lying on the sand pebbles, she leaned over me and kept asking, “Are you okay? What can I do? Do I need to call an ambulance?” I was finally able to get enough breath back to tell her I was fine, and of course ask her, “Did I win?”
I won.
Megan and I had the brilliant idea, that it would be lots of fun to see how fast we can spin the playground merry-go-round, with one of us on it, and then see how far we can jump off of it, while it’s spinning. Well, come to think of it, the idea came from Megan alone, but being the competitive person I am, I joined in on the idea. Megan decided that she would go first, so she sat down on the playground merry-go-round, and I spun her as fast as I could, until I eventually became very dizzy. The next thing I knew, Megan was standing up on the equipment, while it was spinning, and I see her jump off. She flew off that thing so far, I couldn’t believe it! My competitive nature kicked in, when I jumped onto the merry-go-round, saying, “What? That’s all you’ve got? I can jump so much farther than you just did.” I should have known right then, that my cocky and competitive attitude when turn around, and end very badly for me, but of course, I never think about that until its over.
I get on the merry-go-round, and I don’t even sit all the way, I just kneel down, hoping that I would get more distance if I got up quicker. I know, that is the stupidest thinking ever, but who knows what is going through people’s minds, let alone mine, when they have a mission to complete. When Megan started to spin the merry-go-round, I got up really fast and jumped as far as I could. I ended up landing on the toy teeter-totter that was next to us, and got the air knocked out of me. I don’t have any knowledge of having as much pain as I did right then. I couldn’t even cry, because I couldn’t breathe well enough to start crying. When Megan saw me just lying on the sand pebbles, she leaned over me and kept asking, “Are you okay? What can I do? Do I need to call an ambulance?” I was finally able to get enough breath back to tell her I was fine, and of course ask her, “Did I win?”
I won.
Apparently I'm an Idiot
After having one of the most stressful weeks of my entire school year, I dragged myself into the house hoping that I would find some relief by going upstairs and falling asleep. However I noted a large white envelope patiently waiting on the kitchen counter, partially opened. “Hmm that’s a big envelope, I wonder what it is.” I thought to myself. I walked up to the counter and saw that it was addressed to my parents and myself. Of course I got a knife and opened that baby right up. Sadly the contents of this large white envelope were my PSAT scores from the October session. “Oh $*&%!” rattled through my head like the sound of a cannon in the Civil War. Little did I know, that sound would signify my hopes of a decent life exploding into splinters.
I unfolded the piece of paper with my test results in it, and well lets just say these scores are very similar to David Sedaris’ IQ results. My “Writing Skills” score equaled the amount of money somebody pays for a decent steak at a mediocre restaurant in Wyoming. These scores would also explain the failed attempts at decent writing in this essay. Anyway, I looked at these results horrified. Hoping that if I stared long enough the scores would suddenly reverse and I would have a near average score. But no, these scores stared right back in my face snickering, “Hey sucker, you know what this means? That’s right… janitor at the local McDonalds. Have fun.” It was then that my future-life flashed before my eyes. I was to be one of those 45 year-old, virgin men, who lived in the basement of Mommy and Daddy’s house, waiting for Grandma’s oxygen to finally run out so I wouldn’t have to listen to the monotonous spits of air it made. But at that point I would have to get off the couch that I had been sitting on, watching the 28-year-old taped episodes of “The Real World Denver” reminiscing of the days when I almost had a life, and go and replace Grandma’s oxygen.
My mom came up to me and asked what I was looking at. I looked at her and simply stated, “my lack of brain capacity, is what I’m lookin at.” She looked a bit confused by what I said, but then shifted to see the page of my scores. “Oh… wow.” She said. Obviously she hadn’t read the non-existent manual of what not to say after your son has received his PSAT scores that suggest he will be a janitor for the rest of his life, and if he is lucky, he might flip the occasional burger. “‘Oh..wow’ is what you have to say?!” I said, “even a little fake support would help. How about ‘oh its ok Jakers, they’re only numbers that have no reflection of who you really are.’” Of course, I knew that nothing she could have said would have helped me, because these scores showed me that, apparently I’m an idiot.
