The Boy, The Sequel
Ok, so maybe I really like telling you about M. or I’m encouraged by the fact that you liked that post. When all else fails, write about what you know, right? I can’t use numbers this time, though. Sometimes numbers bother me. (Did you know I took Algebra five times?)
- M. has fiery little rings around his pupils like I do. Unlike mine, his are more brown than red, but I still find this very cool. That means our offspring will most likely have this thing! This weird cool fiery little thing!
- M. got me addicted to brussel sprouts! Wha-HUH? Yeah. I always assumed they were nasty because nobody I know likes them. Either my mom or my dad hates them because we never ever ate them when I was growing up. My ex’s parents ate them steamed with mayonnaise, and while I love mayo, I don’t consider it something you dip into so I never tried them. M. cuts them in half, sautees them with olive oil, balsamic vinaigrette, onions, salt, and they are SO GOOD. They get carmelized. Seriously people – what’s the problem? Why does everyone think they’re nasty? How were they served to you if/when you ate them? Imput please!
- I think M. is slightly annoyed by my cats sometimes. I am too. But I find it very funny when he gets annoyed. Usually a cat has jumped on him while he’s trying to fall asleep or a cat stands in front of his face when he’s lying on the couch trying to watch tv. They also walk on the puzzles we’re working on and on the weekends they start running in and out of the bedroom, meowing all the while, until we are awake. All of this bad kitty behavior usually elicits some not really but maybe a tiny bit bitter response from M. like “Kitty! Why are you so BAD?” It cracks me up. The cats definitely piss me off sometimes, so it’s funny to see someone else react like I used to react before I realized that they’re cats and while they earnestly believe in their right to fuck every thing up, they will never care enough to stop, so really you just sigh heavily and rarely, but always deliciously, shove them the fuck away. But M. doesn’t shove because they’re not his cats. That’s good. Kinda like how only I am allowed to insult my mother.
- Despite their transgressions, M. says “Goodbye, kitty cats!” every morning.
- M. and I are the exact same height. Technically I think he might be a ½ inch taller, but when we are both barefoot we’re exactly eye to eye. I always thought I’d be with someone who was taller than me because not only do I find tall men very attractive, I liked the idea of being the shorter one. I think now I wouldn’t have it any other way than just my height. It’s gives me the fantastic feeling that M. and I are on the same level on so many levels, and it’s just so easy to kiss someone when they’re right there in front of you. Not up, not down, but right there.
- So we’re all well aware that all of my very best friends are lesbians. I love it, it’s familiar, and if they all went straight I’d be disappointed. Not that I have to worry about that. What I realized recently is that having a girlfriend whose friends are all lesbians is probably near the top on a man’s Why I Love My Girlfriend list. But M. doesn’t gawk or encourage us all to make out. (You shoulda seen us about 8 years ago, though!) So YAY for the boyfriend who just watches me all night when we’re out with all my hot lesbian friends.
- M. has a blue pickup truck with a metal tool box behind the cab and matching metal running down the top of the sides of the truck bed. I lovingly refer to this as “sexy metal,” because it is, but M. has his own nickname for his truck: Blue Steel, as in the ultimate facial expression for a male model as coined by Zoolander. He finds this hilarious, and so do I.
- When I found out M.’s initials are M.C.A. I immediately sang “M C Aaayyyy” like they do in that Beastie Boy’s song. Or maybe in every Beastie Boys song? Maybe we’ll name our first child Adam Yauch. Or maybe not.
5.04.2006
5.02.2006
Bad as I wanna be, Part 1
If I were to admit all the horrid things I did when I was little, you might not believe me. I know I do such a great job at convincing everyone that I am just so sweet and nice and yada blah, which maybe I am NOW, but when I was a child I had some problems. Being Nice kind of problems. I don't know why I changed or what trigger flipped in my head that lit a giant neon NO ONE WILL LIKE YOU IF YOU KEEP ACTING THIS WAY sign. It was a benevolent trigger. It trigged without warning. But trigg it did, and now I can say I'm a nice girl with good intentions (97.2% of the time). I'm sure you will believe me when I tell you that roughly half of the mean stuff I did involved writing. Because I have never been at a lack for words, especially the written kind.
And now, I'm going to get my Confessional on. In between the instances of my heart blackening, I was a good little Catholic girl who just wanted to be liked.
Oh god, here we go...
