May 10th, 2011 10:16am - Shiny Things

When I was little, I liked shiny things.

My mom would take me, my brother and sister to the mall, and we would run around like the little terrors we were. My mom would attempt to take us winter shopping, and we'd be playing hide-and-seek among the clothing racks. She'd want me to try on a pair of jeans, and I'd be laying amongst dirt and dead skin on the floor underneath a shirt rack.

We would inevitably scream that we were hungry, and my saint of a mother would take us to the food court to feed us. When I was six years old, we were standing in line to order when I saw something incredibly round, shiny, and silver. I touched it. My hand lay on the silver circle for ten seconds before I felt a burning sensation. My reflexes weren't fantastic, and it took another minute before I realized that I had burnt the shit out of my hand.

The reasonable thing would have been to cry at my mom and expect her to fix my hurts. She continues to be one of the most loving, caring, understanding women in the world. Instead, I didn't tell her that my hand felt like it had been crippled in a fire. I had recently learned the child definition of retarded and thought she would be mad at me for being so retardedly stupid. Instead, I tried not to cry. Because that's logical. When she asked what I wanted to eat for lunch, I screamed, "Water!"

"Okay, okay," my mom replied.

When two seconds passed and I wasn't immediately given a glass of water, I screamed at her that I wanted water NOW.

"Calm down hunny," she said.

A full two minutes passed by before she bestowed me with a glass of water. I didn't even thank her, I just plunged my hand directly into it.

"What are you doing?" she asked, eyeing my hand inside a plastic foam cup.

"Just trying to get out an ice cube," I responded.

When we sat down, my mom's focus was on my little sister throwing food and my brother poking her. I cradled an ice cube in my hand like it was a diamond. I liked diamonds a lot - they were shiny too.

After lunch, we were in store #3 looking at cowboy boots when my mom noticed that I was shaking my right hand back and forth violently. I had thought that shaking my hand would get some air into it and make the burning stop. Because that makes sense.

We later discovered that the fast food place had been technologically advanced in the early nineties and had circular coffee warmers placed into their countertop. I had third degree burns because of a shiny coffee pot warmer.

May 7th, 2011 11:43am - Pee Shorts

I was four pounds when I was born, and as childhood progressed, I clearly saw the opportunity to expand my girth and my dominance over smaller children. My dad worked, my two younger siblings occupied my mom, and I constantly snuck food from the kitchen. By the time I was ten, I was medically obese, and part of my daily afternoon snack comprised dessert and an American cheese, Pringles, and mayonnaise sandwich. I couldn't see my toes over my stomach, and I tyrannized little kids. All I had to do was sit on them. It was the easiest and most profitable exertion of my life. I lounged on children until they would give me their chocolate or get me their string cheese.

When my family got a puppy, Mom saw and seized a fantastic opportunity. The dog ran away, she made me run after it. My mom would yell that the dog escaped, I would sigh, shove four more brownies into my mouth, and lumber out the front door. The dog conveniently escaped four times a week, the suggested days of weekly exercise for morbidly obese children. What began as shuffling pursuits around the hill progressed to fast walking, to jogging and feeling like death, and eventually to actual running.

By junior high school, I could run. Once I realized I could run, I found that I liked winning. I ran junior high cross-country, played basketball, and competed on a club soccer team. It was kind of a big deal to do all at the same time, whatever.

One of the cross-country coaches nicknamed me Dimtrip. That's how cool I was. He had a thick blond mustache and beard, which was the universal sign of awesomeness.

In eighth grade, a restaurant called Clo's Ice Creamery sponsored a county-wide cross-country meet. A photo was to be taken of the first three finishers from each grade, blown up, framed, and hung on the wall of the restaurant. The race was two and a half miles long, and, warming up, I felt good. I jogged in a circle and told myself I was going to win. A few minutes later, I stretched and realized that I had to pee. Desperately. One of the coaches said there was no time. If I went to the bathroom, I'd miss the race. An announcement blasted over the field to get on the line. I nodded and approached the starting line, telling my bladder to be good.

A month before, my dad had made me steak and eggs for breakfast on the morning of a meet. He said it was warrior food. Halfway through the race I felt like death and decided that warrior food was not runner food. Since then, I had composed an intricate menu for race days: eat almost nothing. I had had a bowl of cereal and three french fries.

The starting gun went off, and we ran. I had three reasons for running the race as fast as possible:

1: The faster I finished the race, the sooner I'd get to eat.

2: The faster I finished the race, the sooner I'd get to pee.

3: If I won, I could hug everyone, including the boy I had a crush on.

(Side note: the last time I had talked to The Boy had been at lunch the day before. I was giddy that we were actually having a conversation, just the two of us. He was in the middle of a story when a bird shit on my head and I ran screaming for the bathroom.)

We ran through the hills, the paths, and the sidewalks that made up the race. I kept telling myself that my dad had a sandwich waiting for me, there was a bathroom near the finish line, and if I won I'd impress The Boy.