Quietly I packed my scores back into the large white envelope, and set them back on the table. I walked to my room thinking that I most likely would be doing this for the next 30+ years of my life. My dreams of being a doctor or big-shot lawyer poured out of me like the water being squeezed out of the mop, which I was soon to be holding at the McDonalds just down the street. And with that my days as a janitor began, given that the next day I filled out a job application at the McDonalds down the street.
I unfolded the piece of paper with my test results in it, and well lets just say these scores are very similar to David Sedaris’ IQ results. My “Writing Skills” score equaled the amount of money somebody pays for a decent steak at a mediocre restaurant in Wyoming. These scores would also explain the failed attempts at decent writing in this essay. Anyway, I looked at these results horrified. Hoping that if I stared long enough the scores would suddenly reverse and I would have a near average score. But no, these scores stared right back in my face snickering, “Hey sucker, you know what this means? That’s right… janitor at the local McDonalds. Have fun.” It was then that my future-life flashed before my eyes. I was to be one of those 45 year-old, virgin men, who lived in the basement of Mommy and Daddy’s house, waiting for Grandma’s oxygen to finally run out so I wouldn’t have to listen to the monotonous spits of air it made. But at that point I would have to get off the couch that I had been sitting on, watching the 28-year-old taped episodes of “The Real World Denver” reminiscing of the days when I almost had a life, and go and replace Grandma’s oxygen.
My mom came up to me and asked what I was looking at. I looked at her and simply stated, “my lack of brain capacity, is what I’m lookin at.” She looked a bit confused by what I said, but then shifted to see the page of my scores. “Oh… wow.” She said. Obviously she hadn’t read the non-existent manual of what not to say after your son has received his PSAT scores that suggest he will be a janitor for the rest of his life, and if he is lucky, he might flip the occasional burger. “‘Oh..wow’ is what you have to say?!” I said, “even a little fake support would help. How about ‘oh its ok Jakers, they’re only numbers that have no reflection of who you really are.’” Of course, I knew that nothing she could have said would have helped me, because these scores showed me that, apparently I’m an idiot.
Quietly I packed my scores back into the large white envelope, and set them back on the table. I walked to my room thinking that I most likely would be doing this for the next 30+ years of my life. My dreams of being a doctor or big-shot lawyer poured out of me like the water being squeezed out of the mop, which I was soon to be holding at the McDonalds just down the street. And with that my days as a janitor began, given that the next day I filled out a job application at the McDonalds down the street.
"You Like That" with the bonus feature "Totally Censored and I Hate David Bowie"
THIS IS MY HEADING
Matthew Paul Sibley
Trimester II
Block 6
Gottlieb
English
Literature Of Conflict
Blog Essay I
Final Draft
12/12/2006
Personal Essay
Based on Sedaris/Kingsolver
25 Points (Maybe how much this assignment is worth)
Blogg Assignment
"The Agora"
beta-blogger.com
Class of 2008
Damn thats a good heading. I only have to write like, 3 lines now and I'm done. Score.
You like that? That’s a little trick I learned in Mills. If my paper was ever too short, I would just keep adding on to the heading until it looked long enough. Pretty clever. I don’t think Mr. Mills ever caught on to that. I don’t know if Mr. Derek Gottlieb is perceptive enough to notice, but I better write this thing anyway. Before I got started, I read a couple, and some are pretty good. But most are just OK. (Mine is going to be one of those that is just OK). Also, I have no idea what I’m going to write about.
This one time I was driving home from school. It was Saturday, and I just took this PSAT prep course thing that totally blew. Why the hell would you ever practice for a practice test? Isn’t that why they made the practice test in the first place? Anyway, I just thought I’d mention that because I ride the bus to school everyday, except for when I go to school on the weekends. Which is pretty much never, because that would be the most depressing place to spend a weekend. Or week, for that matter. Anyway, I was really tired because the PSAT class was really boring. Imagine filling in bubbles on a piece of paper. Now imagine that being the exciting part of the class. But I digress (I love to say that, some I’m gonna try and use that at least one more time before the essay ends). So I was driving, right, and needed to turn left on to Hampden. It was the red arrow, and so I stopped and started waiting for the green arrow. How could anybody screw that up? I’ll tell you.
