Everybody plays the fool; only some have fun with the role

About a month ago, I exchanged messages with a friend who recently went through a very difficult break-up and as a result was trying to "keep a low facebook profile." (Yes, I envied the wordplay.)

Ah, facebook. You are my b-tch lover. I feel like one look at my profile reads like a telegram describing play-by-play my lack of a real life:

M wrote on Herbert's wall. Herbert wrote back two hours later. M responded within a minute. Herbert never responded. M photoshopped herself into a picture from a social event she did not attend. M quoted Arrested Development in her status again...how original. M is lonely; she posts a picture of her best friend. Someone likes the picture M just posted of her dog.  (I could go on, but self-deprecation quickly transitions from "mildly humorous" to "overwhelmingly depressing.")

I don't take myself seriously on facebook. My name is altered, my profile picture often involves tasteless photoshopping, and I refuse to be in a legitimate facebook relationship. There are a couple of contributing factors for this last detail, but one sure component comes with a story. If you're not in the mood for yet another trip down memory lane, I guess this is goodbye. If you're sticking around, pull up a chair.

Back when I was a freshman in college, I made my high school boyfriend break up with me on Christmas Eve. Odd phrasing? Let me break it down in an annoyingly colloquial fashion:

(cue Wayne's World time-travel music and finger motions)

I called up the soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend and was all,
"Why are you being such a b-tch?"

and he was all,
"I don't think we should have this conversation tonight. Merry Christmas, we'll talk later."

To which I said,
"F that, b-tch! We're having this conversation riiiight NOW."

And then he was like,
"[more refusing to my prodding]...I want to break up,"

prompting my,
"I can't believe you're breaking up with me on Christmas eve--of all nights!--What kind of b-tch would do such a thing?!?"

and then I imagine he rolled his eyes and I whimpered into the phone
"I'm cancelling our relationship on facebook."

...And as I clicked "cancel" and hung up the phone, I remember thinking to myself, well, that was probably one of the lamest things I could've said to end the conversation.
But so it went, bygones, etc.

The next day I posted a picture of a nun-like latin teacher from my high school as my facebook photo and the rest, as they say, is history (well, unless you empty your cache.)

The thing is, I don't think my spiral into unbridled goofdom is confined to facebook. And that gives me mixed feelings.

On the one hand, I feel like I should be growing up and becoming more serious and professional (can you tell I had a reunion this past weekend?)

On the other hand, I don't want to fight the goof. It's who I am.

And you know what? Goofy makes me happy. It makes me laugh, as do farts, put-on nasal voices (an Angela specialty), and this memory I have from Raleigh's 13th birthday party at six flags:

While waiting for my friends to return from their roller coaster ride (whimp, I know) I noticed that I'd been hearing this repetitive thumping noise for the past couple of minutes. I located the source of the noise as soon as I turned around and faced the house of mirrors.

Thump...thump...thump.

I stood mesmerized as kid after kid ran towards (and then into) what they thought was the maze's end, but was actually just a well-cleaned window. (My apologies for that awkward sentence. I'm too lazy to clean it up.)(Yes, Dad. Like my room.) Bottom line: kids kept running into the wall because they thought it was the exit.

Oh it was magical...but mean of me.

...BUT you should've seen them charge! They thought they had it dooown...and then they went dooown. In my defense, it's not like I could've warned them; they wouldn't have been able to hear me (also, it's hard to gesture when you're buckled over and hardly breathing).

But no, not nice. Bad me. My faux-ly grown-up self acknowledges that. Shame on me for laughing.

Sorry to all those children for cackling at them as they stumbled back into the maze, their foreheads and egos both freshly bruised.

Sorry I'm laughing as I type this.

But here's the thing: 

Despite their bruises, I rest on the fact that those kids probably bounced back, found their way out, and--after a little time had passed--embraced the memory and could laugh about it.

Eggzamining: Thoughts from the Nest

(Cheesy title, I know. Please don't PUNch me.)

I recently started graduate school towards getting a degree in early childhood education. Out of all my "when I grow up" aspirations and interests, this stands out as the one with the most concrete career path (at least as far as the near-future is concerned.)

Like many other members of my age bracket, this (laughable degree of) commitment has created some inner anxiety and doubt for me.

Am I signing my life away? Sure, it's only four classes now, but that will spiral into a degree, which will spiral into a job, which could spiral into a life of wondering "what-if?"

To sum up that last sentence, I am already pessimistically viewing fortunes (that I have yet to earn) as misfortunes.

Degree, job, lifetime: One, two, three.

I'm counting (on shaking, nail-bitten fingers) three chicks that have years--some, even decades--to hatch.

Why am I worried? Well, specific to the egg-hatching-chick metaphor, it might have to do with the fact that the only experience I've had with hatching eggs is a gruesome and morbid one.

Our second grade class had an egg-shaped incubator (unlike the normal, rectangular incubators of other classrooms) and as a result, only one of our ten eggs hatched, and the winged creature that cracked its beak through the lone shell of hope emerged with its intestines on the outside of its body.

