Signing off and winding down

I thought my feelings about my first trip home would be cut and dried. Along the lines of “Yay, Home!” even if I wasn't exactly thinking “Yay, Memphis!” Instead, I can't pinpoint what I felt, or what I feel now. Out of place, yes, because I was living out of a duffel bag in the spare room. Unsettled, because I felt like I should be comfortable there. I still knew my way around, so it's not as though I got lost when I borrowed the car and ventured out on my own. And maybe that's part of it, actually – being chauffeured around the majority of the time; asking well in advance if I could borrow the car that night; grinding gears and revving it, stuck in first; listening to the same classic rock station as I did in high school. It was a regression to not have my freedom.

I'd stay up all night in the spare bedroom, next to the one I lived in between leases. I listened to many of the same songs from this summer, songs that helped me through the move. Now here I am, literally on the other side of things – the other side of the wall, the other side of the transition. The songs still affect me the same way. I'm not sure if that's the power of music, or how much I haven't changed, or if I should even be analyzing that fact, trying to glean meaning from it. I don't know which city to be homesick for anymore.

I had forgotten a lot; I guess that happens when you leave one city for another. I had forgotten the way your shoulders tense up when you drive in Memphis traffic. The way you watch the other cars' tires, just knowing they're about to inch over the dashed line and cause a major wreck. The way they ride your butt when you're already going ten over the limit, even though an empty lane is available. The way the cars going ten under hog the left lane and ride their brakes.

But there's good stuff, too.

I had forgotten the tree in my neighbor's yard – the first picture I took with my first SLR camera.


I had forgotten how festive our Christmas tree always looks.

I had forgotten how goofy Mom gets after working all weekend. “What did you say your kids would call your dad? Umpa?”
No, I said they'd call you Geegaw.
“Oh no, I don't want to be called Geegaw! I want to be called Miss Kitty.”
(Her words are immortalized here. My kids will have “Weekends with Geegaw and Miss Kitty.” Sounds like a disaster. Or a British sitcom.)

I had forgotten exactly how good cheese fries and Ghost River are. And pizza and Ghost River. How yummy and cheap donuts after midnight are. I learned that wine and popcorn aren't such a great pair, and I hope I won't forget that for next time.

I had forgotten how many nicknames my parents have for me, and that my grandfather still calls me Alli.

I had forgotten how much I love talking to my dad about books and architecture. I had forgotten how much I appreciate him cutting out articles about my favorite authors, even if he doesn't care much for them.

I had not forgotten how much I loved my job. Only a bare bones staff was around, due to the holidays, but I had a delightful lunch with old co-workers who seemed genuinely glad to see me, who never stopped asking questions and wanting to hear stories. My boss hugged me so tight, and we shared offensive jokes and book recommendations over an energy drink – just like old times. I know I couldn't have lasted there, the 9-5 cube dwellin' lifestyle, and that it's better to have loved and left than to have never left at all... but dammit, I miss them.

I arrived with a small duffel bag, a carry-on, and one paperback. Extreme giftage and book-shopping happened, which meant I had to buy new luggage. That isn't a bad thing, considering my last bag was from middle school, made of some sort of bright purple plastic product. Even with the larger bag, I had to cram in:
four pounds of coffee
a bucket-sized coffee mug
notebooks and stationary
16 books (hardback and paperback)
and other various items I have forgotten and will be surprised to find when I unpack.

I have so much to take care of when I get home, but no school or work: half-ass business as usual. I hope my clothes smell like coffee when I unpack.

Harmless rain that has been pitter-pattering on the roof all day just now knocked out the power. Oh, Memphis, I'll not miss you, but I'm awfully glad I came.

Double Take

For Christmas, I asked for books. I had been reading (or was supposed to have been reading) half a dozen books a week for school – why would I want to read more? Well, I had a list of certain ones that jumped out to me as I teased myself with visits to the bookstore. "Yes, I want you, twenty dollar hardback, but I can't justify that kind of extravagance." Cue putting specific nonfiction titles on my wish list. Cue opening boxes and boxes of books on Christmas morning.

