tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65764314207986720832024-03-13T10:58:48.249-07:00Summer Where the Sun Don't ShineSummerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-71883667050689844142016-07-23T00:29:00.000-07:002016-07-23T00:29:40.224-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 18: Top 5...Favorite Corners of the WorldIf you ask me what is my favorite place in the world--where do I feel the safest, the most reflective, at peace--in my brain I would say, "Duh, my couch with my cat and my beautiful TV." Out loud I would probably say something pretentious, like the Piazza Campo de Fiori in Rome on a warm autumn night. I mean, it's great, and I went there a couple times, but I think we know who the real winner is here.<div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Couch love rights are civil rights. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Love is love.</i></span></div>
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I'm the type of person who really values their alone time. Don't get me wrong, I love being around smart, funny, amazing people--but when I'm tapped out, I need a significant amount of me time. I need a place where I can disappear or blend in to the scenery and watch how real people interact.</div>
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This is my top five favorite corners of the world. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#5 A cafe in Athens</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>They had a pretty limited menu. Mostly just..stone.</i></span></div>
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Okay, maybe <i>one </i>pretentious answer. </div>
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In fairness, there was never an intention of pretension when I found this cafe on a quiet street at the foot of the hill that leads up to the Acropolis. I was alone on my honeymoon, and I was hungry.</div>
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To my wife-of-the-moment's defense, she had contracted norovirus on our fantastic honeymoon cruise around the Mediterranean. After spending some time in the ship's medical clinic the day before she was told she had to be in quarantine for at least 24 hours--the day we were supposed to be in Athens. </div>
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She insisted that I don't miss Athens because she was sick, and luckily years before she had spent a significant amount of time there, so she was able to direct me to the train that would take me to the Acropolis.</div>
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That morning I said goodbye to her and apprehensively set out into the city, armed with a few Grecian greetings, a city map and a Rick Steves travel book.</div>
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The hike up the hill to see the Acropolis was fucking <i>hard. </i>I knew it was going to be, and I was anxiety ridden about it the whole train ride to the center of the city. </div>
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As I hiked up to the top of the hill I quietly cheered for myself for every ancient stop I conquered--and for not puking. </div>
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I wandered around taking in the ruins, snapping selfies of myself standing far enough away to get the Parthenon in the background. Some dude offered to take a picture of me, and while it was kind, he just didn't know my angles!</div>
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After I strolled to the bottom I sat at the foot of the hill and watched tourists wander by, locals peddling their wares. and little old Greek ladies tearing at the heartstrings of Americans with beautiful lace table cloths. (I wish I had taken that table cloth when we divorced 5 month later)</div>
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I took a walk on the narrow streets, starving and having a hard time deciding which tasty smelling restaurant to eat. </div>
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I chose the quietest one with an outdoor patio that faced the Acropolis. I order a lot of food. My waiter was the owner and he loved my appetite. He gave me a free order of baklava to take back to the boat. </div>
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The city was busy with tourists and locals, but this tiny street was so quiet. I read a book I picked up from the airport, took in the scenery, and smiled at locals as they passed me by. </div>
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I thought about the fight we had poolside two nights before. I made the mistake of asking when she wants to have children. She got mad I couldn't be in the moment and just enjoy what we have. I got mad that she got mad and couldn't just fantasize about having a family. I cried poolside on my honeymoon. I knew this was a bad sign. </div>
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I enjoyed the peace and the feeling of independence--almost what it felt like to be single again. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#4 My Secret Spot</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>What did you think I meant by Secret Spot?</i></span></div>
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I cannot disclose the actual location of my secret spot. I will tell you that it's somewhere near where I used to live in Castle Rock, and I'm so happy that it's not been bulldozed for more carbon-copy homes.</div>
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I was a chubby kid but I was actually pretty active. I was always going out on little adventures on my own my bike, looking for private places that nobody knows about to play pretend. </div>
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My secret spot was a hike off of a bike trail in the covenant community where we lived. I would hide my bike underneath a bridge and hike down a rocky hillside to a little glen nestled in the trees. A tiny little trickle-of a creek flowed down the rocks. The scene looked like an ideal setting for <i>A Midsummer Night's Dream</i> of dancing fairies.</div>
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I would dance up and down the rocks, sing, make up plays in my head. I showed a friend my secret place <i>once.</i> When I told her what I liked to do down there she teased me. I never told anyone else about it again. </div>
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Some secrets should stay secrets.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#3 Kure Beach, NC</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The last thing I want to see before I die.</i></span></div>
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I have many fond memories of spending the summer at Carolina Beach as a kid. Family fun in the sun and whatnot. Kure Beach is just a few steps down the road, and I spent the best few days of my life healing there.</div>
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Right after my divorce I retreated to North Carolina. My extended family on my mother's side live there. I had been planning to go with her there, but our break-up turned what was going to be a trip to show my new wife around the state where my family is descended from to a trip to lick my wounds. </div>
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My Aunt Mandy, one of the greatest women I know and whom I adore, surprised me with a trip to the beach. It was the first week of May and still off-season. We got a condo on the beach for a steal. </div>
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Every day I woke up, put on my swimsuit, grabbed a book I would never read, and flip-flopped down to the beach. My aunt and Uncle Matt would take turns rotating down to hang out with me and make sure I was wearing sunscreen. </div>
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I loved that they still cared for my well-being the same way they did when I was 9 years old playing in the sand. </div>
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I would stare at the water, occasionally force myself in and bounce in the waves, and collapse on my towel and remember what it felt like to feel good again.</div>
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The best part, however, were the locals. </div>
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On Kure Beach, everyone is your friend. As folks would wander by they would strike up conversation. It would start with a hello and would quickly evolve into a conversation about our personal lives. </div>
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I chatted with a gal who, on her days off, would come down to the beach with her husband to collect shark's teeth.</div>
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Another guy was taking a break from a construction job on a condo he was restoring.</div>
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The most interesting character was a dude who talked like The Dude. He was taking a walk before going to work and saw me bouncing up and down in the waves by myself. The beach was practically abandoned, and he loved how brave I was to go out into the water by myself, and how joyful I looked in the water. He looked <i>exactly</i> like Dr. Phil. He told me that he likes to go after midnight for a naked swim. He invited me to join him that night. I passed, but I appreciated the invite.</div>
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A friend told me that the friendliness of the people who lived there is fake--a cover to their menial lives. I don't agree. I miss the lack of rules and pretense--you don't have to be anybody but yourself.</div>
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I need to go back.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#2 Kerry Park, Seattle</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Views should be free.</i></span></div>
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If someone comes to visit Seattle for the first time I always tell them to skip the Space Needle. What are you getting for the $22 it costs to go to the top of the Space Needle? <i>A view--</i>and you're not even getting the Space Needle in your pictures. </div>
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Skip. It. </div>
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Kerry Park is on the south slope of Queen Anne and has the most beautiful panoramic view of Seattle and the Puget sound, and--oh--<i>the Space-freaking-Needle.</i></div>
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It's also a great place to take a seat on the bench and watch humanity roll by. </div>
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Tourists snapping selfies, wedding parties getting their formal pictures, kids playing on the large scale art installment. If you're lucky you'll catch a flash mob or maybe eavesdrop on a sweet conversation between a new couple. </div>
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Skip the stupid Needle.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#1 Oddfellow's Cafe</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Yeah, I'm that guy.</i></span></div>
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Can you call yourself a writer if you don't have a cafe you can disappear into?</div>
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If it's a Sunday morning, I'm most likely walking into Oddfellow's Cafe on Capitol Hill and sweetly asking the adorable hip young man who is always hosting for a spot by a plug in the back. He never remembers my name, but he does remember me, and sometimes sneaks me to the top of the list. </div>
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Tipping well matters, people.</div>
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I was introduced to Oddfellow's by my friend Jen shortly after I moved to Capitol Hill after my divorce. It was like being brought into the warm embrace of the city after spending my entire life in the suburbs. </div>
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I sit in the back for hours. I always order the same thing--scrambled eggs and a biscuit with bacon on the side and house-made jam, and a drip coffee. For every refill I get on my coffee I add a dollar to the tip. My coffee refill record is 8, which lead to my hard rule--no more than 4. If my hands are shaking too hard to type, then I've had too much. </div>
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For the amount of time I spend at Oddfellow's, I really don't spend nearly enough time writing than I do people watching. I like to write stories for the people sitting around me in my head while trying to avoid staring too long. </div>
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Oddfellow's is my favorite place to disappear--my favorite corner of the world.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Your turn: what's your favorite corner of the world? </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Hit me in the comments.</i></b></span></div>
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Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-41506173125158276832016-07-21T22:45:00.000-07:002016-07-21T22:47:12.028-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 17:Top 5...TV Shows<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hey you there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Who? Meh?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yeah, you! The guy who brags that he hasn't had a television in ten years because he likes to "read" "books".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>I like to consider myself "literate".</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Guess what? This post is not for you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is a dedication to the one who raised me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The one who lit up imagination.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Who babysat me after school.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Who kept me company on those lonely Friday nights...and Saturday nights...and well, all the nights.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You taught me history and current events, that there's no such thing as too much of a good Shonda, the length of the Korean war isn't relevant as long as it's funny, friendship really <i>is</i> magic, and it's okay to sleep with whoever you want to <i>as long as you're on a break--</i>just make sure the other person knows you're on a break.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This was the hardest list to put together. If I had two hypothetical children, I'd probably have an easier time picking which one to sell to the circus than I did putting this list together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Chloe, you are going to be SUCH a great juggler! Send me Snapchats, 'k?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here we go...my top 5 favorite TV shows...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#5: America's Got Talent</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>I hit the buzzer for Heidi all..the...time.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A nationwide talent show. It's more than a karaoke singing competition--it's inviting regular people to come on down and shine a light on whatever out of the box talent they have been hiding under a bushel. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are few television shows where I have ugly-face cried as hard as I have when I watched a juggler's dream coming true after his brother who taught him how to juggle as a young boy freaking <i>died before his audition. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes the judge skits are cheesy, and Pierce Morgan literally had no business whatsoever discerning who does or doesn't have talent, but the heart of the show is what makes me watch every summer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">From watching Landau Eugene Murphy, Jr. go from car washer to million-dollar winning crooner, or Michael Grimm crushing the dreams of an adorable little blonde girl (deservedly so), how can you not roll a tear when you see someone's lifelong dream come to fruition?</span></div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Favorite Moment</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Gut. Punching. Talent.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#4: The Cosby Show</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Rudy seems to be the only one who knows what's up...</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Okay, I know--you don't have to tell me. It's a controversial choice, but--it was my childhood dream to be a member of the Huxtables. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Before you point out that I am as white as the inside of a TaunTaun, I know that the Huxtables are an African American family. I loved them because they were fun but <i>real. </i>The kids made stupid mistakes and their parents were able to set them straight without shaming them, raising their voices, or hitting them. Cliff was an idiot but also a beloved doctor. Claire...you guys--Claire.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wanted Claire to be my mom so badly. She adored her kids but also loved her career and life outside her home. She was the moral center and rock of the show and looked so good while doing it. She didn't resent motherhood and didn't resent working hard. Claire Huxtable is one of the most well-written women in television history. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Also, who didn't want to be a member of the Huxtables when they lip-synched <i>Night Time is the Right Time</i>?</span></div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Favorite Moment</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>The night time is definitely not the right time for you Bill. Day light meetings with witnesses only please.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#3: Game of Thrones</u></i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Okay, I know this isn't from the show, but I've never felt so right.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'll admit, I almost gave up on this one after the very first episode. My knee-jerk opinion was that whoever wrote these books must fucking <i>hate </i>women. It struck me as a little too--rapey?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Gradually over time sisters starting doing it for themselves. You got the Khaleesi with her freaking <i>dragons </i>crossing the sea, the Girl With No Name who has a name again, the new Queen of Winterfell, and the terrifying new Queen of King's Landing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Oh, uh--spoiler alert. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Aside from the obvious drawing you in and making you love a character only to have them killed off in a manner too brutal for Buffalo Bill, the return of badassery every year has me tingling with excitement. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Valar morgulis mothereffers.</span></div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Favorite Scene</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Valar dohaeris too you guys--valar dohaeris!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#2: The Thick of It</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Before he was The Doctor, he was </i>terrifying.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You have never heard of this show. Please, please, <i>please </i>rectify this. If you love <i>Veep, </i>then you'll love this even more. The whole series is on Hulu--you have no excuse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What <i>Veep </i>lacks in characters that are horrible people who remain unlikable, <i>Thick of It </i>has characters that are horrible people that you can't help but love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of the greatest characters--of all time and on the show--is Malcolm Tucker, played by actual Oscar winner and current The Doctor, Peter Capaldi. Modeled after Alastair Campbell, who is the British version of Karl Rove or Rahm Emmanuel. He's the enforcer of the Prime Minister who terrifies cabinet ministers into walking the party line, and he does it with foaming at the mouth gusto.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even better is that they cuss and insult each other with the eloquence of Shakespeare, so I'll stop gushing and I'll let you just soak in some of my favorite quotes:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"He's so useless--he's absolutely useless--he's as useless as a marzipan dildo!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"When I want your advice I'll give you the signal--which is me getting sectioned under the Mental Health Act."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 26.6px;">I will tear your fu</span><span style="background-color: white; border: 0px none; color: #333333; line-height: 26.6px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">cking skin off, I will wear it to your mother's birthday party, and rub your nuts up and down her leg whilst whistling Bohemian-fu</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 26.6px;">cking-Rhapsody. Right?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"That guy is an epic fuck-up. He's so dense that light bends around him."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And my favorite that--if I were a meaner person--I'd love to say to another person as a means of getting out of a conversation:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I'd love to stop and chat with you but I'd rather have type 2 diabetes."</span></div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Favorite Moment</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>#SquadGoals</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i><u>#1: 30 Rock</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>#OtherSquadGoals. I can have more than one squad.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Liz Lemon. Tracy Jordan. Jack Donaghy. Jenna Mulroney. Kenneth the Page. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have lost count of how many times I have re-watched this show from start to end. After awhile it became part of my bedtime routine--I would fall asleep watching <i>30 Rock</i> and dream of strip club karaoke with Tracey. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can't begin to describe all the reasons why I love this show in a short blog post. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In short, it's one of the greatest ensemble comedy casts of all time--on par with <i>M*A*S*H, Cheers, </i>and the highly underrated <i>Arrested Development. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It also contains all the answers to life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">How was that party? "Purr-fect--like a cat birthday!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Someone getting you down? "High-fiving a million angels!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Should you do the dishes? "I would love to do the dishes, but I'm in character, and if you make me do the dishes <i>I WILL KILL MYSELF!!!</i>"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cramps got you down? "All women menstruating go home <i>immediately</i>!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Need to get everyone's attention? "Listen up fives--a ten is talking."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Should I get a professional haircut? "D'Fwan--glue in my business weave."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Should I catch up on sleep on the plane? "I don't sleep on planes--I don't want to get incepted."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Is it time for rehearsal? "I'm not going to rehearse. I'm going to get a sandwich and then eat it on the toilet."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Is Global Warming really a problem? "There was a cyclone in Brooklyn last year--it destroyed two t-shirt shops and a banjo."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Is the audience unsatisfied with my performance? "Your boos are not scaring me! I know most of you are not ghosts!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Do you want to go there? "I want to go to there."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Are you so frustrated there are no words to describe how you feel? "BLERGH!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And so on...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><u>Favorite Moment</u></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>See Day 7.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Hit me in the comments! What's your top five?</b></span></div>
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Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-32870352180806976312016-07-19T23:56:00.002-07:002016-07-19T23:56:31.119-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 16: Top 5...MusiciansYears ago if you asked me who my top five favorite musicians or bands are, I would answer before you finished asking the question. If you asked me now, after living in the Pacific Northwest where if you didn't like someone first, you're a pleb--actually I don't think I've heard anyone use the word pleb here. Maybe the best terminology is "basic bitch"?<br />
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Whatever.<br />
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This basic bitch loves musicians and bands that lots of other people love too. They're popular for a reason people.What are <i>you </i>doing with your life?! Don't judge me!<br />
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Grab a pumpkin spice latte, put on your shades that you bought from Urban Outfitters at the local mall, and let's go to Sam Goody you betches!<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Haaaay betches! I'm made with skim milk!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><u><b>#5: Adele</b></u></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I could rest my pumpkin spice latte in that gorgeous chin-dimple.</i></span></div>
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Just...come on you guys. I have two ears and a heart, don't I?</div>
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She sings <i>all of my feelings.</i> If you have had your heart broken by some soulless monster with gorgeous eyes and big boobs and you didn't sob uncontrollably while listening to <i>Someone Like You while</i> stuffing Cheetos in your face, you literally have no heart. You're probably my ex.</div>
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<i>Favorite Song:</i></div>
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/hLQl3WQQoQ0/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hLQl3WQQoQ0?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Just fucking sing.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><u><b>#4: Coldplay</b></u></i></span></div>
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<a href="http://musicnotesworld.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/coldplay-profiel-800x480.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://musicnotesworld.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/coldplay-profiel-800x480.gif" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>B.G.--Before Goop.</i></span></div>
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A hipster douche-bag once asked me who is in my top five. He made fun of me for liking Coldplay. </div>
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His favorite band is Oingo Boingo. </div>
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Fuck that guy. </div>
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I love all of their albums, in order of release. <i>Parachutes </i>is far and away my favorite rainy Sunday album.</div>
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I saw them second row with my best friend at Red Rocks. Their poetic lyrics, iridescent sound, and light show that ricocheted off the rock formations was dazzling. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><u><b><br /></b></u></i></span></div>
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<i>Favorite Song:</i></div>
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/gnIZ7RMuLpU/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gnIZ7RMuLpU?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Lullaby melody and lyrics that speak to my heart? Sign me up please.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Again, before Goop.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><u><b>#3: Guster</b></u></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://media.npr.org/assets/img/2013/04/22/guster_wide-8f38c746a39fa5e699dc41b66b91e357213764e5.jpg?s=1400" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://media.npr.org/assets/img/2013/04/22/guster_wide-8f38c746a39fa5e699dc41b66b91e357213764e5.jpg?s=1400" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bringing back little-boy striped polo shirts before it was cool</i></span></div>
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I fell in love with Guster when I saw them open for my number two favorite artist. To watch them play music live is to watch someone experience joy doing what they love. </div>
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My friend and I resolved to see them every single time they came to Denver, and we did--I also have not seen them since I left Denver because I cannot possibly imagine seeing them without her. </div>
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I have two Guster t-shirts. Their t-shirt game is <i>en pointe.</i></div>
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Their music? Joyful, thoughtful, emotional, cheeky. Even if their songs become melancholy they bring it right back around with a hidden song that they clearly improvised and cracked up while recording it.</div>
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Their drummer is my favorite drummer. Which of you Oingo Boingo loving bastards have a favorite drummer? </div>