Like I said, I felt like that PSAT course sapped me of my soul, or at least made me kind of drowsy. I was listening to the radio (KS 1075, number 1 for hiphop and today’s hottest music) and just waiting for the green arrow. I guess I must have dozed off, because when I looked back up at the light it changed to yellow. It took me a couple of seconds to realize what had happened. At first, I was very angry at the traffic light for skipping my turn. I thought, “It can’t do that. It was just red. Why doesn’t it change to green? I want green.” I was actually angry at the stoplight for skipping my turn. Then, I thought that maybe the lights went red, yellow, green. You know, “Yellow light, get ready to go.” My thought process was that maybe I had just forgotten this widely known fact. I mean, I still confuse my left and right hands sometimes. (Think about that. If you asked me to raise my right hand, and you caught me early enough in the morning, I would have to think about it. Seriously. {But, if you caught me at dinner, I would be able to answer right off the bat, because I eat with my right hand. Back to my story.}) As luck would have it, the stoplight did not skip my turn and the lights did not go red, yellow, green. I was just a dumb ass. Realizing that I had slept through an entire green light, I chuckled to myself and proceeded to slump back down for some more shuteye.
Just as I was preparing to do this dude who tapped on the window of car my car. It scarred the crap out of me. The dude seemed like a nice guy (who was just really pissed off), but for my story we will make him a sweaty red neck. Because I hate sweaty rednecks. Anyway, he peered into the car and said in a very condescending tone (which I guess you’re gonna get a lot of if you sleep through green lights on a busy intersection) “You know you can go now? You can go on green.” He talked to me like a was foreigner, as if he meant to say, “I don’t know how they do it in your country, but in America, we go on green lights. Got it?”. I felt like he thought I was Yugoslavian. Don’t ask me why, that’s just how I felt. If I had my wits about me, I would have said, “I’m American, asshole” or just pretend to speak Yugoslavian to him. Or gone through when the light was green. Instead, the only thing I could think to do was give him a thumbs up and a big smile. That didn't seem to cheer him up at all.
Those thirty seconds waiting for the next light were really awkward because that was the first time I looked at my rearview mirror and had realized how many people were behind me. They probably honked and stuff too. Oops. In those thirty seconds, I realized that if I was one of the guys behind me, I would be extremely pissed. I think the only reason sweaty redneck didn’t shoot me was because he forgot his gun in his other in his trailer (instead of shooting me, he angrily played his banjo at me in his Ford F-150). I had an epiphany. Actually, two.
The first was that this could have been much worse. What if sweaty redneck had remembered his shotgun? Or worse, what if there was somebody I knew behind me? They might have made fun of me. Thank God that didn’t happen. Or, what if there was a pregnant lady behind me who needed to get to the hospital? I can just picture that guy tapping on my window saying something like, “lets move it buddy, she’s crowning back here!” or “Step on it, pal, her water just broke!”. That would be bad.
The second epiphany was one that I just now made up to validate my essay-blog thing. This is basically the point, or reason, behind this entire essay. Ready to have your mind blown? Okay. Here it is. My point. In life you must take advantage of the opportunities that you are given. Wow, that was deep. But how is that relevant, you might ask. Well, I’ll tell you. That green arrow was my opportunity to turn left. And I missed it. Luckily, that opportunity comes about every thirty seconds. So, it wasn’t so bad.