The finish line was ahead, and another girl from my team was running a few feet in front of me. I sprinted right past her and finished first. I cleared the finish line, and bent over to catch my breath, my hands on my knees. I smiled so hard I almost forgot to breathe. I looked up to see The Boy walking over with a congratulatory smile on his face. I stood upright. The Boy's presence had diverted my attention away from holding my vagina shut. When I saw him, I forgot that my bladder wanted to explode, and instead thought about how impressed he must be that I won. I thought how amazing I must seem to him. And then I peed my pants. As he approached, urine gushed through my underwear, flowed into the light grey sweatpant knee-lenth shorts issued by the school, down my leg, and puddled onto my right sock and shoe. I looked down, and The Boy looked down. I screamed, turned around, and ran away. The shorts were light grey, and urine was everywhere. My dad gave me his black leather jacket to tie around my waist. As if that would hide the pee. It did make the piss on my ass less obvious, but it didn't do much to cover my urine-soaked vagina and shorts.

Clo's Ice Creamery took their photo, they blew it up and hung it up on the wall of the restaurant. That picture hung in the restaurant until it closed down nine years later. To this day, it is the only picture of me that has hung in a restaurant, and it was blatantly obvious that I had pissed my pants.

January 28th 4:27pm - Car Stealing

Four months shy of my 16th birthday, my parents departed to winery-revelry, and left me home accidentally accompanied by a spare set of my mom’s car keys. Speaking on the phone with my best friend, I established I couldn’t come to her house because I had no ride. I then defectively disclosed I knew the spare key’s location.
Her immediate response: Drive over here now!
My reply: No, I’m not serious, no.
Her: I’m hanging up, I’ll see you in ten minutes!
Me (to an abandoned phone): No, I... oh, all right.
And I drove. Hands horrified, body brandishing, substantially sweating, foot fluttering, I drove, distressed, to my best friend’s house. She cantered to the car and we escaped, ecstatic for our impulsive profitable plan. We circuited through the countryside, gas-station-baffled, halting for sandwiches, delighting in our independence. Driving along a two-lane rounded road, the car abruptly stumbled into a dip and the car careened, I, helpless, as the car spun in an intact 180. We screeched and shrieked. The car stopped in the opposite lane facing, fortunately, the correct way. I continued driving. We were elated to live. I rambled back to her house, and then to my own. Her parents immediately bombarded her with questions. The following day my parents inquired if I did anything illegal over the weekend. They clearly already knew, so I replied with the truth.
Though I pilfered my mom’s car, my best friend’s punishment was far greater, because she lied.

January 23rd 2:55pm - That Kid #3

I progressed playing goalie throughout my tenure as a corpulent child. One mundane game, the ball didn’t even enter my Goalie Precinct in the first half. In the second half, stir-studded child that I was, my indulgences compelled me to sit in the grass, pick flowers and string them together into intricate flower-chains. Consequently, I installed myself in a particularly flower-filled area in front of the goal and labored at my flower-chains, my swelled stomach only intermittently inhibiting my flower-focus. Flower field fancies flipped in my fantasies. Abruptly, cheers and applause charged my ears. I looked up to a forward on the other team fifteen feet away drawing her leg back to strike a shot at the goal. At me. I leapt to my feet as the ball flared through the air. I caught the ball and dropkicked it. I realized afterwards, my initial petrified reaction to a ball hurrying toward my head was to pee my pants.
I peed my pants in the middle of a game because my focus had been on flower-chains.
I was that kid.

January 22nd 4:26pm - That Kid #2

By 3rd grade I hadn’t increased in height, but had radically in width. I am confident “Big Fat Goalie” was a universal idiom in referencing me, though never explicitly addressed to me. I continue convinced I prevented so many goals not by my hands, but my mass.
One semi-final game I deflected a tremendous total of balls. Tied 0-0, my teammates toiled on the field, sprinting and scampering in several directions.
Then It happened. I observed as an attack assaulted first my midfielders, then defenders. Four girls on the other team loped through my last three protectors, I alone deposited in front of the goal. Ball-Handler blasted the ball far to my right. Reverberations resounded through my head as the ball clanked off the post and into the goal. I, disheartened, vainly suspended my tears and reached under the net to extract the ball. Still in the net, I kicked it to a lingering teammate, disappointment echoing through her face. I stepped forward to discover my glove immovably trapped in the net. I rapidly rotated, struggling, trying to loosen my caught glove with my other gloved hand. The game stalled due to my net-encased location and the referee inquired if I was okay. I replied in the affirmative, hoping he would just wait for me to loosen the net myself. But, he trotted to me and released my glove.
I got scored on and then the game delayed so the ref could liberate my glove from the net’s grip.
I was that kid.

