Eighteen Candles and Cash

For the last 15 years, I’ve wanted to be 18 years old.

My mother asked me, on my fourth birthday, what I wanted more than anything else. “A credit card,” I responded, matter-of-factly. I wanted to grow up quickly so that I could have all the responsibilities and powers that my parents supposedly had. I always thought that the moment I became an adult would be the climax of life, I would have reached my peak and finally have all the power that I knew I DESERVED.

On April 21, 2011 I turned 18 years old. It felt surreal as I made a list of all the things I could now do legally.
1. Buy Porn, (If I actually wanted to do this, I would have been able to a long time ago).
2. Buy Cigarettes, (I don’t need another bad habit).
3. Buy Cigars, (I did go buy a delicious cigar on my 18th birthday and smoked it with my legal friends. It was delicious… reminded me of smoking Dominicans with my father on our mountain porch. I enjoy a good cigar within moderation)
4. Have a credit card, (I could have done that before too, with the signature of one of both of my parents).
5. Lay in Tanning Beds, (An even worse habit than smoking, if you ask me).
6. Cross the Border alone, (The only land borders that I ever cross are between Haiti and the Dominican Republic; I already know the patrol officers and have made several deals, they never give me problems).
7. I can go to jail.
8. Commit Statutory rape.
9. I can build real debt.
10. Join the Army
11. Be Deported
12. Get married (ICK).
13. Buy lottery tickets.
14. Change your name
15. Get a tattoo, (this is semi-cool, but I could have done it a long time ago… with parent signature).
16. I can pay taxes.
17. Sign my own consent forms, (this is pretty cool… I suppose). I am now completely responsible for myself, (about the only positive thing about being 18, other than the occasional cigar).

Of course, there are many other things that I can do as an 18 year old… but these are supposed to be the most common. I've been eighteen for over two weeks now and I can honestly say it's not as exciting as I thought it was. So, I will mention the most important aspect of being 18.

18. I CAN VOTE

This means that I will have a part in making sure Donald Trump does NOT get elected president of the United States of America. So there we have it. I will be one of millions to go to voting booths in 2012 and have a small say in who becomes our nation's next leader. I wish it were more significant… but it's what I have now.

Now all I have to do is wait until I'm 21… so I can drink? Gosh. Not much too look forward to.

ANTI-WISDOM TEETH

I am in, what my dentist calls, prime time for wisdom teeth. Which, ironically, means that I HAVE A WISDOM PROBLEM. Yes, I am indeed just the right amount of wise for my age and therefore must have a good portion of it removed. This surgery will bring about the humbling of my attitude, some jaw pain, puffy cheeks, and a drug that will make me feel high during the surgery and promptly forget everything afterwards.

I blame america’s meat industry for my throbbing mouth today. It was Sunday night and there I was, just chewing on some yummy t-bone steak (Something I don’t do unless I know exactly where it came from and the way in which it was manufactured), when suddenly I felt a sharp pain in the very back of my mouth, on the inside of my jaw. I kept chewing, because it was tasty. When my family goes out of town I like to treat myself to something that I spend a lot of time cooking. I marinated the steak all night, seasoned it just before grilling, and made Roquefort sauce to drizzle over the top when finished. It was perfection.

First bite, tear.

The thin layer of gum covering my top right wisdom tooth tore back to reveal a young and quite angry chunk of white enamel. This tooth had a mission to destroy my enjoyment of this 12 dollar steak and I wasn’t about to let it happen. I finished my perfect meal and went to bed.

The next morning I felt the pain. I opened my mouth to brush my teeth and realized that I couldn’t open it even an inch to allow the toothbrush full access to my teeth. My entire jaw, face, and neck throbbed with pain.

I ignored it. I ignored it for two whole days, until I got so hungry that I felt I must mention it to my grandmother who promptly made me a dentist appointment. As I was waiting in the lounge, skimming through an IKEA catalogue, I thought about the first time I ever had a serious dental procedure.

