A rocket in your pocket

5 Dec

For me, eighth grade was:

1. Rolling my underpants down four times so they’d fall below my bellybutton.
2. Stuffing my pits with tissues so sweat wouldn’t soak through my shirts.
3. Getting asked out over AIM, and getting dumped over AIM the next day.
4. Being called fat in the locker room.
5. Rocking oversized Ecko Red sweatshirts.
6. Popping infected blackheads in the girls’ bathroom.
7. Eating lunch at the teachers’ table.
8. Parting my hair down the middle and tucking it behind my Aaron Spelling ears (no disrespect, Aaron. I like my ears and I like yours too).

Can you believe this girl didn't find love on AOL?

Can you believe I didn’t find love on AOL?

It was my favorite year of school by far.

And I don’t mean that sarcastically at all. I, in all honesty, loved eighth grade.

As an eighth grader, I got to be the cool upperclassmen while still being a weird little kid with no inhibitions. My days were filled with competitions with my weird little kid friend Kara, spitball fights, and bragging about how long I could chew the same piece of gum.

As chubby and sweaty and underpantsy as I felt in eighth grade, it was the last year before I began the physical and mental ascent into adulthood. By ninth grade I was learning about syphilis in health class and worrying that my maxi pad looked like a diaper. I didn’t even know syphilis and maxi pads existed when I was in eighth grade.**

Seriously. I was totally clueless about all things reproductive.

Proof:

In eighth grade science my teacher asked everyone in the class to partner up and build a model rocket out of a paper towel tube. My weird little friend Kara (who I’m glad to say is still my weird little friend) and I worked together.

We spent the class constructing and designing our rocket. By the end of the period it looked pretty good: sick fins, aerodynamic nose — it had it all. We were so proud of it we decided it should bear our names.

Finding it hard to combine “Allie” and “Kara”, we took our initials, A.C. and K.L., to come up with a name for our rocket. After a few different arrangements, we decided “C-A-L-K” was the best use of our letters. It was our initials, backwards, arranged in descending order by their namesakes’ heights. I took a marker and wrote “CALK” in big letters down the rocket’s… shaft.

As every good model rocket builder knows, a model rocket needs a catchy slogan. Lovers of fine poetry, Kara and I opted for “A rocket in your pocket”. We liked it because 1) It rhymed and 2) It was accurate: our rocket was small enough to fit inside a large pocket. Our slogan was catchy, descriptive, and — as we came to find out later — very suggestive.

Before taking our rockets outside to launch, each pair had to present their rocket in front of the class. Though Kara and I were both quiet and shy, we were excited to show off our erection creation.

“Here’s our rocket! It’s super lightweight, probably gonna fly awesome. It has a parachute that’ll open when it reaches a certain height. We painted it this sick flesh color because we wanted to. Oh AND WE CALL IT CALK THE ROCKET IN YOUR POCKET.”

It wasn’t until after we got yelled at that we realized our oversight.

**I wish I still didn’t know that maxi pads existed.

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Dear Mom and Dad (a puppy proposal)

18 Sep

Mom and dad, Jackie and Tim. Seeing as I live in your home, I have a favor to ask of you.

Please let me get a dog.

I know what you’re thinking. “Allie, you are not responsible enough. You don’t cook your own dinner, iron your own shirts, or charge your own electric toothbrush.”

You’re right – I don’t. I’m bad at cooking and cleaning and charging teethbrushes. I don’t do any domestic ish. You know who else doesn’t do domestic ish? A dog.

My future best friend/dog, who I’ve tentatively named Jacktimlyn, will not like cooking or cleaning or brushing teeth, either. Fortunately I do not have to cook dog food (though I do intend to huff it, socially). Dogs don’t wear clothing so I’ll never have to worry about laundry. And I’ll get Jacktimlyn a non-electric toothbrush.

You might say, “Allie, we already have Chico. Isn’t he enough?”

Again, you are right. I love Chico very much – he’s more than enough puppy for one family. But, mom, Chico is yours. He’ll never love me as much as he loves you. You take him to Connecticut with you all the time — I barely see him these days! (And when Chico is at home, he’ll have a buddy to play with!)

You might say, “When Chico isn’t in Connecticut you complain about taking him for walks.”

This time you’re only partially right. I complain about taking Chico for walks at night. I am afraid of the dark. Are You Afraid of the Dark? You should be, because as soon as the sun goes down the men start a-lurking. We live across from a bar! And a tattoo parlor! You know the type of people around our home. And you know how tiny Chico is. He’s smaller than a baby! What would we do if someone tried to abduct the pair of us? We would be defenseless. Jacktimlyn will be a golden retriever. Goldens are a large breed; troublesome men will be sure to leave us alone.

“Your baby daughter will be safe with me.”

You might say, “You work and do activities and things. We will be stuck caring for your dog.”

