I was looking down at my legs during my last class of the day. It was pre-algebra, and Mrs. WhateverHerNameWas was spieling about positive and negative numbers. We had been given an assignment of some sort and were sitting in groups on the floor.
That's why I was staring at my legs. First staring, and then trying to hide them somehow underneath my body. Hiding legs as long as mine wasn't easy, even back then, when I was twelve.
You see, that day was the first time that I had noticed that all the girls sitting in my group on the floor had already begun shaving their legs, and mine were still covered with that soft, barely noticeable hair that has never known the harshness of a razor.
On that day, when I came to the knowledge that I was lagging behind my friends in the matters of womanly hygiene, those little hairs were as obvious to me as flecks of pepper in a salt shaker. I was mortified to find that I was still a little kid when my peers had made the transformation into seeming womanhood. After all, one who could wield a razor was surely mastering other feats such as proclaiming their need for Midol or dying their hair!
Panic ensued, and I began to wonder if I was the only one in my 7th grade class who had not started her period and were there other shaving areas I had been innocently neglecting? How did one go about shaving legs, anyhow? Seemed like there was something about using soap or not using soap...
I determined that I would just have to figure it out myself; there was no way I was going to ask my mother or my sister, because surely they would laugh at my inexperience and wonder what had taken me so long to enter the world of puberty management. How could I be so stupid as to think that strapping on my first training bra was the only hurdle to be jumped in the road to maturity? (Which may as well have been yesterday, for all the progress I've made in that area.)
Growing up always came slowly for me. I got "the talk" when I was 8 because my older sister was concerned about contracting AIDS, and when one of us needed to be informed of something, the other had to be included or we would just get the news second-hand. I covered my mouth during the majority of the lecture to stifle my laughs and cover my unsquelchable grin. Still ranks as one of my parent's favorite parenting moments with me, I'm sure.
My period arrived when I was thirteen, and thankfully it came when no one was home, so I was able to deal with the transformation without any embarrassing interference; until my sister showed up with her friend, who somehow discovered my secret and proceeded to congratulate me as though I had accomplished something that I had actually striven to achieve.
Thankfully, there were a few areas where I managed quite well on my own: application of deodorant and knowing when to tell my mother that I could curl my own bangs and still obtain the same degree of mockery from pre-teen vixens at school. That was about it, but it was something.
Seventeen years later, I still find myself sometimes baffled by what mainstream society has deemed "normal" in the beauty department. I have never had a Brazilian Wax, a facial, or any kind of Botox or colon cleanse. Maybe I'm missing out, but I think that as long as I have mastered the basics that I was a little slow to pick up on all those years ago, I'll be fine without the rest.
I do have one regret though. Maybe if my mother had fed me more hormone injected beef, I would have graduated from that training bra by now.
*Originally posted July 2009.
Showing posts with label looking back. Show all posts
Showing posts with label looking back. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The Nerd Herd
Moving was a normal thing for my family throughout my childhood. I only attended two high schools, but prior to that, I only spent two full grades at any school once. Fifth and Sixth grades at C. F. Tigard Elementary.
I don't remember many of my friends from grades prior to that. I can recall some names, and in some cases random features, nothing substantial. But my memories of my three friends from C.F. Tigard will always be vivid.
On the first day of fifth grade I walked out to morning recess in the grey mist of an early autumn rain, and I approached some girls from my class, just as I had been accustomed to doing at every new school. I was on the prowl for some friends, hoping that by week's end I wouldn't be eating lunch by myself.
I don't remember my opening remark, but I remember the awkward silence that reigned as the three girls glanced at each other in silent communication. Flustered and embarrassed, I desperately spouted out the first thing that came to mind, trying to stop the air from becoming steadily more uncomfortable.
"Look! There's a knot in my pants!"
Pausing for just a moment, let me describe my appearance on that day. I had a spiral perm, which my mother said I needed to give my frizzy hair some structured curl. My bangs were most likely curled into that early nineties tube shape; half curled down, the other half up and stiffened to death against the Pacific Northwest weather with Vidal Sassoon hairspray. I was wearing glasses that sat on my nose and covered half of my cheeks with their enormous, clear plastic frames. My coat was pink with lavender and blue geometric shapes, and my pants, which I was relying upon for my ice breaker, were Dodger Blue cotton, tapered at the ankle, and accented with a twist of fabric around the waist, which I had referred to as a knot. It was a floundering eleven-year-old's attempt at spontaneous humor, and I knew as soon as I had uttered that remark that I had won myself nothing but a label.
The girls that I was attempting to befriend were dressed in jeans with sweatshirts tied around their waists. They wore eyeliner and mascara, and had drawn on their hands little hearts and arrows. I was way out of my league.
The silence that overwhelmed me after my knotted pants comment was even more painful than the previous silence that I had tried to end. One of the girls put everyone out of their misery by saying, "Um, we'll be right back, okay?"
I nodded and smiled as I watched them walk away, trying to hide my shame. And then I stood there for the remainder of recess, just in case the girls really did intend to come back at some point.
They did not.
Gradually, I made some friends. Mara, Sarah and Renata. We were labeled "The Nerd Herd" by our classmates, but I didn't mind because I belonged somewhere. I had true friends to depend on and have fun with. I never had to eat lunch alone.
Mara had red hair and freckles. She was goofy and had doves in her apartment that would coo all morning whenever I spent the night at her apartment. Mara lived with just her mother, and while that was foreign to me, I felt comfortable at her house.
