Pages

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Day 11: Quitter

I became a quitter when I was in pre-school. I remember what I was wearing, where I was, and what I was doing when I decided to quit.

I've talked about my cousin Sam before, but for those of you who don't know her, she's my cousin. We were born 5 months apart and most of the world thought we were twins when we were younger because Granny dressed us alike. She was my only friend until we started school, and even after that we were attached at the hip.

Sam and I went to a pre-school that was conveniently located in the ghetto. Kids tried to drown eachother in the swimming pool in the summer and boys peed onto the pole attached to the swing-set on the playground. This place had a skating rink inside which I found to be awesome when I was a kid. Except when I fell and people skated over me.

A few times a week, Sam and I went to dance classes down the street. Our teachers would dress us in our cute little outfits and cart us there in the pre-school van. There, we'd dance and stretch and run around like children who were raised in a barn. I'll post the recital picture when I can find it. We were too stinkin' cute.

One day in the van on the way home, Sam told me that she was quitting dance because she'd broken her leg.

Now, she wasn't wearing a cast or walking with a limp. She had no medical proof to back up this claim but I believed her because she always told the truth. (In my eyes anyway... Now I'm beginning to question a few things.)

Back to the broken leg. The adult in me says, yeah right, kid. The kid in me thought, "Oh my gosh! I don't want to break my leg, too!" Visions of blood and bone poking through flesh flooded my mind and it was then and there in that Children's Friend van, dressed in my sparkly purple leotard, that I decided to quit.

My Granny let me quit dance with no protest and that was the end of that. Looking back, I probably should have asked a few more questions. Like, "I don't see a cast," or, "Well how did you make it through dance class with no problems?"

Ahh, the innocence of a child. I wish that I could say that I am no longer gullible enough to believe outrageous claims and such, but I can not tell you that. I'll believe just about anything if you tell it to me with enough conviction and a straight face. Dang it.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Day 10: The Doctor

I used to love going to the doctor. Correction: I used to love getting presents after I went to the doctor.

Growing up, my Granny was usually the one who took me to the doctor when I fell ill. "Fell ill" included anything and everything that made her even think that her baby might be getting even a little bit sick. She also dressed me up like I was going to church. She would rather go hungry than have someone think that she let us run around in dirty clothes.

My pediatrician was Dr. Kavuri. Dr. Kavuri was a small-statured Indian doctor with a very strong Indian accent. He smelled like curry. His wife, who was always dressed in traditional Indian women's garb, also worked with him. She was always very, very sweet. She also always had this look of sympathy in her eyes. The "You're such a sweet little girl. I'm sorry my husband is about to come in here with his prehistoric method of pricking your finger and make you cry. If it's any consolation, I'll give you a sticker when you walk back out of our germ infested waiting room" look. Like clockwork, Dr. Kavuri would prick my finger with his razor blade and I'd be on my way in a matter of minutes.

Afterwards, Granny would take me to Walmart and let me pick out a toy. Or to Belk and I'd get an outfit. Whatever I wanted, I was rewarded with for being on my best behavior. This is why I always liked to go to the doctor. Bribery: what a useful tool of manipulation.

This pattern of behavior has continued until present day. When Granny isn't around to buy me something, I go on a shopping trip by myelf and reward myself for being "brave" and not crying when I have my blood drawn and things of the like.

Recently, I had to go into the hospital for an Out-Patient procedure. My reward? A Kitchen Aid like Granny's.

She's ruined me for life. The End.

Days 6, 7, 8, and 9!

This past weekend wore me OUT. I moved from the Big City to the Tiny Town and attempted to fit four years worth of accumulated clothing, tchotchkes, miscellanous wires and lots and lots of loose change into a U-Haul trailer and move it all into a single bedroom of Granny and Papa's house back home. Boy, are they excited to have me back. I think they've forgotten what it's like to live with me. Stay tuned for the post titled "Homeless," that is sure to come once Granny figures out that it is I who steals her hairspray and socks.

I hadn't intended to pack up my apartment until Friday/Saturday morning-ish, but the discovery of half of an adderall in my old backpack from the days of all nighter's at the library changed my tune. (Note: the fact that I waited until Thursday to even intend to pack speaks volumes of my procastination problem. I was home all week because of the ice/sno storm! I'm so pathetic/ lazy/ pathetic.)

