Grandy Saves The Day

My fondest memory of my late Granddad was when my Mother’s dog bit me. To start off, Granddad wasn’t usually called Granddad. The name Grandy was almost always his name. He died after I had turned eight years old. No, no. Stop. Don’t feel pitiful. I was eight, and I hadn’t yet become very close with my Grandy. And this isn’t a pitiful, sad memory. Really, I’m serious about that. Also, not that you can’t be close to your Granddad at eight. It was just the simple explanation that my brother was a Granddad’s boy, and I had no problem with that. It’s just the way things fall into place sometimes.

He’s been gone for over ten years now, and I thought he needed some dedication. Grandy was an incredibly quiet man. Very reserved, and sweet. My Nanny still says that to this day, he was hopeless amongst strangers. She was the opposite of him. Lively, and could easily talk to your ear off for hours at a time. I received that social gene of hers, but was a clone of my Grandy looks wise. Life’s ironic.

I can never forget to mention my Grandparents love story. Why? Because it doesn’t seem particularly real every time I remember the only 50% chance that couples have currently of staying together.

They met in England, my Nanny’s original home. It was a blind date. My Grandy was stationed there with the Air Force. My Nanny told me she thought he was incredibly handsome, but utterly boring. It turns out my Grandy was completely smitten with her from day one. She told me he had proposed on their first, or second date. She thought he was insane, and still very boring. But they fell in love anyway, and she left England to travel the world with him until he decided to settle back home in the South Carolina Upstate. Until the day he died, he would ask if my Mother if she would like to see the most beautiful girl in the world. My Mother knew it would be a baby picture of her. Of course it wasn’t, it was a picture of my Nanny.

Don’t get me wrong, Nanny wore the pants in the marriage. It didn’t seem as if he minded too much. He was an easy going man, and always described as laid back. But the tempers you want to avoid are the ones you provoke of the most quietest of souls.

This all brings me back to my fondest memory of Grandy. I was around seven, I think. I was visiting with my Mother, and siblings at their house. My Mother owned a dog, named Teddy, who was bigger than I was at the time. He was sleeping at my Mother’s feet, while she played Solitaire on the computer. And why not pet the dog? I’ve petted many a dog before while they were sleeping. I adored this dog. Why not? Give me good reason.

It turns out Teddy had a mental problem we all soon became aware about. Sadly, this realization had to start with the mauling of little children. Teddy jumped on top of me, and I remember his jaw engulfing my head. The attack probably lasted only a few seconds, but the message Teddy wanted to get across was understood. My head had a few shallow scratches and bite marks. That wasn’t the problem though. Immediately after he attacked me, I remember turning around and holding my face. I could hear my Grandparents and Mother rush to restrain the dog. The memory I’ll always remember is that it felt as if skin was falling from my eye. It was just heavy bleeding, but it was enough to scare a seven year old into hysteria.

I know what you’re thinking. How in the world can this be a fond memory? I promise it is. While holding my eye, my Mother came up to look. The dog had sliced open my eyelid, and I would need stitches. But with my other eye, I had to stop my screaming to figure out what was going on behind me.

PETA: Leave my Grandy’s memory alone.

Don’t forget that Grandy was a very quiet, and reserved man. He really, and truly was, until a dog attacked his grandchild. He had Teddy in the corner, and had him very well restrained.

“Newt! Stop it! Stop! You’ll kill him!” My Nanny screamed. (And yes, his name was Newton. And yes Nanny called him Newt, like the frog, lizard thing. Go ahead and get your giggles out now.) I remember her having to pull at his arm.

“That’s the point!—-” He yelled. There were many other words with this statement, prior and after the fact. But they are a string of profanities that I didn’t realize my Granddad was capable of until this moment. My crying ceased as I heard Teddy have a few good yelps at the hands of my Grandfather. Holding my bloody eye, I was probably more shocked at Grandy’s behavior.  Go Granddad.

I’m thankful for that memory. I regret not being closer to him before he passed. But I’ll always have that memory to smile about. That was when I saw him prove his love to me in a fight. Not that I ever doubted it, but that reassurance is what keeps us going sometimes.

PETA: No. That dog lived.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Wine Red

   Do you remember your first fender bender? You were probably quite young. I’m going to guess you were in your teens or early twenties. It seems to happen to everyone (Except for Mr. Perfect, aka my stepfather. Roll your eyes with me please.) at least once during his or her lifetime.

