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Throwback Thursday: A Vending Machine Sticker & Daddy Issues

/ Ashley / 3 Comments

September 5, 1998

Dear Genna, 

Today It rained. When John and Devon went out for patrol they came back socking wet, I was laughing inside cause if he saw me he would have killed me. Like yesterday he spelled dog wrong – Dog! He chased me into the girls’ bathroom. During recsess Ashley A, Malee, Katy, and me played scrabble. for my frist turn I put down Leo. On my fifth I meant to have oars but I put down Leoa! I was so embarrassed. 

When Dad, Corey, Ryan and I went to Piggly Wiggle I think dad was mad Because he looked at Ryan like, “You stop or I’ll spank you!” Well when we were waiting for Dad in the checkout, Me and Corey went to look at the stickers. This teenager came (he was cute) to get a sticker his money was jammed and he said, “If I don’t get a sticker I’m gonna bust this thing!” So he got another It was a stupid one so he gave it to me!

Guess what? I’m getting a lovin’ Leo book! I think he is hot. I have tons of posters of him. Then in an article in Teen machine It was: DiCapro vs. Damon. I wonder who’d win? Maybe..um Dicapro. Duh! 

This is the sticker –>Sticker

I know it looks like a fat lady but hey a cute guy gave it to me. Me!

Without reading this entry, I remember this event – getting the sticker from the strange teenage boy. I don’t remember my dad being upset at Ryan or what he was upset about, but I do remember those stern looks he would give us when we were misbehaving while grocery shopping. This was back when my mom worked as a cashier at Piggly Wiggly in the evenings. Sometimes my dad would take us to the store to visit her.

I’ve always been a pragmatic person. Though I’ve always been a daydreamer, I’ml aware of reality’s constraints. While walking through the grocery store, I used to imagine that some boy would find himself so enchanted by me that he would be compelled to tell me I was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. I knew this would never happen – I knew that I was too young for anyone to look at me like that, and even if a boy did notice me, the presence of my father would thwart any move he might think to make. So when this older cooler boy engaged me – I was excited but wary. Eventually my dad would walking through the automatic doors, pushing a cart full of groceries and it would be revealed that I was just a child, dependent upon her dad for transportation.

But while my dad was still at the checkout, I was able to indulge my daydream. I’d tell myself that certain things were signs. If he doesn’t get this next sticker, it means he likes me. If he looks at me, it means my shirt is cool. If he gives the sticker to me, it means he’s going to look for me again. While I knew it didn’t really mean anything when he gave me this sticker (it was a stupid one after all), I made it seem like it was.  I went home and wrote in my diary, because I thought that just maybe this was the start of something significant.

In the books I read – historical fiction, mostly – boys were always timidly approaching girls and making them feel special by little trinkets. Reality was a constant disappointment for me. I know that my diary makes me sound like I had no concept of reality, but it’s really the opposite. I just always wanted my life to sound better and more impressive than what it really was. My life was boring. I was ordinary. I wanted to be extraordinary. I wanted to stand out for something other than being the girl who wore handmade dresses and played pretend at recess after most of her peers stopped.

This entry is indicative of my early interactions with men – feeling like it was acceptable to receive their leftovers throw-aways. I was so desperate for any bit of attention from a boy that I was willing to accept anything they gave me. After writing mostly about Scott and my father in a personal narrative class, my professor asked if I thought there was a reason I dated a whole slew of  assholes despite such a heroic father. I was quick to point out that I didn’t date a slew of assholes, just one for a significant amount of time.

I never truly answered her question, so the question still remains: Assuming a girl’s father is her strongest male figure – the one who illustrates how she should be treated – why did I accept so little from my early boyfriends? From all my boyfriends, for that matter. Even after my most significant relationship ended a little less than a year ago, I still felt like I was just a little bit used – like I had served my purpose for a chunk of time and the time had come for him to move on.

My father has always been there for me – if I’m stranded on the side of the road, if I’m crying about money or about a guy he hugs me, if I need a meal he feeds me, if I’m shivering he’ll give me his coat. It’s not that boyfriends didn’t or wouldn’t do these things for me. Maybe it’s just that I’ve never really given them the chance. Maybe I’ve never allowed room for them to actually impress me since my father is such a significant part of my life. Maybe I’ll always be disappointed by men who are not my father. Damnit, dad. Why are you such a good dad?