Renata was lively and always had ideas for fun. There were crucifixes at her house and statues of the Madonna. I went to church with her once, and that has been my only experience of Catholicism. Renata had dark hair and copper skin, a TV in her bedroom and a huge Barbie dollhouse. All four of us spent the night at her house once, determined to stay awake until dawn. I went home sick as a dog, and never stayed up all night again.
Sarah was our studious friend. Quiet and purposeful. She was intelligent, reserved, moved slowly, and was the listener. She wore a cardigan sweater nearly every day. I don't know if I ever saw her without one. Like me, she was automatically classified by her over-sized glasses. Unlike me, she never seemed to want to be the center of attention. Not even when we spent the night at her house and learned improvisation games from her older sisters. She would laugh with us and get involved, but never sought the spotlight.
The four of us spent those two years together, playing, crushing on boys, having sleepovers and even helping one of our number through a suicide in her family. They were my closest and dearest friends. The best I had ever had, and I loved them.
And then, after two years of fitting in, even if it was in "The Nerd Herd", my family moved again. And they were gone. Just like that.
Seventh grade found me in another new school, surrounded by kids who had been friends since kindergarten. I latched on to the first girl who spoke to me and later realized that she was not the kind of friend I wanted. I shifted to another group and did better there. But nothing was like it had been. There were no more sleepovers. I was never free to be exactly myself. When I was teased by the cool kids I no longer had the ability to let it roll off my back like I had before. I felt those pricks of insecurity chiseling away at my self esteem for the entire year.
Eighth grade was better, and ninth even more so. I was finally getting back to who I really was.
Those two years with Mara, Renata and Sarah taught me what friendship should be. It's frightening to know that my kids are approaching those same difficult years that I will always remember. My hope is that that same spirit of unconditional friendship will eventually find them, as it did me.
I don't remember many of my friends from grades prior to that. I can recall some names, and in some cases random features, nothing substantial. But my memories of my three friends from C.F. Tigard will always be vivid.
On the first day of fifth grade I walked out to morning recess in the grey mist of an early autumn rain, and I approached some girls from my class, just as I had been accustomed to doing at every new school. I was on the prowl for some friends, hoping that by week's end I wouldn't be eating lunch by myself.
I don't remember my opening remark, but I remember the awkward silence that reigned as the three girls glanced at each other in silent communication. Flustered and embarrassed, I desperately spouted out the first thing that came to mind, trying to stop the air from becoming steadily more uncomfortable.
"Look! There's a knot in my pants!"
Pausing for just a moment, let me describe my appearance on that day. I had a spiral perm, which my mother said I needed to give my frizzy hair some structured curl. My bangs were most likely curled into that early nineties tube shape; half curled down, the other half up and stiffened to death against the Pacific Northwest weather with Vidal Sassoon hairspray. I was wearing glasses that sat on my nose and covered half of my cheeks with their enormous, clear plastic frames. My coat was pink with lavender and blue geometric shapes, and my pants, which I was relying upon for my ice breaker, were Dodger Blue cotton, tapered at the ankle, and accented with a twist of fabric around the waist, which I had referred to as a knot. It was a floundering eleven-year-old's attempt at spontaneous humor, and I knew as soon as I had uttered that remark that I had won myself nothing but a label.
The girls that I was attempting to befriend were dressed in jeans with sweatshirts tied around their waists. They wore eyeliner and mascara, and had drawn on their hands little hearts and arrows. I was way out of my league.
The silence that overwhelmed me after my knotted pants comment was even more painful than the previous silence that I had tried to end. One of the girls put everyone out of their misery by saying, "Um, we'll be right back, okay?"
I nodded and smiled as I watched them walk away, trying to hide my shame. And then I stood there for the remainder of recess, just in case the girls really did intend to come back at some point.
They did not.
Gradually, I made some friends. Mara, Sarah and Renata. We were labeled "The Nerd Herd" by our classmates, but I didn't mind because I belonged somewhere. I had true friends to depend on and have fun with. I never had to eat lunch alone.
Mara had red hair and freckles. She was goofy and had doves in her apartment that would coo all morning whenever I spent the night at her apartment. Mara lived with just her mother, and while that was foreign to me, I felt comfortable at her house.
Renata was lively and always had ideas for fun. There were crucifixes at her house and statues of the Madonna. I went to church with her once, and that has been my only experience of Catholicism. Renata had dark hair and copper skin, a TV in her bedroom and a huge Barbie dollhouse. All four of us spent the night at her house once, determined to stay awake until dawn. I went home sick as a dog, and never stayed up all night again.
Sarah was our studious friend. Quiet and purposeful. She was intelligent, reserved, moved slowly, and was the listener. She wore a cardigan sweater nearly every day. I don't know if I ever saw her without one. Like me, she was automatically classified by her over-sized glasses. Unlike me, she never seemed to want to be the center of attention. Not even when we spent the night at her house and learned improvisation games from her older sisters. She would laugh with us and get involved, but never sought the spotlight.
The four of us spent those two years together, playing, crushing on boys, having sleepovers and even helping one of our number through a suicide in her family. They were my closest and dearest friends. The best I had ever had, and I loved them.
And then, after two years of fitting in, even if it was in "The Nerd Herd", my family moved again. And they were gone. Just like that.
Seventh grade found me in another new school, surrounded by kids who had been friends since kindergarten. I latched on to the first girl who spoke to me and later realized that she was not the kind of friend I wanted. I shifted to another group and did better there. But nothing was like it had been. There were no more sleepovers. I was never free to be exactly myself. When I was teased by the cool kids I no longer had the ability to let it roll off my back like I had before. I felt those pricks of insecurity chiseling away at my self esteem for the entire year.
Eighth grade was better, and ninth even more so. I was finally getting back to who I really was.
