About three weeks ago Cupcake finally convinced me to go with her to a yoga class. I’ve done a little yoga in the past. Very little. I few years ago I went to a couple of classes and then about 6 months ago I tried Bikram Yoga. I got very bored very quickly in both those classes. However, I’m very much enjoying Cupcake’s studio , Yoga Vida. They teach Vinyasa yoga, which is… well I’ll just copy and paste this from their website because they say it best…
“Vinyasa is a Sanskrit word meaning breath-synchronized movement; breath and movement are seamlessly united in such a way that one action encourages the other. We call our classes "flow" because of the flowing connection between the breath and the body, between one posture and the next, and between one series of postures and the next. We invite you to experience this holistic fitness program for people of all ages and fitness levels that heals and detoxifies.”
Oh, and this is done in a hot room.
On Tuesday our instructor talked a lot about listening to your body and signs of fatigue or stress or dark circles, well these are ways our bodies tell us that something is wrong and we should listen. Now, I’m sure many of you are rolling your eyes and thinking to yourself, “oh that crazy Lemon Lady living in that weird city” (yeah, I know what you’re thinking Dad), but I truly believe in this because of one incident over Spring Break my senior year of college.
Spring Break my senior year really snuck up on me. I didn’t make any plans to go to some crazy destination somewhere and drink my bad grades away, nor did I even remember to ask for time off from work. I worked retail at the time and I probably would have forgotten about the break completely if it wasn’t for my manager asking me to take on more hours that week because half the staff was either in college and going to Mexico to drink all the tequila they could get their hands on or they had children who would be out of school that week to entertain at home. Because, I’m an idiot I told her sure I’d take a few more hours if she would give me the last two days off so I could try to have a little fun somewhere. I decided my fun would be driving the two hours to see my parents so I could go shopping with my mom. Seriously this was the highlight of my senior year’s Spring Break.
The other side of this story that you need to know is when I was a sophomore in High School I hurt my back pretty badly, and now I have back pain. I’ve talked to lots of doctors about and tried a lot of different medications and stretches. I’ve pretty much just learned to deal with it. At the time of this story I was still seeing my nice, young, female doctor as this was before I kicked her in the face and made her nose bleed. About a month before spring break she had prescribed me an arthritis medication hoping that would alleviate my back pain because she didn’t like me eating Motrin like candy or popping Narcotics. (Oh, sweet, sweet Vicodin…)
So I had been taking this medication for about a month, not every day, but enough to realize that it really wasn’t working. This is the sad thing. The freaking drug DIDN’T WORK, but in my mind I convinced myself that maybe I just needed to give it a little more time. I also noticed that it made me itchy. Not crazy itchy, but enough where in the middle of the night I would have to get out of bed and slather myself in lotion.
This is where I should have listened to my body. The itching should have been a giant red stop sign to me that hey, maybe my decision to keep taking this drug that is not working and seems to be having a weird reaction to my body ISN’T A GOOD IDEA!!! But, no. I wanted it to work so bad because my back hurt from working lots of hours (I worked in the stock room mostly) and I was going to see my mom and we were going to go shopping and I just wanted my two day Spring Break to be fun and perfect and pain free!!! I mean is this too much to ask?
Again, “I was going to see my mom and we were going to go shopping and I just wanted my two day Spring Break to be fun and perfect and pain free!!!”
On the morning of my first day off I woke up and my back was on fire. It was the worst it had been all week. It felt like some evil, evil little demon was pulling my skin away from my lower back and then twisting screw drivers into my spine. I was in PAIN. So, I crawled my way into the kitchen and downed a few crackers so I could crawl back into the bathroom and take two of the little blue and white pills that I wanted to work so bad. I prayed. I willed them to work. Then I took a shower and while the hot water massaged my lower back and temporally washed the little demons, I convinced myself that I would be okay and my two day Spring Break going to be awesome. It was at this point that I started getting really, really thirsty. I decided that my thirst was probably just being a tad bit dehydrated from beer the night before, so I made myself a big ‘ol cup of ice water for the drive down to my parents house.
Signs from my body: 2 (back pain and dehydration)
It was when I was walking down the stairs outside my apartment with my big ‘ol water and overnight bag when I started to feel a tad bit dizzy. Kinda like when you stand up to fast, but I was already standing. I figured this was because I was hungry, but I could make it to mom’s because if I did she would buy my lunch, thus more money to spend shopping.
Signs from my body: 3 (back pain, dehydration, and dizziness)
I had been in the car and driving for twenty minutes or so when the itchiness started… real bad. At this point in the back of my mind I know something is wrong. Something is seriously wrong. I can’t put down my big ‘ol water for fear of my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, I’m having trouble concentrating on the road because my mind and eyes are dizzy and now I’m having to take my hands off the wheel and scratch my body every three seconds.
Signs from my body: 4 (back pain, dehydration, dizziness, and itching)
Five minutes later it hits me, like a slap to the face, I have to throw up. All the water I’ve been drinking is suddenly at the back of my throat and I can feel it. I’m doing 70 MPH on 290 just outside Dripping Springs and my eyes can’t focus and my back is on fire and I’m rubbing my legs on the back of the seat trying to relieve the constant itch and I know I have to pull over.
I pulled over on the side of the road and threw up all that water and any of the drug that was left in my stomach and yes, probably those few crackers as well. Just as I am finishing I hear a car slow and pull in behind me. I just remember being pissed off, honestly. I remember thinking, “Really? I just want to get to my parents so I can go shopping and try to have a fun day with my mom and put this whole silly over dose or bad drug reaction out of my mind and now I have to deal with some hillbilly stopping to hold my hair and ask questions, oh Hell no…”
Then my mind sobered up and I remembered that I was in the middle of nowhere and what if this person stopped to rape me, kidnap me, force me into slavery, etcetera… I’m all alone on the side of a two way highway in Texas with my car door wide open and I’m bent over at my waist not trusting my mind to be stable enough to actually stand straight and defend myself, or at least run.
Turns out “scary rapist guy” was a cop, and not a “scary rapist cop” but a nice old cop who kinda looked liked Kevin Spacey (who I love). I think at first he thought I might be drunk – which would have been bad enough – but then I told him the story about the bad drug I’ve been taking… which big surprise didn’t help my cause. Finally my brain started working again and I perked up enough to add to my story that the drug I took was prescribed by my doctor and not a narcotic. In fact it was a old person’s arthritis medication and I should have stopped taking it weeks ago, it’s just I really wanted a good two day Spring Break that involved shopping with my mom. Again, I really just wanted a good two day Spring Break with my mom. By this time he had gotten me a bottle of water from his car and was laughing at my story. While he stayed with me for a few minutes to make sure the dizziness was gone he told me a story about his daughter and how she thought she overdosed on Benadryl but really she just ate some unwashed lettuce. Yeah, my crazy Spring Break story can now be lumped in with some Benadryl bimbo that can't wash her veggies... great...
After twenty minutes I got into my car and drove off with no more itching, upset stomach, or dizziness. I got to my parents an hour and a half later with just some good ‘ol bad pain. I took some Motrin and sucked it up, so I could at least pretend to have a good time shopping with my mom.
My mom and I bought matching shoes at Nordstoms. They were these cute little summer wedges in red and blue. The next week I realized exactly how bad my back must have hurt because those shoes that were all cute and comfy in the store, HURT LIKE A BITCH the second I tried to take a step in them outside my apartment door.
Signs from my body I didn’t listen too: Back Pain, Dehydration, Dizziness, Itching, Upset Stomach
Signs from my body I did listen too: Foot Pinching – I never wore those shoes ever again
Showing posts with label mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mom. Show all posts
Friday, March 4, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Sister is Having a Baby! Oh, And Just One Of The Times She Was Completely Evil To Me...
My sister is in labor right now with her second kiddo, who will be my second nephew. I honor of my wonderful sister, I thought I’d tell you guys about the one time she SCARED THE CRAP out of me. She’s such a good mom, really…
The story takes place when I was in kindergarten and we lived in the great state of Rhode Island. My sister was in the fourth grade and surprisingly this is not a tale of about how we shared a room for the first (and only) time. Nor, is this the story of us lying in our beds at night making up stories about the super scary Greek tiles that hung on the wall outside of our room. (Although next time I go home to the parent’s house I’ll take photos of those tiles so you guys can be the judge of how frightening they really are.) This story takes place on the road. This story takes place while my family and I were doing that super scary, incredibly creepy act of… driving through New England to look at the fall foliage! DunDunDun!!!! (Insert evil music)
At this time in my life I needed… well structure. I find this funny because now I think I’m a pretty laid back kinda gal. I mean you should see me and Boyfriend try to pick a restaurant some times. I’m all, “I don’t care where we go. Where do you want to go?” Then he says, “Well, what do you want?” “Then I answer, “I don’t care, what do you want?” And this goes back and forth until one of us snaps and finally says something (usually me) and then Boyfriend says “Nah, I don’t want that.”
Anyway, I was not like this as a five year old. As a five year old I went to half a day kindergarten and played the same game on the bus every morning. (Super Mario Brothers) As a five year old I came home every day from kindergarten and my mom made me the same lunch… every day. (Campbell’s Clam Chowder Soup) We did the dishes every day after dinner because we didn’t have a dish washer, and it calmed me that our dog barked incisively at the same squirrels out in our back yard every day. I was good as long as things went according to plan. But, on that cool, autumn day things did not go according to plan…
We got up early and as a family we all piled into the minivan and headed out into the great unknown. I was okay with this because that was that plan. We drove all around New England that day. (So I don’t really remember exactly where or for how long we drove and if I write, “Oh we drove thought New York and Vermont and Maine and heck probably a good 500 miles into Canada” -like I remember us doing- I’ll get a call tonight from my dad correcting me that really we only got to Connecticut, barely.) The point of this story is that we were a ways from our little home and it started to get dark. My parent’s brilliant idea was to simply pull over at the next Holliday Inn and purchase a room for the night.
First hotel…
Parents: “We require a room good sir.”
Hotel Guy: “There’s no room in the inn…”
Second hotel…
Parents: “We require a room good sir.”
Hotel Guy: “Yeah, can’t stay here…” (You should read that in the same voice as the snot kid who tells Forest Gump, “You can’t sit here” on the bus his first day of school. Just FYI.)
Forty Fifth Hotel…
Parents: “Just please let us give you money for a place to stay!!!
”
Hotel Guy: “Look people we are in the middle of prime leaf looking season. Did you honestly think you could just pack up your kids and maybe a few granola bars and be set of the day? Did you honestly think that these trees aren’t pulling in record breaking viewers this year? I mean look outside! Look at those colors! And you people just think you can waltz right in here and get a room like its some slow Fourth of July weekend? Ha! You turrists have a lot of learning to do.”
Parents: “Please we didn’t know… WE DIDN’T KNOW…”
Hotel Guy: “I know. I know. And you know what? I like you two, so I’m gonna help you out. I’m looking here on my computer and it looks like our sister hotel in south New Jersey just might have a broom closet you could sleep in for the night. Let’s see here… its 11:30 now and it takes about 5 hours to get there, so you could get a good 45 minutes of sleep in before they would have to get into that closet to find the waffle irons for breakfast. You better hurry.”
While this lovely conversation is going on in the hotel lobby, this is being said in the car…
Me: “I’m tired…”
Sister: “You know what going to happen, right?”
