33 Memories of 33 Years #15
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So I went to pick up some ice cream last night for Adam, and I couldn’t resist bringing home a special edition kind that was in honor of our upcoming group costume idea. Pictures to come after the end of October. There are several varieties–see your grocer’s freezer.
I’ll have to admit, I’m usually pretty boring, er “vanilla”, when it comes to my ice cream. That’s right. Ask me what I want, I’ll probably ask for vanilla. Maybe even FRENCH vanilla. I know, daring.
Occasionally, I do get a little more daring. Prior to Christmas, Schwan’s always has a special edition Peppermint. Heavenly. Even when I travel from Arizona to Wyoming for Christmas, Mom will have some waiting for me. Just want you want when you’re already freezing–a bowl of ice cream. Sometimes temptation will strike with maybe a cookie dough or cookies ‘n creme, or better yet–Neapolitan, which is vanilla ice cream with two friends, but just friends you put up with because you really want to hang out with vanilla.
My earliest memories were not of actually EATING ice cream, but of playing with it. Take a bowl of ice cream, cover with chocolate syrup, begin stirring. You may need to let it sit for a bit, but return to stirring. Yummy. As I’ve aged, I’ve gotten less playful…or maybe just less patient.
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33 Memories of 33 Years #14
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The first piece of creative writing I ever remember writing was a “novel” telling the story of the lives of characters based on my stuffed animals. Riveting.
Then in like sixth grade, my neighborhood friends thought it would be fun to write our own soap opera and record ourselves on tape as if it were a radio drama. Guess who didn’t have cable. I’m the one who had a typewriter–that’s right, a TYPEWRITER–and pounded out the four scene episodes. Interested in the project quickly faded, but I had the itch to continue writing.
I developed another soap opera called “Ages” that I hand wrote–that’s right, HAND WROTE–in a notebook using a different color marker for each character’s dialogue. Nice trick for the colorblind writer. My neighbor E. used to read it. I heard from another friend that she thought it was boring. She wanted a soap where “someone jumps off the Eiffel Tower and then shows up alive.”
Did someone say spin-off? Let’s start from scratch but have two of your favorite characters move to a different town. I believe this one was called “High Pointe” (the name of the town located up in the mountains) and was curiously similar to the Lego town I had constructed on our pool table. Geek alert, geek alert! This one was a bit more interesting. No Eiffel Towers, but there was a plane crash where one of the survivors stumbles upon the hideout of some criminals…the leader turns out to be her dad who she thought was dead. I believe they call that, “ripped from the headlines.”
When then acquired a “portable” computer with an itsy-bitsy screen that pretty much was mine to use, along with the dot matrix printer. I would sit for hours and type away at a new soap called “Saga”. My dad came across it and pronounced it say-juh. Forehead smack. If only I could have told him, “It rhymes with Lady GaGa!” I don’t really remember much about this one, merely helped to fine-tune my craft.
I ended up resurrecting “Ages” for another go-around. I usually don’t let too many people read what I write. But my two best friends at the time, J and J, both got the chance. Epiodes started out like one page front and back. Mainly just the dialogue and maybe a line that denoted the setting. I remember coming home for Christmas Break one year in college and delivered a stack of episodes. They were eager to begin reading and were passing them around. And who wouldn’t love a story like the serial killer (Ursula) who picks victims because they look like the man who raped her, gets the latest victim to marry her, is believed to be dead in a hotel fire on a tropical island when trying to kill her new husband, returns under a different name, gets plastic surgery, plots to kill the man who did rape her (Ken) who is running for Senate by disguising herself as the other candidate who sneaks into the hall when Ken is giving his acceptance speech and shoots from the balcony. However, duh-duh-duuuuh, his step-brother (Ian) jumps in front of him, taking the bullet. Ian was the man that Ursula actually loved prior to being raped and is also the father of her kid. All the while, during the election, Bridget falls for Ken while she works as one of his speech writers, but when he has an affair with her friend Diane and that’s caught on tape by Bridget’s sister Carlene who uses it as blackmail to keep Ken from being with Bridget, to force Diane to quit and break up with her fiance who happens to be Carlene’s ex-husband, all so she can have Ken to herself (not knowing that he’s a rapist). And that’s ONE storyline, but still no Eiffel Tower.
