In some ways, I was an averagely smart kid. I'm told that when taking the test to see if I should go to pre-K or straight to Kindergarten, I was asked which way a ferris wheel turned, to which I responded, "Which side are you standing on?" I went straight to Kindergarten when the teacher thankfully confused my early development of sarcasm with intelligence. Otherwise, I was stupid.
Stupid, dumb, gullible...all of the aforementioned. I was that. I made stupid decisions and believed stupid things.
Cousin A and I picked what we thought were beautiful plants one weekend we were on the Outer Banks. We brought our findings back to the house where Uncle Bubba told us we were going to jail because it was illegal to pick sea oats on the Outer Banks. They hold the dunes together, see. I was terrified the rest of the night that he, as a police officer, was going to call other police friends and put my 8 year old butt in jail for picking sea oats. I seemingly couldn't escape my dark future confined in solitary, gazing longingly out of the barred window at the blowing plants in the breeze, constantly reminded that I had single-handedly contributed to the destruction of the entire chain of barrier islands on North Carolina's east coast and wondering which of those pretty plants would land the next little girl in a Jem shirt and bright blue bangles in the slammer for the complete ruination of a community.
And that was probably my least dumb. I was at least lied to in that instance.
The Outer Banks also has a large rabbit population. While frolicking in the dunes alone, probably after having lost yet another game of King of the Hill to my brother who was a dude and 3 years older so duh, I came across what were most definitely rabbit eggs. I scooped them up in my tiny hand, intent on having pet rabbits of my own at home, which my parents would, I'm sure, be totally cool with. So I take the rabbit eggs to my dad and say with unrestrained glee, "Look Daddy! Rabbit eggs!"
My poor father. Here he is looking at his doe-eyed overjoyed little girl, undoubtedly immediately sullen that though once thought to be somewhat intelligent, his daughter was actually on the borderline of being too dumb to walk and was standing there not only oblivious to the fact that rabbits are mammals and thus do not hatch, but she's unwittingly presenting to him a handful of rabbit crap and she's quite excited about it. All of his hopes and dreams of her capitalizing on her love of space, geology, volcanoes, and other extremely cool science-based professions, for which you must be incredibly smart and able to understand calculus (and the difference between poop and eggs) vanished into thin air and he realized that she was likely to become a 30 year old administrative assistant.
Did I grow up and prove to my understandably worried parents that the "rabbit egg" incident was just the adorable mistake of a small child? No. On yet another weekend at the beach, Brother was off riding his bike. He came back to the house with one of his legs covered in blood and what appeared like a gaping hole where his knee used to be. Apparently he hit a rock and flipped over his bike, leaving him with red socks that once were white and a leg covered in iodine. After offering him an Icee pop, Cousin A and I decided that we were going to go look for something. Something that we couldn't believe we hadn't thought to look for before.
We were going to find the skin that once covered his knee.
We went around and around Section E, to no avail. We did not find his knee skin. I'm sure the two girls on Strawberry Shortcake bikes looked completely normal pedaling away, eyes looking straight at the ground, scouring every flake of mica in the asphalt.
We also thought the driftwood in Section E was a pirate ship wreck. Cousin A and I probably shouldn't have been allowed to be off alone at any time because it's painfully obvious my rational thinking skills were not where they should have been and she would have been too small to care for both of us when I made a stupid decision that put us both in great peril, particularly around all that water, sand and empty houses.
Above all that, one of the hardest times we've laughed didn't happen on the Outer Banks. Nay, this comedic and idiotic wonder took place at my regular house. Playing in my room one day, we had become bored with perfectly normal toys. Instead, one of us had the genius idea to put stuff on the ceiling fan and then turn said fan on "high." It started out with popsicle sticks. We turned that ceiling fan on and watched those things fly and we thought it was great. Then I thought it would be even funnier to put mousse up there (hair product, not dessert). Now, mousse shooting off the ceiling fan was hilarious. Well I ran out of mousse. What did I still have? Suntan lotion. With self-tanner. We've never laughed harder in our lives watching that liquid shoot around to every corner and crevice of my bedroom. 20 years later, there are still suntan lotion stains on my dresser, mirror on the back of the door, and on the slats of the closet door in that room. That was our fun. Suntan lotion on the ceiling fan, forever staining the walls, closet doors, bedroom door, and any other surface of that room. My mom was displeased, but we couldn't find it in our hearts to be sorry.
But honestly, what's to be expected of a child who thinks it entirely appropriate and functional to clean up cat poop stains on the carpet with her brand new bottle of Vidal Sassoon Air Spray?
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Monday, July 11, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
A Ridiculous Obsession with the Thriller Video and a Hateful Brother
When I was a kid, I loved Michael Jackson. I LOOOOOOOOVED Michael Jackson and every song I ever heard that was sung by him. I also loved Rockwell's "Somebody's Watchin Me" because it sounded like Michael Jackson. To be clear, I still love Michael Jackson, but he's not putting out as much new stuff anymore so there's not as much to get excited about. Anyway, the Thriller record was my best friend. I loved folding out the cover to see Michael with that tiger. How bad ass Michael Jackson was! I played that record all the time.