I had 99.9% of my stuff packed in about five hours. I was so proud of myself that I called everyone in my contact list and told them about it (the Adderall makes me even chattier than usual). It was really only ten people though since half didn't answer and my phone is new and the old contacts didn't get transferred.

Friday was the only day of the week that I actually made it into work. The parking lot in my apartment complex was still icey, but I managed not to break anything or anyone and made it safely into work at 10 a.m. and was able to leave a little early. God bless bosses who don't want their already impaired drivers endangering others when the roads refroze that night.

Saturday was a BEAST. The trailer looked big until I got my mattresses and nightstand in. It was then that my helper and I realized that we (read: He. I didn't put a single thing in that blessed trailer.) would have to do some strategic packing. By the end of the day, he was tired, I was tired from watching him, and our cars were both packed to the gills with things that I could kick myself for buying. Except for my Kitchen Aid. I love my Kitchen Aid.

Sunday was the day of worship and job interviews. Wait? What? Job interview? Yes.

I had a job interview Sunday after church at Ruby Tuesday's. Everyone up here in the City laughed when I told them when and where, but I rather enjoyed stuffing my face and talking business. I'll keep you posted on the job status. I kind of need to find one!

I spent Monday with my favorite munchkin (my 11 month old niece Madi) and visited with my Aunt, Uncle, and little cousin who is only 1 month younger than Madi. It was a nice, stress free day. Now Tuesday...

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Day 5: The Moaner

Moaner is going to cringe when she reads this... and probably moan. Ha.

She hates this name, you see. I coined her the Moaner one day when we were in TJ Maxx and she spotted a humongous picture of Marilyn Monroe that she just knew I needed for my new bedroom. How did I know she'd found said artwork? I could hear her dramatic moaning from three aisles over. I darted over to the aisle to see what was going on. After I saw her oogling the picture, I said "Don't you know that you sound like you're having sex over here?"

This is where she came dangerously close to becoming "The Laugher" because she has the loudest laugh. Ever. I mean. She could break glass when she gets going. Seriously, I watch my water glass when she gets wound up. Which is often. But, I digress.

Moaner strikes often. At dinner, she moans over food. When she gets off of work, she moans because she is tired. When she is excited, she moans because, well, she's excited. But my favorite Moaner times are in stores when we're shopping. Or when she's shopping online. Blush colored blouses are bound to get a loud one out of her. And jewelry? Don't get me started.

I drag Moaner on many a shopping trip. By this I mean, I hold her hostage for a few hours while she tells me what looks good on me and what doesn't. I tell you that to tell you this, I've had to tell her to pipe down more times than I can count. Which gets a fit of laughter from her. Which also has to be contained. With all the moaning, we defintely look like lesbians wherever we go. This isn't helped any because she also likes to hold onto my arm. I wonder how many people have prayed for our souls when they see us out and about.

Nevermind. I don't want to know that.

Anyway, Moaner and I know how to get ourselves into a jam. This story has little to do with moaning, but more with laughing. Can I combine the two words? Laughn (lawn?)? The Maffer? HAHA! I might try that for a line or two.

Moaner was the store's co-manager at a women's retail shop back in my college town when I was an associate. I'm not sure how, but we always managed to work together. I'd pick us up breakfast and we'd sit in the back and chit chat for a few minutes while she was doing the morning paperwork. It was a lovely routine that I miss very much.

One particular morning, we got to talking and the conversation went on for a little too long. You see, we had just received a new shipment of clothing and it needed to be placed on the sales floor before the store opened. With minutes to accomplish this task, I dashed to the back room to grab this massively massive bar of pants. It was massive, did I mention that? I grabbed at and began pulling when I felt it giveway and start to fall towards me.

Now, when one of these things tips over, it's as big a mess as you're going to see around a clothing store. It's a tangle of hangers and clothes and rolling rack. The wheels get caught up and everything is on the ground.

*(Side note: this was around the time I'd hired a personal trainer so I was feeling extra "strong" this morning.)

I screamed "Help!" and Moaner came casually strolling back to the stock room, clearly not realizing the urgency of the situation. When she saw me, and the look in my eye (she's terrified of my raised eyebrow), she put some pep in her step and tried to help me.