   I remember mine quite well. It almost exactly a year ago, and stereotypically I was nineteen. It happened on October 30, 2008. It obviously was the day before Halloween, and I had big plans. Oh, I remember that morning, I was cruising to class in my wine red Mazda. I felt fantastic. I had three hours of sleep after writing an A paper for Western Civ class that started at eight o’clock that morning. I had to work shortly after, a nice eleven to seven, but how could that even ruin my spirits? Tomorrow was the big party hopping night. I had my costume all planned out. I was going to be decked out in camo-Capri pants, silver glittery stilettos, a yellow shirt with electrical tap wrapped around it horizontally, and I even made my antennas. To top this whole fantastic outfit off, I had going to have a belt with a $5 cowboy gun attached to my hip. That’s right folks, I was going to be a killer bee for Halloween, and I was stoked cruising to class.

   The Jason Mraz song wasn’t right. I needed the faster song to fly in and out of lanes to. I knew exactly which one fit my mood. “The Dynamo of Volition,” was perfect. I leaned down to change songs, and upbeat tune started. Then the hood of my car crumbled into a triangle in front of me.

   “This was it,” I thought. “The world’s over.” I went into an adrenaline rush. I called my mother yelled that I was in a wreck. Of course with my luck, an off duty officer pulls into the median to check on me, and the girl I happened to hit.

   “Are you okay, do you need an ambulance?” He asked me.

   “No. No,” I replied, and by this time I was sobbing. Quickly I called my stepmother, who didn’t pick up. I called work, and sobbed that I couldn’t come into work. My father soon called, and said he was on his way.

   The off duty officer told me to turn my car off, and step into the median…After he asked if I could move my car at all. It wouldn’t budge. When I stepped out, the tears flowed more. The entire front of the car was crumbled. The hood was in a triangle, as you already know, but the entire grill, and headlights were shattered. The radiator was steaming, and leaking. It was a complete mess.

   I folded my arms–sobbing like crazy–,and walked over to the girl I hit to ask if she was okay. I apologized for hitting her, but I had to walk away due to pitiful emotions. Those emotions were heightened whenever I looked at her car. The cover on the back bumper was scratched. There wasn’t a dent on her car.

   To my terror my stepfather arrived first. Mr. Perfect forgave me, and was less angry by the time my father arrived as well in the median. My father tries to be sweet hero, and this time I didn’t mind it so much. My mother came and scooped me up. In this little median, there were three out of my four parental figures in my life. It did make me feel a little better. It was just a fender bender. And the girl I hit only had her one little dad. You would of thought someone potentially died in the median due to the amount of cars.

   Sobbing is a good thing though, at least in this case. The cop probably saw my tattered car, and well, obviously the freezing five foot girl with too many parents. He said he had to give me at least one ticket for negligent driving, but asked me to please go to court. Maybe it was just pity for that sweet, sort of cute cop. He was right though, it was smart to go to court. But that’s another story in itself folks.

   Since my car was stuck in the first lane, out of three lanes, a tow truck had to be called. He was a very sweet man as well. I sadly watched him sweep up my Mazda symbol, along with the headlights, not to mention the fragments of the grill.

   Prior to this, my father told me to get my books, and clothes out of my car. As I started to get my coat, and noticed a pair of pants amongst the books and papers, horror suddenly struck me. A month ago I asked my stepmother for some tampons. She told me to take the whole box, because she didn’t like them. Not thinking, and being just plain forgetful, I threw them into back of my car. Of course, over time, my car seems to collect papers, books, and clothes. The box of tampons had apparently opened at some point, and were scattered in the back of my car. I was mortified. My father was hovering above me, and there were many men in uniforms, and father figures about. I made a split decision to ignore my father telling me to get all my things, and be completely irrational about getting all of possessions.

   “They may total the car Anna!” He said. “You still have clothes in there, and everything!”

   “I don’t care!” I literally cried. “I’ll get them later,” and I defiantly made my way to mother’s car.

   On the way home I admitted the reason to my mother about why I acted so strangely about retrieving my things. Believe it or not, she started laughing.

   It was $5,000 worth of damage to my car, due to my fender bender. I successfully cracked the radiator. It would have been $5,400 to total the car, so I came pretty close. I could of kicked it, and the insurance would of totaled it. It took three weeks for the parts to come in, so that the car could be fixed. And wow, those men did an amazing job. Whenever my car was driven into the drive way, my jaw dropped. It was waxed on the outside, and shining beautifully. Now, it was time to check what had happened to the inside of my car.

   It was vacuumed, and freshly Armor Alled. I was impressed. In the corner of the backseat my books were stacked, and even my clothes that I left were neatly folded. But this isn’t what impressed me the most; not by far. On top of my books, and clothes were my box of tampons. And the most impressive part was that this fantastic mechanic had retrieved every single tampon, and placed it back into the box, on top of my other items. What a guy. He deserves a pat on the back. Happy Halloween!