- In third grade there was a very dorky new kid named Jeff Blue. No one liked him, and I'll venture to say it was because he was an other-side-of-tracks kind of child. He was sticky, wore dirty clothes and spoke horrible English, and I'm sorry, but in Clayton, MO? Good luck with that. (I don't remember now, but he was probably what us snot-rags called "a seminary kid," meaning he only went to Clayton because his dad was studying to become a minister at the seminary which just happened to be in Clayton. Seminary kids were usually poor and only stayed a year or two before moving again. Never was there a popular seminary kid, is what I'm trying to tell you.) I decided my best friend Jessica and I should write Jeff Blue a sexy note. Where in the fuck I learned sexy words and phrases by third grade is beyond...fuck, nevermind, for a second I forgot I had an older brother. Anyway. We sat at the antique secretary in my living room after school one day (apparently I held nothing sacred, as this secretary used to belong to my very refined grandmother, who also used to write with the fancy pen that we used. Ahem. I used.) and crafted a very clever note To: Jeff B. From: Your Secret Admirer. Some phrases I specifically recall: "I think your blue eyes are sexy, isn't it great your last name is Blue?" and "I want you to touch my boobies." And because I was such a smart child at the age of eight, my method of delivering this note involved following Jeff to his cubby in the hall, handing him the note and saying "Here, Jeff. I found this on the floor. It has your name on it." What do you know, that fucking redneck Jeff turned out to be just as big an asshat as we thought. He took the note directly to his resource teacher (resource = trying to unknot kids with Problems) and not long after that I was being questioned by the resource teacher about the filthy note. Denied! Oh, how I denied. My parents were called and I still wouldn't admit to it. Finally I confessed to my mother and told her Jessica helped me which was a shitface thing to do considering the idea was mine and I was the one who gathered the necessary materials, thought up the content, and wrote the words. She just sat there and made me feel like it was a good idea. When I told my mom she called Jessica's parents and ya wanna know what they did? Laugh. I was so grounded, and her parents LAUGHED. Here's the revelation, though - Jeff Blue in fact knew how much of a loser he was and that he couldn't possibly have a secret admirer. So in the end, I was right about him.
- When I was about 11, my best friend Ann and I both really liked to read dirty books. (By this time my old BFF Jessica had become the Bee's Knees and left me in the dorky quagmire despite still owning the ST ENDS portion of our BFF necklace). The dirtiest book, of course, was Forever by Judy Blume. I was too afraid to go buy the book because other than maxi pads, I couldn't think of a more embarassing situation at a checkout counter. Somehow I was alone in the sixth grade hallway at night, I must have been there for some function, and I noticed a copy of Forever sitting on someone's desk. Why they would leave it out for some uptight adult to notice, I don't know. But I took that shit right off her desk. And Ann and I gobbled it up. We memorized the page number where the girl gets introduced to her boyfriend's penis, Ralph, and then proceeds to get her cherry popped. (It was page 151.) Once those few pages had basically been memorized, Ann and I decided we needed to write our own. Unlike the Jeff Blue incident, I didn't want her to help me write. That would have been like masturbating together, which is something better left for lovers, not BFFs. Our family had just purchased an Apple computer, so clickity-clack, out came my erotica, typed. I don't remember any of these stories, but I do know that I used every dirty word, situation, phrase, and thought I could think of. And there wasn't just one story. Try five or six. I know this was my way of exploring sexuality on my own terms and in a way that was most comfortable for me - by age ten I was already churning out short stories at such a rate that my fifth grade teacher called me "prolific," which I thought was the coolest thing anyone had ever said to me before I even looked it up. This story wouldn't have to end poorly, if it weren't for, again, my stupidity. I left a story out somewhere in my mother's path. She read it, she conferenced with my dad, and I wish I could tell you that this ended with a great peer-editing session, but my parents are Catholic, remember? They might as well have found out I was doling out blowjobs to street ruffians. I had to sit through a lengthy lecture about the power of words, the importance of discretion, and ultimately "When you write something down, it could be there forever. YOU MUST BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WRITE."
But did I learn? Perhaps the very, VERY hard way...
