Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Texans Can't Drive. Nor Can They Walk.

OLD sign outside Hondo, TX

A very good friend of mine (who has driven the length and breadth of the country) once told me that Texas has the worst road and highway system he has ever seen.  He particularly despises access roads, which apparently don't exist in other states.  Personally, I think they rock.  They let cowardly (or drunken) drivers like I used to be (cowardly, not drunken) get from point A to point B (and possibly C should one make an incorrect turn) with as little interstate stress as possible.  It took driving around Nashville for eight years to break me of said cowardice.  So maybe that’s the reason we Texans can’t seem to drive worth a crap: the state has given us a substandard system upon which to practice. 

Access Roads are on the far right and left

Now, I’m the first to admit my disinterest in and therefore lack of superior expertise in driving.  I do what I must to take care of travelling business and leave the rest up to the bus, taxi, limo, horse-drawn buggy, any motorized farm implement you can think of, and airplane system.  Nothing would please me more than to spend the rest of my life letting someone else drive me around so I can enjoy the scenery and a good daydream.  Even ugly scenery can be pretty scenery once you get to sit still and actually study it whilst breezing wistfully by in your air-conditioned/heated vehicle that someone else is driving…but not the drivers on the road with me today!  Today was absolutely the day I should’ve stayed home and protected myself from the fiendish, road-hogging, speed-demoning Texans intent upon murdering me at 60 m.p.h.

I was only trying to get to work on time and was following my routine of circling under an overpass to get onto the loop that runs through town (what there is of it).  My lane has the right of way, and the people exiting directly off the overpass from the opposite direction are supposed to yield.  Well, apparently Redneck in the White Pickup Truck didn’t think so because he came barreling off the overpass, slowed down briefly when he glanced in my direction, waited until I’d started speeding up to take my proper right-of-way place, then floored the accelerator and began immediately moving into my lane without even looking at the girl steering madly and defensively onto the very-rocky shoulder of the road.  I sat there while several cars passed before I could get back onto the access road then onto the loop, all the while watching Redneck in the White Pickup Truck blazing a lightspeed-breaking trail toward the Austin exit.  During the final ten or so minutes of my journey work-ward I was praying madly that there would be no flat tires by the time I hike the six miles from our building back out to my car come 4:53. 

Upon nearly reaching work, a person in the lane to my left swerved over directly in front of me at the last possible second before collision should be sounded (aoooooga, aooooga!).  By now I was CONVINCED of my impending death and overly-cautiously made my way up the hill, into the parking lot, and into an empty space the aforementioned six miles from my building’s entrance.  Braving the evil-plotting starlings collaborating on a power line, pockmarks, cracks, and three-foot-deep potholes scattered o’er the aging asphalt, I successfully maneuvered myself inside only to nearly collide with ten people before reaching the elevators…and we’re not talking crowded halls, people, we’re talking folks who walk as skillfully as they drive!  You practically need a turn signal (not that anyone here uses them) to get around corners without running into nursing students in deep conversation about when their next salon appointment is (and they all have the same friggin’ hairstyle anyway), guys pushing AND pulling huge carts of heaven knows what manner of smelliness, patients being taken to and from wards on giant wheeled beds (I feel so sorry for these people!  I would hate for everybody we passed to see me in such a state), guys of dubious employment staring you up and down like you were a pile of hot wings covered in Cowboys season tickets, and women of dubious employment staring you up and down for I don’t know WHAT reason.  Did I forget to check my nose for boogers??

I fully expect to walk outside this afternoon and be offed by a Smart car.




Friday, June 24, 2011

Subconscious April is a big floozie!

Wicked interpretation of me

Hooker.  Whore.  Prostitute.  Harlot.  Lady of the Evening.  Wanton hussy!!  These appellations could all be applied to my subconscious REM behavior over the last few days.  Remember the wonderful night spent with Dream Guy only 48 hours ago?  Yes?  Well, last night Subconscious April got all kissy with it with a completely different dude!  The shame!  Granted, it made more sense that I'd spend theoretical romantic time with this guy.  Really, I mean there's history and everything, but if this behavior was translated into real life?  Let's just say I'd have had a red letter "A" on my high school letter jacket instead of the gaudy orange "B" that glared its way through the hallowed halls of Buckholts ISD. 

Where am I going with this post?  I've not the slightest clue, but going I am.  It probably stems from inner frustrations regarding men and relationships in general...not just my previous men or my previous relationships.  Methinks these sleepful thoughts are inspired by the messed-upness of ALL relationships I've watched happen in the past 36 years.  Overall it hasn't been pretty.  So many people who were so amazing together just let it all fall apart, and why?  Reasons varied, but each individual firmly believed that their argument and their point of view was the last and only word to be said on the subject. 