Me: “Um, no. What? What’s going to happen, Sister?”
Sister: “We are never going to find a place to stay tonight, and you know what that means, right?”
Me: “Mom and Dad will make a reservation? Because if they make a reservation they have to let us sleep there.”
Sister: “They can’t make a reservation for the same night that it is. Don’t you get it? Mom and Dad didn’t make a reservation. They didn’t prepare at all. They failed you. And you know what that means, right?”
Me: “Mom and Dad can fail us? I don’t get it…”
Sister: “IT MEANS WE WILL HAVE TO SLEEP IN THE CAR!!!”
I don’t know if words on the internet can express how much this freaked me out. Sleeping in the car is what homeless people did. Sleeping in the car meant my parents didn’t have all the answers and couldn’t fix everything. Sleeping in the car meant sleeping without my blanket. Sleeping in the car meant it would get really cold. Sleeping in the car meant wondering if our dog would die at home because we weren’t there to let him outside or feed him. In my mind, sleeping in the car was not an option.
But then my parents came out of the hotel lobby and got back in the car without a room key
.
Sister: “So did we get a room?”
Mom: “Nope, not here.”
Dad: “Yeah, this is getting ridiculous. I guess we’ll just have to sleep in the car.”
Parents: “Hahaha!”
And while my parents laughed away their worries in the front seat my sister turned to me and gave me an evil, evil smile…
To this day I don’t like not knowing where I’ll be sleeping. If I’m going over to a friend’s house and they pull out a giant bottle of tequila, I’d like to know if I can crash on the couch or do they have an extra room. When I was dating Ex-Boyfriend we took the train from Berlin to Poland and the first thing I made him do was find us a hotel room. In the back of my mind I knew I had taken a ten hour train to Eastern Europe on a whim, and everything I owned within 3000 miles was in a small duffle bag, but damn it I was going to have a bed to sleep in that night if we had to walk to every hotel and hostel in Krakow!
Oh, and in case you’re wondering we just ended up driving all the way home that scary night when I was five.
The story takes place when I was in kindergarten and we lived in the great state of Rhode Island. My sister was in the fourth grade and surprisingly this is not a tale of about how we shared a room for the first (and only) time. Nor, is this the story of us lying in our beds at night making up stories about the super scary Greek tiles that hung on the wall outside of our room. (Although next time I go home to the parent’s house I’ll take photos of those tiles so you guys can be the judge of how frightening they really are.) This story takes place on the road. This story takes place while my family and I were doing that super scary, incredibly creepy act of… driving through New England to look at the fall foliage! DunDunDun!!!! (Insert evil music)
At this time in my life I needed… well structure. I find this funny because now I think I’m a pretty laid back kinda gal. I mean you should see me and Boyfriend try to pick a restaurant some times. I’m all, “I don’t care where we go. Where do you want to go?” Then he says, “Well, what do you want?” “Then I answer, “I don’t care, what do you want?” And this goes back and forth until one of us snaps and finally says something (usually me) and then Boyfriend says “Nah, I don’t want that.”
Anyway, I was not like this as a five year old. As a five year old I went to half a day kindergarten and played the same game on the bus every morning. (Super Mario Brothers) As a five year old I came home every day from kindergarten and my mom made me the same lunch… every day. (Campbell’s Clam Chowder Soup) We did the dishes every day after dinner because we didn’t have a dish washer, and it calmed me that our dog barked incisively at the same squirrels out in our back yard every day. I was good as long as things went according to plan. But, on that cool, autumn day things did not go according to plan…
We got up early and as a family we all piled into the minivan and headed out into the great unknown. I was okay with this because that was that plan. We drove all around New England that day. (So I don’t really remember exactly where or for how long we drove and if I write, “Oh we drove thought New York and Vermont and Maine and heck probably a good 500 miles into Canada” -like I remember us doing- I’ll get a call tonight from my dad correcting me that really we only got to Connecticut, barely.) The point of this story is that we were a ways from our little home and it started to get dark. My parent’s brilliant idea was to simply pull over at the next Holliday Inn and purchase a room for the night.
First hotel…
Parents: “We require a room good sir.”
Hotel Guy: “There’s no room in the inn…”
Second hotel…
Parents: “We require a room good sir.”
Hotel Guy: “Yeah, can’t stay here…” (You should read that in the same voice as the snot kid who tells Forest Gump, “You can’t sit here” on the bus his first day of school. Just FYI.)
Forty Fifth Hotel…
Parents: “Just please let us give you money for a place to stay!!!
”
Hotel Guy: “Look people we are in the middle of prime leaf looking season. Did you honestly think you could just pack up your kids and maybe a few granola bars and be set of the day? Did you honestly think that these trees aren’t pulling in record breaking viewers this year? I mean look outside! Look at those colors! And you people just think you can waltz right in here and get a room like its some slow Fourth of July weekend? Ha! You turrists have a lot of learning to do.”
Parents: “Please we didn’t know… WE DIDN’T KNOW…”
Hotel Guy: “I know. I know. And you know what? I like you two, so I’m gonna help you out. I’m looking here on my computer and it looks like our sister hotel in south New Jersey just might have a broom closet you could sleep in for the night. Let’s see here… its 11:30 now and it takes about 5 hours to get there, so you could get a good 45 minutes of sleep in before they would have to get into that closet to find the waffle irons for breakfast. You better hurry.”
While this lovely conversation is going on in the hotel lobby, this is being said in the car…
Me: “I’m tired…”
Sister: “You know what going to happen, right?”
Me: “Um, no. What? What’s going to happen, Sister?”
Sister: “We are never going to find a place to stay tonight, and you know what that means, right?”
Me: “Mom and Dad will make a reservation? Because if they make a reservation they have to let us sleep there.”
Sister: “They can’t make a reservation for the same night that it is. Don’t you get it? Mom and Dad didn’t make a reservation. They didn’t prepare at all. They failed you. And you know what that means, right?”
Me: “Mom and Dad can fail us? I don’t get it…”
Sister: “IT MEANS WE WILL HAVE TO SLEEP IN THE CAR!!!”
I don’t know if words on the internet can express how much this freaked me out. Sleeping in the car is what homeless people did. Sleeping in the car meant my parents didn’t have all the answers and couldn’t fix everything. Sleeping in the car meant sleeping without my blanket. Sleeping in the car meant it would get really cold. Sleeping in the car meant wondering if our dog would die at home because we weren’t there to let him outside or feed him. In my mind, sleeping in the car was not an option.
But then my parents came out of the hotel lobby and got back in the car without a room key
.
Sister: “So did we get a room?”
Mom: “Nope, not here.”
Dad: “Yeah, this is getting ridiculous. I guess we’ll just have to sleep in the car.”
Parents: “Hahaha!”
And while my parents laughed away their worries in the front seat my sister turned to me and gave me an evil, evil smile…
To this day I don’t like not knowing where I’ll be sleeping. If I’m going over to a friend’s house and they pull out a giant bottle of tequila, I’d like to know if I can crash on the couch or do they have an extra room. When I was dating Ex-Boyfriend we took the train from Berlin to Poland and the first thing I made him do was find us a hotel room. In the back of my mind I knew I had taken a ten hour train to Eastern Europe on a whim, and everything I owned within 3000 miles was in a small duffle bag, but damn it I was going to have a bed to sleep in that night if we had to walk to every hotel and hostel in Krakow!
Oh, and in case you’re wondering we just ended up driving all the way home that scary night when I was five.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Driving: Watching Sister Make a Fool of Herself and How My Parents Taught Me...
Lately I’ve been carrying around small notebook and writing down any good ideas I think of for my blog. This is a good thing because I don’t sit in front of my computer with writers block because I can’t remember that really funny thing Boyfriend said last night. The notebook is a bad thing because last night I dreamed that something slightly… okay not slightly… really embarrassing happened while I was trying to buy a bottle of Disaronno Amaretto (which I don’t even drink) and after I left the store in shame (without my alcohol) I thought to myself, in the dream, “well at least this will make a good blog post.” Swear to God people… I am now putting myself in awkward embarrassing situations in my dreams so you people can have a laugh and I can quietly crawl under a rock and die. FML…
But, If I’m going down, I’m taking my sister with me!
Today I’d like to write about that oh so important time in a young girls life when she learns how to drive.
But first I want to write about when my sister learned to drive.
My sister started learning to drive when we lived in Alabama. I’m sure I don’t know the whole story of every time Mom and Dad would take her out on the road, but I do remember a few things. The first is that I was extremely jealous of my sister getting behind the wheel. Looking back this is pretty funny. I mean I was in 6th grade, so I was nowhere near being old enough to learn to drive. I didn’t care that my sister was dating and I wasn’t. I didn’t care that she was in high school and I wasn’t. I didn’t care that she played an instrument and I didn’t. But, the first day mom pulled over at the entrance of our neighborhood and turned to Sister and asked if she wanted to drive the rest of the way, I was pissed! Driving, like most things adult get to do, looked like so much fun and at that point in my life I was pretty sure my sister thought I was the biggest nerd, so I immediately started hating her for being able to drive.
My sister learning to drive was hilarious. Her first big obstacle was stop signs. Sister would start slowing down for a stop sign like a block before the stop sign, and this is our neighborhood when she was only going 15 MPH anyway. Then she would dramatically come to a stop about ten feet behind the actual stop sign, meaning she couldn’t see around the corner to see if it was okay to continue after the stop. OMG my mom used to get so frustrated…
Mom: “Daughter! Keep driving forward! You are nowhere near the stop sign!”
Sister: “Stop yelling at me mom! I am right at the stop sign! If you count the nose of the car I am practically at the sign!”
Me: (to myself) “Haha, she sucks at driving. When I get to drive I’ll be awesome.”
Then I remember my sister having a very hard time judging the distance between her car and other cars on the road. This happened one time when my whole family was out driving to who knows where and Sister got to drive. We were driving on some pretty little country road with only two lanes. And my sister kinda drove like this…
Dad: “Daughter! Drive in your lane!”
Sister: “I am in my lane! If I get any closer to the side of the road I’ll be in the bushes.”
Dad: “That’s what I meant! You’re driving on the shoulder of the road. Move the car closer to the center.”
Mom: “Now, Husband, don’t yell, but really Daughter you’re driving in the dirt and it’s not good for the tires. Now gently ease the car back into the center of the road.”
Sister: “I’m on the road! If I get over anymore to the left I’ll hit the oncoming traffic!”
Dad: “You are nowhere near the oncoming traffic! In fact I think the oncoming traffic might flag us down to make sure our car is okay because you are driving off the road.”
Sister: “Stop yelling at me!”
Dad: “I’m not yelling at you. Drive better!”
Mom: “Let’s all just calm down…”
Sister: “Mom!”
Dad: “Daughter!”
Me: (to myself) “Hahaha!!!”
Like I said, I don’t know all the gory details of Sister learning to drive, but I do remember mine.
First of all I didn’t get to learn how to drive at 15 and take my driver’s test at 16 like most normal teenagers. We lived in Germany and the driving age there is 18 or 17 if you already had a license in the states. I did not. So I got in a few more years of being driven around by my parents and begging my friends for rides. The very first time I ever drove a car was in Germany when Ex-Boyfriend Matt asked if I wanted to drive his car in this old abandoned lot.
Ex-Boyfriend Matt: “Hey, you’ve driven before, right? Wanna drive my Opel around this abandoned parking lot?”
