My Parents Weren’t Too Concerned With My Movie Choices As A Child

Looking back on my life, I would definitely say I had a pretty good childhood given some circumstances. My parents took great care of me, I had a loving family, and since I was an only child I pretty much never had to share the awesome toys grandma bought me behind my parents’ backs (that is until my mom remarried and my step-sisters would visit and mom said I had to share because that’s what makes you a good person). Being an only child, I’m not going to lie, I was spoiled and pretty much got to do what I wanted (within reason of course… my parents usually said no to me driving the car or throwing the cat).

The big thing I can remember my parents not really caring about too severely was the movies I was watching. Looking back I have two reactions about some of the movies my parents allowed me to watch. My first reaction is, “wow, my parents were so cool. I was watching R rated movies at age three!” My second reaction is, “Holy shit… some of those movies could have severely damaged me emotionally and lead to further issues in my future.”

There are three movies that immediately come to mind when I think of this topic (and honestly probably the only three that would really stand out to anyone): Terminator 2: Judgement Day; The Sixth Sense; and Titanic.

Let’s discuss Terminator. First of all I would like to say that the second film was, bar none, THE BEST of the Terminator movies. Now that I have gotten that out in the open, why don’t I talk about how my obsession with this movie began around age three.

I can promise you that I was the only three year old on the block whose movie collection included 101 Dalmatians (which I just called Puppies because Dalmatian is a really hard fucking word to say), Pocahontas, and Terminator 2 (does it baffle you that I could say Terminator but not Dalmatian because it baffles me…). I have one very specific memory of getting up early on a Saturday morning, walking over to our entertainment center and putting in the VHS of Terminator 2. While sitting on the couch watching a very intense chase scene between the good terminator and the bad terminator, I remember becoming enraged at the sun shining through my living room window making a glare on the television screen.

If you have never seen the second Terminator movie, I strongly suggest you take a look… but I would not recommend it necessarily for three year olds. Mainly because of the strong violence, extreme swearing, and discussion of the apocalypse in great detail. According to my dad, I loved the movie so much because I thought John Connor was super cute and I liked the chase scenes. Thank God I had a really good filter because I’m sure my kindergarden teacher would not have appreciated me telling her to “pass the mother fucking scissors, bitch”.

The film that almost ruined my childhood would definitely have to be The Sixth Sense. I don’t really recall the first time I watched it, but I know that the movie came out in 1999 which made me seven years old at the time. My mom and step-dad really liked the movie so I guess I decided to sit down and watch it with them. For literally the next year, I could not go to sleep; was afraid of my bedroom, my closet, and my school; I avoided the color red at all costs; and I was convinced that if my step-sisters and I built a fort there would be a little girl inside of it throwing up. I think the reason this movie scared me so much was because Haley Joel Osment was very close in age to me (he’s four years older than me), and I was absolutely convinced that I would also have the ability to talk to ghosts because that’s how my seven year old mind worked. It also didn’t help that my parents loved the movie so much they continued to watch it even though I was utterly terrified of the film. The solution to me being in the room while they watched the movie was for me to put on head phones and play on the computer… it didn’t work. I have gotten over my fear of The Sixth Sense and in fact it is one of my favorite movies. I also love acting in horror films/ skits which is definitely not something I would have seen myself enjoying twelve years ago.

Lastly, good old Titanic. When I was in the first grade, I guess no ones parents really cared what we watched, because it was common at recess to play Star Wars or Titanic. I of course was always Rose and one of my good friends was always Jack (we liked each other in that first grade “hey, I have a crush on you but I’m not going to do anything about it because I’m six” sense). Every recess we would act out the movie in the most detail our fifteen to forty five minutes would allow depending on the break. The giant jungle gym was the ship and the gravel on the playground was the frigid cold Atlantic Ocean. Of course we didn’t exactly understand every part of the movie. For instance, when Jack and Rose are in the car and well… having fun times… we would just go sit under the jungle gym for a while until we thought it was an appropriate amount of time to go back up and see the ice berg. I think I asked my friend once what he thought Jack and Rose were doing in the car and he said, “I don’t know, drawing pictures in their breath fog on the window?”


Dear Bicycle, I Think We Should See Other People.