But common sense tells us that such is never the case.  There are always at least two sides to each argument, oftentimes even MORE than two sides (which is why they call it a "meat and three"...never mind).  It confounds me how frequently open communication eludes us as human beings, how constantly we feel the desperate need to be "right" to the extent that we must "win" the argument at any cost.  Even more rare than open communication is the existence of solidly defined right and wrong, black and white.  Sure, some things are universally accepted as being right or wrong...like killing.  Killing is bad.  It messes with the good of everybody and everything on multiple levels.  And Jar-Jar Binks...and Speedos.

Of course, sometimes communication is impossible, and who's right of wrong doesn't even enter into the scenario.  Sometimes one person wants to have a genuine, meaningful discussion, but the other person sincerely does not.  I accept this as another fact of reality conveniently left out of my unhelpfully-abridged Handbook of Life.  It sucks, and I don't understand being willing to lose something special because you don't wish to discuss problem issues...but I accept it.  It is in those instances that I want to repeatedly smack the unwilling talker with my Handbook of Life until they couldn't speak even if they DID want to.  How could it possibly be "the right thing" to simply ASSUME you know things can't be fixed?  Wouldn't it bring about more long-term peace for all concerned to verbally and mutually explore each 'n every avenue thoroughly before tossing the towel out with the bathwater?  Wait a minute...

So talk, people.  If you have a great relationship with someone--be it romantic, platonic, or even business in nature--TALK the problems out lest the bad permanently replace the good.  Starting over with that cliche-ful clean slate is sometimes necessary, yes.  There truly are situations that no amount of discussion can fix, but you've got to try...WE'VE got to try. 

Besides, in this Texas heat, any greener grass you think you might see will be all crispy and brown once you get to the other side anyway LOL

What the world DOESN'T look like in Texas!  This is actually Tennessee ;-)

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Math: an even bigger WHY??

I became an English major for a reason.  Like waterbugs, I find all things mathematical to be troubling, stressful, and for most areas of my life, inapplicable.  Of course addition, subtraction, multiplication, division...these processes may be applied helpfully to daily life.  But graphing linear equations?  Working with logarithms, sines, and cosines?  Finding the value of f(g(x)?  Appolonius, Pythagoras, and Descartes can all go to hades, as far as I'm concerned...do not pass purgatorial "go," do not collect your $200 refund from that Charon guy.


My college degree is almost complete.  As of May 2012 I shall be the proud possesser of a Bachelor of English degree, but in order to progress to that illustrious point, a college algebra course must be tackled and passed.  In order to progress to that hateful point, a math placement test must be endured and passed.  This test is scheduled for Wednesday, June 29th.  I've been glued to math.com, am reviewing a basic college math textbook, and up to a point I'm doing grandly.  But once you get to the point in math where there are so many more letters in the mix than numbers--even to the extent that you could start punctuating each equation--you have a serious problem!  Letters are for making words: words that tell a story, words that convey a feeling, words that describe a moment in time that has NOTHING to do with the slope of x and y.  I already know the stupid line is sloped.  It's going uphill.  Isn't that what a slope typically does?


The inanity of this particular placement test, however, arises from it being classified as an indicator of a student's readiness to take college algebra.  Okay.  I get that.  Let me prove to you that I can work with decimals and percentages, fractions, all manner of factoring, finding square roots, finding circumference and area of geometric shapes, solving algebraic equations, and even getting a little crazy with the changeable "greater than or equal to" signage.  But why do you have advanced college algebra PLUS trigonometry problems on a test to see if you're ready to take advanced college algebra and trigonometry for the first time?  If I already knew how to do this stuff, why the crap would I need the class?


Again, I became an English major for a reason.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Buckholts Unexplained Researching the Paranormal Episode 1: Full Transcript

Lead Investigator, Amanda: Misty shadows crossing the train tracks at midnight…mysterious lights flickering in the old cotton gin when everybody knows it’s wheat-harvesting time…crop circles made with freshly-baled hay…two horses in town as opposed to just the one…a local crack dealer afraid to pawn his dubious wares after dark…what a minute, who wrote this intro?

Investigator-in-Training, Austin: I did…and Rubix Cube helped.

Investigator-in-Training, Rubix: *waves at the camera with a newly-opened can of beer*

Amanda: Rubix Cube?  Seriously?  Sounds like a quintessential 80s rap star…for nerds!  No.  Lose the “Cube.” 

Austin: *smacks Rubix with a beer fresh from the cooler then pops it open* Yeah, not to impugn your intelligence, but how would you ever think outside the box if you worked inside a cube? *laughs uproariously*

Rubix: Betcha can’t spell that.

Austin:  What?

Rubix: “Impugn.”

Austin: Shut up.

Rubix: Anyway, that name was your idea.  Madame Lead Investigator Lady, I am pleased to announce that MY contribution to this online video series thingy…

Austin: Besides the beer!

Rubix: …besides the beer is the actual name of our investigative group *salutes with his beer hand slinging Bud Light on Austin*

Amanda: Wait, it’s here on the script somewhere, I think…what did you write this thing on anyway?

Austin: Old Cotton Festival cookbook. 

Rubix: That was rude.