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They re-recorded their album <i>Keep it Together</i> and replaced the lyrics with simulated meows. <i>Meows people!!!</i></div>
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Give joy a chance. Listen to Guster. Guster is for lovers.</div>
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<i>Favorite Song:</i></div>
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<i><br /></i><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/EE5GH8znxoo/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EE5GH8znxoo?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>This should be the first thing you listen to every single morning.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><u><b>#2: John Mayer</b></u></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilszZ1GMixrJkT6ewOXbcfep5veAkAu9ubHrx6C4gHiwkqqWcQSAs_VUxO9JRXDp3drqvFkJtFYKZposTkAsmFHbduHhKJLwC3BM8POwRU_ML6w0KvCCmoH_UG-Cm3J5fIjd3eTCouplnJ/s1600/230324_10150250160439252_2372628_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilszZ1GMixrJkT6ewOXbcfep5veAkAu9ubHrx6C4gHiwkqqWcQSAs_VUxO9JRXDp3drqvFkJtFYKZposTkAsmFHbduHhKJLwC3BM8POwRU_ML6w0KvCCmoH_UG-Cm3J5fIjd3eTCouplnJ/s400/230324_10150250160439252_2372628_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>John Mayer with some groupies he met backstage at Red Rocks. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>His life was never the same.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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Before Jennifer Aniston--before Katie Perry--before that idiotic <i>Playboy </i>interview--I found out John Mayer was playing Red Rocks for the first time in his career. </div>
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I saw him with my friend Casey three times already, but never at Red Rocks. I knew his shows would sell out, so to be proactive I joined his online fan club that would allow me first access to tickets. </div>
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For $25 I got a tiny poster, a key-chain, and dibs on tickets. </div>
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Two days before his show I got an email from his tour manager stating that as a member of his fan club I was automatically entered into a contest to meet John Mayer with one friend before his show at Red Rocks.</div>
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This excited me.</div>
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I assumed we would get a little meet and greet with dozens of his fans--maybe a picture and a handshake. His manager escorted us backstage where we stood alone.A couple other girls came and stood next to us. That was it. </div>
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His manager introduced him to the girls; they worked with his brother Ben at Qwest. </div>
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He came to us. I literally cannot remember a single word we exchanged. Knowing Casey she was cool. Knowing me I probably stuttered and said something odd and inappropriate. His manager said he had to be on in five minutes and he hugged us goodbye--and not a limp fish celebrity hug--our chests touched. He smelled great. </div>
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Just as he was about to disappear I looked at the camera in my hand and sadly said to Casey that I forgot to ask for a picture. He stopped and asked, "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry guys, did you want a picture?" <i>He </i>was <i>sorry. </i></div>
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Look at that picture. Look at the joy on those faces. </div>
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I love his music too.</div>
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<i>Favorite Song:</i></div>
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<i><br /></i><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/xGDothf6iak/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xGDothf6iak?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>This came out 2 years after I dropped out of high school. It spoke to me.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<i style="font-size: x-large;"><u><b>#1: U2</b></u></i></div>
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<a href="http://rocknewsdesk.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/n2903u2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://rocknewsdesk.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/n2903u2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>B.G.--Before Glasses.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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The first time I saw U2 in concert it was such a spiritually moving experience I wrote an eight page review of the show and posted it on their fan tour website. <i style="font-weight: bold;">Fifteen years later it can be read <a href="http://tours.atu2.com/reviews/pepsi-center-denver-apr-06-2001/1258" target="_blank">HERE</a>. </i>Nothing else could possibly illustrate my love for U2 more than this long gush-fest of love.</div>
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Seeing U2 live is going to church and having a spiritual awakening. </div>
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Casey and I would show up to the general admission line early in the morning so we could get as close as Bono as possible every time we saw them.</div>
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We argued when he looked at me--she thought he looked her--<i>he looked at me. </i>It was during <i>In a Little While, </i>right at the moment he sang <i>...Spanish eyes...</i></div>
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You know it's true Casey!</div>
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I have every single album on CD. No digital downloads. </div>
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I have bootlegs. </div>
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I have vinyl. </div>
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<i>Joshua Tree</i> was the first album I ever loved. </div>
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<i>Where the Streets Have No Name</i> still makes me cry. </div>
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The first time I listened to <i>Beautiful Day </i>I decided to change my life.</div>
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Seeing them live with my best friend are my most cherished memories. </div>
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U2 everybody.</div>
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<i>Favorite Song:</i></div>
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<i><br /></i><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/3FsrPEUt2Dg/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3FsrPEUt2Dg?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I HAVE DREAMS!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I WANT TO START AN ARTIST'S COLONY IN THE DESERT!</i></span></div>
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<i style="font-size: x-large;"><u><b><br /></b></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Your turn! Hit me in the comments. This is a no judging zone. Even if you love Oingo Boingo.</b></span></div>
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Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-87889299013857944702016-07-18T23:45:00.000-07:002016-07-18T23:45:21.300-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 15: Top 5...Movies<i>I was challenged to do a series of my favorite movies, musicians, etc. The opinions of this blog writer do not reflect the opinions of her cat. </i><br />
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Movies, am I right? They have people in them. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don't talk. Sometimes they run, sometimes they don't move at all. Sometimes it's just a couple people in a room, sometimes a traveling brotherhood of representatives of varying fantasy-based races fighting against the forces of evil to destroy the One Ring.<br />
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Movies, right?<br />
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It wasn't terribly hard to pick my top three--those never change. Four and five were harder to commit to. I even considered being very lazy and just making this a top three list, but a challenge isn't a challenge if it's easy.<br />
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#firstworldproblems<br />
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Here we go gang! Drum roll please?<br />
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<a href="http://cin.h-cdn.co/assets/16/16/1461148491-pug-playing-the-drums-gif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://cin.h-cdn.co/assets/16/16/1461148491-pug-playing-the-drums-gif.gif" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Who's da best widdle drummer in da world??</i></span></div>
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My top five favorite movies:<br />
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<i><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">#5: Bridget Jones's Diary</span></u></b></i></div>
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<a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTTitzmCmLSBdW1PCTxSLZXn_e4ZCBMNo_5AFXjbgEJ34hxu2h8" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTTitzmCmLSBdW1PCTxSLZXn_e4ZCBMNo_5AFXjbgEJ34hxu2h8" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I think we're all thinking the same thing here: devil's three-wayy. AmIright?</i></span></div>
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<i><b><u><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></u></b></i></div>
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Bridget Jones: the Godfather of romantic comedies, except the sequel is not nearly as good as the first. The third...remains to be seen. </div>
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I recall seeing the trailer for <i>Bridget Jones... </i>and I knew I was going to love it. When I saw it, I loved it even more than I thought I would. Like a lot of young women I think I saw a lot of myself in the heroine of the movie: dead end job, smokes too much, drinks too much, no partner, disapproving mother, and an under-appreciated full bottom. </div>
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All the way from her serenading her answering machine with no messages to go out on a Friday night to pratfall after pratfall, I saw little bits of myself. When she pulled herself up by her stiff, British, upper-lip after being brutally dumped and she took control of her life and changed her story, she spoke to <i>me.</i> </div>
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It's it silly to take life advice from an early 2000's romantic comedy? Maybe. So what? I've seen grown men cry like children when their football team loses. Shut-up. </div>
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<i>Favorite Scene:</i></div>
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/n0K7bdSg5gI/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/n0K7bdSg5gI?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Who doesn't want someone to love them just as they are? Wobbly bits and all.</i></span></div>
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<i><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">#4: Waking Ned Devine</span></u></b></i></div>
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<a href="http://ia.media-imdb.com/images/M/MV5BYjg3YThlNTYtZTNiYS00MmU4LWIwM2YtYWZjYjIzYjUyNzE0XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyNDk3NzU2MTQ@._V1_UY268_CR4,0,182,268_AL_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ia.media-imdb.com/images/M/MV5BYjg3YThlNTYtZTNiYS00MmU4LWIwM2YtYWZjYjIzYjUyNzE0XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyNDk3NzU2MTQ@._V1_UY268_CR4,0,182,268_AL_.jpg" height="320" width="217" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>DRINK! (If you've never watched </i>Father Ted <i>you haven't lived)</i></span></div>
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I imagine this one is a little out of left field. Anyone I bring this movie up to has never really heard of it, but it had to go on the list. I watch it once a year with some rich food and a giant bottle of Scotch ale. </div>
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I know it's Scotch but I hate Guinness--let's stay on track here.</div>
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Two life long friends find the winning lottery ticket of their recently deceased friend. Their tiny little Irish town is brought in to the fold and the varying characters with their own fascinating stories help make the dream come true. They are all darling and lovely and keep the story moving in their charming, small-town Irish way. There's also an abundance of old man tush. </div>
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The overall theme of commitment and friendship touches my heart every single time I watch it, and as the final scene swells with <i>The Parting Glass, </i>I can't help but cry and pray I have friends I can grow old with. </div>
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<i>Favorite Scene:</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Just...come on. Don't tell me you don't think this is all they do in Ireland</i></span><i style="font-size: x-small;">--</i></div>
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<i style="font-size: x-small;">standing on green hillsides and toasting their friends.</i></div>
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<i><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">#3: Almost Famous</span></u></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes...</i></span></div>
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I defy anyone who says they didn't watch<i> Almost Famous </i>and want to jump in a time machine and be a rock journalist in the seventies. </div>
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There is little not to love about <i>Almost Famous</i>. The changing music scene of the 70's, women feeling empowered to do what they want with their bodies, the ensemble of protagonists with their own angels and demons. Nobody is perfect, and nobody is bad--they all just fucking <i>love </i>music--because music is to bond. </div>
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Kate Hudson's O.G. pixie manic dream girl Penny Lane, Patrick Fugit's wide-eyed writing ingenue, and Philip Seymour Hoffman's drug-addled sage wisdom are the best pieces of this movie set to the seventies soundtrack capturing moments of humanity in a sometimes inhumane business. </div>
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This is also the movie that motivated me to go back to school, because I wanted to get a degree in journalism and write for Rolling Stone. Two major switches later and no degree, I did manage to get in Rolling Stone: in the <i>Letter to the Editor </i>section in their 9/11 issue. They pulled a quote from me on one of their message boards. The day I saw my name printed in Rolling Stone Magazine remains one of the greatest days of my life. </div>
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<i>Favorite Scene: </i></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Just shut-up and sing.</i></span></div>
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<i><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">#2: The Color Purple</span></u></b></i></div>
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<a href="http://fontmeme.com/images/The-Color-Purple-Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://fontmeme.com/images/The-Color-Purple-Poster.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>That unmistakable silhouette.</i></span></div>
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I believe I was seven years old the first time I watched this movie with my mother. I wanted to watch it with because I loved Whoopi Goldberg from her comedy, and I loved Oprah Winfrey from after school T.V. watching. There were a few scenes that stayed with me.</div>
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Oprah Winfrey's Sofia emerging from behind stalks of corn after fighting her husband. Her face bruised, she shames Celie for telling her stepson to beat her--after fighting men her whole life she shouldn't have to fight her own husband. </div>
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Another scene with Celie and Shug Avery after they escaped from the gin joint fight. Shug dressed Celie up and taught her how to love her smile. When Shug gingerly kissed Celie on the lips, my mother covered my eyes telling me that it was disgusting and girls don't do that--but there they were--doing that. </div>
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Then the final scene. After a lifetime of abuse and struggle Celie stands on her own front porch of her own house looking over a field of purple wildflowers. A car pulls up and four heads emerge followed by beautiful fabric being swept up by the wind against the setting sun. Celie knows it's her sister. Just recalling her gut-wrenching cry of her sister's name brings tears to my eyes. Then meeting her children for the first time since they were born. The bond of sisterhood over years and miles never broken as they resume their clapping chant from their childhood...</div>
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And I'm crying now. </div>
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I watch it probably twice a year and I still see things that I never noticed before. It's unbelievably quotable:</div>
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<i>Nothing but death can keep me from it!</i></div>
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<i>See daddy? Sinners have souls too.</i></div>
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<i>I think it pisses God off when you walk passed the color of purple in a field and don't notice it.</i></div>
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<i>Til you do right by me, everything you think about gonna fail. </i>(The prayer of every spurned ex)</div>
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<i>Hell. No. </i></div>
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Just watch it. Bring the tissues.</div>
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<i>Favorite Scene:</i></div>
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<i><br /></i><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/vRSla1RaEiM/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vRSla1RaEiM?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Ugly-face crying here you guys. Ugly. Face. Crying.</i></span></div>
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<i><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">#1: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring</span></u></b></i></div>
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<a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/0/0c/The_Fellowship_Of_The_Ring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/0/0c/The_Fellowship_Of_The_Ring.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Before Gollum came and fucked it up for everyone.</i></span></div>
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I'm a geek right? My favorite movie is a fantasy adventure of a bunch of fantasy characters banding together against evil to destroy the One Ring. </div>
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If that's all you see when you watch this movie then you're clearly not watching close enough! Where's my inhaler?</div>
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Friendship. Love. Devotion. Faithfulness. Leaving the nest. Going on an adventure. Letting go. Taking a chance. Overcoming grief and fighting against the odds when the odds are so obviously stacked against you. </div>
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Come. The freak. <i>On.</i> </div>
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This is so much more than a fantasy adventure.</div>
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I saw this in the theater with my friend six times. I bought the original DVD release and the extended box set. I watched all thirteen hours of extras and my friend and I would sit in a bar and quote them. Not the movie--<i>the extras. </i>We even went on a road trip to California to see the third movie--which remains one of the greatest trips of my life.</div>
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I will leave you with this scene. The devotion that Sam has for Frodo wrecks me every time--and while I think about my top five, that seems to be a common theme. I guess that speaks to my values, or at the very least what I want the most: a friend who would walk with me through fire.</div>
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<i>Favorite Scene:</i></div>
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<i><br /></i><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/rCY_Hjv7vKc/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rCY_Hjv7vKc?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-56640299227733493702016-07-18T00:32:00.001-07:002016-07-18T00:32:10.189-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 14: You Could Lose Your Mind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmk-nACflGYzTPabrNfMvrqIM__xGS1DUvbbFeOO7noI2N_Q_qdJwFbxSerh36WKlb9D7hLHx5fhYnNchwwQsJ7R07Pqeq1tX3diyXLhofu_F5Vb7BbgOg50LygrGqe-_-FPZKQHerUY35/s1600/19932_308164954251_4569343_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmk-nACflGYzTPabrNfMvrqIM__xGS1DUvbbFeOO7noI2N_Q_qdJwFbxSerh36WKlb9D7hLHx5fhYnNchwwQsJ7R07Pqeq1tX3diyXLhofu_F5Vb7BbgOg50LygrGqe-_-FPZKQHerUY35/s320/19932_308164954251_4569343_n.jpg" width="186" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The summer before fifth grade. I was </i>very<i> proud of this shirt. Rad dude. Rad.</i></span></div>
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I think I can attribute the majority of trouble I got myself into as a child to the bad influence of <i>Nick at Nite. </i>Shows like <i>Leave it to Beaver, I Love Lucy, </i>and <i>The Little Rascals--</i>riddled with rascally characters getting into all kinds of shenanigans. If you were going to take life advice from any <i>Nick at Nite </i>show, <i>The Patty Duke Show </i>was not one of them.<br />
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I changed schools twice in the fifth grade--the first time was at the start of the year when my mother decided the bullying situation at my current school was untenable, and the second was when we moved towns.<br />
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Second grade through fourth grade at Centennial Elementary in Littleton was at best a waking nightmare. My walks to and from school was like playing <i>Super Mario Brothers--</i>you never knew was was lurking around the corner wanting to throw things at your face. Things weren't any better in the school either. The kids were pretty bold when it came to their bullying, even going so far as attacking me in class--in front of the teacher. With little change and repercussion from the principal my mother pulled me out of Centennial at the end of fourth grade.<br />
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Peabody Elementary was full of promise. The staff and my teacher knew the situation I was coming from, and they were warm and welcoming. The kids didn't really pick on me so much as they ignored me.<br />
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One day a pair of girls in my class took me aside and said they wanted to talk to me. The reason that nobody really wanted to talk to me was because my clothes weren't really cool. Up until that point it never really occurred to me that clothes were supposed to be cool--I just wore what my mother bought me: jeans, corduroys, my <i>Simpsons</i> t-shirt, overalls--stuff kids wear. One of the girls offered to bring in clothes for me the next day, just so I could experience what wearing cool clothes would be like.<br />
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The next day she brought me a pair of black stirrup stretch pants, push-down tube socks, a cream colored turtle neck and a beautiful green long baggy sweater. They were the nicest clothes I'd ever put on. I went to the bathroom before our first recess to change. I stepped on to the playground and was met with all-around approval from the girls who dressed me up.<br />
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"See! This is how you should dress!" She was so proud of herself.<br />
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They invited me to participate in a swing race with them. We played together again after lunch.<br />
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For a day I felt like I belonged. Why only a day? Well, I brought myself down this time, with my big imagination and my big mouth.<br />
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As we sat together on the jungle gym I had an idea. How can I make my stock go up? Make up a fantastic, improbable lie, obviously!<br />
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I told the kids I wasn't going to be in class the next day because I had a doctor appointment, but my cousin is visiting and she was going to be allowed to sit in class for me. Oh and by the way, my cousin is from <i>England</i>! Oh, and she's <i>British</i>! Also,she's--wait for it--my <i>twin</i>!<br />
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Any of this sound familiar? That's because it's the plot to <i>The Patty Duke Show. </i><br />
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In summary, my genius plan was to show up at school the next day posing as my own English twin cousin. Sounds pretty cool, right? The kids clearly didn't watch nearly as much <i>Nick at Nite</i> as I did because they seemed to believe me, they even started telling other kids in the class. It occurred to me at the end of the day as I packed up my bag that my plot had many holes in it. If I was going to pull this off, I was going to have to tell my teacher.<br />
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I was the last to leave class and she was already at her desk grading papers.<br />
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Mrs. Fleming, was sweet but no-nonsense, with a darling pixie cut and she always wore red lipstick--I even still think of her when I wear red lipstick. I approached her at her desk and she looked up at me over her reading glasses.<br />
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I stumbled through my story--her stare was killing my confidence--but I walked away assuring myself that she believed me.<br />
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As I climbed into the car with my mom I became overcome with guilt. I told a pretty big lie. The absurdity of the lie didn't occur to me, just the fact that I <i>lied. </i>I was still doing time in my evening prayers asking for forgiveness for stealing a lip-gloss, I should be adding lying to my list of sins.<br />
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As I buckled myself in I told my mother, "I think I did something bad."<br />
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"What did you do?" She asked. Her voice sound strained--like I was about to drop a pretty big bomb.<br />
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I felt that I needed to diffuse what could potentially be a huge problem for me. If I acted like it's not <i>that big a deal, </i>then she would definitely find her chill.<br />
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"Well, it's not <i>that big a deal. </i>I told the kids in my class that I have an English twin cousin and that she's coming to school for me tomorrow. I told Mrs. Fleming too...but it's not that big of a deal! It's silly!"<br />
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The look on her face was not at all filled with amusement the way I hoped it would be. Her mouth was just stuck in a pursed "O" shape.<br />
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"Summer Jean, this is a <i>very</i> big deal. That's a huge lie, and it's not funny."<br />
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Yes it is, I thought to myself.<br />
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"Yes it is!", I said--out loud. Stupid.<br />
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"You are going to turn around and go back in there and tell your teacher the truth."<br />
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It wasn't rational, but I couldn't believe she wasn't on my side. I couldn't believe she was going to make me actually face my lie so boldly. I could feel my cheeks get hot and I began to cry.<br />
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"You can't make me go back in there!" If I cried maybe she'll take pity.<br />
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"We're not leaving until you go back in there and tell your teacher the truth." She put the van in park and turned off the engine.<br />
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I sat, slack-jawed, for what felt like minutes. I felt numb. I felt stupid. The absurdity of the lie was starting to wash over me. What a genuinely <i>stupid</i> lie.<br />
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I climbed out of the mini-van and started what felt like a death march towards the school. I could have done the honorable thing and just fess up. I could have done that. I didn't do that.<br />
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As I slowly paced down the polished school linoleum I kicked my brain into gear. Fessing up to lies is the <i>worst.</i> Why should I fess up to a lie when I could just come up with another lie? I can get through this relatively unscathed if I can come up with a really good cover for myself.<br />
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Mrs. Fleming was still sitting at her desk grading papers. I approached her desk and she peered up at me over her reading glasses once more.<br />
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"Yes, Summer?" Clearly I was encroaching on her time.<br />
