StoryLog

#13 Playing House

2011-02-13T12:02:00.000-08:00

This is a piece I wrote for school. It's a different style than I'm used to posting, so please let me know what you think! My apologies: it's a little lengthy!

As a kid, I was never good at playing house. Ever. I would even venture to say that I was actively bad at playing house, which is a loaded statement. I should clarify and say that house is not a game that one can really be bad at. There are no rules, there is no winner, and anyone can play. So the fact that I struggled with it was just as pathetic as it was troublesome. House is and was, after all, the quintessential play-date game, and to struggle with it would be to struggle with all social interactions of my youth. After all, a game of house was never “just” a game, but something that could permanently set the tone for a friendship. For instance, two kids who could, without any hassle at all, decide who got to play the mom and who got to play the dad, were likely to form the strongest of bonds, while two kids who couldn’t cast themselves so easily (after all, no one really wants to play the dad, do they?), were more likely to be in an ‘on again/off again’ friendship. Come to think of it, any pre-teen drama between friends can probably be traced back to a game of house. This all may seem melodramatic, but such is the life of an elementary school girl.

My ineptitude, however, wasn’t because I was anti-social or stubborn, but because I had a really tough time getting into the game. As rare as it was for a kid whose favorite hobby was acting, I had trouble pretending to be someone I wasn’t. My issues (perhaps phobias) with house would present themselves subtly: I’d call a friend by their real name, and not the one that they had assigned themselves for the game, or I’d remind the other players that this was just a game, and take the wind out of their sails by delivering harsh reality checks such as, “well, you’re not really a doctor,” or, “we don’t really have kids.” All of this made me an undesirable play-date companion, and I knew it. I was totally aware of what I was doing, but I couldn’t control it. I hated the idea of living a lie, even if it was just pretend, and only lasted as long as recess did. Still, I was troubled by my lack of skill, and often wondered where it came from. Was it all in my head? Do I just need to be better at pretending? Does it run in the family?

Turns out: yes, it does. My parents weren’t good at playing house, either, and in the middle of my 3^rd grade year, they told my siblings and I that they were getting a divorce. I’ll never forget the moment I learned: my two siblings and I all sat in a row on our worn out leather couch, our parents standing in front of us after having just called a family meeting. They stood there silently, trying to figure out what to say, while my older siblings and I tried to guess who had died, and whether or not we’d get to miss school. When the words finally came out, though, when we finally heard, “your father and I are getting a divorce,” I’ll never forget what happened next. Something fell over the room, and it wasn’t quite silent, nor was it anything you could hear, and yet it was the most distinct sound in the world. There we were, five people: a dad, a mom, a brother and two sisters, all getting lost in our own heads, all traveling in millions of different directions inside of our minds, and yet the instant those words landed, crashing over all of us was the unison sound of each of our lives changing forever.

No one cried. No one even asked questions. The three kids, or rather, the two teens and me, the baby of the family, all went to our rooms. I practiced saying the words out loud, to see what felt right. I’d look in the mirror and say, “my parents are divorced,” or, “my parents split up,” or maybe, “my parents aren’t together anymore.” I was sort of hoping I’d cry. I was sort of hoping that one variation on the phrase, when said out loud, would trigger me to crawl into bed, with stuffed animals tucked under my arm, and cry. I tried again, “they’re getting a divorce,” but nothing happened. I wondered what I was doing wrong. Kids are supposed to cry when they hear news like this, yet I didn’t feel a thing.

As the divorce progressed, my teachers were alerted. They would pull me aside to make sure that I was feeling okay, and every time they did this, part of me wanted to lie and say that I wasn’t. I was supposed to be upset, and I simply wasn’t. Or, at least I didn’t think I was. That said, a few months into the divorce, my teacher kept me after school one day so that we could talk for a few minutes. He had noticed that I hadn’t spoken in class, and he wanted to know if anything was wrong. I engaged in a staring contest with my knees, took a deep breath, and told the biggest lie I’d ever told. I said, “yes,” and I began to tell him how upset I was by the divorce. I told him I missed having my mom and dad in the same house. I told him I even missed their fighting. It was the kind of conversation that every kid should have with someone they trust, but the only issue was that every bit of it was false. With each word that left my mouth, I surprised myself even more, not only with how far my conscience had allowed me to go, but also with how significantly I seemed to pull at my teacher’s heartstrings.

Back then, I saw this moment as the day I crossed over to the dark side. I looked back on this moment only to feel my stomach clench into a 20-pound knot. This moment, however, is the perfect explanation of how my parents’ divorce affected me. There I was, stuck, doing whatever I could do to ‘feel’ something. I had snuck around and read my parents books on how to coax your kids through the divorce, and the one piece of advice that all of these books had in common was that divorce was supposed to be a growing experience. I couldn’t pinpoint it then, but this so-called ‘lesson’ paralyzed me with fear. This was the cause of my numbness, and it’s taken almost 8 years to realize this.

