Thursday, February 25, 2010

Fewer than Approximately 1,390 words

As I recently searched online for various website freelance writing opportunities, I came across a developing site called Fewer than 500. Fewer than 500's premise is to showcase short fiction and nonfiction stories in 500 words or less to keep and gain the attention of the Millennial generation's ever decreasing Twitter-effected attention spans. Having written a few short stories in the past, I revisited them with the possibility of submitting them. In doing so, I discovered two things: 1.) I'm even worse at estimating than I estimated because my stories were well over 500 words and 2.) I am pretty damn funny.

As I've stated in a previous blog, I'd like to occasionally take the opportunity to use this blog for a little storytelling and that's what I intend to do now. I'd like to make the disclaimer that my father has already read and may have distributed the following story to friends. So the story may not be brand new to some readers and to them I say- get over it. Also, I'm fully aware that I'm risking my very life by publishing this story which particular members of my family may be portrayed in a less than flattering light, but it's a good thing they know that I love them very much and find them hilarious and beautiful and smart and awesome. That being said, I present to you...

Shit Happens
My father closely resembles Santa Claus which makes it difficult to find him threatening in most situations. I find the same holds true for most men with full beards- except for Rob Zombie, who I believe would not hesitate to unexpectedly pull a knife on me should we ever meet. There’s something unintimidating about a beard, and my dad wears it well. He’ll occasionally pull a small black comb from his pocket, quickly run it through his hair and beard, and return the comb next to the felt-tip pen he uses to write checks, which, along with the beard, seems to be a dying fad among most men. In fact, even if he merely mentions the idea of shaving his beard, my sisters and I protest in a violent revolt.

In addition, my father stands at a rather unthreatening 5’8”. Coupled with the fact that he usually refers to my sisters and I by adding the suffix “belle” to our first names, it would suffice it to say that our weekends with dad were usually quiet and filled with MarioCart on Nintendo 64. So, when he did choose to raise his voice, it immediately gave a sense of terror and panic to any situation.

Something he found, and still finds, especially annoying is bickering between my sisters and me. Usually the quarrel would happen between my older sister and myself, and was almost guaranteed to happen if we were forced to sit in the back seat of the car together. You may be thinking, “But kids will be kids...”. However, these fights continued well into our teens and even currently in our twenties. And Sara is a big brat.

The fight would usually begin with Sara making a comment I found to be offensive because of my teen-angst and would escalate because Sara was unable to recognize the comment’s offensiveness. Talking would turn to yelling, and then my dad would intervene.

“You two are always fighting. Why are you always fighting?! Jesus.” He said these words as if our fighting was a personal insult to him. There would be an awkward silence before one of us chose to defend ourselves, to which we were usually told to “cut it out” and “let me finish.” This would go on for a few minutes and usually ended with one of us (most often Sara) being told to stop being a “smart-alec” along with the threat of grounding. All the while, our younger sister Grace would sit silently in the front seat, no doubt playing with her various Nano Babies or choosing what she would hide under the couch next. Bickering was, as they say, one of my father’s “buttons.”

On the occasions when Sara and I were not trapped in the backseat, my father took advantage of one of his favorite devices, “SmashFace.” It’s exactly what it sounds like. After a fight, when the tension in the room between Sara and I could be cut with a butter knife, my dad would beckon us over to him. Once in close enough range of his unsuspecting daughters, my father would excitedly and repeatedly shout, “SMASHFACE!” and proceed to take each of our heads in either hand and mush our faces together, cheek to cheek. This would last for about a full minute until we managed to squirm away. Of course, we wanted to laugh afterwards but doing so would have discredited the reasons we were fighting so viciously in the first place. Instead, I went with my usual route, pouting like a toddler and acting offended.

However, bickering was surely not his only button. What would be a quiet Saturday afternoon at my father’s townhome could quickly turn sour. In fact, it was inevitable that it would happen practically every Saturday.

As I sat downstairs watching television, I would hear my dad enter the upstairs bathroom. His footsteps would stop and there would be a slight pause before muttering whatever profanity he felt fit the severity of the situation. At that moment, we knew what was next. My sisters and I would nervously glance at each, either determining the perpetrator or attempting to hide our guilt.

“Alright,” he’d shout from the top of the stairs, “who clogged the toilet?” Even though we could only hear his voice, we could have guessed his expression. His tone had a slight sense of surprise, which in and of itself is surprising because, as I said, this was a weekly occurrence. He also did a terrible job of hiding the anger and exasperation that lay just below the surface of this question.

At some point along the years, it seemed as though he stopped being angry about the clogged toilet itself, but more so about the fact that none of us had learned our lesson. Weren’t we listening the last time the toilet clogged? Hadn’t he taken the time to walk us to the bathroom to demonstrate the correct amount of toilet paper to use when wiping? Weren’t we aware his townhome had weak plumbing?