Those two years with Mara, Renata and Sarah taught me what friendship should be. It's frightening to know that my kids are approaching those same difficult years that I will always remember. My hope is that that same spirit of unconditional friendship will eventually find them, as it did me.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Pride Goeth Before The Fall...(or before the punch in the face, in my case.)
This is long, and it might be one of those stories that makes sense to the teller, but is jibberish to everyone else. Also, makes me seem narcissistic. Don't feel obligated to read it.
When I was 18 and just shy of my high school graduation, I was in a La Center High School production of Tony and Tina's Wedding. It was very close to the most fun thing I have ever done.
We spent weeks in class practicing our Brooklyn accents, building up our improv skills, and studying character bios, because Tony and Tina's Wedding, in case you are not aware, is an interactive play. The audience participates as the wedding guests, and we, as the cast, were the wedding party and family of the bride and groom.
I was awarded the part of Connie Mocogni, the pregnant matron of honor. She was just edgy enough to cause some scandal. I gelled my hair into a faux-hawk before it was the trendy thing to do, I made myself up with heavy eyeliner and black lipstick, and even sported a nose ring. From the neck up, I looked like the kind of girl you wouldn't want to bring home to mother. Underneath my bridesmaid dress, I wore a foam pregnant stomach. It made me sweat a lot.
In the non-high school version of the play Connie is the pregnant, unwed maid of honor, but because Mr. McCullough had to be careful to avoid any perceived indecency that might upset parents or the school board, my stage husband, "Barry", and I were instructed to wear a ring on our left hands and refer to each other as husband and wife. Mr. McCullough also had to remind us before every performance not to drink the sparkling cider directly from the bottle, thus making us look like a bunch of drunks. But we never listened. Poor man probably stressed a few years off of his life from all the unsavory things that we pretended to be involved in - and he only knew the half of it. That's what happens when you give creative freedom to a bunch of invincible, arrogant teenagers.
My role in the play was to be the edgy and socially inappropriate best friend of the bride, "Tina", and through the course of the night I was to become more and more hostile in my relationship with "Tina" before making up with her just before the end of the play - like all self-respecting, overly-emotional Italians do. "Tina" was played by a friend of mine from church, and I mean we were friends at church and friendly at school, but didn't hang in the same crowds outside of church. Her name was Rachel.
The cast rehearsed for this play for several weeks, had a dress rehearsal, and found ourselves ready for opening night. The place was booked for all four performances, and the ability to slip into a different persona for an evening gave me a kind of reckless abandon that robbed me of my better judgment. As in, perhaps I took things too far.
At one point in the play, I got to give a toast to honor the newlyweds. At this point though, I was to act mildly intoxicated, and considering that I've never actually been drunk in real life, I have no clue whether my performance was believable.
I stood in the middle of the room with a microphone and began my toast innocently enough, but slowly slipped into a fit of inebriated insults which I hurled at "Tina" relentlessly. I told her she looked like a cow in her wedding dress and asked her why she was wearing white, anyway? Keeping in mind that I was supposed to say these kinds of things, "Tina" was then meant to leave her spot on the raised bridal party table and come at me to start a cat fight. Two guys in the wedding party were then to break us up just before she got close enough to actually engage me in a Bridezilla-type brawl. Then the guys were to cart us off to different parts of the room to "cool off". The whole scene went like clockwork. It was unbelievable fun to behave in such a way in so public a setting. It wasn't in my nature at all to be that way, so this interaction was a great chance to feel so brash and daring.
The day after opening night, I was swarmed with people telling me that I had given an amazing performance, that I had "stolen the show", and everyone was so impressed! Even Mr. McCullough praised me for my quick wit and comical additions to what we had planned in rehearsal. When I stopped at my usual coffee kiosk in Battle Ground to pick up my daily hot chocolate, the proprietor exclaimed, "I saw you in the play last night! You were great!..." And her compliments, as well as others, went on until my head and ego were inflated to unhealthy proportions. That night, I stepped things up a little further, threw in a bit more attitude, and went for the kill. We were all a hit for the second time, and the high I experienced must have been better than something drug induced. But I wouldn't know for sure.
On the third night of our play, I detected a little bit of jealousy coming from Rachel as she did a fantastic job of playing the lead in the play. When "Tina", the other bridesmaids and I did our lip-sync number to "Like a Virgin", I failed to take the hint and did not back off in the least, but kept right on stealing Rachel's thunder and pointing at her butt before making gestures indicating that it was huge. I feel a bit bad about it now, but would not change anything, because, like I said - most fun thing I've ever done.
On the closing night of our play, I found myself in that same spot on the middle of the floor, toasting and then insulting "Tina" until she had had enough and came for me. As she strode across the floor with daggers in her eyes, I saw something flash behind her acting face that told me I might have sounded a little too sincere when I threw in that last comment about her dress size or her purity - whatever it might have been. It was like one of those bad dreams where you know something terrible is about to happen, but any attempt to thwart the impending horror leaves you paralyzed and vulnerable.
Before anyone could surmise what Rachel was about to do, she sped up her stride and punched me right in the mouth. And then, because we were still performing, (or so I would like to believe), she knocked me down and straddled me so that she could finish the job. I was in such a daze that I wasn't even fighting back. I just lay there, bleeding from the lip and wondering what was going on? Someone pulled her off of me, and another someone lifted me off the ground. I noticed that tears were leaking from my eyes and smearing all that eyeliner down my cheeks, and that infuriated me more than the punch, because no way would "Connie" cry. At the time, I couldn't help but think that the entire escapade had been premeditated as revenge for three nights worth of getting to play the villain, and perhaps playing my part too well. I think it safe to say that Rachel stole her show back from me that night, and put me in my place for sure.
