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Sophomore yearbook. Now with more cat fluv.
What I've noticed from this horrible look back at my high school yearbooks is that as the years go on, the notes become less generic (but only by a tiny margin) and more angsty. With the DRAMA! And the sheer unadulterated HATRED for classes and teachers! And it was just ALL TOO MUCH! Also: there is someone out there posting MY yearbook notes on THEIR blog and I am being put to SHAME for the stupid things I said. (Never mind that - you simply need to look back at yesterday's comments and see what the dear KAY has posted. Good to know that she comes through in an OCD pinch and actually BRINGS OUT MY YEARBOOK RESPONSE.) What I've learned: We ALL said stupid things in high school. And then we wrote them down for posterity.
Before we visit Sophomore year with Whimsy, let me remind you that I'm doing Three for Friday tomorrow, and most likely this will be the last one. After that, I'll do it on a case-by-case basis. So! To round off our fun series of Three for Fridays, I'm asking that anyone who wants to play choose three of their OWN posts. And if you'd be so kind, include your reasons for choosing the three. Could be three favorites, could be three most memorable, could be three things that you wish you could forget. Just three. And why. Please let me know if you're playing either by commenting here, or emailing me at whimsyattack AT gmail DOT com. Remember, friends don't let friends play Three for Friday on their own.
Now then. On to GRADE TEN. (Oh the humanity)
Well Whimsy, That was one hell of a test. It's been a great year and I enjoyed getting to know you in History class. Too bad Mr. Lopez is such a BUTTHEAD! Oops, I capitalized my T's. There I go again. You know what I mean. Take care.
Your friend,
Michael
Whimsy: First, no Michael, I don't know what you mean. Second, the theme of sophomore year was my HATRED for my world history teacher, Mr. Lopez. The guy was a terrible teacher, to put it mildly. Case in point: he decided to skip over World War II in order to focus on "more important things". Um. He was small minded, completely inept, and used terrible grammar. He also said the same words and phrases over and over again. This was my way of surviving his class (and also ensuring wide-spread fame for myself): I kept a tally of his common phrases and how many times he said them over the course of the year. In the end, the answer was A LOT.
Whimsy, Hiya girl! Aren't you glad summer is finally here? I'm so glad I got to meet you this year. You're such a sweet person. I'm gonna miss your smile over the summer. Geometry was fun wasn't it? Mr. Lewin's pretty cool. Too bad we both lost our A+'s but we did make it through the year. I hope you have a really great summer. We worked hard enough for it.
Always,
Ava
Whimsy: I loved geometry. I was good at it. It made me happy. And that Ava person? Missing my smile? WHAT?
(Written under the Physics Club picture)
Whimsy, Here I am again in the Physics club. Have fun in the summer. This year is finally over, no more geometry. I'll be a senior next year and you'll be a little junior. Well it was nice knowing you. See you next year, maybe.
Caesar
Whimsy: Um. I guess he was weird with the COMMITMENT of SEEING ME next year? Maybe?
Dear Whimsy, Since I'll see ya very frequently all the time this'll be short! I'm glad I know you 'cause you're so funny when you're upset. J/K. So pro-debater - whose your next victim? I'm glad we kinda had class together 'cause it was very uplifting to see ya! Good luck in debate, take care, and keep talkin'!
(heart)
P
Whimsy: We went to church together, hence the comment about seeing each other all the time. What gets me is this whole "upset" stuff. Huh? I was both a FIRECRACKER and also RUDE. Or something. Check out the "J/K" thing. Oh my.
To Whimsy, First of all, have a nice and cool summer. Best of luck. I've enjoyed having you in my biology class and for being a cool friend. I hope I have you next year in a class & have the same fun we had this year in biology. As for right now, keep your head in the air & your heart sky high. K.I.T (includes phone number). Friends all the time,
Alex
Whimsy: Again with the mentioning CLASS! I think it's the only thing that people can say when they don't know what else to say! And that last part with the head and heart stuff? Do you think Alex put that in everyone's year book? Or was I special?
Dear Whimsy,
Well the year is already over. You know what that means no more Mrs. Carr. I'm really glad I got the chance to meet & become good friendz with you because your a great friend & biology partner. Have a great summer.