Good luck trying to date me, future beaus.

I had no intention of making this post so inquisitive. I thought I’d point out 10-year old Ashley’s excellent grasp of punctuation in dialogue but her apparent disregard for commas elsewhere. I was clearly horrified by my peers’ shortcomings while being oblivious to my own (but come on – I still have trouble spelling recess sometimes) Also, I was obsessed with Leonardo Dicaprio, but I couldn’t be bothered to learn how to actually spell his name.

Throwback Thursday: Dear Genna

/ Ashley / 1 Comment

Over the last few months, I’ve been thinking of trying to find some way to make posts a little bit more regular. My style here has always just been “Hey! That’s clever idea! I bet I can write a few paragraphs about it. Let’s spend three hours writing a 1,000 word blog post!” I enjoy that because I’m not held accountable if a week goes by without posting anything because I’m not inspired. Nobody can tell me they were expecting anything from me. All they can do now is be delighted when they get a notification that I’ve written a new post.

I’ve had conversations with a few bloggers about this. Some say it’s best to stay to make a schedule to keep yourself in check. Readers appreciate consistency. Other bloggers say that it’s best to write only when it strikes. I just use this as an excuse not to write. If I get an idea, I think, “Yeah, I could do that…but, but…Pinterest!” I tell myself I’m not writing because my readers will know that I didn’t want to write it. But you know what? There’s some truth there. I think you guys would stop reading if I started writing solely about Zooey Deschanel bangs (just make sure the edges are rounded) and outfits to wear when you see your ex-boyfriend (in the summer: a white sundress. With spanx, you ho. In the winter: skinny jeans, heeled boots, and something comfortable. Wear a scarf. Don’t be a ho.) Just because I’ve written about those things (and those are the two highest search terms that lead new visitors here) before, it’s not what I write about.

At the most basic, I share my life. Some of my posts leave me feeling extremely vulnerable after they’re published. Others make me laugh and I’m excited to see how people react. What I seek most is to be honest with you. I want you to feel like we could be friends. Because we could be. And probably should be, so friend me on Facebook. Who doesn’t want more friends? Like everyone else, my life can be exciting, tedious, hilarious, heartbreaking, and melancholy. I just try to share those experiences with you.

So, I’m starting something new here on Everything is Blooming: Throwback Thursdays. I’ve been journaling since I was ten years old. I’d like to show you my beginnings. I’m doing this for a few reasons. First: it gives me an excuse to go through this box that I’ve been lugging from apartment to apartment. Second: I think it will be hilarious. When you’re going through childhood, adolescent, and teenage angst, you are certain that whatever you’re involved in has enough cosmic weight to deserve the universe’s undivided attention. Fifteen years later and this stuff is gold. Third: I think my memory is fading. I can’t remember details from high school more than I can remember those from fifth grade. Fourth: It will give me more writing material. Serious writing material.

table

I’ve spent the last decade trying to develop my writing voice. Blogging sort of interrupted that. Suddenly I was writing for an audience. It’s a bit of a performance, so some things don’t get to be in the show. I don’t allow you to know everything I laugh about (If you’re interested, my twitter gives you a pretty good idea). I don’t let you know about every friend, every date, every hangover (I didn’t mean anything by putting those two together. I promise), every creation, or every anything for that matter. Some parts of my life deserve to be kept sacred and others deserve to preserved in something that takes me more than three hours to write. These are the things I’m hoping to uncover while I searching through my journals.

If you haven’t figured it out already, I’m going to share a journal entry or two – sans editing, so you can hopefully see my grammar and apostrophe use improve – with a short commentary. This will be posted every Thursday morning, today’s inception being the only exception.

So, without further ado – Throwback Thursday:

August 13, 98

Dear Diary,

I think instead of calling you “Diary’ I’m going to of a name for you.

There’s only 1 thing I hate about my mom. When your in the middle of one thing she told you to, she tells you to…There she goes again.

August 19, 98

Dear…,

I haven’t thought of a name for you yet. Wait! Genna. I’m going to name  you Genna cause she just moved all the way to south Caralina. And I won’t see her that often. I have to go to bed now. Bye, Genna.

