Deviant Dispatches

Lately, I've been going through boxes of stuff from my former life (a.k.a., pre-Spousal Unit). The nostalgia is like crack. Musty-smelling crack, but still addictive. Starting on the left: My Poetic License , from high school English teacher Mr. Poss, famous for things such as throwing his keys at the PA system during class interruptions and reading us the "cease and desist" letter from a magazine sick of sifting through bad teen poetry. Definitely one of my formative teachers. Star Wars Bedsheets . They're for a twin bed, though, so they're currently useless. Doesn't mean I'm getting rid of them, though! My Softball Glove , from when I played catch as a kid. I can't remember if it was too small for me by the time I joined the middle school softball team. Mission T-Shirt . In the '90s, there was this thing where a school bus was decked out as a space shuttle. Teachers interviewed for a crew, and kids were "hired" to visit schoo...

My sister Brooke and I, somewhere around 1993, I think. When kids are little, they don't know what a decision is or how to make one. Whatever's in front of them at the moment defines their existence - and it's usually either the best thing in the world or the worst. My little sister Brooke was no exception. Like all kids, there were some things that she knew for certain that she liked (the color red). There were some that she knew she didn't (me not hanging out with her, because let's face it, I'm awesome). But most everything else in her life was without preference. I noticed this in particular one hot summer when we begged for popsicles and were allowed to choose what we wanted. It was one of those multi-flavor boxes, and most had been eaten already. The only ones left were cherry and grape, red and purple. I unwrapped them and held them out before her. "Do you want red or purple?" I asked. "Purple!" she exclaimed. But I'...

Well. I've royally failed at keeping up on the blog this week. It's been busy and hectic and stressful for me, but to you, my readers, it just means you've missed out on what could have been awesomely embarrassing stories, hyperbolic letters, and sunset pictures. So as compensation, here are some embarrassing pictures of me as a kid. (Keep in mind, though, my mom has all the good stuff.) Me at one year Me, 2 years  My birthday, in a full track suit. (Yes, matching pants.)  My band uniform was so cool, I didn't even need to open my eyes for pictures  At the dentist with my sister  Shortly before the perm... (I'll try to find a picture of that) Stupid picture won't turn the right way, but you get the idea. Yes, that goat is wearing my jean jacket.

When I was in second grade, I single handedly made my classmates develop a lifelong abhorrence of this song. They weren't too fond of me, either. Three times a week, the music teacher would come to our classroom with a cart full of large music books and instruments. Sometimes we would sing; sometimes we would play instruments. And sometimes, we would get to pick a song from the big music books to listen to. Whenever I was called on, I chose this song. I think part of why my classmates hated it was because it was boring to them, having no words at all. (My repetitive requests were probably also to blame.) My fondness for it was partially in the fact that it was by a Norwegian composer - even at that age, I recognized how awesome it was to be Norwegian. The other part was likely the awesome story behind the piece. (Though I didn't know that Grieg himself thought the piece "reeked of cowpats." Interesting.) I think even then, I loved the dark intensity of t...

Jim Benton When I was little, I played a game in the car that, had my mother known about it, would have gotten me in possibly the biggest trouble ever. Mom would be in the front seat, driving to the grocery store, the mall, wherever. I'd be hanging out in the backseat, like you do when you're that young. Keep in mind, my imagination is nuts now; it was even more nuts back then. When I played this game, I was dead serious about it. As I entered the realm of make-believe, I left reality behind entirely; the game became my one and only reality. I would lean over to the window, my hands flat against the glass (Mom was always wondering what required me doing that, I'm sure). My mouth would follow suit - or at least be very close to the glass, right between my hands - and I would mouth two words at passing vehicles, in the hopes that they would see. Help me. That's right, I used to make-believe that I had been kidnapped and was sitting in the backseat of this t...