Austin: I asked Grandma first!  Besides, it’s only one of them.  Next time we’ll just use empty Budweiser boxes.

Rubix: Your recycling dollars at work! *toasts his beer with Austin’s* Hey, we emptied this box already, didn’t we?

Austin: Hells yeah! *another toast*

Amanda: You can imagine my lack of surprise *continues looking through the script for their official group name*.  Anyway, I’ve got to know what to put on our t-shirts…oh, that’s cool: Buckholts Unexplained Researching the Paranormal, otherwise known as…B.U.R.P.??? 

*Austin and Rubix salute Amanda with two fresh beers, huge grins on their faces*

Austin: AND we have the t-shirts right here! *reaches for a plastic HEB bag inside the cooler, removes a shirt, and holds it up for her to see*

Rubix: Yeah, the kids did the lettering with stencils and Crayola markers!

Amanda: *speechlessly aghast*

Rubix: Don’t worry, they weren’t the washable kind.

Amanda: *sighs* Fine, they’ll do for the moment.  Now let’s get started.  You’re not going to investigate with beer in hand, are you? 

Austin: Why not?  The ghosts won’t be offended.

Rubix: What if they’re Baptist ghosts? *more uproarious laughter betwixt the two guys…giggles also heard from the camera person*

Amanda: Fine, keep the beers!  I don’t friggin’ care as long as we can just…get…started!  Are we ready to record then?  *the sound of a pistol cocking is heard* You’ve got to be kidding me.  Austin?  If there ARE any ghosts, I think they’re already kinda dead!

Austin: Oh, I wasn’t going to kill them…just might need to wound them a bit.

Amanda: I’m more afraid of you than I am of them.

Rubix: Hey, that’s what my mama always said!  No wait…she was talking about the clowns being more afraid of me than I was of…never mind.

Amanda: Okay, ready on camera?  Great.  Three, two, one, and action!  Here we are in scenic downtown Buckholts, TX at the local SPJST Hall.  For those of you who don’t know what an SPJST Hall is, I can’t explain it because the letters stand for Czech words that I couldn’t pronounce even if I DID know what they were.  Suffice it to say, this was once the local hot spot for dances, dinners, and all manner of gatherings in general.  After the original hall was burned down in 1934 by bank robbers attempting to distract the town’s population from their nefarious activities, big musical names of yesteryear including Bob Wills and Ernest Tubb performed in this replacement hall.  Recently our office has received reports of strange sounds and conversations coming from inside the structure while no one was there.  Flickering lights have been seen from inside the building, possibly a result of residual energy left from the fire set so long ago. 

SPJST HALL, BUCKHOLTS, TX

Austin: *in his best Vincent Price voice* It was a dark and stormy night…!”

Amanda: *gives Austin a dirty look then continues* Could the restless, creative souls of bygone days still be entertaining ghostly crowds from inside this Hall of Hedonism…Hedonism?? 

Rubix: Austin was playing with the thesaurus again.  You know, you really should read the instructions before operating heavy vocabulary.

Austin: I used it appropriately…thank you very much! *cocks the pistol* 

Amanda: And put that damn pistol away!  We’re going inside now to…ssshhh!

Austin: You were the one talking.

Amanda: *whispers* I know!  But ssshhh!  I swear I just heard voices whispering in there.

Rubix: I did too!  And look up there! *orangeish light flickers from a window*  Let’s get inside and see!  Is there enough battery power left on the camera? *camera nods an affirmative*

Amanda: Okay, stay calm.  Austin, go first…camera person, go behind him *camera person makes a remark in the Charlie Brown teacher voice*  We’ll follow. 

Austin: Gotcha *reaches once again for his pistol and cocks it* Here I go…turning the knob…NOW! *door opens to the flickering lights* Umm…I think we now know where the crack dealer pawns his dubious wares after dark.

Rubix: Y’all run!  *sound of rapidly retreating footsteps are heard as the camera crashes to the ground*

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK WHEN B.U.R.P. HOLDS ITS FIRST FUND-RAISING BAKE SALE TO PAY FOR AUSTIN’S BAIL…WE APPARENTLY INTERRUPTED A STAKE-OUT, AND SINCE AUSTIN WAS CARRYING CONCEALED…YEAH.

ALSO TUNE IN NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT WHAT “SPJST” MEANS IN CZECH AND ENGLISH…BECAUSE WE’RE JUST MULTI-CULTURAL THAT WAY!

Monday, June 20, 2011

A Dream is a Wish Your Evil, Sadistic Heart Makes!

Last night I had a bloody brilliant dream.  It was the kind of dream that makes you wish you could hook some manner of digital device up to your cranium and record the brainwaves for repeated future viewing enjoyment.  There’s your assignment for the day, Science: invent a DBWR (that’s “digital brainwave recorder” for you unimaginative people ;-).

