Numbers: A Child's Story

            I’ve always thought that each number had its own personality.  Some are villains, some are heroes, and some are perfectly normal.  This story is exactly how I’ve seen them in my head since I was little, which is why it’s written as a children's story.

            It was a bright summer day when 4 woke up to see sun streaming in through her bedroom window.  She smiled as she hopped out of bed and thought about all the possibilities the day held for her.  It was an exciting mystery.

            As 4 opened her bedroom door to make her way down to breakfast, her little brother 3 crashed into the room.  He had his toy airplane out and was making buzzing noises as he flew it around her room.

            “Oh 3, you’re so silly!”  She laughed.  “Come down to breakfast with me before Momma 2 thinks we’ve slept in too late.”

            “Okay!”  Piped 3 as he ran past her to fly his plane down the stairs or their little cottage.

            When 3 and 4 reached the bottom of the stairs they saw their elderly Grandpa 1 sitting at the table, twisting his long white mustache around his finger as he loomed over a newspaper.  “Good morning Grandpa 1!”  They called in unison as they came over and kissed Grandpa 1’s slim and withered cheeks.

            “Good morning 3, good morning 4.”  He said cheerily as he gave them each hugs.

            “Good morning Momma 2.”  4 said as she hugged her mother who was finishing cooking breakfast.

            “Why hello there 4.  What are your plans today?”  Momma 2 turned around and started setting the table.

            “I’m not sure.”  4 replied as she sat in her usual spot.  “I think I’m going to go for a walk and see what happens from there.”

            “You be careful,” Grandpa 1 told her.  “Snidely 9 and his sidekick 7 are on the loose and doing terrible things in the town.”

            “Don’t worry Grandpa 1, I’ll be careful.”  4 promised.

            When she was done with her meal, 4 said goodbye to her family and started her walk. 

4 didn’t get very far before she ran into her neighbor 6 playing in the woods near their houses.  4 and 6 went to school together, but 6 was a little older.  He was a very shy boy, but very nice.  His best friend was 8, the most popular kid in school.  8 was nice and was the star of the school track and football teams.

“Hello 6!” 4 called.

6 looked surprised, but when he saw that it was 4, he smiled and waved.  “Hi 4.  What are you doing today?”

4 stopped to talk to 6.  “Going for a walk and seeing where the day takes me.  How about you?”

6 shrugged. “I’m just messing around with these new action figures my mom got me.”  He blushed.

“That sounds like a lot of fun.”  4 said cheerily.

Suddenly, there was a rustling in the trees near them.  4 and 6 looked up to see two interesting characters.  One was very tall and thin with a worn top hat and a black handlebar mustache.  The other was also thin, but a bit shorter.  His back was hunched and he smiled like a wolf.

“Hello there, children.”  The one with the top hat said in a British accent.  “What are you doing out here alone?”

6 was frozen with fear, but 4 answered politely.  “Good morning, sir.  We’re just playing.”

The one with the top hat tisked and shook his head.  “That is very alarming.  I’ve heard there’s a very dangerous character roaming these woods.  You wouldn’t want to run into him, now would you?”

“No sir.” 4 responded.

“No, no.  I didn’t think so.  You children should run along before…Hmm.”  The man trailed off.  “I don’t’ remember the villain’s name.”  He turned to the hunched over man next to him.  “Do you remember his name, good fellow?”

A shrill laugh came from the man.  “Yes!”  He wheezed.

“Oh that’s right!”  Said top-hat man.  “Snidely 9…at your service.”  He took off his top hat and put it over his heart, holding out his hand to shake with 4. 

Not thinking, 4 took his hand.  Snidely 9 pulled her toward him, grabbing her.  “Take her 7!”  He called as they rushed back into the woods with 4.

6 jumped up and ran down the path toward town.  He wasn’t sure where he was going; he just knew he needed to tell someone what had happened.  6 was almost home when he literally ran into his best friend 8 who was waiting in line at an ice cream stand.

“What’s wrong?”  8 asked as he steadied his friend who was shaking and panting.

“4!  7!  Snidely 9!  Woods!”  6 was puffing so hard he couldn’t talk in complete sentences.  Luckily 8 and 6 were such good friends that 8 understood.

“Snidely 9 and 7 grabbed 4 and took her into the woods?”  He asked, concerned.

“Yes!  You have to go help her!”  6 finally got out.

8 didn’t say anything more and started running.  He ran through the woods, looking for clues of where Snidely 9 and 7 could have take 4.  8 was about to give up when he heard some faint screaming.

