It is my 22nd birthday. Here are 22 random facts about me!
1. I was supposed to be a boy. Though my parents requested my gender remain a surprise, the doctor heavily hinted that they would soon have a son. They even picked out my name, Timothy. Hey, what can I say? Doctors can be very wrong apparently. But just think: in some alternate universe, you're reading your good friend Tim's blog.
2. I am extremely afraid of police officers but there is one crime that I constantly commit and cannot stop doing- jaywalking!
3. I read constantly and love many, many books but if I had to pick a favorite I'd have to say A Tree Grows In Brooklyn by Betty Smith.
4. I also have two LEAST favorite books. One, Where The Red Fern Grows, I despise because I cannot read the end without literally sobbing. SPOILER ALERT: The dogs die and it's horrible. The other is The Last Song, my first and last attempt at a Nicholas Sparks novel. Long-winded, gag-worthy, religious and preachy. Plus, the only character I enjoy and find interesting is thrown in jail about halfway through.
5. I have several secret talents and abilities, like extinguishing a lit match in my mouth and bending my index finger so far back that it touches the back of my hand.
6. If I'm watching a DVD and it has subtitles, I put them on. Always.
7. I have a tendency to get certain songs and jingles stuck in my head for extremely long periods of time. Literally years. Like for about two and a half years I had "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" on repeat. Currently, it's the Meow Mix Jingle. It goes:
I like tuna, I like chicken
Meow Mix flavors keep me lickin'
I like chicken, I like liver
Meow Mix, Meow Mix, please deliver
So much talking, want more eating
Meow, meow, meow, meow, please, please feed me
You're welcome.
8. While not a gifted dancer, I am proficient in three dance crazes: the Macarena, the Hand Jive, and the Chicken Dance.
9. Many years ago I attempted to read the dictionary. If memory serves, I made it to the T's before giving up.
10. I love beef ramen noodles. Delicious, easy and satisfying.
11. I find pickles revolting. My sister likes to eat them at the movies, especially when sitting right next to me.
12. Many years ago, I learned how to speak Elvish. While I don't remember much, I do know enough to understand several words when spoken onscreen in the LOTR and Hobbit movies. Also, for whatever reason there's an Elvish poem that I memorized a very long time ago but still remember and sometimes recite it to myself when I'm nervous. Would you like to hear it? (I gave the spelling my best guess)
Ai lintulinda lasselanta
Pelingeve suwyer nalla ganta
Kuluvi ya carnivalinar
Vemette singi Eldamar
In the case of this poem, I remember the words but not a lot of the meanings. I recall that it is about autumn and of course the elves themselves, made obvious by the capitalization of the last word and also because "elda" is one translation of "elf". I believe "Eldamar" actually translates to "Elf-home".
Anyway.
13. Although I listen to a much larger variety of music now, I still maintain that Children of Bodom is one of my favorite bands, if not my favorite. For years and years I refused to pick a favorite COB song, partly because I loved so many and partly because it felt wrong choosing only one. But here and now I will state that "Chokehold (Cocked 'n' Loaded)" off Hate Crew Deathroll is my favorite COB song.
14. I met Children of Bodom at a meet and greet in a Hot Topic store before they preformed that night at the Sunshine Theater in Albuquerque. I was wearing a COB shirt that had Finnish on the back and I could not for the life of me figure out what it meant so I asked the band. They all kind of looked at each other and finally said, "It's just a road sign in Finland." THIS VERY NIGHT that I'm writing this blog I was looking up the shirt and I finally figured it out. Roughly translated, my shirt said, "Retards Ahead."
15. Abraham Lincoln is my favorite President of the United States.
16. Excluding living things, my digital camera is probably my most valued possession.
17. I have never broken a bone.
18. My wisdom teeth came in sideways so they put me out to extract the teeth. When I woke up I was in this bizarre panic, basically fell out of the chair and haphazardly ran across the lobby while the dentist and nurses chased me.
19. I am not a hugger.
20. I recently heard they're trying to bring Furbys back and this worries me because just about every kid I've ever known who had one has a story about waking up in the middle of the night to find their Furby wide-awake and talking to them. Creepy.
21. My sister was recently kicked by a reindeer :)
22. If you know one thing about it, let it be this: I'M OBSESSED WITH A DOG NAMED OTIS.
Happy birthday to me!
Sarah
Monday, December 16, 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Am I Cool or What!!
The answer, of course, is "what".
For a couple years now, there's been this fad going around where people embrace the phrase "NO REGRETS". Make it their life motto! What's done is done, no use fretting about it anymore.
I have two big problems with this:
1. I think it's kind of unrealistic and possibly even foolish. Learn from your mistakes! Become a better, more informed person by studying your past and correcting it! ...but more importantly:
2. I'm just bitter because I am completely unable to do this
Anyway for no particular reason I've compiled a small list of things that I've done which, at the time, I thought were way cool or clever or badass and now, while I may not exactly regret them, I see how nerdy they really were...
1. What seems to be a very long time ago, a film came out: Titanic, you may have heard of it? Anyway when it became available for home viewing, my parents bought it- it came on two videotapes (told you it was a long time ago!) and we watched it together. I remember being scared by all the running-from-the-water scenes and the horrible deaths. Other than that, I just remember being pretty confused. There were adult themes and jokes and words that I just didn't get, but I did pick some of it up without even realizing it. For example, one day I was at home with my mom and she needed to call the Presbyterian Church. She handed me the phone and had me dial the phone number while she read it to me. I dialed, then held the phone up to my ear. It rang once or twice. Suddenly, I flashed back to the movie:
Yep. Seized by the moment, I repeated the line, complete with English accent!
"Pick up, you bastards!"
Needless to say, my mom let out a hysterical giggle and lunged for the phone. Fortunately no one had picked up so no damage had been done, plus I learned that "bastards" is one of those words you really shouldn't say, especially at church.
"Hey, Sarah! What's up?"
I would dramatically look up, over my head and say, "The sky."
To me, it was like:
To them, of course, it was like:
For a couple years now, there's been this fad going around where people embrace the phrase "NO REGRETS". Make it their life motto! What's done is done, no use fretting about it anymore.
I have two big problems with this:
1. I think it's kind of unrealistic and possibly even foolish. Learn from your mistakes! Become a better, more informed person by studying your past and correcting it! ...but more importantly:
2. I'm just bitter because I am completely unable to do this
Anyway for no particular reason I've compiled a small list of things that I've done which, at the time, I thought were way cool or clever or badass and now, while I may not exactly regret them, I see how nerdy they really were...
