It's that time of year when I realize I should have completed my gift making months ago, should have written down all the shit I need to do, and should not keep track of how many days till 24 hours of A Christmas Story because I want to watch now!
But at this point, life makes it a cyclical habit that's hard to break.
It's also the time of year where me and my most special girlfriends from high school get together for a holiday gift exchange and night of debauchery, as if we never missed a day of each others' faces. This fierce group of 6 has managed to exercise our holiday right almost every year since 1999. But don't totally picture one-night stands, don't totally think limitless booze, and don't totally speculate a lot of opinions. Not quite but sort of.
We've been comrades and foes, criers and huggers, drink buyers when relationships soared and failed, and even a few that swapped. Seen girls kiss boys and girls kiss girls, girl steals boy and boy splits town. Through parents reading journals and being chased by cops, threatening to run away to Seattle and scrounging for Whopper money. College and trips abroad, marriage and divorce, careers and start-overs, a couple of kids but most of us with pups, money and not so much money. Naked runs on a private beach and piercings that have long been removed. Brilliant tattoo choices and some not so much. Denial of drug use and abandoned houses, generator parties and part time jobs. Outdoor sleepovers where we spent all night figuring it out... together. Always, together. And laughs, laughs and more laughs I wish I heard more often.
Seriously, this is a set friendships spanning 15-20+ years, where without
saying, we are still there for the best and worst of each others'
lives. Long conversations using our parents phone have transitioned to facebook chats and rambling text messages, but we still love each other. We appreciate each
other more than the day we graduated and that's fucking tops. This will never change because growing up in a desert town forces that
existence upon you, whether you ask for it or not. There is a bond
between people that is rarely dissolved, albeit windy at
times. I would never exchange these ladies for anything in the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The gathering of the ladies changes location year to year. Often it's what works best timing wise, other years someone has moved into a new place. 2012 hosting was bequeathed upon us because it was the first Christmas in our new home. Sweet & junk, but yes of course!
After the formalities of re-stoking the catch up fires, we pour drinks and eat snacks and talk stories of what's been happening. Then the opening and stealing of the gifts begins. This is where gentle claws come out to play for a spell. It can take anywhere from 30-60 minutes of us cackling between the choosing, drink & smoke breaks. But anyone who's been to a gift exchange between a great group of friends, knows what an awesome time you have.
A few hours into hanging out this particular year, the idea of getting into a little trouble was appealing. Not raise hell trouble but our classed up version of it. Us doing something that usually results in a "I can't believe/remember that happened..." as we recount & relaugh at our forever memories.
Not sure why the idea struck me, but I suggested we visit Bob Hope's house because they put up this ancient nativity scene every year. Maybe it was to share the Christmassey mood or simply a mini-activity before doing something else. Either way, I enjoy it for non-religious reasons and thought they would too. It has white & blue lights that project strange shadows and oversees the neighborhood like a tall, plasticine governor should. We designated a driver, piled in shoulder to shoulder, and headed off for how ever long it took.
We circled before parking in their little mini-driveway that is on the edge of the property (look here - we parked about 10 feet in front of the red bows.) Silly me for thinking we would just stare & make jokes. Silly me for thinking it's fine to pull up in front of a very high profile house around midnight as if it was our own crib. Silly me.
Nope, they wanted more action. Never in a destructive way though - never. Just in a we're having fun way and someone has an idea that leads to another idea, and eventually we're like I can't believe we did that. and so on. To also note, at the time I don't think anyone actually lived there, but it's Bob Hope's fucking house so tom foolery eventually gets noticed.
Two of these lovely ladies decided they needed a close up view of the manger and started climbing the fence. If you look at the daytime photo, it doesn't seem that tall. But turns out does require a strong finger foot hold and a heave ho. They struggle for a few minutes but eventually make it and we're all laughing. However, internally I'm like fuck-fuck-fuck this place is being watched. It's a nice neighborhood where I'm sure they don't take kindly to even cute girls laughing and walking the fence this late. So they're up there holding baby jesus and riding the donkey and yelling back to us at what they see over the walls. They are taking photos and then disappear for a hot minute while my other friends light a smoke.
I finally can't shut my inner mum up, so I urge them we should leave before something bad happens. Surprisingly I think we all felt it and everyone mostly obliged. :) I let out a deep breath of releif, sat in the car while they scurried down, thinking in a minute we'll be driving off to the next adventure. Sigh, ok good we're all in the car.
That's when a neighborhood security patrol car pulled up. fuck.
By no means were we drunk, but drinks were had. There's neighborhood patrol because it's a ritzy hood. But I thought it's fine - they can really do anything cuz they're rent a cops.
Two younger gentlemen rolled down their windows and we mimicked, before asking what we were up to. I was somewhat familiar with the local backstory and was with it enough to answer straight. I said my friends were visiting from out of town and I wanted to show them the beautiful manger, because it had always meant so much to me at Christmas. How happy I was someone still put it up, without the Hope's living there. Play it up Brandi, but not too much I thought.
Well my charming personality and general cuteness of our car must have won them over, because they smiled, suggested it was time to leave and to have a nice night. Then they drove away and that's when I saw who had employed those nice young men.
COPS. Yes, COPS. FUCKING REAL DEAL, ARREST OUR ASSES COPS DROVE AWAY with the same politeness as they pulled up with. And not just fancy neighborhood cops, like the city cops that ALWAYS WRITE TICKETS AND LOOK FOR SHIT TO BE WRONG. But by the grace of Hope's Nose, they let us go without so much as 30 seconds worth of discussion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We had a bonding moment that lasted through our hangover breakfast the next morning and then we parted ways. Hugging and savoring the last 24 hours that will tide us over till next year.
I love you bitches.
Showing posts with label Tell You Thursday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tell You Thursday. Show all posts
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Tell You Thursday: The Monkees Gave Me Head
November 20, 1968.
46 years ago.
The United States and their breadth of screaming teeny-boppers were not prepared for what would be unleashed upon them.