If you’ve followed my blog for awhile–and who HASN’T?–you totally know that I’ve participated in a writing competition the past few Novembers. Varying success, still no Eiffel Tower. And this April? I’m going to try my hand at Script Frenzy. I’ll keep you updated on whether or not I actually complete the task.
Tags: 33
33 Memories of 33 years #13
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So Adam wants me to fly to Dallas on Sunday, watch the Super Bowl, and then fly back home on Monday. He has to fly there for work.
I’m probably not going to make this whirlwind trip. Maybe if we were going to actually be WATCHING the Super Bowl…
Don’t get me wrong, I love flying. Well, a few things have damaged that love a bit. A) a couple bad layovers with screaming, angry people B) having watched Lost and C) new airport security.
It used to be so much fun to go to the airport. You could make it practically to a person’s seat on the plane to give them a hug. And who didn’t like to find after a weary day of traveling three or four people waving and smiling? Ah, I’ve arrived.
I still remember a few years ago even I drove with some friends to Denver to pick up a friend. Two other people actually had the same idea and we all met on the concourse. We huddled together waiting to see J. get off the plane. Suddenly, a young man who looked exactly like a guy we all knew stepped through the gate and we all gasped. S. happened to be my archnemesis, so I knew why I was gasping. Everyone else actually claimed him as a friend. He didn’t turn out to be S. but even at baggage claim we all stood there gaping at how much he looked like him.
Connecting to flights can be ridiculous. I was flying from CA to MI after my grandmother’s funeral. Three flights in total. The first was from Ontario, CA to LAX. Then Detroit. Then Grand Rapids. The layover time before my flight leaving LA was enough that my family could have driven to pick me up, take me back to grandma’s house, lounge around for a couple hours, drive back to LA, read my book for awhile, take a lap around the gift shop, stare out the window, make a friend…you get the point. Instead, I was stuck at the airport.
In college, I flew to France for a month with a group of fellow students. I know, hard life, right? Once again, multiple connections, then once we were in the air over the Atlantic, lost of eating and sleeping. What pairs well with being fed lots of food and beverage? Having to go to the bathroom. I awoke from a nap, made my way to the tiny bathroom, and then stepped out to find that it was nearly impossible to remember where my seat was. Everyone looks the same in low-lighting, covered with a blanket, and sleeping.
And aren’t we all grateful for cell phones now? You land, you text, “I’ve landed,” to your ride. “I’m at baggage claim.” “I’m at terminal 2 door 3.” And my chariot arrives. My friend K. LOVED that I sent him texts when he was picking me up at the airport. He was dating someone who couldn’t quite grasp the concept.
Tags: 33
33 Memories of 33 Years #12
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Ah, sick days.
Didn’t you just love those days in school when Mom believed you when you said your tummy hurt and that it might be best to stay home? Sometimes, the tummy did hurt, and there were fevers, sore throats, sneezes, coughing, and (sadly) vomiting. Still, the best part was staying in pajamas and camping out on the couch…all…day…long.
I remember in kindergarten I missed a long stretch of school and watched a lot of General Hospital.
“You’ve got to keep fluids in you,” would be the usual mantra. Somehow that equated with 7Up.
Most of the time I was actually sick. I enjoyed school most of the time and had no reason to try and get out of it.
That, of course, ended with junior high. I was beyond miserable. I had very few friends, I was awkward, people thought I was a girl, as well as being introverted. The perfect storm, right? So who wouldn’t, after a) returning from Christmas Break and b) finding that the next unit on PE was TUMBLING, decide to call in sick for a few days.
Cartwheels, summersaults, hand stands…you name it, I can’t do it. And now you’re going to GRADE me on this? Oh, my belly hurts. I suffered through two days of practice and then was “sick” for three full days. What I missed was practice running across the gym, jumping onto a mini tramp, and FLIPPING through the air with a fellow seventh grader as a spotter. On one hand, I was glad not to have the opportunity to kill myself. On the other, I was left only with the option of performing a group floor routine for the final grade. I think the C I got was a pity grade.
When I became the teacher, I dreaded getting sick. I was never organized enough to have a contingency plan. Supposedly I was to keep a folder on my desk at all times the had lesson plans. That way, should something tragic happen to me, a substitute could walk in and take over without the kids knowing anything had changed. Working while sick proved to be easier than trying to rush last minute plans to school for the sub.