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"Um, Mrs. Fleming? I just wanted to let you know--" Light-bulb."--that my cousin won't be able to make it tomorrow. She never made it out here. She's sick. She has pneumonia. She actually got sick on the plane. They had to turn it around and take her back to England. I don't know if she's going to make it. A-a-a-a-ny-way...she won't be here tomorrow. I'll be here though! My doctor appointment was canceled. See you tomorrow?"<br />
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I don't know what I expected. <i>"Oh sure, no problem! Hope your cousin makes it! See you tomorrow!"</i> Her face registered as utterly un-amused.<br />
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She just sighed. "Fine Summer. Good night."<br />
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I said good night and left her with her papers. Half of me thought she bought it. The other half knew she didn't, but it didn't matter. I had made myself look like an idiot at my new school--it was over before it could even begin.<br />
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The fun wasn't over. My mother demanded to know if I told her the truth, and in the spirit of maintaining an honest relationship with her, I told her that I lied again. She was aghast. She couldn't believe that I had lied <i>again. </i>We went home and I spent the rest of the night alone in my room.<br />
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The next day at school I spouted the same lie to the kids. Whether or not they bought it didn't matter. I was relegated to the same obscurity from which I came--not because I couldn't come up with an English twin cousin, but because my clothes looked poor.<br />
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Six months later we moved to Castle Rock. My parents were tired of renting in a bad neighborhood, and Castle Rock had better schools.<br />
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I wish I could say I learned my lesson. A couple days before I started school at Rock Ridge Elementary I sneak-watched <i>Dirty Dancing. </i>I was obsessed with the dancing in it and practiced in my bedroom wearing my mother's leotard.<br />
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On my second day of class I found out the two most popular girls took dance lessons. I boasted to them that I taught lessons, specializing in the dancing from <i>Dirty Dancing. </i><br />
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Lindsey, the most popular of the two, sneered through her braced teeth. "Our parents would never let us watch that, and I don't need lessons from <i>you.</i>" I noted her response and quietly went about my business, once again relegating myself to friendless obscurity.<br />
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As I walked home from school that day I noticed another girl from my class walking the same path home as me. I asked if I could walk with her. She said yes, but this doesn't mean we're friends. She also pointed out that my cowboy boots looked ridiculous. They were my dad's boots and I <i>loved</i> them, even if they were too big for me.<br />
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That night my mother came into my room to say good night to me. I'll never forget that night, because the room was dark but still bright from the light of a full moon.<br />
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She asked me if I wanted to pray. I began to cry.<br />
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She wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Why are you crying baby?"<br />
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I felt bereft. "I just feel like I'm never going to have a friend. I'm never going to fit in. I don't know how to make friends."<br />
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She took my hands and told me to pray about it. I looked at the full moon and squeezed my eyes tight.<br />
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"Dear God, I don't have any friends. Please let me make a friend tomorrow."<br />
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My mother kissed me good night. I fell asleep crying that night, faithless in my prayer.<br />
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The next day as I sat alone on the playground a girl came up and started talking to me. Her name was Shiloy. I told her where I was from, where I lived in the neighborhood. She actually seemed interested in me. After school she walked me to the rain run-off tunnel that I walked through to get to my house. She said we should sit together at lunch the next day.<br />
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As I walked through the tunnel I heard the sparrows flapping around, building their spring nests. I smiled as I saw my house walking out of the dark tunnel. I ran the rest of the way home and breathlessly hugged my mother.<br />
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To be honest, 25 years later I still struggle with making friends and I still struggle with relating to people. I've stopped telling lies, and I always try to be myself. There's a gap that I struggle crossing--that gap that prevents me from connecting. Maybe it's fear, Maybe I'm a little bit broken.<br />
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That day though, I didn't feel broken. I didn't need a fantastic lie. I didn't need Patty Duke or <i>Dirty Dancing.</i><br />
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As I hugged my mother, I looked up at her through tears in my eyes and said, "Jesus answered my prayer. I made a friend today."Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-15665696407025631772016-07-14T21:40:00.000-07:002016-07-14T21:41:06.470-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 13: Lazy Days Are Here Again<div>
<i>This post is gonna be meme HEAVY. Ugh, do I have to cite my sources? Being ethical is the worst.</i></div>
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Tonight I wanted to write a story about the time in 5th grade when I lied about being my own twin. I'm going to write that story, however, I am currently snuggled in my beddy-by in my jimmy-jams under my blankey-wankey, and guess what?<br />
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I. Don't. Feel like it. </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pout.</span></i></div>
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I'm tired and sleepy and cranky and I just wanna watch Mr. Robot. </div>
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<img src="http://memeshappen.com/media/created/I-am-mrrobot--meme-32716.jpg" height="318" width="320" /><img src="webkit-fake-url://2cad094d-f49c-4082-b350-5842b1957e5d/imagejpeg" /></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">No you're not. Stop it.</span></i></div>
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I know that to be a good writer, you have to write. A lot.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Can't I just </i>say<i> I'm a writer? Do I have to actually do it?</i></span></div>
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Tonight I'm giving myself a night off-ish.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I will. I will treat myself. Thank you. Hey Retta? Call me.</span></i></div>
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In the mean time hit me in the comments and tell me all the wonderful things you have planned for this weekend. </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Mmm, weekend so good...</span></i></div>
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Lazy Summer OUT.</div>
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Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-31715221056743079662016-07-13T23:51:00.001-07:002016-07-13T23:51:25.449-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 12: Roster Fosters Imposter Ever heard of "Impostor's Syndrome"? Basically it means that no matter how much you are meant to be where you are, you just don't feel like you fit. It comes with an unrelenting dread that someday you will be exposed for what you are--a <i>fraud.</i><br />
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<img height="288" src="https://i.imgflip.com/r6ezf.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Step 1: Assimilate. Step 2: Try not to appear so damn shifty-eyed.</i></span></div>
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I think you would hard-pressed not to find someone who, at some point in their life, has felt this way. For me, I feel it constantly. With my friends, my job, my hobbies--this never-ending feeling in my gut that someone is going to catch on and see what I really am. Now I think it's safe to say it comes from deep-seeded lack of self-confidence and a loss of proper positive enforcement in my formative years, but we're not talking about that right now. </div>
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There's a difference between <i>feeling</i> like you don't belong and then actually not belonging--being an actual fraud. </div>
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In my junior year of high school I started to really notice that I had feelings of--shall we say--a lesbionic nature. While on the surface I did have crushes on boys my age (who subsequently came out of the closet), I harbored <i>deep</i> sapphic feelings for my poetry teacher...and my creative writing teacher...and my Sci-Fi and Fantasy teacher...did I have a thing for English teachers?</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Ooo, yeah girl...I'll iambic your pentameter...</i></span></div>
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I, as many kids my age in the 90's who lived in small conservative towns--or anywhere for that matter--struggled with these feelings. Having been raised a good Christian girl these feelings were a very bad sign. </div>
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I would lay in my bed and pray to God to lay me down to sleep and to forgive me for that one time I stole a lipgloss, I would also pray that God would take it away--please, please, <i>please,</i> take these feelings away. </div>
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Don't make me like them.</div>
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Don't make me struggle with this.</div>
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Don't let my family hate me. </div>
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When the day came in my study hall our teacher passed around a sign-up form with extra-curricular groups to join, I spotted among the foreign language clubs what I hoped would be a promising beacon: Staying Straight.</div>
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My inner dialogue was the following, "Staying Straight? Amazing! They can help me with these feelings. They can help me, you know--stay straight! Sign me up!" Check the box, sign here, and promptly forget about it. </div>
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Weeks later I was sitting in class and one of the office aids came in and dropped one of the dreaded pink slips with my teacher.--the pink slip that was usually a call to go to the principal's office for a "chat". If you ever eyeballed that kid and felt a sense of doom, you probably did something <i>naughty. </i></div>
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As for me, I felt that sense of doom because I ditched constantly, so it was no surprise when the teacher called my name. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>For me there should have been a box marked </i>Indefinitely<i>.</i></span></div>
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As I started my march to the principals office I noticed it wasn't an actual principal's pass, but a pass to see the school resource police officer in the student counseling center. That sense of dread was replaced with a sense of "Oh fuck, I'm dead." </div>
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As I walked in the small conference room I saw him sitting at the table next to the school nurse and other kids I recognized from around school. Everyone in the room was warm and inviting--I assume it's what it feels like to walk into your own intervention.</div>
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I sat down next to a very pretty girl who was a year ahead of me. If you asked me to define which high school clique everyone fell into, I would say it was a diverse representation of my school--jock, preppy, skater, theatre nerd (me), uhh...nice kid, weird kids, fat kid, skinny kid, even kids with chicken pox--I'm really struggling to remember my school cabals.</div>
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The nurse--who we'll call Ms. J to protect the innocent--started by having us go around and introduce ourselves. She was lovely and warm, and clearly talented with created safe spaces.</div>
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She was creating a safe space because she made it clear that this was a group for kids in our school to talk about struggling with staying off of drugs and alchohol--<i>staying straight. </i>As in: on the straight and narrow. Clean. <i>Off drugs.</i></div>
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Full disclosure, at the time the only addiction I struggled with was my <i>Phantom of the Opera</i> and <i>Titanic </i>soundtracks.</div>
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I don't really remember if I said anything other than my name in that meeting. I just listened. The kids talked about their struggles with actual drug and alcohol abuse, and wanting to stay clean. They shared deeply vulnerable stories about their personal lives and home lives. </div>
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Ms. J told me that I had an open invitation every week to come back and talk, if I wanted to. As I left the meeting I resolved that I would never return, that this group isn't for me. </div>
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Here's the thing:</div>
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I kept going back. </div>
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<img src="http://funny-pictures-blog.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/MEME-Bad-decision.jpg" height="269" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>You will never judge me as harshly as I judge myself.</i></span></div>
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Mostly, I would listen. I never really shared anything about myself. What I got out of sitting with these kids was a feeling of belonging and safety--nobody judged anyone. We were all capable of making mistakes and coming back from them. </div>
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I never told any of my friends about this group--it was too precious to me. The secrets told and the lives they belonged to were just meant for that room and the people in it only. That is until...</div>
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The school resource police officer offered the group a chance to come talk to middle-schoolers at health day about our personal experiences with drug and alcohol abuse. Did I have to say yes? No. Should I have gone? Absolutely not. </div>
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As I stood with my peers in front of kids marginally younger than me, it occurred to me that we would all be required to share some kind of personal story. I guess you could say this was the start of storytelling for me, with the only exception being that <i>it was completely made up.</i></div>
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I told a bald-faced lie. I said that I struggled with alcohol abuse and I would steal alcohol from my parents and blame it on my brother.</div>
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The truth? Up until that point the only alcohol I'd ever had was communion wine and sips of my mother's white zinfandel. My parents really didn't keep alcohol in the house much at all--they just weren't big drinkers. One time Ms. J gave me a ride home after school and she insisted on coming in and meeting my mother. They sat and chatted and my inner monologue was praying to God that she didn't casually ask my mom about my alcoholism and that my mom didn't actually ask her how we're associated.</div>
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I continued to tell that story throughout the day, each time adding more details and drama, to be honest with some altruistic intent--hoping that maybe it would have an affect on someone. The kids who told their stories were wonderful and brave, and honestly had more of an affect on me than I've ever been able to express to them.</div>
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We were invited to do this again the following year. I stopped when I started seeing familiar faces, and to be honest the middle school resource police officer was kind of a creep--he was a little too interested in the specific details of the link between using and sexual promiscuity, and I don't know why he was so interested in hearing about the sex lives of teenagers. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Alright OfficerMcCreepafeel, that's enough of THAT.</i></span></div>
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Everyone eventually all graduated and moved on--well I didn't graduate, I just dropped out and took my GED. Close enough. Don't ditch class, kids.</div>
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Years later I ran into the pretty girl when I was working at the music store. She looked the same--radiant and kind. We caught up and eventually she asked me how I was doing with my addiction. I confessed that I drink with my friends. She seemed relieved when I told her because she told me she had started using again--but she had it under control. </div>
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In that moment I wished I had told her that we should get together and talk some time, or offered to go to a meeting with her--or even offered some kind of truth--that I didn't actually struggle with alcoholism and I just drank at parties on occasions with my friends, and that I was worried for her and that I was there for her if she needed it. </div>
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Instead I shrugged and told her not to feel bad. We laughed it off. She told me not to tell Ms. J. I gave her my number to call me some time. I never heard from her. I wish I hadn't let her walk away.</div>
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I know the obvious moral of this story is: don't fucking lie. I regret not being honest with why I was there to begin with. I regret telling tall tales. </div>
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I don't know if I regret going back.</div>
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Oh, and I definitely did not stay straight.</div>
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Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-87734395587694998422016-07-12T23:42:00.002-07:002016-07-12T23:42:59.352-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 11: InkPlanning my next tattoo has been more excruciating than the actual ink-dipped needles piercing my skin. I've had a lot of ideas: an Oscar Wilde quote, a pug, a drawing of my favorite children's story--<i>Ferdinand the Bull</i>--but my next one will probably be this on my wrist:<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I have a passion for not ending sentences.</i></span></div>
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I love to hear tattoo stories--what they mean to the individual, their history, the silly or sad story connected to them.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b><br /></b></u></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Tattoo #1</b></u></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wtjW-vEN1Xhkx-KxBRBgAUWzmqAk8_25zpIjcAwhD9yrlOps5Bg5dVJ6Lh9QJNZjpvrmlx_Tp0YPSv-oIPU_XA4Zdjqjge_KtNk4JD1wKXl67pUPe0XuHTITJDU-D_wvki2NLAzyNANP/s1600/IMG_3756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wtjW-vEN1Xhkx-KxBRBgAUWzmqAk8_25zpIjcAwhD9yrlOps5Bg5dVJ6Lh9QJNZjpvrmlx_Tp0YPSv-oIPU_XA4Zdjqjge_KtNk4JD1wKXl67pUPe0XuHTITJDU-D_wvki2NLAzyNANP/s320/IMG_3756.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Did you know it's super hard to take a picture of the back of your own shoulder?</span></i></div>
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I did not wake up on the day I got my first tattoo with that plan in mind. I had recently turned 18 and I was going to go to Six Flags-Denver with my recently graduated friends--they graduated, I did not. If my friends judged me for having to stay in high school for my second senior year I'll never know, but we were young, fun, and free--like a Better Than Ezra song. </div>
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We packed in Jackie's car and headed north to Denver, but Megan declared we were taking a detour on the way to Six Flags--she was gonna get a tattoo. </div>
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As we crowded around her in Bound by Design on Colfax I felt something stir in my prissy Christian insides. </div>
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I'm gonna get a tattoo too.</div>
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DELICIOUS ALLITERATION</div>
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Since I was a theatre nerd I decided to get the comedy-tragedy persona masks. As I flipped through the book of tattoos my prissy Christian insides churned since a lot of the mask pictures were devilish, terrifying clowns. The tattoo artist grew impatient with my indecisiveness and pointed at the mask necklace that was hanging around my neck and recommended I go to the Kinkos down the block and photocopy it. As Sabbeth and I walked down the street a strange man followed us and catcalled as he threw coins at us--a white suburban girl's first catcall--lucky me!</div>
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The tattoo hurt. Of course it hurt. I gripped Sabbeth's hand. It cost $90, most of my first paycheck from King Soopers.</div>
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I hid my tattoo for months, until the guilt pushed me into telling my mother. She was disappointed in me. I thought it was a dumb thing to be disappointed in. </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Tattoo #2</b></u></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBiF91p8w02_2keHzG3s-gvjpAQ-g21jk-1fYbYVon-AOuedQOG0_Mt5ppeW1cl9hegkVTbVqaLYNbbDe_JafTwtAEQnfxJqKWnu5RcTDk52MgQy9wDfjjBVO-jI0gMXJpkjmqdtjq06Ok/s1600/IMG_3757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBiF91p8w02_2keHzG3s-gvjpAQ-g21jk-1fYbYVon-AOuedQOG0_Mt5ppeW1cl9hegkVTbVqaLYNbbDe_JafTwtAEQnfxJqKWnu5RcTDk52MgQy9wDfjjBVO-jI0gMXJpkjmqdtjq06Ok/s320/IMG_3757.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Starting to wonder if I should get my back checked for suspicious moles...</i></span></div>
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I was 19 and I wanted a cross tattoo. To be honest I was a little tired of my mother telling me that good Christian girls don't get tattoos, my body is a temple, blah, blah, blah. This was basically me getting back at my mother to show her that good Christian girls can have good Christian tattoos.</div>
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My friend Nate from the record store I worked at decided to go together to Bound By Design in the morning before we went to Lilith Fair--probably the most 90's thing I've ever done. I'm pretty sure I even wore daisy hair-clips and denim overalls with red Keds. </div>
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Nate got his first tattoo--a tribal sun--and I got my second, courtesy of Big Mike. We sat on the lawn at Fiddler's Green with our and enjoyed the sweet feminist sounds of The Indigo Girls, Sheryl Crow, and Sarah McLaughlin. </div>
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This is the only tattoo I have that I really don't like; not because of the cross, but because it's ugly, and I really wasn't sincere when I got it. </div>
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Never get a revenge tattoo.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Tattoo #3</b></u></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigY7fAGNS1w7J0Z4ItY6eQC8PtVNQ1z46gBMyXY5gs6Gr0qZgacnNCuXiVY-sIys-G9bXsBqYVa4j_-76ea6UEa-zn3L8S32AZe9971LkwIZtereM_l-S1mNwwRBbD1Cv8MU2BvtRum0C7/s1600/IMG_3758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigY7fAGNS1w7J0Z4ItY6eQC8PtVNQ1z46gBMyXY5gs6Gr0qZgacnNCuXiVY-sIys-G9bXsBqYVa4j_-76ea6UEa-zn3L8S32AZe9971LkwIZtereM_l-S1mNwwRBbD1Cv8MU2BvtRum0C7/s320/IMG_3758.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>You guys would tell me if you saw anything suspicious, right? Guys?</i></span></div>
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I got this one for my 22nd birthday. I was really into peace signs and daisies. I probably still am. </div>
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This was the last tattoo I got at Bound By Design, also by Big Mike. I went by myself, after work, still in my suit. I felt pretty square sitting around the facially pierced artists in my trousers and pearls. </div>
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Shortly after I got this tattoo I lost my virginity.</div>
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The two events are unrelated.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Tattoo #4</b></u></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJo4lICAiZfgVq0r9c0LqtRHqcsUykWgdttoemG6zmOf4-9JPcjs0ym4Tho91zNwoDc-o2y_KMyIgC_QAN2ixTs0dUpk5fS1eWlRfaimtzY4VR8EsK0rElJ_gyM7JCnh7znpVA3Evi8id/s1600/IMG_3759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJo4lICAiZfgVq0r9c0LqtRHqcsUykWgdttoemG6zmOf4-9JPcjs0ym4Tho91zNwoDc-o2y_KMyIgC_QAN2ixTs0dUpk5fS1eWlRfaimtzY4VR8EsK0rElJ_gyM7JCnh7znpVA3Evi8id/s320/IMG_3759.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I'm definitely going to be better about wearing sunscreen...</i></span></div>
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My partner and I had been planning getting some kind of matching tattoo together. We agreed they should have something to do with music and included a rainbow--'cuz we're gay.</div>
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I searched and searched. I never knew there were so could be so many variances of a treble clef. We agreed on similar designs--mine would be more spiky and edgy and on my other shoulder, hers more a tribute to her love of classical music and on the small of her back.</div>
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We crowded into a small room with our friend Jen at Laughing Buddha on Capitol Hill in Seattle. While the significance of sharing something so permanent and personal with my partner didn't escape me, I also loved that I got to be there to experience another person close to me getting their first tattoo.</div>
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Seven years after we split up, I catch it out of the corner of my eye on occasion. It remains an untainted, fond memory. </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Tattoo #5</b></u></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPHcZqUdfcHaWuXR7EabRzbcLa3yoUhGgWQS8Zkeg7Xtm6s0O90U5l4WN7R4-aOTaYZKlipT2nl0cZH6GohEvltiEy5yWWcp-rhVPvujugTIOj4x1cxK-W3Lw8wrJNbTA0TwmWpJVfUoJ/s1600/IMG_3760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPHcZqUdfcHaWuXR7EabRzbcLa3yoUhGgWQS8Zkeg7Xtm6s0O90U5l4WN7R4-aOTaYZKlipT2nl0cZH6GohEvltiEy5yWWcp-rhVPvujugTIOj4x1cxK-W3Lw8wrJNbTA0TwmWpJVfUoJ/s320/IMG_3760.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Finally! An area of my body that isn't riddled with freckles.</span></i></div>
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On a holiday weekend with my girlfriend (who was constantly telling me not to call her girlfriend), we got drunk and decided we wanted to get tattoos. </div>
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I wanted something to signify my pride in an 'S' pattern. She liked my design and got an extra star to denote the colors of the chakras.</div>
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We went to Lucky Devil on Capitol Hill and got our matching tattoos.</div>
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Shortly after I broke up with her; not because we got matching tattoos, but because she was a mean alcoholic. She said horrible things to me about my body. She criticized me a lot, in general. </div>
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Due to my lack of backbone I continued to see her on and off for the next year--I even worked at her business part-time--until she showed up at my apartment in the middle of the night completely wasted and demanded I have sex with her. I told her no, more than once. She got angry and punched my wall. I told her I never wanted to see her again. </div>
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Shortly after in a text conversation she was surprised that I was so angry. When I told her she had a drinking problem her response was "<i>You</i> have a drinking problem!"</div>
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I don't have a drinking problem</div>
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This is what I thought about for a long time every time I would look at these stars. I kind of hated her for stealing the joy from a rainbow of stars. It takes a lot of work to instill new significance to something that was robbed of happy memories.</div>
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<img height="224" src="http://www.newnownext.com/wp-content/uploads/backlot/2011/03/piglet.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Enjoy this piglet palette cleanser. Don't think of the shitty person. Look at the piglet.</i></span></div>
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I'll write about the significance of the semi-colon tattoo when I get it. In the meantime, hit me in the comments and tell me your tattoo story.</div>