Head. The psychotropic movie starring The Monkees, who at the time were tripping with the likes of The Beatles and Frank Zappa. Head. The movie difficult to describe by normal standards.
Head. The movie where the bodies of The Monkees die, sing, trip, solve, and die once again.
It certainly fits the space of free love / experimental / turned-on 1960s. However, at that time the majority of The Monkees audience was anything but open.
I discovered it watching TV late one night, because a movie called Head is gonna catch your eye. I had seconds when they showed Psyche-Out. dude. Both have hippie Jack Nicholson. Both should be seen.
But this entry isn't about the movies, it's about the most basic of personality questions, "Who is my favorite band." Asked by friends and Travis, and for the last 18 years, the answer has been The Monkees. And here are the responses I get.
1. They didn't even play their own instruments.
- Ah mon frare, they weren't allowed on the first album, but did on everything else.
2. Didn't that one guys' mom invent White-out?
- yep.
3. Why do you like The Monkees (sarcastic tone implied?)
- don't know, just do.
4. no response, just face confusion.
- lame on you.
Last Tell You Thursday I wrote a story involving music and my tattoo artist. I realized then that psychedelic music has always lived in me, I just didn't know it for the first 14 years of my life. And traditionally, The Monkees aren't considered part of that scene, say like Jefferson Airplane or The 13th Floor Elevators. But they were deeply ingrained and relevant, despite the clean image the record companies wanted. They were eventually given the freedom to make the music they wanted, play & arrange how they saw best, and collaborate with friends like Carol King and Neil Diamond. They rule something fierce.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In high school, I received an offer from Columbia House: 12 CDs for the price of one. I scanned a paper mailer for the ones I wanted. I have no idea what else I got, but their Greatest Hits album struck me. I remember siting at my desk, sunlight pouring through the window, when I thought "I used to watch their TV show and kinda like that one song, I'll give it a shot."
That was it - I was hooked from the moment the mailer ripped open. Nothing had musically impacted me like that before and I kinda didn't know what to do. I replayed it over and over again, figuring out how to save my allowance to buy another album. I searched thrift store album shelves, hoping for a lucky score. And to this day, I honestly don't know why it fucking spoke everything to me. It just did. I quickly trashed their radio hits for the off-album tunes that helped shape my mind. The Monkees led my path down a phycadelia rabbit hole, up to the 70s, into the gutter of punk, down the street to rap, and a sky full of a bajillion other songs I never realized I was missing. It was like getting a continual fix, one CD or LP at a time.
I urge you if you've never given them a second thought past Daydream Believer, please check out some of my top songs, in both experimental and just awesomely supreme: Porpoise Song, As We Go Along, Goin' Down, and The Mike Nesmith songs.
This is my thing and some of the reasons why I answer why I do. There's others, but they're mine. I just hope everyone gets a moment like that at least once in their life.
It's a beautiful trip, where ever you go.
46 years ago.
The United States and their breadth of screaming teeny-boppers were not prepared for what would be unleashed upon them.
Head. The psychotropic movie starring The Monkees, who at the time were tripping with the likes of The Beatles and Frank Zappa. Head. The movie difficult to describe by normal standards.
Head. The movie where the bodies of The Monkees die, sing, trip, solve, and die once again.
It certainly fits the space of free love / experimental / turned-on 1960s. However, at that time the majority of The Monkees audience was anything but open.
I discovered it watching TV late one night, because a movie called Head is gonna catch your eye. I had seconds when they showed Psyche-Out. dude. Both have hippie Jack Nicholson. Both should be seen.
But this entry isn't about the movies, it's about the most basic of personality questions, "Who is my favorite band." Asked by friends and Travis, and for the last 18 years, the answer has been The Monkees. And here are the responses I get.
1. They didn't even play their own instruments.
- Ah mon frare, they weren't allowed on the first album, but did on everything else.
2. Didn't that one guys' mom invent White-out?
- yep.
3. Why do you like The Monkees (sarcastic tone implied?)
- don't know, just do.
4. no response, just face confusion.
- lame on you.
Last Tell You Thursday I wrote a story involving music and my tattoo artist. I realized then that psychedelic music has always lived in me, I just didn't know it for the first 14 years of my life. And traditionally, The Monkees aren't considered part of that scene, say like Jefferson Airplane or The 13th Floor Elevators. But they were deeply ingrained and relevant, despite the clean image the record companies wanted. They were eventually given the freedom to make the music they wanted, play & arrange how they saw best, and collaborate with friends like Carol King and Neil Diamond. They rule something fierce.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In high school, I received an offer from Columbia House: 12 CDs for the price of one. I scanned a paper mailer for the ones I wanted. I have no idea what else I got, but their Greatest Hits album struck me. I remember siting at my desk, sunlight pouring through the window, when I thought "I used to watch their TV show and kinda like that one song, I'll give it a shot."
That was it - I was hooked from the moment the mailer ripped open. Nothing had musically impacted me like that before and I kinda didn't know what to do. I replayed it over and over again, figuring out how to save my allowance to buy another album. I searched thrift store album shelves, hoping for a lucky score. And to this day, I honestly don't know why it fucking spoke everything to me. It just did. I quickly trashed their radio hits for the off-album tunes that helped shape my mind. The Monkees led my path down a phycadelia rabbit hole, up to the 70s, into the gutter of punk, down the street to rap, and a sky full of a bajillion other songs I never realized I was missing. It was like getting a continual fix, one CD or LP at a time.
I urge you if you've never given them a second thought past Daydream Believer, please check out some of my top songs, in both experimental and just awesomely supreme: Porpoise Song, As We Go Along, Goin' Down, and The Mike Nesmith songs.
This is my thing and some of the reasons why I answer why I do. There's others, but they're mine. I just hope everyone gets a moment like that at least once in their life.
It's a beautiful trip, where ever you go.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Tell You Thursday: A Drawing For Your Thoughts
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.