There was no apology from Rachel for ducking the well-planned and practiced stage moves that would have kept her from reaching me before the wedding bouncers did, but nor was there an apology from me for basking in the limelight while she settled for runner-up. I'd like to say that I became a better person after the cheap shot, but in truthfulness, when, six months and a year later, people were still stopping me from time to time to tell me how well I had done in that play, I couldn't help but lick the inside of my lower lip, taste the memory of blood, and think, "Take that, Rachel!"
But now, in case Rachel should ever happen upon this story, (although I hope she doesn't because it still sounds horribly arrogant), I would like to say to her that I am sorry for stealing the spotlight. The play was titled, after all, "Tony and Tina's Wedding", not "Connie, the Brazen Matron of Honor". And I am also sorry for any hurt feelings that might have come from my portrayal of Connie. None of my remarks came from me, they were acting, and I did not then, nor do I now, believe any of them to be true. And the last time I saw you, Rachel, you looked super hot. I also need to compliment you on your fighting skills, because there was a lump inside my lip where you hit me for two solid years. And every time I felt it, I thought, "Dang...she's good."
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Naked People Falling On Me
I never would have remembered these suppressed memories had my Aunt not dredged them up by mentioning volunteering in her last blog post. (Give her some ideas people, before she turns into the lady on the news who is the owner of 112 cats that she brought home with her from the animal shelter and quickly became overwhelmed and is found by animal control living in poop and kitty litter 6 inches deep and carting around a bird on her shoulder.)
So after thinking about the only time that I have formally volunteered, ( I spend time in my kids' classrooms at school and do church stuff, but no longer anything with a name tag), I remembered how much I dreaded putting on that red and white striped apron and going to the hospital. I'm getting ahead of myself here, let me start from the beginning.
I was fourteen, and I have no clue who's idea it was for my sister, Natalie, and I to become Candy Stripers at the local hospital. It must have been Southwest Washington Medical Center, but I'm not entirely sure, having worked so hard to forget the entire experience. At any rate, some well-intentioned person signed Natalie and I up for orientation, where we spent an entire day being instructed on the rules and regulations of volunteering in a hospital and also being shown the correct way to make a bed using "hospital corners". Valuable piece of information there, people. So following all of the regulation mumbo-jumbo, we were given a tour of the hospital and shown all the areas where we might be assigned to volunteer. Of course, everyone's favorite was the pediatric wing where you could play with the cute little sick kids in rooms surrounded with rainbow paintings and tiny-sized armchairs. And nothing remotely disturbing or grotesque could ever happen in a pediatric ward, right? (Wrong.) So when it came time to fill out our preferences of where we'd like to work, all 50 of us surely put down the same departments: Pediatric, gift shop, (with it's cheery sounding cash register), and lobby, where we could smile and direct people to their loved ones' rooms without having to actually come in contact with the unfortunate sick and dismembered. (Feel free to call me 'insensitive' in any forthcoming hate mail.)
So a week later, all of us Candy Stripers anxiously arrived at the hospital to learn our fates. Apparently, all of the happy places were assigned to the blond haired, blue eyed beauties, for I was assigned to the surgery wing.
Did you get that? Surgery wing. Not a happy place at all.
We broke into groups and were escorted to our designated areas. I said good-bye to Natalie, and if you'd like to know where she went, you'll have to ask her because it's one of those details too painful to dredge up, but let's remember that she has blonde hair and blue eyes, was approached by "model scouts" more times than I can remember, and was given a job at Musicland before she'd even finished asking for an application by the man who later became her lucky husband. The elevator doors opened up on the surgical floor and all of my awkward adolescent comrades and I emerged into the very hallways of Hell where, I kid you not, you could hear people moaning in every other room and one woman was actually screaming and everyone was ignoring her.
Every Thursday I went to that wing and did my best to disappear into the background as nurses bustled to and fro, taking calls and answering pages. I know they weren't doing anything to help their patients, because if they had been, then the moaning surely would have stopped. Some days I avoided having to go into anyone's room and got away with delivering samples to the lab or picking up more kidney shaped vomit catchers from the supply warden.
Some days I was not so lucky.
One day I was given the assignment of making sure that all the patients had adequately stocked bedside drawers. I was checking for bedpans, the stinking vomit catchers, little plastic cups and tissue boxes, among other things. Once in a while I had to converse with women who were still coming off the morphine high and smile and talk nicely while I backed out of the room with promises to send a nurse. And then I came upon the room. The room that was blessedly void of any living soul. I checked the drawer, found it satisfactory and headed back out. But as I passed the bathroom, a large, lumbering person stumbled toward me, and with a little groan, fell completely naked into my arms. Too shocked to know what else to do, I tried my best to keep the slippery person from falling all the way to the floor. My arms were underneath their arms, but I was unsure of whether I was dealing with a man or a woman, so I couldn't make myself use my hands to grab them around the middle for fear of latching on to two naked breasts. And why was this person wet?? Please let them have just taken a shower, please don't let this slippery being be covered in sweat! Just as my knees were about to buckle, a nurse came into the room and helped me drag the person upright. Then I bolted. I didn't even stay to help the nurse get the patient to his or her bed. I needed to wash both my arms from the shoulders down, pronto.
And that is the last memory I have of volunteering in a hospital. It is not, however, the last memory I have of someone naked falling on me.