That would be funny if that was just the end of my essay, because it's like, "you told me that whole story, and that was your point? That was like, 3 sentences of crap you added to the end so that you could have a point to this whole story. I mean, that's barely even relevant at all.". But I feel like I need to add more, because even after my heading, some people have longer stories. And the longer it is, the better grade you get. I hope. Anyway, you need to take advantage of the opportunities you get because they don’t always come around again, like stoplights. Sometimes, if you miss an opportunity, its gone. Forever. Like a train that only comes by once, or something. I don’t know. You think of a better metaphor. Oh, the Titanic only came by once… But that’s kind of a bad example because that’s not really an opportunity anybody would regret missing. (Could imagine going up to someone and saying “what wrong?” and they say, “I’m really bummed. I missed the Titanic.”). That’s actually really sad. I digress (told you). These opportunities are important because they can make all the difference in your life. Like getting home 30 seconds earlier. Or getting into college. Or sinking on a ship called the Titanic. But about the college thing: if you don’t take advantage of the wonderful education here at CA, you will have squandered an opportunity. Like right now. I’m taking advantage of this opportunity to get a good grade and go to college and stuff. Wow, this paper has really grown on me. At first I just started writing, and now this is supposed to get me into a good college. Damn. Also, other people could be counting on you to follow through on your opportunities to improve their lives. Like the pregnant lady. If I had gone through that green arrow, that theoretical pregnant lady’s life would be much nicer. Unless she wanted to continue the family tradition of giving birth in a pick-up truck. That was a red neck joke.
Now my paper is done, and all need to do is to think of a catchy title, even though I doubt anybody will read this no matter what I call it. “You like that?” is the opening phrase. Maybe that will be the title. Maybe I could just get one person to read it if I made the title their name. Or, two people to read it, if two people in Gottlieb have the same name. “Alex, read this.” I bet they would. Then, afterward, they’d be like, “why the hell did I read that? Sibley totally tricked me on that one.” Na. I’ll stick with “You Like That?” because somebody might think it’s a dirty sex story, because “You Like That?” kind of sounds like the title of a Cosmo article or something.
Matthew Paul Sibley
Trimester II
Block 6
Gottlieb
English
Literature Of Conflict
Blog Essay I
Final Draft
12/12/2006
Personal Essay
Based on Sedaris/Kingsolver
25 Points (Maybe how much this assignment is worth)
Blogg Assignment
"The Agora"
beta-blogger.com
Class of 2008
Damn thats a good heading. I only have to write like, 3 lines now and I'm done. Score.
You like that? That’s a little trick I learned in Mills. If my paper was ever too short, I would just keep adding on to the heading until it looked long enough. Pretty clever. I don’t think Mr. Mills ever caught on to that. I don’t know if Mr. Derek Gottlieb is perceptive enough to notice, but I better write this thing anyway. Before I got started, I read a couple, and some are pretty good. But most are just OK. (Mine is going to be one of those that is just OK). Also, I have no idea what I’m going to write about.
This one time I was driving home from school. It was Saturday, and I just took this PSAT prep course thing that totally blew. Why the hell would you ever practice for a practice test? Isn’t that why they made the practice test in the first place? Anyway, I just thought I’d mention that because I ride the bus to school everyday, except for when I go to school on the weekends. Which is pretty much never, because that would be the most depressing place to spend a weekend. Or week, for that matter. Anyway, I was really tired because the PSAT class was really boring. Imagine filling in bubbles on a piece of paper. Now imagine that being the exciting part of the class. But I digress (I love to say that, some I’m gonna try and use that at least one more time before the essay ends). So I was driving, right, and needed to turn left on to Hampden. It was the red arrow, and so I stopped and started waiting for the green arrow. How could anybody screw that up? I’ll tell you.
Like I said, I felt like that PSAT course sapped me of my soul, or at least made me kind of drowsy. I was listening to the radio (KS 1075, number 1 for hiphop and today’s hottest music) and just waiting for the green arrow. I guess I must have dozed off, because when I looked back up at the light it changed to yellow. It took me a couple of seconds to realize what had happened. At first, I was very angry at the traffic light for skipping my turn. I thought, “It can’t do that. It was just red. Why doesn’t it change to green? I want green.” I was actually angry at the stoplight for skipping my turn. Then, I thought that maybe the lights went red, yellow, green. You know, “Yellow light, get ready to go.” My thought process was that maybe I had just forgotten this widely known fact. I mean, I still confuse my left and right hands sometimes. (Think about that. If you asked me to raise my right hand, and you caught me early enough in the morning, I would have to think about it. Seriously. {But, if you caught me at dinner, I would be able to answer right off the bat, because I eat with my right hand. Back to my story.}) As luck would have it, the stoplight did not skip my turn and the lights did not go red, yellow, green. I was just a dumb ass. Realizing that I had slept through an entire green light, I chuckled to myself and proceeded to slump back down for some more shuteye.