Me: “Of course I’ve driven before! Hell yes I wanna drive! Pull over and hand over the keys!”
Ex-Boyfriend Matt: (pulling the car over and getting out of the driver’s seat) “Yeah, this sounds like a great idea and not at all irresponsible of me!”
Me: “Buckle up kid. I’m a pro.”
Yeah, I wasn’t and Ex-Boyfriend Matt quickly demanded I pull over and give his keys back and he never ever asked me if I wanted to drive again. But the first time driving with my father was the best time ever and if by “best time ever” I mean horrible.
My dad told me one day during the week when I was a junior in high school that he wanted to start teaching me to drive. My first thought was “AWESOME I FINALLY GET TO DRIVE!” and my second thought was, “wait Lemon Lady when your father tries to teach you to do something and you’re not good at it you get very defensive and end up in tears with your father swearing at a very high decibel that no, he’s not in fact yelling at you… remember when he took you to the driving range and tried to teach you how to hit a golf ball?” But that thought was quickly covered up by, “AWESOME I FINALLY GET TO DRIVE!”
That weekend Dad drove me to the high school parking lot right there on base and handed over the keys to his Honda Accord. I got behind the wheel and waited patiently as he went over what every single button, knob, and gage’s purpose was. I waited while he spent 10 minutes making sure my seat and mirrors were adjusted perfectly. After what seemed like an eternity behind the wheel he finally let me turn the car on and drive down the parking lot row.
Me: (to myself) “OMFG! I’m driving!!!”
Dad: “Good job. Keep her at the same constant speed and get ready for to turn left at the end of the row and drive down the next row.”
Me: “Okay Dad, sure.” (to myself) “Yeah I’m going to turn this car. Watch me turn this fine Japanese automobile. You like that Accord? You like that nice and easy left hand turn?”
Dad: “Nice turn.”
Me: “Thanks.” (to myself) “Who has two thumbs and is the best left hand turner driving this car at this very moment? Me, that’s who.”
Dad: “Okay and pull to a stop right here.”
Me: (stopping) “Okay. Can we do right hand turns now? I’m sure I’ll be even more awesome at right hand turns.”
Dad: “Nope, let’s work on backing into this parking space.”
Yeah, you read that right. I had been driving for all of 37 seconds and my dad has me stop and try to back into a parking space! BACK INTO A PARKING SPACE!!! I didn’t even know if I could perform a right hand turn! For all I knew I was the Zoolander of driving and my father wanted to start on backing into parking spaces! Yeah, about 30 minutes later we were back home with me wanting to wash the tears off my face and my father wondering either A, “Why didn’t I have boys?” or B, “How F-ing hard is it to back into a parking space? What’s her problem?”
After that my mom and the driving school taught me to drive my senior year. I turned right on red without stopping once while driving with Mom and she freaked out. (Hello, we were fine…) But then she hurt herself and I had to drive her across San Antonio to the hospital before I had really driven on the highway in driving class. So, yup, that’s how my parents taught me to drive… backing into spaces before I knew what a turn signal was and driving my paralyzed mother, who could only lay in the front seat and pray I knew where I was going, to the Emergency Room when I should have been in 1st period.
I love my parents.
But, If I’m going down, I’m taking my sister with me!
Today I’d like to write about that oh so important time in a young girls life when she learns how to drive.
But first I want to write about when my sister learned to drive.
My sister started learning to drive when we lived in Alabama. I’m sure I don’t know the whole story of every time Mom and Dad would take her out on the road, but I do remember a few things. The first is that I was extremely jealous of my sister getting behind the wheel. Looking back this is pretty funny. I mean I was in 6th grade, so I was nowhere near being old enough to learn to drive. I didn’t care that my sister was dating and I wasn’t. I didn’t care that she was in high school and I wasn’t. I didn’t care that she played an instrument and I didn’t. But, the first day mom pulled over at the entrance of our neighborhood and turned to Sister and asked if she wanted to drive the rest of the way, I was pissed! Driving, like most things adult get to do, looked like so much fun and at that point in my life I was pretty sure my sister thought I was the biggest nerd, so I immediately started hating her for being able to drive.
My sister learning to drive was hilarious. Her first big obstacle was stop signs. Sister would start slowing down for a stop sign like a block before the stop sign, and this is our neighborhood when she was only going 15 MPH anyway. Then she would dramatically come to a stop about ten feet behind the actual stop sign, meaning she couldn’t see around the corner to see if it was okay to continue after the stop. OMG my mom used to get so frustrated…
Mom: “Daughter! Keep driving forward! You are nowhere near the stop sign!”
Sister: “Stop yelling at me mom! I am right at the stop sign! If you count the nose of the car I am practically at the sign!”
Me: (to myself) “Haha, she sucks at driving. When I get to drive I’ll be awesome.”
Then I remember my sister having a very hard time judging the distance between her car and other cars on the road. This happened one time when my whole family was out driving to who knows where and Sister got to drive. We were driving on some pretty little country road with only two lanes. And my sister kinda drove like this…
Dad: “Daughter! Drive in your lane!”
Sister: “I am in my lane! If I get any closer to the side of the road I’ll be in the bushes.”
Dad: “That’s what I meant! You’re driving on the shoulder of the road. Move the car closer to the center.”
Mom: “Now, Husband, don’t yell, but really Daughter you’re driving in the dirt and it’s not good for the tires. Now gently ease the car back into the center of the road.”
Sister: “I’m on the road! If I get over anymore to the left I’ll hit the oncoming traffic!”
Dad: “You are nowhere near the oncoming traffic! In fact I think the oncoming traffic might flag us down to make sure our car is okay because you are driving off the road.”
Sister: “Stop yelling at me!”
Dad: “I’m not yelling at you. Drive better!”
Mom: “Let’s all just calm down…”
Sister: “Mom!”
Dad: “Daughter!”
Me: (to myself) “Hahaha!!!”
Like I said, I don’t know all the gory details of Sister learning to drive, but I do remember mine.
First of all I didn’t get to learn how to drive at 15 and take my driver’s test at 16 like most normal teenagers. We lived in Germany and the driving age there is 18 or 17 if you already had a license in the states. I did not. So I got in a few more years of being driven around by my parents and begging my friends for rides. The very first time I ever drove a car was in Germany when Ex-Boyfriend Matt asked if I wanted to drive his car in this old abandoned lot.
Ex-Boyfriend Matt: “Hey, you’ve driven before, right? Wanna drive my Opel around this abandoned parking lot?”
Me: “Of course I’ve driven before! Hell yes I wanna drive! Pull over and hand over the keys!”
Ex-Boyfriend Matt: (pulling the car over and getting out of the driver’s seat) “Yeah, this sounds like a great idea and not at all irresponsible of me!”
Me: “Buckle up kid. I’m a pro.”
Yeah, I wasn’t and Ex-Boyfriend Matt quickly demanded I pull over and give his keys back and he never ever asked me if I wanted to drive again. But the first time driving with my father was the best time ever and if by “best time ever” I mean horrible.
My dad told me one day during the week when I was a junior in high school that he wanted to start teaching me to drive. My first thought was “AWESOME I FINALLY GET TO DRIVE!” and my second thought was, “wait Lemon Lady when your father tries to teach you to do something and you’re not good at it you get very defensive and end up in tears with your father swearing at a very high decibel that no, he’s not in fact yelling at you… remember when he took you to the driving range and tried to teach you how to hit a golf ball?” But that thought was quickly covered up by, “AWESOME I FINALLY GET TO DRIVE!”
That weekend Dad drove me to the high school parking lot right there on base and handed over the keys to his Honda Accord. I got behind the wheel and waited patiently as he went over what every single button, knob, and gage’s purpose was. I waited while he spent 10 minutes making sure my seat and mirrors were adjusted perfectly. After what seemed like an eternity behind the wheel he finally let me turn the car on and drive down the parking lot row.
Me: (to myself) “OMFG! I’m driving!!!”
Dad: “Good job. Keep her at the same constant speed and get ready for to turn left at the end of the row and drive down the next row.”
Me: “Okay Dad, sure.” (to myself) “Yeah I’m going to turn this car. Watch me turn this fine Japanese automobile. You like that Accord? You like that nice and easy left hand turn?”
Dad: “Nice turn.”
Me: “Thanks.” (to myself) “Who has two thumbs and is the best left hand turner driving this car at this very moment? Me, that’s who.”
Dad: “Okay and pull to a stop right here.”
Me: (stopping) “Okay. Can we do right hand turns now? I’m sure I’ll be even more awesome at right hand turns.”
Dad: “Nope, let’s work on backing into this parking space.”
Yeah, you read that right. I had been driving for all of 37 seconds and my dad has me stop and try to back into a parking space! BACK INTO A PARKING SPACE!!! I didn’t even know if I could perform a right hand turn! For all I knew I was the Zoolander of driving and my father wanted to start on backing into parking spaces! Yeah, about 30 minutes later we were back home with me wanting to wash the tears off my face and my father wondering either A, “Why didn’t I have boys?” or B, “How F-ing hard is it to back into a parking space? What’s her problem?”
After that my mom and the driving school taught me to drive my senior year. I turned right on red without stopping once while driving with Mom and she freaked out. (Hello, we were fine…) But then she hurt herself and I had to drive her across San Antonio to the hospital before I had really driven on the highway in driving class. So, yup, that’s how my parents taught me to drive… backing into spaces before I knew what a turn signal was and driving my paralyzed mother, who could only lay in the front seat and pray I knew where I was going, to the Emergency Room when I should have been in 1st period.
I love my parents.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Legand of the Lemon Lady: Where My Love For Lemons Originated...
As, hopefully, you can tell, I’ve made a few changes to the look of my blog. I hope you like them. I have also added a list of other blogs I enjoy, so if you get bored at work… your welcome. Also you can now comment on blog posts under the name “anonymous” if you don’t want to set up a Yahoo or Google account… your welcome parents.
A few people have asked me where the name LemonsLemonsLemons comes from. So, I thought I would address that question today in honor of the new look. (And yes, I know it looks very similar to the old look.)
I like lemons.
Here are some reasons why I’ve always liked lemons…
Sour Lemon Sharks from Woolworths in England
Lemon Sorbet
Lemons in your Ice Tea
Lemon Pepper on everything
Then something happened when I as 15 that changed my view on lemons, from just liking them, to kinda being obsessed. I made the mistake of going to the Musee d’Orsey with my sister.
When I first moved to Germany the summer between my freshmen and sophomore years in high school, my mom, my sister, and I went on a girls trip to Paris. Sister loves Paris. She was an art history major in college (yeah my parents produced art history and American studies majors, go figure) and she took French in high school and she found out she was pregnant with my nephew while in Paris with Brother In Law. I mean I think Paris is beautiful and historical and I love food, but Sister REALLY thinks Paris is beautiful and historical and give her a baguette and she’s happy as a clam. So after we arrived in Germany and after my father dragged us all jet lagged through Bavaria and the Alps, Mom, Sister, and I jumped on the train to Paris.
