Random Memories: Circa 1990

The house I grew up in was long. My and my sister's bedrooms were at one end and my parents' room was at the other.

Once my sis and I became talkative teens, my parents had the bright idea to get us our own phone line so that they, too, could actually get some time on the phone.

After my sister went off to college, the phone was pretty much mine. (Yes, these dull details are relevant.)

One night at about 2 in the morning, the phone rang. I stumbled out of bed and grabbed the receiver.



I don't recall the first words that passed between myself and the person on the other end, but whatever they were, it was clear that it was a wrong number.

I just wanted to go back to sleep. He, however, was intrigued at his dialing mistake and decided it was time to make a new friend.

Okay, here's the really stupid part: I thought it would be rude to just hang up.

Yeah.

Duh.

So there I was, exhausted, sitting across the room from my nice warm bed (this is pre-cordless and cell phone days, friends), shooting the midnight breeze with some completely socially backward stranger.

I remember a few things from the conversation. He had an accent and I soon discovered that he was calling from New Zealand (or so he said), he claimed to be an excellent tennis player and at one point he referred to NZ mailmen as "posties" which I thought was funny.

Then he asked me a thought provoking, meaningful question.

"So...are you fat?"

Charming, no?

(What weirdo doesn't ponder the appearance of the sleepy teenage girl he has managed to keep on the phone for far too long?)

"No," I responded. "But presently my hair is a rat's nest and the smell of my breath could fell a rhino."

Okay, so I didn't actually say that. I have no idea what I did say 'cause what teenage girl doesn't think she is fat?

Finally, he tired of our conversation and we said goodbye.

Ahhh...back to bed.

However, a few nights later, he decided to while away a few more minutes by calling me again. Somehow, he didn't even have the decency to figure out when would be a convenient time for me. Again, it's 2 in the morning and my phone is ringing.

Grrr...

I will point out the completely obvious which is that I had the power to squelch this whole unchivalrous situation and yet I didn't. Again, I thought it would be rude to tell this asinine stranger who deemed it appropriate to call me in the middle of the night because he was bored and wanted to chat.

What was wrong with me?

That brings me to why I bother sharing this story at all--I want my daughter to be polite and sweet, characteristics which she naturally exhibits, but I only want her to be polite and sweet to good people who won't use those attributes against her.

There are people out there whose morality ranges from whatever's-convenient-to-me (like the aforementioned oaf of a Kiwi) to those whose sole desire is to commit horrific acts against others.

We need to teach our girls to protect themselves, but how do we do that without scaring the crap out of them?

My own folly wasn't the fault of my parents. I don't think they left out some vital element when teaching me about dealing with strangers. I just had an over-active-must-be-polite-at-all-costs mentality.

Actually, when I was a young kid, my parents were of the it's-important-to-let-your-kid-express-herself mindset. In other words, I was, at times, a brat. (Once, when I was about seven, I basically told one of our family friends that he was a loser because he smoked. Nice, huh? Poor guy probably wanted to express himself by throwing me over his knee and spanking my butt. Sorry, Leonard. We were both victimized by a pop-psychology theory from the 70s.)

Looking back, I don't think my drive to be super-sweet-in-all-situations began until I became a Christian at the age of 12. In my naivety, I interpreted Jesus's commandment to "love others as myself" to mean that I needed to behave unwisely and too trustingly.

Now I know that God doesn't want me to be stupid in hopes of "winning others into the kingdom". If that means I'll be misinterpreted occasionally, then so be it. God knows my intentions and His Spirit is the One who does the truly effective work in others anyway.

There's peace in that realization.

So what happened to my "friend" on the other side of the world?

Well, he called back a third time, but I wasn't home that night. I don't know if he let the phone ring and ring and ring or what, but somehow my dad woke up and answered my phone. As you can imagine, Dad went off on the heavily-accented guy who was asking to speak to his teenage daughter at dumb o'clock in the morning.


