Sleepover

When my mom and I lived alone when I was younger, my mom single, and my sisters out of the house, I hated to leave my mom at home alone.  I hated going on sleepovers because when it came to bedtime, I lied in bed wondering if she would be okay at home alone. She was probably thankful for the reprieve, but I didn't understand this as a child.  I didn't know what she could possibly do while I was not around, and I often came home from sleepovers because I was "ill."

We were not a religious family.  Granted, my mom asked God for help a lot, but we never went to church.  I'm sure she blamed God, too, but our troubles usually were self-created.  We owned a bible, my mother's white, leather-bound one from her childhood. I never read it, though I liked the zipper that tucked the pages within the leather cover, and I liked seeing my mom's handwritten name inside on the cover.  And though the bible never became part of my regular reading--I am a staunch agnostic now--I was obsessed with the notion of people going to church as a child.  Maybe it was their customs that I found fascinating or that they were drastically different from our family.  Or maybe I just liked the snacks afterwards--the stale coffee and tables of treats and donuts in the basement.  I remember on a number of occasions going to church with friends after begging my mom if I could. I went to church with my childhood best friend, Laurie, though I don't remember much about the church, other than it was across the street from a junior high I later attended, and it was probably the only normal religious experience I had as a child.

At one time, we lived across the street from a strange, poor family that buttered their sandwiches with a lot of mayonaise--and the parents used to ask each other when making sandwiches for each other "Lou?  You want it thick on the mayo or thin?" And the answer was always thick.  Mira was their oldest daughter, and at their church, I took the sacrament, though never having been baptized.  I also took home a small wooden goblet, which presumably resembled the goblet used during church services to hold the wine that the priest offered to the congregation.  I remember the thick wax that lined the mini goblet, and scraping it off with the edge of my fingernails.  I will never know how I  got someone to give me wine--I was probably only 8, but I did.

This religious fascination led to hanging out with Alyssa and Allison, two red-headed LDS twins who played violin with me in elementary school. When I visited their house, I was always amazed by the amount of family members--there was something like 18 of them--or at the amount of cheerfulness filling their house as they baked muffins together as a family. The twins visited our house once, and I remember making a big deal about having 7-Up for them to drink since that was all I thought mormons could drink, seriously. And then the fascination led to spending time with Elizabeth, the elementary school's star viola player--she was LDS, too, I think, and I wondered why our friendship never blossomed. Go figure.

And the reason I bring this all up is because there had to be a reason I wanted to hang out with Amy Smith, whose name is not really Smith. She has a very distinctive name, and though the story I am about to tell is true, I find it important to protect her identity.  The reason I wanted to hang out with Amy was not because she and I had a lot in common or because I liked her that much; it was probably because I saw weird church rituals and snack tables in my future.  I think she asked me to the sleepover, and I said yes, and it is a decision I will never forget.

The sleepover started like a normal one.  We ate pizza and had popcorn and were going to watch movies, I think.  But then, one of the sleepover attendees got ill.  And as she lay on the daybed in Amy's room, Amy's mother suggested we pray for the little girl. We gathered around the bed, each of us laying a hand on the clammy girl.  Then Amy's mother started invoking the spirit and swaying and praying for the girl's fever to leave her body.  And in this moment, I did not like religion anymore.  It scared me.  And it made me uncomfortable.  Child-me thought something like give the girl some fucking Tylenol already, and child-me stood there, paralyzed, swaying and praying with the Pentecostals, not knowing what to do or how to get out of the situation. I couldn't call my mom to rescue me from the sleepover because she had plans that evening, and I had already come home "ill" from one sleepover that month already.  I don't remember how long the praying went on, but it interrupted our movies and popcorn eating--though I am sure I wouldn't have enjoyed the movies--they probably would have been some made-for-tv-movie adaptations of the rapture or snake charming or people speaking in tongues.  All I know is I was freaked out and bad.

