|
|
|
|
T H E ABC's of KRISTEN (A-F)
The A's of Kristen
Apples and Ants
As a child I use to attend a daycare, but truly is was merely the house of my best friend who's mother was an official baby sitter of sorts. In the back yard, near the wire fence and damp sandbox with rotting wood and bright red buckets- sheltering a play house was a small apple tree; a tire swing swinging from a bare branch. It was never large, even in my tiniest of stages. One could climb the play house by opening the door, being careful not to fall through the rotting roof and stand almost as high as the tree.
The apples were dwarfed, never red and prime like one finds in the grocery store. In fact, they were usually red and green, spotted brown and thoroughly squishy. They weren't ones you would take a bite of- but were surely editable. We use to pick them, and chuck them at each other, creating an even more delicious bruise.
Or we would gather them, cutting them up for our mud pies. Even more so, the sandbox next to them was the apple disposal box. After storms, the sand was too itchy and very unappealing even to the youngest of children, but the ants found it to be perfect habitat. Catheryn and I loved crickets, and for some reason thought that ants were the worst of enemies.
I believe we saw on t.v one day how they devoured crickets- ants that is. So one day, after lifting up all the buckets we found a bounty of crickets and potatoes bugs, as well as a horde of ants. We took the colorful shovels and caved in their mounds, squishing as many as we could as we lifted the crickets to safety.
Somehow I don't think it was fair-Ants do more than crickets. Though, the cricket from Mulan had thoroughly corrupted our minds.
Later, however, I remember a strawberry push pop. I never cared much for the things. They were good for the first good licks or sucks then they became too sticky, causing a mess and clinging to your hands. I left the push pop next to the sandbox when I had had enough. The next day, Catheryn and I had checked- and it turns out are extermination wasn't as thorough as we had first thought. The army of black had collected to the sweetness I had left.
I imagine I was a goddess in their eyes. After killing so many, we fed the next generation.
I think that push pop is like most men, good for the first licks and sucks until it gets messy and they cling to you… Leave 'em to the ants I say.
The B's of Kristen
Bee's and Band aids
I use to live on the shore of the Chesapeake. The large wire fence was coated in green rubber so us children wouldn't cut our hands when we had a temper tantrum about not being able to go onto the pier. The fence wrapped all the way around to the sides of the house, a gate I could never unlock by myself. I think I was always just a little too short, or just a little too stupid. Whatever the case it was thoroughly frustrating.
Each gate lead to a hazard anyway, at least to a barefoot child. The type of child that falls, looks around to see if anyone had seen- and then cried when she had an audience. The left lead to a rocky driveway, hard to maneuver around, the right past a sticky tree. I never knew what kind it was, but it had red berries and prickly green leaves that stuck to your feet. I don't care to know either, I loathed that tree.
My only memories of that house are in the summer. Where the dandelions popped up, along with the bee's. My mother use to work in the strawberry garden next to the old tin shed that was rusting. I never saw the inside of it. I use to run around that yard for hours, for no apparently reason; at least not for a reason that I can remember.
But, DAMN! If I didn't find every single yellow jacket that landed on a flower just under my pudgy foot. The bugs even haunted me, chasing me as I flew across the yard in panic with tears. It was the worst kind of pain a child like me could suffer, panic stricken and in the mind of dying I'd lay upon the grass, clutching at my foot, begging my mother to just cut it off. Then I'd have no feet to sting.
Though, like the good mother she was, she'd give me a kiss, and laugh at my tears, carrying me into the house. (No matter how fat and heavy I became.) I'd cry, or at least draw it out, long after the pain had ended till she sat me onto the porcelain of the sink. Reaching into the cabinet above me she'd pull out plain Band Aids, since that's all we could afford. Placing it on my foot, that wasn't even bleeding- she'd set me down on the floor, asking what color popsicle I wanted.
I always chose cherry.
Though, these sweet pleasures fade now, even that small pain. Popsicles are unhealthy, and band aids solve nothing. You pray that a bee will be your only small wound in life. But, even if it is I some how, still find myself sprinting around like a crazed chicken hoping I don't get stung. Mommy can't make it better anymore; pains that are suffered when you get older.
But, yet I think, if stings from bee's brought such love and care then stings in life can always bring love. Those band aids that serve no use, are just for security, to make it look better; much like a smile can be fixed in place. As for the popsicle…
I'd still choose cherry…
The C's of Kristen
Clowns and Cupcakes
I've never been very fond of clowns. For some reason I developed a down right fear of them. I remember crying every time one came near me, even if he was handing me candy. Clowns were probably made by the government to prevent girls from wearing too much make up, an example of how silly one would look. That, and the crazy folk who always smile too damn much, or are sad too much. Clowns always have that angry happy smile, or perhaps it's an angry happy smile only because us less prettified are jealous that we can't be as happy, so we translate it to be a displaceable happiness. Clowns I think, are the real emos. If you don't toot their horn just right, or accept their big feet and awkward waddle they begin to cry and put on darker eyeliner.