“4.”  He said to himself quietly, and started running toward her screams

As 8 was about to burst out of the woods, he heard a whistle.  When he cleared the trees he saw train tracks.  There was 4, tied up and lying on the tracks.  The whistle he’d heard was a train heading right for her.

“8!  Help me!” She called when she saw him.

8 moved as fast as he could, running toward 4.  Just as the train was about to run her over, 8 swooped down and pulled 4 off of the tracks, quickly untying the ropes around her.  4 clung to him, giving him a hug.  “Thank you so much 8!  You saved me!  My hero!”

8 smiled down at her and hugged her back.  “I’m glad you’re safe.”  He said.  “Now, where are Snidely 9 and 7?”

“They’re back at their hideout.”  4 said.  “I’ll show you.”

4 took 8 to Snidely 9 and 7’s hideout where they found them sitting in front of a fireplace, sipping tea.  8 and 4 worked together and were able to apprehend them, 4 using her sweet karate skills and 8 using brute force.  They called the police and waved Snidely 9 and 7 goodbye as they were taken away.

Later that night there was a big party.  Momma 2 made a cake for 8 to thank him for saving her daughter.  Grandpa 1 spent the evening telling old heroic tales from when he was younger.  3 sat patiently next to 8, his new hero, as they politely listened to Grandpa 1’s stories.  6 even stopped by and shyly accepted a huge hug from 4 for helping in her rescue. 

They lived happily ever after.

Fear and My White Whale

            One of my greatest fears besides spiders and crowds of people is going to a store or shop that I’ve never been to before.  What’s even worse is if I have to buy something there.  It’s like a new and scary world where anything can happen.  ANYTHING.

            What even worse and freaks me out even more is going to a coffee shop or coffee stand and having to place an order.  I’m not much of a coffee drinker to being with.  To me, coffee is like a dessert that not only gives you a sugar high, but also causes a caffeinated hyperactivity rush.  I love them blended because it gives me an excuse to have something like a milkshake any time of the day without being judged.

            Coffee shops and stands are scary for their own separate reasons.  At a coffee shop, you usually find Indie hipster type people behind the counter.  They’re so hip they don’t care about anything anymore except if other people are as hip as them.  Why wash you’re hair?  That’s way too mainstream.  And forget about customer service.  They’d rather tell you to get the hell out of there than wait for you to make a decision on what to order.  And blended drinks?  Forget it, noob.

            My husband has recently decided that he loves to get coffee, so whenever we go out somewhere, he wants us to make a stop.  He’s easy; all he asks for is a mocha.  On a really daring day he may add a little flavor.  I, on the other hand, have no idea what all the coffee lingo means and will never ever get it down no matter how many times my husband explains it to me.

            Our church has had coffee outings before where they make a pilgramige through our little town to try various types of coffee to decide who has the best.  My husband believes this will be fun and has tried talking me into going quite a few times.  He doesn’t understand the vastness of my pent-up dread and loathing of going places to buy coffee (I try to keep the allusion of sanity, for our marriage’s sake).

            What usually happens is as we wait in line my eyes dart from one picture of foamy coffee on the wall to another, trying to figure out what actually tastes good and what tastes like mud coffee sludge (which I’ve come to realize, most do).  Can I get something blended?  Why can’t there just be something called “liquid candy?”  That would make things a lot easier for me.

            I can never decide!  I freak even worse when I see that we’re getting closer and closer to the front of the line.  That’s when I go to my husband for emergency support.

Me: “What is a mocha again?”

Husband: “Milk and chocolate.”

Me: “Then what’s a latte?”

Husband: “Milk and flavoring.”

Me: “Why isn’t a mocha just called a chocolate latte then?”

Husband: “Because then it wouldn’t be a mocha.”

Me: “Can you add flavoring to a mocha?”

Husband: “Yes.”

            Trying to figure out the philosophy of coffee names takes me into a downward spiral of confusion and anger.  I get mad when I don’t understand things that everyone seems to find simple.  Then I’m even more angry because it’s our turn and I have no idea what to say to the cool, nonchalant and somewhat hostile person behind the counter.

            Of course I have to have the bad luck of marrying one of the few gentleman left on the planet.  The first thing he says when we get up there is, “Do you know what you want?”

            This turns the attention of the barista to me.  I’ve learned over the years that if I say no, my husband won’t order his drink because he has a “ladies first” mentality.  When that happens I see the barista’s eyes narrow and I can feel the angry force of the patrons behind us as they realize that I am the easily destroyable thing that stands between them and their precious coffee. 

