Sea Turtle Rodeo

A smorgasbord of “word-ly” delights that will leave you sighing with relief, “Thank God that didn’t happen to me.”

The Chicken Man Can

It was a hot summer afternoon and my mother needed six dozen eggs.

Having just begun her very own catering business, she was adamant that all of her ingredients were fresh, local and organic. Living in Vermont makes this somewhat of an easy standard to meet as obtaining such high quality foodstuff is as easy as jumping in your car and driving a few miles to the nearest farmer.

For the most part, farmers are your typical roughneck 13^th generation Vermonter types. With dirty hands and thick New England brogues, they are the ones whose kids’ senior yearbook photos usually involved a baby cow to some capacity.

Whilst trafficking said produce, dairy, etc to our mother, our conversations with the farmers were usually short and sweet and revolved mostly around the weather or other natural elements.

“Ya see thot? I cot a raccoon right there in thot area-er.”

Sure, they were difficult to understand and somewhat boring at times (after all, there are only so many raccoon catching, snowmobile flipping stories you can listen to in your life) but they were true Vermonters and we were accustomed to the idiosyncratic culture of the small state.

Yet nothing prepared us for the Chicken Man.

We had only been armed with vague directions and a brief description from our mother. “Oh, he’s supposed to be amazing!” she exclaimed, her eyes glowing with excitement. “He has hundreds of chickens running free on his property— dozens of different breeds! I just read an article about how good his eggs are supposed to be.”

For the record, my mother is always reading articles on just about everything. Somehow her declaring this fact out loud makes any of her following requests seem within reason. Maybe we should’ve picked up on the fact that despite how ‘amazing’ the Chicken Man allegedly was, she still wasn’t willing to drive there herself. Then again— maybe a lot of things. Regardless, my brother and I hopped in the car and took off to get the best eggs money could buy.

The Chicken Man’s house sat on top of a hill surrounded by woods. After what seemed like miles of winding dirt roads, we pulled up along a dilapidated barn. There was no sign of life besides the sound of cicadas humming in the heat.

And where were the chickens? Somewhere within the thickness of the woods… was that a rustle of wings?

Finally, just as I was ready for the axe wielding serial killer to emerge, the screen door to the house opened and a bearded face pushed its way forth. “You the Turner kids?” it asked.

My brother and I looked at each other and said nothing. ‘Go for the jugular!’ I tried to scream with my eyes.

He sauntered from the house, boasting a broad-brimmed straw hat, with a tiny pink espresso cup and its matching plate balanced on one hand.

His hair was the color of dirty dish water, his eyes quick and wary beneath a set of coke bottle glasses. Standing before us, he took delicate sips from the espresso cup and stared, waiting for someone to say something. Then I noticed he had a book tucked underneath the crook of his arm.

“Reading anything good?” I asked nervously.

“I’d say so.” He replied, rolling his eyes.

“What is it?”

“It’s called Chicken Scratches—it’s a satirical collection of poems. Some of the best I’ve ever read.”

There was a long moment of silence. The cicadas hummed loudly.

“So,” Quin finally offered, “Where are the chickens?”

“Well,” the Chicken Man replied in a curt tone, “If you were a chicken and it was a BLAZING hot August day, where would you be?”

“Um,” said Quin, unsure of where the conversation was going, “Maybe in the shade?”

“Yeah,” The Chicken Man snorted, “No offense, but DUH.”

He sipped angrily from his tiny, pink teacup. We stood watching, sweating under the sun. It was becoming increasingly obvious that there was something about our appearance, particularly my brother’s, which was rubbing the Chicken Man the wrong way.

My brother is tall, handsome and clearly plays sports. I suppose in the Chicken Man’s earlier days there were many guys who looked like Quin who didn’t understand his love for chickens, nor his need to live alone in a house surrounded by woodland full of the birds.

But what the Chicken Man didn’t know is that my brother and I could empathize with him. Relate even. Because unbeknownst to him, he was dealing with two members of a particularly obsessive family.

No one in my family does anything half-assed. When one of us is ‘into’ something, we go all the way. If it’s something simple, like a song, we’ll listen to it again and again until an outside party insists that it be turned off. Often times it’s more involved— more thematic. Like the time my brother went through a long and bloody whittling phase. What nine year old boy wants to sit on the porch day in and day out carving small humanoid figures is beyond me, but he didn’t give up. No sir. Not until some of the more serious injuries prevented him from gripping his pocket knife.