I hate the feeling of being out of shape. There are many reasons for my hatred of being out of shape, but the biggest one is because it is SO fucking hard to get back in shape and so much easier to be lazy and eat mini-oreos all day. It’s super hard for me to stay in shape while working at camp because I’m usually so tired by the end of the day, the last thing I want to do is go running or do aerobics or pilates. Also, it’s very hard for me to pack healthy lunches because it’s just way easier to bring Easy Mac every day and pop it in the microwave (my new nickname from my camp director is Half-Mac). Since I’m on a two week break from camp right now, I decided that I am going to workout every day and eat super healthy for these two weeks and hopefully I will stay motivated when I’m back in Bozeman.

So far I’ve been doing a great job with the working out every day thing. My dad was the camera man on a workout video last summer and jeez oh man, it’s a kick ass work out. A little FYI for anyone trying to get in shape, anything that is dance inspired will do your body wonders! I kind of hate working out on my own though because it’s so easy to become demotivated, so I decided to ask my best friend Ren if she would want to be my workout buddy for the next two weeks. She said yes, and our first workout took place yesterday.

The original plan was to ride our bikes to the University, go hike the M, then ride our bikes back home. In my mind we were going to do all of this without breaking a sweat, and when we were finished we were going to be so in shape that if you punched us in the stomach, your hand would just disintegrate. Like usual, my imagination was about as wrong as Anthony Wiener’s penis size (congress men should not be packing heat).

We left Ren’s grandparent’s house and got about halfway to the University when we decided we wanted to go to the Italian restaurant she works at but we forgot money.

We stopped for a little photo-op. 

This was before we realized life sucked on bikes. 

After going half way to the university, then back to grandma’s house, and back to where we had left off, we had traveled 3.5 miles. This was the moment we decided that hiking the M was no longer an option. We kept riding and the temperature climbed to about 88 degrees. We rode to the University and then over to Ren’s favorite park which added another 2.84 miles to our ride. When we arrived at the park we collapsed on the grass under the shade of a large tree, and we didn’t move a single muscle for a good thirty minutes.

The view from our spot in the grass.

After deciding we were hungry and wanted to go to the restaurant Ren works at, we got up and got back on our bikes. Apparently during the time of sitting, our butts left their state of bicycle seat shock and realized they were in pain and never wanted to touch a bicycle seat again. When I sat back down on my bicycle seat, my butt screamed in horror. I felt like I imagine a prison inmate might feel like… you know what, I’m not even going to finish that sentence. Just know, it was painful, and I didn’t like it. The whole way to the restaurant we were both griping and groaning about the pain our butts were suffering, and that this was the worst idea in the world.

The trip to the Restaurant added another .92 miles to the bike ride. We sat down, vey tenderly for the sake of our bottoms, and ordered some Pasta and a desert. For the fun of it, and also to suck up some time before getting back on those torture devices that we used to think were oh so fun, we asked if we could learn to toss pizza dough. We weren’t very good, but we had a blast pretending we were good!

So basically my best friend is gorgeous and makes pizza dough look hot.

It broke. Oops.

After our failed pizza dough adventure we decided to get back on the ass destroying machines and go back to grandma’s house (we also forgot our to go boxes but remembered after only two blocks so that wasn’t too bad). When we got about seven blocks from our destination, my bike decided that it no longer wanted to wear a chain. We then presumed to look like complete idiots on the side of a very busy road attempting to fix a bike. I made eye contact with a woman who was laughing at us! As soon as she saw me look at her she tried to pretend she wasn’t laughing, but I saw! I know you were laughing at our misery Lady in the car, and I do not appreciate it!

As we were struggling a guy on a bike who was wearing the spandex and everything rode right past us like we weren’t there! He didn’t even offer to help, and you know he would have been able to fix the bike because he was practically dressed like he took a wrong turn off the Tour de France and ended up in Montana! What a jerk! I hope he reads this and knows that I am judging him right. this. second. Okay, I’m done with that.

We walked the bikes a little bit and then all of a sudden my bike decided to wear the chain again. Bike, make up your damn mind please! We FINALLY made it to grandma’s house, and when we walked into the house, we looked like we had been stranded in the desert for days without water and were inches from death. We weren’t even exaggerating one little bit, I promise. We eventually collapsed in the living room and watched The Social Network (great movie). I also went on MapMyRide and our bike ride totaled 9.2 miles!!!

