Acting Fancy

Like I have said before in previous posts, my dad and Sharon are pretty well off. After Sharon got a promotion to being a manager of her department, they are even more well off. So when they make plans to leave for Italy for two weeks, or run off to Vegas for a weekend, it doesn't really make their purse strings any tighter.


I usually only get a little share in that wealth. Since I have moved out, Sharon basically decided she wasn't going to take me out to JC Penney's anymore to buy khakis for work, nor was she going to give me food to take home. She even went to far as to boycott me from going out to dinner with her and my dad for a while.


I didn't really care that she did this. Sure, it would have been nice to get my khakis for free still, or to get some yummy food from our local italian place, but I didn't need it. And the beauty of the situation was that I knew Sharon would come around eventually.


It took her a couple of months, but she did decide that I was still her favorite, even though I had my own place, and soon enough they were inviting me back over for dinner and giving me loads of food, (most stuff that never even got eaten.)


By the time March rolled around, (and thus spring break) Sharon had warmed to the idea of me being "so far away." In fact, I think she liked the fact that there wasn't me zombie-ing around the house on my days off. Now that she was finally okay with the whole arrangement of my room being farther away, she had decided she was going to let me have something.


Dad and Sharon had bought one night at one of the fancier hotels in town but they were too busy to use it so they gave it to me. Originally, I was supposed to bring four girls with me, but Ambria flaked, and Christina was working, so it ended up just being me and Gina.


We drove up, let the valet take my car, and headed into the Chase. I was wearing my five inch cork wedges, so I pretty much towered over everyone at about six foot one. Gina looked very petit next to me, and even though she was wearing heels, it didn't seem to help.


At the check in desk, we had a little hiccup of having had the reservation made for next month. But apparently it was much of a problem for Tuesday, so they got us a room easily.


They gave us our cards and directed us upstairs to the sixth floor. We hopped in the elevators and away we went. Gina kept saying over and over again how she felt just like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I pointed out that she was a prostitute, but that little detail didn't make her not say the same sentence over and over again.


We had a corner room, and Gina was very excited about it. I set my stuff down while she ran around looking at all the things in the room. Though I hadn't stayed in the Chase, or anywhere else quite this fancy, it was pretty much what I expected. There were two flat screen televisions, three magazines on the glass coffee table all talking about restaurants like Tony's and the local private schools, and Whole Foods, the liquor cabinet was stocked with Grey Goose and things of similar nature, and the bathroom had hand folded towels that looked like bows.


For me, it was kind of like walking into a cruise ship room. It basically had everything without having a kitchen. I went and flopped down on the bed and looked out the windows at the park and watched the cars go by. Gina was still excitedly looking around, but I was hungry and was ready for her to finish her inspection.


And that was when she said the weirdest thing. In order to have an understanding of why what she said was weird, I need to back up.


Unlike me, Gina and her family doesn't have a whole lot of spending money. When she told me about her graduation vacation to the east coast, and how they didn't have money for a hotel so they all stayed slept in the van each night for most of the trip, my jaw dropped a little. She has four other brothers and sisters, plus her parents. And while I didn't understand why her mom insisted on homeschooling instead of getting a job that could let her kids stay in cheap hotels on family vacations they only take once every few years, it wasn't really my call either.


And while I pretty much believed the reason for going to college was so that I could get a good paying job and to then be able to do the things I liked like going on nice vacations or buying sexy shoes, Gina didn't really agree with the sentiment. Sharon had pointed out on numerous occasions how Gina should strive to do better that her parents. Of course, the way Sharon said these things was in a condescending and overbearing tone, but she meant well.


Gina on the other hand seemed to fight Sharon tooth and nail on the subject saying that living below the poverty line was all she ever wanted and that she didn't need anything more. I decided not to point out that people below the poverty line don't get to have things like big houses or a Camaro in their driveways, but it was mostly because I didn't see the point in arguing. She would make the rebuttal of, "I can save up!" Which she knows as well as I do that "saving up" just can't happen when you have to spend every penny you make on food, current car repairs, and cell phone bills.