January 21st 11:57pm - That Kid

In 1st grade my parents raged at my school district and for 2nd grade transferred me to Rincon Valley Christian School. My brother and sister remained in my former school district, but I got shifted. From a public to a private school, I merely knew sports. Consequently, I played basketball.
I awoke the morning of an early qualifying game enthused and edgy. I wanted to be brilliant. I wanted to control the court.
Honestly, I craved to get my ears pierced. I, second grade genius, figured performing amazingly in a game = a flawless stratagem to persuade the parents to allow pierced ears.
My resolve rising through warm-ups, my anxiety assembled. I waited, uneasy, until halfway through the first quarter my coach put me in the game. Spirit striking my body, I knew what I had to achieve: greatness.
I darted onto the court. Ready. Seconds later someone shot the ball. I dashed through everyone and got the rebound. I sprinted to the opposite side of the court, outpacing everyone, and flung the ball for a lay-up. A smile shrouded my face. Success, I thought. Until a teammate notified me we were going the other way and I had just made a basket for our opponents.
I was that kid.

December 10th, 2008 11:12pm – Deforestation Internet Porn

My 6th grade teacher assigned the class varying group environmental project topics. She allotted my group deforestation. This having transpired over a decade ago, the Internet was still moderately novel, my researching skills obtuse, and computers sparse in individual households. Our house boasted one computer, located in my parents’ room. As concerns my embryonic computer skill level, even composing an e-mail proved an unsolicited challenge. Thus, researching attempts included typing www.deforestation.com into the Internet address bar. Myself in the foremost seat, four friends sat around me inscribing notes when woman-on-woman sexual exploits embraced the screen. I shrieked and clicked the exit button. Pop-up after pop-up surfaced. To my hitting the red x once, four – five vulgar images materialized. Man-woman, woman-woman, man-women, men-woman... my 6th grade mind staggered. My mom elected this incomparable moment in my childhood to ascend the stairs. I heard her approaching. Steps away from her room, despite my attempts to exit the porn, the screen froze. I couldn’t force it to deviate from the vulgar pictures. Oh, and the unwanted videos. Somehow the screen would not alter, but the videos still managed to play. My mom entered. Panicked eyes, I heaved myself in front of the screen. My mom forced me to move. She found four petrified 6th graders and a screen occupied with oral, masturbation, anal, and activities I can’t name to this day. We tore downstairs accompanied by battling hearts and thunderous screeches. Time and explanation later, a disbelieving mom was finally a believer. I blame deforestation.com.

December 2nd 3:25pm – Pepper Sprayed

In 8th grade my mom resurrected her working-world life and suited up as a real estate agent. Simultaneous with her Agent resolve was pepper spray. Mom immediately procured Mace for protection against the crazies, zanies, and insane she was confident she would encounter in her new profession. For easy accessibility, she situated the spray on her keys.
It was logical: easier to locate her keys, simple to grab if her safety was compromised.
My mom, my sister, a friend and I were in a sandwich shop one blistering afternoon. I was contentedly perusing the menu when abruptly a scorching, fiery sensation molested my mouth and nostrils. My eyes streamed and my vision curled. I staggered and coughed. Incomprehensible sounds emanated from my throat as I clutched my scorched tongue in one hand and my blazing eyes in another. My sister bowled herself to the ground. My friend blindly darted away, gagging and wailing.
My mom said later when the three children surrounding her began behaving like burn victims with cries and screams charging the air, others in the store bestowed horrified and perplexed expressions on her. She elected to discard the pepper spray that day.

November 24th 6:18pm – Welcome Home

My parents’ initial dream of producing five children came to a screaming stop after three. They were fairly unfortunate (I felt privileged with siblings so close in age) to give birth to three children in three years. I was a raucous sixteen-month-old when my tow-headed brother was born. My dad took my mom home from the hospital and charged through the house, installing my mom in their bed, baby in arms. Confirmed comfort from my mom denoted Dad’s departure to work. Mom sunk into the pillows and euphoria as she adjusted herself to breastfeed the blush newborn. She scarcely discerned me wobbling on my stunted legs down the hallway towards her. She closed her eyes, exhaling, as I stumbled to her holding my stomach.
“I don’t feel good,” I enlightened her, as I leaned over the edge of the bed and regurgitated my stomach’s contents onto new mom and suckling baby.

