Rings

Dad's wedding ring is far too tight for his now plump fingers. 28 years ago, when his fingers were thin and his ring fit loose, he felt hesitant to even wear the wedding band. He wasn't sure if he could handle the responsibility of keeping something for so long. Who knows, maybe he would discover that the size wasn't ideal or the design a little too plain. But now the ring is a part of him. And Dad smiles whenever I try to pull the ring from its 28 year-old residence, because he knows that though at one time the object felt foreign, his commitment to that ring has been the greatest of his life.

Babies

"And hold your arms like this," Mom curved her arms in front of her, "so that the baby's head is supported. Yep, that's about right." I stared down at my arms, rigid and uncertain. I loved babysitting dollies, or playing the mother role in games of "house". Yet somehow, when the infant was actually living and breathing, I was very intimidated. If I dropped the toy doll, no harm was done. If I shifted my weight wrong with this brand new baby in my arms, I was sure to be banished forever. I winced at Mom, not sure that holding this baby was a good idea. But Mom carefully snuggled the baby, and whispered in a light tone "Would you like to hold the baby?" I hesitantly nodded my head yes, and Mom again whispered, this time to the baby, "Are you ready? Your nice cousin Mandy is going to hold you now. She's very nice. You'll learn to like her a lot." I stared at the blue-eyed bundle, smothered in embroidered blankets, and smiled. I was absolutely terrified. Yet I couldn't help but beam at this little child placed in my arms.

Taco Pie

"Wow. This is really good, Mand. I like what you did to the crust." My roommate stabbed her fork into the steaming, cheesy casserole for another bite. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. She continued to rave about how it smelled delicious, as the aroma of melting cheese and spicy meat interrupted the musty smell of our apartment and the sound of sizzling, bubbling grease overpowered the sounds of passing cars. I made some caveman sounding noises in response. I felt guilty. I was being pretentious! Here I was, acting all homemaker like, when in reality I was hopeless even at making mac and cheese. I stared at the taco pie, and pleaded with it to keep my secret. I was a terrible cook. I had ruined every meal my mom had ever patiently tried to teach me. Years of her lecturing always ended in a spontaneous trip to Arby's rather than a home-cooked meal. And one day, something miraculous happened. I tentatively pulled out a casserole from the toasty oven and gasp. Sniff sniff. Mom and I stared at each other with large eyes. We silently lowered our gaze to the casserole before slowly lifting our heads back up. Still quiet, Mom shuffled to the silverware drawer and grabbed a spoon. The spoon plunged into the meal, and then made its entrance into Mom's mouth. Reverence fell among the kitchen. "Mandy. It's--it's good!"
Victory.

Dressed to the Hilt

I "gracefully" walked down the stairs to where my dad sat waiting for Mom and me. "WOW! Look at you! You look so pretty, Angel." Dad, in his suit and tie, stood up from his chair and met me at the stair's landing. I ducked my head and mumbled a "thanks, daddy". But I actually wasn't that embarrassed, I knew that I looked nice in my Christmas dress--black velvet on top, with a forest green satin skirt that made a loud swishing sound with my every movement. I looked like I was dressed for a grand gala, in anticipation for the Nutrcracker Ballet we would be attending. Dad looked down at his watch and shook his head. He mumbled something about mom's definition of "ready in five minutes" being seriously skewed, and then yelled "Teresa Jane, are you ready to go?" Dad and I immediately heard the thuds of several objects falling to the ground, which we assumed were probably brushes and a hairdryer knocked over in Mom's haste to get out of the bathroom. Dad and I snickered a little as we waited for Mom to appear. She was slightly out of breath as she paused at the top of the stairs. "I told you I'd only be a minute!" Mom smiled down at us both as she adjusted one of her earrings before walking down the stairs. Dad didn't tease her back. He just grinned, and nudged my side with his elbow. He looked like he was the luckiest man in the world.

