... I liked my job as much as this guy.
Heh. I guess we can all learn a lot from a Zamboni.
Maybe 2010 will have me smiling like that.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I wish...
... I liked my job as much as this guy.
Heh. I guess we can all learn a lot from a Zamboni.
Maybe 2010 will have me smiling like that.
The Secret Lives of Stuffed Toys
My mother asked me if she could get rid of my stuffed animal collection.
Is this the sort of thing that warrants more than a perfunctory thought?
YES. YES IT DOES.
Where do I start? It's so difficult to describe what these toys mean to me without having them here, in front of me. Yes, I know that makes me sound like I don't really care about them at all, but the truth is, they were just more comfortable in my parents' house, safely stowed in my closet, in a cozy nook in my closet. Under a blanket.
I swear, they like it.
Gah. My stuffed animals. Do I start with the fact that many of them were gifts? Or that they were my friends? Or that they were the only things that would listen to me, when I was a child, and even later, when I was an angst-ridden teenager who felt like NO ONE would ever understand me? I loved each and every one of them, and I still do, and now, now they'll be separated from each other and I'll never see them again. It's downright cruel, to be honest.
I feel like a complete nut-job for caring this much, but I am pretty sure that those stuffed animals were the reason I didn't grow up to BE a complete nut-job. You see, I projected every unpleasant facet of myself onto those toys, and they represented all the parts of me that I didn't like. There was Priscilla, the pink bunny who suffered from low self-esteem. She worried about not being liked so that I didn't have to. There was also the Bear Family, who hated the dark so much that they would cuddle up to me at night to keep them safe from the monsters (in the closet, not under the bed). Betsy the rag doll showed up during my adolescence. I'm sorry to say, she was suicidal, and lived on top of my curtain rod, constantly debating whether or not to leap. Ah, well. Teenagers.
I could go on and on about the secret lives of my stuffed animals, but that might make me seem a little crazy.
I have to call my mom and save my friends now. I can only hope it isn't too late. The bears might be okay, but those stuffed bunnies don't do well with change.
Is this the sort of thing that warrants more than a perfunctory thought?
YES. YES IT DOES.
Where do I start? It's so difficult to describe what these toys mean to me without having them here, in front of me. Yes, I know that makes me sound like I don't really care about them at all, but the truth is, they were just more comfortable in my parents' house, safely stowed in my closet, in a cozy nook in my closet. Under a blanket.
I swear, they like it.
Gah. My stuffed animals. Do I start with the fact that many of them were gifts? Or that they were my friends? Or that they were the only things that would listen to me, when I was a child, and even later, when I was an angst-ridden teenager who felt like NO ONE would ever understand me? I loved each and every one of them, and I still do, and now, now they'll be separated from each other and I'll never see them again. It's downright cruel, to be honest.
I feel like a complete nut-job for caring this much, but I am pretty sure that those stuffed animals were the reason I didn't grow up to BE a complete nut-job. You see, I projected every unpleasant facet of myself onto those toys, and they represented all the parts of me that I didn't like. There was Priscilla, the pink bunny who suffered from low self-esteem. She worried about not being liked so that I didn't have to. There was also the Bear Family, who hated the dark so much that they would cuddle up to me at night to keep them safe from the monsters (in the closet, not under the bed). Betsy the rag doll showed up during my adolescence. I'm sorry to say, she was suicidal, and lived on top of my curtain rod, constantly debating whether or not to leap. Ah, well. Teenagers.
I could go on and on about the secret lives of my stuffed animals, but that might make me seem a little crazy.
I have to call my mom and save my friends now. I can only hope it isn't too late. The bears might be okay, but those stuffed bunnies don't do well with change.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Guide to Shopping the Black Market
I bought Evan a roomba for Hannukah.
Not just ANY roomba, though. No, no. It's a roomba with personality, history, and an amusing story.
It all began when I realized that I had dropped the ball on shopping. I thought I had more time! Isn't Christmas 3 weeks from now? Oh noes! He's Jewish!
What's a girl to do?
THIS girl decided to avoid the lines at Target, the craziness of driving, and instead called up an old buddy who can best be described as "a guy who knows how to get stuff." He's the guy you want to know if you ever end up in prison or in dire need of a last-minute holiday gift for someone important.
He directed me to reply to a specific craigslist ad and say that I was friends with him. No joke. I've never done that before, but the guy responded amiably enough and immediately set up a time and place to meet.
As I waited at the designated corner, I caught a glimpse of a large box with legs walking toward me. No head, just a box and legs. As it turned out, I bought Evan a (possibly) black market roomba that day, from a midget. True story.
Happy Hannukah, sweetheart.
Not just ANY roomba, though. No, no. It's a roomba with personality, history, and an amusing story.
It all began when I realized that I had dropped the ball on shopping. I thought I had more time! Isn't Christmas 3 weeks from now? Oh noes! He's Jewish!
What's a girl to do?
THIS girl decided to avoid the lines at Target, the craziness of driving, and instead called up an old buddy who can best be described as "a guy who knows how to get stuff." He's the guy you want to know if you ever end up in prison or in dire need of a last-minute holiday gift for someone important.
He directed me to reply to a specific craigslist ad and say that I was friends with him. No joke. I've never done that before, but the guy responded amiably enough and immediately set up a time and place to meet.
As I waited at the designated corner, I caught a glimpse of a large box with legs walking toward me. No head, just a box and legs. As it turned out, I bought Evan a (possibly) black market roomba that day, from a midget. True story.
Happy Hannukah, sweetheart.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)