And if the praying hadn't freaked me out enough, what happened the next day was worse.  I tried to call my mom early in the morning to come and get me, and I couldn't reach her.  I don't know how I survived the night in that place, as I was sure I would be driven mad.  The fever girl still had a fever but was alive.  God had not cured her, nor had he rescued me soon enough from the crazies--proof that he doesn't exist because no god would be cruel enough to make anyone witness what was about to happen.

As the morning progressed, Amy's baby sister, probably 2-3 years old wandered the house, and eventually she took off her diaper.  The parents thought it was cute.  What happened next was by far the most disturbing image that has ever been seared into my brain: Amy's baby sister squatted on the carpet and took a huge shit (huge for a baby), and then, quickly following behind, the family's chocolate lab who ate the shit off the ground. The dog ate the baby's poop.  Okay, let me lay this down again, the baby crapped on the floor, and the dog slurped and gobbled the crap down like it were a goddamned Pupperoni treat.  And then, the baby getting praise from the family, and thinking it funny that the dog had consumed her feces--what baby wouldn't--decided to take two steps and force out another turd on the ground, and the dog ate the turd with as much enthusiasm as the first time.  Take a minute to let that sink in.

My mom eventually arrived to pick me up.  She had been trying to reach me, too, but the Smiths' phone was giving a busy signal because it was off the hook.  So my mom, thinking I was having fun, left me to play longer while she went to the mall without me.  Little did she know she was changing my life.  And I have never been the same, and I think this is part of where my abandonment issues stem from.

When I Spill Tabasco, I Touch Myself

A story was in the news today that seems curious.  A man was caught masturbating on a plane by a 17-year-old girl.  He was questioned, and when arrested, he said he had spilled Tabasco sauce on himself which caused his crotch to burn.
That's a likely story.

I am not so much intrigued by the truth of the matter, but the plausibility of burning your penis with Tabasco.  So, I called a friend (one with a penis) and asked, "What is the likelihood of burning your shaft if you spilled Tabasco on it?"

He replied, "Not likely.  It's like spilling it on your skin."

"Unless you spilled it directly on your pee hole, right?"

"That would definitely burn."

"If you spilled Tabasco on your penis, or in your pee hole," I asked "would you go to the bathroom to remedy the situation, or would you stay in your seat?"

"Bathroom."

Tabasco is tricky.  Sometimes I go to shake it onto an omelet or some hashbrowns and it shoots uncontrollably, but I usually spill it on my hand, the counter, or the table.  I've come close to shooting myself in the eye, but I don't think I would ever spill it on my genitals where it would burn.  And I don't think I would spill it on my genitals in a way that would make it burn and make me seem as though I am masturbating, even if I had a penis and not a vagina.  I may spill it on my pee hole if I had a penis and was trying to eat a burrito naked while masturbating on a plane, however.

Toenail necklace

I heard about a woman that sells toenail art the other day, and I looked her up.  She was recently on the show Oddities, and her name is Rachel Case:

http://dsc.discovery.com/videos/oddities-toenail-art.html

Most people I talk to are incredibly disgusted by the art, and there is something that is really fascinating about it to me.   Also, I think it is awesome that someone thought of the idea, and I feel good knowing I get to support someone's creativity and livelihood.

http://www.etsy.com/listing/37984900/human-ivory-tear-shaped-pendant

All I Want for Christmas is Grubby

In 1985, I stared out the window on Christmas Eve night.  I waited and waited for Santa.  Our family usually exchanged presents on Christmas Eve as tradition--when my mother was a kid, grandpa worked at the paper mill in Antioch, California on Christmas Day and so they celebrated on Christmas Eve.  When I was a kid, though we opened presents on Christmas Eve, Santa brought a present on Christmas Day.  The present was usually the one thing we really wanted--something major like a bike.  In 1985, our family was really poor (who I am kidding, we're still not wealthy), the kind of poor where we took potatoes off the sides of fields that the farmers had missed when we lived in Kuna.

