I hate bananas, hate the smell of bananas, the sound of someone chewing a banana, and, I’m sure much to the interest of Freudian psychologists everywhere, the sight of a banana. Maybe it is the potassium deficiency speaking here, but I would be happy if I never saw another banana in my life. I feel very strongly about this.
As a child, I lied with a straight face to various teachers, babysitters, and daycare providers, telling them I was allergic, convinced that I was doing a service with my little fib by saving them from the wrath of my vomitous reaction to the offending fruit. Two years ago, on my last day at my former job, my co-workers and “friends” filled the trashcan beneath my desk with banana peels. Blasted by the smell, I stood up prairie dog style and accused every one of my neighboring cubicle dwellers of daring to eat a banana in my general vicinity. It took me several minutes to realize that I had been the victim of a horrible and somewhat unfunny prank.
My hatred for the banana began pretty innocently, and although I cannot remember the specific date, the memory of that day over twenty years ago is as clear in my mind as if I was still sitting there. I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, and as I have written many times before, my little sister was fairly consistent about driving me up a wall.
When the doorbell rang at our house, being the one to answer it was a very high honor. Normally, I could beat my sister to the door as a result of my larger size, faster speed, and generally more well-developed intellect. Courtney would come up behind me panting after having been shoved aside into a door or wall. She would peek around me to see that the caller at the door was simply the mailman with an odd-sized package, or maybe the meter man asking that the dog be let in from the yard so that he could get back there to do his job. My sister would let out a sigh and then make her way back up the stairs still annoyed that she had been defeated once again
On this day when the doorbell rang, I was in the kitchen just pulling a banana out of the large bowl on the counter. The chime rang through the house, and I was off to the races down the hall, the banana tucked beneath my arm like a football. My sister had heard it first, though, and she had been closer. She cut me off at the top of the stairs, scampered down the steps, turned to me with a satisfied, toothy grin, and then opened the door. Her snotty little look made me so angry that I did the only logical thing I could think of; I chucked the banana down the stairs right at her.
I missed. The banana hit the doorjamb to the left of her and then fell to the floor just as she closed the door. My sister, now clutching a Speigel catalog against her chest, stuck her tongue out, climbed the stairs, and pushed past me. I stomped down to pick up the banana that had fallen on the floor. The peel had still been intact when I had thrown it, however, on impact it had split a little on the side, and some bruised fruit was oozing out through the little hole. I went back upstairs and into the kitchen where my mom was standing at the sink. I walked over to the trashcan, depressed the pedal with my foot, and was just about to deposit the banana into its final resting place when my mother turned around and asked me what I was doing.
“This banana is bad,” I said with conviction, the banana still dangling precariously over the open can.
“I just bought those yesterday,” my mom said and then held out her hand, “Let me see it.”
I stood still for a second. This was not going to end well, I already knew. We were poor, single-mom poor, and so wasting food around our house was pretty much a felony. I stared at her outstretched hand and then slowly placed the banana squarely in her palm.
She examined the fruit in the same way she did everything, which was with purpose and an eagle eye. She looked up at me and asked me what happened to the banana, which was, of course, the same moment Courtney came strolling into the room.
“She threw it at me,” Courtney said, and because she was a very experienced tattletale, she managed to look thoroughly victimized.
The story came out. I was sentenced to a punishment. I was to sit at the table until I finished eating the affronting banana, and while this was going on, I was also supposed to think about the crime on humanity that I had committed. My mom removed the banana from its peel and put it in a cereal bowl. It was now quite messy, so for good measure she also provided me with a spoon. She left the room, presumably to hunker down with her new Speigel catalog, and I sat staring at the banana. There was no way I was going to eat it. I even said it out loud to the empty dining room, “There is no way I am eating this”
I have always been a fidgeter, usually playing with my hair, or chewing a pen lid; this day, however, I fidgeted endlessly with the spoon in the bowl of banana. I mushed it and stirred it around until it became a brown soupy mess. I spooned it up, lifted it high, and then tipped the spoon, letting the banana nastiness drip back into the bowl. Now there was definitely no way in hell I was going to eat it.
My mom came back about fifteen minutes after she had left me. I was sitting at the table, head on hand, staring into space. The sticky mass of liquid banana sat below my chin, still in the bowl. Now my mom was pissed.
“Dammit, Cara,” she said, her voice beginning to take on a bit of an edge. “I am giving you ten more minutes to eat it.”
I chose this moment to make one of the first really big mistakes that I would make with my smartass mouth (obviously, this trend continues throughout my life)
“Or what?” I asked, staring her directly in the eyes.
She was no longer pissed. She was now livid. I was defying her to her face, and I was being a brat about it.
“You have ten minutes to eat everything in that bowl, or I will come back in here and …and…I will come back in here and pour it over your head,” my mom stopped there.
She looked almost scared at what had come out of her mouth, but I was relieved. The odds of a mother pouring something disgusting over her own daughter’s head as a punishment seemed small, and to me, considering the crime, sounded cruel and unusual. While my mom was always creative with her punishments, she was also fair and never cruel. I didn’t buy it, and she saw this in my eyes. Now she was stuck. She couldn’t back down.
I screwed around with the banana for the next ten minutes, and my mom watched me the entire time. At one point she told me how serious she was, and at another, she pleaded with me to just eat the stupid thing. When the egg timer dinged, we both jumped a little bit. She looked at me like she wasn’t exactly sure what to do, and I looked back at her, still defiant. She took the bowl from my hands gingerly and said the words “last chance” under her breath. She saw that I still didn’t believe her, and so she dumped it. Right over my head. The slimy ooze trailed out of my hair down the back of my neck, and into my face, mixing with the tears that had started flowing freely. Wailing like a baby, I looked up at my mom, shocked and thinking “How could you do such a thing?” My mom was crying, too. She was still mad at me, but she was also sad that she had been forced to embarrass me. Pride was a big thing in our family, and taking that away hurt her as much as it did me. She wiped the tears off of her own cheeks, and said simply, “Go get in the shower” and sat down at the table
I did get in the shower, and the banana barely budged from my hair. I got most of it out of my ears and off of my face, but I spent the next few weeks pulling little pieces of dried banana out of my hair. My hair, consequently, smelled of little pieces of dried banana. It was a sickeningly overripe smell, sometimes slightly musty and rotten. It was the sweet smell of respect for my elders.
