Michelly-Belly

My sister, Diana (who I call Michelle – middle name), is 28 years old and has cerebral palsy. This means that, due to lack of oxygen to the brain either in the womb or during childbirth, she has suffered brain damage. This puts her at the mental age of about 3 or 4. She is sweet and adorable, grumpy and loud, wonderful and hilarious. She's a big fan of stuffed animals, chocolate, Uno cards, and being sassy. I love her very much. This isn’t the main point of my post but a necessary introduction.

It seems, as of late, that my sister couldn’t care less about me. This sounds harsh, I know. IT IS! Every time I go over to my parents house all I get is a, “hi, Adrienne,” if that and before long she asks me when I’m leaving. I’m serious! She has long sweet conversations with my brother or my dad, she can’t wait to see my mom every night and loves to be tucked into bed by pretty much anyone but me. What the H!

I’m not saying she’s mean to me at all, it’s not really in her nature but it still hurts that she has this obvious “eh” attitude when it comes to me.

We used to be so close. We both memorized all the words to Lady and the Tramp when we were tiny and wore matching outfits everywhere. When we were a little older (when I was in High School I think), we went to church together and one Sunday her class learned about Jesus in terms friendship. They repeated that same phrase to the class over and over again, that Jesus was the best friend they would ever have. Jesus is our friend. Jesus is our friend. When they asked my sister at the end of Sunday School who her best friend was she said, “my sister, Adrienne.” I realize I probably shouldn’t be rooting for this answer since clearly she was supposed to say Jesus but still, it was so sweet.

I miss that.

I realize that I’m totally whining right now. I’ve embraced this “pity me” attitude completely because I miss that old relationship we used to have.

And clearly it’s my fault because my sister has been the same little girl for the past twenty-five years and nothing’s she’s doing is any different so…it’s me. I moved out of my parents house a year ago which seems to be the main issue considering that’s around the time this all started. And now (as I’m about to leave the country for 27 months) I realize that I probably should have been nurturing that relationship this past year a lot more than I have.

My sister goes to a program during the day while my parents are at work called VOICE that cares for adults with disabilities and the women there are amazing. I mean truly gifted, blessed women that not only care for my sister but genuinely love her. They invite her over to their house to visit, they hug her non-stop, laugh at all her silly little phrases like, “here’s the deal,” and “I’ll drop by if I have time,” they paint her fingernails for crying out loud! I’ve never done that for her. Never even occurred to me that she might like it.

I hug and kiss her all the time. I tell her how much I love her (to the moon and back), I close my eyes so she can say “Boo!” as if the 217,392nd time might actually frighten me. But I’ve never painted her fingernails and I don’t know what to do to keep what we had strong.

Well, dang it, what am I supposed to do? How do I make sure she doesn’t forget me and I’ll mean no more to her than a neighbor or the mailman, that girl she knew once? I’m really asking, what should I do?

-Age

I Got An Award! Woo-Hoo!

I got my first blog award from KimDb!!! (Check out her blog - it's awesome and she is a super sweet girl) Thank you so much, Kim!

Over the Top? Whatever do you mean?

So, now I need to answer these questions, in one word if possible, to give you a little better understanding of me apparently:

1. Where is your cell phone? Table

2. Your hair? Long
3. Your mother? Girly
4. Your father? Serious
5. Your favorite food? Italian
6. Your dream last night? Grammy’s
7. Your favorite drink? Diet Coke
8. Your dream/goal? Travel Writer
9. What room are you in? Living room
10. Your hobby? Writing
11. Your fear? Needle-yielding gnomes
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Passionate
13. Where were you last night? Home
14. Something you aren't? Type A
15. Muffins? Yes, please
16. Wish list item? Hammock
17. Where did you grow up? Grand Terrace, Cali
18. Last thing you did? Showered (you’re welcome)
19. What are you wearing? Jeans (always)
20. Your TV? The Office!!!
21. Your pets? Nope
22. Your friends? Supportive
23. Your life? Ever-changing
24. Your mood? Excited/anxious
25. Missing someone? Friends
26. Vehicle? Dirty
27. Something you're not wearing? Make-up
28. Your favorite store? Ross
29. Your favorite color? Blue
30. When was the last time you laughed? Last night (Brian Regan)
31. Last time you cried? With laughter? Last night (Brian Regan)
32. Your best friend? Manda-face
33. One place that I go over and over? Disneyland!
34. One person who emails me regularly? My boss
35. Favorite place to eat? Bonello’s

I've had a busy weekend but there are more posts to come, my friends.

-Age

I Fully Support Corporal Punishment

I just watched The Bank of Hollywood, that show where people ask famous millionaires for money. They just gave a woman over $4,000 to buy shoes. Shoes. Um, excuse me, I could use four grand and I would do more than buy shoes thank you very much. I mean, I’d buy shoes, just reasonably priced ones and then donate the rest to world peace. Can you just write “World Peace” on a check and then toss it in the mail? Probably.


