Street

He was the man with
The strange name that
No one could ever pronounce
With the stitched-together jacket and the broken
Shoes.
He was always singing some sort of lullaby,
An incantation that
Scared the children.
But I knew he was harmless,
So I would say, “Hi,”
Meeting his eyes,
And he never knew
How
To
Reply.

Poem

Your words twist and shimmer so eloquently,
So ferociously, that I know you should be good,
But I don’t get you, you poem.
Others coo over your beauty and praise your form,
But I, quite frankly, cannot see your appeal.
You’re too bizarre and too complicated. You speak about
Destiny and truth as if they were tangible things, objects that babies
Teeth upon, parcels that people carry about under their armpits,
But they’re not. They’re greater than me, you, and anything you could
Ever
Compare them to.

Creeper Van

As soon as we landed in New Jersey, we stopped at 1-800-Rentawreck and picked up the nine-seat delivery van we had put on hold a week ago. The van was a complete monstrosity. The back fender was rusting off, only three seat belts were functional, and the only thing keeping the windshield in its place was duct tape lovingly appliquéd about the corners. My Girl Scout troop fell in love with it and dubbed it the “Creeper Van.” We tore through the streets of New Jersey in that baby for the week we were in New York for our senior Girl Scout trip.
That senior trip was so memorable and fun, and not just because of the parking tickets we received on Monsieur Creeper’s part. We stayed in an absolutely disgusting rental house in New Jersey, which is a story in and of itself, and wreaked havoc at all the major sites in New York. At the Statue of Liberty, a Chinese tour group approached me and asked me to take some pictures of them. That took maybe five minutes, which was no problem. The problem came when people saw that “Pushover” was written on my forehead. I spent the next thirty minutes taking pictures for other tour groups. For one particular Chinese tour group, I was instructed in heavily accented English to bend down in the gravel and tilt the camera upwards, so that the whole of the Statue of Liberty could be seen in the background. I should’ve said no but, being the helpful Girl Scout that I am, I complied. They thanked me profusely after they saw that the gravel had stained my pants. Ok, so maybe most of this doesn’t sound fun, but I like it when humorously bad things happen to me. They make good stories.
When people learn I’m a Girl Scout, they either blatantly snort, like, “Girl Scouts, what a joke,” or they thank me for my service to the community. Some say that Girl Scouts are boring. I do wish that the Girl Scouts would revise some of their policies, to put more emphasis on knowledge of the outdoors, but I’m still proud to be a Girl Scout. I don’t find it to be a waste of time or dull at all. I’ve learned a lot of skills from my seven years as a Scout. Being forced to hawk Thin Mints has taught me to be social, and I’ve learned to get along with members of my troop who, if it weren’t for Girl Scouts, I would have never befriended. Through Girl Scouts I have gone to New York and Chicago and have tried yoga, baton twirling, and salsa dancing. I’ve volunteered at senior living centers and elementary schools. I enjoy my brown vest, even though I used to be not so keen to don it. Plus, I have a whole trunk of stories to reach into, like the time Sarah burned the mac and cheese and made the whole camp smell like charred noodles for three days.

Sushi Horror Story, Part Two

My mom rolled her eyes and dragged the Pepsi over to her and gazed down into the brown liquid. Strange little black blobs floated on the surface. My mom made a gurgling sound. “I think they’re ants,” she finally said. Just then, I noticed an ant emerging from the liquid, crawling upwards desperately from the muck. It seemed to be gasping for air as it plummeted to the tabletop. It scurried about briefly, before it met my fist. Curious, yet, horrified, all of us leaned over to inspect the swamp. Dead ants swirled and tumbled throughout the drink, and live ants struggled to survive on the surface. My brother’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d been drinking for the last twelve minutes. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, crossing his eyes to examine the muscle. A single black dot resided in the middle of the pink flesh. Colton jumped up, shook him spastically, and ran to the bathroom. I pushed my Pink Panther Platter away from me.
The waitress was summoned, and my mom carefully explained that dead insects had made a watery tomb in Colton’s drink. The waitress shook her head. My mom tried again. “There are ants. In his drink. ANTS.” The woman mimed things marching across her palm. My mom nodded. The waitress giggled nervously and explained to us in fractured English that ants were living in the soda dispenser. But she didn’t think they’d get in the actual drink! There was a collective head tilt. She then offered Colton, and all of us, a free refill. “Um, we’ll just have the check, thanks,” my mom said. Since no discount was offered, we paid the full bill. As soon as Colton reappeared, green-faced, from the bathroom, we bolted from “Damn Me.”