The next story is not so awful. It takes place in a daycare. I must have figured out how to do my hair and make-up in a way that would validate me to be in the presence of darling children. Or maybe the staff was desperate. However it happened, at 18 I found myself the sole caretaker for more than the legal number of pre-schoolers for several hours a day. Once the school-age children were off to their classrooms I had some help, but until then, I spent the morning hours on my own. Thankfully, we only took kids who were potty trained. That does not mean that they were all capable of the entire spectrum of toilet duties on their own, however.
One day, little Dylan yelled from the bathroom, the door to which he had left open, "Teacher Beth, can you come wipe me?" He was an intoxicating and adorable 3 year old, and of course I could wipe him. I went into the bathroom and Dylan promptly bent over and rested the top of his head on the floor so that I had an unencumbered view of his wiping needs. I gathered the toilet paper and went to work. And then he lost his balance and his tiny butt landed on my arm, one cheek on either side of my radius bone. Laughing hysterically, he regained his upright position and said through his giggles, "Sorry, Teacher Beth", and then went on with his chuckling. I was desperately trying to control my urge to lunge my forearm into boiling water, because I had a skid mark where there never ought to be a skid mark. I toughed it out and finished wiping his behind before I scoured my arm under the sink with our month's supply of liquid soap.
Moral of the story, you never know when a naked person might fall on you, and there's nothing you can do to stop them. That's about it.
So after thinking about the only time that I have formally volunteered, ( I spend time in my kids' classrooms at school and do church stuff, but no longer anything with a name tag), I remembered how much I dreaded putting on that red and white striped apron and going to the hospital. I'm getting ahead of myself here, let me start from the beginning.
I was fourteen, and I have no clue who's idea it was for my sister, Natalie, and I to become Candy Stripers at the local hospital. It must have been Southwest Washington Medical Center, but I'm not entirely sure, having worked so hard to forget the entire experience. At any rate, some well-intentioned person signed Natalie and I up for orientation, where we spent an entire day being instructed on the rules and regulations of volunteering in a hospital and also being shown the correct way to make a bed using "hospital corners". Valuable piece of information there, people. So following all of the regulation mumbo-jumbo, we were given a tour of the hospital and shown all the areas where we might be assigned to volunteer. Of course, everyone's favorite was the pediatric wing where you could play with the cute little sick kids in rooms surrounded with rainbow paintings and tiny-sized armchairs. And nothing remotely disturbing or grotesque could ever happen in a pediatric ward, right? (Wrong.) So when it came time to fill out our preferences of where we'd like to work, all 50 of us surely put down the same departments: Pediatric, gift shop, (with it's cheery sounding cash register), and lobby, where we could smile and direct people to their loved ones' rooms without having to actually come in contact with the unfortunate sick and dismembered. (Feel free to call me 'insensitive' in any forthcoming hate mail.)
So a week later, all of us Candy Stripers anxiously arrived at the hospital to learn our fates. Apparently, all of the happy places were assigned to the blond haired, blue eyed beauties, for I was assigned to the surgery wing.
Did you get that? Surgery wing. Not a happy place at all.
We broke into groups and were escorted to our designated areas. I said good-bye to Natalie, and if you'd like to know where she went, you'll have to ask her because it's one of those details too painful to dredge up, but let's remember that she has blonde hair and blue eyes, was approached by "model scouts" more times than I can remember, and was given a job at Musicland before she'd even finished asking for an application by the man who later became her lucky husband. The elevator doors opened up on the surgical floor and all of my awkward adolescent comrades and I emerged into the very hallways of Hell where, I kid you not, you could hear people moaning in every other room and one woman was actually screaming and everyone was ignoring her.
Every Thursday I went to that wing and did my best to disappear into the background as nurses bustled to and fro, taking calls and answering pages. I know they weren't doing anything to help their patients, because if they had been, then the moaning surely would have stopped. Some days I avoided having to go into anyone's room and got away with delivering samples to the lab or picking up more kidney shaped vomit catchers from the supply warden.
Some days I was not so lucky.
One day I was given the assignment of making sure that all the patients had adequately stocked bedside drawers. I was checking for bedpans, the stinking vomit catchers, little plastic cups and tissue boxes, among other things. Once in a while I had to converse with women who were still coming off the morphine high and smile and talk nicely while I backed out of the room with promises to send a nurse. And then I came upon the room. The room that was blessedly void of any living soul. I checked the drawer, found it satisfactory and headed back out. But as I passed the bathroom, a large, lumbering person stumbled toward me, and with a little groan, fell completely naked into my arms. Too shocked to know what else to do, I tried my best to keep the slippery person from falling all the way to the floor. My arms were underneath their arms, but I was unsure of whether I was dealing with a man or a woman, so I couldn't make myself use my hands to grab them around the middle for fear of latching on to two naked breasts. And why was this person wet?? Please let them have just taken a shower, please don't let this slippery being be covered in sweat! Just as my knees were about to buckle, a nurse came into the room and helped me drag the person upright. Then I bolted. I didn't even stay to help the nurse get the patient to his or her bed. I needed to wash both my arms from the shoulders down, pronto.
And that is the last memory I have of volunteering in a hospital. It is not, however, the last memory I have of someone naked falling on me.
The next story is not so awful. It takes place in a daycare. I must have figured out how to do my hair and make-up in a way that would validate me to be in the presence of darling children. Or maybe the staff was desperate. However it happened, at 18 I found myself the sole caretaker for more than the legal number of pre-schoolers for several hours a day. Once the school-age children were off to their classrooms I had some help, but until then, I spent the morning hours on my own. Thankfully, we only took kids who were potty trained. That does not mean that they were all capable of the entire spectrum of toilet duties on their own, however.
