and the dish ran away with the spoon
On Sunday, Pat stopped by after work around 8 p.m. or so and unexpectedly bought me a SuperGold membership. Since then I haven't stopped beaming. Being a nonpaying member of DiaryLand is like being an infant whose sole method of transportation is rolling and who can't escape the confides of those child-safety gates that stretch like accordions. But having a SuperGold membership is like being a dog kept behind the same gate, because dogs can make like the cow that jumped over the moon.
The rolling infant analogy reminded me of when I was at daycare after school six years ago or so, and my daycare lady's daughter, Katie, and her friend were fawning over the resident nursling. I tagged along but did not contribute to the cooing and overall slew of motherly hormones. After awhile of this, Katie and her school friend directed me to hold the baby while they went upstairs momentarily. I adamantly declined. I didn't want it groping blindly for my face with hands that were so plump that they lacked visible joints. I told them that I had never held a baby. Katie and her brunette buddy scoffed at this, and set Austin on a plastic table where the younger daycare folk were forced to eat macaroni and hot dogs come lunch time. After sternly instructing me to watch the baby carefully, they ran upstairs and were gone for several minutes, and I did not move to breach the distance between the baby and me. I wondered why an infant needed to be watched; it takes a baby months to discover that it has control over its flailing limbs. What is there that needs to be supervised? And then Austin began to roll, and he rolled off the tabletop and landed on the cold tile floor without injury. Katie & Co. galloped down the stairs and scooped Austin off the floor, casting me sour glances and demanding why I hadn't prevented the child's mad rolling. I hadn't moved since they exited the room. I'm not sure what they thought would happen. Kate's mother stormed in, not bothering to contain her blatant annoyance with me. I think I was the only one who remembered that I didn't ask to take care of the baby.
Anyway. I might get to wear a tux for the upcoming band concert, provided the third female percussionist is willing. Either all of the girls in the percussion section wear a tux, or the we revert back to our assigned concert dress -- a satin blouse with a low-cut, square-shaped neckline and sleeves with puffed shoulders, and a black skirt that drapes down past the ankles. Despite my shady opinion of the ensemble's appearance, the outfit is very constricting around the arms, which makes it cumbersome to play any percussion instruments. But more importantly, you look like a dink.
We watched a lovely video in health centered around tobacco usage. It depicted people who spoke with prosthetic voice boxes, had half of their jaw removed, smoked cigarettes through a hole in their throat, and a medical procedure in which a tube is inserted down the throat so tar can be coughed into it and removed from the body. I had to rest my head on my desk and squeeze my eyes shut in order to keep from passing out, tossing my cookies, weeping, or partaking in all three simultaneously. After class I approached my health teacher and asked if I could skip any future movies. I struggled to compose myself when I tried to make him understand my predicament after he refused. I am a squeamish person beyond the comprehension of any. So, because it is beyond the comprehension of any, I won't explain the extent of it. But just trust me on this one. A video about cigarettes and chewing tobacco made me cry. The following period I couldn't draw straight lines on my matrices exam. The situation is pathetic all around.
I saw "8 Mile" today with Pat. We tried to see it last night, but it was sold out at both of the theaters we went to. It was a pretty good movie, but I thought the plot drifted along aimlessly, and many conflicts were left unresolved by the end. There were three sex scenes peppered throughout the movie, and all three were in the same position. I think that's why the crime rate in Detroit is one of the highest in the country. With only one known sex position, the men need car hijacking to keep them occupied.
Last month, my history teacher was telling us a story about how she was taking her dog on a walk and all of a sudden it lowered its body to the ground and all of its fur bristled. Across the street, my teacher saw what she thought was a cat, but soon realized was too slippery for a cat, so she guessed it was an opossum -- an animal that does not frequent Minnesota. I raised my hand. I have never seen an opossum, but Pat has told me stories.
"I know someone from California," I said. "He told me that when people first see opossums they think, 'CAT,' but then they run it over and they look back and realize its an opossum they've plastered to the road."
I love that Pat's from California. It's like having a boyfriend from another country -- he pronounces words differently than me, plays "Duck, Duck, Goose" instead of "Duck, Duck, Gray Duck," and does not know how to make a snowman. Once I asked him if he knew what kind of snow made the best snowmen. When he replied with a blank stare, I grinned and cried, "Snow that packs well!"
"Doesn't all snow pack well?"
"Oh, God. I hope this winter is severe." This winter, I'm going to show him how to sled. He says he's done it before, but he's lying. You don't sled in California. You coast down a hill blanketed with a thin layer of frost in a sled that took you hours to find because you can't find them anywhere wearing a T-shirt and jeans. That's sledding all right -- sledding for fucking freaks. And then I'll show Pat how to make a snowman. It'll be lopsided since I haven't made one since grade school, but it'll be more than he's ever been able to make with his one inch of snow. I'm bitter that schools in the south get a snow day when it snows less than an inch.
But anyway. I'll conclude this entry with a fairy tale. You can make your own here.
"Once upon a time there has a young PETCO EMPLOYEE named IBBY. He was WILDLY DANCING in the DEAD-ASS BLIND forest when he met CHILLY KITTY-BOB, a runaway PIZZA DELIVERY BOY from the SHADY Queen THING 1.
"IBBY could see that CHILLY KITTY-BOB was hungry so he reached into his MUG and give him his PASTY RICE. CHILLY KITTY-BOB was thankful for IBBY's RICE, so he told IBBY a very SPOOKY story about Queen THING 1's daughter THING 2. How her mother, the SHADY Queen THING 1, kept her locked away in a TRIBAL MEETING HUT protected by a gigantic SEA MONKEY, because THING 2 was so BANANA-ESQUE.
"IBBY BAKED. He vowed to CHILLY KITTY-BOB the PIZZA DELIVERY BOY that he would save the BANANA-ESQUE THING 2. He would WRAP UP the SEA MONKEY, and take THING 2 far away from her evil mother, the SHADY Queen THING 1, and SINK her.
Then, all of the sudden, there was a GLOW-IN-THE-DARK APOCOLYPSE and CHILLY KITTY-BOB the PIZZA DELIVERY BOY began to laugh. With a puff of smoke he turned into the gigantic SEA MONKEY from his story. SHADY Queen THING 1 SPUN out from behind a BREADBOX and struck IBBY dead. In the far off TRIBAL MEETING HUT you could hear a DINK.
"THE END."