- When I was 12, I was heavily involved with horseback riding. My parents had just bought me my first horse, which...hum it with me now...OMMMMM. Riding consumed all of my free time and I loved every second of it. I had a new group of friends my age and got to take my horse to horse shows and frequently came away with all kinds of ribbons, blue included. My riding instructors were Tina and her daughter, Bettina, and I thought they hung the moon. So much so that when I had to get Confirmed in the Catholic church, I chose Tina as my sponsor even though the right thing would have been to choose my highly religious aunt. But Tina was technically Catholic and formally My Role Model. During this time, a girl name Jenny started working at the stable where we rode. She lived a few miles away and was definitely not as fortunate as the rest of us - we knew this because she worked there, she didn't ride there. She cleaned stalls and assisted us at horse shows. She was extremely trustworthy, and because she was 15, cool. I'd never had an older friend before, and me and her got on like cherries and chocolate. I even went to her house a few times. I wanted her to think I was the coolest girl she knew, and after being invited to her house I decided I could trust her. So, again, I wrote something that I shouldn't have and gave it to Jenny. This diatribe of mine was nothing short of hideously, inexcuseably mean. I dedicated a paragraph to each person we knew at the stable, including my beloveds, Tina and Bettina. I went off as much and as far as a 12 year old can go off. I made up slanderous shit. I made fun of things that couldn't be helped. I said something about the 9 year old boy that rode with us "popping a semi" which is just gross. What I definitely didn't expect to happen happened. Jenny showed Tina the letter. I have never felt so ashamed. There was no reason for me to write that bullshit, because I honestly adored every person that I had so carelessly ripped apart. In my effort to convince Jenny that I was cool I forgot that cool people don't call their friends rich bitches with sticks up their asses and reduce their role models to crabby wrinkled hags. That doozy, my friends, put an end to the days of writing things that shouldn't be written. Or rather, the days of sharing those things.
And now, I'm going to get my Confessional on. In between the instances of my heart blackening, I was a good little Catholic girl who just wanted to be liked.
Oh god, here we go...
- In third grade there was a very dorky new kid named Jeff Blue. No one liked him, and I'll venture to say it was because he was an other-side-of-tracks kind of child. He was sticky, wore dirty clothes and spoke horrible English, and I'm sorry, but in Clayton, MO? Good luck with that. (I don't remember now, but he was probably what us snot-rags called "a seminary kid," meaning he only went to Clayton because his dad was studying to become a minister at the seminary which just happened to be in Clayton. Seminary kids were usually poor and only stayed a year or two before moving again. Never was there a popular seminary kid, is what I'm trying to tell you.) I decided my best friend Jessica and I should write Jeff Blue a sexy note. Where in the fuck I learned sexy words and phrases by third grade is beyond...fuck, nevermind, for a second I forgot I had an older brother. Anyway. We sat at the antique secretary in my living room after school one day (apparently I held nothing sacred, as this secretary used to belong to my very refined grandmother, who also used to write with the fancy pen that we used. Ahem. I used.) and crafted a very clever note To: Jeff B. From: Your Secret Admirer. Some phrases I specifically recall: "I think your blue eyes are sexy, isn't it great your last name is Blue?" and "I want you to touch my boobies." And because I was such a smart child at the age of eight, my method of delivering this note involved following Jeff to his cubby in the hall, handing him the note and saying "Here, Jeff. I found this on the floor. It has your name on it." What do you know, that fucking redneck Jeff turned out to be just as big an asshat as we thought. He took the note directly to his resource teacher (resource = trying to unknot kids with Problems) and not long after that I was being questioned by the resource teacher about the filthy note. Denied! Oh, how I denied. My parents were called and I still wouldn't admit to it. Finally I confessed to my mother and told her Jessica helped me which was a shitface thing to do considering the idea was mine and I was the one who gathered the necessary materials, thought up the content, and wrote the words. She just sat there and made me feel like it was a good idea. When I told my mom she called Jessica's parents and ya wanna know what they did? Laugh. I was so grounded, and her parents LAUGHED. Here's the revelation, though - Jeff Blue in fact knew how much of a loser he was and that he couldn't possibly have a secret admirer. So in the end, I was right about him.