Sushi Horror Story, Part One

I’ve always been a fan of sushi. My parents adore the Japanese staple, and so I was introduced to it at a young age. My aunt recalls going out to eat with me when I was six, and I all but demanded some Californian rolls. I have no recollection of that but I do remember going to a restaurant that my family now refers to as “Damn Me,” the sushi bar from hell.
A couple of summers ago, my mom, dad, brother, sister, and I had spent a few hours at the State Fair when we decided go out to dinner. My mom had dragged me around to all the craft booths, which was an arduous task, believe me, and so I felt that a treat was in order. I suggested we go out for sushi. My parents had been to “I Love Sushi,” and, seeing as the place was nearby, it was decided. Thirty minutes later, we were still looking for the restaurant. Driving down a road for what was probably the third time, Colton, my brother, glimpsed a restaurant with Japanese characters on the side. Hungry, we retired our search for the elusive “I Love Sushi” and decided to try the place. “Dami” was small and appeared to be locally owned. Its sign advertised “Fresh sushi and Barbeque.” This should have been interpreted as a bad omen but at the time it gave the place character.
We walked in and were immediately greeted by a small, squat Japanese woman. She appeared to be the only person in the restaurant. You could almost see the tumbleweed blowing across the floor. We were seated, and drinks were ordered. The menus were laminated sheets of paper with large pictures on them detailing each dish available. At the time, pink was my greatest vice, and so I had to have the Pink Panther Platter, which consisted of crab-stuffed sushi and, looking back, God-knows-what-else. Since there was no one else in the restaurant, the service was speedy, and we got our meals quickly. We sat munching and talking, content and unawares. Colton, who had been nursing his Pepsi, suddenly gagged. “Colton, mind your manners,” my mom sighed.
“I’m pretty sure I just swallowed a chunk of something.”
“That’s why you chew,” I said helpfully.
“No, like, a chunk in my drink. Oh, my God. Mom, I think there’s something in my drink.”

The Redhead Returns

This blog was started as a school project, but I've had so much fun with it, I've decided to continue my postings.

This I Believe

Colton, my younger brother, is 14. He is completely oblivious to those around him, and so he tends to smash into the elderly, step on children, and stroll over small dogs. Of course, he doesn’t realize the injuries he’s caused until he looks over his shoulder and surveys a trail of whimpering creatures. That’s when I have to tell him that he’s closed the door on Mrs. Brosmer and given her Pomeranian a mild heart attack. To avoid such incidents, my mother and I are teaching Colton to hold open doors for everyone, mind his place in line, and keep his eyes ahead when walking. We’re also instilling ideas of chivalry into his little noggin. He’s learning that, as a man, he must treat women a certain way. He must respect women and treat them as an equal, but that doesn’t mean he should expect them to pay for dinner. I’m certainly a feminist, but I think a man should have an air of courtliness about him. I don’t think it’s demeaning to have a man pull out my seat for me. I believe in manners, chivalry, and decency. Today, some women interpret gallantry as sexism, but they need to rethink their meaning of degradation. I think that, as a society, our interpretation of what is “ok” has become skewed. When did recounting one's latest sexual encounter on the Internet become cool or even accepted? Personal information should remain personal and should never be thought of as welcomed. On the other side of the spectrum, too many people equate being good with being boring. One can be interesting without being crass. I think our society needs to heavily reevaluate itself and reconsider what its values have become. Will such a thing happen? Probably not.