C'mon, you can tell me. We all have at least one, so don't pretend you're oblivious to what I'm talking about.
there, there... it's ok. it stops me too...
Music is all around us and it's fucking beautiful. Birds, cars, water, tunes, chewing, walking, showers, crickets,book page turning - all sounds that can, to someone, be invigorating. And because of it, on more than one occasion, I've stopped breathing by the flood of memories that overtook me. It's that powerful. That's when music finally talks back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was an early Saturday morning in August this past year; I was driving back from Las Vegas. The sky was cloudy & windy, allowing the windows a break from their thanksless job. The air blowing past my face and muh hand, dangling through an atmosphere where very few cars could disturb me. I was on the road a couple hours when the two Pandora stations that had been streaming since yesterday, were played out: The Misfits & The Shirelles. Both are fantastic, but I'd had enough head-banging & head-bopping for the morning. I scrolled through my other presets and perked up when I found the Psychedelic Garage station I created months ago. I forgot what songs rotated through, but greens were The Byrds and it was perfect. I absentmindedly sang the words I knew and mumbled the ones I didn't, laughing.
A couple more songs and a commercial played before The Doors, The End inched up in volume. Without fail, it happens every time. That's when I played the role of driver while my mind reenacted one night 15 seasons in my past.
I saw Palmdale through 19 or 20 year old eyes, driving to my tattoo artists' home around 8pm. He was at least 10 years my senior, cute and just me knowing him made all the bitches jealous. But it wasn't just his face, he was nice and artistic and liked me. The kind of dude that said the right things and for the people that mattered, was never insincere. The type of dude that would always be too cool for the Antelope Valley. He just was and his home complimented that. It was always dark inside, even in the scorching desert sun. I never knew whether that was because the windows were covered with paper or the curtains were permanently stained with cig smoke & whiskey. I'm sure on any given day it could be either.
I stood, a kid, facing his door when it opened with a smile and a 90s button up flannel. A hazy waft of hippie incense levitated around him. At every turn, twisted drawings, posters, prints, books, crows, a thousand things all strewn in a perfectly messed way. Yellowed stacks of paper & tattoo magazines his friends were in, should have screamed hoarder. But it didn't, which is bananas. I can't explain it.
There was never any funny business between us as we never explored that path. But I felt so grown up around him. Like he and I were having real conversations, not just gossip about the weekend. Maybe that was me being 20, but maybe not. I do know he was one of only a few fellas, besides Travis, to ever made me think. I only realize that now by writing this entry.
So we're hanging out & junk when he asked whether I minded some music. Duh... I told him to pick whatever. I dig many genres, but have always held a gigantor fascination for the 60s, especially psychedelia. My favorite band is The Monkees, with about a 1000 others right below. He could have chosen anything from punk to psychobilly to classical to jazz, so how stoked was I when he picked The Doors, The Doors. He commented how you have to be in the right mood for it. I agreed, but confessed to never having heard the entire album before. He laughed and triumphantly declared with his wiry body then it was the perfect night to experience it! He bent over the old player, carefully placing the needle at track one. I remember thinking what precision for such a crappy player & scratched up record. He grabbed a cigarette and lit numerous candles with his smoke.
The record blew through side 1 before I realized just how free our conversation was. It was playing but background noise. At the beginning of side 2, he asked if I was up for something. Unless it's boning, yes, I was up for something. He asked if he could draw a freehand design against my back piece because most people (erm I'm sure ladies) told him no. It had only been about 6 months since he finished two large dragons and the ink addiction was still fresh. I said absolutely! How cool was this gonna be! I have always been a dudes chick, especially then; In my mind it was nothing to be topless in my non-boyfriends home.
He grabbed his script of choice, a sharpie, and I took off my tshirt & bra. I was facing away from him the whole time, but stood there momentarily not knowing what I should do. I didn't want him to touch me sexy like, but I knew he had to touch me in some way. He gently took my shoulders and angled me against the candlelight. As if scripted, the last song of side 2 started as he began. The End. I had never heard it before, I mean really heard it, so I closed my eyes and let the beginning notes dance. I stood there vulnerable, while Jim began his declarations and dude drew his imaginations. The underlying lull of the organ keeping me upright.
He'd pause occasionally to evaluate the vision. The End continued. I was able to follow every movement of the pen, up and down my back, through my shoulders, entwined into my neck. I knew he'd make something singularly incredible. The guitars continued; the Oedipus moaned. He worked swiftly as the song jabbered on through the rise and fall of Jim's emotions, eventually stalling the needle. In fact, it was the only song I heard in the entire 45 minutes span. I'd never taken part of something so supreme. And snap like that, it was over. We dare not move in the hopes of savoring what we'd just experienced. No more drawing, no more music, no more atmosphere. I suddenly became aware of how cold I was. In the same way the soft crescendo swelled, it pulled out even faster. I looked around knowing nothing had changed, yet everything seemed ordinary.
And while I only briefly saw the end illusion, and can recall no part of it today, it will remain perfectly imprisoned in my skin forever.
That was the last night I ever spent with him and I'm glad. I walked back to my car a fucking lady.
Aren't memories glorious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't like cliches yet I think about "I'll never forget that night." That certainly holds true for now, which is partly why I write this journal. I was scared for so long to fail against some unmeasurable bar, but honestly I just want to remember. Remember my life, remember all the fun & heartache, friends & donuts - before we all become someone else's memory.
Showing posts with label Antelope Valley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Antelope Valley. Show all posts
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
We were happy and then we weren't.
Not too long ago, I found out my first (and only) serious boyfriend (before Travis) got married. The emotions I felt weren't planned.
The backstory, September 1995.
I stepped foot onto my high school campus a naive, nervous wreck wondering what friends I would make and whether I would get in a fight. I always had this strange obsession some chick was plotting to jump me and my noodle arms weren't used to physical punching. 9 months later though, I left that June graduation day happy any calls of "freshman scrub" would bounce right off, happy I was fist-fight free, and all the while realizing I discovered some of the best friends that luckily remain with me today. They can-opened my world to a level of friendship I truly needed and exposed my brain to experiences. Throughout the final day, we had been trying to figure out something brilliant to do since summer-time central was happening. We finally got wind of a post-graduating party, which holy shite was gonna our first. ever.
I saw him by way of drunk-on-Boones Strawberry Hill hazey eyes, playing bass at the party. I don't remember whose idea it was to buy Boones, but I guess if your first teenage introduction to alcohol is gonna be an easy one, Boones isn't the worst. The wall I teetered on was kind enough to keep me upright, while he and his punk band played in the living room. He had a mohawk, which kept slowly moving around the room, despite his body being so animated. I remember I couldn't focus on his face, but I sternly thought man that guy is fucking cute - I should totally make out with him. But instead, as Boone's is one to do, I went outside, sat in the bed of a truck and made out with another feller.
That non-introduction would be the only encounter for a few years, but he would pop in my thoughts when my mind went reminiscing. We did end up meeting organically though, walking to class one day; I didn't realize at first it was the guy who had stopped my beats. My friend struck up a conversation with his buddy, leaving us to naturally start our own. As the chit chat played out, I realized who it was and left in a giggly mess. From then on, our romance flourished into an awesome, illuminating and bittersweet stretch of time...
The Present:
I don't want to focus on the things we did or the firsts we shared, but rather how someone from so long ago can still strum the emotional chord reserved for their pitch. When that chord has been neatly wrapped in flannel for almost 20 years, I was blindsided by the memories it stirred. And way confused why my heart cared. Really - how is it even possible my first boyfriend could actually be over me...?! Thanks facebook.*
My left hand has always wanted him to be happy. I mean, we were happy and then we weren't. Or at least I wasn't. During the break up, he didn't seem to understand my reasons. But I hope in retrospect it was just a bad case of the young eyes.