If divorce is supposed to be a growing experience, then the kids who have gone through it are supposed to exit the ordeal with a new-found maturity and sense of self. This terrified me. I didn’t know who the older version of me was going to be, but I felt like I had to choose a side before I got there. My own, personal development suddenly became yet another battle of Mom Vs. Dad. I would play scenarios in my head over and over again, each one seeming worse than the next. I have my dad’s eyes and nose, but what would happen if I inherited his humor? It was no secret that my mom had developed an aversion to his trademark crassness. Or, conversely, would my dad even want to be around me if I inherited my mother’s ability to be oversensitive? Growing up, it seemed, was accessible only after I navigated past a fork in the road. I had to choose, and there was no way around it. When one of my siblings decided to live permanently at one parent's house, I felt I was doomed. I wanted both of my parents despite of who I might become, and I wanted to start living again.

So, I played house. I did what my elementary school self hated the most. When I was with my mom, I pretended to be the daughter that I knew she loved, I was the overly cheery theater girl who was more naïve than anything else. When I was with my dad, I played the role of the spunky tomboy who liked to play football and use curse words. I wasn't thrilled with either version of myself, yet the game lasted for years. I was trapped in what seemed like a never-ending game of house, but no one knew I was playing. Even well into high school, I continued to play the game at home. But as I spent more time with friends, and doing extra-curricular activities, I found myself at home with much less frequency, and so I played the game in decreasing amounts.

Two years ago, something changed. After 6 weeks, I was packing up to go home from camp. Usually, this is exciting. No matter how much a kid loves camp, the prospect of going home to good food, and a nice, long shower is invaluable. However, I was packing my bags for the last time. I had been going to this camp for 8 years, and I was finally leaving for good. I packed quickly, throwing clothes in wherever they would fit. My linens got stuffed into my sleeping bag, and my shower supplies, however nasty they looked, somehow made it into suitcase. I sat on my trunk, trying to pull the zipper, and then it happened. I cried. Wept, in fact. I curled up into a ball and cried harder than I ever have. It was then that I realized, I hadn’t cried in years. Embarrassing as it was, I finally found myself feeling something that was unique to me, and I was becoming my own person.

I’ll never be able to completely explain why leaving camp was so hard for me. I love that place with everything I have, and no list could capture all of the things I cherish so dearly. But one thing I know for sure is that every time I went there, I became someone new. I grew up, finally. I was unrestricted by my parents, and uninhibited by anything. I channeled both of them, and I channeled neither of them, and there was finally balance. Suddenly, as I sat crying on my suitcase, I realized I was finally playing the part of ‘me,’ and I was playing it for myself, and I loved it.

#12 Light at the End of the Tunnel

2010-05-26T18:08:00.000-07:00

Yet another subway story.

It's a groggy morning, and I've spent half an hour on the subway already (transferring, walking, waiting for a seat). There's probably 20 minutes left of my morning commute (minus walking), and I've just sat down. The subway is above ground now, so I know I'm in the home stretch. I'm ready to half-sleep/half-people watch for the rest of the ride.

Finally, after a few minutes have passed, the train gets less crowded, and a young woman - very early twenties - who's been standing a few feet away comes and sits down right next to me. She's sniffling. At first, it doesn't really shock me - either she has allergies or she's yet another person having bad, tear inducing morning (I'd already had to fish toothpaste out of my eye and scavenge for weather appropriate clothing, so I didn't have much in the way of sympathy.)

After a moment, though, it hits me that this woman is really crying. Weeping, in fact. Some people are staring, some people are pretending not to notice, and others are probably jealous of the attention she's getting. I can't help but look towards her; I thought I'd give her an encouraging smile, or a pat on the back - something. As soon as I look, though, she speaks to me. She's not looking at me, but I know it's to me because there's no one else sitting near her on this train, and no one has bothered to say, "hello" or acknowledge her.

"Oh, thank God you're around."

... Me?

"I really need someone to talk to."

I've never seen this woman before in my life. I know it. Either that, or it's not early enough for this kind of social amnesia to be acceptable, and I am overcome with guilt. I decide it won't hurt if I just respond:

"What happened?"

And then, like a bullet, she goes off. She tells me her entire, tragic story. Her boyfriend cheated on her, she hates her school, and she feels worthless.

It's a lot to handle, and now a lot of people are watching. It's all on me - I have to respond. I could chicken out. I could say it's my stop and get off, but I flashback to an image of myself on the subway, earlier this year, crying my eyes out about similar circumstances. No one helped me then, so I might as well just do for her what I wish someone had done for me way back when.

I gave her the advice I now know is true. Stuff about guys being horrible, about things getting better, semi-cliché sayings about inner beauty may or may not have been recited. I complimented her dress and I told her that her shoes were adorable-

Mid-advice session she stands up and starts waiting in front of one of the subway doors.

Um, crying stranger? Hi. I believe I was in the middle of being the mustache-less version of Dr. Phil. Was she offended? Did she finally realize we don't know each other and was so embarrassed she had to bolt upwards?

She turns around, the door is opening on the other side of the platform, and then I see it.

Her bluetooth.

She's been on her phone the entire time. She had no idea that I had even responded to her, and clearly someone on the other end of the telephone was engaging in the advice session.

The entire train seems to realize this at the same time, followed by one teenage boy laughing hysterically in the background. I nervously laugh, and decide to begin a staring contest with my shoes. She gets off the train, completely unaware of what had just happened.