Lately, when Spousal Unit and I visit our parents, they yell at us. Things like, "Why do you  have all this crap here? You don't live here anymore. Why isn't it gone yet? Here, take anything you can fit in the car!" That's only a slight exaggeration of the verbal pyrotechnics from my visit home this weekend. But I'm glad to have taken this stuff home. Here's a sampling of my middle school and high school selves: buried treasure in one little box. So. Much. Star Wars junk. Literally. I found several empty chip bags and empty trading card containers, which I must have thought would be valuable someday. I was obnoxiously excited for Episode I to come out, and saved everything in sight having to do with the movie. Including this Anakin Skywalker action figure, still in the package. It's probably worth less than I paid for it. Not only did I find the Star Wars trading cards, I also found my old baseball and football cards. I doubt there...

When I was a senior in high school, I finally obtained the coveted position of supervisor at the grocery store where I worked. It was a position I'd wanted to have for quite a while (in kid-time), but I couldn't legally until I turned 18. Those in charge were also reluctant for me to have the post because I was going to college in short order. But I convinced them, gaining all the privileges and responsibilities of the post. One night at the beginning of summer, when I was working the late shift, I noticed a woman in her late 30s moving through the aisles with one of our red baskets - the hand-held kind - and filling it with food. As this was a grocery store, that wasn't unusual in the least. What was unusual was how everything in the basket was buried under several plastic bags. I was the only authority in the store. My heart pounded as I watched her from the end of the aisle. What to do? According to my training, I was supposed to wait until she stepped out the door -...

Yesterday morning, my mom texted, "Do you remember what happened 24 years ago today?" "No, you don't," Spousal Unit insisted. "You were four." But I do. It was the day of my preschool Valentine's party. I was probably bursting out of my skin with excitement, as Mom had made a cake for the party. She's an amazing decorator of all things, cakes included. She made them for everyone's birthdays, for anniversaries, for weddings, and they looked like a professional (who actually gave a damn) had made them. This wee round Valentine's cake was the same. If I remember right, it was two tiers, placed on a silver cake board with scalloped edges. The cake itself was on the small side (because preschoolers don't need much sugar to be rendered gibbering masses of energy), but the decorations were stunning: handmade roses and lots of those silver leaf decorations so popular in the '80s. In short, it was gorgeous, and four-year-old me...

When I was little, I had lots of tapes full of weird, fun music. One tape I especially loved was called The Music Machine, and it taught the Fruit of the Spirit (not to be confused with Fruit of the Loom ): Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, Kindness, and Self-Control. Each had a song to go with it, and the one that still sticks with me is the song for Patience, about Herbert the snail. I mentioned I'm Too Full For Broccoli by Joe Scruggs in an earlier post commemorating cassettes . My favorite was Oh By the Way, but that one hasn't been deemed fit for mass viewing (meaning it's not on YouTube). I had a tape full of Joe Scruggs songs, and I listened to it almost to the breaking point. Some kids listened to Raffi; I was no exception. Baby Beluga was one of my favorite bedtime songs. Remember Peter, Paul, and Mary? Puff the Magic Dragon was great, of course, but the one I still listen to over and over again is The Marvelous Toy....

In my high school psychology class, we did a perception experiment one day. The teacher called out various adjectives, and the whole class wrote them down and distributed them to other students in the class. We wrote each word three times and handed each slip to a different person. These weren't anything negative; we weren't calling each other names. They were personality traits, and I only remember two that were used: introvert and extrovert. I remember that because I received four of each. Some people in the class thought I was an introvert; some thought me an extrovert. At that point, I was a senior. Some of the other students likely knew I was on the Forensics team and did competitive public speaking. They knew I raised my hand a lot in class - those characteristics, they associated with being an extrovert. Others had probably seen me in classes I cared less about, where I rarely spoke. They knew I didn't have many close friends and often spoke quietly - those ...