After hobbling around a sawdust-lined cardboard box for a couple of days, "Pinky" (no, we didn't really name it that -- we were too horrified/young for dark humor) died as peacefully as a chick of its circumstance could die.

But enough about chicks. Well, except for this one. (Yeah, I called myself a chick. A little confidence never hurt anyone.)

In terms of my metaphor-free fears, I guess I'm just worried that I'll settle into a less-than-perfect fit. This is the part when my mom chimes in with something like don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good (a motto that I've abused for most of my life) or you won't know until you try, or something else that I'm not wise enough to predict. And imaginary mom is right. (UPDATE: My dad felt left out of this part. So to satisfy him, I think his words of wisdom would probably be something along the lines of well, you've got to do something--and loitering on facebook doesn't count. )

I guess some of my anxiety comes from the fact that I don't know how much I have in common with my peers right now. Kids, I can totally relate to. They're messy, they've yet to understand certain social conventions, and they half-wish they could still wear diapers. Hello, peers.

However, a fair portion of future early childhood teachers, I believe, are of a gentler breed than my own. This is not an insult, just an observation. All of my of my classmates are women, about 30% of whom wear pink or matching patterns and love cats. Again, no problem with that, just pointing out some similarities and differences (female-ness and cat-personhood, respectively.) Note to cat lovers: I'm not a hater, I just wheeze a lot. (Seriously allergic.)

However, this Tuesday in the middle of my last class I -- the self-declared Toughy McTougherson of the room -- found myself doubled-over with stomach pain as I listened to my teacher talk about the importance of morning meetings. By the time she brought out the "touch and feel" box, I was in my full "bend and weep" position.

By the grace of craft projects, teacher lady announced we'd have a brief break so that she could hand out teddy bear cut-outs for us to decorate. During this time everyone at my table asked me in some way or another whether I was going to pass out. I got a lot of you look really pale and one is it a blood sugar problem?

A woman from another table actually came over to tell me that I did not look good and I should go home. I've had vaintasies of an opposite encounter involving a modeling agent, but that dream died by puberty anyway, so I wasn't discouraged and took what she gave me as enough reason to bolt. And bolt I did, my every footstep echoing "whimp, whimp, whimp" as I shuffled out of the classroom.

The stomach pains and whimpering lasted all night, although the former was more continuous than the latter. From time to time I'd stop my crying, embarrassed by the sound of my own self-pity, and imagine the multitudes of people in far worse pain than myself.

I thought about the people Hayley sees on a day-to-day basis in Malawi, and my embarrassment turned to shame. But then another wave of nausea crashed, and I justified my tears. As the undulating pain began to soften again, I went back to reminding myself of my comparatively cushy situation.

I thought of how much more painful it would be to give birth than to face my situation. My stomach bug was nothing compared to appendicitis, or dysentery, or something really awful, like living with my intestines on the outside of my body. This last thought, of course, invited back the nausea, and so I stopped guilt-tripping myself because the ride was making me woozy.

Once more I was plaguing myself with "what if?" and, yet again, it wasn't helping anyone. So I abandoned my negative thoughts and drifted off into a light sleep.

Safe and warm under my parents' roof, I dreamt of a day when I have the strength to break the eggshell above my head, count the chicks that I've made for myself, and feel genuinely proud of them, external intestines and all.

The Tracks of My Years

One of my family's favorite home videos is of me when I was about three years old. The video starts out just like many others with my father, the interviewer, asking me what I had done that day. I wobble in front of the camera, scratching the underside of my chin with the back of my hand as I contemplate his question.

"Iiiyuhh…"

I look up to the ceiling, find my answer, and gaze back into the camera.

"…peed in my underpants."

My blank stare tells him I'm ready for the next question. My father delves deeper into the topic, posing his second question, and I nail the answer: peeing in my underpants was "a bad thing."

I then open up about the rest of my day, revealing that subsequent events included wanting to play "Candy Land," playing ball, napping, "having another accident," and finally participating in the interview at hand.

In case you missed it, I'll recap: by three o'clock in the afternoon, I had already peed in my pants twice.

To me it had been just another day in my (supposedly) potty-trained life. To my parents, however, it was cause for concern, or at least further investigation.

First we went to the pediatrician, whose only suggestion that I can remember was that I try going to the bathroom backwards. This helped start a day-long trend among my fellow preschoolers who, thanks to our door-less bathrooms, were inspired by my backwards squat and decided to adopt my experimental peeing pose.

Although I may have gained cool points for my bathroom creativity, I gained nothing in terms of bladder control, and the next step was to have my kidneys tested.

The kidney scan was my first hospital experience since birth. I lay down while a machine with a ninja turtle sticker on it moved above my body, and then I peed when instructed to do so. Afterwards, I got pizza. The result of the scan showed that nothing was wrong with my kidneys, I just didn't like using the bathroom.

What finally got me off accidents and onto the toilet was the looming threat that if I didn’t improve, I’d have to wear diapers.

My parents had told me about these "cool underpants" I could wear while I slept so that I wouldn’t make a mess if I accidentally wet the bed. Excited, I had imagined an undergarment made out of bathing-cap material. Instead, I woke up and found that I was wearing a pair of Huggies “Pull-Ups” training pants. Talk about a horrifying wake-up call.

