Dead Birds Part Three - The Chicken Coop

This being "Part Three", it would behoove you to begin at "Part One"... you don't have to and I doubt it would make any more sense either way; I'm just a control freak who wants to manage you while you're here.  Begin here, my beauties: wondrous adventure awaits!

Welcome, loyal reader(s) and sick bastards alike! Here we stand at the End of Our Journey; the promise of Dead Chicken just over the next hill and yet all that half of you can think about is more blobfish pictures... you really do make my job a wearisome task indeed, Blobfish Lovers. But who am I to judge or turn away a reader (and potential commenter!)? I just happen to have the hots for a Cyborg Michael Fassbender*... who, along with being a creepy-but-kinda-sweet robot, was also seen providing Miss Knightly with some Good Old Fashioned "spanking therapy"... nightly**.

*He was just about the only redeeming part of Prometheus. When "Woman Who Literally Just Had a C-Section But Can Still Run" gets to carry around his head in a bag...  

"jealous" doesn't even begin to cover it.

My emotions were covetous. 

Sinful. 

Delightful. 

I feel about him the way the Blobfish Lovers do about blobfish. 

Look at his mouth! And his jaw! And his unbelievably long torso! He's just so... male***

**See what I did there? I know, I know, puns are lame, but I can't help myself! You would have to have seen that movie where Viggo and Michael run around being all smart and jealous and weird and stuff to make sense of all that nonsense I just typed. What was it called? A Dangerous Method.

                                                                        

                                                                                     Indeed!

If this doesn't increase my readership, I don't know what will!

Listen, he's always being weird, I know, but he's really cute and great and smart - I swear.

***A brand new baby-asterix inside a grouping of previously established asterisks? It's like Inception. Only I cry less and am more confused. After leaving the theater, I confess to my friend how bad I want my own Michael Fassbender head-in-a-bag and she's like "Ew! The creepy cyborg?" and I'm all "Yes, please!" and she goes "Why? What... are you... into robots?" to which I replied "LOL! In his case, yes. But I'm not like a robot version of a Furry. A Metally, I guess you'd call them?" There must be an established community of these freaks - I just need to find them.

What's that? You aren't into spanking or cyborgs at all? You want... you want...

 

 

 

This?

 Observe the flushed color around my lips; this signals my arousal for you. 

I will never play games! Carpe diem!

 

Oh, Hey, There's The Chicken Coop!

Finally, the day is drawing to an end and we get to finish our adventure in the chicken coop. Inside the low-ceiling building, there is a cool, disaffected, middle aged man who is swearing under his breath at the chickens. Thanks to TV contributing to my rearing, (much in the way a doting -but batshit crazy- aunt would) he is emblazoned on my mind as a young Paul Newman.

Lord, have mercy! I guess I'll just have to take off my shirt, too! 

What's that, Paul? You'll just put your shirt back on? Oh... yeah... okay.

There are a lot of really great things about this picture.

You're welcome****.

How in the hell Paul Newman ended up in the Chicken Coop in the middle of "East BumFuck" (as we affectionately referred to it. Seriously.) is anyone's guess but boy was I sure happy to drink in that tall glass of water. 

Go On! Git It!

Paul is Super Cool because he's the only adult at Pretentious Farm who thinks this place is lame too. He makes this clear by telling us we can do whatever we want for the next ten minutes, it really doesn't matter, until it is time to "Catch a Chicken". We all pounce on this opportunity to nervously rethink our outfits and the way we laugh. We mill about, desperate for Jason's passing attention, until Paul tells us we now have to catch one. I don't remember why we had to catch it. I don't remember what was supposed to happen afterward.  I honest to God cannot think of one valid reason to do what I did...

Paul: These chickens are a pain in the ass.

Kids: *Paul is So Cool - oh shit, are there other adults here? Nope!*

Paul: I swear to you, they are the most foul, stupid creatures you can find.

Kids: Yeah!

Paul: Chickens suck.

Kids: Yeah... they suck ass!

Paul: Very true, Children, but, as part of this incredibly enriching experience, I have been instructed to have one of you catch one.

Kids: *every hand shoots up *

Paul: Really?

Kids: *wave hands back and forth*

Paul: Well, hell. You - here you go.

Me: *AWESOME!*

Paul: *hands me a "chicken catcher"* (It's a long piece of metal, about 4 feet, with a hook at the end)

Me: *I am going to catch me a goddamn chicken - I am in control of my own destiny!*

Paul: Now, take this and attempt to snag one of these jerks by the ankles. Good luck...

Me: *I am driven by an other-worldly force to get one of these jerks Paul hates so much*

There I was, let's not think about what I looked like, feinting and dodging while I danced around the... herd? Flock? Surely it can't be flock, that's too majestic. Hang on.  Aha! Brood! Yes, that sounds better. So, I've got the brood cornered when I make my fateful lunge.

 

Super-Cool Kid Gets One!

The only problem was that, despite my incredible animalistic fury for hunting chickens, my aim was not what it could have been. It's hard, I tell you, incredibly so! You go try and catch, say, a piece of dirty laundry with a four foot long hook and let's see how you do. (You have to pick it up by the left sleeve too. And it has to be draped over the back of a frightened cat or an anxious small dog, to make it fair. See? You can't be all willy-nilly about it.)

I hook the chicken - lighting quick!- and yank back as hard as I can! 

*SNAP*

Only, you see, I had hooked it by the throat and, in my fervor, had broken the poor creature's neck instantly. 

Can't they live a long time like that, Joan?

Yes, yes they can*****.

I immediately drop the hook, equally repulsed and grief-stricken (I had meant to capture it and offer it to Cool Hand Luke - not kill the damnable thing!) as the chicken runs around the room. Its head is flopping absurdly - nay - profanely, as it takes off in a bee-line. 

*BONK*

The chicken hits a wall. It recovers, somewhat, and then redirects itself and takes off for another wall. It's surreal. It's unbelievable. How is this happening? Should I have worn my wolf t-shirt? Would that have frightened the brood into submission? Could this whole thing have been avoided? There has to be a start to this chain... 

I tear my eyes from the Floppy-Necked Monstrosity I had created and look to Paul. Paul is mildly amused and relaxed... as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. 

