Throwback Thursday: “I MUST HAVE LOVED YOU BECAUSE I KNOW YOUR SEVENTH GRADE LOCKER NUMBER.”

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

Every Thursday, I dig out an old diary and share an entry sans editing (in hopes we’ll all see my grammar and apostrophe use improve) with a short commentary. If you like laughing with/at Young Ashley, feel free to use the handy search bar to the right and simply type “Throwback Thursday” and you’ll find the whole archive. Thanks for reading!

Friday December 24, 1999

Dear Genna, 

Been a while, ya think? I’m still Ashley, but now I go to Maplewood. I still like Andy, but I’ve added a crush or two to my list. 

  1. Joey
  2. Andy
  3. Tyler
  4. Sam
  5. Todd

Joey is in seventh grade. Locker number 2632, Bus number 862, Bus route 66. 

<3, Ashley

Saturday December 25, 1999

Dear Diary, 

Sorry, but when I named you “Genna” I was a total freak! So now, you’re just plain ol’ diary, k, k!

For Christmas, (so far.) I got two pairs of Levi flare jeans, a tech vest, two shirts, the 98° Christmas CD, and a camera!

Either more later, or tomorrow, Ashley

Friday January 14, 2000

Dear Diary, 

I just got home from (it’s 11:35pm!) my first boy-girl party. And it was really fun. At first it was really boring because most of the kids were just sitting around. But then when people started leaving, it got better. (Oh yeah, this was my friend Ali’s 13th birthday.) When just me, Ali, Emily, Anna, Isiah, and Corey were left. (Not my older bro. A really cute and quiet kid.) I danced to some really funky, up beat song with Isiah, just a twilling thing, (Mom!) nothing serious. Ok, sorry Mom, but I was trying to get Corey to dance with me but he didn’t Corey said the only way he would dance is if we got his hat off, which he had, pracitcally glued to his head the whole night. I got it off twice! He barely danced! The first time I got his hat, I ran into the Girls bathroom, where I thought I’d be safe. But He ran in way in the back and said, nonchalauntly, “Can I have my hat back?” Emily and I were just shreiking. But I had a great time. I hope I’ll have parties that cool.

Ur’s always, Ashley

Good God. Young Ashley. You’re still a “total freak” even after renaming your Pooh book. I hope all 11-year olds are this psychotic.

I’m starting to hesitate with these posts, you guys. I often joke around that I’m a dork, but I’m offering you prime evidence here. Soon we’re going to be getting into my high school days. That’s going to be mortifying. Then college? Hot damn. You just might see me get truly vulnerable. I’ve been pretty nonchalant (or nonchalaunt, if you’re eleven and into phonetics) about sharing these prior diary entries, because in an abstract sense, I don’t think you should be embarrassed about anything that happens before you’re 18. Everyone was once an awkward kid trying to figure out their place in the world – navigating a new terrain of crushes, interactions with the opposite sex, name brand clothes and the relative popularity status. However, in a more concrete sense, I’m afraid my diaries will illustrate all the ways I haven’t matured.

These days, I don’t tempt boys into dancing by stealing their hats and running into bathrooms while shrieking, but I sometimes still feel that sense of unwarranted embarrassment when talking to a guy I find attractive. I’m picturing the shrieking now. I’m writing this on Wednesday night and in about an hour, I’ll be meeting the academic (yes, from the comedy club) for wine and live jazz. What would that be like? He’d put his arm around me and in two seconds I’d turn bright red, squealing when his fingers brush my shoulder blade. When the bill came I would try to pay my portion with exact change using crumpled bills and 37 pennies, completely unaware of the tipping concept. Thank god we pretend to be normal humans. Restaurants would be the most chaotic places on earth if we all acted like eleven year old kids. 

I’ve found that dating in my twenties is more refined than my obsessive crushes that seemed appropriate as a child. I memorized facts about my crushes the same way I did with celebrities. If it had been possible, I probably would have had posters of not just James Van der Beek and Leonardo Dicaprio, but also Joey, Andy, and Tyler –  obviously not Sam or Todd though. I’m not sure what my goal was by memorizing his locker number and bus route. Maybe I thought my diligence to remember digits pertaining to him would translate to devotion he would find endearing.