I am stunned into silence. Did that really just happen? I think I was starting to like the speech I delivered to her, too. Meanwhile, the boy who's laughing in the background is no help. Thankfully, my stop is next and I head off the train. A young mother, toting a 7 (or so) year old girl comes up and stops me:

"You gave her excellent advice," she says, "I bet someone on that train took it to heart."

In truth, that's all I needed to hear.

#11 Practicing Safe Tests

2010-05-04T15:39:00.000-07:00

As many of you may know, a great number of Highschool juniors sat down for four hours and took the SATs last Saturday. Now, now, before you turn green with envy, I should warn you that this post is not about some dreadful SAT experience. No, no, this post is about some dreadful practice SAT experience!

I took my practice SATs at a college in New York City, and the first time I went there, I had to figure out which of the two empty classrooms on a certain floor was the one I had to go to. Naturally, I play a strenuous game of eenie meenie miney mo, make my well thought out choice, and walk into one of them.

Some other teenage girls walk in and make themselves comfortable at their desks. Finally, an older woman walks in and introduces herself. She then asks for all of our names, and our reason for being there. All of the girls said something along the lines of, "I'm doing this for school credit." I responded by saying, "my tutor told me to come here, a bunch of my friends have to do the same thing." There was some snickering but, whatever. Then, without further ado, the proctor opens her backpack and takes out a box. I was expecting her to take out timers, pencils, or busy work (it's no fun to proctor a four hour test). She then passed out a condom to every girl in the class.

If you're reaction right now is, "um... what?" then we're on the same page. If you think this is normal, please sit your parents down and prepare to appear on Dateline in the near future.

So, anyway, imagine my surprise. I take out my calculator, and place it right next to a trojan condom. Furthermore, NO ONE was acting like this was weird... I snickered, naturally, and the woman shot me a glare and said, "if you're not going to take this sex-ed class seriously, you can leave."

...

So, okay, I was in the wrong room. Had I walked across the hall I would have been sharpening my pencils and bubbling answers like the rest of 'em. Luckily, that test hadn't started, but that's not the point. I quickly took a trip down memory lane to recall what I said in this Sex Ed class that must have been horribly misinterpreted.

First of all, when I informed the class that I was there because, "my tutor had sent me," I certainly raised some red flags. What tutor forces their student to go to a sex ed class? Was "tutor" codeword for pimp? Moreover, when I added that my friends were doing the same thing, I made it seem as if I associate myself with a band of hooligans who, before proceeding to do anything in life, needed to do some book learnin' about the birds and the bees.

Secondly, I was trying to socialize with the girl next to me. So, I mumbled something along the lines of, "God, these tests are so stressful!" to which she responded, "not if you're safe..." I chalked it up to some weird testing technique, until I realized that she thought I was talking about pregnancy tests. Awesome.

Lastly, as I continued to socialize I said, "you know, when this is all over, it's not like I'm going to use the stuff I've learned for this in real life." Oh, dear lord. You see, this particular phrase was greeted with a profound amount of awkward silence, and I have just realized why. Out of context, I was talking about factorials and logarithms... In context, however, I appeared to be some girl just begging for a Lifetime movie to be made about her.

So, readers, this post comes with another very valuable lesson. If and when you go to take an SAT (or ACT, I suppose), and you are handed a rubber... your answer should always be, "E: none of the above."

#10 The Secret Life of Cleaning Products

2010-02-24T14:29:00.001-08:00

I am sick with the flu, so, like any rational human being, I spent the day watching Lifetime. But don't be so quick to judge, it turned out to be a very educational decision. You see, Lifetime broadcasts nothing but advertisements for cleaning products during the day. Don't believe me? Today, I saw the same Lysol commercial 15 times. I thought I had memorized it, until I realized that at the end of the commercial, a scrolling list of all of the viruses that Lysol kills scrolls past at lightning speed. Most people might glaze over that list, or take this commercial as an opportunity to get a refill of mint chocolate chip ice cream. But in my delirious, bed ridden state, I read the list each time the commercial came on. You know what? Thank goodness I did.

The list told me that Lysol kills Herpes.

Why did no one ever tell me this? Did you know this? Granted, it makes sense. Herpes is a virus, and Lysol kills 99% of all household viruses and bacteria, but since when is herpes a household virus? Is there even such a thing? No matter. This might be awkward for Lysol to advertise, seeing as the current Lysol ad campaign has three basic elements: some horrendously dirty household surface, a small child coming dangerously close to touching/eating it, and mom saves the day by spraying the surface with Lysol. Because it's bad to eat germs, and it's fine if you consume large doses of Lysol. Boring, boring, boring.

Well, I've decided to help the company out and give them what I think are some great suggestions for a new, spiced up ad campaign. See, now that we know the PG-13 side of Lysol, the commercials are about to get brilliant.

My idea #1
Jimmy's about to go on his first date, but Jimmy's brother Lewis knows a secret!
Jimmy: Ma, how do I look?
Mom: You look great.
Lewis: Mom! You can't let him go out with that girl! I heard she has *whispers* herpes.
Jimmy: That was a secret!!
Mom: Boys, boys, it's okay. *douses Jimmy in Lysol* Now he can handle anything. *winks*
Jimmy's eyes start to burn and he breaks out in hives, but now he's safe. Buy Lysol.