Biology

I stared at the blank page before me. It was still blank. For twenty minutes it had been white, and crisp, and new. In any other context, it would represent hope and opportunity. Purity, perhaps. But I was in my 10th Grade Biology class, and it only symbolized my impending failure.
Mr. Bailey was a great guy. I'm sure if I had gone to high school with him we would have been friends. But he was my teacher, and so the whole witty, outspoken, often inappropriate sense of humor turned me off. It boggled my mind, actually. I mean, all of the teachers at my school were professional. They dressed nice, and spoke with dignity. They demanded respect. Mr Bailey--he demanded pity. I think it's because he was aging prematurely. He was maybe 30 years old, but his eyesight was terrible and his hair grayed and  receded. And bless his heart, he just couldn't deal with it. He was so insecure about it, that he ended up overcompensating in all other aspects of his life. His clothes were fashionable, if not a little flashy, and his vocabulary was infused with phrases that were "too hip" for any of his students to understand. I'm sure he had a sweet spirit, but I just found it repulsive. It was distracting and overbearing, to the point where I couldn't concentrate on any class lectures. All I could think about was what the phrase "cool like a cucumber" could mean, and what it had to do with osmosis.
Which is why I ended up getting a B- in my class--a grade which is definitely not "cool like a cucumber".

Clearance Crazy

"Well, isn't it funny seeing you here?" Mom raised her arms up and embraced the woman my brothers and I only knew as a stranger. The two ladies began to giggle and exchange bits of information about their lives. Their conversation was brief, and as the woman began pushing her shopping cart away, Mom's eyes got very big. "Umm, Mickey!" Mom began to length her stride as she began to pursue this woman. "Where did you get those fans?" she inquired. "Oh, in the home decor section. They're on sale." Mom held her breathe for a moment before nodding her head. The lady stared back at her, but Mom still didn't respond, so the woman went on her way.
When Mom returned to us, we began to ask her who the lady was. "Oh, uh, just a girl. She uhh...I knew her" Mom suddenly was sprinting toward the home decor section. "Oh no!" said the expression on both my brothers' and my face. Mom was going to hit the clearance section. Mother, usually so logical and lovely in every way, became this competitive, aggressive crazy person once she knew something was half-price. We all scrambled to the prized fans, only to see Mom rearranging our shopping cart to house the large, cumbersome rotating fan's boxes. "Do we really need these, Ma?" I tried to say gently. "Of course!" she said, as she continued to place the fans on the rack below the cart. Defeated, I stared at my brothers. For Mom, there simply was no escaping the adrenaline rush associated with sale shopping.
We left the store 10 minutes later with 12 fans.

Not Your Average Kid

Jacob was weird. Physically, he was a misfit. He was a good head taller than most of our class. He was skinny, too--too skinny. I often stared at him and wondered if his mother ever hugged him, because he just looked too bony and pokey to embrace. I felt sorry for Jacob's mom. She was probably really sore. Jacob also had a curly "rat's tail" on the base of his neck, while the rest of his hair was buzzed short. I was intrigued by this kid. I was used to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed little boys who came with their hair parted and their outfits (hand-picked by their moms, no doubt) matching and starched. Jacob wasn't like that at all. He often wore over-sized button up shirts which usually displayed a fire-breathing dragon, skeleton, or thirsty flames. He wore "wheelies",too. The shoes with wheels on the bottom that my mother always said were too frivolous. Regardless of his appearance, he still was rather odd. He often rode his wheelies backwards, in figure-eights, around the class while he sang Latin-style songs. Which was shocking, because we'd only been exposed to the songs from musicals and Disney channel. And just when we were no longer experiencing culture shock from his mariachi music, Jacob would begin dancing. Yikes.

Jacob was aware that he was different from the rest of our grade. How could he not know? I mean, he was the only one who didn't look like he'd stepped out of a JC Penny catalog. But he was proud of this. One day, he told me that he was exhausted. I stared at him with suspicious eyes. I had been waiting for this kid's story since the day he moved in--everyone had a theory about him. Some thought he was full of it, just trying to get a reaction out of us. Others speculated that he had escaped from an asylum. I was still uncertain, but I was determined to find out. "What's wrong, Jacob?" I asked in what I hoped was an approachable voice. He narrowed his eyes, slowly pushed me against a school wall, placed his hand on my shoulder and took a deep breath. "At least he can breathe." I thought to myself. I knew that I'd been holding mine. "The demands..." he paused. I stared at him, suddenly terrified of the truth. "The demands of being a goblin...are just too much."