My work just recently cut my hours. Just like everyone else, they are trying to make every penny count and that has luckily had little effect on me in the past…but now…mucho effecto.

Which means I’m going to have to start substitute teaching again. Boo. I really hated that. Right after I got my credential and was all gung-ho about teaching I started to sub and very quickly realized I hate children. Kidding. That’s a gross exaggeration. I don’t hate kids. Kids are great. It’s just that trying to control a different group of them in a classroom setting day after day can take a toll on one’s mental well-being.

I wanted to preserve the well-being of my mental so I stopped submitting myself to the torture that is the public school system and now, after 7 glorious months, I have to return.

I imagine myself, in uncomfortable teacher-clothes, marching up to the school office at some ungodly hour like 8:30 and asking the disheveled secretary for a key to the classroom. Then I walk, slowly, to the multiple lines of children on the playground trying to figure out which class is mine for the day. I see a nice, straight row with smiling faces and the look of academia written all over them and pray they are mine. No. It’s the kids in the crooked line, chewing gum, pulling hair, and participating in general acts of tomfoolery. I’m all for tomfoolery but only with people who are of legal drinking age.

I try to be the cool sub, the strict sub, the nice sub. The whatever sub that keeps them from destroying the classroom and setting me or anything I own on fire.

The funny thing is, my rookie mistake: I actually try to teach these kids something. I have actually gone hoarse (no joke) trying to convey some sort of knowledge in my short time as their temporary teacher.

Why do I do this? I should know better. I tortured subs as a child. I switched name tags thinking it would be hilarious if the sub called me Amanda all day but then I forget after about 30 minutes in which the sub calls out “Amanda” twelve or so times before I get elbowed in the side and go, “Ow! Oh…here!”

I like to teach. I think knowledge is wonderful. Teaching, an art. Learning, a treasure. Let’s just say if I could be a fan of “The Pursuit of Knowledge” on Facebook I would totally click that button! But trying to do it in one day with kids I don’t know (or like very much) is just plain torture.

When I think of hell I picture florescent lighting and the smell of dry-erase markers.

(picture stolen from here)

-Age

Now THAT is a Long Way Down

It’s as if I’m at the top of a roller coaster. It’s highest point. I can see the entire amusement park that is my life down below from the kiddy-filled Dumbo ride to the Tunnel of Love. The last “click” has sounded and I am now at that moment when the ride seems to stop altogether, if only for a fraction of a second, before racing at much too high a speed down, down, down. My hair will whip around, the skin on my face start to peel back in a freakish grin, my stomach doing summersaults, and a long, loud scream scraping through my throat.

In a little over a week’s time, I turn 26. The latter half of my twenties. The, “Oh, hey! The big 3-0’s comin’ up soon!” The barely hanging on to my mid-twenties. The “Holy Crap. When did this happen?”

Why does 26 sound so much older than 25? Is it just me?

Not that my…gulp…late twenties won’t be awesome. I’m sure it’s going to be great, full of adventure and blah, blah, blah. I can’t summon up the energy to think about that now. I’m too busy freaking out!

Though I know I’m on the “right path” and all, there is still a part of me that feels I should have checked some more things of the List of Life by now. Shouldn’t I be married or at least close (I am not even remotely close)? Maybe even have a kid or two? Shouldn’t I be full of 5-year, 10-year, 20-year plans and overflowing personal calendars/organizers/agendas? Shouldn’t I have my own place for crying out loud (not like a room where I get to cry however loud I want, that was just an expression), 26 being way too old to still have roommates (who aren’t even really roommates cuz it’s their house and I’m just renting a room)?

Birthdays. Boo. Too much forced self-reflection. Why can’t I just rip open my gifts, drink too much, and be done with it?

Life really does seem like a roller coaster sometimes. You wait in line for hours and when you finally get on the ride, pull the safety bar down (have the amusement park employee double check it cuz, really, it’s better to be safe than dead on the pavement having been tossed out mid-loop), before you know it, the ride’s over. The trick is to make sure you’re waiting in line with people you really like and when those opportunities in life come along in which “hopping on” and “holding on for dear life” are necessary, make the absolute most out of them.

I hope to do just that so when I talk about turning 96, it’ll just be me rambling again about all the wonderful memories I’ve created… “Remember that one time, when we were waiting in line for the log ride, and Amanda translated Nelly’s ‘Pimp Juice’ into white-people-talk? She called it ‘Man Milk’. And remember the time when we were waiting in line for Splash Mountain and Colleen sang ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ and said, ‘sit right there in that chair right there’ while pointing at an imaginary chair and people around us started to get kinda freaked out? And remember when…”

-Age

What Did I Tell You About Yuppers?