Love & friendship,
Manny
Spelling and weird punctuation in original note.
Whimsy: So Manny. I was NOT a good biology partner. I HATED biology and wasn't good at it in the least bit. I believe Manny thought I was a good partner because we were EQUALLY bad at it, and I had friends in the class who were NOT bad at biology and would help us to be LESS BAD. ...that "friendz" stuff? What is up with the switching a Z for an S?
Whimsy! Hello dear! How are things going? There is much ink in this pen. I wish ya the very bestest! Boy what a workout, huh? Whimsy, I'm so glad I got to meet ya!! Have loads of fun in PE! I really hope I see ya next - well Sept!
(heart)
Serena
Whimsy: I think we had PE together. Hence the workout stuff. Huh.
Whimsy! Hi! Well, the year's almost over... we're going to be upperclassmen next year! I can't wait until finals are over! I'm so... scared of biology and world history! We survived Lopez's class! Wow! Well, thanks for being such a great friend! You better keep in touch! Have a great summer! Take care! And best wishes always! (heart)
Juliana
Whimsy: She was a really nice girl! And she was really creative! And artistic! And used all kinds of colorful markers when she wrote in my year book!
Hope you have a great summer*
Kevin
*Standard goodbye
Whimsy: At least he was honest.
To Whimsy: Have a great summer thinking about having Mr. Lopez for U.S. History next year. (Just kidding) See you next year. I hope we have some classes together.
Your friend,
Johnny
Whimsy: Quite the jokester.
Hey Whimsy, Hi cutie! I'm glad that we got to be friends. I think that if I had never met you, I would have missed out on a fabulous girl! I'll be in touch over the years - at least as long as you're in (town I grew up in) and let me know where you are. Thanks for being you - I admire your character. You're a strong one.
Love,
Kathleen
Whimsy: Again, like so many others, I remember her not at all. Does this seem SAD to any of you, that there are so many people that I simply have FORGOTTEN? COMPLETELY?
Thus concludes our gut wrenching tour through Whimsy's sophomore year of high school. Tune in tomorrow for Three for Friday. And next week? I'll grace you with junior AND senior years. Because I'm a giver.
Names I was not allowed to call Chip yesterday: Patches, Grrr Argh, Cap'n, Xander, and Dread Captain Chip (no one would be deathly afraid of "Dread Captain Chip"!) It was all for naught anyway, because Patches, I MEAN CHIP, didn't sport his eye patch for long. All was well in the time leading up to see the eye doctor, and she confirmed that it wasn't a torn cornea (try not to type "corn tornea"), and was, actually, an extreme allergic reaction to (most likely) cat hair. Apparently there's this whole lymphatic layer? Right near your eye? And when it gets really upset? It sort of FREAKS OUT AND STARTS TO COVER YOUR ENTIRE EYE? And then your wife passes out because it's so icky. The end.
We're all fine here now, thanks. I'm up to my eyeballs (HA! NO ALLERGIC REACTIONS HERE!) in some sewing projects, of all things. Which I'll share later, to amuse you.
But first, and instead, today - I've been a little nostalgic, reading Swistle's post yesterday with that mixed tape stuff from her growing-up-hood, and then today Shelly Overlook talked about going to her 20-year high school reunion. So what do I do? I go and pull out a high school yearbook. I KNOW. WHY? Right? My good friend Stacie did this a while back, and it was HILARIOUS to read some of the comments people wrote in her yearbook.
Why should I try to be original, when I'm surrounded by greatness. So, without further delay...
WHIMSY'S YEARBOOK NOTES: FRESHMAN YEAR
* Names haven't been changed to protect anyone (except me, I changed my name back to Whimsy as it should be for this blog. I think your heads would explode if I up and started to refer to myself with my actual given name.) I'm just putting it out there. Enjoy reading notes from the deep and lasting relationships I built when I was 14.
Hi Whimsy! How are you doing? As for me, I'm doing great. I sure am going to miss you over the summer. I'll remember you for peanut butter sandwiches and a great smile. Why peanut butter? Yuk!! Gross!! Sicko!! Stay healthy and keep smiling.
Love,
Lawrence
Whimsy notes: I'm going to be saying this a lot, but I remember Lawrence not at all. But he's going to remember my lunch. And my smile? What? (Punctuation as written in original note.)