November 13th 5:58pm – Glooby, Globbey Gak

For those of you within my age range, some of you may recall Gak; that marvelously gooey, gummy substance available in a variety of colors throughout our childhood. The elite Gak altered colors in the sun. My younger sister’s ambition subsisted in acquiring color-changing Gak. Our dad asserted his opposition to the goo procurement. His argument pivoted on the certainty that should she purchase Gak, it would inevitably terminate in the carpet or a pocket or a shoe or someone’s hair. In fairness, that was a reasonable theory. However, as our dad was daily occupied with work on the opposite side of town, it was a small feat to obtain the sought-after sun-transformed Gak. One night, the solitary income provider’s homecoming was devastated when he glimpsed the colorful container. Our dad repeated his frustration with the purchase to no avail. The Gak had already been initiated into the family.
Two days passed and the male champion of the family returned home, exhausted, to his three wild young children. Our dad snatched a beer and retired to the back porch in a feeble effort at relaxation. He colonized one of the plush deck chairs and leaned back, feet propped on surrounding wooden seating. He fastened his eyes shut and then released them to contentedly scan his yard. Within moments he soared to his feet, emitting fury, beer set down and forgotten. Fuming, he stalked onto the grass and stooped, scooping white substance into his hand. He furiously marched into the house, spewing anger and white matter. He screamed at my sister for misplaced Gak, quavering his goop-enveloped hand as he yelled. She wailed, tears crushing eyes, exclaiming her Gak was in the container. This was irrefutable when she produced said container, complete with glob. Dad, still bellowing, demanded to know what he was holding, if it wasn’t Gak.
Mom quietly explained that our dog had been taken to the vet earlier that day. She had an issue and had to be put on dog medication. The vet warned one of the side effects would be discolored excrement. Dad clutched dog poop in his hand.

November 11th 6:23pm – Winery, Bee, Mouth

I grew up in Sonoma County. Its proud heritage: wine. Whenever my parents’ friends would visit, the habitual, chosen destination comprised wineries. The Children (myself included) frequently trailed behind the adults at said wineries. Some of my earliest memories encompass us kids scampering through vineyards and tasting rooms, wreaking havoc at wineries. One particularly sun-drenched weekend afternoon my siblings, some children of family friends, and I conducted races on a winery lawn. The inebriated adults sprawled in the shade applauding the contestants … a.k.a. offspring. I galloped over and sprung repeatedly in the air until those older and wiser instigators (ages six and seven to my five) granted my participation.
Within minutes seven kids assembled and aligned. Our destination: the big tree on the opposite side of the grass. A girl screeched, “Go!” and then shrieked in mirth as her dad hoisted her in the air and looped her around. My body pulsating, I threw my leg forward at “Go.” I wanted to win. My competition fluctuated from three to eight year-olds. I scurried, my arms charging and my brain fleeting. I thirsted for victory. I darted a step ahead of the six and seven-years-olds. I would touch the tree. I would win. My eyes radiating, my mouth agape in a preemptive celebration, my fingertips extended… and my mouth ruptured with agony. I disintegrated on the grass a foot and a half from the tree. The ensuing minutes dispensed with me, tears ornamenting my face, trying unsuccessfully to persuade my dad that something was wrong with my mouth. He was convinced I was upset because I lost the race. I was convinced something had happened. As he informed me nothing was amiss, my cheek erupted, swelling viciously. I had been so elated by the idea I might win, I had released my lips into a joyous smile, and a bee had soared in and stung me on the inside of my cheek!

October 26th 11:49pm - Sports Bra

In my inaugural soccer years I was overweight and could not for the life of me run more than ten steps before wheezing. I played goalie. Putting my substantial weight behind the ball, my foremost accomplishment subsisted in my dropkicking ability to soar the ball over my fellow eight-year-olds’ heads. Later years I played defensive positions because I loved to tackle my opponents. I honestly took pride in the fact I could annihilate them. For me, a marvelous game materialized when an opposing player’s coach and trainer carried her off the field after one of my tackles. However, at the time in my life when this day transpired, I played outside midfield. For those of you who identify with the American pastimes baseball and football and know more about cauliflower than soccer, outside mid equates running. I discerned my running ability when my family obtained a dog. She would escape and I would be the overweight wretch so blessed with the task of catching her. I grew a few inches, ran incessantly after that golden canine (yellow blob in the distance), and, henceforth, played outside mid.
I was twelve. My teammates all wore sports bras. Even though my goldfish Betty had more need of a sports bra than I, I still donned one. In our defensive half of the field one of my teammates stole the ball and passed to me on the halfway line. It was the second half of the game. The score was 0-0. I received the ball and turned in one fluid motion. I kicked it a few steps ahead and sprinted. I envisioned beating defenders with mad soccer skills. I imagined scoring. I visualized the ball’s exact placement. I felt the glory. Swoop, slice, swish, I beat one girl. Then another. My vision neared. I sensed exhilaration. Step over the ball, lunge, progress other direction. Another opponent trounced. I nudged the ball to my right side, setting up for a shot. One step and my vision virtually achieved. One more step, my right leg pulled back, seconds from whipping through, ball shot. Leg thundering forward, and my chest throbbed, my sports bra droned. My leg arrested mid-swing and swerved in the opposite direction. Arms frenziedly brandished about as my visualization banished. Diminutive wings thrashed against my sports bra’s interior as I tore across the field, bug-eyed, screaming like a banshee. Ball forgotten, my body convulsed as I ripped off my jersey and tore at my sports bra, attempting to release the trapped bee. I shrieked shock, my body seized, and I managed to grasp the sports bra and release the offending bee.
I stood, calm, shirtless, halfway across the field. I no longer screeched, and my limbs appeared adjoined to my body. I tranquilly ambled to the ball and joined the pursuit to goal. The game ended shortly after, 0-0.
Lesson Learned: If utterly crucial, leave ball in front of goal and dash, squealing, extremities slaughtering air.
Choose: life and physical comfort, or torture and momentary satisfaction in game’s win.