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.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Tell You Thursday: Birthday Moot
Travis, my bearded half, is 40 today. 40, 40, 40. gawd, how could I say those horrific number words. I hope as society we realize there are way more important things than being hung up on the image our bodies will somehow miraculously shrivel and be inexpressibly different, once the earth spins another tick on its axis post your second of birth. Seriously, it's no fucking big whoop. There's no giant Tardis replica in the driveway and he hasn't ordered another handmade guitar. And he still thinks I'm tops, so youngin's, keep your panties on.
His birthday got me thinking back through my own. Although, I'm a December, which others who share in this know there isn't as much hoopla because Christmas is soon. I don't care. Birthdays are not an end all, be all, event for me. I don't have wild & crazy tales, I don't go on trips or check off activities from an invisible list of stupid ideas. I've had only one proper party, and I've never been a "birthday month" or even a "birthday week" kinda bird. It feels groovy to be alive, and I dig other people being happy I live, but ultimately it's just another day. Like as long as people enjoy me the other 364 (sometimes 365) days per year, I'm content.
But I do think it's interesting to reflect upon your life, especially when every living thing shares at least this similarity. I thought I'd talk about my experiences from a perspective of not caring, in the hopes you'll share more about yours.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An outsider looking in may say how sad some of these were. But I don't. I mean yes, some blow pretty hard, but these could have happened on any day of the year. We just remember it more because we're conditioned to reminisce upon at minimum, one day that is kinda for ourselves.
His birthday got me thinking back through my own. Although, I'm a December, which others who share in this know there isn't as much hoopla because Christmas is soon. I don't care. Birthdays are not an end all, be all, event for me. I don't have wild & crazy tales, I don't go on trips or check off activities from an invisible list of stupid ideas. I've had only one proper party, and I've never been a "birthday month" or even a "birthday week" kinda bird. It feels groovy to be alive, and I dig other people being happy I live, but ultimately it's just another day. Like as long as people enjoy me the other 364 (sometimes 365) days per year, I'm content.
But I do think it's interesting to reflect upon your life, especially when every living thing shares at least this similarity. I thought I'd talk about my experiences from a perspective of not caring, in the hopes you'll share more about yours.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
- Birthdays through age 9, would be visits to Disneyland. One particular year, my parents arranged for several characters to surprise visit us while we were eating breakfast. Back then, it was held within a restaurant near the square (off to the right and through golden doors, if you know the park.) Now, I believe it's used for daily, large group birthday celebrations. But at this time, it was very limited with special pancakes, which were always my favourite. The waiters sang while the characters clapped and in the end, they gave me a special rubberized birthday Mickey. I don't have it anymore.
- 10 or 11: I was heavily into New Kids on the Block. There, I said it. I asked for stickers and trading cards (when you could buy them at all kinds of stores) and bedsheets and their 12" doll incarnations. I played with them a ton until I didn't. And c'mon, we all choose silly things in our past when they mean the most, so I'm not embarrassed... just a little humbled.
- 13: I had my first sleepover party. Because 13!!! I know I had a good time but the biggest wow moment happened around midnight. Me and 5 or 6 of my friends were up late talking about boys. We were drinking tasty hot chocolate, sitting in my parents dining room which was next to the living room, where the back door led to the garage. Mid-laugh was when we ALL heard a large number of boxes fall over in said garage. There was no denying the sound because everyone has heard cardboard when it topples. We stopped and looked at each other like WTF. I knew my dog was out there so maybe, just maybe, she was chasing something. I don't know how, but I mustered up the courage to declare I would investigate. I also insisted everyone come with me in case it was a monster/baddie/demon, etc, that only the power of cackling girls could defeat. We went outside and you'll never guess what we found. nothing. ABSOLUTELY, 100% ZIP, NADA, NOTHING! The garage was exactly the same as it was during daylight. No boxes had fallen over, no critters running about, the dog had sleepily opened her eyes, it was as if we all had the same momentary hearing hallucination... spooky shit huh.
- 14 or 15: my parents forgot my birthday until I came home from school.
- High school years... I don't remember because I was enjoying pleasing, mind-altering activities with my bestest friends. Which is kinda like a party all the time, so there.
- 19 or 20: My boyfriend took me to Olive Garden. Not because I enjoyed it and not even by his own decision. He only took me because I asked him to. Our relationship was downgrading significantly. We weren't communicating well and he was spending more time with his friends, than me. So I thought if we could do something coupley for my birthday, just spend an evening together, that would help us feel right again. I half-hardheartedly chose Olive Garden only because in the Antelope Valley, that was kinda schmancy. I didn't care where, I just wanted to spend time getting back to what I thought us, was. Instead, he buried his face with some college homework. The only time we spoke, outside of ordering, was when I asked him to stop studying for a few minutes. He declined because it was more important he pass his test the next day. I cried into my fettuccine. The only reason I didn't leave is because we drove together and I couldn't bring myself to leave him there.
- 20-22: I was drinking a lot and don't remember. Although, I do know it wasn't nearly as fun as when I was altering in high school. bummer.
- 23: My first birthday with Travis. He gave me an "A Christmas Story" lunchbox, complete with thermos. I still use it today because I dig me some lunchboxes.
- Dirty 30 Indeed. Watch out now. Spent that Thursday working from home and taking care of Travis. He had been released from the hospital a couple weeks prior, after going through major disc surgery for his low back. My girlfriends' 30ths, were fun-filled weekend celebrations. To which each were awesome and a half. But I didn't care about that. Travis' quality of life was way more important than getting debaterous and yelling "Dirty 30... woooooooo!" to strangers and waking up with a righteous hangover.
- 34: This is in a few months, so I can only speculate. But I hope to FINALLY get my birthday cake that is shaped like another food. I'm obsessed with this notion and refuse to give myself one for above reasons. If there will be presents exchanged for my birthday, I want someone to offer because they want to, not because I've begged. I've asked for this little slice of smile since I've known the birthday boy. And to his credit, he did try one year from a bakery we heart. However, because it's close to xmas, they couldn't do it. Gee whiz, huh. But Travis, ehem... I'd settle for one in November or January. ;-)
An outsider looking in may say how sad some of these were. But I don't. I mean yes, some blow pretty hard, but these could have happened on any day of the year. We just remember it more because we're conditioned to reminisce upon at minimum, one day that is kinda for ourselves.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Tell You Thursday: Don't Worry, It Smells Like Fajitas.
