“Sock It To Me!”–A short story. 4 November, 2009

A black, beady eye stared back at me.

I screamed, dropped my laundry, and hit my head on the wall across from the dryer. Shocked, I stared as a long, silvery tongue slithered out of the lint trap, wrapped itself around my purple sock, and pulled the sock into the depths of the dryer. What WAS that?!?

Later that night, I went back to the dryer to find that eye and its creepy little tongue. Where the dryer usually stood, there was a wooden trap door. I heaved it open to reveal a rope ladder leading to the depths of the basement. I shined my flashlight around the dungeon-like room and realized that the room was at least the size of my whole neighborhood.

Snurfle.

I froze, light trained dead ahead of me. I saw it.

It had feet. Lots and lots of sock-clad feet. White socks, blue socks, running socks, soccer socks, my favorite purple sock. Each besocked foot was accompanied by a long, gray, beefy leg, and all legs merged into a scaly body. At one end it had a stubby tail covered in fluorescent pink spikes and festering boils. At the other end was the head of a lion, if lions had three eyes, green manes, and silver tongues. And it spoke with a British accent.

“Hideous, eh?” it raised its head to look at me.

Words failed.

“Do come closer, darling,” crooned the monster, “I quite enjoy visitors, and yet I rarely see anyone.”

Lonely. That described it!

“I am so lonely down here. That’s why I steal socks, you see? I hope that my victims will come down and pay me a visit, and I would gladly return their socks, but no one ever does. I guess I should start stealing more valuable things.” The sock monster stood and cracked its head on the ceiling.

As I crept closer, I realized that it was smiling at me. A creepy, hungry smile. The monster waved a tiny arm at a cauldron in the corner. “Soup, dear?”

I shook my head, still speechless. How long—?

“Fifteen years, love,” the monster answered my unspoken question, “Fifteen years since I was banished after I accidentally ate a cow and the villagers got angry. ‘Monster!’ they cried. I was not a monster before that. I was a protector.” It sighed and flames shot out of its nostrils, catching my pajamas on fire. “So sorry, here—” A wave of ice water hit me full force.

I was scared, my pajamas were charred, and now I was soaking wet. Brilliant. My fear was slowly turning into anger and annoyance, and I summoned the courage to do what I came down to do.

“I want my sock back,” I whispered.

BLAST FROM THE PAST: Leg Hair Edition. 13 October, 2009

Just seeing that title, what would you think this post would be about?

If you guessed my first leg-shaving experience, then you’re wrong.

No, this experience is much, MUCH more recent than that one.

Let’s go back to the Summer of 2007, shall we?

This was my second summer as a day camp counselor at the delight that was Camp K. I’m not being completely sarcastic when I say it was a delight–some of the kids were downright hilarious (“I punched him on accident!”), I got along with most of the staff (ha ha, kind of. I definitely wasn’t the least despised person), and I got paid. Downsides? Where do I even start? I didn’t get paid enough for what I did (Seriously. Peanuts.), the kids had occasional freak-outs, I had occasional freak-outs (like when KG chucked her water bottle at me. That was awesome), and the hours were long and hot.

So what on earth does this have to do with leg hair?

I think it was Session Two of camp that summer (the summer was split into five two-week sessions). Miss A and I had Groups 5 & 6–AKA Group of Death. There was something about that age (8) that made the kids impossible to deal with. Our group happened to be a bit smaller that session, since it included Independence Day during the time frame (out of the 20 or so kids we were supposed to have, the most that ever showed up on a given day was 12. Awesome).

Back to the point of this post. Anyway, there was this one little girl who was in our group (I’ll call her MM, to protect the innocent and myself) who was . . . a different sort of girl. I can’t really describe her, other than to say that she had a vivid imagination and was kind of clingy. One fine July morning, we were hanging out in the pavilion during Opening, and MM was sitting next to me (I was standing, mind you. The cement was a little too cold for me). For those of you who don’t know me well (or who just don’t know this about me), I hate shaving my legs. Hate hate HATE it. Like, I just went a month without shaving my legs, and it started when it was still warm enough to wear shorts. I finally broke down this past Saturday since I had to go to church the next day and my legs were getting a little out of control. Argh, another tangent.

So anyway. It’s July. It had been a while since my last encounter with a razor (but not too long, mind). My legs were . . . a little stubbly. And MM is practically sitting on my feet. I’m spaced out, listening to Mr B (our camp director) ramble on and on and on about the bead system, when MM starts stroking my legs.

Um, excuse me, MM. Why the HECK are you doing that?!?

MM has a wistful smile on her face as she rubs her hands up and down my shins.

“You should grow your leg hair out, like Mr M.”

Thanks, you weird little girl.

From that day forward, I shaved my legs every single day that summer.

(NOTE: I started this post back in March and forgot to finish it. Now it’s done.)

Thoughts as my nails dry. 1 July, 2009

I really need to get my hair cut. I do like the length, but its still in the a-line bob shape that was done last September. That makes it a little weird looking sometimes. Maybe when I have a day off I’ll find a salon and get it fixed. Yes. I think that’s a good idea.

Sometimes when I’m sitting around my apartment I catch an imaginary whiff of monkey stankiness. I cry a little, and then I want to dig into my nose with a pair of pliers and pull out all of my olfactory bulbs so I never have to smell the nastiness again.

I ran into a table and a planter box on Monday. Now my knee and my shin have lovely bruises.

I think we have to be at the lab at 8 AM again (it’s now 11:37 PM). Why, do you ask? Because we just have to get up at the butt crack of dawn to tape activity monitors to robots and test them, that’s why.

I’m hungry.

Why I haven’t been writing. 27 June, 2009

I hate blogs-as-travel-logs.

There is nothing more annoying and more boring in the world than the blogger who uses this wonderful creation of the internet weblog to inform the world of what they had for breakfast. Sorry people, that’s what Twitter is for (and I use it as such). When I see that a friend has updated her blog (since I really don’t know any guys who blog, sad to say), feelings of dread and apprehension envelop my mind as I picture the horror that might await my unsuspecting eyes:

Example 1: “I ate a grapefruit today!!!! It was SOOOOO good!!!!”

I don’t care that you had a grapefruit and that it was SOOOOOO good. Where did you get said grapefruit? Did you steal it off a neighbor’s tree? Did you accidentally drop it in your cat’s food dish right after you cut it? After you ate it, did you go into anaphylatic shock due to some unknown allergy? Give me more details, or don’t write at all.

Example 2: “I’m 2 cm dilated, so the baby should be coming any day now!!!! [insert other gross details here]“

Wow. TMI, much? As much as I may or may not be excited about your pending spawn, I do NOT want to read all about what’s going on in your nether regions. End of story.

I know I can be guilty of travel-logging sometimes, but what’s a girl to do? I just want to share the deets about my fantastic life with the world, and what better way than through a step-by-step guide to each and every day of my life?

I now leave you with this gratuitous picture of myself, in my new Anthro purchases:

Hilarious quotes from like 2 days ago. 7 June, 2009

Mandi (introducing her roommate to us): “This is Jenna, and Brad, and . . . crap, I can’t remember, and Katie.”

Brad (to Steve): “Your parents named you ‘Crap, I can’t remember?’”

Jenna: “Like, as in “Crap, I can’t remember how this happened’?”

*****

(Yesterday at the Portland Rose Festival Parade)

Brad: “Hey, those look kind of like a mix between a horse and a donkey!”

Me: “You mean a mule?”

Brad: *pause* “Ohhhhh . . .”

*****

I probably won’t be updating much on here during the summer. If you want to know what I’m up to, shoot me an email, leave a comment, or contact me on FB and I will keep you posted.