My idea #2
A diner. Small children are all sitting in pairs and sharing milkshakes (two straws per milkshake, it's adorable). But wait, why is one child drinking his milkshake all alone? Could he have...? Oh, dear God, why?
Boy's inner thoughts: if mom had just sprayed the counter with Lysol, this never would have happened.
Voice over: Really? He's six. This is horrifying. Take this as a warning and buy Lysol... now in new apple scent!

My idea #3
The family is eating dinner. The token teenage daughter isn't eating any of her vegetables.
Dad: *offers daughter's plate to token teenage son* Do you want her peas?
Mom: *violently sprays the family with Lysol. the table is silent* Oh you meant-... sorry.
Voice over: Lysol. Better safe than sorry.

That's all I have for now. I think this was my most educational entry, so if you're reading this and not doing your homework, at least you learned something about your favorite household antibacterial spray!
Also, if you have any new ad suggestions, post 'em!

#9a. Come See Spelling Bee!

2010-02-13T17:30:00.000-08:00

(My new post is below, but read this first!)

I'm currently in a production of "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee." It's a great musical, and I'm encouraging anyone who reads this to buy tickets SOON! It's absolutely hilarious, and it will be SUCH a great time, so bring friends!

Tickets at: http://www.broadwaytraining.com/spellingbee
WHEN:
Friday, March 26th @ 7pm
Saturday, March 27th @ 7pm
Sunday, March 28th @ 3pm
Snow Date: Sunday, March 28th @ 8pm

WHERE:
Irvington Town Hall Theater
85 Main Street
Irvington, NY 10533

Tickets at: http://www.broadwaytraining.com/spellingbee

I hope to see you there!

(New post below)

#9 Why it's cool to drink Yoohoo! again

2010-02-10T17:29:00.000-08:00

Valentine's day is four days away, so it is only appropriate that this entry will focus on the most memorable interaction between a couple that I have ever seen.
Yesterday, as I was on the N-Train, I found myself sitting across from a very hip couple. Square rimmed glasses, skinny jeans, dyed hair... they were the real deal. They managed to radiate enough hipness to pull off drinking two bottles of Yoohoo! while still seeming to be really, really cool people. If you're not familiar with Yoohoo!, here is all you need to know:

1) It is fake chocolate milk, and used to be referred to as "chocolate drink."
2) It is insanely delicious.
3) Calling it Yahoo, chocolate drink, or Yoohoo sans exclamation point is unacceptable. It is Yoohoo! and it will always be Yoohoo!

I sort of resented them for being able to drink it, though, seeing as it was just a few days ago that I opted out of buying a Capri Sun in fear of being seen as "immature" by fellow subway patrons.
Well, there they were, being really hip and drinking the beverage I was suddenly craving, when the boy triumphantly declared that he could chug the rest of the Yoohoo! if he wanted to. And, boy, did he want to. So, he did. He chugged the whole thing, the girl acted unimpressed, and thirsty Wynnie thought he was being a show off.
Then, the boy reached into the girl's purse, and pulled out yet another bottle of Yoohoo! At this point, I was offended that he didn't offer it to me. He must have seen me eying his first bottle, now I felt like he was drinking it just to show me that he could. He was about to take a sip when his girlfriend pushed his arm away from his mouth and said, "it'll be gross if you don't shake it." She was right. Did he know nothing? Also, it is clearly stated on the label that you must "shake well" when you want some Yoohoo! to quench your thirst. As far as I was concerned, he didn't even deserve to have such a fine drink. And then, hardly even one second later, he shook the beverage.

Well, Mr. Hipster wasn't hip enough to remember to screw the cap back on, it was still in his hand. He managed to shake most of his drink out onto his girlfriend... but I'll rephrase, that sounds far too elegant. He poured an entire bottle of Yoohoo! all over her. And you know what? It wasn't so hip. It was in her hair, it was on her jacket, it was all over her face. For just a moment, every person on the train was not only silent, but completely fixated on this couple. I was quietly mourning the loss of some perfectly good Yoohoo!, but I managed to catch some soundbites.

"Dude, did you just pour that on her?"
"Are you an idiot? You didn't put that CAP on? Jesus."
"My shoes are going to be so sticky."
"Yoohoo! is, without a question, the best drink of all time"**

**It's possible that my own thoughts may have been mixed in with the sound bites. Don't worry about it.

Meanwhile, the hip girl was silent. Hip boy was glaring at the subway patrons, but then switched to just looking pleadingly at his girlfriend. She looked right at him, and anyone who was watching them (which was the entire train), could feel the cruelty in her stare. The boy opened his mouth, we were all waiting to hear him say, "I'm sorry."

Then, she kissed him. She gave him a long, "I was pretending to be mad at you," Yoohoo! soaked kiss. The entire train applauded. Everyone was so involved in their happiness, that when I quietly shouted "Yoohoo!", I only got a few stares. We got to my stop, and I hopped off of the train.

So, happy Valentine's day, my readers! Always, always, always shake well. Cheers.