After his initial question, Grace and I would usually shout something along the lines of “Not me!” while Sara chose the defense of “It wasn’t me this time!” It was usually necessary to include “this time” in Sara’s response because, more often than not, I choose to believe that it certainly was Sara each and every time. Usually, my father would attempt to remain calm and reassure us that, “I won’t get mad if you just tell me who did it.”

Even though at one point in my life I may have momentarily believed that water polo was a sport that did, in fact, involve the use of horses, but even I was not gullible enough to fall for that line. It was bait, and none of us were willing to bite.

Inevitably, no one ever ‘fessed up to the crime, as we all opted to hear the same speech about the perils of water leakage and toilet paper waste rather than learn what happen to the brave sole who confessed to such a deed. Having once seen my father heave a pocket knife at a running mouse’s spine and hit it with frightening accuracy, I was not willing to know the unthinkable things that the pooper would be subject to. So, I usually took this time to throw menacing glances at Sara and curse her incredibly active and efficient bowels.

This became such a regular occurrence that even when the toilet wasn’t clogged, my dad took the time to occasionally remind us just how much toilet paper was actually necessary for a proficient wipe: about two squares. However, perhaps his breaking point came when I was about fifteen.

Plans were made for the four of us to go bowling with my father’s friend, Mr. Krone, and two of his sons. As it happens, Sara had just begun dating one of those sons, Justin. Minutes before leaving, the shout came from the top of the stairs. As per the usual routine, the clogger never came forward. We were even called to the bathroom this time to face our offense. We stood huddled around the porcelain bowl, each of us vehemently denying ownership of what lay inside.

It escalated to a point where my father, so determined to find the culprit, threatened to call Mr. Krone and inform him that bowling would have to be cancelled on this particular night because one of his three daughters had severely clogged his toilet. We frantically looked to one another; giving eyes that said “someone just take the fall for God’s sake,” though none of us were actually willing to do so ourselves. Sara immediately begged and pleaded my father just listen to reason. Her voice became tense and high pitched as she wavered between tears and nervous laughter at the thought of her new boyfriend knowing our shameful family secret. Eventually she convinced my father to reconsider his threat, but I’ve always wondered why she didn’t choose to confess for the good of the family. We all know it was her doing anyway.

That was the last of any major plumbing issues at my father’s townhome. I’d like to say that we finally learned our lesson that night, but it seems unlikely. Rather, I think we were all just scared shitless.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Playtime...at 25

When the opportunity presents itself- I like to regularly remind my readers of my unrelenting genius. You might be saying, "You'll have to be more specific Ann, I'm always reminded of your genius." To which I would say- Exhibit A, Nancy Gibbs' commentary in Time on the state of toys and value of Playdoh: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1946960,00.html

Aside from this being evidence that my edgy and thought-provoking blog is on par with TIME's journalistic standards, Gibbs' Playdoh revelation sounds a little familiar doesn't it Bulla fans? If I'm not mistaken (I'm not), I believe I extolled the virtues of Playdoh in my very own blog not so long ago. I'd like to thank Gibbs for expanding on the subject and she'll be hearing from my lawyer regarding copyright infringement soon. Nonetheless, Gibbs' article presented me with the opportunity to revisit the toys I held dear to my heart and investigate today's current selection.

Until recently, I thought I had lost my knack for whimsical imagination and play because I found the current selection of children's toys to be lame. On my regular visits to Target, I perused the toy section to take a look at the newest Barbies, follow the trends in new Cabbage Patch Kid naming, and generally reminisce about a childhood gone too fast. But I always wondered, where's the creativity? the challenge? the uniqueness? I was a walking cliche that began sentences with, "When I was a kid..." and "What's a Zsu Zsu Pet?" But now I realize that I haven't lost my imaginative prowess- these new toys really are lame. So I've compiled a short list of the only toys really worth having.


1. PLAYDOH
Ok, I know I've discussed Playdoh to death but this one really does top the list. It's cheap, it's colorful, and it's non-toxic. It provides hours upon hours of imaginative play. Of course, I always end up molding food everytime, but I'm sure young minds would quickly see other ideas spring to life.

2. SIDEWALK CHALK
While Chicago children will get, at best, 4 months of use for sidewalk chalk, it's still a summertime staple. As with playdoh, it's cheap and colorful, and it's also as easy as turning on the hose to clean-up. My mom made sure our house was never without a box of chalk. My sisters I would spend hours on our driveway drawing hopscotch squares, writing our names on every inch of sidewalk, and outlining the shape of our splayed bodies to make our house look like a grisly crime scene. However, our proudest chalk creation was Chalk City. Living in a tiny cul de sac, we rode our bikes around the entire perimeter of our neighborhood and drew chalk establishments along the pavement. The library, DMV, Jewel, and even a chalk Chi's Chi's Restaurant. We spent summer evenings endlessly riding our bikes around Chalk City as if we were adults driving our cars to various errands. To this day there a few things that so vividly remind me of my childhood summers, but a new box of sidewalk chalk is one of them.