My right hand, my dominant hand, secretly wishes there will always be an unfulfilled cell by me leaving him. It's a little twisted but I believe more based in reality than most will admit to. I guess it's the emotional hunger that is appealing. To be desired. Wanted by someone, no? Even if we've removed a person from our lives, doesn't mean we don't imagine them still giving a fancy.
* I only found out through Facebook because one of my high school girlfriends from above, liked his life change update - I am not online friends with him. Although, like many people, used to occasionally look him up. you know, just out of curiosity.
The backstory, September 1995.
I stepped foot onto my high school campus a naive, nervous wreck wondering what friends I would make and whether I would get in a fight. I always had this strange obsession some chick was plotting to jump me and my noodle arms weren't used to physical punching. 9 months later though, I left that June graduation day happy any calls of "freshman scrub" would bounce right off, happy I was fist-fight free, and all the while realizing I discovered some of the best friends that luckily remain with me today. They can-opened my world to a level of friendship I truly needed and exposed my brain to experiences. Throughout the final day, we had been trying to figure out something brilliant to do since summer-time central was happening. We finally got wind of a post-graduating party, which holy shite was gonna our first. ever.
I saw him by way of drunk-on-Boones Strawberry Hill hazey eyes, playing bass at the party. I don't remember whose idea it was to buy Boones, but I guess if your first teenage introduction to alcohol is gonna be an easy one, Boones isn't the worst. The wall I teetered on was kind enough to keep me upright, while he and his punk band played in the living room. He had a mohawk, which kept slowly moving around the room, despite his body being so animated. I remember I couldn't focus on his face, but I sternly thought man that guy is fucking cute - I should totally make out with him. But instead, as Boone's is one to do, I went outside, sat in the bed of a truck and made out with another feller.
That non-introduction would be the only encounter for a few years, but he would pop in my thoughts when my mind went reminiscing. We did end up meeting organically though, walking to class one day; I didn't realize at first it was the guy who had stopped my beats. My friend struck up a conversation with his buddy, leaving us to naturally start our own. As the chit chat played out, I realized who it was and left in a giggly mess. From then on, our romance flourished into an awesome, illuminating and bittersweet stretch of time...
The Present:
I don't want to focus on the things we did or the firsts we shared, but rather how someone from so long ago can still strum the emotional chord reserved for their pitch. When that chord has been neatly wrapped in flannel for almost 20 years, I was blindsided by the memories it stirred. And way confused why my heart cared. Really - how is it even possible my first boyfriend could actually be over me...?! Thanks facebook.*
My left hand has always wanted him to be happy. I mean, we were happy and then we weren't. Or at least I wasn't. During the break up, he didn't seem to understand my reasons. But I hope in retrospect it was just a bad case of the young eyes.
My right hand, my dominant hand, secretly wishes there will always be an unfulfilled cell by me leaving him. It's a little twisted but I believe more based in reality than most will admit to. I guess it's the emotional hunger that is appealing. To be desired. Wanted by someone, no? Even if we've removed a person from our lives, doesn't mean we don't imagine them still giving a fancy.
* I only found out through Facebook because one of my high school girlfriends from above, liked his life change update - I am not online friends with him. Although, like many people, used to occasionally look him up. you know, just out of curiosity.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Tell You Thursday: Grad Nightmare
You know those songs that pop in your head for an indeterminate length of time, so much so that you to tell everyone around you. But in turn, you're transferring it onto the next person so you can rid yourself of the mind curse. You also know those songs that no matter when you hear it, will always make you stop to stir specific memories.
This is a tale that covers both.
It was the 90s, as many of my tales are. Oh crap - is the 90s my November 5, 1955, where everything revolves around that period of life? nah. But it was the 90s, where days of high school were filled with friends and the weekend brought parties. Lots of parties with booze, drugs and debauchery. We lived in the desert, the Antelope Valley desert. And I understand your formidable years may not have any similarities, but this was all very normal for us. Even though these experiences are not for everyone, these were great moments of getting to know my friends, exploring who I was, and discovering mind altering solutions.
Because I steered clear of anything relating to "the norm" or "trendy/popular," I hardly ever participated in school events. I did, however, go to the battle of the bands contest the one year they had it, because my best friend was performing her screaming mic technique. It was my favoritist. But I didn't go to football games, I never sold World's Finest Chocolate bars in order to get cheaper prom tickets, and I never had school spirit. I just didn't see the point. The ONLY exception I allowed myself was Grad Night. Grad night is for Los Angeles high school seniors to visit Disneyland from 10pm to 2am, after it's been closed to the public. I made this exception because Disneyland.
The rumblings of Grad Night were starting to broil around school, so I went looking into the rules of attendance. I had to know what we could get away with! The first thing I discovered was the prior years' selection of dates was almost 30. Our years' selection dropped to 8. That meant 210 schools, each with several hundred seniors (at least) vying for one of those slots. That's a lot of fucking kids. The second thing I discovered was their strict dress code. In my day, gents had to wear collard shirts, while birds could only wear skirts or dresses. What the?! I hadn't worn skirts since I was a kid and the only dresses I owned were babydoll. I didn't think Disneyland was hip on grunge, so those were out because if they didn't like what you wore, you couldn't get in. Lastly, the tickets were expensive. $75 or $100. I had to really work extra hours and beg my parents for cash so I could go. Me and two other friends made the commitment, but it wasn't easy.
After sorting the tickets, the outfit was next. I wasn't going to buy anything because that would mean more money and more commonplace. I decided to make a skirt with an elastic waist from a pattern in my head. Yup - I would wing it because screw them and their rules. I'll do what I want! But, in actuality it was the most awkward and ill fitting thing I've ever made to date. It was some sort of flower print that required strange sandals... If I would have seen me walking about, I would have totally judged hard.
And finally, for the evening's activity. Smoking pot was too obvious and would definitely get us caught. Acid was an ok option, but with the amount of people going could easily make a bad trip. The three of us finally agreed to take ecstasy. It's supposed to make you love everything & everyone. Just a mellow high that made feeling better, better. I was hesitant at first, not because of what it was, but because it had never worked for me. The few prior times I tried, my friends were having the best time petting each other while I was bummed, alone, in the corner. But ok, I'll try again...
The night was here! It usually took between 30 and 45 minutes to kick in, so our plan was to drop close to the park. That way the downtime could be spent going through the line and once we passed the magic gates, our night would emerge. We finally saw the signs to our future getting closer, so down the hatch they went. It was approximately 9pm when we rolled in but holy hell, ALL the buses were suddenly jam packed near the Disneyland entrance. This was a time where you could still drive up near the front, rather than the current giant structure near by. We were sitting in the back and I remember all the kids going to the right side of the bus, gazing out the dirty windows onto the heard we had just found ourselves stuck in. There kids outside were EVERYWHERE, not moving. Staring. The bus driver refused to let us out until things calmed down... but they never did. And here us fools were stuck, starting to feel the E. I started to internally freak out like I was going to miss all the fun sitting on a vinyl seat instead of a plastic one (you know, cuz the rides are plastic.) But eventually they gave up trying to keep us seated and released the desert flock. It took two fucking hours to go 30 feet. It was awful, awful, awful. Granted, we didn't plan well enough to anticipate the crowd, but I won't take all the blame. Some is on the park employees. It still boggles my mind how ill-organized and chaotic they made the process, for an event which had been going for years. But damn it, we finally were in.
Let's goooooo!!!!!!!! I want to be on ecstasy in Disneyland, where I can touch and feel and experience!!! screech. halt. stop. We were going nowhere fast. I should have guessed based on how many kids were out front, there could only be a million times more inside. But we all grabbed hands (ooh, that felt good) and made our way slowly through. With every step there was someone next to you, behind you or in front of you. Constantly. I no longer was having the mellow buzz I desiered, but a heightened sense of everything. The janky skirt, the kids in line, the food, the far off live music and the music playing over the loud speakers.