Reading this entry took some time. For those interested in the legibility of their writing, I would not recommend metallic Jelly Rolls.

Reading this entry took some time. For those interested in the legibility of their writing, I would not recommend metallic Jelly Rolls.

Clearly, this was when I used metallic gel pens and before I developed a sense of empathy. I don’t think I realized these boys were complete people. They were flat characters – ones easily learned by keeping in mind simple facts. Not that I would have been able to articulate it, but I knew that I was an emotional being, capable of containing contradictions and parts of myself I was unwilling to share or acknowledge. Everyone around me was just another character in my life. I had no desire to truly learn about another person. And anyway, how could I have kept them all straight? I had five crushes at one point – a girl can barely memorize five locker numbers, much less learn about five different boys.

I miss the innocence of the days when 11:35 was extraordinarily late and I was excited by the presence of boys at a party. I didn’t have the capability for discerning between boys I liked and didn’t like – they were all  just boys! Boys I could flirt with! Boys whose very presence gave me butterflies. I think the inability to discern emotions is so characteristic of adolescence. Everything I felt was so strong. Every joke a boy told me made me laugh. Every note passed to me made me feel adored. Every exchanged smile meant the potential for my first kiss.

Because it was all new, everything was a gut feeling until I was able to place them in a hierarchy. Even after I did this, I would ignore the distinctions because a boy was giving me attention. I still squealed (in my head) whenever a guy made the slightest effort to show me he was interested. It wasn’t till about 22 that I realized I didn’t have to spend time with complicated assholes if I didn’t want to.

Ahhh, growing up. You offer such good lessons. For my younger readers – WHY ARE YOU READING THIS, DID YOUR MOM GIVE YOU PERMISSION?! DOES SHE KNOW THAT I OCCASIONALLY SWEAR?! – I’d like to tell you to keep your psychotic behavior to a minimum and keep your standards high. If you’re wondering, yes you are a dork, but so is everyone else, so don’t be too hard on yourself. Also, read good books.

Aww shucks. I got nominated.

/ Ashley / 15 Comments

Earlier today, my cousin tweeted me telling me she was thinking about starting a blog. I told her to start with either WordPress or Blogger and to let me know if she had further questions. I said that like it’s the most important part of blogging, but really it’s not. What makes blogging fun and rewarding is the community. I’m happy to be part of the community here on WordPress and I love interacting with other bloggers. One especially cool thing are the reader-nominated awards, like this one, the Liebster.

liebsterblogaward

Melly, a self-described “30something Sydneysider” nominated me for this award. She requested that I answer the following questions.

1. What would you spend your last $50 on?

Honestly? Probably something silly like a bunch of Amazon mp3 albums. A week later when I’m eating the last of my canned soup, I’ll be kicking myself for buying a Nina Simone album – even if Wild is the Wind is an amazing song. At least my hunger will have an amazing soundtrack.

2. Favorite fashion accessory?

In the past, I had three weaknesses while shopping: cute coats, classy handbags, and superfluous shoes. For the most part, I’ve calmed down. I bought a very practical parka on sale last winter and have passed by many clearance pea coats this winter. I’ve purchased only two purses and one clutch this year. And I’ve stuck to clearance shoes – flats under $5, and a pair of $8 leopard print heels. My favorite accessory would probably be my cubic zirconia studs. When they’re clean, the 2-karat cheats could blind someone. I’ll stick with the cubic zirconia until I’m rich enough for actual diamonds.

3. If you were a character on The Simpsons, who would you be? 

I don’t watch The Simpsons, really, but I vaguely remember Lisa being a musician who read a lot. So that’s sort of a no-brainer.

4. What’s your go-to comfort food?

Bread. Hands down. Give me a loaf of warm, crusty french bread and I’ll be happy. I don’t even need butter or jam – just give me plain bread and I will be completely content. Until it’s gone.