I've been taking birth control pills since I was 15. I originally got them when my first real relationship went high school serious. In fact, I told my mom over the phone I should look into it while she and my dad were away on vacation. ...probably not the best choice because WHAT a conversation when they got home. Even though the thought of taking daily hormones still freaks me out, and it's a pain in the ass with the having to remember, I wouldn't do anything else. I've compared several available methods and for me, the dailyness was a minor inconvenience compared to the benefits. So I deal.
The pill helps make a more sexually responsible adult out of you. It just does. I also know it's used to stabilize other medical conditions, so that's cool. And I think it's an important, amazing assistant we have access to for strengthening women's health. But the pill does come with more responsibility than simply making a mental note to spit-swallow it everyday. There is a health accountability that actually increases preventative screenings. The yearly girly test I call it. The fine doctor you choose inspects all the lady things to make sure they are in tip-top working order. Your inside cells and your outside boobs. Both, muy importante.
Whether you're taking the pill or not, ladies please get annual pap smears. It's a really important, easy thing you can do that helps keep one type of cancer off your list. Although fuck I hate that name. It sounds like some rejected cream cheese you'd find at the back of a bagel shop. hrmph, medical community, get on that. The process goes, while you're in the carnival stirrups, they gather cells from your cervix to test for abnormalities that could highlight pre-cancerous changes. These changes are caused by the over 150 types of HPV virus' that are present in oodles of women. While most varieties are harmless and will be fought off by your own cell army, about 12 are creepy lurkers. They gradually corrupt the good cells by turning them nasty. When untreated, will lead to cervical cancer. But the great news - it's a slow grower, so wiping them out when first diagnosed is totally doable. As long as you visit your doc MD. See! easy peasy.
If you're on the pill, you must have this test once a year in order to get your prescription. If you're not, I think you get it once every few years. Which I guess you and your doctor would figure out the best schedule for your body. But personally, I don't understand why the US doesn't offer more preventative screenings for younger people. The paps, the mamms, the colons etc... We would be such a healthier bunch of birds. But I digress; This post isn't about the politics - just know I think the policy blows.
The first 7 years were all smiley face letters, until the 8th where I got a phone call instead. I was about 23 and that phone call was the start of my long history with the abnormality ghost. I call it a ghost because it's not visible to the naked eye, but can be just as scary. The doctor said the test showed irregular results, but I needn't worry because many factors can affect them. See the HPV link, as well as stress or even having sex close to test day. She also said given my young age and no known family history of cervical cancer, it wasn't of concern yet. But she wanted to monitor the changes so I needed to go every 6 months. This back and forth returned normal, abnormal, kinda more abnormal, normal, normal, back to abnormal, etc for many years. In the beginning I was worried but that eventually led to apathy. Just another test that was inconclusive, so who cares right? My body is just going through some things, so give it space okay? And like she'd let me know if I should see a specialist... Three years ago is when that conversation happened.
That 8th test came back as being positive for "High-grade squamous intraepithelial lesions (HSILs.)" SEXY! There is a scale within that too, from moderate to severe to like honey, let's get you prepped for surgery. Mine was a mix of CIN 1 mild dysplasia (dysplasia is the changing of your cells) with like high grade something else, which meant the cells were considering cancer in a couple years, but hadn't booked any tickets yet. Doc referred me to a highly regarded OBGYN, who I guess is awesome at both babies and girly parts.
I went in and discussed the previous diagnosis. She suggested being re-tested by her to confirm those findings. Sure, why not. This isn't kids stuff so I better fucking know what I'm dealing with instead of speculating. There was poking and prodding and spurts of intense uncomfortableness, looking and scraping and writing. A few weeks later, Travis and I were called to her office, which by doctors standards is never "I just wanted to see your pretty face." She confirmed the re-test came back positive yet again.
In order to know how "severe" your dysplasia is, and whether or not you have pre-cancer or actual cancer, you need a biopsy. Doc discussed several options but based on my diagnosis, recommended the most common procedure, the LEEP.
Here's the definition from Planned Parenthood:
The pill helps make a more sexually responsible adult out of you. It just does. I also know it's used to stabilize other medical conditions, so that's cool. And I think it's an important, amazing assistant we have access to for strengthening women's health. But the pill does come with more responsibility than simply making a mental note to spit-swallow it everyday. There is a health accountability that actually increases preventative screenings. The yearly girly test I call it. The fine doctor you choose inspects all the lady things to make sure they are in tip-top working order. Your inside cells and your outside boobs. Both, muy importante.
Whether you're taking the pill or not, ladies please get annual pap smears. It's a really important, easy thing you can do that helps keep one type of cancer off your list. Although fuck I hate that name. It sounds like some rejected cream cheese you'd find at the back of a bagel shop. hrmph, medical community, get on that. The process goes, while you're in the carnival stirrups, they gather cells from your cervix to test for abnormalities that could highlight pre-cancerous changes. These changes are caused by the over 150 types of HPV virus' that are present in oodles of women. While most varieties are harmless and will be fought off by your own cell army, about 12 are creepy lurkers. They gradually corrupt the good cells by turning them nasty. When untreated, will lead to cervical cancer. But the great news - it's a slow grower, so wiping them out when first diagnosed is totally doable. As long as you visit your doc MD. See! easy peasy.
If you're on the pill, you must have this test once a year in order to get your prescription. If you're not, I think you get it once every few years. Which I guess you and your doctor would figure out the best schedule for your body. But personally, I don't understand why the US doesn't offer more preventative screenings for younger people. The paps, the mamms, the colons etc... We would be such a healthier bunch of birds. But I digress; This post isn't about the politics - just know I think the policy blows.