Today my mom asked if I wanted to go on a bike ride and I looked at her with the most serious face possible and said, “I’m currently not on speaking terms with bikes.”

More Often Than Not, I Wish I Was A Cat.

I want to first of all, apologize for the lack of postings from me lately. As most of you know I am currently employed at a children’s theatre camp and I’ve been putting so much of my creative energy into camp that I haven’t had much left over for my blog. I am, however, on a two week break right now and so hopefully I can give you guys some nice material and hopefully during the second session I will be a little more pro-active about blogging because I’ve definitely missed it.

So tonight while I was sitting on my couch thinking about what the perfect come back topic would be, it hit me that there is no better topic than cats and how my life would probably be fucking fantastic if I was a cat.

Pros of Being A Cat:
1) If I was a cat these are the things my day would consist of: sleeping, eating, sleeping some more, licking myself, sleeping, chasing some string, sleeping, eating, and sleeping some more. As a human, I love sleeping, but it is socially unacceptable to be asleep at four in the afternoon unless you have mono or are narcoleptic. If I was a cat though, I could sleep whenever my little cat self desired and no one can say shit about it because I’m a cat which means I’m better than you.

2) People would put videos of the funny cat shit I do on YouTube and I would be famous. I don’t think I will ever be famous as a human, but as a cat, all I would need to do is roll on the floor or attack my owner with my little hands and BOOM, 1,000,000 hits.

3) Humans will suddenly become my bitch. Look at how a cat lives. They lay on our furniture like it’s really theirs. They poop and pee in a box and humans clean it up. When they are hungry they just walk to a bowl that is (usually) always full. The most work they do in eating is sitting in that little ball close to the bowl so their little mouths can reach it.

4) As a cat I would be able to wear a big ol’ look of “fuck off” and no one cares because I’m a cat. If I do that as a human I get labeled a bitch and people throw things at me. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but I do get a lot of harsh vibes that feel like things being thrown at me.

5) I can get fat and people just think it’s cute. Cats don’t get judged for being fat. I think we could all learn something from cats.

6) Cats can make like 100 different sounds! As a human, sure, I can probably make more sounds than that, but I have a dictionary of words that tell me how to make different sounds. Cats just make their little cat noises, and guess what, there are about 100 of them! That is some sophisticated voice box.

Cons of Being A Cat:
1) Dogs think it is so funny to chase me. I don’t want to be chased by a dog. I want to be a cat and lay on the floor and have people adore me.

2) I hate water and the world is about 75% water… so that sucks.

3) Small children like to pull on my tail. I say no. No pulling on my tail.

4) Hair balls.

Well here’s my pro and con list of being a cat. I think I really just need to accept that I’m a human and be happy with it. After all, as a human I can reach things that are sort of up high. So even though I am a human and will just need to be content with my species, that doesn’t mean that I can’t randomly meow and pounce things around my house or my friends’ houses. I think that is totally socially acceptable.

Awkward Moments With Parents

Nudity In Movies (Especially Male Nudity)
Nothing, and I mean nothing, has ever scarred me more than the time that I went to see Step Brothers with my mom and Will Farrell put his balls on the drum set (I apologize if you have never seen this movie and I just ruined part of it, but honestly where have you been all of your life?). The thing about this event was I was about thirteen or fourteen years old and this was the first time I had seen male genitalia that was not on a baby. I was not ready for it.

There is a kind of process that parents and children go through when there is either naked time or sexy time happening on screen. Let me set the stage: you are sitting next to your parent or guardian in the movie theatre or on the couch enjoying a nice movie and all of a sudden there are two people getting it on right in front of your face. On the outside, both parties just sit there and pretend like nothing is happening, everything is normal, and in some weird way sex scenes are not awkward to watch with your parents. But you know you are wrong and that just makes it worse. The whole time every single muscle in your body is tense and the child wonders if they should be looking at their shoes or maybe the popcorn or their hands. The parents don’t have it any easier either.

