Flashback Friday: Halloween

I know you've been waiting all week for a blog here, so I feel bad for doing this, but I don't really have a choice. This is going to be a special holiday-themed entry. Lame. I know.

So I've deduced that tomorrow is Halloween. And that got me thinking about costumes of my past. I had some pretty pathetic ones. This is not meant to be a criticism of my dear mom. I can hardly blame a woman for opting not to hand-stitch a princess dress for a 5-year-old with a proclivity for changing her mind. As proof of such, when I was in kindergarten, I was supposed to be a little Indian princess. That is, a Native American princess. In 1989 I don't think this was considered culturally insensitive yet. Anyways, I had a really nice costume and real moccasins and everything. I wore it to school, but when it came time for trick-or-treating, and I found out that my brothers were going as ninjas, I decided I wanted to be a ninja too. So goodbye nice costume, hello makeshift ninja costume. (Black sweatsuit.)

Most years, we would go through the box of old clothes that we took out of the attic, and that's where our costumes came from. Most of the contents of the box were just relics of my mom's outdated wardrobe. I do believe this led to a lot of cross-dressing for my brothers. Or maybe it's the chicken and the egg. I don't know. But my mom would pick up an article of clothing and say something like, "Here, this could be a gypsy skirt." Or, "You could wear this and be a rock star."

So, in second grade I was a gypsy. And in third grade I was a rock star. The rock star costume consisted of me wearing shiny black leggings and a black glittery top that I think my mom probably wore at some point for New Year's or something. The costume was completed with a black fedora and a tranny amount of purple eyeshadow and heavy blush. And while it wasn't exactly part of the costume per se, I also wore enormous purple glasses that covered half my face. (Thanks a lot, myopia.) Anyhow, I suspect that neither my mom nor I had ever actually seen a rock star, so this seemed like a perfectly fine costume at the time.

By fourth grade I had at least abandoned the big purple frames, but I was getting older, weirder, and considerably less cute. When it came time to prepare for Halloween, all I knew was that we got a black kitten that year, and I wanted to incorporate her into my costume. So out of the clothes box came a big, billowy red dress. And so it was proclaimed a "she-devil" costume. So I wore a giant long red dress with long sleeves, and a red cowboy hat. And I carried my cat, Kramer. She was scared and confused, rightfully so. We even made her a red cape. I think this was the only sewing that ever went into one of my costumes. But I was happy because I got to take Kramer to school. Why a she-devil would carry a kitten, let alone a kitten wearing a cape, I have no idea. It was only years later that I realized I had unknowingly dressed up as a crazy cat lady.

Flashback Friday: Peer Pressure

I was pretty susceptible to peer pressure as a child. In fact, I'm still pretty susceptible to all kinds of pressure, for that matter. From peers, from children, from the elderly, from people that stand outside grocery stores asking for donations to various causes. It doesn't matter. You can count on me to be easily swayed.

Once when I was in kindergarten, my next-door neighbor, Erica persuaded me to call 9-1-1, just to see what happens. Erica was in first grade, so I assumed she had her reasons. I called 9-1-1 from my house and hung up when an actual person answered. I knew that I had done something wrong, so we fled the scene. But it turns out that when you call 9-1-1 and hang up, they do not just assume that it was a wrong number. They call back.

I got a talking to for that one. As I remember it, someone probably died because of me. My parents didn't say this in so many words, but I think it was implied. Anyways, I never called 9-1-1 again, because honestly, it really didn't do that much for me. There was better mischief to be made.

For instance, we could be burying one of the other neighborhood kids' shoes in my backyard sandbox. Again, I think this was Erica's idea, but I supported it. Brad was a real crybaby and I did not like playing with him. It seemed only fair that someone should steal his shoes and bury them in a sandbox. You know, to teach him a lesson.

My best friend lived across the street. Her name was Stefanie and she had long blond hair and was much nicer than next-door Erica. I enjoyed going to Stefanie's house. Her mom was really nice and she introduced me to a wonderful snack called "saltines with butter."