I never found out Jacob's story. I guess that ignorance is bliss, after all. 

Peculiar and Bewildered

I stared at my vocabulary list and began to moan. I turned over on the couch, face pressed into a pillow and an arm and a leg lying limp on the floor and began grumbling. "These words are so DUMB! How am I supposed to learn this?" I lifted my head to see jostling, peculiar, and bewildered--the three words I simply could not memorize--staring menacingly at me. I scowled back, then quickly dropped my head back to the indent it had made in the pillow. I began to flail my arms and legs like a crazed octopus until the sounds of footsteps left my limbs frozen in the air. "Mandy?"
I bounced up, and tried to preserve the little ounce of dignity I still possessed by sitting primly on the couch--straight posture and hands folded in my lap. "Whaa-what's wrong with you?" Dad asked, his brows furrowed and his lips quivering (probably struggling to not turn up into a smile). "Oh, you know. Studying." I turned my head to the side and began to casually scratch the back of my head. Dad didn't buy it: he knew I was a crazy person. Dad sat in the chair beside me, extended his arm, and wiggled his fingers back and forth--signaling me to surrender the list. He studied it for a moment, and then asked, "Could you use some inspiration?" My eyes lit up.

Sick-o

Mom gently rapped at my closed door. I shut my eyes even tighter, half believing the "I can't see her, she can't see me" myth. But it didn't work. My squeaky,ungreased hinges creaked as Mom opened my door a crack. Peeking her head in, she asked "Are you doing any better?" I rolled over in bed and moaned. She was about to begin another well-meaning question, but my pathetic whining for mercy caused her to think otherwise. Mom pursed her lips, and held her hands up, palms facing me, as if to both protect herself and indicate her retreat. I had stomach flu, and I was absolutely disgusting--the woman wasn't a saint, and so she backed out of my room slowly. She probably went to disinfect another surface that I had touched, and probably mumbled some choice words about my less-than-sparkling personality. But I didn't care. I was sick and gross. So I pulled my laptop out from its hiding spot under the crocheted afghans and blankets lying on my bed--which I had shamelessly placed atop my cheap ACER PC when I heard my door hinges groan--and started yet another episode on Netflix.

Cookies for Amanda

Brian stared at me with his large, blue eyes wide open. He tried to subtly shake his head no, without being suspected by Grandma. Grandma leaned down to my level, holding an old, glass platter in her hand. "Amanda" (the name that only she called me by;everyone else knew I was Mandy) "would you like a cookie?" I was eager to say yes when another well-meaning sibling stared at me intently. I couldn't understand their meaning, so I cautiously peered onto Grandma's cookie platter to see for myself what the fuss was about. "I bet she can't just choose one!" Grandma giggled to my parents. Mom and Dad politely laughed at Grandma's adequate attempt at humor while my sibling snickered. I pleadingly looked towards them, uncertain what my next move should be. I mean, these cookies clearly were not ordinary cookies--I wasn't sure they were even cookies at all. Quite frankly, they looked absolutely disgusting! But I was foolish enough to not heed my brother's warning, so I had to deal with the consequence. I grabbed a less menacing looking cookies and bit. I've spent the last 12 years trying to forget that taste.

The Tea Party

I carelessly threw the myriads of plastic and cardboard pieces to the ground, unaware of where they may have landed. The mess wasn't worth my attention, not when I was the blushing owner of a brand new Barbie tea set. I raised the pale pink teapot above my head--half expecting the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to chime in shouts of hallelujah. I gently placed the prized object down on the kitchen table, then let my fingers lightly dance over every cup, saucer, and dainty spoon in the collection. My awe-filled examination of the set was interrupted by my dad sauntering into the kitchen. I hopped out of my chair and flew into my daddy's arms--no joke. I mean, after receiving my dream toy unexpectedly, I did sorta feel like I was walking on air. "Dad! Look!" I squealed, grabbing my dad's face and turning it towards my prized possession. Dad grabbed my hand, and together we walked towards the table, where I then began informing Dad about all of the pieces in the set, as Dad attentively chimed in with appreciative "oohs" and "awws". "I think it's about time we had ourselves a tea party, don't you?" Dad asked with a smile. I began to nod my head in absolute approval, when Dad interrupted me with a "But you can't go to one dressed like that." My eyebrows raised in amazement. Who knew that my dad was so wise in terms of tea parties? I practically bounced up the stairs and into my room where I changed into my favorite church dress--gold, gaudy, and poofy. I examined my appearance in the mirror, certain that my attire was appropriate for such an event, before I, in what I hoped was a graceful way, descended the stairs. Dad stood up from the kitchen chair, took both of my hands, and said "You look like a princess". We then began our tea party, where we each elegantly held and sipped our tea cups full of drinking water (the only "classy" drink we had in the house--it was slim pickins that day), while I wondered how I could be so lucky to have a prince living in my very house.