My Swollen Mouth Cut Off The Oxygen to my Brain

 

       Lately, I’ve had blogger’s block. It hasn’t been that small adventures haven’t been happening. It just hasn’t been an adventure I wanted my small, minute, nano-sized audience to be apart of. There is a possibility that any story that I may of written for everyone in the past week may have been self pitying. No one ever wants to really read those. Maybe self pitying people do like to read those to make themselves feel better about their own pitiful lives. I don’t really though like those downers at all, personally.

     Anyway, I’m done with that rant, and I really hope I haven’t you lost you by now. That wasn’t exactly a rant. It was more so of an explanation. 

      What memory today? I think we’ll concentrate on childhood memories. Whenever I was around four or five, I remember attempting to make my own boiled egg for breakfast. My Nanny (GRANDMOTHER! English ladies preferred to be called Nan a lot of the times. That doesn’t mean I was a rich child with a “nanny” who babysat me.) made me a boiled egg a few days before, and it was instant, undeniable taste bud love.  I think I remember that Nan had to boil the egg. Maybe it was a complete mystery to me. The only cooking device I had that morning was a microwave. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and I was desperate for a boiled egg. I carefully placed the egg in the microwave, and just pressed at bunch of buttons. The microwave sprung to life, and I sat on the kitchen floor to wait. 

      It’s pretty obvious that a egg in the microwave can’t be good. And it didn’t turn out too good. Sure enough I nuked the poor, innocent egg to death. (RIP.) Turns out I have a little, skinny legs sister. And that skinny legs sister was watching me commit egg homicide. And it was amazing how fast those little skinny legs could run to tell my mother about my murderous actions. I attempted to get rid of the evidence by eating  the exploded egg in the microwave. (Don’t worry, it was cooked, and I’m alive. And I was barely out of toddlerism.) Of course that didn’t work, and my behind hurts from the stings of my Mother’s iron hand to this day. 

     Don’t fret. I got her back. Probably not in the nicest way. My Mother had set up traps around the house, because we had a few mice. We were brats, my sister and I. So behind my Mother’s back, we stole a trap that had a mouse in it. It was one of the glue traps, so the mouse was good, alive, and annoyed. Meredith (Skinny legs.), and I thought it was lovely. We were so excited to have a new pet. For some unexplainable reason we put the mouse in the bathroom, and was petting it there. I was smitten completely with this disgusting creature. I wanted to love that thing so much, that I petted it a little too closely to it’s mouth, and it attacked. I remember flailing my hand around, rat and all flying through the air. Meredith’s wide blue eyes watched in shock. The mouse had a let go, and my Mother by this time had come running into the bathroom, due to my excessive screaming. She asked what happened. In between  my spurts of crying, I told her Meredith had put the mouse on my hand, and that resulted in my injury. I bet Meredith still feels Mother’s iron hand to this day. Or at least I hope she does. 

     It was years of a cat and mouse game between my sister and I. Who would be the victor in the next mess we caused? We were best friends, and enemies. My partner in crime, and competitor. Usually, I came up with evil ideas, and Meredith pursued them. Those were the days, when we were inseparable. Life changes fast, and my younger sister is about to make me an aunt. We think each other’s an complete idiot, but we love each other. We don’t talk everyday, or get into trouble together anymore. We can achieve that much on our own. No matter how much our very alike tempers go at each other, we can still have a good laugh at what brats we were together. 

     Just a few stories that were running through my head. 

      P. S. I gave up on being able to transfer into College of Charleston for next semester. (AKA: Couldn’t afford it.) So that gives me time to take only a few classes, and save up for an exciting European adventure next Summer. Now officially taking donations. 

       Lately, I’ve had blogger’s block. It hasn’t been that small adventures haven’t been happening. It just hasn’t been an adventure I wanted my small, minute, nano-sized audience to be apart of. There is a possibility that any story that I may of written for everyone in the past week may have been self pitying. No one ever wants to really read those. Maybe self pitying people do like to read those to make themselves feel better about their own pitiful lives. I don’t really though like those downers at all, personally.

     Anyway, I’m done with that rant, and I really hope I haven’t you lost you by now. That wasn’t exactly a rant. It was more so of an explanation. 

      What memory today? I think we’ll concentrate on childhood memories. Whenever I was around four or five, I remember attempting to make my own boiled egg for breakfast. My Nanny (GRANDMOTHER! English ladies preferred to be called Nan a lot of the times. That doesn’t mean I was a rich child with a “nanny” who babysat me.) made me a boiled egg a few days before, and it was instant, undeniable taste bud love.  I think I remember that Nan had to boil the egg. Maybe it was a complete mystery to me. The only cooking device I had that morning was a microwave. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and I was desperate for a boiled egg. I carefully placed the egg in the microwave, and just pressed at bunch of buttons. The microwave sprung to life, and I sat on the kitchen floor to wait. 

