Thursday, March 19, 2015
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
You know I am really getting tired of you three and this constant business of "turning down for what." Every night it's the same damn story: one minute you're ice skating, doing crosswords, or feeding our chestnut mare thoroughbred, Penny...and the next thing I know, everybody's clothes are on the floor, somebody's passed out, and a random piece of pumpkin pie has appeared out of nowhere. Do you see me acting a fool and getting drunk on milkshakes? No, you don't. While you all are reliving some ridiculous YOLO/Girls Gone Wild fantasy, I am in a historically accurate canopy bed, practicing my recitations and trying to avoid the Yellow Fever. As I've said before, this mosquito netting is for everyone's protection, and no, there was not enough to go around. You're right, ladies, the struggle is real. Also, I don't really want to hear another word about my pantalettes, or for that matter, my ringlets. I appreciate that we each have our differences, but you would all do well to follow my lead here, as I am currently the only one in the room wearing an actual outfit. No, Nellie, your pajama top doesn't count, although your confusion about basic grooming habits is understandable given the fact that until recently, you were but a shy servant girl and also a child laborer. All I can say is, God bless Gardner and Cornelia Edwards for taking you in after your parents succumbed to influenza. Just remember, this is not the factory, and even though you are hardworking, honest, and have a penchant for disassembling things, I have a penchant for bitches who don't disassemble their clothes. Seriously, though, all of you: get back into your respective time periods, work your hobbies, and drop the Miley Cyrus routine because not only is it not cute, it is an embarrassment to America...and girls, everywhere.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Everything I know about breakfast I learned in the home of my childhood babysitter, Dorothy--where, after being dropped off by my parents each morning, I would feign hunger (what Pop Tart?) in hopes that she might, in her mercy, fry me up an egg with the kind of lacy, perfectly crisped edges one only achieves by means of lard. After this second breakfast, we'd color, surf her four channels...maybe I'd nap, maybe she would. Later, though, when it was time to go home, I'd be on high spiritual alert, praying for my parents to be late picking me up so I could eat some of the delicious fish that Dorothy's husband always seemed to be catching (and frying) himself. I never felt unwanted at their table, a four-top in a corner of their kitchen with a clear view of the outside. By the time I was four, I could sniff out both an honest welcome and a good meal with a mastery that belied my years; I was also savvy enough to stuff the last bites of Lake Erie perch into my mouth as soon as I saw my parents' car pull in the driveway, lest my double-down dinner gaming privileges be revoked.
All these years later and I'm frying my own eggs, though I use grassfed butter and still can't get the edges right. Whenever I try, though, I remember Dorothy, and how she never turned me down. I also think of how precocious I was then, how I didn't want small bites--I wanted you to give me a great big piece of the world.
I still do.
On the flip side, I wonder if my parents ever realized that while they believed they were paying for childcare from a semi-elderly woman who owned a pet ferret and allowed me to watch soap operas on the reg, they were really funding my foray into a diet based entirely on fried foods. In other words, guaranteeing me a lifetime of happiness. The more I think about it, this may be one of history's last remaining examples of the "win-win" phenomenon.
*shout out to every moment of high-school angst I ever experienced, along with its corresponding Cure song.