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Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-56005323918637275312016-07-12T00:01:00.000-07:002016-07-12T00:01:50.919-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day10: The Dead Naked Man<i>I missed my Saturday post. I'm so ashamed. There will, however, be 30 posts this month. It's gonna happen.</i><br />
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Littleton,Colorado is an interesting town in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Fairly normal--suburban; tons of malls, strip malls, outlet malls...malls in general; but with a rich frontier and settler's history and a long string of dark crimes.<br />
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Alfred Packer, infamous convicted cannibal.<br />
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<img height="320" src="http://images1.westword.com/imager/u/blog/7359838/alfredpacker.jpg" width="277" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Does this look like the face of a cannib--okay I see it.</i></span></div>
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Eugene Thompson, cocaine aficionado, went on cocaine fueled rampage with an uzi in the 80's and had his final standoff blocks from my elementary school.<br />
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<img height="180" src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/HJUt_x0gwug/maxresdefault.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Artist's rendering of Eugene Thompson's breakfast.</i></span></div>
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Columbine: You know this one.<br />
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<img height="213" src="http://blog.porchlightgroup.com/wp-content/uploads/10-Littleton.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>No pictures of Columbine, just my favorite holiday lighting in the world--downtown Littleton. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Think happy thoughts.</i></span></div>
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I could keep going, but I don't want to bum you out. For a sleepy suburb, Littleton has a dark history; so having this knowledge, why--<i>why--</i>would my friend Cecily and I go for a midnight walk in an abandoned Littleton park? Knowing what we know, we definitely should not have been surprised that on this midnight walk, we would stumble across what would appear to be a naked dead man.<br />
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Cecily and I grew up together in Castle Rock, Colorado. We met in the 5th grade when Cecily moved to Castle Rock from California. She had long blonde hair, wore the coolest clothes and read the Babysitter's Club, just like me--she even reminded me of Dawn from the Babysitter's Club, only not a complete bummer.<br />
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<img height="240" src="https://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/2013/09/30/809/n/3019466/3a9754995e0ecfd9_babysitters-club1-580x435.preview.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I think it's universally agreed that Dawn was the </i>worst.</span></div>
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We would go through Middle School and High School together. Some of my fondest memories with Cecily were the random nights we would hop in her car with no particular destination, blasting the radio and quoting our favorite movies, mostly likely something from Monty Python. Cecily would eventually go on to college, but when she would come back to town in the summers we would hop in her go and go on our adventures.<br />
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There wasn't much to do in our hometown. There was really only one bar in town, and if we wanted to go out dancing we had to drive to Denver, which was 30 miles north of us. We'd usually settle for going to Cold Stone Creamery by the nearest mall and sitting on the steps outside and gossiping.<br />
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One particular warm summer evening Cecily and I were eating our Cold Stone, and we decided we wanted to go on an adventure and take pictures.<br />
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Now kids, back in my day, we didn't have fancy cordless telephones with magical film-less cameras; we had these devices that we put film in to take <i>photographs</i> that we would take to a very scientific lab called <i>24 Hour Photo</i>. They would take this film and print it on <i>paper</i>, and low and behold 24 hours later: pictures! Those were darker days, but I digress.<br />
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<img height="320" src="http://www.troll.me/images/hipster-ariel/ooo-im-a-hipster-i-like-cameras.jpg" width="310" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I used cameras before it stopped being cool to use cameras and then started being cool to use cameras again.</i></span></div>
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A couple of weeks before I was in Ketring Park in Littleton with my family for a 4th of July picnic. Next to this park is a stunning Memorial rose garden. I suggested to Cecily we drive up to the park, wander around, take pictures, and then walk around Ketring Pond to the playground. She was nervous about going to parks late at night, not because she didn't feel safe, but because she thought we'd get in trouble.<br />
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This is the part where I should have listened to her.<br />
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I poo-pooed her fears, saying they're public parks and we'll be fine. Worse case scenario someone will just tell us to clear out and we'll be fine; so we left Cold Stone and made the drive over to Ketring Park.<br />
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At this point it was well past 11:00 pm and pitch dark. All we had was the light of the moon. It was a warm summer evening. We were young and carefree--like a Better Than Ezra song. We wandered around the rose garden taking flash photos and picking roses. We played around the gazebo, taking silly glamour shots of ourselves and attempting selfies, which were not called selfies back then.They were just called pictures.<br />
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<img height="212" src="https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2016-06/2/13/campaign_images/buzzfeed-prod-web06/8-of-the-earliest-selfies-ever-taken-2-20976-1464889737-0_big.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Open Sans", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I was born and have ever remaind in the most humble walks of life--SELFIIIIIIE!!!!</span></i></span></div>
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After we got bored of the rose garden I suggested we make our way to the pond and walk to the playground. Cecily--once again the ringing voice of reason--said it's probably not a good idea and she felt a little creeped out. Again, I told her there's nothing to be creeped out about, it's <i>Littleton</i> after all. Nobody's died in random, horrible murders in <i>Littleton.</i><br />
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We started our stroll around the pond.<br />
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It was such a stunning night. Warm with a bright full moon hanging over our heads, the smell of flowers, grass, the algae in the water; I was enjoying the amazing moment with my oldest friend, but my oldest friend was freaking out. We were almost to the park, which was very well lit, but she was so scared that something bad was going to happen. I acquiesced and we starting walking back to my mom's car; I did not, however, go quietly. I kept going on about how it's just a boring suburb, nothing bad is going to happen, she's just being a wuss, we would have had so much fun at the playground, blah blah blah...<br />
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As I continued to tease my friend, I noticed something in the grass to the left of the walking trail. My eyes hadn't adjusted yet to the dark after being exposed to the lights at the playground. I stopped ribbing Cecily and started walking towards this large, white shape.<br />
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As I got closer it started taking form. At first I thought it was a blanket--then a folded up chair or stroller--but as I got just a few feet away my eyes completely adjusted, and there, lying in the green summer grass, was the white, pasty body of a completely naked man--and he was completely lifeless.<br />
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At this point time slows down. The words "Oh my God" came out in slow motion and my eyes moved from the lifeless body in the grass to my friend, who was no longer there. Time caught up with me as I looked down the path to see my friend half a football field away from me, running for her life.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>She even left the cartoon trail of dust.</i></span></div>
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It's amazing what your body is capable of when it registers fear. I am not--and have never been--a runner; but in that moment my body performed running feats I have never been able to repeat.<br />
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I heard myself scream, "<i>DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE ME!!!</i>", and ran after Cecily. Not only was I able to catch up with her, but I grabbed her hand and dragged her behind me...probably.<br />
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We got in my mothers car and peeled my mother's station wagon out of the parking lot like we were being chased by a chainsaw wielding murderer.<br />
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As we drove away we repeatedly screamed at each other "<i>WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT</i>?!"<br />
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I asked her if she saw the same thing I did. She said, "Dead naked guy in the grass?" and I confirmed: "Dead naked guy in the grass!"<br />
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Our screaming went on for several miles before we decided we need to figure out what to do with this information. Our first idea was to leave it and pretend like it never happened, but after years of watching <i>Law & Order</i>, all I could think about was someone might have seen us peeling out of the park. We could be implicated in his murder! We could go to jail! We could get the chair! I'll die before I get laid!<br />
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We queried if we should pull into a gas station and call anonymously from a pay phone, but--duh--they could trace where it came from and gas stations had cameras! Then implicated, jail, electric chair, die a virgin.<br />
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I asked why are we so afraid of calling the police and just saying, "Hey we were walking around the pond and found a dead naked guy" and Cecily said, "Because we weren't supposed to be there! We were breaking the rules!" Such a Girl Scout.<br />
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An aside: we were actually Scouts together too, but clearly I was a terrible scout because I so flagrantly break rules and talk my friends into breaking them too.<br />
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<img height="240" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/b9/a7/8a/b9a78a17711c205ac0d95846ef2a3dc4.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I'm a huge proponent of introducing racketeering into the Girl Scouts.</i></span></div>
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We decided to stop and just fess up to being in the park and finding the dead naked man. I lead the call with, "My friend and I were walking around Kreting Pond about a half hour ago--now I know we probably weren't supposed to be there, so that's our mistake and we fully accept responsibility for that --" The 911 operator sighed and asked what actually happened "--Well as we were walking we found what appeared to be a dead naked person."<br />
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I had to repeat that back to her a couple of times, and she asked me exactly what we saw. Then she asked if we stopped to take his pulse.<br />
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<img height="200" src="http://i1.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/000/841/129/c39.png" width="170" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bitch please.</i></span></div>
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She said that police were dispatched to the park and asked us to meet them back there to show them where we found the alleged body. We drove back to the park, the whole time Cecily <i>I told you so-ing</i> me...I deserved that.<br />
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We got back to the park where there were several squad cars with their lights on. We met a female officer--who was totally hot in her uniform--she said they didn't find any body. What they did find, around the area we explained over the phone, was a guy hanging out in the grass, who lived in a house on the other side of the bushes.<br />
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I asked if he was dressed and she said yep, he was wearing a black hoodie. We told her that he was definitely NOT wearing a black hoodie, He was, in fact, not wearing anything at all, and he was not moving.<br />
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She said they looked all around and found nobody, just the guy hanging out in the grass. She said maybe he had his shirt off and we mistook him for naked.<br />
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I wanted to argue with her and tell her that you cannot mistake a naked man. There was a very clear and present wiener.<br />
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<img height="234" src="http://static1.squarespace.com/static/53e877bde4b0038cec91b1cd/53e8fe3ee4b0811013125b5e/54d53e1ee4b006c2bc3e84ee/1423261943715/?format=1000w" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Idea for a new adult film: Clear and Present Weiner...</i></span></div>
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Cecily was already done with this conversation and walked back to the car, so I said goodnight and apologized if we wasted their time. The cop was surprisingly nice about it, saying it's what they were there for, even if we weren't sure. Her niceness made her even hotter.<br />
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I followed Cecily back to the car and we left the park and drove back to Castle Rock.<br />
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On the long drive home we theorized what the hell just happened. Was this guy laying in the grass, posing as a naked dead person to mess with people? Was there an actual dead naked man and the sweatshirted guy moved his body? Was he naked at all and were we seeing things?<br />
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In the end we concluded maybe he went for a dip in the pond and fell asleep in the grass.<br />
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The next day we went to the one hour photo to develop our pictures, hoping that maybe our dead naked man popped up somewhere in the film, which sadly he didn't. He fell into legend in our stories for us to retell when we see each other from time to time.<br />
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I think about the dead naked man now and then. I wonder if he tells stories to his friends of the warm summer night he was relaxing in the in the cool grass, and some screaming women discovered him and called the cops on him.Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-41262366820668398972016-07-10T13:50:00.001-07:002016-07-10T13:52:59.856-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 9: I'm a Real Bad Guy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>My little brother Nick. What a jerk, right?</i></span></div>
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After going back and reading through a lot of my old notes and stories I found a common theme: in the majority of my stories (meaning all of them) I tend to cast myself as the victim. Stories of humiliation, how I've been done wrong, all told through a filter of pathos and humor. I'm the lovable loser. Truth be told, I'm not always the lovable loser:<br />
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I have been the bad guy.<br />
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When I was four years old I was sitting with my mother while she folded laundry. She said to me, "Guess what Summer?", and my answer was:"We're having company?" I <i>loved</i> having company over, I was always begging my parents to invite fun people over for me to entertain. (Keep note of how I often like to make situations about <i>me)</i><br />
<br />
We were <i>not</i> having company over.<br />
<br />
She touched her tummy and a smile spread across her face, "We're not having company baby, I'm pregnant!"<br />
<br />
I literally had no idea what that meant.<br />
<br />
She explained to me that she had a baby growing in her tummy and that in October I might have a baby brother or sister.<br />
<br />
To be honest I did not hear the brother part; my brain very deliberately blocked that word out. Up until that point I'd been living with an older brother who I really have no other descriptive other than he was a real dick. He was mean, he teased me, he excluded me; I had to assume the link was that all brothers are bastards and sisters were the promise-land of siblings.<br />
<br />
Again, to be honest, I was a little apprehensive about losing my "baby" status. My mother literally said to me, "You're not the baby anymore, you gotta be a big sister!" This did not land well with me. I enjoyed being the baby; babies get attention. This would greatly diminish the attention that I so richly deserved. The trade-off, however, was that I was going to have a little sister who will play with me, and I would teach her how to play house and dress-up and draw and all the things a big sister should do; most importantly, I would never make her feel left out.<br />
<br />
October 10th 1985 rolled around and so did my little brother. Yeah, <i>brother</i>. When I asked my mom why she didn't have a little sister for me she of course gave me the following terrible excuses:<br />
<br />
"I didn't have a choice."<br />
<br />
"I'm happy to have a healthy baby."<br />
<br />
"I'm happy to have another little boy."<br />
<br />
This was a betrayal, not only to me, but our gender. She already made one male hell-spawn, why is she happily adding to the pool?<br />
<br />
In the first couple years of my little brother's life I earnestly tried to be a good big sister. I would offer to hold him and feed him, which was often met with being smeared with vomit. Once, I offered to change his diaper for her; I laid him down in the middle of the hallway and opened his diaper to discover what can only be best described as the green excrement of the churning bowels of Satan. I half-assed closed his diaper and <i>abandoned him</i><i>--</i>just left him there in the hall. Seconds later I heard my mother shout, "Why is Nicholas rolling in poop in the middle of the hallway?!"<br />
<br />
I'm not winning any good guy contests here.<br />
<br />
Naturally my brothers formed an unholy alliance against me. This sounds paranoid but this is something they both would say to me on a regular basis: "We're brothers, we're supposed to team up against you." It was like that cartoon of the giant bulldog that mugged around with his scrappy little terrier friend that was like, "Get her! Give her hell!" I was constantly getting double-teamed, and not in the good way like I fantasize about as a consenting adult.<br />
<br />
Don't judge me.<br />
<br />
It didn't help that he was <i>always</i> getting into my stuff. He would use my shampoo as bubble bath. He and his friends would go into my room and steal my CD's or scatter my bras and underwear around the house. He would use my tampons for weird science experiments. He would steal my lipstick and use it for coloring.<br />
<br />
Every time I would go to my mother and say, "Nicholas did *fill in the blank*!" She would always blame me for leaving things out, leaving my bedroom door open, having things, existing; it was always my fault.<br />
<br />
I would even take punishment on his behalf. The worst one was when my mom found hot glue dried onto the carpet and she insisted it was me.<i> I</i> <i>did not do it</i>. This is something I am still--<i>very--</i>bitter about. I plead to her and insisted it was Nick's fault, that I didn't do it. She insisted I did and I got a spanking with a belt for it. After that, the bitter seed that was planted for my little brother grew into a full grown oak; hard, aged, and gnarly.<br />
<br />
I <i>hated</i> my little brother. He often would deliberately try to get a rise out of me. I would do the thing where I would stand up to intimidate him and he would scream, "Summer don't hit me!" and my mother would send me to my room.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Hated him. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The day I finally found my power was my lowest moment. I was 17 and Nick was 12. I had come home and found him and his friend leafing through my CD collection in my bedroom; two major infractions. I told his friend to leave and I immediately lit into him.<br />
<br />
"How many times have I told you to stay out of my room?! Don't touch my CD's??" The usual tantrum.<br />
<br />
This time it was different. He wasn't making up excuses. He was just half smirking and he said to me, "I don't have to listen to you." That was it. I had no power. I had no power over my space, my things; I couldn't intimidate him and I never had anyone to back me up. All I could do was muster up the meanest thing I could think of.<br />
<br />
"You are <i>worthless</i>. You are fucking worthless."<br />
<br />
I said it with such hate and bile. It was effective. I could see it spread across his face; it hurt. I had finally been able to deliver a hit and it stuck. He screwed up his face and told me that he's not worthless, but I had taken my power back, so I kept delivering the hit.<br />
<br />
"Yes you are. You are nothing. You are worthless. You do nothing for this family but drain us. I <i>hate you. You are worthless.</i>"<br />
<br />
After that our fights after would go the same way: he would do something to piss me off and in the meanest most dismissive way I would call him worthless. Every single time it hurt him and every single time it inflated my sense of power over him. I finally had a weapon; I could hurt him.<br />
<br />
When he was 18 he met a truly awful girl at a card shop where he liked to hang out. I was constantly haranguing him for bringing her around; she was literally dirty, trashy, and mean to him. I had moved in with my mother for a short time after my father started going on the road for his job and she and Nick would come over for dinner. Once I caught her in my room sitting on the edge of my bed rifling through my night stand with my vibrator on her lap.<br />
<br />
Some lines should never be uncrossed. She danced across this one.<br />
<br />
I interrogated Nick. "Why are you with this girl? She's awful, she's dirty, and she's a thief. You could do so much better!"<br />
<br />
The look on his face is so firmly planted in my brain. "Why the fuck do you care? I'm worthless? I'm a piece of shit! You hate me! I'm nothing! I'm nothing!"<br />
<br />
He was beyond incredulous that someone who would say such hateful things to him would even care. He believed he didn't deserve better because, for years, the one person who should have forgiven him for doing stupid things like playing with my lipstick and borrowing my CD's was slowly chipping away at his self-worth in repayment.<br />
<br />
I wish I could say that in that moment I redeemed myself and became the good guy--that I took his hand and told him that I only said those things out of anger. That I was, at the very least, sorry.<br />
<br />
I didn't. I just let the moment land and he left me. We didn't speak for almost 2 years, shortly after I moved here to Seattle.<br />
<br />
He had come out of the closet and had a boyfriend, Linn. He called me out of the blue one day and just wanted to catch up. We spoke as grown-ups. He told me about his hobbies, his art, the house he and Linn were moving into together. I told him about my new life in Seattle.<br />
<br />
At the end as we were saying our goodbyes I told him it was so great to just talk to him like that. He told me it helped that he wasn't there to annoy me. I burst into tears. That last fight we had stayed with me and I carried deep sorrow for not telling him how sorry I was for implanting that thought in his head--the thought that he was worthless.<br />
<br />
I told him that I said a lot of hateful things out of anger. That he isn't worthless and I never believed he was.<br />
<br />
He was very quiet, and I thought I could hear him sniffling, like he was crying. He said thank you, like it really meant something to him; like it was something he needed to hear for a very long time. It was something I needed to do for a very long time.<br />
<br />
A little over three years ago I stood up with my 6'4" little brother on his wedding day. He wore a beautiful purple wedding dress as he married his partner of many years. I marveled at the wonderful people in his life; the family he's built. My heart swelled with pride for my beautiful little brother.<br />
<br />
After the ceremony I looked to the back of the venue to see my mother sneak out with her new husband. They didn't want to stay. She would later tell me that it was all too much for her.<br />
<br />
In that moment I no longer felt like the bad guy.Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-75793587066443535962016-07-08T23:24:00.001-07:002016-07-08T23:25:53.037-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 8: Life of Crime<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="320" src="https://scontent-sea1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/35397_439293679251_2785895_n.jpg?oh=f0c0f31a365cf69808c5eaa15cc29bae&oe=58343826" width="239" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Look at this thug.</i></span></div>
<br />
Drema and I were inseparable. The moment we were free from school we would race from our homes and find each other. We would dress up, play house in the bushes and practice kissing, and when we could scrounge up change, we would wander down to the Albertson's down the street to buy Tootsie Pops. We even shared chicken pox, we were so close.<br />
<br />
Drema was also the first girl I ever loved.<br />
<br />
We were also children of mothers who were very devout Christians.<br />
<br />
We were Catholic until I was about 8. One Sunday morning my mother said we're going to be Baptist now and when we go to church I needed to stop crossing myself. I would sneak in the occasional cross while everyone's eyes were closed during prayer, thought--the early days of my rebellion. "Tell me I can't cross myself? Well screw you! <i>Cross</i>! May God be with you, and also with you motherfucker!"<br />
<br />
I didn't say motherfucker when I was 8.<br />
<br />
Religion and church was important to my mother. Everything we did went through God, and everything we had came through God. He was the Brita filter of our lives. All decisions went through God as well, but bad decisions...those came from the big D himself: El Diablo, Lucifer, The Devil...<i>SATAN</i>.<br />
<br />
In the mornings and afternoons, when my mother drove me to and from school, we listened to the Focus on the Family radio program. Dr. James Dobson often used the phrase, <i>Satan getting a foothold.</i> "Don't let Satan get a foothold!"--as if some imaginary little red-bodied monster with a bifurcated tail was obnoxiously clinging to our ankles trying to drag us into hell.<br />
<br />
Drema was a little more dangerous than me. She was usually the instigator in our adventures. Like the time we wanted to turn her apartment building's laundry room into a haunted house; it was her idea to dribble red nail polish all over as a great substitute for blood. She of course handed it off to me to do the dribbling, and when we got in trouble she pointed at me and said I did it. I was rarely angry when she did this--Drema was a little scared of her mother, because as devout as my mother was, her mother made my mother look like a lightweight Christmas/Easter Christian.<br />
<br />
Neleen was a devoutly, deeply, crazy Christian. When I would go over to Drema's apartment she was always kneeling in prayer. She had a thick Texas accent, and when Drema would leave to play with me, she would place her hand on both of our heads and pray for us. When we got back she would pray over us again and interrogate us to find out if we made good decisions that was reflective of God's glory. All that being said, if the heat was ever coming down on Drema, I didn't mind taking it in her place, because the consequences were always so much worse for her than they would be for me.<br />
<br />
One Cinco de Mayo afternoon, Drema and I were dressed up in giant ruffly dresses that belonged to her Mother--we loved strolling the neighborhood in our dress-up outfits. We wandered down the block to the Albertson's for our usual Tootsie Pop, but that day we took a diversion down the makeup aisle.<br />
<br />
We didn't ever buy anything--we were 9 and we didn't have money. We would just faun over the products and say what we would buy that day if we did have money. This day, however, Drema picked up a tube of bubble gum flavored roller-ball lip gloss. We both wanted it so bad. We kept passing it back and forth, admiring the clear tube of gloss and the little pink bubbles on the bottle. Drema then took it back from me, pulled open the front of my dress and stuffed the lip gloss inside of it.<br />
<br />
I immediately knew what we were doing was wrong; my older brother got in trouble for it constantly, having recently stolen Garbage Pail Kids cards from the 7-Eleven down the street. Stealing was bad. "Thou shalt not steal." We heard it in Sunday school. It was in a cross-stitch on our walls.<br />