Well Whimsy, the year is finally come to an end and I'm real scared. You have three more years of high school left. Enjoy them. It is really the best years of your life. Stay sweet. Good things will come to you! Best of luck with the future and debate. Don't forget me okay?
Love,
Philip
K.I.T (includes his phone number)
Whimsy notes: Again with the beseeching REMEMBER ME. I must have a terrible memory, though I DO remember this dude. Yes, I was in debate. I can't let this one go: THE BEST YEARS OF YOUR LIFE? First, No. Just a thousand years of NO. And second? How old is this guy? SEVENTY? He isn't out of high school even then, to tell me that it doesn't get BETTER? Because it does, oh it does, does, DOES.
Whimsy! You're really like a cute sweet Dutch girl. And one of the raddest freshman debaters. Never stop reaching for the stars.
Luv,
Brian
Whimsy notes: I guess Dutch girl was some kind of a thing? I guess? I have no idea. Favorite thing: the use of "RADDEST". I'm not going near that "reaching for the stars" thing. It's weird. No one SAYS that. Let alone, HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS.
Whimsy: (written on the cross country page) Here's me and Ed battling it out with ourselves and each other, to make it to the finish line. It's been "different" knowing you, and I hope I encounter you next year even though I'm going to several "honors" classes and you're not. (HA! HA!) Just kidding! Well anyways, have a great summer and be good.
Marcos
Whimsy notes: Um. I think he was trying to be sarcastic and funny, and not totally hurtful and rude. He still uses bad grammar with that "anyways" junk. SO THERE - WHIMSY HAS THE LAST LAUGH.
Dear Whimsy,
Well, you have been a sweetie! Hope you have great success in your next 3 years of school! Have a great summer. See ya!
Love,
Felicia
Whimsy: Clearly another senior. With nothing to say.
Hello Whimsy (KAREN THIS ONE IS FROM YOU!),
It's been quite a year knowing you. I don't mean to make this a form message, it's just that I'm sorta lost. It's been a year and I really appreciate all that you've done for me (even though I tick you off like crazy). I would really like to say thanx and I hope you have a wonderful life in a parallel dimension. I also hope everything between you and XXX and XXX will work out (yeah right). One day we need to get together and actually go to that picnic. And are you going to be free to learn the finest points of tennis (i.e. screaming, yelling, lying, cheating). Have a good, no, great summer. And in fact a great life in spite of us normal people (or as you would say "unimaginative"). Okay I better stop.
With love,
Karen
Whimsy: First? I must've been a TOTAL JERK, with that stuff about me getting ticked off. Karen was a sweetheart. And I DO remember her, and now we're all in contact and stuff through Facebook. Hello Karen! You're FAMOUS. We never did do that picnic, did we? Good to know I was as strange in high school as I am now. Me and XXX and XXX never did work things out. I'm not sad.
Dear Whimsy,
So, this year has finally ended. Another memorable year to add to your "childhood memories". I'll just remind you to have a wonderful, fun summer. You'll be glad you did.
Lucy
Whimsy: Another note from a seventy-year-old high school student.
Dear Whimsy,
Well it's been another terrific year again! Finally we survived freshman year, and next year, we'll be sophomores. YAYYY! Well, hope you have an AWESOME summer! Don't get burned, stay cool! (PS I still remember when you gave me the hamsters.) It seems not that long ago. Time flies.
Friends,
Timothy
Whimsy: It makes it sound like I gave him the HIVES or something. We went to elementary school together. In third or fourth grade I had an excess of hamsters and gave some away. The end.
And so on, with more notes along the lines of "KIT" and "Have a nice summer" and "You were a weird girl". This ends our romp through Whimsy's freshman year of high school. I'm going to go take a shower now and remind myself that I am NO LONGER FOURTEEN YEARS OLD and boy, I couldn't be happier about that.