#8 Gravity And I Are Not On Speaking Terms

2010-01-30T07:27:00.000-08:00

This story is not quite as recent, it happened two weekends ago. I was walking around the city, perusing the shelves of stores, when I wandered into a store that I used to love when I was younger. It's a place that I used to go to in Middle School to buy jeans that were way too tight (to showcase my underdeveloped body) and shirts that had adorable catch phrases on them, and were also way too tight (guaranteed sweat stains, cha-ching). On my most recent visit, however, a selection of scarves managed to catch my eye. To be honest, it was freezing out, they looked soft, and if something looks soft and fuzzy, I'm doing myself a disservice by not obsessing over it for a minute or two.

I examined one of the scarves in particular, and after much unfolding/petting, I considered buying it. How else would I be able to shamelessly rub this magical fabric against my face? I certainly couldn't do that in the store. The sales associates, who were definitely my age and very judgmental, were staring at me. Why was I creeping around in a store for twelve year olds? Training bras stopped being cool years ago. My "luck" decided to kick in right around now. The following chain of events is not only completely true, but gets filed in a list I like to call "Top 10 worst things to ever happen. Ever." Ehem:

Wynnie gets a phone call. Wynnie gets too excited that people are calling her and answers the phone so enthusiastically that she drops her scarf under a table. After a 3 second conversation with her parents, Wynnie crawls around to get the scarf, knocks into a manikin, and then let's out a scream that sounds like it is coming from a 45 year old man, as the manikin falls and lands directly on top of her. Still unsure as to what has just happened, Wynnie flails around, makes noises that could have easily been mistaken for an expression of indigestion, and decides that manikins smell like storage units. Wynnie is pathetically trapped under the manikin. Finally, a nearby sales associate picks up the manikin (womanikin, perhaps?) and restores it back to normal, and Wynnie can slowly and awkwardly stand up and get herself back together.

Yes. This actually happened to me.

The store was almost completely empty and fairly silent, mind you. The only other people there were the two sales associates, and then a mother and daughter who were too interested in trying on the clothing to witness me getting attacked by a fake human. The following dialogue then took place:

Sales Girl #1: Are you okay?
Wynnie: Haha... yeah... I'm fine...
Sales Girl #2: At least you look pretty when your cheeks get red.
Wynnie: What?
Sales Girl #1: You're blushing and it looks really nice.
Sales Girl #2: Ugh, I've been trying to find a color like that for so long.

AHA! See? Everything does happen for a reason, we've all learned a valuable lesson now. Ever need that final touch when you're putting your make-up on? Can't seem to get your complexion just right? Have I got the solution for you! Just get in a minor altercation with a manikin, and get ready for endless compliments. You're welcome.

#7 Flour Power

2010-01-22T13:43:00.000-08:00

I have a phobia.
My phobia is of the sensation that is rubbing flour on a wood surface with bare hands. I am completely serious. The sound, the feeling... the thought of it makes me convulse and move my body in such a way that resembles how I would dance at 7th grade bar/bat mitzvahs. Granted, it's not just flour that can do this to me. It's any powdery/grainy substance that comes into contact with my hands/feet, and in the case of flour, wood just makes this worse. Think of how you might react to nails on a chalkboard, it's just taken to the extreme here.
When I talk to my friends about this, after they laugh at me relentlessly, they pause and say, "Wynnie, that's not a phobia. That's a weird annoyance you have that is possibly linked to a traumatic baking incident in your youth." Hey, friends? NO. The only traumatic baking incident from my youth was when I attempted to make home-made doughnuts by smothering bagels in cake frosting, and then microwaving them. And, it was only traumatic because it was the first time I learned that even the most delicious foods can cause you to throw up immediately after consumption.
These dear friends of mine also like to surprise me by pouring flour on a wooden cutting board and rubbing it around like it's finger paint.
When this happens, I say farewell to all dignity I once had, and proceed to scream, cry, spit out a string of curses, punch, kick, scream some more, and I usually end up under a table/in an institution (or both).

So now that all of you know that, here comes my next story. I was bored, so I decided to go venture around and get some pizza at a hip pizza place. I wasn't too crazy about their slice selection, but I had a sudden craving for their spinach, chicken and cheese pizza roll.
One of the guys behind the counter tells me that they just sold their last one, but if I wanted to stick around while he made another, I could. Was that even a question? It's like if I was looking to buy a car, and someone said that if I waited a week I could get a flying dragon to take me around town instead. I waited.

Just my luck, the pizza place is pretty empty, so the pizza maker decides to engage in a conversation with me. To tell the truth, I cannot recall a word he said. I was too fixated on the fact that I was being forced to hear, see, and be conscious of my phobia. I could hear the flour rubbing against the wood... I could imagine what it would feel like on my hands... I didn't understand how he could possibly make pizzas for a living. After we'd been talking for a bit, he stopped mid sentence, gave me an uncharacteristically judgmental look, and then continued working with the dough. I looked down...

Throughout the entire conversation, I had viciously ripped apart the paper menu I had been holding. I was surrounded by some homemade confetti. Instead of screaming or crying, I destroyed some takeout menu that would have otherwise been thrown into a delivery bag. I guess if I try and go back into my memory, was hard to rip (it was a thick menu). Because I am weak, I must have been visibly struggling to kill this menu, and I'm sure this terrified the pizza man. The guy who took my order was in the back, filling up my chicken roll, and looked over at me. I was wondering what he could have been thinking about me. Did he think I got nervous in social interactions? Did he think I was trying to make art? Maybe, in some culture, paper shreds are a holy gift and I have just presented them to him... After a moment, he laughs. Granted, I was laughing at myself as well, but I had not given him permission, so I secretly decided to think bad thoughts about him for about 30 seconds.