Now I am just guessing since I am not a parent, but I have had my fair share of awkward incidents with my mom or dad where there is either nudity or sex on screen and this is what I imagine was going through my parents’ heads, “Oh my god… this is awkward… I wonder if she knows what’s going on… I hope she doesn’t have any questions after this scene… that would suck… since when do people do that?… I hope this isn’t giving her ideas… I hope this ends with the woman getting pregnant and dying and then she will never want to have sex ever.”

I could be absolutely wrong about the thought process of the parent in this situation, but I know if I was watching a saucy scene with my child, I would have those thoughts going through my head. All I know is that afterward both me and my parents have always pretended it never happened. My mom and I only talked about the ball incident one month ago and I’m now nineteen.

The First Time You Say Fuck
I started what I call “petty swearing” when I was about ten. By petty swearing I mean crap, damn, ass, etc. However, by the time I was twelve I was well versed in the big boys of swear words. I honestly don’t remember why I started swearing so young. Sure, now days kids tell their mom to fuck off at age three, but times were different when I was a kid.

I’ve noticed that every parent and child has a swear barrier that they need to break. I began breaking the one with my mom slowly around age fourteen after I interned at the camp I am now employed at (for some reason I really became a potty mouth working at a children’s camp). She was pretty chill about it, but then again, I had never said fuck in front of her. The farthest I had gone was saying shit and that was a rare occasion.

I believe the first time I said fuck in front of my mom I was just about to turn fifteen and had recently had major knee surgery. My dog never understood that climbing on my knee wasn’t good for it and one day he decided to climb on bed with me and I screamed “FUCK” as loud as I possibly could. My mom laughed. Even after breaking the barrier I was still cautious and find myself to be cautious to this day. If I get on a roll with my swearing my mom will tell me to cool it. After all, she is my mom.

Dad was a different story. As chill as my dad is, for some reason I was deathly afraid of swearing in front of him. I didn’t break the “ass” barrier until I was maybe sixteen or seventeen. However, the very first time he heard me swear was just an unfortunate incident all around. I was sixteen and we were running late to go film Obama in Butte so I was speeding into town. Sure enough, a cop drove by and pulled me over to which I responded, “fuck me running.” We both just pretended the fuck incident didn’t happen.

To this day I still don’t swear in copious amounts around my dad, mostly out of respect. But every once in a while it slips and now that I’m nineteen it hasn’t been as big of a deal. The first time though I thought I was going to die.

I Need Tampons
The first time I told my mom I needed tampons she became overly excited and proud because I was becoming a woman and would someday give her grandchildren. Something about my mom being extremely happy about my period just made me super uncomfortable when I was twelve and thirteen. Now that I’m nineteen, I love saying to my mom, “I need tampons” because it means I save five dollars that month.

Most awkward for girls is when you have to ask dad for tampons. Luckily this only occurs a few times like when your step mom is out of town and you are too young to go to the store yourself. This moment sucks especially for dads because unlike moms, they don’t think about grand babies, they think about gross boys and the horrible, horrible monsters they will be when they go through puberty. Also guys just hate buying tampons.

If This Is My Summer, I’m Joan Rivers.

Well, getting settled into Bozeman and my summer job has really taken it out of me. I literally did not think about this blog for eight days straight. I haven’t even had the urge to draw a dinosaur… okay, well that’s a lie. But, my mind has mostly been focused on camp, musicals, choreography, dogs, my severe lack of money until payday, and how I’m going to fulfill my dream of staring on broadway.

