Face Your Fridge

Yesterday morning, as usual, I was running late. So, instead of enjoying a morning start of fresh fruit, toast, and the most recent Ikea catalog like I had envisioned, I wound up standing at the fridge, shotgunning twelve ounces of OJ. I flipped the cap back on the carton (Yes, I drank from the carton. Guests beware.) and slammed the fridge door shut. And there it was. Staring me in the face.

I don't know if it was the particular angle or the fact that I had finally replaced the burnt out light bulb in my kitchen, but suddenly it all came into focus. Right in front of me.

My home has been infiltrated.

As I have described earlier, I am a current and stalwart resident of Noncreatorville. In fact, I could run for mayor of Noncreatorville, if I wasn't so anti-social and didn't go to bed at 9:30 most nights. Hmm ... I'm starting to see a clearer picture of why I'm a Noncreator...

Okay, the fact that I rarely rock anything but yoga pants if I can help it is beside the point. The important thing is this: I am not participating in the creation of any life except the mold I absent-mommed into existence in the sour cream tub on the top shelf of the fridge for the last two months. At least not anytime in the near future. I have to keep a plant alive for more than 18 days before I take on another human being's aliveness for 18 years. No judgment from over here, though. I totally support the choice of others to produce small, wrinkled, jiggly-headed creatures upon which they can heft all of their unfulfilled dreams and unmet expectations. Not to mention saddling them with names like Jennyfr and Bentley and Ecru. What's the fun in having a name that everyone can say and spell and from which can intuit a probable gender? A name really should be something one has to overcome.

I get it. Babies can expand your capacity to love, your ability to look past your own self-interests and give compassionately to others. That's why all of those Teen Mom episodes have such happy endings. And I'm not saying I won't ever cross that dark line into Procreation Woods. (Don't worry, it isn't an actual forest. That's just what's written on the sign at the entrance of the subdivision. What's even better, all of the streets have cute arboreally-themed names! Just turn into Pacifier Pines, then take a left onto Onesie Orchard Lane, and it's the last house on the right. If you hit Disposable Income Drive, you've gone to far.) Plus, really, if Snooki can do it, how hard can it be?

However, right now, I currently do not have any spawn of my own. So WHERE did all of these babies plastered onto my fridge come from? Did everyone I know suddenly start getting to know each other biblically approximately eleven months ago? Wait ... was THAT what everyone was doing that one weekend where I couldn't get a hold of anyone and wound up spending eleven hours organizing my linen closet? (In all seriousness, though, my linen closet kicks ass.)

Isn't it the cutest thing ever?!

I sense some grad-school-esque categorization in all of this. Like, what is on your fridge reflects your life stages in cool, contained compartments:

Finger/nose prints
= Fridge of a 3-to-6-year-old

Homework with gold stars stickers sparkling from the top
= Fridge of a 7-to-9-year-old

Orchestra concert ticket stubs
= Fridge of a high school student

Rock concert ticket stubs
= Fridge of a college student

Concert ticket print-outs from Ticketmaster because running down to the Box Office to pick up an actual ticket seems like a huge hassle, especially since parking is a nightmare with all of those college kids running around
= Fridge of no-longer-a-college student

Passive-aggressive note explaining that if SOMEONE hasn't actually forked over money to purchase  the coffee creamer, then that SOMEONE shouldn't use it and make others pay for their laziness
= Fridge of anyone with a roommate, really, regardless of age

Baby pictures of your own precious bundle of joy
= Fridge of a Procreator

Baby picture of other people's children, which makes you "awwww!" for about 5 seconds, then forces you to stand in your kitchen, motionless, totally unsure of what to do with this newest postcard picture now that you've cooed appropriately even though the child's genetic sources weren't there to hear it, so you contemplate throwing it away, but that seems as callous as tossing a Christmas card with Jesus smiling back at you from a glitter-brushed manger, so you scan your surroundings for an inconsequential place of display and eventually jam it on your fridge behind the free magnet from your local bank that displays a mini calendar calendar of 2007
= Fridge of a Noncreator who has friends with procreative tendencies

I'm sure I am missing some stages here and there. However I do know the Final Fridge Stage: a red plastic square emblazoned with the block-lettered banner screaming FILE OF LIFE and random bits of prescription printouts, contact information, and account passwords peeking out from the pocket below. Oh, and the church's card-game schedule for the next month perched behind it.

(By the way, if you think I'm kidding about this, or think you would never decorate your refrigerator with such a Debbie Downer of a decoration, check out this site. Oh, look at that, you ordered one!)

All of the refrigerator rambling aside ... I have big news to announce.

I'm an AUNT!!!

My sister popped out a kid about a month ago and she is adorable. Which, given the fact that I am not a huge baby person, means she actually is really cute. Trust me, if she looked like some babies do (a miniaturized Mickey Rooney) I would have totally thought it. I wouldn't have posted it in a public form such as this. But I would have thought it.