I was 6 years old and my dentist, who we later found to be a total quack, told me, despite my assurance that I was in a great deal of pain, that I had nothing to worry about. “Your teeth are beautiful and strong,” he told me, the lying prick. My mother and I had a long conversation about the pain in my teeth and she decided to schedule me an appointment with another dentist out in Savoy. He counted 8 cavaties right off the bat: “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, … 6, 7, …. And 8, You’ve got 8 cavaties my dear! Care to describe, in detail, just how much candy you’ve eaten since your last dentist appointment? Do you brush your teeth any more than once a week? Have you ever brushed your teeth?” Then he looked a my mother. He gave her a look that said a lot more than the onslaught of questions he had just thrown at me, it said, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself… letting a six year old child ruin her teeth like this. Tsk tsk tsk.”

I’m sure my mother explained to him the whole ordeal with my other dentist because then quickly arranged for me to get fillings and sealants on a good portion of my teeth. This was going to take 12-14 hours total and they were only going to split it up between two days.

Day 1: I sat in the chair, pumped with laughing gas, and tried to suppress my giggles as the “tickly” tools, like knives, pliers, and clamps mutilated my mouth.

Day 2: Not enough laughing gas. I begged them to stop as they pried, pulled, sliced, drilled, and filled. Or at least… I thought I was asking them to stop. I was under serious influences… my head felt light and my father said it was the closest thing I was ever going to be to getting drunk until AFTER I was 21. He made that very clear and then laughed. It was the most pain I can ever remember experiencing. The bones in my face felt like they were getting ready to explode and the holes in my teeth were rattling my brain to the point that I could no longer see straight.

I’m shaken from my reverie because I realize that I’m about to be encountered with an even more painful surgery, one in which surgeons in white scrubs will slice away at my gums, pry at my jaw, and yank out my young wisdom teeth. I will be under some sort of local anesthesia, enough to make me “forget” most of the procedure and still be conscious enough to obey commands and adjustments.

So next Friday, the day after my birthday, I’m going to “get high” with a few oral surgeons and consciously witness my four most deeply rooted teeth getting yanked out of my mouth. It’ll be fun!

Anyone have any suggestions or stories they’d like to share about getting their wisdom teeth pulled? I kinda like scary/nasty stories… it makes this whole thing seem like more of an adventure!

My (wannabe) Harry Potter Scar

The tiny pink scar in the center of my forehead has a special story behind it, one that I proudly remember as the most ridiculous of my life.

It all started one cold rainy evening, the premier of Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. I was a giddy 10 year old who was much too ecstatic to be trusted with any regular daily responsibilities. After all, Legolas, my imaginary elvin lover, would return (complete with shiny long blonde hair and intense action-packed archery moves) and continue to haunt both my day and nighttime dreams. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to get in the way of this beautiful evening.

My brother and I shoved our most comfy sweatshirts over our necks and pushed for our parents to finished getting dressed so that we could ‘leave already!!’ My dad slowly tied his shoes and grinned as he looked up and told us to go brush out teeth before we left. My brother almost started complaining but I grabbed his sleeve and gave him a look that said, “don’t screw this up.” Levy and I raced up the stairs to my tiny blue bathroom and crudely slopped toothpaste onto our brushes and shoved them into our mouths, brushing as hard and as fast as we could.

Now, this is the part that I can never remember precisely. I can honestly say that all I can remember is my brother making some hilarious joke and my body buckling over with laughter. Laughter like I can never recreate, laughter like I’ve never laughed before, and laughter that exuded a much higher level of energy than what was needed for any human occupation. My body lurched forward and I collided with something cold, sharp, and cruelly numbing.

Everything went black.

I woke up just seconds later to watch a little blue sink fill with warm blood; I quickly realized whose blood it was and calmly asked my brother for a towel. I soaked three washcloths with the blood dripping from a small hole in the direct center of my forehead, the sink head cut deep into my skull and left a great deal of bruises and bloody scabs. My brother was hyperventilating and his pre-puberty screams, had I not been in so much pain, would have caused me to revisit the laughter I had just found so detrimental to my health.

The worse part of that evening was that I couldn’t attend my movie’s premiere. No Lord of the Rings for me. My parents used words like “rest,” and “recuperate” as excuses to keep my inside that on that godforsaken stormy night.

I didn’t care about any of the health problems I would encounter in the next week. I certainly didn’t know I’d have a hematoma and have to be rushed to the hospital. How was I to expect the gash was going to get infected and my whole face was going to swell up? I just wanted to see my movie.