Me: I... I... I didn't mean to!

Paul: Not a problem. 

Me: It, it, it, I'm sorry :(

Paul: You've done me favor. I, honest to God, wish they were all dead :)

Me: It isn't dying!

Chicken: *BONK*

Paul: Oh, she will... and then I'll owe you a "thanks" :)

Me: *Paul, I begin to realize, might actually be dangerous - nothing makes sense in this world!*

The Kids have all borne silent witness to this event and are standing gape-jawed until Jason****** says:

"Joan choked her chicken!" 

Laugh it up, jerks readers. 

The rest is a blur. I do know that the Infernal Chicken was still alive as we left the barn:

Kids: Hey, Joan, I didn't think you'd know how to choke a chicken!

Chicken: *BONK*

Kids: Hahaha! Is choking chickens something you do often?

Chicken: *BONK*

Kids: Why Joan, I've never seen someone choke their chicken so quickly!

This is a difficult thing to combat at that age because, while I knew what "choking the chicken" meant,  I had no idea what the specifics actually were... like so many euphemisms, my initial interpretation turned out to be way off, I would awkwardly learn at a later date.  I have so many, many things to say here but I will moderate myself. The fingers - they type, but I go back and erase their obscenities! What control, what maturity that Joan displays*******!

Yeah, it was great. To be the butt of all those awkwardly brazen jokes... it took a Herculean effort to wriggle my way out of being "The Chicken Choker", I can tell you that. 

Did I sacrifice others at the Altar of Ridicule?  

Absolutely and with complete apathy. 

I was only 12 and was known as "The Chicken Choker", what in the hell other option did I have?

So, that's it. That was one of my Worst Days Ever...and it was a pretty bad one for the chicken, as well. Looking back on it, I find the whole thing hysterical and I'm thankful I got to experience it... except for, you know, the slowly killing the chicken part.


*BONK!*

 ****Q: Why is Joan always going on about people she finds attractive? 

         A: It's because I have elevated levels of testosterone! This makes me... more   appreciative of physical attributes? Yeah, that makes it sound classy. It also gives me "testosterone hands"! It might also explain why I yell so much! This doesn't make me a hermaphrodite, it's all exceedingly normal.

*****Proof.

******Who, the last I heard, had fallen off a steep cliff - he didn't die from it- he just laid there, thirsty and sad, until a herd of goats found him and pooped on him until he was asphyxiated. Took days, apparently.

*******Hate it!

Dead Birds Part Two: The Cow Barn

If you missed the first installment of "Dead Birds",  please scroll down to the next post and then rejoin us when you're finished... but I have a sneaking suspicion that you've already read it and that you're here for more blobfish pictures, aren't you? You can admit you were a little... intrigued by the last one. It's okay, this is a SafeSpace* :)

"Look into my eyes! I can offer you freedom from shame! Have courage; the hour is late!"

 

There, I've given half of you what you want already! What a generous and wise woman that Joan is (you all think to yourselves. Go on then... think it!).

However, if you'd rather hear more about ~*~*!me!*~*~, read on!

 

I Have a Slight Wall Eye

I do. My right eye shoots off, slightly, into the Cosmos. My Left Eye, why, that bitch is trained on you; there is no escape from her - but my Right Eye? She is looking somewhere over your left shoulder. This is the only thing Kate Moss and I have in common.

The left eye judges you, the right eye scans for prey

It's unsettling once you notice it, eh?  And I will insist you notice it within 20 minutes of meeting you.


Here's How it Will Most Likely Play-Out Between the Two of Us**:

You: So, yeah... that's how my dog died while saving the entire town from absolute destruction :(

Me: Oh, really? You expect me, with my defenseless, baby-doe eyes, to believe you?

You: Um...yes... I don't see why I would make that up.

Me: Do you know what I don't see?

You: Sorry?

Me: Things that are directly in front of me! Look at me! Look at my eyes! Am I looking at you?

You: Y... uh...yes?

Me: Too true! But what about now? *angles head*

You: Ah, yes, you have a slight wall-eye... that's unnerving. Like a painting that looks after you but not at you.

Me: Indeed! It un-arms you, no? A lullaby of sorts.

You: Eh... they can fix that for you, you know. 

Me: Just like they fixed your dog?

You:  *gasps* You're a monster!

This feature that I possess tends to make others think I am, at best, not a threat, or, at worst, an idiot. These are highly rational, genetic responses - they don't mean to dismiss me or pick on me; their DNA compels them to. And why not? I can't even make my eyes point exactly where I want them to, for Christ's sake! "Something must be deficient in this one". That's what this visual cue that is my wall eye is transmitting to the masses. Tens of thousands of years of being able to immediately (at a genetic level) suss out an evolutionary-dud can't be wrong, right? This physical marker I have has played heavily into brand-new social interactions many times, and it did this time as well:

To The Goddamn Sheep Barn!

*Scratchy smocks are doffed, rain boots are pulled on and the promised excitement that these two actions offer begins!*

Random Sheep Dude: Who wants to help me shear a sheep?

Kids: *terrified silence*

RSD: Aw, come on! It's not bad; we'll grab a male or a female - hard to tell from this angle - and I'll hold it down while you operate the shaver. No trouble, no one will get hurt! It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience!

Kids: *terrified silence*

RSD: You! Yes, you right there - with the Tony Hawk shirt, come here.

Me: Me?

RSD: Yes, madame! Won't you help me shear this sheep?

Me: *fuck my life* Okay.

RSD: Now, let me just grab this girl here *grabs sheep and flips it over* Oh! I guess this here is a boy!

Everyone Else:  Ahahahahahahaha! *Sheep Balls!!!*

Me: *is handed shaver*

RSD: Okay, now, go down in steady, even rows, just like I showed you :)

Me: *shit*

Everyone Else: *Sheep Balls!!!*

I grappled, awkwardly, with the shaver as I tried to shear the sheep (who was freaking the fuck out, by the way) and not look like the idiot I was. It went on forever. Random Sheep Dude was annoyingly encouraging while trying not to laugh at Horribly Goofy Me.