We heaved, and we ho'ed. Nothing happend. She started laughing which made me laugh and we finally just let it fall. I spent five minutes picking up and detangling the heap of pants and Moaner laughed her way to unlock the store. Fail.

Can I point out here that Maffer doesn't like to drop F-bombs, but rather shouts out "Eff" whenever she faces adversity? How endearing. She's adorable, really. Right down to her "Marth Stewart Threw Up in Here" apartment. (She'll text me "OMG, I can't belive you said that!" as soon as she reads this). I guess I should take this opportunity to point out that she has the most retardedly short toes I've ever seen. Seriously. It's like, what happened to the rest of them?

*note: Maffer, remember all the awesome presents I got you? Like your mink? And cameo? Please don't hate me!
**She's my best friend, and this is why I can call her names and pick on her feet. I just buy her nice presents to silence her protests.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Day 4: Writer's Block

I've been bugged by a particular follower LITERALLY since 6 a.m. to write today's entry. I had a million different ideas to write about. I had some great ideas. But... other things kept me busy. Things like:

1. Sleeping until 9 a.m.

2. Rolling over, turning on the tv and sleeping another hour.

3. Moving to the kitchen and scrambling to find my Uggs because it was so cold my feet were protesting against the cold ground.

4. Cooking Ramen noodles and inhaling them.

5. Picking at the remnants of my acrylic nails.

6. Thinking about napping.

7. Driving in the treacherous snow to go to Kroger to get provisions (Read: Lunchables and Hamburger Helper).

8. Packing up my apartment (I'm moving in two days! Does this give anyone else anxiety? Because it's freaking me out!).

9. Facebook.

So, here I sit at 8:58 and I have nothing to write about. This day was exceptionally boring. Unless you count me basically skating to my car to go to the grocery store, which was rather exhilarating. Tomorrow I don't have be at the office until 11 a.m., but I'm very seriously doubting that I'll be going in as I have heard two cars crash in the past 30 minutes right outside my window. Turns out, two inches of ice in a parking lot aren't condusive to parking and/or braking. Much less simoultaneously.

I promise I'll try to dream about something terrible so I can tell you tomorrow. For now, I'm going to go eat some overly processed lunchable pizzas and try to figure out exactly what it is that they make those pepperonis out of. Maybe I'll write about that tomorrow.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Day 3: Dance Parties

Dance parties ruled the scene back in the day. I'm talkin' about school dances, birthday dance parties, and dance parties that broke out in 6th grade gym class. "Dancing" consisted of the electric slide or "Grape Vine," and "Slow Dancing" which involved a gap between partners big enough for a third person. Heaven forbid bodies touch- none of that! When I moved to private school in the eighth grade, the mantra was "Leave room for Jesus."

Besides the lack of dancing capabilities of a bunch pre-pubescent kids (booty dancing hadn't broken onto the scene yet), there was another asepct to these little gatherings. Fashion! I use the term fashion very, very loosely. I remember my friend Betsy's sister would fix our hair in these huge up do's and we'd don our matching Old Navy t-shirts and holographic belts. The jeans were carpenter and the shoes had rubber toes. Ahh, we were such fashionistas. Or so we thought we were.

Up until now, I've only been able to tell my friends about these events. No one can truly appreciate the glory of the Dance Party unless one was actually there.

Well, friends, I have a little present for you! Are you ready? Because it's pretty fantastic...

Thanks to a friend from way back, I have photographic evidence.


See me? Way over to the left with the blinding white sneaker? That's right. Converse baby. With a button down OPEN of course, kakhi shorts, and butterfly clips holding my hair back. You couldn't count the Tommy Hilfiger logos and the Old Navy tee's even if you wanted to. Oh my. We were young, innocent and uncomprehensibly and inexplicably tacky. Check out all that yellow baby!

I also owe it to you to explain the venue of this event. Some dance parties were in garages, some were in people's living rooms. Camphouses, church social halls, and porches also made the cut for acceptable venues for these events. But the mother of all venues- the "it" spot- the "mom pleaseeeeeeee let me have my party here" spot was The Boyscout Hut. Yes, there is such thing as The Boyscout Hut. It was a wooden cabin looking structure that looked like an advertisent for Allgood Pest Control. A termite's dream. You couldn't be more underwhelmed by a building, but for some reason everyone loved this place. It was famous. You knew you were cool when you got invited to a party at The Boyscout Hut. 