<br />
I heard myself ask, "Isn't this stealing?"--like I didn't know. Drema looked at me incredulously, as if I was some kind of idiot who didn't realize this was the plan all along, and said "Yes." The excitement of what was happening replaced my Christian guilt and she instructed me to walk out like nothing was wrong. As we rounded the corner we looked at each other and squealed, delighted that we got away with our first act of larceny.<br />
<br />
Our celebration was cut short when I saw Drema's face fill with fear as our mothers drove up to us in my Mother's minivan. My mom had been looking for me; we were going to drive out to the reservoir and go for a walk with the family. I jumped into the front seat and looked at Drema as we drove away knowing I had incriminating evidence stuffed down my dress.<br />
<br />
When we got to the reservoir I knew I had to ditch the lip gloss, but I had nowhere to throw it, so I tossed it under the passenger's seat when my mom wasn't looking--I then immediately forgot about it.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later my mother called me into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table looking deadly serious. I sat down and she gently placed the lip gloss, still in it's package, on the table between us.<br />
<br />
"Where did this come from?" She was so cool, like the good cop detective.<br />
<br />
It took me literally seconds to fess up. I didn't so much fess up as I just exploded with truth.<br />
<br />
"I STOLE IT!" I sobbed and threw my face into my arms on the table.<br />
<br />
My mom very calmly put her hand on my hand and said, "This is a sin Summer. This is a sin that God never forgives."<br />
<br />
So that was it for me. Nine years old and my afterlife had already been decided.<br />
<br />
My mother told me that I would be grounded for two weeks, the first week of which I would be spending in my room by myself. She grilled me if I acted alone, and in the spirit of honesty I told her that Drema and I took it together. We marched directly over to Drema's house and sat down with Nelleen for my confession.<br />
<br />
I will never forget to the look on Drema's face. Betrayed fury. Nelleen and Mom prayed over us; they prayed we would learn from our sin and that we would not continue to stray down Satan's path. When we left Drema hugged me and said she would never forgive me.<br />
<br />
I spent that first week of solitude mourning the loss of my friend. Not only was I grounded for two weeks, we were grounded from each other for a month.<br />
<br />
Every single night as I would lay myself down to sleep I would pray that God would forgive me for stealing and that Drema would be my friend again. I prayed and prayed, every time shedding tears of contrition for my God and my friend.<br />
<br />
Exactly one month later Drema showed up on my doorstep and asked me to go roller skating. Years after that I would still pray that God would forgive me for stealing that tube of lipgloss. I'm not sure if God has yet forgiven me. Time will tell.<br />
<br />
I started writing this story focused on God, religion and how religion fucks us up in our most vulnerable years. While I was writing I of course reminisced about Drema.<br />
<br />
We hadn't spoken since just before I married my ex-wife, and before then we hadn't seen or spoken to each other since we were 10. We caught up while I listened to her 5 children in the background scream and I told her I was getting married. When I told her that I was marrying a woman her disappointment was clear--I didn't turn out the way she expected and, in fairness, she didn't turn out the way I expected. We never spoke again after that.<br />
<br />
8 years later I decided to Google her name, and the first item that returned was her obituary.<br />
<br />
Drema died 2 years ago. Cancer. I don't know how long she was sick, and I don't know a lot of the details of her life.<br />
<br />
I just know the following: that she had five children, she was 33, she died in the town she was born in, and I'm so glad we stole that stupid lipgloss.Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-18134675241556515852016-07-07T22:09:00.001-07:002016-07-07T23:36:28.025-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 7: Eat This Blog<i>It's been a hard day in the world. I don't have a lot to write, and I'm not feeling particularly prolific today, so this is going to be a short and fluffy post. Hit me in the comments. You'll win a participation metal.</i><br />
<br />
To preface this post, you'll need to watch the video at <a href="https://twitter.com/xxdbreezyxx/status/750476671770243072" target="_blank"><i><b>this link</b></i></a> to completion (and for the love of God someone teach me how to embed a video from Twitter to Blogger).<br />
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<img height="318" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b9/d1/17/b9d1173eb22dbef5ff8359f4419d7fc8.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Don't forget to speak loudly so I can hear you. I'll pay you in hard candies.</i></span></div>
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I'll wait.<br />
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All good?<br />
<br />
Don't tell me we're good if we're not good.<br />
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Did you watch it?<br />
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Okay, I trust you.<br />
<br />
Here we go:<br />
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DON'T. TOUCH. MY. FOOD.<br />
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Unless you have received a clear invitation from me to <i>delicately</i> taste a petit sampling of my delicious dish which I have agonized and second-guessed to unhealthy extremes since the waiter whisked away with my order--do not touch my food.<br />
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Unless you and I have entered into a verbal contract that we are meant to be sharing this dish--do not touch my food.<br />
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Unless I have had to flee due to tend to some kind of medical emergency or matter of national security and I didn't have the forethought to have my food packaged up to go--do not touch my food.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Do you think Liz would share her Mac and Cheetos?</i></span></div>
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What, am I some kind of greedy food monster? A selfish-Sally who never learned the concept of sharing? Maybe a little--but <i>mostly</i> it's due to a bizarre neurosis when it comes to my eating habits.<br />
<br />
Now I'd place bets that there are a lot of folks who have odd little eating habits. In order to make this a safe space to share, I will share with you some of mine:<br />
<br />
1) <b>Did I mention I struggle with sharing?</b><br />
<br />
2) <b>I make a plan for how I will consume my food before I eat it.</b> For example, if I have, say, a piece of chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas on my plate, there is a predetermined order in how this is going to go down. Scoop of potatoes, each bite gently pressed into the peas then enjoyed. Chicken, while delicious, is given attention last since it is not a delicious starch. The order is always: vegetables, starch, protein.<br />
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<img height="212" src="https://pioneerwoman.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/plate1.jpg?w=780" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Look at this work of art, waiting to be consumed from right to left--the way God intended.</i></span></div>
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3) <b>I eat one thing at a time. </b>With the exception of dipping potatoes into peas, I enjoy one thing at a time, carving a path to the item I've decided to save for last. It was once pointed out to me by a close friend that this is freaking odd. I still struggle with that concept. Why not take your time and enjoy each component of your plate without cross-contaminating? This, I was told, was not normal eating behavior, and that the correct way to eat is to graze throughout the plate; a bite of this, a couple bites of that. That stressed me out; however, due to my epic admonishment I began to develop a bit of of a shame complex when eating in front of other people. Eating with friends requires a constant inner monologue that usually goes as follows--<i>don't eat one thing at a time...okay you took a bite of this, take a break--don't go back to soon!!!--okay go to the chicken--you're doing a good job--do I look stressed out?--oh God, they know--I'm a freak!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<img height="174" src="http://www.relatably.com/m/img/paranoid-memes/273b18781656d07360aa31b5d5b00b4b318cc4eb0380e513d4e6c6e1d03f14fd.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Is it paranoia or narcissism? Why can't it be both?</i></span></div>
<i><br /></i>
4) <b>I struggle with guilt every time I eat.</b> I'm in a constant state of self-judging. As a person who has struggled with both my weight and bullying, I am always in a state of fear that people are judging me, even when I'm hungry. There's always a fear that if someone sees what I'm eating that they will observe and judge not only what I eat, but how I eat. <i>Don't eat too fast--you'll look like a pig and they'll see you and then they'll know you're an actual pig--don't eat too much--don't order too rich food--be sure to leave </i>something<i> on your plate so you don't look greedy.</i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="They're onto me" height="320" src="http://images.memes.com/meme/689410" width="239" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Time to move and change my name. Again.</i></span></div>
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My relationship with food is steeped in neurosis and in a constant state of evolving.<br />
<br />
I'm figuring it out.<br />
<br />
Your turn. What's your thing? Hit me in the comments.<br />
<br />
<br />Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-9452157390924674352016-07-07T00:06:00.001-07:002016-07-07T00:09:37.744-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 6: Of Monsters and Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The other night as I spent time with a bottle of wine I pondered the idea of monsters. About an hour in I typed in the middle of the screen: "What if I am the real monster?" After staring at that statement on the screen I laughed for 5 minutes straight and ordered a pizza and forgot to write. </div>
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In the traditional sense of monsters, like the ones who lurk under children's beds, I have only truly been afraid of one "monster": Skeletor. What isn't terrifying about a flesh-less, talking skull with a beefcake, ripped body whose soul mission is to kill He-Man and She-Ra? Those chicks were hot.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Wait, weren't they brother and sister? What's with all the sexual tension?</i></span></div>
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Outside of my "Masters of the Universe" fear, my monsters have always been very grounded in reality. Now when I say reality I use it in the very loosest sense of the word. I wasn't terrified of fantastical monsters: I was, and still kind of am, terrified of the monsters I build up in my head.</div>
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I blame two things: the evening news and Unsolved Mysteries. And my parents. 3 things. I blame 3 things. Rescue 911, Unsolved Mysteries, my parents, and my brother. 4 things. I blame 4 things.<br />
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When it came to Unsolved Mysteries, I wasn't afraid of the things that happened; I wasn't afraid of aliens, or being kidnapped, or murdered. I was afraid of Robert Stack. Did that man realize how terrifying he is?<br />
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<img height="180" src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/9m2jblIjKGk/maxresdefault.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Don't tell me seeing this dude step out of an alley wouldn't make you pee your pants.</i></span></div>
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I recall a very vivid nightmare when I was 10 that my father and brother were trying to murder me, and I ran into my room where it had been transformed into a steamy ally and Robert Stack walked out in a fedora and trench coat and straight up stabbed me. That was the crazy shit going on in my head when I was 10.<br />
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My other monster was, and still is, disease. I was an early adopter of hypochondria. My first case was HIV. I would have been probably 7 or 8 when I first recalled hearing about HIV on the news, which my dad insisted we watched every day, so I'll be sending him my therapy bills. I of course didn't know how to get it and didn't know the symptoms, but I was pretty sure I had it from that one time I didn't wash my hands.<br />
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Every single time I had a cold it was a countdown to the end of my life. I would lay in bed at night terrified to fall asleep because I was afraid I wouldn't wake up, which lead to my very real condition of insomnia. I once read a book about a girl who found out she had leukemia after a nasty nose bleed; I got a nose bleed (from picking my damn nose too much) and I sat up all night until the sun came up. I almost choked on rice one night at dinner and I didn't eat for a week. I think my parents didn't really take exception to this, since they wanted me to lose weight.<br />
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<img src="http://images.obesityhelp.com.s3.amazonaws.com/articles/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/Goal-Weight-Maintenance-760x435.jpg" height="183" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I'm one neuroses from my goal weight!</i></span></div>
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My hypochondria isn't as bad as it used to be. My most recent episode was when I thought I had M.E.R.S. (Middle Eastern Respiratory Syndrome) a few years ago, because I got the flu and I was working with interns who traveled to work in Seattle from all around the world. My brain rationalized this and as I insisted to the doctor that I <i>absolutely </i>had the MERS. Between her trying to catch her breath from laughter she told me it was impossible, there are no cases in the US and I just have boring old flu. Didn't she know how special I am?</div>
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All these little monsters: diseases, spiders, Robert Stack--those have been manageable. I've never really been afraid of the real monsters in the world, not until recently.<br />
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I have a new feeling I've never experienced before: a jumpiness, and feeling of being unsure of the people around me. Every time I log on to social media or watch the new, a feeling powerlessness creeps over me, followed by a deep, profound anger. Pulse. Alton Sterling. 250 dead in Baghdad. I'm so angry I can't find tears to shed because they're being burned out of me. When I think of the possible solutions I get even angrier because I know there are mighty people with a lot of money that fight the best solutions. Those are the real monsters. The ones who <i>can </i>make things better but <i>won't</i>. </div>
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I wish my biggest fear was still Robert Stack. </div>
Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-79031605544504152402016-07-05T17:15:00.000-07:002016-07-05T17:22:45.404-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 5: For All the Cats I've Loved Before<div style="text-align: center;">
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This morning at 4:00 am I could hear him in his litter box, violently kicking litter around. I heard what sounded like fistfuls of litter hitting the bathroom floor. He does this on occasion in the middle of the night; I assume to punish me for being asleep and not paying attention to him. That's what I get.<br />
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I shout his name and make "TSSS!" noises to no avail. I eventually get up to go to the bathroom myself, stepping on kitty litter. I grab the tiny broom and stand-up dust pan I've started leaving next to his box and begin to sweep by night light. He starts to twirl between my legs, purring and rubbing up against them, but then he realizes I'm not on the bed and runs to claim the warm spot I've left for him. I call him a dick, but I've grown to love this dick.<br />
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I had no plans to adopt a cat back in December when my friend Lisa and I were visiting Portland for Christmas. We had heard there was a cat cafe and simply went there to check it out. I didn't want a cat. I hadn't had a cat for years, and due to that had developed a slight allergy and a strong dislike for their aloofness.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I'm on to your game. It only makes me love you more.</i></span></div>
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He was the first I noticed as we sat down with our drinks. He was running and playing with other cats, climbing the shelves as high as he could around the room. I noticed he had one eye, and for some reason it spoke to my heart. He was so spring-stepped and spry, the loss of an eye didn't slow him down. I tried to coax him to me by rubbing my fingers together and he was predictably aloof, but it didn't deter my interest. We left but returned the next day where I, completely out of character, decided to adopt him. I would have to return the following week to collect him, and after spending the week setting up everything he would need I drove down to Portland after work and returned home the same night with a very nervous kitty.<br />
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Since then it's been my goal to give Popeye a great home. He started his life as a wandering rover on the mean streets of Portland. He was found with an injured eye and taken to a shelter where they removed it, which is how he earned the name Popeye. I also want to give him a life better than the cats I grew up with.<br />
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You see: I come from a house where cats went to die.<br />
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<img height="229" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/20/6d/7d/206d7d67132eca9cb700218354168739.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Insert record scratch noise here.</i></span></div>
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Let me make it clear that it was not on purpose. We weren't a cat murdering cult. There were extenuating environmental circumstances that made it difficult for a cat to survive in our home.<br />
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I reminisced on these cats and thought deeply of how I loved them (most of them), even for the short time they were with me. I started writing about them and ended up writing tiny eulogies for them.<br />
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<b>To my first cat Angel:</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Composite sketch; not an exact rendering</i></span></div>
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I don't remember you very clearly. I was 4 and you were our first cat when we moved to Colorado Springs. You were white and that is why I called you Angel. Was that racist? I don't know. My parents did not get you fixed, and they also let you be an outdoor cat. One day you came home pregnant and you produced only one surviving offspring. Your offspring survived. You, to my recollection, did not survive the neighbors dog. Rest in peace, Angel.<br />
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<b>To Angel's offspring Ginger:</b><br />
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<img height="320" src="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/B7vOQm2CYAAkF24.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Artist rendering of Ginger; note the excessive make-up that denotes female "looseness".</i></span></div>
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Ginger, my mother gave you that name. I did not. Why she gave you a stripper name we'll never know; we were a good Catholic family. Ginger, we tried hard to keep you as an indoors cat, but you were tricky. Waiting for me or my brothers to linger in the door too long to make your escape. You taught me where babies come from Ginger. Know why? Because every time you came home, you came home pregnant. The pet store at the mall counted on us to keep an inventory of kittens because you could not keep your cat legs together. Then, shortly after giving birth to your last litter, you left us. Big Michelle, my friend who lived down the street said she found you after seeing you get run over by a truck. She then made up a very dramatic story that her cocker-spaniel attacked the truck driver and killed him for running you over. I found solace in this truck drivers canine murder, even if it was a lie. From your final litter, we did keep one kitten. Rest in peace Ginger.<br />
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<b>To Ginger's offspring, Saint Thomas:</b><br />
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<img height="320" src="https://joseanart.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/cat2.jpg" width="191" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Artist rendering of Saint Thomas; not a completely inaccurate rendering.</i></span></div>
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Saint Thomas, you were with us the longest. It appears your mother shacked up with a Russian Blue cat, because you were just that. Handsome and small for your breed, you were <i>my</i> cat. Born when I was 6, shortly after the birth of my little brother, you tolerated my Elmira-vice-grip as I would pick you up and drag you around, occasionally dressing you up in my doll's clothes. I think the best description of you would be tolerant. You even tolerated two dogs, and another cat. You loved being outside, to your detriment, because you got in a fight with a skunk and your ears were left with Swiss-cheese like holes. You were the neighborhood tom-cat, constantly chasing the ladies. We eventually had to end your love-streak because you were spraying our neighbors windows. That was gross, St. Thomas. You were with us the longest, for 8 whole years. When you turned eight the doctor said he had to remove your teeth because they were rotten. Shortly after, we learned you had contracted feline leukemia, and I found you one Saturday morning on a pile of laundry. Rigor Mortis had long set in and your mouth was stretched open as if you had died screaming. It was horrifying. My poor Tom-Cat. You were buried beneath my mother's roses, where I assume you still rest. Rest in peace St. Thomas.<br />
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<b>To Miss Kitty:</b><br />
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<img height="320" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a1/e7/d2/a1e7d234168ef377626b6972ca69db19.jpg" width="221" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Close enough.</i></span></div>
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I literally can't remember where you came from, but you were tiny and adorable when you came to us when I was 13. Always wanting to cuddle, you slept on my head every night. We only had you for a year, and you contracted St. Thomas' feline leukemia. My father took you to the vet to see what could be done while we ran errands to Costco. I found out standing in the middle of Costco that my dad told the vets to go ahead and put you down since nothing could be done. I never got to say goodbye, and I cried next to giant boxes of cereal. Rest in peace Miss Kitty.<br />
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<b>To Sox and Tiberius:</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I'm not even trying anymore...</i></span></div>
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After the drama and death of back to back cat deaths, my father declared no more cats. Then we acquired a mouse problem, and dad said we could adopt two cats from the vet. Sox, you looked like Sox the White House cat. Even at 14 I was an adamant liberal. Tiberius, my brother named you after James Tiberius Kirk. Sox, you bailed on us and went to live with another family. Fuck you, Sox. Tiberius stuck around with us for a long time. Much like Miss Kitty you slept on my head every night, and you were fat and lazy which made you look just like Garfield. One night I let you out, and you never came home. My dad assumed it was coyotes, since at this point we lived in the country. I became embittered and built a callous around my heart from the loss of yet <i>another</i> cat, but it doesn't make your loss any less tragic. Rest in peace Tiberius.<br />
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<b>To Ivy:</b><br />
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<img height="210" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/3/2686/4019000035_baa553425e.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Theirs was not a poetic encounter.</i></span></div>
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I never wanted you. My mother found you. You were a white Persian that was among a litter of full grown Persian cats left on the step of the town vet. You purred so loudly that you would wake me from a dead sleep. You never used the cat box and peed and pooped exclusively under my bed. I think you sensed I didn't like you, even though I was always cordial. One night after coming home from a high school play rehearsal I spied you in the neighbors yard under a street light. Quite unexpectedly large owl swooped down and took you away. Your screams echo in my memory. The following day on a walk with my mother we found only inner remains and tufts of white fluffy hair all over. You didn't deserve to go like that. Rest in peace Ivy.<br />
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<b>To Hugo:</b><br />
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<img height="320" src="https://exytinglyfe.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/top-drawer.jpg" width="207" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>He was a dapper fellow.</i></span></div>
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You were given to me by my brother, because he couldn't afford to keep you. You were named Hugo, after Hugo Boss, because the pattern in your fur looked like a suit...I guess? I didn't see it. Like my last two cats you slept on my head, played with my feet under the covers, and were generally a sweet and an cuddly cat who tolerated my need for squeezes and snuggling. Your fur became matted so we took you to the groomer to get shaved. This was in 1999. I took a picture of you and sent it to my friend and titled it "Shaved Pussy". It was the first shaved pussy photo I ever sent. Whether it was the last remains to be seen. One day you never came home, I assume due to coyote, owl, or shame. Rest in peace Hugo.<br />
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Eight cats, all who lived far too short lives. I dedicate this to them and I make the following promise: I will keep Popeye indoors at all times, especially since I live on the 6th floor and have not yet informed my apartment manager that I have a cat (please don't tell on me). I will keep him healthy. I will play with him. I will not put doll clothes on him. I will ensure his safety from all coyotes, owls, skunks, and embarrassing photos.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Baby's first selfie.</i></span></div>
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Most importantly, I will love him.Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-30581611713156193602016-07-04T18:05:00.000-07:002016-07-05T08:33:24.570-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 4: Oregon Trail to Hell<div>
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Remembers the game Oregon Trail? For the unfortunate, Oregon Trail was a computer game where you buy some oxen and supplies and take your family out on the frontier. You hunt, encounter snakes, and die of dysentery.<br />
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Great game for children to play.<br />
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Say someone has an idea; the idea is to teach children about the <i>real</i> Oregon Trail. Get kids out on the plains in the wilderness where they can experience the real lives of the settlers. Also, let's do this in the middle of the summer on the hot plains where there is literally no shade and the days start in the 90's and end with ravenous thunderstorms. Let's also make the kids 10-11 years old, because it's time those little bastards learn survival skills. We'll also teach them the stereotypical lifestyles of Native Americans by using <i>real Indians. </i>We'll also call them <i>real Indians </i> to their faces.<br />
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This was my 5th grade camping trip.<br />
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I transferred to Rock Ridge Elementary school in the 5th grade. It was a pretty big change in schools, not only in location but the kind of school. This was in a county that raked in a lot of dough for their schools. Their history books went all the way up through George Bush in Castle Rock, not like in Littleton where the books only went up to Jimmy Carter. This was a fancy school.<br />
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I found out on my first day that I was just in time because the class camping trip would be going out to the Aurora Plains Conservation Center to camp in the middle of July. By the way, this was a year round school, which meant we were in school <i>in the summer. </i>I'd gladly take back my Jimmy Carter history book and take the summer off, thank-you-very-much.<br />