I don't think I need to mention that this was during my "Awkward Phase****" and that I had my mouth accoutrement in full effect. And bad hair. For some reason I was under the impression that I alone didn't need to brush it all that often and that this was "OK". Pretty sure I regularly wore high-tops too at this point and a non-ironic wolf tee shirt. Actually, I know for certain I did. I got my wolf tee shirt in Montreal*** during my 6th grade class trip. It really spoke to me ("This! For all that is holy -this is what you should spend your fifteen dollars on! This is fate, don't you dare not answer the call!") and I knew the message it sent to others was:

"Woah, watch yourself - that's one Bad Dude right there."

I was willing to take on that responsibility. I knew my t-shirt would intimidate the meeker people of the world but I was dedicated to letting them know I was on their side. I was just a way cooler version of them. A fighter. How lucky they were to have me! I wore that shirt to the first day of seventh grade - let those motherlickers know who they're dealing with - along with cut off jean shorts. That was also the last time I ever wore that outfit. Outside of the house that is. Wolves, unicorns and bad haircuts - you get to a point where you just need to accept this stuff about yourself. I have to wait until the hipsters move on though, until I can really fly my White Trash Flag. 

That's Over, What Next?

We are then escorted to the Cow Barn. I can't provide the background tension for you adequately. The kids are all enamored with each other. Protective, rejecting, accepting, shy, nervous; surely we are the first people to ever experience this! No one else can know what this is that I feel; I invented it! The feeling is electric. Glances are shot and met, or in my case, unnoticed. It's all very *now*.  

You remember... don't you?

To The Cow Barn, of Course!

Picnic, the delightful barn cat is doing her thang and catching a spray of milk - straight from the teat - into her mouth. She's up on her hind legs and just charming the pants off of everyone. She's knows what she wants and anyone who thinks less of her for it can go bugger themselves.

She is still one of my idols.

Picnic, sated, scampers off and leaves a void that sucks the air out of the room. What's that Old Cow Man going to want us to do?

Old Cow Man: Who wants to milk Bossy*****?

Kids: *terrified silence*

OCM: Well, dammit, one of you has to.

Kids: *terrified silence*

OCM: You. You in front. Come here.

Me: Me? *one my eyes stares at the teats, the other glances at the exit*

OCM: Am I looking at someone else? (was this a reference to my wall eye? We'll never know.)

Me: Okay.

OCM: Now, squeeze the teat and aim for the bucket.

Me: That's it?

OCM: It ain't rocket science...

Me: Okay *grabs teat and pulls straight down on it. Nothing happens*

OCM: Well don't yank on the damn thing!

Me: (that's how they do it in cartoons! I have seen Donald Duck do this numerous times!)

 Skip to 2:41 and watch until 2:57 for visual proof! This is what I did, too! 
How in Living Hell was I supposed to expect 
anything other than that exact same outcome?

OCM: You're like to pull the damn thing off, yanking like that!

Everyone Else: LOOOOOOOOOOOOOL! (and this was before "lol" was even a thing, so you know it's bad)

Me: *If I just will myself to stop living, will I? How long would it take?*

I was shooed away from there and someone else took over. I blended into the background and laughed off my idiocy. That's your only option at this point. I learned early on that saying "Haha, yeah, I am an asshole/creep/loser!" is a good go-to defense mechanism. It's not as much fun to pick on someone who also thinks it's hilarious. My older sisters can both attest to the fact that it is much more satisfying to see me erupt in a fit of fury and kick over a Monopoly board ("This is an idiot's game!") than it is to see me smile and wink.

;)

Thus Concludes Part Two of Dead Birds - and we aren't even to the Chicken Coop yet!  Are you as eager to hear the conclusion as I am to write it? 

You can prove your ardor below, in the comments section******.

*but you really are a straight-up freak, just so we're clear.

**If someone wants to correct the capitalization of that heading, please do.

***"I got my wolf T-shirt in Montreal" is totally Blam's new band name.

**** Which is still going on as we speak

*****All cows should be named "Bossy"

******

 

Dead Birds

For those of you who are new: 

I usually attempt to be funny with my posts (with varying degrees of success. Reactions range from "That made me smirk, briefly" and go all the way to "I was looking for stories about blowjobs with braces -- to say I am disappointed is an understatement") but this is a strange post... skip it. This entry is not the norm and it's depressing.

Usually I'm a gay little elf of merry jests!

I even have a song that I sing to myself when I post. It's in French, no less! It goes a little something like this:

Gai, gai, je suis gai! Le Printemps est arrivé! Les bons moments, de bons moments! Hourra pour le Printemps!

But not tonight.

*Takes feather out of jaunty cap. Pauses. Decides to remove cap completely.*

I can't wear that with any sort of authenticity right now.

I've had a lot of run-ins with dead birds. And birds that are soon-to-be-dead, as well. I feel as though I have had a disproportionate amount of experience with them actually, but for whatever reason, I haven't done much research into other people's Dead Bird Experiences. If you have any, please do tell in the comments section. You don't have to go into detail, but I'd like to know if anyone has had two or more Dead Bird Situations. Because I'm just... curious? It's not that I'm a  frickin' wackadoo who wants to hear that kind of sick shit; I'm more of a... Scientist of the Macabre? Or I just feel weird and the only cure for that is to surround oneself with further oddities. Which is how you got here, yes?

*smiles broadly while nodding emphatically, does not blink once*

A few weeks ago, I was heading out on a road trip and I needed to stop for some coffee and scratch tickets... because it was a road trip, like I said. On my way into the store, I saw two little, really cute baby birds on the sidewalk. They were dead. They were featherless and fat. They had dark grey skin and yellow beaks. Comically large and bright beaks. Adorable. They were in the shade. It was cold in the shade. The warm line of sunshine was just over here and yet the babies were in the shade. It didn't compute. "Why are they here? Where did they come from? Look at their funny little arms and cute butt-bumps". I'm no Buddhist; I don't mourn the death of a creature for the sole reason that its life has ended. I could have passed an 8 foot tall pile of dead blobfish and been like "Good riddance! Now burn it!" 

"I want you to touch my body"

Did you notice the thick glob of mucus in the corner of his mouth? What more impetus do you need?