We were silent, gripping each other, trying to go somewhere. The E getting stronger as we aimlessly walked around. Our subconscious minds were drawn to the live music by way of the Tomorrowland stage. I think it was because we could just sit and stare at the lights and be with it and with each other. But the band, holy shit, was The Aquabats! They were a kinda popular catchy, ska-type band that made funny songs. What the hell were they doing here!? It was a nice surprise since it never popped up on my reconnaissance. We sat & stared & watched, trying to get back some of the high. It was all but too short lived. As if simultaneously with the last drum beat, the loud speakers barreled into my brain. I pushed it out for some moments because I wanted to people watch the band chat up high school chicks. I was soon pulled out of my fixated trance by the music genius' who turned up the volume to 11. ugh.
Let me tell you. The music director chose a TOTAL OF THREE SONGS to play, on rotation, the entire night. No skips to promote some food, no breaks for friends to talk, nope. And for someone taking something that skews yer brain, not good because you can never get away from it. It pokes, over and over at you like a woodpecker. My Grad Nightmare will never go away. They chose one song that was popular the year before, one that was popular at that moment, and one that was kitschy for our graduation year: 1999. (1) Pretty Fly (For a White Guy) by The Offspring; (2) No Scrubs by TLC; (3) 1999 by Prince.
To this day, each one of these songs brings me back to that night. It brings me back to the last time I tried ecstasy; it brings me back to a most bizarre haze of a night; and it brings back the enclosed feeling and the lack of escape.
Maybe if I roll now, it would have the reversing effect but I don't want to try in the event that I develop song tattoos...
This is a tale that covers both.
It was the 90s, as many of my tales are. Oh crap - is the 90s my November 5, 1955, where everything revolves around that period of life? nah. But it was the 90s, where days of high school were filled with friends and the weekend brought parties. Lots of parties with booze, drugs and debauchery. We lived in the desert, the Antelope Valley desert. And I understand your formidable years may not have any similarities, but this was all very normal for us. Even though these experiences are not for everyone, these were great moments of getting to know my friends, exploring who I was, and discovering mind altering solutions.
Because I steered clear of anything relating to "the norm" or "trendy/popular," I hardly ever participated in school events. I did, however, go to the battle of the bands contest the one year they had it, because my best friend was performing her screaming mic technique. It was my favoritist. But I didn't go to football games, I never sold World's Finest Chocolate bars in order to get cheaper prom tickets, and I never had school spirit. I just didn't see the point. The ONLY exception I allowed myself was Grad Night. Grad night is for Los Angeles high school seniors to visit Disneyland from 10pm to 2am, after it's been closed to the public. I made this exception because Disneyland.
The rumblings of Grad Night were starting to broil around school, so I went looking into the rules of attendance. I had to know what we could get away with! The first thing I discovered was the prior years' selection of dates was almost 30. Our years' selection dropped to 8. That meant 210 schools, each with several hundred seniors (at least) vying for one of those slots. That's a lot of fucking kids. The second thing I discovered was their strict dress code. In my day, gents had to wear collard shirts, while birds could only wear skirts or dresses. What the?! I hadn't worn skirts since I was a kid and the only dresses I owned were babydoll. I didn't think Disneyland was hip on grunge, so those were out because if they didn't like what you wore, you couldn't get in. Lastly, the tickets were expensive. $75 or $100. I had to really work extra hours and beg my parents for cash so I could go. Me and two other friends made the commitment, but it wasn't easy.
After sorting the tickets, the outfit was next. I wasn't going to buy anything because that would mean more money and more commonplace. I decided to make a skirt with an elastic waist from a pattern in my head. Yup - I would wing it because screw them and their rules. I'll do what I want! But, in actuality it was the most awkward and ill fitting thing I've ever made to date. It was some sort of flower print that required strange sandals... If I would have seen me walking about, I would have totally judged hard.
And finally, for the evening's activity. Smoking pot was too obvious and would definitely get us caught. Acid was an ok option, but with the amount of people going could easily make a bad trip. The three of us finally agreed to take ecstasy. It's supposed to make you love everything & everyone. Just a mellow high that made feeling better, better. I was hesitant at first, not because of what it was, but because it had never worked for me. The few prior times I tried, my friends were having the best time petting each other while I was bummed, alone, in the corner. But ok, I'll try again...
The night was here! It usually took between 30 and 45 minutes to kick in, so our plan was to drop close to the park. That way the downtime could be spent going through the line and once we passed the magic gates, our night would emerge. We finally saw the signs to our future getting closer, so down the hatch they went. It was approximately 9pm when we rolled in but holy hell, ALL the buses were suddenly jam packed near the Disneyland entrance. This was a time where you could still drive up near the front, rather than the current giant structure near by. We were sitting in the back and I remember all the kids going to the right side of the bus, gazing out the dirty windows onto the heard we had just found ourselves stuck in. There kids outside were EVERYWHERE, not moving. Staring. The bus driver refused to let us out until things calmed down... but they never did. And here us fools were stuck, starting to feel the E. I started to internally freak out like I was going to miss all the fun sitting on a vinyl seat instead of a plastic one (you know, cuz the rides are plastic.) But eventually they gave up trying to keep us seated and released the desert flock. It took two fucking hours to go 30 feet. It was awful, awful, awful. Granted, we didn't plan well enough to anticipate the crowd, but I won't take all the blame. Some is on the park employees. It still boggles my mind how ill-organized and chaotic they made the process, for an event which had been going for years. But damn it, we finally were in.
Let's goooooo!!!!!!!! I want to be on ecstasy in Disneyland, where I can touch and feel and experience!!! screech. halt. stop. We were going nowhere fast. I should have guessed based on how many kids were out front, there could only be a million times more inside. But we all grabbed hands (ooh, that felt good) and made our way slowly through. With every step there was someone next to you, behind you or in front of you. Constantly. I no longer was having the mellow buzz I desiered, but a heightened sense of everything. The janky skirt, the kids in line, the food, the far off live music and the music playing over the loud speakers.
We were silent, gripping each other, trying to go somewhere. The E getting stronger as we aimlessly walked around. Our subconscious minds were drawn to the live music by way of the Tomorrowland stage. I think it was because we could just sit and stare at the lights and be with it and with each other. But the band, holy shit, was The Aquabats! They were a kinda popular catchy, ska-type band that made funny songs. What the hell were they doing here!? It was a nice surprise since it never popped up on my reconnaissance. We sat & stared & watched, trying to get back some of the high. It was all but too short lived. As if simultaneously with the last drum beat, the loud speakers barreled into my brain. I pushed it out for some moments because I wanted to people watch the band chat up high school chicks. I was soon pulled out of my fixated trance by the music genius' who turned up the volume to 11. ugh.
Let me tell you. The music director chose a TOTAL OF THREE SONGS to play, on rotation, the entire night. No skips to promote some food, no breaks for friends to talk, nope. And for someone taking something that skews yer brain, not good because you can never get away from it. It pokes, over and over at you like a woodpecker. My Grad Nightmare will never go away. They chose one song that was popular the year before, one that was popular at that moment, and one that was kitschy for our graduation year: 1999. (1) Pretty Fly (For a White Guy) by The Offspring; (2) No Scrubs by TLC; (3) 1999 by Prince.
To this day, each one of these songs brings me back to that night. It brings me back to the last time I tried ecstasy; it brings me back to a most bizarre haze of a night; and it brings back the enclosed feeling and the lack of escape.
Maybe if I roll now, it would have the reversing effect but I don't want to try in the event that I develop song tattoos...
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Tell You Thursday: Orange is the New Pack
I was bequeathed quite the head of blond hair when I was in grade school. It grew fast, straight and lovely. I never did anything to it, except tie it up in a high ponytail. Most haircut trims were given by the SuperCuts team, where my mom would say cut it straight and out of her eyes. And when it was over, they'd stand you in front of this busted-ass vending machine with your eyes closed, spin you around, and stick a cheap present in your mits. I only remember a miniature day-glo slinky and some sort of sticky hand, both of which wound up covered in dust. But on occasion, my mom would take me to her second floor fancy pants stylist, where you had to make an appointment. It was the same horizontal special, just more expensive. But after I was done here, I could spend time looking down at the center atrium. It also meant I could use my large day-glo slinky in the ultimate atrium challenge, holding one end and having the other touch the flowers. Darn thing never did...