(Just watch the first 20 seconds or so)
Yep. Seized by the moment, I repeated the line, complete with English accent!
"Pick up, you bastards!"
Needless to say, my mom let out a hysterical giggle and lunged for the phone. Fortunately no one had picked up so no damage had been done, plus I learned that "bastards" is one of those words you really shouldn't say, especially at church.
"Hey, Sarah! What's up?"
I would dramatically look up, over my head and say, "The sky."
To me, it was like:
To them, of course, it was like:
3. One of my finer qualities is my spelling ability. It probably comes from excessive reading and writing. All I know is, sometimes I feel like my brain was made with a Spell Check. Only fair considering I was ripped off in the mathematics department.
In 5th grade I participated in the Spelling Bee. For weeks before the actual Bee, we would practice for half an hour or so everyday in class. If you are unfamiliar with the rules of spelling bees, I will tell you that when given a word, you are allowed to ask for the word given in a sentence and also, for the definition of the word. Just about everybody knows these two options are just for buying time, but that's beside the point.
Anyway, during the spelling bee practices, the class would stand up in a line and have a mini-bee. When buying time, my classmates would ask, "Could I have the definition please?" and then, one day, I shook up the whole thing. It was absolute chaos!! I said, "Could you define that for me?"
BAM!
Like I said, it was crazy. After that, everyone used my version of the question. It was like:
Anyway, during the spelling bee practices, the class would stand up in a line and have a mini-bee. When buying time, my classmates would ask, "Could I have the definition please?" and then, one day, I shook up the whole thing. It was absolute chaos!! I said, "Could you define that for me?"
BAM!
Like I said, it was crazy. After that, everyone used my version of the question. It was like:
I've just realized I have way too many of these "moments" for one blog...
Keep your eye out for Part 2!!
Happy December!
Sarah
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Career Paths Not Taken
When I was in 8th grade, my classmates and I took online tests that measured our talents and interests in different areas, which would, in theory, suggest careers that we would be well suited to. I hardly remember the test at all, but I definitely remember my results. Sure, there were a couple suggestions like "Author", "Musician", and "Therapist", all realistic and very connected to who I was and what I was interested in at the time.
Also included in the list, however, were things like "Mortician" and "Catholic Priest".
I can't really express through words how I feel about that, so please accept this picture instead.
Anyway, as I've grown older I've had no choice but to spend time thinking about the right career for me, and at the same time I've been compiling a small mental list of careers I will never have. I have listed them below along with explanations as to why I feel that way.
**PLEASE NOTE** I did not include things like "Mass Murderer", "Pirate" or "Intergalactic Space Alien" because they are unrealistic, ridiculous, and, in some cases, not currently an option.
In order of descending likelihood:
Actor: This occupation isn't nearly as out of the question as the others but I still feel it's true. I have been in several plays over the years, almost always in the background. It's true that I like reading and stories and I can actually read aloud pretty well, but when I get onstage it all falls apart, not to mention that I don't have a decent singing voice to contribute to musicals. Oh, and it could also do with a few traumatizing acting experiences when I was younger...
In Raton, every summer we have a children's play company come through town who take a week and throw on a new production of an old fairy tale with the kids from the community. Well, the first time I tried out there were too many kids and I didn't get a part. The next time I took weeks to prepare beforehand, planning my clever answers to their questions: "And how old are you, Sarah?" "I'm as old as you want me to be!" And what do you know, I got a part! Maybe because there was a big shortage of kids that year, but that's beside the point. Anyway, the part I got was one of the witch's assistants in Hansel and Gretel. It was a pretty cool part- there were several of us and we spoke in rhyme. The downside? It was also our job to do a dance dressed as gingerbread men. Yeah, you read that right. They stuck us in gingerbread costumes and we had to do this stupid dance, oh, excuse me, ballet. We were the laughingstock of the cast. Even when our families came to watch at the end of the week, the audience erupted in ridiculing laughter. Sure, it might be cute to see your little 5 and 6 years old do a little dance in costumes, but not 11 and 12 year olds.
Police Officer: This one is because of two simple reasons. One, I seem to lack any kind of presence or authority, and Two, I am terrified of police officers for no real reason. I would be unable to look into a mirror when wearing my uniform because I would immediately have a panic attack.
Taxi driver: I was tragically born without a sense of direction. I have lived in Raton, NM all my life and I can still get lost here, never mind living in a city big enough to need taxis! Let me just assure you that I do have my drivers license and I'm very happy about that. I love having the ability to drive myself anywhere at any time without depending on others. That said, I still don't really enjoy driving that much. It stresses me out quite a bit, especially when passing police officers (see above). Also, I'm really not that much of a people person and the idea of being forced to make small talk with complete strangers bothers me almost as much as navigating. Oh! And money! Charging cranky stressed out people who pick apart my driving route? No thank you! See? Thinking about driving a taxi stresses me out.
Athlete: If you've ever seen me, this is kind of obvious. I'm not built like an athlete. I'm short and very chubby. You know what? If you don't know what I look like, think back to the stereotypical "dork" in kid's movies: the short, squat kid with the glasses who carries an inhaler? Bingo! Also, I don't understand sports at all. Not in general, and especially not football. I am lost completely when it comes to football. The closest to athletics I've gotten was when I was six: I saw the movie "Space Jam" and fell in love with it, especially Michael Jordan. I seriously wanted to BE Michael Jordan when I grew up, which is strangely ironic considering the fact that I am now Michael Jordan's complete physical opposite.
Model: Again, this is pretty obvious when you see me. It really is too bad, especially because my mom and my sister are absolutely beautiful. My mom is even built like a model, tall and slender. As we've covered, I'm short and round and my face is pitted and scarred from years of severe acne. I don't dress like a model and many people might find my tattoos and crazy hair very unattractive. It's kind of funny to think about because it's when my hair is bright pink and I'm dressed in my band T-shirts that I feel prettiest.
Mathematician: I. Hate. Math. So, so much. It confuses me and stresses me out. It's not for lack of trying! I've had some fantastic math teachers over the years- excellent in their field and endlessly patient with me and my constant confusion. When I signed up for my first semester of college and I found out I would eventually have to take a math class, I actually teared up at the thought. In fact, the closest to an accomplishment I've ever had regarding math was when my 8th grade math teacher held up my math binder in each and every one of her classes as the perfect example of what your math binder should never look like.