No doubt the dream’s cuddly/feely subject matter had to do with the multiple chick flicks I watched throughout the relaxing day/night before because this dream had it all: hot guy who genuinely adored me, shy but cute girl who adored him back (that would be me!), amusing banter, intimate moments, a seemingly insurmountable problem conquered by an unrealistic intervention that would never really happen at such an opportune time, and at least the promise of a happily-ever-after ending.  I woke up before anything could be finalized, of course.  I tend to do that.

Anyway, in spite of any lingering fuzzy, gushy feelings, a harsh reminder of reality did manage to infect the otherwise-satisfying plot (a.k.a. the “seemingly insurmountable problem): dude was married!  This plot twist was likely lent from the day’s movie-watching endeavors as well since today’s romantic comedies/dramas almost always involve a cheating spouse or significant other at some point in the story.  But in addition to this factor, said plot twist was also an accurate expression of my reality over the last few years.  You meet a really awesome guy: intelligent, at least reasonably attractive, witty, and attentive.  By George, we could have a winner here!  But nine times out of the proverbial ten, he’s either unhappily married to a person or to his life issues. 

Why is that?  And why is it that in either situation, whether it involves another person or the aforementioned issues, both negative elements are un-let-go-able?  Being unhappily married to ANYTHING, be it a person or a problem, is unacceptable to me.  I don’t say that to judge anyone for choosing to remain in such situations.  Your life and outlook are not mine, and since I’ve yet to achieve omniscient goddess status, I shan’t condemn you one way or the other.  No, I just want to know WHY it seems best to stay miserable, whatever the logic or reasoning.  Odds are if you’re unhappy, the other person is too…so why maintain the misery?  It only creates a super-geyser of negativity spewing its poison all over the surrounding psycho-environment on a regular basis.

Arrghh…and again I say arrghh.

I’ve reached no conclusions where this subject matter is concerned.  I just dreamed a really awesome dream about someone of my acquaintance, shared sweetly romantic moments with him, felt loved ‘n safe throughout, then woke up to the apparent reality that even my subconscious is determined to screw me over LOL…at least in the harsh light of consciousness.

Oh, and that unrealistic plot twist that ultimately let me (potentially) “get the guy?”  The other girl was carried off by a random invading army of foreigners intent upon taking over my Grandparents’ house.  All’s fair in love and war LOL

P.S. I may be guilty of oversimplification...am a repeat offender ;-)

Friday, June 17, 2011

I need to go home...

...but I don't know where home is.  The area in which I'm living right now is technically "home" in that it's the place I was born and raised.  But the things that made it home are no more.  The house we lived in still exists, and in fact, my brother lives in it with his own children.  Yes, each family member still exists, and I love them all so very, very much...but we are no longer a family unit.  Like countless other families split apart by countless unresolvable relationship issues, mine was severed several years ago.  It sucks, but I have to keep reminding myself that the perfect bubble of a family life I grew up with simply isn't reality 95% of the time.  A solid foundational past doesn't automatically mean that negativity can't and won't touch me.  It can, it will, and it WILL continue to do so as long as I'm breathing.

So now I'm homeless.  Living in Nashville for 8 years provided me the closest thing to home that I've had in so long, and even now when I visit Tennessee, it's still closer to my heart than where I am now.  Of that much I can be absolutely certain: I do NOT belong where I'm living right now.  Still, deep down I simply don't feel or believe that Nashville is where I need to be either.  It hurts like hell each time I leave my friends and all the awesome places I love so much, but despite that, I don't feel like it's where I belong at this new stage of life.  My time there accomplished what it was meant to accomplish, and now it's time for something else.  But what?  Where?  Austin is my first and most logical choice.  It's still close enough to family that I can see them often, but it's also big enough to be blessed with a wacky and unique civilization that methinks I'll latch onto immediately.  Harmless nutcases like me live there which could potentially provide much bonding and happy fun time thereby solidifying a feeling of homeness.  Therefore, the present goal is to find a job (ha!) in the Austin area.  I THINK it could be home, but of course I'm not sure...how can I be unless I live and experience it on a daily basis?

All of that being said, the entire world is ultimately up for April-grabs.  Once I graduate with my beloved English degree in the spring, I'll be open to any and all global job possibilities.  And who knows?  Maybe I'll discover that home is tucked away in an ancient, really cold-in-the-winter Scottish castle or a sunny Italian vineyard or the very first Texas barbecue and fajita pub in Dublin, Ireland :-).  I simply NEED to find that place, that space.  I need to go home.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Ode to Cilantro


Immortal herb, chlorophyllic splendor!
Thou cheereth my salad with leaves sweetly tender.
Ecelctically charming, thy taste indiscriminate,
From Asian to Tex-Mex thy flavor is relevant.

Lo gently, lo slowly
My knife cuts thee wholly
‘Til shredded and pastelike
Thy sacrifice yields Pad Thai.
Thee smelleth, thee tasteth
Of joy photosynthesised;
Thou makest my día
And flavoreth my salsa.

Seasoning for all seasons, my heart yearns to see
Thy greenest of leaves go on sale at HEB!