October 24th 8:15am – Ducky Ducky

My parents undertook an arduous task when they determined they craved children. Five exhausting, persistent years later, I was born. I arrived two months early, weighing in at 4lbs 13ounces, anxious to encounter this thing called life. My brother chased me seventeen months later, and another pregnancy transpired seventeen months following Trent ’s birth. My parents employed a nanny to oversee us troublesome bundles.
One day she had a gynecologist appointment but suggested Nanny transport us to the lake. Neither of us could swim, we were under the age of three, but regardless, The Lake = a fabulously fun excursion. In this time before MapQuest and online directions, crazy multi-tasking and cell phones, my mom struggled describing driving instructions. Swollen belly, she resolved upon driving us herself. We tumbled into the van embracing the day and bread with which to feed the ducks.
Immediately upon arrival, I rocketed out of the van and scampered to the pier with bread. I tore it into pieces and flung bits into the water. The ducks swarmed. My mom, brother, and nanny unloaded and approached the pier.
“Ducky, ducky, oooh big ducky,” my three-year-old self proclaimed as a swan hammered through ducks, attaining close proximity to me, Rations Officer. I plucked some bread and leaned over to graciously offer it to the white beast of the water. Ducky’s calm, fair brilliance summoned me like shiny substances beckon birds. Feathers glistened, sun reflecting off dripping water beads. I wanted to sink my fingers into Duckie’s luminosity. A bit overzealous, I shrieked, “Ducky!” and bent too far, designing to stroke Ducky’s white quills. Ducks scattered and feathers exploded as my three-year-old self plunged head-first into the lake. I collided with the water’s surface and sank. Seconds later the water trembled as a body hurled into the lake, the liquid pulsating. Demanding arms wrapped around my body and dragged me to the surface. My mom held me close and then propelled me onto the wooden pier and into Nanny’s arms. She then attempted to elevate herself onto the pier, her six-months-pregnant stomach proving an impediment. Her extended arms strove to haul herself up. She grasped, she gasped, and she heaved. She eventually swam around to the lake’s bank and walked up onto land.

My mom’s doctor had ordered her to remain on full bed rest until the baby was born. At that time, she was on strict orders to lie down. Instead, she was throwing herself in lakes, swimming, and saving children.

October 22nd 4:15pm – Peace Offering

In seventh grade, after a tedious day of schoolwork and a brilliant day of weather, my friend and I resolved upon walking to Clo’s Ice Creamery. Our obsession that emerged from Friday ice cream with the cross-country team continued to flourish after season, as we had few commitments when the school epoch came to a close for the day. Before Clo’s though, we couldn’t resist slithering into the gym to harass the wrestlers. One of our friends, clad in illuminating spandex, protruding muscles and sweat, taunted us to wrestle him. We looked at each other and again at him, observing the perspiration-plastered ensemble. I shrugged and paced into the ring, my competitive spirit roaring. Muscled-singlet-man versus spirited slightly taller girl = not the best competition. The bout endured some swipes and fancy footwork before being trounced by a headlock-hip-toss. I considered myself to be the quasi-vanquisher when I had him pinned, back on mat. Within seconds, I straddled a mat (no more a human) as strong hands seized my head and arm and a hip bone excavated its way into my stomach. My brain attempted to convince me I was now on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the fair, while my body pursued the forcefully physical commands of Muscles, exploding in air over his hip and thudding into the mat, somehow with him on top of me. My arms uselessly crossed over my chest, and when shoved up over my face and thrust down, they fashioned an amazing suffocation apparatus. Though depriving me of breath, somehow the arm contraption managed to allow his sweat drops to trickle onto my face. Devoid of air with Muscles’ entire weight fastening me to the ground, I conceded. Muscles released me, beaming cockiness. “You’re a boy!” I squealed, lightly shoving his chest as I slunk by. I immediately regretted that decision, as my hand then boasted the sheen of his victorious sweat.
I snatched my friend and what was left of my pride and exited the gym to the boys’ laughter. We settled our matching white floppy hats on our heads and marched to Clo’s. My infatuation for food has been long-standing, and by that time of the day after the completely unnecessary physical exertion, I was ravenous. Emptiness devoured the inside of my stomach as my friend and I deliberated over which meal to get. Hyperventilation slinked along the edges of my mind as I pondered chicken strips or hamburger. After joyfully settling on a hamburger, my friend and I retreated to the back and rifled through the games to conclude which summoned us. Ten minutes later I ecstatically ran to the counter when I heard “burger” announced. A mother vanquished my elation as she whisked the stroller in front of me and retrieved the plate, steaming ever so slightly, the luscious smell molesting my nostrils. She had been waiting longer. I sloped, returning to our table, my concentration on not salivating directly on the game pieces. The subsequent “burger” summon, I couldn’t tolerate the tease. It wasn’t until “with cheddar and avocado” caressed my ears that I delightfully stood and soared to the pick-up counter. I rotated and set the burger basket down while I ladled ketchup for my French-fries into a container. So intent on the sprint to eat, I hadn’t discerned my placement of the basket on the edge of the counter. So absorbed was I, I didn’t sense or feel it plummet to the ground. I heard the plastic strike the tile and grimaced, hand motionless over the ketchup container. I looked at my friend, devastation radiating from my eyes. She laughed and shook her head. I gazed at the ground, observing the heap of fries splattered with lettuce, ketchup, cheese, avocado, beef, and tomato. I looked at those behind the counter, tears threatening my eyes. One of the workers smiled gently, extending a basket of French-fries and chicken strips to me, peace offering.