It wasn't until junior high in my 7th grade, I decided a permanent was the way to go. I'd look better, feel better and be popular with the boys. But it was the early 90s and sadly, no kind stranger had yet taken pity on my sad state of cluelessness. We also lived in the desert, where trend-setting styles were always late to the scene. My mom obliged by taking me to Cost Cutters, which had the best $30 perm available (said their window.) I told them I wanted nice waves to my flat hair, which was about six inches past my shoulders at the time. It also starting turning more of an ash blond, which my parents kindly reminded me how their hair did the same, landing on deep brown. swell.
The team was excited to get my new 'do started. I sat for hours with the squishy curlers in my hair and the stinky chemicals, and figured these Cost Cutting professionals knew what they were doing! But as I inspected more, the woven strands of hair seemed too tight for what we discussed. When they unveiled my fabulous waste of time, they were tiny ringlets of strange and lop-sided spirals. It also raised the poof-factor to 11, suddenly having a square top and shoulder length shelf. I sat there looking at myself. Horrified. I thought ok Brandi (HA, almost said ok Clark but that wouldn't be right) all I need to do is take a shower and re-style it and everything would be right in the world. The last several years had gifted me an immensely self conscious image, so I had to save this cemented box of hair in order to keep it together. My mom knew I wasn't stoked, but she's not one to point out my feelings. It was my decision to get the perm so she just judged it silently. swell.
Now, I don't know how perms are supposed to work, but their all important instructions were sternly related as "I couldn't wash my hair for three days, so the perm could set." Wait, set?! It still hasn't SET after all your pulling and papering and twisting and dousing? ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, yes it needs that many Hs - how am I going to live with this mess. The next few months had a lot of sad moments in front of the mirror, feeling tied to this beast. It wasn't pretty. Side note, I still have the reminder of that perm because my hair was NEVER the same after that. Friday was straight. Saturday was a curly, wavy mess, never to see it's linear cousin again. Granted, it's much, much better now, but there are still areas in the back I struggle with because of that day. So when thinking of the children, please don't let them get a perm.
When the incident finally gave way to fresher pastures, I met a brilliant new friend at school named Jessica. She was so different than anyone I'd ever known before and I loved her. I spent a lot of time at Jessica's house and I can still picture her and her room, sitting with Dennis the dog (who I thought was so strange for eating toilet paper.) She was clever, funny and thrift-store hip. Jessica also hung out with an older crowd on the weekends, going to raves "down below," and on Monday would relay what was new with the club kids. She made fur boots and would style her hair like Sailor Moon. She was the first person to help me begin to understand fashion and my style, and tell me I was cool. I suddenly wanted to be different and spend time figuring out what I liked, disliked, and really allow this unknowingly, repressed personality to wake. Swoon...
Jessica's mom always worked, so our time together was spent at her house, because unsupervised tweens with no car is tops! One day I mentioned I was jealous she was allowed to dye her hair. She had this amazing orangey-red color, but could change it to anything. She mentioned a dyeing technique using Kool-Aid. She said it was easy and gave a subtle color, so my mom probably wouldn't notice. Well ding ding, this was the thing I was waiting for! We walked down to the grocery store and found the wall of powders. I loved Jessica's color so I went for Orange. I ended up getting 5 packets because I had no idea how much I'd need. I preciously carried them back to her place; I didn't want anything happening to them. I was nervous because this would be the first time putting on my parental defiance pants. But I was super excited! Stupidly, we should have used the time walking back to formalize the instructions. Instead, we arrived and it was time for me to head home.
I hid my purchase from my mom and was silent in the car, thinking how could I do all this without anyone knowing. The bathroom I used was right before all the bedrooms, so clanking and fussing would cause attention. I had to be quiet. I also had to sort how would I get the orange color on my locks and how long to keep it on. I wanted fierce color but not so much I got busted. I decided to do a small test on the back section. You know, because doing something for the first time and not being able to see it, is smarts. I pulled out the packet and poured about a teaspoon into my hand. I sat there staring like I am really gonna do this. YES!!! I added a little water to make a paste, slathered & smushed it on. ok, now what. I gave it a good 5 minutes and rinsed it out. Huh. Nothing. My hair looks the same. So I repeated the process, let is set for 10 minutes. Nothing again?! I think I tried for a half hour, by running to my room and sitting there. Nothing, yet again. I was so bummed...
The next day I told Jessica about by futile attempt and the lack of results. She just laughed but it was never in a mean way. It was like oh sweetie, you poor thing, you've never had anyone to show you nuthing. She explained I needed to boil it first like actually making Kool-Aid and dunk my head in for a while. I decided to forgo the drink and just pester my mom instead, till she gave up. I WON SHORTLY AFTER and orange hair was finally mine... but this time, purchased from the hair care aisle.
Later, Jessica mentioned I should bleach my hair... Cue a 90s picture of my face in a silly, "Who me!" way, with a laugh track and a bottle of clorox behind me. yup.
This is what comes up when you search google.
My pony-tailed blond hair (post will be updated with my tween self, when I can find one):
It wasn't until junior high in my 7th grade, I decided a permanent was the way to go. I'd look better, feel better and be popular with the boys. But it was the early 90s and sadly, no kind stranger had yet taken pity on my sad state of cluelessness. We also lived in the desert, where trend-setting styles were always late to the scene. My mom obliged by taking me to Cost Cutters, which had the best $30 perm available (said their window.) I told them I wanted nice waves to my flat hair, which was about six inches past my shoulders at the time. It also starting turning more of an ash blond, which my parents kindly reminded me how their hair did the same, landing on deep brown. swell.
The team was excited to get my new 'do started. I sat for hours with the squishy curlers in my hair and the stinky chemicals, and figured these Cost Cutting professionals knew what they were doing! But as I inspected more, the woven strands of hair seemed too tight for what we discussed. When they unveiled my fabulous waste of time, they were tiny ringlets of strange and lop-sided spirals. It also raised the poof-factor to 11, suddenly having a square top and shoulder length shelf. I sat there looking at myself. Horrified. I thought ok Brandi (HA, almost said ok Clark but that wouldn't be right) all I need to do is take a shower and re-style it and everything would be right in the world. The last several years had gifted me an immensely self conscious image, so I had to save this cemented box of hair in order to keep it together. My mom knew I wasn't stoked, but she's not one to point out my feelings. It was my decision to get the perm so she just judged it silently. swell.
Now, I don't know how perms are supposed to work, but their all important instructions were sternly related as "I couldn't wash my hair for three days, so the perm could set." Wait, set?! It still hasn't SET after all your pulling and papering and twisting and dousing? ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, yes it needs that many Hs - how am I going to live with this mess. The next few months had a lot of sad moments in front of the mirror, feeling tied to this beast. It wasn't pretty. Side note, I still have the reminder of that perm because my hair was NEVER the same after that. Friday was straight. Saturday was a curly, wavy mess, never to see it's linear cousin again. Granted, it's much, much better now, but there are still areas in the back I struggle with because of that day. So when thinking of the children, please don't let them get a perm.
When the incident finally gave way to fresher pastures, I met a brilliant new friend at school named Jessica. She was so different than anyone I'd ever known before and I loved her. I spent a lot of time at Jessica's house and I can still picture her and her room, sitting with Dennis the dog (who I thought was so strange for eating toilet paper.) She was clever, funny and thrift-store hip. Jessica also hung out with an older crowd on the weekends, going to raves "down below," and on Monday would relay what was new with the club kids. She made fur boots and would style her hair like Sailor Moon. She was the first person to help me begin to understand fashion and my style, and tell me I was cool. I suddenly wanted to be different and spend time figuring out what I liked, disliked, and really allow this unknowingly, repressed personality to wake. Swoon...