While I learned to hate bananas that day, I also learned a valuable lesson. I obviously still defied my mother throughout my childhood and adolescence, but I learned to be subtle, almost respectful about it if that's possible. I never rubbed it in her face like that again. In turn, she never rubbed anything in my face (or hair) again, either.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Fletch Lives
I have a cat. While I realize that this is not some big, amazing life accomplishment, most people are still surprised to hear it simply because I babble on about what a genius my dog is all the time. Yes, it’s probably true that I choose favorites, and am still more of a dog-person, but I do have a cat, and I even had him first, and he leads a very luxurious life full of food and lounging, just like any other happy cat. His name is Fletch, and he is actually pretty cute. He is also possessed by Satan.
When I moved into my very first apartment, the first one where I lived alone with no annoying roommates, my little sister gave me a housewarming gift disguised as a tiny kitten with black and white fur, a bright pink nose, and bright yellow eyes. At the time, there were no dogs allowed in my building, and I wanted to adopt something, and Fletch was a very affectionate and well-behaved cat. This was a time in my life when I wasn’t as well-behaved, living my roaring twenties to the fullest, but Fletch never judged. We lived very well together.
The first sign that something was amiss was when I was sent to LA for a week-long sales conference. I had Fletch for about a year when I got laid off from a writing job after the stock market crashed. I ended up selling insurance for a year, (also known as my least favorite job ever) and my company sent me to an intensive sales training seminar where I would be forced to schmooze with a bunch of sales-y jerks whom I loathed. My best friend volunteered to stop by my apartment every couple of days while I was gone to check on Fletch and get my mail and all of the things that good friends do while another good friend is out of town. The thing about my best friend is that she is allergic to cats. So while she spoke to Fletch on her visits, the actual physical contact was pretty much nil. I figured he would be OK, after all, cats are very independent and self-sufficient.
I returned from California with a headful of useless knowledge, a severe aversion to men in expensive suits, and the desire to sink into my couch with my sweet little cat and watch cheesy 80’s movies until I felt my personality regain consciousness. Little did I know the Stephen King tale that lurked behind my apartment door.
I walked in and dropped my suitcase by the door. “Hi, Fletchy!!” I cooed in the high-pitched voice that I reserve only for animals and select babies.
The cat meowed at the top of his little lungs as he ran towards me, then he rubbed furiously against my leg. I walked over to the sofa so that I could pick him up and snuggle him. He chose this moment to attack me. I’m not talking about a little bite or scratch; this cat attached himself to my bare arm with teeth and claws digging in. He kicked with his back legs into my soft flesh and let out a low guttural growl. In my shock and self-defense I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him off of my bloody arm. I tossed him to the ground where he landed gently on his feet, still staring me down. “What the hell is wrong with you, kitty?” I pleaded, wondering what sort of weird shit my best friend did to animals for kicks and if she was really the best friend I thought I knew.
I started to stand up from the couch when Fletch attacked again. He really seemed serious about killing me, and I was actually kind of scared. I was being attacked by a ten pound domesticated animal in my own apartment, in the middle of downtown Denver. The closest thing in my neighborhood to wild animals were a couple of questionable squirrels; so this just wasn’t making sense. I tossed him to the floor again and then got up and sprinted into my bedroom and shut the door. I was confused. When you are being attacked by your own cat, do you call 911, or the Humane Society? Or do you just have to find a shotgun and take care of things yourself, Old Yeller style?
I changed clothes, remembering to put on a huge sweatshirt to cover as much of my skin as possible, then I opened the door a crack and peeked out. No sign of Fletch. I rounded the corner, and there he was, curled in a little ball on the couch licking one paw, surely ridding his furry weapon of crime scene evidence. I approached him slowly, and he started to purr. I sat down on the opposite end of the couch, never taking my eyes from his. He stretched in that way that cats can stretch that makes them look like the most graceful creatures on earth. He walked over to me and I gritted my teeth, keeping my arms in front of my face so that the scarring would be minimal. I braced myself against an inevitable attack, but there wasn’t one. Instead, he climbed slowly into my lap, curled up, and went to sleep.
I have never really traveled that much for work, and so anytime that I have left Fletch since that fateful sales conference, it has only been for a day or two, and now there is the dog or Mike around to keep him company. The Pet Semetary incident of 7 years ago was, in fact, almost forgotten when Mike and I went to Europe for two weeks in October. For our trip, the dog went to my dad and step-mom's house where he is spoiled rotten and taken on approximately forty-three walks a day (my dad is convinced that dogs have no actual bladder and, therefore, need to be outside at all times in case they start leaking involuntarily) Fletch, however, did not luck out with a trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Instead he stayed at our house. I enlisted two friends from work to each stop by every other day so that the cat would have a visitor every day. I told these friends that he would need extra love because he would be lonely. They accepted these duties without really understanding what might happen, and we left for Europe.
Two weeks later, back at the office, there had apparently been some gossip about me while I was gone. Basically, everyone seemed to believe a horrible rumor that I was housing a rabid cat who had attacked both of my friends and that they were scared to go back to my house. I pretended that I didn’t understand what anyone was talking about, then I slipped my cat-watching friends some Italian leather goods to keep them quiet.
My cat is a huge pain in the ass, and his tendency to attack is one of many little personality “quirks”, but he is normally a nice-ish cat, and I probably stretched the truth a little when I said he was possessed by Satan. He isn’t possessed, he just requires that certain rules are followed:
Do not, under any circumstances leave him alone for more than a day or two.
If you absolutely have to leave him alone, provide his caretakers with a couple of those leather arms that they use for training police dogs. Also, (see exhibit A) hide any furniture that you would like to still be intact when you return.
Oh, and whatever you do, don’t ever feed him after midnight.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Good Morning, James. Or May I Call You Gym?
I’m not sure whose genius idea it was to start lifting weights in the mornings before work. Oh wait, yes I am sure; it was Mike’s idea. I was an innocent, yet agreeable bystander. I want to lose weight, so I have been working out and eating right for the most part, but finding time to lift weights has been almost impossible. I can run on the treadmill or ellipse on the elliptical in the tiny gym at my office after work. It’s free, and I can still be home by six. Plus, very frequently, I am the only one in there, which allows me to sing aloud with my iPod while running and pondering why the other 800 occupants of my building don’t take advantage of the gift-horse that is free cardio. However, if I want to lift, I have to go to my real gym. The gym that I pay 45 dollars a month to use, which, if you do the calculations during my bad months, can bring the grand total per workout to right around $15.