- When I was about 11, my best friend Ann and I both really liked to read dirty books. (By this time my old BFF Jessica had become the Bee's Knees and left me in the dorky quagmire despite still owning the ST ENDS portion of our BFF necklace). The dirtiest book, of course, was Forever by Judy Blume. I was too afraid to go buy the book because other than maxi pads, I couldn't think of a more embarassing situation at a checkout counter. Somehow I was alone in the sixth grade hallway at night, I must have been there for some function, and I noticed a copy of Forever sitting on someone's desk. Why they would leave it out for some uptight adult to notice, I don't know. But I took that shit right off her desk. And Ann and I gobbled it up. We memorized the page number where the girl gets introduced to her boyfriend's penis, Ralph, and then proceeds to get her cherry popped. (It was page 151.) Once those few pages had basically been memorized, Ann and I decided we needed to write our own. Unlike the Jeff Blue incident, I didn't want her to help me write. That would have been like masturbating together, which is something better left for lovers, not BFFs. Our family had just purchased an Apple computer, so clickity-clack, out came my erotica, typed. I don't remember any of these stories, but I do know that I used every dirty word, situation, phrase, and thought I could think of. And there wasn't just one story. Try five or six. I know this was my way of exploring sexuality on my own terms and in a way that was most comfortable for me - by age ten I was already churning out short stories at such a rate that my fifth grade teacher called me "prolific," which I thought was the coolest thing anyone had ever said to me before I even looked it up. This story wouldn't have to end poorly, if it weren't for, again, my stupidity. I left a story out somewhere in my mother's path. She read it, she conferenced with my dad, and I wish I could tell you that this ended with a great peer-editing session, but my parents are Catholic, remember? They might as well have found out I was doling out blowjobs to street ruffians. I had to sit through a lengthy lecture about the power of words, the importance of discretion, and ultimately "When you write something down, it could be there forever. YOU MUST BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WRITE."
But did I learn? Perhaps the very, VERY hard way...
- When I was 12, I was heavily involved with horseback riding. My parents had just bought me my first horse, which...hum it with me now...OMMMMM. Riding consumed all of my free time and I loved every second of it. I had a new group of friends my age and got to take my horse to horse shows and frequently came away with all kinds of ribbons, blue included. My riding instructors were Tina and her daughter, Bettina, and I thought they hung the moon. So much so that when I had to get Confirmed in the Catholic church, I chose Tina as my sponsor even though the right thing would have been to choose my highly religious aunt. But Tina was technically Catholic and formally My Role Model. During this time, a girl name Jenny started working at the stable where we rode. She lived a few miles away and was definitely not as fortunate as the rest of us - we knew this because she worked there, she didn't ride there. She cleaned stalls and assisted us at horse shows. She was extremely trustworthy, and because she was 15, cool. I'd never had an older friend before, and me and her got on like cherries and chocolate. I even went to her house a few times. I wanted her to think I was the coolest girl she knew, and after being invited to her house I decided I could trust her. So, again, I wrote something that I shouldn't have and gave it to Jenny. This diatribe of mine was nothing short of hideously, inexcuseably mean. I dedicated a paragraph to each person we knew at the stable, including my beloveds, Tina and Bettina. I went off as much and as far as a 12 year old can go off. I made up slanderous shit. I made fun of things that couldn't be helped. I said something about the 9 year old boy that rode with us "popping a semi" which is just gross. What I definitely didn't expect to happen happened. Jenny showed Tina the letter. I have never felt so ashamed. There was no reason for me to write that bullshit, because I honestly adored every person that I had so carelessly ripped apart. In my effort to convince Jenny that I was cool I forgot that cool people don't call their friends rich bitches with sticks up their asses and reduce their role models to crabby wrinkled hags. That doozy, my friends, put an end to the days of writing things that shouldn't be written. Or rather, the days of sharing those things.
Stay tuned for Part 2, where I come clean about the mean shit that had nothing to do with writing. THEN you can proceed to think I'm a dirty rotten scoundrel. GREAT movie, by the way.
Leftastic
I've been more than a smidgen obsessed with the fact that I'm left-handed ever since I learned that it was different. Somehow it makes me feel more original and skilled, because come on, it's definitely a right-handed world, and you must have something special if you can keep yourself from getting totally frustrated at the lack of appropriate desks at school AND figure out how to not kill yourself while using tools with a righty user in mind. There have been many studies showing that left-handed people are more creative and musically inclined than their righty peers. It's been proven. Don't kill the messenger. Did you know that four out of five of the people who created the first MacIntosh were lefties? Yeah-huh.
I just recently found my Page-a-Day calendar that was abandoned in August of 2005. It lost its place in my daily life when I moved back to St. Louis and didn't have a desk job for months. Page-a-Days are the kinds of things that you don't look at while at home. They are for the suspension of boredom at work, even if it simply serves as something to do while your computer starts up in the morning. This Page-a-Day, as you might guess, is chock-full of lefty trivia, celebrities, studies, and tendencies. It's not the first time I've had a calendar like this. I was kind of giddy when I found it a few days ago, because since 2005 is over I have EVERY RIGHT to read every fucking page, one after the other, which is an urge you fight daily if you are using a Page-a-Day as it should be used.