Just as I was preparing to do this dude who tapped on the window of car my car. It scarred the crap out of me. The dude seemed like a nice guy (who was just really pissed off), but for my story we will make him a sweaty red neck. Because I hate sweaty rednecks. Anyway, he peered into the car and said in a very condescending tone (which I guess you’re gonna get a lot of if you sleep through green lights on a busy intersection) “You know you can go now? You can go on green.” He talked to me like a was foreigner, as if he meant to say, “I don’t know how they do it in your country, but in America, we go on green lights. Got it?”. I felt like he thought I was Yugoslavian. Don’t ask me why, that’s just how I felt. If I had my wits about me, I would have said, “I’m American, asshole” or just pretend to speak Yugoslavian to him. Or gone through when the light was green. Instead, the only thing I could think to do was give him a thumbs up and a big smile. That didn't seem to cheer him up at all.
Those thirty seconds waiting for the next light were really awkward because that was the first time I looked at my rearview mirror and had realized how many people were behind me. They probably honked and stuff too. Oops. In those thirty seconds, I realized that if I was one of the guys behind me, I would be extremely pissed. I think the only reason sweaty redneck didn’t shoot me was because he forgot his gun in his other in his trailer (instead of shooting me, he angrily played his banjo at me in his Ford F-150). I had an epiphany. Actually, two.
The first was that this could have been much worse. What if sweaty redneck had remembered his shotgun? Or worse, what if there was somebody I knew behind me? They might have made fun of me. Thank God that didn’t happen. Or, what if there was a pregnant lady behind me who needed to get to the hospital? I can just picture that guy tapping on my window saying something like, “lets move it buddy, she’s crowning back here!” or “Step on it, pal, her water just broke!”. That would be bad.
The second epiphany was one that I just now made up to validate my essay-blog thing. This is basically the point, or reason, behind this entire essay. Ready to have your mind blown? Okay. Here it is. My point. In life you must take advantage of the opportunities that you are given. Wow, that was deep. But how is that relevant, you might ask. Well, I’ll tell you. That green arrow was my opportunity to turn left. And I missed it. Luckily, that opportunity comes about every thirty seconds. So, it wasn’t so bad.
That would be funny if that was just the end of my essay, because it's like, "you told me that whole story, and that was your point? That was like, 3 sentences of crap you added to the end so that you could have a point to this whole story. I mean, that's barely even relevant at all.". But I feel like I need to add more, because even after my heading, some people have longer stories. And the longer it is, the better grade you get. I hope. Anyway, you need to take advantage of the opportunities you get because they don’t always come around again, like stoplights. Sometimes, if you miss an opportunity, its gone. Forever. Like a train that only comes by once, or something. I don’t know. You think of a better metaphor. Oh, the Titanic only came by once… But that’s kind of a bad example because that’s not really an opportunity anybody would regret missing. (Could imagine going up to someone and saying “what wrong?” and they say, “I’m really bummed. I missed the Titanic.”). That’s actually really sad. I digress (told you). These opportunities are important because they can make all the difference in your life. Like getting home 30 seconds earlier. Or getting into college. Or sinking on a ship called the Titanic. But about the college thing: if you don’t take advantage of the wonderful education here at CA, you will have squandered an opportunity. Like right now. I’m taking advantage of this opportunity to get a good grade and go to college and stuff. Wow, this paper has really grown on me. At first I just started writing, and now this is supposed to get me into a good college. Damn. Also, other people could be counting on you to follow through on your opportunities to improve their lives. Like the pregnant lady. If I had gone through that green arrow, that theoretical pregnant lady’s life would be much nicer. Unless she wanted to continue the family tradition of giving birth in a pick-up truck. That was a red neck joke.