You see, when these things happen to me, I like to make people feel bad for being so judgmental. If I trip and a stranger laughs at me, I might pretend to make a phone call that they can hear and say, "mom, you were right, trying to run to the orphanage so soon after surgery was a bad idea, I hope the kids can forgive me." You get the gist, I'm a terrible person.

In this situation, though, I had no justification. No hypothetical children in need could help me out, no charity would make me seem normal. 15 minutes later, I got my chicken roll, I ate in the pizza place, and I was embarrassed simply because my cover was blown. I'm usually so good at concealing this fear! I could feel my cheeks getting redder, and I just kept facetiously thanking some higher power for my strange relationship with grainy substances.

And then, like clockwork, the bell on top of the door to the pizza place rang, the door opened in a hurry, and a grown man ran in, attempted to lean on the counter, and missed completely, falling directly on his face.

He turned bright red, and looked at me. I quickly chewed and said, "that's nothing, that kind of thing happens to me all the time," I acknowledged the pile of menu confetti on the table I was sitting at, "you don't even want to know how that got there." Maybe he sensed my honesty, or maybe he saw that I had a piece of spinach in my teeth and a dollop of tomato sauce on my shirt, but his face returned to a normal complexion, he laughed a bit, and ordered as if he hadn't just fallen gracelessly. I had done my job.

Would I rather ruin this guy's day and have my embarrassing moment be forgotten about, or use my embarrassing phobia to help someone out?

Again, car vs. flying dragon.

#6 The Cat in the Hat- scratch that, Bush

2010-01-15T07:00:00.000-08:00

Two days ago, I got to come home way earlier than usual. As I'm walking through the front door, I notice something funny in the garden that's right next to my house (it's a shared one, and I have somewhat of a bird's eye view of it). There's a cluster of bushes, and under one of them there appears to be a cat.
It's not uncommon for this little courtyard to attract stray cats, but the back end of this cat looked alarmingly like the back end of my cat...
So, I looked around my house for my cat, had no luck finding her, and then decided to venture outside and investigate. When I got down there, my view of said bush was skewed. Because of the layout of the garden, it was blocked by a few other forms of shrubbery. I peered over them, but because there's a chance that this was a stray cat, I didn't want to get too close.
My cat is pretty good at answering when you call her, so I tried to do so.

Now, I'm not sure if any of you know this, but when people call their cats, for whatever reason they tend to sort of... sing to them. No, they don't whip out a keyboard and embark on a power ballad (however, Elton John's cat has refused to comment on the matter), it's just that the matter in which you call their name tends to be... sing-songy.

So there I am, sitting in front of a bush, singing my cat's name at full volume, and then rhythmically chanting, "c'mere, come on, c'mere." In a last effort, I whipped out this lanyard/keychain that I never got around to taking out of my backpack, and tried to taunt the cat with it. When most cats see a string, they get wonderfully entranced and will follow it up and down, side to side, whatever. They are relentless. Just imagine how a preteen acts when you show them a picture of the Jonas Brothers. It's the same thing.

Finally, I give up. I peer around the bush a little more, part some of the branches, and-

It's a toy. I've been singing to a toy cat.

So, my neighbors/anyone else who may have walked by during this fiasco potentially witnessed me aggressively trying to get the attention of a toy cat. Also, I realized that had I approached the bush at a different angle, I would have gotten a full view of the cat, and noticed within an instant that it was made in China (and that one of it's plastic eyes had fallen off). Also, there's a red plastic collar on the cat that reads, "Write your new friend's name here!"
Maybe had I just sung that, the cat would have answered and that would have been the end of my troubles.

As soon as I opened the door and walked into my house, my cat decided to show herself. She has excellent timing.

Well, that's the end of this story. But I might as well end it with a relevant PSA: it's 10 o'clock, do you know where your cats are? (Even if it's not 10 o'clock when you read this, I've been told this is the proper PSA format. So there.)

#5 Fun Times on the Bus

2010-01-08T18:51:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I took the public bus home. I take it almost everyday, and the same group of kids gets on two stops after I do. To me, they seem like a perfectly normal, roudy group of friends. We all sit in the back half of the bus together (I say together because I usually end up sitting next to one of them, even though we've never spoken), and they are always joking around and whatnot.

I just read over that past sentence... come to think of it, these kids probably think I'm a giant creep.

There's another girl who's also blonde, and sort of similar looking to me. Earlier this year, one of the boys in this group even announced to his friends that he thinks she and I look alike. He whispered it, though, because I've never really interacted with these people, and he certainly didn't want to break the ice. This still made it awkward, though. See, I not only heard him whisper this, but felt all of their eyes transition towards me. I pretended not to notice, but I was hoping I didn't have food on my face.
Alright, so I'm on the bus. There are a few other people in the section we all sit in. We get to their stop, they get on the bus, the ones who get on first come take the available seats (one or two are on either side of me), and the slow pokes have to stand in that same section. Naturally, the standers start complaining. Regardless, even though the bus is a bit crowded, they were all still joking around as usual.
Five minutes or so pass, and one of the larger boys keeps begging for one of his friends to get up:
"I'm a fatass, I need to sit."
His friend replies, "sit on Amanda!" (or something to that extent).