I could usually trim down my lesson for each class to a 15-20 minute activity. Then I would say, “Good news. I’m going to lay down in the corner on the bean bag chair. You’re going to play “Heads Up, Seven Up” until the bell rings, “I can hear everything. Behave today or pay later.” Like maybe I would make them do a tumbling routine.
When I switched to a school where I basically taught one grade but multiple subjects, that strategy did not work so well. They can’t play “Heads Up, Seven Up” all day. This one time, I was sitting on my stool at my podium teaching. I had a trash can nearby. My eleven students moved their desks together in one corner as far from me as possible.
So it’s nice that I work at a job now that when I realize that I’m not feeling well. I can go home and it doesn’t feel like the world will end.
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33 Memories of 33 Years #11
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Remember when a weekly allowance made you feel rich? I earned mine by dusting, vacuuming, feeding the rabbit, cleaning out the cage (yuck!), and other chores on command from Mom and Dad. My financial future seemed bright. Since my dad also owned his own business, I could make money picking up trash at the job sites.
Years ago, aluminum could be redeemed by the pound for over 50 cents. This had my parents screeching to a halt on roadways so my brother or I could jump out for the pop can tossed from someone’s window. When we went to one of the resevoirs in Big Wyo, I was sent from campsite to campsite asking if they had any cans (which were always at the bottom of the trash under banana peels and coffee grounds). My brother got the luxury of actually “dumpster diving” by the dumpster near the boat ramps. These activities cooled when the price per pound plummeted to around 20 cents.
In high school, my first real job was a dishwasher and prep cook at a new restaurant opening. Needless to say, it did not become a career. I did do a second stint as a waiter in a 24-hour restaurant one summer in college. The good part is that it was not a lot of hours. I mainly took home cash and kept a chart of how much I was putting in the bank and how much was my play money that summer.
My first teaching contract? A whopping $20400. Seven years later? I had cracked the $30000 mark. Sometimes people ask why I left teaching. Though not the only reason, it’s high up in the top ten reasons why.
During that time I worked part-time and temporary jobs. Some springs would have me arriving at school at 7, leaving by 4 to drive across town to start working at 5 somewhere else, leaving at 10 and driving a 1/2 hour home. In 2006, after leaving teaching, I was working two jobs seven days a week. Oh, the joy.
With all of that said, you may find it surprising that once upon a time, credit card companies thought that between them, I could handle $20000 in credit lines. I could until I actually used them.
This I’m not proud of. Most people didn’t even know that I ever had financial problems. They only knew that I worked all the time. “How do you have so m uch energy, Jason?” Because I feel like the Millenium Falcon racing out of the Death Star with a ball of fire right behind.
I eventually collapsed. Both financially and emotionally. Somewhere–and I’m not going to look into the legality of it all–my parents got my credit report. That was not a pleasant call from Mom. I guess I was “too big to fail” and they bailed me out. Each month I send a check for repayment.
At one point, I remember watching an episode of a daytime show called “Starting Over.” One of the women had a lot of pent up anger. They had her use a stick to beat on a padded block; while she whacked away, she said all the things she was angry about and how it was not fair. I ended up trying that technique, only I punched and slammed around a pillow. Dear pillow, I’m sorry (but it helped). It didn’t solve the financial crisis, but it was a release of the emotion, an acceptance of reality, and a turning point to take care of it.
Things have improved. I still feel more like a conduit for money. Sometime in the night, every other Thursday, Wells Fargo reports that there is money in my checking account. Usually by the following Monday, the bill pays that I have set up have done their thing and I have just about enough to buy some tacos–when they’re three for $1.09.
Now I actively set money aside in a savings account. It’s not much, but more often than not it is still there at the end of the month instead of being whisked back to checking to cover a bill or some emergency. And my pillows only get smacked around when they need to be fluffed.
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33 Memories of 33 Years #10
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Once upon a time my brother took me to a party. In the kitchen, several people were doing shots of Jack Daniels. If you bounced a quarter into the shot glass, you did the shot. I’m like maybe 15. I want to be cool. So I do it. I don’t know that you’re SUPPOSED to do a chaser of cola. I think that if you do, it means you’re a wuss. So I don’t. And I don’t make a face after doing the shot of straight JD. I think that if you do, it means you’re a wuss.