And that was that.

Since both of my random memories thus far have focused on my interactions with foreign men, I may as well complete the trilogy with the following tale--

A few months after my phone calls from that Place-East-of-the-Land-Down-Under, I had the pleasure of being a foreign exchange student to England.

One day, our group of about thirty went into London to take in the sights. At lunchtime, we made our way to Covent Garden to eat.


It is now that I must confess to yet another of my failings: my natural tendency to not pay attention to important information whilst others are imparting it to me. (Since this experience, actually hugely due to this experience, I have made huge strides in improving in this area.)

Therefore when the meet-up time and place were announced to the group, I was apparently not paying attention because when I turned around, I suddenly realized that I was all alone and had no idea where to find anyone in my group. (Remember, these were pre-cell phone days.)

Lost in London.

It was not as titillating as it may sound.

Trying not to panic, I attempted to look around the general area without getting too far away from the last spot at which I had been surrounded by familiar faces.

It was at this time that a man approached me. He introduced himself and informed me that he was from France.

(No, not an actual photo.)

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with his accent.

"Yes," I lied, suddenly suspicious of everyone.

"You look sad. Are you sure you are alright?"

Sad? I look sad? I'm not sad! I'm freaked out 'cause I'm lost and scared of weird men like you!

"No, I'm fine."

He then invited me to join him and his friends who were sitting at a table on the sidewalk nearby.

I thanked him, but declined, just wanting to get away from him.

"Well, perhaps we can meet up later, then. Take in a show?"

It was time to get blunt with this creepy fellow, show him the error of his ways.

"Ummm...I'm only 16."

His eyes lit up. "Oh, then you are a woman, old enough to make decisions for yourself and...live life."

WHAT???

I think I literally snorted in my aggravated-amused-verging-on-panic disgust and walked away.

I may not have been the smartest lost girl in London but I wasn't a complete moron. I knew when some guy was behaving inappropriately toward me.

Unless, perhaps he did so over the phone...

Poor Old Man

This is Bruiser.


He is 12 years old which, if you're doing your canine math, equals completely geriatric.

It's beginning to show.

You see, he wants to keep up with this spry 2 year old fellow, Duncan, who...

...can leap several feet high and streak after a frisbee as if his very tail depends on it.

But keep up, he can not.


*sigh*

He's got a little vim and vigor left in him. Check out this action shot:

However, we're beginning to wonder if he should go on daily walks anymore since they sometimes leave him hobbling around the backyard.

But this is what we see when the boys sense a walk is about to begin:

How can we resist?

And the eyes! Oh those eyes...

*another sigh*

Poor dear, furry, drooling old man...

Random Memory: Circa 1993

When I was in college, I worked at a sub sandwich shop that was just across the street from campus. Not only did I work there, but it was also there that I ate nearly every lunch and dinner for about nine months. (Delectable sandwiches for half-price? Who can argue with that?)

Unfortunately, I was not the best "subber".

There are some things that I'm just not good at and remembering that there are to be NO onions on the double cheese pastrami, but EXTRA onions on the turkey/avocado (even when the instructions are written down right in front of my eyes) is one of them, especially at lunch hour when the line is out the door and the pile of order slips begins to resemble a stack of flyers.

My ineptitude resulted in me being an irritant to the competent sandwich makers, a couple of whom could be rather nasty even when they weren't having to fix my dumb mistakes.

I can laugh about it now, but back then I'd spend several minutes in the bathroom before leaving my apartment to go to work (my nerves have often manifested themselves in my digestive system; there will be no more details on that point) and once I returned home, my hands would often tremble for about 15 minutes afterward.

My roommate at the time (who happened to be my sister) saw my shaking, vinegar-and-onions-reeking hands and declared, "You should quit."

Surprisingly, that had never occurred to me! I entertained the notion for about three seconds and then dismissed it. Loose bowels or no, I would not be beaten by this menial job.