October 21st 4:36pm - The Sweet Sixteen

My junior high was only a few blocks from a restaurant/BBQ/ice cream parlor. Clo’s was a blissful anomaly to the junior high horde. Blown-up pictures of native Santa Rosans and local sports teams adorned the walls. Board games consisting of Scrabble, Monopoly, and more lingered, demanding us to play with them. Entering Clo’s zone one discovered a BBQ and seating outside, and inside an ice cream counter on the left with sprawling tables, chairs, and recliners. On meandering through a small hallway one unearthed a mammoth open expanse complete with booths, hay bales, and a stage, microphone included.
In seventh and eighth grade I ran cross-country. Our running coaches were the wrestling coaches, dads of kids in our classes. They strutted more effectively than running seven miles a route. Accordingly, the top eight males and eight females would exercise by ourselves while the adult supervision would pursue the other group. Thus, kids would lead kids on runs the coaches initially walked through with us. Coaches would inform us of the fitting course and the “Sweet Sixteen” would sprint up the hill, only to halt the instant we were out of ear and eyeshot. We would cease training in discreet locations in the hills, most involving blackberry bushes and benches. We observed our watches, always tracking how long it should take us to run the desired course. It was quite the operation. We divulged stories, faces running with laughter and blackberry juice, as the remainder of the cross-country team physically extended themselves, suffering through yet another course while the coaches/watchdogs nipped at heels. The “Sweet Sixteen,” the fast ones, the gifted ones, lounged until the decreed time. We would then line up, and, at the declared indicator, scamper down the hill, compelling our legs to exert themselves for one and a half minutes. One brief sojourn at a water fountain where the delegated Water Fountainer squashed the button with the power to issue forth water resulted in fifteen high schoolers’ elbows and bodies as the throng attacked the fountain, splashing faces, arms, and chests with water. The Sweat Simulator performed resplendently every day. Our legs delivered us to our coaches dripping counterfeit sweat and gasps of air.
Our Fridays comprised grand encounters and magnificent tales, blackberries and mirth. Upon galloping down the mound oozing sweat, our coaches would usher the entire team to Clo’s, reward for our demanding challenge: ice cream.

October 15th 6:33pm - Glass Disaster Part 2

I arrived at the hospital in record time, accompanied by my dad and boyfriend. I hobbled into the emergency room, more concerned with food yearnings than with the pain factor. I sat listening to the echoing chorus of my empty stomach while my dad explained the incident to the hospital admittance person and my boyfriend held my hand. The hospital powers that be entrusted me to a doctor, and four minutes later (again: record timing) my toe was stitched and I was on my way to get food and then to my friend’s basketball game.
My doctor removed the sutures two weeks later and I returned to my soccer team amid much teasing concerning the origination of my damaged toe: food.
Though I assumed the adventure had concluded, it was not done yet. Over the next two months my toe was under high stress – it hurt constantly. After every soccer practice I removed my cleat to find my sock blood-soaked. Pressing on the tiny scar on my second toe was not consistent with feeling the corresponding toe on my opposite foot. I graced my doctor’s office with my presence three times. Each time he assured me my toe was misbehaving because I wasn’t treating it well as I was still playing soccer on it. I accepted his explanation. After the third time my mom did not. Ignoring my many protests, my mom hauled me away to the hospital again. This time it was a different hospital.
A nurse immediately coerced me into a wheelchair. My mom explained the situation in detail while I endeavored to make the wheelchair balance on one wheel. This lasted until another nurse seized the wheelchair’s back and wheeled me away to get an x-ray. The nurse enlightened me and my mom by notifying us that glass very rarely appears on an x-ray. The hospital took an x-ray anyway. When they embraced the x-ray to the light, we saw a shard of glass encroaching across my toe. The doctor exclaimed how unusual it was to see glass and summoned five other doctors to observe. By the time he made a minute cut in my toe, twelve doctors and nurses crowded around the hospital bed straining to see. He extracted an inch-long piece of glass out of my toe. The audience sighed and clapped. The first ER doctor had stitched an inch of glass in my toe. It had resided there for two months.
Lessons Learned:
1. Playing soccer on a toe that had stitches taken out should not hurt.
2. Walking after sutures were confiscated should not hurt.
3. If your foot continues to bleed two months after you had stitches removed, something is wrong.
4. You are powerless in a wheelchair. If someone decides you are going to go somewhere, you go. Popping wheelies doesn’t help.
5. Glass does appear on x-rays!

