The Squirrel of Carbs

Many years ago, to compost stale food I would throw the offenders off my balcony into the field behind my apartment. I figured the bugs and animals could do better work than a landfill. One day, I launched a quarter loaf of bread into the yard. I went back inside to check on the laundry, and then grabbed some damp clothes to hang outside. As I’m hanging the shirts, I noticed the loaf is missing in the field. I scanned the space and saw a squirrel grasping the sizable loaf in both his claws. He was hugging it, spooning it, owning it, and just wrapping every ounce of his being into this yeast-infused treasure. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the scene. I returned to my chores without realizing the impact I made on that squirrel’s diet--nay, life.

Click for full-size squirrel on loaf.

As I was locking up my apartment a few days later, I heard a screech behind me. A squirrel was hissing at me. His body tense, his voice shrill--it was the squirrel from the yard! I wasn’t sure how to process the situation, so I left for school knowing I gave that squirrel a taste for bread that couldn’t be sated any longer by weekly scraps. He was addicted to his newfound wheat belly, and I was the dealer responsible for his unnatural desire. The next day, I explored the balcony and found that the squirrel--let’s call him Carb Squirrel--took up residence in a little hole in a brick pillar. What’s better for a critter than a second-floor loft next to an irresponsible human that recklessly flings biscuits out their window?

A couple months later, Carb Squirrel charmed a lady squirrel into moving in with him. Such a sweet story if you remove the part where this doubled the amount of squirrel screaming. As far as terrible neighbors go, I figure two animals that harass you daily for not serving them food ranks pretty high. Eventually, they stopped berating me since I no longer hurled food into the yard after I saw the effect it had on Carb Squirrel.

I suppose that’s the lesson. I went from someone that didn’t think twice about throwing food away in my backyard, to someone who now makes a conscious effort to reduce waste and to properly compost whenever possible. I live clear across the country now, but I wish nothing but the best for Carb Squirrel and his companion. I’m sure they had squirrel babies and told stories of the giant, unfurred gluten dealer that caused their father’s diabetes. But more likely, rest with pieces of croutons, Carb Squirrel. I hope your legacy of doing a bread shotgun lives on in that backyard.

A Collection of (Rough) Cinquain Poems

My stuff
Where is my crap?
Ugh, you lost the damn thing
Customer service does jack shit
Not pleased.

Frozen
More Lean Cuisines
Spruce it up with rice, cheese
Tastes like a fancy feast to me
Cat food.

Red light
You drove through it
Pay heed to your own life
If not that, the ones around you
You suck.

Three words
Two hearts lay still
Thousand meanings between
One moment arrested by time
Gone... Gone.

Brie cheese
That creamy funk
I eat the rind, of course
Too lazy to put on crackers
Still good.

T Bell
What is this shit?
Tacos shaped like canoes
The beef is like a donkey paste
Let’s go.

Author's note: Five out of the six poems are based on today's events. Food is my muse.

Go Fly Yourself

No. I never enjoyed flying kites. Well, I mean, the only kite I ever flew was a rickety, plastic number from Kmart that broke on its maiden voyage. What’s the joy in watching something else fly—let alone watching it suffer for mere minutes before crippling itself after reaching street light altitude?

As a kid and still today I love riding roller coasters. I feel such a rush going fast, going up high; I want that feeling to last, I always want to fly. (Ahem.) I guess you can say I want to be the one in the sky hovering above the land below. Of course, I have no wings or sails or wind to assist with this desire. Also, I don’t believe a hot air balloon home above Seattle will ever be a possibility. Despite these current limitations, humans are resourceful beings; and where’s there’s profit in recreation, corporations are sure to find a way. So, I have a goal to do at least two of the following three activities to scratch that flighty itch:

• Skydiving - This is the most likely of all three activities. I know plenty of folks that partook with rave reviews. You get the safety of a trained specialist tasked with yanking your (parachute) chain along with a backup sail. Not to mention a video that captures the inevitable screaming and laughing only you will appreciate.