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Waterbugs: Why???

Like Jar-Jar Binks, you don’t know why it exists.

Like the Energizer Bunny, you see it run by and wish it would just keep going.

Like the Starship Enterprise, it goes places no one has ever gone before (did you ever notice how grammatically incorrect that misplaced preposition is?)



I speak of the waterbug: that insidious, nigh-uncatchable, cockroach-on-steroids-like creature that skitters across bathrooms and kitchens at speeds well beyond the capabilities of impulse power (that’s sub-lightspeed to you non-Trekkie Star Wars fans).  I’m minding my own business, you see, just cooking away on my not-that-great-anyway apartment stovetop.  I’m chopping the veggies ‘n dumping them calmly into the pot.  I have the knife poised to start in on the chicken tenderloins when movement to my left catches my attention.

The knife flies across the kitchen (all 4 remaining feet of it) as I screech and jump backward.  Running up and down, down and up my kitchen wall is the 2-inch-long Jar-Jar of the insect kingdom.  I grab my trusty bottle of Great Value Windex-of-the-Wal-Mart-kingdom window cleaner and commence to squirting the hell out of the interloping vermin.  It darts beneath the oven and commences to stay there. 



Fast forward a couple of nights.  I’ve worked out, I’m all showered ‘n smelling happily of Green Clover and Aloe, I’ve turned on all my tabletop fountains and scented wax fragrance distributors (that’s “candles” to you lay people).  I’m relaxed on the bed watching movies on my laptop when I realize that nature is calling so loudly she must be using 7.2 channel surround sound.  To the bathroom I go, pausing to flip on the light switch…and there’s Jar-Jar carousing atop my bathroom sink…and the rapidly-dwindling window cleaner supply is just beneath where the wicked fiend is skipping around blithely.  I’m glued to the floor.  If I move, it will attack and eat me.  Must wait it out.

Approximately 5 minutes later I’m still rigidly statue-like when the Gungan of Satan FINALLY slips out of sight.  I charge toward the cabinet door, yank it open, and grab my liquid weapon just in time to see Jar-Jar attempting to hide from my attack.  Too LATE, you freakish joy-stealer, I have you now!  And I begin firing.  Whatever is in the Windex-esque stuff must paralyze them or some such torture because I drowned the thing while it clung without ceasing to a cabinet edge…  It was DEAD and still clinging for lack-of-life to the sort-of wood.  So I got the vacuum cleaner (‘cuz there’s no way I’m getting that close to touching it) and sucked the motionless carcass into that blessed PETA-approved machine.  Victory was mine, window cleaner my liberator.  No waterbug dare encroacheth upon my sacred domicile lest it suffer the blue wrath of my liquid revenge!

So 3 nights later I groggily wake up to pee.  Light switch is flipped onward.  TWO waterbugs are frolicking across my bathroom countertop.

You can kill it, but it just keeps coming!
THIS JUST IN (or it was as of last night): The bugs have been MURDERED!!  Yep, like a ring wraith straight out of Mordor I winged my way home armed with a big blue can of Raid that's supposed to keep on killing up to 6 months and wreaked my wraith/wrath!  They thought they could keep hiding underneath the sink.  They thought I was afraid to open the cabinet doors (they were half right).  But I did!  Because I'm the hunter and destroyer of germ-carrying insect life!  After spraying down their darkened habitat, I watched--can o' poison poised to be sprayed--as they fled the scene then let loose a pool o' death all over them. 

It was a beautiful thing.  Now I'm just hoping they didn't have babies...

Monday, June 13, 2011

They're coming to confiscate my soul!!

Let me begin by saying, I have never had a childhood traumatic avian experience. It’s just as simple as me hating birds with a fiery and very scary passion. Birds are all, “Caw! Look at me! I’m giving you the death stare right now and no matter which direction I turn my head it still looks like my satanic beady little eyes are burning a hole through your skull.”—Andra Simpson

“And what’s with all the incontinence? Can’t they find a nice tree or bush to crap under? NOOOOOOO they have to be all, “Oh, I’m too busy soaring here to take a time-out. I’m just going to let it rip right on your windshield on the most blistering hot day of the year so it ferments and you have to scrape it off with a switchblade all while cursing our names.” –Andra Simpson
“Dove hunting season? More like CHRISTMAS AND BIRTHDAY! When I go to my grandmother’s house, who just happens to have a useless pet parakeet or some crap, I pray to the sweet Lord up above that she’s got a blanket over it so it stays quiet. One TWEET and it’s like falling on top of a cactus and writhing in pain and agony. I literally sit there and think about how I could slip some rice into its food bowl. In fact, I would beg guests at my wedding to throw the rice! Please! Get boxes of it and offer it up to the little flying freaks. There is just nothing comforting about a bird unless it’s popping in and out of my cuckoo clock at midnight! And even then that’s pushing it. Why do you think we fry these jerks up and eat them?? BECAUSE THE WORLD DOESN”T NEED THEM! God should have made clouds solid so they could just fly up there and live instead of infesting our space!”—yes, Andra Simpson

My sister and my best friend have one fiercely glaring factor in common: they believe that all birds are the avian antichrist hell-bent on claiming our souls.  The above series of quotations from a particularly vehement bird-hating rant by my sister perfectly communicates this belief.  It doesn’t matter if you believe in devil-birds or not…they believe in you *cue wicked tweet track*.  You may think you’re watching a friendly flock of happily flapping birdies benignly flying south for the winter, but what you’re REALLY seeing is a covert squadron of black death navigating a flight path to mortal destruction!!