The Chicken Massacre of Fall, 2011

"Are. You. Kidding me." I slammed the microwave door closed. I shook my head, incredulous that Carly could be that inconsiderate. And gross. Dude, she was really gross. I mean, who microwaves chicken until it explodes, covering every edge of the appliance in culinary creations gone wrong, and doesn't clean up? Oh, I was furious. The nerve of that girl! This morning when I'd seen her, this roommate who was clearly raised by some animal kingdom creature, she was giggly. Perky. She told me herself that she was doing great except for a minor issue she had had with the microwave. "Oh goodness. That microwave is always having issues." I laughed in agreement. Issues--"I think SHE has issues, not the microwave", I now mutter to myself. Armed with a dishrag and cleanser,I begin scrubbing the mind-boggling disaster that was now dried onto our kitchen appliance. "Good heavens." I continually groan to myself. This stuff has basically cemented onto all confines of the microwave. In an attempt to work at a better angle I poke my head in the mouth of the beast while I hook my arm around the corner of the microwave. "Now this is just plain ridiculous!" I yell, crazed by my frustration. Nearly 20 minutes later, the microwave is looking pristine and celestial. I slam the door closed, and walk a crooked trajectory away from the scene of the poultry massacre, due to my 20-minute stare into the microwaves' light. My half-blind walk away from the battle field is interrupted by the rattle of our apartment front door. I shoot my head up to see Carly come sauntering in, oblivious to the insane creature I'd evolved into due to the whole chicken fiasco. "Hello, beautiful!" she says in a sing song voice as she dances about the kitchen. I just keep walking, not knowing or caring where I'm going. Hmm. To an asylum, perhaps? But as I walk away, I hear the faint click of the closing microwave door, followed by a cheerful "How sweet are you!" from Carly. But I don't turn back. I just smile smugly to myself and whisper, "Sweetheart, my thoughts definitely are not sweet."

Soccer Shock

I had such a blast writing about gym class, I just knew that I had to write about my first soccer team as well!

At 5 years old, I FINALLY was on my first soccer team, the Red Ladybugs, and gee whiz I was excited. I strutted around the house, proudly presenting my red jersey (which nearly went down to my knees) as well as the thick, knee-length socks. And don't even get me started on my obsessions about the half-time snacks. I knew that when it was my turn to bring "treat"--for that was its official title--my teammates were going to be in for a delectable  surprise. Then I would be known as "the cool girl", the one who brought "squeeze its" for treat. But in all of my excitement about soccer, I forgot one very major detail: this was a sport.
After the initial newness of being on a team wore off, soccer wasn't nearly as enjoyable. I didn't enjoy running, or kicking the ball, and I mostly certainly lacked the accuracy or strength to pass the ball to a teammate or send it soaring into the goal. So I instead spent my time on the field doing more productive things, like picking dandelions. Each game I was sure to make a bouquet for both team's coaches. But soon the fields were virtually free of any dandelion. This meant that I had to actually concentrate on the sport, which my chubby little legs simply could not handle. Luckily, I was basically a genius (. Whenever my coach told me that I was in the game, I would streamline to my parent's side--which was basically the only exercise I got during my whole soccer career--and pick up my lawn chair.
Sitting in the center of the field was an ideal solution. I was able to sit down and view the game, but if the ball did come towards me I could quickly jump to my feet and attempt a kick before again sitting down. This pacified my conscience. I mean, I did give my all. It's just that my all really wasn't all that substantial.