After an interesting train ride sharing a compartment with a mother and her two Harry Potter loving children and a slightly creepy French tennis player we arrived in Paris ready to see the sights thanks to Sister and her tour books and knowledge of every building and statue. When I say we looked at a lot of art, we looked at a lot of art. Now, I like art. I do, but OMG does my sister like art. She can tell you why a certain painter painted an arm longer than the other or why a cherub has a thin halo instead of a thick halo. Then she would want to sketch. She would plop herself down in front of some naked guy holding grapes and draw him from different angles as Asian tourists took pictures and videotaped her. I’m sure it was a dream come true. I mean I can imagine if I was an artist, sitting with my back against the marble wall of some random hall in the Louvre sketching priceless works of art would be awesome. (Maybe even living out the movie that plays inside my head)
On the day after the Louvre, we visited the Musee d’Orsay where all the impressionist paintings are housed. The museum itself is an old train station that has been converted into a holding house of some of the most priceless, amazing, beautiful works of art. Monet and Renoir and Degas and thousands of other master artists have work inside its wall. When you visit the Musee d’Orsay you start on the ground floor and then you take a very long series of escalators to the top floor and work your way back down. This system keeps people walking the same way and traffic moving swiftly. We finished two floors and my feet were killing me and Mom was hungry, so even though I’m sure my sister was ready to press on to the next lowest floor, we made her stop at the museum café and have a bite to eat. We bought our pommes frites and whatnot and quickly found a seat to rest our feet and enjoy our little snack.
Me: “Nom, nom, nom, my feet hurt, nom.”
Sister: “Nom, nom, nom, I love art, nom.”
Mom: “So, girls what has been your favorite piece of art you’ve seen today?”
Me: “Well, I…”
Sister: (Quickly cutting me off) “Oh, well there are soooo many that are worthy of that title…. I mean first there is Monet’s Blue Water Lilies or as the French call them “Nymphéas Bleus” in its square format that just overly emphasizes the neutrality of the composition. And, it is true that if you get really close to the painting the bush strokes are stronger than the identification of the plants and water they are suppose to represent. The man was a genius, a lily pad loving genius! And the Van Goghs! Did you see The Church in Auvers –Sur –Oise? It is amazing to see such a gothic structure become light and almost flamboyant like rising from the shadows. And Cezanna… I love how… blah blah blah…”
Me: (To myself) “OMG will she never shut up? And what’s the difference between composition and dimension? Didn’t she explain that yesterday? Crap this is all just running together…”
Sister: “blah, blah, blah… Courbet vaginas… blah, blah, blah… Pissarros’ fragmented brushstrokes… blah blah blah…”
Me: (Again to myself) “Divisionism??? Okay, remember when it’s your turn say smart things like composition, dimension, and divisionism. Repeat, composition, dimension, and divisionism. Repeat, composition, dimension, and divisionism….”
Sister: “blah, blah, blah… The Redon off centered child that on one side the painting was airy and light and the other had the dark child in the shadows... blah blah blah and a whole lot of other shit about art I can’t remember/don’t want to look up/wasn’t listening in the first place.”
Twenty minutes later when my sister stopped for air and what was remaining of the French Fries, Mom turned to me and, ever the fair mother, asked me, “So, what was your favorite piece of art?”
Me: “Ah… Um… (What can’t I think of anything?) Well… You see… (Crap, who were those pretty blue painting by again? What were those smart sounding artsy words I was suppose to say?) Um… There was this one of a Lemon I liked."
"Le Lemon" by Edouard Manet 1880
FML. Really? Really? Out of all the amazing works of art I had seen for the past five hours the only painting I could remember was smaller than an 8x10 and pictured a single lemon on a plate. Yeah, a lemon on a plate. I could have remembered the beautiful Degas ballerinas, or that large painting of the men stripping the ballet studio’s floor by someone I can’t remember and Google seems to be failing me. I could have remembered all the Van Gogh self portraits that are all colorful and beautiful but always seem haunted underneath the rainbow paint. But, no. My mind went blank and the only single piece of work I could remember from the last five hours of looking at what can be argued as one of the best collections of art in the world, was than damn Manet’s Le Lemon.
So, I went with it. And I did and still do kinda love it. It is small and dark and I felt sorry for it. Yeah, I felt sorry for a painting in a museum that is probably passed over all day long while people speed walk to the Monets. Since then, I’ve become a lover of all things lemons. Later that summer I took my photo by lemon trees when Mom, Sister, and I went to Austria. Sister has painted me two painting of lemons. One was a copy of the original and one was her interpretation. I have lemon shaped candles and lemon earrings. I have a lemon throw pillow and a lemon apron. I’ve embraced an infatuation of the great citrus because of a small painting in a large museum on the other side of the world.
And there you have it, the story of
LemonsLemonsLemons.
A few people have asked me where the name LemonsLemonsLemons comes from. So, I thought I would address that question today in honor of the new look. (And yes, I know it looks very similar to the old look.)
I like lemons.
Here are some reasons why I’ve always liked lemons…
Sour Lemon Sharks from Woolworths in England
Lemon Sorbet
Lemons in your Ice Tea
Lemon Pepper on everything
Then something happened when I as 15 that changed my view on lemons, from just liking them, to kinda being obsessed. I made the mistake of going to the Musee d’Orsey with my sister.
When I first moved to Germany the summer between my freshmen and sophomore years in high school, my mom, my sister, and I went on a girls trip to Paris. Sister loves Paris. She was an art history major in college (yeah my parents produced art history and American studies majors, go figure) and she took French in high school and she found out she was pregnant with my nephew while in Paris with Brother In Law. I mean I think Paris is beautiful and historical and I love food, but Sister REALLY thinks Paris is beautiful and historical and give her a baguette and she’s happy as a clam. So after we arrived in Germany and after my father dragged us all jet lagged through Bavaria and the Alps, Mom, Sister, and I jumped on the train to Paris.
After an interesting train ride sharing a compartment with a mother and her two Harry Potter loving children and a slightly creepy French tennis player we arrived in Paris ready to see the sights thanks to Sister and her tour books and knowledge of every building and statue. When I say we looked at a lot of art, we looked at a lot of art. Now, I like art. I do, but OMG does my sister like art. She can tell you why a certain painter painted an arm longer than the other or why a cherub has a thin halo instead of a thick halo. Then she would want to sketch. She would plop herself down in front of some naked guy holding grapes and draw him from different angles as Asian tourists took pictures and videotaped her. I’m sure it was a dream come true. I mean I can imagine if I was an artist, sitting with my back against the marble wall of some random hall in the Louvre sketching priceless works of art would be awesome. (Maybe even living out the movie that plays inside my head)
On the day after the Louvre, we visited the Musee d’Orsay where all the impressionist paintings are housed. The museum itself is an old train station that has been converted into a holding house of some of the most priceless, amazing, beautiful works of art. Monet and Renoir and Degas and thousands of other master artists have work inside its wall. When you visit the Musee d’Orsay you start on the ground floor and then you take a very long series of escalators to the top floor and work your way back down. This system keeps people walking the same way and traffic moving swiftly. We finished two floors and my feet were killing me and Mom was hungry, so even though I’m sure my sister was ready to press on to the next lowest floor, we made her stop at the museum café and have a bite to eat. We bought our pommes frites and whatnot and quickly found a seat to rest our feet and enjoy our little snack.
Me: “Nom, nom, nom, my feet hurt, nom.”
Sister: “Nom, nom, nom, I love art, nom.”
Mom: “So, girls what has been your favorite piece of art you’ve seen today?”
Me: “Well, I…”
Sister: (Quickly cutting me off) “Oh, well there are soooo many that are worthy of that title…. I mean first there is Monet’s Blue Water Lilies or as the French call them “Nymphéas Bleus” in its square format that just overly emphasizes the neutrality of the composition. And, it is true that if you get really close to the painting the bush strokes are stronger than the identification of the plants and water they are suppose to represent. The man was a genius, a lily pad loving genius! And the Van Goghs! Did you see The Church in Auvers –Sur –Oise? It is amazing to see such a gothic structure become light and almost flamboyant like rising from the shadows. And Cezanna… I love how… blah blah blah…”
Me: (To myself) “OMG will she never shut up? And what’s the difference between composition and dimension? Didn’t she explain that yesterday? Crap this is all just running together…”
Sister: “blah, blah, blah… Courbet vaginas… blah, blah, blah… Pissarros’ fragmented brushstrokes… blah blah blah…”
Me: (Again to myself) “Divisionism??? Okay, remember when it’s your turn say smart things like composition, dimension, and divisionism. Repeat, composition, dimension, and divisionism. Repeat, composition, dimension, and divisionism….”
Sister: “blah, blah, blah… The Redon off centered child that on one side the painting was airy and light and the other had the dark child in the shadows... blah blah blah and a whole lot of other shit about art I can’t remember/don’t want to look up/wasn’t listening in the first place.”
Twenty minutes later when my sister stopped for air and what was remaining of the French Fries, Mom turned to me and, ever the fair mother, asked me, “So, what was your favorite piece of art?”
Me: “Ah… Um… (What can’t I think of anything?) Well… You see… (Crap, who were those pretty blue painting by again? What were those smart sounding artsy words I was suppose to say?) Um… There was this one of a Lemon I liked."
"Le Lemon" by Edouard Manet 1880FML. Really? Really? Out of all the amazing works of art I had seen for the past five hours the only painting I could remember was smaller than an 8x10 and pictured a single lemon on a plate. Yeah, a lemon on a plate. I could have remembered the beautiful Degas ballerinas, or that large painting of the men stripping the ballet studio’s floor by someone I can’t remember and Google seems to be failing me. I could have remembered all the Van Gogh self portraits that are all colorful and beautiful but always seem haunted underneath the rainbow paint. But, no. My mind went blank and the only single piece of work I could remember from the last five hours of looking at what can be argued as one of the best collections of art in the world, was than damn Manet’s Le Lemon.
So, I went with it. And I did and still do kinda love it. It is small and dark and I felt sorry for it. Yeah, I felt sorry for a painting in a museum that is probably passed over all day long while people speed walk to the Monets. Since then, I’ve become a lover of all things lemons. Later that summer I took my photo by lemon trees when Mom, Sister, and I went to Austria. Sister has painted me two painting of lemons. One was a copy of the original and one was her interpretation. I have lemon shaped candles and lemon earrings. I have a lemon throw pillow and a lemon apron. I’ve embraced an infatuation of the great citrus because of a small painting in a large museum on the other side of the world.
And there you have it, the story of
LemonsLemonsLemons.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Scream... Proof Movies You Thought Were Awesome in Middle School, Not So Much...
Labor Day weekend was amazing. I know a lot of people may say this, but my family is honest to God the greatest ever. We have so much fun together just hanging out, playing cards, eating food, and chatting. I feel like all weekend I was saying to myself, “Oh, that story so needs to be a blog post.” But, of course I didn’t have pen glued to my hand and therefore didn’t write down any of those wonderful ideas. (Getting out of the pool and finding a pen inside would have been way to much work.) So, family member that are reading this, if you remember any of those ideas let me know.
As awesome as the weekend was last night might have been just as great. Driving back into town from the parental unit’s house in San Antonio, I stopped at my local used movie/CD store, Cheepos. I have been hitting up Cheepos weekly for about a month looking for the holy grail of entertainment de Middle School weekend sleepovers, Wes Craven’s Scream.
