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…
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