Okay, so I dug up my old entries from my years-ago online diary. It was fun looking back at who I was then. And scary realizing that not that much has changed about me. Well, at least not inside my head. Where my brain is.
I am feeling the need to share some of my favorite past entries. Sure, it may seem lazy to populate my new diary with stuff from the old diary...but oh, well.
Keep in mind that I was single -- desperately single -- trying to survive as a Big Girl in the world of grown-up responsibilities. I didn't always succeed, as will become apparent soon enough.
Enjoy!
To Coin a Phrase
April 29, 2000 (I was 25 and living in Athens, GA.)
“About 4:30, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the party.”
Die-hard Eddie Murphy fans will recognize that line from the under-appreciated cinematic gem “The Golden Child.” Eddie is wandering the streets of Tibet when he is approached by a rather boisterous man spouting, uh....Tibetineese. Eddie’s response is to look at his watch and say, “About 4:30, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the party.”
For years, that has been my favorite response to any question I deem too confusing or too stupid to answer. If ever I find myself without an answer (not a legitimate one anyway), this phrase works very well. It always takes people a few moments to register what I said, then they have to try and understand why I said it, what I meant by it, and then attempt come up with an appropriate response of their own.
By that time, I have walked away.
Over time I have acquired a few other handy responses to such situations. My friend Sol introduced me to, “And that’s why I like kittens!” The perfect conversation pick-me-up when the dialogue lags. This phrase must be said loudly and with a broad grin -- the more pleased you are with yourself for using these phrases, the greater the effect.
Well, a few weeks ago, I discovered another verbal gem. My roommate (uh, we’ll just call her “Amy” -- since that’s what her mom calls her) and I were in Kroger. I don’t know who (if anyone) is reading this, or where you live, but I can only hope that the great god of Kroger has blessed your town. (This is not to be confused with the even greater god of Wal-Mart, but we’ll praise this one later.)
So, Amy and I are strolling along the brightly lit aisles of our favorite grocery mega-store and we find ourselves in the cosmetic section. Imagine, surrounded by all those wonderful miracle-working products guaranteed to make our lives better, our faces prettier, our hair more lustrous and manageable. I was hypnotized by the over-abundance of shampoo choices -- and I’m not talking about the various brands, I’m talking about the dozens of variations within each brand. Just as I was deciding what it was I wanted my hair care product to do for me (add more body to fine -- read: limp -- hair), Amy brings me the latest and greatest invention in nail care -- peel off nail polish.
Hmmmmmm.....
We both puzzle over this brand new phenomenon and wonder aloud about its, uh, well...purpose.
I say that I think peeling off polish is bad for your nails as it strips them of their natural layers (as I’m sure you all know). Amy says that maybe this is the reason for the easy-peel, so that neurotics who must peel off their polish can do so without damaging their nails. I say that maybe it’s for people who change their polish several times during the day. Amy says that maybe it’s for rebel bad-girls who aren’t supposed to be wearing polish, but they sneak it to school, surreptitiously put in on the smoke-filled bathrooms, but then have to remove it quickly on the bus before they get home from school lest their mothers discover their evil rebellion.
I’m sure you’ve all stopped in the middle of a store to carry on just such a conversation. Surely it’s not just us.
Anyway, it is at this point, that the woman who is occupying this aisle with us, breaks into our conversation. I’m assuming she works there, since she appears to be arranging the soap in a more orderly manner -- oh, and she’s wearing the blue smock that says “Kroger, for Goodness’ Sake.”
So, Smock Woman looks up at us and says with great conviction, “You know...for proms.”
Genius.
This was her only explanation. She then went back to playing with the soaps, leaving Amy and I completely speechless. And if you know Amy and I, you know how extraordinary this is.
We walked on in silence for a few moments, both pondering the brilliance of her response. And while I can’t say that I have grasped it’s meaning -- and I defy anyone to actually do this -- I have to appreciate Smock Woman’s response for the sheer genius that it was. I mean she does work at Kroger, for goodness’ sakes.
And I also have to thank her for giving me another clever phrase to use in situations where a legitimate answer is rejected in favor of the more bizarre.
In other words, you know....for proms.