I know that lifting weights is the quickest way to lose weight and increase energy and make my backside smaller, but (whine!) I hate it!! I hate being on the weight floor with all of these machines that I cannot seem to remember how to use, and the five hundred floor-to-ceiling mirrors that allow me to see my sizeable ass at every angle. Sometimes I drag myself away from my own personal butt-obsession-trauma only to look up and make eye contact with someone who is actually LOOKING at me! This is not OK with me. I don’t want anyone to look at me while I struggle through my workout. On the treadmill, I can plug in my iPod, zone out, and just go, staring straight ahead into my thoughts. If people want to look at me then, more power to them. No one will come up to me and ask if they can rotate in while I am on the cardio machines like they do while I’m using the freemotion rower. I’ve let people work in before, watching helplessly as they casually switch my 30 pound pin to their 900 pound pin with a smirk or a smile. On the treadmill, no one realizes how fast or slow I am going. No one is paying attention to the incline level I have set for myself on the elliptical, or the fact that I go a little faster to Bowling for Soup than I do for Kanye West . In the cardio room, I am on my own, and that is the way I like it. But, I know that I have to pump the iron if I want to get back down to my fighting weight.
I made the mistake of complaining to Mike about how I never have time to lift. Our gym is packed to the gills between 5 and 7:30 on weeknights, and if we go at 8 or 8:30, we come home late, get into bed, and then just lie awake all night, our muscles tingling, the endorphins still coursing through our veins. We were down to only one option, and I cringed as I watched it come into his mind. “Let’s start going three mornings a week before work,” he said, overflowing with child-like innocence.
I laughed openly at him.
Don’t think I’m mean; it was only funny because it was not the first time that he and I decided to implement morning workouts into our busy lives. In the past two years, we have probably decided five different times that we were going to commit to going to the gym, running with the dog, or even just stretching in the mornings before work.
In our carefully thought-out plan, we would get up at five ready to greet the day, then we would workout with big smiles on our faces, evidence of our love for each other practically oozing from every pore. We would kiss goodbye on the gym floor, hit the showers by 6:30, and be at our desks ready to productively face the day by 7:30. Not only would our bodies look better, but we would feel better and be more successful! Working out in the morning would solve all of our problems! We would become a power couple with toned triceps and monster paychecks! This was going to be the best thing that ever happened to us!
(end dream sequence)
What we always realize after we agree on these idealistic plans is that, when given the choice between an energizing, healthy, pump-you-up morning workout and sleep, sleep wins every single time. We would workout in the morning once or twice, and then, we would begin to take turns groggily talking each other out of getting up until it was eventually completely phased out of our routine. I agreed to Mike’s plan once again, but I told him I was really serious this time.
I do love lifting weights with him. While I am totally lost in the weight room, Mike knows every machine like the back of his hand. How it works, what it works, and how much each of us should lift on it. I think in fifth grade, when they pulled the girls aside to tell them about getting their periods and making babies, that the boys must have been taken to they gym for a crash course on how to use the Nautilus machines. This would also explain why so few of them understand women.
So anyway, it was decided that Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays we would get up at 5:15 to be on the weight room floor by 5:45. Here is an excerpt from my workout journal explaining how things are going thus far:
Day One of Hell- It’s Tuesday. We both wake up to the grating iPhone alarm. You may already know how I feel about the iPhone, but hate takes on a whole new meaning at 5:15AM. We stare at each other for a full twenty seconds before silently throwing the covers back and getting out of bed. Neither of us says a word to the other, although I do sigh violently and dole out a crusty when he accidentally bumps my arm while reaching for his toothbrush. We dress in our workout clothes and sling our respective “getting ready for work” bags over our shoulders. Mike’s bag is about one tenth the size of mine, and for some reason, this makes me mad at him. The dog jumps around at our feet thinking that if we are up this early and packing this much gear, we must be taking him camping in the mountains. He is going to have to learn to live with disappointment. Mike’s water bottle slides out of the side pocket of his bag and clatters to the hardwood floor. He gets red in the face and starts to grumble under his breath. I, the pot, tell him, the kettle, that if he cannot be cheerful, then I am not going to be able to go through with this each morning. He glares at me, and we storm out the front door to our respective cars, leaving the dog staring sadly after us through the window, convinced we are going someplace fun without him. His sad little look through the glass makes me even grumpier. I drive to the gym. I roll down the window to let a little cool winter air hit my face, and I crank Journey on the radio to put me in a good mood. It works, and apparently Mike has employed some of the same tactics, because he is smiling now as we pull up next to each other in the gym parking lot.
We work out together, enjoy each other’s company, and then kiss each other goodbye on the gym floor before heading off to the locker rooms. I get ready in record time, am at my desk early, and feel energized all day long until I fall into bed exhausted around 8:45. All in all, it turned out pretty well.
Day Two- It’s Thursday. The iPhone starts its annoyingly cheerful guitar music at 5:15. Mike, who’s volleyball game went past 11 the night before, turns it off and rolls over to go back to sleep. I protest for about three seconds, and then I do the same thing. We do not make it to the gym today. Even though it isn’t totally his fault, I make Mike feel a little guilty about when we do finally wake up a couple of hours later.
Day Three- It’s Friday. After having spent an hour the night before ironing my work clothes, packing my enormous bag, and carefully laying my gym clothes out so that I can fall right into them in the morning, the alarm goes off and we both hit the ground running. We arrive at the gym a few minutes early, and ready to go. As we are walking in, I realize that the shirt I had ironed into starched perfection the night before is still hanging on the bedroom door handle at home. I grabbed my bag, but had forgotten my shirt. Pretty sure that I am going to be unable to make my ripped Denver Broncos t-shirt look work-acceptable with my skirt and pantyhose, no matter how much I accessorize, I sigh. I cut my workout 15 minutes short so that I can go home and get ready.
After working out then going home to shower, I am blow-drying my hair in my bathroom, when I hear it. Someone is breaking into the house. The dog runs to the door, while I curse myself for leaving it unlocked. “Who’s there?” I shout, sounding as tough as I can, brandishing my blow-dryer like a handgun.
“It’s me, hon.” Mike rounds the corner, half smile across his face. “I forgot my boxers”
We may very well be too unorganized to actually succeed at this.
Day Four- This morning. The iPhone battery died during the night. At least that is Mike’s story. Needless to say, we did not go to the gym this morning. I am getting very used to living out of my big duffle bag, though, so that is one skill acquired.
Mike called me at work and said we should go tomorrow morning instead of waiting until Thursday.
I hung up on him. Well, not really, but I pretended to.
