Friday, July 24, 2009

Shleping with Scissors

Due to my inherent laziness, the majority of this blog post was written circa five weeks ago. The rest of the cracks I filled today with cement and eyebrow sweat. I figure, if I’m not prompt, the least I could do is make the great lakes proud.

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The stratosphere growls like panthers on the prowl. It’s the sound similar to a mythical sea monster lingering overhead. Perhaps it is the birth of Poseidon’s bastard child or just the shits of the holy. Either way, the clouds darken in discomfort –their only salvation –a thickly weaved lingering (synonymous to the Preparation H wipe). It reminds me of my early theories for thunderstorms, or really, the lies my mother fed me. Not that her intensions were un-noble, but I realize the pre-pubescent inaccuracy I held likened that of Santa clause and the Easter bunny vacationing together in the tropics.
Yes, the fibs parents tell their children seem absurd to a young and childless homosapien (like me). However, I realize their necessity while observing a young victim to the thunderstorm’s paralysis. His name is Daniel, he is the youngest in a family of four children and he is red-eyed, trembling and producing mucus faster than milk pours from a cow’s udder. Or any breast featuring a nipple.
His mother consoles him by agreeing with his neurotic astuteness: that it is, in fact, too light out for a thunderstorm to occur. The howling haboob and isolating rains disagree.


He has an anxiety attack. I finish my cheeseburger.


The line moves slowly, as I wait behind the greedy-two-hotdog-grabbing-one-cheeseburger-hoarding-large-heapings-of-mac-n-cheese-snatching individuals who manage to devour all the side dishes and bins of freshly barbequed hot dog’s and hamburgers on the buffet-styled tables. WHAT!? Luckily, my mom scored me a cheeseburger off the Q (before it hit the tables) and handed it to me while I waited in line. Otherwise, I would’ve been licking cheese grease off the aluminum trays like a velociraptor licking a cow’s testacles (which would be a true accomplishment, considering the cow’s lack of testes).


Back to the kid. Thinking about his mental breakdown, reminds me of my childhood. I remember my tolerability for thunderstorms forged after my mother’s simple and very normal explanation of the natural process: “The thunder is just Jesus and his disciples bowling and the lightening are just flashes from the angel’s cameras.” ¿Perdónme? ¿cómo dice?
Say what, woman!? How did I believe that growing up? That fiction: Jesus and him posse kicking back, rolling some ten pounders at the pearly lanes and the angels were snapping shots of them to post on facebook? The disciples must have gotten annoyed when he always scored a 300. Wouldn’t that be boring, watching him bowl strike after strike after lightning? No one likes a showoff. (Thas why Judas done wha he done fo some chuck e. cheese tokens) Or maybe I’m thinking of Lenny from Of Mice and Men? Hey, who doesn’t like soft things…

I imagine Jesus using some of the modern Jewish vernacular when Judas showed up with his gang and planted a wet one on his cheek. “What did you have to shlep those lips all over my grill for? Imagine the Chutzpah, thinking yous could give me the kiss of death after I gave yous those socks for Christmas? And my ma gave you a basket of her canolie’s. What is yous too good for me?” (Ok so maybe that’s more like a half Jewish Tony Soprano with parental control censors than the Messiah) Same thing, Bada bing.

“Michelle a lot of people have come up to me and said you’re really great with kids,” my mother beamed on the car ride home. The air felt cold against my skin and only intensified the itchiness caused from earlier that night. Yes, helping at my church’s Vacation bible school is incredibly rewarding in many ways (never monetarily of course) but sometimes the cons out weigh the pros, who are outnumbered by the hoe’s (which is approximately six tits per square foot of any street corner in New Jersey). “What do you mean,” my mom said, reading my mind.

“What, ugh, nothing,” I said, shuffling in the drivers seat in an attempt to satisfy my upper thigh. Throughout the years, I have helped in many different areas: assisting the teacher in a class, teaching a class, performing as a robot named “crash” in some skits (which was incredibly fun until kids chased me around like I was Robert Pattinson trying to get into his hotel room), holding some poop machine infants like they had the bubonic plague, and sneaking freshly baked cookies from the registration table. But this past week was different. I was only supposed to man the registration table with my mother; testosterone the place up, essentially, while I handed kids their t-shirts and signed them in.

However, circumstances differed. Yes, I still abducted cookies from the registration table (an amber alert worthy achievement), but this itchiness –like I had chiggers or non-restaurant style crabs –it stemmed from my allergic reactions to, oh, everything. I tend to react with a grand red gesture every time I am greeted with the outside world, skin to plant. My legs were moist with grass dew from the chlorophyll baptism I received during the games portion of the 8-9 year old group’s circulation; my ordained John the Baptist, a nine year old girl, with Down Syndrome, by the name of Marissa.

She followed up the ceremony by exfoliating my face with her mud stained hands and then decided that I needed a post baptismal shower: Her mud hands lathered my dry hair until I was purged and cleaned to her liking. She took the procedure very literally much like the New Testament disciple, and Seventh Day Adventist, Amelia Bedelia. Thanks Marissa, I sure love a good facial rogering (Perhaps, that colloquialism is a bit inappropriate in association to little children). Whoops.Not that I’m some pushover that let’s kids practice primitive embalming techniques akin to the mummifications of early Egypt on my body, but I do allow self-expression and, ugh, occupational practice?

Maybe, this is my karma for operating on my cousin when she baby-sat me all those years from the dark ages. This is my self-made bed, my twisted teeter-totter payback, the Old Testament’s Theory of Retribution, finally nailing me into my place of unrest. Man, I knew I shouldn’t have cut her hair without asking her. How was I , a skilled surgeon, supposed to explain to my uneducated patient, that I couldn’t drill holes in her head to let out the pockets of pressure –that would have indefinitely caused her brain to swell and explode-if I didn’t shave the obstruction of hair?! And then her terror when I pulled out my dad’s drill, that I retrieved from his tool-box in the garage, and held the trigger down so that it exuded a piercing buzz. Whoops.


Marissa turned into my project for the week. Not that she was some dirt in a Styrofoam container experiment, in which I hoped to procure a blue ribbon and some type of radioactive vegetable(from the Brassicaceae family, no doubt), but she was a person –she is a person I looked foward to seeing –that needed a friend to sit with her (Indian style) and not leave. And let’s just say, the natives named me "Squatting Dog" because my ass was permanently wet all week.

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