I had a "Communications" college class a year or two ago and on the first day our teacher had us take out a piece of paper and write down several things we could not do. So, I wrote down:
Sing
Play kickball (childhood sports trauma, don't ask)
Math
She then said, "Look at your list. Now, change "can't do" to "won't do". There was that deep moment when everyone in the class looked down at their lists and "ohhhhhhh"-ed and "ahhhhhh"-ed. I looked down. Singing? Yeah, I physically can. I actually like to, when no one's around to hear. Play kickball? Ehh, harder. But I did and lived through it. Math?
I'm sorry, no. Hell no.
:)
Happy Halloween!!!
Sarah
Also included in the list, however, were things like "Mortician" and "Catholic Priest".
I can't really express through words how I feel about that, so please accept this picture instead.
Anyway, as I've grown older I've had no choice but to spend time thinking about the right career for me, and at the same time I've been compiling a small mental list of careers I will never have. I have listed them below along with explanations as to why I feel that way.
**PLEASE NOTE** I did not include things like "Mass Murderer", "Pirate" or "Intergalactic Space Alien" because they are unrealistic, ridiculous, and, in some cases, not currently an option.
In order of descending likelihood:
Actor: This occupation isn't nearly as out of the question as the others but I still feel it's true. I have been in several plays over the years, almost always in the background. It's true that I like reading and stories and I can actually read aloud pretty well, but when I get onstage it all falls apart, not to mention that I don't have a decent singing voice to contribute to musicals. Oh, and it could also do with a few traumatizing acting experiences when I was younger...
In Raton, every summer we have a children's play company come through town who take a week and throw on a new production of an old fairy tale with the kids from the community. Well, the first time I tried out there were too many kids and I didn't get a part. The next time I took weeks to prepare beforehand, planning my clever answers to their questions: "And how old are you, Sarah?" "I'm as old as you want me to be!" And what do you know, I got a part! Maybe because there was a big shortage of kids that year, but that's beside the point. Anyway, the part I got was one of the witch's assistants in Hansel and Gretel. It was a pretty cool part- there were several of us and we spoke in rhyme. The downside? It was also our job to do a dance dressed as gingerbread men. Yeah, you read that right. They stuck us in gingerbread costumes and we had to do this stupid dance, oh, excuse me, ballet. We were the laughingstock of the cast. Even when our families came to watch at the end of the week, the audience erupted in ridiculing laughter. Sure, it might be cute to see your little 5 and 6 years old do a little dance in costumes, but not 11 and 12 year olds.
Police Officer: This one is because of two simple reasons. One, I seem to lack any kind of presence or authority, and Two, I am terrified of police officers for no real reason. I would be unable to look into a mirror when wearing my uniform because I would immediately have a panic attack.
Taxi driver: I was tragically born without a sense of direction. I have lived in Raton, NM all my life and I can still get lost here, never mind living in a city big enough to need taxis! Let me just assure you that I do have my drivers license and I'm very happy about that. I love having the ability to drive myself anywhere at any time without depending on others. That said, I still don't really enjoy driving that much. It stresses me out quite a bit, especially when passing police officers (see above). Also, I'm really not that much of a people person and the idea of being forced to make small talk with complete strangers bothers me almost as much as navigating. Oh! And money! Charging cranky stressed out people who pick apart my driving route? No thank you! See? Thinking about driving a taxi stresses me out.
Athlete: If you've ever seen me, this is kind of obvious. I'm not built like an athlete. I'm short and very chubby. You know what? If you don't know what I look like, think back to the stereotypical "dork" in kid's movies: the short, squat kid with the glasses who carries an inhaler? Bingo! Also, I don't understand sports at all. Not in general, and especially not football. I am lost completely when it comes to football. The closest to athletics I've gotten was when I was six: I saw the movie "Space Jam" and fell in love with it, especially Michael Jordan. I seriously wanted to BE Michael Jordan when I grew up, which is strangely ironic considering the fact that I am now Michael Jordan's complete physical opposite.
Model: Again, this is pretty obvious when you see me. It really is too bad, especially because my mom and my sister are absolutely beautiful. My mom is even built like a model, tall and slender. As we've covered, I'm short and round and my face is pitted and scarred from years of severe acne. I don't dress like a model and many people might find my tattoos and crazy hair very unattractive. It's kind of funny to think about because it's when my hair is bright pink and I'm dressed in my band T-shirts that I feel prettiest.
Mathematician: I. Hate. Math. So, so much. It confuses me and stresses me out. It's not for lack of trying! I've had some fantastic math teachers over the years- excellent in their field and endlessly patient with me and my constant confusion. When I signed up for my first semester of college and I found out I would eventually have to take a math class, I actually teared up at the thought. In fact, the closest to an accomplishment I've ever had regarding math was when my 8th grade math teacher held up my math binder in each and every one of her classes as the perfect example of what your math binder should never look like.
I had a "Communications" college class a year or two ago and on the first day our teacher had us take out a piece of paper and write down several things we could not do. So, I wrote down:
Sing
Play kickball (childhood sports trauma, don't ask)
Math
She then said, "Look at your list. Now, change "can't do" to "won't do". There was that deep moment when everyone in the class looked down at their lists and "ohhhhhhh"-ed and "ahhhhhh"-ed. I looked down. Singing? Yeah, I physically can. I actually like to, when no one's around to hear. Play kickball? Ehh, harder. But I did and lived through it. Math?
I'm sorry, no. Hell no.
:)
Happy Halloween!!!
Sarah
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Veloci-Cats
I have three kittens: Sheldon, Amy and Three. If you're wondering, yes, I am a fan of The Big Bang Theory.
All three are completely black and very close in size. Three is a little fluffier, but other than that they are close to identical. My mom and step-dad, Leo, also have a kitten right now and my mom has asked on more than one occasion how I can handle three at the same time. Well, it helps that with three of them, they often pick on each other instead of me.
However, sometimes it backfires.
When they are all hyper and running around like crazy, sometimes it seems more like a herd than a trio. They can behave much like a school of fish- synchronized and eerily similar. They also hunt in a pack.
A few evenings ago, I was watching TV and eating Wheat Thins. Of the three kittens, Sheldon in particular likes to steal things that I'm eating- cookies, pieces of cheese... Wheat Thins. He usually doesn't even eat what he steals, he just bats them around on the floor and chases them.
Anyway, as you might imagine, this evening was no different: I was eating Wheat Thins and Sheldon wanted one. Unfortunately for him, I am used to him and know to keep an eye on him when I'm snacking. His solution? Strength in numbers.
Amy hopped up on to my lap and started purring and nuzzling my hand. Three descended from the back of the chair onto my shoulder and started bumping against my face, her tail blocking my vision. In this moment of weakness, Sheldon shot like a mad-cat from the floor to my bowl of Wheat Thins, then streaked across the floor, well out of reach, his prize clamped in his jaws.