So I threw a huge hissy fit ending with me dramatically blacking out and falling on the floor. My parents carried me to my bed and I had forgotten the whole thing by morning. But my memory of that night still stands out as one of the funniest I can remember.

The next time you’re close enough to see the microscopic pink scar in the middle of my forehead, you’ll know the ridiculous, childish story behind it. After all, what is life without a few stupid mishaps and baby breakdowns?

STONE SOUP

Todd Elliot, son of the notorious story teller Doug Elliot, became something of a friend of mine when we were nine years old. Our parents met at a bluegrass festival and immediately found each other’s intellectual conversation quite stimulating. We soon became close friends and summery north carolina adventures came tumbling from all different directions.

One night, above all the rest, reminds me of why I loved the unity I experienced with them.

“Some travelers, tired and weary, come to a small village, carrying nothing more than an empty cooking pot. Upon their arrival, the villagers (hungry themselves) were unwilling to share any of their food stores with these hungry visitors. The travelers, not giving up hope, fill their one pot with water, drop a large stone into it, and place it over a fire in the village square. One of the villagers, a small boy walking home from working in the mines, hungrily glances at the soup and asks what they are making. They tell the young boy that they are in the process of making “stone soup” which tastes wonderful, though could use a little bit of garnish to improve the flavor. The boy does not mind parting with just a little bit of carrot to help them out, so it gets added to the soup. Another villager walks by, inquiring about the pot, and the travelers again mention their stone soup. The villager chips in a small ham bone to help them out. More and more villagers walk by, each adding another ingredient. Finally the villagers all gather about with the travelers to enjoy a delicious pot of hot, nourishing soup.”

Doug told the story with breathtaking perfection; we took turns bringing up our "ingredients" to a large, hollowed pumpkin resting on an open fire. I felt so proud walking up to the pot with Todd and stirring in our lentils; to think that I had contributed a bit of protein!

My initial reaction, when hearing that we would be making "stone soup," was pure disgust. I was a hungry child and this meal did not sound substantial… in fact, I didn't even think it sounded fun.

Stone Soup was much more than a story that night. It affected my view of a community. My idea of what was possible completely changed. I felt powerful. I felt that, with the help of a community, I could accomplish anything.

Today, as american students, we have the option of walking out of class at 2 PM to protest the law passed in wisconsin, banning collective bargaining. I've been going around the school trying to talk to fellow students about why it's important that they walk out of school and participate in something they believe in (if indeed they do believe in it).

If you're reading this and thinking about walking out, PLEASE remember the story of stone soup. People can satiate their hungers (both socially and physically) when they work together.

When I was growing up, there were three major holidays that I always looked forward to: Halloween, Valentine’s day, and Christmas. Those three resonate largely in my mind because they were the most overflowing with candy, gifts, money, and the sometimes cash-less (disappointing) hallmark cards. There was nothing more depressing for me, growing up, than a card with no money or goodies in it. Even a cute card with a tiny tootsie roll attached to the back would be something.

I loved how all my teachers would force all the students to bring valentines for everyone. This meant I would get 26 valentines, no matter what! I remember one year we made valentines “mailboxes” out of cereal boxes that we decorated and encoded special messages into. Love messages. I hated pink when I was little, so I made my box a “under water” valentine’s day scene based off of one of my well-loved spongebob episodes. I covered it in blue paper and made lighter shades of bubbles throughout the “scenery.” The box really didn’t have anything to do with valentine’s day, other than my obvious reasons, and therefore students found it odd and usually voiced their opinions. One girl in particular, whom I didn’t really like much (super prissy and an ultra-snob) sneered over at my masterpiece and said, “You know valentine’s day colors are supposed to be PINK and RED and MORE SHADES OF PINK.” The rest of the girls in the class surrounded me and started making accusations about my obvious failure when it came to appropriately decorating. I got red in the face and stamped my foot on the ground to assert my power, “I like Blue. I like Green. I hate red. I hate pink. I can do whatever I want for my V-day mailbox, so go away!”