Don’t think of it as being stuck, think of it as an employment opportunity!  Dad, you work at home. If you agree, I will happily pay you to walk Jacktimlyn when I’m at work. We can discuss an hourly rate, and I can pay a full year in advance. Wow! How lucrative this could be for you!

Dolla dolla bills, dad.

If you cannot agree, father, that is okay. You think there are no other working, activity-ing people who own dogs? There are, I assure you! Billions, maybe trillions of them! Jacktimlyn can get a nice long walk before I go to work and then another couple walks when I get home, in addition to fun play sessions. Plus, many of my activities are dog-friendly, especially for a well-behaved dog like Jacktimlyn is sure to be.

Finally, you might say, “Dogs tie you down. Don’t you talk about how you want to travel?”

I talk about wanting to travel, but only to make myself sound cool and important. Traveling makes me nervous and hungry, and I don’t have a desire to do much of it. If I ever decide to move to a different state, I’ll have a lovely companion to come with. And anyway, dad, didn’t you get a dog (a golden, I believe?) when you were 23? Didn’t you move to Hawaii after you bought him? Wasn’t he the best trained dog you ever owned?

Obviously, dog ownership is a big responsibility. Here is a list of things I promise to do, and how I’ll do them. They are open for negotiation.

  • Pay for everything: Jacktimlyn, the vet, food, training, grooming, and toys. I will not buy Jacktimlyn until I have many thousands of doll hairs saved. Pending your approval, I will get Jacktimlyn next spring. This means I can ask for puppy paraphernalia for Christmas and my birthday. How easy gift shopping for me will be!
  • Keep the house clean. I will vacuum and sweep the main living areas twice a week. That means every year, I will vacuum and sweep 104 times. That is approximately 103 more times than I currently vacuum and sweep.
  • Keep Jacktimlyn clean. I will bathe him when he needs it, brush him weekly, and pet the crap out of him daily.
  • Care for him. Cause if you let me, here’s what I’ll do: I’ll take care of you Jacktimlyn.

Mom, if you help me convince dad I’ll give you free reign of my Facebook account for as long as it exists.

Dad, you know what kind of vehicle can’t accommodate a dog? A scooter. Also, I promise I’ll never ask you to cut your hair again.

Pleasey?

P.S. If you don’t let me I’m going to get a sleeve of tattoos.
P.P.S. Just kidding, I’m not that spiteful.
P.P.P.S. But know that I could.
Another P.S. If anyone other than my mom and dad are reading this, please show your support of my dog ownership. For Jacktimlyn’s sake.

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How Janet Jackson made me cry

13 Sep

My mom and I look alike. Though I have a moonier face, we’re basically twins born 35 years apart. We have nibbly knobs for chins, flapping lobes for ears, and huge gums for teeth.

Save for a dog-food-induced popped lung or two, we have identical health records, too. We both suffer from cold sores, occasional bouts of granuloma annulare, and an inability to be ashamed of our poop. As a self-diagnosed hypochondriac, it’s helpful to have my mom as a personal blueprint for my own health. Always looking for what disease I’ll inherit next, I have made a practice of surveying my trick mother. In 2009, whilst surveying my trick mother, I found a suspicious red welt on her forehead.

My dad had had a similar growth on his shoulder a few years prior, and it had turned out to be basal cell carcinoma — a benign type of skin cancer. Benign or benot, cancers is scary. As soon as I noticed the welt on my mom, I asked her to go to the skin doctor to get it checked out. After three years of my nagging, she finally did this past May.

It was basal cell carcinoma. Lady had to go and get her head all chopped up.

Battered mother

Battered chicken

As upsetting as it was to learn my mom had skin cancer, it wasn’t the most upset I’ve ever been by her health. When I was 12 and my sister Beanie was 14, my mom’s health upsat us so badly it changed our lives.

Me: Mom, you’re my favorite mommy. Want to do fun mother-daughter bull, like read gossip magazines?

Beanie: Me too! Me too!

Mom: Of course, sweet children. I love reading celebrity tabloids. Pass me one!

Me: Here! I know how much you love the VH1 movie about her family. You even named our cats after her brothers. Take this one!

Mom: Huh? Wha? Hibbidy jibbidy, who dat be?

(My sister and I break out into immediate, violent sobs. Our mom doesn’t recognize Janet Jackson.)

Me: Ooohhhh laaaaaaaaawwwwddd.

Beanie: What… does… this… mean?

Me: QUICK! GRAB THE OTHER MAGAZINE. MOM, WHO IS THIS?

Mom: C’mon! Everyone knows who that is. It’s that… guy. Who’s dating the… umm… the girl. Ya’ll know.

(Beanie and I cry even harder. She doesn’t know who Justin Timberlake is and can’t remember Britney Spears.)