As I watched him play hockey with my Wheat Thin, I was struck with a thought: How similar my cats' hunting patterns are to that of the velociraptors in the Jurassic Park movies! Don't know what I mean? Watch!
Well, maybe not quite that extreme, but you get the idea. I shared this thought with several of my family members, to their universal amusement. My sister came up with the term "Veloci-Cats" and also "Kitty-Raptors."
I knew I was right on with the comparison when I watched my kittens hunt a mouse last night. Watch this video and imagine the raptors as smaller, black and fuzzy. Also, replace the human with a terrified little mouse.
I'd say that the biggest difference between the dinosaurs and my cats are:
1. The raptors in Jurassic Park actually seem willing to share the prey, and..
2. There is no way the raptors in Jurassic Park could make any noise to rival that of Sheldon's. He seriously sounded like a lawn mower!
And for the record, I'm not completely heartless. I was eventually able to get near enough to the mouse to scoop him up in an empty Cup-of-Noodles and take him outside to die in peace. Needless to say, my cats were not pleased.
Oh! And if you're wondering how the whole Wheat Thin incident went down, it ended as suddenly as it began- Sheldon batted it across the floor, where it hit Otis' foot. For a split second, time stood still- would she snap at him? Growl? Stare at him until he was able to get it back? Nope! She casually looked down at the Wheat Thin, ate it, and went back to dozing.
Bwa-ha-ha! Sorry Sheldon! Better luck next time...
Sarah
All three are completely black and very close in size. Three is a little fluffier, but other than that they are close to identical. My mom and step-dad, Leo, also have a kitten right now and my mom has asked on more than one occasion how I can handle three at the same time. Well, it helps that with three of them, they often pick on each other instead of me.
However, sometimes it backfires.
When they are all hyper and running around like crazy, sometimes it seems more like a herd than a trio. They can behave much like a school of fish- synchronized and eerily similar. They also hunt in a pack.
A few evenings ago, I was watching TV and eating Wheat Thins. Of the three kittens, Sheldon in particular likes to steal things that I'm eating- cookies, pieces of cheese... Wheat Thins. He usually doesn't even eat what he steals, he just bats them around on the floor and chases them.
Anyway, as you might imagine, this evening was no different: I was eating Wheat Thins and Sheldon wanted one. Unfortunately for him, I am used to him and know to keep an eye on him when I'm snacking. His solution? Strength in numbers.
Amy hopped up on to my lap and started purring and nuzzling my hand. Three descended from the back of the chair onto my shoulder and started bumping against my face, her tail blocking my vision. In this moment of weakness, Sheldon shot like a mad-cat from the floor to my bowl of Wheat Thins, then streaked across the floor, well out of reach, his prize clamped in his jaws.
As I watched him play hockey with my Wheat Thin, I was struck with a thought: How similar my cats' hunting patterns are to that of the velociraptors in the Jurassic Park movies! Don't know what I mean? Watch!
Well, maybe not quite that extreme, but you get the idea. I shared this thought with several of my family members, to their universal amusement. My sister came up with the term "Veloci-Cats" and also "Kitty-Raptors."
I knew I was right on with the comparison when I watched my kittens hunt a mouse last night. Watch this video and imagine the raptors as smaller, black and fuzzy. Also, replace the human with a terrified little mouse.
I'd say that the biggest difference between the dinosaurs and my cats are:
1. The raptors in Jurassic Park actually seem willing to share the prey, and..
2. There is no way the raptors in Jurassic Park could make any noise to rival that of Sheldon's. He seriously sounded like a lawn mower!
And for the record, I'm not completely heartless. I was eventually able to get near enough to the mouse to scoop him up in an empty Cup-of-Noodles and take him outside to die in peace. Needless to say, my cats were not pleased.
Oh! And if you're wondering how the whole Wheat Thin incident went down, it ended as suddenly as it began- Sheldon batted it across the floor, where it hit Otis' foot. For a split second, time stood still- would she snap at him? Growl? Stare at him until he was able to get it back? Nope! She casually looked down at the Wheat Thin, ate it, and went back to dozing.
Bwa-ha-ha! Sorry Sheldon! Better luck next time...
Sarah
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Before I Lose My Nerve
I have a confession that I have to make. It's really time, I think... I've been lying to a lot of people for many years now and events have come into place so that I can no longer keep up the facade. Please, please don't judge me.
I have brown eyes.
There, I said it. It's out in the open now!
I was born, like most babies, with milky blue eyes. I think a lot of people thought my eyes would transform into a kind of blue/green, like my dad's eyes. But no, they darkened. My eyes are brown, like my mom's and my sister's. Except not. I have on multiple occasions looked closely at my mom's and sister's eyes and they are a pretty light brown shade, almost green in the sunlight- close to hazel at times. Am I so lucky? No! My eyes are brown. Not "chocolate brown". Not a dark, "mysterious" brown. Brown. Like dirt. Fecal matter. Beavers!
Anyway, when I began to wear contact lenses, I jumped at the chance to wear the colored kind of lenses. The "Fresh Look" brand, if you're wondering. Over the years I tried like four different shades of blue lenses, grey, and finally green. I loved them all.
Unfortunately about two months ago I started having some issues. When I put in a brand new pair of contacts I had no problems, but when I put in a pair that I had worn already, put in solution, then back in the eyes, my left eye completely rejected the lens. It stung and itched and wouldn't stay in place and ended with either tearing or me taking it out because it was so annoying. Therefore, I have been wearing my glasses almost constantly. I like the ease of wearing glasses but I don't like how I look in them, so I knew it was time to go see my eye doctor. Optometrist? Ophthalmologist? Optician?
At the risk of giving away confidential medical information, I go to Dr. Hagen in Trinidad. I don't go often-only when necessary- but it seems like every time I go it's almost exactly the same: the cool, quiet office with the same faded, framed printouts of optical illusions and the locked display of expensive sunglasses on the wall. One of the receptionists who has been there a very long time always remembers my name and that I'm from Raton and that I'm connected with the ACE store there. There's the same small coffee table with the nearly obsessively straight stacks of almost-current magazines. And the carpet! How many medical offices do you go to that has carpet? Sure, maybe in the waiting rooms there will be a little carpeting- the very short, easy to clean stuff- but at Dr. Hagen's office there's this really thick nice carpet that runs through the entire building. Very luxurious!
Anyway following routine, one of the women who works there took updated medical information and left me alone in the exam room (with carpet!!!!)