Jessica's mom always worked, so our time together was spent at her house, because unsupervised tweens with no car is tops! One day I mentioned I was jealous she was allowed to dye her hair. She had this amazing orangey-red color, but could change it to anything. She mentioned a dyeing technique using Kool-Aid. She said it was easy and gave a subtle color, so my mom probably wouldn't notice. Well ding ding, this was the thing I was waiting for! We walked down to the grocery store and found the wall of powders. I loved Jessica's color so I went for Orange. I ended up getting 5 packets because I had no idea how much I'd need. I preciously carried them back to her place; I didn't want anything happening to them. I was nervous because this would be the first time putting on my parental defiance pants. But I was super excited! Stupidly, we should have used the time walking back to formalize the instructions. Instead, we arrived and it was time for me to head home.
I hid my purchase from my mom and was silent in the car, thinking how could I do all this without anyone knowing. The bathroom I used was right before all the bedrooms, so clanking and fussing would cause attention. I had to be quiet. I also had to sort how would I get the orange color on my locks and how long to keep it on. I wanted fierce color but not so much I got busted. I decided to do a small test on the back section. You know, because doing something for the first time and not being able to see it, is smarts. I pulled out the packet and poured about a teaspoon into my hand. I sat there staring like I am really gonna do this. YES!!! I added a little water to make a paste, slathered & smushed it on. ok, now what. I gave it a good 5 minutes and rinsed it out. Huh. Nothing. My hair looks the same. So I repeated the process, let is set for 10 minutes. Nothing again?! I think I tried for a half hour, by running to my room and sitting there. Nothing, yet again. I was so bummed...
The next day I told Jessica about by futile attempt and the lack of results. She just laughed but it was never in a mean way. It was like oh sweetie, you poor thing, you've never had anyone to show you nuthing. She explained I needed to boil it first like actually making Kool-Aid and dunk my head in for a while. I decided to forgo the drink and just pester my mom instead, till she gave up. I WON SHORTLY AFTER and orange hair was finally mine... but this time, purchased from the hair care aisle.
Later, Jessica mentioned I should bleach my hair... Cue a 90s picture of my face in a silly, "Who me!" way, with a laugh track and a bottle of clorox behind me. yup.
This is what comes up when you search google.
My pony-tailed blond hair (post will be updated with my tween self, when I can find one):
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Tell You Thursday: Little Blue Dot
I used to have it and I still kinda want one. It was petite and sexy and tough. It hurt me, but I dug it...
In high school I pierced my labret. AND I'D DO IT AGAIN!!!
It was sophomore year maybe, so around 1996, and as per usual during the light hours of Saturday, hanging out with my friends. Doing girly things like re-applying makeup and trying on different thrift store clothes. Talking about which musician currently rotating on Alternative Nation we wish we could date. I may have mentioned to the girls I wanted a piercing or I just started poking at my lips, but this chick said "Let's pierce it - I can do it! I did my brothers' friends' girlfriend and it looked awesome," or some such. Up until that day, only 4 holes had been placed upon my body - 2 in each ear. But it was something I really wanted so I half-enthusiastically agreed. Plus, many of my friends had piercings even though we were no where close to 18. Although, this one tattoo shop in Lancaster didn't care how old you were, they kept the shop nasty dirty. At least I had the sense to keep it in-house and minimize the risk of infection... geez that sounds so naive now but I fucking believed it then. My main concern was how to hide the piercing from my parents, for at least a couple months, because by then it would be healed and they too could see the beauty. geez again...
Sitting on the floor, covered in clothes, make-up, magazines, tobacco leavings, etc. I prepared for the pain by feeling the thickness of my lip, in order to size up how quickly we could do it. I squeezed and contemplated while staring blankly at artwork we had drawn to help us fry*. My girlfriends gave a pep talk of how cool I was. That was sweet. So how did we perform such a delicate act? Apparently all you need is ice and a safety pin. And honestly, I think the ice cube was just something we saw on TV. oy vey, gives me the chills just thinking about it. We found a nice one just lying on the floor and prepped it by burning the ends with a lighter. Let's get.this.party.started.
Very scientifically, we figured where the middle of my lip was. And by scientific, I mean we eyeballed it. She numbed me using the melting ice, firmly grabbed the pin and gave it a go. I was surprised it broke through the skin quite easily. But I did flinch, so we stopped. Hmm - now I had a safety pin stuck halfway in my lip, which neither felt or looked great. I mustered up the courage and told her to finish the job. zoinks! It was finally free - I was pierced! I felt so connected to my generation, like I could do anything - go anywhere - be part of the scene!! I was ready to hitch a ride up to Seattle until I realized, I didn't have a flat-end piercing stud. Crap.
In all our, ehem, meticulous planning, I didn't realize you needed a special type of jewelry to keep yourself clean and safe. So the only thing we could do was stick a thin, regular cheapy cheap earring into the new throughway and hope it didn't scuff my gums too bad. In the moments following, it was the first time I felt the weighted reality of 'not having money.' I needed something I couldn't ask my parents for, yet had no source of income and no credit cards. I didn't know what to do...
I guess I hung out till Sunday, called my mom and begged her to let me spend the night at my girlfriends' house. I told her we had some major test on Monday and must devote our attention but honestly, I needed more time to figure out my debacle. My high school didn't care about the piercing - not sure what they'd say now - but I suffered all day with that darn pokey thing and still had no clue how to make this last. At 2:20pm I headed to where my mom always parked, kept my head down low, and opened to door to disaster.
She immediately saw it (I didn't know my lower lip had been red all day) and started panicking about what i'd done to my body. Note - why do parents always say that? On one hand I get the parental rationale of going to the worst outcome. "You're setting yourself up for regret," or "You've just squashed any chance of landing that high-paid executive job." Pfft - these are old-school thoughts. They said it to me then and when I got my tattoos. Just like business is changing and all types of people work high-profile jobs, I kept telling them it doesn't change who I am as a person.
After a few hours debate between the drive home and in house, I conceded to remove the piercing. I really didn't care my parents were frustrated, but what sealed it was no matter how what idea I came up with, the jewelry I needed wasn't in my future. And the metal stick poking into my gums was really messing with me so out it came. They didn't speak to me for a few days, which in hindsight was a shorter time than when I got my tattoos - that was a whole week of silence!!
There was never an infection and everything healed quickly. The only physical evidence I still have, albeit fading, is a little blue dot. I don't know why it was blue, but I'm sure it had something to do with the CHEAPY METAL and lighter fluid. My body has migrated it slightly to the right. That or we really did miss the mark... who knows. I still check it out sometimes and reflect upon the whole story just outlaid before you.
What I miss most is what it represented. I made a decision that had consequences, but I had done something just for me. A first attempt to solidify my teenage self in the 90s. I didn't realize it then but I never spent anytime understanding who I was. I was this surface humanoid going through the motions of breathing and laughing and learning, but my guts were blank. This has been something I still struggle with today, just not as often. Thank you little blue dot.
* frying is what you do on Acid. I felt it important to include, not to brag, but because much of my 90s (and probably the same to many other wonderful people) revolved around messy bedrooms and this very unique state. It was my youth and my 90s and it's important.
In high school I pierced my labret. AND I'D DO IT AGAIN!!!