You and I see this:








Andra and Rebecca see this:





Today I had to make a quick grocery shopping stop on my way into work and, upon returning to my car, there was a scraggly black grackle (aka starling) perched on the roof staring intently at me.  I could just imagine it stopping Rebecca in her tracks and inspiring her to call in sick today :-).  She practically has to hold your hand and walk blindfolded throught he Wal-Mart parking lot anytime she's there because said parking lot always seems to be THE squatting ground for every grackle/starling in the county.  My present workplace (a hospital) has a massive series of parking lots that also harbor the feathered fiends, only it's the Devil Squadrons of Death that congregate daily for their morning tactical briefings. 


Andra is training to be a nurse.  She will be working here where I work very soon.  Don't be surprised if you see her carrying a semi-automatic along with her stethoscope.


Tune in next time when Rebecca and I present our original clothing line: the Avian Death Collection, arriving Fall 2011 (appropriate firearms sold separately).  Look for it at an Academy outlet near you!  And TSC.  And ProBass Shops.  Kentucky Fried Chicken?


Friday, June 10, 2011

Grades, Self-Esteem, and Chasing My Brother Through the House with a Stainless Steel Pot

So the grades thing…well, that saga begins WAAAAAAAY back in the day probably around an April age of 7 or 8.  I had to be impressionably young but, at the same time, old enough for my younger brother Aaron to know how to talk…and logical enough to effectively rebut an insult :-).  Most of my time as a child was spent by myself in my room drawing, riding on Rawhide the bouncy spring-operated horse, listening to my nifty little faux-denim-covered record player and singing along with every Disney heroine recorded before 1982, making myself sick to my stomach on the Sit ‘n Spin, rocking to said Disney records in my rocking chair, or—after age 5 or so—reading whatever book I could find whether it made sense to me or not. 


Me daydreamily driving the old tractor
“You know it is time to turn the page when you hear the chimes ring…like this: rrrrrriiiiingggg!”

I learned to read AND to sing to those Disney records, and after seeing Sleeping Beauty on the big screen for the first time (AND after freaking out over Maleficent the evil witch lady who didn’t deal well with rejection), I even started writing the story out myself in whatever phonetic way word constructions made sense.  My Grandma actually kept a couple of these, and it must be admitted that—when I read them as an adult—the absence of proper grammar and sentence structure was annoying (yes, that’s how obsessive I am about such things :-).  Needless to say my hobbies were best accomplished during extensive alone time…which annoyed my little brother Aaron and then-only sibling.

Aaron was, for the most part, a perfect antithesis of his big sis April, Nerd-in-the-Making.  He spent his free time outside playing “Search and Destroy the Werewolf” or whatever with any weapon-like object he could find.  Sticks, rocks, bricks, bullwhip-like strips of old leather, baseball bats, those green ball things that fall off whatever tree they fall off of, clothesline wire, you name it: he knew how to transform it into Fictitious Big Game Hunter accessories.  If he wasn’t outside, he was inside plowing and/or disc-ing the carpet with his toy Farmall farm implements.  Sometimes we would play together, but being the mostly-indoor girl that I was (and still am to a large degree), I let him roam the moors alone.  Looking back, I think this fact irked him :-).

Aaron on safari
I know this because of the lashing out that eventually began.  As so many children—especially siblings—do, we were mean to each other both for attention and for retaliation/revenge.  He’d take a swipe at me, I’d swipe back…and vice versa.  I wouldn’t play with him, he wouldn’t leave me the crap alone so I could draw some fairy princess with her arms growing out of her ears (what IS it with kids perceiving human anatomy that way??  Yes, I hear with my arms, don’t you?).  While chatting with him recently, he reminded me that my big insult to him was that he couldn’t sing…to which he responded, “Oh yeah?  Well you’re fat!”   We both suddenly discovered just how deeply those remarks were then buried into the subconscious minds of both him and I.

Wow.  I was fat.  Revelatory.  Truth be told, I was an overweight kid and didn’t start shedding the extra pounds until age 16 or 17.  But I wasn’t AWARE that I was fat and therefore ugly (thank you, Twiggy…grrrr) until hitting high school and being around all my skinny, designer-jeans-wearing friends.  So to make up for the agony of being obviously unattractive, I boxed up such awarenesses and shoved them into the furthest, darkest recesses of my mind.  Of course now I had to find something good about myself…and fast.  Somebody told me once that I sang well, so that notion was latched onto like a lifeline.  By second grade it came to my attention that I might actually be good at school too (except math…when they took away the brightly-colored counting beads, I was lost LOL), and since my predilection for being alone and delving into books had already taken firm root, getting good grades became my meaning in life. 