The first 7 years were all smiley face letters, until the 8th where I got a phone call instead. I was about 23 and that phone call was the start of my long history with the abnormality ghost. I call it a ghost because it's not visible to the naked eye, but can be just as scary. The doctor said the test showed irregular results, but I needn't worry because many factors can affect them. See the HPV link, as well as stress or even having sex close to test day. She also said given my young age and no known family history of cervical cancer, it wasn't of concern yet. But she wanted to monitor the changes so I needed to go every 6 months. This back and forth returned normal, abnormal, kinda more abnormal, normal, normal, back to abnormal, etc for many years. In the beginning I was worried but that eventually led to apathy. Just another test that was inconclusive, so who cares right? My body is just going through some things, so give it space okay? And like she'd let me know if I should see a specialist... Three years ago is when that conversation happened.
That 8th test came back as being positive for "High-grade squamous intraepithelial lesions (HSILs.)" SEXY! There is a scale within that too, from moderate to severe to like honey, let's get you prepped for surgery. Mine was a mix of CIN 1 mild dysplasia (dysplasia is the changing of your cells) with like high grade something else, which meant the cells were considering cancer in a couple years, but hadn't booked any tickets yet. Doc referred me to a highly regarded OBGYN, who I guess is awesome at both babies and girly parts.
I went in and discussed the previous diagnosis. She suggested being re-tested by her to confirm those findings. Sure, why not. This isn't kids stuff so I better fucking know what I'm dealing with instead of speculating. There was poking and prodding and spurts of intense uncomfortableness, looking and scraping and writing. A few weeks later, Travis and I were called to her office, which by doctors standards is never "I just wanted to see your pretty face." She confirmed the re-test came back positive yet again.
In order to know how "severe" your dysplasia is, and whether or not you have pre-cancer or actual cancer, you need a biopsy. Doc discussed several options but based on my diagnosis, recommended the most common procedure, the LEEP.
Here's the definition from Planned Parenthood:
I know you're excited, huh. I mean who isn't lining up for a thin electrical wire to carve away your insides...while you're awake... gulp. Doc felt confident it would successfully get the baddies and assured me it wouldn't hurt, as there are no real nerves in the lady cave. If there aren't nerves, then why do certain things feel so good?
The day arrived and I was uber anxious. Travis had been working really hard on a job but would totally be there to hold my hand. We go in, do the song and dance with reviewing the procedure and wrangling the gown. If I could have puked I would have. Not because I was worried about the outcome, it was the pain I read about online which completely contradicted the doctor. Refrain ye from yer NO's... I take the internet plethora of nonsense with a grain of salt {raspberry.} The doc is saying one thing, the internet says another, and yer brain is screaming "HEY! Your fleshy tissue will be burned with electricity without anesthesia!!!" You kinda can't think of anything else.
So I'm there, watching these old fangledy looking machines hum to life while the ladies put things on steel tables. I think this office is unique. Everything feels like it's been touched by the vintage charm-meister, but with a modern efficiency. I not surprisingly dig it. The doc and nurse's face were so just another day. For them it is. For me, holy hell what the shit. I was squeezing Travis' hand and keeping it together when the nurse lobbed a zinger across the room. She turned to me with a smile and said, "I promise, it won't hurt... It'll smell like fajitas." time stop. What?! Fucking fajitas? My burning insides you're comparing to a popular sizzling meat dish? This is how you choose to put me at ease? I turned to Travis looking for a mental acknowledgment of weirdness, which we shared. I turned back to the nurse and told her I was a vegetarian...
Turns out they were right about one thing. It felt uncomfortable, a little warm, but never hurt. ever. It did not, however, thankfully smell like fajitas. EVER. I hope she only used that analogy with me. It was a crampy, but uneventul 20 minutes of zzzzz zzzz zzzzapping. Then it was over. I felt strangely disappointed for all the things I thought would happen, because all that worrying then was for nothing. sick, huh. I slowly sat up and readjusted my awareness. There was the post-op congratulations for being a good patient (I was frozen as to not want anything extra licked off,) list of after care instructions and whether I had any questions. Those subsequent minutes were a blur. I'm sure I asked when the results would be available and maybe Travis had some... but for now it was rest and wait.
I didn't tell anyone about it, including my parents. No one needed to unnecessarily worry or have me try and briefly explain what had been happening. In actuality, it was more the latter. It's a lot to dump on someone. So I took my few days off work, watched TV, had a single girlfriend come over and waited.
The follow ups went smoothly and the results came back as expected. Nasty cells were indeed nasty but only pre-cancerous, and they had been eliminated. Not sure if that's the only area of your body where doctors know when something will turn to cancer. But oh happy day I'm thankful they can! For the period of time before knowing the results, I wasn't over analyzing or focused on the worst outcome - I was proud of that. However, given it was years before being diagnosed, it's hard not to think about that slim chance. But it wasn't, and I don't, and all tests have been perfect thus far.
Today I had my 3rd anniversary pap test since the procedure. The appointment was routine, in/out and over with. In 10 days I'll either be filing another smiley face letter or breaking out the skillet...
KEEP UP WITH YOUR HEALTH!
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Tell You Thursday: 13 year Rememberance
Most people over the age of 20 probably remember what happened 13 years ago today in New York City. It was a horrific, senseless event that left a world in shambles. But this is neither an emotional plea nor some patriotic post - either way, don't get your flags in a bunch.
~~~~~~~~~~
That morning I was on my way to work with a vanpool of colleagues. It was 6 or 7am something, I had just fallen asleep to KRTH 101, the station the driver mostly listened to. I woke up to murmurs of confusion and a discussion of the "Twin Towers," by both the morning DJs and the immediate people around me. I had no idea what they were talking about, let alone picturing something crashing into them. I was the youngest on the van by at least 20 years. They were kind and tried explaining the building, the history, and why this was such a catastrophic event. I understood the concept, but had no frame of reference to understand the magnitude. A plane hitting something sounded like an accident, so other than it being a disaster, I wasn't understanding the air of chaos. I felt it but couldn't wrap my head around it. I had never been to NYC, never knew anyone who had, never watched documentaries on the city, never heard of the building, never knew that type of violence, etc. How can you be frightened by something you know nothing about?
