Thursday, September 18, 2014

Checking In

Oh hey!

In case anyone new drops by, I just wanted to note that this blog has not been maintained in a very long time.

I'm sure there's some fun stuff to be found if you sift through, but there's also quite a bit off chaff. So, be prepared for a mixed experience if you decide to poke around. <3 p="">

Monday, February 25, 2013

The (Back) Hurt Locker

When I was sixteen, I made the decision to switch schools. I was weary of the small-town vibe of Hopedale Jr./Sr. High School: a building that hosted just a few hundred students and what I considered to be a woefully inadequate Drama Club. In my bid for the big time, I looked to the next town over and chose Milford High School. MHS boasted many impressive features. It had about as many students in my grade level as Hopedale had in the whole school; a gym that was actually attached to the building (no more having to trudge down town in all kinds of weather for Phys. Ed.); a genuine honest-to-goodness football team (I had previously begun to suspect that high school football teams were something that only existed in movies) and, most importantly, a good Drama program.

So impressed was I by my new school that I lived in constant fear that my MHS classmates would see me for the stupid, small-town rube that I thought I was. The most substantial and absurd manifestation of this fear still haunts me to this day: I was afraid to ask where my locker was.

To be fair, I was indeed given a locker assignment. My locker number was neatly printed on a small slip of paper that was handed to me on my first day of eleventh grade. But, after spending the previous four years attending a school that consisted of little more than two short hallways stacked on top of each other, Milford High School’s expansive layout (it was divided into wings—wings for God’s sake!) seemed an impenetrable mystery to me.

And so, unable to decode the correlation between the numbers on that slip of paper and the location of my locker, and too shy to ask anyone, I endured the final two years of my high school career lockerless. Each day of school, every item that I might need—every notebook, every school project, every lunch, every massive hardcover textbook—went into my backpack. I spent my schooldays stooped and shuffling through the hallways, my overstuffed backpack strapped precariously to my then-willow-thin frame. After a while, the backpack seemed to become a part of my overburdened back, and I began to look like a teenage, female Quasimodo as I staggered painfully from class to class.

I’ve long since tackled my fear of looking stupid in front of strangers. Indeed, embarrassing myself in front of others is a phenomenon as frequent and inevitable as the rising of the sun, so why not embrace it? I do wish sometimes, though, that I had learned this lesson earlier; it would have saved me years of resultant back pain after daily laboring under a load that would make a pack animal wince.

So kids, my advice to you is this: Just ask someone where your goddamn locker is.

16 years old: Afraid to ask where my locker was, NOT afraid to wear shiny animal prints.

Friday, September 16, 2011

A View from the Cube

A coworker who sits in a cubicle near me likes to excercise while she works. She owns a small weight and does slow reps - lifting the weight straight up in the air, lowering it, pausing, then lifting again.

From where I sit, on the other side of the cube wall, it looks as if she repeatedly loses the weight, then finds it, and then holds it aloft in triumph.


Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Inappropriate Children's Toys

When I was a child, I had a toy stuffed cat. The cat's main selling point was that it wept "real tears" after being fed a bottle filled with water. It also made crying sounds when it was hugged.

There was apparently a market for emotionally unstable children's toys in the 1980's.

A recent search online revealed that my melancholy stuffed friend was from a line of toys called "Lost N Founds".  Her given name belied her despondent disposition.

In memory of that beloved toy, I have decided to write to the makers of Lost N Founds and suggest that they revive and expand their line of toys. Within the letter, I plan to include a couple helpful ideas. Let me know what you think.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

My Mother's Secret Shame

For the first twenty-eight years of my life, I believed that my mother's full name was Karen Suzanne Hensel (nee Karen Suzanne Cutter). I had no reason to believe otherwise. Like all daughters, I would sometimes work myself into a self-righteous tizzy over some disagreement and fling accusations at my mom; I would say that she was mean, that she was unfair... but I never thought she was a liar.

Then I had to order a copy of my marriage certificate for my insurance company. I pulled the certificate from its envelope and gave it a quick glance. Everything seemed in order. I faxed the copy over to the appropriate office.

Then I took a second look at the certificate...

BAM. There it was: proof that I had been living a lie. I am not, as I had naively believed for so long, the daughter of Karen Suzanne Cutter. I am the daughter of:

In my mother's defense, it is a pretty embarrassing name.