 Before whittling, he wanted nothing but to be an Australian cowboy a la film ‘The Man from Snowy River’, a trend that included a leather hat and a bullwhip. After whittling came Lacrosse and then the guitar, both trends which completely overtook his life.

My mother, of course, had also fluctuated in her obsessions, but it was her more recent craze with locally grown, organic goods that had led us to this mess. Had one of us suggested using normal, grocery store eggs, heads would roll. She spent all of her time reading and practicing the art of localvorism, obsessing about distant figures like Alice Waters as though she was Jesus.

 And as for me, my obsessions have been all over the grid. As a child I lived and breathed horses. I had plastic horse figurines in lieu of Barbies, horse posters, horse movies and of course, horseback riding lessons. At one point in second grade I organized a ‘horse club’ complete with bizarrely strict rules and the beginnings of the world’s first human-equine language. I had only one other member, a girl whose English (and Equine) was debatable. It wasn’t until I discovered boys that I left my four legged friends in the dust. After hormones had settled, my obsessions veered more towards movies and TV shows where I began to spend hundreds of hours watching my favorite parts on repeat. I can recite Wayne’s World word for word along with every episode of Seinfeld ever produced—pretty cool, huh? Maybe for an un-medicated prepubescent boy.

I wanted to tell the Chicken Man, that I got it. That we were not there to judge, but rather for six dozen eggs. Eggs that if not delivered to my mother, would leave us with a world of hurt.

So I offered a smile and prepared myself for what I knew would be a long afternoon. If there’s one thing you can do for an obsessive person, it’s give them an opportunity to talk about the thing that churns their brain butter.

“I think it’s really cool you let your chickens run free. Do they ever try to run away?” I asked as earnestly as possible.

He attempted to feign annoyance at my ignorance, but there was no way he was going to give up a chance to talk fowl. “Chickens weren’t always domesticated, you know,” he sighed dramatically, a smile growing on his face. “But when chicken decided to walk with man it was a commitment for the whole species…”

When chicken decided to walk with man.

When we decided to walk with the Chicken Man.  Em

Get Your Baby Away From Me

It occurred to me recently that I might be lacking something in the old noggin. No, I’m not talking about short term memory or the ability to do fractions, but rather maternal instinct.

It was a sunny afternoon and I happened to look over the shoulder of a friend as she was browsing Facebook. The image of a mutual classmate in the hospital holding her newborn baby in her arms sprang from the screen.

My reaction was both instantaneous and horrified. The photo might as well have been of a maggot riddled corpse. “Oh my god!” I yelped, feeling somewhat nauseous. “Did Sarah just birth that?”

The red, splotchy creature’s doughy face resonated from the computer as my friend cast me a long, concerned look before clicking away. In attempt to seem like more of a normal human being, I back peddled. “It was so… cute,” I tried, “I’m so… happy for her?”

But the truth— my secret— had finally been revealed.

I don’t like babies.

I know what you’re thinking. Not liking babies makes me a total A-hole. How can anyone with a fully functional soul find the miracle of life so… well, repulsive?

I could argue that it’s because they smell and look like creepy aliens. But the truth is that my dislike for the little horrors actually stems from me treating them as equals. All of the characteristics of a baby that people find to be endearing or ‘cute’ are merely products of its feeble mind. I know that they can’t help it, that their brains aren’t fully developed, but would you ever want to chill with an adult who shits their pants on a daily basis?

I look at a baby as an individual. A person. And there is no person in the world that I’d want to spend any amount of time with who was constantly falling down, crying, throwing up, or repeating badly mispronounced words. It could be a baby or a drunken Sorority chick. Neither is cute and I wouldn’t want to spend several years waiting for either the baby or the Sorority chick to have enough hand-eye coordination to play a game of Twister.

I know it sounds harsh, but like the closeted racist who attempts to negate a distasteful comment with “Hey, I have black friends,” I can say that I too was once a baby. Somehow I feel this justifies my disgust at them as demographic group.