One day, little Dylan yelled from the bathroom, the door to which he had left open, "Teacher Beth, can you come wipe me?" He was an intoxicating and adorable 3 year old, and of course I could wipe him. I went into the bathroom and Dylan promptly bent over and rested the top of his head on the floor so that I had an unencumbered view of his wiping needs. I gathered the toilet paper and went to work. And then he lost his balance and his tiny butt landed on my arm, one cheek on either side of my radius bone. Laughing hysterically, he regained his upright position and said through his giggles, "Sorry, Teacher Beth", and then went on with his chuckling. I was desperately trying to control my urge to lunge my forearm into boiling water, because I had a skid mark where there never ought to be a skid mark. I toughed it out and finished wiping his behind before I scoured my arm under the sink with our month's supply of liquid soap.
Moral of the story, you never know when a naked person might fall on you, and there's nothing you can do to stop them. That's about it.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Stirred Up By Crickets
In the quiet hours between chaos and slumber, I lay and listen to the sounds of night. The breeze stroking the leaves on the trees to sleep and crickets singing their night-loving hymns. Summer nights are entrancing to anyone willing to fall prey to their spell-casting. Those crickets serenading me outside my window bring a rush of memories. I close my eyes as my mind staggers in attempt to keep up with the flashes and pictures running through my head. Campfires. Arriving home past curfew from a date. Listening to waves crash onto a dark shore. But one picture repeatedly pushes it's way to the back of my eyelids again and again, rudely forcing it's presence upon me.
The Toilet Paper Wars.
This was not the shadowy memory that I had hoped to linger upon, but I turned myself over to it, surrendering my hopes of a romantic recollection....
......Rural Battle Ground, Washington provided little in the way of entertainment in my day. My sister and friends and I would do anything during summer months to keep ourselves occupied with whatever didn't turn us into Country Bumpkins. That need to refrain from wearing giant belt buckles and listening to twangy music gave birth to the toilet paper wars. Dan and Scott, boys our age who lived about a half mile up the road, may have been the ones to spur the first attack, or it may have been us girls - I don't remember now, but there were many battles.
On one of those vengeful nights, Natalie and I had two friends over, Stephanie and Sandy. We erected a tent in the front yard of our house to deter any enemy activity. After all, who would dare toilet paper a house when the objects of your flirtatious offensive could be hiding just inside canvas walls that allowed in all kinds of suspicious noises? The four of us sat inside the tent and plotted our moves for the evening. The objective was simple; toilet paper Dan's house. But execution wouldn't be so easy because Dan and Scott might be expecting us. They could even be driving the road between our base and theirs, watching for our advance. We decided the best way to move would be to split in twos, walking up each side of the road towards our target, and dive into the ditch anytime a car approached from either direction to avoid being spotted by our foe. Gathering up our ammo, (copious ammounts of Charmin), we cautiously proceeded out of the tent and made our way towards the road.
The distance between our houses never seemed so far as when we were desperate to avoid detection. The chirping of our allies, the crickets, cheered us on with each adrenaline filled step and the moon was all that lit our way. It wasn't long at all before headlights appeared in the distance behind us and we all scrambled to lay as flat as possible in the deep trenches on either side of the pavement. Thoughts of roadkill and all varieties of insects and rodents plagued our minds as we waited for the car to pass. We could have been laying on anything in those ditches, but it was war. Sacrifice was necessity.
The car passed, and, hearts racing, we climbed from our hiding places and resumed the forge up the road. We had made it almost to the bottom of a little hill near the end of the road. Dan lived at the top of the incline - not far to go. Then, another car, rounding the corner right ahead of us! There was no time! We scattered in all directions. Headlights surrounded us in their revealing illumination. Each of us dove towards the ditch nearest us. Then a scream! The roar of a truck's engine passed us, we were safe. Then silence.
"Who screamed?" someone whispered in the welcomed darkness.
The reply came from Sandy. "This ditch is full of water! I'm soaking wet!"
Mouths covered to quiet our laughter, we watched Sandy crawl out of her ditch, dripping with filthy water. Poor Sandy had become the first casualty in The Toilet Paper Wars. She had selflessly helped us to avoid capture, and we were grateful.
At last, we made it to the enemy's camp. Cloaked in a hush, we unraveled the T.P. around bushes, lamp posts, fence railings and shrubs. We rolled it across the lawn in stripe and zig-zag patterns. Stealthily, we tossed the rolls into trees and the tissue cascaded back down to us like a glorious waterfall. We took just a moment to admire our work. The mission had been a success.
Back in the tent later that night, we excitedly munched on our rations of junk food and discussed when retaliation might be coming. No matter - we were the Masters, and we were ready to escalate the campaign to complete annihilation if necessary. With giddy enthusiasm, we settled into our sleeping bags to listen to those crickets pass the news of our victory to all the nocturnal world. And then we slept, confident that, for that night, we were impervious to raids from our worthy opponents.
The Toilet Paper Wars.
This was not the shadowy memory that I had hoped to linger upon, but I turned myself over to it, surrendering my hopes of a romantic recollection....
......Rural Battle Ground, Washington provided little in the way of entertainment in my day. My sister and friends and I would do anything during summer months to keep ourselves occupied with whatever didn't turn us into Country Bumpkins. That need to refrain from wearing giant belt buckles and listening to twangy music gave birth to the toilet paper wars. Dan and Scott, boys our age who lived about a half mile up the road, may have been the ones to spur the first attack, or it may have been us girls - I don't remember now, but there were many battles.