My first horror movie memory was climbing into my parent’s king size bed with my mom and sister and watching the movie Alien. My dad was out of town and my mother decided it would be fun to have a movie night watching one of her favorite movies with her two daughters. She got us all comfortable will pillows and blankets, and we each had a dish of popcorn. What could be more fun? Oh, and did I mention that I was in kindergarten and my sister was in 4th grade. Yeah, my mother (who don’t get me wrong is amazing) thought it would be a good idea to watch a movie where aliens pop out of people’s stomachs with her 6 year old and 10 year old. We only made it through about 30 minutes and never even saw one alien, and my sister still had nightmares and physically got sick to her stomach.
I started liking horror movies and scary shows when I was in 4th grade. We had just moved back to the States from England and I loved all the cool American TV shows that were creepy and spooky. I watched everything from X Files to Are You Afraid of the Dark on Nickelodeon. But, it wasn’t until 8th grade, when I saw the movie Scream, that I started my love affair with scary movies.
I watched Scream for the first time with my neighborhood friend, Mandy. I say I watched it for the first time, but I really I watched it for the first, second, third, and eighty-fourth time with Mandy. She and I would have sleepovers at each other’s houses every weekend and watch Scream at least twice. As soon as the sun came up over Stu’s blood soaked house and credits started to roll we would get up, rewind the VHS, and play it again. We could quote the whole movie. We did quote the whole movie… all the time. Mandy’s older brother thought we were stupid for liking such a dumb movie, and who knows what our parents thought, but we didn’t care. If it was Friday night we were either on my couch or her movie chairs watching Neve Campbell survive her thoroughly F-ed up boyfriend and his long tongued side kick.
So, I’ve been talking about wanting to watch Scream for over a month, and I finally found it on DVD yesterday. I was like a kid waiting for her parents to get up on Christmas morning. I got home with my prize DVD at 3PM and had to wait hours for it to get dark. (You can’t watch scary movies during the day.) Boyfriend wasn’t quiet as excited as me.
Boyfriend: “Scream?”
Me: “Yes, Scream!”
Boyfriend: “Scream?”
Me: “SCREAM!”
It finally got dark. I turned off all the lights, got me an orange Popsicle, and curled up on the couch with Boyfriend.
Boyfriend: “Hey, that annoying girl who looks like Davis Girl is in this movie.”
Me: “Drew Barrymore, and she doesn’t look anything like Davis Girl.”
(Boyfriend thinks any blonde in any movie or TV show looks like Davis Girl.)
Boyfriend: “Are a lot of people going to die? Who is in the car? Why is she stopping? Is the house going to burn down? I can’t believe she is still holding that phone.”
Me: “Yes, it’s a horror movie. People die. Her parents are in the car coming home. She stopped because she saw her boyfriend tied to a chair with his guts hanging out. I don’t know why she is holding the phone. Now, please hush and watch the movie.”
Boyfriend: “There is too much blood and death.”
Me: “It’s a horror movie and this is only the opening scene.”
The thing is, Scream does kinda suck. I mean I enjoyed watching it because it brought back memories, but I wasn’t scared like I used to be and I didn’t think it was as funny as it used to be. I know that we all grow out of things as we grow up, but this really hit me hard. I used to think Rose McGowan’s Tatum and Matthew Lillard’s Stu were absolutely hilarious. Yeah, not so much anymore. Rose just looks weird trying to be the sweet down to earth girl who wears cloud pajamas and sleeps with a teddy bear. I mean this is the women who went on to star in Jawbreaker and marry Marilyn Manson for crying out loud. And Stu! Stu really pissed me off last night. I remember cracking up to his lines. I remember one night we wrote them all down so we would remember them and have funny inside jokes the next day at school. (For some reason we thought we would be the only ones who had seen Scream.) Turns out his lines suck and all he did, all movie long was make faces and stick his tongue out really far.
When Tatum says, “Stupidity leak!” and hits Stu on the forehead with her lollypop I just thought how gross that is, not “wow high school kids are cool and funny in their relationships.” I mean I know Matthew Lillard didn’t have the greasy bangs Skeet Ulrich sported, but still… ick.
Also Stu’s light one liners like “Peer pressure. I’m far too sensitive.” and “Liver alone.” and “My mom and dad are going to be so mad at me.” ARE NOT FUNNY!
I’m sad. It’s a sad day when happy moments from your childhood die. I mean I watched The Last Unicorn in college and loved it just as much as when I watch it as a kid. I still love The Sandlot and Big Business, but it might be time to retire Scream. RIP.
As awesome as the weekend was last night might have been just as great. Driving back into town from the parental unit’s house in San Antonio, I stopped at my local used movie/CD store, Cheepos. I have been hitting up Cheepos weekly for about a month looking for the holy grail of entertainment de Middle School weekend sleepovers, Wes Craven’s Scream.
My first horror movie memory was climbing into my parent’s king size bed with my mom and sister and watching the movie Alien. My dad was out of town and my mother decided it would be fun to have a movie night watching one of her favorite movies with her two daughters. She got us all comfortable will pillows and blankets, and we each had a dish of popcorn. What could be more fun? Oh, and did I mention that I was in kindergarten and my sister was in 4th grade. Yeah, my mother (who don’t get me wrong is amazing) thought it would be a good idea to watch a movie where aliens pop out of people’s stomachs with her 6 year old and 10 year old. We only made it through about 30 minutes and never even saw one alien, and my sister still had nightmares and physically got sick to her stomach.
I started liking horror movies and scary shows when I was in 4th grade. We had just moved back to the States from England and I loved all the cool American TV shows that were creepy and spooky. I watched everything from X Files to Are You Afraid of the Dark on Nickelodeon. But, it wasn’t until 8th grade, when I saw the movie Scream, that I started my love affair with scary movies.
I watched Scream for the first time with my neighborhood friend, Mandy. I say I watched it for the first time, but I really I watched it for the first, second, third, and eighty-fourth time with Mandy. She and I would have sleepovers at each other’s houses every weekend and watch Scream at least twice. As soon as the sun came up over Stu’s blood soaked house and credits started to roll we would get up, rewind the VHS, and play it again. We could quote the whole movie. We did quote the whole movie… all the time. Mandy’s older brother thought we were stupid for liking such a dumb movie, and who knows what our parents thought, but we didn’t care. If it was Friday night we were either on my couch or her movie chairs watching Neve Campbell survive her thoroughly F-ed up boyfriend and his long tongued side kick.
So, I’ve been talking about wanting to watch Scream for over a month, and I finally found it on DVD yesterday. I was like a kid waiting for her parents to get up on Christmas morning. I got home with my prize DVD at 3PM and had to wait hours for it to get dark. (You can’t watch scary movies during the day.) Boyfriend wasn’t quiet as excited as me.
Boyfriend: “Scream?”
Me: “Yes, Scream!”
Boyfriend: “Scream?”
Me: “SCREAM!”
It finally got dark. I turned off all the lights, got me an orange Popsicle, and curled up on the couch with Boyfriend.
Boyfriend: “Hey, that annoying girl who looks like Davis Girl is in this movie.”
Me: “Drew Barrymore, and she doesn’t look anything like Davis Girl.”
(Boyfriend thinks any blonde in any movie or TV show looks like Davis Girl.)
Boyfriend: “Are a lot of people going to die? Who is in the car? Why is she stopping? Is the house going to burn down? I can’t believe she is still holding that phone.”
Me: “Yes, it’s a horror movie. People die. Her parents are in the car coming home. She stopped because she saw her boyfriend tied to a chair with his guts hanging out. I don’t know why she is holding the phone. Now, please hush and watch the movie.”
Boyfriend: “There is too much blood and death.”
Me: “It’s a horror movie and this is only the opening scene.”
The thing is, Scream does kinda suck. I mean I enjoyed watching it because it brought back memories, but I wasn’t scared like I used to be and I didn’t think it was as funny as it used to be. I know that we all grow out of things as we grow up, but this really hit me hard. I used to think Rose McGowan’s Tatum and Matthew Lillard’s Stu were absolutely hilarious. Yeah, not so much anymore. Rose just looks weird trying to be the sweet down to earth girl who wears cloud pajamas and sleeps with a teddy bear. I mean this is the women who went on to star in Jawbreaker and marry Marilyn Manson for crying out loud. And Stu! Stu really pissed me off last night. I remember cracking up to his lines. I remember one night we wrote them all down so we would remember them and have funny inside jokes the next day at school. (For some reason we thought we would be the only ones who had seen Scream.) Turns out his lines suck and all he did, all movie long was make faces and stick his tongue out really far.
When Tatum says, “Stupidity leak!” and hits Stu on the forehead with her lollypop I just thought how gross that is, not “wow high school kids are cool and funny in their relationships.” I mean I know Matthew Lillard didn’t have the greasy bangs Skeet Ulrich sported, but still… ick.
Also Stu’s light one liners like “Peer pressure. I’m far too sensitive.” and “Liver alone.” and “My mom and dad are going to be so mad at me.” ARE NOT FUNNY!
I’m sad. It’s a sad day when happy moments from your childhood die. I mean I watched The Last Unicorn in college and loved it just as much as when I watch it as a kid. I still love The Sandlot and Big Business, but it might be time to retire Scream. RIP.
Monday, August 23, 2010
How I Ruined My Family's 2009 Memorial Day Weekend...
Before I get to today's post I just want to remind everyone who is reading that if you aren't following my blog you could... It makes me really happy to know people are reading about me embarrassing myself on a daily basis. No pressure, but there might be a big prize for followers!!! Okay there is no prize, but still it only takes a few seconds out of your day.
How I Ruined My Family’s 2009 Memorial Day Weekend…
This story still makes me laugh when I think about it and again falls into the “this would only happen to me” category.
Boyfriend and I made plans for Memorial Day Weekend to drive down to San Antonio and spend time with my parents and my sister, brother in law, and nephew who were also going to make the trek down south. My parents were excited because we would all be there, but more importantly the grandson would be there. I’m sure Sister and Brother in Law were excited because my parents would be playing with their kid 24/7, thus giving them some breathing time. And myself? I was just happy to be with everyone and no working for a weekend.
On Saturday my mother decided that we should pack a picnic, grab our swimsuits and floats, and spend the day at the river. What an American thing to do, right? I think she made this suggestion because Brother in Law had planned on going to the lake with his friends for the weekend until Sister told him they were going to her parents. So that morning we packed the cars (Yeah cars. My nephew can’t go anywhere without an entourage of plastic crap.) and headed 10 miles down the road to the river. The Guadalupe River twists and turns all throughout central Texas and I feel like you can never be more than 15 miles away from it if you are anywhere in between San Antonio and Austin. My parents own a piece of land in a community where there are parks with access to the river. We enjoy going to these parks because you have to have land in the community to use them. This means that not everyone and their step children are trying to enjoy the same plot of nature you are.
Okay that was the back story; here is when this post starts to pick it up…
We arrive at the river park and all is well. It was sprinkled on us a little in the car ride over, but once we reached the small parking lot for the park the sky was clear, the birds were chirping, and Brother in Law and I couldn’t get in the water fast enough. Toobs were blown up during the car ride and beers were popped as soon as the car stopped. We all grabbed as much baby crap as we could and walked down the hill to the river. It was beautiful. We were worried there wouldn’t be any water in the river and we were wrong. The river was flowing on the deep side and nice and shallow for wading and the kiddo on the shallow side. One other family was spending the day swimming and relaxing by the water with their two elementary school aged kids. Brother in Law and I were in the water on our floats with our beers before Sister and my parents had even put down the coolers and bags. It was wonderful.
Okay I guess that was more back story: here is where the dialogue picks up…
Two Minutes Later…
Me: EEKKK!