In order to give you all an idea of my life for the last eight or so days I’m going to tell you a few short stories in chronological order. 
As you may recall from my last blog post, I brought my dog and cat with me to Bozeman for the summer. The cat wasn’t too big of a deal because I’ve brought him before and he just likes to do what I want him to do. 
The dog was another story. My dog, Ralphy, is a 120 pound Rottweiler who has never lived with another dog in his life. For the two months I’m living in Bozeman I’m staying with my dad and step-mom who also have a dog named Chester. Chester is a half beagle, half blue healer and is about six years younger than Ralphy. 
I don’t really know what I was expecting when I got the two dogs together… well actually no, that’s a bold faced lie. I know exactly what I was expecting. I had this lovely image of rainbows and sunshine and my two dogs becoming best friends immediately. I had the image in my mind that it would be like a scene in a movie where two lovers are reunited in slow motion on a beach in the sunset. There were just some minor problems with this idea. Problem Number One: My house is made of wood, drywall and nails, not a beach. Problem Number Two: I arrived at eleven at night and the sunset was long gone. Problem Number Three: dogs don’t like it when other dogs come into their home.
Chester and Ralphy growled, barked, snapped and basically had a shit in the living room. My dreams of my dogs being best friends fluttered away from me like something that flutters away quickly. 
I decided it was best to keep Ralphy in my room all night which meant that I didn’t sleep because he’s a guard dog who likes to sleep by the door and protect me from rapists and stalkers (I’ll discuss my stalker and my badass mom and dog another day). 
The next day however went much better. We took the dogs to a dog park near my house and they played and ran and kind of became friends. More like frienemies (sp.?) but I’ll take what I can get. They are still argumentative but they get along better every day and my dream of my dogs running in slow motion on a beach is slowly coming back to me. 
The Yucky Face Rape Incident
There really isn’t much to this story except that while hanging out with one of my friends and two of her friends one of them decided he liked me and became uber creepy even with my “get the fuck away from me” body language. 
When I decided to leave he asked if he could walk me out to my car and I just said, “Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”, which he took to mean yes. Then when we got to my car he asked if it would be inappropriate to kiss me to which I responded, “Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”, which he took to mean no. NOTE TO ALL MALES: Long awkward “um” means no. Not rape my face with your gross face. Okay, thanks. 
After getting pulled over (yeah.. awesome), I went home and brushed my teeth ten times. Now that I look back over this last week, this incident put me in a bitchy mood for the rest of my eight days. Stupid boy. 
This is exactly how I feel about the yucky face rape incident. 
My Best Friend’s Stomach Ache
A few days after arriving to Bozeman I picked up my best friend from the airport. As soon as we got in the car he was complaining about his stomach hurting, but we assumed it was due to the fact he hadn’t eaten in a day and a half. After dropping off his things at his house we went to Perkins which just made the stomach ache worse. BTW: Perkins is not the place to go when you have a stomach ache.
Later in the day we met up with the other people we work with at a children’s camp and discussed camp things and how to be a great employee blah, blah, blah. During our little meeting my friend looked like he was dying. When we were leaving he said he almost got sick. I just figured it was because he was sleep deprived and still recovering from his flight. However, the whole ride to his house he complained about his stomach ache. I believe at one point I said, “stop being such a drama queen.” 
When I woke up the next morning I had a text from Best Friend’s Mom saying that Best Friend had appendicitis and was going in for surgery and she would keep me posted. 
So basically I’m a dick… (I was happy to find out that his mom had the same reaction to his stomach ache and just told him to take antacids). 
I went to visit him at the hospital later in the day to say hello and I’m sorry for being a dick… and to eat his jell-o. That kind of counter acted “dick” didn’t it? 
After a few days of vicodin induced bliss and almost two straight days of sleep, Best Friend joined the rest of the camp staff at orientation and didn’t miss one day of camp! What a trooper. 
Somewhere in the appendix craziness I went to hang out with one of the girls I work with and relax after a long day of orientation training. About an hour into hanging out one of her friends showed up all frazzled and upset and began telling us possibly the most insane story I’ve ever heard. 
Apparently her boss is some kind of con artist being sought out by the FBI and she was contacted earlier in the day by the feds to keep working for the crazy guy and put herself in danger. Awesome, right? (Also, the whole time she was telling the story this dubstep song called psychopath was playing and it just seemed very ironic… I felt like sharing that). 
Well, for the rest of the night I was convinced that I was going to be kidnapped by the FBI and tortured for answers about something I had no idea about and that there would be an FBI agent in my backseat when I got in my car. Any time the door opened, I died a little inside. I get paranoid about the government sometimes and this was definitely one of those times. However, I am happy to tell you that the FBI has not made any contact with me or anyone else at the house that night.
The Small Child Strikes Back
On the first day of camp I was greeted in the most odd way by none other than The Small Child. She refused to make eye contact with me and spent most of the morning hiding behind my butt. Within thirty minutes she attempted to steal my shoes three times. She also said my nose is big and I have a weird laugh. We need to work on a filter for The Small Child.
At this moment she still attempts to steal my shoes on a daily basis but doesn’t hide behind my butt as much. We’re making progress and that’s what counts! 