3. LEGOS
These little plastic blocks have a special place in my heart not only because Sara stuck one up her nose but also because I associate them with my Papa (my father's father). My memories of him always place him at his kitchen table or the old bar in his basement, tinkering on something. The only thing that was ever on the TV in the background was a Cubs game as he sat sketching a tree with his thin-tipped markers, enveloped in a cloud of smoke. Dotted around the house were tiny sailboats he constructed out of balsa wood and even the Wrigley field replica he built. And he would sometimes sing old songs to himself that I never recognized. He loved to create. And it was he who taught me the proper way to construct a wall of Legos. I would stack Legos one on top of the other, forming tall columns that were weak. He taught me how to stagger the bricks, like those on a house. Of course, I have infinite memories of spending hours with Sara and Gracie playing with our well-crafted Lego house, but it's the connection to my Papa that I love the most.

4. BARBIE
Duh. I would wager that 75% of my childhood playtime was dedicated to Barbie. I would also wager that, given the opportunity, my mom would dedicate 75% of her time today to Barbie. But really, what's not to love? The glamour, the outfits, Ken...it's every little girls' dream. Sara and I would spends hours at our neighbor Diana's house because she had a Barbie Dream Mansion (working elevator and all!) despite the fact that Diana and her whole family mostly just scared me. But I risked it for that otherwise elusive Dream Mansion. The point is, for most girls, Barbie defined what being a girl meant.


5. COLORING BOOKS
Like Playdoh, I still own and use several coloring books. Personally, I love the restricted creativity that coloring books allow. I'm lousy at drawing freehand, but sometimes I just get a creative itch that only a coloring book can scratch. It's just the right allotment of creativity necessary to color a picture but not have to actually draw it. And I've been occupied with coloring books for as long as I can remember. Like chalk, our house was always fully stocked with Barbie coloring books. And upon receiving a fresh Barbie coloring book, I would immediately color Barbie's lips and eyeshadow in EVERY picture because everyone knows that's the best part. I'm sure my mom bought the books to just shut us up sometimes, and I continue to buy them to shut myself up sometimes too. Great for plane rides, rainy days, or anxious 25 year olds.

6. CABBAGE PATCH DOLLS
My sisters and I collected Cabbage Patch Dolls like it was our job. Each of us had distinctive Cabbage Patch families- I had brown hair dolls, Sara had red, and Gracie had blonde. Each of our collections were comprised of, at least, nine dolls apiece. Any respectable girl will tell you that the BEST part of a Cabbage Patch Doll wasn't their dimpled cheeks or "Xavier Roberts" signed on their butt checks, but the moment you tear open a Cabbage Patch Doll and go directly for their birth certificate. Each doll was given a first and middle name, and it was a cardinal rule of Cabbage Patch ownership to never rename your dolls. Even now I can remember Felice Carmen (Crimp n' Curl circa 1992). I know the Cabbage Patch Doll had its heyday in the 1980's but even in 2010 you can't go wrong with a Cabbage Patch Doll.

7. GRANDMAS
Obviously I know Grandmas aren't a toy but they're an invaluable childhood experience nonetheless. The memories I have from my grandmas are plentiful and hilarious, and I'm lucky I had two such distinctive women in my life. My Grandma Tena died when I was about ten but I still remember the sound of her voice and that every time she and my Papa babysat us, they ALWAYS brought a dozen Dunkin Donuts. Recently, at a family gathering, I was wearing one of my many giant plastic rings and my cousin commented that I take after my Grandma Tena. I had never really thought about it before but when I got home, I checked out a photo album, and sure enough, my grandma was decked out in gaudy plastic jewelry. I'd always been fond of my ring collection but had never made the connection before. I was happy to have unknowingly shared my taste for accessorizing with my Grandma Tena. And, of course, my Grandma Anna is the whole reason behind this blog. I'm afraid there's just not enough space for me to adequately describe Grandma Anna and do her justice. In short, she's just a funny little Polish lady who is always good for a laugh. I remember cooking lessons in her kitchen, sleepovers at her house, the lamb pound cake every Easter, trips to 7/11 for her cigarettes, rainstorms on her porch, and feeding the birds stale bread. And even now, each time I visit her, I leave with a funny new grandma story to tell.

Please note that no where on this list is something that requires batteries or an electrical outlet. Of course, I had video games and computer games growing up, but when I think of my childhood, I don't think of being glued to a screen. Instead, I remember riding my bike in summertime evenings until my mom screamed my named through the neighborhood or playing catch in front of the house with my dad. It sounds like a 1950's sitcom but it's true. This list compiles the elements of being a kid that are engaging and creative. To this day, when I find something cute and miniature I still refer to it being 'Cabbage Patch size,' referencing the miniature houses we used to build for our dolls and my sisters know exactly what I mean. And just yesterday, I spent my evening coloring a masterpiece from my Disney Princess coloring book. Some of my friends and coworkers look at me like I'm nuts when they find out I still color or play with Playdoh, but who's to say that spending three hours watching Jersey Shore or Top Chef every night is any more productive or engaging? Maybe if I pull out the Barbies, then they'll have something to worry about....