Looking at this picture reminds me of simpler times when my biggest problem was a rhinestone falling out of one of my jiggly butterfly clips. Or forgetting the combination to my locker. I still do the latter in the form of losing my keys, actually. Oh, and getting on the invite list to parties in a dark, wood clad camphouse across from the local textile mill. That one occupied my thoughts a considerable bit.

I look at the kids in this picture and think of the people we've become. My friend Jennifer and I wanted to be vets and open shop in my grandpa's old dentist office at one point. It's bittersweet to remember these days. What did you want to be? What did you want to have accomplished by this point in your life?

I wanted to be somehting that required wearing really sexy suits like in Victoria's Secret. No career path, just a choice of uniform. I'm just being honest here. 

Day 2: Snowed In

Yesterday I enjoyed my first snow day in the working world. Growing up in the South means that these days come few and far between. I miss "Rain Days," when all of the schools in the county would close down because school buses couldn't make it down rural dirt roads. Ahh, the joy of country life. I'm currently living in the City so these icy conditions mean lots of skidding tractor trailers and Range Rovers, which means Sunny won't be taking her little rice burner out onto the roadways. Snow also brings back many memories from my childhood and collegehood (Yes, it is a word. I just made it up.):

1-Snow taught me not to trust the Weather Channel. I got my hopes up more times than I can count by trusting the meteorologists. I'd sit and watch rain fall out the window waiting for it to turn to flakes so that I could build a snowman and pelt my cousins with snowballs... The snow never came and I was disappointed time and time again. What do they know anyway?

2-Snow taught me not to run on slick surfaces. When I was in elementary school, we were treated to a blizzard(ish) snow storm. My uncle had launched a snowball and hit my aunt square in the face- I found this hilarious. So hilarious that I had to race to the bathroom to keep from peeing my pants. Well, several other snow-players had visited the potty before me so the floor was slick. I slipped in the water and fell straight on my behind, breaking my tailbone. And peeing my pants. It was wretched. Embarrassed, I kept it a secret and hobbled around all day pretending nothing was wrong.

(I did change pants and underwear, for the record.)

3-Snow taught me that Uggs, while warm, aren't practical snow shoes. My first year at the University of Georgia, there was a blizzard. It was so beautiful. Everything was blanketed in a fresh blanket of powder. Everything including my stairs. You see, when you step on five inches of snow, it compresses and forms a layer of ice. I was going to run down stairs to grab something from my car and didn't take all of these things into account. On the first step, I went airborn and-you guessed it-landed square on my can. Once again, I injured my tailbone. This resulted in a few weeks of absolute agony. Lesson learned. I've never walked in the snow without calculating each and every step again.

This snow day, I'm keeping myself inside. I'm not running, I'm not trusting the Weather Channel when they say the worst is over, and I'm looking at my UGGS sitting on their little shelf in my closet. They aren't to be trusted, those UGGS. I'll stick to my camo rain boots.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Day 1: Prayer Requests

This morning I went to church in my home town for the first time in a long time. I've been living in the big city going to my big city church and had forgotten the "church culture." My favorite interaction of the day was with my Bible teacher from grade school. She askd me how my house was.

My house? It's... a house?

She then went on to say how I'd lamented over it while I was in school and then... it dawned on me.

I was "The Prayer Request Girl." Every day, we would take prayer requests in Bible class. The teacher would never cut us off, as Prayer Requests were very important because someone is always needing to be prayed for. On days when we would have a test, my classmates would turn to me and give me the look. I knew that it was my responsibility to drag out Prayer request time for as long as humanly possible. I'd pray for my house, my preacher, my mom, my dog... You name it and I'd pray for it. Now, the things I put on the list did need to be prayed about. I actually did a good thing-prayed for people in need and usually got the test pushed back a day.

That was eight years ago, and hearing my teacher ask about the house that I'd prayed so hard for brought back mixed emotions. It was so sweet of her to remember it. It also reminded me of those days that I would (not literally) pray for everyone in the phonebook. Amen.

365 Days of Blogging

Today I'm committing to blogging every day for an entire year. A WHOLE YEAR! Hold me accountable and yell at me if I don't do it. If I miss a day, I will blog about it as soon as I can. I'll include photos when I can, but now... I must write!