Side Note: When we were little, my cousin Amber and I used to put records on my record player and play with the speeds. Thriller and the Rescuers stories were often subjected to lightning-fast and tortoise-slow changes to their rotation speeds, all at the expense of our riotous laughter. However, this was also the one time when Thriller was a second choice to anything. What we really loved was putting Olivia Newton-John's (who is NOT related to Elton John, as I assumed as a child) "Physical." Oh man you've never seen little girls laugh harder in your life then when Olivia Newton-John sang "Physical" like a chipmunk or like a very slow deep-voiced man. If I came across the opportunity to do that again, I would laugh just as hard.
Back to the original topic.
Thriller. I loved it. One day MTV aired the full-length 14-minute version of the Thriller video, followed by "The Making of Thriller" and my parents taped it. We couldn't tape over my episode of Rainbow Brite, however, (which just so happened to be "The Mighty Monstromurk Menace" if you're interested) so somewhere there's an 80s pot of gold existing in the form of Rainbow Brite episodes immediately followed by the entire Thriller video and The Making of Thriller featurette...on BETA.
I watched that tape constantly. I learned every move of that dance, every word spoken in both the video and the "Making of" and I'm surprised I didn't wear that thing out. I watched it literally all the time. When the video ended, I would rewind it and watch it again.
Problem is, I was 2 years old when that video was released. Which means, I was watching this video relentlessly beginning at about 3-4 years old. My dreams did not hold the same admiration for the video as my awake-self did. The only nightmares I can remember having as a child were werewolf nightmares. They would chase me through the moonlit, foggy forest and I would inevitably fall on my back in a pile of leaves, just as poor Ola Ray did in the video before werewolves moved in to rip me apart. They also chased me around a warehouse one night, and I have no idea where that came from.
I would wake up from these nightmares and have to use the restroom, which was located an easy 14 miles from my bedroom in hallways that could not be lit, lest their bright lights wake the family who all slept with their doors open. I was certain, absolutely certain, that there was a werewolf waiting for me when I left the restroom and I would haul ass back to my room and jump from the doorway to my bed, trying to keep myself a fast-moving target until I got to the safety of my bed, where werewolves don't go.
One night I was lying in my room, fearful of falling asleep because I had watched Thriller that day (again) and I was just sure that werewolves were coming. As my head rested anxiously on the pillow, I heard scratching noises.
Everything on me tenses.
I'm on alert.
Then my bed moves. I move! A very small movement that lifts me up just a hair. I realize that I have heard scratching and my bed has just raised a bit. Then it raises a bit higher. Holy God there's something under my bed. I've suddenly realized that my bed is not safe after all.
If I can clench it, it's clenched.
I just know that under my bed is a werewolf who has waited. Waited for his prey to become separated from the protection of her family and be alone in the dark where no one would ever believe her should she scream that something is under her bed. This werewolf was intelligent. A mastermind of hunting, if you will. It was also a spiteful werewolf, taunting its dinner for reasons I could only assume include an increased flow of blood so that the meat would be that much more tender and juicy when it ripped me apart.
I lift again.
I feel like crying out, but don't want to let the werewolf know that he's been discovered. Maybe my parents will come save me accidentally, the werewolf's position never having to be revealed while I leap to the safety of their arms.
That's not going to happen. My parents are watching TV that they don't get to watch while the kids are up, so they're not coming upstairs. I have to see what's under there and face my death like a lady. In a Care Bears nightgown. I lean over and lift the bedskirt, intent on looking my attacker in his yellow eyes.
I am shocked to see my brother lying on his back under my bed, with his finger to his lips going "SHHHHH!" I'm shocked not because it's more surprising to see my brother than a werewolf--but, actually, yeah, that IS more surprising. My brother hates me. He doesn't like playing with me and is quite mean to me most of the time. I would fully expect to see a werewolf before I saw my brother under my bed, engaged in what could only be called "play" with his little sister.
He tells me to be quiet, because mom and dad would probably yell at him for being in my room when we're supposed to be in bed. Then he tells me that I can have some of his rock candy he got that day for not saying anything.
Hooray! I wanted the rock candy so badly! It looked like diamonds but I could eat it and it was just pure sugar. Definitely worth the increased adrenaline I was experiencing. I tell my brother I will not tell on him and thank him for the rock candy. He leaves and I lay the rock candy on my pillow while I went to the bathroom. See, I had been roused awake which means I HAD to go to the bathroom again because that has to be the very last thing I do before going to bed and I need to not do ANYTHING after getting in bed or I'll have to go again. That's still true today.
I need to leave the restroom now and dart back to my bed. I'll be fine though, because there's rock candy waiting for me and I need to hide it before Brother takes it back. I run as fast as I can back to my room and look under the bed to make sure neither werewolf nor Brother is under there. Then I go to put my rock candy away.
The dick had already stolen it back. I went to ask for it, to no avail. I still have to be quiet, though, because I'm supposed to be in bed so I can't even tell on him.
All I got out of that experience was a fleeting glimpse of stolen rock candy and having to go to the bathroom twice in a span of 20 minutes.
And more werewolf nightmares.