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This is a very common theme in all of my stories, but to set the scene in my social standing--I was a couple of pegs below awkward nerd. I maybe had two friends in my class, both who would not be going on this trip. I actually begged my parents to not make me go, but they wanted me to build character, and they would go on the trip if they could because it sounded amazing. </div>
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If they went on these trips for me they wouldn't have made me go.<br />
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We arrived at the conservation center on a Friday. Now I will say my 11 year old self was pretty thrilled to pull up to this place and see real covered wagons, and oxen, and gigantic tee-pees that we would actually get to sleep in that night.<br />
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We were taken through safety drills first. The biggest concern out on the plains is rattlesnakes. We were instructed what to do if were to encounter one. Remember this, because we'll need it for later. </div>
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Once we finished our safety demonstration we were introduced to Toby, who was our designated, honest to goodness Native-American guide for the weekend. Toby and his family worked for the conservation center, teaching little white children about life on the plains. He took us into a tee-pee where he showed us how they were constructed and also taught us the value of cow-patties. In the middle of the tee-pee was a small hole in the ground filled with dried cow patties. We learned that if wood was scarce, dried cow patties were a valuable source of kindling.<br />
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We were set loose to wander around the camp, where we learned out to tan deer hide, make fry bread, and make deer jerky; it would left hanging, fly-ridden in the hot sun. They were so surprised none of us ate any!<br />
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We were sent out to have free time, so I went back into the tee-pee with the girls who I was assigned to camp with; these girls turned out to be the most popular and pretty girls in our grade. They were also the designated class "Mean Girls". </div>
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When I had initially put my things down in the tee-pee I had put my things far against the wall, where I was most comfortable hiding. When I got back in the tent, however, I found my things had been moved right next to the open pit of cow patties. I didn't say a word and just started unpacking my things, since there was nowhere else to move.<br />
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I was setting up my sleeping bag when the girls started pouring in with <i>boys. </i>I sat there watching them and asked if I could play too, and they very baldly said, "No way." Then one of the girls turned around and asked me if I was wearing deodorant, to which I said no because I didn't have sweaty armpits. Then they all started making fun of me for not having deodorant and that I had sweaty armpits. One of them threw a fit because they had to share a tent with someone with B.O. </div>
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Now I have to defend myself, even now, because I sweat <i>everywhere</i> but my armpits. Even now, as a 36 year old woman, I sit here in my hot apartment with no fluid coming from my pits. </div>
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They were just being mean.<br />
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There was one girl in particular who was the ringleader of the teasing. Let's say her name was Mag. She had bright blonde hair that was always fixed with sky high mall bangs, and her face was always bright red; as if she had ridiculously high blood pressure at age 10.<br />
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The whole incident of course ended with me running from the tent crying. I spent hours in the bathroom hiding with my Babysitter's Club book, reading. When I came back out my teacher was upset because she had been looking for me, to which I was surprised that she never looked in the bathroom. </div>
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I had missed dinner but she saved me a plate. She told me to change into my PJ's and come eat by the fire with her and the other teachers. This was the best part of the trip for me. I always connected with adults so much easier than children my age, perhaps because there was safety in their presence. An adult would never terrorize you the way children would. One hopes.<br />
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I tucked into my sleeping bag without a word to any of the girls last night. The morning would find me inside the hole filled with dried cow patties. The girls laughed at me as I woke up and scrambled out of my sleeping bag. They told me I rolled into it but I was later told by a girl from another tent who took pity on me that Mag pushed me in. </div>
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Children are terrible people.<br />
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That day we were to leave our Native American lives and embark on to our Settler lives. We helped load up covered wagons, and embarked on a trail. According to my teacher we were following a trail to some pre-arranged tents on the plains where we'll lunch and take a break from the hot sun. After that we would hike to a small built up village where we could see an authentic prairie small town. It was complete with an old school house, a bakery, and we would get to dip candles. We never made it to the prairie town. </div>
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<i>Cue ominous music.</i><br />
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Remember how I said the days would start in the 90's and end with thunderstorms? That was no joke. We hiked along the trail, absolutely miserable from the heat. Mag encountered a rattle snake, because we were on the desert plains in their territory. </div>
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Not gonna lie, I was a little disappointed she didn't get bit. I didn't want her to die, but let's remember she pushed me in cow shit and called me smelly. </div>
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As we grew closer to our destination the clouds grew thicker and darker. To my 11 year old recollection I had never seen clouds so black and dangerous looking, and I had a terrible fear of thunder at the time. </div>
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We marched on as the thunderclaps grew louder, and suddenly as if someone turned a bucket on our heads we started being pelted with freezing cold rain. That rain started turning into marble sized hail, and at this point we were running to the tents.<br />
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The tents were strangely army fatigue printed tents, which I found odd for an Oregon Trail type of setting. We ran in the tents where there <i>was</i> food set up for us, but the rain and hail was so heavy the tent was dripping and soaking the food. Water started to log around our ankles as the teachers tried to get us to sing camp songs to pass the time; I assume hoping the storm would quickly pass, like most summer storms do. </div>
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As we sang "Down by the Bay", one of the teachers came running in saying she saw two funnel clouds. </div>
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Of course this was immediately terrifying, as they herded us in to tornado drill positions. I don't know if you've ever been part of a tornado drill, but what you do is you squat down into childs pose with your head against a wall, then you cover your head. If we were in school we would have used our schoolbooks, but since we were on the plains we used our rain-soaked backpacks.<br />
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What happened next as I pressed my face into my knees to avoid the 3 inches of water was a mixture of sounds. Children screaming and crying. Hail pelting the tent. Teachers reassuring. Wind so loud and and fierce that it sounded like a freight train.<br />
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I didn't cry. I very distinctly remember feeling anger. I was angry my parents made me go on this trip. Angry at the horrible children and the futility of the activities we were participating in. Most of all, I was pissed that I might die with these assholes. </div>
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Dark thoughts for an 11 year old, I know.<br />
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We didn't die. </div>
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The tent wasn't swept up and we weren't thrown into the next county by the tornadoes. Miraculously, as close as they touched down they traveled in the opposite direction from us. The storm slowed down to a steady rain, and the teachers radioed the conservation center. They sent vans back and forth to transport us to the center where we were met with hot cider.<br />
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We crowded into a room not big enough for 80 children. Kids were taking turns calling their parents, telling them their harrowing tales of plains survival. I called my parents and begged them to come and get me. They told me I was being dramatic and they would see me the following afternoon, as planned. I sulked back to the crowd of wet, disappointed children. I ended up in the same corner as Mag and her cronies. </div>
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Due to the lack of space it was sitting with them, or the wall of snakes they had on display in various terrariums. Mag was wailing; she said her legs were numb from the cold. I was suspicious of her because literally nobody else was complaining of being cold to the point of numbness. </div>
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Also, I hated her.</div>
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Her cronies were comforting her, which only increased my anger, because they made this trip miserable for me. They were vile to me, but sweet to each other in a way that made me sick with the injustice of their cruel pecking order.<br />
<br />
They were touching her legs tenderly and rubbing them, asking, "Can you feel that? Can you feel this? Can you feel anything yet?" She continued crying and waling, "<i>No! I can't feel anything!" </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Then, completely out of character for me, as if having some kind of out of body, Hulk-like experience, I balled up my fist, reached over and punched her hard on the thigh and asked her, "Do you feel that?" </div>
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She jerked her leg up and cried even harder, screaming, "YES!" </div>
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The cronies were in shock. They began to admonish me as I picked up my things and moved over to the wall of snakes. </div>
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I called my parents again and begged them again to pick me up, and my father relented and said he'd get me in the morning. I slept that night in front of the wall of snakes. I felt bad for punching Mag so hard, and tried to justify it to myself that she deserved it for being so mean.<br />
<br />
The following morning while I waited for my dad I walked up to Mag and her cronies. I apologized for punching her leg, and asked if she felt better. Mag did not speak a word to me, but her cronies chided me, telling me she was probably going to get a bruise. I said I was sorry again and went back to reading my Babysitter's Club and waiting for my dad. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
When I saw our big white Ford Aerostar minivan pull up I could have sworn I heard a choir of angels.<br />
<br />
I never really played Oregon Trail after that. I became a huge Solitaire fan.</div>
Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-32668625261432646752016-07-03T23:05:00.003-07:002016-07-03T23:05:50.518-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 3: Suburban Lesbians and Camping Theory<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="205" src="http://cdn.blog.rvshare.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/tent-assembly-fail.jpg?de6dcd" width="320" /></div>
<br />
I know some bad-ass campers. I know a person who will go into the wilderness by herself for weeks. I have friends who have a tent with an actual <i>foyer</i>. They have wonderful memories and experiences. They enjoy things like hiking, kayaking, and other wilderness activities, like tree-climbing and probably eating pine cones or whatever.<br />
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<i><br />
</i></div>
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I've always been a novice camper. To be honest, growing up my family, camping trips always had an element of disaster; like golf ball sized hail or snow in July. The first time I went camping without my family was with a group of friends from high school. My tent was riddled with mildew and was nearly lit on fire by a cigarette, then one of the guys compared me to a pork byproduct. So the first summer my ex and I moved here why didn't I follow the signs? The signs that clearly read Summer + Camping = This Will End in Tears? </div>
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The decision to go camping was very last minute. As in, "It's Thursday before 4th of July weekend and on the commute home we had the bright idea to go camping, but we don't have a place to go, we don't have a park pass, we don't have fishing supplies <i>or </i>licenses, oh and we had literally no supplies". To Big 5 Sporting Goods!</div>
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<br /></div>
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We needed <i>everything. </i>Tent, sleeping bags, chairs, camping grill, fishing poles (and licenses), cooler, cooking supplies; <i>everything. </i></div>
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"Where are we going to camp? Everything is already booked!" </div>
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"Leave it to me babe. I know a guy." </div>
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I don't think that's exactly what I said, but for the sake of story and to increase the significance of being brought down by my own hubris, let's say that's what I said.</div>
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The next day I talked to my boss at work. He was the king of camping and pretty punk rock about it. I asked for ideas of where we could get reservations so last minute. </div>
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"Reservations? Ha!", he probably said. </div>
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We pulled up Google Maps and he pointed at an exit on I-90. He told me to get off at that exit, take a left, take the third right, drive for <i>awhile, </i>and then just set up camp at the nearest clearing. Sounds easy, right?</div>
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That Friday night after work we packed all of our new camping gear, our dogs Xena (a young and wild Lab), and Maddy, (and old Pug who was the reincarnation of Sophia from <i>The Golden Girls</i>), and we headed east. We packed enough food and beer to feed Coachella and we were finally on the road by 7:00 pm.<br />
<br />
You know, an hour and a half before sunset?<br />
<br />
Going to a place we've never been. </div>
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We followed my boss's directions and it was remarkably easy to find a spot. A little too easy...<br />
<br />
We pulled over on the dirt road and were in awe at our luck. It was a gorgeous clearing across what appeared to be an easy to traverse ravine, right next a a beautiful roaring river, and an already built in fire pit. Dusk on Friday night on a holiday weekend and nobody has claimed this spot? Fools!</div>
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It was not that easy to get to. We had to hike down a steep and narrow trail. Once we got to the bottom of the trail we had to cross a generous portion of a river pool on dubiously placed rocks. Imagine trying to balance a cooler filled with way too much food and a very cranky pug under one arm while trying not to fall into freezing cold winter run-off. </div>
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After crossing the river it's a short hike back up hill and there we were -- our perfect little clearing.</div>
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"There's still more stuff in the car?? Are you kidding me? You get it, I'll stay with the dogs."</div>
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Did I mention I'm a terrible camping companion?</div>
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After my camping partner kindly fetched the remainder of our supplies (with tags still attached), we quickly set up our tent and started building a camp fire.</div>
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Did you know that in order to start a fire, you need fire starting supplies? Like wood. Kindling. <i>Matches.</i></div>
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<i><br />
</i></div>
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At this point it was so dark and we were exhausted and starving. We were also cold because camping next to a river filed to the brim with winter run-off is <i>freezing.</i></div>
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<i><br />
</i></div>
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We were left with no choice but to hike back up to the car and drive to the nearest gas station about 20 minutes away where we stocked up on fire building supplies and lighter fluid, just for good measure. We did this completely forgetting that we had an actual gas grill that we could have used for cooking and warmth. </div>
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Fire was achieved and we were finally sitting in our brand new fold out chairs and roasting wieners. We stuffed ourselves silly and finally started to relax with our beers and forest ambiance. </div>
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After lulling ourselves into a false sense of comfort, we saw a large pick up truck drive by and slow down, we assumed because they were looking for people they were supposed to join. We went back to drinking beer and relaxing by the fire when what appeared to be the same truck cruised by again. </div>
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I didn't start getting really nervous until it cruised by <i>again</i>, this time slowing down even more. We wondered who they could be. Are they lost? Do they think there are more camping spots down here? Are they murderers? </div>
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Of course that's where our minds went. </div>
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Shortly the truck appeared again, and this time they stopped, right behind our car. </div>
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We could see a dome light inside the truck turn on. The door opened. We could see the light of a flashlight go around our car.</div>
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The idea of going up there was brought up and immediate dismissed as asinine, because they are probably waiting for us to go up there to chop us into bits with an axe. </div>
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Haven't you heard of the slew of axe murders in the campgrounds of western Washington?</div>
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Yeah me neither, but there's no such thing as rational thinking in the middle of the night in the woods while facing a strange truck person. </div>
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We stood and watched. Eventually the flashlight disappeared, the dome light in the truck went off and we could hear the door to the truck close barely over the sound of the rushing river. </div>
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They weren't leaving. We weren't even sure they were in the truck. </div>
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The woods that surrounded us quickly started to look so much more dark and dangerous, like black walls being lit up by the fading campfire that could at any moment be penetrated by an axe wielding murderer.</div>
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In my mind we stood and stared at that truck sitting in darkness for an hour while in reality it was probably only 30 seconds. In that space of eternity I imagined what I would do if a monstrous axe man leapt at us from the darkness. Could I push them in the fire? Grab my partner and run? Push her down and run--no definitely shouldn't do that...<br />
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The truck started up again, reversed and pulled away. I could breath again. I wouldn't have to sacrifice my partner so that I could live.<br />
<br />
We decided to go to bed, but we were still freaked out.<br />
<br />
What if they came back?<br />
<br />
What if they were waiting for us to go to sleep?<br />
<br />
I actually called 911 asking if there were any reports of suspicious activity area in the area. The operator said there was nothing and to call back if anything happened. I agreed, but in my head I thought to myself that I wasn't going to be able to call if there was an ax sticking out of my, well...head. </div>
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We got in our sleeping bags and kept the cover off the top of the tent, so we could see the stars. It should have been romantic, but as I lay there staring at the sky all I could imagine was waking up with a blood-stained hockey mask staring back at me. Every time I would doze of I would jerk myself awake again. I know my partner didn't sleep either, because the dogs were restless and she was equally freaked out.<br />
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With sunrise came safety. We miraculously survived the night. We were very tired and very cranky. She went to work on breakfast while I broke down the tent. As we ate breakfast we made plans to go fishing while not being at all excited about it. Our lack of sleep combined with still being disturbed about who was stalking our car in the middle of the night made us want to abandon our trip early.<br />
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As I continued to stuff my face my partner contemplated starting a new campfire then like a warlock a park ranger appeared at the top of the ravine by our camp.<br />
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Apparently that's who was stalking our car last night: a park ranger.<br />
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Apparently we were not supposed to be burning fires at this site.<br />
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<i>Apparently </i>this is a hiking route, not a campsite.<br />
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We promised we were leaving.<br />
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We attempted to fish before hitting the road. We were not expert fisher-persons. The dogs wouldn't relax, and the river was too full and too fast.<br />
<br />
The best part of our 4th of July camping trip, hands down, was the hot shower and snuggling on our couch watching the fireworks on TV. Like normal people.</div>
Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-84131114482794702782016-07-02T23:38:00.000-07:002016-07-02T23:44:45.428-07:0030 Days of Blogging, Day 2: Mac and Cheetos and the Spiral of ShameThere must be a million reviews of Burger King's newest contribution to garbage food fusion cuisine, but none of those reviews will be as deeply steeped in shame as this one.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Where were you when I was pulling into the drive-thru?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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Did you know that no matter what time you leave on a Friday before 4th of July weekend your drive home will be inexplicably long? Like, "I should consider stopping for sustenance" long? Just as I had this thought I was rolling by a Burger King. <br />
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This is where the shame spiral begins. <br />
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I was just going to get a soda. <br />
<br />
Maybe a soda and some fries. <br />
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Maybe a soda, some fries, and a Junior Whopper. <br />
<br />
Maybe a soda, scratch the fries, onion rings instead, and a Whopper with cheese and bacon, and...do they have milkshakes?<br />
<br />
Maybe a chocolate milkshake, onion rings, a double Whopper with cheese and bacon and...OHMYGOD MAC AND CHEETOS?!?!</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>No caption needed. </i></span></div>
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Scratch the milkshake, onion rings and Whopper: shit's about to get real here. </div>
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I ordered one order of the Mac and Cheetos, which comes with 5 pieces. And a soda. And a Whopper, for a palette cleanser. </div>
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I noticed a slight embarrassed tone as I said, "Mac and Cheetos"; as if when ordering them requires a certain amount of remorse or you won't get your food. </div>
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I asked the gal at the window if she'd tried them. She nodded and half-shrugged with a look on her face that said, "They made me try it, and I'm not supposed to say it's terrible, but I also hate lying, so this is all I'm able to muster up without losing my job."</div>
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<img height="261" src="https://twentiescollective.files.wordpress.com/2014/03/meh1.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">It was a drive-by Meh-ing</span></i></div>
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I couldn't wait to get home to try one, so I the pulled the box out as soon as I pulled way. </div>
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I love that it comes in it's own little purse. You don't want it to touch anything like clothes, fabric, or skin.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhGLPIVBUgOpMAONSJ9EWK5cYBhnRydcTum5Zc1oKUy0mk5DjXCcP0_txvSAUs3-8W4dXfxhhhwX1MPvdQX6C3bJTZb8wQ9oHER-zyVqBzPtYV9ZRJkvDQD_ACNJ_YjB5A7SCFNR6IxP5/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhGLPIVBUgOpMAONSJ9EWK5cYBhnRydcTum5Zc1oKUy0mk5DjXCcP0_txvSAUs3-8W4dXfxhhhwX1MPvdQX6C3bJTZb8wQ9oHER-zyVqBzPtYV9ZRJkvDQD_ACNJ_YjB5A7SCFNR6IxP5/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>It's not a product slogan, it's a warning.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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At first glance, they look like the puffy variety of Cheetos, which took me back to many hazy-roomed nights in my early twenties waxing poetic of how much more delicious the puffy Cheetos are because of how good they feel with cotton mouth. Yes, that's a conversation I had. </div>
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At second glance, they started to remind of the nuggets I scoop after Popeye every morning. I tried not to dwell on their cat-poop similarities too long, because I really wanted to try this crap.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Does it matter that product development at Burger King is run by cats?</span></i></div>
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They smell nothing like Cheetos, and more like Goldfish Crackers or Cheez-Its. When I bit into it, it was a bit stale, like it had been sitting under a heat lamp for quite some time. The mac and cheese on the inside was like (and probably actually was) Kraft Mac and Cheese.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Is this what I look like on the inside now?</span></i></div>
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Pretty salty, Kind of creamy. Kind of crunchy. Savory. Might be really good with beer--oh man. Oh no.</div>
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I wasn't supposed to like them. I was supposed to try them to be ironic in the incorrect sense of the word. They weren't supposed to be crunchy, creamy, salty little fried nuggets of pasta that I want all the time. </div>
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Further down the shame spiral I go. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Shut. Up.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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Overall, they're fine. They're a shameful, yummy embarrassing to order and eat in public treat and it's a good thing there's only one Burger King in the Seattle metropolitan area. </div>
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I'd go further into the pitfalls of eating fast food while I'm struggling with depression and trying to eat food that's better for my body, but why be a bummer about something that's, let's be honest, is kind of whimsical and delightful?</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>This bitch...</i></span></div>
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Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-54728646690701382072016-07-01T14:03:00.000-07:002016-07-01T14:04:49.081-07:0030 Days of Blogging: Blog 1How odd is it that I feel so old-fashioned writing in a blog? Is blogging still a thing? Do people still read blogs that aren't owned by a tech enterprise or The Huffington Post?<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The first blogger</i></span></div>
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No matter! This is my challenge. For 30 days straight I will write in this blog. It may be nonsense. It may be droll with splashes of acerbic whit, because that's totes my style. It may be a story, or it may just be complaining about the lady at work who drives me <i>insane</i>.<br />
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Why the challenge?<br />