Stefanie was also a year older than me and seeing as I actually liked her, it was only natural that she would possess a certain amount of power in the relationship. One day, we were playing in her backyard. I think plans were in the works for some sort of secret club. It was going to be pretty awesome, I'm sure. We decided that we needed a secret club meeting spot. Her yard didn't have much in the ways of secret spots, but there was a small canopy of trees separating her yard from the neighbors. It was nicely landscaped, and they had placed a little bench and a birdbath tucked away in the shade. This would be the spot, we decided.

Naturally, the next thing we would have to do, according to Stefanie, was poop in the woods. Wait, what? Yes. Stefanie wanted to dig a hole, and then we would poop in it. I don't recall if this in any way related to the club, or if it was more of an impetuous pooping adventure, but I was not real keen on it. I wasn't even sure if this was something we could get in trouble for, but that wasn't really the issue.

Even at the age of 5, I had a pretty highly developed sense of shame about pooping. I didn't really feel like it was an experience I wanted to share with anyone. Not even Stefanie. But I was supportive. If Stefanie wanted to poop in a hole in her backyard, then who was I to stand in the way of her dreams? I don't think I watched, because that would be weird. So I just stood there, quietly as not to disturb the process, while my best friend pooped in a hole.

Stefanie moved away the following year. I was sad at the time, but in retrospect, I think it might not have been the worst thing for me. And to this day, I have never been coerced into pooping. No matter how appealing the person, or the hole.

Flashback Friday: Wart Edition

When I was in second grade, I discovered the tumors. Well, they weren't actually tumors. They were plantar warts and they were on my feet. But they were hard and foreign and I had seen enough episodes of 20/20 to diagnose them as tumors and that is how I came to the conclusion that I was stricken with the foot cancer. Because I was 7, I didn't know that foot cancer isn't so much a concern. But I decided I should just keep it quiet as not to worry anyone. Maybe the cancer would heal itself and I would still be able to go to Disney World over spring break.

But the warts really hurt. They were deep in the balls of my feet and it made walking very painful. So I went to my mom and tearfully confessed my secret foot tumors. I was ready to say my goodbyes and give away all my worldly possessions, but she assured me that it was not cancer. I still had my doubts.

I was then hauled off to some sort of doctor to treat my apparently non-fatal but rather gross affliction. I don't know the exact medical terminology, but as I recall, they performed a wartectomy by strapping me to a table and digging at my feet with rusty razors. Or something like that. It hurt like a bitch and seemed to go on forever and ever. I was pretty sure that these "plantar warts" were several feet deep.

The problem with this treatment was that it didn't actually help the pain. In fact, it made it much much worse. I couldn't even wear shoes. I cried because I didn't know how I would go to school if I couldn't wear shoes. Most likely, I was just trying to get out of going to school, but my crafty mom saw through this lame attempt at truancy and said I could wear soft slippers. I cried more. I didn't want to wear slippers. I wouldn't even be allowed to wear slippers to school.

But as it happened, I was allowed to wear slippers to school. And I guess I did. I was certain that everyone would make merciless fun of me for wearing slippers to school and no one would be my friend. But, strangely enough, that didn't happen. Or at least, not for a few more years. And by then it was less slipper-related, I think.

The point is, I survived. And I learned my lesson about watching 20/20. Well, not really. But I should have.

Dear Humans, I don't get you.