I would become a savvy subber.

I would! I would!

Or...I wouldn't.

Due to my sub standard sub skills, I was usually appointed to man the register, taking orders and making change. After awhile, this demotion was fine by me because I noticed a cessation of the pre-work sludge and the post-work tremors.

I learned a few things whilst employed at the sub shop. One was that toaster ovens melt cheese on sandwiches delightfully (thus the reason I have owned one ever since) and another was that although tears can earn one comfort and care from parents and teachers, they will likely only get you eye rolls and stern lectures from coworkers and bosses.

However, none of this is what I intended to write about today. On with the memory...

There was a large population of foreign students at my university who would flock to our shop to sample the American delicacy known as sub sandwiches.

One particular student seemed to take a liking to me.

(This is amazing to me as I look at pictures of myself from that era. What about my denim-overalls-clad, retainer-sporting, acne-sprouting-chinned self could attract any member of the opposite sex? However, it was at this same time that Jeff proposed to me so apparently I had it going on, though how that is possible remains a mystery.)

When he would order, he would choose my line in which to stand. When he needed more napkins, he would seek me out to make his request. Once when I took my break, he sat near me to chat. After that occurrence, the coworker who had taken her break with me burst into the backroom, laughing and announcing to all the other subbers, "Some guy has the hots for Aimee!"

Yeah, I didn't get it either, but I didn't find it amusing.

There was nothing appealing about his attention, even if I hadn't been engaged elsewhere. Instead of fun and appreciative, it was patronizing and weird.

I did nothing to encourage this fellow who came again and again to buy sandwiches throughout his several week stay. I mean I'm an outgoing person, but I know when a guy is watching for those subtle hints that a gal is interested and trust me, I was sending him none of them.

There's a delicate balance that a worker must find between being a friendly and helpful representative of an establishment and someone who is letting a guy know that he ought to fish elsewhere. As time wore on, I became less of the former and more of the latter.

One day, I saw my opportunity to free myself of the would-be suitor and I seized it with both hands.

(I have no desire to slam an entire nation, so I won't say from where this student hailed, but I believe it is perfectly fair to say that in his culture, women do not enjoy the same level of equality that we do here in the US. This explains the weird turn of events.)

On this momentous occasion, I was behind the counter, busily doing something (besides making sandwiches, of course) when said student stormed into the shop from the outdoor eating area.

"You!" he said, shaking his finger at me. "You...ruin...my shirt!"

His tirade was riddled with pauses because apparently his English fluency level wasn't on par with his anger level.

"Excuse me?" I said, my own ire rising.

"You...not clean table and...is messy. Now is...on my shirt!"

(Our delicious subs dripped with oil and vinegar.)

"You! You...clean table now!"

Realizing that he assumed our "relationship" had developed to the point that he could treat me like an unappreciated, perhaps even abused, female, I shot him my steeliest deadpan expression and told him, "Say please."

"What?" he looked like I had just spat in his sandwich.

My coworkers, too, were shocked, all stopping whatever they were doing to watch this novel worker-customer interaction.

"Say please," I repeated slowly, calmly and ever so seriously.

It worked better than I even imagined. He completely deflated and mumbled, "Please...clean table."

I deliberately grabbed the spray bottle and towel and sauntered out to wipe down the offensive eating surface.

He stood by, watching and once I was finished, he meekly said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." I said, brightly and returned to my non-sandwich-making duties.

As I reentered the shop, a girl named Kristen told me, "Good job, Aimee."

As you can imagine, over the years I haven't kept up with the foreign exchange chauvinist, but I hope that wherever he is, he still knows that not all females are eager for his fawning, creepy flirtations nor are they willing to put up with his ridiculous allegations.

Not even those of us who can't make sandwiches worth crap.

Operation Sock Puppet

I've never claimed to have "normal" children. In fact, I've consistently declared otherwise. (I mean with parents as odd as Jeff and myself, our offspring had no chance at making it anywhere on the Scale of Normalcy.)