            What to do?!  One of two things always happens.  Either I point to a sign that’s close by and say, “Um, can I have…” and squint to see the name of it.  I usually pronounce it wrong and get a cool warning look from the barista.  Otherwise, I blurt out the first thing on the menu hanging from the ceiling behind the counter.  Depending on how well this goes with the barista, I may or may not ask if I can have it blended.

            When this series of events has occurred, I usually end up with some sort of liquid-ish frosty thing that tastes a lot like chalk or mud (or better yet, a mix of the two!).  There have only been a few instances when I’ve actually liked and finished what I order.  As nice as that is while I’m drinking it, my downfall is the fact that, if we ever come back, I’ll never be able to remember what it is I blurted out for my order.

            As difficult and scary as going to a coffee shop is, I dread going to a coffee stand even more.  The people who are hired there are the complete opposite of the ridiculously cool hipsters in coffee shops.  At coffee stands you will find people who look like they belong to a sorority or fraternity modeled after Delta Nu from Legally Blonde (I had to look that up; don’t judge me!). 

They are so chatty I can’t help but hope to God it’s because they’ve been pumping whatever 12-shot coffee they favor directly into their veins since they arrived at their shift.  If that is genuine energy, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to leave my house again.

            I’m alright with nice people.  I’m alright with super bubbly happy people.  I’m alright with ridiculously attractive people (these are all attributes of coffee stand employees).  What I’m not alright with is when people cross the line from being happy, to flirting just for the sake of selling coffee; coffee that I’m already there to buy.  I don’t need to be patronized and flirted into placing my order (this makes me freeze up even worse than a hot hipster barista does).

            I am still nervous when I drive or walk up to these places, but the great thing is that they’re more like candy stores than the hard core coffee shops.  Everything they have is hopped up with major syrup and sweets.  It’s my kind of coffee. Even if I don’t pay attention to what I order, there’s a good 87% chance that I’ll get something tasty.

            I could get past this nervousness if the people working there weren’t so in-your-face nice/flirty.  I always leave wanting to tell the guys there, “no.  I do not desire you to flirt with me or to comment on something about me to the point of being creepy.  I am not your type, nor are you mine.  We can be friends if you insist, but I will never ever trust you.  Keep your manic smiles to yourself and I’ll just drive right on through, nothing to see here.  Trust me, its better this way.”

            But it’s the girls at these places who are actually the worst.  I always get the sorority girl who is way too cute and bubbly to be real (Malibu Skipper always comes to mind).  Again I must make it clear that I have no problem with cute/bubbly people as long as they don’t do the following:

Coffee Chick: “Hi there!  How are you today?!”

Me: “Great.  How about you?”

Coffee Chick: “I’m absolutely fantastic!  Today is wonderful and I love being up in the morning selling people coffee!”

Me: “It’s definitely nice to love your job.” 

Coffee Chick: “Are you doing anything fun or exciting today?!”

Me: “Not really, just going to work.”

I start to get tense.  This is where things can either continue smoothly or take a turn for the worst.  My hope is that I can order my coffee, thank her, leave a tip and be on my way.  A little more conversation is ok, but a line has to be drawn.

This is when she looks me up and down through my car window.  Apparently something catches her eye.

Coffee Chick: “Oh, I see you’ve got some sparkle on your shirt under that jacket!  It looks like you’ve got some hidden sparkle in your personality going on there!  I’m sure you’re going to have a very exciting day!”

Me: “…Um…thanks…you have a good day too.”

The time this happened, I felt violated and dirty.  I just wanted to take my drink and run away.  The rest of the day I had to wonder if she had intentionally given me a smarmy backhanded compliment or if she had no idea how that had come out.  Either way, I was never going back.

I’m sure there are some very nice people who work at coffee shops and coffee stands.  If there are, where are you?!  I would be more than happy to even fly to another state, heck a different country, to order something from you.  If you’re on a late-night shift, I’d start drinking coffee at 1:30 in the morning, just for you.  It would be a privilege and an honor.  You’ll recognize me as the shaking person afraid to make eye contact while ordering who bursts into tears of relief and delight when I discover that you, the perfect barista, are real.  Until then, I will think of you as my Moby Dick and I your Captain Ahab.  Searching coffee shops and stands in the seas of my own fear and hesitation.

**Note: I realize that I probably got most of the coffee definitions wrong.  That is because I do not understand. This is partially due to the fact that it is so confusing.  Also, I’m a tad passive aggressive and if I think something is stupid, I’ll usually refuse to learn it.  Flaws?  What flaws?  I have no flaws!

