Many families try to give their kids a normal childhood by having a family pet. My family, however, went a little overboard. We had horses, goats, cats, birds, dogs and fish. All were eccentric, and all had people names. If it’s one thing my family was great at, it was picking animals.
When we lived out in the country, we had a horse named Sam. I was too young to know much about caring for a horse, but I insisted on helping. My way of helping feed Sam was grabbing a handful of hay and dropping it over the fence for him. Not much, but I'm sure he was appreciative for such an effort to be made on his behalf. Then we had two dogs. Otis was an Australian Shepard, who I used to call a “little genius”, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Otis was not a genius; Otis was a psycho. He liked to try and herd people/animals/things, and was constantly unnerved at all times. He was like an veteran with PTSD. When you looked at him you could tell he was mentally unstable. To scratch his ass he used to drag it underneath the bumper of my dads Ford pickup, howling in a crazy, perverted whine. Then there was Dutchie: a big buffed-out Rottweiler. Not much that I can say about her; she kicked ass. Robbers, mean people, stray cats, back the fuck off. Dutchie is on guard.
Then there were our goats. My brother and I were given two goats as Easter presents. I named mine Billy. Not named after “Billy Goat,” because I was much more original, even as a 6 year old. He was named after the blue Power Ranger, who coincidentally, I had a crush on. Billie had his own stuff going on, also a bit disturbed, but more importantly, was an escape artist. We would put him in the back pasture, and instead of staying there like a well behaved goat (whatever that is), he would escape through the fence and run about the land, doing as he pleases.
Also, we’ve had history of weird cats. Out of all the crazies we had one that took the cake: a Siamese named Charlie. He was a sneaky bastard. He had a habit of hiding under beds and attacking our feet, viciously digging his claws into them. Eventually he earned himself a bell collar, an act of deterrence so we could hopefully hear exactly where he was at all times. He was also territorial. He would beat the shit out of any cat that dared to step onto out property. This even included the kittens of our other cat, Sabrina. Sabrina was my cat. She was a whore cat who was always hookin' around the neighborhood. If she was a human, she’d be a regular on Maury Povich. Whenever she had a litter of kittens, none of them resembled Charlie; every litter was different (just sayin’). Sadly, Sabrina met her fate when my mom ran over her....while I was in the car.
Now, this magnificent pack of animals were not just eccentric, they adored me and my brother. Every morning, we would walk out to the bus stop at the front of our long driveway. Both goats, both dogs, both cats and all the kittens would follow us out and wait with us. Dutchie would do her job by chasing the cars that went by, as if they were some kind of threats to us. Soon, they learned what time our bus got home and would subsequently wait for us so that they could assist us back to the house. Just imagine that sight as a bus driver: here are these two oakie kids with an army of odd animals surrounding them, and waiting for them when they were being dropped off. Quite the site.
When we moved, we took the cat and our two dogs with us. We moved to a house with significantly less running room. Dutchie adapted. Otis spiraled further into his psychoses. He. Lost. It. He paced the yard, barked at nothing, and started taking his anger out on me and my brother. So, needless to say, he went buh bye. Charlie managed to escape out our back door when my grandfather left it open. He was gone for 8 months. For those 8 months, I, although worried, felt safe knowing I didn't have to worry about a stealthy Siamese cat attacking my feet. 8 months later my parents spotted him seemingly commanding an army of strays, and, compelled to re-domesticate him, hell has been present in my household ever since.
Since then, we had another pug named Lucy, a fish (Brian), another pug George, a bird (rico) and two Welsh Corgis named Louis and Toby Keith. Lucy, was in love with my father, and had it out for me. After a while, I would deliberately harass her, by doing things that she thought that I shouldn’t do. My favorite was slapping the coffee table, as if I wasn't supposed to. She would launch herself off the couch, and jump at me with her mouth open- prepared to rip my flesh off. How dare you defy me and slap the coffee table!
Brian was my dearest and most favorite fish. He was a survivor. He survived longer than any goldfish should (about 4 years), and lived an incredibly dramatic life. Brian learned to recognize me. He would pop up out of the water and make little fishy blooping sound. I would stick my finger in the water and he would suck on it- probably because he thought it was food, but I choose to believe he did it out of shear love and worship for his owner. He had several near death experiences where he would go belly up, but act completely normal when I changed his water. His favorite snack was de-skinned peas. I had no problem de-shelling tiny frozen peas for him to eat. One day I came home from school to find my Brian laying belly up in a cup by the sink. My mom saved him for me so I could give him a proper and personal burial down the toilet.
We originally thought Rico, our cockatiel, was a boy. Having just seen Napoleon Dynamite, my dad named her Rico. One day, to everyone's surprise, Rico laid an egg. Apparently birds adopt their family as their flock, so to her we’re just giant featherless birds. In addition, they choose mates from those among their flock and they mate for life. Seeing how my dad was the only male in the household , he was chosen by Rico to be her life-long mate. She lays eggs for him, expecting him to fertilize her/them (I don’t know how that stuff works) so that they could have deformed human bird children. She sings to him, and calls out for him. When my dad whistles or calls back out to her, she sings back in pure happiness. Like any good bird wife, Rico has learned the sound of his truck. When his truck pulls into the drive way, she screams for him. She performs mating rituals with her branches and I'm not sure if I want to know what is going through her tiny skull at that moment. She also hates my mom. Rico hisses at her every time she walks by. Rico is attempting to claim what is rightfully hers and is letting my mom know to back the hell off of her man. My Mom, sensing this, also hates her.