One of those books was Double Take: A Memoir by Kevin Michael Connolly. The cover drew me in during one of those bookstore excursions, and when I flipped through I was delighted to see a lot of photography interspersed.

Kevin (because we're close like that) was born without legs. It's not a disease or the result of anything his mother did or didn't do - it just happened. But his book isn't about that. Well, ok, to an extent it is, because you can't just gloss over something like that. But I guess because he was born that way, he didn't have much adjusting to do. It was simply how he always lived.

As a kid, he played like everyone else – running around getting dirty, getting into trouble - but he walked with his hands. He addresses some of the problems with bullies, trying to ask girls out, typical school stuff. On the other hand, he talks about being fitted for prosthetic legs that made him look "normal" but didn't help him walk, how his mom hemmed special pants for him, and how exciting it was to finally buy a pair of shoes. When these topics came up, I had to pause for a second and remember why they were noteworthy; it was easy to forget he doesn't have legs. Every other line wasn't a "pity me!" statement - in fact, it was the opposite.

Kevin became a skier and competed in the X Games. With the money he won for finishing 2nd place, he bought a camera and traveled to foreign countries on a skateboard. From this unique angle, he captured the stares he'd been getting all his life. The results are some great stories, interesting introspection, and a set of amazing photographs.

It made me think of Adam Shepard's Scratch Beginnings, even though I feel like the two shouldn't really be compared. The only similarities are that they're written by two young men (it makes me proud to be in their age bracket) who are trying to make a difference in some small way. Adam (because WE'RE close like that...) wanted to prove that the American Dream was still alive - and wrote a really inspiring book about it. Kevin addresses a lot of the things strangers thought about him regarding why he was legless and what he was capable of. In a different way, I also found his story inspiring: it made me think about assumptions, personal goals, proving people wrong, etc.

I'm kind of fascinated by this guy, so I stalked him all over the Internet. Here's some handy-dandy linkage, so you don't have to stalk as hard.
The Rolling Exhibition
Connolly Photography @ Flickr
KevinMichaelConnolly.com

Hope your day sucks!

(Just because all the "Merry Christmas!"-titled posts were getting repetitive)

Once I graduated from high school, my Christmas spirit left me. There's something about being free from school just days before the holiday that really puts you in the right frame of mind. In college, finals were two weeks before Christmas, and what I felt after was relief more than holiday cheer. Then, for three years I worked at a company that produced Christmas wraps and bags, so I got really flippin' sick of it. This year, my excitement was more about my trip home than anything else.

Until yesterday, when Mom presented me with a beat up box.

Christmas Eve on Sesame Street was my favorite video as a kid. (It might still be...) I used to watch this so much, Mom made a rule that I could only watch it during December. I watched it yesterday afternoon and was surprised that I still remembered every scene, and damn near every line. I was grinning like a fool the entire time; it was just as delightful as I remembered.

People-sized characters ice skating to Feliz Navidad.
I loved that song. So much that, one Sunday when my mom was napping, I played the VHS quietly and tried to record the song off onto a cassette. Quietly, because it wasn't December, and I didn't want to get in trouble for watching it out-of-season.

I've always been super jealous of this girl, because I was am kind of in love with Big Bird.

Big Bird puzzling over how Santa descends the chimney.
They do an experiment with Snuffy and ask a bunch of kids, but Big Bird finally falls asleep on the roof while trying to catch Santa ("My giblets are frozen!" he exclaims when he wakes up). Gordon tells Big Bird that the season is all about togetherness, not Santa. He never even says that Santa brought the presents under the tree. I didn't catch that as a kid - Sesame Street slyly dispels the myth of Santa. Golf claps.

Cookie Monster's attempts at composing a letter to Santa. He asks for cookies, nibbling thoughtfully on his pencil as he debates the merits of each type and flavor. Before he knows it, the pencil is gone! He tries a typewriter and the phone, each time hallucinating that the utensil he's using looks like cookies.