Luckily, babies are rarely in the places I want to be and so my interaction with their infant race has always been minimal. Babies aren’t in bars or late night showings of Woody Allen films and as far as I know they don’t water ski. Ok— something I’ve never done, but would like to, and am comforted by the fact that the speedboat wouldn’t be steered by the chubby hands of someone who would dine in a litter box, opportunity provided.

Yep. As long as they stay in their respective realms and I in mine, everything seems fine. I don’t have to look at the Facebook photos of my friends and family that are breeding nor do I have to hang by the special harness swings at playgrounds. But on the rare occasions where our worlds do collide it becomes painfully obvious.

Babies love me.

I’m not sure if they find my contorted expressions of revulsion at their drooling faces amusing or that, like dogs, they can smell fear and are drunk on power, but once a baby locks its vapid eyes on me they can’t turn away. They smile, laugh— even attempt to clap, despite their inferior motor skills. Mothers seem to find this amusing and will often encourage the interaction which makes it all the more difficult to escape.

Normally these incidents are confined to grocery store lines, but lately it’s gotten worse. I’ve been doing a lot of traveling in the past month which has meant being on airplanes. The airplane, as most would agree, is the ultimate arena for involuntary adult-baby contact. And as luck would have it every plane I’ve boarded in the past few weeks has been jam packed with fertile fliers.

It was on one of these recent flights that I had the revelation. I was approaching my seat, 23C, when the frustrated mother of 24C attempted to balance her baby with one arm and put her carry-on in the overhead luggage compartment with the other.

“Excuse me,” Mother24C said desperately, “Would you mind holding my baby for a minute?”

Before I could reply, she thrust the squirming child into my arms. I did my best to avoid eye contact and keep its body as far away from mine. Babies, from what I can tell, often soil themselves and their holders. There is also a good chance one will try to snuggle you and then consequently suffocate itself. This particular one just bore a hole into my being with its stare and smiled.

After being returned to his creator, Baby24C began to whimper. It wasn’t long before he was screaming bloody murder. Mother24C did her best to pacify the offspring but he was inconsolable.

As soon as the fasten seat belt signs were off Mother24C was at my side. “I’m so sorry to bother you again,” she yelled over her child’s cries, “But would you mind holding him again for a minute? I think he likes you.”

My fellow passengers looked desperately at me. “Please!” I imagined their eyes said. “Shut that bastard up!”

I sighed and nodded. Baby24C was placed in my arms and, sure enough, he calmed down. The onboard relief was palpable as his mother sat back down. He tried to touch my nose with his grubby fingers while I did my best not to ask him why the hell he had been so selfish only minutes earlier. I mean seriously, had he been raped or mugged since the plane took off? Statistically unlikely.

The rest of the flight was peaceful. After disembarking, I did my best to forget what had happened. The following week I was on yet another plane when a father and child sat down next to me in 11A. The baby cooed and smiled at me until I broke eye contact and feigned sleep. The hysterical sobbing began and nothing Father11A did made a difference. It was then that I realized my fate.

A wise man once said, “With great power comes great responsibility.” I don’t like babies, but they sure as shit like me. I knew at that moment, right as Baby11A was about to puke because he was crying so hard, that I had a responsibility to mankind. Particularly those who engage in aviation travel.

I opened my eyes from my faux nap and turned to Family11A.

After all, who am I to argue with that old dude from Spiderman? Em

 Why Can’t We Be Friends?

I had taken a job as an assistant at a small firm of financial advisors. There were three employees: Jennifer, the senior financial advisor; Amy, the junior financial advisor; and Mona, the newly promoted office manager, whose previous role I was filling.

Mona was a larger woman, with boxy hips who smelled of baby powder and cigarettes. She drove a black Pontiac, adorned with a bumper sticker where a cartoon Calvin pissed mischievously on the words “Ex-husband”.

She met me at the door on my first day. Wearing a wrap-around dress, thick heels and eyeliner as dense as a raccoon’s mask, her dislike for me seemed instantaneous. “You’re the new girl?” she asked in disbelief.

“Uh, yeah,” I replied, slightly taken aback by her tone. “I’m Emily.”

“Oh man.” she snorted and shook her head, as if my lobotomy scars were showing. “Well, let me show you where your desk is.”

After a brief tour of the office, Mona took a moment to confirm her assumptions. “Just out of college, huh?”