• Bungee jumping - This seems unpleasant. You want to feel like you’re helplessly falling thousands of feet before halting and ricocheting back up like dead weight? Go for it. I get that feeling every time I play a 3D Mario game. I get 10 inches near a ledge and I clench so hard I could suffocate the dust mites in the air.
• Parasailing - Now, this is the ultimate human kite experience. This seems perfect for a tropical beach trip. I have nothing bad to say about parasailing. What a lovely prospect! (“You won’t fly the kite, kid… You’ll BECOME THE KITE!” That's the concept for a terrible Bruce Lee-inspired Netflix movie starring no one notable.)

The year is ending and I would prefer to not dive through the sky accompanied by freezing rain, so I’ll look into skydiving in the spring. I have to do it soon while the heart’s still functioning properly. If my mom is any indication, a spoon falling from the counter to the floor will make my heart skip several beats in about 30 years. As for kites, thanks for inspiring me to fly hopefully better than you.

Wine Bags and Weird Blisters

One weekend in college, my roommates and I cracked open some boxed wine. The bag nearly drained, we decided to bring our drunk selves to some unfortunate bar. But first, I had to get ready.

For whatever stupid reason back then, I was adamant about my hair being pin-straight for all special occasions—most importantly for those occasions I hardly remember. I ran to my bedroom to heat up the straightening iron at my desk/vanity/dinner table, and then returned to nurse my mug of wine. After a few pre-gaming gulps, I returned to iron my hair. The strands scorched to an acceptable crisp, I placed the iron on my chair and grabbed some clothes. I picked a shirt, skirt, and the choice to not adorn my undercarriage with full-coverage briefs. Noticing my eye makeup needed a touch-up, I sat at my desk and felt a lava-like heat down there I’ll never forget. I landed—bare ass, skirt up—on the iron and shot straight back up in surprise. The brilliant part comes after: I was so drunk that my reaction was to sit back down to calm my butt cheek’s fury. I then shot up a second time, outraged that I ironed my ass not once but twice. Luckily for my nerves, I was mentally checked out so it didn’t hurt too badly. I definitely went out dancing and shook my second-degree burned ass.

I woke up the next day with the heat of a thousand brands on my fanny. Sunday was a workday—eight frustrating hours at Home Depot awaited. As I changed, I caught a glimpse of my posterior in the mirror and saw the shame lines. Since I sat twice on the iron dead center, and knowing there are two heated plates, the burns had blistered across both cheeks for a total of eight blister strips (is that the scientific term?). The constant pain wasn’t too terrible; no, the real issue was surface interaction. When I sat down in my car, I catapulted my pelvis into the air feeling the shock down under. I don’t know how common butt blisters are, but they are TENDER BUBBLES. I had to perch on my car seat like a one-legged catcher and used my free leg to accelerate and brake. Since cashiers generally stand at post, the blisters could breathe more freely. Outside of cashiering, however, I learned that you don’t stand for much of anything. I had to perch at home and in class. After two days of living like an owl, I was perched on the carpet writing a paper. I wanted to protect the butt bubbles, but I couldn’t squat another second. I took a deep breath and plopped my ass on the floor. You don’t really know weird feelings until eight ass blisters squish under your weight into carpet. Luckily the apartment was a rental.

You’re probably wondering why I would tell such an embarrassing tale. Well, it’s been over 10 years, so whatever statute of shame limitation exists must have expired by now. What rekindled this memory was the warning on my straightening iron I noticed the other day:

Peculiar warnings like this must be derived from an actual incident, right? In a world where someone has tried to straighten their eye (lashes, brows, balls?), I guess burning ass isn't the craziest thing they need to forewarn.

Poop and Consequence

“Eat the Egg McMuffin,” she said, dropping it on the empty hot cakes and sausage foam plate. “I don't want you complaining within two hours at the park that you're hungry.” I wasn’t hungry though. I just finished three pancakes and some sort of meat patty. I asked her to take it away, but my mom insisted. “We’ll go to Six Flags when you eat this; until it’s gone, we’re not leaving.” I couldn’t let an egg sandwich come between me and roller coaster heaven, so I grinned and ate it. After a grueling take-down, my mom, dad, sister, my swell stomach, and I headed back into the car for our annual trip to Six Flags Great America.

