this is a page for
Browsing Tag: #friendsthatarefamily
I start these blogs and I never really know where I’m going. Or I do know where I’m going, but not how I’m going to get there. Did you know that Gone With the Wind was written backwards? True story. Mrs. Mitchell knew how she wanted it to end, but not how she was going to develop the plot to that outcome. So, like Margaret Mitchell, I don’t know how long this blog is going to be. I expect it to be one of my rare short ones, but you never know. As I type, I’m thinking about typing on the typewriter yesterday. I have to fill out 1099’s at my job. The government does not accept PDF fillable forms. I can mail this type to the producers, but I have to have one red copy to send to the IRS. And if I’m gonna do that, they’re attached to carbon copies, so why would I bother making separate ones on the computer? What I’m getting at is typing on a computer is far removed from the days of the typewriter. I will liken it to the days of film, versus the digital cameras we have today. You got one shot- don’t mess it up. You have to be perfect the first time, as soon as you mash the button. It’s permanent. You had to be sure. There…
“Not everyone is as lucky as you are,” is a phrase I’ve heard my whole life. I would just roll my eyes and march off, thinking of all the ways I didn’t have it made, all the little disappointments and injustices. My hair was unmanageable, I always had some pimples, my legs were never what you would call shapely. I was rarely permitted to stay overnight with friends and forget about going anywhere on a weeknight. I wasn’t what anyone would deem “cool” due to my penchant for riding horses and to make matters worse, I wore glasses. Going all the way through school in the town you were born in presents its own problems. Guys don’t ask out girls that have thrown up on their shoes. Guys don’t ask out girls who write their English papers for them. Guys don’t ask out girls who don’t smoke weed, pretend to be dumb, and don’t wear flashy jewelry and experiment with makeup. High school guys don’t, anyway. I had friends, though. They were all cooler than me. There was the cheerleader, there was the wild girl, there was the math whiz. I was none of those. I wore my cowboy boots and listened to the Beatles. I just wanted to be included on the weekend activities and have somewhere to go when I didn’t want to go…
So there’s this family I know, & they’re not normal. Allow me to explain. I’m scrolling through all the pictures of smiling faces & homemade cookies & well wishes on Christmas Day. Being as that I have no children to clean up after, I had a fairly relaxing day & could spend it mindlessly trolling the internet, looking at y’alls madness & mayhem. I got to a picture of a home I know, a home I’ve visited, a home that belongs to a family I love. In the picture was a modest tree, decorated with traditional colored lights & homemade ornaments, nothing flashy or showy about it. The tree sat on warm hardwood floors, polished to a shine. Nearby, perched on a low table, was a glass of milk & a plate of cookies. Other pictures revealed stockings hung on the chimney (with care, I imagine). The pictures themselves weren’t perfect, either, kinda blurry. Nothing was staged. But it was perfect in my eyes. I looked closer. And I saw something there. Or rather, a lack of something. Underneath the tree were just a few presents. Maybe six. Maybe there were a few more that didn’t make it in the frame. I was puzzled. Houses with children are usually overrun with presents. Even here, Johnny & I are terrible & have all of ours under the big tree in the living…
I’m not doing the challenge provided (a family member you dislike) today. Instead, after prompting from the previous post, I’m going to tell you about the Puerto Rican on a Stick. My family used to be big. And even when it was big, we had more friends than we did family. I was quite old when I came to the realization that several members of my family weren’t family at all. Not by blood, not by marriage, not by nothin’ other than their proximity to us. One of these people is whom I lovingly refer to as the Puerto Rican on a Stick. I don’t know why I thought we were related. I guess because I always knew him. The story goes (what I can get out of anyone, at least) is that he became friends with my uncle Dale somehow, some way, back in the early 1970’s. He lived in New Orleans, so I don’t know how they met. He is very dark skinned, with jet black hair & eyes. Hence the “Puerto Rican”. But he’s not Puerto Rican. He’s Indian, I guess. I don’t honestly know. He had polio when he was very young, & now walks with canes attached to his forearms. Hence the “stick” part. Except to be correct, it should actually be sticks, but that’s not as funny…
A long, long time ago, I was the new kid. I had never once in my life been the new kid. I had vowed not to be the weird girl in boots & wranglers ever again, so my first day at Walters State I dressed in a cute little tank top, little khaki shorts, & trendy sandals. (I was not only young, but thin, back then) My plans, at usual, got wrecked. I spilled my sprite all over my shorts in route to Morristown. You would think this wouldn’t be such a big deal, since it’s a clear drink, & would have plenty of time to dry in that early September heat, but that wasn’t necessarily the case. My shorts were dry clean only. So they had big dark spots all over them. Luckily, I had a change of clothes in my car….a pair of wranglers & old brown boots. So much for fitting in. Imagine my surprise upon walking into my first class & everyone was dressed JUST LIKE ME! I didn’t want to be the nerd who sat down front, & the back row was already full of ‘baccer chewing cowboys being rowdy & loud. I sat down in the middle row & tried to be inconspicuous. Not too long after that, this girl blew in wearing red jeans & a very shiny belt buckle. She sat next to me. We struck up conversation after having a…