      It’s pretty obvious that a egg in the microwave can’t be good. And it didn’t turn out too good. Sure enough I nuked the poor, innocent egg to death. (RIP.) Turns out I have a little, skinny legs sister. And that skinny legs sister was watching me commit egg homicide. And it was amazing how fast those little skinny legs could run to tell my mother about my murderous actions. I attempted to get rid of the evidence by eating  the exploded egg in the microwave. (Don’t worry, it was cooked, and I’m alive. And I was barely out of toddlerism.) Of course that didn’t work, and my behind hurts from the stings of my Mother’s iron hand to this day. 

     Don’t fret. I got her back. Probably not in the nicest way. My Mother had set up traps around the house, because we had a few mice. We were brats, my sister and I. So behind my Mother’s back, we stole a trap that had a mouse in it. It was one of the glue traps, so the mouse was good, alive, and annoyed. Meredith (Skinny legs.), and I thought it was lovely. We were so excited to have a new pet. For some unexplainable reason we put the mouse in the bathroom, and was petting it there. I was smitten completely with this disgusting creature. I wanted to love that thing so much, that I petted it a little too closely to it’s mouth, and it attacked. I remember flailing my hand around, rat and all flying through the air. Meredith’s wide blue eyes watched in shock. The mouse had a let go, and my Mother by this time had come running into the bathroom, due to my excessive screaming. She asked what happened. In between  my spurts of crying, I told her Meredith had put the mouse on my hand, and that resulted in my injury. I bet Meredith still feels Mother’s iron hand to this day. Or at least I hope she does. 

     It was years of a cat and mouse game between my sister and I. Who would be the victor in the next mess we caused? We were best friends, and enemies. My partner in crime, and competitor. Usually, I came up with evil ideas, and Meredith pursued them. Those were the days, when we were inseparable. Life changes fast, and my younger sister is about to make me an aunt. We think each other’s an complete idiot, but we love each other. We don’t talk everyday, or get into trouble together anymore. We can achieve that much on our own. No matter how much our very alike tempers go at each other, we can still have a good laugh at what brats we were together. 

     Just a few stories that were running through my head. 

      P. S. I gave up on being able to transfer into College of Charleston for next semester. (AKA: Couldn’t afford it.) So that gives me time to take only a few classes, and save up for an exciting European adventure next Summer. Now officially taking donations. 

Watch Out For Moments Like This

   It was the summer after high school, and I lived up to every stereotypical fresh high school graduate. I was quite lazy. I slept until noon, and luckily I came across a friend who seemed to have as much of a screwed up biological clock as mine. 

   At about noon my cell phone went off. 

   “Hey, I just woke up. Anna! Wake up!” My friend Crystal said. 

   Groggily, we exchanged brief a conversation that we were both quite hungry, considering we slept through breakfast as usual. I can’t quite remember who went to who’s house, but it was me that ended up driving. After quite a few meaningless debates, we decided on our lovely, local Bo Jangles! Both of our stomach’s growled as we thought about our first scrumptious meal of the day. 

   It was a terrible scorching day at the height of a South Carolina summer. I rolled my windows at the drive-thru and attempted to make our order. It turns out my car and others behind me were much too loud for me to hear. So out of politeness, and hunger, I turned off my car for a second. The order was successfully made, and we were both only minutes away from a lovely fast food lunch! I turned the key in my ignition, and it hissed. I turned the key once again, and it screeched. 

   “Anna, what’s wrong with your car?” Crystal said nervously as we both dripped sweat.

   “I don’t know! It’s not starting for some reason!” I exclaimed.

   “We’re at the intercom! You have to tell them!” She said
.
   “No, you tell them!” I yelled back, panicked. What a ludicrous suggestion for Crystal to tell the lady at the intercom that my car wasn’t starting, and she wasn’t even in the driver’s seat! Embarrassed , I told her on the intercom and moments later the manager came out to look at my car. By this time, the nice samaritan behind me, revved his grand am, and sped past us in disgust. The manager then told me I had to put my car in neutral and let it roll into a parking space. I insisted the gear was stuck, and that it wouldn’t go into neutral. To my shame once again, the manager told me to move out of the passenger seat, was able to magically put the car in neutral. 

   The car was now in a parking space, thanks to the manager who made a few short suggestions. It was either my oil, or that my car battery was dead. Crystal and I stood there looking at each other wondering what to do about our odd dilemma.

   “Well, we might as well go in and eat.” I said. 

   “Anna, look at me. Look at me!” Crystal had on a bright orange t-shirt, and baby blue snow flaked pajama pants. I wasn’t in much better condition. I was wearing pink striped girl boxer pajama shorts, and a tank top. Neither of us had showered. It’s safe to say we were both depending on our drive-thru run to be successful. 