5. If you could vacation anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Someplace that is not Wisconsin. Honestly, this winter is terrible. I’m not used to getting 3-5 inches of snow every week – we haven’t had winters like this since I was a kid. I don’t need to see a beach. I don’t need a sunburn. I don’t need rum-heavy drinks. Actually, I was lying about the rum drinks. I’ll take some of those. Anyway, what I need is some soft grass and a reason to wear sunglasses other than the snow reflecting and blinding me.

6. Do you prefer to work out in the gym, at home, or outdoors; what do you love about it? 

Bouncing around in my living room makes me feel like an ogre. When i workout outside, I sometimes get over ambitious and run or bike a ridiculous distance away from home, instead of staying within a reasonable radius. I prefer the gym because if I lose all ambition or energy, I can do a quick cool-down and drive home. Gyms can get boring, but that’s why it’s great to have Netflix on cell phones and tablets.

7. If you could pick 4 people (living or dead) to have a dinner party with, who would they be and why? 

Kanye West because it’s Kanye West. He would provide the comic relief without realizing he was providing comic relief. Lena Dunham so I could pick her brain and become her new best friend and she would want to pilot an HBO series based on my blog. Ira Glass so he could be the token jew-athiest who would provide all of the interesting and topical stories we’d discuss while Kanye said things like, “Why don’t you have any fur-covered pillows?” And to humble everyone at the party, I would invite Vladimir Nabokov. He would remind us that none of us are as smart or as talented as we think we are. Dude wrote Lolita – that trumps Kanye’s obnoxious tweets, the honesty of Girls, and Ira’s most heart-wrenching story about underprivileged children diagnosed with cancer who go on to be Nobel Laureates, or something.

8. What’s your signature cooking dish?

Something smothered in peanut sauce, most likely. Or dutch babies.

9. Favorite TV show?

This is so difficult! Arrested Development for its endearing portrayal of narcissists? 30 Rock for Tina Fey’s ability to mix the meta with the obnoxious? Breaking Bad for its shocking dissection of a man’s descent into evil with a super hot sidekick (Jesse Pinkman ftw!)? Community for its constant breaking of the fourth wall and disregard for comedy norms? I LOVE ALL MY CHILDREN EQUALLY.

10. Where did you go to high school? 

Good ol’ Menasha High School, home of the Bluejays. I spent a good deal of time hanging out at a coffee shop in Neenah (Menasha’s neighbor and rival) and made quite a few friends who gave me the adorable nickname “Metrashley.” They were clever. I told somebody this anecdote once, and he reacted with horror and pity. Maybe I got it wrong, but I think they called me Metrashley ironically. Dressed constantly in flats and pastel cardigans, I was the opposite of trashy. Aside from simply residing in a town sometimes called “Metrasha” (pronounced “Meh-trash-ah” for those of you confused), there is literally no way I could have earned this nickname.

11. What are you currently obsessed with? 

Gosh, where to start? Jazz, comedy, books about religion, zero-calorie Powerade, guacamole, the promise of spring, and rereading old diaries.

Since I accepted the Liebster Blog Award, here are the rules:

Rules for the Liebster Blog Award (if you choose to accept)
1. Add the award icon to your post.
2. Link in your nominator to say thank you.
3. Answer the questions the nominator has set for you, and create eleven questions for your own nominees to answer.
4. Choose eleven bloggers to nominate for the award, and let them know.

I’m going to nominate the following bloggers for the award:

  1.  Marcus, The Entertaining. [Voices in Heads]
  2.  Rachel, The Healthy. [her name is rachel]
  3.  Kristen, The Resourceful. [Five in Tow]
  4.  Katie, The Sassy. [Sass and Balderdash]
  5.  Jess, The Bold. [Mitten’s Kittens]
  6.  I Don’t Know Your Name, The Clever. [Thoughts and Rants in Jogging Pants]
  7. Amy, The Self-Aware. [It’s a Conundrum]
  8.  Anouchka, The Colorful. [Life of Bun]
  9.  Mindy, The Poetic. [Becoming Mindy]
  10.  Mer, The Adventurous. [loveplusthely]
  11.  I Don’t Know Your Name Either, The Determined. [A Girl Who Writes]