I must pause here and be honest. Every time this happens in any doctors office I have to completely fight the temptation to go digging through drawers and playing with the medical equipment, especially in Dr. Hagen's office! He has this great humongous model of an eye and all these eye drops and little plastic things all over the office, not to mention all the crazy equipment he uses to check eyesight and eye health. I love just looking at the machines because they almost look like implements of torture.
Luckily I wasn't kept waiting long. Like just about everything else there, Dr. Hagen seems unchanged. Same bright clean doctor's coat and friendly demeanor. He checked my eyesight (got worse!) and after hearing my troubles got out this crazy eye measure-er thing I'd never seen before. Turns out, and I'm very sorry if this is like TMI and makes you uncomfortable to hear such personal things, but I have abnormally flat corneas. This, paired with the colored lenses I've been wearing all these years, is not good.
After talking options, I'm trying two new kind of lenses: one is good for my flat corneas and the other is good for continuous wear, since I hate putting them in and taking them out. I have an appointment in a week and I will then decide which I prefer. Neither, however, is colored.
I'm actually not that bothered. This may sound stupid and jokey but in all honesty my favorite thing about the colored lenses is that they are so hard to lose!
Right before I left, Dr. Hagen offered me those cheap, cardboard, dorky sunglasses since my eyes were dilated. I thanked him but turned them down, telling him I had some in the car. I actually had no intention of wearing them since it was kind of overcast today. But when I stepped out of the office I almost fell over. It was like staring at the sun! Eyes squinted shut, I blindly groped for the door handle of my car and jumped inside, panting. I dug around until I found an old dusty pair of sunglasses and wore them over my regular glasses, pointedly ignoring the looks I got from other drivers.
Anyway, next time you see me, whether I'm wearing glasses or contacts my eyes will be brown. It will be simpler in the long run, like when I renew my driver's license and they ask what color my eyes are. Nevertheless, I would appreciate your support. Love me and support me in this new life of truth and self-acceptance.
Hey, you know what I just realized? You know what is also brown? My dog! Maybe it's not so bad after all...
Sarah
I have brown eyes.
There, I said it. It's out in the open now!
I was born, like most babies, with milky blue eyes. I think a lot of people thought my eyes would transform into a kind of blue/green, like my dad's eyes. But no, they darkened. My eyes are brown, like my mom's and my sister's. Except not. I have on multiple occasions looked closely at my mom's and sister's eyes and they are a pretty light brown shade, almost green in the sunlight- close to hazel at times. Am I so lucky? No! My eyes are brown. Not "chocolate brown". Not a dark, "mysterious" brown. Brown. Like dirt. Fecal matter. Beavers!
Anyway, when I began to wear contact lenses, I jumped at the chance to wear the colored kind of lenses. The "Fresh Look" brand, if you're wondering. Over the years I tried like four different shades of blue lenses, grey, and finally green. I loved them all.
Unfortunately about two months ago I started having some issues. When I put in a brand new pair of contacts I had no problems, but when I put in a pair that I had worn already, put in solution, then back in the eyes, my left eye completely rejected the lens. It stung and itched and wouldn't stay in place and ended with either tearing or me taking it out because it was so annoying. Therefore, I have been wearing my glasses almost constantly. I like the ease of wearing glasses but I don't like how I look in them, so I knew it was time to go see my eye doctor. Optometrist? Ophthalmologist? Optician?
At the risk of giving away confidential medical information, I go to Dr. Hagen in Trinidad. I don't go often-only when necessary- but it seems like every time I go it's almost exactly the same: the cool, quiet office with the same faded, framed printouts of optical illusions and the locked display of expensive sunglasses on the wall. One of the receptionists who has been there a very long time always remembers my name and that I'm from Raton and that I'm connected with the ACE store there. There's the same small coffee table with the nearly obsessively straight stacks of almost-current magazines. And the carpet! How many medical offices do you go to that has carpet? Sure, maybe in the waiting rooms there will be a little carpeting- the very short, easy to clean stuff- but at Dr. Hagen's office there's this really thick nice carpet that runs through the entire building. Very luxurious!
Anyway following routine, one of the women who works there took updated medical information and left me alone in the exam room (with carpet!!!!)
I must pause here and be honest. Every time this happens in any doctors office I have to completely fight the temptation to go digging through drawers and playing with the medical equipment, especially in Dr. Hagen's office! He has this great humongous model of an eye and all these eye drops and little plastic things all over the office, not to mention all the crazy equipment he uses to check eyesight and eye health. I love just looking at the machines because they almost look like implements of torture.
Luckily I wasn't kept waiting long. Like just about everything else there, Dr. Hagen seems unchanged. Same bright clean doctor's coat and friendly demeanor. He checked my eyesight (got worse!) and after hearing my troubles got out this crazy eye measure-er thing I'd never seen before. Turns out, and I'm very sorry if this is like TMI and makes you uncomfortable to hear such personal things, but I have abnormally flat corneas. This, paired with the colored lenses I've been wearing all these years, is not good.
After talking options, I'm trying two new kind of lenses: one is good for my flat corneas and the other is good for continuous wear, since I hate putting them in and taking them out. I have an appointment in a week and I will then decide which I prefer. Neither, however, is colored.
I'm actually not that bothered. This may sound stupid and jokey but in all honesty my favorite thing about the colored lenses is that they are so hard to lose!
Right before I left, Dr. Hagen offered me those cheap, cardboard, dorky sunglasses since my eyes were dilated. I thanked him but turned them down, telling him I had some in the car. I actually had no intention of wearing them since it was kind of overcast today. But when I stepped out of the office I almost fell over. It was like staring at the sun! Eyes squinted shut, I blindly groped for the door handle of my car and jumped inside, panting. I dug around until I found an old dusty pair of sunglasses and wore them over my regular glasses, pointedly ignoring the looks I got from other drivers.
Anyway, next time you see me, whether I'm wearing glasses or contacts my eyes will be brown. It will be simpler in the long run, like when I renew my driver's license and they ask what color my eyes are. Nevertheless, I would appreciate your support. Love me and support me in this new life of truth and self-acceptance.
Hey, you know what I just realized? You know what is also brown? My dog! Maybe it's not so bad after all...
Sarah
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Lessons From an Ex-Metal Band Bassist
Whoever appeals to the law against his fellow man is either a fool or a coward. Whoever cannot take care of himself without that law is both. For a wounded man shall say to his assailant, "If I live, I will kill you. If I die, you are forgiven." Such is the rule of honor.