Clowns, however are always present at parties. In first grade I have one memory, that of a party involving a clown. It so happened it was my day for show and tell. A game where the pathetic child took something they owned to school to hide in the cubby hole only to reveal it to the masses. I remember precisely, it was a sheep dog, attached to wheels, so when you pushed it, it would make an annoying bark and lift its head. It was genius. In any case after my less than adequate show and tell it was cupcake time. There were grown ups everywhere and I don't remember having many friends at all so I sat at my desk and ate my cupcake.
The adults had ranted about a game, in which they placed a big candy in the center of one of the cupcakes. (Fantastic) Whoever bit into the cupcake and discovered this magic piece would be awarded a crown and allowed to be king or queen for a day. I don't remember being overly excited about this, in fact it wasn't even a good cupcake. I had licked all the chocolate icing off first, left with the dry vanilla bread to eat. After biting into it, I discovered to my utter horror, I was the winner, the winner of a fierce chocking experience. Through my tears the adults decided that since I choked on something, I must have won and gave me pats on the back and a paper crown.
They didn't even have drinks, even as Queen I had to get my own drink from the water fountain. I was in no disposition to rule a class room with my near death experience, but I think I chose a game to play- a game in which I didn't participate.
However, as a child- I was extensively happy with this crown. It was the paper crown, that all the children got on their birthdays in school, along with the stickers. But, you see, I was never awarded this crown, my birthday fell in July, out of school. Unfortunately for me, the oh so nice clown decided it was his job to make me a static filled balloon hat and replace my lovely red paper crown.
This is where the anger developed, for both cup cakes and clowns.
I guess everyone chokes on the rise to power. But, through this experience I've also discovered I prefer muffins.
The D's of Kristen
Dandelions and Dates
In my backyard, where it seemed to always be summer was an assortment of weeds, which as a child as well as now I still consider the most beautiful plants- next to lilies that is. I loved the dandelions, I use to gather a bunch and spin in the yard, watching the seeds drift by. I remember my mother telling me to make wishes each time I blew all the seeds off. I guess by gathering a whole bunch and spinning around until I fell over was cheating, but it got the job done.
I remember when I was of proper age, wishing for certain things that aren't credible in words; Love for instance. Every time I saw a dandelion I'd bound up and pluck it, twirling it in my fingers before blowing as hard as I could- probably spitting at the same time as well. I made wish after wish, never telling a soul; until now.
I suppose you could say, I thought it came true on many occasions. My first relationship was a cute sort, during my freshmen year. Where you never speak, but hold hands with sweaty palms and give awkward hugs. That ended, but I never remember crying. I suppose it's like dropping an empty plastic cup. If it doesn't break, and doesn't spill, you just pick it up and move on.
My second relationship I suppose, wasn't one at all, a myth really- I had known him for a year and a half, my best friend of sorts. I met him during my first relationship. Finally, I thought the investment in Dandelions had paid off, but it turns out within two weeks of an official relationship he found love in the embrace of an ex girlfriend.
My third 'relationship' was just that- a myth. For a year I was tricked into believing someone existed. I guess you couldn't technically call this a relationship, it wasn't official, but I was affectionate towards someone; I'll admit, a tad obsessed. Who was I to know, that he didn't exist and it was all a cruel joke on me? Surprise! But, suddenly someone else galloped into my life, when I was rather disheartened, but yet- completely content.
He charmed me, and soon I was enjoying the pay off of the wishes and the secrets; the words I wouldn't even write in the pages of my journals. I wonder if you could really call it love? On my part, I'm sure, but once I found him to be less than forgiving, and rather fickle with his feelings and honesty I grew a sense of hopelessness at the dream I had lost. It was fantastic really, the ideal I had that it could work. It would have, I believe, if for whatever reason he didn't turn out to be the total opposite to what I had at first believed. I don't believe I was without fault here, but at least I wasn't throwing him curve balls.
In any case, I've decided not to make any more wishes on dandelions. Either I made too many of the same wish, or you have to be extensively more specific. Now, instead- I've decided to hold my breath when I cross the iron overlapping links to the bay bridge. It seems more stable than a dandelion.
I still wish for the same thing.
Kick at the dandelions when they are in your path; it's doing me a favor.
The E's of Kristen
Eggs and Elephants
Eggs are probably one of my fondest memories, at least concerning my brother- Elephants, probably my least favorite memory. Eggs for the simple reason that my brother, Corey, use to steal eggs from nests, bring them home and hatch them without my mother's knowledge. Soon, we'd have flock of fluffy ducklings. But, these moments of getting along and playing with Quakers were fleeting. Most of the time as close siblings we squabble; I suppose you could say I was the tag along tattle tail, he the poke at dead stuff with a stick one.