“Yeah,” I replied, eager to offer some information about myself. “Graduated top of my class, even got to spend a year abroad…”

She interrupted me quickly. “There ain’t nothing college can teach that will prepare you for this job. No way. I spent five years at IBM before I got here and it still whupped my ass. Five years. At IBM. You’re going to have your work cut out for you here.”

“Well, I’m always up for a challenge.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “Your fly is unzipped,” she finally offered before returning to her office. It was clear now that Mona was enjoying her new place in the office hierarchy. One step above bottom rung, she was savoring the droplet of nectar of her newly bestowed authority.

The rest of the day passed quickly and my spirits were buoyed only by Jennifer and Amy. Over lunch, they laughed at my jokes and seemed somewhat impressed by my stories. It wouldn’t be so bad if only two-thirds of the people I worked with liked me, I decided.

I was gathering my things at the end of the day when I heard Mona calling.

“Don’t go yet, Emily. We need to talk.”

I walked cautiously to the doorway of her office. “Is everything ok?”

“Look at this,” Her voice was grave but unable to hide the smile she was suppressing. She lifted an envelope up for me to see. “Now tell me what is wrong with this letter.”

My heart raced as I scanned the envelope’s face for its alleged blemish.

“I don’t see anything,” I stuttered.

“I don’t know where you’re from, but where I’m from letters don’t get sent if they have stamps on the LEFT side of the envelope. “

“I’m sorry, Mona,” I said before pathetically suggesting. “To err is human?”

“Save the Shakespeare, college girl.”

“Ok, well… it’s… not Shakespeare.”

“Whatever, can you just try not to make stupid mistakes from now on? Thanks.”

 At home that night, the image of a United States postal stamp burned like a beacon of inadequacy in my mind. Mona thought I was stupid and there were no obscure philosophical references, literary quotes or algebraic equations that could make her change her mind. To her I would always be the dummy who didn’t know where to put a stamp. I had to do something. If I couldn’t impress her with my wit, decorated college transcript or exotic adventures, I’d have to kill her with kindness. She would be my friend.

The next few weeks I did everything I could to get on Mona’s good side. Armed with baked goods and compliments I began chipping away at her dislike. I laughed at all her jokes, feigned empathy to her stories and eventually the criticisms and hate filled glares began to fade. Then, one sunny Friday afternoon it became clear that we were friends.

“God, I’m excited for tonight!” Mona exclaimed, about to leave for the day. There was a pause and she looked at me expectantly.

““What are you doing tonight?” I asked, taking the bait.

“Going to a… party,” she lowered her voice and waggled her eyebrows devilishly.

“A party?” I replied, stupidly. “ That sounds like fun. What kind of party are you going to, a barbeque or something?”

“No, not a barbeque. But there’s gonna to be a lot meat there. Fresh meat.”

I never did know when to shut up. “Is it like an Argentinean quincinera or something? My brother went to South America and he said all they eat is steak.”

“No.”

“Is it a Tupperware party?”

“No! I’m going to a… munch party.”

“What’s a munch party?”

Mona rolled her eyes dramatically at my naiveté and sighed. “Google it, dumb-nuts. But don’t do it at the office. You’ll get both of us fired.”

“Ok. Have fun I guess.”

“Oh, I’m planning on having a lot of fun tonight.” She began walk out the door before turning back. “Give me a call if you want to come.”

According to its online definition, a Munch Party is: “a gathering of likeminded netters, in a non-threatening environment to partake of sustenance, enjoy the company of others as well as their interests which include: bondage, spanking, voyeurism, exhibitionism and other fetishes.”

 All weekend long I stressed about Mona’s bizarre confession. Sure, now I had her trust at work, but at what cost? Would she threaten my job and force me into her sadomasochist sex life? Would I become her gimp?

I was the first to arrive at the office the following Monday. The sound of lawnmowers accompanied the hot, stagnant August air which lazily blew in through the open windows. Mona arrived soon afterwards, carrying a red cooler.

“Hey there,” she said merrily, placing the cooler on my desk. “Turns out Jennifer and Amy are both going to be out of the office today. Just you and me.”

I eyed the cooler suspiciously. The testicles of another partygoer, most likely. She was initiating me into her sex cult world. Or maybe they weren’t testicles, just bags of blood.