I feel like, lately, the world has been going out of its way to remind me how weird some people are. So I present to you three examples of puzzling human behavior:

1. Having a jam session at 10 am on a Monday.

This particular offense come courtesy of my weird neighbor. I don't really know him, but he lives about 10 feet away from me, and I'm pretty sure that he disappears for months at a time. When I do see him, he usually doesn't seem to notice or recognize me. For a long time, I thought I had offended him somehow, but then I figured out that he is just a crackhead. When it's 100 degrees outside, you might see him hurrying down the sidewalk in a hooded sweatshirt and a winter hat. He lives in a studio that is approximately 200 square feet. I saw it once. He doesn't really have anything in it. It's just a murphy bed, and of course, a drum kit. In the 2 years or so that he's lived there, I have never once heard him play his drums. That is, until this Monday. I was sitting on my couch, watching my normal daytime programs, when I saw him and another guy, walking back to his place. They then proceeded to have a little Monday morning jam session. It lasted for about an hour. It wasn't the worst thing I've ever heard, but it was sort of confusing to me. This seemed like an odd time to rock out, in my opinion. 10 am is a good time to get brunch. Or be at work, if you're so daring. But to have a buddy over to play some sweet percussive tunes? I don't know.

2. Spitting your chewing gum out on the elliptical machine at the gym.

I belong to a gym. LA Fitness, to be exact. And as someone that occasionally washes the bottom of my shoes because I am concerned with the germs that might be living on them, I think it's safe to say that I have some issues with the cleanliness of gyms. You have all these people sweating and touching things, and sometimes grunting (which I realize isn't a sanitary issue, but it grosses me out nonetheless.) It's disgusting. But I've learned to accept it. I just try to touch as few surfaces as possible and take a scalding shower as soon as I get home. The point is, gyms are disgusting enough as it is. That is why you, disgusting LA Fitness patron, should not feel the need to put your used chewing gum on the ledge of the elliptical machine. I understand your predicament. You're chewing gum. You're going to work out. You don't want your gum anymore. What do you do??? Obviously, getting off the machine and throwing it in some sort of waste receptacle isn't an option. I mean, I don't know why it's not an option, but I assume that if it were an option, that's what you would have done. And you don't want to swallow it, because I heard in 2nd grade that if swallow gum, it will stay in your stomach for 7 years. And we can't have that. And I'm sure you couldn't have just kept it in your mouth. Because that's unpleasant. It had probably lost its flavor. Well. I guess you did what you had to do. Nevermind.

3. Writing a comment to no one in particular, in a library book.

I recently got some books from the library. I actually hate library books. Oddly enough, part of that is for reasons of cleanliness and gum. (One of the last library books I checked out had a big wad of hardened gum stuck to the cover. Maybe it's me?) But I am thrifty, so I'm not going to buy every book I want to read. I just started reading what appeared to be a clean and gum-free library book, when I got to a little handwritten note in the margins. A line in the book read "he seemed to me wise - silent and massive like a Buddha in wire-framed glasses." In blue pen, someone has put quotes around the words "silent and massive" and then drawn an asterisk. In the blank space below it, they have written *The Buddha was NOT fat.

Now, first of all, the book doesn't even say that the Buddha is "fat." Second of all, I'm no expert on the Buddha or anything, but I think I get what the author is going for here. I think it's some sort of literary thing. I don't know. But this blue pen wielding library patron is not going to stand for this misinformation. My god! I might have gone on reading this book, thinking about how fat the Buddha is, if not for his/her correction. Thank you, defender of truth and Buddha.

Flashback Friday: Cross Dressing edition

I don't remember a great deal about first grade. I mean, I know that kindergarten was full of horrible pain and injustice, but for the most part first grade was alright. I had a nice teacher and I was still naive enough to think I might not be wasting the best years of my life in stupid school.

But there is one incident that stands out in my memory. It was 1991 and Simpsons merchandising was at an all-time high. Actually, I don't know if that's true. But I do know that I had a Bartman t-shirt. Remember Bartman? I don't really know what that was all about, to be honest. But those were the early and confusing days of The Simpsons where they had the occasional full-length music video and the accompanying licensed apparel. The shirt was just an image of Bart Simpson, wearing a cape and mask, along with a cartoon speech bubble that read, "Watch it, dude."

But the point is, I thought my Bartman t-shirt was extremely cool. I felt that wearing it made me extremely cool. I'm guessing that I wore it to school approximately once a week, and I wore it with great pride. Bartman was a badass and I wanted to be a badass. Think about it. "Watch it, dude." Who is he calling dude? And why do they need to watch it? You don't want to know, man.