The End
Well these are the highlights of my first eight days in Bozeman and now that I think about it, all of these events happened within the first four days of being here. I don’t know why the first four days were so eventful, but it made for a semi-interesting blog post, right? 

Complicated Day

Well I got all moved over to Bozeman along with my dog, Ralphy, and my cat, Boris, and holy boats was it a struggle!  Let’s start with the beginning of the day:

When I woke up in the morning I was about half way packed, but all I had left were my bathroom supplies, miscellaneous objects, and items for the animals left to pack.  I decided to make a list of all the things I needed because every single year I end up forgetting something and needing to either go buy a new one or have my mom send me whatever I forgot in a care package.  I started getting so meticulous about what was on my list that I was running out of time to take a shower and really wanted to make it to my friend’s graduation party by five and be out of town by six.  This was the goal.

After I got out of the shower I still wasn’t fully packed but I decided to start loading a few things into my car.  However, I discovered something that would ruin my day…. the back gate to my car would not open.  I tried all of the chick solutions: pulling, pulling harder, kicking, unlocking, but it wouldn’t budge.   I decided to call my ex-boyfriend (we’re still friends) to ask if I could drive by his house and see if he could get the door open.  At this point it was about 3:40PM, and it takes me about 20 minutes to drive into town from my house.

We spent another twenty minutes trying to get my back door open and still it would not budge.  I guess I didn’t realize what time it was and we talked for another twenty minutes.  When I realized what time it was I quickly drove to my mom’s store and began asking her what I should do since my car is a two door Rav-4 and my suitcase weighs more than I do and somehow I needed to fit it and a Rottweiler and a cat and lots of other stuff in there.  In the back of my head I wanted to just trade cars with her, but when I just remotely suggested it she laughed and said, “fat chance” (My mom drives a Pontiac Grand Am and doesn’t really want to start driving my dorky little car for two months while I drive around looking like hot shit).  I decided to just go home and see what I could do.

When I got back in my car it was around 5:20, and I wanted to call my friend to tell her I would be late, but I forgot my phone at my house.  Of course.  I drove as fast as I could to my house and called my friend and let her know I would be late.  She said it was fine and she would see me later.  I began throwing things into bags and quickly realizing that I wouldn’t be able to take as much as I thought I would.  I got everything in (including the dog who had about three square feet of room to sit in for the duration of the trip) and finally had to get my cat in his kennel. When he saw the kennel he flipped out, ran away, hid under my bed, ran out again, began shaking, and peed on my hamper.  After cleaning up that mess I put him in the kennel with a towel in case he decided to soil himself again and got him in the car.  It was about 6:45 at this point, and I wanted to at least swing by my friend’s graduation party to congratulate her.

I drove the 20 minutes to her house and when I arrived not a single person was there.  I had assumed the party was at her house and didn’t think to ask where it was and therefore didn’t know where the party was.  When I called her she didn’t answer, and I had to get on the road because it was well past 7:00.  I felt like such a bad friend.  The lesson I guess is to always ask where the location of a party is otherwise you will look and feel like a complete ass.  That is the Jewel’s words of wisdom for the day.

Quick Update

001. Hey everyone, so I just wanted to let you all know that I won’t be blogging for the next few days because I am moving my booty to Bozeman for the summer to go work at a children’s theatre camp! This is my sixth year working at camp, and I’m very excited to be returning, however the next few days are going to be spent getting ready, packing and saying goodbye to everyone here in Zoo Town. I will probably have some fun stories to tell though after I get there because I am taking my dog, Ralphy, with me, which should  be interesting to say the least. I will also be taking my cat Boris. Not sure how I am going to fit a Rottweiler, a cat, my suitcase(s), my guitar and backpack of things that didn’t fit in my suitcase(s) into my TINY car, but hopefully all goes well! Wish me luck!

002. I have been mulling over the idea of creating a Facebook page specifically for this blog so that 1) I’m not littering my personal Facebook page with updates of when I post and 2) it creates another way that is SUPER simple to communicate with me because everyone and their mother has a Facebook! Let me know if you guys think this would be a good idea in the comment section below por favor (that’s please in spanish)!!!

