Moaning in public

Please forgive me for the subject of this post. I can't help it--I had to write about it.

Two days ago, I went into the public restrooms at Target. I walked in an innocent girl with a full bladder, and walked out a changed woman. Here's why.

The first thing I noticed as I rounded the corner was the guttural noises coming from a stall. Which stall? I don't know. They were frightening enough to send me into the first one. My first thought was, Oh my god, there's a man in here.

I stood, in my stall, listening for further clues. They came quickly by the way of heavy, heavy breathing. Breathing so heavy, I thought maybe someone was having a baby in the toilet, you know how they do on that show I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant?

The breathing was soon punctuated by moans and grunts of a wide variety. We got the pitiful, high pitched moans, the low angry moans (moans with a purpose). And just when I was starting to think I should find help: silence.

I stood (still with a full bladder) in my stall and waited. Seconds passed. And then, in the silence of the florescently-lit bathroom, I heard her/him/it say softly, to themselves:

"Ah. That is nasty."



http://www.momgoesgreen.com/wp-content//public-restrooms.jpg

Death by syringe

I have felt, for the first time in my life, the urge to kill someone.

I'm not talking about that feeling you get when someone annoys you. Not that "God I could kill you" thing you say when you're frustrated with someone.

I felt the blind, bubbling-over desperation of true violence.

And, appropriately, it has to do with the love of my life, the reason I wake up in the morning, the most important thing in the world: my dog Sulley. You may remember him from my very first post on this blog and this adorable photo:


If you know me, you know that I would do anything for this dog. So, last Sunday, when he ran underneath the horse trailer in hot pursuit of a his fellow corgis, caught himself on a piece of metal, and slit his back open from one end to the other, I lost it.

I knew it was bad when my Mom screamed, "HOLLY! WALK AWAY!"
You see, I'm not too good with blood and injuries when it comes to animals. Humans, I can handle with a little gagging. Animals? Call the psych ward.

Needless to say, Sulley was in need of immediate medical care, and since we now live in the middle of nowhere, it was a race against time (really, dying flesh) to get him to a vet in time to have surgery before too much damage was done, blood was lost, etc.

Look at me talking about this calmly. I almost seem like I wasn't upset, don't I?

Well I was. I was hysterical. I almost hyperventilated. I sat in the back of the car, as my mom drove us to the nearby metropolis of Hampton, and sobbed. And Sulley looked at me, with his human eyes, and said, "It's O.K.! I'm O.K.! Don't be sad!"

So I cried more.

We finally arrive at the Hampton Animal Hospital and my mom rushes inside to tell them we have an emergency. She comes out, with her calm, cool, nurse self and says "They have a private room waiting for him. Let's go."

Turns out the "private room" is the intermediate room between the waiting room and the actual private rooms. It's probably where surgery would occur in a real vet's office, but instead the glass-fronted cabinets are full of model tractors. I start shooting my mom panicky looks because I'm too upset to verbalize anything.

I was on the brink of hysteria here. I'm pretty sure my mom was thinking, "She can't get any more upset than this. She'll calm down soon." But boy was she wrong, because she didn't know the immensely overweight, bad perm-job, clumsy handed vet tech was about to walk in.

Vet tech, upon seeing the edge of Sulley's wound from under my mom's truly superb wrapping job: Oh. My. God.
Me: death stare
Vet Tech: Mmmmmmmmmm. (Shakes head side to side slowly)
Me: death stare at Mom
Vet Tech, squatting down to look at the edge of the wound more closely: Oh dear god. Oh, ugh. We're going to have to put him to sleep. (She meant anesthesia, but poor choice of words, ma'am.)

She then proceeds to stand up and look at us with her eyebrows raised and her mouth pursed.
Vet tech: Is he...friendly? (disdainful look at Sulley)
Me: He's hurt. He's not himself.
Vet tech: Well my god. I just don't know about this.

And she exits the room.