Mona opened the cooler. “I brought you a popsicle. Whaddya want— strawberry or orange?”

I sighed loudly in relief. “Orange.”

 She handed me the frozen treat, wrapped in white wax paper and smiled.

“Thanks, Mona.”

“No problem. Buddy.” she replied and walked into her office.

I smiled as I unwrapped the Popsicle. It had taken some time, but I had done it. I had successfully won the affection and respect of my coworkers.

The feeling of safety quickly faded as Mona poked her head out her office, “Oh, and if you tell anyone about what I told you on Friday I swear to God I’ll f***ing kill you.” Em

 The Little Voice

For the average tourist, Vermont is the ideal New England destination. Postcard pretty, its dramatic landscape of mountains and valleys are a canvas for every season. Red and gold hues pepper autumn, a pristine blanket of white snow covers the long winter months while spring and summer are consumed by a cool, refreshing shade of green. When not eye-molesting its natural splendor, visitors often find themselves passing time at one of the ‘quaint’ Vermont attractions.

The Teddy Factory* is one such attraction. Sitting on the side a more frequented country road, its bright, primary-colored exterior makes it look as though its design had been crayoned by Michael Jackson himself. Inside, visitors are taken on a tour given by a peppy guide who brings them step by step throughout the birth of a teddy bear. Children and the elderly are especially delighted as they watch the minimum wage workers hunch over their sewing machines and churn out the soon to be stuffed snakeskin-like pelts of bears, behind a protective glass.

I had never set foot in the Teddy Factory until December of my first year of college. I was broke. The prospect of holiday gift giving and next semester’s books loomed over my head, and as I scanned the newspaper for a part-time job, the bold ad caught my eye.

Wanted: Seasonal employees to answer high volume sales calls. $10.00 an hour. No experience necessary. Flexible hours. Must love fun and most importantly, must love Teddy Bears!!!!!

I didn’t, in fact, love Teddy Bears. Due to a childhood trauma, I actually hated them. The mere idea of spending weeks on end trapped with thousands of the wretched creatures was torturous. But a little voice in the back of my mind reminded me what I did love. Money, it cooed, think of the money. So, ignoring my instincts, I went for it.

Many people do like Teddy Bears. Some people love Teddy Bears. And then there are people like Dave. Dave was a portly, middle-aged man whose passion for the stuffed animals bordered on insanity. A man who had followed his calling to Vermont and landed a job at the Factory, where he could share his disturbing breadth of knowledge with new employees as an instructor.

The training room was hot and sweaty. A strange mix of people, from ex-cons to grandmothers, sat entombed beneath the florescent lights, surrounded by hundreds of anthropomorphic Teddy Bears. They stood rigidly, dressed in elaborate clothing, their cold, dead eyes staring straight ahead like mummies.

Dave’s lectures did no favors to the creepiness. He had a falsetto voice, which often cracked, mostly because he spent a lot of time shouting every other word in a bizarre, rhythmic manner. “Are YOU guys all ready to SELL some BEARS?!” he screamed.

With every hour his voice grew higher, like a boiling tea kettle, and his instructions for our sales conduct more specific.

“DESCRIBING the COLOR of the bear’s FUR is CRUCIAL when making a sale with a CUSTOMER!” Dave yelled before stopping in front of me and scanning my nametag. “Now, if YOU were to describe DARK CHOCOLATE FUR to a CUSTOMER what would you say, EMILY?

“I, uh…. guess I would say that the dark chocolate fur…. is a dark brown?”

“You COULD say that it is a DARK BROWN, but you could ALSO say that DARK CHOCOLATE FUR resembles the color of a DARK CHOCOLATE candy BAR!”

“Isn’t that implied?” I asked.

Dave shook his head in disgust, as if I had spat on his mother. “Let’s ALL take a FIFTEEN minute break! ALRIGHT?”

As the class dissolved, many of the older women began orbiting the room, admiring the shelves of bears. Architect Bears, Lawyer Bears, Soldier Bears, Grief Counselor Bears—any human occupation had a bear to match. The cacophony of oohs and awws churned my stomach as I realized I was now part of a company which manufactured “cuteness”. Their prey, these cuteophiles, were the kind of people who revered the work of Anne Geddes and creamed their elastic waistbanded jeans over painted porcelain angels. Horrified, as one woman cooed and rocked the Princess Bear against her bosom like a baby, I ran outside and stood with the employees who had been bussed from a nearby halfway house. In their cloud of Newport cigarette smoke and profanity, I tried to think of the paychecks that were to come.

