Nagging Screen Door

The screen door makes a loud grating noise, which I assume is a foreshadowing of the nagging Dad will receive for not bringing the family over more often. Dad holds the door open, and prods all six of us kids into the small, stuffy living room of Grandma's house. We each shuffle in, dragging our shoes on the aqua-blue shag carpet. We huddle into one corner, while Dad sits on a large, padded rocking chair. "C'mon, kids." Dad motions. I hesitantly sit on the stiff couch beside him, as Dad takes a deep breath--relieved that he convinced at least one child to sit down. I wonder how he can breathe so easily, because to me the house smells like dusty mold and tuna fish. "Boys, don't touch that!" Dad whispers to my brothers who are precariously close to the china cabinet full of literally hundreds of heirlooms and dishes. Everywhere Grandma has collections of antiques, like the display of spoons mounted on her rose-wallpapered walls, and the many matching teacups on a shelf in her crammed kitchen. I'm shook from my analysis by Grandma's cracking voice, "Who could this be?" Yikes.

Ice Cream Truck

Jake and I perked our heads up. Almost reverently, we cocked our heads as the ragtime tune faded away. "Jake." I whispered, "Do you have 85 cents?" Suddenly, the two of us were up on our feet, zooming to our bedrooms. I reached my bedroom frantic, searching underneath my bed and behind various teddy bears and baby dolls in search of the plastic, yellow treasure chest where I kept my money. I let out a frenzied war cry, and plunged into the unknown depths below my bed. It was dark and stuffy, and everything I touched was layered in thick gritty dust. (Clearly, cleanliness wasn't my strong suit!) Then, I heard the soft tinkling of quarters when I kicked my feet. I awkwardly scurried to where I assumed the sound came from. AHH!!! Success. I grabbed the treasure chest and then bolted downstairs, tufts of hair falling out of asymetrical pony tails, and still covered in dust, but triumphant nonetheless. "Jake! Did you find any money?" Jake held out his cupped hand, and displayed an assortment of pennies and nickles. He, too, looked pretty ragged. I assumed he'd been diving under couches and the like. Why hadn't I thought of that? "Good job, let's see if he's still here." We hurried outside, and saw the ice cream truck parked three houses up from us. We were lucky we'd caught him. Jake and I ran towards the truck, both yelling that we were coming. We got in line, and anxiously waited for our turn to buy something. Older neighbors shared their expertise, saying that the popsicles that had gumballs in them were gross. The gumballs were hard, and were too tough on your jaw. Jake and I took silent notes. As our turn approached, I eagerly scavenged through my yellow treasure chest and selected a few quarters. I told the ice cream man, who was actually only a teen boy with tattoos and nose rings, that I would like a "Flintstones popsicle, and that my little brother would like one of the football-shaped ice creams. " He lowered his gaze towards me, and I squealed, "We're just so excited." He gave us what I think was supposed to be a smile, and then said, "Um. 'kay. Well, here you go." I grapped mine quickly, and thanked the grouchy, underpaid teen. I turned to walk away when I heard a thump. I pivoted on my toes to see Jake's treat melting on the curb, and the Ice Cream Truck speeding away.

Without a Name

Mom knows exactly what to feed me to get me in a good mood. Cheese--it's crucial. Honestly, anything she cooks, if topped with cheese will taste heavenly. But regardless of the time of day, or the mood I may be in, she knows that the meal that will get me out of virtually every slump needs more than cheese, but sausage, too. Oh goodness. She will brown that sausage, mix it with some frighteningly fattening fried hash browns, and smother the artery-clogging dish with shredded cheese. Oh gosh. It's lovely. When I take a bite, I suddenly become this sentimental, "touchy-feely", lets-go-save-the-dolphins, "Have I told you how much I love you?" type of person simply because the food is so good. It's bizarre, but pretty wonderful. However, I feel cheated. This dish, this powerful kindness-inducing casserole, doesn't have a name. I've never known what to call it, and Mom has never known the name. In second grade I tried to name it, simply for clarification purposes, but the name didn't stick. It's terrible. I feel cheated. Surely my comfort food should have a title? But I guess a meal that procures such inexpressible emotions probably would struggle to maintain an ordinary name. Hmm. I'm not satisfied with that last statement. Oh well. Someday, maybe my daughter will be more clever than me, and will discover a better fitting name. Til then, I'll just have to slum through life, calling it "that cheesy,sausage, hash brown dish". Sheesh. Sometimes life is so hard.