“Hey, everybody! Look what Travis’s brother can do!” My logic? If you don’t make a face doing a shot the first time and people think that you’re cool, call more people in the room, give you a shot without bouncing a quarter…well, keep the act going. I don’t really remember how many shots they “made” me do, but never did I make the face.
Ah, first love, true love.
I once bought a bottle of Jack in college and hid it in my desk. Whenever a paper deadline was stressing me out, or if I was trying to read literature for French class and was pulling out my hair, or it was Wednesday, I would look around to make sure none of my four other roommates was in the room and pour a shot into a shot glass my friend Jenn gave me that sayd, “I fear no beer.”
During my early days of teaching, I did not have time to do much drinking. I made nothing. So I savored the splurge on a cheap bottle of wine or a six pack of beer.
Somewhere along the line I dabbled with rum. When I started going out in Phoenix circa 2005, that was my drink.
Because times are lean, I usually hit well whiskey. One of my favorite bartenders turned me on to bourbon; with the well versions they serve, a major improvement. At the brand level, that means Jim verus Jack. I know, I’m cheating.
Don’t get me wrong, when my parents come into town to visit, my mom asks, “You still drink Jack, right?” I do.
Even though Jim is who I’m drinking tonight.
Tags: 33
33 Memories of 33 Years #9
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It doesn’t happen often…but sometimes it does rain in Arizona. This week it’s been raining a lot with more to come.
It’s kind of a treat. Overcast skies feel a bit odd. But I’ve dealt with worse. I lived in Michigan.
Rain was not uncommon while I was in college. Of course, that meant that I was walking in that rain to and from my dorm/apartment to class. From class to the cafe for break. To the library. To my car that was in a parking lot close to absolutely nothing. Amazingly, I never invested in an umbrella. I did not wear hats. I just stopped drying my hair because I knew that on my walk in the morning large drops would fall from the leaves and branches overhead.
Growing up in Wyoming, summer’s always had afternoon and evening thunderstorms. Clouds would build all day in the west. “It’s going to rain this afternoon,” we’d say. I loved watching the lightning. Our living room had a window seat that I would crawl in and watch the flashes and count to see how many miles away the lightning had been.
Arizona has its monsoon storms in the summer. When I first moved here in ‘99, I enjoyed standing on my patio and watching the rain pour down–even if it was for only five minutes. My townhouse has a flat roof. And some mornings I would wake up and hear a strange noise. “Oh, that’s rain!” I would say and then fall back asleep. When you don’t hear it for awhile you forget what it sounds like.
Whereas some winter rains can be a refreshing break for all that sunshine, this week has been quite something. There was even rumors of possible tornados last night. You’d better believe our weatherpeople have jumped to action to get video of raindrops in puddles.
I’m ready for sunshine to come back.
Tags: 33
33 Memories of 33 Years #8
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People often ask me, “Who’s your favorite singer?”
Inwardly I groan. Not because I don’t want to share, but because it always goes the same way:
“Who’s your favorite singer?”
“Kelly Willis.”
“Who’s that?”
Sigh.
Might I suggest responding, “I haven’t heard of her. I think I’ll look her up.” Write the name on a piece of paper and search for her online. Heck, download some stuff. You’ll be glad you did.
I didn’t find her until her self-titled third album came out in 1993. One of the songs, “Shadows of Love”, reminded me a lot of The Scarlet Letter that I was reading that year in lit. My favorite off the album is probably the first single, “Whatever Way the Wind Blows”.
It took me forever to ger her first album. When auction sites were created, I would see people selling the CD and bids were getting up over $60. That was a little much for me. Thanks to music downloads, I now own it. And who knew all along that one of my favorite Suzy Bogguss songs, “Drive South”, was originally sung by Kelly.
My pride and joy is the limited edition EP from 1996 when a new record label was thinking about signing her. Four songs. Not released to the public. The jewel case has a hole punched in the corner. But it’s mine!
1999 brought a new record label and a fresh start. Best Buy even featured her in commercials.