On one of those vengeful nights, Natalie and I had two friends over, Stephanie and Sandy. We erected a tent in the front yard of our house to deter any enemy activity. After all, who would dare toilet paper a house when the objects of your flirtatious offensive could be hiding just inside canvas walls that allowed in all kinds of suspicious noises? The four of us sat inside the tent and plotted our moves for the evening. The objective was simple; toilet paper Dan's house. But execution wouldn't be so easy because Dan and Scott might be expecting us. They could even be driving the road between our base and theirs, watching for our advance. We decided the best way to move would be to split in twos, walking up each side of the road towards our target, and dive into the ditch anytime a car approached from either direction to avoid being spotted by our foe. Gathering up our ammo, (copious ammounts of Charmin), we cautiously proceeded out of the tent and made our way towards the road.
The distance between our houses never seemed so far as when we were desperate to avoid detection. The chirping of our allies, the crickets, cheered us on with each adrenaline filled step and the moon was all that lit our way. It wasn't long at all before headlights appeared in the distance behind us and we all scrambled to lay as flat as possible in the deep trenches on either side of the pavement. Thoughts of roadkill and all varieties of insects and rodents plagued our minds as we waited for the car to pass. We could have been laying on anything in those ditches, but it was war. Sacrifice was necessity.
The car passed, and, hearts racing, we climbed from our hiding places and resumed the forge up the road. We had made it almost to the bottom of a little hill near the end of the road. Dan lived at the top of the incline - not far to go. Then, another car, rounding the corner right ahead of us! There was no time! We scattered in all directions. Headlights surrounded us in their revealing illumination. Each of us dove towards the ditch nearest us. Then a scream! The roar of a truck's engine passed us, we were safe. Then silence.
"Who screamed?" someone whispered in the welcomed darkness.
The reply came from Sandy. "This ditch is full of water! I'm soaking wet!"
Mouths covered to quiet our laughter, we watched Sandy crawl out of her ditch, dripping with filthy water. Poor Sandy had become the first casualty in The Toilet Paper Wars. She had selflessly helped us to avoid capture, and we were grateful.
At last, we made it to the enemy's camp. Cloaked in a hush, we unraveled the T.P. around bushes, lamp posts, fence railings and shrubs. We rolled it across the lawn in stripe and zig-zag patterns. Stealthily, we tossed the rolls into trees and the tissue cascaded back down to us like a glorious waterfall. We took just a moment to admire our work. The mission had been a success.
Back in the tent later that night, we excitedly munched on our rations of junk food and discussed when retaliation might be coming. No matter - we were the Masters, and we were ready to escalate the campaign to complete annihilation if necessary. With giddy enthusiasm, we settled into our sleeping bags to listen to those crickets pass the news of our victory to all the nocturnal world. And then we slept, confident that, for that night, we were impervious to raids from our worthy opponents.
Monday, July 27, 2009
The Curse of the Puberty Fairy
I was looking down at my legs during my last class of the day. It was pre-algebra, and Ms. Whateverhernamewas was spieling about positive and negative numbers. We had been given an assignment of some sort and were sitting in groups on the floor.
That's why I was staring at my legs. First staring, and then trying to hide them somehow underneath my body. Hiding legs as long as mine wasn't easy, even back then, when I was twelve.
You see, that day was the first time that I had noticed that all the girls sitting in my group on the floor had already begun shaving their legs, and mine were still covered with that soft, barely noticeable hair that has never known the harshness of a razor.
On that day, when I came to the knowledge that I was lagging behind my friends in the matters of womanly hygiene, those little hairs were as obvious to me as flecks of pepper in a salt shaker. I was mortified to find that I was still a little kid when my peers had made the transformation into seeming womanhood. After all, one who could wield a razor was surely mastering other feats such as proclaiming their need for Midol or dying their hair!
Panic ensued, and I began to wonder if I was the only one in my 7th grade class who had not started her period and were there other shaving areas I had been innocently neglecting? How did one go about shaving legs, anyhow? Seemed like there was something about using soap or not using soap...
I determined that I would just have to figure it out myself; there was no way I was going to ask my mother or my sister, because surely they would laugh at my inexperience and wonder what had taken me so long to enter the world of puberty management. How could I be so stupid as to think that strapping on my first training bra was the only hurdle to be jumped in the road to maturity? (Which may as well have been yesterday, for all the progress I've made in that area.)
Growing up always came slowly for me. I got "the talk" when I was 8 because my older sister was concerned about contracting AIDS, and when one of us needed to be informed of something, the other had to be included or we would just get the news second-hand. I covered my mouth during the majority of the lecture to stifle my laughs and cover my unsquelchable grin. Still ranks as one of my parent's favorite parenting moments with me, I'm sure.
My period arrived when I was thirteen, and thankfully it came when no one was home, so I was able to deal with the transformation without any embarrassing interference; until my sister came home with her friend, who somehow discovered my secret and proceeded to congratulate me as though I had accomplished something that I had actually striven to achieve.
Thankfully, there were a few areas where I managed quite well on my own: application of deodorant and knowing when to tell my mother that I could curl my own bangs and still obtain the same degree of mockery from pre-teen vixens at school. That was about it, but it was something.
Seventeen years later, I still find myself sometimes baffled by what mainstream society has deemed "normal" in the beauty department. I have never had a Brazilian Wax, a facial or any kind of Botox or colon cleanse. Maybe I'm missing out, but I think that as long as I have mastered the basics that I was a little slow to pick up on all those years ago, I'll be fine without the rest.
I do have one regret though. Maybe if my mother had fed me more hormone injected beef, I would have graduated from that training bra by now.
That's why I was staring at my legs. First staring, and then trying to hide them somehow underneath my body. Hiding legs as long as mine wasn't easy, even back then, when I was twelve.