A Picture is Worth...Well, You Know
May 15, 2000
There is a silver picture frame sitting on my coffee table in my living room. Inside that frame is the smiling image of a handsome young man. He has sandy blonde hair, hazel eyes and braces on his teeth. Truly, an all-American boy. He's wearing a navy blue blazer, a light blue shirt and a red tie with blue horizontal stripes. This teenaged charmer is standing against a backdrop of trees and flower bushes and the faint outline of a wooden, picket fence. There is a winsome expression on his youthfully innocent face as if he had suddenly burst into laughter and the camera caught him just as he was winding it down. The picture speaks of the joys of being young and the promise that is a long-life ahead.
I have no idea who this boy is.
I was walking the isles of the grocery store, when there, sitting on top of a display of Frosted Flakes, was this picture. This young boy, in all his Koda-color glory, grinning up at me from atop the image of Tony the Tiger. Deciding that such a find must in some way be serendipitous, I took it home, put it in a frame, pronounced his name "Bryan" and placed him on the coffee table. (Not only does he look like a Bryan, but he looks like the type of Bryan who would spell his name with a "y" as opposed to an "i." Don't ask me how I know this...I just do.)
So now Bryan lives with us, gracing us with his pleasant smile and prompting visitors to inquire about this young man in the silver frame.
This is where it gets fun.
I smile, say his name is Bryan and then proceed to make up a story about how I know him. The story changes every time.
Bryan is a young man I used to baby-sit for. This picture was taken on the day of his graduation from the eighth grade. I was so proud of him!
Bryan is the son of my older sister. Oh, you didn't know I had an older sister? Well, she moved away after a horrible disagreement with our mother and we haven't seen her in fifteen years. I was so young when she left, I barely remember her. This picture is all I have seen of Bryan since he's been born. I've never even met him in person.
Bryan is the young man who died in a tragic car accident, whose last, selfless act was to donate his liver to save my ailing sister. His family sent us his picture so we'll always remember the precious life that was taken and the beloved life that was saved.
Hours of entertainment from this one simple photo -- this discarded treasure I found among the cereal. Sure, I often wonder who Bryan really is, what he’s like, who was holding the camera that he smiled so winningly into? What are his hopes, his dreams? And why was I, one of hundred of shoppers in Kroger that day, destined to find this picture?
Maybe I’ll never know.
So, for now, I will continue to create stories about this young lad, making him more a part of my life with each tale...and wait for the day when someone walks into my house, sits down on the sofa, points to the picture and says, "Hey, how do you know Bryan?"
Goathead
July 14, 2000
I was standing at the counter in a deli-style restaurant with my friend Lisa waiting for our sandwiches to be made. As we were standing there, a young man who worked at the restaurant approached and asked if he could step in to pick up a stack of trays that were sitting right in front of me. I smiled and said, “Sure. Go ahead.”
He had already begun to make the move toward the trays when I said this, then all of a sudden, he whirled around on me, narrowed his eyes and said, “Did you just call me goathead?!”
I was stunned, to say the least, and it took a few moments for me to register what he’d said. When I realized that he was accusing me of calling him the most bizarre insult I’ve ever heard, I did the only thing I could do....laugh. I’m sure that didn’t soften the injuries suffered by this young man-–who, by the way, had a very normal looking head–but when Lisa said, “No, she diiiiiiiiddnn’t. Bahhhhhahahaha.” in her very best goat-like accent, I cracked up even more. Through stifled laughter, I stammered that I had not called him “goathead” and then I repeated what it was I had really said.
At this point, I don’t think he cared. He picked up his trays and walked away. I wondered what it was in his past that made him react so violently to this imagined insult. I suppose that the words “go ahead,” when not properly enunciated could sound like “goathead,” but he behaved as though I wasn’t the only person to have ever called him this.
When Lisa and I were standing at the register (still giggling over this encounter) a voice from the other register alerted us to its availability. We turned, and there was Goathead, beckoning us over to where he was now working the register. We managed to make our lunch purchases without pointing at his horns and laughing (though I think I saw Lisa take a swipe at the bell he had hanging around his neck).
As we were leaving the restaurant, we discussed how we had learned something valuable from this young man with the head of a goat -- another handy phrase! So, add this one to your list. If even anyone mumbles something you don’t quite understand, turn to them, scowl indignantly and ask, “Did you just call me Goathead!?”
And then say, “Baaaaaaaahahhahahahaaa!” Because then it would be *really* funny.
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I miss Bryan.
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