003. I just wanted to take a quick moment to thank you all for reading my blog because right now I am at over 1000 page views in one month! HOLY BOATS! It is absolutely quite possible that this is not a lot at all, but it is WAY more than I ever expected this soon and I just wanted to say thank you for reading. Also, the reactions buttons have been going quite nicely and people have begun using them which is awesome! It is always helpful as a blogger to get a bit of feedback from her readers, whether it be from comments or from the reactions. So thank you for using those also! You guys are just fantastic.

004. I drew you guys a picture of a dinosaur to hold you over until I blog again in about four days.


For as long as I can remember, I have had this weird thing where I think that inanimate objects have feelings and I have the potential to hurt those feelings. I thought that I was the only person in the world who felt this way about inanimate objects, but I was reading old posts of one of my favorite blogs, Hyperbole And A Half, and discovered that Allie Brosh herself also has this issue along with many of her commenters! I no longer felt so alone in the world.

I told my mom about Allie’s post (my mom also really enjoys Hyperbole And A Half), and she told me a story about a woman who she used to see shop in a grocery store in her hometown who would only buy dented cans, boxes and other damaged items because other people had rejected them, and she felt bad for them. At this point I REALLY began feeling sane again because for one, I don’t binge buy dented cans to make them feel better and for two, my disorder mostly associates to stuffed animals, clearance movies, old trinkets in my room, and pillows and blankets. Okay.. that last part made me start questioning my sanity again.

When I was born, my mom made me this baby blanket that I called “Blanket”, and my grandmother made me a pillow that I called “Pillow”. I was a real creative kid, I know. I carried Blanket and Pillow with me literally everywhere I went. If mom or dad took me to the grocery store, Blanket and Pillow came with. If they took me to the gas station, Blanket and Pillow came with. Going for a walk? I couldn’t forget Blanket and Pillow. In fact, I drug them around with me so much that one day, Pillow just disintegrated. He (Pillow and Blanket were both male… I wonder what THAT means), just one day vanished into thin air and I never saw him again. I actually made a little pillow disintegrate before the age of four. What did you do with your life by that age?

This is me at a young age chewing on a bear’s face. Pillow is kicking it in the corner and Blanket is keeping me nice and warm while I chew on the bear face. 
Here I am using Blanket as a cape. I am also wearing dog face ear muffs and holding a licorice string. I remember parts of this day and I remember being told to “calm down” multiple times.

My mom actually reconstructed Pillow for me to make Pillow 2 for Christmas one year.

This is Pillow 2. It looks just like Pillow! Jeez oh man, my mom is good. 

Blanket was still going pretty strong at this point. None the less, within two years Blanket began falling apart. I did some shoddy sewing jobs on Blanket, but it was no use… he was also falling apart. My mom tried to help by suggesting we make another blanket to wrap around Blanket with a zipper so any time I missed Blanket I could just unzip the less than satisfactory blanket that was suffocating my real Blanket and he would technically always be with me. My mom only brought this up two times because each time it sent me into a psychotic fit and I would spent hours crying holding Blanket telling him I wouldn’t let them tear us appart.

I have managed to make him last until now, but he’s very fragile.

See all of the falling apart-ness of Blanket. You can see his guts. I’m not pleased about it. There’s also a hole in the middle. I’m afraid that if I sleep with him every night he will fall apart even more. I think he understands this and knows that I can not love him constantly.

Honestly, I think I would have gotten over my quirk at some point in my childhood, but the movie Toy Story and my mom prevented that. When my mom took me to Disneyland, I found large stuffed animals of Woody, Buzz, Jesse and Bullseye that of course my mom had to buy me. One day, we returned to the hotel room and the Toy Story stuffed animals along with my stuffed animal gorilla George (who still travels with me everywhere I go) were in different positions like they had been playing all day long. My eight year old heart fell out my butt. My toys came to life and played with each other while I wasn’t there which meant they were fully capable of understanding when I rejected them! After this point in my life I made every effort to be holding every stuffed animal that I owned and Pillow and Blanket while I slept because they might be sad if I neglected them.

Later on, my mom informed me that she asked the Housekeeper at the hotel to move the stuffed animals when she came to clean the room. I think part of me though still believed my stuffed animals feel emotions and to this day I struggle to get rid of stuffed animals or little pieces of crap I’ve collected throughout the years.

Here I am with Blanket, Pillow and George. 