And thank goodness for that kid. Now, if friends mention the multitudes of baby mugshots plastered on my fridge, I no longer have to rattle off a long winded explanation of each one and how I wound up on the mailing list. Instead, I can just toss out, all casual, "Oh, that's my niece and her entourage. Want some sour cream for those nachos? Oh wait..."

**************
P.S. I almost forgot: my new little niece has her own blog! I gave her a good week to get adjusted to life outside the womb, but then I started pushing her to get on board writing some posts. I mean, really, a WEEK between entries? That is no way for a writer to behave. :)

Her blog is http://www.lettersfromlexigrace.blogspot.com/. Enjoy!

Sophie's Choice

Today is Mother's Day. So, naturally, I spent the evening at my parents' house, throwing away little ruffle-dressed children.

Oh, don't worry. I didn't actually throw them away. I simply stacked them up to take off to a donation center tomorrow. Just call me Miss Havisham.

Growing up, my grandmother bought my sister and me porcelain dolls for Christmas and birthdays. Every year. Anna loved them. My emotional response could best be described as "Eh." But my grandmother is nothing if not determined (see my earlier post about her popcorn balls). Despite my insistance that I would adore a miniature horse as opposed to a miniature human, she knew I would come around. And so, the march of the dolls continued until we each had a literal army of rigid-limbed ladies in waiting. I've kept my troops shoved in their original packaging and stacked on the dreaded top shelf of my childhood bedroom closet. Also known as Toy Purgatory.

Now, years later, my mom has new designs for that storage space. Let Judgment Day begin.

Oh yeah. You thought I was joking, weren't you? Apparently it took me eleven separate birthday events (Jesus's or mine) to convince my grandmother to stop the Doll Onslaught. She even tried branching out, buying Victorian bears instead of Victorian girls, babies instead of ladies. One time she even bought a short-haired doll, which turned out to be a less feminine version of a sheared Kerri Russell a la Felicity.

In fact, now that I take a good, hard, adult look at all of these Mini-Me-s ... they all look pretty forlorn. Take Little Precious here, who apparently tried to end her ribboned existence with the metal stand I left in with her in her box. I swear, I found her like this.

Don't do it, Bertie!!!

The rest of the dolls don't fare much better. The Christmas carolers look less than festive. The baby looks haggard, which I didn't even know was possible. And split ends about. Seriously, ladies. I know you like your curls. But some leave-in conditioner wouldn't kill you.

In the end, three dolls make the cut, mostly because they were the first three that Grams gave me, so I remember them the best. I give you:

Amanda!

You gotta love Amanda. She is honest to a fault. I mean, just look at her. Does she look happy to be rocking those pigtails? Nope. And she isn't sucking in that bottom lip for no one. She's always the first to tell you her opinion on your outfit, on your life decision, on your bagel choice at Panera. It definitely causes some friction in our little girl-group of four, but she's also always on your side.Well, unless you eat meat or wear fur. She's a hardcore, card-carrying member of PETA and even threw red nail polish on one of the Christmas carolers rocking a fur muff. Man, that was a crazy night, bailing her out of jail!

Bride!

Okay, so this one didn't have a name on the box, and I wasn't having the most imaginative day when I got her. So her name is Bride.

BUT, she is clearly the conservative one of the group. The hopeless romantic, I dare say! She is always on the lookout for that perfect true love and takes the motto "Be Prepared" to the extreme. The other girls and I have tried explaining her that the whole wedding-dress-outfit might scare off any potential mates, but she sticks to her nuptial guns.

On the plus side, she's always a willing DD for our wild nights out on the town.

Brooke!

This is Brooke. Her real name is Tina. We all call her Brooke, since she has long, crimped hair like Brooke Schultz, a girl I went to elementary school with. Brooke's so funny! She's always saying, "Hey, guys, can you call me Tina?" And we're all, "Haha! That's hilarious Brooke. Like we'd call you Tina." And she's like, "No, seriously, it really bothers me. I've told you guys for years that my name is Tina. I get really upset when you don't listen to me. "And we're like, "Whatever, Brooke." And then she starts crying. It's HILARIOUS! Oh, Brooke, always good for a laugh.

Congratulations, Amanda, Bride, and Brooke! Thanks to your distant connection to my childhood memories, you win a long life sitting in a box on the top shelf of my adult bedroom closet! Get your boxes packed!

And, if anyone is interested in a short-haired Victorian tomboy or a self-harming blonde in polka-dot overalls, let me know. I'll hook you up. Stand included.

UPDATE: really tempted to make a "please adopt me" video featuring a Sarah McLaughlin song with this picture.

Standing TALL! (On the Wings Of My Dreams!)

My "hey look what I found out on the Interwebs!" recommendations are pretty delayed. I typically discover Internet memes right at the point where they pass from Widely Used to Irrelevant. Exhibit A: I only stumbled upon StumbleUpon.com a year ago. And I still use it. Like, I Stumbled Upon stuff yesterday. And yes, I forwarded it to someone. And yes, it involved an animal doing something adorable. And yes, that animal was a mini giraffe.