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I started this blog a couple of years back with the intent to write in it every day about my weight-loss journey. Then it evolved into a place for me to save my stories that I've been writing for storytelling shows. Then it just became a place for my stories for storytelling shows to be stored in draft form that I never could drum up the energy to edit and publish. Then I just stopped writing altogether.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>That's pretty much what it looked like...</i></span></div>
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There's always reasons for not writing. The last year has been filled with a lot of challenges. Job changes to living changes, never feeling safe and secure. Letting go of familial relationships and friendships that were toxic.<br />
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Some folks when faced with trouble in relationships and life are so strong. They fight! They are resolute in that they will not be defeated. I, on the other hand, lay down the flag of surrender pretty fast. I'd be a terrible soldier.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Beetle Bailey is my squad captain</i></span></div>
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My apartment could tell a story without speaking, and the title of that story would be "Depression: What the Piles of Garbage in This Apartment are a Sign Of". Depression is the Sisyphean boulder that I've been rolling up a hill for the majority of my life. For a long time I'll do really well. Daily functions aren't a challenge. I can do things like shower, take out the garbage, cook a healthy meal, spend time with friends, go to shows.<br />
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Gradually, as depression sets in I begin to make little allowances. Ordering out for dinner every night. Canceling plans with friends. Skipping shows. Showering <i>maybe </i>every third day. Not taking out the garbage until it becomes difficult to step over. Eventually becoming a full-fledged shut in and having a daily conversation as to whether life is worth living because I am an unlovable pile of garbage.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Lincoln had depression, but at least he had someone to take out the garbage.</i></span></div>
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So that was my spring, how was yours? Nobody ever said depression was fun. I'm working on it. That's why I'm blogging from the stone ages. Nobody may read this, but getting back into the routine of living may remind me of why it's good to be alive.Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-10614983353531099982015-01-21T17:16:00.001-08:002015-01-21T17:16:12.781-08:00Camp Poopy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Like a lot of humiliating road-trip stories, this one is poop-related. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's hard to say what's more humiliating: pooping one's pants, being taught pants pooping avoidance by one's 6th grade teacher, or have said pant pooping incident recalled by a school bully 20 years after the original incident. This pooping incident would sadly become a defining moment of my middle school and high school years.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I was halfway through my fifth grade year my parents decided to move us from Littleton to Castle Rock Colorado. They hoped that there would be less of a bullying problem, but not only did the kids bully me for being a chubby, awkward kid, but since Castle rock was a more upper class community, they also bullied me for being poor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the advantages of attending Rock Ridge Elementary was that the 6th grade class got to go to Camp Cheley. I knew about this because the teachers and students wouldn't <i>fucking</i> stop talking about it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"You're very lucky you go here, because in 6th grade you get to go to Camp Cheley!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"6th grade, Camp Cheley! If you can afford it...nice Payless shoes. Hey everyone, look at her Payless shoes!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Camp Cheley, for the uninformed, is a camp in the Colorado mountains. It's in Estes Park, 8,000 feet above sea level, and positioned near the continental divide. The cabins were luxurious, the food tasty, the accommodations cozy; not at all like the YMCA camps that the poor kids would attend (which I would later attend six times through my teen years).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wasn't terribly excited about going to Camp Cheley for two reasons: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1) I would be trapped in the mountains with my tormentors for a week straight, with nowhere to escape except for the woods overrun with bears and mountain lions (which honestly in comparison was a step above my peers). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2) Like the 5th grade camping trip (which is a nightmare I will save for another story), I was going to have to apply for a scholarship because my family couldn't afford the $400 fee. When I would be awarded the scholarship it would be announced to the class, and it would be following by endless bullying and teasing about how my family couldn't afford to send me to camp because I ate all of the family's money. Because I was fat, you see? What I'm trying to say is children are horrible people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well I was awarded a scholarship and I did have to go to Camp Cheley because it wasn't just camp; it was class. Every morning started at 6:00 am with breakfast, packing lunches and then piling on to buses for our day classes. We would drive for hours to our hiking points, hike through 5 feet of snow into the mountains in snow shoes while learning various things about wilderness, science and Colorado history.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the very first expedition we went to a cabin that belonged to Zebulon Pike or Robert Estes, or someone important who I can't recall. We hiked and picnicked in the snow, and at one point after two juice boxes, I needed to pee. I wandered into the woods like all the other kids to pee behind a tree, but what I didn't realize is that I was being followed by a group of boys. When I squatted down to pee, they started to make farting noises. After that, I resolved to never pee in the woods for the remainder of the trip, which would be very much to my detriment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The following day we hiked up to a frozen lake to identify different types of pine trees, because reasons? The hike went for several hours and I purposely left behind my water bottle so I wouldn't have to pee, however my teacher insisted that I drink the extra juice boxes she brought with her, so I would stay hydrated. What a horrible woman. I tried to hold it, but couldn't so I decided to hike far, far into the woods while carefully watching my back. Sadly I didn't make it and ended up peeing my pants trying to find a private place to go to the bathroom. I did, though, come up with a brilliant plan. I threw myself into the snow to get the rest of my jeans wet so when I would get back to the class I could play it off as if I fell into a snow drift and got wet struggling to get out. I was frozen numb but I was spared the humiliation of having to admit I peed my pants. Sadly the humiliation I was able to spare myself would only be paid back to me twofold the following day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The next morning we took a longer trip to Saint Mary's Glacier. The drive was over two and a half hours there and back again. We would spend the day hiking up to the glacier, learning how to age ice layers (because reasons), This time I would fake drinking juice boxes so I could avoid peeing, but there was nothing I could do to avoid the dreaded #2.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It hit me as we hiked back down hill to the bus. I don't know about you, but when I walk or exercise, the pooping process is expedited greatly. I took tiny steps clenching as hard as I could, with my teachers constantly haranguing me for taking up the rear (so to speak). I told him I wasn't feeling well as I carefully inched my way down the mountainside. By the time we reached the bus I couldn't hold it any longer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I did it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I pooped my pants.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I got on to the bus knowing there was a large load in my jeans. There was literally nothing that could be done. I went all the way to the very last row on the bus so I could sit alone. The teacher was talking to us, recapping what we learned, but my primary focus was positioning myself on my seat so I didn't have to sit flat on my butt. I pressed my knees into the seat in front of me so I could suspend my butt over the chair, but I couldn't hold that position for the two and a half hour bumpy road trip back to the Camp. In the last hour stretch when my thighs were burning from holding myself up we hit a massive pothole and I landed hard on my bottom. It felt like a final <i>"fuck you"</i> from the universe before the worst of it was to come.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We got back to camp and I slowly waddled my way off the bus and uphill towards our cabin. I grabbed a change of pants and went directly into the communal bathroom. I won't bore you with the details of clean up, but I will tell you it was bad. I must have spent a half hour in the stall wiping and flushing, wiping and flushing. I determined that I needed to shower, which thankfully was in the same bathroom, but I was stuck with one problem: my underwear.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't know if you ever had to deal with cloth diapers, but my mother used them on my younger brother. Having a piece of fabric filled with poop presents a significant problem, especially when you're locked in a bathroom filled with your peers, who are wondering why you are taking so long in the bathroom. I recalled what my mother would do when she would clean out my brother's diapers: she would shake off what she could in the toilet and then flush, and as the toilet would flush she would dip the soiled part of the diaper in the flushing water to clean it off before she would put it in the washing machine. It's gross, but it's a good system.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I resolved to follow my mother's method, shaking off what I could and then I flushed the toilet. Delicately pinching my underwear between my fingers I dipped my underwear into the rapidly flushing water and almost instantly the water swept my underwear out of my tender grasp. With horror I watched my underwear flush down the toilet. I prayed that they would make it; that by some miracle they would make it through the pipes and the toilet wouldn't clog, but the toilet did clog. Then, as if I was possessed by some kind of idiotic demon, I flushed again, hoping the water would coax the underwear through the pipes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That is not what happened. The water immediately began overflowing all over the floor, into the other stalls. I heard other girls scream as the water touched their feet. I jerked open the door and the cabin counselor was already standing there. All I could do was mutter, "There's something wrong with the toilet..." She pushed me out of the way and heroically grabbed a plunger and started plunging away as the rest of the girls in the cabin gathered around, asking, "What happened? What did you DO??" I kept saying, I don't know, I don't know, as I backed towards the exit slowly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before I could make my escape I saw the counselor lift the plunger, with my yellow underpants tragically dangling from the end of it. I'll never wipe the look on her and my peers faces, the look that very plainly read as, "What the actual fuck?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That was my queue to leave. I turned around and walked promptly out of the cabin, down to the infirmary. I told the nurse that I was sick to my stomach and had diarrhea. I stayed with her in the infirmary until bedtime. My cabin counselor and my teacher both came by asking what happened. I couldn't lie my way out of it but I did finesse my story and tell them I had diarrhea, in order to increase their sympathy so they wouldn't think I was some kind of animal that pooped her pants and flushed her underwear down the toilet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I sat in the infirmary all night, taking Pepto Bismol and sipping tea with the nurse. We listened to NPR and talked about our families and where we were from. She was unbelievably kind to me when I needed someone to be kind. It was probably the best part of my trip. When it was bedtime she walked me up to my cabin, where thankfully everyone had already gone to sleep, and I was able to slip quietly into my bunk and cry myself to sleep.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The rest of the week went surprisingly conflict free. I practically starved and dehydrated myself for the remainder of the trip, but it was worth sparing myself the humiliation. When I returned home I didn't tell my parents what happened, and I don't believe my teacher told them either because we never talked about it. What did happen, however, was the day we returned to class after the trip my teacher kept me after school. She gave me a lesson on how to hold my poop in by clenching my butt cheeks. She sat in her chair across from me, demonstrating how she clenches, insisting I try it too. I complied, never looking her in the eye, and walked home feeling absolutely defeated. My butt clenching lessons were the Charlie Brown soundtrack to my sad walk home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I survived the sixth grade, assuming that it was behind me (so to speak). Sadly I did not live the incident down. A middle school bully would constantly bring it up when I would pass him in the hall. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Hey tubbo, aren't you the kid who pooped her pants and flushed her underwear down the toilet?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">His name was Matt. He was a rat-faced skater boy. All through Middle School and High School, he was the one who would never let it die. What made it worse is that he didn't even go to Camp Cheley, which meant he heard it second hand from the boys in his class, which meant the boys heard it from the girls. <i>Everyone knew. </i>I would of course lie and say it didn't happen or it wasn't me, but that's not something you can live down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Years later, after I started a Facebook account and the inevitable slew of friend requests would come from old high school acquaintances, I received a friend request from Matt. I was of course in shock, because he very clearly was not a friend of mine. I decided to accept his friend request and so I could ask him why on earth he would want to friend me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He asked, "Weren't we friends in high school? I remember you from the theatre department." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I told him I remember him in a very different light, and that he bullied me all through middle school and high school. I didn't hear from him for a few weeks, and then he finally responded with: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Wait, I remember you now! You were the kid who shit her pants and flushed her underwear down the toilet at camp!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before I blocked him, I responded with this: "I may be the kid who when she was 11 years old shit her pants at camp and accidentally flushed her underwear down the toilet, but I'd rather be that than a 30 year old man who won't stop talking about it."</span>Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-9497898285172357462015-01-20T11:44:00.001-08:002015-01-20T11:44:32.005-08:00The first three times<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>WARNING</b>: This story contains sex. Not sexy sex, but sex. Family discretion is highly advised. (Translation: if you're my parents, aunt, or uncle, maybe skip this one)</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Growing up Catholic and eventually Baptist, the loss of one's virginity is a very big deal. I lost my virginity twice. Well technically, three times.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The first time I lost my virginity was when I was 15, but it was a work of fiction. You see, when I was a teenager, like most chubby, geeky, creative types, I had zero game. I didn't know how to flirt, or to show and tell someone if I liked them. I was also evangelical baptist, and struggling with lesbionic thoughts; like impure thoughts about my poetry teacher, which sounds like how most 60's lesbian pulp novels start. I didn't know what I wanted. I did have crushes on boys my age, but after school they all came out if the closet, so that should have been a pretty big tell right there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was surrounded by friends who all had boyfriends. They made out in the back of the theatre, they would sneak out of their houses at night and steal away moments like I heard in popular songs by Dave Matthews and Better Than Ezra (I went to high school in the 90's, no judging). All I ever heard was, "I got another hickey!" or "We might do it next weekend!" I felt like some sort of sexless treasure box where they would bury their secrets, not a girl their age who was also coursing with hormones and wanted to be touched and wanted they same way they did. So I did what most sex starved nerds might do when they felt desperate enough to want to be seen as more than an asexual set of ears: I <i>lied. </i>I told the biggest lie I ever told in my life, and this is my confession. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I told my friends that I was hanging out with my brother and his friend, who went to another high school, because they <i>always </i>go to another high school...or they live in Canada. I lied that we snuck away while my brother played Nintendo and that he talked me into having sex with him. I didn't want to sound too easy! I lied that it hurt at first, and that it was mostly uncomfortable and it went quickly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To be honest, at the time I knew nothing about sex. We didn't have the internet yet and I literally missed sex education. I'm 34 years old and I still don't know what's going on down there. A few years ago a kid I tutored explained to me how menstruation works, that's how out of touch I am with what goes on with reproductive organs. It turns out it's not because God is punishing me because of Eve's original sin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thankfully my friends didn't ask me too many questions about the specifics, and anything I did tell them was what I heard from other girls or what I learned from Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place. I went from asexual to sexual oracle. I loved the attention. The story would get bigger and bigger every time I told it. I even threw in a pregnancy scare for dramatic effect. I confessed to the girls in my church youth group, and they told me that I can ask God's forgiveness and declare second virginity. As if praying to God to forgive me for having fake sex will make my hymen grow back. Well joke's on them, because I lost it when I was eleven riding a bike.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I craved any kind of attention that changed the way people saw me, or the way I saw myself: chubby, awkward, and undesirable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">High school came and went, along with my peer's virginity. Their stories became more fascinating than mine, so I eventually became the confessional to them again, with whom they would share their many encounters and secrets. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I stayed that way going into my early twenties. I was always the cheerleader or the wingman for my friends. I still didn't know how to flirt, and I had no sexual confidence, at least not in real life. You see, I had the prowess of a porn star on the internet. I loved chat rooms, because there was no risk of rejection.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I talked to dozens of different people on there. I talked to one man who wanted to be my sugar daddy and take me traveling with him as a kept woman. Another was a couple, looking for a woman to have a threesome with. Then there was Bill. At least I think that's what his name was, I never got to know. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We talked for months, messaging back and forth; not just about sex, but about our interests and hobbies, what we did for a living. I looked forward to getting an instant message from him every day at work. I had no idea what he looked like, and he hadn't seen me either. I didn't have a digital camera and neither did he. That, however, didn't stop us from wanting to meet and have sex. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I set it up: I reserved a hotel room at a Holiday Inn Express in my small home town of Castle Rock. He would drive all the way down from Boulder to meet me there. Before we both left work that day he asked me the question I had been dreading: What do you look like? I became alarmingly aware of my body and my very low self esteem. I told him, "I have to warn you, I'm big." He said, "I don't care, as long as you're sexy, which I think you are." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That shocked me because the one thing I definitely never saw myself as, was sexy. When he said that though, I felt it, and I was ready to have real sex. I was going to, at 22 years old, lose my virginity to a stranger I met on the internet that I told literally nobody about. When I say that out loud to myself now, that was some pretty risky behavior. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I got to the hotel first and got ready. I wore a silly silk nighty that I got from a sex shop in Denver, that was slit up to my thigh. I played a sexy R&B album by Joe. I bought beer and tequila, because...reasons? I presume to make us feel more amorous? That's what grown ups do when they have sex?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When he got there my first observation was that he reminded me a lot of my older brother. He wasn't actually my older brother, this isn't that kind of story.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He didn't say anything. He just put down his things, grabbed me roughly, and kissed me. It was my first kiss. For a brief shining moment it felt magical, like on the cover of the romance novels I guiltily read in high school: two lovers embracing, heaving bosoms, cascading hair, a strap dangling off my shoulder. The moment was brief and so was the sex. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Despite the fact he stood an alarming 6'5", he had a remarkably tiny penis. When it came to foreplay and actual sex, it was entirely a night of firsts. He barely touched me, and when it was all over, I barely felt anything. He got up to shower and I opened a beer, not really knowing why, since I didn't want it. It felt like a grown up thing to do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He came out, fully dressed and checked his pager, which some people still used in 2002. He said he had a work emergency and had to go. I asked if he'd come back and he said maybe. He told me to drink some water, kissed my forehead, left $90 on the dresser to cover the hotel room and left. That was it. I never heard from him again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That night I sat in the hotel room and watched TV by myself, trying to make sense of what just happened. I didn't have feelings for him, I didn't care about him. I didn't even know his real name. So why was I crying? It's a question I still struggle to answer. I will say: sitting in a hotel room bed, condom wrappers on the floor, and $90 cash sitting on the dresser, it was hard not to feel like a prostitute. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That was the second time I lost my virginity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The third time was with the woman I would eventually marry (and divorce, but that's another story night; let's remember her in a warm light for the moment). After that night in the hotel room I tried my hand at dating men, but after adding it all up, I didn't want men because I was fucking gay. My best friend called it my lady virginity, and I declared I wouldn't have sex with a woman until I was in love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I met her online, of course. We went to dinner. Then we went to coffee and we talked until they closed, at midnight. My heart sunk when I thought I would have to say good night to her, but she asked me if I wanted to come over and watch a movie, and of course I said yes. We watched <i>Mulholland Drive </i>(duh). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When she held my hand and my heart literally skipped a beat. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The first time a woman held my hand. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She looked at me and said I was beautiful. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The first time anyone ever told me I was beautiful. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyone other than my mom. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We kissed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My first kiss. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We had sex. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'd like to say we made love, but it's hard for me to say "make love" without wanting to puke, but we did have sex. On the first date. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A week later, on the 4th of July, we said "I love you". </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My first I love you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That was the third time I lost my virginity, and that was the best time. </span></div>
Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-71115788154922203192015-01-19T16:25:00.000-08:002015-01-19T16:25:29.573-08:00Turning Stones<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm a big fan of quotes. In high school my best friend even kept a running quote book of things we would hear other people say, or fascinating quotes we would read. When I was thinking of topics to write about I started leafing through quotes on ThinkExist, and I found the following Andre Maurois quote: <i>The first recipe to happiness is the following: avoid too lengthy mediation on the past.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Standing on a stage sharing meditations of my past is what I love to do. I love searching through my garden of memories, turning over stones and finding a story worthy of sharing. It comes naturally to me because it's what I love to do in my everyday life. In this particular case, I should have left the past exactly where it is. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I was 6 years old my parents lost our house. We lived in a little up and coming neighborhood in Colorado Springs and my folks bought their very first new house. With two children they could manage it, financially speaking. Then they had a very unexpected third. Then they couldn't manage it. They went through a very long foreclosure process, and we eventually moved out of our house to a townhome and apartment complex in Littleton. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was a charming little complex, despite the rotten neighborhood that surrounded it. I would borrow my older brother's scooter and roll around the complex (I was too scared to ride a bike at the time). I would scoot around and look for places to hide, too shy to introduce myself to the neighborhood children. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One day as I was scooting through the courtyard I saw a girl who looked about my age playing catch with a small group of boys. This was very odd to me, because girls my age didn't play catch with boys. They didn't play catch at all! They played Barbie, and dress-up and house. I thought she was the coolest girl I had ever seen. I scooted onto the grass and sat by a tree and watched her as she out-threw the boys. I took her in: a gangly girl with dirty blonde, frizzy, shoulder length hair. Her eyes were huge; huge and blue, and her mouth was also huge, with gaps in her teeth from the ones she'd lost. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She finally approached me, after minutes of my sending psychic messages to her, silently begging her to. She invited me to come play catch with her and her cousins. I told her I didn't really know how to throw that far, and she spent the rest of the afternoon teaching me how to throw, even after her cousins left. It was fast, but I had very quickly found my very first best friend. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I won't call her by her real name, because it's an extremely unique name, so I'll call her Starla. Starla and I, much like Forrest and Jenny, became like peas and carrots. We spent nearly every waking moment we could together. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We would walk together to and from school, until her mother pulled her out the the public school we attended and started sending her to a private Christian academy. We would play dress-up using old sheets. We wore pantyhose on our heads and pretended that we had really long pigtails. We made up bad dances to Amy Grant songs. We walked to the nearby Albertson's and would buy $.25 candy, and that was subsequently the same Alberston's where she and I would commit our first and last act of theft (Lipsmackers lip-gloss). We watched Nick at Night with her blind Grandmother and would reenact scenes from the Patty Duke Show. She even helped me shake my fear of learning to ride a bicycle, and with the help of her cousins, taught me how. I hated the days I couldn't see her, especially when she got the chicken pox; so much so that I actually snuck over to her apartment so I could see her, subsequently contracting chicken pox myself. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of all our adventures, what I loved the most was our overnights. We spent nearly every weekend spending the night at one-another's place. That was when we would play husband and wife. She was always the husband, and I was always the wife. I don't want to get into the details, because we were little kids. I will say, that of all of the experimental things we did, what I loved the most was when she would hold her fingers up to my lips, and kiss them. If we kissed each other for real it would of course be a sin, but if she put her fingers between us, it was okay. After we "kissed", we would fall asleep holding each other, our legs intertwined. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Back then I didn't know what to call our friendship beyond just "best friends". There was a deep shared kindred-ship that was completely unspoken. My adoration for her ran beyond just friends. I couldn't name it at the time but reflection in my later years would label it love. She was my first love. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our friendship carried on for four years, until quite unexpectedly, Starla's mother decided to move to Greeley. If I had to put it in Washington terms, I think that would be the equivalent of moving from Seattle to Olympia. Now on paper that doesn't sound very far, but in 1990, when a phone call from Littleton to Greeley is considered long-distance and my chief mode of transportation was roller skates, she may as well have moved to Greece. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I only saw her one more time after that. It was nearly a year later, and I was coming home from church play practice. I walked in the door and my father was standing there waiting for me. He said there was someone in the bathroom who wanted to see me. The door flew open and it was Starla. All I remember was our screams of joy, our arms being thrown around one another, and the feel of her lips as she kissed me on the cheek, without fingers. I only got to see her for a few minutes. She was only in town visiting her cousins and she begged her mother to stop in and say hi to me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I never saw her again after that. I was 10 going on 11 at the time. I thought of her a lot throughout my formative years. When at 25 I finally came out, people would ask me, "When did you know you were gay?" I would say I knew when I was six, but I wouldn't dare tell them it was from the first moment I saw Starla. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Years later my partner at the time and I were planning our wedding. I had told her all about Starla, and I asked her if I should try to find her through MySpace. I had thought about her for so many years, and I just want to know how she is, what she's up to. She had a troubled home life, and more than anything I wanted to know if she followed the same path as me and eventually came out. I searched for her and found her immediately; like I said, she had a very unique name. I wrote her and asked if this is the same Starla who used to live in Canyon Crest apartments. A day later I received a note back from her in all caps, "OH MY GOSH I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S YOU!!!!!!! CALL MEE!" She left her phone number and I wrote her back saying I would call her that night. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I got home I shared with my ex I was finally going to talk to Starla after 18 years, and I was surprised that I was actually scared. I wondered if this was a rock that needed to be turned over, or if I should just let it stay a precious memory. My ex told me to prepare myself, because she might not be out and proud. She might live in a trailer park with 8 kids and be a stringent right wing conservative. I countered that she grew up in a college town, so maybe she's smart and liberal, and has a girlfriend with a hip buzzcut.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I called her I was shocked by how quickly I recognized her voice. Even though we were adults I could still hear her childlike lisp. The conversation didn't go as I'd hoped. She told me that she had six children. She was engaged to her fifth and sixth child's father. They lived in a trailer park, but they were fixin' to buy a home as soon as he found a job. She paused a lot to yell at the kids, at one point screaming, "If you don't stop bothering your sister you're gonna get a beating with the belt!" She then asked me what I had been up to. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I told her I had moved to Seattle, and that I was getting married to my partner of three years. She countered with, "Partner? Your business partner?" "Oh no," I said, "My girlfriend...uh, I'm <i>gay</i>." I don't know why I put so much emphasis on gay. I think I needed her to hear it and emphasize to her that I can't believe she wasn't gay. She was my play husband. She initiated <i>everything</i>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There was a long pause after I said <i>gay</i>. All I could hear is the fighting among her children getting louder. She finally responded with, "Oh I see." I couldn't bear the tone in her voice. It was almost as if she had said, "Oh no, this is Summer's worst case scenario." I told her it sounded like she had her hands full, and why don't we talk when she had some spare time. She agreed and said she'd call me back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The next day on MySpace she disappeared from my friends list and set her account to private. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Maybe she thought of me over the years too. Maybe she hoped that I didn't end up gay and had lots of kids like her. I think were both equally disappointed in one another. I never reached out to her again, and I of course never heard from her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While it's kind of my job to turn over stones to share stories from my past, I have found that some stones are best left in the garden, undisturbed. </span>Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-72686553362413115842014-07-30T16:40:00.000-07:002014-07-30T16:40:52.799-07:00Ugly Lesbian Driver<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
It probably wouldn't surprise a lot of people that I have a nasty case of road rage. In my day to day life I'm usually pretty laid back, even keeled; it takes a lot to make me mad. Put me behind the wheel of a car, I turn into a slobbering rage monster. Go ten miles per hour below the speed limit and watch me lean out my window, one hand on the horn and the other extended high in the air in an angry #1 while I scream about how they should know their mother in the biblical way. All of my mid-western repressed, Baptist, anger has to go <i>somewhere</i>; so I take it out on the road.<br />
<br />
So if someone is going too slow, you ask, what if there is a slightly more elevated infraction? For example, say someone cuts you off in traffic? Well have I got a great story for you.<br />
<br />
It was a beautiful afternoon in Seattle. A rare hot and sunny day, and I had to be in Greenwood by 1:00 pm for my friends vow renewal ceremony. It was going to be a great event, because her entire family was going to be there, and she counted me among them. It was such a privilege to be invited, and I couldn't wait to be a part of it. Since I live in West Seattle and I knew that there was going to be traffic on a sunny day, I thought an hour would have been long enough to get there.<br />
<br />
It was <i>not. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Two and a half hours of construction, closed lanes, closed highways, street fairs, block parties, tourist traffic, accidents, and idiot drivers who aren't familiar with the concept of a turn signal to inform other drivers of where the hell they want to go is what I had to get through to get from Admiral Way to 85th and Greenwood. To put it in New York context: I had to get from Brooklyn to Central Park. It shouldn't have been a difficult feat, but every asshole on four wheels was on the road that day, and one asshole in particular was gonna get it.<br />
<br />
After spending two and a half hours in automobile purgatory I had finally made it to 85th. I was in the left lane passing a long line of cars on the right, going at a careful pace in case someone should cut me off. Exactly as I expected, some d-bag in a blue BMW cut me off.<br />
<br />
Quick sidebar: if you drive a BMW, I'm sorry, I don't mean to offend. That being said, 90% of every driver that has ever wronged me on the road has been in a BMW. Let this be a warning to all BMW drivers: don't let your car turn you into an asshole. Let this be your cautionary tale.<br />
<br />
Back to the offending BMW: this guy cut me off, and I almost hit him. That was his first mistake.<br />
<br />
I was beyond tense after spending such a long time on the road, and after he cut me off I did was almost anyone else would have done: I honked my horn. His reaction was to waggle his fingers at me in a dismissive, "whatever, I don't care, I drive a BMW", kind of fashion. That was his second mistake.<br />
<br />
He then started slowing down, as we were approaching a green light. He didn't have a turn signal on, and the closer we got the more he slowed down. We finally got to the green light and he came to a dead stop. As soon as the light turned yellow, he zoomed through the light. This was his third mistake, because I <i>constantly </i>run red lights.*<br />
<br />
I charged through the light and managed get into the right lane to pass him. At this point my anger has elevated from Mount St. Helen to the white hot center of the sun. As I started to drive past him I noticed his window was down. I also noticed my window was down. I then noticed the cup of ice in my cup holder, left over from an iced latte. As I became parallel with his window, I grabbed the cup of ice and chucked the ice into his window, where it met direct contact with his stupid face.<br />
<br />
VICTORY! I showed him! That is until he followed me down the street I turned down to get to my friends house. I didn't want him to follow me, and I wasn't going to get away from him in a high speed car chase in Greenwood, so I pulled over to face the music. I also figured since he was driving a BMW he probably didn't own a gun. I don't know where that logic comes from, but when I think of BMW owners I don't think of gun toting psychopaths.<br />
<br />
He pulled up next to me and rolled down his window. I rolled down my window. He was relatively young, buff, broad-shouldered, not bad looking, dreads that touched his shoulders, probably a Seahawk player, which made me hate him more because I hate the Seahawks.** He leaned in toward me and the following conversation ensued:<br />
<br />
Him: You feel better now?<br />
<br />
Me: You know what? I do! I feel great.<br />
<br />
Him: You wanna tell me why you felt like you had to do that?<br />
<br />
Me: Do you want to tell me why you felt like acting like an asshole after cutting me off? You almost caused an accident and then had the gall to drive like a jerk! So you tell me?<br />
<br />
Him: Well...too bad you're not a cuter lesbian.<br />
<br />
With that last remark, he drove away.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm left with two reactions to this remark. The first reaction is: I am the CUTEST lesbian! I'm so freaking cute, Ellen DeGeneres put a hit out on me, so don't challenge my cuteness. I. Am. CUTE.<br />
<br />
The second is this: if I were a cuter lesbian, in his clearly broken eyes, then what? What does that even mean? If I were a cuter lesbian, then he wouldn't have cut me off? He would have been nicer to me? He would want to bang me? Would I let him bang me if I were a cuter lesbian? Would this have been the moment he changed me from being a lesbian and we would fall in love and get married and he would get me my own BMW so I can be a douchebag and cut random people off?<br />
<br />
<i>So many questions!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
How would my life have been different if I were a cuter lesbian? This the big question that I need an answer to. That being said, I've compiled a list of how my life would be vastly greater if I were a cuter lesbian:<br />
<br />
<u>If I Were a Cuter Lesbian</u><br />
<br />
1. I would, clearly, have many many girlfriends.<br />
2. My iPhone battery would last longer.<br />
3. My pillows would be softer and my mattress would be firmer.<br />
4. I would have the same hanger to clothes ratio.<br />
5. My hair wouldn't get frizzy on a humid day.<br />
6. I wouldn't get nearly as many parking tickets as I do, which is a lot.<br />
7. My bagged salad wouldn't wither before I can eat it.<br />
8. My roommate would do her dishes, and put her trash in the trash can, instead of leaving it on the counter.<br />
9. Comcast will let me have just HBO, and not have to get any other channels.<br />
10. Janky, Seahawk looking, BMW driving douchebags won't cut me off and say misogynistic things like "Too bad you're not a cuter lesbian.", with the assumption that if I were a cuter lesbian that he would find me attractive and want to be with me, thereby validating my attractiveness and self-worth.<br />
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I am the cutest.<br />
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*Note to the Seattle PD: this is not a confession, this is satire. You'll never get me coppers!<br />
**Yeah, I said it! WHAT?? I got a cup of ice with your name on it too!Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-164816225772815882014-07-23T13:18:00.002-07:002014-07-23T19:26:18.523-07:00Skater Haters to the SideI had a long list of career choices when I was a kid, which was always met with a long list of reasons why I couldn't pursue those career choices.<br>
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<i>I want to be a chemist!</i> <br>
You can't be a chemist, you're terrible at math.<br>
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<i>I want to be a lawyer!</i><br>
You can't be a lawyer, it's too much school.<br>
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<i>I want to be an astronaut!</i><br>
You can't be an astronaut, there are no women astronauts.<br>
<i>What about Salli Ride?</i><br>
Well she's exceptional. Are you exceptional?<br>
<i>Heck yeah I am!</i><br>
Well you're too fat.<br>
<i>Guess you're right...</i><br>
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One of my career choices was born at an Ice Capades show in Denver and died on an abandoned skating rink floor.<br>
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In 1985 my folks took me and my older brother to our very first Ice Capades show in Denver, Colorado. In the eyes of a five year old girl, a dream was born: <i>I will do this. </i>The costumes. The spinning. The twirling. The whimsy. The SPARKLIES! I looked at my mother with wide eyes and she said, "Is this something you would like to do?" Well of course it was.</div>
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After that I became obsessed with ice skating. I was in love with Scott Hamilton and the way he commanded the awe and attention of everyone in the arena as he flawlessly glided across the ice. I wanted to leave people struck with awe and wonder with my icy ballerina moves. </div>
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It's safe to say I was a typical middle child who desperately craved attention. Soon after my dream was born my younger brother was born and my status of "youngest and special-est" was downgraded to "middle-est and stay out of the way-est". <br>
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Strangely, despite the fact I wanted to be an ice ballerina, I never touched a pair of ice skates. I would practice my Flying Camel skating up and down the street in front of my house. I wore my shortest skirt I had over my leotard, eyes closed, one leg gracefully stretched out behind me and arms raised in front of me; as if I were reaching to the audience in my arena to embrace them in my delicate arms as I offered them my gift of the frozen dance. In my head, I was Scott Hamilton. Scott Hamilton in a skirt. </div>
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My favorite weekend activity was going to the Skate City next to where we lived. I would spend hours there, skating in circles. Now I want to be forthright: here on earth, I was by no means a talented skater. I was terrified of using the brake system on my skates, after a one-time incident of using them at high speed and getting thrown several feet onto the pavement. When skating at home my method of stopping was throwing my body onto the nearest patch of grass. At the skating rink I would stop myself by slamming into the carpeted wall on the opposite end of the floor. I also found that attempting a Flying Camel on roller skates was a foolhardy goal, since roller skates do not pivot on the ground nearly as well as blades do on ice. I never let this stop me, though. I was determined to be the most beautiful roller skater at Skate City. Arms stretched out, leg raised behind me, everyone there was an unknowing member of my loving audience. </div>
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Anyone who is familiar with skating rinks is also familiar with the myriad of activities that went on there. The Hokey-Pokey, the Happy Birthday Dance, Simon Says, and most importantly the speed skating competition. I never really attempted the speed skating competition; my purview lay in substance, not speed. For the speed skating competition to start everyone had to exit the floor to make way for the challengers. Every time the call for everyone to exit the floor came, I would attempt to stretch out my time on the floor on my own so everyone standing on the sidelines could sample my talents; however, as soon as the lights came on, that was my prompt signal to get off the floor. </div>
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One Saturday afternoon, when I was nine years old, my family took one of our usual excursions to the Skate City. My older brother, bedecked in a Broncos t-shirt and rat-tail haircut was huddled in the corner of the floor with his friends, and my parents were taking slow laps around the rink with my little brother. I was lost in my fantasy, taking turns around the oval, practicing my backward skating with one leg raised and my arms stretched out, lost in the music, which was more than likely <i>Kokomo</i> by the Beach Boys (admittedly my favorite song at the time). I started to notice as the music played on that people were slowly leaving the floor and crowding around the sidelines, but the lights weren't coming on; so I kept on skating.<br>
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I kept taking my turns around the floor, adding movement, gracefully flexing my arms in front of me. Since <i>Kokomo </i>was playing I would occasionally incorporate a little hula hip sway here and there. I was owning that floor and I was <b>not</b> going to stop until the song was over. Every now and then I would catch my mother's gaze, and she had such a huge smile on her face. My heart skipped a beat every time I saw her smile, because I felt like I was finally making her proud of me.<br>
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Reality was trying to break it's way in to my little fantasy skating dream; I could hear my brother and their friends making snide comments every time I passed them.<br>
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<i>Get off the floor tubby! It's time for speed skating! Move it pudding belly!</i><br>
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Reality was not invited to my skating party. I was in a heaven of my own making, because I didn't just want to be a skater: I wanted to be <i>seen.</i> Seen for something other than a chubby little girl who is constantly falling down on her skates. I wanted to be seen as something beautiful and graceful, and being a chubby little girl, I was <i>never </i>referred to as beautiful or graceful.<br>
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I stuck through the entire song, and as a finale I decided to attempt my flying camel. I stretched my fingers out in front of me, and slowly lifted my leg behind. I attempted to pivot into a turn, but I fell. I got back up, got momentum, stretched out again, turned, and fell again. I attempted this three times, and on the third I heard an audible "Awww!" from the sidelines. I didn't have their admiration. What I did have, was their pity, and as a bullied, chubby, middle child, I was willing to take it. I stood up, took one last lap around the floor and skated to the sidelines, straight into my mother's arms. She hugged me, stroked my long blonde hair and laughed, "You are so sweet Prissy! You were beautiful."<br>
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In the disco lights, and heavy smell of feet and nachos, I thought I was beautiful too. </div>
Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-31212860119022203082014-02-06T13:49:00.000-08:002014-02-06T13:49:12.916-08:00And we're BACK!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well howdy ya'll! It's been awhile, no? <br />
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Awhile back I decided to scrap the weight-loss journey concept of this blog. I read back through old posts and fell in hate with the person writing them; it was all self-pitying, despondent tripe. In addition, I was writing for the wrong reasons. <br />
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When it comes to my own personal journey of caring for myself, and my body, it's just that: <em>personal.</em> I was not, and still am not, prepared to shine a light on the most painful struggle of my life on a public forum. I may allude to it from time to time, but to write about it on a daily basis became too frustrating and too vulnerable for me. <br />
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I asked myself recently: why do I like to write? What is it about writing that makes me feel complete? I thought about my father, and how he loves to share stories. They could range from mundane to barn burners, but he always tells them with the enthusiasm of someone who cares about the listener's experience. When I write, I don't write just to make myself happy, I want to make someone else happy. I want to share stories that can excite, titillate, or provoke thought in the person I am telling the story to. <br />
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So that is why I bailed on my blog, and that's why I'm back shifting the focus. I just want to tell stories. If you want to know how I'm doing, feel free to ask. <br />
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Just an update; recently my favorite podcast, <a href="http://risk-show.com/" target="_blank">RISK!</a>, came to Seattle for a live show. I was very excited to have my submission picked to be read for the live show and podcast recording. I will eventually post it here on the blog when it's posted. It was not only a wonderful experience to share my story, but it was also inspiring to hear the other storyteller's travails. I insist that if you enjoy podcasts or if you don't, give this podcast a go. You will hear stories that will run the gammit of human experience and it will inspire you. Do it. Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com0Seattle, WA, USA47.6062095 -122.332070847.2636815 -122.9775178 47.9487375 -121.68662379999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6576431420798672083.post-41369077110876523602013-06-07T14:25:00.002-07:002013-06-07T14:26:38.956-07:00fabulous friday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Date: June 8, 2013<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">T</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">ime: 12:32 pm<br /> Current state: Not gonna lie...pretty low<br /> Location: The Office<br /> Weather: Cloudy</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Today's menu:</span><br />
<strong>Morning</strong><br />
Greek yogurt w/blueberries and granola<br />
Coffee<br />
<b>Afternoon</b><br />
Frozen lunch (Paneer Masala w/rice)<br />
Carrots w/hummus<br />
Almonds<br />
Apple<br />
<b>Evening</b><br />
<a href="http://www.celesmeals.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #336699;">Cele's Meal</span></a><br />
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<em>What does one do when it's Fabulous Friday and one is feeling significantly less than fabulous? We're talking tears people, and it's been quite awhile since I've cried. I didn't even cry when I almost got carjacked a couple months ago. I considered not writing today, but I realized that it's important to share my successes and failures; so hang in there with me today, because it's been a rough week. Oh and this post is going to be a bit sweary, in case you're sensitive to swear words, in which case: chill the f**k out.</em><br />
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I went to my WW meeting this today filled with pride and optimism; pride that I counted every little point I ingested this week, worked out twice, and stayed within my point limit. I felt optimism because I knew I was going to step on that scale and I was going to get my card back from the cranky lady who runs the counter, and it was going to have a minus pounds sign, rather than a plus pounds sign. I took off my sandals, stepped on that scale telling the cranky lady "It's going to be a great week!", and she smiled through her cranky mouth. Then she look at the screen and her cranky smile turned into a cranky frown. She said nothing; she handed me my weigh-in card and said to enjoy the meeting. I didn't take that as a good sign. I sat down in my usual spot in the front row, opened my weigh-in booklet, and found that I had actually gained .8 lbs this week. It was painful; the cliché slap to the face when being delivered bad news.<br />
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My initial instinct was to go back to the counter and smack the cranky lady in the face, because clearly this is all her fault. Then I sat there, thinking about where I could have gone wrong. I ate really well, I stayed within my points, I worked out twice this week for the first time in months; how could I have <em>gained</em>? Obsessively tracking, counting calories, putting my knees through torture, and I gained. I saw the star stickers on a table that the leader hands out every week for the people who lost weight, and it hit me that I couldn't bear to be there. I felt like I didn't have anything to celebrate, so I gathered my things and left. As I hobbled to the car on my busted-ass knees I felt this swell of anger overcome me. The typical "Why am I even trying?" attitude was ever-present as I chucked my crutches in the passenger seat and slammed my car door as hard as I could. I sped away and all I felt was red hot fury, so I screamed at the top of my lungs and let it dissolve into heaving sobs. I imagine the scene in my car looked <em>insane</em>. I will, however, give myself major props for being such a good driver while having a severe emotional paroxysm. <br />
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In all honesty, I think the week has been building up to this. I have been a pressure-cooker of intense hostility all week after finding out on Monday that my insurance company will in fact <strong>not</strong> be covering the cost of gastric bypass surgery. This is after being told a few weeks ago that they will. It hit me harder than I expected; not because I was putting all of my faith into this surgery, but I felt like I had my pass to the "Express Lane of Hope" revoked. In that moment, after getting off the phone with the insurance company, I allowed myself a short amount of time to feel really let down by their refusal. After that, however, I realized that it was 100% up to me now to get through this. No express lane; so I kicked my ass into gear and pushed myself harder this week then I have in recent memory. Oh and by the way? F**k my insurance company.<br />
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<em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Silly rabbit...</span></em></div>
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All of the aforementioned is perhaps why I feel so crestfallen today; because I have been trying, and I still feel like I'm failing. I can't today though, because it's Fabulous Friday. That being said, I'm only human; every day isn't going to be "running down the beach in white pants" wonderful. Sometimes it's going to be "stepping on a broken seashell and falling flat on my face" shitty. Today, however, will not be Pessimistic Friday. Not today.<br />
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<em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Not to-f***ing-day.</span></em></div>
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So here we go again folks: Fabulous Friday. Not "Fabulous Friday!" with an exclamation point, but "Fabulous Friday." with a period, because I'm going to make it a good f****ing day or I'm going to die trying. </div>
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3 things I like about myself:</div>
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1. I am really good at finding the silver lining.</div>
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2. I did my make-up beautifully today.</div>
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3. I killed it in Aquafit this week, and I'm not giving up.</div>
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Your turn; hit me in the comments or <a href="mailto:suminseattle@outlook.com" target="_blank">email me.</a> Let's make it a great weekend. </div>
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Summer out.</div>
Summerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185825677827194484noreply@blogger.com3