To give context, at the time, domestic or worldly affairs didn't interest me. It wasn't a concern or focus - I was 20 and still mostly thought about toys, boys and what I was doing that weekend. It seems absurd now to think how sheltered and partially uneducated that brain version was. Not saying it was right or wrong, just saying. Today I am a much different person; I understand politics and take a pretty decent interest in worthy news. But then, not so much.
When we arrived at work, the chaos had grown to panic. People everywhere looking up into the sky, pointing, running across streets, wondering aimlessly, cars honking, streets jammed, and a sense of mayhem was everywhere. I'd never seen anything like it then or since. The vibe was thick and slow like molasses. I won't say what I did during this time because then you'd know what I do now and I don't talk about that. But for the next year plus some change, I felt the disruption daily from colleagues. With their questions, their panic, their anxiety, their trepidation, their ideas - day in, day out. It never stopped and I was overwhelmed. I started resenting the phone, the internet, interactions with people in general because I couldn't help anyone. Everyone wanted a simple answer to a revolving question. I became fiercely bitter by everything post because these people were making me react to something I didn't grasp. I retreated.
It took quite some time to emerge from that nasty cocoon, but over that next year, I was heavily educated by my organization on preparedness. And let me tell you a positive for those who skoff at practicing safety drills. Because the Twin Towers were diligent in their building safety efforts, thousands more lives were saved that day because they did what they were taught. I found some comparison study between the 1993 attacks and 2001 - kinda interesting.
But it's not to say I lack compassion. Quest the opposite - I have complete and utter sympathy for the families affected by the ones who lost their lives by the planes, in the planes, surrounding buildings, first responders, the animals, and all the terrible health effects we are still discovering now. Because only a couple people accepted that fate, it's not fair the others were taken short.
~~~~~~~~~~
Today, 13 years later, I still fall back into this numb existence regarding the event. It certainly affects me more today than it ever did then, because I'm more mature. More experienced to see the affects actions have on a society. And I understand the impact. But I cannot mentally share the same level of grief as I've seen others bear over the years, whether they were at ground zero, near it, in NYC proper or in Los Angeles. I just wish them peace.
~~~~~~~~~~
Today, I woke up knowing it was anniversary 13. I also woke up excited I was getting a haircut. I thirdly also decided to take Leroy to the Batcave hike. I planned these things not because I lack empathy, but because life continues. People who have passed still want loved ones to be happy. To laugh, to experience, to celebrate the life they shared together instead of dwell on what cannot be changed. However each of us gets to the final stage.
Going to the Batcave had no significance other than spending alone time with pups in a cool place. There were only a few people there because it's a Thursday, so it was us amongst the rocks. We met some very silly dogs and ran though the cave countless times. That is what makes me happy today.
Remember something lovely about a person you miss today.
Put a smile on your face and a strangers, by doing something kind today.
But dudes - our time is short, so don't waste it being a miserable jerk today... or any day. {see above two points}
~~~~~~~~~~
That morning I was on my way to work with a vanpool of colleagues. It was 6 or 7am something, I had just fallen asleep to KRTH 101, the station the driver mostly listened to. I woke up to murmurs of confusion and a discussion of the "Twin Towers," by both the morning DJs and the immediate people around me. I had no idea what they were talking about, let alone picturing something crashing into them. I was the youngest on the van by at least 20 years. They were kind and tried explaining the building, the history, and why this was such a catastrophic event. I understood the concept, but had no frame of reference to understand the magnitude. A plane hitting something sounded like an accident, so other than it being a disaster, I wasn't understanding the air of chaos. I felt it but couldn't wrap my head around it. I had never been to NYC, never knew anyone who had, never watched documentaries on the city, never heard of the building, never knew that type of violence, etc. How can you be frightened by something you know nothing about?
To give context, at the time, domestic or worldly affairs didn't interest me. It wasn't a concern or focus - I was 20 and still mostly thought about toys, boys and what I was doing that weekend. It seems absurd now to think how sheltered and partially uneducated that brain version was. Not saying it was right or wrong, just saying. Today I am a much different person; I understand politics and take a pretty decent interest in worthy news. But then, not so much.
When we arrived at work, the chaos had grown to panic. People everywhere looking up into the sky, pointing, running across streets, wondering aimlessly, cars honking, streets jammed, and a sense of mayhem was everywhere. I'd never seen anything like it then or since. The vibe was thick and slow like molasses. I won't say what I did during this time because then you'd know what I do now and I don't talk about that. But for the next year plus some change, I felt the disruption daily from colleagues. With their questions, their panic, their anxiety, their trepidation, their ideas - day in, day out. It never stopped and I was overwhelmed. I started resenting the phone, the internet, interactions with people in general because I couldn't help anyone. Everyone wanted a simple answer to a revolving question. I became fiercely bitter by everything post because these people were making me react to something I didn't grasp. I retreated.
It took quite some time to emerge from that nasty cocoon, but over that next year, I was heavily educated by my organization on preparedness. And let me tell you a positive for those who skoff at practicing safety drills. Because the Twin Towers were diligent in their building safety efforts, thousands more lives were saved that day because they did what they were taught. I found some comparison study between the 1993 attacks and 2001 - kinda interesting.
But it's not to say I lack compassion. Quest the opposite - I have complete and utter sympathy for the families affected by the ones who lost their lives by the planes, in the planes, surrounding buildings, first responders, the animals, and all the terrible health effects we are still discovering now. Because only a couple people accepted that fate, it's not fair the others were taken short.
~~~~~~~~~~
Today, 13 years later, I still fall back into this numb existence regarding the event. It certainly affects me more today than it ever did then, because I'm more mature. More experienced to see the affects actions have on a society. And I understand the impact. But I cannot mentally share the same level of grief as I've seen others bear over the years, whether they were at ground zero, near it, in NYC proper or in Los Angeles. I just wish them peace.