So all of these things, Gina trying to fight making herself better than her parents, making more money than her parents, but still trying to appear like she has more than she does took me aback when she tried to make it okay that she doesn't have the means to spend money on even a weekend vacation.


She was looking out the window, fiddling with the fancy curtains when she said, "You know, I am glad I don't have the ability to do this all the time. I wouldn't appreciate it at all, I think."


And just like that, she made it okay in her head to not ever strive to be able to just go and spend money at a fancy hotel, or on a nice dinner, or on sometimes expensive clothes. I bit my cheek. I wanted to say things like you should want to have this! You have the ability to go to college and make it happen. You are selling yourself short.


But I didn't. Because what is the point in arguing over her not wanting to be able to do something nice for herself?


So we left for dinner, walking down to Bar Louie for burgers, then heading back to the Chase to watch the movie Wanderlust. Then it was almost midnight so we made our way back to our hotel room, and exhausted from working earlier in the day we went to bed.


The next morning we headed back out for coffee at the Coffee Cartel, and I was pleasantly surprised to find a hand delivered newspaper. We read parts of it while drinking our calorie loaded drinks and eating sausage, egg and cheese sandwiches. When then hit our last stop at The Cup and bought cupcakes to bring home to our families.


I picked up my car from the valet and tipped him the ten dollars Sharon had given me. The guy got a lot friendlier after that. I guess he wasn't expecting any tip from the girls with the wheezing Hyundai. I drove Gina home, and it seemed that the "fancy" had worn off, since she was ready to get back to work painting houses and wearing basketball shorts.


While I definitely enjoyed myself, (especially the down pillows), it was probably that one comment of Gina's that made me just really sit back and think for the rest of the night.

Firefighting for Clean Air

My mom works for the American Lung Association, (and is pretty much cool shit,) and is actually the like super cool/amazing web designer person. She also happens to be the unofficial volunteer coordinator of the family and close friends for Fight for Clean Air climb.


Every year, Ambria and I volunteer and hand out t-shirts. Originally we needed the volunteer hours for school, (which required 300) but there was actually something else that kept us coming back every year after we graduated high school.


The firemen.


To be as simple as possible, at the end of the race there is the final race of the firemen. Basically what happens is the different firemen districts go up in teams, some in full gear with oxygen, and some without the oxygen. And after climbing the forty flights of stairs, they get to the top where Ambria and I sit at our t-shirt table. After all that climbing, they get pretty over heated. And like any normal person they take off the things that make them hot.


And that is exactly what Ambria and I wait for every year. It's like a freaking sexy-hot firemen calendar shoot. They are all hot and sweaty and sexy-gorgeous. And they usually strip down to their boxer briefs and lay on the floor panting. And Ambria and I sit there and smile and say things like, "Good job!" and "You look hot!"


And then we hand them their t-shirts and smile seductively and say with a southern twang, "Oh you can have one, sweetie, you just can't wear it!" And those boys smile at us with their sexy smiles, some even wink.


Oh, how I like the stair climb.


Of course, this year was almost no different. Gina just joined Ambria and I.


For the most part, the stair climb went smoothly. There were some hiccups, like the fact that there were no 2XL shirts to be found until almost the end of the race. Or that the specialty shirts that had a name list didn't have the whole list of names and thus there were not enough of them, (or any smalls). And the final hiccup came when there actually wasn't enough regular shirts either, and so Ambria and I were stuck taking names from some very cranky people, including a lady with more caked on foundation than my Grandma Shirley.


Of course, nothing really could out do the firemen.


They were pretty smoking hot this year, and even smelled deliciously of campfire and man.


We weren't ready for them. It was in the middle of the race when we heard the distinctive chirping of the oxygen tanks. Ambria and I kind of looked at each other as we pulled out our chairs to sit and watch. Gina wasn't sure at first, but was delighted to see the first yellow coats.


They came and practically collapse on the ground. Panting and hot, one couldn't get his oxygen beeper to turn off, so ended up banging it on the floor.


We all sat and smiled and clapped for them. They were troopers after all.