September 3, 98

Dear Genna,

Now schools seems even longer! I have to sit by Andy B and Josh D! I hate both of them. Like this afternoon they kept on singing “Saxamaphone.” Then I’m like, “Will you shut the heck up?!!” They stoped for about 2.5 sec., and started up again. The only good part is that Ashley M is in my group.

Tomorrow I start carpooling with Katy B. I have a violin lesson at 8:00. 8:00! The 8:00! But…Malee is in my class. I’m kinda tired. See ya!

It’s also worth nothing that I signed every entry. Like it was a letter or something. The signature usually varied, but I hope that when I write a book someday, I’m able to sign all of the first editions with this beauty:

Sign

I probably should have taught a calligraphy class for ten year olds. I could be rich right now.

The year before, I had borrowed The Diary of Anne Frank from the school’s library. I remember feeling superior as I walked to the left side of the library towards the chapter books while the other kids stayed to the right, which held most of the  picture books. At some point – I’m not sure when exactly – I began scoffing at books with illustrations. This remained until I took two semesters of comparative literature and read Persepolis and Watchmen.

When I checked out, I remember the librarian asking me if I was sure I wanted to read The Diary of Anne Frank. “Do you know what this is about?” I told her yes, though I had no idea. I just had no idea diaries could be published (Blogs would have BLOWN Young Ashley’s mind), so when I saw the word “diary,” I grabbed it. After checking out, I began reading immediately and decided I was going to publish a diary. And since Anne had a name for her diary, I needed one for mine. I thought that people would be interested in knowing that it was the name of my cousin. Wasn’t I clever?

Ever since reading Anne’s diary, I’ve deluded myself in thinking that other people would be interested in my thoughts. I like to think  that it’s an evolved flavor of egotism. I try not to just blurt out days’ agendas, though sometimes that’s all I feel I’m capable of: “I woke up and had like FOUR cups of coffee, you guys. And then, omg, the cute guy at work wore those pants and he like totally smiled at me and then I only worked a half day because I had an appointment in the afternoon. It was so weird and like, seriously – have you heard the Nicki Minaj album? It’s literally the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” (I was serious about that last part though. Have you heard it?It’s terrible.) I try to go a little further and touch on the emotions and illustrate the connections.

If I haven’t learned at least a little about myself at the end of it, I’m not really proud of the post. And to answer your question, there are only a few posts I’m truly proud of. I’m going to be brainstorming other regular post topics, and if you  have any suggestions, I’d love to hear them. Until then, I’ll keep flipping through my pages and laughing at myself, per usual.

Zooey Hair? NAILED IT.

/ Ashley / 11 Comments

So yesterday I got a haircut. I haven’t been into the salon since June, so I was long overdue. What I didn’t mention the other day is that after I found out another of my exes was engaged, I just about reached for a bottle of wine before I realized I had to be able to play a quartet gig a few hours later. I was also sick of my hair, so I was thinking of cutting my hair. For a split second, I actually considered cutting my hair while drinking malbec from the bottle. I decided to just go with the hair cutting.

After 45 minutes of hacking away my split ends with dull scissors, I came to the conclusion that I know nothing about cutting hair. I put some pomade in it and decided to make it look rockstarish – because what else could I do with a bunch of uneven layers?

Last night, I got sick of it and decided to actually pay for a haircut. After careful consideration (hours of Pinterest scrolling), I decided (again) I wanted to look like Zooey Deschanel. I saved the picture  and showed it to the stylist.

“I want the Zooey Deschanel look,” I said.

“So, bangs, but sort of blended in towards the corners, right?”

“Exactly – not blunt, but rounded.”

So she shampooed my hair and started cutting. Like most walk-in appointments, it was full of awkward conversation and avoiding eye contact through the mirror. As soon as she found out I play violin, she kept talking about her son who has Aspergers who plays violin. That really got her going.

That was when she got to my bangs.

What I should have done was distract her. I should have told her about my cart-wheeling violin student. Or about seeing the world’s best musicians. Or even about how I had just been singing along to Taylor Swift on the ride over. What I should not have done was allow her to cut my bangs while she was passionately explaining to me the difference between Aspergers and ADHD.