Gift of the Magi Bert & Ernie style.
When I read the actual O. Henry story in middle school, I dismissed it as a rip-off of Sesame Street. Shows what I know. The version with Rubber Ducky and the paperclip collection is still better than the hair and pocketwatch, if you ask me.


The result? HOLIDAY CHEER!

It's a Christmas miracle!

A Google search showed me that this movie is more widely-known that I originally expected! For a hilarious play-by-play that has me crying with laughter, check this out.

Festivus yes! Bagels no!

Happy Festivus!

I texted my brother that greeting this morning, to which he replied "Let's start with the Airing of Grievances. I got a lot of problems with you people!"

Yes, we were raised Catholic. We dutifully sat through an hour of church every Sunday, trying not to snicker when the priest sang what sounded like the McDonald's jingle, when my mom drifted off to sleep, when Frank farted...well, in church, pretty much everything makes you laugh.

We were also raised on Seinfeld. (and the Simpsons.) And, while religion should be something instilled in you from childhood, something you hold close to your heart, it didn't really take with us. We can quote entire episodes back and forth, not Bible verses. So it just seemed natural to adopt the Costanza's holiday as our own.

"I'd send you a picture of our pole," I told my brother, "but I'm pretty sure it looks the same as yours."
"Aluminum?" Frank asked. "Shiny? About yay high? Yup."

For the past few years, I've given my family custom-made gift cards assuring them that a donation has been made in their name to the Human Fund - Money for People. This year, I forgot to make cards. But trust me, the money has been donated.

In trying to think of some Grievances, I realized that this has been a pretty good year. I can't think of anyone who really pissed me off, so if you did - you're off the hook. I don't think I've really been disappointed this year. Especially since my personalized news service informed me that Steven Tyler is back in rehab. At first I was sad, but then I realized this is a good thing. Maybe he'll finally get help. Maybe he'll finally break up with his no-good girlfriend. Maybe he'll finally stop being a dick to his bandmates.

So technically, my Grievances have been Aired. Which means it's time for the Feats of Strength, but those always end up with me crying...

Stretch out our arms...

On a weekend adventure last week, Kelly and I ventured up to Rockville, MD. We went to St. Mary's Catholic Church, because I wanted to see F. Scott Fitzgerald's grave.





September 24, 1896 – December 21, 1940

The church and grounds were beautiful as well. You can see more of those shots on my Flickr.

Play with my Pink Ouija

I posted my Gift Guide last weekend, but tonight at Toys R Us I found this gem:

The "game" (or is it?) includes questions such as:

Will I ever play in a rock band?
What cartoon character do I most resemble?
What is my best habit?
Where can I find buried treasure?
Will ___ be my best friend when we grow up?
Who wants me to be their best friend forever?
Which animal best matches my personality?
If the Ouija board could describe me in one word, what would it be?
Who has a crush on me?
Will I be a famous actor someday?
Who wishes they could trade places with me?
Who will call/text me next?

Heavy stuff. What has happened to the world? When I was a kid, we had brown and tan Ouija boards - regardless of gender! We had to think up our own questions! We tried to contact the dead, not ask superficial, self-involved bullshit! And it still didn't work!

My favorite review from Amazon.com:
"Occult materials that are clearly targeting tween girls? Just unbelievable. Hasbro-you should be seriously ashamed-you have lost your way.
     Ouija boards are NOT 'games' and they certainly should not be marketing these to children."

I like that the reviewer is outraged at the occult aspect, while I'm furious that it is pink and features shallow questions like "What is my best feature?"

Regardless, this is a great gift idea for the little girl you want to stunt, especially if you can't afford a kitchen, a vanity, or a laundry center.