Now my paper is done, and all need to do is to think of a catchy title, even though I doubt anybody will read this no matter what I call it. “You like that?” is the opening phrase. Maybe that will be the title. Maybe I could just get one person to read it if I made the title their name. Or, two people to read it, if two people in Gottlieb have the same name. “Alex, read this.” I bet they would. Then, afterward, they’d be like, “why the hell did I read that? Sibley totally tricked me on that one.” Na. I’ll stick with “You Like That?” because somebody might think it’s a dirty sex story, because “You Like That?” kind of sounds like the title of a Cosmo article or something.
I Really Hate You
I hate running into people I don’t like, and I don’t like a lot of people. In an ideal situation, I see that person first and duck down or hide myself so I won’t be seen, sometimes I don’t get seen, that’s tight; but other times, inevitably, they see you and you go, ‘oh, hey.’ And these people just pop out everywhere, I could be in a slaughter house in Montana and somebody who I can’t stand could somehow manage to find me there, and its not that I know a lot of people, its that I somehow have a gravitational pull on these people. What’s even worse is accidentally bumping into somebody that you hate and you know they hate you but you both have to act civil to each other anyways, I don’t care if somebody doesn’t like me, it’s when you’re thrown in a situation where you have to act nice to each other that sucks.
Just about every aspect of living in a developed world revolves around acting nice to one another, unless you want to be known as an asshole. I wish I could just go up to somebody and say, ‘you smell like a dead rat but other than that you’re cool.’ Everybody including me would mind if somebody said that to them (and personally I would probably weep) but at least everyone would know everyone’s feelings. And I don’t really want to hurt someone’s feelings, but I think it’s worse to talk about people behind their backs because that’s what ends up happening because it is human (or high school student anyways) nature to not be able to keep a secret to themselves. And then that comment you said would end up coming out anyways, and in a less than appropriate fashion. That’s why I think that Kramer is thought of as a hilarious character (yes from Seinfeld). Besides his crazy antics, physical comedy, and his racial comment on national television, he just speaks the truth. The Seinfeld characters play off of Kramer’s honesty but one instance that I love is when George is going out with a really pretty woman and the girlfriend says that ‘living in New York is kinda intimidating because of all the beautiful women.’ And then Kramer responds, ‘you’re just as beautiful as any of them…you just need a nose job.’ Because Seinfeld is a sitcom, the laughter of the audience is heard and this situation is declared funny, this situation is funny because its true. It’s like ‘those people who I hate’ say, ‘it’s funny because it true.’
And then people want to apologize for what they say, ‘I didn’t mean that, you really don’t have corn-kernel looking teeth.” Why apologize for things you believe to be true. Unless the statement is meant to put someone down or hurt someone’s feelings, what does it matter if you say what you feel. Now don’t go doing this to me because I don’t think I’m ready for people to start telling me how bad I look like or how stupid I act and a lot of people aren’t either but as a society, that’s what we need to aim for. Man is inherently imperfect indefinitely, as long as we stop hiding feelings for one another, then maybe, just maybe, there will be world peace that should be man’s New Years resolution. But of course I have no clue what I’m talking about, which is evident if you have read to this point, I’m just rambling on trying to consolidate my ideas. Oh, and I heard from some chick fli- excuse me, romantic comedy-that half of everything that people joke about is true. Is that true? Or were the writers just joking around? If this is true, then I guess our trail to world peace is already being paved (ha), so kudos.
I feel like I’m preaching a bunch of messages and I hate when that happens so I’ma leave it at this, if you don’t want to care about what I say then fine, but don’t get mad if I say I don’t like you. Real Talk.
Just about every aspect of living in a developed world revolves around acting nice to one another, unless you want to be known as an asshole. I wish I could just go up to somebody and say, ‘you smell like a dead rat but other than that you’re cool.’ Everybody including me would mind if somebody said that to them (and personally I would probably weep) but at least everyone would know everyone’s feelings. And I don’t really want to hurt someone’s feelings, but I think it’s worse to talk about people behind their backs because that’s what ends up happening because it is human (or high school student anyways) nature to not be able to keep a secret to themselves. And then that comment you said would end up coming out anyways, and in a less than appropriate fashion. That’s why I think that Kramer is thought of as a hilarious character (yes from Seinfeld). Besides his crazy antics, physical comedy, and his racial comment on national television, he just speaks the truth. The Seinfeld characters play off of Kramer’s honesty but one instance that I love is when George is going out with a really pretty woman and the girlfriend says that ‘living in New York is kinda intimidating because of all the beautiful women.’ And then Kramer responds, ‘you’re just as beautiful as any of them…you just need a nose job.’ Because Seinfeld is a sitcom, the laughter of the audience is heard and this situation is declared funny, this situation is funny because its true. It’s like ‘those people who I hate’ say, ‘it’s funny because it true.’