But these baby birds were cute; they had eyelids and were babies. I look up and eventually spy a little fat finch or something hiding on the corner of the store's sign. It was the mom and she was eyeballing the babies sadly (in my mind, anyway). I stood there long enough that my husband pipes up:

 Science Husband: You all right there? If you remember, you were meaning to actually enter the store...

Saddest Girl: There are dead baby birds here :(

SH: *gets out of car and stands next to me* Oh, that is sad, Sweetheart.

SG: Look... up there, it's the mom. She looks distraught. :(

SH: Hmm, well...

SG: This is terrible; she has to sit there and look at them all day and there's nothing she can do :(

SH: Well... *two beats* she probably did it, you know.

SG:  No, she didn't! Who thinks of stuff like that?   >:(

SH: Look at them... they're a day or two old, at most.

SG: And? Now they're dead! What a lovely story ;_;

SH: How do you think they got down here? They can't move around too much yet...

SG: So? ;_;

SH: She pushed them out of the nest... but, it's Nature; they were probably malformed or diseased.

SG: I'm not sure how this is supposed to make me feel better, Jerk.  ;_;

SH: It's better than it being an accident or caused by a predator, isn't it?

SG: Not really, they are all equally bad!


I have nothing to really add to that.

I do have another Dead Bird Story though. About a baby bird.

It isn't funny... because stories about dead baby birds aren't and I'm not certain why I'm compelled to write it...

This is a blog of Silly, Laughy Times!

Mostly.

Maybe I will add jokes at the end.

Not about birds.

I actually have two dead baby bird stories, not counting the one I already told you.

You know what nobody likes? Dead baby birds, that's what. This is like that time I told you about you about the dog that was killed by the porcupine. I don't know why I did that and yet here I am again. Sorry. Hopefully, one day, blogging (for me) will mean never having to say "I'm sorry I keep talking about all the times I stumbled across dead and/or dying animals".

One day.

But not today.

I do have a kind of funny story about the time I accidentally killed a chicken... 


Let's just forget about the other ones and do this one instead, what do you say?

Yeah, I think it's best too.

Don't want to alienate your eleven-person-large audience, now do you, Joanie Girl?

Seventh Grade School Trip

At the end of my 7th grade school year, back when we still had things like cursive and Polaroids, my class took a trip to the local "Historical Working Farm" (The End of the Year is when these trips always happen. It's as though they know your time is going to be angst ridden and sucky and so they want to apply a balm of "something good, or at least, out-of-the-ordinary happened!" to your middle school experience. That and they know you have the memory of a fly larva and would forget any trips taken in September). It was as lame to a 12 year old as you might imagine. Now, to the almost 29 year old me, it sounds awesome! I would love to learn how to make "stone soup" and operate an olde-timey "wash wringer".  At the time though, nothing could have been less cool. Best to keep your head down and get through it, it'll be over before you know it.

Not So Fast

The problem was that I was bad at controlling myself. This comes as a shock to you, naturally. But it's true nonetheless. We arrived at the farm (a massive-while-still-quaint, immensely funded relic of an impossibly wealthy town) and are divided into groups. The Boys and The Girls. Great! That's exactly what we, with our raging hormones and excitement about getting to see boys outside of the school environment, want! The Boys go off to do something around the pond and the girls are ushered inside. Since I was basically a dude, this sucked horribly for me. Longing, jealousy and resentment formed a nasty brew in my stomach as we marched, in silence, inside.

Inside the Manor

The girls were given bizarre, slightly stinky and rough-to-the-touch smocks to don over our clothing. This is how the depersonalization experience begins.  Next, we all grab "old fashioned" names out of hat... except me. I already had an "olde-timey" name (it has since risen dramatically in popularity and is more "nouveau old timey" but back then it was a "Really? I didn't know living people were stilled called that. Shouldn't you be in the Deep South say, 200 years ago?" name)  and so I was told to just keep it. Which was bad. Every other girl got to change her name and when you're 12, it is vitally important to be the same (as much as possible) as everyone else. I also had some "lady's troubles" that day and I won't say any more, (to save the men reading this and because the women already know) but that was another tempest I could have done without right then. 

We're Waiting

Now it is time to walk upstairs and survey our prison, the kitchen. I, being a spazz, begin bounding up the stairs two at a time:  

No one can beat me up these! Look at how awesome I am! Why, I bet every single person watching me right now is thinking: "Boy, if only I were as cool and powerful as she is! She reminds me of a cheetah*, the way she races up those steps!" as they stand in silent appreciation of my magnificence! And I'm only 12!  If I'm this cool now - imagine what the future holds!

I get to the top, feeling and being awesome, and look down. No one has moved. Headmistress Annabell Anusface glares at me. I stare back, honestly and thoroughly confused.

Annabelle Anusface: A lady does NOT run up the stairs!

Prepubescent Boy Disguised as Girl: Um...

AA: This behavior is unacceptable!

PBDaG: Okay. *the cold burn of shame dances down my spine*

AA: We're waiting!

PBDaG: Okay. *shame scrambles back up, wraps around my heart and squeezes*

AA: Come down here and act like a lady. Immediately!

PBDaG: *my desire to disappear is so all-encompassing that I'm surprised the world continues to exist at all*

AA: Now, go to the end of the line** and let us continue.

This was turning out to be worse than I had feared. I had no place at this turn-of-the-century farm, what with their weird butter making practices and creepy old ladies (who hated me) all about.  We were ushered from shitty room to shitty room where we engaged in various "woman's work".  Finally it was lunch time and we all gathered together to eat and then break up into non-gender specific groups.

Shearing Sheep

My group (which happened to include my crush, Jason) got to go to the Sheep Barn. It was shearing time. The Random Sheep Dude (who was schtupping God-knows-who in order to score this sweet job) was blathering on about sheep and wool and who cares - Jason was there. Jason, whose dad was the Doctor in town. Jason, who wasn't really attractive but we all said he was. Jason, who was a Soccer Star and destined to be successful. Jason, who-had-nothing-much-to-say-about-anything-but-you-could-just-tell-by-his-extended-silences-that-he-was-deep. Jason was there.


But enough about that asshole, let's talk about me!

Thus concludes this episode of "Dead Birds". Tune in next time to experience the humiliations of puberty all over again! Because who doesn't want that? Not my readers, that's for sure!