I really want to do this. I want to see my triceps and my abdominal muscles again. I miss them. I want to look cute in summer dresses this year. I want to be strong and healthy and slender. Mike does, too. I mean, minus the part about summer dresses. I am going to do this if it the last promise I ever keep to myself. Day Five begins at 5:15 tomorrow morning. I’d better get to bed.
I know that lifting weights is the quickest way to lose weight and increase energy and make my backside smaller, but (whine!) I hate it!! I hate being on the weight floor with all of these machines that I cannot seem to remember how to use, and the five hundred floor-to-ceiling mirrors that allow me to see my sizeable ass at every angle. Sometimes I drag myself away from my own personal butt-obsession-trauma only to look up and make eye contact with someone who is actually LOOKING at me! This is not OK with me. I don’t want anyone to look at me while I struggle through my workout. On the treadmill, I can plug in my iPod, zone out, and just go, staring straight ahead into my thoughts. If people want to look at me then, more power to them. No one will come up to me and ask if they can rotate in while I am on the cardio machines like they do while I’m using the freemotion rower. I’ve let people work in before, watching helplessly as they casually switch my 30 pound pin to their 900 pound pin with a smirk or a smile. On the treadmill, no one realizes how fast or slow I am going. No one is paying attention to the incline level I have set for myself on the elliptical, or the fact that I go a little faster to Bowling for Soup than I do for Kanye West . In the cardio room, I am on my own, and that is the way I like it. But, I know that I have to pump the iron if I want to get back down to my fighting weight.
I made the mistake of complaining to Mike about how I never have time to lift. Our gym is packed to the gills between 5 and 7:30 on weeknights, and if we go at 8 or 8:30, we come home late, get into bed, and then just lie awake all night, our muscles tingling, the endorphins still coursing through our veins. We were down to only one option, and I cringed as I watched it come into his mind. “Let’s start going three mornings a week before work,” he said, overflowing with child-like innocence.
I laughed openly at him.
Don’t think I’m mean; it was only funny because it was not the first time that he and I decided to implement morning workouts into our busy lives. In the past two years, we have probably decided five different times that we were going to commit to going to the gym, running with the dog, or even just stretching in the mornings before work.
In our carefully thought-out plan, we would get up at five ready to greet the day, then we would workout with big smiles on our faces, evidence of our love for each other practically oozing from every pore. We would kiss goodbye on the gym floor, hit the showers by 6:30, and be at our desks ready to productively face the day by 7:30. Not only would our bodies look better, but we would feel better and be more successful! Working out in the morning would solve all of our problems! We would become a power couple with toned triceps and monster paychecks! This was going to be the best thing that ever happened to us!
(end dream sequence)
What we always realize after we agree on these idealistic plans is that, when given the choice between an energizing, healthy, pump-you-up morning workout and sleep, sleep wins every single time. We would workout in the morning once or twice, and then, we would begin to take turns groggily talking each other out of getting up until it was eventually completely phased out of our routine. I agreed to Mike’s plan once again, but I told him I was really serious this time.
I do love lifting weights with him. While I am totally lost in the weight room, Mike knows every machine like the back of his hand. How it works, what it works, and how much each of us should lift on it. I think in fifth grade, when they pulled the girls aside to tell them about getting their periods and making babies, that the boys must have been taken to they gym for a crash course on how to use the Nautilus machines. This would also explain why so few of them understand women.
So anyway, it was decided that Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays we would get up at 5:15 to be on the weight room floor by 5:45. Here is an excerpt from my workout journal explaining how things are going thus far:
Day One of Hell- It’s Tuesday. We both wake up to the grating iPhone alarm. You may already know how I feel about the iPhone, but hate takes on a whole new meaning at 5:15AM. We stare at each other for a full twenty seconds before silently throwing the covers back and getting out of bed. Neither of us says a word to the other, although I do sigh violently and dole out a crusty when he accidentally bumps my arm while reaching for his toothbrush. We dress in our workout clothes and sling our respective “getting ready for work” bags over our shoulders. Mike’s bag is about one tenth the size of mine, and for some reason, this makes me mad at him. The dog jumps around at our feet thinking that if we are up this early and packing this much gear, we must be taking him camping in the mountains. He is going to have to learn to live with disappointment. Mike’s water bottle slides out of the side pocket of his bag and clatters to the hardwood floor. He gets red in the face and starts to grumble under his breath. I, the pot, tell him, the kettle, that if he cannot be cheerful, then I am not going to be able to go through with this each morning. He glares at me, and we storm out the front door to our respective cars, leaving the dog staring sadly after us through the window, convinced we are going someplace fun without him. His sad little look through the glass makes me even grumpier. I drive to the gym. I roll down the window to let a little cool winter air hit my face, and I crank Journey on the radio to put me in a good mood. It works, and apparently Mike has employed some of the same tactics, because he is smiling now as we pull up next to each other in the gym parking lot.
We work out together, enjoy each other’s company, and then kiss each other goodbye on the gym floor before heading off to the locker rooms. I get ready in record time, am at my desk early, and feel energized all day long until I fall into bed exhausted around 8:45. All in all, it turned out pretty well.
Day Two- It’s Thursday. The iPhone starts its annoyingly cheerful guitar music at 5:15. Mike, who’s volleyball game went past 11 the night before, turns it off and rolls over to go back to sleep. I protest for about three seconds, and then I do the same thing. We do not make it to the gym today. Even though it isn’t totally his fault, I make Mike feel a little guilty about when we do finally wake up a couple of hours later.
Day Three- It’s Friday. After having spent an hour the night before ironing my work clothes, packing my enormous bag, and carefully laying my gym clothes out so that I can fall right into them in the morning, the alarm goes off and we both hit the ground running. We arrive at the gym a few minutes early, and ready to go. As we are walking in, I realize that the shirt I had ironed into starched perfection the night before is still hanging on the bedroom door handle at home. I grabbed my bag, but had forgotten my shirt. Pretty sure that I am going to be unable to make my ripped Denver Broncos t-shirt look work-acceptable with my skirt and pantyhose, no matter how much I accessorize, I sigh. I cut my workout 15 minutes short so that I can go home and get ready.
After working out then going home to shower, I am blow-drying my hair in my bathroom, when I hear it. Someone is breaking into the house. The dog runs to the door, while I curse myself for leaving it unlocked. “Who’s there?” I shout, sounding as tough as I can, brandishing my blow-dryer like a handgun.
“It’s me, hon.” Mike rounds the corner, half smile across his face. “I forgot my boxers”
We may very well be too unorganized to actually succeed at this.