It was sophomore year maybe, so around 1996, and as per usual during the light hours of Saturday, hanging out with my friends. Doing girly things like re-applying makeup and trying on different thrift store clothes. Talking about which musician currently rotating on Alternative Nation we wish we could date. I may have mentioned to the girls I wanted a piercing or I just started poking at my lips, but this chick said "Let's pierce it - I can do it! I did my brothers' friends' girlfriend and it looked awesome," or some such. Up until that day, only 4 holes had been placed upon my body - 2 in each ear. But it was something I really wanted so I half-enthusiastically agreed. Plus, many of my friends had piercings even though we were no where close to 18. Although, this one tattoo shop in Lancaster didn't care how old you were, they kept the shop nasty dirty. At least I had the sense to keep it in-house and minimize the risk of infection... geez that sounds so naive now but I fucking believed it then. My main concern was how to hide the piercing from my parents, for at least a couple months, because by then it would be healed and they too could see the beauty. geez again...
Sitting on the floor, covered in clothes, make-up, magazines, tobacco leavings, etc. I prepared for the pain by feeling the thickness of my lip, in order to size up how quickly we could do it. I squeezed and contemplated while staring blankly at artwork we had drawn to help us fry*. My girlfriends gave a pep talk of how cool I was. That was sweet. So how did we perform such a delicate act? Apparently all you need is ice and a safety pin. And honestly, I think the ice cube was just something we saw on TV. oy vey, gives me the chills just thinking about it. We found a nice one just lying on the floor and prepped it by burning the ends with a lighter. Let's get.this.party.started.
Very scientifically, we figured where the middle of my lip was. And by scientific, I mean we eyeballed it. She numbed me using the melting ice, firmly grabbed the pin and gave it a go. I was surprised it broke through the skin quite easily. But I did flinch, so we stopped. Hmm - now I had a safety pin stuck halfway in my lip, which neither felt or looked great. I mustered up the courage and told her to finish the job. zoinks! It was finally free - I was pierced! I felt so connected to my generation, like I could do anything - go anywhere - be part of the scene!! I was ready to hitch a ride up to Seattle until I realized, I didn't have a flat-end piercing stud. Crap.
In all our, ehem, meticulous planning, I didn't realize you needed a special type of jewelry to keep yourself clean and safe. So the only thing we could do was stick a thin, regular cheapy cheap earring into the new throughway and hope it didn't scuff my gums too bad. In the moments following, it was the first time I felt the weighted reality of 'not having money.' I needed something I couldn't ask my parents for, yet had no source of income and no credit cards. I didn't know what to do...
I guess I hung out till Sunday, called my mom and begged her to let me spend the night at my girlfriends' house. I told her we had some major test on Monday and must devote our attention but honestly, I needed more time to figure out my debacle. My high school didn't care about the piercing - not sure what they'd say now - but I suffered all day with that darn pokey thing and still had no clue how to make this last. At 2:20pm I headed to where my mom always parked, kept my head down low, and opened to door to disaster.
She immediately saw it (I didn't know my lower lip had been red all day) and started panicking about what i'd done to my body. Note - why do parents always say that? On one hand I get the parental rationale of going to the worst outcome. "You're setting yourself up for regret," or "You've just squashed any chance of landing that high-paid executive job." Pfft - these are old-school thoughts. They said it to me then and when I got my tattoos. Just like business is changing and all types of people work high-profile jobs, I kept telling them it doesn't change who I am as a person.
After a few hours debate between the drive home and in house, I conceded to remove the piercing. I really didn't care my parents were frustrated, but what sealed it was no matter how what idea I came up with, the jewelry I needed wasn't in my future. And the metal stick poking into my gums was really messing with me so out it came. They didn't speak to me for a few days, which in hindsight was a shorter time than when I got my tattoos - that was a whole week of silence!!
There was never an infection and everything healed quickly. The only physical evidence I still have, albeit fading, is a little blue dot. I don't know why it was blue, but I'm sure it had something to do with the CHEAPY METAL and lighter fluid. My body has migrated it slightly to the right. That or we really did miss the mark... who knows. I still check it out sometimes and reflect upon the whole story just outlaid before you.
What I miss most is what it represented. I made a decision that had consequences, but I had done something just for me. A first attempt to solidify my teenage self in the 90s. I didn't realize it then but I never spent anytime understanding who I was. I was this surface humanoid going through the motions of breathing and laughing and learning, but my guts were blank. This has been something I still struggle with today, just not as often. Thank you little blue dot.
* frying is what you do on Acid. I felt it important to include, not to brag, but because much of my 90s (and probably the same to many other wonderful people) revolved around messy bedrooms and this very unique state. It was my youth and my 90s and it's important.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Tell You Thursday: Sometimes, the po-lice are just wrong.
I was a bit of a rebel rouser in high school. I ran with both an older crowd and a crowd who enjoyed activities questionable by local authorities. But it was fun and these were my mates, whose friendships were intense, amazing, and heartbreaking all within a few short years.
One night in the late 90s, probably hanging out at one of the frequented sets of Lancaster houses, our friend Fonz asked if we wanted to check out a super haunted house in Tehachapi, CA. This was at least a 45 minute venture north, but I was stoked since I've always been a believer in ghosts/goblins/demons. I love watching scary movies for entertainment, but the second I imagine the act happening in real life, I tremble. Despite still sleeping with a night light and hugging my assortment of plushies, I love it - truly love it. And don't judge yo - the plushies are often designer and awesome, and I make my own, cuz i'm awesome. :)
I digress... So Fonz peaks our interest and down the road we go. It's Fonz, our friend Ezra, our friend Melissa, her then boyfriend Bryan, me and my then boyfriend Auggie. We pile into two cars. I was driving Auggie and myself in my dark green Honda Civic. Fonz or Ezra was driving his car, with Mellisa and Bryan in back. We eventually turned off the highway and followed Fonz down this janky dirt road for miles. At that point, our night was common since the whole desert is filled with dirty and janky streets. But the moon was gigantic and bright, casting a luminous, blue shadow over every inch of grey & black. The kind of light where you can almost turn everything else off and still see. Almost..
After driving for what I remember as 20 minutes, we finally pull over to the right, park, and get out of the car. Picture the dirt road laying before and behind us. Blue and grey lit tumbleweeds on either side, old cars, tires, junk, wood, trash, and probably ants. Gah I hate ants. We were silent for a spell and Melissa and I probably started squealing and grabbing any of the guys.
About 100-150 feet in front of us, behind a rusty chain link fence, stood a 2-story wooden, apocalyptic doll house. Most rooms were exposed to the night air because they were missing the side wall. The remaining were half open, covered by wooden slats, broken and jagged. Fonz encouraged us to walk up to the house, but we were all really freaked out. We remained frozen in our shoes. Him telling us the history didn't help, either. Apparently the person who owned it was a witch. She and her coven would practice their witchcraft, trying to summon spirits and demons. The witch was said to later be murdered by her coven after a ritual. She was found hung by the second story banister, gutted above a pentagram. Dude. Again, facing that story in true life was fucking heart-stopping palpitations. But since i'm outta 'danger', I WANNA GO BACK! It's a vicious cycle I put my bod through..
Right as we were about to trespass the fence, we saw a single light through a broken window. Almost like an electric flicker candle. It was just far enough to make us question whether we were actually seeing it, but all of us had the same vision. So it had to be true - right? It seemed to float and move from room to room. {heart racing then & now} We couldn't do anything but stare and grab each others hands. I think we ended up hearing something strange and that was that. We fled, speeding back down the dirt road toward civilization.
And here's where the po-lice come to play.
On our way back, Fonz and Ezra needed gas. We both pulled into a station with a convenience store, which made Auggie happy because he wanted candy or cigarettes or something. While he shopped inside, I stood outside the car, watching my friends all laughing and recounting the holy fuck what did we just do. I turned around to see if Auggie was still shopping or paying, and when I turned around a cop car had pulled up in front of me. And not in the we're getting coffee and donuts way - they were intentionally blocking my car. I froze and stopped breathing. Even now, cops make me nervous, but back then, they made me super nervous. I never had any good experience with them during this period of my life. Arresting my friends for smoking cigarettes and pot, harassing people at parties, and overall didn't ever make me feel any safer. I was always told cops are the ones you go to for help, but something about this agitated & confusing time for me proved otherwise. As a grownup, I watch A LOT of COPS the TV show because c'mon, it's a 30 minute package of awesome. It's also easier to sit back, enjoying the carnival ride since it would be rare I would ever find myself in those predicaments now. I still find some police officers who take me right back to Lancaster and the roughness I saw, but I have met others who are decent & nice.