   “We already ordered! We’re gonna be stranded here for awhile. Why not?” I countered. It was true. We were temporarily stranded from our houses until we contacted the right male figures in our lives to save us. Being car illiterate can have it’s downfalls at times.

   Whenever we walked in, I knew the whole Bo Jangles staff knew were “Car- Just-Broke-Down-Girls.” The staff tried to hide their snickers as we explained our order had already been made. Crystal looked around skittish at all the dressed, clean people. I’m sure it annoyed her that I couldn’t stop giggling about the situation. We sat down, the pajama pair, and enjoyed the delicious Bo Jangles lunch that had caused us this great hardship. 

   Crystal called her sister Andrea, and she came to our rescue. Andrea shook her head at our disgusting, pajama selves. She offered to jump start my car though, if I had any jumper cables. We all went outside, and low and behold I did! I didn’t even know I had them. Andrea then attempted to open the hood of her car. It wouldn’t budge. Turns out, Andrea and Crystal knew one of the Bo Jangles employees. He made an attempt but her hood still wouldn’t budge. Frustration in the heat by then had set in, and it turns out Andrea had some sort of latch in her car’s grill that prevented her from opening her hood. By this time, half of the Bo Jangle’s employees were out working on both our cars.

   An older man suddenly pulled up in a truck offering to help. Thank goodness! Someone had pulled up who actually knew what he was doing! The man quickly took charge, and jump started my car. The day was saved! Until I had to drive across the street to Auto Zone and found out what was wrong. My car battery had died. It was seventy dollars to replace it. 

   I learned quite a few things on that day. I learned to always dress your best, and when that’s not possible, at least get dressed. I learned a car battery will die in about four or five years. Overall though, I learned that going to a fast food joint to save a buck can randomly cost you near one hundred dollars.

The Difference Between Men and Women

   This is a post I made on Facebook awhile ago that needs to be blogged. Thanks for reading kiddies. 
   I remember now it was a Saturday, during the early afternoon at the mall. I was shopping with my mom and my little brother, who was about three and half at the time. This wasn’t unusual. It was always potentially fun, and had the benefit of slight family bonding if no pointless family bickering occurred. 

   The three of us were in the Haywood Mall, when my little brother, Ryan, insisted he had to use the bathroom. My Mother was busy looking at some fabulous top, and couldn’t be bothered at the moment. She then asked me if I could take Ryan to the bathroom.(That’s secretly why I think she brings me, but It’s alright. I get payback by puppy eyes and begging for lovely tops as well.) I didn’t mind, and headed to the ladies room. 

   Mall bathrooms in Haywood aren’t usually very crowded. At least I don’t remember them being extremely crowded, but at this particular moment and day, it was wait-in-line worthy. I thought it odd, and proceeded to stand in line with the kid. Once a stall was open, I let Ryan do his business .(He insisted on “Standing Up” like a big boy.) I soon realized it was probably a good idea that I go also. Of course the boy thinks it’s a good idea to attempt to open the stall. Typical male.

   “Ryan, no! Stop, don’t open the stall!”

   The boy turns around to look at me and suddenly his bright blue eyes get wide. 

   Inquisitively he asks me, “You don’t have a penis do you?”

   I was utterly shocked, and couldn’t forget the fact everyone and their cousin twice removed was in this women’s restroom. 

   “No.” I squeaked. 

   “That’s because you’re a girl, aren’t you?” Ah, thank you my lovely brother. He finally figured it out. Men are from Mars, women are from Venus; Men speak sentences; Women speak paragraphs. Not only had he and I realized he figured it out, but half the female population currently in the Haywood Mall heard this feat. 

   Thankfully, Ryan’s young soul is still too young to realize the battle of the sexes; The difference between men and women. I can safely say I consider this topic more mysterious than then the age old question “What’s the meaning of life?” Tempers maybe arise from this question, but are all men jerks and all women crazy? Think about this suggestion people and extremely embarrassing moments when children realize there is a difference in each gender’s body parts.

Pressure Suit

     The past few weeks have been spent in reflection. To the realist, this has been a terrible waste of time. The rational part of me agrees whole heartily, and is angry at myself for even writing a blog. It’s as if there’s two angels on my shoulders. The dreamer one, who just wants to live off of Jack Johnsonisms, write poetry and stories, and gladly gives up the weight of the world. I don’t like the other angel. That annoying thing screams responsibility, and security. That angel fusses at me for making random day trips to Columbia, or Asheville. But that unlikable angel has gotten me good grades, until I was faced with the subjects that I have a mental block with.