~~~~~~~~~~
Today, I woke up knowing it was anniversary 13. I also woke up excited I was getting a haircut. I thirdly also decided to take Leroy to the Batcave hike. I planned these things not because I lack empathy, but because life continues. People who have passed still want loved ones to be happy. To laugh, to experience, to celebrate the life they shared together instead of dwell on what cannot be changed. However each of us gets to the final stage.
Going to the Batcave had no significance other than spending alone time with pups in a cool place. There were only a few people there because it's a Thursday, so it was us amongst the rocks. We met some very silly dogs and ran though the cave countless times. That is what makes me happy today.
Remember something lovely about a person you miss today.
Put a smile on your face and a strangers, by doing something kind today.
But dudes - our time is short, so don't waste it being a miserable jerk today... or any day. {see above two points}
Friday, August 22, 2014
Forget you Timely Thursday... It's Tell You Thursday time!
Timely Thursday will now be known thus forward as Tell You Thursday. I never loved timely, but as I will forever have an aversion to saying/doing what's popular, it was the kinda ok thingest I could devise that related to throwback but wasn't the word throwback. The goal was to have a word that promoted the notion of telling you old stories, that don't necessarily have a point. Timely was sorta opposite funny, in the smallest way. Tell You is better.
I've been going over words for weeks trying to sort a new name. I asked Travis for help but he wanted me to change the day and asked why I insisted on a Thursday. I told him "Because Thursday is after Wednesday, and people need a pick me up story before they focus too much on Friday." It's true. think about it.
Here are a few other options I considered:
Timely was sorta opposite funny, in the smallest way. Tell You is better.
You can read what I've published, thus far.
I've been going over words for weeks trying to sort a new name. I asked Travis for help but he wanted me to change the day and asked why I insisted on a Thursday. I told him "Because Thursday is after Wednesday, and people need a pick me up story before they focus too much on Friday." It's true. think about it.
Here are a few other options I considered:
- TellTale Thursday (but I kept pronouncing it wrong)
- Talky Thursday (I felt I needed a Walky in front, which would have really limited my stories)
- Thoughtful Thursday (nixed this after I googled it and discovered it's a christian thing)
- Thinky Thursday (Marc Maron uses this word for his new book, so no)
Timely was sorta opposite funny, in the smallest way. Tell You is better.
You can read what I've published, thus far.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Tell You Thursday: Parading Around
In the 80s, my parents and I went to Disneyland at least once a year. Only on Sunday's though, since my dad worked nights and Sunday was the only normal day. It was kinda awesome, Disneyland at that time. There was a balance of 80s charm, day glo and marginal safety restrictions that are since long gone. And my dad had a pretty fierce mustache. You also had the original Captain Eo, the perfectly slow People Mover, and The Submarine Voyage still had affixed mermaids.
They also had parades. I don't know about other kids, but I hated parades. The dancing, the loud music, and jerks never picked me to interact with them. Plus, even though you could hear the commotion, it took at least another 15 minutes to see because of the slow. The ONLY one I ever enjoyed was the Main Street Electrical Parade, because it was brilliantly colorful, had a single, catchy tune that didn't hurt my ears* and it only happened at night. Even if you weren't right up front, a great view could still be had because the fluorescent lights glowed perfectly. Here were my two favourite participants to see: Dopey's Jewel Train and the snails, bees and wormies. But just because I hated waiting on hard concrete, in the sun, for hours in order to get a good seat, doesn't mean my mom did. She loved the parades for reasons I still don't know.
One such occasion, we still had waiting time, so I imagine it must have been around 2:30pm, because they all seem to start around 3. My mom, dad and I waited on Disneyland's main street in order to watch that days' offering. We were on the left side, if you were to look towards Cinderella's castle. I was SO bored, staring down at my feet, the people around me (this may be where my people watching fixation started) and anywhere else, when my dad said he'd be back.
I didn't know where he went, but I was hoping it was to get a soda or ice cream. Anything to keep me occupied a bit longer. I finally saw him and his mustache across the street... why was he over there talking to another family? Maybe he knew them from work. It was a guy, lady and some kids. what ever I thought. I saw a few vertical bodies but their faces have since turned into grey privacy circles. Sometime later he came back and whispered something to my mom. I don't remember if it was then or many years later, but I eventually actually found out who he spoke with.
He spotted Tom Hanks and the family. holy what! You mean Mr. Bosom Buddies and Mr. Money Pit and other things at that time! Awesome and a half! From what I remember of the conversation, he non-chalantly asked for his autograph after chatting a bit. Tom politely declined, indicating he was just being a family man that day. My dad totally understood, so I think they chatted a bit more and that was it. Two families, across from one another, without ever meeting.
Tom's son Colin and I are a few years apart. So had the mustaches aligned and our families decided to hang out, who knows what could have been. It's not unheard of at Disneyland for families to meet, talk and decide to pal around for a couple hours. I mean you're mostly standing around anyway, grab lunch after and have a grand time!
We didn't make new friends that day but an 80s sunny filtered montage of laughs, ice cream and ride riding could have totally happened. We could have grown up during our awkward phases, been each others pen pal and dished on all the people we were into. Totally. I'm just saying, Colin and I could have made that initial bond over, you know, wanting ice cream to pass the time.
* I have a self-diagnosed condition where certain frequencies really bother me. Up close parade music because it's high pitched, loud clapping while not at a concert and sudden bursts of anything in a seemingly quite place are just a few.
They also had parades. I don't know about other kids, but I hated parades. The dancing, the loud music, and jerks never picked me to interact with them. Plus, even though you could hear the commotion, it took at least another 15 minutes to see because of the slow. The ONLY one I ever enjoyed was the Main Street Electrical Parade, because it was brilliantly colorful, had a single, catchy tune that didn't hurt my ears* and it only happened at night. Even if you weren't right up front, a great view could still be had because the fluorescent lights glowed perfectly. Here were my two favourite participants to see: Dopey's Jewel Train and the snails, bees and wormies. But just because I hated waiting on hard concrete, in the sun, for hours in order to get a good seat, doesn't mean my mom did. She loved the parades for reasons I still don't know.