Roommate Planks

"Alright. Two minute plank. GO!" Annie shouts. Kelli and I exchange smirks, until a hand pulls at my pant leg, begging me to begin the ab exercise. "Okay, good work ladies. We've been going 30 seconds." Annie cheers. Kelli immediately groans, followed by an incredulous laugh. "There's no way we've only been going 30 seconds." she begins to laugh again, her whole body shaking. "Kelli! Stop it. It won't work if you keep laughing like that." barks Jami, who is clearly taking this more seriously than the rest of us. "Oh Kelli, you're doing just great." Annie soothes. "AHH! I want to die!" I shout, as my abs begin to burn. "Mandy, don't you give up on me!" Commands Jami. "No, Kelli, you can't give up yet. We only have 40 seconds left." Kelli doesn't respond to Annie's optimism, and instead yells out "Peace out, suckers!" and walks into the kitchen. "Annie. Please tell me we're almost done." I plead. "No. Feel the burn." Jami teases. But I don't think it's funny. I want to start crying. Sheesh. Abs aren't supposed to hurt like this. "Oh Mandy, we're almost there. Just 20 more seconds." Annie croons as Kelli saunters back in to watch the amusing spectacle. "Oh no. You're finishing what you started, girl." Jami snaps at Kelli. "Ok. Last 15 seconds!" The four of us count down to zero, and cheer when the longest two minutes of our life are over. "Wasn't that fun?" Annie asks. "What should we do now?" Questions Jami. "Well, that was weird." Kelli proclaims. But I don't say anything. I'm still laying on the floor moaning.

Portrait Practice: Grandma Dorothy

Our front door slams shut and we immediately hear the slow shuffling footsteps of my grandparents, along with a loud "Anybody home?" by Grandma. Mom and Dad stood up from the couch and began swatting at all of us kids to stand up and greet our grandparents. We slowly lean forward and begin moaning as we stand up. Grandma enters the family room, and begins roughly embracing us each--pushing us against her chest as we gasp for air. After she releases me, Grandma immediately plunges into a new scheme. She smiles and says, "Now Amanda, do you keep yourself busy with a job?" I begin to answer, but she doesn't allow me the chance, "Because I can hire you. You can  organize our cabinets. Don't we need our cabinets organized, Dan?" Grandpa tries to say yes, but she beats him to it. "Of course we do. What do you think, Amanda?" I have no idea what I think about the job. I only know that being called Amanda instead of Mandy always puts me in a bad mood. "Now, before you fight me, just know that I would pay you well."  Yikes. What does that mean? "Oh Grandma, I could never accept your--" Grandma chimes in, "Of course you can. Now Dan, how much could we pay Amanda?" She doesn't pause for him to reply. "Amanda, you would be paid. Well. Well paid." I stare at my mother and begin mouthing desperate pleas. "I won't take no for an answer, Amanda." I realize that I'm defeated. I tell Grandma to let me know when she needs my help. She never tells me, and I've wisely kept my mouth shut and thanked the heavens she's forgotten.

Portrait Practice: Missy

I hear the freezer door open and slam shut, followed by the shuffling of bowls, and the sliding open of kitchen drawers. Moans. Groans. Growls of frustration. Umm. Is there a bear in my apartment? I tip toe out of my room and see Missy, my roommate, squatting on a dining room chair in the kitchen, and hacking at a frozen block of ice cream with a large butcher knife. She lifts up the knife and begins to lick the ice cream that's stuck on it. I want to remind her that liking sharp objects isn't the safest choice, but decide otherwise when she shifts her gaze toward me. "I haven't done my dishes in a while." she offers (as if somehow that is going to clear up all the questions floating around in my head). "I didn't want to make more of a mess by getting out a bowl and a spoon." I nod my head, acting as if I understand. But really, all I'm thinking about is how much bigger of a mess it'll be when she has to get stitches.

Attire

Jake returns from his Jr. High's "Hello Dolly" dress rehearsal still wearing his suspenders, purple dress shirt and matching bow tie, and his rented cap. I smirk at the 15 year old and bask in his unusual attire with pleasure. Jake never cared about fashion. Or any type of clothing, really. My mother could hand him a dress, maybe even my great-grandmother's gingham that crossed the plains, and he would put on the heirloom without any reaction, only pausing because he couldn't tie it in the back. Jake really does look ridiculous in his 19th century ensemble, yet he sits on the sofa and begins watching the ball game on t.v.oblivious to the humor all spectators find in him. Mom in a panic proclaims that the poster board he absolutely needed for school tomorrow still hadn't been purchased and if he wouldn't mind going to the store with her? Jake gives a sure, you bet, to Mom. As Mom scavenges the house for her purse, shoes, and cell phone, Jake saunters over to the heaping pile of shoes in the corner of the room. He tugs at a shoelace at the bottom of the stack, and watches as the tower of shoes crumble to the ground, just as his pair of basketball shoes narrowly escape the avalanche of footwear. He begins to put on his high-tops, as Mom tilts her head to the right and gives his outfit a quick up and down inspection. Mom says "Uhh, Jake?" to which Jake quickly runs to the shoes and puts them in a more manageable pile. Mom sighs. Jake runs to the car, with his untucked purple shirt trailing behind him.