   It’s just the future that is killing me. I say what will soon happen in a few months with confidence, but I’m not confident at all. Pretty terrified. Random things always suddenly happen and you’re faced with new knowledge, whether you like it or not. I recently learned that you should never use dish soap in the dishwasher. I remember it like it was yesterday. (Because it was only a few days ago. ) This is the last summer I’ll probably be home, and since college bites, the family was off at the beach. I was trying to do a noble deed by using the dish soap, because it turns out we were low on dishwasher soap. (Okay, I was being cheap and didn’t want to buy any.) So, I filled her up! Pressed the button for the full cycle, and noticed Brad Pitt was on the television in his prime.  During a commercial break, I was forced to tear my eyes away from Tyler Durden, and made my way back into the kitchen. It was bubbly mess inking out onto the floor. I was a lucky duck finding it as quick as I did before it ruined the hardwood. I thought it was a great idea to get a beach towel to get the suds off the floor. Then, it struck me to open the washer machine. (Please insert “Dun, dun, duuuun,” music.) I’ll put it this way: After I gave up scooping the suds away with my hands, I had to retrieve the soup scooper thing to get the them. Then I put the dishwasher on rinse five times. Giving up I went to bed. Woke up, and put it on rinse cycle two more times before being able to use the correct soap. See, I never knew you couldn’t use regular dish soap. I didn’t necessarily want to know that. It was forced, for my future. Just an example for life’s follies. 

    Just today as well, I realized for the first time in a long time, I was able to bring out the vengeful part of myself! It’s wrong, I know, but hypothetically if you knew me, you’d be proud. Today was the day  I had school from nine in the morning to three in the afternoon. I had to work at four, but of course, didn’t have my clothes or food. That’s essential! (No, I didn’t go to school naked. Work clothes, I mean.) I sped home, driving worse than usual, with many illegal maneuvers worthy of the Fast and the Furious. Running into the house, I ripped open the fridge, and grabbed the first thing I could nuke. A huge New York style slice of pizza. There were two of them. They were bought for my brother who didn’t come home until late last night. 

     “You know, those are mine.” He sneered behind me, walking into the laundry room. ( I noticed how he threw my laundry that dried earlier onto the diner table, all now wrinkled.) 

     “I have to be at work in five minutes!” I said, obviously anxiety filled, and distraught. 

     “Well, that’s not my problem, is it?” It was a nasty remark. The way he said it was worthy of Severus Snape times two. That was it. No one can get under my skin worse than my older, immature brother. 

    ”Oh, it’s not your problem, huh?!” And I threw it. I can’t believe it. I threw it. And shamefully, not only did I throw it, I left it there. I left the gigantic piece of pizza for the dog to eat. 

    My brother didn’t say anything, and walked upstairs. I grabbed some clothes and ran upstairs to change, stomach still empty. I took a deep breath. On a sudden vicious impulse, I ran downstairs, ripped open the fridge once again and grabbed the other piece of pizza that was bigger than my head. I nuked it, and ate it. He was left with no food. That will show him. But honestly, I did leave out the part where I grabbed some napkins, and ate it in my car to avoid confrontation. Either way! The point life brings out the unexpected in a person! Then I went to work, and a man gave me an Arby’s roast beef sandwich through the pharmacy drive thru. Eating it at work, I smugly remembered that my brother had nothing. 

    Guilt trips are a fascinating thing. They are haunting, and spiritually it’s believed that they are always deserved. Every time that you’ve felt guilty, has been a reasonable emotion? Think about that. When a loved one put you through a guilt trip that you knew mentally wasn’t your fault, but because of the heartstrings that were pulled, you put yourself in misery. There are a million other examples. That’s a question that’s been getting to me lately. The reason of guilt is simple, but that emotion falls upon the most delicate situations, and arguably can be a burden on the most undeserved souls. What do you think? Is all guilt meant to be? 

   I know this blog has many, absolutely insane run-on sentences. I’m not going to correct it. Happy reading.

This is my dishwasher.

The Dynamo Of Volition

     Is it terrible that I’m absolutely enticed by the romance of a recession in general? No, no, don’t get angry. I know if you’re reading this, there is a possible chance that you, yourself have probably been laid off, thus subjected to the emotional pains of unemployment. But there is incredible beauty in unemployment as well.

    I say this as an employed person, and I apologize if you already hate me for this. But lets say, suddenly, I’m unemployed. I’m faced with a crossroads. Suddenly I’m forced to stop doing that job that I dread going to most of the time. I would not be allowed to go to a workplace to spend hours doing a job that I’m not passionate about.

   This point brings in the romance, and dreamer part of a recession that gets me every time. People are suddenly out of a job they most likely hate. Instead of applying for jobs that you hate, why not try to apply for the ones you love? I know this can’t be all practical. We all have different talents, and they don’t always pay the bills. But surely, happiness is more important than being loaded with money from the cubicle job, where you faced the glowing monitor like a drone. A pay cut is a terrible thing? Yes, and no. Being forced to reorganize and prioritize yourself isn’t terrible. Cutting materialistic things out, and facing each other as people is beautiful.