It turns out that there is a whole WORLD of things that happen after Alice goes to bed at night. I used to wonder that, myself, as a little girl. When I retired to bed at my TOTALLY UNFAIR AND WAY EARLY bedtime of 8:30 pm (leaving my older brother and sister to watch the end of Love Boat on Saturday night - and then, AND THEN, they even got to watch Fantasy Island which I was never able to see, unless of course there was a cross-over episode between LB and FI, which did happen a few times and why is it that I even REMEMBER this stuff? I don't know. I just don't know. What I do know is that I had some kind of weird crush on Gopher, the goofy guy who was a, what was that? Purser?). Anyway. In that span of time when I was asleep and the whole rest of humanity (according to me) was able to amble around aimlessly enjoying the young child-less world, I imagined that there was ice cream. And games. And just a whole bunch of stuff that no one would tell me about but I just knew, I just knew that they were all doing it and I was missing out.
In truth, Alice does miss out on things. Things like the post-bedtime family room clean up (FUN TIMES). And the ever-exciting turning down of the duvet on mama and daddy's bed. And the never-dull chore of watering the lawn. Oh boy, she has no idea of the heart-stopping excitement that she just sleeps through every night!
Last night, however, Alice missed one of my all-time favorite late night activities: the emergency run to Walgreen's (or other suitable pharmacy-type establishment). Chip and I had been hanging out, just chatting about our days - when he starts madly rubbing his eye and then finally goes to the bathroom to see if there was something stuck in there. It turns out... oh the ew. Poor guy must've done something along the lines of TEAR HIS CORNEA because there it was ---- all sort of sad and lumpy on the inside of his eye. Luckily it wasn't hurting him much, but it scared both of us pretty deeply.
Our plan of attack (which is usual for any and all Medical Issues of Unknown Treatment): call the professionals. In this case, The Little Brother (who is a certified EMT and firefighter dude) and Chip's older sister, The Nurse. Both of them verified that it was probably a torn cornea (or whatever that clear covering is on your eye, I wasn't so much interested in the name of things as to find out a way of helping Chip). They said we should get some saline solution in there before letting Chip rest for the night.
Which brings us to the late-night Whimsytrek to the store. I do pretty well keeping a clear head in situations like these, but there was something seriously WRONG with me last night because it took not one, not two, not three, but FOUR, count 'em: FOUR trips in and out of the house to the car and back before I was able to finally pull out of the driveway. Not kidding. First I forgot my wallet. Then I didn't have the key (because I'd brought it inside with me to retrieve the wallet and had promptly left it on the counter). Then I didn't have the right key. Then I didn't have my phone (just in case). By the time I got to Walgreen's, they had closed a mere 3 minutes previously. And no amount of glass-door-knocking-and-pounding was going to do any good (I know, I tried). So then... back to the car and off to my favorite late-night mecca: THE WALMART.
Oh dear. Can someone please explain to me what could possibly inspire a person to take their small toddler-age children grocery shopping at 10:30pm? Because... I just don't understand. When I run into a Walmart at 10:30 in the evening, I kind of expect that most of the people there are on similar errands, the must-buy-saline-solution-for-husband's-oozy-eye-situation-before-he-gets-desperate-and-decides-to-just-rinse-it-with-the-saline-we've-used-for-Alice's-nose-bogeys. (BTW, I explained why this wasn't such a good idea before I left the house, explaining that it's probably best to leave eye-bogeys and nose-bogeys to their own saline bottles, GAPING OPEN WOUND AND ALL.) Anyway, as I'm sure you're all telling me right now as you read this, the Walmart was not, in fact, haven to a few dozen emergency item seekers such as myself. It's sort of... just a usual shopping trip, but intensified, like by ten, with THE LATE NIGHT CRAZY.
I watched some poor man purchase a sauna suit, some chewing tobacco, and several packs of gum (I just didn't want to know). A girl with very red eyes and a puffy just-finished-crying nose yelled at me to go in front of her because CLEARLY SHE WASN'T READY YET (I hesitated because she was also sort of yelling this stuff into the phone glued to her ear, and really? Did you say that to me?). All of this after I had already spent twenty minutes pacing the eye gunk aisle trying to find a basic box of SIMPLE SALINE SOLUTION. With no extra fancy stuff. Someone tell me why they don't just sell that. WHY?
I'll also take this moment to tell you that I am not the best candidate for the emergency drug store run because I come back with fifteen bottles of various items just in case. Last night, I came home with the saline (gigantor size), some spiffy eye-wash kit (just in case), a large bottle of ibuprofen (we were out), and some very handsome eye bandages. Which Chip is rocking, I must say.