Many years of self-realization and discovery happened between then and now, but the desperate need for alpha-numeric approval is still engrained inside me.  Having a high-ranking letter or number assigned to my essays, articles, and research papers makes me feel worthy and worthwhile.  It makes me feel like someday, somehow I just might matter…IF I can accumulate enough adulation and approval from other people who already “matter.”  When I started back to college in 2006 and got my first happy grades, I’m almost embarrassed to say how much they meant to me.  At last I had black-and-white proof that my life meant something…that I meant something…and all because of a silly sibling remark made 30 years ago.

As adults, Aaron and I have much more in common, are terrific friends, and are also a hell of alot nicer to each other :-).  But there was that one night during our teen years that he wouldn’t let me watch the movie I wanted, so I chased him round and round the house with a stainless steel cooking pot screaming at him like a crazed meth-excited banshee that I was going smack his hateful head…those were the days!



Thursday, June 9, 2011

Long ago in a Ford Galaxy far, far away...

Not once in the 34 years prior did I EVER deem the previous years of my life memoir-able...that is, until a well-meaning creative writing professor gave us a graded assignment :-)  It was at this point that my inexorably boring childhood became of acute interest to me.  That's right: I decided to use those precious, sacred, dull-as-crap snippets in time for filthy-lucrative purposes.

Never made any money off of it though, but I did get a good grade.  One day I'll blog something about why grades matter to me so friggin' much (and why nobody else I've know in recent years ever gave a rip about them).  It's deeply psychological, I assure you.  At any rate, ripped from the years before, during, and after the red Ford Galaxy, the Rebel Alliance is proud to present: Windows of My World *intelligible Ewok grunts of approval*

It was always easy to turn my potentially-boring Central Texas farm girl existence into "Chronicles from Fairyland."  For example, my Grandma had a jungle in her living room.  I used to sit in my Papa's falling-apart recliner and stare into the mass of green, imagining who or what lived in between the leaves.  One of the potted plants had huge elephant-ear leaves reaching up from sturdy stems and spreading wide into the air around them.  Another plant looked like a massive, bushy carrot top except there was no crispy orange goodness hiding beneath the layers of soil.  I know this for a fact.  I once dug part of it up hoping that my Grandma was wrong about it not being a giant carrot plant.  I even ate some of the leaves to see if somewhere, somehow I could discover carrot flavor.  Obviously that never happened.

There were additional multi-sized plant pots, all in varying stages of age, height, and health.  All worked together to create a mini-world in which my imagination romped freely.  Tigers blended stealthily in with my would-be carrot leaves, though as far as I know, the tigers were never dumb enough to either eat the leaves or deny their non-carrot status.  Panthers tracked the movements of all creatures from the base of a high-flying elephant ear.  Countless adventures were happily enacted in and around this indoor
plastic-and-terra-cotta wilderness.  All of it made sense to my brain.  Of course I knew none of it was real, easily balancing the line between reality and fantasy.  One foot lived among those forest "trees" while the other remained firmly sat-upon in my Papa's disintegrating comfy chair.

Exiting the farm house's dilapidated screen door mean entering an entirely new realm of imaginings within the rural outdoors.  Little pill bugs always left conical depressions in the black dirt next to the shed where farm tools were kept.  These waterless whirlpool formations clearly indicated where the bugs had burrowed into the soil for warmth, coolness, dryness, whatever was necessary for survival during that particular season.  The cone-shaped alcoves were everywhere too, frequently appearing in neighborhoods.  I would plop my barefoot, childhood self down in the dirt next to them and stare for several minutes at a time simply hoping to catch a glimpse of one leaving its place of protection…not to hurt them, of course.  They were just excessively fun playthings.  Looking back, I'm astounded that my attention span would last even that length of time without gratification of whatever senses needed gratifying, but last it did.  There were a few times, however, when my patience struck pay dirt.  I'd see a little segmented bug crawling tenaciously up from loose dirt that seemed determined to suffocate the ascent.  I could never understand why the dirt didn't fall in on top of the bug consequently wrecking its subterranean home, but apparently it never did.  The bugs must be magical, I thought.  Any critter that could realign itself into a tight little ball then roll so smoothly around in my palm despite what should have been a painful contortion had to have mastered some small area of the supernatural.
           
My Great-Grandma made us cloth dolls to play with at bath time.  The faces, arms, and legs were made of white cotton cloth, and the main torso area was always
covered with a brightly-colored material indicating the existence of a swimsuit.  They had black, brown, and yellow yarn hair which was sometimes pulled back in pigtails.  Their faces were carefully drawn on with an indelible black marker.  When it wasn't bath time and I'd be in the bathroom for other necessary reasons, I'd imagine the dolls scaling the fiberglass walls of the tub, balancing their way to the center of the shower curtain rod, and then performing twisting, writhing dives into the tub below.  The same doll always won.  In time I came to suspect that the competition was rigged.    