Also, this was written to be funny.  Please laugh.  If you don’t, I will cry.  And for the record, I have a few friends that were baristas and they were AMAZING (you know who you are).  This entire story is an irrational fear of mine that has been written in a satirical and hyperbolic fashion.  I do not mean to insult anyone. **

True Stories: Death Medley

Disclaimer:  I usually hate writing anything besides fiction, but some memories started popping up while reading one of my favorite blogs and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to write them down and share them.  Thank you Allie Brosh, author of Hyperbole and A Half!

Why I Hate to Paint My Nails

            I grew up in Oregon.  Actually, I’ve never lived anywhere else.  I haven’t even ever moved to a different city.  My Dad was born in Oregon too, but he’s gotten to live in a few different states throughout his life. 

My Mom is from Idaho.  Half of her family still lives there.  Her old hometown was the only place besides the coast that we ever went on vacations when I was growing up.  We’d go once every couple years, and it was always a big deal. 

            My Mom would get so excited; she’d count down the months, weeks and days leading up to our trips.  She’d say things like, “This time next month, we’ll be eating lunch at your Grandpa’s house.”  As kids, this kind of daily reminder slowly wound my sister and I into a tizzy of anticipation until we were on the verge of imploding by the time traveling day arrived.

            There was always a lot of thought and planning that went into packing and preparing for the trip.  The packing would begin several days before we left.  We were going to see family for the first time in years, so the clothing we took and how we presented ourselves was very important.

            My sister had always been the smart and pretty one, so I decided early on that I’d be the sweet, quirky one (something I strive for to this day).  This meant even more preparation on my part to get the right effect.  I had found the clothes that fit the best on me, but showed my fun/weird side, but not too far that my long lost relatives didn’t want to talk to me.  It was a delicate balance for a kid.

The accessories I took with me in the car needed to match too.  I always brought paper and pencils so I could write on the 10 hour car ride.  On this particular occasion, I also brought drawing paper and charcoal pencils that I’d gotten for my birthday.  It figured I’d have enough time using them in the car to see if I was the next Picasso.

            The morning of the trip finally came!  I was having the hardest time keeping myself from tearing out my own hair in anticipation, I was so excited.  I had finished packing the night before, but my parents still had to run to the store to get food for the trip and my sister had some things to finish with her suitcase.  This meant I was left to my own devices while the authority figures were at the store and my 13-year-old sister was holed away in her room.

            Just watching TV wasn’t going to keep my busy, I needed to do something with my hands.  Then I had a brilliant idea!  I’d paint my nails!  This would kill two birds with one stone! I’d have to concentrate to do it right which would help me settle down, and my grandparents would think I looked very grown up.  Perfect!

            I grabbed some pretty pink polish, a paper towel to use as a mat, and set to work slathering the goop on my nails.  I’ve never been good at painting.  Plus, at 11, I didn’t live up to having the dexterity of an 8-year-old.  On top of the excitement of our trip and the fact that even as an adult I still never remember that you can’t touch things when you’ve got paint drying on your nails, it wasn’t surprising that about ten minutes later, my fingers looked like they’d been covered with the ectoplasm-jelly-grossness from the movie “Poltergeist.”

            This would not do.  My grandparents would hate it!  I had to get the paint off, and pronto.  Good thing I knew where the nail polish remover was.  It took me longer to get the polish off my fingers than it did to paint them in the first place.  But eventually, I was finally clean.

            While I was cleaning up, for some crazy reason I can’t explain I stuck one of my fingers in my mouth and sucked on it.  It took me less than a second to connect the disgusting taste with the fact that I had just slathered nail polish remover all over my hands.

            I froze, my heart sinking.  I knew what this meant.  I had just ingested chemicals.  I was going to die.  And even worse, I was going to ruin my family’s vacation. How was I supposed to handle this?

            I made a decision right then.  I wasn’t going to tell my parents about it.  They weren’t going to put off their vacation to call poison control when, by the time they came home from the store, it would already be too late.  I’d just ride it out.

            I wasn’t sure how long it took to die from poisoning, but I figured we could get out on the road and be far enough on our way that, when I did die, my parents could just toss me into the gorge and keep going on their trip.  It would be a bit inconvenient, but the best option compared to just staying home by myself and leaving a bloated, stinking body half eaten by our dog and cats for them to discover when they got home.

            When we finally left, I wasn’t quite as excited for the trip as I had been the past few months.  I’d become obsessed with the time, counting how many hours had gone by since I’d sucked the deadly nail polish remover off of my fingernail.  Wondering when it would start to hurt, steeling myself to be silent through the pain.