His response when he got that bad boy bandage on his eye? ARRRRRRGH.
At least he's got his sense of humor. The dude is off to an eye doctor now, wish us luck and lots more pirate jokes.
Pretend she's holding some ice cream. Or something.
Ice cream is a commitment. I am here to share this news with you, as I had the realization several nights ago. The temperature had crept up into the 80's throughout the day, and by the time Chip and I were hanging out in our bedroom that night it was positively stuffy. We watched some TV, we talked, we tippity-typed on our laptops. All the while a creepy-crawly ICK came over me until I felt like I was going to jump out of my own skin with irritation. I threw the TV remote in Chip's direction and sighed (irritatingly - you have to make sure you're imagining it as a highly-charged irritated sigh) I AM SO IRRITATED. I FEEL ANNOYED. AND ITCHY. To which Chip replied, ME TOO. THOUGH NOT ITCHY. WHAT IS WRONG WITH US?
I left him contemplating that important question (we're certainly not the first to ask, and won't be the last, especially with the way I drive sometimes--- there are plenty of other drivers just tooling around the streets thinking WHAT IS WRONG WITH HER). I went downstairs to drown my sorrows in something creamy and cold. As in ice cream. I first thought along the lines of creamsicle. But decided against it and went with a much more standard dessert: vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. It was then, when I was putting the Hershey's chocolate sauce back into the refrigerator that I spied the heaping bowl of deliciously delectable grapes. Which lead me to my thought: ice cream is a commitment. Even though the grapes were quite suddenly and oh-so-clearly the answer to my taste bud desire, the sweet nectar that would sooth my irritated self, even though I really really really wanted the grapes--- I was already holding a newly scooped but already a little melty bowl of vanilla with sauce. A commitment. I couldn't put it back. And trying to shelf the drippy thing in the freezer seemed like a bad idea.
So I went upstairs. And ate my commitment. And tried to be happy about it.
The end.
Though maybe not quite the end, because I need some feedback, kids. A do-I-or-don't-I question relating back to Friday's post. I suggested, on the next Friday (which makes it this coming Friday, look at how good I am with keeping track of dates and days) for the Three for Friday, we post three of our own favorite posts. I am not normally a follower-type of gal, but if I'm going to be the only one doing it I would feel just DUMB. I would feel a little bit OVERLY, if you get my drift. So let me know if you think it's a good idea, over there to the right. Or tell me so here in the comments. But before you vote or comment, let me make a brief case for going through with this idea: You are the best memory-keeper of your own posts, naturally. And you are also the most hardened critic of your own posts. Add to that, you might have some awesome back story on why a specific post makes it in your Own Personal Top Three. And I'm just nosy enough to want to know that back story. Also, I like to read about you. If I didn't, I wouldn't be reading your blog. That's the end of my reasons. I am now off to purchase MORE of the delectable grapes mentioned above. Because now they're all gone. And I am a sad Whimsy. You wouldn't like a sad grape-less Whimsy.
Edited to add: with some urging (ahem, SWISTLE and M), I'm adding a third option for the poll. Apparently there are SOME of you who will play but want to BLAME someone (namely me). I'm okay with that. Blame me. So long as you play along, you can blame me all you want! Even for OTHER THINGS, like global warming. And stuff.
Edited AGAIN to add: I can't change the poll because voting has already commenced. So just know that if you vote it's a GREAT idea, I'll know, deep down, that you're embarrassed and you're going to blame me. See above with me being okay with the blame. Okay then.
Maybe it's just me, but I think the lyrics to This Old Man are disturbing / borderline inappropriate. Think about it: This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb. And so on as the old man plays "knick-knack" on the singer's shoe, knee, door, hive (?), sticks (??), up to heaven (really?), gate (???), spine (?!?!) --- only to start the whole freak show "over again".
Maybe it's just me, but spaghetti is one thing that absolutely must be the proper temperature. Too hot and you can hardly taste it. Too cold and it's all... squishy.
Maybe it's just me, but ever since I realized that both Miss Piggy AND Grover have virtually the same voice, I can't listen to either one of them.