Brother in Law: Are you okay?
Me: A fish just touched me leg and freaked me out.
Dad: Lemon Lady don’t be silly.
Me: It creaped me out.
Dad: You’re ridiculous.
The little fish touching me weren’t scary or dangerous by any means but I moved away from them because I don’t like river or lake “things” touching me. You see I love going toobing and I love the lake, but I don’t like touching anything in either body of water. It has to do with not being able to see under the water and the fact that rivers and lakes (with only a few exceptions) are gross. Bottom of the lake between your toes – gross. Getting into your toob on the river bank – gross. Swimming in the middle of the lake not touching the bottom or nasty floating algae – fine. Toobing down this river with a beer in your hand staying away from the creepy, dark, shaded banks – fine. I moved all of three feet down the river and away from the little fish. There was a slight current and because I have delicate feet and didn’t want to float down the river only to have to walk back to where my family was sitting I put my feet on a rock that was almost big enough to be sticking out of the water. I need to remind the readers that this was very shallow water, like maybe 8 inches shallow. So this rock wasn’t that big. I had just enough space to nestle my feet so I wouldn’t float too far away from the beer cooler, my adorable nephew, or my hilarious brother in law.
Two Minutes Later…
Me: OOOUUUCCCHHHHH!!!!!!
Brother in Law: Hahahaha (I love how he has no idea what happened but still laughs because it’s happening to me and not him.)
Dad: Lemon Lady seriously they’re just tiny fish.
Me: (Still sitting in the toob, but holding my right foot in my hands) Whatever Dad, something bit me.
Dad: The fish didn’t bite you.
Me: Um, something did… It hurt and I’m bleeding.
Brother in Law: (Jumped up from his toob and was out of the water faster than I could put my bleeding foot back in the water to wash it off.)
I very awkwardly get out of my toob and try to stand up. I say awkwardly because there is no other way to describe trying to stand on unstable rocks on one foot so my father can see the blood on my other foot in a flowing river with one hand holding my toob so it won’t keep floating down the river. Awkward. I make it to my dad and he sees the blood.
Dad: Wow something did bite you!
Me: No shit.
Our fun day of at the river has turned into “What scary monster lives in 8 inches of water and has a taste for human flesh?” day. Also I don’t know if you really paid attention to the timeline of these events, but all of this happened before my mom and sister could slather enough sunscreen on themselves to get in the water. So my mom is examining my foot, Sister is holding my water loving nephew back from the river trying to explain to him that after talking about how he was going to get to play in the water all day for the past week he can now not get in the water, Brother in Law is still laughing at me and the whole situation, and my Dad…
Dad: Hey! She wasn’t lying. There is a snake over here… I think the snake bit her.
(Okay. Time for a Zack Morris style timeout. For the past six minutes we have been at the river we had already seen like five snakes swimming in the river, and we commented on all of them. “Oh, look. There’s another one. See over there…” But they were all on the other side of the river. Now this river, it’s isn’t exactly the Mississippi. The other side of the river, the “over there”, was maybe twenty, twenty five feet away. So in our minds the snakes swimming freely “over there” were of no danger because they were “over there” and we were in the shallow, 8 inch deep water “over here”. Yeah not a one of our college educated minds (well besides my one year old nephew) could put two and two together that if the snakes could swim on the west bank of the river… they probably could swim on the east bank of the river. Okay. Time in.)
Mom: Oh, no. Do you think it was poisonous?
Me: SNAKES AREN’T POISONOUS!!!!
Sister: Yeah, yeah we get it. (She had heard me lecture people on this before) They’re venomous… there’s a difference…
Me: There is a huge difference. People eat snakes and don’t die. If they were poisonous every back woods hick would fall down dead after frying up a Rattler. As long as they don’t eat the head, where the venom ducts are, the redneck is free to live and free to be an ignorant jackass.
Brother in Law: (To my nephew) Earmuffs. (Okay maybe he didn’t say that, but in my mind it would have been hilarious.)
Dad: If you two are done… I think Lemon Lady should go to the hospital and get that checked out. I can’t tell what kind of snake this is, but if it’s a Cottonmouth we better get going.
(Okay I’m just going to call all of these Zach Morris Style Time Outs in the future. I was not bit by a Cottonmouth or any other venomous snake. As much as I was flattered by my parents not wanting me to die and all there was no way I was bitten by this…
I am by no means a snake expert, but Ex-Boyfriend (who I dated for a while during the beginning of college) was a big snake fan and I learned a lot about our no-legged friends from him. Plus we bought a few and kept them at my house so for a little while I shared an apartment with four slithery friends. Venomous snake bites hurt like Hell. Like they burn and you wriggle with pain. Although I had never been bitten by a snake (mine were lovers not haters) I knew I wasn’t “wriggling” in pain. It surprised me and I yelled ouch, but fire was not coursing through my veins. Also, as much as I made sure you, the reader, knew that I did bleed, I wasn’t gushing blood or anything. Venomous snakes bite down with two fangs and they make large holes when the fangs are then withdrawn, thus causing the bitten person to bleed a lot. Me, not so much. Time in.)
Mom: We are leaving now.
Sister: You and Dad take her in your car and we will pack everything up and follow.
Mom: Okay. That’s good. Now we just have to get up the hill.
Me: What do you mean get up the hill.
Mom: Maybe Dad and Brother in Law and carry you.
Me: I can walk okay.
Mom: If you walk up that hill you will get winded and your breathing will get fast and your heartrate will rise and the poison in you veins will rush throughout your body even faster!!!
Me: Venom!!!
Mom: Whatever!!!
Me: Dad and Brother in Law can’t carry me up that hill. (This was true. It is a big hill.)
Mom: Okay walk, but try not to exert yourself and get winded, but also hurry up it’s probably a 12 minute drive to Boerne (the closest town).
The drive back into town was very uneventful. I didn’t pass out or die. My foot tingled a little bit and I was hot, but other than that it was very boring. We got into town and more importantly back into civilization where our cell phones worked and Mom found a 24 hour clinic. As Dad pulled up to the front door Mom was already jumping out and yelling to the clinic workers that I had been bit by a snake.
Clinic Worker #1: Um, yeah, you can’t stay here.
Clinic Worker #2: We don’t have snake bit kits or anti poison or anything.
Me: (Yelling from the car because my mom’s car door and the clinic door were both still open) IT’S ANIT-VENOM!!!
Clinic Worker #1: You’re going to have to take her to a hospital.
Luckily for us the nearest hospital was all of three miles down the road. Brand spanking new too! We got there in 45 seconds.
45 Seconds later… (Mom and I entered the hospital while Dad was parking the car.)
Mom: My daughter was bit by a snake!
Nurse: A snake. What type of snake? Was it Poisonous?
Me: Snakes aren’t pois..
Mom: Quiet Lemon Lady. (Turning to the nurse) We’re not sure what kind of snake. It was in the water.
Nurse: Let’s take a look…
I then spend two hours in the hospital while three nurses, my Dad, and my Sister and Brother in Law all tried to figure out what kind of snake had bitten me. Since I never even saw the little jerk snake I didn’t have much to say in these conversations. Dad saw it, but only all coiled up and underwater. Sister and Brother in Law saw it much better. Evidently after my parents rushed me and my bitten foot to the emergency room the other family that was at the river helped Sister and Brother in Law carry all the crap we had left back up to the car. Sister and Brother in Law explained what happened and they quickly called their kids out of the river. (Yeah these kids had been swimming and playing all of three feet from my rock with the snake under it and did it bother them? Of course not. Again, things that would only happen to me.) One of the kids had a net for catching fish and the grownups decided to net the snake out on to the river bank to get a better look at it for identification purposes. (That and you know Brother in Law and that other Dad loved the idea of catching the big bad snake.) Back at the hospital Dr. Whatshisface told me there was no way I was bitten by a venomous snake. Seeing how I wasn’t dying, I agreed with his diagnosis. (Evidently you have to get a PhD to know the difference between poisonous and venomous.) Once the nurses had the pictures of the snake (taken by Brother in Law on his iPhone) and the eye witness counts of what it looks like from Dad, Sister, and Brother in Law they decided I was bit by this guy…
Introducing my toe eater… The Diamondback Water Snake.
Interesting Facts about The Diamondback Water Snake:
They are found predominantly near slow moving streams, rivers, and other small bodies of water. (Yeah I know.)
While not endangered or threatened, their main threat is human ignorance. Diamondback water snakes are often mistaken for cottonmouths or rattlesnakes and are killed out of fear. In actuality, diamondback water snakes (and other species of water snake) are far more common than the venomous snakes in their range, especially in areas that are frequented by humans. (This explains why I’m not dead and why we saw five of his little friends hanging out on the other side of the river.)
We went home and played card games and Risk for the rest of the weekend.
Just a little ending note... I am by no means making fun of the way my parents handled this situation. I love them both very much and I'm glad they were going to do everything they possibly could so that I wouldn't die. Thanks Mom and Dad. Oh, and I didn't just leave Boyfriend out of this story, he was working Saturday morning and drove down to San Antonio that afternoon. He fully thinks I'm super silly and probably kicked the poor snake.
How I Ruined My Family’s 2009 Memorial Day Weekend…
This story still makes me laugh when I think about it and again falls into the “this would only happen to me” category.
Boyfriend and I made plans for Memorial Day Weekend to drive down to San Antonio and spend time with my parents and my sister, brother in law, and nephew who were also going to make the trek down south. My parents were excited because we would all be there, but more importantly the grandson would be there. I’m sure Sister and Brother in Law were excited because my parents would be playing with their kid 24/7, thus giving them some breathing time. And myself? I was just happy to be with everyone and no working for a weekend.
On Saturday my mother decided that we should pack a picnic, grab our swimsuits and floats, and spend the day at the river. What an American thing to do, right? I think she made this suggestion because Brother in Law had planned on going to the lake with his friends for the weekend until Sister told him they were going to her parents. So that morning we packed the cars (Yeah cars. My nephew can’t go anywhere without an entourage of plastic crap.) and headed 10 miles down the road to the river. The Guadalupe River twists and turns all throughout central Texas and I feel like you can never be more than 15 miles away from it if you are anywhere in between San Antonio and Austin. My parents own a piece of land in a community where there are parks with access to the river. We enjoy going to these parks because you have to have land in the community to use them. This means that not everyone and their step children are trying to enjoy the same plot of nature you are.
Okay that was the back story; here is when this post starts to pick it up…
We arrive at the river park and all is well. It was sprinkled on us a little in the car ride over, but once we reached the small parking lot for the park the sky was clear, the birds were chirping, and Brother in Law and I couldn’t get in the water fast enough. Toobs were blown up during the car ride and beers were popped as soon as the car stopped. We all grabbed as much baby crap as we could and walked down the hill to the river. It was beautiful. We were worried there wouldn’t be any water in the river and we were wrong. The river was flowing on the deep side and nice and shallow for wading and the kiddo on the shallow side. One other family was spending the day swimming and relaxing by the water with their two elementary school aged kids. Brother in Law and I were in the water on our floats with our beers before Sister and my parents had even put down the coolers and bags. It was wonderful.
Okay I guess that was more back story: here is where the dialogue picks up…
Two Minutes Later…
Me: EEKKK!
Brother in Law: Are you okay?
Me: A fish just touched me leg and freaked me out.