October 14th 5:52pm - Glass Disaster

Food enthralls me. Especially in high school (really nothing has changed), I was an avid food admirer. I incessantly craved food. This could have been because I consistently played multiple sports, accordingly requiring massive amounts of calories, but whatever the reason, I was (am) forever ravenous. At Christmas my mom gave me a large multi-picture frame. Openings for nine photos with a glossy sheet of glass as defense against the perilous environment of my room were enclosed by a deep cherry wood frame. Shortly after receiving it I positioned the components on the ground to situate photos I wished to use. The outcome of walking through my room in the dark of night to use the restroom: striding across the sheet of glass, thus fracturing it into large shards. The damage: banished lethargy (a result of the cracking sounds resonating through the previously silent room); and destruction of the glass. I switched on the lights, surveyed the damage, and deposited the glass slices into a large plastic trash bag on one side of my room. The bag was leftover from the inevitable trash accumulation after Christmas. The next day as I ran out the door to go to school I noticed one of the lengthy glass sections had penetrated the thin plastic bag, its jagged tip prodding the air, hovering six inches from the ground. I endeavored to remember and do something about it later. I didn’t remember. This recurred for three days. On the fourth day I pondered in my closet what to wear to my friend’s basketball game when I heard my mom yell that dinner was ready. Visions of chicken and potatoes dancing through my brain, I sprinted through the room, my face animated. Halfway to the door the top of my foot connected with that unruly glass point. I ceased running and glanced down to see blood spurting from my foot. “Oh no,” I muttered to myself, hopping to my bathroom, feeding the carpet a trail of blood. I sat on the blue tiles as I attempted to wrap enough toilet paper around the base of my fourth toe to cease the blood flow. Scotch tape enveloped the toilet paper, applying pressure and denying the blood eruption. Succulent smells from the kitchen accosted my nostrils. Two minutes later I beamed, satisfied, and hobbled downstairs. My then-boyfriend and I entered the kitchen simultaneously, he coming from the front door and me from upstairs. My mom immediately observed my foot and demanded to know what happened. I shuffled to the table, sat down, and drooled as heavenly smells of food wafted around me. I explained it was nothing, I just ran into a piece of glass. I seized my fork and sunk it into the moist, white chicken breast while my mom insisted I go to the hospital immediately. I looked up at her, a mouthful of bliss. She stood with her arms crossed. I knew that look. I wasn’t going to have the opportunity to eat. I looked down longingly. The food focus drowned the voices of my parents, siblings, and boyfriend. I managed to consume four bites before I was yanked from my seat. The blood had penetrated the bandage. I was hustled to the car and driven to the hospital.
Lessons learned:
1. When you notice something (glass) appearing to be a hazard, do something about it. Don’t just let it rest, jeopardizing the livelihood of your toe, for days.
2. Never run through a room with said hazard at a dangerous angle, even if food calls.
3. If such a tragedy does occur: scheme. Boyfriend or Sister could have delivered plate of food upstairs and The Parents would not have known until after dinner.

October 5th 12:25pm - July 3rd

It was July 3rd. It’s one (of many) family traditions to attend a firework show at a particular high school in the vicinity. I’m not talking little shoot-off-firecrackers-you-bought-on-the-side-of-the-road firework performance. I’m talking colossal explosions of brilliant colors dominating the night sky and decorating the brain. As is usual with such extravaganzas, we travel in numbers. Friends, families, and the bums off the street are welcome. It is, without fail, constant chaos. Gathering food, drinks, lawn chairs, blankets, night clothes, bodies, and getting all into cars to travel across town is always an experience. Ultimately the kids, i.e. anyone under the age of twenty, sit in the car while the adults run around like madmen attempting to congregate all ingredients necessary for the excursion that really just comprises sitting on a football field for four hours.
I was fourteen. I had ventured from the volatile car environment multiple times in efforts to get to the haven my room provided only to be yelled at, “We are leaving right this second, get back in the car!” every time. I complied every time. However, after forty minutes and patience had elapsed, an idea accosted my brain. I climbed over limbs, juice boxes, and elbows from the back of the van to the driver’s seat. I sat for a moment surveying the puzzle before me. There were inordinate amounts of buttons. The keys were in the ignition. I turned them. Nothing happened. I turned them more. The big white stalker van roared beneath me and the music blared. I concluded it would, in fact, be a smart decision to put the children-occupied car in reverse and turn it around. Just so the whole process of exiting the driveway went a bit faster. One of my friends lunged forward from the back seat. Her parent’s had already taught her. Push foot on brake. Check. Move stick thing by the left-hand side of the steering wheel. Check. Hit gas. Check. Except that just as I hit the gas my brother came walking toward the front of the vehicle. Except that instead of reversing, the car shot forward. He swears to this day I almost ran him over.