   The Great Depression always makes me envision poor families listening to the radio with the neighbors about the baseball game. The kids are in the yard playing baseball themselves. Hey, lets say hypothetically, it’s a cool summer evening, and the adults are on the porch with a few beers. (Whenever I first wrote this, it sounded like the children were on the porch with a few beers, so I had to add “adults” to clarify.) It’s a Thursday, but it’s hard for the men to find work currently, so for the moment, they are enjoying time with their families. Time that the men did not have before being laid off.

    That is all romantic, but I like to think it happened. Having everything, and losing it all can show who a person is in a terrible circumstance. Am I hoping this economy will become worse so that my own romantic family scenarios will suffice? Hell no. I hope to graduate from college soon, and this is a very inconvenient time to do that. Life’s super short. At least I almost avoided that cliché by inserting “super.” Not quite, but maybe next time! One example to prove how short life is, is the simple (yet terrible) knowledge that a man had a massive heart attack right where customers drop off their prescriptions in the pharmacy that I work at. He was dropping off two prescriptions, because he had just left (the absolute worse) hospital for chest pains. My friend (coworker) took his information, and began to type in his prescription. He asked her how long it would take. She responded that it would be about fifteen minutes. He dropped dead. I didn’t think fifteen minutes was unreasonable.

    Wait, that was terrible comment to end that paragraph, and story. (It’s not technically a story, it really happened.) That wasn’t right, but I’m sure that man gave a good chuckle and nod to using his example to show how little time we have here…So don’t work a job that makes you miserable, yet financially comfortable. If you lose your job, it’s meant to happen. You’re not suppose to be doing that job then. That man who died right outside the pharmacy was meant to die there. Proof of that was that he was a truck driver. If he didn’t have a massive heart attack in the pharmacy, it would of been when he was next driving his eighteen wheeler down the road. Life happens in perfect time, and sequence. Hold on tight to tomorrow.

I’m Not Tryin’ To Be Your Hero, ‘Cause That Zero Is Too Cold For Me

Sometimes I wonder if my body rejects too much sleep. I can understand too little sleep. Everyone seems to suffer from that. I’m infamous for going days on handful of sleep, and then maybe crashing…If I’m lucky. I woke up at 4:48 a.m. It was as if my head was pissed off at itself, and was punishing me or something. It wasn’t right. I took a over the counter sleep aid just to drift off at about midnight. Even though I feel slightly sluggish, my body doesn’t care. It revolts against it’s biological clock.

I went into math class about ten minutes early, and I really regret it. This girl who was probably about a handful of years older than me was arguing with her (former?) significant other about picking up their child. She would repeat how she was sick of him, and then hang up. This happened about four times, and then I lost count. I felt even though I was only accidently listening to her in the classroom, that I was intruding her personal life. So suddenly I felt rude, and awkward when it was really her begging us to listen to her tell off her (former?) man.

One thing that grosses me out terribly is whenever people talk on their cell phone in the bathroom. It’s one thing if it’s your bathroom, and the person on the other end is okay with it. In that case, only you and the caller know about your unsanitary cell phone antics. More than once in these past few years in college, I’ve noticed girls just picking up their phone call when it rings in the stall, and chatting away. Even casually explaining what they are doing on that occassion. I’m in the other stall, feeling awkward, and also feeling again as if I’m envading their conversation in a bathroom stall while they’re peeing. Imagine with me, if you will, it’s completely silent the restroom. Only you and a stranger are in the restroom, so you avert your eyes like usual, and go into separate stalls to do your business. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Circus by Brittany Spears starts playing as that stranger’s ringtone, and of course, (Like the rest of America.) she answers Brittany. I have enough performance anxiety as it is in public restrooms. Adding the cell phone craze to my awkwardness just makes the anxiety worse.

Toodles.

You and Me in a Midnight Blue ‘82 Camaro

I work in a pharmacy. In the modern day pharmacy, there of course is a drive-thru for the laziest country in the entire world. The thing is, a pharmacy drive-thru is not a McDonald’s drive-thru. It’s much more complicated. We have insurance issues, the brand, the refills, the amount of medicine given issues, ect. And well, just flat out angry, and pill dependent people. I’ve had a man slam down his card and yell at me, more than once. I’ve had overly nervous people picking up a controlled substance for a “friend.” Once, a man was halfway inside the pharmacy through the drive-thru window.

Honestly, the drive-thru can make me very angry. But there are stories I never would’ve been able to witness otherwise.

An old man drove up with a safari hat on. He smiled, and started to pronounce his name, but seemed to be struggling a bit. Let’s give him the generic name of John Smith. (Because for one, I can’t remember his real name anyway, and even if I did, I’m terrified of the prosecutions of HIPPA law.) As he was stumbling to pronounce his name, my eyes became wide. I realized suddenly exactly what was happening. His dentures were falling out. Finally, good ole John gave up his battle with his fighting dentures, and pulled those suckers out. (No pun or innuendo intended.)