If you don't already know what this is from, click here and enjoy:
http://youtu.be/vJu7fhdVMb8
If you do know, click it and enjoy it anyway :)
.... word of WARNING, though: If you are at school or work and you're not supposed to be surfing the internet, you may want to make sure the volume is down. Otherwise, BLAST IT
A few years ago I was bassist in two (count 'em, TWO!) metal bands.
Granted, they were more or less the same band minus our vocalist (due to marriage) and one guitarist (he "wasn't contributing"). We found a replacement vocalist and added a few guitar players and, thus, a new band was born.
Being in these bands was without a doubt one of the coolest experiences I've ever had and gave me the opportunity to do crazy, incredible things and meet absolutely awesome people.
Last night I got out my bass and played a while and all sorts of memories came flooding back to me. I thought about it off and on all day today and I wanted to share the memories and lessons with you guys!
Yes, they're mostly for fun but every lesson rings true to me.
If the cops show up, you're playing just loud enough.
Over the years and countless practices, we had the cops called on us many, many times. This varied on our moods, where we were, what time it was, and if we had our vocalist rehearsing. For whatever reason, the irate neighbors seemed to specifically dislike our screaming vocals. We met many members of the Raton Police Department and the kind of reactions we got from them varied. Many were irritated, broke up the practice immediately and left us with threats and warnings. A few actually listened to us play for a couple minutes, asked us friendly questions and left us with the request that we keep it down. It probably goes without saying that the latter kind made a better impression but, to be honest, either way we waited for them to leave, then went right on playing where we left off.
The best instrument is the one in your hands.
We all lusted after the expensive, kick-ass, brand name, musician-endorsed instruments, absolutely! Alexi Laiho's electric guitars were always much admired and I personally had my eyes on Tom Araya's ESP basses. But nothing can beat the actual bass or drum set or guitar you have your hands on, one that you have and can play and love and have all sorts of memories associated with. I think your first instrument is kinda like your first love: you spend all this time with it and thinking about it and even if and when you grow out of it, I think you'll always remember it.
Good friends share memories. Good band mates share amps.
And I was lucky enough to have both! Years later, a lot of us have grown apart but I still value the memories really highly and I think some bonds will never be totally broken. I especially treasure the memories I have of Johnny Ray. If not for the band, I might never have known him well and I would have really missed out.
To be honest, yes, image is part of it.
We all wore a lot of black band T-shirts, several of the guys had pretty long hair, I always had my hair dyed crazy colors and for about a year I wore only bondage pants.
I always felt pretty honored that they all let me be in the band, because metal is pretty heavily male-dominated. I wasn't the best bass player around but they were always really patient with me and helped me learn a lot.
Good metal lyrics are deep and have fancy words. And profanity.
I remember taking a stab at writing lyrics. I came up with what I thought was a pretty good song and called one of the guys in the band and read it to him. He was quiet for a moment, and seemed to be searching for a nice way to put his opinion. He finally said, "It's, um, good, but, uh, it sounds more like an... uhh.. Evanescence song or something." I probably don't have to tell you this was not a good thing for a hard-core metal band.
We did have a good lyric writer in our band. He came up with these deep, meaningful lyrics with lots of advanced, complicated words. To be honest, I read them, complimented him, then went home and looked up half the words in the dictionary.
As for the profanity, fuck yeah! No shit! Why the hell wouldn't you put fucking profanity in every goddamn syllable? It emphasizes your every fucking point, bitch!
Hahaha, no but seriously. Profanity does give a desirable sort of edge.
The sign of a good musician is one who can play his instrument and headbang at the same time.
I still feel this is true. To be honest with you, I can play, and I can headbang, but not that well at the same time. It was a talent that I aspired to, but lacked. Once we were playing a show and I was head banging like crazy and I almost fell over. Luckily only one or two people saw but it was still really embarrassing.
You kinda have to have at least one or two bands you idolize.
At the time for me, these bands were Children of Bodom and Lamb of God. I sometimes read interviews with musicians and they'll talk about the albums that changed their life. I'm not a professional musician but at this time in my life two albums totally changed everything: Children of Bodom's "Hate Crew Deathroll" and Lamb of God's "Ashes of the Wake." I had these two CDs and basically lived and breathed them. I went to sleep at night with my headphones on listening to them. Every practice we'd warm up by playing the first five tracks off "Ashes of the Wake" in order. I knew every lyric and every guitar riff. I talked with my friends and bandmates about all the musicians by name and knew all their biographies. I argued with with other COB freak in my band about who could copy the band's font better.
This actually turned into a bit of controversy in the 8th grade. The aforementioned other COB freak and myself were so obsessed that we wrote "COBHC" (Children of Bodom Hate Crew") on everything: our binders, our lockers, our skin. Somehow a bunch of other kids picked it up without even knowing what it meant or stood for and for a while "COBHC" was found on EVERYTHING. Graffiti everywhere! Desks, doors, floors, marker boards, walls.
Ooops.
Johnny Ray was always in love with Pantera and to be honest, it was one thing that made his death a little easier: I have no doubt he jams with Dime now.
Behind every good metal musician is a good support system.
This was especially true at the time because we were all pretty young and had to depend on parents and older siblings to drive us around, to have places to practice, to listen to us play, etc. Also, I think behind just about every musician is a parent who is a bit of a rocker themselves.
Awesome band names are nearly impossible to come by.
The first band I was in was called "Asunder", then transformed to "Dead End Philosophy". After I left, they became "Ascending Darkness". I don't know for sure that any of these names were absolutely stellar but they served their purpose. I remember sometimes we'd be out somewhere and someone would ask what our band name was and we'd all get kinda quiet and look at each other, waiting for someone else to say it.
You don't play in a metal band because you should. You play in one because you need to.
The guys I played with lived and breathed music. It wasn't a hobby, it was a way of life. And to turn a passion into a lifestyle? I think everyone can learn from that.
COBHC, bitch!
haha
Sarah
If you don't already know what this is from, click here and enjoy:
http://youtu.be/vJu7fhdVMb8
If you do know, click it and enjoy it anyway :)
.... word of WARNING, though: If you are at school or work and you're not supposed to be surfing the internet, you may want to make sure the volume is down. Otherwise, BLAST IT
A few years ago I was bassist in two (count 'em, TWO!) metal bands.
Granted, they were more or less the same band minus our vocalist (due to marriage) and one guitarist (he "wasn't contributing"). We found a replacement vocalist and added a few guitar players and, thus, a new band was born.
Being in these bands was without a doubt one of the coolest experiences I've ever had and gave me the opportunity to do crazy, incredible things and meet absolutely awesome people.
Last night I got out my bass and played a while and all sorts of memories came flooding back to me. I thought about it off and on all day today and I wanted to share the memories and lessons with you guys!