Side Note: When we were little, my cousin Amber and I used to put records on my record player and play with the speeds. Thriller and the Rescuers stories were often subjected to lightning-fast and tortoise-slow changes to their rotation speeds, all at the expense of our riotous laughter. However, this was also the one time when Thriller was a second choice to anything. What we really loved was putting Olivia Newton-John's (who is NOT related to Elton John, as I assumed as a child) "Physical." Oh man you've never seen little girls laugh harder in your life then when Olivia Newton-John sang "Physical" like a chipmunk or like a very slow deep-voiced man. If I came across the opportunity to do that again, I would laugh just as hard.
Back to the original topic.
Thriller. I loved it. One day MTV aired the full-length 14-minute version of the Thriller video, followed by "The Making of Thriller" and my parents taped it. We couldn't tape over my episode of Rainbow Brite, however, (which just so happened to be "The Mighty Monstromurk Menace" if you're interested) so somewhere there's an 80s pot of gold existing in the form of Rainbow Brite episodes immediately followed by the entire Thriller video and The Making of Thriller featurette...on BETA.
I watched that tape constantly. I learned every move of that dance, every word spoken in both the video and the "Making of" and I'm surprised I didn't wear that thing out. I watched it literally all the time. When the video ended, I would rewind it and watch it again.
Problem is, I was 2 years old when that video was released. Which means, I was watching this video relentlessly beginning at about 3-4 years old. My dreams did not hold the same admiration for the video as my awake-self did. The only nightmares I can remember having as a child were werewolf nightmares. They would chase me through the moonlit, foggy forest and I would inevitably fall on my back in a pile of leaves, just as poor Ola Ray did in the video before werewolves moved in to rip me apart. They also chased me around a warehouse one night, and I have no idea where that came from.
I would wake up from these nightmares and have to use the restroom, which was located an easy 14 miles from my bedroom in hallways that could not be lit, lest their bright lights wake the family who all slept with their doors open. I was certain, absolutely certain, that there was a werewolf waiting for me when I left the restroom and I would haul ass back to my room and jump from the doorway to my bed, trying to keep myself a fast-moving target until I got to the safety of my bed, where werewolves don't go.
One night I was lying in my room, fearful of falling asleep because I had watched Thriller that day (again) and I was just sure that werewolves were coming. As my head rested anxiously on the pillow, I heard scratching noises.
Everything on me tenses.
I'm on alert.
Then my bed moves. I move! A very small movement that lifts me up just a hair. I realize that I have heard scratching and my bed has just raised a bit. Then it raises a bit higher. Holy God there's something under my bed. I've suddenly realized that my bed is not safe after all.
If I can clench it, it's clenched.
I just know that under my bed is a werewolf who has waited. Waited for his prey to become separated from the protection of her family and be alone in the dark where no one would ever believe her should she scream that something is under her bed. This werewolf was intelligent. A mastermind of hunting, if you will. It was also a spiteful werewolf, taunting its dinner for reasons I could only assume include an increased flow of blood so that the meat would be that much more tender and juicy when it ripped me apart.
I lift again.
I feel like crying out, but don't want to let the werewolf know that he's been discovered. Maybe my parents will come save me accidentally, the werewolf's position never having to be revealed while I leap to the safety of their arms.
That's not going to happen. My parents are watching TV that they don't get to watch while the kids are up, so they're not coming upstairs. I have to see what's under there and face my death like a lady. In a Care Bears nightgown. I lean over and lift the bedskirt, intent on looking my attacker in his yellow eyes.
I am shocked to see my brother lying on his back under my bed, with his finger to his lips going "SHHHHH!" I'm shocked not because it's more surprising to see my brother than a werewolf--but, actually, yeah, that IS more surprising. My brother hates me. He doesn't like playing with me and is quite mean to me most of the time. I would fully expect to see a werewolf before I saw my brother under my bed, engaged in what could only be called "play" with his little sister.
He tells me to be quiet, because mom and dad would probably yell at him for being in my room when we're supposed to be in bed. Then he tells me that I can have some of his rock candy he got that day for not saying anything.
Hooray! I wanted the rock candy so badly! It looked like diamonds but I could eat it and it was just pure sugar. Definitely worth the increased adrenaline I was experiencing. I tell my brother I will not tell on him and thank him for the rock candy. He leaves and I lay the rock candy on my pillow while I went to the bathroom. See, I had been roused awake which means I HAD to go to the bathroom again because that has to be the very last thing I do before going to bed and I need to not do ANYTHING after getting in bed or I'll have to go again. That's still true today.
I need to leave the restroom now and dart back to my bed. I'll be fine though, because there's rock candy waiting for me and I need to hide it before Brother takes it back. I run as fast as I can back to my room and look under the bed to make sure neither werewolf nor Brother is under there. Then I go to put my rock candy away.
The dick had already stolen it back. I went to ask for it, to no avail. I still have to be quiet, though, because I'm supposed to be in bed so I can't even tell on him.
All I got out of that experience was a fleeting glimpse of stolen rock candy and having to go to the bathroom twice in a span of 20 minutes.
And more werewolf nightmares.