Dad: Lemon Lady don’t be silly.
Me: It creaped me out.
Dad: You’re ridiculous.
The little fish touching me weren’t scary or dangerous by any means but I moved away from them because I don’t like river or lake “things” touching me. You see I love going toobing and I love the lake, but I don’t like touching anything in either body of water. It has to do with not being able to see under the water and the fact that rivers and lakes (with only a few exceptions) are gross. Bottom of the lake between your toes – gross. Getting into your toob on the river bank – gross. Swimming in the middle of the lake not touching the bottom or nasty floating algae – fine. Toobing down this river with a beer in your hand staying away from the creepy, dark, shaded banks – fine. I moved all of three feet down the river and away from the little fish. There was a slight current and because I have delicate feet and didn’t want to float down the river only to have to walk back to where my family was sitting I put my feet on a rock that was almost big enough to be sticking out of the water. I need to remind the readers that this was very shallow water, like maybe 8 inches shallow. So this rock wasn’t that big. I had just enough space to nestle my feet so I wouldn’t float too far away from the beer cooler, my adorable nephew, or my hilarious brother in law.
Two Minutes Later…
Me: OOOUUUCCCHHHHH!!!!!!
Brother in Law: Hahahaha (I love how he has no idea what happened but still laughs because it’s happening to me and not him.)
Dad: Lemon Lady seriously they’re just tiny fish.
Me: (Still sitting in the toob, but holding my right foot in my hands) Whatever Dad, something bit me.
Dad: The fish didn’t bite you.
Me: Um, something did… It hurt and I’m bleeding.
Brother in Law: (Jumped up from his toob and was out of the water faster than I could put my bleeding foot back in the water to wash it off.)
I very awkwardly get out of my toob and try to stand up. I say awkwardly because there is no other way to describe trying to stand on unstable rocks on one foot so my father can see the blood on my other foot in a flowing river with one hand holding my toob so it won’t keep floating down the river. Awkward. I make it to my dad and he sees the blood.
Dad: Wow something did bite you!
Me: No shit.
Our fun day of at the river has turned into “What scary monster lives in 8 inches of water and has a taste for human flesh?” day. Also I don’t know if you really paid attention to the timeline of these events, but all of this happened before my mom and sister could slather enough sunscreen on themselves to get in the water. So my mom is examining my foot, Sister is holding my water loving nephew back from the river trying to explain to him that after talking about how he was going to get to play in the water all day for the past week he can now not get in the water, Brother in Law is still laughing at me and the whole situation, and my Dad…
Dad: Hey! She wasn’t lying. There is a snake over here… I think the snake bit her.
(Okay. Time for a Zack Morris style timeout. For the past six minutes we have been at the river we had already seen like five snakes swimming in the river, and we commented on all of them. “Oh, look. There’s another one. See over there…” But they were all on the other side of the river. Now this river, it’s isn’t exactly the Mississippi. The other side of the river, the “over there”, was maybe twenty, twenty five feet away. So in our minds the snakes swimming freely “over there” were of no danger because they were “over there” and we were in the shallow, 8 inch deep water “over here”. Yeah not a one of our college educated minds (well besides my one year old nephew) could put two and two together that if the snakes could swim on the west bank of the river… they probably could swim on the east bank of the river. Okay. Time in.)
Mom: Oh, no. Do you think it was poisonous?
Me: SNAKES AREN’T POISONOUS!!!!
Sister: Yeah, yeah we get it. (She had heard me lecture people on this before) They’re venomous… there’s a difference…
Me: There is a huge difference. People eat snakes and don’t die. If they were poisonous every back woods hick would fall down dead after frying up a Rattler. As long as they don’t eat the head, where the venom ducts are, the redneck is free to live and free to be an ignorant jackass.
Brother in Law: (To my nephew) Earmuffs. (Okay maybe he didn’t say that, but in my mind it would have been hilarious.)
Dad: If you two are done… I think Lemon Lady should go to the hospital and get that checked out. I can’t tell what kind of snake this is, but if it’s a Cottonmouth we better get going.
(Okay I’m just going to call all of these Zach Morris Style Time Outs in the future. I was not bit by a Cottonmouth or any other venomous snake. As much as I was flattered by my parents not wanting me to die and all there was no way I was bitten by this…
I am by no means a snake expert, but Ex-Boyfriend (who I dated for a while during the beginning of college) was a big snake fan and I learned a lot about our no-legged friends from him. Plus we bought a few and kept them at my house so for a little while I shared an apartment with four slithery friends. Venomous snake bites hurt like Hell. Like they burn and you wriggle with pain. Although I had never been bitten by a snake (mine were lovers not haters) I knew I wasn’t “wriggling” in pain. It surprised me and I yelled ouch, but fire was not coursing through my veins. Also, as much as I made sure you, the reader, knew that I did bleed, I wasn’t gushing blood or anything. Venomous snakes bite down with two fangs and they make large holes when the fangs are then withdrawn, thus causing the bitten person to bleed a lot. Me, not so much. Time in.)Mom: We are leaving now.
Sister: You and Dad take her in your car and we will pack everything up and follow.
Mom: Okay. That’s good. Now we just have to get up the hill.
Me: What do you mean get up the hill.
Mom: Maybe Dad and Brother in Law and carry you.
Me: I can walk okay.
Mom: If you walk up that hill you will get winded and your breathing will get fast and your heartrate will rise and the poison in you veins will rush throughout your body even faster!!!
Me: Venom!!!
Mom: Whatever!!!
Me: Dad and Brother in Law can’t carry me up that hill. (This was true. It is a big hill.)
Mom: Okay walk, but try not to exert yourself and get winded, but also hurry up it’s probably a 12 minute drive to Boerne (the closest town).
The drive back into town was very uneventful. I didn’t pass out or die. My foot tingled a little bit and I was hot, but other than that it was very boring. We got into town and more importantly back into civilization where our cell phones worked and Mom found a 24 hour clinic. As Dad pulled up to the front door Mom was already jumping out and yelling to the clinic workers that I had been bit by a snake.
Clinic Worker #1: Um, yeah, you can’t stay here.
Clinic Worker #2: We don’t have snake bit kits or anti poison or anything.
Me: (Yelling from the car because my mom’s car door and the clinic door were both still open) IT’S ANIT-VENOM!!!
Clinic Worker #1: You’re going to have to take her to a hospital.
Luckily for us the nearest hospital was all of three miles down the road. Brand spanking new too! We got there in 45 seconds.
45 Seconds later… (Mom and I entered the hospital while Dad was parking the car.)
Mom: My daughter was bit by a snake!
Nurse: A snake. What type of snake? Was it Poisonous?
Me: Snakes aren’t pois..
Mom: Quiet Lemon Lady. (Turning to the nurse) We’re not sure what kind of snake. It was in the water.
Nurse: Let’s take a look…
I then spend two hours in the hospital while three nurses, my Dad, and my Sister and Brother in Law all tried to figure out what kind of snake had bitten me. Since I never even saw the little jerk snake I didn’t have much to say in these conversations. Dad saw it, but only all coiled up and underwater. Sister and Brother in Law saw it much better. Evidently after my parents rushed me and my bitten foot to the emergency room the other family that was at the river helped Sister and Brother in Law carry all the crap we had left back up to the car. Sister and Brother in Law explained what happened and they quickly called their kids out of the river. (Yeah these kids had been swimming and playing all of three feet from my rock with the snake under it and did it bother them? Of course not. Again, things that would only happen to me.) One of the kids had a net for catching fish and the grownups decided to net the snake out on to the river bank to get a better look at it for identification purposes. (That and you know Brother in Law and that other Dad loved the idea of catching the big bad snake.) Back at the hospital Dr. Whatshisface told me there was no way I was bitten by a venomous snake. Seeing how I wasn’t dying, I agreed with his diagnosis. (Evidently you have to get a PhD to know the difference between poisonous and venomous.) Once the nurses had the pictures of the snake (taken by Brother in Law on his iPhone) and the eye witness counts of what it looks like from Dad, Sister, and Brother in Law they decided I was bit by this guy…
Introducing my toe eater… The Diamondback Water Snake. Interesting Facts about The Diamondback Water Snake:
They are found predominantly near slow moving streams, rivers, and other small bodies of water. (Yeah I know.)
While not endangered or threatened, their main threat is human ignorance. Diamondback water snakes are often mistaken for cottonmouths or rattlesnakes and are killed out of fear. In actuality, diamondback water snakes (and other species of water snake) are far more common than the venomous snakes in their range, especially in areas that are frequented by humans. (This explains why I’m not dead and why we saw five of his little friends hanging out on the other side of the river.)
We went home and played card games and Risk for the rest of the weekend.
Just a little ending note... I am by no means making fun of the way my parents handled this situation. I love them both very much and I'm glad they were going to do everything they possibly could so that I wouldn't die. Thanks Mom and Dad. Oh, and I didn't just leave Boyfriend out of this story, he was working Saturday morning and drove down to San Antonio that afternoon. He fully thinks I'm super silly and probably kicked the poor snake.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
A Little Story About a Hit Movie and My Traumatic Childhood...
It took me years to learn to ride a bike without training wheels. Why??? No, my parents weren’t evil a-holes who drank the days of my childhood away. They actually tried to teach me many times. I vividly remember my mom trying on the grass (maybe she thought it was my fear of falling on the pavement), and my dad tried a few times. The times with my dad were no better than the time (singular) when he attempted to teach me to drive in the high school parking lot. (Seriously Dad??? Who in their right mind decides that the first driving lesson should be “how to back up into a parking space”??? I mean, come on!!! I’m 25 and I still can’t do this.)
No, it wasn’t my parent’s horrible parenting skills. And, surprisingly enough, it wasn’t because my sister traumatized me, either. Why did I not learn to ride my bike without training wheels???
This guy…
More specifically when he made a movie about this guy…
That’s right. Mother F-ing ET. Steven Spielberg might have ruined my childhood. I saw that messed up movie when I was very young. I can’t tell you the plot, character names, nothing, but I remember that horrible scene when that little kid flies away in his bike with the little brown turd in the basket. OMG that scared me!!! I don’t remember how the bike started flying, but it did. And if I couldn’t remember how it started, what if I accidentally did that one action or flipped that “start fling now” switch on my bike without knowing it??? There was no way in Hell I was going to risk it. Therefore, I was destined to either never ride a bike (which really isn’t an option growing up in suburbia) or just never learning to ride without my training wheels. (Because in my head if I still had the training wheels I was safe. They were like suction cups that wouldn’t let my bike fly into outer space for no reason except to scare the crap out of me.)
The teasing and name calling came first from my older sister. She learned to ride her bike without training wheels in a weekend. (Yeah… she was that kid.) Sister decided that she wanted to surprise our father when he got back from his TDY (for you non-military people “his business trip”). So she got mom to teach her and help her… blah, blah, perfect child, blah. Dad came home, Sister triumphantly rode up and down our street, Dad cried out of pure joy and amazement… Isn’t his oldest child wonderful… (Okay maybe he didn’t cry, but you get the idea.)
Kindergarten is when it started for me. Evidently my mother subscribed to the parenting method of, “if it worked on one kid, it will work on her terrified little sister.”
“Little Lemon, Dad is going to be gone for a week. Why don’t you and I work on your biking skills…?”