Yes, they're mostly for fun but every lesson rings true to me.
If the cops show up, you're playing just loud enough.
Over the years and countless practices, we had the cops called on us many, many times. This varied on our moods, where we were, what time it was, and if we had our vocalist rehearsing. For whatever reason, the irate neighbors seemed to specifically dislike our screaming vocals. We met many members of the Raton Police Department and the kind of reactions we got from them varied. Many were irritated, broke up the practice immediately and left us with threats and warnings. A few actually listened to us play for a couple minutes, asked us friendly questions and left us with the request that we keep it down. It probably goes without saying that the latter kind made a better impression but, to be honest, either way we waited for them to leave, then went right on playing where we left off.
The best instrument is the one in your hands.
We all lusted after the expensive, kick-ass, brand name, musician-endorsed instruments, absolutely! Alexi Laiho's electric guitars were always much admired and I personally had my eyes on Tom Araya's ESP basses. But nothing can beat the actual bass or drum set or guitar you have your hands on, one that you have and can play and love and have all sorts of memories associated with. I think your first instrument is kinda like your first love: you spend all this time with it and thinking about it and even if and when you grow out of it, I think you'll always remember it.
Good friends share memories. Good band mates share amps.
And I was lucky enough to have both! Years later, a lot of us have grown apart but I still value the memories really highly and I think some bonds will never be totally broken. I especially treasure the memories I have of Johnny Ray. If not for the band, I might never have known him well and I would have really missed out.
To be honest, yes, image is part of it.
We all wore a lot of black band T-shirts, several of the guys had pretty long hair, I always had my hair dyed crazy colors and for about a year I wore only bondage pants.
I always felt pretty honored that they all let me be in the band, because metal is pretty heavily male-dominated. I wasn't the best bass player around but they were always really patient with me and helped me learn a lot.
Good metal lyrics are deep and have fancy words. And profanity.
I remember taking a stab at writing lyrics. I came up with what I thought was a pretty good song and called one of the guys in the band and read it to him. He was quiet for a moment, and seemed to be searching for a nice way to put his opinion. He finally said, "It's, um, good, but, uh, it sounds more like an... uhh.. Evanescence song or something." I probably don't have to tell you this was not a good thing for a hard-core metal band.
We did have a good lyric writer in our band. He came up with these deep, meaningful lyrics with lots of advanced, complicated words. To be honest, I read them, complimented him, then went home and looked up half the words in the dictionary.
As for the profanity, fuck yeah! No shit! Why the hell wouldn't you put fucking profanity in every goddamn syllable? It emphasizes your every fucking point, bitch!
Hahaha, no but seriously. Profanity does give a desirable sort of edge.
The sign of a good musician is one who can play his instrument and headbang at the same time.
I still feel this is true. To be honest with you, I can play, and I can headbang, but not that well at the same time. It was a talent that I aspired to, but lacked. Once we were playing a show and I was head banging like crazy and I almost fell over. Luckily only one or two people saw but it was still really embarrassing.
You kinda have to have at least one or two bands you idolize.
At the time for me, these bands were Children of Bodom and Lamb of God. I sometimes read interviews with musicians and they'll talk about the albums that changed their life. I'm not a professional musician but at this time in my life two albums totally changed everything: Children of Bodom's "Hate Crew Deathroll" and Lamb of God's "Ashes of the Wake." I had these two CDs and basically lived and breathed them. I went to sleep at night with my headphones on listening to them. Every practice we'd warm up by playing the first five tracks off "Ashes of the Wake" in order. I knew every lyric and every guitar riff. I talked with my friends and bandmates about all the musicians by name and knew all their biographies. I argued with with other COB freak in my band about who could copy the band's font better.
This actually turned into a bit of controversy in the 8th grade. The aforementioned other COB freak and myself were so obsessed that we wrote "COBHC" (Children of Bodom Hate Crew") on everything: our binders, our lockers, our skin. Somehow a bunch of other kids picked it up without even knowing what it meant or stood for and for a while "COBHC" was found on EVERYTHING. Graffiti everywhere! Desks, doors, floors, marker boards, walls.
Ooops.
Johnny Ray was always in love with Pantera and to be honest, it was one thing that made his death a little easier: I have no doubt he jams with Dime now.
Behind every good metal musician is a good support system.
This was especially true at the time because we were all pretty young and had to depend on parents and older siblings to drive us around, to have places to practice, to listen to us play, etc. Also, I think behind just about every musician is a parent who is a bit of a rocker themselves.
Awesome band names are nearly impossible to come by.
The first band I was in was called "Asunder", then transformed to "Dead End Philosophy". After I left, they became "Ascending Darkness". I don't know for sure that any of these names were absolutely stellar but they served their purpose. I remember sometimes we'd be out somewhere and someone would ask what our band name was and we'd all get kinda quiet and look at each other, waiting for someone else to say it.
You don't play in a metal band because you should. You play in one because you need to.
The guys I played with lived and breathed music. It wasn't a hobby, it was a way of life. And to turn a passion into a lifestyle? I think everyone can learn from that.
COBHC, bitch!
haha
Sarah
Monday, September 2, 2013
Mystery Melon on Labor Day
To be totally honest with you, I have almost no idea whatsoever what the story behind Labor Day is. I can only surmise it's a day celebrating us laboring folks but I don't know why it gives us a day off or why it's the first Monday in September. But you know what? I'm not one to argue with a good thing. I got two whole days off in a row and it. Was. Sweet.
On September 7th, my cousin George is getting married to the very awesome Miss Samantha Jo Staggs and for their wedding, the female guests are encouraged to wear Kentucky Derby-style hats to the ceremony. Well, it probably won't surprise you to hear that my sister Emmy and I don't exactly have a closet-full of these decked out hats but Emmy looked 'em up online and found that they can get pretty crazy and creative, and you know what? Crazy and creative is right up our alley. We decided to make our own!
It took a few lengthy trips to Walmart but we finally found passable hats to serve as the canvasses for our creations, plus a whole lot of decorative elements. I want to save the reveal of the hats for the actual ceremony but I will say that the hats came out completely incredible and totally... uh.. unique! Mine is quite gaudy and artsy, but my sister's is pretty much guaranteed to steal the show.. absolutely electrifying :)
So anyway, Em and I spent a good portion of our Labor Day weekend working on said hats at her house. Before we started working on them Sunday evening, we swung by Dairy Queen to get some ice cream first and ate sitting in her living room watching the Syfy channel. (She told me, "I used to laugh at David for watching this channel but now I watch it all the time!")