My current three dogs, George, Toby Keith, and Louis are stars in their own right, and could probably have their own series.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
I Love You Garth Brooks
It would be hard to envision my childhood without one particular influential force. He was a musical force; a force I could not withstand; a force to truly be reckoned with. His name was Garth Brooks. I don't particularly recall exactly how I fell so madly in love with Garth, all I know is I was all over it. I was obsessed.
It may have started when I heard his siren song blasting through the speakers of my dad’s ’91 Ford F-150. It may have been any time I turned the radio on in the mid 90’s as he frequented most Country Top 10 countdowns at the time. I’m not certain of the origin of my intoxication, but all I can say is: It was magical; that country whine, those acoustic guitars, and the thunder rolling. He blew my 6 year old mind.
I didn't quite know what I was really hearing, but all I could tell you was that it kicked the shit out of the Disney music I had previously been obsessed with. From then on it was an all out love affair.
I started asking for all of his music. It became a way of life: All Garth, all the time. Birthdays became the form in which I chose to increase my library. For every birthday, it was a given, I got at least one Garth Brooks tape. Not only were said tapes played, but they were played over, and over, and over. When I wasn't listening to Garth Brooks, I was singing Garth Brooks. When I wasn’t singing Garth Brooks, I was repeatedly talking about Garth Brooks. I became a piggy bank of trivial Brooks knowledge, and my bedroom morphed into a Garth Marathon room of sorts.
My behavior began to border on cultish. To show my devotion to my one and only passion I created things in his honor. It started small, but began to slowly escalate. I made a sign on my door. “Gart rooles!” it incorrectly read in bright magenta letters. It hung upon my door for days. While my room was a “Garth Lovers Only” palace, I began to feel that my love for my idol could not be restricted within those walls. However, I was able to remedy the situation by constructing a series of beaded word necklaces. They all basically said the same thing, usually pertaining to or in the same vein of the “I love Garth” or “Garth rooles” theme.
Soon enough, my obsession began to help me find other Garth lovers. When I was in 3rd grade, there was a playground guard that knew of my Garth obsession. We would talk on and on about how great he was. She even took the time out of her day to copy a video tape for me of Garth Live in Concert. My excitement was all encompassing. I literally shook when she gave it to me, as if I was a heroin addict awaiting her next fix. Stashed away in my backpack, riding home on the bus, my mind never veered from what the tape could potentially offer. I rushed up my driveway, rain boots sloshing through puddles, and went straight to the living room VCR. Sitting inches away from the television screen, I watched in awe as Garth commanded the stage in his American flag button down and ten gallon hat. I was in love.
Then tragedy struck. Garth was swept up into a media sandstorm when it was reported that he had cheated on his wife with Trisha Yearwood. My little 8 year old body had never been filled with so much hatred and rage for the both of them. For the first time in my life, I was disappointed in Garth. The foundation of my obsession/cult had been shaken. How could he cheat on Sandy? Bad Garth, bad. Then, there was that slut Trisha Yearwood. I had it out for her; it was all her fault. Had she not been such a ho, Garth would not have cheated. “ Fuck Trisha Yearwood,” I thought (well maybe not in such colorful language, but in essence that’s what I thought). I’m afraid the 8 year old anger still lingers to this day (no matter how hard I try to give her a second chance, I am just not a fan of Trisha Yearwood).
By the end of my obsession with Garth, my family had had enough. They were all Garthed out.
Mr. Brooks had experienced a meteoric rise in my life, only to exit it as quickly as he had entered. Is this normal? Meh. We all have obsessions at young ages. Mine just happened to be a whiny pop/country star who cheated on his wife. I got your back, Sandy.
It may have started when I heard his siren song blasting through the speakers of my dad’s ’91 Ford F-150. It may have been any time I turned the radio on in the mid 90’s as he frequented most Country Top 10 countdowns at the time. I’m not certain of the origin of my intoxication, but all I can say is: It was magical; that country whine, those acoustic guitars, and the thunder rolling. He blew my 6 year old mind.
I didn't quite know what I was really hearing, but all I could tell you was that it kicked the shit out of the Disney music I had previously been obsessed with. From then on it was an all out love affair.
I started asking for all of his music. It became a way of life: All Garth, all the time. Birthdays became the form in which I chose to increase my library. For every birthday, it was a given, I got at least one Garth Brooks tape. Not only were said tapes played, but they were played over, and over, and over. When I wasn't listening to Garth Brooks, I was singing Garth Brooks. When I wasn’t singing Garth Brooks, I was repeatedly talking about Garth Brooks. I became a piggy bank of trivial Brooks knowledge, and my bedroom morphed into a Garth Marathon room of sorts.