My questions for my nominees (if you choose to accept) are as follows:

  1. Are you a dog or cat person? Why?
  2. Growing up, what was your favorite cartoon?
  3. If you could meet one fictional character, who would it be?
  4. What is one of your guilty pleasures?
  5. You’re forced to relocate immediately; Where would you choose to live?
  6. Marry, Boff, Kill: Your first, second, and third romantic partners.
  7. What was your first car?
  8. What’s your homepage?
  9. Name two things other than your phone or computer you couldn’t live without.
  10. What is your favorite dessert?
  11. What are you currently obsessed with?

Thanks again for the nomination, Melly! To my friends who I’ve nominated: I listed you because I truly enjoy your posts and look forward to reading more – even if I don’t know your first names.

Food + beer + jazz = friendship

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

A few nights ago, I went over to my friend Matt’s house for dinner. Matt is a relatively new friend. We met this winter during the Nutcracker in the Castle, where he made me laugh at the most inappropriate times: during performances (by doing an improv session consisting of either glissando-like scales or half note scales), at the clumsiness of children (one fell over for no apparent reason), epic pigtails (on 70 year old women), and terms whose definition I’d expect to find only on Urban Dictionary.

I had been over a few weeks earlier when he invited my brother and I over for a few drinks. He told me to wear the girl equivalent of a suit. I toyed with the idea of wearing a pantsuit just to be snarky (I don’t actually have a pantsuit, but I do own black pants and a black blazer), but I decided to go with a dress and red lips instead. We spent the night drinking beers (one was so dark it looked like motor oil), wine, and whiskey over his homemade bar. At one point, the group migrated to his bedroom where he had his collection of instruments.  If I’m remembering correctly, he has several guitars, a banjo, a bass, violin, viola, cello, and an accordion, which was stashed under his bed. I played Twinkle Twinkle on the cello before realizing I had no idea how to hold the bow and my fingers tend to press down in increments made for a violin rather than a cello. After I grabbed the violin, we started playing from his Real Book.

My ex is a drummer whose passion lies mostly in jazz, so I had seen a Real Book before, but I had never really looked through it. It was one of those things that I let exist in his realm. He was so passionate about it, it was a bit intimidating even trying to learn about it. Though I’m a musician, performances rarely amaze me. (Clearly this is different if we’re talking about literature. Give me a good Nabokov story and there’s a good chance I’ll tear up at the ending.) It’s not that I’m unimpressed and think I could do better. Believe me, I can’t, and I know it. It may be a jealousy I’m not willing to articulate, or it could be a decided apathy; I’ll never be as good as Joshua Bell or Mark O’Connor, so I won’t waste energy thinking about it. I could be alone in this, but I think that somewhere in admiration of art or music, there is at least some amount of drive to emulate. This could be why I don’t play violin as much as I could. It’s a completely unveiled self-fulfilling prophecy: I’ll never be a master violinist, so I don’t practice often. I play enough to keep my basic skills up, but I’d be embarrassed for any of my music professors to hear me play Bach.

We played a few tunes that night. Though I had a stout-cloudy mind and screwed up plenty of simple rhythms (a few times, Matt started singing what I was supposed to be playing), I think I started to understand why small ensemble musicians keep performing. It’s not the free drinks at bar gigs, it’s that feeling of creating a moment that is utterly unique. I’ve always loved that feeling of combined singularity (ignore that nonsense term and just go with what I’m saying) that comes a good performance, but this was different. Classical music has always made me feel like I was interacting with the music in front of me, but this was more like interacting with the music around me. I’m sure my musician readers will say you’re supposed to do both, but I’m usually just too aware of the fact that those around me are way better.

After the last Nutcracker gig, the quartet went out for a drink and Matt told me there were levels to his friendships – you could tell where you stood in terms of his acceptance. “If I give you a hug, I probably like you,” he told me, sipping a beer. “If I let you drink my beer, I consider you a friend. And if I cook for you, we’re probably gonna be in each other’s lives for a while.” That night, he gave me a hug. A few weeks later, he shared a favorite stout (the motor oil one), and on Tuesday he cooked for me. So I guess that’s it. We’re gonna be friends for a while.

