The Lunchroom

Take fifteen minutes to write about your elementary school lunch. Describe. Remember. Smell. Touch. Who is there? Where are you? What are you eating?

I despised lunch. At first. The first week of school was the worst, because I was stuck between Jeremy Lawton and Stephanie Silverman. And I had to share a seat with Jeremy. Jeremy was kinda sloppy and awkward and, although I didn't have a problem with boys, I didn't want to be with him. I wanted to be with Bridget, my best friend, but she was in a different homeroom. Stephanie was okay - we were in Brownies together - but I didn't know her very well yet and just wasn't real sure. She was quiet.

My mother was very meticulous about making my lunch for me every day. Part of my back-to-school treat was getting to pick out a new lunch box for each year. Second grade, I had a red plastic Looney Tunes lunch box with matching Thermos. In it, my mother would lovingly place a peanut butter and jelly (always grape) sandwich wrapped up in Saran Wrap. In another baggie I would find a cracker of some kind, which was almost always Goldfish, either pizza or cheddar. If mom was in a mood, sometimes I'd get parmesan. Then, in a third baggie, there would always be 4 cookies. On occasion, I'd find a pack of Twinkies or Hostess Cupcakes. My Thermos always had iced tea in it. Underneath all the food, I'd find a little paper napkin, folded neatly. On many days, I was lucky enough to find a little note from my mother, telling me she missed me when I was at school, or that she loved me, or that she hoped I was having a good day.

I was never embarrassed by those notes but, GOD, how I wish I knew where they were now. I can't imagine that I threw them away. I even brought home the empty baggies and wrap because I hated the bottleneck at the trash can. Why am I getting so choked up about this? I'm just writing...


But Jeremy always had nasty food, like Spaghetti-O's in his Thermos. And the smell overwhelmed my delicate nasal passages and I really just couldn't stand to be near him. Plus, as I've mentioned, he was sloppy. 9 times out of 10 I would go home with some kind of orange stain on the left side of my body. Being OCD even back then, it drove me crazy. As fate would have it, Jeremy and I became best friends and stuck by each other well into the high school years. He never got any cleaner and he probably helped me make some of the worst decisions of my life. But that's not really elementary school lunch, now is it?

The smell in the cafeteria always bothered me. It was like bleach and raw, frozen food. You know that freezerburned smell? Like that, but mixed with bleach and lots of Kid Germs. It never actually smelled clean. It made me think of an awful lot of nastiness, that was just covered up with "cleaner."

I didn't even know what the lunch line looked like from a customer's perspective until I was in 4th or 5th grade. I went through once for a friend who had hurt her leg and couldn't walk. I was appointed the 'helper' and had to go get her tray lunch for her. I pissed off all the kids behind me because I didn't know what to do in line. Well, exCUSE me for having a mom who doted on me instead of just throwing cash at me for lunch!

Each grade level had to eat lunch in a different section of the cafeteria. The youngest grades had to sit closest to the office, and the 5th graders got to sit closest to the front windows and doors. As a result, I have memories from all around the room.

Mostly, though, in 5 years, the most vivid memory I have was of, again, Jeremy and his Spaghetti-O's. His mother had performed superhuman tricks on the Thermos, and he couldn't open it. So he took it to our teacher, Ms. Coote. Who couldn't open it. Who then took it to Mr. Wallace, our science teacher. Who couldn't open it. Who then took it to Mr. McCain, who - guess what? - couldn't open it. Jeremy came back to the table with a very sad look on his face, and a free peanut butter sandwich. And I picked up the Thermos and, just testing it to see how tight it felt, opened it. Our entire side of the lunchroom grew silent as Jeremy proclaimed that "A***** opened it! She opened it!" and nobody could believe it. Of COURSE all the teachers loosened it up for me, but it was still just awesome that I opened it. I became, like, a weird type of freaky hero. Nobody messed with me. Ever.

I'm pretty sure it's been over 15 minutes since I started writing, and I find myself getting quite discouraged. Looking at what a good kid I used to be, it really pisses me off that I became who I am today. I had so much going for me. And to choose to have my career at Ground Zero - the same school that was the stage for the 2-act play that was my downfall - it's like I've made no progress. And that, coupled with an extremely shitty day, on top of the fact that I miss having that little girl relationship with my parents, where I was still a good girl and my parents were still perfect - it's hard. I was so lucky to have a great family and I still do, but...I don't know. I'm miserable, and mommy can't save me. She never could. Fate. It's a bitch.

Character

Thanks to Patois over at Whee! All The Way Home, I found a new website and writing community I fell in love with. It's called Write of Passage, and this blog post made me fall in love - hard. So, there you have it.