I remember, on one particular nasty day, when he had entered high school he had tapped into something that annoyed me. Though, I'm extremely passive I vented my anger in a more.. Creative yet less likely way of revenge. You see, this is a story I love to tell, because it shows that fate does exist. My mother use to make a big bowl of hard boiled eggs, because for an odd reason beyond my comprehension, my brother loved them. After our fight in the kitchen I angrily placed a raw egg at the top of the pile. Satisfied and my anger thoroughly vented without much harm I accidentally forgot about my devious plot. A few days later, I went to find juice, and there he was- a bowl of eggs in his hand.
Like some silly jock he turned to me, with that utterly goofy smile of his and said in a unspecting voice, 'Hey, Kristen! Look what I can do!' and with that, he cracked the egg onto his forehead. However, lady fate stepped in and it so happened that it was the raw egg. He was furious, I could have sworn the egg became sunny side up right on that scarlet face of his. I still lie about this, but tell everyone else about it; I never confessed.
I suppose are feud started long ago. I don't remember the exact day, but I do remember pink overalls and posing for too many pictures. I looked back in the photo albums years back and found a picture of my brother and I posing on a statue of an elephant, me crying and him pulling at my pig tails and sneering with large live elephants pooping in the background and a bull exposing his manly self.
Elephants are strange creatures. My brother and I went to the zoo only a couple times after that. We went on a scorching summer day with my Aunt, but she got in a terrible fight with her boyfriend and for some reason we couldn't get into the car, she was always wearing a leather coat- odd.
We didn't get to see the penguins that day. Though, we saw the polar bears, but the smell of fish made me woozy.
But, I suppose as we got older, we became a tad closer. He still sees me as the girl with pigtails always tattling and tagging along; well I guess I still am. But, at least I'm not a sneering farter who thrusts my groin into the dog's face ranting about the goods while his friends are present and attempting to watch a horror movie.(hint)
In any case, I'd like to mention I've never been to the zoo since then- and he hasn't liked any of my boyfriends, nor have I liked any of his girlfriends. But, I guess some things never change- they just become more noticeable in different situations.
I think I tattled on him about having been drunk one night. I might have let a few secrets slip- but then so has he. Especially since he didn't like Evan at all, but that's no secret. (Evan starts with E for the record) But, at least he never rubbed it in my face, like he rubbed mud into it countless times…
What a good brother...
The F's of Kristen
Farts and Friends
Farts have always been a casual part of my family. For some reason, it's like a casual greeting, or off handed comment during dinner or a movie that no one really pays attention to, that is; unless it seriously reeks. I myself, have been graced with fantastic bowels. The flowery silent kind; I'll happily admit- but like most times they get grumpy or just like to make themselves known.
Again, with all honesty, I remember standing in the bathroom putting on mascara, Chelsea standing over me, watching as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. But, for some odd reason, as I leaned forward I let out a gentle toot; as if my bowels were saying 'Hello! How are you!? I'm here!'. It was odd, I was hoping she wouldn't notice, but she did and was looking at me funny. I suppose pretending something didn't really happen doesn't make it just go away. It's like closing your eyes and saying 'If I can't see you, You're not there, and can't see me...' So, with as much grace as I could I finished my make up and with a brave smile mentioned that I was a 'tooting train'.
I suppose it's easy to live up to the cute ones. But, the disgusting ones that you hear in the bathroom stalls next to you are never cute, and probably harder to live up to. I guess that's why there's walls... They range from the sound of dump truck breaking to a baby chocking barfing and crying at the same time. I know this, because I spent a good hour sitting next to Cassie at her computer playing with an animated fart chart.
It was funny- how many farts actual people could make. It was so disgusting, yet so funny; I was gagging and laughing at the same time, and at some point, though I enjoyed the laughter, I also didn't like my stomach detesting. I wonder if it's easier to laugh at if it isn't yours, or you can't smell it. I know I get grumpy when my mother or brother fart. It makes me think, 'God, these people actually poop? That's so gross.' I guess you shouldn't think about it on a day to day routine. But, it's hard not to when one assaults your nose.
In any case, I've decided good friends forgive you. If you can live up to a fart in their presence or spend in hour fearing in upchuck from laughter and horror with one- that's a keeper.
But, there's always different rules for lovers. My brother's told me stories of his girlfriend farting in bed then pulling the covers over his head. There's a specific name for this, but it slipped my mind. I suppose you can be playful, or apologetic- but if you become angered or embarrassed; it's usually your fault anyway.
That's how life is too, if someone is defensive, or shocked- usually they are guilty. Lessons in farts last a life time, so do friends.
 CX_Vox · Wed Mar 28, 2007 @ 12:11am · 0 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|