In college, I introduced her to some friends. While driving around with Sarah, I was singing one song out loud. Sarah asked, “Jason, do you know what she’s singing about?” The song was called “Cradle of Love”. “Oh!” I said. Sometimes I’m naive.
But the music is great.
Tags: 33, Kelly Willis
33 Memories of 33 Years #7
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A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Or something like that.
Got a nickname? For most of my life I had none. Nada. Zip. Then the floodgates started.
The closest thing I had to a nickname growing up was “Jase” which I hated. But it was my mom who called me that, so gets to. If you call me that, I’ll sock you in the jaw (Not really–but I’ll at least THINK about it).
In 8th grade, a kid in my crafts class wanted to come up with a nickname for me. He settled on Pistachio. Because my last name begins with P and is a long word. The name didn’t stick, but he gave it a good effort. He’d see me in the hall and say, “Hey, Pista-” and by the time he got to “-chio” I was already swept away in the crowd.
When I started teaching, the hellions I had in my first group of 8th graders decided they would torture me by calling me “Mr. Hippopotamus.” When I started buying hippo stuffed animals some of them were dismayed. “He actually LIKES it,” one girl said. The hippo theme grew throughout my tenure. I acquired several Hungry, Hungry Hippo games (including one key chain), and a mound of stuffed animals and ceramics. There’s a silent war being waged on determing just what color to make the hippo. Is it brown or gray? A quick search of images on google should solve the mystery. But my guess is, pretty colors sell better for soft, furry stuffed animals.
Sometimes when I’m walking through Charlie’s on a Saturday, someone will yell, “Jeff!” and I turn. They know it’s not my name, but when they call me Jeff I answer; when they call me Jason, I keep walking.
At work, and with people I played Farm Town with, I’m often known as “Jetta.” You might be surprised to find that I drive a Jetta. Weird, huh? It started when I bought my car and a coworker called me “Jetta Boy” . Then when I moved to a new team, it was shortened and helped to distinguish me from the other Jason who had difficulty using scroll bars on his computer. Hard to tell us apart. (Inner sigh).
Thanks to Halloween of ‘08, my friend Walter calls me “Lucy”.
Maybe if her career hadn’t crashed and burned, my take on J Lo would have taken off. Some people do like to call me J Po. I probably sing and act just as well. However, if I dated someone named Ben, out Hollywood name wouldn’t be Benifer, but rather Benson. No, thank you.
Tags: 33
33 Memories of 33 Years #6
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A good meeting is hard to come by. If you’ve ever been to a meeting of any kind, you know what I’m talking about.
I remember staff meetings as a teacher as being the worst. Many teachers are guilty of slipping in a stack of tests to grade while the droning occurs. Or they doodle and throw paper airplanes–while only an hour previous they were giving students detention for doing the exact same thing.
At one school I had the joy of attending not only the junior high staff meeting but the combined junior and senior high staff meeting. It’s amazing that I still have vision in both eyes because I wanted to jab a pen into my eyes on more than one occasion. However, the junior high ones were usually better.
One meeting, the history teacher was absent. She always took the minutes of the meeting. She was one of those Roman numeral types. For the rest of us, the last thing we want to do at a meeting that bores us to tears, is to WRITE DOWN every excruciating detail. My fear in taking minutes was there would be a day when something was actually accomplished, I would have missed it, people would be anticipating the publication of the minutes to review this extraordinary moment, and there would be nothing.
Yet the task was handed to me, because I was an English teacher, and we all know that every English teacher in the world LOOOOVES to take minutes. So I decided I would make it fun. I not only would stay awake, record everyting that was talked about, but I would publish the minutes in the form of a poem. And I did it. And it was a-ma-zing. I think I caught a glimpse of a copy when I was moving this year. If I find it I’ll publish it here for all six of you to read.
One meeting I actually would have loved to be sitting in on was one at work. My coworker was on a committee working with associates at another site planning picnics for our department. Flip back through my blogs for 2008. It all had to do with corn hole games and excessive heat.
Some meetings I’m looking forward to never attending again are the HOA Board meetings. I used to serve as the VP. That was until I was BUSY and was not checking my home email. One email where the prez assigned me to a task. Long story short: the HOA prez is a loon and I’ve been kicked off the Board. I think it was meant to be a punishment. It’s not.
Tags: 33