The thing with bangs is that once they’re too short, there’s no real coming back. You just have to wait until they grow out. I thought about telling her to round the edges more, but I was scared to see what else she would do to them. I look like a toddler whose older sister tried playing hair stylist. So I’ll be taking the maximum daily dose of biotin until my bangs grow out.

Anyway. Zooey Deschanel hairstyle? Not so much.

Zooey

CIMG3377

Sure, Stylist I Tipped Too Much, those bangs are sort of like Zooey’s.

Also, if someone could explain to me why my nose looks gigantic in 80% of my selfies, that’d be great.

I am going to die alone and merry christmas.

/ Ashley / 6 Comments

I learned the other day that Jon (Scott) is engaged. I was cleaning my room when I got the message from his sister in law. At first I didn’t react much – it’s just one more engagement that doesn’t really affect me. Also, he’s a douchebag.

(just now, I typed “douchebage” which made me think of douchebadge. Maybe that could be a new slam.)

But then I remembered that we had dated for two years. That statement isn’t actually correct, since the second year we weren’t dating – not even remotely committed to each other – just messily involved. He kept making promises he couldn’t (or wouldn’t – that detail remains a mystery to me) keep. He kept claiming he loved me while refusing to stop talking to the girl to whom he’s now engaged. He kept telling me he wanted to be with me and that he was sorry. Each time I tried to move on, he refused to let me and I mistook his controlling and abusive behavior as affection. It shocks me, the things I put up with. He said some of the most vulgar and offensive things to me – words so horrifying I refuse to put them in print. And yet, when he apologized, I accepted it and gave him another chance.

When I finally cut him out of my life (after a session with a therapist who told me  – and I quote – he was akin to a swirling vortex of insanity which would be near impossible to escape should I entangle myself further), it was complete. Though his behavior didn’t stop immediately, I simply refused to take part in it. Turns out if you stop indulging a psychopath, the drama stops pretty quickly.

That switch has since remained in the off position and I haven’t even considered flipping it in the other direction. It’s strange too, because I consider myself a somewhat sentimental person. Yet I feel a void looking back at our relationship. Surely there must have been some good there for me to be so reluctant to leave it behind, but I’ll be damned if I can find it. There is virtually no part of me that feels the slightest affection towards him, yet the news still struck a chord.

I’m reluctant to say that I cried over it, because that phrasing isn’t correct. It suggests longing and regret over the death of the relationship. The news prompted not only a ridiculous tweet (“Another of my exes is engaged. I’m going to die alone with my crochet projects.”), but a crying spell. Quick messy tears that made my day-old mascara flake off. I did the predictable self-indulgent girl thing where I made a mental list of my exes and compared their lives with mine, taking note of a single criterion. Of my five relationships, two of the men are married, two are engaged, and one is still single to the best of my knowledge. If the sitcoms are right and every breakup has a winner and loser, I’m pretty sure I’m the loser in all the cases.

NewGirl

Fortunately I had a couple friends to lean on in my time of need: Andrea, who told me to remember why I’m single (I’m not one to settle) and also that if he could get engaged, then anybody can. And Logan, who remarked, “Hahahahah! Good luck, sucker woman. Hope you have fun dealing with that for the rest of eternity!”

I decided to step back and take a look at my situation. I was on my freshly made bed, curled in the fetal position, and crying about a man whose existence no longer matters to me. Also, Flight of the Conchords was blaring out of my Kindle:

Hey Bowie, do you have one really funky sequined space suit? Or do you have several ch-changes? Do you smoke grass out in space, Bowie? Or do they smoke astroturf? Receiving transmission from David Bowie’s nipple antennae: Do you read me, Lieutenant Bowie?

And then I started laughing, because if there’s one thing that should never happen, it’s crying in the same room as Flight of the Conchords.

Life can be disappointing: sometimes the people you wish would burn with herpes sores for all of eternity end up getting engaged, but it doesn’t make any sense to cry about it. So the best thing you can do is pour yourself a cup of coffee, put on some lipstick, and laugh at the ridiculousness of Flight of the Conchords.

Anyway, I hope you all have a great Christmas. Go drink some wine and hug a family member.