Almost Interesting

You know I like my mementos – tangible little pieces of the past onto which I can hold and at which I can gaze.

“I had it since I was eight. After my first confession, the priest gave it to me,” you told me. At first I took this assertion at face value, but upon closer inspection the sweet twine-and-wooden bead rosary was pristine. There wasn’t a mark nor a hint of dirt on it. I smiled.

You made me feel special. You had nothing on you which would match the gift of one of my favorite books, so you made a back story for something you had, something a religious relative probably saw to it that you were carrying. That’s all right – I love it just the same. You are amazing and you gave me a piece of yourself which I may weave into my tapestry of memories. Thank you.

Sara: Did I ever mention that I was a teenaged Objectivist?
Andrew: What does that entail?
Sara: Oh, Ayn Rand crap.
     It’s like being a Twilight fan, but instead of being pathetic, you’re an asshole.
     The only people in our Objectivist club in high school were the same people as were in the computer club, and nobody could get a date.
     And we all thought we were too good for each other. (We weren’t.)
Andrew: That’s fucking hilarious.
Sara: Right?

There is something satisfying in watching a book you are reading slowly age and decay. No matter how tenderly you handle it, there will be inevitable scuffs, bends to the spine, corners frayed, pages yellowed. Likewise is it a beauty to watch those you love grow older, affirming life through a slow descent into antiquity.

In response to this post at Feministe.

I have never been spanked/whipped/whooped/made to bleed with finger nails by any but my parents, whom felt that it was a necessary practice. Along with the trauma inflicted (including the void and mistrust it creates between the parent and the child) and the advocating of violence as an answer to problems (which I specifically place a great deal of blame on for how my brother turned out [up to and including his suicide]), I further place blame on this outdated and barbaric practice for the illogical way in which people think and act in society.

Corporal punishment simply serves as a violent outlet for the anger of a parent/guardian/authority figure. It does NOTHING to explain to the person being punished WHY what they did was wrong, nor what the consequences of their actions will be, nor how they can help to rectify their actions. It is nothing more than a cop-out for the lazy, angry parent/guardian/authority figure which additionally serves to create another generation of people who have been taught to reflexively believe others when they say something is bad/wrong/evil without any proof of what harm it does (the “bad” thing could be anything from being gay, women doing “men’s” jobs, sex acts done in private between consenting adults, etc). I sincerely hope that enough people will start to question the nonsensical practices of previous generations and turn their backs on this barbarism.

Eighteen years ago tonight, I got to go to the house of one of Mom’s friends and hang out with this awesome older girl I had a major crush on (Autumn~ <3 lol), play with LEGOs and eat potatoes au gratin. Autumn wanted me to sleep in her bed, and Matt in a sleeping bag on the floor, but I was much too bashful to do it and was consequently put into the guest room on a bed which was much too firm. I had a hard time sleeping.

The next morning, the clamor of sparrows raiding Mrs. Atkins' garden right outside the window woke me. I figured there had been no news yet as no human sought to rouse me from me sleep. I wandered out of the guest room, feeling the old-fashioned high pile brown multitoned carpet between my toes (It felt strange!) as I wandered into the living room in search of someone who would give me chocolate-flavored breakfast cereal. Dad was on the couch talking quietly to Mrs. Atkins, which surprised me. I figured Dad would not be back until there was news to be had, and the fact that nobody was acting excited betrayed the lack thereof. I hastily demanded information of him, and was calmly informed that the baby had been born and, yes, it was a girl.

I got excited. I ran into Autumn's room and kicked Matt repeatedly until I received a vocal confirmation of my unwarranted abuse. I'm not sure exactly what I yelled at him, but I know some of it included, "I was right!" and "It's a girl!" Matt half-registered this information and unenthusiastically went back to sleep, vexing me terribly. I kicked him until he got up to strike me in return, guaranteeing his continued wakefulness.

After we were dressed and fed an obesity-assuring breakfast (which I wanted to eat after visiting the hospital, but you know Dad), Matt seemed a bit more interested in what was going on. We were brought in to St. Rose room 202 and shown Mom and a tiny, red, squished-up person in an uncomfortable-looking, lid-less plastic container of some sort. This, of course, was you. Matt was eager to prove his manliness by successfully carrying – without dropping – you and was given the opportunity with the stipulation that he be seated. More hesitatingly was I given the same chance.

To be honest, I was greatly crestfallen. No six-to-seven-year-old envisions their infant sibling as an infant for more than a moment. They forsee a playmate much in the mold of a peer. Though it was an uncharacteristic thing for me to do, I swallowed that emotion and didn’t voice it until a much later date: when it could be said that such disappointment had passed. My useless infant incessant companion was allowed to come home that same day, and as though she had sought to alleviate my chagrin, she made the great leap of turning her own head despite not even being a day old. (Nice try.)

The following night at around 10 PM, as Mom and I were watching Walker Texas Ranger, you totally tried to cover Mom in a giant bubble of liquidy, unscented baby poo as she changed your diaper. That is one of the images I’m sure will inhabit my head until my dying day.

Happy birthday, Benny!