There was something mesmerizing about the movements of our Johnson's and Johnson's Baby Shampoo.  When you turned it upside down, it made the most fascinating drop shapes as--rapidly, at first, before gradually slowing its descent--globules of deep amber liquid fell from bottom to top.  The gravity-induced movement had a Cirque du Soleil-ish appearance as the drops formed, lengthened, and finally stretched themselves downward, melding once more with the cohesive whole.  I remember counting how many drops would fall before there was too little liquid left upon which gravity could exert its pull…until it was no longer heavy enough to fall.  It was a game that, for whatever reason, kept me thoroughly entertained.  My reverie, however, was often interrupted by Mom yelling for me to get the heck out of our one and only bathroom.

I would always start watching the sky around noon.  This habit began during childhood but extended far into my teen years.  My Dad coming home for lunch in between his farming and ranching chores signaled the beginning of "A Random Summer
Day, Part 2" which meant that it was time for me to start my weather-watching cycle in earnest.  Naturally I was looking for rain clouds, or rather the potential for rain clouds to form later in the afternoon.  Once we were old enough to walk, it seemed, both my brother and I were forced into child labor in the cotton fields.  We very much despised our inherited "call of duty" into the family business since spending the school-free summertime rambling up and down cotton rows looking for invasive weeds to chop up was not our ideal definition of "summer vacation."  Have you ever tried to chop up a fully-grown sunflower from dirt that has been baked concrete-hard by the Texas sun?  These subversive and insidious plants are not, I repeat, are not, friendly decorative additions in some new and trendy landscape design.  They are weeds.  Granted, they are weeds with the fast-growing capability of achieving trunk-like stems and tree-deep roots in a matter of weeks, but they are still weeds nonetheless.  So do try chopping one of those up at age 12…with a hissing rattlesnake hiding beneath the bottommost leaf layer. 

These are a few of the well-founded reasons why I began staring at the sweltering  sky from 12:00 p.m. onward, hoping intently that a work-ending thunderstorm would develop.  All we asked was that we be allowed to go back indoors and enjoy our Andy Griffith, I Love Lucy, or current movie obsession like any self-respecting school kid on summer sabbatical.  I got really good at my weather predictions too.  There was a special brand of blue to the horizon when storminess was on its way.  By 1:00 or so you could tell for sure if there would be an afternoon cotton-chopping reprieve.  By 2:00 you could see the fluffy white condensational heads forming beautifully and even begin to smell change blowing in on the breeze-driven air.  By 3:00 you could look up from the nine millionth set of weed roots to see those fluffy white heads balancing atop roiling deep blue, rain-soaked thunderclouds.  Once you could see jagged lightning streaking groundward, you knew that it would only be another fifteen minutes or so until lightning was raging dangerously overhead.  Oh happy day, it was then time to head indoors. 

From the weedless comfort of my bedroom window I would stare out at a dirty, dusty vista being washed clean.  The smell of the rain on freshly-turned dirt is unforgettably sweet, indescribably satisfying.  There is no peace in the world to compare with the kind I felt while staring out at my small patch of the world being made new all over again.

I've always loved to watch, to absorb, and then to reform reality within the studio that is my imagination.  What was really real about my surroundings was not always real to me.  What was--and what is--does not always mesh with the way I think it should be.  Even as a child I felt a deeply-ingrained need to have and maintain some semblance of control over whatever reality was forced or enforced upon me by family, friends, or environment in general.  The need for authority figures to create boundaries for the children in their care is something our little-kid minds can't understand.  It was because of this misunderstood necessity that  I inherently knew, from about age three onward, that I would never have any "real" control over the powers which sought to control my life.  Ultimately real reality was going to toss--and sometimes power-serve--uncontrollable circumstances my way, and I would have to make the best I could of them.  Sometimes I've been able to completely reverse said circumstances, but more often than not I've had
to simply go with the flow and hope that flow dumps me somewhere nicer than the last place. 

Imagination has been my solace and my survival, not my scapegoat.  I've always known the score, and now that I'm forced to operate under the influence of adulthood, such knowledge is even more invaluable.  Thankfully, with the encouragement of my creatively-gifted family to develop a healthy imagination, I've also always known how to even up said score in order to maintain a sane balance.  Sometimes fantasy is the only practical method for hanging onto reality; therefore I continue gazing out of many different windows, whether a window literally exists or not. 

Incidentally and as a related aside, remember the cotton fields from which my brother and I painstakingly hacked up wicked weeds?  Well, one of them is now a sunflower field.  Irony is a heartless, unforgiving little bitch sometimes.

(that last sentence was my segue into allowing myself a few curse words now 'n then LOL)