I don't think she understood. I don't think she saw the fear, the pain, the rage in my eyes. I also don't think she saw that I saw the box of needles sitting on the counter. And she certainly couldn't see the little film that was playing out in my head, where I grabbed a needle, pushed it against her jugular and said,

"I will puncture your life with this needle if you don't see my dog immediately. I don't care if I go to jail. I don't care if the cops come and shoot me dead right now. You WILL fix my dog and you WILL do it right now. Is he friendly? Of course he's not fucking goddamn friendly. He has carved a hole out of his back the size of a basketball! Let me carve a wound like that in your back and see if you're friendly when I shove my fist into it!"

I am not a violent person. I am not an angry person. But for that moment, I could have been.

Luckily, the vet came in shortly afterward and had this conversation with my mother.
Vet: We can't see him until after 1 (it was 10:30). I have patients lined up.
Mom: Well this is an emergency.
Vet: But we weren't expecting you.
Mom: Isn't that the definition of an emergency?
Vet: Well I'll lose customers if I turn them away!
Mom: Forget it. Let's go Sulley.

And we did. We got in the car and drove an hour to my aunt's clinic, The Coastal Veterinary Clinic, where they saw Sulley immediately, and miraculously stitched him up. The had to remove a 2-inch wide, 6-inch long rectangle of skin and fat to close the wound. I told Sulley he got liposuction and not every dog gets the opportunity for plastic surgery, but he was too woozy to understand.


That's my dog on the improvised stretcher they made for him to get to the car. I would post pictures of the actual wound, but I know my Dad reads this blog and if there's one person in the whole word who can't handle injuries more than me, it's him.

You're welcome, Dad.

Oopsie

I never finished that post about the tacos, did I? I never finished so many things I said I was going to do on this blog.

Sigh.

I had some good material, too. You're just going to have to trust me on this one. But now it has evaporated out of my little pea brain and I'm going to have to start fresh.

I got a new blog, a real professional-lookin' one that uses my real name and doesn't talk about digestion problems and cussing out old ladies. But the more I post on it, with its sleek interface and complicated dashboard, the more I miss old faithful (this blog).

So I've come to the conclusion that, being unemployed and freshly graduated and all, I am going to keep this blog to vent. I mean, that's what it's been about this whole time, right? I guess I need one blog to write my serious work, and one to express the real me.

And then maybe I need a therapist to diagnose me with multiple personality disorder.

Oh! And before I forget, those tacos were reeeeeeal good.

Who knew?

When I decided I was going to visit Jeremy in Austin for Spring Break, I started doing research.

I'll give you a few guesses as to what I researched.

History?
Nope.

Art museums?
Nah.

Live music venues?
Sure didn't, despite the fact that my visit coincided with SXSW.

I researched breakfast tacos.

This is not entirely my fault. I started off just researching food--any and all kinds--but all everyone wants to talk about in Austin is breakfast tacos. So I played along--I read my fair share of blogs, websites, and magazines. Tacos versus burritos, bacon versus chorizo, egg versus potato.

I mean, doesn't everyone do breakfast burritos? And aren't they the same as breakfast tacos? I've had a burrito or two from Parker's here in Savannah, and it wasn't too bad, but it was no biscuit.

But hey, I'm always game. So I started out the week with a couple of different breakfast tacos from different places--some at the farmer's market booth, some at a coffee shop, and I'm going to say it: I was unimpressed. They were perfectly edible, and tortillas are quite handy for making ingredients portable, but I just didn't get it.

I didn't get it, at least, until Jeremy and I pulled up to this spot on Friday morning.











To be continued...

Someone get me out of here.

I thought this was just a gymnastics job. You know--point your toes, lift your chin--things like that.

Wrong. Apparently the kids I teach at the JEA (Jewish Educational Alliance) didn't get the memo.

I pride myself on being an educated, worldly young lady but I'll admit: I lived the first 18 years of my life without ever meeting a Jewish person. Thank you, small town South Carolina, for not preparing me for what just happened.

Not all of the kids who take gymnastics at the JEA are Jewish, but many of them are. The girls wear skirts, even at gymnastics, and the boys wear yamakas, even at gymnastics. It was my third or fourth week teaching these kids, specifically the 8 - 10 year olds when this happened:

One girl and two boys are arguing in whispers while standing in line to do their warm-up jumps. I, being the authority figure and resident badass, say:

"Guys, guys. No arguing in line."
Little girl who is, at this point, quite red in the face: "Coach Holly?"
Me, watching the other kids bounce down the line. "Mmhmm?"
Girl: "Is there such a thing is Jesus?"