You see, that day was the first time that I had noticed that all the girls sitting in my group on the floor had already begun shaving their legs, and mine were still covered with that soft, barely noticeable hair that has never known the harshness of a razor.
On that day, when I came to the knowledge that I was lagging behind my friends in the matters of womanly hygiene, those little hairs were as obvious to me as flecks of pepper in a salt shaker. I was mortified to find that I was still a little kid when my peers had made the transformation into seeming womanhood. After all, one who could wield a razor was surely mastering other feats such as proclaiming their need for Midol or dying their hair!
Panic ensued, and I began to wonder if I was the only one in my 7th grade class who had not started her period and were there other shaving areas I had been innocently neglecting? How did one go about shaving legs, anyhow? Seemed like there was something about using soap or not using soap...
I determined that I would just have to figure it out myself; there was no way I was going to ask my mother or my sister, because surely they would laugh at my inexperience and wonder what had taken me so long to enter the world of puberty management. How could I be so stupid as to think that strapping on my first training bra was the only hurdle to be jumped in the road to maturity? (Which may as well have been yesterday, for all the progress I've made in that area.)
Growing up always came slowly for me. I got "the talk" when I was 8 because my older sister was concerned about contracting AIDS, and when one of us needed to be informed of something, the other had to be included or we would just get the news second-hand. I covered my mouth during the majority of the lecture to stifle my laughs and cover my unsquelchable grin. Still ranks as one of my parent's favorite parenting moments with me, I'm sure.
My period arrived when I was thirteen, and thankfully it came when no one was home, so I was able to deal with the transformation without any embarrassing interference; until my sister came home with her friend, who somehow discovered my secret and proceeded to congratulate me as though I had accomplished something that I had actually striven to achieve.
Thankfully, there were a few areas where I managed quite well on my own: application of deodorant and knowing when to tell my mother that I could curl my own bangs and still obtain the same degree of mockery from pre-teen vixens at school. That was about it, but it was something.
Seventeen years later, I still find myself sometimes baffled by what mainstream society has deemed "normal" in the beauty department. I have never had a Brazilian Wax, a facial or any kind of Botox or colon cleanse. Maybe I'm missing out, but I think that as long as I have mastered the basics that I was a little slow to pick up on all those years ago, I'll be fine without the rest.
I do have one regret though. Maybe if my mother had fed me more hormone injected beef, I would have graduated from that training bra by now.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Sunshine and Freedom
Summer days were always scorching in Aurora, Colorado. We would ride our bikes through our desert-like neighborhood streets while the heat rose up from the black asphalt in waves that seemed to distort our vision. The end of our street gave home to enormous piles of dirt that we explored through, created trash museums in and escaped to whenever our imaginations called. Our backyard was a jungle of weeds, as grass had presumably never been planted, and as those weeds grew up over our heads, Dad mowed trails through them so that we could play an exciting and blind game of fox and goose, or hide-and-seek, or anything at all, really. The summer sun blazed down on us as a spectator to our many childhood adventures.
Riding a bicycle for the first time in the driveway of that Colorado home was like being given wings. I could fly through the air with speed and freedom; down the hills with wind rushing past my ears and stinging my eyes until tears leaked from them. It didn't matter that I fell from the seat of my bike daily by continually pushing it to it's limits. My bike was a good friend that always scooped me back up and took off again-ready for me to pedal too fast or corner too quickly, always ignoring the scars that I gave it.
Summer's highlight was playing outside, and then hearing the soft, distant tinkling of the ice cream truck's music. Excitement doubled with each pound of our feet on the pavement as we raced into the house to collect money from Mom or Dad, and then scurried back outside to listen to the truck draw nearer. A snow cone with rainbow stripes of cherry, grape and lime. Cool and sweet on our tongues, and sometimes, when we ate with undue enthusiasm, a brain freeze to remind us to slow down and enjoy it. At the bottom of the paper cone, all covered in melted juices lay a gumball. A prize for each moment of blistering play outside.
The world was bigger in the days of my Colorado summers. Horizons were further in the distance and backyards were larger than life. Bicycles, mounds of dirt and snow cones were all that I needed to feel excitement and joy. As two of my sons raced to catch the ice cream truck today with dollar bills clenched like treasure in their fists, I hoped that their worlds were filled with magic and endless possibility, as was mine in Colorado.
Riding a bicycle for the first time in the driveway of that Colorado home was like being given wings. I could fly through the air with speed and freedom; down the hills with wind rushing past my ears and stinging my eyes until tears leaked from them. It didn't matter that I fell from the seat of my bike daily by continually pushing it to it's limits. My bike was a good friend that always scooped me back up and took off again-ready for me to pedal too fast or corner too quickly, always ignoring the scars that I gave it.
Summer's highlight was playing outside, and then hearing the soft, distant tinkling of the ice cream truck's music. Excitement doubled with each pound of our feet on the pavement as we raced into the house to collect money from Mom or Dad, and then scurried back outside to listen to the truck draw nearer. A snow cone with rainbow stripes of cherry, grape and lime. Cool and sweet on our tongues, and sometimes, when we ate with undue enthusiasm, a brain freeze to remind us to slow down and enjoy it. At the bottom of the paper cone, all covered in melted juices lay a gumball. A prize for each moment of blistering play outside.
The world was bigger in the days of my Colorado summers. Horizons were further in the distance and backyards were larger than life. Bicycles, mounds of dirt and snow cones were all that I needed to feel excitement and joy. As two of my sons raced to catch the ice cream truck today with dollar bills clenched like treasure in their fists, I hoped that their worlds were filled with magic and endless possibility, as was mine in Colorado.
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