Finally they all made it up, and slowly, coughing and sweaty, they came to our table and got the shirts they wanted. Some were shirtless, some with their helmets left haphazardly on their heads. They were all grateful for the shirts they got, and one particularly hot one gave us all high fives.


My little brother didn't see the appeal, but he was a boy after all.

Getting Fancy

So my dad and Sharon are big spenders, in the sense that they like to spend money, and they like to spend it all the time. They had just gotten their tax returns back, Sharon's significantly larger than my dad's since she makes so much more, and they decided that they wanted to celebrate with a fancy dinner at the only five star restaurant in town, Tony's.


Sharon's best gay friend, Dean was also joining them, and that was when they invited me to be his "date." The only problem was, I didn't have their definition of "fancy clothes." And so our day began with a trip to Nordstrom's Rack and Whole Foods. (Where I think the "fancy people" go to spend lots of money for no reason.)


Nordstrom's Rack was like a mad house. All of these hyper skinny blond women in tall heels were running around grabbing things at random. There was a long line for the changing rooms, and the jeans were on hangers that had a security cord that ran through the belt loops. I had somehow stumbled into the world where private school kids shopped with their parents' credit cards and housewives hung out everyday sipping on organic coffee. Sharon seemed to think everything was normal, but I saw it for the craziness $200 shirts were.


Sharon steered us towards the business looking clothes and pulled out a black dress. It was a size zero, and while it may fit the rest of me, my boobs definitely wouldn't. I agreed anyways, since she would push it until I tried it on. A tall black sales lady came over with two more dresses, saying, "They will be perfect for your figure."


We headed to the changing rooms where we met my dad in the guy's shirt isle. He was looking at a couple different shirts and couldn't decide what he wanted. Sharon suggested he try the one he was leaning towards on because it looked kind of big. He was wearing a shirt on under his fleece, so he started to pull his fleece off. His shirt sort of came with the fleece though, and he was baring his back for a few seconds before he pulled it down.


"Well, I never," I heard some old lady say. I looked around and she had perfectly dyed blond hair to match her greying eyebrows and crows feet. I half scowled at her. My dad a shirt on. It wasn't his fault it had scooted up for ten seconds.


The shirt ended up not fitting, so trying the shirt on was for naught, but I still don't think the lady should have acted so uppity. Guess that comes with the "fancy" territory.


I finally got into the changing room and tried on the too tight dress. I showed Sharon and explained it was much to tight in the boob region. I tried on the next dress only to find that my legs were basically plastic wrapped together. The last dress fit fine, and was a size two, but it was loose in the bust, which I didn't like that much.  But Sharon liked it, I think it was mostly because it covered my tattoo. Since she was paying I didn't have that much of a choice.


We went to check out, and Sharon pointed out how the people wave flags to get our attention. The lady rang everything up and the final cost was over four hundred dollars. Considering I didn't make that in a month, I felt like saying, "Take this shit back!"


We headed over to Whole Foods next and I saw the coffee dispensing area. I practically begged my dad to buy me some. So we stood in line and waited. And while we did, this super old dude, (like a freaking dinosaur) dressed in a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, old faded jeans, and a flannel shirt with a mural of the "ol' west" on the back proceeded to dump his coffee everywhere. After cleaning that up and making a new coffee, which he somehow managed to not spill, he then began to demand that the cashier find his wife and daughter.


After he noticed his family off somewhere else, dad and I were able to get our coffee and find Sharon. Sharon had found a sale on Veuve Clicquot, and was sending some sales boy to unlock the liquor cabinet. I picked up all the different pieces of cheeses that were being offered, telling the guys behind the counter that I really loved cheese. They didn't seem to mind me, and offered me a couple of different slices that weren't set out for everyone to try. (I can safely say I like being cute.)


We finally had the food Sharon wanted and were heading to check out yet another set of expensive items. I balked again at the hundred dollar price tag as we left. We headed out to the car, and managed to go to the wrong car all together. I felt really weird about going to the wrong car and trying the handle.