You may wonder why I had to eat more after finishing what one would argue was a hearty meal for a 60-pound 9-year-old. First, my mom insisted we take part in the clean plate club for each meal; I believe that’s a consequence of being raised by Great Depression-era parents. Second, she was an advocate of frugal spending when it came to food. To ensure we wouldn’t indulge in overpriced park grub, my mom’s tactic included eating a whopping meal of fast food on the way. For double insurance, she assembled a cooler filled with juice boxes, granola bars, and slimy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in case of midday hunger pangs. You ate those brown bag champions since Mom would rather you eat dog food than pay six dollars for a hot dog.

With an hour left on our journey, I quietly watched the views from the car window. The calm was interrupted by a tremendous rumble down yonder. And another. And one very loud rumble that resembled what I imagine Ridley Scott tried to emulate during the Alien birthing scenes. Those stomach rumbles were warning calls for an impending disaster--a disaster that surely no humble Accord deserved. I shook my mom’s seat in front and told her I had to go…bad. Also an advocate of not using public restrooms, she shrugged off my request and suggested I wait until we get to the park. Now, as most animals know, when your intestines send tremors throughout your system, they’re not screwing around. And when you’re a kid, it’s imperative to regard that message with high priority. For my second plea, I screeched with an unmistakable sense of urgency. Fortunately, the next exit was a rest stop. My dad pulled the car into an empty spot, and my mom and I ran for the bathroom. I remember situating my cheeks so swiftly onto the porcelain you’d think I reached a breakthrough in magnetic science. I did what needed to be done and the urge was gone. We settled back into the Accord to continue our journey to Six Flags.

Time for some real talk: If your body has ever tried to eliminate something from your system, you may know that one round is rarely the endgame. And, of course, my body was not done with all that McDonald's bullshit. Or just shit—let’s be real. About 15 minutes later, I had that foreboding urge, and that urge turned to desperate need within seconds. I shouted for my parents to stop again, insisting that I couldn’t bear another moment. Unfortunately, the next exit was not for another seven miles, which meant at least another 10 minutes of that feeling. I laid down, closed my eyes, and imagined Ronald McDonald throwing hockey puck-shaped eggs at my mouth while he cackled.

I soon felt the Accord slow its pace; my destination was close! This time, on the other hand, I felt I couldn’t control the surge if I moved even an inch. Not having a penchant for cleaning car upholstery, my mom threw me over her shoulder and rushed me into the gas station bathroom. I don’t remember what happened between toilet and sink contact, and perhaps that’s for the best. What I do remember was feeling exhausted. As a kid, the sort of clenching stamina I exhibited was extraordinary, but it came at a steep cost. We continued our trek up to Six Flags, and I nervously stared out the window dreading another bodily murmur.

As my dad caught sight of the roller coasters on the horizon, the family started to cheer. We finally made it. But I cried. I cried because I didn’t want to be on the road any longer. I cried from the embarrassment of seeing all the strangers during each incident. And I mostly cried because my…you know what was on fire. My mom asked if I needed some medicine and I nodded. We stopped off at the exit before Six Flags to visit the Piggly Wiggly. My dad and I went in; he grabbed me that pink miracle: Pepto Bismol. He gave me a swig and hid the bottle as I insisted on chugging the rest. We got back in the car and just as the enthusiasm for the theme park started to rise again, I silenced it with a resounding “I WANT TO GO HOME!” I was so focused on my discomfort. I don’t remember how upset my parents were—if at all. I’m sure they were OK with not going to the theme park. Although I bet my sister was disappointed. You know, I want to take the blame for that disappointment, but honestly, I think it’s foolish to feed a kid more when they’re already full. You’re on a road trip, and saving a few bucks on theme park food should be a goal not a rule. I mean no disrespect to my mom. We all make mistakes. The repercussions of this mistake would be grand, though.