About 30 minutes later, while my sister and I were still mourning the abrupt loss of our mother’s sanity, my mammy got knocked out by a massive migraine. Apparently her vision/mind had been funked up from the impending headache. That’s why, in addition to begging my mom to visit the dermatologist, Beanie and I quiz her on Janet’s face at least once a month.

…The health I have to look forward to!

Name that Jackson

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Knife demo (vlog shiz)

28 Jun

Remember a while ago when I said I’d have my student loans paid off within a year? When I made that goal I somehow forgot that Sam’s Club exists.

At Sam’s, strawberries are the size of oranges, oranges the size of cantaloupes, cantaloupes the size of watermelons, and watermelons the size of yo’ anus. King-size bags of chip come in Tupacs and cookbooks share an aisle with underpants. Sam’s is perfect.

Two-pack Tupac

Two-pack Tupac

Did you know Sam’s Club hosts live infomercial demonstrations? Me neither, until I got sucked into one with a promise of a free knife and ended up buying an entire set. My sister didn’t want to watch me reenact the demonstration, so instead I ask that you do.

Sometimes shook up old ladies get cut

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Don’t go home with strangers

21 Jun

If I wanted, my drive to work could be 29 minutes. Instead, it is 31. It could be an easy ride with minimal turns and country views. Instead, I go through two rotaries and pass a homeless man who hates me and a house so patriotic it makes me feel Canadian. I choose to take this detour because, if I didn’t, every day would be a reminder of the time I accidentally and aggressively stalked a family man.

Eh?

I played basketball from 4th grade through 11th. Before I go any further, I’d like to apologize to every b-balling teammate I ever had.

For the time I let the girl who looked like a coonskin cap score a three-pointer in the last second and win the game for her team.

For the time I innocently forgot our coach had Tourette’s and I laughed at one of his tics.

For the time(s) I wasn’t paying attention and not even mentally repeating the Sister Act II line “If you want to be somebody, if you want to go somewhere, you’ve got to wake up and paaaay attention” could get my head back into the game.

For the time I popped a lung huffing dog food and left the team without a timid forward-center for two weeks.

For the time I paid so little attention during my basketball career that I had to Google “forward-center”.

Seriously, ladiez. My b.

I liked (and like) playing basketball, and I actually wasn’t that horrendous of a baller — I’m just too weird to play team sports. For one, group camaraderie makes me feel uncomfortable. For another, when I’m not reciting Whoopi Goldberg quotes or urging myself to pay attention, I’m planning my next meal or considering giant uses for normal-sized things; there’s simply not enough space in my head to remember how to run plays or which basket is whose or that I’m supposed to wear the white uniform for home games.

The kid I had a crush on in high school, who played for the boy’s varsity team, once told me he liked going to girl’s games to watch me play. I was flattered until he followed it up with “When the coach finally puts you in for the last few seconds of the game you look so confused. You kinda just sprint randomly around the court. It’s very entertaining.”

What he said barely even upset me. It was true.

As you can imagine, I was not the most popular member of the team. I had some friends on the team, but on the occasions they invited me to basketball parties, I usually passed. The only time I didn’t pass, actually, was when one of the seniors said she was going to have  a spaghetti dinner with whoopie pies for dessert. It was like my team and I were speaking the same language for the first time.

Who would pass up a party with this on the menu?

Obviously I accepted the invitation. Even more obviously, I didn’t know where the spaghetti host lived. And da most obviously, no one rode with me so I had to follow the convoy of carpoolers all by me lonesome.

Turns out, apart from being a terrible teammate, I also suck at following cars.

The girl who was directly in front of me was driving a big truck and I swear she was doin’ fifty-five in a fifty-fo. I couldn’t keep up! She was too fast (too fast), too furious (too furious), TOO FAST FOR YA’LL MANG.

WE DOIN’ A HUNDID ON DA HIGHWAY

Thankfully I was able to catch up to her truck at a four-way stop (the same four-way stop I should go through on my drive to work).  She took a left and I followed.

And I continued following for 15 minutes. I continued following even after we passed the street I thought the spaghetti host lived on, and even after we drove out of the school district boundaries, and even after we drove out of the next school district’s boundaries.

After 20 minutes of following the truck — who, at this point, was the only vehicle on the road besides me — I started getting nervous I was going the wrong way. Actually, I was 97% sure I was going the wrong way. But my cell phone was dead and I was jonesing for whoopie pies in bad way, so I took the 3% possibility and drove with it. I drove with it until the truck turned onto a long driveway, and then I drove with it right up that long driveway.

As soon as I saw the house at the end of the driveway there was no longer any doubt; I was 100% sure  I was at the wrong place. None of my teammates’ cars were there. I couldn’t smell any sign of marinara sauce, garlic bread, or Whoopi Goldberg. And, maybe the most telling of all, instead of a team full of basketball girls, there were two little girls and their mother. They’d been watching out the window for their dad to come home and when they saw his truck’s headlights coming up the drive, they ran outside to greet him.