Things I Like:

• Awkward pauses between people who are not me
• Puppies, not dogs, just puppies (I think dogs should have a life expectancy of about 6 months)
• Impressionism (the art kind, not people who can do impressions)
• Sunshine & daisies – together or apart
• Flattering (usually slightly blurry) pictures of me
• Unflattering pictures of people who always look way too pretty
• Italian soccer
• Italian soccer players
• The Italian language
• Just basically anything Italian
• A good deal
• Unique tattoos (not the brightly colored ones though)
• Getting lost in a good book
• Baby smiles
• Dwight
• Sitting around a campfire (mmmm, s’mores)
• Your mom

Things I Don’t Like:

• Pretentious lists about people’s likes and dislikes as if anyone cares
• People who do that “sexy squint” every time they look in a mirror
• People who think they’re too cool to laugh at something funny
• People who complain a lot
• People with excessive cleavage – put those away (yes, a little jealousy is involved there)
• A book that gives the impression that it might get good but never does
• Golf, for obvious reasons
• When my computer acts up but the second I show someone the weird thing it’s doing, it works perfectly.
• Those “head to toe” guys – slowly and shamelessly takin’ in the whole thing when a girl walks by – ew – I guess I coulda just saved time and wrote “douchebags”
• When I get all cozy in bed and then realize I forgot something downstairs
• Axe-murderers

-Age

Get This Thing Off!

I went to Ross recently and bought some clothes because I was in desperate need (every pair of jeans I owned had holes in them – though, to be fair, some I purchased that way). When I got home to admire my new bounty (girls do that), I realized that the stupid little grey plastic security thingy was still attached to a sweatshirt like one of those little baby koalas to it’s mothers back. And I hear that if you try to pry it off yourself, ink will spray everywhere. What! So, it’s just ruined for everyone? Criminals need to be warm too, ya know!

Not saying that I’m a criminal or anything. I paid for that sweatshirt. I have the receipt right…wait, I just had it…Oh, here it…no. Crap.

So I take it back to the store to have the little thingy that’s clinging to the sweatshirt like some sort of strange, ugly bug removed, my friends, Amanda and Charlie, coming along for moral support (and the fact that they never – and I mean NEVER – pass up an opportunity to go bargain shopping). Right when I walk in the door the alarm goes off. Huh, that’s funny, I don’t remember an alarm going off when I left the store with this stupid baby koala attached to my sweatshirt like a Sea Beast wrapping it’s tentacles around an unsuspecting ship. Whoever invented that Anti-Theft Device should be killed. Too much?

I explain myself to the Sales Lady and she refers me to Security.

Perfect.

So then strolls over a man wearing a navy blue bomber jacket with a thin black mustache (I immediately began to fear for the girl he tied to the railroad tracks) and a look of “seriousness usually associated with unabridged dictionaries and old gorillas.” (Pessl, 2006)

“What seems to be the problem, young lady?”

“H-Hello, Sir. Well, it seems as though…I was just wondering if…Can you take this off, please?”

“Do you have the receipt?”

“Uh, well, no, but that’s only cuz I threw it away. But I totally bought this sweatshirt. I was with my mom and, um, we were shopping, and then, uh, we paid for it with…money. Promise.”

Let’s just say it took some serious persuasion, mostly on Amanda's part (I think there may have been some bribery involved at one point but, due to post-traumatic stress on my part, I can't exactly remember) before Bruce Willis allowed the Sales Lady to disengage the ink-bomb that was attached to my sweatshirt.

But then we decided to stay and go shopping. NOT my idea.

He already suspects (if only in the back of his mind) that I am a thief. Not only that, but a thief whose gotten away with her thievery in his store. So, of course, I assume he is watching me like a hawk, ready to swoop down and pull the multi-colored glass rooster (original value $49.99 - now marked down to $7.50!) out of my jacket pocket. Hey, how’d that get in there?

Have you ever noticed that when someone suspects you of something, you can’t help but confirm their fears by acting suspicious? Even if you’re completely innocent. You can feel you’re being watched and you begin to think of all the things you shouldn’t do to attract unnecessary attention and then, for whatever reason, that’s all you seem to be able to do.

Looking over my shoulder a bunch would seem suspicious. So, naturally, I do that. Watching people from the corner of my eye only to quickly look away when they notice is probably a bad idea. Check. Putting my hands in my pocket and out again repeatedly would seem strange. Done and done. Looking at the security camera entirely too many times may not be wise. And…Action!

I was so paranoid and aware of my every action that I started to feel unnatural. Robotic. Nothing looks less casual than trying really hard to appear casual. I couldn’t wait to leave. I started sweating, I think. When we did finally leave, I made an attempt to seem as unbulky as possible, streamlining my coat so there was no way that anything was hidden underneath it or in the pockets.

As we passed under the florescent lighting into the cool night air and I was finally free, I noticed the security guard outside smoking a cigarette and chatting up some chick.

Sigh.



-Age

I'll Miss This Place...

Here's some pictures I took recently in the Lovely Land of Beaumont (and surrounding areas):


We have a Shetland Pony Farm just down the road...jealous? This one was my favorite.


Adrienne and the Jenkins' Folk Band posing next to their groovy tour bus.




Is that a giant? No, it's a teeny-tiny mini car!


















I don't know Ted, but apparently he's yummy...



-Age