September 25, 2008 5:15pm - Crow Catastrophe

At a soccer tournament one weekend when we were about fourteen, the absence-of-parents had yet to become procedural. The troupe assembled for this particular weekend varied from winery owners, doctors and lawyers, to broods of small children, to dads that ran up and down the field's sideline as the ball traveled. One weekend one such father intently watching the occurring game sprinted the length of the field countless times as the ball journeyed, bouncing between the battling teams. Head turned sideways, he surveyed the game as he ran. I happened to glance over as he went dashing into a trashcan, which ensued in a rotating, tumbling image of white limbs and gray plastic. I doubled over on the field in laughter.
Anyway, back to the weekend in question. I and a handful of girls were kicking a soccer ball in the hotel hallway. Typically the hotel front desk clerk arranged so all the people involved in one team would room near each other. This, I have to imagine, was to benefit us as well as the hotel management and other guests. We were loud, raucous children with a knack for disorderly conduct. At the ripe old age of twenty-two that I now am, I know I wouldn't want to stay in a hotel near our delinquent fourteen-year-old selves. We tore through the hotel playing hide-and-seek. We forged small-sided soccer games in the hallways and the hotel grounds. We used our siblings as parental distractions. Eventually, we realized the parents collectively employed alcohol consumption as their distraction from their wild, free-roaming children.
Anyway, back once again to the weekend in question. We lazily kicked the soccer ball down the hallway, seeing how many times we could ricochet the ball between the walls and still get it to the teammate twenty feet away. Someone was able to achieve the highly-impressive count of six when another teammate came hurling towards us yelling maniacally with riotous blue eyes and disheveled hair. She came to an abrupt halt a few feet away. She stared at us. We stared back. Someone asked what the hell happened. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.
She proceeded to tell us that she had been standing outside the hotel waiting for her dad to park the car when suddenly she was accosted. The top of her head was clawed and her face beat with wind. She saw black feathers and could feel talons digging into her scalp. She screamed and galloped a few feet crazed-madwoman-status before she reached above her head, grabbed at the bird, and hurtled it into the side of the hotel. She told us she continued shrieking. She ran through the hotel doors screeching, into and through the lobby yelling, leapt up the stairs, screaming, ran through a few hallways, still yelling, and then stopped when she found us. We dissolved into hilarity. Once we could speak again without laughing we went on an expedition to find the site of the crow/raven/blackbird (we're still not sure which) molestation. There was no mark on the wall. We did find some feathers, however. Our bird-accosted teammate kept one as proof.

September 24th 5:20pm - Loonybin

I played soccer for a club team throughout my childhood. We traveled to games in a decades-old Volkswagen van. It is quite possible it embarked on its life journey in the 70’s. The one sliding door didn’t open, so all entering and exiting of the vehicle was accomplished through the two front doors. Three of the six windows didn’t move, and there was no air conditioning. The van’s exterior was painted. When I say painted, I mean spray-painted in some indistinguishable swirling and splotches of color. The only discernible feature on the box-on-wheels was the word “Looneybin,” painted in loopy, cockamamie lettering. The music system (i.e. the radio) didn’t work. We compensated with a battery-powered boom-box blasting music, persistently accosting our driver’s (who oftentimes our coach) ears.
Those were the days when the majority of my teammates’ family vacations had coincided with wherever we were required to play over the past ten years. We had been playing soccer for a decade, and the parents were tired of coming to the twelve tournament weekends a year while the coaches were obliged to. A very lucky few selected parents would travel with the team, while the rest saved their time and money and devoted a bit of their constantly-busy lives to their other children (sorry other children).

Driving endlessly to some tournament in some god-forsaken city in some record heat, we stopped at some gas station. On this particular trip, there were five of us in the bench seats, and our coach sat shotgun while one of the dads drove. Our heroic driver departed from our wobbliness-on-wheels to walk inside to pay. The six of us remained behind. I, my coach, and two of the other girls gazed out the window at the adjacent van. It appeared to be brand-new. It sparkled in the sun. Through the tinted windows we could barely distinguish those new small pull-down televisions emerging from the ceiling like angels from the heavens. They emanated colored light. I sighed. The passenger side window was open and the sound system appeared to produce from a C.D. There were no on-air commercials. Wiping the seat off my forehead, I imagined such commodities as air conditioning and cup holders. This new van was a work of genius, a deity.
Abruptly, our van rolled forward, driving. I heaved my head frontward, tearing my eyes from the van-trance. Our coach lurched from the passenger seat to the driver’s, throwing his hands on the wheel and hurdling himself into the seat with a yelp.
One of the girls behind me started giggling and asked what we were doing. As it turns out, the new shiny van had clutched us in such as trance that when it started driving we thought our Loonybin had been moving forward. Really, the van had simply been pulling out of the gas station.