Oh shit.

Boy who has uncanny ability to catch his yamaka while upside down: "Blake said there was no such thing as Jesus."
Blake looks at the ground shamefully.

I kind of look away, hoping they'll get distracted by my next statement:
"O.K., everyone straddle jumps all the way down!"

I glance at the trio out of the corner of my eye. They're looking at me with bewildered, painful expressions on their little faces.

And how, do you think, would someone like me (who has been to church a grand total of 10 times in my life and who has met a grand total of zero Jewish people in her life) answer such a question?

"This is gymnastics class. We only talk about gymnastics here. Get back to work."

Nice, Holly. Nice.

http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/06_04/Crepuscular1606_650x488.jpg

A Holly by any other name.

First day of work, December 15ish:

Boss: "Hi everyone. This is Coach Holly. Say hi Coach Holly!"
Evil-eyed girl child: "Have a HOLLY JOLLY CHRISTMAS!"

Suddenly, I'm back at Centerville Elementary, sitting at my too-tall desk. I can hear the snot-nosed boy behind me singing "Have a holly jolly Christmas," over and over, like those are the only lyrics he knows.

They probably are.

I'm brought back to the present by the silence around me.

Boss: "Coach Holly, Jessica asked you a question."
Me: "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Sweet, doe-eyed child: "Is your name Holly because it's Christmas?"

I thought about it. I might have even looked at the ceiling for inspiration.

Me: "Yes. That's exactly why."
All children, in unison: "Cooooooooooool."


Day 2 of work, December 18ish:

I'm minding my own business at the end of class, cleaning up some paperwork when I'm approached by a child, roughly in the 8 - 10 year old category. (I still haven't mastered the skill of guessing their ages.)

Messy haired girl who talked the entire class: "I know why you're named Holly."
Me: "Why." (My lack of question mark indicates my level of interest.)
Girl: "Because it's your Christmas name."
Me: "You got it."
Girl: You know what I'm going to call you when it's spring? Flower. And when it's summer, I'm going to call you Sunshine, and when it's fall I'm going to call you...
....
Leaf."

Me: "OK, sounds good."
Another girl, who had been standing by and listening: "What's your real name?"
Me: "I can't tell you that. It's a secret."
Group of girls who had gathered around me: "Oooooooooooo."

Eat it up, kids. This is only the beginning.

http://www.hzmre.com/holidays/ADVENTtable_html_m27dc4cd9.png

Ankle deep in material

Guess what? I'm back--for real this time--and (for those of you who know me) you're going to love the reason.

1. I got a new job (in addition to my magazine job)
2. It pays 8 dollars an hour
3. It involves working with . . . children.

Now, I am famously (in the six-person circle that I move in) adverse to children. You can try to argue with me about the merits of miniature people, but I'm generally disdainful of poorly behaved ones, and incredibly awkward around all of them.

I try to speak to them like they're adults, which they don't take kindly to, and I'd say one out of four children look at me like I'm a lint-covered monster crawling out from under their bed. That's right before they hide behind their mother's legs and refuse to go near me.

If I try to baby talk them, they look at me like I'm crazy and, again, run.

So it may seem strange, even masochistic to get a job teaching gymnastics to children aged three to fifteen. Not only are there lots of tiny humans involved--they're in various states of misbehavior thanks to big, gushy mats and high bars and hard-edged balance beams. They see the gym equipment and
THEY
GO
CRAZY.

But, it turns out I'm particularly well qualified for this job. I was a competitive gymnast in another life, the daughter of a collegiate gymnast, and the child of two parents who owned/ran a gymnastics gym for much of my middle childhood.

So here I am, surrounded by munchkins. And here you are, getting ready to read blog post after blog post about all the things I wish I could say to my students.

Let the judgment begin.

Thanks, http://www.asklopan.com/pictures/evil_children.jpg for getting it just right on the photo.