On that Christmas Eve night in 1985, I saw a red flashing light in the sky, and I swore it was Rudolph leading the sleigh--no lie.  As an adult, I know it was a plane, but child-me still can feel the magic I felt that night as I prayed for Grubby, a companion toy to my toy Teddy Ruxpin--which I assume I had gotten as a birthday gift earlier that year.  Teddy Ruxpin was the plush, robotic, talking bear who worked on D batteries and cassette tapes that went in his back.  When you hit play, his eyes and animatronic mouth sang along.  Grubby was Teddy's friend--a caterpillar worm thing that was orange.  And all I wished for that Christmas was a friend for Teddy.  With both of them, you connected them with a cable, and they sang duets.  Here is a video I found of the two singing with each other on you tube:




When I awoke on Christmas morning in 1985 and unwrapped my gift from Santa, he brought me a Grubby. My dad loaded Grubby with batteries and plugged him into Teddy, and Grubby didn't work. In my childhood, I can't remember a bigger disappointment. Okay, that's a lie, I came home once to find that my dad had sold my pony to the neighbor while I was at school, and I was heartbroken that he was gone.  So, other than the pony theft, Grubby not working made my heart break.  Okay, there was one other time.  I had a Michael Jackson microphone that was like Mr. Microphone, and it had an FM transmitter in it, so you could tune it to an FM station that was not in use or one that was in use and sing along to the music.  The microphone  had speakers attached, and  I sang and sang and sang my heart out to anyone that would listen.  This went on for a few weeks, and one day, the microphone disappeared.  So other than the pony theft and the mysterious Michael Jackson microphone disappearance, Grubby not working properly on Christmas morning was my most heartbreaking childhood memory.

The problem was that I don't think there were any other Grubbys left at the store, and I know my dad took it back, but he never returned with another one.  So Teddy Ruxpin had to live alone for the rest of his life.  And my Christmas wish never came true.  That Santa is a real asshole.

Intervention

Today is one week since I have been out of school, and I am tired.  While I have been trying to write and get my grad school application completed during the days, and working at night, I feel unmotivated.  I have been told that it is normal to feel unmotivated after accomplishing a huge goal like graduating college.

I got my grades today, and I got a 4.0 for the semester, two A+s and two As, so I know I should be proud, but this sudden slowing of my schedule only complicates my unmotivation.  I have found time for television where I never had time before--oh, I used to watch it, mainly The Office, 30 Rock, Mad Men, Dexter, and Weeds--but only while computing math problems or trying to write for class. Over Thanksgiving break, I discovered that A&E's show Intervention is on Netflix, and since I have graduated, I can't quit watching it.

In two days, I have made it completely through Season 3.  I don't know what my draw to the show is.  I don't know if I like it because I have seen addiction affect my own family, but there is something so interesting to me about watching how different families handle their demise, though I know that addiction is serious.  Also, the show is so unflattering to the addicts and often to their families that it seems that the show isn't far from reality--though I know the show is produced for effect. It's a mindless show, and one I may need help to stop watching.  Sometimes I see the families of the addicts and think I would be an addict if you were my family, too.  Mean, I know.  And I have friends who have died of addiction, and it is heartbreaking, so if anything, maybe this show is an eye-opener for some and a warning to others.

I don't watch the show in a normal, linear way.  I pull it up on Netflix and let the intro to the show start with the dramatic, tinny music.  For those that haven't seen the show, the person is introduced with a small montage of their former, non-addict life through photographs and commentary of their family.  Then usually there is big text that comes across the screen that says "The Cheerleader" and it morphs into "The Heroin Addict."  Then the addict speaks, and some of the most horrific scenes of the addict using and nodding off to sleep with plates of food in their lap are showed in the beginning of the show.  And that's enough for me to see.  Then, I fast-forward to the end where the intervention happens.  I don't really care about the middle.  I don't need to see the demise--I know it's there.  I am more interested in the family speaking to the addict and the crying.  I need the crying and the screaming, and I am more interested in the mini-updates they give at the end: did the person stay sober, and did they stay reconnected to their family.  In the episodes I have seen so far, nobody refuses treatment.  A lot of people relapse, however.