I blame Toy Story and my mom if I am every featured on that show hoarders.

Simple Grammar Mistakes Make Me Want To Slap Your Mother

I was going to write about cats today, but someone commented on my Facebook status, and I needed to share it with you all and then discuss the mess of a comment this was.

I kind of like when it’s rainy and cold out side and I’m home alone because I can wear just the most ridiculous things. They are warm and no one is around to judge me. =]

33 minutes ago · Privacy: · Like · 

    • Benjamin Gerald Wollschlager Y u home alone? You’re way to cute 4 that

      14 minutes ago · Like
    • Jewel Christensen Does it count as being home alone if I talk to myself? ha.. just kidding.. or am I?

      about a minute ago · Like

After reading Mr. Wollschlager’s comment I presumed to rock back and forth on the floor, crying in the the fetal position while hyperventilating. There are two reasons this comment sent me into a state of mental shock and panic, and I will lay them out for you now.

Hitting On Someone Via Facebook Status Is Creepy:
For all of you fellas who read my blog, I just want to tell you right now that FACEBOOK IS NOT AN APPROPRIATE PLACE TO INITIATE FLIRTING….. especially if you do not know the person, which is the case with Mr. Wollschlager and myself. If you do know the person, occasional flirty comments are fine, but initiating conversation in this manner tells me, “Hello, my penis is desperate for attention and I would like you to be his friend.” Also, hitting on a girl via their Facebook status (at least for me) tells them you assume she is a big pile of slut bag. Let’s be real, what girl with any bit of self respect will just give her number to a guy who hits on her through her Facebook status. In all honesty though.. this isn’t my biggest problem with the comment, because I know how to get rid of creepy guys (as you can see with my comment… feigning schizophrenia works quite nicely).

If You Are Old Enough to Have a Social Networking Site, You Are Old Enough to Use Proper Grammar:
Okay. I am not going to lie. I make small grammar mistakes. I’m pretty sure that unless you are my speech and debate coach from high school or a college professor who is supposed to know proper grammar, it’s fairly common to make simple grammar errors. HOWEVER, one of my biggest pet peeves in the whole wide freaking world is when people misspell words on purpose. The words “why” and “you” consist of three letters. If you are too lazy to write those little words out then I think you need to examine your life closely. The same goes for replacing words with numbers. Numbers are for counting. Letters are for spelling.

Also, “the” is spelled t-h-e, not t-h-a. Little, not lil, and don’t be afraid of the -g at the end of progressive verbs (going, seeing, etc.), they will not hurt you. I don’t care if you are white, black, asian, hispanic or purple, the words are spelled the same no matter how you say them, and you look like a jack ass when you spell them like you have “swagger”. Especially if you are a white girl from the north west who owns more than three pairs of cowboy boots. 

Now, with all of these shortened words, my commenter actually spelled out “you’re” and used the proper word! I think this is where my head exploded. For those of you who are unaware, there is “your” and “you’re”, and each has a distinct meaning. My commenter lost it again though with “to” when it should have been “too”. There is also “two”. Just save the world and your college professors some time, and learn that each of these has a distinct meaning too. Finally, the biggy: their, there, and they’re. Three. Distinct. Meanings. LEARN THEM. 

Okay. I just had to get that out there and vent about the lack of basic grammar skills on the internet now-a-days. I apologize if you were really looking forward to reading about cats, but I don’t know how you would have known I was going to be writing about cats because I didn’t tell you, and you should probably put your mind reading tools to better use. But I do promise I will write about cats in the near future. Possibly tomorrow… we shall see.

PS: Just because I wrote about grammar does not mean I want to be corrected on my grammar or to have people tell me that my comma is in the wrong spot. I’m not a grammar expert, but the things that usually drive me nuts are things that we as human beings learned about in the second grade or so and aren’t super complicated. Thanks guys you all rock and I know your grammar won’t disappoint me!

    This Is A Post For My Friend Trevor

         My friend Trevor’s birthday was yesterday and he was the person who inspired me to start a blog so I decided to make him this!

         It’s a cake! So Happy Birthday Trevor! I hope you like your cake. I decided to make it pink because who doesn’t like a pink cake?! 
         Okay, I will actually do another post today though, I just wanted to do this.