Maybe it's just me, but the young mouse that appears on every page of Goodnight Moon seems a little bit... creepy. He's a MOUSE. And he's skittering all over that poor bunny-child's room, wily nily. One minute the mouse is hiding behind the firewood - the next he's standing in the middle of the room, DARING the Old Lady Saying Hush to just come and grab him. After that he's just a little too sure of himself, standing there on top of the clothes line drying contraption. I'd be TERRIFIED if a mouse did that in our house, all gravity defying and getting up in our stuff like that. At one point he's contemplating jumping on the Old Lady's head and building a nest in one of her very convenient ears. After that he finally gets what he wants and sits snacking on the bowl full of mush. I swear, no mouse would ever get that far in this house. Which brings me to...
Maybe it's just me, but those "kittens" in Goodnight Moon? WHAT THE HECK???? Do they have NO hunting instinct whatsoever? The mouse is wreaking havoc in that room, running RAMPANT and they're all LA LA LA THIS YARN IS SOOOOOO INTERESTING. The kittens are USELESS.
Maybe it's just me, but when I'm reading Goodnight Moon, I keep thinking all this junk about the mouse and the kittens and then it hits me: the Old Lady rabbit and the little child rabbit that's falling asleep? ARE FREAKISHLY LARGE. Look at that scaling of size between the freakish ate-radiated-carrots-that-made-them-grow-human-size rabbits and the useless cats. Or the scavenging rodent. That's scary stuff, yo.
Maybe it's just me, but do you think I've been reading Goodnight Moon a little too much?
Annnnnnnnnnd because it's Friday! And I know you've been dying to see my three picks for this week's Three for Friday - here they are:
From Kathryn at Daring Young Mom. We watched this same season of The Bachelor because Chip actually grew up with Jason. Not kidding. So anyway. We watched it. We laughed about it. We URGED Jason (in our minds and hearts and at the TV screen) to choose wisely. And then be wise. Whatever. ANYWAY. This post by Kathryn is hilarious.
This post from Clueless But Hopeful Mama. I'm going with a loose advice theme today, and I think this is some AWESOME advice. I've got to file it away for some future time (not an announcement in any way, so stop thinking that thought right there).
And to round out our three posts of advice, here's a lovely oldie from Princess Nebraska that still cracks me up.
Also participating this week (if you'd like to add to the jolly, please comment and tell me you're playing along today and I'll link you - or send me an email):
The lovely and luminous SWISTLE
Bzzzzgrrrrl at City Mouse Country
Next week's Three for Friday will be the Special Edition Three for Friday - and I'm telling you early so you'll PLAY ALONG (or just tell me it's a horrible idea and I won't go through with it - am very malleable)... I want everyone to pick three of their OWN posts. Not a time for modesty, folks. I personally think that we're our hardest critics, but also, we know when we've actually done something pretty well. I want to get some recommendations from you, about you. Three of your favorite posts. Doesn't matter WHY they're you're favorites - but I'd like to hear your reasons too, if you'd like. Otherwise, how's THAT for an easy blog post: here are three things I wrote and I feel pretty good about them. The end.
Happy Friday, Internets!
Incidentally, this is how Alice has been spending a large chunk of her time: wearing a particular pair of pajamas on her head. We all have our own ways of coping.
This is what teething does to a person: it sends you off in a sweaty panic to the grocery store (Fred Meyer, the pretty one near our house), toddler in toe, to buy fruit juice for homemade ice pops (to cool the gums) - a brilliant idea, even in your current stressed-out crazy-making unbalanced state and you filled the internets in on this brilliant idea a couple of days ago. After grabbing not one but two bottles of juice, the teething propels you down the ice cream aisle, lovingly cradling a pint of Haagen Dazs Five: Brown Sugar. It has you stop and start to put the Haagen Dazs Five in your cart fifteen times. It has you finally tear yourself away from the Haagen Dazs Five only to stop two freezer doors down as you heavily contemplate frozen fruit bars with vanilla ice cream. OR very vanilla ice cream sandwiches. The teething forces you to walk three aisles over to traipse up and down past bags and bags of chips. Chips that you really don't want to buy. BUT YOU DO. YOU DO WANT TO BUY THEM. The teething is making you buy them! You say NO to the teething and go back to ice cream. Haggen Dazs actually makes its way into the shopping cart this time. It sits next to the diaper bag for two minutes before you put it back on the freezer shelf again, turning yourself and the cart in such a tight circle next to the mid-aisle Coke display that you actually get stuck there for a minute - the cart wedged between you, the freezer, and the four-foot stack of soda. The teething works hard on you. It has you walking over to the magazines. It makes you grab a magazine and put it in the cart. You leave the aisle without looking back. So you can walk through the ice cream one last time. You grab the box of vanilla ice cream-filled fruit bars. It's a compromise and a nod to the Haagen Dazs.