Despite my total lack of respect for the job, I was nervous on my first day. Yet when the phone finally rang, a strange calm came over me. “Thank you for calling the Teddy Bear Factory, this is Emily, how can I help you?”

The voice on the other end was that of an old, southern woman. “Yes, I’m looking at your catalogue right now and I’m interested in purchasing a bear for my granddaughter.”

“That’s wonderful!!! Is there a specific bear you had in mind?”

“Well, I wanted to buy her the Cheerleader Bear but I have a problem with its outfit.”

“Ok, well let’s see if I can help you!”

“It’s just that, in the photograph, the bear isn’t wearing any… underwear.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Underneath her cheering uniform, the bear is clearly not wearing any underwear. It’s… disgusting.”

I found myself speechless. Throughout his extensive training, Dave had never once addressed the issue of teddy bear genitalia.

“Unfortunately, we don’t make underwear for the bears, ma’m.”

“What is wrong with you people? That’s just… offensive!”

Offensive? Sure, I found the Oral Surgeon Bear to be offensive in the mere idea that a stuffed animal could have the intellect and dexterity to perform surgery. But the idea that a teddy bear had sexual organs was ridiculous.

“Many of our teddy bears don’t have any clothing and customers find them to be satisfactory.”

“Yeah, well, they’re sickos.”

“We can ship the bear to you first, and maybe you can find something suitable for the bear to wear underneath its clothes.”

“I don’t have time to sew a pair of tiny underwear!” the woman screamed. “I have a life!”

Just when I was ready to hang up the phone, the little voice whispered its sagely advice. Let go of logic. It said. Think like a cuteophile. My heart sank as I realized the new distance I’d have to go for the money I needed so badly.

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “That’s not what I meant. I agree with you, it is… disgusting that the bears are so exposed. Maybe we can find an appropriate bear, one with pants?”

“Yes,” the woman began to calm down, pacified by my agreement of the bear’s sinful absence of underwear. “Pants.”

Later, after hanging up the phone, I found myself staring out of the window by my desk. It was snowing outside, another beautiful winter day in Vermont. I tried to focus on the snowflakes, but it made no difference. The little voice had become clearer than ever. Whore, it said.

Em

 Fahrenheit 98.6

Greetings, viewers and friends. I was feeling a bit like, how do you say?, rancid garbage today and, in the spirit of things, I thought I’d regale you with a tale of illness and humiliation. Enjoy:

I spent an extraordinary amount of time in the school nurse’s office throughout my early education. I can still hear the soft crinkle of that textured examination paper and smell the harsh, lingering scent of disinfectant now. Ah! See, I was apparently disturbingly pale as a child. Whereas now that would make me a prime candidate to star in the next Twilight movie (am I right?), back then it was more of a liability. Like some porcelain-painted Renaissance damsel in a corset, teachers feared that a pallid little thing like myself was always on the verge of fainting or perhaps even getting third degree burns from a common overhead light fixture. And so, upon spotting my smiling, transparent visage whilst I happily colored a pony or played with blocks, my teacher would pluck me from the classroom and instruct me to go see the school nurse and lie down. Odds were their concerns were unfounded and I gots me a free, undeserving ticket to nap-ville for the afternoon. But sometimes I was actually feeling under the weather. This was one of those times.

Not unlike the child of every parent’s wildest dreams, in addition to being white as a ghost I also suffered from migraines that seemed to take over my noggin without warning or explanation. One minute I’d be swapping my Kudos bar for some sucker’s pack of Gushers in the cafeteria and the next I’d be clenching my teeth, consumed by a helmet of stabbing pains.

On one of these particular occasions of sudden brain pain, the nurse’s office was pretty hoppin’. Maybe there’d been some virus going around or a particularly violent game of kickball that ended in an orgy of bloodshed. Who knows, really. Whatever the reason, when I stumbled my way into the nurse’s office I saw that all of the usual blue vinyl sick beds were occupied. That is, except one. Hidden behind a thick beige curtain in the corner of the office lurked the last resort resting place. Aside from its strange, oppressive camouflage this bed was also the one used when incontinent middle-schoolers had their diapers changed. And everybody knew it. And that is where the nurse told me to lie down.