Once upon a time, toward the end of my time as a grocery store supervisor, one of my coworkers asked me out. We'll call him Carl. He was fairly new at the store, and a true farm boy. He was nice, and often had funny things to say. I enjoyed talking to him during down times at work. At a certain point, I realized he had a crush on me, but there was nothing I could do about that; I just tried not to say or do anything that he might misconstrue as romantic interest on my part. I didn't want to date him. Unfortunately, he didn't pick up on that. He asked me out, and I asked for some time to think about it. That may sound cruel, considering that I was just going to say no to him. But it was a delicate situation. I was about six years younger than him, and his supervisor. Regardless of what I said to him, we would have to keep working together. So I wanted to come up with a gentle way of saying I wasn't into him. After asking for some time, Carl and I had a convers...

I took some pretty nasty spills as a kid. I haven’t yet had a broken bone, so far as I know (though my little toes are mangled enough to suggest it), but I had my fair share of rollerblading wipeouts and slow-motion trips down the stairs. But the worst was probably the time I ran into barbed wire. At about age 9 or so, I had my first horseback ride (a real one – not one on the chained-up circle-ponies at the circus). We visited some distant cousins, who had a farm and a huge white horse named Marshmallow. I got to trot around in front of the barn for a while. Magical, though I wasn’t allowed to go faster. Running was faster than the pace I was riding. At that age, I ran everywhere I could. I loved running. I ran at school. I ran home from the bus stop, kids shouting, “Run, Forrest, run!” at my retreating back. (Having not seen that movie, I didn’t get it and didn’t care if they were making fun of me. Just another day in the life.) Running was fun to me, and so I ran at every...

When I was in first grade, I didn't know yet what I wanted to be when I grew up. I'm sure I'd given it thought at some point, but I didn't have a fixed answer. I was mostly focused on being a kid and playing with my new baby sister. But one day in class, the teacher brought up the subject. I went to a tiny Lutheran school for kindergarten and first grade. We had a treacherous, delightful playground out back, and the whole school went to church on Wednesday mornings, in the attached chapel. The enormous first- through third-grade classroom consisted of 13 students and one teacher. Our lessons included math and reading, of course, but we also learned about the bible. As the teacher went around, asking every one of the seven first-grade students what they wanted to be when they grew up, I pondered to myself. Everything the others said sounded good - teacher, doctor, firefighter - but none of them really sparked my interest. The teacher finally reached the kid in front of m...

When Spousal Unit and I first started dating, we spent almost every waking moment together. For the first several months, we at least tried to minimize the time we spent together - we'd both had our hearts broken in the past, and wanted to take it slowly. That didn't last long - it was like our hearts were opposing magnets, naturally and irresistibly attracted to each other. By the end of the spring semester (we started dating in January, but that's another story), I had secretly fallen in love with him, and he was none the wiser when it was time to say our summer goodbyes. Due to aforementioned heartache, I refused to say the "L" word before he did. We were between "like" and "love" - kelo, as we called it. His parents lived in Chicagoland, and mine were in the upper echelons of Wisconsin - a terribly far distance. To make matters worse, he was heading off for a few weeks of study in Guadeloupe, and I wouldn't be able to visit him for thre...

When I was in first grade, I got my ears pierced. It was kind of a disaster. All of my friends had, of course, gotten their ears pierced. (In reality, I think only one or two of them had.) I begged my mom over and over again to please, please, please let strangers use odd-looking implements to shove pointy metal through my flesh. Over and over again the answer was, "No, you're not old enough yet." I recall the same thing happening, years later, when I begged my mom to buy me sharp metal attached to a stick, so I could drag it across my legs and forcibly remove the hair on them. What's up with us as kids? We get so excited to do these things that will be obnoxious chores for the rest of our adult lives. Anywho, after telling me over and over how much it would hurt, my mom caved in and took me to get my ears stabbed. We went to a hair/piercing salon in the mall. To look at the same place now would possibly conjure images of Hep C and other deadly infections, but at the...

It took me longer than most kids to understand the whole point of Halloween. My mom says that at first, I went door to door trying to give candy to the people who answered. What a strange idea this must seem to kids - getting sweets from people you've never met, looking up at them wide-eyed as they put a big bowl of sweets in your face just for being somewhat adorable. (Or just for being there, depending on the costume.) Every year, Mom drove us - my sisters and I - way out in the country for Halloween. We'd visit my grandparents, showing off our fun new designs that would become dress-up clothes for a short time. Grandma always had a Ziploc bag of treats waiting for us. Then we would clamber back into the car, driving even farther away from the big city to reach our great-grandparents. They were about as Norwegian as an old farming couple can get. I never noticed that the house seemed kind of old, or that wood heat was becoming quite obsolete. After all, Grandma and Grandpa ha...

Back in the day, when I was about ten and in fourth grade, we took a field trip to a roller skating rink. It was one of the coolest places in town to us, in part because it had been recently renovated to be more awesome than anything else could be to the ten-year-old mind. There was the skating rink, with hills to skate up and down, a working train in the middle that you could ride, and occasional disco lights. There was an arcade off to the side where you could win tickets for prizes like those sticky hands that get stuck on the ceiling and leave their goop everywhere. There were above-rink tubes to crawl through. There was a party area with a White House, a Wild West jail cell, and many other cool backdrops. There was also the Root Cellar. To get to the Root Cellar, we headed down a staircase to this dank, dirty underground labyrinth, full of random extra rooms and strobe lights to make every motion more unusual. The place was named after all of the disgusting roots hanging from the ...

On Sunday night, everything seemed to be going well. I was getting ready for bed, my sister and her boyfriend were nestled all snug in their air matress, and Spousal Unit was watching something explody with Joe and Kaelin. I said goodnight to all and went to bed, closing the door behind me. It was more difficult to close than usual, but I thought little of it and slept like a milk-drugged kitten. The fact that I closed the door is very important. It does not close easily - the shape of the door and frame have changed enough with time that they are no longer perfect matches for each other, and weather affects them as well. (This makes dramatic exits and entrances difficult, because if you slam it, it just bounces back open again.) Usually, Spousal Unit and I just leave the door closed enough for privacy. Not on Sunday night. Because of all the yelling and explosions in the other room, I took care to close the door. Monday was my first full day of work, and I wanted a decent ...

Once upon a time, ages and millennia before my current color preferences, I loved and adored the color pink from one end of the world to the other. I'm sure this was in part my mom's fault - she practically rained a slew of pink upon me. Pink comforter, pink shirts, pink hair clips, pink My Little Ponies (although, my first one was blue and fuzzy). Pink was a constant companion and I loved it eternally. For years, my family even had a pink plastic plate, which was the "special" plate and you knew you were being honored and respected and eternally loved (for the evening) if you got to eat from it. For those who know me, this may be surprising. These days, I pretty much wouldn't be caught dead in anything pink. At some point, I simply flipped a switch and gave up the dresses, the curly hair, the white tights, and even the pink comforter. I decided I couldn't stand that color, and started climbing trees and wearing holes in my jeans and hitting baseballs as hard...

One of the weirder things I've ever purchased was a lavender string-wicker bunny figurine, just after Easter. The weird thing about this wasn't that I was 18 at the time, or that I was buying a bunny. It was made much like string art draped over balloons - you know, like when you dip the string in glue and wind it around the balloon, let it dry, and then pop the balloon so you have string art in its place. The bunny's outer purple string was draped over innner wire. He had two little purple buttons for eyes. But none of these things were particularly weird, either. This bunny was demonic, I tell you. One of his little purple "eye sockets" must have been damaged during the original transit to the store, hence ending up on the clearance shelf. That one eye was sunken in, giving him an otherworldly, I-am-plotting-heinous-evil look. All it took was one glance at him, and you knew this little purple string dude was bent on world domination, killing puppies, and forcin...