            A few hours into the trip, my sister borrowed the art paper and charcoal pencils that I’d brought and drew the most amazing landscape.  I was hurt and angry.  I’d figured I’d leave my family with one final masterpiece of artistic genius to remember me by.  I’d worked for over an hour on drawing something brilliant, but everything I drew ended up looking like a pathetic excuse of a tumbleweed (to be generous).  Why couldn’t I have died before the humiliation of my sister, yet again, being better than me?  Instead of just waiting to die, I actually started plotting a way to make sure I died in as gruesome a way that would scar my sister for life for being stuck in the back seat with me while it happened.

As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, I didn’t die, I didn’t even get a stomach ache.  After I’d finished writing a will that didn’t allot anything but my chores to my sister, we went on to have a great vacation.  The whole experience taught me to tone down my dramatic reactions, stop being so morbidly obsessed with death, and that I needed to step up the weird if my sister was going to keep stepping up her perfection.

Chocolaty Assassin

One of my favorite candies of all time is Junior Mints.  I loved the creamy, gooey, chocolate and mint nubs.  My favorite thing to do with them was crushing them against the roof of my mouth with my tongue and then suck on them.  Chewing them would take the texture for granted, and I’d never want to do that.

            When I was seventeen I worked at the CD store in the local mall.  It was my first real job, and it was a pretty good gig for a while (I was actually just happy to have a cooler job than anyone else I was going to school with). 

            There was a certain time when I was working in the middle of the day, just the assistant manager and I.  She was up front talking on the phone to her boyfriend and I was in the back of the store shelving the CD’s, sucking on some Junior Mints. 

            That was when I had an epiphany.  For the life of me, I can’t remember what it was about, but it must have been the most amazing thing in the world because what did I do?  I inhaled very quickly in excitement and turned to run up to the front of the store to tell my manager about it.

When I inhaled, I’d sucked the oozing Junior Mint I’d been working on into my throat.  Its chocolaty goodness spread across the opening of my throat, blocking any breathing.  My initial reaction as I scurried to the front of the store was to just swallow it down and get a drink of water to stop the inevitable coughing that would follow.  Apparently, that was easier said than done.

I couldn’t swallow.  After trying a second time with the same result, I finally stopped moving so I could concentrate.  I had made it to the middle of the store, and I stood there holding on to a rack of CD’s, trying to force saliva down my throat.

I have no idea how long I stood there, but at a certain point my body decided I was a failure and the autopilot took over.  It forced me to wheeze for breath, making involuntary part screeching, part wheezing sounds, trying to force in air.  The oozey, gooey mass of Junior Mint covering the entrance of my throat and lungs wasn’t budging.  It was like a little mint-chocolaty assassin.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do.  I could keep running up to the assistant manager and ask her for help, but it didn’t seem like that would really help.  The Heimlich wouldn’t work in this kind of situation either.  Maybe I should just run into the back room.  There was a sink back there, I could drink some water.  But then I might end up drowning if I accidentally inhaled while drinking too much in desperation.

As I was trying to figure this out, I started pacing back and forth in the middle of the store, making those involuntary noises.  I sounded like a creature from Silent Hill, and apparently looked like a freak; if the offended looks the old guy standing nearby watching the music videos was any indication.

All of a sudden, my panic completely disappeared and I made a decision.  I wasn’t going to subject my manager or the old man eyeing me to witnessing my death.  I’d calmly go into the back room, crawl up onto the heavy duty shipping table, lie down and simply die.  It would be much less shocking to find me that way than for everyone to watch me while I writhed for one last saving breath before I finally died.  Yep, that was the best choice.

Still making the whooping noises, I started walking to the back room, congratulating myself for how thoughtful and smart my decision was.  They’d say I was selfless and thoughtful until the end.  It would be a part of my eulogy. 

After only a few steps, something popped in my throat and I felt gooey ooze sliding down my raw and burning throat.  The Junior Mint had unclogged itself!

My body still didn’t trust me to figure out how to breathe, so I couldn’t stop the big walloping, painful breaths I sucked in causing me to hack and cough, hurting me even more.  I thought that it would have been much more peaceful to die than to stand there and hack up the lung that I’d been trying to get air to.  But, it wasn’t my decision.  I was going to live, I was going to spend the rest of the day feeling like someone had tried to strangle me, and I was going to have a near-death experience story involving a CD store, a forgotten idea that could have cured cancer (there’s no proof that it wouldn’t), and a Junior Mint.

**After writing out these stories, I’ve realized something.  Every time I have a great idea, whether I remember it later or not, I end up almost dying in a freak accident (or thinking I’m going to).  Hmm…interesting…