That year I made the best candy profits of any other holiday I can remember. All the boys in my class loved my box because it was different; I received multiple valentines from each of them. It was fantastic. In celebration, I went home and ate all my candy while watching a very special (chocolaty) episode of SpongeBob Squarepants. In my mind, that was success.

I wish things were still as simple as they were when I was a candy-devouring adolescent. I could think about V-Day from a very focused perspective. One goal: Candy. Today, when I checked my facebook, I wandered through update after update about being “alone on V-day” or “needing a girlfriend for this special holiday”. I feel like it’s all about a cliché; we want a “lover,” even if it lasts for a moment, just to fulfill our own expectations of V-Day. People expect cheesy poems and love notes. They desire red roses and over-priced, low quality chocolate. They hope for surprises. I find that we fill up our own heads with silly expectations that shouldn’t be expectations at all. If “love” (whatever that is) is real, those special moments should be sporadic. They shouldn’t be obligations of high school relationships that become filled with over-sized fluffy teddy bears or cheap chocolate. Actions of love are real. Obligations are not genuinely love-induced.

I wish this holiday could just be about candy again. Maybe it still is for me?

Curiosity DID NOT Kill the Baby... (Yet)

I realized one morning, while talking to Ethan Schiller, that I needed to get my eyebrows waxed. He spoke about the unnatural feeling of a completely smooth “diampol” (the word I used to describe the area above your nose, and between your eyebrows… the space where people are afflicted by the rugged stubble known as the “uni-brow”). Obviously curious, I reached my hand up to my own forehead and touched the area I’ve dubbed “diampol”. There was fluff. Just a little, normal for a girl who occasionally, though very infrequently, plucks stray hairs around her eyebrows. I showed Ethan my problem and he nodded with understanding, and then frowned and said, “you should probably wax that.” He probably wasn’t serious. He didn’t seem like one of the world’s biggest proponents of waxing, in fact, he said it “sucked”. He kept on repeating that it felt unnatural and I didn’t know why he even put himself through something so dreadful.

So I don’t really know how we ended up going to the grocery store and buying a facial hair waxing set. My dad always calls me his little “scientist” because I have a somewhat dangerously curious spirit. I was the girl that stole a sip of her father’s beer when she was 4 years old because she wanted to see why daddy got to drink that yummy german soda. I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it, but that didn’t stop me. My dad turned to flip the shish kabobs on the grill and I stole a swig. I immediately spit it all over my dad's jeans. Of course, my parents think it’s funny now… but I’m sure they considered getting my brain checked out the first time I tried to “escape” my house when I was just a year and a half. My mom found me slowly waddling down the sidewalk towards the neighbor’s house. When she caught up to me she heard me murmuring “chat” (the French word for cat) over and over again. My mommy momentarily forgot how angry she was with me and congratulated me on my brilliant use of a new word, one that she had undoubtedly been repeating to me for the past several weeks in hopes of me becoming a proficient French speaker, like herself.

Waxing my eyebrows was a terrible idea. I would never recommend it for anyone. I don’t even think it worked. It just hurt like hell! I stood in the kitchen with a towel between my teeth so I wouldn’t scream as he ripped the waxed cloth off my forehead. The towel didn’t stop a few audible grunts and curses from escaping my mouth, nor did the wax seem to have any affect on the “afflicted” area. I still had that fuzz.

I don’t regret it though. I had fun. I suppose I can say it was an adventure. You see, now I know what waxing my eyebrows is like. I will never be lured into the trap of eyebrow waxing by a pushy salon lady or my friends trying to “help” me out. Nope. See, I had experimented and found a conclusion. I don’t like waxing my eyebrows.

So, the next time someone offers you a bottle of facial hair wax, think back to this blogpost and understand that you have two options: 1. You can take my word for it and believe me when I say it’s a worthless pain in the ass, or… 2. You could just try it and be a scientist yourself.

ALL UP TO YOU DUDE!

The Boat Comes and the Line goes Kerplash. Off, Off, and Away the Little Fishies Dash.

All was silent ten feet beneath the cold, black water. The depth of the darkness over took me and I experienced perfect chilled serenity. There’s something magical about the allowing yourself to completely give over to the power of the light, twisting movement of the lake.