Friday, April 01, 2011
Rhythm Is My Life
I began dancing at age 4 and took classes until I was a senior in high school, performing in my last recital at the age of 18. I took one year off when I thought I would do something else and all that resulted in was 1) me not doing that other thing, 2) missing dancing and 3) putting me a year behind the people I had danced with for 8 years. That final year was amazing because I finally got what I wanted throughout my entire dancing career up to that point: a solo. I danced a ballet piece to Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" and it was just as amazing as I had imagined it would be with the spotlight just on me and my instructor/studio owner coming to hand me an amazing bouquet of flowers. I also had a tap piece with my class that year to Kenny Loggins' "Footloose" and that was also pretty awesome.
I just realized that it would appear to some that my senior year in high school was in the mid-80s but it was not. It was actually 1999 but I think we can all agree that the music of the 90s did not hold a candle to the music of the 80s when it comes to danceability.
Boyfriend's sister invited us to her daughter's dance recital this year and can I tell you how excited I am? I know, I know, it seems silly but after Christmas, recital time is the most awesome time of year for a little dancer (I say that like it wasn't still true when I was 18). For a whole weekend you get to dance in pretty costumes, wear makeup and get your hair done. If you're like me, then you didn't get to wear makeup at the tender age of 9, so this is a whole weekend of glamour comprised of blue eyeshadow, bright pink blush, and red lipstick and really, what more could you ask for than stripper makeup when your age is in the single digits? And that day in class when you knew you were getting your costumes? No one was concentrating on steps, form and turnout. No, you wanted nothing more in your life than to just hold those sequined Lycra and tulle masterpieces (that your mother hated because she hates to sew and the straps had to be affixed manually) as they sat there sparkling in a corner, taunting you with their beauty for a whole 45 minutes until you were finally allowed to get them and try them on.
Of course, your mother could also decide one year that the straps were not getting sewn on. Like Ben Franklin and his key kite, the brilliance came to my mom like lightning: VELCRO! We'd use Velcro on the straps. Seemed like a good idea at the time because this costume didn't have elastic to go with the straps (how stupid) so putting on a costume and taking it off when the sequined straps have no give is really a PITA. Velcro it is.
Well that year, I believe I was in 5th grade at the time, was the year we performed a tap routine to "Splish Splash." Adorable. We even had prop towels to wrap around ourselves after we got out of our "bath." Those prop towels were also affixed with Velcro. When it came time to rip off our towels (like every 5th grade girl should be doing), all the stars aligned for my benefit and I gave the audience a thrill when I ripped the strap off as well. Flapping and bouncing about from the rhythmic motions of my awesome dancing, the sequined strap was a beacon, drawing your eye to the fat dancer in the back that already had your eye because she was a clear head over everyone else and larger costumes mean more sequins. How embarrassing, but I laughed it off. It didn't help that my ballet routine that year was to "It's a Small World." And I had incredibly thick bangs that were too long. Fate didn't even give me a chance that year.
That was the last year I danced at that Academy.
Two years prior to that, I messed up a Jazz routine--the one and only time I ever took Jazz. It might not have been hard to notice if it hadn't been when we were supposed to be doing moves on the ground and I was twirling about upright. I had never messed up a single step in a recital before that point. So clearly I wasn't meant for Jazz because I didn't mess up in Ballet, Tap or Gymnastics, right? I never took Jazz again, which is fine because I didn't fancy myself a future Broadway performer anyway.
The next year, my Gymnastics routine went amazingly wrong and my 10-year old self-esteem just couldn't handle it. My handstand-into-backbend, which I had performed extremely well all year, ended not in a backbend, but in a back flop on a very hard stage--legs sprawled out before me. At the end of the routine, 2 classmates were supposed to kick up into handstands while I grab an ankle of each and their other leg goes into passe (pointing the toe of one leg to the knee of the other-I was holding the straight leg, obviously). We added drama, excitement and a massive level of danger by doing this on a riser.
The girl on my right kicks up beautifully. Seamlessly, we executed the first half of the trick. The stupid bitch on my left, however, begins her move about a foot too far away and since I was already holding the girl's ankle on my right it's not like I could jump to my left and catch this girl's rogue kicking leg over which she had absolutely no control, ultimately leading to the demise of an already bruised routine. We missed. She was expecting to be caught so she continues to kick herself over to her intended handstand, never meeting that level of support on which she was depending to halt her upside-down rainbow kick. She just continued her horribly executed arching motion into a landing I never had the pleasure to witness. Still nursing my wounds from the previous year and suffering from obvious dance-related PTSD, I dropped the girl I was currently holding and ran off-stage.
I should probably mention that because of my height, I was always put on the top row of the riser.
So I dropped this girl who had done everything right and was patiently waiting upside-down for the music to end and the curtain to be drawn before suddenly finding herself falling down and eating 2 levels of stairs with her face as I'm running down the steps, maneuvering past other girls who were all in their final poses also patiently awaiting the end of the music and the drawn curtain, across the stage and out the door where my mother found me bawling in the hall while she was trying not to laugh. It was so traumatic. That was my last year of gymnastics. They had put us in a ridiculous jungle-themed Jane-the-Whore costume and had us doing our tricks to a Disney medley including the melodious sounds of Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah anyway so there were multiple straws that broke my camel's flexible back and ultimately ended my gymnastics career. I distinctly remember one of our first options being "Let's Hear it for the Boy" but that got dropped in favor of a Disney medley. It was doomed to fail.