And then people want to apologize for what they say, ‘I didn’t mean that, you really don’t have corn-kernel looking teeth.” Why apologize for things you believe to be true. Unless the statement is meant to put someone down or hurt someone’s feelings, what does it matter if you say what you feel. Now don’t go doing this to me because I don’t think I’m ready for people to start telling me how bad I look like or how stupid I act and a lot of people aren’t either but as a society, that’s what we need to aim for. Man is inherently imperfect indefinitely, as long as we stop hiding feelings for one another, then maybe, just maybe, there will be world peace that should be man’s New Years resolution. But of course I have no clue what I’m talking about, which is evident if you have read to this point, I’m just rambling on trying to consolidate my ideas. Oh, and I heard from some chick fli- excuse me, romantic comedy-that half of everything that people joke about is true. Is that true? Or were the writers just joking around? If this is true, then I guess our trail to world peace is already being paved (ha), so kudos.
I feel like I’m preaching a bunch of messages and I hate when that happens so I’ma leave it at this, if you don’t want to care about what I say then fine, but don’t get mad if I say I don’t like you. Real Talk.
Glass Doors and Lunch Breaks
Shauna Gumm
12/10/06
B4
Glass Doors and Lunch Breaks
You could say my father’s money saving strategies are a little “over the top.” Other than collect every recorded episode of “Wife Swap” and “Survivor,” he never throws anything away (including a can of 1972 sardines). He is one of those men who will spend thousands of dollars on an entertainment system for the living room, but will begin to sweat when he must pay five cents more for something he paid a dollar for last week. He drives the extra five miles to get gas that is three cents cheaper and always keeps a watchful eye for things being thrown away that should still be in the pantry (according to him). The Gumm family has learned the secrets of discretely disposing the four year sunflower yellow expired mayo and pretending all that medicine from 1992 went to a good use. I can blame his ridiculous attitude about never wasting anything on his being raised in the projects of
I’m not advocating that I thoughtlessly throw away food the starving children of
I told myself I wouldn’t become another one of those stupid American tourists, taking pictures of the food and getting lost on the way to the city market. I assured myself on the plane ride that we would get around in
I was disappointed to soon found out was that we weren’t as cultured as we figured we were. So what if my great grandmother was born in
Our first challenge took place in the restricted, unpaved streets of
Unfortunately, not all of our encounters in
My conclusion from the following experience is that The Bank of Italy must hold some pretty important documents, maybe the Da Vinci Code (or something like it), as it is protected by a star trek like entrance. The glass doors to the bank resembled somewhat like the glass doors you walk through to enter the Hyatt. Yet, this revolving door was equipped with American detection equipment, that is the ability to stop suddenly at the sense of my father. While my mother and I slid through the door with ease my father struggled with this task for a mere twenty minutes. As he stepped into the door, it would revolve half way around and lock him in repeating the phrase, “Per favore di togliere la sua macchina fotografica e collocarlo nell'angolin” With each step his dazed face began to show even more as his eyebrows caved in, greeting his nose as if to say “yeah what now?” The chuckling Italian bank guards stood in the corner as my dad stepped back and forth in the glass container ignoring the foreign words repeating in a woman’s mechanical voice. I’m not sure what an Italian chuckle sounds like in a glass jar, but without it was a low-pitched vibration, if written probably appearing something like the following “eeéeeéeeáaaaáaúaúuúaúeoooaahahah. Eventually a man walked by and told my father to just simply remove his camera, because it was of course just that “simple.”
Once inside we were instructed to take a number and wait, wait for almost two hours, in a line as tedious as the
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