I am still not sure why I like the show so much, but until I get my motivation back, I am going to keep watching it. Hopefully, I don't end up on the show.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

I think the senate repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell is a remarkable accomplishment.  And I have mixed emotions about it, too.  I thought I would write about it here because I don't think that some people often see both perspectives when talking about this issue.  As part of a project I did about a year ago, I did an interview with a gay, enlisted soldier.  Of course, I won't out him here, and I didn't out him then, either.  In the interview, I was shocked to find that he saw Don't Ask, Don't Tell as a form of protection.  And while I think it's sad that he needed to feel protected from his fellow soldiers, I think that he isn't alone in the comfort that the policy provided.


Here is what I asked him about his feelings on overturning the law (he had a lot of other things to say, too, but this was the most important to me):

A:  “Wouldn’t you just rather the rule be overturned?”

SS: “Yes, but it isn’t going to change the way I conduct myself in the military.  It isn’t like I am going to start wearing pink boas.  I think that rule is wrong.  I think it shouldn’t matter [that I'm gay].  I would like to hope that this country is at a mature enough level rather than worrying about if guys are going to look at each other’s dicks in the shower.  And not be such sissies.  Why does it even matter?  Just because someone has a penis doesn’t mean I want to sleep with every single one I see.  But people are under that assumption.  As such a homophobic institution as the Army can be, they certainly act gay.  It’s all about dry humping each other’s butts, playing grab ass, and talking overly effeminate. Guys already look at each other’s dicks in the shower—gay or straight. Just to see how they measure up.  But as soon as they find out one of the other soldiers is gay, they want to raise a stink about it.  I don’t think we [the nation] are mature enough to handle it.  It’s people that are at higher ranks that want to talk about this.    Am I in favor of getting rid of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?  I am kind of on the fence.  Yes, that in I have hope we can be mature and okay with that, but no because we are not there yet.  And right now, in theory, it is protecting me.”

I think it's ironic that a policy that is discriminating actually feels to some soldiers like it provides protection, and in a way, it does.  I know that if I were a gay solidier I wouldn't wan't to be discriminated against.  I wouldn't want to keep my family or life a secret.  Leading dual lives is incredibly difficult.  Living in fear of losing your job because of who you love would be horrible.  I know a marine who lost his job because of Don't Ask, Don't Tell after an investigation was launched into his personal life, and he is even against the policy being overturned, too because of the protection the policy provides.

I think it is incredible that the Senate agreed this week.  And I think the decision is a step towards gay civil rights.  But is it the right step at the right time or are we getting ahead of ourselves?  I don't know.   I don't know how the laws should be strategically overturned to get us where we need to be in society.  I think any step is important, but at what cost? What I am worried about are the repercussions of the decision.  Are thousands of soldiers going to suffer at the hands of hate crimes simply because they came out after the policy is officially signed?  Will we see military trials because of the actions of homophobic assholes?  I hope not, and I hope this decision helps, not hurts. 

Graduation Snuggie

This morning, I had a meltdown.  I was lying in bed, and I started sobbing about not being in school.  It seems crazy to think I am not going back next semester, and instead of being excited, I have wavered between feelings of disbelief and sorrow.  It feels like it is going to take me a few days to even come to grips with being free (other than work obligations).  I feel lost, a little directionless, and moronic for feeling this way.

When I arrived at work, my day changed.  A few days ago I typed up our White Elephant Gift Exchange Rules for our company Christmas party. Side note: it seems no matter how many rules are in place, the exchange usually ends in shambles; we make it about halfway through before people wander off to do shots or get drunken enough that they can't read which number they are--and I am just as guilty of this as anyone, and I think I am supposed to run the thing because I have a loud voice--and then there are just gifts lying around everywhere.  On the rules flyer, I inserted a subliminal picture of a Snuggie, hoping someone would catch on and bring it as their gift to exchange.  My master plan was to end up with the Snuggie, no matter what. 