*The best of the Big Cats, as 12 year old Joan could confirm and discuss at length.

**That heartless bitch. Nobody puts a sleek, graceful cheetah at the end of the line. Nobody.

Still Feels Good to Be Bad

Back to the story:
Death Slide!

I go to my sister and her friend (who turned out to be a very brave person) and I offer up my idea.

Me: It's water slides! When you think about it! They're just too dumb to use them as such!

Them: That's stupid... there's a lot of lightning, too.

M: I'm doing it and it's going to be awesome!

T: Whatever, dork. Fine, we have nothing better to do.

I was bounding around them like an annoying puppy as we trudged up the mountainside: We are Cool Dudes! Doing Cool Dude things! I thought as I beamed at them... they didn't actually talk to me but I could tell it was meaningful for them as well. I was ecstatic; this was my greatest achievement yet! Not only was my disaffected sister, who was already heavily into apathy, sarcasm and Radiohead, actually spending time with me but she was letting her friend be around me too! All of my focus and energy must go into this from now on, I told myself! (and I did spend the next 6 years desperately trying to insinuate myself into her world - bring the money or bring the funny, Jerkface, or we have no time for you.  I had little of either but I hustled as best I could)

We reach the top of the slides. Soaked, exhausted and yelling at each other to be heard. I was bursting at the seams with pride and promise.  I knew this mountain I had climbed was my first step into adolescence.

(So soon into it, Joan? Yes, well, when your older sisters** have you listen to Butthole Surfers when you're 8, you get going sooner than most).


Friend: This is pretty cool! We're so fucking high up!

Me: YEAH!

Sister: Well, shit. We're here anyway. *she climbs into one slide*

Me: YEAH!

Friend: You ready? *climbs into parallel slide*

Sister: See you assholes at the bottom!

Me: YEAH!

and

VAAAWWWWWOOOOOOOSSSSHHHHHHH

They were gone.

Gone.

I stood there, in the torrential rain, as they (and their coolness) plummeted away.

Not on your goddamn life am I letting them leave me behind.  

IT'S. MY. SHITTY. IDEA!

I stood there. Afraid. Paralyzed at the thought of losing what I had worked so hard for.

Then I heard the screams.

Terror.


Pain.


Panic.

I stood there, at the lip of the slide and a little voice inside me pleaded: 

"No, no, no!"

This was my DNA calling out desperately:

"We want nothing more than to live! We've spent 60,000+ years getting here! Do you have any idea what that entailed?! There was cannibalism! Famine! Untold bloodshed! Thousands upon thousands of people just like you, but worse, and we endured them! Please -- you fool!" 


My DNA hung there, like Gandalf, imploring me to use common sense

My reply?

"Eat shit."

I jumped into the slide and entered the vortex.

The sense that I was out of control was the first thing to hit me. I was very, very much at the mercy of Physics (the cruel bitch) at this point in time as I shot down the slide.

Here comes a turn! Christ have mercy - I am being rocketed off into the atmosphere! There is nothing to slow me down! Very little reason that I should follow the curve of the slide at all!

Here's a few things we all, as adults, know about Alpine Slides.

One: You ride them on a cart. A cart with brakes. You can't steer the cart but you can goddamn slow the bastard down.

Two: You don't ride them (even on a cart) in the rain. That's insane. You relinquish all control and offer yourself up to the Mountain God when you do that... insurance premiums alone insists they shut it down due to bad weather.

Three: Alpine Slides are made up of *individual* slabs of concrete.

Four: This is not how they make water slides.

The problem with individual slabs being set together is that there is a joint between each slab. While this produces a somewhat pleasing "dadunk-dadunk-dadunk" rhythm while on a cart, the effect while riding it sans cart is... treacherous. Malicious in design.

 Next Sensation:

Ahhhh! Ahhhh! Ahhhh! Ahhhh!

That was my ass screaming as I ripped over each slab at unknown speed.

Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! No more! Please! I am not here! This isn't happening! No!

Is all you can think as you are brutalized by The Mountain***

I was pretty sure my tail bone was broken (as was my spirit) at this point as I crested the hill and saw my sister and her friend at the bottom.

Me: I'm sorry! Beyond words, I am sorry! 

DNA: Told you so, you waste of immeasurable time.

Me: I'm afraid! I'm going too fast! Why did I do this? I didn't know!

DNA: Sure you did. We all did.

Me: But I'm special! Nothing life-ending can happen to me!

DNA:  Mmhmm, and just how do you plan on stopping? Meet our friend Physics; She already hates you.

Me: Oh, no.

DNA: And you deserve it.

Me: Nononononono! 

You see, the only safety stop at the bottom of the slides is a tire. A single, shitty, used tire. And this works! If you're on a cart and are too stupid to apply the brakes, the cart will bounce against the tire and you'll be fine! It's fun! Fun, fun, fun!

My sister was crumpled at the bottom of her slide, legs at an unnatural angle and laughing. Cackling, really. The rain beat against her face; her body bruised and accordioned against the tire. And she laughed.

Luckily, her friend, who had a broken nose and two sprained ankles at this point, reacted better. I was hurtling towards her, going a million miles an hour and she stood. She stood up like a champion of the Old Days and braced herself against the impact.

BAM!

I took her out at the ankles (sorry, Brave Girl, sorry!) and then she slammed on top of me and split my lip.

Blood filled my mouth and ran down my face. My soul left my body for a moment (what a waste, she thought, as she made a break for it) and then swooped back into me. I looked over at my sister who was shaking like she was being electrocuted and the Brave Girl said to me:

Brave Girl: You're hurb! Are you obay? Loob ab me! Loob ab me!

Me: Heebah... gerfafah *slides out of consciousness*

Sister: AAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!

BG: I feel sibk *vomits a little bit over side of slide* are you obkay?!

Me: My butt... and my face...

Sister: A--HA! A--HA! AHAHAHAHA!

BG: We neeb to geb obb this thing! *steps off slide and falters to the ground*

Me: I, I, I...