And just like that (imagine me snapping my fingers with authority), the large one sits on my lap.
I repeat: he sat on my lap.

Without looking at me, he starts to dance around a bit, and goes, "comfy, Amanda?"

Honestly, what does one do in that situation? Push him off? No. Let him figure it out on his own? Probably not. Dance with him and hope to make a new buddy? Shh, Wynnie, that's weird. Negative.
I've read books on social etiquette, but never have I ever found a section entitled "the proper ways to act when large teenage boys mistake you for a friend and give you a lap dance on the public bus."

Before I could answer him by saying... well I just don't know what I would have said, he turns around and looks at me. I see his face transition from a big, goofy smile, to absolute horror in about 2 seconds.

"Are you comf-OOOOOHHHHH SHIT!"

He gets up as if he just sat on a fire, apologizes countless times, and his friends (including Amanda, I'm sure) are probably crying they are laughing so hard, from what I can hear. I said it was okay, that I understood (I really didn't), mistakes happen, etc. My stop was very soon, anyway.

Because this scenario is so bizarre, I am opening it up to you, my readers: assuming this boy didn't turn around so swiftly, what on earth would you have done, in my situation?

#4 THE PRESENTS EDITION

2010-01-03T07:40:00.001-08:00

Today I had to do a major room clean, one thing lead to another and I ended up going through a box of Christmas/birthday/Easter/spontaneous presents that I received from my (late) grandmother throughout the years.
Now, my grandmother is notorious for sending presents that, if used, would ensure that her grandchildren would never have friends again. I discovered the gold-mine of 'em in a storage unit in my closet.
(I'll list them in the order in which I discovered them)

#1 Boots
Before you think this is normal, let me describe them.
HEIGHT: Mid-calf
SIZE: Enormous.
MAKER: There is no tag. They are so horrendous that the designer did not want people to know that he/she/it made these.
MATERIAL: What are you thinking? Leather, maybe? Are you thinking they might be snow boots? No. They are made entirely of faux musk oxen fur (say that 10x fast). Layers and layers of it that makes the boots 3.5 inches (I measured) thicker.
COLOR: Bright white.

First of all, faux musk oxen fur? I did some googling, and it doesn't look like anyone has ever produced any article of clothing using real ox fur, so maybe there are some legal issues when it comes to using this material. Okay, so this company wants to be edgy and trick people (namely PETA) into thinking that they're breaking the law?
That's like if Coca-Cola decided to trick everyone that they're putting cocaine into their drinks again, but whoops! Gotcha! It's just faux cocaine. Fauxcaine, heh.

I'm not done with these boots, though. So we've got what they look like (if your mental image of them is unpleasant, by golly, you've got it).

But now we get to the fun part! Grandma, what do I get to use these for? Boots this swanky shouldn't be worn everyday, that'd spoil the magic. Well, I have a few ideas. These boots would be useful only:

A) If I wanted to run off and proceed to be raised by a pack of polar bears (I'd say musk oxen, but dying the faux fur white makes this dream impossible). All I would have to do is slip on these boots, not bathe, and acquire a taste for fish. When I'm on the cover of National Geographic with my bear family, you can all say you knew me WHEN.

B) If I went on a date with a Yeti.

C) If my cat wanted a new friend.

D) If I wanted to die a virgin.

Well, this post ended up being really long, so I have a new plan. I'll just talk about one or two gifts from this mystical storage box every once in a while. I'll keep you surprised.

That's the end of this one. It served a dual purpose, too. I got to share a nice story, and I no longer have to answer any questions about what I'm wearing to prom. Four words: Faux. Musk. Oxen. Fur.

#3 The "like" Button

2010-01-01T21:02:00.000-08:00

If you're reading this blog, you're probably familiar with Facebook. Now, for those of you that are not familiar with said site, I have a lot of respect for you and I'm a little jealous, but that's beside the point.My point is that you may not know that Facebook recently added a new feature: liking.

Basically, it's a new way of acknowledging someone else's activities. For instance, let's say you see that your friend Billy has posted a new status, "I love Twilight!", and you just need to let Billy know that you saw this and that you could not agree more. Well, you (and let's give you a name... hmmm, how about Patricia?) could press the "like" button; then, under Billy's status, it would read "Patricia likes this." Simple as that.
Again, if you're not familiar with Facebook, the non-cyber way of communicating this message would be through, you know, speaking.

WELL, it just so happens that it's really easy to accidentally "like" something. After all, it only takes clicking on the freaking button to express all of your thoughts.

Now today, I refreshed my minifeed (the melting pot for all updates involving my friends), and apparently someone I don't know very well was recently listed as single. A few hours later, I refresh the page again, and see that I have many a notification, informing me that lots of other people I don't know have also commented on this relationship update. I'm confused, I go to her profile, look at the post that says "[Insert name here] is listed as Single", and see that I have accidentally pressed the "like" button under it.