Matt

Thinking about hiring him to be my personal chef. Let’s hope he accepts payment in blog posts.

I’m always a bit envious of good cooks. I can usually follow a recipe, but I’m disproportionately proud of myself when I throw a bunch of things in peanut sauce and call it a stir fry. It won’t surprise you to hear I was impressed by his ability to make a mostly vegan meal without a recipe in sight.

Cooking

I know. Coolest spatula ever, right?

Sitting down to a meal completely void of leftovers and preservative-soaked “food” was an excellent treat. We had portabella sandwiches on homemade sandwich rolls with homemade hummus, onions, pepper, and burnt garlic; spinach salad with tomato, avocado and a balsamic dressing; red bananas, and an imperial porter (Flying Dog’s Gonzo Imperial Porter, whose label was an ode to Hunter S. Thompson).

Holy yum.

To quote the genius Liz Lemon: “I want to go to there.”

It was one of the best meals I’ve had in a while, and it was extremely nice to sit and talk with Matt in a non-Nutcracker setting. He’s full of entertaining stories like early college days spent drinking and cooking on roofs, dealing with students’ masturbation while teaching at music camps for handicapable children, and being chased by stripper dungeon basement guards at 3am in Budapest. I left his house that night with rolls, hummus, a full stomach, and a new friendship.

Dishwasher

Who doesn’t love passive-aggressive notes on a dishwasher?

I told him I’d invite him over for a meal sometime, but not to expect anything more than a frozen pizza and a randomly-chosen pick-six from Festival. I figure that way he’ll be blown away when I make my signature peanut sauce stir fry, consisting of ramen noodles (sans season packet) and whatever happens to be in my cupboard and freezer.

Also, this is the second time this week I’ve used the word ‘masturbation’. I’m sorry, Mom.

Throwback Thursday: No Empathy Here

/ Ashley / Leave a comment

Every Thursday, I dig out an old diary and share an entry sans editing (in hopes we’ll all see my grammar and apostrophe use improve) with a short commentary. If you like laughing with/at Young Ashley, feel free to use the handy search bar to the right and simply type “Throwback Thursday” and you’ll find the whole archive. Thanks for reading!

Tuesday April 18, 1999

Dear Genna, 

Don’t ya hate that when you have all these ideas, but then you forget them? Well, you wouldn’t know. 

I just counted the pages left – 21. 21?! Geeezzz!

I love getting mail! (e-mail) ((That is)) I went on aol

[don’t worry about the end of that sentence, Ashley. You’re too cool for punctuation.]

Monday April 26, 1999

Dear Genna, 

I haven’t writen for a while. I have changed over the month. First, I have a new crush, Andy B. He used to be really mean to me now, I think he likes me. Second, I have a new movie star crash, Jame Van Der Beek, and Joshua Jackson. 

[I spent the first 3/4 of the journal claiming to be in love with Leonardo Dicaprio. I was a fickle yet dynamic ten/eleven year old.]

Sunday May 9, 1999

Dear Genna, 

I’m sorry that I have not writen in you for a loooong time. But I may not write in you again. 

See ya!

[Don’t fool yourself, Ashley.]

Tuesday June 8, 1999

Dear Genna, 

I know I haven’t written for a very long time. I’m on summer vacation. I went to the pool at 1:00 then came back at 3:00. I had fun. But not as much fun as on Saturday! Saturday, the pool opened, Ashley M came with me. Ashley is pretty popular with the boys. “The boulders” were there. (John, Jim, and Andy) John was kinda the leader. (John likes Ashley.) So they followed us around, then they jumped in really close to us. I hate them. Sunday was cool too. I went to the pool with Corey, Ryan, & Dad. I was alone most of the time. I was just swimming when Tim saw me. “Hi Ashley.” I just looked at him like I didn’t know him. He must have went and told John that I was here. John splashed me And kicked me in the BUTT! 

I HATE JOHN! 