“Oh, another TDY for Dad. Lemon, bring me your bike and I can help you get over your handicap…”
“Dad’s out for three day. SIT ON THIS MOTHER F-ING BIKE AND PEDDLE UNTIL I SAY STOP!!!! No, sweetheart I promise I won’t let go…”
Seriously, every time my dad stepped out of the house mom was pushing that damn bike on me like meth on a redneck from Missouri. But, I wouldn’t budge. There was no way I was going to risk my neck because of my renegade bike and not knowing where to locate, or how to turn off, the flying button.
Eventually one morning (I think I was in second grade or so) I woke up and decided I was being silly. I had never seen my sister fly away. Nor, had I seen any of the neighborhood kids, and we lived in England now so maybe bikes couldn’t fly in England. There must be some chemical in the sky, or maybe the Queen made a law, but I was pretty sure there could be no flying bikes in England.
I can’t remember where we were going, but it was early one morning and we were in nice clothes. I finished my breakfast. My mother was probably doing five things at once, so when I told her I was going to go ride my bike she didn’t look up or acknowledge me. The training wheels were already off my bike, from countless times my parents had tried to teach me. I wheeled the bike to the end of our short drive way, mounted the seat, put my foot to the peddles and rode off. I peddled to the end of the street slowly because I couldn’t figure out if it was safe to turn around on the bike or if I should get off and pick it up to face back the way I came. I’m a Bad Ass, so of course I turned all by myself. As I approached my house coming back my parents were standing outside. Both looked confused…
Looking back now even I confuse myself. ET scarred me for life. Because of one scene it took me years to ride a bike, but I love Jaws and I’m not scared of swimming in the ocean. Also, he directed Jurassic Park and I still have dinosaur nightmares…
No, it wasn’t my parent’s horrible parenting skills. And, surprisingly enough, it wasn’t because my sister traumatized me, either. Why did I not learn to ride my bike without training wheels???
This guy…
More specifically when he made a movie about this guy…
That’s right. Mother F-ing ET. Steven Spielberg might have ruined my childhood. I saw that messed up movie when I was very young. I can’t tell you the plot, character names, nothing, but I remember that horrible scene when that little kid flies away in his bike with the little brown turd in the basket. OMG that scared me!!! I don’t remember how the bike started flying, but it did. And if I couldn’t remember how it started, what if I accidentally did that one action or flipped that “start fling now” switch on my bike without knowing it??? There was no way in Hell I was going to risk it. Therefore, I was destined to either never ride a bike (which really isn’t an option growing up in suburbia) or just never learning to ride without my training wheels. (Because in my head if I still had the training wheels I was safe. They were like suction cups that wouldn’t let my bike fly into outer space for no reason except to scare the crap out of me.)
The teasing and name calling came first from my older sister. She learned to ride her bike without training wheels in a weekend. (Yeah… she was that kid.) Sister decided that she wanted to surprise our father when he got back from his TDY (for you non-military people “his business trip”). So she got mom to teach her and help her… blah, blah, perfect child, blah. Dad came home, Sister triumphantly rode up and down our street, Dad cried out of pure joy and amazement… Isn’t his oldest child wonderful… (Okay maybe he didn’t cry, but you get the idea.)
Kindergarten is when it started for me. Evidently my mother subscribed to the parenting method of, “if it worked on one kid, it will work on her terrified little sister.”
“Little Lemon, Dad is going to be gone for a week. Why don’t you and I work on your biking skills…?”
“Oh, another TDY for Dad. Lemon, bring me your bike and I can help you get over your handicap…”
“Dad’s out for three day. SIT ON THIS MOTHER F-ING BIKE AND PEDDLE UNTIL I SAY STOP!!!! No, sweetheart I promise I won’t let go…”
Seriously, every time my dad stepped out of the house mom was pushing that damn bike on me like meth on a redneck from Missouri. But, I wouldn’t budge. There was no way I was going to risk my neck because of my renegade bike and not knowing where to locate, or how to turn off, the flying button.
Eventually one morning (I think I was in second grade or so) I woke up and decided I was being silly. I had never seen my sister fly away. Nor, had I seen any of the neighborhood kids, and we lived in England now so maybe bikes couldn’t fly in England. There must be some chemical in the sky, or maybe the Queen made a law, but I was pretty sure there could be no flying bikes in England.
I can’t remember where we were going, but it was early one morning and we were in nice clothes. I finished my breakfast. My mother was probably doing five things at once, so when I told her I was going to go ride my bike she didn’t look up or acknowledge me. The training wheels were already off my bike, from countless times my parents had tried to teach me. I wheeled the bike to the end of our short drive way, mounted the seat, put my foot to the peddles and rode off. I peddled to the end of the street slowly because I couldn’t figure out if it was safe to turn around on the bike or if I should get off and pick it up to face back the way I came. I’m a Bad Ass, so of course I turned all by myself. As I approached my house coming back my parents were standing outside. Both looked confused…
Looking back now even I confuse myself. ET scarred me for life. Because of one scene it took me years to ride a bike, but I love Jaws and I’m not scared of swimming in the ocean. Also, he directed Jurassic Park and I still have dinosaur nightmares…
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
First Post... In which I defend my mother's honor
I started a blog. Why that will come later. But first a true story from lunch today.
Why North Austin is just as crappy as any other large city.
True story.
This happened to during my lunch hour. Co-worker and I decided to eat real food. By real food I mean we didn’t cram fast food into our mouths at 50 miles per hour in between appointments because students never let you eat. P F Changs is only a quarter of a mile away and very empty at 3PM. Well almost empty. Evidently evil house wives with nothing better to do than spread their evil neuron rays from their giant SUVs go to P F Changs at 3PM. Co-worker and I leave work in good spirits and are chatting the whole half a minute drive to the yummy heaven that is the Chang. Co-Worker (who is driving) parks and exits her car without any troubles. I exit the car and stand next to it for a few seconds with the door open because I am trying to figure out how to look the door. As soon as I close the door Evil North Austin Crazed Mother jumps out behind the wheel of her giant, impeccably white SUV and pounces. She gives me the once over with her evil eyes and points out that I have rammed Co-Workers door into her car door so hard “that it shook the car and her children pointed out that I must be an evil bitch because I clearly want to hurt their mother and kidnap them” or something like that.
Now, honest to God, the first thought in my head was I don’t remember banging her door. Thought number 2, not only do I not remember banging her car door but I don’t remember banging her car door and endangering the lives of her children. Thought number 3, I was talking with Co-Worker and she does have a two door car with those weirdly long doors so I might have hit her car door. Thought number 4, wow I’m embarrassed and really sorry because I definitely didn’t mean to hit her impeccably white, impeccably clean SUV with C0-workers 10 year Civic. Also, I am a very fast thinker and these thoughts all happened in the 3 second it took me to say “Wow, I am so sorry. Really you’re car is fine, but again, I’m so sorry.” Now had this been anyone but Evil North Austin Crazed Mother, she would have said, “Oh look. You’re right my car is fine. I am happy my incredibly white doors are not bleeding and my children are still safe. Thank you for apologizing and God Bless.” Yeah… no such luck.
“You jumped out of your car jabbering with your friend, not looking at all….” (Really? Is she serious?) “My children are in this car…” (Got it lady. You have kids. They are in said car.) “And I teach my children to look before they fling open doors!” This is when I start getting really annoyed. Actually something goes off in my brain where this is no longer a slightly embarrassing situation, this is war. “Are you saying my mother didn’t teach me how to open doors and be a good productive citizen and to have good manners.” Okay I really didn’t say the productive citizen thing, but I totally called her out on dissing my wonderful, amazing, perfect mother. In hind sight I should have just looked her in the eye and asked her if she is really the perfect mother who has never made a mistake in front of her kids like spitting gum out on the sidewalk, saying “fuck” under her breath when she stubbed her toe, or accidently opening a car door a little to far and hitting another car. But no I looked her straight in the eye and told her “don’t fucking say shit about the way my mother raised me!!!” in way or another.
When we got inside there were only two other tables occupied in the whole place. Guess who wasn’t leaving P F Changs, but was also on their way into the restaurant? That’s right at 3PM on Tuesday the 13th there were four tables with people at the at P F Changs. Woman alone reading the paper, couple finishing their beers, Co-worker and I, and Evil North Austin Crazed Mother with her two kids. I glared there direction the whole time.
Why North Austin is just as crappy as any other large city.
True story.
This happened to during my lunch hour. Co-worker and I decided to eat real food. By real food I mean we didn’t cram fast food into our mouths at 50 miles per hour in between appointments because students never let you eat. P F Changs is only a quarter of a mile away and very empty at 3PM. Well almost empty. Evidently evil house wives with nothing better to do than spread their evil neuron rays from their giant SUVs go to P F Changs at 3PM. Co-worker and I leave work in good spirits and are chatting the whole half a minute drive to the yummy heaven that is the Chang. Co-Worker (who is driving) parks and exits her car without any troubles. I exit the car and stand next to it for a few seconds with the door open because I am trying to figure out how to look the door. As soon as I close the door Evil North Austin Crazed Mother jumps out behind the wheel of her giant, impeccably white SUV and pounces. She gives me the once over with her evil eyes and points out that I have rammed Co-Workers door into her car door so hard “that it shook the car and her children pointed out that I must be an evil bitch because I clearly want to hurt their mother and kidnap them” or something like that.
Now, honest to God, the first thought in my head was I don’t remember banging her door. Thought number 2, not only do I not remember banging her car door but I don’t remember banging her car door and endangering the lives of her children. Thought number 3, I was talking with Co-Worker and she does have a two door car with those weirdly long doors so I might have hit her car door. Thought number 4, wow I’m embarrassed and really sorry because I definitely didn’t mean to hit her impeccably white, impeccably clean SUV with C0-workers 10 year Civic. Also, I am a very fast thinker and these thoughts all happened in the 3 second it took me to say “Wow, I am so sorry. Really you’re car is fine, but again, I’m so sorry.” Now had this been anyone but Evil North Austin Crazed Mother, she would have said, “Oh look. You’re right my car is fine. I am happy my incredibly white doors are not bleeding and my children are still safe. Thank you for apologizing and God Bless.” Yeah… no such luck.
“You jumped out of your car jabbering with your friend, not looking at all….” (Really? Is she serious?) “My children are in this car…” (Got it lady. You have kids. They are in said car.) “And I teach my children to look before they fling open doors!” This is when I start getting really annoyed. Actually something goes off in my brain where this is no longer a slightly embarrassing situation, this is war. “Are you saying my mother didn’t teach me how to open doors and be a good productive citizen and to have good manners.” Okay I really didn’t say the productive citizen thing, but I totally called her out on dissing my wonderful, amazing, perfect mother. In hind sight I should have just looked her in the eye and asked her if she is really the perfect mother who has never made a mistake in front of her kids like spitting gum out on the sidewalk, saying “fuck” under her breath when she stubbed her toe, or accidently opening a car door a little to far and hitting another car. But no I looked her straight in the eye and told her “don’t fucking say shit about the way my mother raised me!!!” in way or another.
When we got inside there were only two other tables occupied in the whole place. Guess who wasn’t leaving P F Changs, but was also on their way into the restaurant? That’s right at 3PM on Tuesday the 13th there were four tables with people at the at P F Changs. Woman alone reading the paper, couple finishing their beers, Co-worker and I, and Evil North Austin Crazed Mother with her two kids. I glared there direction the whole time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)