It was then that the scandal took place.
We were getting a fair bit of rain and Em and David's dog Pickles was inside, along with their two cats, Flo and Beans. Picks always has a ton of energy and likes to run around and play with toys and water bottles and... other things. I was watching TV when Picks shot by my chair, dropping something by my feet. I paid no attention but Em looked down and gasped. I looked down too, and saw... a cat turd, fresh from the litter box.
"Pickles!" Em protested. "Bad dog! You know you can't play with the cat turds!" Picks looked back at her, the picture of innocence. I felt the need to defend her.
"Oh, she was just giving me a present" I said.
Em looked dubious. "It's possible," she conceded, "but I actually think she's trying to blame it on you."
I looked at the turd in question, then the dog. The dog looked back at me with a look that said, "How vulgar! Have you no class?" I frowned.
"You see, she knows all too well that she can't but maybe she figures that you don't come here enough to know the rules. You're the perfect target," she added with a smile.
I couldn't decide if I was appalled or impressed.
This afternoon the Record family had our annual Labor Day picnic. We had it up at The Point, a piece of property where my family likes to shoot guns and eat. Shortly after arriving, my grandma realized she had forgotten something and headed back to her house with my cousin Brian in tow.
They were gone a strangely long time and we began to debate what had happened and where they went.
"She said she was headed to her house..." I began.
"Maybe she meant the Greenhouse," offered my cousin Danny as he dug through a cooler my Grandma had brought, full of cokes and, inexplicably, a tub of butter.
But soon after, we heard the roar of the gator coming up the road. My grandma drove up and began unloading the back of the gator. Brian helped, then approached the table we were sitting at with a strange look on his face and a large dark melon in his hands.
"She said it's a watermelon," he whispered. He set the mystery melon on the table and we all examined it. It was almost exactly the size, shape, weight and color of a bowling ball. The finger holes were the only things missing.
We conjectured for a while about what strange kind of gourd it was, but couldn't come to any conclusions.
After a while we ate dinner, sitting in the shade of great big pine trees at old metal picnic tables that are much older than I am with a light breeze blowing our hair and the edges of the table cloths my grandma had put down. We talked about school and work and Em and I bragged about our kickass derby hats. The sun sunk lower, elongating the shadows. We began to pack up the food and plates.
"Wait!" yelled Dan, and produced a large knife. He grabbed a spare bit of tinfoil and plunked the mystery melon on top of it. With the precision of a surgeon, he made an incision in the melon, carefully and slowly splitting it in two. Then, with a sudden motion, he pulled the melon apart.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered.
It was, unmistakably, a watermelon.
It was unappetizingly mushy, though, and instead of dessert, became target practice.
But, teach us to doubt Grandma!
Hope you had a good labor day, too!
Sarah
On September 7th, my cousin George is getting married to the very awesome Miss Samantha Jo Staggs and for their wedding, the female guests are encouraged to wear Kentucky Derby-style hats to the ceremony. Well, it probably won't surprise you to hear that my sister Emmy and I don't exactly have a closet-full of these decked out hats but Emmy looked 'em up online and found that they can get pretty crazy and creative, and you know what? Crazy and creative is right up our alley. We decided to make our own!
It took a few lengthy trips to Walmart but we finally found passable hats to serve as the canvasses for our creations, plus a whole lot of decorative elements. I want to save the reveal of the hats for the actual ceremony but I will say that the hats came out completely incredible and totally... uh.. unique! Mine is quite gaudy and artsy, but my sister's is pretty much guaranteed to steal the show.. absolutely electrifying :)
So anyway, Em and I spent a good portion of our Labor Day weekend working on said hats at her house. Before we started working on them Sunday evening, we swung by Dairy Queen to get some ice cream first and ate sitting in her living room watching the Syfy channel. (She told me, "I used to laugh at David for watching this channel but now I watch it all the time!")
It was then that the scandal took place.
We were getting a fair bit of rain and Em and David's dog Pickles was inside, along with their two cats, Flo and Beans. Picks always has a ton of energy and likes to run around and play with toys and water bottles and... other things. I was watching TV when Picks shot by my chair, dropping something by my feet. I paid no attention but Em looked down and gasped. I looked down too, and saw... a cat turd, fresh from the litter box.
"Pickles!" Em protested. "Bad dog! You know you can't play with the cat turds!" Picks looked back at her, the picture of innocence. I felt the need to defend her.
"Oh, she was just giving me a present" I said.
Em looked dubious. "It's possible," she conceded, "but I actually think she's trying to blame it on you."
I looked at the turd in question, then the dog. The dog looked back at me with a look that said, "How vulgar! Have you no class?" I frowned.
"You see, she knows all too well that she can't but maybe she figures that you don't come here enough to know the rules. You're the perfect target," she added with a smile.
I couldn't decide if I was appalled or impressed.
This afternoon the Record family had our annual Labor Day picnic. We had it up at The Point, a piece of property where my family likes to shoot guns and eat. Shortly after arriving, my grandma realized she had forgotten something and headed back to her house with my cousin Brian in tow.
They were gone a strangely long time and we began to debate what had happened and where they went.
"She said she was headed to her house..." I began.
"Maybe she meant the Greenhouse," offered my cousin Danny as he dug through a cooler my Grandma had brought, full of cokes and, inexplicably, a tub of butter.
But soon after, we heard the roar of the gator coming up the road. My grandma drove up and began unloading the back of the gator. Brian helped, then approached the table we were sitting at with a strange look on his face and a large dark melon in his hands.
"She said it's a watermelon," he whispered. He set the mystery melon on the table and we all examined it. It was almost exactly the size, shape, weight and color of a bowling ball. The finger holes were the only things missing.
We conjectured for a while about what strange kind of gourd it was, but couldn't come to any conclusions.
After a while we ate dinner, sitting in the shade of great big pine trees at old metal picnic tables that are much older than I am with a light breeze blowing our hair and the edges of the table cloths my grandma had put down. We talked about school and work and Em and I bragged about our kickass derby hats. The sun sunk lower, elongating the shadows. We began to pack up the food and plates.
"Wait!" yelled Dan, and produced a large knife. He grabbed a spare bit of tinfoil and plunked the mystery melon on top of it. With the precision of a surgeon, he made an incision in the melon, carefully and slowly splitting it in two. Then, with a sudden motion, he pulled the melon apart.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered.
It was, unmistakably, a watermelon.
It was unappetizingly mushy, though, and instead of dessert, became target practice.
But, teach us to doubt Grandma!
Hope you had a good labor day, too!
Sarah
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