I was absolutely mortified. Envisioning all the years of screaming and flailing and feces that had taken place atop this small plot of fabric, I hesitantly slinked behind the half-open curtain; the stares of the other ill and injured children following me like daggers. When I was finally on the bed I resolved to keep my head a few inches off the pillow, hovering so as to separate myself from its sordid past and let the nurse know that I was nobody’s bitch.

Over the next little while my mounting embarrassment escalated in direct correlation with my headache which was staring to make me very nauseous. It turned out all the puke buckets were in use –damn you, public school!- and so, once again, the nurse had to improvise. “Hmmm, what does a sick, self-conscious little girl want to stick her face into?,” I imagined her asking herself. “Oh, yes! A child’s training potty!” And so, the old plastic chamber pot, crusty with its long history of accidents and triumphs over the years, was propped on a chair directly two inches away from my face. Yeah, my ten-year-old self was going to shove my face in that cesspool of urine and humiliation. Like hell.

Trying to pretend I was invisible instead of sitting on the doody bed, nose-deep in a bed pan, I gradually grew feverish. Being the early nineties, the nurse shoved a long, glass, mercury-filled thermometer stick into my mouth and left me to my own devices. It was only a matter of seconds before the oversized thing slipped out of my mouth and CRASH! It shattered on the linoleum floor. Oh crap! I had broken a medical instrument! I would really get it now! Could this get any worse? In my moment of panic and guilt, I thought it better to play it off like nothing had happened instead of fall victim to some inevitable school nurse rage. I mean, the thermometer wasn’t in such bad shape. Just the end of it had broken off though that did leaving a pretty noticeable jagged opening at the top where the silvery-white liquid was trying to escape. Regardless, I picked up the splintered, Mercury-laden tube of glass and stuck it right back into my mouth. Play it cool, man. Play it cool.

The nurse didn’t buy my act for a second as she sprinted over from across the room and ripped the lawsuit-waiting-to-happen from my lips. The upside was that I didn’t have to spend another minute in that hole and my Mom came to pick me up soon after. But the nurse and I knew all too well my pasty ass would be back in there next week.

Your Pal,

Jackie

Party in the U.S.A.

The art of throwing a good party is not to be underestimated. A true master understands the complexity involved and dexterity required to properly harness the perfect storm of classic par-tay elements and their subtleties. Namely, music, food, guests, and location.

For example, the party prince, or, this day in age, princess, must fully grasp how to assemble an itunes playlist like a Six Flags roller coaster; wrought with peaks and valleys, thrills and moments of contemplation, nostalgia for a simpler time and abject fear. Your music selection not only sets the mood for the event but also clarifies the host’s appreciation for the King of Pop. We suggest a ratio of 1:10 when it comes to delicately folding an MJ hit into your other musical stylings. See, it establishes Michael’s presence without completely falling into the pattern of yet another well-deserved in-honor - of-Michael Jackson celebration but skills such as these take time and practice. No one becomes an expert over night.

However, at the spritely age of eight I thought I had hit my party planning stride.

I thought I had it all.

Brilliantly, my birthday bash was held at the notorious pre-teen Vermonter party Mecca: Skate-Land-Roller-Rinx. This indoor skating arena, though frequently to blame for a classmate contracting some sort of benign foot fungus from time to time, offered an array of arcade games, the kind of menu items that make Twinkie’s look like they belong at the base of the food pyramid, and hours of fun gliding in a circle under colorful flashing lights. Plus, they blasted enough La Bouche and Technotronic (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1K7fL5s_1ac) to make your ears bleed. My guests were plentiful without being excessive and I wore a shirt covered in textured fireflies that glowed in the dark. The event was clearly a perfect ten with all elements accounted for and accomplished. However, there was one potential party factor I hadn’t planned for: the threat of imminent death.

See, that’s the way a party, even the most expertly planned one, goes sometimes. One minute you’re joyfully gripping onto the burnt orange shag-carpeting walls of an indoor skating arena while a chorus of “Happy Birthday” echoes in the distance and the next , well, your whole life flashes before your eyes and you’re bargaining for just a few more precious minutes on God’s green Earth.