One such occasion, we still had waiting time, so I imagine it must have been around 2:30pm, because they all seem to start around 3. My mom, dad and I waited on Disneyland's main street in order to watch that days' offering. We were on the left side, if you were to look towards Cinderella's castle. I was SO bored, staring down at my feet, the people around me (this may be where my people watching fixation started) and anywhere else, when my dad said he'd be back.
I didn't know where he went, but I was hoping it was to get a soda or ice cream. Anything to keep me occupied a bit longer. I finally saw him and his mustache across the street... why was he over there talking to another family? Maybe he knew them from work. It was a guy, lady and some kids. what ever I thought. I saw a few vertical bodies but their faces have since turned into grey privacy circles. Sometime later he came back and whispered something to my mom. I don't remember if it was then or many years later, but I eventually actually found out who he spoke with.
He spotted Tom Hanks and the family. holy what! You mean Mr. Bosom Buddies and Mr. Money Pit and other things at that time! Awesome and a half! From what I remember of the conversation, he non-chalantly asked for his autograph after chatting a bit. Tom politely declined, indicating he was just being a family man that day. My dad totally understood, so I think they chatted a bit more and that was it. Two families, across from one another, without ever meeting.
Tom's son Colin and I are a few years apart. So had the mustaches aligned and our families decided to hang out, who knows what could have been. It's not unheard of at Disneyland for families to meet, talk and decide to pal around for a couple hours. I mean you're mostly standing around anyway, grab lunch after and have a grand time!
We didn't make new friends that day but an 80s sunny filtered montage of laughs, ice cream and ride riding could have totally happened. We could have grown up during our awkward phases, been each others pen pal and dished on all the people we were into. Totally. I'm just saying, Colin and I could have made that initial bond over, you know, wanting ice cream to pass the time.
* I have a self-diagnosed condition where certain frequencies really bother me. Up close parade music because it's high pitched, loud clapping while not at a concert and sudden bursts of anything in a seemingly quite place are just a few.
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 13, 2014
Tell You Thursday: Coffee Tastes Like Burning
I do not like coffee. There. I said it. And now you know.
Because of this, "I can never be the perfect woman." - Travis
I hate the taste and usually don't like the smell. I hear the generic jokes each weekday morning about how I shouldn't talk to someone before their morning juice. I mean there's a whole ceramic mug industry dedicated to informing me "No Coffee, No Talkie." That's fine for some, just not me.
My dad drove big rig trucks and worked nights until he retired. He would pack his lunch in a brown paper bag, using the same one for weeks. For all the years I can remember, both he and the bag would come home smelling like coffee and stale cigarettes.
I would already be up when he'd get home Saturday morning, my blond head running & looking up to ask whether he brought me a present. Often he had a stuffed plushie toys, or something that fell off a truck, other times he would be holding the lunch sack & company mug. When the toy & trinkets were absent, for some reason my next choice was always to ask if I could try his coffee. You know the persistence of a child who wants to try what ever the parents were doing or eating. One day, he finally let me.
I guess I don't know what I expected, but man was it awful. It was cold and bitter and taste burnt. Every time I tried it, cold and bitter and burnt. I could never figure out why anyone would drink such a thing. I's not my cup of tea, but at least I understand why coffee will always and forever taste like burning to me.
One Saturday morning he came home and went to the kitchen instead of the dining room, where we usually did our weekly exchange. I observed him pouring the cold pot of coffee into his mug (that I knew had been sitting there for days) and pop that baby into the microwave! My young mind didn't know quite what that meant but my grown-up brain does! What the... my dad would keep the SAME POT OF COFFEE FOR A WEEK by simply reheating in the zapper. And we're not talking some gourmet junk, not that it would matter, but like Folgers in the red or brown can.
He will always scoff at the fancy coffee that costs multiple dollars and still doesn't think there's anything wrong with a microwaved cup.
blech.
Here are some silly things I found on the internet. I don't have to love it, but I can still appreciate them.
Because of this, "I can never be the perfect woman." - Travis
I hate the taste and usually don't like the smell. I hear the generic jokes each weekday morning about how I shouldn't talk to someone before their morning juice. I mean there's a whole ceramic mug industry dedicated to informing me "No Coffee, No Talkie." That's fine for some, just not me.
My dad drove big rig trucks and worked nights until he retired. He would pack his lunch in a brown paper bag, using the same one for weeks. For all the years I can remember, both he and the bag would come home smelling like coffee and stale cigarettes.
I would already be up when he'd get home Saturday morning, my blond head running & looking up to ask whether he brought me a present. Often he had a stuffed plushie toys, or something that fell off a truck, other times he would be holding the lunch sack & company mug. When the toy & trinkets were absent, for some reason my next choice was always to ask if I could try his coffee. You know the persistence of a child who wants to try what ever the parents were doing or eating. One day, he finally let me.
I guess I don't know what I expected, but man was it awful. It was cold and bitter and taste burnt. Every time I tried it, cold and bitter and burnt. I could never figure out why anyone would drink such a thing. I's not my cup of tea, but at least I understand why coffee will always and forever taste like burning to me.
One Saturday morning he came home and went to the kitchen instead of the dining room, where we usually did our weekly exchange. I observed him pouring the cold pot of coffee into his mug (that I knew had been sitting there for days) and pop that baby into the microwave! My young mind didn't know quite what that meant but my grown-up brain does! What the... my dad would keep the SAME POT OF COFFEE FOR A WEEK by simply reheating in the zapper. And we're not talking some gourmet junk, not that it would matter, but like Folgers in the red or brown can.
He will always scoff at the fancy coffee that costs multiple dollars and still doesn't think there's anything wrong with a microwaved cup.
blech.
Here are some silly things I found on the internet. I don't have to love it, but I can still appreciate them.
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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