I’m still just as candid today about my past of peeing in my pants as I was in that home video. My friends tell me that I should consider being less open about that part of my childhood, but I don't see their reasoning.

“What?” I say, “It’s not like I had to wear diapers.”

It's Trippy (Memory Lane)

Oh. Muh. Gaaah.
I can't describe how amazing I feel when I look at this picture.
It's like...sparkle meth.

This sensation isn't just visual. I take just one cuh-suh-ree glance and my mouth fills with the hint of a cherry-flavored plastic, like I'm trying once again to eat Caroline's Cherry Merry Muffin doll, or sucking on a "Nurse Barbie" prop lozenge. My olfactory memory whiffs back to birthday celebrations of yore, to those party supply stores and goody bags that smelled like smarties candy and conical cardboard hats.

WIZARD.

When I was a wee lass of four years, my two best friends (Mariah and Elizabeth) and I were obsessed with The Wizard of Oz. It was cooler than milk-water. We each had our own pair(s) of Ruby Red Slippers,* and discussed at length--well, as lengthily as our cavemannish vocabularies would allow--the perfect way to coiffe Dorothy pigtails. The verdict? Begin two side french braid pigtails, ending each right as you tuck under the ear lobe, then curl the free flowing 'tails into spirals. (You're welcome, lazy 'trix or tease'ers. Oh, and respect Dot, won't you please? Put a shirt underneath that gingham apron-dress-hybrid.)

*I know the original shoes were silver, but I think your average four-year-old girl would take Judy Garland's fashion advice over Frank Baum's. Ignore the fact that they're both dead, please.

During my very first sleepover, held chez Elizabeth, she and I decided to watch the Wizard of Oz. Well, I don't know if "decided" is the right word. It was more of a ritualistic act, a shared practice of a beloved and never-questioned Saturday night custom.

"Blessed be thou, O Wizard of Oz,

who gives us the yellow brick road."

...you know, that sort of thing.

As the movie started, we began to bicker about who got to wear her Dorthy shoes. Hellooo, I was the guest. (And, yeah, I had left mine at home--I know: iiiiiiiiidiot.) When our fighting took a turn for the nasty Elizabeth's mother had to intervene, and eventually we came to the agreement that we two gollum-itas would take turns wearing the preciouses.

Me or Elizabeth. (Okay, probably just me.)

So throughout the screening Elizabeth's mother would set the kitchen timer for 15 minute increments and we'd watch the movie, pausing every so often to pass the sweaty little slippers off to the other person. The arrangement seemed perfectly level-headed to me at the time, but I understand now why Elizabeth's mother looked like she was hiding a smirk.

  LET ME TAKE YOU 
DOWN

I think that part of the reason people enjoy drugs (specifically everyone's favorite leafy gateway) is because drugs make you stupider--stupider, like when you were young. When I was little and my brain was still developing, I would get lost in anything that sparkled or contained a wide array of colors. (Hence my smeaghoulish lust for ruby slippers.)

For example: I hated going to the dentist (I was such a unique little girl) but every year the dentist's office would send us this reminder postcard that had seven toothbrushes fanned out against a black background. Each toothbrush was a different color of the rainbow, and each toothbrush head had a perfect 'S' of toothpaste squirted on it whose shade matched the color of the given toothbrush exactly.
You follow? I'll try to illustrate.

+
SSSSSSS 
Bah. This hardly compares to the original.

Oh my heavens, it was amazing. My parents would see me studying the postcard and say something to the extent of,

"Aha, Marg. Hyuk hyuk, You know what this means..."

Then they'd look down at me and promptly try to shake me out of my trance. Heck, they probably could have spanked my bare baby bottom and I wouldn't have noticed, provided they didn't break my gaze in the process.

When I finally did connect the dots between 'pretty postcard' and 'drill-in-mouth-is-gagging-me time,'  I'd whimper and steep in my self-pity until the hypnotic missive worked its magic once more and soothed me back into a pseudo-psychedelic stupor.

...aand that's how kids got high off household objects
when I was growing up.

What Ever Happened?

Maybe I'm just clinging to the past, but things seemed simpler then.

Stories didn't need sensationalism to be great.

Whose culture is this and does anybody know?

That's an ending that I can't write, 'cause I've got you to let me down.

I'll Be Smelling You

The following is a piece I wrote for a creative non-fiction class I took this past spring. The assignment for that week was to write a humorous piece about food. I wasn't feeling very humorous because my grandmother had just passed away, but the writing process was surprisingly easy, and I ended up pretty fond my final product.

Splendor in the Past

I saw this nest of raindrops in the grass and wondered what the chaos would look like from below.

Reminds me of playing parachute in preschool.

We'd lift the multicolored tarp over our heads then sit underneath, tucking its edges under our chubby legs and marveling at the rainbow-colored cocoon we had created.  

But our toddler-sized bottoms couldn't keep the air in, and our evanescent little world would inevitably deflate.

So we'd scamper out from under the sagging fabric, throw up our arms, and start the process all over again.