Day Four- This morning. The iPhone battery died during the night. At least that is Mike’s story. Needless to say, we did not go to the gym this morning. I am getting very used to living out of my big duffle bag, though, so that is one skill acquired.
Mike called me at work and said we should go tomorrow morning instead of waiting until Thursday.
I hung up on him. Well, not really, but I pretended to.
I really want to do this. I want to see my triceps and my abdominal muscles again. I miss them. I want to look cute in summer dresses this year. I want to be strong and healthy and slender. Mike does, too. I mean, minus the part about summer dresses. I am going to do this if it the last promise I ever keep to myself. Day Five begins at 5:15 tomorrow morning. I’d better get to bed.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Blockage
Ugggh. I am so blocked this week. I think it is my job as a copywriter that sometimes keeps me from being able to be a blog-writer. After spending the past week writing such interesting sentences as: "Withdrawals taken before age 59 1/2 may be subject to a 10% federal tax penalty, " I just don't have it in me today. Sorry. *blushing* I will be back tomorrow. Or Wednesday. I'm sure Mike will do something ridiculous any minute now, and I will be inspired. Off to check out your much-more-interesting blogs. Don't leave me.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Back on Two Planks
In August, I was positive that I was going to buy a season ski pass for this year, and I began saving my pennies. Then in September, as winter got closer and the memory of last year’s knee injury began to refresh, I decided that maybe I would just get a discounted four-pack of lift tickets. So I used some of those saved pennies to buy a pair of black Mary Jane pumps instead. Then, Mike looked sad when he heard that I wouldn’t be joining in all of the fun, so I said I would get two four packs so I could ski with him eight times. It was a compromise. Then, in October when the first snowstorm hit, I changed my mind and thought, maybe I would pass on skiing altogether this year and just work out at the gym every time Mike went skiing. I would spend this year getting back into great shape and then test out my knee next season; plus, I could surely get some of those trendy riding boots with the money I would be “saving”. Then November hit, and the purchase deadline for four-packs and season passes loomed. I felt an urge. I drove down to Colorado Ski and Golf to wait in line dutifully to purchase one four pack; I had made my final decision that I would ski four times for the season to make sure I still could and then get back into it seriously next year when I wasn’t so scared.
As I got closer to the front of the ski pass line I started berating myself for being such a baby. I had one bad fall out of many fun ski days, and here I was about to waste most of the weekends of ski season inside at 24Hour Fitness instead of outside in the fresh air with my friends. I thought of the gorgeous, twinkly days. I thought of the hilarious, two-hour car rides up and down I-70, the ones when someone inevitably has too pee on the side of the highway and someone else inevitably gets a snapshot of it. I thought of how, this year, I might improve my skiing to a point where I would impress the pants off of Mike instead of always having to ask him for pointers. I thought of the après ski beers and the laughs at the lodge and the President’s Day weekend trips where we all rent a house and ski and party until we are so worn out that we all end up just sitting around staring silently at the fireplace with stupid smiles on our faces. I even thought of my cute helmet, ivory with pink and blue flowers on it, and the perfect way it contrasts with my chocolate brown ski jacket. I was thinking about all of these things instead of the task at hand, and in my sudden onset of ski-season fever, I slapped down my credit card and purchased a full 5-mountain season pass for $449.00, just like the one Mike and all of my friends already had in their hot little hands. I know, it is ridiculous, but this expensive investment is just part of living in Colorado. At least it is now.
I grew up in Colorado after my dad’s company relocated us here from Illinois in the late 70’s. I was two when we moved here and honestly, minus a couple of wanderlust years in college, I have never wanted to live anywhere else. The weather, with its dazzling sun and sparkly blue sky is amazing, the activities are too many to count, and the people here are some of the nicest I have ever encountered. I am a Colorado girl through and through, and I have the muttly dog, the beat up SUV, and every brand of hiking boot, camping gear, and 80 SPF sunscreen to prove it. However, I somehow managed not to become a skier until I hit my late twenties.
My dad is from the Midwest where it is flat, and my mom was from Ireland where it is an island. Neither of them had skied growing up, and so it was never that important that my sisters and I learn. Then, when I was about 10, I discovered swimming, and it was my sport. I swam on summer leagues and my school team during the winter, and I never really felt that compelled to give up a day at the pool in order to be out in the cold doing something that looked insanely dangerous.
I tried skiing once in junior high. A cute 8th grade boy organizing a trip to the slopes was my rationale behind trying a sport like skiing in the middle of my unwieldy years. This was a time in my life when my feet had already grown to accommodate what would be a 6-foot-1-inch frame long before said frame actually got there. I spent half of that day sprawled in the snow freezing my awkward little ass off and vowed that I would never waste my time, not to mention three weeks allowance, on skiing again. I stuck with swimming where I was graceful and quick like a fish. You can’t fall when you’re swimming; even if you’re a major klutz like me.
Four years ago, I met a group of girls who had just moved out here from Chicago. We all got to be pretty decent friends, and they were all getting a Learn-to-Ski Pass so that they could, in fact, learn to ski. They tried to talk me into it, and I declined, relaying the story of the ski trip from my youth and the damage it had inflicted on my fragile 13-year-old psyche. They weren’t buying it. Of all the people they had the opportunity to make friends with in Colorado, they had chosen the one who knew nothing about skiing, and they weren’t about to let their bad luck affect their good time. Within a couple of days they had me talked into it; I was going to ski if it killed me, which it totally could. So I pretended to be new to the state just like my girlfriends, and we all purchased our Learn-to-Ski packages. I took two lessons, and I was hooked. I became a skier; I became a slope-bunny; I became very angry with myself for wasting so many years not doing something that is so much fun.
The next year I met Mike. Mike has been on skis every winter since he was three years old. He looks as comfortable on skis as he does just walking around the house, and he moves with more speed and grace than I feel like I could ever muster, even when I’m in the pool. Skiing is like breathing to him, and deciding whether or not to get a season pass has never even crossed his mind. He moved here to go to college and to ski, and he never left.
Up until my fall last year, he was patiently teaching me tricks and tips to make me a better skier, and gradually, I was getting more and more comfortable. We were having such a great time together and he was such a great teacher. That last day I skied last year was the first time I really felt like a real skier, like I had truly earned my right to call myself a Coloradoan. Then, that afternoon, I fell. That was January, and I sat out the rest of the season. I was already in a bad funk that year, and skiing was one thing that made me feel free and happy, like I was a real person again, not some depressed sadsack who would never get over losing her mom. My funk came back quickly and I spent the next two months in serious pain, wearing a huge knee brace, and feeling really sorry for myself.