I transferred to a studio closer to home that had recently opened and was owned by one of my favorite instructors at my other school. I never messed up there, even while en pointe. I did sprain my knee, though, so during our E.T. piece where I was supposed to cross the stage in leaps, I just had to run. Like, run across stage after all the beautiful leapers that preceded me. It looked stupid.
But really, out of my many, many performances, I had only those 3 tragedies so it was still a net gain of awesome. I loved it and I can't wait for Boyfriend's niece's recital.
If I may offer advice though: don't run off-stage if you mess up. You'll look stupid and your mother will laugh at you. And if do mess up, don't do it when it's noticeable like everyone else is on the ground and you're doing pirouettes, standing by yourself. And don't rip off your clothes. It's inappropriate and your mother will laugh at you.
My first recital: ballet and tap. There were so many magical things in that first year. The wand, the tiara, the feather, the...bitchin tambourine with streamers!
I just realized that it would appear to some that my senior year in high school was in the mid-80s but it was not. It was actually 1999 but I think we can all agree that the music of the 90s did not hold a candle to the music of the 80s when it comes to danceability.
Boyfriend's sister invited us to her daughter's dance recital this year and can I tell you how excited I am? I know, I know, it seems silly but after Christmas, recital time is the most awesome time of year for a little dancer (I say that like it wasn't still true when I was 18). For a whole weekend you get to dance in pretty costumes, wear makeup and get your hair done. If you're like me, then you didn't get to wear makeup at the tender age of 9, so this is a whole weekend of glamour comprised of blue eyeshadow, bright pink blush, and red lipstick and really, what more could you ask for than stripper makeup when your age is in the single digits? And that day in class when you knew you were getting your costumes? No one was concentrating on steps, form and turnout. No, you wanted nothing more in your life than to just hold those sequined Lycra and tulle masterpieces (that your mother hated because she hates to sew and the straps had to be affixed manually) as they sat there sparkling in a corner, taunting you with their beauty for a whole 45 minutes until you were finally allowed to get them and try them on.
Of course, your mother could also decide one year that the straps were not getting sewn on. Like Ben Franklin and his key kite, the brilliance came to my mom like lightning: VELCRO! We'd use Velcro on the straps. Seemed like a good idea at the time because this costume didn't have elastic to go with the straps (how stupid) so putting on a costume and taking it off when the sequined straps have no give is really a PITA. Velcro it is.
Well that year, I believe I was in 5th grade at the time, was the year we performed a tap routine to "Splish Splash." Adorable. We even had prop towels to wrap around ourselves after we got out of our "bath." Those prop towels were also affixed with Velcro. When it came time to rip off our towels (like every 5th grade girl should be doing), all the stars aligned for my benefit and I gave the audience a thrill when I ripped the strap off as well. Flapping and bouncing about from the rhythmic motions of my awesome dancing, the sequined strap was a beacon, drawing your eye to the fat dancer in the back that already had your eye because she was a clear head over everyone else and larger costumes mean more sequins. How embarrassing, but I laughed it off. It didn't help that my ballet routine that year was to "It's a Small World." And I had incredibly thick bangs that were too long. Fate didn't even give me a chance that year.
That was the last year I danced at that Academy.
Two years prior to that, I messed up a Jazz routine--the one and only time I ever took Jazz. It might not have been hard to notice if it hadn't been when we were supposed to be doing moves on the ground and I was twirling about upright. I had never messed up a single step in a recital before that point. So clearly I wasn't meant for Jazz because I didn't mess up in Ballet, Tap or Gymnastics, right? I never took Jazz again, which is fine because I didn't fancy myself a future Broadway performer anyway.
The next year, my Gymnastics routine went amazingly wrong and my 10-year old self-esteem just couldn't handle it. My handstand-into-backbend, which I had performed extremely well all year, ended not in a backbend, but in a back flop on a very hard stage--legs sprawled out before me. At the end of the routine, 2 classmates were supposed to kick up into handstands while I grab an ankle of each and their other leg goes into passe (pointing the toe of one leg to the knee of the other-I was holding the straight leg, obviously). We added drama, excitement and a massive level of danger by doing this on a riser.
The girl on my right kicks up beautifully. Seamlessly, we executed the first half of the trick. The stupid bitch on my left, however, begins her move about a foot too far away and since I was already holding the girl's ankle on my right it's not like I could jump to my left and catch this girl's rogue kicking leg over which she had absolutely no control, ultimately leading to the demise of an already bruised routine. We missed. She was expecting to be caught so she continues to kick herself over to her intended handstand, never meeting that level of support on which she was depending to halt her upside-down rainbow kick. She just continued her horribly executed arching motion into a landing I never had the pleasure to witness. Still nursing my wounds from the previous year and suffering from obvious dance-related PTSD, I dropped the girl I was currently holding and ran off-stage.