Therefore, when I asked Delaney what she wanted her 13th birthday party to include, I knew it wouldn't involve Justin Bieber, a marathon viewing of the entire Twilight saga or makeovers of any sort. However, I wasn't expecting the answer I got which was:

"I want to make sock puppets."

Ummm...okay...

Now being the good steward I am (or should that read cheapskate?) I immediately looked around the house to find socks which had been widowed by the clothes dryer. However, one glance let me know that I couldn't possibly hand out that pile of threadbare and stained garments saying, "Here, girls! Cuten these up."

So off to Target and Michael's we went to purchase a bunch of supplies which you see below, littering the table:


I made a sample one before the girls arrived so that I'd have an idea of what they'd be dealing with as they plotted and stitched.


Yes, I know it's hideous. Hey, I'm not the one who requested this activity.

My experience made me fearful that the girls would get frustrated. (It's hard getting a needle back and forth through a long tube.)

However, they all seemed to do just fine. Here's Delaney's:


Sock puppetry was not all in which they partook. They also played Mafia (a card game), Fishbowl (a game that is nearly impossible to explain) and of course there was a bit of food on hand.

Welcome to the world of teenagery, Delaney. You, my girl, are a genuine delight.








<----Prismacolor markers for the artist.













And as for the boy...

Most young men experiment with their burgeoning allotment of facial hair by growing out a mustache or a goatee.

Not our boy. No, that would be far too normal.

Tobias's experimentation over the past few months has centered on the hairs pushing their gruesome way out of his neck.

No, really.

As I began to see the stubble grow into a festering force to be reckoned with, I asked why he wasn't shaving it off.

"I'm Neckbeard the Pirate, Mom."


Here's an upclose shot of his namesake:


See what I'm dealing with here, friends? It's like he had the skin from one of his armpits grafted onto his neck.

Well, it grew and grew and by the time I began to wonder if his throat embellishment was braidable I carefully suggested (so as not to bruise his ego) that it was completely vile and thoroughly disgusting.

"It's supposed to be, Mom," he said. "It's girl repellant."

His words stuck in my brain. Visions (scenarios similar to Axe commercials) ran through my head, looping, day after horrible day of my son being chased by girls...

...girls scantily clad and steadfast on vice and impurity.

I instantly developed an appreciation for said neck hair which was apparently safeguarding my son from utter ruination...a chastity belt of sorts.

He did finally shave it off a week ago after about three months. It was with a sense of trepidation that I viewed his newly-shorn throat, but after 24 hours with no girls trying to bust through our doors and windows like the zombies from 28 Days Later I began to relax.


You, my boy, are an anomaly.

And a remarkable one at that. ;)

To Buy or Not to Buy

My grandma used to tell the following story about her friend, Maude:

One day, as Maude was liberally applying lotion to her face, her 6 year old grandson was watching.

"What is that stuff, Grandma?" the little boy asked.

"It's anti-aging cream. It's supposed to keep me from getting wrinkles."

Upon hearing this, the boy's face took on an expression of pity and incredulity and he declared emphatically, "Grandma! It's NOT working!"

Poor Maude.


I don't believe in anti-wrinkle cream.

However...

...I use it everyday.

Isn't that lame? I'm one of the sheeple fueling the bonfire of superfluous marketing with my hard earned dollars.

Every time I find that there are only a couple of squirts left in my little tube of Oil of Ol' Lady, I ask myself, "Am I really going to spend another $18 on youthful wishes? Why don't I just flush the money and wish upon a star? It'll be just as effective. "

Well, until now, I have just gone out and purchased a new tube of fake-fountain-of-youth (aka "chump cream"), but this time, I decided to do a little experiment before I spend any money.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been applying the remnant of my ointment to the area around only my right eye. Around my left eye, I've just been slathering on some regular old face cream. You know, the cheap stuff.