Yesterday I hit the slopes again for the first time since that day last January. The first lift ride up, I felt sick. I was nervous, and it suddenly seemed like the worst idea ever. It became apparent that, while my knee was better, I had yet to grow my balls back. Why should I risk falling and injuring myself again? Why should I risk not being able to go to the gym, or take my dog for a run, or play sports? Why would I want to rack up another $400 in insurance co-pays? The lift reached the top of the hill, and I carefully slid to the flat area at the top of the slope. I bent to buckle my boots still thinking this was the about the dumbest thing I could be doing. Then I saw three little kids whoosh by me laughing and shrieking, their little cheeks bright pink, their eyes smiling behind the orange plastic of their goggles. They were not thinking about torn-up knees or medical bills. They were having a blast.
I skied the first hill tentatively and spent the day on the easy slopes. I was being careful, but I was having the time of my life. Even as one of the slowest skiers on the hill that day, I still felt free and happy. As I made my vigilant turns down the hill in the direction of Mike waiting patiently below me, I laughed and shrieked. My cheeks felt hot and pink, and my eyes felt as if they were smiling behind my goggles. I ski again. I ski towards the sun on my cheeks and the crystals of snow hitting my nose. I ski towards the love of my life and an ice cold Coors Light at the bottom of the hill. I ski towards a smaller backside and thinner thighs. I ski, and there is nothing else like it in the world. I can’t wait to get up there again next weekend.
As I got closer to the front of the ski pass line I started berating myself for being such a baby. I had one bad fall out of many fun ski days, and here I was about to waste most of the weekends of ski season inside at 24Hour Fitness instead of outside in the fresh air with my friends. I thought of the gorgeous, twinkly days. I thought of the hilarious, two-hour car rides up and down I-70, the ones when someone inevitably has too pee on the side of the highway and someone else inevitably gets a snapshot of it. I thought of how, this year, I might improve my skiing to a point where I would impress the pants off of Mike instead of always having to ask him for pointers. I thought of the après ski beers and the laughs at the lodge and the President’s Day weekend trips where we all rent a house and ski and party until we are so worn out that we all end up just sitting around staring silently at the fireplace with stupid smiles on our faces. I even thought of my cute helmet, ivory with pink and blue flowers on it, and the perfect way it contrasts with my chocolate brown ski jacket. I was thinking about all of these things instead of the task at hand, and in my sudden onset of ski-season fever, I slapped down my credit card and purchased a full 5-mountain season pass for $449.00, just like the one Mike and all of my friends already had in their hot little hands. I know, it is ridiculous, but this expensive investment is just part of living in Colorado. At least it is now.
I grew up in Colorado after my dad’s company relocated us here from Illinois in the late 70’s. I was two when we moved here and honestly, minus a couple of wanderlust years in college, I have never wanted to live anywhere else. The weather, with its dazzling sun and sparkly blue sky is amazing, the activities are too many to count, and the people here are some of the nicest I have ever encountered. I am a Colorado girl through and through, and I have the muttly dog, the beat up SUV, and every brand of hiking boot, camping gear, and 80 SPF sunscreen to prove it. However, I somehow managed not to become a skier until I hit my late twenties.
My dad is from the Midwest where it is flat, and my mom was from Ireland where it is an island. Neither of them had skied growing up, and so it was never that important that my sisters and I learn. Then, when I was about 10, I discovered swimming, and it was my sport. I swam on summer leagues and my school team during the winter, and I never really felt that compelled to give up a day at the pool in order to be out in the cold doing something that looked insanely dangerous.
I tried skiing once in junior high. A cute 8th grade boy organizing a trip to the slopes was my rationale behind trying a sport like skiing in the middle of my unwieldy years. This was a time in my life when my feet had already grown to accommodate what would be a 6-foot-1-inch frame long before said frame actually got there. I spent half of that day sprawled in the snow freezing my awkward little ass off and vowed that I would never waste my time, not to mention three weeks allowance, on skiing again. I stuck with swimming where I was graceful and quick like a fish. You can’t fall when you’re swimming; even if you’re a major klutz like me.
Four years ago, I met a group of girls who had just moved out here from Chicago. We all got to be pretty decent friends, and they were all getting a Learn-to-Ski Pass so that they could, in fact, learn to ski. They tried to talk me into it, and I declined, relaying the story of the ski trip from my youth and the damage it had inflicted on my fragile 13-year-old psyche. They weren’t buying it. Of all the people they had the opportunity to make friends with in Colorado, they had chosen the one who knew nothing about skiing, and they weren’t about to let their bad luck affect their good time. Within a couple of days they had me talked into it; I was going to ski if it killed me, which it totally could. So I pretended to be new to the state just like my girlfriends, and we all purchased our Learn-to-Ski packages. I took two lessons, and I was hooked. I became a skier; I became a slope-bunny; I became very angry with myself for wasting so many years not doing something that is so much fun.
The next year I met Mike. Mike has been on skis every winter since he was three years old. He looks as comfortable on skis as he does just walking around the house, and he moves with more speed and grace than I feel like I could ever muster, even when I’m in the pool. Skiing is like breathing to him, and deciding whether or not to get a season pass has never even crossed his mind. He moved here to go to college and to ski, and he never left.
Up until my fall last year, he was patiently teaching me tricks and tips to make me a better skier, and gradually, I was getting more and more comfortable. We were having such a great time together and he was such a great teacher. That last day I skied last year was the first time I really felt like a real skier, like I had truly earned my right to call myself a Coloradoan. Then, that afternoon, I fell. That was January, and I sat out the rest of the season. I was already in a bad funk that year, and skiing was one thing that made me feel free and happy, like I was a real person again, not some depressed sadsack who would never get over losing her mom. My funk came back quickly and I spent the next two months in serious pain, wearing a huge knee brace, and feeling really sorry for myself.
Yesterday I hit the slopes again for the first time since that day last January. The first lift ride up, I felt sick. I was nervous, and it suddenly seemed like the worst idea ever. It became apparent that, while my knee was better, I had yet to grow my balls back. Why should I risk falling and injuring myself again? Why should I risk not being able to go to the gym, or take my dog for a run, or play sports? Why would I want to rack up another $400 in insurance co-pays? The lift reached the top of the hill, and I carefully slid to the flat area at the top of the slope. I bent to buckle my boots still thinking this was the about the dumbest thing I could be doing. Then I saw three little kids whoosh by me laughing and shrieking, their little cheeks bright pink, their eyes smiling behind the orange plastic of their goggles. They were not thinking about torn-up knees or medical bills. They were having a blast.