I should probably mention that because of my height, I was always put on the top row of the riser.
So I dropped this girl who had done everything right and was patiently waiting upside-down for the music to end and the curtain to be drawn before suddenly finding herself falling down and eating 2 levels of stairs with her face as I'm running down the steps, maneuvering past other girls who were all in their final poses also patiently awaiting the end of the music and the drawn curtain, across the stage and out the door where my mother found me bawling in the hall while she was trying not to laugh. It was so traumatic. That was my last year of gymnastics. They had put us in a ridiculous jungle-themed Jane-the-Whore costume and had us doing our tricks to a Disney medley including the melodious sounds of Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah anyway so there were multiple straws that broke my camel's flexible back and ultimately ended my gymnastics career. I distinctly remember one of our first options being "Let's Hear it for the Boy" but that got dropped in favor of a Disney medley. It was doomed to fail.
I transferred to a studio closer to home that had recently opened and was owned by one of my favorite instructors at my other school. I never messed up there, even while en pointe. I did sprain my knee, though, so during our E.T. piece where I was supposed to cross the stage in leaps, I just had to run. Like, run across stage after all the beautiful leapers that preceded me. It looked stupid.
But really, out of my many, many performances, I had only those 3 tragedies so it was still a net gain of awesome. I loved it and I can't wait for Boyfriend's niece's recital.
If I may offer advice though: don't run off-stage if you mess up. You'll look stupid and your mother will laugh at you. And if do mess up, don't do it when it's noticeable like everyone else is on the ground and you're doing pirouettes, standing by yourself. And don't rip off your clothes. It's inappropriate and your mother will laugh at you.
My first recital: ballet and tap. There were so many magical things in that first year. The wand, the tiara, the feather, the...bitchin tambourine with streamers!
Friday, March 18, 2011
My First Home
The first house I ever lived in was a fine little rancher in a fine little neighborhood. Actually, it was a great little rancher in a fine little neighborhood that was becoming a somewhat crappy neighborhood. The suburb in which I grew up really isn't a bad place at all. I'd love to go back there again some day. It's weird to say that because saying "some day" makes it sound like I need to achieve these lofty goals in order to pack up my entire life and move far away back to the place from whence I came. In reality, I live maybe 20 minutes away. They're worlds-apart, though. Where I live now is most decidedly NOT overrun with original-owned Trans Ams with the firebirds on the hood and Camaros with leaky T-tops. Where I live now is full of people who want wine at the Boathouse with a view of the sunset, not beer in a field next to a fire pit.
I do enjoy wine at sunset. And beer and fire. I'm fully cultured. I'm also constantly judging myself.
That's the kind of first home I'd like to find some day. Cute little 3-bedroom rancher with room for the kids to play in a large backyard with a plastic pool, complete with a death-defying driveway to keep parents on their toes. Seriously, look at that thing. We weren't supposed to play on it or near the street (see above re: Camaros and Trans Ams--they go fast). But we had Big Wheels and helmets and one day Brother couldn't help himself. After fulfilling Brother's request to adjust his helmet, my dad went back to work on the car only to hear an emphatic yell of joy from Brother who was very well plummeting to certain death but enjoying every second of it. We also lived next door to a man who worked for TastyKake so he ALWAYS had treats. They also always had roaches, but Brother and I cared not about that when there were Tasty Klair Pies, Chocolate Juniors and mountains of doughnuts to hypnotize us.
One day Brother was playing with a friend. I'm going to hypothesize that they were playing with Hot Wheels because they were little boys, probably around 7, and Brother had an affinity for Hot Wheels. He used to put them under the wheels of our vehicles so that they'd get run over and be all crushed because you can't play car wreck with a vehicle that's still pristine. That would look ridiculous.
Brother needed music so he put on Joan Jett and the Blackhearts because that's the music we listened to and Brother loved him some "I Love Rock and Roll." As I'm sure you can deduct from my "Favorite songs of the moment" section of my profile, my family is pretty big into rock, particularly of the "classic" designation. Well, Brother's friend then says that he's not allowed to listen to "rock and roll" on the radio.
As it turns out, the little boy's parents were, shall we say, completely lunatic fundamentalists. That kid's father had told him that he can't listen to rock and roll. Why? Because if you listen to rock and roll, the Devil will come through the ground and grab you. I bet that kid pissed his pants a little every time he accidentally heard Black Sabbath. It was later decided that Brother could go there, but Devilbait wasn't allowed to come over to our house. That friendship didn't weather that storm.
It wasn't long before chain link fences became more prevalent in the front yards of our neighbors and aforementioned American-classic automobiles were left on cement blocks in the chain-linked-wrapped front yards. Hoodlums emerged. The neighborhood was going downhill, despite our ray of class on the hill.
Then a neighbor stabbed her husband in the woods behind our house. Clearly, that argument could not be settled at home.
This was the proverbial straw, if you will, and we quickly peaced out. We were building a new home, but as we couldn't very well stay on our uncleared lot, we rented a small house while we waited. This little house had an awesome basement, my brother got the attic as a bedroom as it only had 2 bedrooms and we could NOT share a room, and our backyard bordered our grandparents' backyard. We could walk there whenever we wanted! It was a quaint little home that bordered a small field where I remember running to try and find the end of a rainbow after a good rain. It was on Pine Street and it was all so apple-pie cute.
