Friday Night Lights

Last night I went to the city championship game here in Brunswick. The town's two high schools, Brunswick High and Glynn Academy, square off in a game that always attracts a large crowd. All three of my older brothers went to Brunswick High and played football for the Pirates, so I spent many Friday nights in the fall cheering for their team to win. My father decided I should go to a small "christian" school to keep me away from boys like my brothers, so I did not get a regular high school experience. All of our flag football games were played during the day in towns like Waycross, Jesup and Ludowici. Because I was exposed to the hedonous public school games, I knew there was a major difference between our cheerleaders and the Brunswick High cheerleaders. Our cheerleaders had skirts that went to their ankles and had shirts that were sure not to produce any lust in the hearts of the boys in the stands, well not really stands, the fans just kind of stood around on the grass because we did not have any stands.

I was lucky that my brothers were considered studs and the cheerleaders at Brunswick High always wanted to appear maternal in front of them so they would let me sit on the field and hold some of the small pom-poms. Occasionally they would pick me up after a touchdown and I would look up into the stands and feel like I was the luckiest girl in the world. They were sweet and perky and I wanted to be just like them one day. These kind souls did not realize that my brothers despised me because my dad let me watch Seseame Street any time I wanted too, but Rusty, Tim and Robbie tried to be nice to me in front of strangers so it worked out well for all concerned. It was my greatest desire in the world to be a cheerleader. I learned every cheer, every move and I would stand alone outside during lunch at school and do those cheers imagining that I was at the game on a friday night. I spent many hours in detention because, according to mrs. Partin, I was doing "inappropriate gyrations." I knew I had no chance at Emanuel Christian School of being a real cheerleader. I would never be able to wear those short blue and gold skirts and shake my ass as the band played the Brunswick High fight song. I remember my shame and astonishment when, on our first game at Emanuel, the cheerleaders took the field with pom-poms that were made of trashbags that had been cut into long strips! I know it is unbelievable, but I swear it is true.

Going to the game last night brought back a lot of those memories. The cheerleaders I remember looked so much older. The girls cheering last night looked like babies, but maybe its because I am so much older. I saw people that I knew from high school: the girls who were once so beautiful were still beautiful; they only had a few more lines and a thicker waist. Guys that all the girls used to love were chasing a kid around and underneath their baseball cap was a little less hair. I heard some older people around me comment on how rude kids are nowadays, and I thought about it. I don't think it is rudeness, or lack of manners; I think it is that they live in a world consisting of themselves and their friends. A few wrinkles can make you invisible to them. It is not that they don't care; they just don't care about you. Fifteen years from now, they will return to this game and complain about the rudeness of kids nowadays while they adjust their baseball cap or look across the bleachers to find their teenage son and his friends.

Getting Your Way

Sometimes I think getting your way is overrated. We spend so much time pushing for what we think we want, that we spend very little time on really thinking about what we need. It seems unfair that with age comes wisdom. The arrogance of youth is thinking you know exactly what you, and those around you, should think or believe or do. Maybe if we spent a little less time on introspection and a little less time thinking about what those around us could do to give us our way, we could find a peacepul existence.

Thoreau said it best: "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away."

It Tastes Like Evaporated Milk

I think people are hilarious. As I grow older, I am beginning to realize that I love the quirkiness and differences that are inevitable in people. A few weeks ago, I was on the treadmill next to a man wearing black knee socks, black shoes, black dress shorts and a black fanny pack. I smiled as I saw him stand on the treadmill and begin his very sensible workout; not too fast or exciting. It may sound strange for me to say that his oddness made me happy, but it did. I felt this strange affection for him and his fanny pack because it told me so much about him, or at least my idea of him. He probably has a nice life with a sensible wife and a normal home, nothing out of the ordinary in the decor. He drives a mini-van and wears his seatbelt. His radio is tuned to the station that plays "The best in lite favorites," and plays quietly, only as a backdrop to his thoughts on the ride home from work, and not intrusively as a source of any emotional release or outlet. He knows who he is and what he is all about, and a part of me loves him for that. His predictability is his quirkiness, and I think it is beautiful.
I went to dinner last night with a group of people that, except for one, I do not know very well, and I was reminded of how funny and strange people are. We were served a desert that I had never seen before. It was simply strawberries and cream, but because the restaurant was exotic, it felt like something much more than just strawberries and cream. A girl at our table, that I always find quirky and amusing, said "It tastes like evaporated milk!" She did not use her quiet voice, and my friend and I thought this outburst was so funny, because we always sit on pins and needles when this girl talks. We feel like she is going to say something that will embarrass us or herself at any moment. This was one of those moments when I felt like the guy on the treadmill: uptight and sensible with an emotional fanny pack on. Why would I care what she says or be embarrassed by her outbursts? I don't know the answer, but I may not be as free-spirited as I think. I may be more conscious of the gaze of others than I like to think. I found myself thinking about it and laughing today, but the truth is, it did taste like evaporated milk, but I would have been too afraid to say that.