Because of that day, I developed a fear of traveling in cars. I could handle the 5-minute bus ride to school, but a 10-minute ride to the grocery store or mall? Nope. I refused to travel outside my comfort zone, which included laser precision toilet location awareness. This went on for several months, and I made no effort to free myself from that paranoia.

(To give some background to the next section, I participated in coloring contests—and often won prizes. I recently entered a contest to win a trip to Disney World. That was, of course, prior to D-Day.)

Several months later on an early Saturday morning, I heard the phone ring. My mom answered, and her confused tone hastily turned to excitement. In that moment, I knew exactly why my mom was so ecstatic. She was saying my name, saying the Lord’s name, and thanking whoever Walt was. I was so scared. Mom yelled for me to come downstairs. My heart dropped. I slowly walked down the steps and she met me halfway, shoving the phone against my head.

“Hi. Is this Katie?” the voice asked.

“…Yes.”

“Well, Katie, we here at Piggly Wiggly want to congratulate you on winning the grand prize in our coloring contest for a trip to Disney World!”

 “No. No. No-no-no… NO-NO-NO-NOOOOO!! …Please, nooo-oohoho!” I started to cry, laid down on the stairs, and rolled down them in dramatic 9-year-old fashion. With utmost certainty, I understood my doom awaited me on this 2-hour plane ride if I couldn’t handle a 10-minute car ride. My mom grabbed the phone off the stairs assuring the person on the other end that we accepted the grand prize. Thanks, MOM. I was horrified. I must be the only kid that has heard “you’re going to Disney World” and wept tears of despair. My mom tried to comfort me, but I insisted that the family should go without me and I would never color again. I retired.

With the Disney trip booked, my parents realized they had to break me of my fear or the plane ride would be a nightmare. A month before Disney World, they arranged a road trip to Michigan. Again, I was terrified at the thought of being on the road for 10 minutes let alone five hours. I contemplated running away, feigning illness, calling the police, but settled on hiding in my grandparent’s home. As the family packed up the Accord for Michigan, I slipped out the patio door and ran over to my grandparent’s house (conveniently next door to our home). My grandma answered, and with that, the water works immediately poured as I howled about how scared I was. Being the nurturing caregiver she was (still is), Grandma brought me inside with tender consolation. As I calmed down, I didn’t hear the knock on the door. She went to answer the door, and I suddenly realized it was one of my parents coming to collect me. I sprinted upstairs to the attic, shut the door, and hid in the closet. Muffled voices turned to footsteps that grew louder and louder.

“Kaaaatie!?” my dad yelled at the top of the stairs. “It’s time to go!”

“Nooo, I’m not going! You can’t make me!” Famous last words from a child in hiding. In a matter of seconds, my sanctuary was discovered, and I was slung over my dad’s shoulder. I cried, screamed, kicked, and punched to no avail. My grandma urged him to let me stay seeing my distress. Dad knew better.

“She’ll never get over this fear if we don’t push her. That trip to Disney World is coming up, and hell if I’m gonna deal with this tantrum at an airport.” I was dropped in the backseat next to my sister, and the door slammed shut with a swift click of the locks. I immediately went to grab the handle— “Don’t even think about leaving this car, young lady. You leave, I’ll tie you down next time.” The words put my will into submission and I resigned to my fate. I was going to have to poop on this trip—I just knew it! My mom came around a couple minutes later and placed our dogs, Maggie and Ginger, onto my lap. Their little jumps, sweet kisses, and wagging tails soon had me forgetting all about not wanting to be in the car. So much so, that we were already five minutes away from home. Surely, if two silly pugs can make a five-hour trip, so could I. And if not, I guess I’d go on the side of the road with them.

I don’t remember if I ended up having to go #2 on that road trip. And it didn’t matter. Even though D-Day is the thing I remember most about that one Six Flags trip, I realized the journey to your destination is one small part of the bigger story. You can’t make new memories without taking the risk of getting a bit messy along the way.