When you are finally loading grocery bags into your car, you review your purchases. Out of the one (fruit juice) or maybe two (hard pretzels) things that you intended to buy, you have also purchased fruit bars, two bags of grapes, a magazine, and some shaving gel. You realize that the teething craving grocery store run is the equivalent of a PMS grocery store run, only triple strength. Because you are fighting not only your self-medicating self-preservation instinct of DO WHATEVER, GET WHATEVER IS GOING TO HELP ME GET THROUGH THIS, but also your motherly desire to DO WHATEVER, GET WHATEVER IS GOING TO HELP ME HELP THE BABY THROUGH THIS. And really, it's not like the baby tells you what she needs. There are only vague guesses that pile up into mounds of hits and misses in your refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. You are stumbling in the dark - pulled along by the seething monster known as THE TEETHING.
Which is why you went to the store for one or two things. And you walked out with eight.
The teething is strong. You are powerless to the teething.
Get used to it.
Anyone who has been visiting The Creamery for the last year or so knows that I struggle with the idea that I should be doing something here. Talking about Stuff. Or coming out on the side of Something. Or I should be sharing a New Viewpoint on an Idea. And then I post a bunch of things about Alice and Motherhood and Wifehood (I say it's a word) and Womanhood and Personhood (another Whimsyword - which brings me to this) and WHIMSYHOOD. Then I post a bunch of pictures of my cats.
It's a mishmash, at best. At its worst, these bits of my writing are small. Which, oh dear heaven, I've also written about.
Sometimes I'm okay with it. Sometimes I'm not. I think, for your benefit, I should tell you that I'm in a whimsical floaty way about it all right now and some days I want to have MEANING and others I'm just happy to write something mildly amusing about going to the grocery store (coming tomorrow: MILDLY AMUSING ANECDOTE ABOUT THE GROCERY STORE).
Robert Fulghum wrote an essay about this, actually. He talked about how sometimes he's all WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS and other times he's all MEH, I'M FINE AND I'M JUST HAPPY TO BE ALONG FOR THE RIDE. He says it much more eloquently of course.
Yesterday while Alice and I were eating lunch, I flipped the TV on (mother of the year, right here) to watch The Abyss. We caught the middle to end portion. You know that scene where Virgil is giving his estranged wife, Lindsey, mouth-to-mouth because she just drowned? And he's done all the breathing and he's even used the shocky paddle things and nothing is working? And everyone around him is stunned and saddened into silence because clearly, she's dead. So then Virgil, he won't let Lindsey go. He starts up the mouth-to-mouth again and keeps saying DON'T YOU GIVE UP, DON'T YOU GO in between breaths. And then he loses it - starts pounding on her chest so hard you know he's broken not one but ALL of her ribs. And he's beating her chest and screaming and crying DON'T GIVE UP, DON'T YOU GO, DON'T LEAVE ME, YOU ARE STRONG and his voice, it goes all whispery and desperate as he is just begging her, willing her to live? That's the scene that was on while Alice and I ate our PB&J. It made me think about passion. Virgil there, in that moment, he is most definitely a man of passion.
A few minutes later, I found myself reading the comment from Serenity Now giving me permission to not worry about the Big Things. And then, the dear girl also sent me a very sweet email... it was so incredibly nice and thoughtful that poor Virgil and all his PASSION just plum jumped out of my head and seemed ridiculous. Especially in the face of this: my life IS small. I like it that way. My perspectives ARE quiet little things. I like them that way. This blog is written by me, about my life. So why wouldn't it be small, intimate, quiet?