Pantelones Calientes

I never know how to talk about the time I spend with Geof (of Enter the Man-Cave fame). We always just plan to have dinner and hang out, but then we get into amusing hijinks and meet batshit crazy people. You wouldn't believe the stories we told you. So I guess it's best explained in quotes and pictures. [WARNING: Picture heavy. Worth it.]

MONDAY:
- "I'd dehydrate myself to spit on you if you were on fire."
- Reston SwipSwap Club: for when your swippin' needs some swappin'.
- "I'd hate to spawn with her. This glass would be smarter than the kid."
- "I have a website about miracles."
- "If this is your city's treasure, man, I gotta show you mine."
- "We'll get drunk and eat cheesecakes and Tastykakes and crab cakes and Barbie cakes."
- "Herschel... Isn't that the guy in Moby Dick?"

Not impressed.


Pals.


Oh Uncle Julio, how do we love thee? Let us count the ways.


I am an elegant ice skater.


Mm, want to eat that train station so bad.


Do I have to look surprised in every picture? Yes. At least
Geof joined me for the last one. A pity shot, fo sho.

WEDNESDAY:
- "He's sensitive, like a woman. Present company excluded." Thanks! No sarcasm.
- A: "You didn't think I'd actually do it!"
  G: "No, I knew you'd do it, that's why I braced myself."
- "She'd know I was lying because Bubbly doesn't have ideas."
- "Jackie. See, she has a real name."
- "Do you know Bob?" Yes.
- Bob and his minions. Bob and his mini-Bobs. Bob and his flying monkey Bobs.
- "Ain't no Christmas creepin' in my head."

The many faces of Allison. Not pleased with the evening. Pretending to be
pleased with the evening. Doing a shot of mayonnaise with a lemon wedge chaser.


Good thing I just peed, or else I would have wet myself when I saw the toilet paper
squid. So intricate and origami-like. Someone had a lot of time on their hands...


We actually went ice skating this time. And who is that trying to photobomb us? Bob,
or one of the flying monkey Bobs? Nice try, might have been funnier if the
"professional photographer" didn't have shaky hands.
(Yes there are yellow balls dangling from my pocket.)


Don't let the name tag fool you - I totally met Nick Swardson. He drives the
Zamboni during the off-season. He gave me glowstick bracelets and everything.


The outdoor skating rink gave us wristbands. We didn't find out they
were liability bracelets until much later. Smooth move, rink!


Thanks for the Tastykake treasures, Geof!
(Read his entry here.)

Holiday Gift Guide

Stuck on what to get your loved ones this holiday season? Allison to the rescue! I went out last night, determined to get some great gift ideas. The results were stellar, as expected. Interesting, affordable, and unique.

Musician in your family? Rock star boyfriend?
Does your dad collect obscure instruments from various cultures?

The Hum-a-Zoo is an instrument similar to the kazoo, but since it was purchased
at World Market, it clearly must be from another country. An especially good
idea if your musician travels a lot - check out the compact size!
This is much more totable than those bulky kazoos.
[World Market - $1.99. Also available in blue, red, and white.]
---
The next suggestion is perfect for the candy lover you know.
Or the plumber. Or anyone who loves poop jokes.

Yup, candy in a toilet! It's like Lick-a-Maid/Fun Dip, but in a more whimsical
(or disgusting, depending on your sense of humor) package! There are two
plungers conveniently attached to the sides. Just suck on those bad boys
then stir 'em in the toilet bowl to get an extra hit of sugar!
[World Market - $1.99. This was the last one left, so I'm not sure about other flavors.]
---
Everyone has keys, so to be unique you have to add a bit of personality to your
keychains. Let people know what you're into, what you're passionate about.
Alma maters, vacation hot spots, bottle openers - all of those are so
cliche. This innovative gift is perfect for... well, I can't think of
anyone else who wasn't disgusted by it.

Yes, it's on my keychain. Like you're surprised.
No one will ever take my keys by accident.
(Apparently I am passionate about eighth notes, moustaches,
and rubber chickens ready to give birth.)


... That's not actually how it works, Chicky.