BG: My fubking nobe! My kneeb hit my nobe! *blood mixes with rain and stains her shirt*

Brave Girl hobbled over to my sister and got her off her slide and we all sat there. The rain slashed at us, reminding us how foolish and lucky we were. We sat there; shaking and gasping for air, while three lifetimes passed us, as the adrenaline ran its course.

It was then that I went to carve up the picnic table. Like so many disgruntled, ignorant, slave-laborers before me - I had fought the Gods and won. I had struggled, realized I was insignificant and then railed against that fact.

I made my mark.

I made my proclamation in words less eloquent than "Joan was here", to be sure, but I got my point across.

We straggled back to the apartment, our absence surely noted by now. With jittery and painful steps made by battered bodies we ventured home. Conquerors we had left, Little Girls we returned.  All three of us had the seat of our pants completely ripped out. Jeans, mind you. We weren't goddesses swathed in linen, we were soldiers and our armor had been stripped from us in the most humiliating way possible.

I can remember knocking on our door; my mom, an emblem of all that was safe and sane in the world, greeting us and the three of us bursting into tears at her welcome. I can't remember what happened next but I do remember our parents marveling at our butt-less jeans later that night while shaking their heads at us:

"You did what, now?"


As their faces revealed a deep disappointment only DNA can know.










*This is what women desire. Men have ranted and raved for thousands of years about what women want: we want you to be the Hero of Whatever It Is You Do. That's it. Makes no difference what it is, just give it your all and be goddamn good at it.


**Sisters? You have more than the one you've mentioned so far? 


***Sandor would never let that happen to me.  Little hearts everywhere.

Feels Good to Be Bad

I was tucking Little Miss into bed tonight and going through our whole "make me into various foodstuffs" game we play. It's really fun and I think anyone can play it with another person, regardless of age or relationship to one another even. You just make someone into, say, a sandwich by pretending to put a piece of bread on them, then adding the peanut butter and jelly and then squishing the other piece of bread on top - followed by monster noises as you eat them up. Sound effects are key and it's amazingly fun. She was made into a bowl soup tonight and then she made me into a bowl spaghetti: "And you're a so-fat bowl of noodles!" she squealed in delight... which was kind of mean, but I am taking it in the best way possible. Which is that, though I provide little nutritional value, I am still delicious.

After the "We Are Food" game was done, she hugs me tight around my neck and says "Will you curl up into a ball with me?". This is Phase Two of BedTimeCuddleTime. We have a book "Sometimes I like to Curl Up into a Ball" about a wombat* who does a bunch of crap throughout his day and at the end he curls up in a ball with his mom and says "It's my favorite thing of all!" - we reenact his strange non-sequitur every night and it's adorable. I live for these moments... tonight, however, it took a decidedly sinister turn:

Little: I love you, Mama.

Old: I love you too, Baby Face.

L: *hugging my neck as tight as she can* ...Why aren't you dead yet?

O: Um, (I try to never act weirded out by anything my kids say as I want them to feel "okay" and that mom is "hip to the jive, a real cool-cat"... yeah, they aren't convinced either) well, I'm not very old and I'm not sick, so I'm still here.

L: Yeah, *tightens grip and whispers in my ear* but one day, you'll be dead at the bottom of the ocean.

O: *Holy shit, is she threatening me? Is she a clairvoyant? Should I ask her to elaborate?* Oh, um, well, yes, one day I will die - everyone dies... but I hope it will be a long, long, long time from now.

L: Yeah in a long time... you'll be down in the seaweed. *giggles and kisses me on the cheek*

O: Okay, then! I love you to the Moon and back and you're wonderful! *please don't hurt me!*

So, yeah, strange things like this are brought up and you just have to be cool. I want my kids to trust me, with all things, including their unfiltered thoughts... even though I am secretly kinda weirded out and a little nervous.

Sometimes, like with all people, they just want to be bad and experience the thrill of pushing the envelope. For example:

We were driving to go pick up Dad one day and the Little One was jabbering on about Caillou (whom I hate. Caillou whines about everything and is afraid of anything remotely interesting. Like going out for ice cream for instance, Caillou can make this event into a miserable time for all involved) It went a little something like this:

Little: Caillou is the big brother! (she has recently fixated on titles and roles that people have)

Big: Caillpoo is more like it!

L: Haha! Yeah! Cai - Poop!

B: Haha! Cai- Poop in His Pants!

Old: Enough with the potty talk you two!. *scowling at traffic*

L: Fart in a face! Haha!

B: Pee in a face! Haha!

O: You guys! Gross! I need to concentrate; quiet down.*secretly wishes she could fart in the face of the driver in front of her*

A few brief moments of beautiful calm are then interrupted by the Biggest and Baddest thing The Little One could think to say:

"Poop in a big toilet! And then throw it on a face! AHAHAHA!"

I know, right? Where the hell do they get this stuff from? I do remember how much fun it was to be bad like this as a kid though. I can recall one time I was riding my bike and I cut out into traffic and was almost hit by a car. The guy slammed on the brakes and yelled at me (an understandable reaction to almost accidentally killing a foolish kid) and I stood there stone faced until he pulled away. It was then that I decided to flip him the bird (this was the thing to do in the 80's, as you may remember).

I felt bad, bad to the core, and I liked it. My finger hoisted high in the air - the living, breathing embodiment of Freedom!

Until he hit the brakes again and threw his car into reverse. Ha! I took off like the wind - "Regret Nothing!" my soul cried as I tore away on my sweet Dusty Rose colored Schwinn.

I also defaced a picnic table once. I had just almost died (again) and this Brush with Death left me feeling jittery and alive - confident and rebellious: I live! I am here! Up yours, Fates! 

I had to do something to assert myself.

I found a nail and began scratching out the first bad word that came to mind. I finished my handiwork and was more satisfied than I had ever been up until that point in my life. I had written

D I C K W E E D

in one inch tall letters. Ha! I wish I had that table now. Whenever I feel pangs of self-doubt or am crippled by insecurity, I could look at it and be like:

"That's right, assholes, DICKWEED, indeed. Don't make me come over there and ruin your lawn furniture. Because I goddamn will."