I skied the first hill tentatively and spent the day on the easy slopes. I was being careful, but I was having the time of my life. Even as one of the slowest skiers on the hill that day, I still felt free and happy. As I made my vigilant turns down the hill in the direction of Mike waiting patiently below me, I laughed and shrieked. My cheeks felt hot and pink, and my eyes felt as if they were smiling behind my goggles. I ski again. I ski towards the sun on my cheeks and the crystals of snow hitting my nose. I ski towards the love of my life and an ice cold Coors Light at the bottom of the hill. I ski towards a smaller backside and thinner thighs. I ski, and there is nothing else like it in the world. I can’t wait to get up there again next weekend.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
How I Got My Brain Damage
In honor of my blog’s new name and look, I thought I would share another story from my sister-filled childhood.
There are some childhood behaviors in which I am pretty sure almost every set of siblings engage. Growing up in a family of all girls, there wasn’t as much of the beating each other to a pulp that my boyfriend and his brother are so familiar with. However, we definitely found cruel ways to torture each other. My older sister jumped out and scared me constantly, even making me wet myself once or twice. I paid her back by stealing from her like it was my job, her clothes, her makeup, and even her money, slyly siphoning a couple dollars in change from a huge jar in her bedroom on an almost daily basis throughout my entire junior high career. She figured it all out, of course, and screamed at me, and threatened me, and even shook me around a little bit, but it never really came to blows. Most sisters don’t really beat the shit out of each other like the boys do, at least my sisters and I never really felt compelled to move beyond the minor smacking and hair-pulling. In retrospect, however, the things we did could have easily caused much more damage than the occasional sibling throwdown.
My mom was a nurse on the maternity ward at the biggest hospital in my hometown. She worked the nightshift and spent most of my adolescence completely sleep-deprived. So, while we were pretty good kids, well-behaved in almost every way, we also knew that there were certain things my mom was completely unaware of. Because we were raised by a single working mother, there were certain expectations of us, and we probably spent more time alone than most kids our age. By the time I was ten, I was completely comfortable cooking, cleaning, walking the dog, etc. My little sister is two years younger, and we basically ran the household together whenever we had to. My mom didn’t really have much of a choice, so we did it. Dr. Spock may balk, but honestly, I think it was good for us in a lot of ways. It made us very independent and very confident in ourselves. I promise, I’m not scarred at all.
Following childbirth, many women are prone to passing out. This was the reason that all of the nurses on the ward where my mom worked had these fabulous inventions called ammonia capsules taped to their nametags or to the shoulders of their uniforms. If you’re unfamiliar, basically, an ammonia capsule is today’s version of smelling salts. It is a white paper capsule wrapped in tightly woven gauze and is about the size of the lid to a Bic pen. All a nurse has to do if a patient loses consciousness is bend it with her fingers until it makes a little snapping noise. It turns pink and gets kind of cold, and the shocking smell it emits, especially when placed right beneath the nose, is enough to send anyone running the other direction, even someone who was recently unconscious.
The ammonia capsules were pure evil. And they were everywhere. Laundry was one of my chores, and when I spied several sets of my mom’s pink scrubs in the hamper, I knew I’d hit the jackpot. I would carefully peel back the tape, remove the ammonia capsule from the soft flowery material of my mom’s scrub top, and then I would tuck it into my hiding place. I had an old coffee mug discreetly hidden behind the huge box of Tide with Bleach, and that is where I kept my booty (and of course when ammonia and bleach are mixed it creates something horrible like toxic nerve gas, so this was really smart on my part) I would wait a couple of weeks until I accumulated eight or ten of them, sometimes coming across some extras lying innocently on my mom’s nightstand, and then I would spend a few quiet evenings in my bedroom plotting my attack, or "doing homework" as I called it.
The best was to wait until my sister was sleeping and then snap one quickly, waving it silently beneath her tiny, freckled nostrils. She would awake with a scream, swinging her arms; I learned quickly to duck at the same time I snapped the capsule. Then I would wait until she fell back to sleep, and I would attack again. Sadly, I think my poor sister spent many of her formative years trying not to fall asleep. While all of the other kids were sleeping ten hours a night through their all-important growth spurts, poor little third-grade Courtney was drinking coffee and reading Stephen King in an effort to keep her eyes open. That may explain why I am over six feet while she stands five inches below.
The sleeping trick was fun, but it was also kind of obvious, plus she was getting really crabby, and I felt like she may be on the edge of telling on me. I had to find a new schtick. I’m proud to say that I tried and succeeded at several variations of the ammonia capsule game.
I was known for my prowess in jumping out from the dark bathroom into the hallway with a freshly snapped capsule as she was walking by. A quick hand to the face, and it was over.
Once, I held a little capsule in my hands and cupped them together. I told her I had caught a butterfly and she absolutely must see it. She bought it, and she actually gagged. I couldn’t have been happier.
Courtney was a smart kid, though, and eventually she caught on to me and found my Cup’o’ Capsules. She got pretty good with the ammonia capsule games herself and we spent two solid years torturing each other with these little medical marvels.
Eventually my mom found out. It was funny, because by the time she caught on, the thrill of the game had totally worn off, and neither of us had touched an ammonia capsule for almost a year. I think she must have found my stale stash collecting dust in the laundry room. She sat us down and proceeded with a very somber lecture about how the ammonia capsules were not toys and were very dangerous, and multiple exposures could cause permanent damage to a person’s nasal passage and even to her brain. She told us she was disappointed in us, and needed to be able to count on us to take care of each other. We apologized to her and promised that we wouldn’t play with the dreaded ammonia capsules ever again. And we kept to our word. Mostly. There was still the occasional ammonia attack as we grew up. I think it’s because nothing we’d encountered before or since could bring such a look of shock and horror and disgust to someone’s face. When you hold the ammonia capsule in your hand, you hold a lot of power.
After my mom’s lecture, and throughout my life I have been plagued with occasional scary thoughts about the damage my sister and I inflicted on each other’s brain function. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the reason I can’t do math and she can’t spell to save her life is very closely related to overexposure to ammonia during childhood. I’d be willing to bet it’s right up there with lead paint, and my college algebra professor would probably second that. Before the ammonia torture, I’m pretty sure we were both MENSA-bound, and now we must settle for this mediocrity that we’re left with, struggling desperately to function in mainstream society.