Living in the House of Mirth

Birthdays are funny. When you are little, you count the days until your next birthday. I remember waking up on my birthday and feeling like I was the luckiest girl in the world. My mom would bake a cake and my brothers would be nice to me for the day and I would get phone calls from relatives and presents from my family and friends; birthdays were fabulous. Another year older and closer to independence. The freedom to stay up as late as I want, to get out of school, to drive, to have sex, and whatever else my age stopped me from doing.

Now, I feel completely different. My son asked me today if I was happy that it was my birthday. I said "no." He found that ridiculous. He just does not know what I know: It is nice to be told what to do. Now all the mistakes I have made, and still make, are all on me. I would like to go back to the days when someone told me to go to bed, not to have sex with just anyone, and drove me where I needed to go. Freedom can be overrated, but my thirteen year old does not recognize that yet, and I am glad. He is still filled with the possibilities of the future. He does not know the constraint of freedom yet, but someday he will. That thought makes me sad, but I know that he can do better than I have. I hope I have plenty of birthdays ahead to see what he does with his freedom.

I Put the King in Burger

I am one of the unfortunate many that sees food as a pleasure and not a source of nourishment. I listen in amazement when someone says, "Oh my god, I forgot to eat today!" I do not even have to look to see that the person that said this weighs as much as my thigh and has on large hoop earings. I was not always this fascinated with food. In fact, when I was younger, my mother said I was "wormy." I would love to find out where I got those worms and if they are still available for service.
My problems all began with a girl named Ginger T. She was far from wormy and lived across the street from me. Ginger was only 11, but she already smelled like Grandma, you know, you have to hold your breath when you go in for a hug kinda smell. Well Ginger loved to eat, especially food from Burger King, specifically the Whopper. Instead of writing about food in her dairy, Ginger wrote about the happiness she felt on the days her mom would go the grocery store. Sad I know, but 100% true.
Ginger taught me this game. The game diod not have a name, but it went something like this: Whoever takes the longest to eat the whopper wins. Sounds fun huh? Well I was not the sharpest kid at this game. When it came to food games, nobody beat Ginger T.
One day I was sick and tires of losing "Eat the Whopper Slowly," so I formed a strategy and challenged the master. Her mother always felt sorry for me because my mom never bought us fast food, so she always bought an extra Whopper for me. As Ginger and I unwrapped our sandwiches, we looked at one another and knew that the game beginning. We paced ourselves, no need to eat slowly until the end. I watched from inder my bangs as we neared the end of the sandwich. I watched in amazement as Ginger took her last bite. Did she forget we were playing? Was the power of that last fabulous bite to much for her? In a moment of her obvious weakness, I defeated the master. I raised my last bite to the air, and felt as I imagined Olympic athletes must feel when they stand on the podium after winning the gold medal, and dropped the small piece into my mouth. But then, to my astonishement, Ginger brought her hand from behind her back and cackled, "You did not winnnnn!," as I swallowed the last sesame seed.
I went home, once again defeated by a child obviously much smarter than I, and had a bowl of pudding.

Cigarettes and Baseball Hats

I recently discovered something about myself that I think I have always known: I like boys that look bad. I am the kind of girl that looks twice at the cute guy standing outside of the probation office wearing a baseball cap and smoking a cigarette. I like the guys who work in central supply here at Armstrong who wear t-shirts that say "Rehab is for Quitters." If you have some sort of addiction or did not enough love as a child, then I am all yours. I guess it is a savior complex, and it would not be a problem if I directed it towards children and small animals, but I inevitably lavish my attention on the cute guys that, if they are not on probation, then they are in danger of it.

Getting On Board

Everyone has told me that I should start a blog, so, here it goes. I do not have any good Washington gossip like Wonkette, or anything beautiful and thoughtful to say like that cool chick at Sunday Morning, but I may try to make you laugh about something that I think is funny or outrageous. Every once in a while, I may try to write something serious about life and how tough we make it.