I was 10 and had mostly been reformed at that point (there was a smoking incident that involved the stealing of a carton of smokes from my friend's dad, a fire that I set that got way out of hand - not my fault! It can't be more emphatic about this - it wasn't my fault, what ended up happening there), and some other stuff I'll get into more later when I can explain it all away to you; It will require more space and I think it's best I parcel it out to you over the years. I've found that works best.  

The point is, I had been a Good Girl for awhile at this point and so this transgression was very exciting.

Now that I am stumbling down Memory Lane... I recall there was also a b&e (if you want to get technical) but... it's complicated. See, I knew a kid who parents were friends with a guy who owned a small convenience store and we gained the knowledge that his parents had a set of keys to the store. And so one day, we wanted to get candy, but the store was technically closed and were kinda had no money. So my friend (who was 2 years older, it is important to say) was like "We have a key..." and I said "Well, then, it's obvious, isn't it?" and so we went in and took 2 Charleston Chews, 2 cans of Coke and 2 Blow Pops. That's it! It was basically entrapment! I was 9! We didn't rob the cash or knock stuff over -- we were just two young, unsupervised, candy addicts.

For the Love of God, I swear I was a Good Kid who only did Bad Things frequently occasionally.

How did I almost die you ask? How was this shining light of Human Goodness almost extinguished?

Well, it started out as the Third Best Idea Ever but quickly became a nightmare (as my Best Ideas Ever have a nasty habit of doing). As I mentioned, I was 10 at the time and that would make my sister 13. She had a friend over and of course they wanted absolutely nothing to do with me (even though we can all see I clearly was awesome) and so I knew I had to cook up something really great to do in order to get them to hang out with me.

There was a horrendous storm raging outside and we were all trapped and miserable inside. We lived on a mountain at that point in time and there was an Alpine Slide there for people to ride on in the Spring and Summer. It was made up of huge concrete slabs that formed a half-tunnel that swerved down the mountain side.

 Don't be fooled by this picture of Happy Family Time - immediately after the ride was over, the mom had a much-needed cigarette and the little girl carved a profanity into a picnic table.

Where's that pic, Tourist Board?

As you can see, it's pretty much exactly like a gigantic water-slide and hey, look at all that rain... BOOM! Third Best Idea Ever was born.


Tune in next time for the ridiculous conclusion of Feels Good to Be Bad!



*Do you guys remember the yard tool from the 90's that was called The Wombat? Yeah, me too.

The World Was Built For Two

A lot of people apparently hate this woman; I know nothing of her but I do know I love this song. This is exactly what it is like to love someone when you are 16 and a girl. Anyone who can make music like this, I love. This is what Miss Joan has been listening to. At Sleepy Time, mostly.

During Active Time, I listen to this:

TRUE BLOOD SOUNDTRACK!

You guys! The new season starts on June 10!

And yes, that's Paz de la Huetra - Boardwalk Empire premiers on September 03!

You've Had Other Problems?

What about the cavity though? Why are you so bad at storytelling, Joan? Was there not a chain of events here or is it all just asterixes and rambling with you? Why must we run around the room, picking up fragments, in order to understand you ?

Ah, yes, The Cavity. After the dentist had viewed my x-rays and had finished being all fanboyish about my Iron Man Tooth, I meekly inquired about the pit:

Me: So, um, I think maybe I have a Giant Cavity on my tooth there...
Dentist: Where exactly?
M: *I am very alone in this cruel world - a mute in a universe of deaf people* Right up there, in back.
D: Oh, huh. *picks at it with the Mini Scythe of Judgement* Nope, that's not a cavity.
M: Uh, but... it's a huge black hole and it if you look closely, you can see it scowling at you.
D: Unh uh, that's just a pit for now, a "pre-cavity"; as long as you take better care of your teeth, it'll be fine :)
M: *what infraction have I committed to receive such punishment* Oh? Really? That's... that's great.

Yeah, that's the Happy Ending of my tale; the part where I drag my fingers down my face and yell at the Heavens: "Soylent Green is people!" "There was never any cavity there at all!" while I gnash my teeth and roll around on the ground.

But at least I'm not bitter! I may feel unduly put-upon and feel like I get the short shrift all most of the time but dammit I've got a song in my heart and a smile on my formerly messed up grill!

Tell me, Little Dove, do you like tales of Teeth That Would Make an Englishman Feel Self-Conscious? Because I have another. Do sit down, won't you?

Robot Mouth

Now, I have yet to work this next group of genetic circumstances into my "Theory of The Missing Link; That Is to Say, I, Joan Crawford, am Special, Just Let Me Explain*" paper I am furtively working on but I am sure I'll think of something**.

As a child I had what would be described as, in today's nomenclature, a Fucked Up Grill. It was exceptional in it's dysfunction. My two front top teeth were essentially completely overlapped, my bottom front four teeth were so crowded they formed a strange cutting plain of evil, completely out of harmony with the general curve of the rest of my bottom teeth. Strangely, there was plenty of room in the rest of my mouth (as was illustrated by the gaps between my other teeth) but my teeth just never chilled the hell out and distributed themselves evenly. I remember there was this boy, Ryan the Bastard, as he was known (to me, afterwards), who I was really in Love Forever with when I was 9. We would race his remote controlled cars, pour salt on slugs (only a couple of times and all on the same afternoon), and shoot arrows over his house at each other (as much as we could get away with). He was something special and one day I worked up the courage to tell a friend to tell her friend to mention it in passing to Ryan's friend that ~**~**I liked him-liked him**~**~ the next time they spoke.

His Response

"She has a good personality... but her mouth is bad.***"

Let that soak in.

That is pretty much who I was. A funny little girl with a mouth that made people recoil and then feel pity. Until my teeth were fixed and then, a few years later, I got boobs and suddenly Old Joan ain't so bad an option after all.

But it was true. Not only were my teeth rioting about having to be anchored to my gums but my lower jaw was not at all doing what it was supposed to. She was hanging out, lazily, in back and messing up my speech patterns. My whole Oral Situation was so messed that getting braces was not considered cosmetic but Medically Necessary as it was affecting my breathing as well. And thank the gods for that because I wouldn't have been able to get braces if it weren't for Dr.Dynasaur. - May the Seven*4 bless them.