We headed home, and I headed back to my apartment so I could get ready since I needed shoes fancier than flip flops. I straightened my hair, picked my grey tights, and put on my "sexy secretary shoes." Then I drove back to dad's in time for them to break out the champagne. Which I got none of because Sharon is a hard ass.


Then we headed to Tony's. We had to walk into what I kind of thought was a bank, but really turned out to be the restaurant. They had us wait a moment while they fixed up our table. They steered us over to the "famous people wall," where there was lots of pictures of stars and sports people. There was also lots of signed letters from stars and sports people who had passed through saying how great the food was.


We got sat, and I noticed that we had three waiters. And they made a point to pull out the chair for me and put the napkin in my lap for me. I thought it was very weird. Then we didn't have menus. Apparently we had to place a drink order first.


When they finally gave us our menus, but since it was all in Italian, I couldn't figure out what anything was. I had to keep asking dad because he was at least a chef and could tell me what most of it was. The waiter also informed us of the specials, which I didn't really listen to because it was all seafood.


I decided on the spinach and beef ravioli for an appetizer, stuffed quail and beef tenderloin for and entree, and an ice cream pie for dessert. The waiter boys tried to serve me wine, but Sharon basically bit their heads off, so all I got was Coke. Then when the appetizers came out, I was disappointed to see that my raviolis were barely stuffed and there wasn't any wonderful hot cheese melted on top.


I didn't want to complain though, and ate my ravioli while Sharon, Dean, and my dad got steadily drunker. Our plates were taken away on the sly and replaced with clean plates. Then the waiters served us our entrees, and my steak was cooked very, very rare. I moo'd at it.


Dad laughed, but Sharon got a wrinkle in her brow. Dean didn't seem to notice since he was looking at a waiter boy rather closely. The sauce my quail was covered in was really spicy for me, but I ate almost half of it to make my dad and Sharon happy. I also drank four cups of Coke. Of course, they still each out drank me in the wine department.


They took our food away to be wrapped up and brought out dessert. Dad also got coffee with drambuie, and Sharon got tea with amaretto. Dad also made me get a mocha coffee, but it was so bitter I could barely drink it. I had to add almost a cup of sugar.


My ice cream pie came out, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was bigger than my head. The meringue that topped it was nearly a foot tall. Then to top it off, the whole thing was covered in chocolate hardshell and caramel. I dug into it hardily.


I didn't finish anything they gave me, but no one seemed to mind. The food was ridiculously rich.


Dad and Sharon were finally ready to leave just as the day was turning over The bill was over four hundred dollars pre-tip. Attempting to stand up was met by waiters pulling our chairs out and stealing our napkins away, and then rushing off to fetch our coats. I felt like a stuffed pig, and could barely get my coat. Mostly it was because the guy wouldn't let me put my coat on by myself.


The valet went and fetched our car, and he opened the passenger door for me, but I cheerily informed him I was driving tonight. "They don't look fit enough to drive do they?" I asked him. He smiled at me after looking at Dad and Sharon. He didn't agree with me, though I could see he wanted to.


Driving home was met with Dad giving me drunken backseat directions which I ignored. I finally turned onto the highway and got them home. I made sure they got in the house and let the puppy out to pee on his pads. They were safely tucked into bed and snoring before I left for home.


Dad didn't return my text the next morning asking how hungover he was. I suspect it was because they were really, really hungover.

Sid the Sloth

So my dad and Sharon decided to get a new puppy. We've had my dog Dash now for almost ten years. He was actually my birthday present when I turned ten. He is a beautiful red merle Australian Shepherd that I love dearly. He is literally my pride and joy.


Dad and Sharon decided they wanted to get another Aussie a few years ago, but the time was never "right." My dad finally got in contact with the breeder who we got Dash from and we were referred to a breeder down in Cape Girardeau. Sharon called me up and asked if I wanted to come and help pick the "new family member."


I can't resist a puppy.


Dad, Sharon, Nathaniel and I, (very Monty Python...) piled in the car and headed on our way. We stopped at the gas station and where they got things that make sense for a road trip, while I got Simply Orange orange juice and M&M's. I know those things definitely don't mix, but still...