I came upon some interesting things while ripping off August through New Year's Eve. I will admit some of the facts are incredibly "DUH!" like how left-handed athletes have an advantage because of the element of surprise. Many successful boxers have been left-handed. Also tennis, basketball, and soccer players (left-handedness and left-footedness helped Pele become the most famous and respected soccer player in history).
The page for August 18 gives a list of websites that sell left-handed supplies. I've seen lefty stores before, but mostly they have kitschy shit like coffee mugs and aprons that say "Lefties do it right!" or "Kiss me, I'm a lefty!" You could definitely find a right-handed can opener in one of these stores, which I should totally buy because it IS hard to open a can backwards. Welcome to life as a lefty. We live in reverse.
So I went online to one of these stores prepared to be bombarded by a bunch of things I simply COULD NOT LIVE WITHOUT. Instead, I believe I happened upon a scam.
I'm sorry, a left-handed spatula? Imagine a spatula with me. What could possibly make it biased for a righty? Hm? And I'm not talking about one of those fancy BBQ spatulas with the teeth on one side. I examined the picture of this miracle lefty spatula for a long time, really trying to understand. If you can tell me what makes it left-handed I'll buy you one for your favorite lefty. What about a lefty wooden spoon? How does that makes sense? The only utensil with a discernable on this website was a lefty ladle, because the little indentation for pouring is on the other side so you don't have to twist your arm around all crazy. But mostly I think some scumbag, probably a righty, wants to make money by making us believe we would be so much happier with left-handed kitchen utensils. I'm wondering now if my Page-a-Day was just fluffing me up by telling me lefties just might be smarter.
I will give props to the lefty keyboard I found on the website. All the junk to the right of the letters is moved to the left, so that you can do your 10-key entry and page up, down, and all around with your faster hand. I thought for a moment about buying one, but I realized that my right hand IS A MANIAC at the 10-key. I'm like, totally super fast and can whip out long sequences of numbers very quickly. I'm proud of this. I am also terribly ashamed to say that I don't think for one second my left hand would know what the fuck to do with all those numbers. I'd rather not feel inadequate, thank you.
However, maybe I could learn. Lefties have better adaptation skills. If a lefty breaks her left hand (that's you, Kimbo!) she will complain a lot less than if she were right handed, because lefties have always had to learn to be ambidextrous if they want to use any kind of appliance. I use my right hand for cutting with scissors, for example, which is probably the most common occurance of ambidexterity, because seriously there was ONE PAIR of lefty scissors at the very bottom of every bin of scissors in elementary school. You could either dig to the bottom and then fight over that pair with the other lefty in your class or you could shut up and learn to use the righty scissors before you were old enough and proud enough of your lefty-ness to be ashamed of selling out for the sake of convenience. See, if I could take it all back there's no way in hell I'd let myself learn to cut with my right hand. It's a matter of pride.
I told you I was a little obsessed.
I just recently found my Page-a-Day calendar that was abandoned in August of 2005. It lost its place in my daily life when I moved back to St. Louis and didn't have a desk job for months. Page-a-Days are the kinds of things that you don't look at while at home. They are for the suspension of boredom at work, even if it simply serves as something to do while your computer starts up in the morning. This Page-a-Day, as you might guess, is chock-full of lefty trivia, celebrities, studies, and tendencies. It's not the first time I've had a calendar like this. I was kind of giddy when I found it a few days ago, because since 2005 is over I have EVERY RIGHT to read every fucking page, one after the other, which is an urge you fight daily if you are using a Page-a-Day as it should be used.
I came upon some interesting things while ripping off August through New Year's Eve. I will admit some of the facts are incredibly "DUH!" like how left-handed athletes have an advantage because of the element of surprise. Many successful boxers have been left-handed. Also tennis, basketball, and soccer players (left-handedness and left-footedness helped Pele become the most famous and respected soccer player in history).
The page for August 18 gives a list of websites that sell left-handed supplies. I've seen lefty stores before, but mostly they have kitschy shit like coffee mugs and aprons that say "Lefties do it right!" or "Kiss me, I'm a lefty!" You could definitely find a right-handed can opener in one of these stores, which I should totally buy because it IS hard to open a can backwards. Welcome to life as a lefty. We live in reverse.