I’m sure that if Social Services knew what we were up to, my mom could have gotten in a lot of trouble. I mean, her children were chasing each other through the house armed with abrasive chemicals; I think they tend to frown on that. I definitely do not know any other brothers and sisters who did anything that ridiculous as kids, and I'm positive my sister would freak if she caught her two little ones into something like that. But you know what? It is one of my favorite, most hilarious memories of growing up with my sister, and we still laugh about it all the time.
We are so deranged. It must be all of that ammonia.
There are some childhood behaviors in which I am pretty sure almost every set of siblings engage. Growing up in a family of all girls, there wasn’t as much of the beating each other to a pulp that my boyfriend and his brother are so familiar with. However, we definitely found cruel ways to torture each other. My older sister jumped out and scared me constantly, even making me wet myself once or twice. I paid her back by stealing from her like it was my job, her clothes, her makeup, and even her money, slyly siphoning a couple dollars in change from a huge jar in her bedroom on an almost daily basis throughout my entire junior high career. She figured it all out, of course, and screamed at me, and threatened me, and even shook me around a little bit, but it never really came to blows. Most sisters don’t really beat the shit out of each other like the boys do, at least my sisters and I never really felt compelled to move beyond the minor smacking and hair-pulling. In retrospect, however, the things we did could have easily caused much more damage than the occasional sibling throwdown.
My mom was a nurse on the maternity ward at the biggest hospital in my hometown. She worked the nightshift and spent most of my adolescence completely sleep-deprived. So, while we were pretty good kids, well-behaved in almost every way, we also knew that there were certain things my mom was completely unaware of. Because we were raised by a single working mother, there were certain expectations of us, and we probably spent more time alone than most kids our age. By the time I was ten, I was completely comfortable cooking, cleaning, walking the dog, etc. My little sister is two years younger, and we basically ran the household together whenever we had to. My mom didn’t really have much of a choice, so we did it. Dr. Spock may balk, but honestly, I think it was good for us in a lot of ways. It made us very independent and very confident in ourselves. I promise, I’m not scarred at all.
Following childbirth, many women are prone to passing out. This was the reason that all of the nurses on the ward where my mom worked had these fabulous inventions called ammonia capsules taped to their nametags or to the shoulders of their uniforms. If you’re unfamiliar, basically, an ammonia capsule is today’s version of smelling salts. It is a white paper capsule wrapped in tightly woven gauze and is about the size of the lid to a Bic pen. All a nurse has to do if a patient loses consciousness is bend it with her fingers until it makes a little snapping noise. It turns pink and gets kind of cold, and the shocking smell it emits, especially when placed right beneath the nose, is enough to send anyone running the other direction, even someone who was recently unconscious.
The ammonia capsules were pure evil. And they were everywhere. Laundry was one of my chores, and when I spied several sets of my mom’s pink scrubs in the hamper, I knew I’d hit the jackpot. I would carefully peel back the tape, remove the ammonia capsule from the soft flowery material of my mom’s scrub top, and then I would tuck it into my hiding place. I had an old coffee mug discreetly hidden behind the huge box of Tide with Bleach, and that is where I kept my booty (and of course when ammonia and bleach are mixed it creates something horrible like toxic nerve gas, so this was really smart on my part) I would wait a couple of weeks until I accumulated eight or ten of them, sometimes coming across some extras lying innocently on my mom’s nightstand, and then I would spend a few quiet evenings in my bedroom plotting my attack, or "doing homework" as I called it.
The best was to wait until my sister was sleeping and then snap one quickly, waving it silently beneath her tiny, freckled nostrils. She would awake with a scream, swinging her arms; I learned quickly to duck at the same time I snapped the capsule. Then I would wait until she fell back to sleep, and I would attack again. Sadly, I think my poor sister spent many of her formative years trying not to fall asleep. While all of the other kids were sleeping ten hours a night through their all-important growth spurts, poor little third-grade Courtney was drinking coffee and reading Stephen King in an effort to keep her eyes open. That may explain why I am over six feet while she stands five inches below.
The sleeping trick was fun, but it was also kind of obvious, plus she was getting really crabby, and I felt like she may be on the edge of telling on me. I had to find a new schtick. I’m proud to say that I tried and succeeded at several variations of the ammonia capsule game.
I was known for my prowess in jumping out from the dark bathroom into the hallway with a freshly snapped capsule as she was walking by. A quick hand to the face, and it was over.
Once, I held a little capsule in my hands and cupped them together. I told her I had caught a butterfly and she absolutely must see it. She bought it, and she actually gagged. I couldn’t have been happier.
Courtney was a smart kid, though, and eventually she caught on to me and found my Cup’o’ Capsules. She got pretty good with the ammonia capsule games herself and we spent two solid years torturing each other with these little medical marvels.
Eventually my mom found out. It was funny, because by the time she caught on, the thrill of the game had totally worn off, and neither of us had touched an ammonia capsule for almost a year. I think she must have found my stale stash collecting dust in the laundry room. She sat us down and proceeded with a very somber lecture about how the ammonia capsules were not toys and were very dangerous, and multiple exposures could cause permanent damage to a person’s nasal passage and even to her brain. She told us she was disappointed in us, and needed to be able to count on us to take care of each other. We apologized to her and promised that we wouldn’t play with the dreaded ammonia capsules ever again. And we kept to our word. Mostly. There was still the occasional ammonia attack as we grew up. I think it’s because nothing we’d encountered before or since could bring such a look of shock and horror and disgust to someone’s face. When you hold the ammonia capsule in your hand, you hold a lot of power.
After my mom’s lecture, and throughout my life I have been plagued with occasional scary thoughts about the damage my sister and I inflicted on each other’s brain function. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the reason I can’t do math and she can’t spell to save her life is very closely related to overexposure to ammonia during childhood. I’d be willing to bet it’s right up there with lead paint, and my college algebra professor would probably second that. Before the ammonia torture, I’m pretty sure we were both MENSA-bound, and now we must settle for this mediocrity that we’re left with, struggling desperately to function in mainstream society.
I’m sure that if Social Services knew what we were up to, my mom could have gotten in a lot of trouble. I mean, her children were chasing each other through the house armed with abrasive chemicals; I think they tend to frown on that. I definitely do not know any other brothers and sisters who did anything that ridiculous as kids, and I'm positive my sister would freak if she caught her two little ones into something like that. But you know what? It is one of my favorite, most hilarious memories of growing up with my sister, and we still laugh about it all the time.
We are so deranged. It must be all of that ammonia.
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