Yes, there's a yolk in that egg! Guess you better sit on it a bit longer.

Tuesday Night Hijinks, or How We Tamed the Rabid Possum

I was working diligently on my paper, Internet disconnected, non-distracting music playing softly in the background. My mind was sharp as a tack even without the aid of caffeine, and I had been dressed and alert since an impossibly early hour that morning. I had been writing and researching from the time the sun came up, and through my blinds I watched the sky turn a bright, beautiful blue before fading into the gray-lavender of dusk. It was pitch-black now, and my lamps were burning bright; I could see similar lights in my neighbors' homes across the way.

There was a tap on my door, a gentle rapping, much like Poe's narrator must have heard. "Allison?" my housemate called through the door. She never knocks on my door, she dwells on the first floor, so while we occasionally visit in the kitchen, she only treks all the way up to the third floor on laundry days.

"Yeah?" I call from my computer, where the faux-leather of my chair has more than likely morphed to the shape of my butt.

She doesn't knock again, doesn't enter, but I swear I hear a whimper. I jump up and open the door, not embarrassed at all because, remember, I have been fully dressed in appropriate clothes since the early morning light.

"There's an animal in the garage," she explains, wringing her hands. "I hear it scratching at the door."

I follow her downstairs and note the festive decorations in the den and on the bannisters. "I was getting Christmas stuff from the garage and I guess it slipped in."

The door is closed; I knock on it, scratch at it, and hear nothing in return.

"It's intermittent," my housemate assures me. Casual usage like that? - that's how you know we're all English majors.

I picture myself opening the door and being pounced on by a wild animal with intense claws. I sadly picture myself being so wounded I have to miss class tomorrow, and so we devise a plan to save ourselves. We open the front door so the animal has a line of escape straight down the hall. I hide behind the bathroom door, she hides in the closet, then reaches out to fling the back door open. Our two doors slam shut instantaneously. We count to twenty, hear nothing outside. I picture the animal on its haunches between our two doors, waiting for whoever peeks out first. I hear her door open, then I open mine. We look into the hallway. It is empty. I take timid steps to the garage and press the button to raise the door. We switch on the lights and my housemate puts on boots, because she doesn't want the animal to eat her toes. She grabs a bat and steps into the garage. I stay on the threshold, because I'm not wearing shoes and I like my toes. I peer out at the stacks and piles and heaps of things in our garage while my housemate creeps around and checks under her car, ready to hit a home run.

After a few minutes, she tiptoes back inside. We look at each other and shrug, lower the garage door, close the back door. She stores the bat in her room and I go back upstairs to mine.

No, there was no rabid possum. THAT WE SAW. It could have escaped out the front door while we were closed in our respective bathroom and closet. It could have run out the garage door before we started our intense search. Or it could just be a kitten who's still curled up under one of our spare armchairs. But then again, a good portion of this story was lies. Like me waking early and being appropriately dressed? Totally slept til noon, totally wore pajama pants. But you didn't buy that for a minute, right?

Hours later, there is another tap at my door. This time it's Liz. She saw something in the kitchen. "Was it an animal?" I ask excitedly, slipping my feet into a pair of shoes because, though I'm still in pajama pants, no way I'm missing the action this time! We creep into the kitchen and she describes the critter she saw scurry under the stove. "I wonder what it was," I say after we fruitlessly stake the room out for a few minutes. "You should Google it - thin, long, and black." She wisely decides against this.

- - -
I found a new website to view the archives of rather than complete work. You Suck at Craigslist. My first-place favorite is Lol nd psnl asst fr txt w/snx. 15.00 hr plus snacks? I'd take that job, no questions asked. I think I'm fucking custom made for that job.

Ok, I totally gave in and signed up for that time-waster, Twitter. I kind of hate myself. But if your Twat is advertised on your blog, I'm following you. Just so you know. You can follow me too, if you want, because a Twat with no followers is pretty pathetic. allisonwrites @ *sigh* Twitter