Oh and we also think we were next-door to coke dealers. But, at least no one was getting stabbed and the Devil wasn't coming. Upgrade.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
That Time I Was a Member of One of America's Most Powerful Crime Families
As a child born in the early 80s, I was unwaveringly caught up in the madness that swarmed over little girls when the most wonderful thing that ever happened happened:
The New Kids on the Block came around.
I don't mean "came around" like they "came around town." I simply mean that they existed. They existed and they made the music that every single-digit-aged little girl swooned over and HELLO did you SEE Joey McIntyre and Jonathan Knight? I wasn't a Jordan person, clearly.
Anyway, I had a Jonathan Knight poster. It hung on my wall and I loved it and I stared at it, and I loved being in my room because of that poster that my parents bought me when we went to Movie Time one Friday night to rent a movie. That poster also resulted in the assumption that I was in a family much different from the one in which I actually existed.
To all the youngins: You had to actually leave the house and go to a store that rented video tapes. Oh and tapes were these things that you put in a VCU to play your movie. They weren't on discs. Images and sounds were burned onto a tape that wound around 2 heads and if you were Kind, you would Rewind said tapes before returning them to the rental store. There were even these things that re-wound your tapes when you were done watching a million times faster than your VCR and sometimes I exaggerate. My family didn't own one of those b/c we weren't lazy and didn't waste our damn money.
Anyway.
I had a Jonathan Knight poster. On this poster was a phone number you could dial to, you know, talk to the New Kids. 1-900-909-5KIDS. I remember this b/c it was REALLY easy for a 9 year old to remember and I may have dialed it more than once. Maybe even multiple times. I thought 1-800 and 1-900 numbers were the same (free). While I thought they were free, I still was not comfortable calling someone I didn't know, much less the NEW KIDS ON THE FREAKING BLOCK and OMG what if Jonathan or Joey answered and talked to me? So of course I called multiple times.
So I dialed the number the first time and hung up. Lightning didn't strike me and my parents hadn't yet found out, so I called again. I remember them saying something that scared me so I hung up again. Then I called them back. And they entertained me. Then it was time to leave for church. Then I got home, changed out of my pretty dress and called the New Kids back again. I remember "listening to them in their studio." Then an exciting offer came my way!
What kind of exciting offer? I could own a cassette tape that let me hear MORE of them joking around in their studio! For only $12.99 and it would be added to the phone bill automatically so there was no need to try and get a pesky check or something mailed. Only $12.99 for a cassette of the New Kids? Add that bitch on there. Phone bills were, like, super-expensive right? My parents will never know that it's thirteen dollars more expensive than normal (before the cost of shipping, handling, and oh yeah, the cost of the MULTIPLE 1-900 calls I had made). Regardless, I wanted this tape and to get it, I just had to press a button indicating such. This was all made possible by the disclaimer on the poster that said you have to get your parents' permission first if you were under 18 so they're operating under the assumption that I had done so. Thus the purchasing process was insanely easy.
My bitchin cassette of the New Kids on the Block in their studio and making prank phone calls was going to arrive in an unmarked package (lest someone want to steal such a goldmine of awesome) but first I had to give them the shipping information. Of course, this included my name and address. Now, I didn't understand the importance of spelling a last name or road name at the tender age of 9, but that didn't matter b/c if I knew how to spell my last name, so did they, right? Just say it slow enough. Whomever addressed the package got the street name correct and that's not even a real word. They didn't, however, get my last name right.
My unmarked, padded brown package came delivered to someone with the last name "Gambino." Nothing is written on this package save my name and address. No return address, no business name anywhere, no nothing. Just a plain brown package, slightly padded so as to avoid injury to the undoubtedly fragile item(s) inside.
Poor postal worker. In his hands, he's handling a nondescript brown package addressed to an apparent member or relative of one of the largest, most infamous crime families in America. Remember John Gotti? The "Dapper Don?" He headed the Gambino crime family.
I bet that delivery guy had never in his career handled a package so gingerly. I also wonder if the girls with the last names of "Barton" and "Smith" got theirs faster than I got mine.
Epilogue:
The first few weeks were glorious. I took my tape to the babysitter's and the other girls there loved it too. I was a hit and my parents didn't know b/c surely they would have said something by now, right? Nope, turns out that phone bills only came once a month. When the bill came, what resulted was my first real grounding and the first time I had really, truly, honestly pissed my parents off. I mean pissed. Super pissed. Probably because multiple bills came. There was one from our regular carrier. Then another with more charges. All in all, I had to work off my debt from multiple phone bills (plural there, I don't know if that's sunk in yet) that totaled over $140. Do you know how much money that would be NOW for a simple land line? Imagine the late 80s. My brother got a break from chores for a while because I took over his in addition to my own. A lot of cleaning the litter box (daily, which is better than I do now actually), emptying the dishwasher, setting the table, cleaning off the table, taking the trash out, vacuuming, dusting, etc. It was a low period in my life. But I worked it off and I'm a better person now who appreciates hard work, the value of money, phone bill prices, and not being really dumb.