One week's writing challenge was about character. "Find a person in public today and study their character. Make a story surrounding them. Build them in to your shorty essay." And I can think of just the guy...

I don't know how I got here. Not the disbelief kind of 'I don't know,' but the type of 'I don't know' that only comes with memory loss. But, here I am. And I'm not sure where I'm going. I see these shoes - these really comfortable, polished loafers - and I wonder where I got them, because I sure don't remember that, either.

The first thing I remember about my present situation was waking up under a bench outside the bus station. My head was killing me, my forehead bruised and scratched, and there was someone sitting on the bench above me. When I began to move around, they jumped up in surprise and stood up to leave. In an odd turn of events, someone sitting on an adjacent bench came over and sat down above me. They bent down and asked me, "So. What happened to you?" I opened my mouth to reply but had to stop. It very quickly occurred to me that I hadn't a clue as to how to answer that question.

So I woke up under this bench wearing clothes that were very unfamiliar to me and, quite frankly, a little too...shapeless. I do remember that I was never a sweatpants kind of guy or, well, I don't know. Maybe I was. Maybe this new guy I've become just doesn't think he was a sweatpants kind of guy before. Anyway, these don't feel right. I'm assuming I didn't wear them before because I feel awkward. And the hooded sweatshirt isn't really what I would believe to be my style, either. Remember I said something about loafers? Yeah. I have these Cole Haan loafers on. Bus Station Dwellers don't typically come away from the Salvation Army with Cole Haan, do they? I feel as if this is a connection to the life I had before I forgot my life.

As I was saying, I was sitting on this bench with a stranger who hadn't said another word to me, and I was looking like the Unabomber. (well, apparently i remember something. what year did they catch the unabomber, anyway?) The stranger moved a little closer to me and that made me flinch, so I got up and checked under the bench for any belongings (no such luck) and just started walking.

I know now that I am in Lafayette, Louisiana. I don't live here, though. Or, if I do, I'm a lonely bachelor with no family. I came across a police officer at a gas station. No men of my description have been reported missing in months. He said he would be willing to give me directions to a men's shelter. Outside of that, he said, there wasn't much he could do. So, I just started walking.

I found a freeway. I figured I could always just follow that freeway somewhere. What else was I to do? I don't even remember anything about Lafayette, anyway, so what made me believe I lived there? Nothing. Time to move on. Maybe something will come to me. Then I can go home. So I began walking along the freeway. Not on the freeway, but alongside it, down on the access road. Eventually, the access road will enter the main roadway which has now turned into a highway, and my only choice will be to walk along the busy road and look like a hitcher.

Which I'm not. I want to make that perfectly clear. I'm not hitchhiking. I'm walking, rather than driving, along a major US interstate. Only because there are no sidewalks.

But, eventually, my feet got tired, so I took off my nice loafers and stopped walking. I wasn't really looking for a ride, but one just stopped anyway. It was getting dark and I really didn't want to get mowed down from behind, so I climbed into the company truck (it's against company policy so please don't tell anyone, he begged), and we drove. Well, he drove, and I promptly fell asleep. When I woke up, we were in Lake Charles, getting fuel. He bought me a big 5-piece chicken meal and we ate together in the little cafe. He said he was on his way to Beaumont in Texas, that I could ride with or stay here. I chose to stay.

Unfortunately, there's not much in Lake Charles. So, after a few nights of sleeping in some seedy casinos, I went back out to the highway and began walking. The cops really just leave you alone if you're only walking and don't have a thumb out. Of course, they don't ask if you want any help, either. They pass right by. It's downright rude.

Of course, there is WAY more to tell about what actually happened while I was waiting there, but you don't want to hear that. I don't want to tell it, either. No offense.

So I just kept walking. But then I got tired and sat down here right by this guardrail. I sat for a little while, just watching the world go by, all of them in a hurry to get somewhere. That's where you came in. I heard you before I saw you: thumpity - thumpity - thumpity with your tire. As luck would have it, you came to a stop right here in front of me. Remember how you said you didn't need help, and you were perfectly capable of changing a tire by yourself? That wasn't nice, considering a man with so very little in life offered to help a very-obviously well-to-do uppity bitch like yourself and expect absolutely nothing in return except a thank-you. I may be lost in life, but I remember how to change a tire and lift shit that's too heavy for a delicate woman.

Oh, look. There's another car pulling up right now. Sure, man, I'd love a ride to a gas station. I seem to have misplaced my cell phone and should call my wife. I left the house in a hurry and was just on my way to pick up our daughter down the road a bit who, ironically, was having car trouble! Just let me get some things out of the trunk and I'll be right with you...