We drove for a couple hours until I had to go to the bathroom. I could barely listen to the new Blink-182 CD I had downloaded onto my iPod, I had to pee so bad. Dad finally found me a gas station, and I bolted from the car before it stopped moving. I ran inside with what I assume was a frantic look on my face because the (very cute) guy at the counter pointed at the bathroom.


"Right over there miss!" He proclaimed, like he was a ring master at a circus.


I panted a quick, "Thank you!" as I ducked into the door and into a stall. I was pretty amazed that the little gas station had stalls in their bathroom, but of course didn't ask questions. With a heavy and happy sigh, I peed.


Sharon come in a minute after me, and while I was still mid-pee, she decided to strike up a conversation with me.


One thing people should know is that I don't like to talk while doing anything in the bathroom. It's just weird.


So when she asked me what I thought of the ride, "Oh, yeah..." I mumbled at her. I had to get out of there fast. I peed harder, and was on the brink of having bladder muscle cramps, but I would have rather that then keep chatting about the drive while urinating.


I left the stall and washed my hands and said, "I'll be waiting on the car!" I skidaddled quickly, and then really went and sat on the car. Dad had locked the doors, but thankfully he had parked in the sun so I stayed relatively warm. They had decided to buy more food and drinks, but I didn't want to have to pee again, so I was happy to wait.


We piled back in the car again and headed on our way. We kept going south until we hit mile marker 99. That was are golden exit. Dad had given Sharon the directions even though she was definitely not in the navigator seat, nor could she understand the way my dad had taken down the notes, but I decided to let it slide. That is what wives are for: screwing up directions.


After Sharon conceded defeat, "I can't read your directions! They stop at the end of the page! Why didn't you just turn the paper over?" I grabbed the notebook.


"See," I said, pointing with my finger, "He just moved it to the middle of the page here." I gave Dad the rest of the directions and we finally found the place.


It wasn't exactly a trailer park, (the houses were built on the ground,) but is was pretty "hoos," as St. Louisans like to say. Opening the car door, it smelled like dog shit. And dog vomit. And unwashed dog hair. I crinkled my nose. We waved to the lady who was waiting on the driveway. She lead us to the back yard where her husband was waiting in the puppy pen with the two candidates.


See, we had to pick carefully, because my Dashelle was quite the handful. He didn't particularly like other dogs. He would tolerate some, like Sharon's friend's dog Hank, and my mom's dog Cooper. He is a bully though, and I know it. I suggested we get the more outgoing puppy when we went, so as he got older he would stick up for himself.


We climbed into the pen one at a time, and the puppies seemed timid. I was a little afraid that they weren't gonna warm up. We cooed at the little boys and offered our hands, and the one with the black ear came over to me and Nathaniel. We scooped him up and let him lick our faces. He was the one Dad and I had pretty much figured was the puppy we would get anyways. We had asked earlier the size of the parents, and knew that he was going to be a monster of a dog, just like my Dash.


The other puppy sat pressed up against my dad and never really warmed up to anyone. He was very shy. The first puppy got happier and friskier the more we played with him, and we knew he was the one.


Sharon went to get her computer from the car and had problems with doing the PayPal thing. She asked me if I had ever used PayPal before, which I had when I had to pay my taxes, but didn't have an account or anything, so I wasn't really helpful. I kept petting our new puppy and talking to him.


Nathaniel and I were arguing about what to name the puppy. I wanted to name him Sidney, and I was going to get my way one way or another.


There was a reason I wanted to name him Sidney. Dad and I had made fun of Dash when he came back from the groomer and they hadn't shaved him arms. He had these big furry front arms that kinda looked like a sloth. That was when Dad and I started calling Dash "Sid the Sloth" which we later decided should be the name for our new puppy.


Sharon disagreed once we met our new puppy saying that "he didn't look like a Sid." I decided to fight to name the puppy Sid. I tried other names like Georgie, and Ham, and Taco-Burrito-Grande-Nacho. They didn't seem to stick. Especially the last one.