Here you see the results:







Yeah, I know.

Dumb.

Sorry.

But seriously, what if I stop using anti-aging "serum" (they try to make it sound all scientific) and in a few years I look like this:



I suppose I could invest in a really good iron.

I'm so sad for the devastation that Maria Shriver and her kids are enduring.

Anyone who thinks sex is just a physical act and no big deal is dead wrong.

Committing sexual sin is like swinging a newly sharpened scythe over the heads of those who should be able to trust you the most.

Thus the State of the Furniture...

I just found out that the hotel I mentioned in my last post is going out of business.

Gee, there's a big surprise.

Relay Madness

See this guy?


He may be good looking, but he's slightly crazy.

I know this because he recently chose to run 10.7 miles...

...nine of which were up a steep grade...

...at midnight...

...through the desert...

...for fun.

He wasn't always this way.

*sigh*

The following is the story of my husband's descent into madness:

About eight months ago, Jeff started running to train for a work-related physical test. The resultant loss of 20 pounds pleased him to no end, so even once he had passed the test, he continued to jog.

One thing led to another and suddenly he had signed up to compete on his work's team in a statewide relay race held near Las Vegas.

Jeff requested that I accompany him (in the driving portion of the trip), so we had ourselves a little adventure.

Now, I know there are a number of fun experiences to be had in LV and that a lot of great people live there or have lived there. (Rhonda, Esther and Brooke all come to mind.) However, when I'm walking down the street, minding my own business and some guy tries to force a porno postcard into my hand or I'm eating breakfast at an unassuming diner and some lady walks in wearing what can only be described as super-skanky-lingerie, it doesn't exactly endear me to the locale, but that is where the race was being run, so off we went.

Unfortunately, my choice of hotels was rather lame.

We got off to a poor start at check-in. The concierge informed me that I needed to pay a "resort fee" in addition to the charge for the room. I told her that we wouldn't be using the resort facilities. She said that all guests pay the resort fee regardless of their utilization of said facilities. It was only six dollars so I just ponied up but with a snarl in my heart. If everybody has to pay it, why not just include it in the room fee? Argh...

Looking around the lobby, I saw multiple posters of classical celebrities whose photos were taken with this hotel's sign visible in the background. It was as if they were trying to say, "This was the hot spot back in the 50s!" Well, just glancing around the shabby lobby I could tell that if Elvis was alive today, he would certainly not be staying there. Not even in his overweight, gospel-singing days.

When we got up to our room, it only got better (worse?). The furniture was misshapen and bubbled, not in a hip artsy sort of a way, but in a hey-y'all-he'p-me-git-this-here-roadside-wonder-up-yonder-into-the-back-of-the-pickup-truck sort of a way.

And the beds? Not so comfy.

Oh, well. We didn't spend much time in the room anyway because Jeff needed to get to his staging area to be ready to start his leg of the run. We hung out there for about two hours before he was passed the baton. Then, as he ran, I drove to the staging area where he would end his leg.

There were hundreds of people there, some of whom were rather interesting. Since it was night time and they were running alongside a highway, they all wore reflective vests equipped with little flashing lights. Jeff called his a "Christmas tree vest".

There was one intimidating looking guy who was big, burly and covered with hair but the most remarkable thing about him was his attire. Imagine a viking in nylon short shorts. The abbreviated length of his shorts afforded us all a view of his rippling thigh muscles, rubbing against each other as he walked. Yeah, I know...I tried not to look but when you're behind someone who is so tall that the oddity is practically at eye level, it's hard not to notice such things.

The most memorable person, however, was the guy who, upon finishing his leg of the race, promptly began to puke all over the finish line. The nurses on hand braced him to keep him from falling face first into his filth and then moved him over to a cot where he proceeded to unload the rest of his stomach's contents.

Good times...good times.

Jeff plowed through the finish line 92 minutes and forty seconds after he began. That's 8 minutes and thirty-nine seconds per mile! My fastest miles are a minute slower than that on flat ground, so I must say that I was impressed.

He said that his brain seemed to switch teams during the last half mile, screaming at his body, "Stop!" (I've felt that in the first half mile of a run!)

I took some pics but they didn't turn out very well with all that rapid movement and the darkness, but here's one about half an hour after he finished:


(That's dust flying through the air, not snow.)

By the time we got back to our hotel room, it was almost 3:00 in the morning. Jeff promptly showered and fell into bed, asleep as his head hit the pillow.

I didn't sleep as soundly. In fact, I had the misfortune of experiencing a night terror about an hour after going to bed. I awoke, screaming, thinking that someone was leaning over me. The person was dressed like this:


(Yeah, apparently, my daughter's latest alter ego is antagonizing my subconscious.) I laid there, my heart racing, expecting to hear footsteps running down the hallway to our room's door and the pounding of security guards' fists, their voices calling out for proof that all was well.

Well...that didn't happen. I guess everyone who heard my scream just chalked it up to being in Vegas.

Even scarier than my wild imagination were these:


(No, those are not MY feet!) By morning, two of Jeff's toenails were turning black and felt "spongy" (whatever that means!). As I write this, they are completely black but still attached. He wondered for days if he'd pull off his sock and find the nails in the toe of it, clinking against each other like coins in a pocket.

Before leaving Vegas, we met Steve, Sweetwater and Evelyn for breakfast:


With our dose of cuteness for the day, we headed home, Jeff saying that he would run the race again, but not that particular leg.

Yeah, right. The horrors of that last half mile will fade and he'll be chomping at the bit to go do it all over again.

Mark my words, this time next year I'll be posting a very similar entry. I'm sure of it. :)

Median Canaliform Nail Dystrophy

When I was about ten, my thumbnails started developing ridges in them.



Ugly but harmless. It looks like a rottweiler was using my poor thumb as a chew toy.

About ten years ago, they started splitting on the ends which in addition to being aesthetically displeasing is also annoying because they catch on everything and sometimes tear down into the nail bed, painfully.

I have tried multiple remedies. I take calcium and biotin pills every day, always wear rubber gloves while washing dishes, keep the nails as short as possible, etc. Nothing has helped. (I even had a manicure thinking it would strengthen my nails, but as the acrylic part grew out, it left my real nails even weaker.)

Unfathomably, about four months ago, things got worse! A split in the base of my nail emerged from the cuticle. It has now grown up to the center:


Apparently, not only are my thumbnails destined to become freakish, they are now beginning their sorry existence that way.

Though I felt stupid about it, I made an appointment with my GP. Forget thyroids and blood pressure, let's talk hideous thumbnails.

Well, Dr. J. twisted my thumb this way and that, looking at it from every angle. He then declared he wasn't sure what it was but he ventured a guess...and I didn't like it.

Does fungus mean anything to you?

Now, I know we all have bacteria in our guts:


And I know that we all lay our heads down on a metropolis of these guys (AKA our pillows) each night:


But not everybody has a mushroom farm growing out of their nail beds and frankly, I don't want to be one of the lucky few.

So, Dr. J dropped that little bomb on my parade and referred me to a dermatologist. Of course, the first appointment available with the derm was about three months away.

Great. I've got what looks like nail leprosy and the guy won't even see it for three months?

Finally, my day arrived and it was completely...

...anti-climactic.

The derm doc barely glanced at my thumbs and ran off to get some text books to show me pics of the thumbnails of other poor souls who share my woes.

Yes! These are my people! I thought, poring over the photos of the blighted phalanges.

The words Median Canaliform Nail Dystrophy were in one caption. I asked, "What's the cure?"

"Oh," Dr. Derm said, a blank look on his face. "It's simply a deformation, so there isn't one."

Ugh...maybe I should have been rooting for the fungus...