After tearing my way through a mountain of presents I decided to strap on my unicorn roller skates, which was the style at the time, and hit the rink…er, rinx. Like Jesus walking on water, I coasted along the ancient plywood, taking the turns with all the confidence of Jeff Gordon when I noticed one of my laces was untied. I did the logical thing and bent down in the dead center of the busy lane to tie my skate. It was then, bent over on the ground, that I heard the ominous clangor of an approaching set of rollerblades. With a shirt that glowed in the dark and an afro that could block out the sun, I thought nothing of it and waited for the guy to swerve around me. But he had other plans. Just as I was getting up to continue having the time of my life, BAM! A set of heavy wheels smacked me in the back of the skull like a wrecking ball to some historic landmark as the teen perpetrator went sailing overhead. The party princess was down for the count, head throbbing, eyes welling with tears, and wondering where it all went wrong. Sure the punk kid’s Mom dragged him over to apologize for nearly giving me a concussion with his reckless stunts, but the damage was done. I thought I’d never host a party again.

I finally gained the will to party this past June 25^th when co-SeaTurtler, Emily, and I decided to host a launch party for this very website. A lot has changed since that ill-fated day in the mid-90’s and I think I may finally have gotten the hang of things. We’d like to thank each and every one of our wonderful guests for joining us in person and in spirit on that magical evening. You are the wind beneath our wings and the pair of concussion-inducing wheels above our heads…well, maybe not. You guys are truly appreciated and it was wonderful to share this momentous occasion with you all. In exchange, we only hope to make you laugh! It’s at this time that I’d also like to thank www.justflourishing.com ’s Janna for providing endless technical support for the site. We couldn’t have done it without you…or 300 pages of “Wordpress for Dummies.” Thanks so much and please party responsibly.

-Jackie

This is it.

There was a homeless man passed out on our stoop the other night. Lying comfortably on his back, limbs sprawled and snoring deeply, his exposed belly seemed a force field preventing entry to the building. It was a bit unusual but without a second thought, Jackie and I made our way through the alley to get in through the garbage door. Initially, I thought our unfazed reaction at the sight of his unconscious body to be a result of us living in New York for a few months. After awhile here, no sight seems unusual or out of context. There is, after all, nothing usual about New York.

Looking back on it, however, I think our lack of shock was actually a sense of bemusement. With even a dash of nostalgia. Our town in Vermont had one homeless man in its midst, a loveable character by the name of Earl. Bearded, soiled and perpetually hitchhiking by the side of the road, Earl was a man whose presence no one really questioned. He didn’t fit into the otherwise ‘quaint’ New England town, a place filled with middle class white people who leave their doors unlocked. Yet it wasn’t unusual to see him riding shotgun in a Volvo station wagon, a cigarette dangling from his filthy lips, as NPR humming on the radio and the driver’s kids waited patiently until Earl was dropped off at the nearest gas station before they arrived at soccer practice.

I’m not sure if it was because he was the most unconventional person in town, but Jackie and I were obsessed with Earl. Fascinated with his bedraggled appearance and whiskey stink, we’d watch him for hours sleeping under a tree or trading in his bottles for a handful of change. I’m not sure how the idea came to be, but we began fashioning elaborate stories of how Jackie was his long lost daughter and how one day they’d be reunited for her to walk the country roads with him arm in arm. The story would bring us endless amusement; somehow it was both tender and hilarious.

I realize now that it wasn’t Earl who was the strange one, but rather Jackie and I. After all, It’s bizarre for a pair preteen girls to relish the presence of a bum in rural suburbia. But that’s how we’ve always been. Fascinated by strange, out of place characters— the kind of people that shine a light on the nonsensical parts of life. It’s a dark sense of humor that has stayed in our writing since we started as kids 15 years ago.

Today we are launching our website; an online portfolio of work which includes the first episode of our web-series sitcom THE LOW ROAD and an episode of our sketch comedy podcast EAVESDROP. In both, you, the visitor will be able to see our strange alter egos—clueless characters unaware of their own ignorance and selfishness. We know it’s still rough but bear with us, give us feedback, and try not to take offense at some of the ridiculousness that is written. Thanks for visiting the site! Em