I was looking for a ring that had slipped off my finger while playing “king of the hill” with my brother, sister, and our friend Miles. The game was something of a notorious tradition for the lake house, the brutal force of one child against all the others was required to remain victorious. My brother, Levy (one year younger than me), and Miles were yet pre-pubescent and easily mastered by my sister and I. We were as tall as our male counterparts but had the advantage of some extra muscle that came from a daily obsession with crunches and pushups to remain our enemy’s physical superior. King of the Hill was a pretty simple game. There was a floating dock some 20 yards from the beach, and our goal was to race out to the dock as fast as we could, arms and legs splashing and splaying the whole way, and spend the next 2-4 hours claiming dock territory by pushing all opponents, screaming and flailing, into the chilly dark water. My sister and I would occasionally combine our potent powers and dominate, but the union would always end with one double-crossing the other and taking advantage of a vulnerable position. It was a vicious cycle that always ended with four hungry, tired, and waterlogged children.

This particular game had an unfortunate ending. I don’t remember the ring actually slipping off my finger but I do distinctly remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach, when I noticed an empty finger as I sent my squealing brother flying off the dock.

I didn’t really have time to gain composure and I felt two strong hands push me from behind and I turned to see Miles smirking at me as I smacked the cold water. It was getting late and the water was getting so dark. I dove deeper and deeper, drowning out all the noises from above, all I could hear was the beating of my pulse in my ears and the muted sounds of underwater movement. I slowly trolled the bottom of the lake, searching desperately for any shiny sign of my precious birthday ring. I finally did spot something shiny… but it was the last thing I could have ever expected. My Dad’s fishing pole was swimming, quite rapidly, away from me. I rose up to the surface to get a gasp of air and ignored the shouts and banter of my siblings and dove down in pursuit of that pole.

I kicked my legs as fast as I could and tried to remember all the things my third grade swimming coach taught me about swimming really fast. I chased that pole until my lungs seemed like they were about to burst! I stretched out my arms with one last ounce of strength and grasped the handle of the pole. I yanked it upward only to realize that there was something attached to it. Something heavy. I tried to swim towards the surface but whatever was attached to that pole was swimming in the opposite direction.

There comes a time, in every person’s life, when they have a moment of complete and utter fear. A moment in which a person is completely positive they are going to die and for one brief second, gives up on the fight for life. The person floats in some strange, passive state. Comfortably numb? Tunnels of darkness take their vision and within moments they are gone. Just as they once were, they now are gone.

HAHA. WELL THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN TO ME. I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO THAT POINT OF ALMOST DEATH.

I burst through the water rejoicing in what seemed like slow motion. In my mind I was bursting through some thin sheet of shiny glass, sending tiny shards of virulent heat missiles out from around me. As I flew through the air, I slowly looked over at my brother and sister, both with their jaws dropped. I fought that catfish for at least 15 minutes. My brother and sister sat on the dock and laughed as I sat treading. Damn Fish. I’m pretty sure I mentioned the fact that I might drown. They didn’t care. They said I had survived this long. Fine then.

I finally dragged the stupid fish up onto the beach. I took one look at the fish and almost died, it was only about a foot long and no more than 3-4 pounds. Damn fish.

Apparently my dad had decided to leave one of his fishing poles outside over night. He had it rigged up so that nothing could swim off with it. Funny. Didn’t work.

And then you know what happened? Amidst of all that havoc I completely forgot about that ring I had been so desperately trying to find. To this day, do you think I really remember the pain of losing that ring? No. I remember fighting with catfish and trespassing to go creek stomping through the woods over across the lake. I remember making dangerously large bonfires with my brother and shoving dangerous amounts of marshmallows into our faces. I remember building rafts to cross the “dangerous, white water river”, though I feel I must be honest and let you know that it was really just a lake. Imagination was alive and our adventures were crazy enough to last a great deal longer than a ring.

So I guess what I have to say is… in life, sometimes you lose precious rings… but there’s always a good underwater catfish struggle to make you forget your problems.

I don't know why I love you like I do

All the changes you put me through

Take my money, my cigarettes

I haven't seen the worst of it yet

I wanna know, can you tell me

I'd really like to stay

Take me to the river

Drop me in the water

Take me to the river

Dip me in the water

Wash me down, wash me down

Wash me down, wash me down