Well, actually, they ran outside to greet their dad and the 16-year-old girl who had followed him home.

In response to their (first enthusiastic and then scared) greeting, I stepped out of my car, raised my hand in apology, got back in my car, and backed up the entire driveway. I didn’t say a single word to explain why I’d followed their dad home. I just raised my hand and drove away. I still didn’t know where the spaghetti dinner was, but I was able to find the way back to my own house.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to work and I’m two minutes behind schedule.

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30 second update

10 Jun

The past month or so has been crazy for me.

1. I turned 23.

2. I celebrated turning 23.

The classiest part of this picture is the lemon wedge that I sucked the fruit off and then returned to the glass rim.

3. I rediscovered shrimp.

4. I spent time with the cutest, sweetest, smartest girl and boy in the world.

Do you see the resemblance?

“Gurl please”

4. I befriended a coworker.

5. I learned that all the wood said coworker and I have been collecting and cutting in half with her cordless saw for the raft we’re building in the woods behind our office floated away with the rain and now all that’s left are the spears we sharpened with pocket knives and practice stabbing the water with.

Anyway, I should have more time for blogging this month.

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The tragedy of nudity

30 Apr

Here is how the afternoon of the Saturday before last began.

I had an appointment for my first massage.

The address the masseuse, Josie, gave me turned out to be a grange hall. (For those who don’t know, that’s a community hangout for farmers.)

Due to the nonexistence of a parking lot, I parked my car on the front lawn.

The front door was locked and Josie was M.I.A.

Josie showed up one minute before my appointment.

She escorted me into her massaging room – a 10′x6′ room with painted-that-day walls.

Wrinkled and grungy purple sheets covered her massage table. And, I soon learned, were also to cover my naked bod.

Josie’s relaxation music sounded like bugs and people peeing.

Her lavender and lemongrass incense smelled like bugs and people peeing.

The children at the house across the street played a raucous game of hide-and-seek. Each new round of their game started with “Ready or not, here I come. I’M GONNA KILL YOU.”

I learned I do not enjoy massages.

Here is how the evening of Saturday before last ended (poorly).

Feeling pretty certain I had contracted a couple different communicable diseases from Josie’s soiled massage table, I ran home and took a shower. By the time I was done sterilizing my skin, it was nearly 6 p.m. Being freshly showered on a weekend evening is rare for me, so I decided to make the most of it. I called my friend DJ and planned to meet him at his big city apartment. We were going to have ourselves a Harry Potter marathon.

There are few things I enjoy more than consuming Harry Potter media – mostly, haunted hayrides, scaring people, and wearing sweatpants. When I got to DJ’s house and saw how close my friends Katie and Tyler lived to him, I saw an opportunity to do at least two of my favorite activities. We were going to scare them, and we were going to wear matching sweat suits while doing it.

I asked DJ to change into an outfit that matched mine – gray sweatshirt, black sweatpants, white T-shirt, and brown sandals – and to get ready to do some spooking. Lovely him, dude did just that. After checking to make sure our outfits coordinated well enough, we left his apartment.

After less than five minutes of creeping around the neighborhood we were at Katie and Tyler’s. At first I was just planning on knocking loudly on their door and running away, but when I saw their apartment I was overcome with inspiration. I told DJ we were going to the back door.

“They never lock the back. WE SLINKING IN.”

And we did. Just as I’d guessed, the back door was unlocked. DJ, convinced we were crossing a line and probably a law, refused to go past the mudroom they shared with their upstairs neighbor. I, on the other hand, strolled right in. The worst that could happen, methought, was that Katie and Tyler would be really scared. And honestly, that was exactly what I was aiming for.

For the first 30 seconds after breaking and entering into their house, I gave up on the hope that I’d scare them at all. DJ and I were laughing so much I didn’t make it more than two steps past their door before hunching over in a high-pitched fit of inhalation laughter. Sadly, two steps were enough to get a perfect view of the bathroom hallway. And, at the 31st second, two steps were enough to get a perfect view of Tyler in all his glory. Clearly, he hadn’t gotten the matching outfit memo. He hadn’t gotten any outfit memo, actually.

Tyler was buck naked.

We made eye contact for half a second, Tyler said “Oh shit” in a very defeated, very violated kind of way, and I ran out of the house.

Later, when DJ and I got back to his place and I called them to apologize, Tyler told me not to be embarrassed and invited us back over for guacamole. We accepted, partly because if I didn’t it’d only make things weirder the next time I saw them, and partly because I really like guacamole.

Strangely, though, the first thing Tyler offered us wasn’t guacamole. It was pickles from an industrial-sized tub of pickles.

 

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