And then I stumbled upon the ultimate reasoning. "He is an Australian Shepherd," I said, stressing the country of origin, (which of course Australian Shepherds were bred in America, but that was regardless of the point,) "And therefore he should be named Sidney. After Sidney, Australia."


It seemed that it was the perfect reasoning. It was irrefutable. It was like I had planted the flag of names on the puppy. He was named by me, just like my dog Dash.


Sharon paid the breeder $631, and we loaded him up in the car and headed on our way. At first everything was okay. Sid was being super cute and slightly clingy, and he kept licking us. We put him in the middle of the seat and shaded his little face. Everything was going well, I was even able to get through my Blink CD.


That was when Nathaniel made an ick face and said, "He puked on me!"


Sure enough the puppy had puked all over the place. Then Sid got the "Oh, man. That looks good!" face and I had to grab him away from the half digested kibble. Dad pulled the car over and cleaned the puke up, and soon we were back on the road. We made it home soon enough, and finally it was time for Dash to meet his new little brother.


We brought the puppy inside and put him in the front foyer. Dash came and started sniffing around. His nose started to run out of control, dripping and sliming the puppy up. He seemed excited more than "I want to kill" so we got some paper towels and wiped the puppy and floors up.


Dash seemed confused about the puppy's presence, but accepting for the moment. Eventually the puppy got tired and settled down. We made Dash calm down too. And eventually I was able to get an adorable picture of both of them.

Faking It

I stayed at Regina's house last weekend and stayed at my dad's house this weekend in order to avoid my brother who was supposed to be coming in from Washington or Iowa or something. But every time something came up, so I have been avoiding my home for absolutely no reason.


That is regardless of the point, though. Since I was staying at my dad's house, I needed a pretty good reason to just stay there. I told him that I was working on a project with Regina, but because her grandparents were in town, I couldn't stay there. The project was a lie, the grandparents were true.


On Friday, I went over to Gina's to keep up the ruse. Then I came back home and acted like everything was normal. On Saturday, after I got done with work, I got to dad's and took a shower, then explained how I really needed to work on that project. But then Sharon tempted me with a movie, (The Grey).


The movie was greatly amusing. Of course, there were some inconsistencies, with regards to how the survival went, and then the actual wolves... But still, I was really enjoy action/suspense... and movie theatre popcorn.


So I blew off the "project" that night, and decided to really buckle down for Sunday.


So I told Gina to come over. We went out to my house, and I still believed that my brother was in town, so I left quickly, dragging my guitar along with me.


Gina and I then got back to my dad's house and proceeded to watch The Notebook, play guitar, and bump around on Facebook.


It was after almost two hours of playing around that I decided to make a fake powerpoint... just in case.


Turns out, it came in handy. Sharon walked into [my] room asking about our project.


"How is it going, girls?" Sharon asked.


"Pretty good," I said, and flipped the computer around to shower her my slide.

She didn't read the whole slide, just saw the title and assumed we were hard at work.


"Good job girls!" She congratulated us. "Keep up the good work!"


I have never thought faking it was a good thing... until now!

Prefacing a Conversation

I freak out about a lot of things. Like the fact that my apartment is always never clean. I never do anything about the chaos, but still, I sometimes walk in the door and I say, "God, what the fuck is wrong with me that I can't keep this space clean?"


Other things that freak me out: When I am sure that I left the bag of chocolate chips on my futon and they mysteriously end up on the counter. When I realize that I am fifteen minutes late to watching Criminal Minds and I have missed a very shirtless Shemar Moore. When I stick my feet into the wrong slippers, (they are dog heads, and the one that has one eye definitely goes on my left foot... I think.) When someone says, "Turn left," I look at my hands, see which way they want me to go, and turn right anyways.


Those things generally make me freak out, put my hands on my face and go, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" While others may find this reaction highly amusing, it is a true freak out on my part. Sometimes I go even farther and stomp my feet or grumble loudly but incoherently about whatever my problem is. I have even been known to smack my forehead and leave a veritable mark.


But the thing that freaks me out the most is when people send me text messages out of the blue with, "We need to talk."


There is NO point in time that that is a good way to start a conversation.