Mercy

Coach Williams cautiously walked towards me as I awkwardly readied myself to bat. She looked down at me as I adjusted...and then readjusted the bat in my sweating hands. My grip loosened and then tightened, because I figured that clenching baseball bats is what the athletes do, and maybe I could simply fake it. But who was I kidding? No one would be convinced that I actually had any athletic ability whatsoever--despite whatever stylistic bluffs I put on--because they knew the truth. They had seen me run away with flailing arms from volleyballs, trip over stationary soccer balls, entangle myself in tether-ball standards, hit myself in the head with hula hoops, and just plain fail at every other sport included in our elementary school PE curriculum. It was a tragedy. I hated the whole entire experience, and I'm sure that witnessing my many athletic failures was bot painful and insulting to the talented sportsmen in my class. And so I now grimaced in anticipation for what the coach might say. The woman put her hand on my shoulder, looked straight into my eyes, and said "Mandy, you have nothing to prove. Walk onto first." For the first time in ages, I smiled in PE. I thanked the sympathetic coach, and tried to walk in a dignified manner to the first base, all the while marveling at the mercy I'd been offered. I don't think I've enjoyed another day of gym class since.

Popsicles

"Root beer or banana?" my older, far-too-mature-for-her-age (and probably for her own good, as well) sister Melissa asked. I stared up at her uncertainly. I still couldn't wrap my head around the fact that we had popsicles, so I certainly couldn't even begin to decide which flavor I should commit to. She smiled down at me (I assume it was a smile, but now that I think about it, it probably was more of a grimace), and handed me a randomly selected package. I looked down at my melting treat with amazement, but my reverie was interrupted with the sounds of thumping and pounding. My head shot up, and I stared at my four older siblings who appeared to be violently attacking their popsicles. One brother was whacking his against a corner of the kitchen counter, while another sat cross-legged on the floor, meticulously performing some sort of operation on his frozen gem. My goodness. What is going on here? Why were they mercilessly beating their popsicles? No wonder Mom never buys us anything fun. But just when I was about to burst into hysterics, Melissa informed me that these popsicles weren't like the usual ones we get--these ones had two joined popsicles, each one on a separate stick--and that they needed to be split in half. I then said something corny, and probably really embarrassing, to verbalize my relief. Melissa smiled at me and tilted her head slightly, as if to nudge me along. I beamed back at her and scampered off to an edge of the kitchen wall. I placed my popsicle against the edge, and then pushed against it with all my weight. After feeling the popsicles separate, I  moved my hands away from my masterpiece so that I could see the damage done. Instead of splitting in half, my popsicle had shattered into dozens of little pieces. I immediately whipped my head toward Melissa, who could only cover her eyes and shake her head in exhaustion. I stared back at the melting mess now cradled in my hand, slid down the wall onto the floor, and began to sob.

Pictures on Walls

Moving into an apartment is a multi-step process. For me, it begins with the necessities: bedding, clothes, and groceries. It requires planning and precision, making sure that every square inch of my dresser is utilized. The filling of closets and drawers is completed after only a couple of hours. Then, technically, the apartment has been moved into. But the most crucial aspects of the apartment haven't even been touched: the decorations, the knick-knacks, the books you never intend to read, the pieces of your life that literally bring vitality to your apartment. As I finally got around to taping my pictures to the wall tonight, I felt a strange familiarity suddenly enter my apartment. This was no longer a building, or (even better) a residence, this was a home that was now strewn with my memories. And so now, I look at my walls and smile in remembrance of happy times, but also with the hope that here I can take more pictures to line the walls of a future place.

Tall Shoes

My hair lay on my shoulders like a hair sprayed yellow poodle. A poodle. Great.  My social status and ultimate quality of life for the next three years hinged on the way my peers perceived me. And so good golly, these kids better be a fan of fluffy canines or I didn't stand a chance. But no worries, for I was sure to make a good impression with my stiff and starched blouse and too-tall-for-my-own good high heels. Man. Who was I kidding? I don't have the coordination or the confidence to pull off such footwear. But I was so determined to let the world (and by "the world" I of course meant Viewmont High School) know that I was a reliable classmate, a trustworthy friend, and a fabulous choice for a prom date, that I was willing to risk my life by wearing those tall shoes.