So I went online to one of these stores prepared to be bombarded by a bunch of things I simply COULD NOT LIVE WITHOUT. Instead, I believe I happened upon a scam.
I'm sorry, a left-handed spatula? Imagine a spatula with me. What could possibly make it biased for a righty? Hm? And I'm not talking about one of those fancy BBQ spatulas with the teeth on one side. I examined the picture of this miracle lefty spatula for a long time, really trying to understand. If you can tell me what makes it left-handed I'll buy you one for your favorite lefty. What about a lefty wooden spoon? How does that makes sense? The only utensil with a discernable on this website was a lefty ladle, because the little indentation for pouring is on the other side so you don't have to twist your arm around all crazy. But mostly I think some scumbag, probably a righty, wants to make money by making us believe we would be so much happier with left-handed kitchen utensils. I'm wondering now if my Page-a-Day was just fluffing me up by telling me lefties just might be smarter.
I will give props to the lefty keyboard I found on the website. All the junk to the right of the letters is moved to the left, so that you can do your 10-key entry and page up, down, and all around with your faster hand. I thought for a moment about buying one, but I realized that my right hand IS A MANIAC at the 10-key. I'm like, totally super fast and can whip out long sequences of numbers very quickly. I'm proud of this. I am also terribly ashamed to say that I don't think for one second my left hand would know what the fuck to do with all those numbers. I'd rather not feel inadequate, thank you.
However, maybe I could learn. Lefties have better adaptation skills. If a lefty breaks her left hand (that's you, Kimbo!) she will complain a lot less than if she were right handed, because lefties have always had to learn to be ambidextrous if they want to use any kind of appliance. I use my right hand for cutting with scissors, for example, which is probably the most common occurance of ambidexterity, because seriously there was ONE PAIR of lefty scissors at the very bottom of every bin of scissors in elementary school. You could either dig to the bottom and then fight over that pair with the other lefty in your class or you could shut up and learn to use the righty scissors before you were old enough and proud enough of your lefty-ness to be ashamed of selling out for the sake of convenience. See, if I could take it all back there's no way in hell I'd let myself learn to cut with my right hand. It's a matter of pride.
I told you I was a little obsessed.
5.01.2006
Hula Poop
Yesterday I enjoyed many hours of I Love Toys on VH1. Similar to I Love the 80s & 90s, but better because the best parts of those shows happened when those hysterical goofball comics discussed toys from the 80s and 90s. And lo, they got their own show.
Some notables that you probably haven't thought of in awhile:
Pong
Spirograph
Chutes & Ladders
Slip & Slide
Erector Set
Color Forms (those boring-ass static cling stickers with accompanying scenery)
The Top Ten Toys:
10) Wiffle Ball & Bat - did you know they used to come with instructions on how to throw certain pitches? Did/do people take Wiffle Ball-ing that seriously? They were talking about throwing wicked sliders and curve balls and I couldn't help but think people who desire such throwing should be using a real fucking ball.
9) Slinky - Oh yeah. Loved me some Slinky! My brother and I could walk that mofo down some stairs, dude. We also did this thing where we sang (not sure why, it wasn't a real song) "The elephant's trunk!" while dropping the end of the slinky down to the stairs from above. We were weird, I guess, because it's really not funny or entertaining, but we loved the elephant's trunk.
8) Yo-yo - I think anyone who didn't give up on this thing after three times of not getting the yo-yo to come back up the string went on to become a professional yo-yoer. That cute kid from Malcolm in the Middle's got mad yo-yo skillz, just in case you were wondering. Can I also just say that seeing child actors grow up disturbs me? Like, A LOT. I don't know why. It doesn't bother me when my little cousins grow up. Actually...I guess it does.
7) Star Wars figures - I've got nothing. Haven't even watched the movie all the way through.
6) Monopoly - I can't even tell you how much I hate Monopoly. Have you ever finished this game? Have you ever had fun playing after the first 15 minutes when the novelty of the money and the Community Chest cards wear off? And all those stupid little spawns like (Insert your city here) Monopoly or Gay Monopoly? Not helping. I guess General Popularity affects these ratings more than Fun to be Had.
5) Mr. Potatohead - Did you know that originally you just bought the facial features and used a real potato? I had no idea. That's kind of gross. But imagine the Fun to be Had when you could pretend those spuds budding from Mr. Potato's head were hairy warts!
4) G.I. Joe - I don't get how these were so entertaining, but that could be said for most of the 100 toys on VH1's countdown, or most toys in general. I know little boys love to destroy them. Or at least the boy that was my brother.
3) LEGO - Did you know there's a LEGO theme park? And that the origins of the word LEGO come from the Danish words "leg" meaning "play" and "godt" meaning "well"? Just another reason VH1 is making me smarter.
2) Barbie - you go girl. With your Pool Party and your pink convertible and your mansion with the elevator and your endless wardrobe and your many career choices. You should have been number one, because number one is...
1) Hula Hoop - which makes no sense. Seriously? Number one? Why? Because it's nice to see little girls gyrate their hips? I wholeheartedly disagree with this decision.
Clearly I really want VH1 to hire me to comment on...well, anything, really. I heart you, VH1, even if (like MTV) you only show about an hour of actual music videos per day, because quite honestly I'd rather hear music than see it. Then it can be about anything I want it to be.
Some notables that you probably haven't thought of in awhile:
Pong
Spirograph
Chutes & Ladders
Slip & Slide
Erector Set
Color Forms (those boring-ass static cling stickers with accompanying scenery)
The Top Ten Toys:
10) Wiffle Ball & Bat - did you know they used to come with instructions on how to throw certain pitches? Did/do people take Wiffle Ball-ing that seriously? They were talking about throwing wicked sliders and curve balls and I couldn't help but think people who desire such throwing should be using a real fucking ball.
9) Slinky - Oh yeah. Loved me some Slinky! My brother and I could walk that mofo down some stairs, dude. We also did this thing where we sang (not sure why, it wasn't a real song) "The elephant's trunk!" while dropping the end of the slinky down to the stairs from above. We were weird, I guess, because it's really not funny or entertaining, but we loved the elephant's trunk.
8) Yo-yo - I think anyone who didn't give up on this thing after three times of not getting the yo-yo to come back up the string went on to become a professional yo-yoer. That cute kid from Malcolm in the Middle's got mad yo-yo skillz, just in case you were wondering. Can I also just say that seeing child actors grow up disturbs me? Like, A LOT. I don't know why. It doesn't bother me when my little cousins grow up. Actually...I guess it does.
7) Star Wars figures - I've got nothing. Haven't even watched the movie all the way through.
6) Monopoly - I can't even tell you how much I hate Monopoly. Have you ever finished this game? Have you ever had fun playing after the first 15 minutes when the novelty of the money and the Community Chest cards wear off? And all those stupid little spawns like (Insert your city here) Monopoly or Gay Monopoly? Not helping. I guess General Popularity affects these ratings more than Fun to be Had.
5) Mr. Potatohead - Did you know that originally you just bought the facial features and used a real potato? I had no idea. That's kind of gross. But imagine the Fun to be Had when you could pretend those spuds budding from Mr. Potato's head were hairy warts!
4) G.I. Joe - I don't get how these were so entertaining, but that could be said for most of the 100 toys on VH1's countdown, or most toys in general. I know little boys love to destroy them. Or at least the boy that was my brother.
3) LEGO - Did you know there's a LEGO theme park? And that the origins of the word LEGO come from the Danish words "leg" meaning "play" and "godt" meaning "well"? Just another reason VH1 is making me smarter.
2) Barbie - you go girl. With your Pool Party and your pink convertible and your mansion with the elevator and your endless wardrobe and your many career choices. You should have been number one, because number one is...
1) Hula Hoop - which makes no sense. Seriously? Number one? Why? Because it's nice to see little girls gyrate their hips? I wholeheartedly disagree with this decision.
Clearly I really want VH1 to hire me to comment on...well, anything, really. I heart you, VH1, even if (like MTV) you only show about an hour of actual music videos per day, because quite honestly I'd rather hear music than see it. Then it can be about anything I want it to be.
Forget Me Not
Recently I had a run-in with my dad's Alzheimers. Mostly my mom has to deal with it and my brother and I are spared. For the most part I see my parents when I go out to their house for laundry and a visit, and my dad cheerfully greets me with "The anagrams are ready when you are," meaning he wants to play anagrams with me as soon as I'm done putting my laundry in. I love that he always wants to play with me, because it's just about the only thing we do just the two of us. You know, bonding. I've become quite good at anagrams and while he used to be extremely good, I can tell anagrams, just like many other things in his life, is becoming more frustrating. His temper has shortened and he's become much more sarcastic. He hates losing to me. He's never been one of those fathers that lets their children win - he's not evil or anything, he doesn't rub it in your face - he just likes to keep us on our toes. My dad is impressed at how well I can play anagrams now, and he must think sometimes that while his daughter is getting smarter he's getting dumber, and thus his sense of self-worth must take regular hits to the gut. Like when he forgets how to get to a friend's house that he's been driving to for 30 years. Like when my mother has him help her with her scrapbook like he's an intern. Honestly, that's how my mom treats him lately. If he's not working he'd better do something besides nap, and she now has him helping her with silly projects and she's taken away most of his decision-making. She is coping the best way she knows how and I really can't blame her. It's probably the hardest thing she'll ever have to deal with, and really, when you're over 60 and your kids are self-sufficient you must think to yourself "now comes the easy part, the twilight years, the years when we retire and relax." Except there will be no relaxing for her. She will be his babysitter until she can't take it anymore and then, for her own sanity, she will put him in a nursing home. He is well aware of this. She already talks about taking up golf because she'll need activities in her life "when she's a single woman." I was totally aghast when she said that to me. My dad was in the other room, and I'm sure he heard it, and I'm sure it's not the first time. No wonder he's become more sarcastic. He probably feels like a rotting piece of fruit just waiting to be noticed and thrown out.
Well, as I said, my brother and I don't really see all the ins and outs and all the ways their lives are affected. While I can see my dad's increased frustration and temper, I had yet, until recently, to really see what can happen when the disease takes over.
For my birthday my parents gave me a generous gift certificate so I could replace my sad tennis shoes with new ones, because that's what I asked for. (Anything that promotes/hints at me getting exercise is cause for great glee with them.) I promptly lost the gift card and asked my mom for the receipt so I could attempt to still use the credit. Somehow my dad got assigned to bringing me the receipt before meeting my mom and some of their friends for dinner. In preparation, I called my dad and gave him exact directions to my house from the Botanical Gardens, which is where he'd be coming from. Not hard, right? About a mile away. Nevermind that he's actually been to my apartment about 4 times. With Alzheimers, it's like a clean slate every time. I didn't even flinch when he asked for directions because I understand that. Friday night passed and there was no receipt in my mailbox. I called my parents' house on Saturday morning and my dad answered, and this is how our conversation went:
Me: Hi Dad! How are you?
Dad: Oh, fine, fine. How are you? What's going on?
Me: Not much! I was just wondering what happened...I thought you were going to bring me that receipt mom gave you.
Dad: (silence)
Dad: The receipt. Hm. Well, I'm not sure.
Me: Ok...um, did Mom forget to give it to you?
Dad: Well, let's see...I don't know.
Me: Were the directions to my apartment hard to follow?
Dad: I don't really know what you're talking about. You'd better ask your mother.
Me: Ok, Dad. It's ok. I'll talk to her later. No big deal.
My dad remembered nothing about the receipt. I don't know if he tried to find my apartment or not. It was the oddest conversation I've ever had with anyone - he just didn't comprehend anything I was saying. Later when I talked to my mom I told her how odd he was on the phone and she said "You know, I had a very strange conversation with him a couple days ago. It must be some sort of rough patch for him," which I think was her way of consoling me, because she knows I'm not used to him being so scatterbrained. Everytime I visit them she tells me another thing he can't do or another factoid about Alzheimers, and I rarely want to hear about it because it's too fucking painful, which is very selfish because I believe she shares these things with me to unload some of the burden from her shoulders. She wants to keep us abreast but she also wants to keep herself sane. I don't believe he has rough patches. I believe I am losing my father. You don't even know how vividly I can imagine walking into his nursing home room in 10 years (8 years? FIVE years?!) with a child on my hip saying "Hi Papa!" and him looking over at the both of us like "Well aren't you pretty! Who are you?"
I recently read an article about dealing with people with Alzheimers when their spouse has died. These people wake up everyday and want to know about their wives and husbands, they ask When are they coming to visit me? And everyday the nursing home staff battles with whether or not to tell them that their loved ones have passed away. Do they tell them the truth every day, making every day the worst of that patient's life? Or do they placate them with "Oh, your wife is visiting tomorrow," knowing that they'll have to recycle that lie for all the tomorrows to come? I honestly don't know what I'll do if my mother passes away before my father. She is, was, and will continue to be the solid rock of our family. But perhaps that responsibility is too great. I need to do more, but I have no idea where to start.
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