My behavior began to border on cultish. To show my devotion to my one and only passion I created things in his honor. It started small, but began to slowly escalate. I made a sign on my door. “Gart rooles!” it incorrectly read in bright magenta letters. It hung upon my door for days. While my room was a “Garth Lovers Only” palace, I began to feel that my love for my idol could not be restricted within those walls. However, I was able to remedy the situation by constructing a series of beaded word necklaces. They all basically said the same thing, usually pertaining to or in the same vein of the “I love Garth” or “Garth rooles” theme.
Soon enough, my obsession began to help me find other Garth lovers. When I was in 3rd grade, there was a playground guard that knew of my Garth obsession. We would talk on and on about how great he was. She even took the time out of her day to copy a video tape for me of Garth Live in Concert. My excitement was all encompassing. I literally shook when she gave it to me, as if I was a heroin addict awaiting her next fix. Stashed away in my backpack, riding home on the bus, my mind never veered from what the tape could potentially offer. I rushed up my driveway, rain boots sloshing through puddles, and went straight to the living room VCR. Sitting inches away from the television screen, I watched in awe as Garth commanded the stage in his American flag button down and ten gallon hat. I was in love.
Then tragedy struck. Garth was swept up into a media sandstorm when it was reported that he had cheated on his wife with Trisha Yearwood. My little 8 year old body had never been filled with so much hatred and rage for the both of them. For the first time in my life, I was disappointed in Garth. The foundation of my obsession/cult had been shaken. How could he cheat on Sandy? Bad Garth, bad. Then, there was that slut Trisha Yearwood. I had it out for her; it was all her fault. Had she not been such a ho, Garth would not have cheated. “ Fuck Trisha Yearwood,” I thought (well maybe not in such colorful language, but in essence that’s what I thought). I’m afraid the 8 year old anger still lingers to this day (no matter how hard I try to give her a second chance, I am just not a fan of Trisha Yearwood).
By the end of my obsession with Garth, my family had had enough. They were all Garthed out.
Mr. Brooks had experienced a meteoric rise in my life, only to exit it as quickly as he had entered. Is this normal? Meh. We all have obsessions at young ages. Mine just happened to be a whiny pop/country star who cheated on his wife. I got your back, Sandy.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Phobias
Phobias
I have a long list of phobias, few of them rational, most of them seemingly irrational until you get into the reasoning.
Turkeys and/or Geese
Both are total assholes. First, some random turkey facts. Wild turkeys spend their nights in the branches of trees. I bet if you were to be walking around minding your own business, and saw a fuckin’ turkey looming over you in the branches, you would run away as fast as you can. Running is futile. The wild turkey can run up to 18 mph. So not only are those bastards stalking you, they will chase you down and peck you to death. Apparently when my dad was a child, a turkey used to block the walkway into the house and they would have to distract him somehow and beat feet to the house. My worst nightmare was on a trip to the lake down the street on my bike. I saw a goose that ALSO had a turkey waddle, a lazy eye, and was a complete asshole. He chased me as I peddaled as fast as my fat little legs would let me.
large quantities of cats
I love kittens. Always have. I HATE CATS. One cat, cool. Two cats? Fun. Any more than that and I get weirded out. My fear started when I began watching a show about animal hoarding. Every show has SOMEONE who loves cats so much that they feel the need to possess about 80 of them. The damn things are stare you down, and crawl all over you and incessantly meow for no damn reason other than to get inside your head and drive you into a slow psychosis.
Even without hoarding, one cat is just as bad. Cats are ominous satanic beasts who seek to control your life. Try lying down on the couch and having a cat take a nap on your chest. It doesn’t matter if you have to pee, if you’re hungry, or if some other facet of life beckons to you. You don’t move that cat. You just don’t know what will happen. It might feel generous and let you move it. Or it will scratch the shit out of you.
Semi trucks
When I started reading Stephen King, I began with the book Night Shift, which contained a collection of short stories. One of which was about a group of semi trucks that stalked its drivers while they sat in the truck stop cafe. They say nothing. They just stare inside the cafe waiting for their victim to step outside so they can run them over.
Also, I feel the need to point out that in most action films they show a car chase in which a car becomes stuck underneath the semi, or has to slide underneath it. It doesn’t matter what the terror is that I am envisioning. Either way, it ends in my demise.
Staplers
Have you ever been replacing the staples in the metal part of the stapler only to have it close unexpectedly on your hand? I have.
I am scared shitless of stapling my hand, finger, eye, face, you name it. I choose to use paper clips.
Mold
Its just gross. Even worse is when you make yourself a delicious sandwich and get halfway through eating it, and you look at the bread only to realize it has mold on it. If you know anything about mold, you know that it is like an iceburg. What you see is only part of it, and the spores extend throughout the entire piece of bread and probably the whole loaf. So, you’ve just had a stomach full of mold. Find a way to deal with THAT.
Ants and other bugs
Once you are covered in ants, the sensation of ants crawling all over your bare skin never leaves you. Its creepy as hell. I had some marshmallow peeps hanging out in my room, i come back in, pop some in my mouth and they tasted spicy. I look down to see my beautifully delicious marshmallow peeps covered in ants as well as my hands, and face. I had a panic attack and have declared a war on ants ever since.
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