Now, I'm not going to open this trunk, because I know you'll scream or try to run away. I'm sorry I had to do this to you, but when people offer to help, you really should be a little nicer about it. As I said, I have nothing, but was offering you everything I had, and it was rude for you to not take it. So, farewell, and thanks for listening to my story. I hope someone lets you out soon. If not, well, I'm sorry. Maybe you shouldn't have stopped when you saw me sitting here on the guardrail, aimlessly watching cars pass by. I have to go now, I'm sure you can hear my ride honking.


I'm not sure if I followed the prompt, really, but I kind of enjoyed creating the character. This evening I was driving to the BEST Greek restaurant in town and saw this guy just sitting on the guardrail of an extremely busy, inner-city freeway on-ramp. He was dressed in black sweats with his hood up, looking just...vacant. There were no stores, no homes, no cars nearby, and I just began wondering what must've happened to place that guy right there at that time. I'm sure his real story would've been much better than my rushed fiction one. Comments are welcome but, to be honest, I half-assed it and made it up as I went along. I think I must be a bit more dedicated to the future prompts. I promise. *holds up right hand*

All The Pretty Lights

I used to hate Christmas. I would get all depressed and drink a lot, using the holiday parties as a way to mask my despair through overindulgence. My goal was to be the one unnoticed at the party, not to be the life of it. For many years of my life, starting at adolescence, the holidays were a time of stress and loneliness, and continued until just a few years ago.

My mother began a retail career when I was 12. If you're female, you know how important a mother's guidance is right around middle school age. My mother decided, however, that I didn't need her anymore and she went back to work. As is the nature of the beast, the retail monster ate up all of her time, especially starting around Thanksgiving. She worked 12-hour days, if not longer. If she wasn't home, my father saw no reason to come home, either. He went out to do Lord knows what and I was home alone. Sometimes until 10 at night. I grew to really hate the holidays, because it represented abandonment.

After I moved out, I began creating meaning to the holidays on my own. I began to find reasons to celebrate and decorate and enjoy myself. While I still battle depression that is sort of erratic about when it hits, I no longer dread the Christmas season and get suicidal.

(as an aside, i did try to kill myself once, and it was 2 days before Christmas 10 years ago.)

Now that I have seen the good parts to Christmas again, I can remember all the good times I had as a kid. The smell of our plastic, fake tree, how the needles were slightly rubbery between your fingers, how the ornaments had to be placed just so, because the leaves wouldn't bend or move. The excitement and thrill of unwrapping each ornament from its tissue paper wrapping, oh-so-carefully, waiting to see which treasure was inside. Helping my mother set up our wooden nativity scene, where each figurine had some kind of assembly. I loved the 3 wise men and putting their thin, brittle staffs through the hole in their fists. And the lights. Always the lights.

I was so lucky because, as a kid, I had both sets of living grandparents. The best part was that they lived 3 blocks apart. We did Christmas Eve with my mother's huge family and then Christmas Day with my father's side. When I was still little, we'd drive 2 hours northwest of our house to my great-grandmother's, and we'd stay there for a few days starting on Christmas Day. And my parents would throw New Year's Eve parties that were totally not like a horror movie - very mellow, relaxed, and a small gathering of very close friends and neighbors. My parents didn't associate with lushes.

My favorite Christmas memory is a conglomeration of several years. It's a memory of me setting up the tree with my mother, and being absolutely transfixed by the star at the top.

After dinner, I would sit in complete darkness with the only lights coming from the tree and the garland on the mantel. I would put on a Christmas record (usually a Burl Ives kiddie version of something) and just lay on our couch. My parents would be in their room or my dad in his home "office," or any number of other things, but they would leave me alone and leave the lights out. I would cuddle with my blanket and Teddy, and my little terrier who was still a young pup then, and would slowly start to fall asleep.

My mother would come in around bedtime to move me into my room, and I would throw an exhausted, groggy little fit so that I could sleep on the couch in the glow of the tree. I never won, unless we were already out of school for the holidays.

Just about every day I think about ways that my life has gone bad wrong. I lament over bad choices, ill-informed decisions, or shoddy luck. Sometimes even taking stock of the good things doesn't cheer me up. Memories like these, though, really make everything okay. When I walk into my own home now, regardless of the crappy parent conference I just weathered 20 minutes before, I walk in and see that tree and cover myself in a blanket and everything just seems to be peaceful and calm. I curl up around the 3 loving dogs I have now and realize that at that very moment, we're making new memories. More great Christmas memories to help override all that's gone so wrong with Christmases in the past.

But I still don't do mall crowds. Thank GOD online shopping has become the norm for holiday gifts now! Crowded shopping malls is one tradition I'm thankful to forget...