Well, I didn't have to.  On my desk today sat a coveted Snuggie, a graduation gift from my coworkers.  Though I have talked about Snuggies for years, I have never had the guts to buy one seriously.  And though I have mentioned them, no one--until now--has gifted me one.  I was so excited that it seemed there were angels singing and the box was glowing.  The first dilemna: to put Snuggie on in front of everyone while working.  I had to restrain myself from doing it--I mean, really, it's all I could think about all night at work, but I never succumbed because I knew once I had Snuggie on, then I would want to put Snuggie to the test and wouldn't get much work done. 

Moments after I got home from work and slid in the door, I ditched my clothes and donned pajamas.  I unwrapped Snuggie, and my first thought was how do I get this damned thing on? It's so big!  And once I got it on, I made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.  Snuggie is long and hard to walk in, and after I made it back to the bedroom, I forgot something in the kitchen and needed to head back, but since Snuggie is so big, and picked up a cat toy on the initial trip back from the kitchen, I decided to take Snuggie off.  OW!  Staticky!  With a ZAP! I was almost afraid to put Snuggie back on.  The static-factor is making me glad I didn't consider putting Snuggie on naked, seriously, because I considered it briefly, though my butt would have been hanging out the back like a hospital gown.  That made me think, what if I wear Snuggie like a robe? And I tried it.  I have the *new with pockets* Snuggie, and while it kind of made an interesting robe, it's still a blanket with sleeves.  I pulled Snuggie off once again, with a loud crack of static and shock to my ass, and decided, ultimately, Snuggie is probably best while lounging  (and it is incredibly warm and awesome) and typing a Snuggie story or reading a book, and that is where I am now.

So, while it hurts when the cat cuddles in my lap, both of us being zapped with static by each subtle movement, I think this was the perfect gift, a little distraction to forget my feelings of woe and give me feelings of WHOA!

Panic at the Graduation

I never understood why retired people said they felt like they were going to die; now I do.  For days I have toyed with writing this blog, trying to decide if it was going to make me feel better or worse or if people would laugh at me.   And last week felt like it went by in a second; this week seems to be slowing in time, the days slowly ticking down, as graduation inches nearer.

I am graduating in 3 days, and while I know I worked hard and deserve it, I have this nagging panic that hasn't left in the past month.  Most people are excited to be out of school when it finally happens.  Most people struggle just to get the degree done, and when it's done they say good riddance.  I am one of the weird ones.  I like school; it's probably the driving force for me wanting to be a professor.  One day as I sat in a class, watching my best professor and mentor Bruce Ballenger teach, I realized that I wanted to be in the classroom--the college classroom--always. With graduation, I feel like my brain will turn to mush.

I know that my brain will not turn to mush, but I think I am worried because I won't have anything to do after graduation is here.  While I have a list of things to occupy me, I will feel unproductive.  College gave me something to look forward to, to worry about, to direct my stress, to be proud of.  After a string of retail jobs where I was unhappy, I found college.  In college, I found what I want to do with my life; this break before I apply for grad school seems like a cruel speed bump.  One that I know I need to take, as I don't want to burn out in grad school, and one I don't really want all at the same time.

The other panic stems from the huge packet the government sends which essentially screams "PAY UP!"  It seems like the transitions all come too fast.  The government gives a six-month grace period for paying, and it seems that they should hold off on the paperwork barrage until at least three months after graduation.  I have no idea how I am going to pay.  And when I picked my repayment plan, I laughed that it says I will be paying until 2038.  I hope it doesn't take that long.

I guess what bothers me most, is I feel a uncomfortable in my world.  I rarely feel this uncomfortable in my world, where I debate whether I am having a panic attack or a heart attack on an hourly to daily basis depending on the moment. I don't like change; I don't like the unknown.  And there is a lot of both right now.  I have an incredible support system, and that will help.  So will the amount of beer I've been consuming lately.