So at this moment, I now find myself staring at them alone. Auggie is oblivious and the others aren't coming near me and I never blamed them, I wouldn't have either. I nano-secondly itemized everything on "my person" and in my car. Shit. Did I forget to take out that dope, was there leftover beer from the other night... anything that would give them a reason to haul me off. But no, I was clean. They stare at me through their giant windshield. I stood still not knowing what our next moves were. They get out of the car, come over and ask to search my vehicle. My defenses shot up and as plainly as possible, asked what cause they had. "We're the police" they said. NOPE! Not good enough, so I stated "Hey, i'm not doing anything so what are you looking for!" Their replay was "A Burger King was just robbed and you and your car fit the description. Two women in a black Honda Civic, wearing bandanas robbed the store about 10 minutes ago."
Ok, mental check. My car is dark green, it was me and Auggie, and to the best of my recollection, 10 minutes ago I was staring face to face with a ghost... So um no - that wasn't me officer. I relayed all this highly pertinent information. When they calmed a bit, they said they understood but since it was dark, black and green look similar and since my boyfriend wasn't in the car, there could have been a second lady. They asked nicer if they could search my car for bandanas and I guess, a sack of money. Once I knew I was clean and they certainly wouldn't find either of those things, I said yes. After a few minutes of an empty search, they thanked me and drove off. Auggie was staring at me with his wares, the others came over and we all kinda said what the fuck. I held it together much better than I expected, which was fantastic considering how unprepared I was.
One night in the late 90s, probably hanging out at one of the frequented sets of Lancaster houses, our friend Fonz asked if we wanted to check out a super haunted house in Tehachapi, CA. This was at least a 45 minute venture north, but I was stoked since I've always been a believer in ghosts/goblins/demons. I love watching scary movies for entertainment, but the second I imagine the act happening in real life, I tremble. Despite still sleeping with a night light and hugging my assortment of plushies, I love it - truly love it. And don't judge yo - the plushies are often designer and awesome, and I make my own, cuz i'm awesome. :)
I digress... So Fonz peaks our interest and down the road we go. It's Fonz, our friend Ezra, our friend Melissa, her then boyfriend Bryan, me and my then boyfriend Auggie. We pile into two cars. I was driving Auggie and myself in my dark green Honda Civic. Fonz or Ezra was driving his car, with Mellisa and Bryan in back. We eventually turned off the highway and followed Fonz down this janky dirt road for miles. At that point, our night was common since the whole desert is filled with dirty and janky streets. But the moon was gigantic and bright, casting a luminous, blue shadow over every inch of grey & black. The kind of light where you can almost turn everything else off and still see. Almost..
After driving for what I remember as 20 minutes, we finally pull over to the right, park, and get out of the car. Picture the dirt road laying before and behind us. Blue and grey lit tumbleweeds on either side, old cars, tires, junk, wood, trash, and probably ants. Gah I hate ants. We were silent for a spell and Melissa and I probably started squealing and grabbing any of the guys.
About 100-150 feet in front of us, behind a rusty chain link fence, stood a 2-story wooden, apocalyptic doll house. Most rooms were exposed to the night air because they were missing the side wall. The remaining were half open, covered by wooden slats, broken and jagged. Fonz encouraged us to walk up to the house, but we were all really freaked out. We remained frozen in our shoes. Him telling us the history didn't help, either. Apparently the person who owned it was a witch. She and her coven would practice their witchcraft, trying to summon spirits and demons. The witch was said to later be murdered by her coven after a ritual. She was found hung by the second story banister, gutted above a pentagram. Dude. Again, facing that story in true life was fucking heart-stopping palpitations. But since i'm outta 'danger', I WANNA GO BACK! It's a vicious cycle I put my bod through..
Right as we were about to trespass the fence, we saw a single light through a broken window. Almost like an electric flicker candle. It was just far enough to make us question whether we were actually seeing it, but all of us had the same vision. So it had to be true - right? It seemed to float and move from room to room. {heart racing then & now} We couldn't do anything but stare and grab each others hands. I think we ended up hearing something strange and that was that. We fled, speeding back down the dirt road toward civilization.
And here's where the po-lice come to play.
On our way back, Fonz and Ezra needed gas. We both pulled into a station with a convenience store, which made Auggie happy because he wanted candy or cigarettes or something. While he shopped inside, I stood outside the car, watching my friends all laughing and recounting the holy fuck what did we just do. I turned around to see if Auggie was still shopping or paying, and when I turned around a cop car had pulled up in front of me. And not in the we're getting coffee and donuts way - they were intentionally blocking my car. I froze and stopped breathing. Even now, cops make me nervous, but back then, they made me super nervous. I never had any good experience with them during this period of my life. Arresting my friends for smoking cigarettes and pot, harassing people at parties, and overall didn't ever make me feel any safer. I was always told cops are the ones you go to for help, but something about this agitated & confusing time for me proved otherwise. As a grownup, I watch A LOT of COPS the TV show because c'mon, it's a 30 minute package of awesome. It's also easier to sit back, enjoying the carnival ride since it would be rare I would ever find myself in those predicaments now. I still find some police officers who take me right back to Lancaster and the roughness I saw, but I have met others who are decent & nice.
So at this moment, I now find myself staring at them alone. Auggie is oblivious and the others aren't coming near me and I never blamed them, I wouldn't have either. I nano-secondly itemized everything on "my person" and in my car. Shit. Did I forget to take out that dope, was there leftover beer from the other night... anything that would give them a reason to haul me off. But no, I was clean. They stare at me through their giant windshield. I stood still not knowing what our next moves were. They get out of the car, come over and ask to search my vehicle. My defenses shot up and as plainly as possible, asked what cause they had. "We're the police" they said. NOPE! Not good enough, so I stated "Hey, i'm not doing anything so what are you looking for!" Their replay was "A Burger King was just robbed and you and your car fit the description. Two women in a black Honda Civic, wearing bandanas robbed the store about 10 minutes ago."
Ok, mental check. My car is dark green, it was me and Auggie, and to the best of my recollection, 10 minutes ago I was staring face to face with a ghost... So um no - that wasn't me officer. I relayed all this highly pertinent information. When they calmed a bit, they said they understood but since it was dark, black and green look similar and since my boyfriend wasn't in the car, there could have been a second lady. They asked nicer if they could search my car for bandanas and I guess, a sack of money. Once I knew I was clean and they certainly wouldn't find either of those things, I said yes. After a few minutes of an empty search, they thanked me and drove off. Auggie was staring at me with his wares, the others came over and we all kinda said what the fuck. I held it together much better than I expected, which was fantastic considering how unprepared I was.
These memories stir up every few years, sometimes when I see a police car or hear about an actual haunted house. I don't know the roads that could take me there now, despite wanting to TOTALLY go back. I hope other kids heard the tales and were braver than us. Despite much searching on the internets, I found no documents of the house or events that supposedly transpired. So kids, if you find out, please write a lil' something and help this old lady out.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Tell You Thursday: $11 and hour was worth it. almost.
Way back whennie in the summer of 2003... I was laid off from a job I really enjoyed because the change in management didn't agree I was a good fit. It was a weird transition but screw them, their loss. I had work experience, a mixed bag of college classes, but no degree. poops. That grown up whisper had me figuring out whether I would go back to school, get any ol' job, or whether I wanted a career. ... I was 22 for something sakes! Of course it was time to figure that out!