Now, I don't know about you, but when I get dumped, I don't want some girl that I don't know very well to come and express joy about it. Well, that's what I did. I can only think of a few other situations where this could have been any worse:

"[Insert name here] my grandma died. RIP. Love you, nana"
- Wynn Van Dusen "likes" this.

BAD.

"[Insert name here] just got rejected from every college I applied to. Mom kicked me out of the house and told me I'm a failure. :("
- Wynn Van Dusen "likes" this.

NO!!!!

"[Insert name here] just broke every bone in my body and will never walk again. There go my dreams of being a dancer. Also, my insurance isn't helping, I just found out I was adopted, and my house burned down"
- Wynn Van Dusen "likes" this.

STOP! WHY?!

This post has a moral: be careful where you accidentally click, because it WILL lead to an awkward situation where you have to talk yourself out of seeming like a horrible person.

#2 Why I Love My iPod

2010-01-01T17:00:00.000-08:00

Okay, so let's flashback a few days. It's December 23rd, and I've got plans to go see some friends. This requires me taking the subway and the MetroNorth. It's maybe 4 o'clock and I get on the 6 train. It's not too crowded, there are some people there, but I have a place to sit, and there's an empty spot next to me. One stop goes by, and just as the train is pulling up and the doors are about to open, I notice a fight going down right in front of the subway doors closest to me. Two men are about to get on the train, but before doing this, they are screaming at each other. Both look like they could be regulars on "Jersey Shore," in fact, if I turn on my T.V. next week and see them, I won't be surprised.
Alright, so they're fighting before my very eyes, I can't tell what it's about. All I know is that they are screaming and cursing, and the part of me that went to go see "The Princess and the Frog" two weeks ago is disapproving and a little bit scared. The fight is so severe that the smaller of the two men makes a choice to go enter a different subway car, whereas the bigger, scarier man, walks into the car I'm in. He still looks angry, and he mumbles something that I'm sure would get bleeped out if aired on national television.
Just my luck, he comes and sits in the seat right next to me. When he sits, though, he seems pretty calm, like maybe he's recovering. He then lets out one last scary exclamation that I can't really make out, but the last time I heard something similar was at the Bronx zoo during a gorilla fight.

This whole time I've had my headphones in, my iPod was on shuffle. A song I hate came on (it shall remain unnamed), and so I quickly took the iPod out to change the song. I press "next", and the next song that comes on just happens to be "Edelweiss" from The Sound of Music. Now, when you change songs on an iPod, usually the album art comes up. My iPod has a big, bright screen, which displayed a picture of Julie Andrews and seven happy children running through the fields, and apparently this album art caught my angry, scary, large friend's eye. I catch him looking closely at my iPod, and the part of me that's not politically correct (sorry, mom and dad), was pretty sure he was going to steal it. He's really gazing at my iPod, and I can't help but kind of look up at him. He looks straight back at me and I decide it's time to look at my shoes. Yes, that's the best way to go about doing this.

I hear him clear his throat, and at this point, I've decided that I may just surreptitiously switch cars. By the way, I didn't mention that this man smells like cigarettes, hair gel, and crying babies.

"Excuse me," I hear him say (I always keep the music on my iPod on a low volume, because I don't like it when people can hear what I'm listening to. If I wanted them to do that, I'd carry a boombox on my shoulders). Now, I didn't think he was talking to me. I thought he was maybe addressing the whole train. Then he nudges me and I look straight up at him.

"I'm not gay or anything, but that's a beautiful song."

I kid you not. This man went out of his way to tell me that he, too, likes the Sound of Music (and that he's not gay).

Good times, scary man, good times.

My Very First Post

2010-01-01T16:31:00.000-08:00

If you're reading this blog, you're probably my father. So, hi.

If you're not my father, you might want to know a little bit about me before you start reading, otherwise this would be weird.
My name is Wynnie, my friends call me Wynn, Wynnifred, Weiner, or some combination of profanities that would make any mother proud.
My favorite foods include everything except goat cheese, sausage and parsley.
I like it when people use punctuation properly.?,;/"[]!
I once cried while watching Trading Spouses.
All of the TV shows I watch loop the same commercials for Delcolax, Snuggies, Various Online Universities, Menstrual/Diet Pills and "Text [insert number here] to find out what your soulmate's name is" scams. They are all clearly intended for a demographic of winners that I am proud to be a part of.
I'm writing a blog because I feel like it.
I will most likely use this blog for story telling purposes. Feel free to laugh at and/or with me. If you don't think I'm funny, that's okay. I think I'm funny, my friends don't. I laugh at my own jokes.
What else? Oh, I'm fantastic at creating awkward moments. Really. Don't believe me? Well that's you-
My cat died...

See? I made one, I did.

Anyone at all can read, comment, whatever, on this here blog. Like I said, I'll probably just end up posting stories featuring cringe-worthy/funny/peculiar moments I've experienced. In fact, they'll probably make you feel better on a bad day. If you're reading my blog and finding that you're getting much, much better at procrastination... I've done my job, and I apologize from the bottom of my heart.

Happy New Year! I hope you like it!

Hey, 2010, meet my blog.