$20 says I can still find that tape somewhere if I look hard enough. My mailman and I worked our butts off for it, nothing was going to happen to that thing.
The New Kids on the Block came around.
I don't mean "came around" like they "came around town." I simply mean that they existed. They existed and they made the music that every single-digit-aged little girl swooned over and HELLO did you SEE Joey McIntyre and Jonathan Knight? I wasn't a Jordan person, clearly.
Anyway, I had a Jonathan Knight poster. It hung on my wall and I loved it and I stared at it, and I loved being in my room because of that poster that my parents bought me when we went to Movie Time one Friday night to rent a movie. That poster also resulted in the assumption that I was in a family much different from the one in which I actually existed.
To all the youngins: You had to actually leave the house and go to a store that rented video tapes. Oh and tapes were these things that you put in a VCU to play your movie. They weren't on discs. Images and sounds were burned onto a tape that wound around 2 heads and if you were Kind, you would Rewind said tapes before returning them to the rental store. There were even these things that re-wound your tapes when you were done watching a million times faster than your VCR and sometimes I exaggerate. My family didn't own one of those b/c we weren't lazy and didn't waste our damn money.
Anyway.
I had a Jonathan Knight poster. On this poster was a phone number you could dial to, you know, talk to the New Kids. 1-900-909-5KIDS. I remember this b/c it was REALLY easy for a 9 year old to remember and I may have dialed it more than once. Maybe even multiple times. I thought 1-800 and 1-900 numbers were the same (free). While I thought they were free, I still was not comfortable calling someone I didn't know, much less the NEW KIDS ON THE FREAKING BLOCK and OMG what if Jonathan or Joey answered and talked to me? So of course I called multiple times.
So I dialed the number the first time and hung up. Lightning didn't strike me and my parents hadn't yet found out, so I called again. I remember them saying something that scared me so I hung up again. Then I called them back. And they entertained me. Then it was time to leave for church. Then I got home, changed out of my pretty dress and called the New Kids back again. I remember "listening to them in their studio." Then an exciting offer came my way!
What kind of exciting offer? I could own a cassette tape that let me hear MORE of them joking around in their studio! For only $12.99 and it would be added to the phone bill automatically so there was no need to try and get a pesky check or something mailed. Only $12.99 for a cassette of the New Kids? Add that bitch on there. Phone bills were, like, super-expensive right? My parents will never know that it's thirteen dollars more expensive than normal (before the cost of shipping, handling, and oh yeah, the cost of the MULTIPLE 1-900 calls I had made). Regardless, I wanted this tape and to get it, I just had to press a button indicating such. This was all made possible by the disclaimer on the poster that said you have to get your parents' permission first if you were under 18 so they're operating under the assumption that I had done so. Thus the purchasing process was insanely easy.
My bitchin cassette of the New Kids on the Block in their studio and making prank phone calls was going to arrive in an unmarked package (lest someone want to steal such a goldmine of awesome) but first I had to give them the shipping information. Of course, this included my name and address. Now, I didn't understand the importance of spelling a last name or road name at the tender age of 9, but that didn't matter b/c if I knew how to spell my last name, so did they, right? Just say it slow enough. Whomever addressed the package got the street name correct and that's not even a real word. They didn't, however, get my last name right.
My unmarked, padded brown package came delivered to someone with the last name "Gambino." Nothing is written on this package save my name and address. No return address, no business name anywhere, no nothing. Just a plain brown package, slightly padded so as to avoid injury to the undoubtedly fragile item(s) inside.
Poor postal worker. In his hands, he's handling a nondescript brown package addressed to an apparent member or relative of one of the largest, most infamous crime families in America. Remember John Gotti? The "Dapper Don?" He headed the Gambino crime family.
I bet that delivery guy had never in his career handled a package so gingerly. I also wonder if the girls with the last names of "Barton" and "Smith" got theirs faster than I got mine.
Epilogue:
The first few weeks were glorious. I took my tape to the babysitter's and the other girls there loved it too. I was a hit and my parents didn't know b/c surely they would have said something by now, right? Nope, turns out that phone bills only came once a month. When the bill came, what resulted was my first real grounding and the first time I had really, truly, honestly pissed my parents off. I mean pissed. Super pissed. Probably because multiple bills came. There was one from our regular carrier. Then another with more charges. All in all, I had to work off my debt from multiple phone bills (plural there, I don't know if that's sunk in yet) that totaled over $140. Do you know how much money that would be NOW for a simple land line? Imagine the late 80s. My brother got a break from chores for a while because I took over his in addition to my own. A lot of cleaning the litter box (daily, which is better than I do now actually), emptying the dishwasher, setting the table, cleaning off the table, taking the trash out, vacuuming, dusting, etc. It was a low period in my life. But I worked it off and I'm a better person now who appreciates hard work, the value of money, phone bill prices, and not being really dumb.
$20 says I can still find that tape somewhere if I look hard enough. My mailman and I worked our butts off for it, nothing was going to happen to that thing.
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