When I was first released, looking for jobs in the newspaper was still a fully viable option since the internet was still finding it's way. I had submitted to a few companies online that were ahead of the curve, but it was more about lucky Antelope Valley Press GO! Unfortunately after a few weeks it became apparent the paper was home to mostly construction or IT postings. Surprisingly, my experience in those areas is null. There was, however, one item which always stuck out to me. "Credit Card Operators needed for morning, evening and late shifts. $10 per hour / $11 per hour midnight to 8am" or some such words.
I'd seen this ad every day for the last two weeks; I had no prospects and no where to be, so why not. I can punch numbers at midnight (those extra dollars would totally get me a new thrift store sweater) and if paid, be a pleasant chit-chatter. I called and spoke with a really nice woman who was happy to give me an interview. Sweet! I was scheduled to meet the manager at 10am, I believe on a Tuesday. As it so happened, the morning I set the first appointment I received a call from a company I had applied to online. They also scheduled an interview that same Tuesday, just in the afternoon. I was gonna win Tuesday!
Tuesday morning arrived like clock work and I dressed in my best ill-fitting professional clothes and headed to interview one's location, feeling optimistic. The building was located on a main street I traveled often. I remember the too-large gold mirror greeting me when I first opened the glass doors. There were stair cases on either side and this gaudy thing in the middle. It was sunny and reflecting oddly on my skin, so I fled up the stairs to the large common business park double doors. I walked in to an empty reception desk. hmmm. A few minutes later a women walked out from behind another set of double doors, smiling, and introducing herself as X (I don't remember, not the band.) Before the second double doors closed, I saw several ladies on headsets in front of computers and machines, so far everything is checking out! I can do this!
Girl X started me on the application and gave a brief explanation of the job before the manager would see me. She said it's pretty simple; I would take credit card numbers from customers, process the information, and send them to the queue. Cool, simple. Oh and every once in a while I would need to talk to the customers if the other girls were busy. I said talk to them about what - thinking it must have something to do with what ever product they were trying to buy. She paused a beat, smiled and said the business was an adult chat line, so when the queue is full, sometimes the operators have to talk. But there are scripts, so it's easy! hahaha, what!? I became so nervous! Not because it was phone sex but because acting frightens me and there was no way I'd be any good!
Girl X wanted to make sure I was ok with that, which I truly had no issues with, so I just laughed and said it wasn't a problem. But the acting piece was crawling up the nervous part of my brain. I mean I would turn red and shut down speaking in front of a few people, let alone a whole office. And then having to be sexy to boot - sorry, no AVN award for my public performance. I put my scaredy comfy pants illustratively on. In the moments leading up to the manager introduction, there was something else drawing me away from the job. For no particular reason, I felt they would hire me so I had to quickly figure out my answer since this would just be a job. The interview scheduled later in the afternoon was for a great company, more money, and was likely a good career move. But it was a gamble. Something locked in now vs playing the do they like me game. I had only met with the recruiter but from our phone discussions, I was a strong candidate. Gah!
I decided to speak with the fella and at least hear what he had to say, which was not much. Hahah, my meeting with him was shorter than girl X. He was really friendly but offered nothing new. Was I ok with the job, was I interested, yatta yatta yatta. Decision time. I wanted to be as professional as I knew how, so I started off by thanking them and smiling. Yes I was interested, but I had another opportunity later that day which would help me decide. I promised I would call them by tomorrow morning with my answer. They both felt that was ok, and so it goes.
I went to Travis' place and relayed the whole story and his advice aligned with mine - if job two doesn't work out, headset ally here I am! or here I come (rimshot x 2) That afternoon I met with and was subsequently hired by my current, legally cannot be discussed company. Although I didn't find out I had the job till the next morning, I did call girl X back right after. Much to my surprise, she was bummed I wouldn't be joining the "really great team." Pretty amazing to feel sad after meeting a person for 10 minutes. I guess I rule harder than I thought.
I still drive by that ugly building on a pretty street, gold mirror still blazing and wonder if they still reside there. If they do, I wonder if they need part-time help cuz I haven't been thrift store shopping in a while.
When I was first released, looking for jobs in the newspaper was still a fully viable option since the internet was still finding it's way. I had submitted to a few companies online that were ahead of the curve, but it was more about lucky Antelope Valley Press GO! Unfortunately after a few weeks it became apparent the paper was home to mostly construction or IT postings. Surprisingly, my experience in those areas is null. There was, however, one item which always stuck out to me. "Credit Card Operators needed for morning, evening and late shifts. $10 per hour / $11 per hour midnight to 8am" or some such words.
I'd seen this ad every day for the last two weeks; I had no prospects and no where to be, so why not. I can punch numbers at midnight (those extra dollars would totally get me a new thrift store sweater) and if paid, be a pleasant chit-chatter. I called and spoke with a really nice woman who was happy to give me an interview. Sweet! I was scheduled to meet the manager at 10am, I believe on a Tuesday. As it so happened, the morning I set the first appointment I received a call from a company I had applied to online. They also scheduled an interview that same Tuesday, just in the afternoon. I was gonna win Tuesday!
Tuesday morning arrived like clock work and I dressed in my best ill-fitting professional clothes and headed to interview one's location, feeling optimistic. The building was located on a main street I traveled often. I remember the too-large gold mirror greeting me when I first opened the glass doors. There were stair cases on either side and this gaudy thing in the middle. It was sunny and reflecting oddly on my skin, so I fled up the stairs to the large common business park double doors. I walked in to an empty reception desk. hmmm. A few minutes later a women walked out from behind another set of double doors, smiling, and introducing herself as X (I don't remember, not the band.) Before the second double doors closed, I saw several ladies on headsets in front of computers and machines, so far everything is checking out! I can do this!
Girl X started me on the application and gave a brief explanation of the job before the manager would see me. She said it's pretty simple; I would take credit card numbers from customers, process the information, and send them to the queue. Cool, simple. Oh and every once in a while I would need to talk to the customers if the other girls were busy. I said talk to them about what - thinking it must have something to do with what ever product they were trying to buy. She paused a beat, smiled and said the business was an adult chat line, so when the queue is full, sometimes the operators have to talk. But there are scripts, so it's easy! hahaha, what!? I became so nervous! Not because it was phone sex but because acting frightens me and there was no way I'd be any good!
Girl X wanted to make sure I was ok with that, which I truly had no issues with, so I just laughed and said it wasn't a problem. But the acting piece was crawling up the nervous part of my brain. I mean I would turn red and shut down speaking in front of a few people, let alone a whole office. And then having to be sexy to boot - sorry, no AVN award for my public performance. I put my scaredy comfy pants illustratively on. In the moments leading up to the manager introduction, there was something else drawing me away from the job. For no particular reason, I felt they would hire me so I had to quickly figure out my answer since this would just be a job. The interview scheduled later in the afternoon was for a great company, more money, and was likely a good career move. But it was a gamble. Something locked in now vs playing the do they like me game. I had only met with the recruiter but from our phone discussions, I was a strong candidate. Gah!
I decided to speak with the fella and at least hear what he had to say, which was not much. Hahah, my meeting with him was shorter than girl X. He was really friendly but offered nothing new. Was I ok with the job, was I interested, yatta yatta yatta. Decision time. I wanted to be as professional as I knew how, so I started off by thanking them and smiling. Yes I was interested, but I had another opportunity later that day which would help me decide. I promised I would call them by tomorrow morning with my answer. They both felt that was ok, and so it goes.
I went to Travis' place and relayed the whole story and his advice aligned with mine - if job two doesn't work out, headset ally here I am! or here I come (rimshot x 2) That afternoon I met with and was subsequently hired by my current, legally cannot be discussed company. Although I didn't find out I had the job till the next morning, I did call girl X back right after. Much to my surprise, she was bummed I wouldn't be joining the "really great team." Pretty amazing to feel sad after meeting a person for 10 minutes. I guess I rule harder than I thought.
I still drive by that ugly building on a pretty street, gold mirror still blazing and wonder if they still reside there. If they do, I wonder if they need part-time help cuz I haven't been thrift store shopping in a while.
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