(BOTH OF THEM)

Ashley Otto

My diary, aka "Genna" circa 1998. I bet most literary geniuses start by writing in Pooh journals, right?

My diary, aka “Genna” circa 1998. I bet most literary geniuses start by writing in Pooh journals. Good to know I’m on the same track as Hemingway.

I was a terrible child. Really. I was a nightmare. I’m not sure how my parents or anybody else put up with me. Everybody was a nightmare at 11 and 12, right? Just humor me and say yes. Please.

I was the Queen of Melodrama. Everything was the worst. I hated everyone. If I had known the word, I probably would have been the Queen of Hyperbole. Adolescence was such a delicate point of life. I despised being a child, but I didn’t know what made a person mature. I wanted to deny who I used to be; I didn’t want to acknowledge that just a year earlier I had played pretend on the playground or that my bedroom contained more doll-sized furniture than actual furniture. Perhaps I created elaborate versions of reality because I severely limited my imaginary playtime. 

Though the above entries may indicate otherwise, I was severely self-conscious. I embarrassed myself in every way. This was when puberty started: my face was suddenly sprinkled with these stubborn pink dots. I remember standing in front of the acne-treatment area in the grocery store, wondering which container of Oxy to ask my dad to buy me. I was always embarrassed by it when he came to collect me, and I wouldn’t ask for it. Or maybe I did and he said no – the memories are fuzzy. I needed something for the acne, but part of me thought that by ignoring it and pretending it didn’t bother me would make it go away. I still handle problems this way, only now I have skin care and know how to apply makeup.

As we discovered a few weeks ago, I was convinced I was hideously overweight. But yet somehow, I talked myself into thinking half the boys in my class liked me. I wasn’t obese, but I was never a skinny girl. Looking at pictures of myself from this time, I can’t help but think that I was such an awkward girl. I wasn’t ugly, but I wasn’t as pretty as I wished. My smile was too squinty and my face too pudgy. My eyebrows were too bushy. My hair was so thick (I would kill for the hair I had at 10) and I styled it by double blow drying: first brushing and blow drying, then curling it with a blowdryer/curling iron combo. I hope Paul Mitchell is taking notes.

How did I survive this? How do any of us get through this stage of being awkward giant children to adults who pretend to be well-adjusted? The key is empathy. As children, we are completely focused on ourselves. As adolescents, we are focused on what is happening to us. And this is fair enough – our bodies are doing weird things like collecting fat in strange places, sprouting hair in previously smooth areas while our brains are being flooded with hormones. We’re starting to take note of how we compare to those around us. That comparison isn’t kind. It’s cruel and self-serving. We’re wonderful little narcissists, staring into this reflection of others, seeing only our beauty. To see anything else would completely destroy the delicate image we’re desperately trying to maintain.

Now I want to apologize. I want to write Tim a message on facebook and tell him I’m sorry for being such a bitch to him.  I want to tell him that Young Ashley was a shithead and he should have ignored her. And I want to write John a message telling him kicking me in the butt (!!) was extremely inappropriate, even if it was underwater. But most of all, I want to tell 11-year old Ashley to calm the hell down.

“You know what, Ashley? You are not ‘all that and a bag of potato chips’ like you seem to think. You didn’t know how to spell ‘written’ until halfway through 1999, for crissakes. Yes, you’re awkward right now, but don’t take your self-loathing out on other people. Get over yourself and act like a decent human being. Your parents did not raise you to be an asshole.”

What I’m actually curious about is the point I began to empathize.  Was it that first sense of alienation I would feel the next school year when Andy B. made fun of me for reading and eating dutch babies? Was it in high school, when I started listening to emo music and scribbling lyrics all over notebooks? Maybe somewhere along the way, I’ll discover that moment on the Throwback Thursday project.  I’m just so glad I’m not an eleven year old jerk who hates everyone. I’m much happier being an almost-25 dork who writes at libraries.

Among the periodicals, pondered great life questions like the hottness of James Van Der Beek and Joshua Jackson.

Among the periodicals, and surrounded by a few homeless people, I pondered great life questions like the hottness of James Van Der Beek and Joshua Jackson.