Here is where I actually make a POINT about all of this naval-gazing. I don't think this kind of self-inspection and introspection is limited to me. And it's most certainly not limited to me-on-a-blog. In the last sixteen months, my life has changed dramatically. I used to get up at the crack of O-dawn-thirty every day for a fairly high-falootin' job. I wore dressy pants, is what I'm saying. And skirts. And (oh heaven help me) nylon stockings. I talked to people about my opinions. I influenced. I assisted. I made a difference. Sixteen months later I DO get dressed every day (my personal quiet goal for myself when Alice was born: GET DRESSED IN ACTUAL CLOTHES EVERY DAY). But "dressed" is a sliding scale of cleanliness and fit. It's a little different than how things used to be. Where once upon a time I used to plan and execute large monthly meetings of 500+ executives, I am now chasing a half-naked girl-child through the living room, yelling COME BACK HERE YOU NEED TO WEAR SOME PANTS! And this gem DO NOT TOUCH THE POOP! and GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF THE POOP! And another favorite WE DON'T PLAY IN THE TOILET!
What I'm trying to say is that I think I have to remind myself that what I do here, in this house, is vitally important, even if it feels small. And truthfully, it feels small, like, 95% of the time. (I am not downplaying the Life of a Stay at Home Mom, because I know that it's really important, and more than that I feel that it's what I'm meant to do - and even more than that, I LIKE DOING IT. I REALLY REALLY LIKE DOING IT.) The Creamery is my own personal place to share what's going on in my head and sometimes it feels like that smallness is pulling the walls in until there's no room left in my very brainspace except for poop, diapers, and teeth. I want to know that I can still think of Big Picture things even if I've got my mind mostly on the poop, you know?
For my own sake as well as yours I want to know that I can still think Big and Deep even when I'm only deep in diaperland. I want to know that I can find the meaning behind the teething, and the owies, and the first words. I want to know that I can share what I discover through the filter of my life and make a difference. It's about understanding the world through the remedial tasks at hand. Isn't that what a good writer does? She presents the mundane world to the reader and then shows him how that trivial item really teaches sometime about the Cosmos. Even though it's just a picture of a cat, it's a picture of a cat with a story - a story that taught me something. And now I'm sharing it with you.
In our imagined kitchen table conversation, this is where you jump in, glass of juice in hand, and say that sometimes it's just a diaper change. And I nod and agree: yes, it is. But it's also the life I live, the life I'm living - and the diapers, they mean something more than poop. Every single one of them has something to teach me, something to find (insert POOP joke here), something to be examined.
See, like I was saying: the examined life versus the un.
In the end, it comes down to finding passion for what you're doing, and to some extent - how you're doing it. I can have Virgil's passion, a kind of breathy quiet screamy passion, when I am finding meaning in my everyday doings. It's the only way for me. And it's why I can get a little green-around-the-gills desperate when I feel like I've put myself on autopilot and I'm not examining or questioning things. It sounds tiresome when I put it that way, but in my opinion, this stuff is the lifeblood of, um, life. If you can't feel excited about the things you're doing - whether you're digging a ditch or singing a song or cooking dinner or reading a book to your little girl - if you can't find something to inspire you in that... what's the point?
This, my best explanation for the sometimes fretting over Creamery content. I'm searching for meaning in things and when I don't find it, I'm disappointed. But as I said yesterday, sometimes its just about the chickens.
Pre-posting edit:
When I'd written that last bit about chickens, Alice woke up from her nap. After the usual post-nap meet and greet (we're fancy that way, there might even be evening gowns), I left Alice to her own devices while I went searching through my several Robert Fulghum books to see if I could find the essay I mentioned. I was so deep in my purusal, it was several minutes before I realized Alice was making a very specific noise down there on the floor, at the foot of the bookshelf. She was hunkered down on her knees, animal book open in her lap to the TIGER page. And here is what ishe was doing: pointing madly and saying RAOOOOOOOOORRR. And that's a purposeful misspell because that's exactly how she was saying it. I abandoned my essay search and sat down beside Alice. Clearly, I do know what's important. And it's making animal sounds with my daughter. It seemed like the right thing to do. She was RAOOOOOORing with Virgil's passion. I'm into that.
Sophomore yearbook. Now with more cat fluv.