Dad: "We need to talk."
This was his way of telling me that we needed to discuss the fact that I was rarely ever home, and that if I want to keep using the car, I needed to buy it. That was a huge money suck.


Mom: "We need to talk."
This is her way of telling me that she might, maybe have skin cancer. That was a cool way of finding out. (Turns out she actually did, just not the super serious kind. It was just a few patches of basal cell carcinoma.)


Regina: "We need to talk."
Her way of telling me that she has done something that is possibly tremendously stupid and while her parents are in earshot.


Chris: "We need to talk."
His way of telling me that he wants to break up with me because he doesn't love me the same anymore. Then again to tell me after said break up, and while he is with a new girl friend that he definitely still has hardcore feeling for me.


Like I said, at no point is "We need to talk," a good thing.


So, please.... PLEASE don't preface any conversation with me as a "We need to talk," conversation because I can guarantee  that I will be freaking out until you tell me what it is you wanna say.


And as an extra side note, if I say something like, "I don't like it when people preface a conversation with 'We need to talk,' because it is foreboding, and is relationship ruining words." Do not tell me NOT to worry about it, because I will worry about it until I have hair falling out, I am sweating all the time, I get a fever, and have chewed my nails down to nubs.


Seriously people. I am secretly neurotic!

The Macaroni and Cheese Alien

I am a full time student at the community college, and therefore I get to take classes I enjoy as well as the more difficult classes. Currently, I am enrolled in a creative writing class, (because in case no one noticed, I like to write.) One of our assignment was to recall our first writing experience, which I think is just humorous enough to be shared here on my blog.


When I was about six or seven, there was a competition from the Kraft Macaroni and Cheese company. Basically kids had to write a story the was one hundred words or less that incorporated Kraft Macaroni and Cheese into it. Feeling particularly creative, I sat down with a pencil I had to sharped, some wide-ruled paper, and got to work.


In my head, I had an elaborate story. The story itself may have spawned from watching one too many SyFy alien movies and television programs, but that was regardless of the point. In my little six or seven year old brain, sitting at the round table in the dining room, the sun streaming through the sliding glass door, I had dissertation to write for Kraft.


I began my story with an introduction of my characters. I was, of course, the star of the production. My friend Alyssa took the role of faithful side kick. I grew my setting, the peaceful Missouri countryside during a particularly hot summer. Finally, I dropped in my conflict: an alien invasion.


I can't recall exactly how dark this story was. Looking back on it now, I feel like maybe I didn't win because Kraft didn't want to be associated with an alien invasion. Nonetheless, it was still a fabulous story.


See, the aliens were invading because they were extremely hungry. And they weren't hungry for just anything. They didn't want sausage, not were they interested in bread. Pudding was not on the menu. (Coincidentally they were not after human brains, so maybe six/seven year old me didn't make the story dark enough.) These aliens were after huge bowls of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and would stop at nothing to get it.


Naturally, I realized exactly what the aliens were after. How story me knew this information, I don't know, but that is when I started to incorporate the resolution.


Alyssa and I quickly went into the kitchen and started cooking up a storm, making bowls and bowls of the tiny elbow macaroni, coating it in the weird cheese powder and milk substance, and delivering it to the aliens' disc shaped ships. Finally, after our shirts were stained with cheese, empty blue boxes covered the floors, and our stove had run out of gas, the aliens had enough macaroni and cheese to be satisfied for a lifetime.


The thanked Alyssa and me in their weird alien way and their ships took flight into the dark expanse called the Milky Way. The world was saved, and I was to thank.


When I typed up the story, (and was four words over one hundred,) I asked my mom to help edit it. She read the story though, shortened it to ninety-six word because there were some obvious redundancies, and we mailed it to Kraft.


They sent back a letter several weeks later explaining that while they liked my story, it wasn't what they were looking for.


I didn't know what that meant at the time, so I was a little verklempt. I eventually got over the snub deciding that Kraft was full of crazy people and went on to write several short stories for school and myself. I have yet to have another alien invasion, but I am sure I have one up my sleeve.


That would have been me: