Wow. I suck at multi-tasking.

So, I've been working on cartooning a new post for quite some time now, but ... cartooning actually takes a lot of time, even if it's a crappy excuse for artwork.  BLARG.

Also, I've actually been attempting to do my schoolwork.  So that's reason number 2.

Rest assured, though, I will post as soon as I can.

Lalalallalalalala.

She's on fire..... OH CRAP!!!!

Another Kroll family favorite....

So, when I was nine, my family traveled to Montreal for a weekend.  It was beautiful, and I enjoyed being treated like an adult as we went out to a fancy Franco-Vietnamese restaurant.  As fancy as it was, the place still catered to children, and crayons and coloring pages were made available to us girls.

I love crayons.

Like, a lot.

Anyway, I got very enthusiastic about coloring.  A little too enthusiastic.  I mean, the colors, the smell of wax, ideas taking form and bloom beneath my hand... I was mesmerized.  Focusing, I leaned over the table to perfect my masterpiece.

Too bad that this was a fancy restaurant.

Too bad that there was a lit candle in the center for some sort of "ambience" or other such French nonsense.

Too bad I had long hair.

Key word: "had"....

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I had my hair up that night, with twin tendrils of curls hanging down on either side of my ponytail.  Unbeknownst to me in my artistic trance, one of these strands had caught fire, and like a fuse, the flame was creeping up my hair toward my face.

Luckily for me, my darling mother noticed flames of death reaching for her small daughter's face.  Like any brave mother, she leapt across the table to crush out the flame with her hand.

Unluckily for me, I was still unaware of the situation.  What I quickly became aware of was the uncommon and terrifying sight of my mild mannered mother screaming and lunging across a table at me with surprising speed!

We crashed.  It was very undignified... yelling and crashing in the midst of this nice restaurant, and I became quite indignant, still unaware that my hair was ever on fire... just aware that my foot was crushed and that my mom was a psycho.

Then I saw what was left of my hair.

So yes... my life has always been this way.  Just in case you were wondering.

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...but I still color at restaurants... :)

I'm such a good person.

NOT.

My roommates told me that I need to tell more stories about my childhood... for context... or (most likely) blackmail purposes.....

Ahem.  This is a true story from when I was... eight? ish?

There is a law that governs the rules of childhood: fairness is king.  There is a magnetic, polar force that arches between right and wrong, good and bad.  There is no, “I tried to be fair.”  There is only fair, and unfair.  And life isn’t fair.

I was so mad.  I was madder than mad.  I was a water balloon teetering on the edge of explosion.   I was right.  I knew I was right.  She didn’t care.  She just sat there, refusing point blank to see reason.  Perched on the rickety stool in our drafty living room, her every angle, softened by childhood, screamed obstinacy and smugness.

I have always been the evil twin.  More thoughtful, more cunning than my gentle, simple sister, I always had my way.  Oh, she was bright, but she lacked the diabolical streak that ran through my DNA, twisting its way through my spine and clenching icy fingers on the base of my skull.  Normal days in my childhood involved me delighting in games of make believe—I was the princess, she was the prince.  Of course, she fumed at every dictation that I airily uttered, sometimes launching herself into me, a hissing bundle of nails and teeth. 

When this would happen, I would cry softly and widen my eyes, innocent and bewildered.  She would rush over, all apologies and hugs, all forgiven.  I was Jacob to her Esau, wily, deceptive, manipulative.  She never noticed the trap until I clenched the birthright in my fist, grinning triumphantly as I straightened up.  It was a game, a competition.  And I always won.             

Not to say that I was a bad child—oh, I loved my sister. I made her pretty things.
We played Candyland for hours.  We giggled late into the night together, and often woke in each other’s arms.  She force-fed me her “experiments” as she called them, endeavors in the kitchen gone disastrously wrong, and I willingly played victim to my ambitious sister.

In truth, I was jealous.  My sister, so naturally affectionate, generous, and kind, was a stinging reminder of things that I had to work to become.  When you are a twin, you are constantly being subcategorized as if you are one person, with attributes filtered between two shells.  Oh, here is the pretty part, and here is the brainy part; this one is quiet, that one is loud.  This one is good, that one is naughty.  And if you want to be the good twin, you’d better learn how not to get caught.  From an early age, I learned the rules: 

Rule number one: Don’t leave a bruise.  Don’t break anything.  Make it a he-said-she said kind of deal.

Rule number two: Blackmail, blackmail, blackmail.  That time she hit you three years ago at the family reunion when your mom was looking the other way is still fair game.  There is no statute of limitations.

Rule number three: There is a line.  Dance on it, laugh at it, but don’t cross it.  Ever.

            I was pretty much the master of these rules.  My sister was quick to anger, quick to forgiveness.  However, where cunning runs through my veins, stubbornness runs through hers.  I was always bewildered when, out of the blue, she would decide that she’d had enough.  She would simply shut down, crossing her arms and refusing to budge either way.  It was at these times that I would be the most frustrated, for she chose outrageously trivial moments to be immovable: fighting over whose dress was whose, or what we should make for dessert.  I wheedled, I pleaded, I played fair.  I reasoned, persuaded, pouted, and cried.  She would sit, arms and legs tightly crossed, lips pursed, prickly and hostile.   

        

It was at one of these times that I found myself howling at her, my face red, my hair frizzling around my face.  Nothing made me angrier than being right and being thwarted.  I had tried everything; pulled out my entire bag of tricks, and for what?  My sister smirked, inches from my face.  It was one of those rare times that she was in control, and she knew it.  I was livid.  Her face loomed in front of me, seemingly huge and unbearably self-righteous.  In a blind fury, I reached out and pulled her glasses off of her face.  My sister roared and blundered forward, unseeing.  In the confusion, I bounded to the window, yanked it open, and dangled my arm, glasses in hand, out the second story window.  I relished the power that I had, its savory taste in my mouth.  I was a stone deity, I held the scales, I balanced her glasses against her temper. 

“You wouldn’t dare—“ my sister shouted.  Oh, wouldn’t I?  I held back…afraid to follow through with my threat, prolonging this delicious power—to see her face working furiously, to see her pretty brown eyes widen, slightly unfocused.

“You horrid—“ my sister had a fondness for old-fashioned expressions.  I detested them.  Who did she think she was, Shirley Temple?  I tuned the rest out.  I, Justice, was weighing my own actions.  I wouldn’t actually throw the glasses out the window, would I?  My own sister--was it even worth the trouble?  My own sister….

“CHRISTEN MICHELLE!” my full name echoed around the room, and my sister raised her chin self-importantly.  That did it.  That ring of false authority, of superiority—I crossed the line. There was no turning back now.  Raising one eyebrow, I loosened my hand, and watched the glasses tumble, end over end, gold frames glinting in the grey January sky.  They fell faster than I expected, with an disappointingly muffled landing in the snow.  “FFFT!”  The snow hissed.  “Shame on you!” it seemed to mutter.

I sneaked a sideways glance at my sister.  Her mouth was open, her eyes narrowed and bulging.  At that moment, if she had cried, or spoken softly, I might have crumbled into the dust, running down to find the glasses, leaking tears of self-loathing and repentance.  I turned slowly, afraid of her reaction.

“YOUNG LADY!” she shrieked.  I steamed. 

“I’m OLDER THAN YOU!”  I retorted, hackles up.  Two minutes is two minutes, and I never let her forget it.  We bickered as she ordered me to go get them.  I defensively refused, and climaxing in a mutual yell of, “FINE!” we spun away from each other.  I stalked away, utterly disgusted, to find my book. 

Several minutes later, I walked meekly to a window.  There was my sister, wandering despondently around our yard, searching through the snow.  I bit my lip as she drifted in circles, wondering how long she would be out there.  Five minutes ticked by with the swiftness of a school day at the end of June.  I tried to immerse myself in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess, but got stuck on one sentence: “To be kind is worth a great deal to other people...Lots of clever people have done harm and have been wicked.”  I read this over and over again, paralyzed with guilt and pride. 

A few minutes later, my sister walked in, hands blazing with cold, glasses foggy, eyes wounded.  She sat down with a book. I pretended that I didn’t see her—oh, I was the worst person in the world!  Sure, Cain killed Abel, but at least he didn’t throw his glasses out of the second-story window of their colonial parsonage in New England.  I deserved to be cursed, worked as a drudge, thrown into the fiery pit of hell.  I heard the crunch of my parents’ car in the driveway.  I saw my life in an hourglass, slipping away faster than dreams in the morning as I heard their footsteps on the stairs.  I sat, my face reddening, desperately reading, reading, reading.  My parents came in the door. 

“Reading, you two?”  My dad chuckled affectionately and ruffled my hair.  I was in pieces.  Surely I was in for it.  It was coming. 

“Did you have a good day?” my mom asked.  “Mm.”  I answered noncommittally, burning with shame.  “What about you, hon?” she turned toward my sister.  I cringed.

Thud.  Thud.  Thud.  My heartbeat was deafening, My ears strained to catch her response.

“It was...fine,” she said softly.  My heart stopped altogether.  What?  Fine?  Surely impending doom could not be avoided by these three simple words.  It wasn’t right!  It wasn’t fair!  I deserved to be chopped up and stewed, to lose dessert for a week, to be forced to apologize!

My parents chattered away with each other about dinner, errands, and other meaningless things, walking into the kitchen, leaving me alone with my sister.  For the first time, I was regretful.  I wasn’t upset because I was getting in trouble, or forced to apologize.  I wanted to apologize –I wanted to apologize because I was wrong, and I was sorry.  I wasn’t getting punished and it wasn’t fair. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

I burst into tears.

Being a Girl...erm.... Woman

WORDS I HATE:

moist

tender

flesh

nuance

engorge

rural

loins

lubricate

horror

pecan

nostril

the other n word...i can't even write it, but it refers to the top of a baby's bottle.

mucus

cloister

clotted

pustule

succulent
ointment

supple
salve

and finally.... 

WOMAN.

There are many reasons that I dislike the word "woman."  I just dislike the way it sounds... and I get really anal about people mixing up "woman" with "women".  Which often sound the same, or "women" is converted to some sort of "wimmin" sound....Ugh.  ANGER AND TENSION.  

My first experience with it directed at me:

Twelve-year-old Christi: Mom, I can't go to school today.  

Mom: What? Why not? You're going!

Christi: *meaningful look* ... shamefaced gestures....

Mom: *bursts into laughter* Oh, sweetie!  

Christi: It's not funny.

Mom: *fake saccharine fifties voice* "You're a woman now!" hahahahahahahahahhahaha

Christi: I'm leaving now.

See?  Unpleasant connotations.  Woman means cramps, mood swings, and unsympathetic mothers.  

NB: My mom is awesome, and I totally deserved it, I was being a brat the night before about wanting more privileges.  

Also, woman is indicative of responsibility.  I HATE RESPONSIBILITY.  And square toed, boxy shoes.  Or worse: mom jeans and shoulder pads.  

When I think woman, I think of this: ------>

I can feel my chin thickening.  Oh, my gosh.  

I think that the terror is brought on by my association of "woman" with "adult" which is theoretically.... not me.

The idea that my freshman roommate is getting married this Saturday freaks the crap out of me.  Surely, my generation, we're not ready to be married and have children?

Facebook suggests otherwise... thank you high school pregnancies....

Anyway, I never thought that I'd be afraid of aging.  It's shallow to cling to youth.  I stand by that statement.

Maybe it's the "peak" ideal.

According to this chart, women peak at ... 20 or so....

I'm 19....

Also... notice the male peak....

So.

Not.

Fair.

DEAR GOD FIX ME FAST!  I don't want to blink and miss it!!!!

Also, if I ever become a woman, I think I'd miss the following phrases in day to day life...

"Yeah, girl!"

"Baby guurrrrrrrrl"

"Get it girl"

and so on and so forth.  *Sigh*

I'm moving to Neverland.

You dain to write a blog?

Hmm hmm.  (that's a chortle)

Nyes.  nyes I do. (and thaaaat was British.)


I've decided that I'm pretty gifted.  No, really.

You see, every so often, the guard comes down, and the tongue runs unchecked... not the best plan, because it's not always appropriate or kind.  So... if I write in a blog, maybe I can vent a little, and no one's feelings get hurt?

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.

Hopefully.

So, today I was walking back to my dorm from leading sectionals in Chorale.  It's always a challenge for me, because we're doing Messiah, and I'm not quite learned in the art of conducting.  In relief and for lack of anything better to do, I sang to myself.

Pretty common.

In a chipmunk voice... because hey, no one was around.

Wrong.

I walked past girls in my alto section, who both did double takes to see their "responsible section leader" rocking out to the Chipmunk version of "Don't Stop Believing."  Complete with Chipmunk guitar solo.

I'm awesome.

Oy.