“John Smith.” He finally clearly said with a grin.

“Okay,” I said trying not to laugh in front of him.

“I bet you can’t do that!” He called as I was walking away in search of his prescription. Oh, good times.

Two rednecks came to the drive-thru in a typical beat up, very small truck. (The setting is South Carolina kids.) The man in the passenger seat (He had a shaved head.) was getting a prescription for his little girl I think. The driver of the truck had cowboy hat on (I think…) and I’m positive I recall he had long hair. The man getting the medicine for his daughter dropped the prescription off, and said they were going to run an errand, and they’d be back. They did whatever those two men needed to do, and sure enough they were back in a relatively short amount of time. As I was ringing up the man’s prescription, the driver seemed to stare…And he seemed as if he wanted to say something. Finally, as I was handing the man in the passenger seat his prescription, the driver willed up the courage to speak.

“Have you ever been to a chicken fight?” He asked in a very thick southern accent.

“No!” I squeaked, especially since I seem to have the highest, little girl voice in the world. (Insert a sad sigh. I’m still waiting on my womanly, sexy sultry voice…At 20 years old.)

“Okay,” He nodded, then hit the gas and hummed away in his old beat up truck.

Less than two months later, I swear about eighty people in South Carolina were busted for alleged cock fighting. Oh, I thought of my redneck customers then. I wondered, did that man think he saw little ole me at a cock fight? Was he going to ask me out to a cock fight? How romantic.

The point is that the drive-thru is probably the most hated job in the pharmacy, but let me you, it’s where the action’s at. One day, when I leave that job,(Cross your fingers.) I’ll still be telling stories of inadequate dentures, and chicken fights. At the worst of times, I’ll always smile and think of odd people getting medicine.

I’m off to save the world!

Station Approach

So I just noticed the terrible, overly jovial blog post that WordPress so rudely posted without me knowing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for WordPress. Just saying, I wonder how many thousands of WordPress bloggers instantly erased that cliche blog post.

My friend Jim texted me today, (Because well, that’s the only way the world commuicates now. That and via Twitter/Facebook.) and told me that he realized what his calling in life was. It was not to be a great book collector, writer, or even musican as he has aspired about in the past. Oh no, not even close. He informed me he wanted to own his own gas station. Jim had just realized his passion for petroleum. He would name his gas station “Kickass Gas.”  I then told Jim that he needed to to sell books at his gas station instead of food, and play the piano by the gas pumps. Sometimes (Sometimes, meaing as in..just today.)  I do wonder how profound (or absurd?) of an idea that would be.

Really kids, think about it. People at gas stations can be scary. But just like the famous Beetles song, “Come Together,” I think that could possibly happen. What if someone was playing the piano right next to the gas pump and singing indie tunes? It sounds quite relaxing to me, and would make you forget your nagging, redfaced wife, and screaming three kids.  I would feel comfort that Piano Man was playing sweet music beside me rather than Creepy I’m Gonna Kidnap You, Young Girl Man. Unless Piano Man reallly turned out to be the Creepy Kidnapper. Then that would be a super good cover, and I would have to tip my hat off to Piano Man. And who really needs food at a gas station? Honestly, that’s what we grocery stores for. Americans eat enough as it is! That is why, as a nation, we are fat. Gas station snacks are a factor. So imagine with me if you will, feeding your intellect instead of your stomach. Appealing? I w0uld say yes, because if you’ve read this far in the post, I’m attracted to you. Instantly, and eternally.

A man got his “friend” to ask me at the CVS drive thru (Ugh, people pick up their prescriptions at the drive thru, because they’re terribly lazy.) if I was married tonight. That’s the second or third time I’ve been asked that at the drive thru. I muttered a “No,” and looked down the whole time in fear he would ask for my number.  I feel shocked, and terribly old that I could married now. I have friends that are married, with kids. Hell, my sister is married with kids. I wonder, where has life passed me by? Should I really give up trying to find my own partner, and just give eharmony a call? I’m pressured by my family to find someone, considering 50% of my younger siblings are in serious, life long relationships. The poor things. I sigh and look in the mirror. The kicker of the whole sad situation is that I’m only two decades old.

I made the decision just now that all my blog posts’ titles will have a song title. That would of happened instantly, and unintentionally away, but I will be very impressed by the person who can tell me the music artist, and mood I was in while writing this. Actually, I’ll marry you if you can. That’s it, that’s my own personal eharmony. So there it is, and yes I will probably instantly fall in love with you, and propose..if it’s legal and everything.

Until next time….