There was a girl in my class named April. I was not a big fan of April. She was a roly-poly first grader with a bossy streak and a messy desk. I hated the kids with messy desks. It also kind of annoyed me that she was nothing like the pretty, plucky reporter April in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. She gave Aprils a bad name, and I didn't like that. On behalf of Aprils of the world, this girl offended me.

One day, April loudly and accusatorily informed me that my awesome Bartman shirt was "a boy's shirt." I did not appreciate this bit of information. First of all, this was the 90's. If I wanted to wear a so-called "boy's shirt" then by god, I would wear a boy's shirt. And besides, what makes a shirt a boy's shirt anyways? Because the cartoon character on the shirt is, in fact, a boy? It was a t-shirt. What if the shirt had a puppy on it? Would I have to determine the sex of the animal before I could rightly wear it? And what about your shirt with Jason Priestley on it? Apparently that's okay. Apparently Jason Priestley is "girly" enough. But where can I find these rules? Because I just don't know, April.

But somehow, I managed to make it through the rest of my educational career, boys' shirts and all. Because let me tell you, that was not the last boy shirt I wore, no sir. I had two older brothers and absolutely no fashion sense.

Anyways, when I was recently reminded of this incident, I told Pat, knowing that he would be similarly outraged and sympathetic to my 6-year-old self.

Me: "And she said it was a 'boy's shirt'!"
Pat: "Oh, that's totally a boy's shirt."

Well. Some husband.

Flashback Friday: Sex Ed

Towards the end of my fifth grade year, there was a lot of chatter about the day that the boys and the girls would get split up for a mysterious and most likely dirty lesson. This was a much-anticipated event. In fact, I think for us fifth-graders it was right up there with "field day." (Field day was a yearly event and it was much better. It is the only time that I excelled on any sort of field. I recall winning ribbons in both the 50-yard dash AND the potato sack race.)

Anyways, we all knew this sexy day was coming. And I think I can speak for many of my former 5th grade classmates and say that we were pretty excited about it. I had heard of sex education, but being 10, did not have a very clear idea of what that might entail. Some of the students with older siblings had heard rumors, but all I had gathered was that there was some sort of video involved. Sexy videos for 10-year-olds? Take that, religious right.

When the day finally arrived, the Ledgeview Elementary rumor mill was working overtime. I'd say it was almost entirely fueled by one extremely loud and obnoxious girl, who I'll call Rochelle. Rochelle was in the first group, before lunch, to hear the talk, and she spent most of recess regaling the playground with her version of the lesson. I don't know how accurate her re-telling was, but it was thrilling nonetheless. (It's worth mentioning that I recently heard it through the grapevine that Rochelle had a baby not too long ago and that she didn't know she was pregnant until she went into labor. Odd. I wonder now if she was in the right room on that fateful day in 5th grade.)

That afternoon, the boys were led out of our classroom and an extremely old woman came in. She had short gray hair and we were told that she was a registered nurse. Much to my dismay, she started saying words like "menses" and "fallopian." It really doesn't get any less titillating than looking at diagrams of the reproductive system and listening to a 60-year-old nurse explain your lady stuff.

She did offer a brief one-sentence description of intercourse, which I found enlightening, but that was it for the actual dirty stuff. Then we watched the much talked about video. Unfortunately, the video was also about menstruation. I think the plot was something about a girl getting to go to a school dance and then, well, you can probably guess where this is going.

Then Nurse Esther showed us a sanitary napkin. She also told us about some other lady contraptions that I had never even heard of. Something about a belt? I had no idea what she was talking about and I suspect that she was a little behind the times. (I don't know if her name was Esther, but it seems appropriate.)

But all in all, I have to say, this was the most disappointing day of my entire elementary school career. I don't think I ever heard what went on in the boys' room, but I imagine that they handed out Playboys and said, "You've got 40 minutes. Have at it!" Oh the injustice.