However, I also saw this little gem of a website on a friend's Facebook page. I'm sure it has already been around the "have you seen this??" virtual block a few times. Nevertheless, it is still awesome. And has to be shared.

I give you, The Perfect Strangers Online Video Game: http://nothingsgonnastopmenow.com/

For those of you who don't remember Perfect Strangers, you have my pity. It was an epic situational comedy from the late 1980s featuring the hilarious pairing of straight-laced Chicagoan Larry Appleton and his wacky, vest-rocking, Mediterranean cousin Balki Bartokomous. An impractical set-up, you say? Don't be ridiculous!

I LOVE this show. Loved it growing up, still love it today. In fact, I could drive to my sister's house tonight, ring her doorbell, and, just say "bow bow bow bow bow-bow bow-bow bow" and she would immediately join in. (To the non-Perfect Strangers fans out there, this is obviously The Dance of Joy.) My cousins and I can throw out a reference to "FWHEAT! My Story" (Not a typo, by the way.) and it's STILL funny.

And, I am sorry, Bronson Pinchot. You can try as hard as you want. It doesn't matter. You will always be Balki. Sure, shift your accent west a few latitudes, bedazzle your vests, and try to stride onto the set of Step By Step as Carol's new salon business partner. You're not fooling anyone Monsieur Bartokomous. I know you have your little lamb Demetri tucked away in that puffy shirt of yours somewhere.

Anyway, if you were a fan of the show, that link is definitely worth checking out. It's all about standing tall on the wings of your dreams. Who wouldn't want to do that? Plus, even if you aren't very good and dodging left and right and jumping to collect wish stars (again totally plausible), you're guaranteed to enjoy the musical score.

If you don't? Pshaw! Get out of the city...

I'M BACK AND READY TO BLOG!

I'm alive! I swear! Fully functioning, brimming with great story ideas!

Sorry for the long delay. It wasn't intentional. I'm not selfishly stockpiling hilarious stories to keep all for myself. Just hit a bit of a hurdle that I kept tripping over. See, the reason I began this little blogging endeavor was to build up my writing muscles by forcing myself to actually do it on a regular basis. That way, whenever I do have sparks of good ideas, I won't trip and wheeze my way though it until I finally give up about two-thirds of the way through.  (This, of course, in no way is informed by my actual physical fitness experience with, say, running. Or biking. Or trying to walk up to the third floor of my office building, bailing after Flight Two, and walking out of the stairwell and to the elevator, riding it the last floor up.)

When I started this blog, I thought the pressure of coming up with things to say would be the biggest hurdle. As anyone who knows me can tell you: that was a misplaced fear. No issue there.

However, what did NOT occur to me was that, as my fingers hovered over the keys, I would immediately start comparing the post I was about to write with posts I've already done. Case in point: the other day I got a spark to write about one of my biggest childhood crushes, which had some interspecies complications. Before I had even gotten the first sentence rolling, this ran through my head:

Okay, here we go! First sentence of a new post! Gotta make it good, you haven't posted in weeks. The future of this entire blog has culminated in this moment. Gotta make it great. Well, good. Crap. How is this post going to turn out? What if it's too short? Or too long? How the hell am I going to draw an illustration of my love of all things Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, specifically my obsession with one particular shelled weapon wielder? Who the hell cares that I was, for a few short years, completely smitten with a reptilian genetic freak? Nothing's going to top that story about my friend Stephanie's little girls pooping in the tub. Have I peaked? Maybe I've reached the pinnacle of my storytelling career: a quick anecdote about bowel movements of children?

 And they aren't even my children! Hey, genius, here's a thought: instead of writing about other people's child-ridden lives, how about going out and living my own stories? It's like what Meg Ryan (pre-lip-inflation) said in that cinematic masterpiece, You've Got Mail : "So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around?"

More importantly ....

How sad is it that I'm using a quote from a movie about a fictional character's depression over not living out in the world enough to illustrate my anxiety over not living out in the world enough?

And, most importantly of all...

Why in the world do I love the movie You've Got Mail ? Seriously, I've been known to watch it multiple times a day. A. Day. In my defense, most multiple viewings occur on days when I'm cleaning the living room or washing dishes or engaging in a 9-hour marathon knitting session. Why, my hands are so tied up with dust cloths or soap suds or yarn loops I couldn't possibly extract them from to swap out movies. Plus after the credits, the DVD player so conveniently switches back to the main menu. I might as well lean my elbow on the remote to play it again.

All of those thoughts? Crammed right in there between the first word and the first period of the first sentence.

I digress.

So I'm diving back in and am going to recommit myself to post more regularly. Even if I think what I'll write will be garbage. Even if my sketches look like the random garble a lemur would crap out after a particularly upsetting meal of kale. Even if there's a My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding marathon on TLC.

Well, maybe after one episode. I mean, come on. A wedding dress the size of a small Volvo in the shape of a cat, with whiskers for sleeves? How can you pass that up? Eh, I'll write something during commercials.