Finally, by the time I was eleven, I had lost all of my baby teeth and was ready to begin my Orthodontic Odyssey. First up was getting my teeth to not be all on top of each other anymore and so I had to get "spacers". I am not sure why they came up with a unique name for them, because "spacers" are just the little rubber bands they decorate braces with - only now they are inserted between your teeth to get them to spread out. The pain is interesting. A slow, steady reminder that things will get better but it's going to be a long, long time. I was case where they introduced remedies piecemeal, much in the way you only show a person 3 baggies of heroin at a time to swallow instead of all 45 at once - it must be done gently so as to not to induce psychological trauma.

After the slow, tectonic plate-like shifting of the teeth, I was ready for my Jaw Expansion. I was fitted with a Metal Spider on the roof of my mouth. The four legs connected to two teeth on each side of the top of my mouth.

Here is some poor woman named Brandy displaying her 

Spider of Sadness for you. Don't you turn away!

Look at it! Look at it!

Each night, I would lay down on my bed and my mom would insert a key into the belly of the spider. This would unlock a delightful World of Pain in my head as the legs of the spider would expand incrementally. Then you go and cry at your ugly teeth in the mirror while your body goes into overdrive trying to figure out how to combat this torture: "Throbbing pain? Bleeding? Fever? Crippling anxiety? What should we do to make it stop!?" the little people who live inside your body and control things will yell.

This went on for some time. Months and months. Imagine eating with that thing skulking about. Does food get caught in there? Is is hard to talk? Is it obvious that you're weird?

Yes, yes and yes.

Next up were the actual braces. This wasn't too bad, actually. I remember a girl on my bus when I was 8 (an older, badder girl, if you can imagine) one day was using a Bic pen to pop off her braces. Can you imagine? Unless I had already signed up with the Circus (I want to be the Fat Lady, because I have an aversion to manual labor and human touch) and was sure my parents would never see me again, I could never have done that. But there she was *snap -- snap -- snap*. "I'm sick of these damn things", 13 year old Jennifer said. I cried on the inside about the fact that her mom would kill her, but her mother was a wisp of a thing (and she alone knew of the Evil Deed she did to beget Jennifer) and seemed okay with it. I know this because she said "Okay, Jenny... if you don't want them, I can't force you." Which was a concept that was utterly foreign to me. You did what your mom said just like how the sun rises. It just does and so does you. (Why do I slip into Backwater Kentucky Girl from the late 1800's so easily? I need to join Community Theater and get it out of my system. "Tomorrow is anotha' day!" I'll proclaim, bordering on weepiness while remaining steely in my delusional resolve, while the director yells "Goddammit! This is Macbeth! For the last time, you are here to get water for the AK-TORS!")

So that went pretty awesome, considering I got alternating purple and teal rubber bands on my teeth. It doesn't occur to you when you are 12 that these colors aren't meant to be seen on human teeth; they just make you feel pretty. Then came time to reckon with my lower jaw. I wasn't aware of the fact that my receding jaw was an issue or that it made me look "simple". But it did and not only that, it made me a "mouth breather" as well.  I told you it was bad. At least I have an excuse for mouthing out my words while reading until I was thirteen*x5.

Required to fix this were the Pistons of Shame. In order to make my stupid face operate in a manner that was not offensive to humanity, I needed pistons affixed to my braces. They attached on the top outer teeth to the front lower teeth in a manner that would facilitate the jaws meeting appropriately.

There are the pistons I miss so much! This is very similar to the setup 

I had, only my bottom anchors were two teeth farther forward.

You know, to make sure everyone can see them.

I had a hard time finding that picture as they mainly just use rubber bands to coerce the jaw into not being an idiot. I was a special case. Now, I am not sure what in the hell is up with that model mouth up there but I do know that when I would open my mouth too wide (in laughter or more commonly, to eat a giant fistful of Doritos) the piston would slide out of the tube completely or worse, it would catch on edge and my jaw would be stuck open (with wasted Doritos falling on my shirt), as far apart as it could comfortably go, until I could run to the bathroom and desperately try to open my mouth wide enough to get the parts back together.  Which was a slippery, shameful business, as you might imagine. It's a panic, a terror, I hope never to experience again.

I remember being in 7th grade and liking the boys that all the girls liked ("Yes, he was mean to me but he's soooo cute" and "Yes, he was mean to me but he's soooo funny in class and everyone else like him") but being at a distinct disadvantage in a number of ways and not being "a girl who boys like".  I, right now, am reliving a scene when I had to get up to do a presentation on Japan... all the boys in my class stuck their tongues over their teeth to the front of their lower lips, while keeping their lips closed,  to mimic the bulge my pistons made at the front of my mouth. It was mortifying but I had to keep it together so I could get my damn "B" and get out of there. I had a "boyfriend" in 8th grade but he was actually just my best-guy-friend who thought he'd try to feel me up... our affair didn't last long. I remember, vividly, being a Freshman in high school and telling my BFF that I liked an Older, Cool Guy and then finding out he liked me back. I, of course, fell desperately and pathetically in love with him - as only a 14 year old can. But that's a whole other kinda-sad-but-mostly-funny story. 

After 3 years(!), I was finally done with braces. They were removed and things were shining and straight for a time... until I lost my retainer... which we could not afford to have replaced. It's too much pressure on a kid, I tells ya! My upper jaw has remained large and vicious and my teeth (except my front top two which still slightly overlap - you can't fight love) remain mostly straight and thankfully, my lower jaw does her damn job at last. But I have an overwhelming affinity for people with messed up teeth -- "I too am of the Fucked Up Grill Tribe", I yell to them, only to be reviled for my desperate attempts at acceptance.

Stay tuned for "Smoking and Cherry Bombs -- Oh Shit, Here Comes Mom"- an 9 year olds tale of adventure!

* But you don't even know which words to capitalize in your title! 

** I always do!

*** Not the first, nor the last, time I heard that. 

*x4 GoT reference! You know who I have the Major Hots for? The Girl Knight! Woohoo! You can swear fealty to me any day, you sexy beast. 

*x5 truthfully, my hatred for reading was instilled in me by an Evil Teacher I had in first grade and she had a Diabolically Sweet name too - Ms.Rainbow. Can you get over it?

**Ignore this Empty Space that Blogger insists I keep here for whatever reason**