Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Working in a toy store and some thoughts on Disney Princesses.


I got my first job when I was sixteen. I was at La Encantada with my mom when she started telling me to go in and get applications. She was encouraging me to apply at places like J. Crew and Talbots, where she could use my discount, and although I loved J. Crew, I wasn’t going to give my mother the satisfaction... and walked straight into the toy store. 
I asked the very slender girl with the pixie hair cut and sleepy eyes if I could please have an application. It turned out that she was the owner, and a recent college grad. She looked at me, a little bemusedly, and told me that she’d never actually hired anyone before, but she guessed she could use someone once or twice a week to help out. I asked for an application, and she didn’t have any. She took a brown, ripped piece of parcel paper and a crayon from one of the kid’s art sets and wrote these questions in whimsical writing. 

What is your favorite color, and why?

Please write the first seven lives of your favorite disney song. 

Why do you need a job? Are you a creep?

Please write a rhyming poem about Edward Norton, Shoelaces, and Mice. 

I sat down at the kids table, on a Hippety Hop, and filled it out. Looking back, I should have been really confused, but this was the first job application I had ever filled out, so I thought maybe this was just how it went.  I wrote that my favorite color was teal, I wrote the first lines of "Portobello Road," informed her that I was not a creep, and wrote a poem (I don't remember it verbatim, but it was a limerick). I gave it back to her, she read it, smiled and asked if I could come in tomorrow. As an after thought,  she asked for my last name, and my phone number, and called me later that night to ask if I would prefer an apron with balloon print, or frogs because she was sewing it right then. I told her balloons.


Working in that toy store was one of the best experiences. It was the only place I’ve worked where I was encouraged to blow bubbles, juggle, and wear fairy wings to work, all of which I took advantage of. I also loved seeing how little kids would just light up when I sprinkled fairy dust on them and told them to make a wish, even though it was just regular glitter. When the hours were slow, we would play with the toys, and test the games and read the books. We sold really wonderful, high quality toys instead of the cheap ones from Wal-Mart. 

I spent my Friday nights in high school doing read aloud storytelling for children, and practicing the little, ridiculous plays we would sometimes put on on Saturday mornings. I can, to this day, make a damn good paper snowflake, and know all the words to literally every single Disney song, even the really obscure ones from movies no one has seen since the 1970’s.


One of the things I learned though, was that Disney princesses send a really awful message to children, particularly girls. Of course, we have all been made aware of the anti-feminist qualities in them, and know that with few exceptions they don’t have an intelligent conversation with the man who they are going to spend the rest of their life with. However, what I was more interested in was their lack of friends, and the message it sends girls about friendship. Cinderella was only friends with animals, Belle had no friends until was was kidnapped then made friends with her usually inanimate captors (which could very arguably be Stockholm Syndrome), Pocahontas is friends with a raccoon and hummingbird, Jasmine had a tiger, Snow White had seven dwarves...how would the stories be different if any of those companions had been another human female friend? Furthermore, the women that are in the stories have mostly antagonistic qualities. Evil queens, witches, stepmothers and step sisters are in no short supply in these tales. I can’t help but wonder: what does that teach our children, however subtly, about the relationships women are supposed to have with each other. It's no wonder books like “Queen Bees and Wannabes” (more commonly known by it’s film adaptation “Mean Girls,”) are so popular and relevant in society. We teach our girls to compare, and feel antagonized by other females, instead of teaching them to celebrate each other and develop meaningful friendships. 

Saturday, February 23, 2013

RA


The letters “RA” come in many shapes and sizes. From a research assistant to RA sushi, it’s easy to get lost in world of R/A possibilities.

For me, those two little letters took on a much greater meaning: over 1,000 residents, countless hours patrolling the halls, wonderful staff members, and experience after experience of the daily life of a Resident Assistant.

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Chapstick

I am a lover of all types of chaptsick, I like the minty kind, the fruity kind and even the non flavored kind. If it is my birthday, Christmas, Easter or even Valentines Day, I will be getting a lot of chaptstick. Every year when this happens, I ask my mom why she is always giving me chapstick and every years she has the same response. "it's because you always loose it honey". Just recently she sent me a care package and the main contents were chaptstick, I literally got a bag of chaptstick. Now about two weeks have gone by and I have actually lost over half the bag without using any or moving the bag. I am very pissed off about this because my lips have been extremely chapped and I need that chaptstick! I always have chapstick on me or and if it is not on me, it's in my bag. For some reason I always end up loosing it! I always try to keep it in one spot, like a pocket, a drawer or recently I kept it in the box and the package in where it came from, but it somehow always disappears. Since I always loose my chapstick, I realized that I have never actually used it from start to finish. I had no idea what that felt like so I decided to talk to my roommate Shandey about this. She had the same answer as I did and she was also curious about what it would feel like to finish a single chapstick. After our long talk about chapstick, we came to the conclusion that there must be a chapstick steeling fairy, this also made sense because we loose everything in our apartment and it is a black hole. Yesterday we decided to both start on a new chapstick and try to finish it from start to finish. We are both determined to use the entire stick, but we both know that sooner or later we will loose them.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

This is the only thing I know how to talk about anymore


This is an excerpt from a rough draft of a column I'll likely write for the Daily Wildcat in March, encouraging students to participate in ASUA elections and vote for a refundable $3 fee for Arizona Student Media. It's a rough draft because it's also just a love letter to the only lasting relationship I've ever maintained in college. (Let's not talk about what that says about my people skills.)

The Arizona Daily Wildcat is not "The Newsroom," by any means.

After all, HBO's "The Newsroom" does not feature a bunch of sleep-deprived college students whose conversations are crawling with incredibly pretentious, recycled-from-the-West-Wing Sorkin-isms.

There was an overly scripted reality TV show on MTV four or five years ago about a high school newspaper that featured a lot of tears, which was a little bit closer to what the Daily Wildcat is. 

But neither is really right. Maybe it's more like "Parks and Recreation." I am, after all, always trying to channel Leslie Knope, though I think I more often feel like Ron Swanson. 

I've been at the Daily Wildcat since the summer after my freshman year, and every semester I forget a little more about how to sleep and when to eat. Seriously. You know you're a college journo when it's 11 p.m. and your news editor asks if you've eaten dinner yet. (You also know there's something wrong with you if the answer is no, you haven't yet.)

And yet, I don't know if anything is more fulfilling than being a part of something like Arizona Student Media.

Maybe I'm confusing the caffeine-induced spike in my heart rate with real feelings, but I'm blown away every day by the people I've met and the stories they've produced. You meet a lot of people in college. But the people you meet in college media are rock stars. 

If you haven't read the feature on a familiar face at every Arizona men's basketball game, prepare to have your heart squeezed. (Hat tip to our classmate, Megan, for finding and writing the story.) And if you're not keeping up with the lawsuit filed against the Arizona Board of Regents — the regents who set your tuition every year — then you are missing on some serious Arizona student government politics. 

Admittedly, my GPA has taken a hit. My day-to-day goals are usually just remembering to eat and breathe. But it's a small sacrifice to make for the 100 or so employees of the Daily Wildcat, and the 300 total employees within Arizona Student Media.

I'm majoring in journalism despite every outside perspective that declares journalism is dead because how could it possibly be dead when I know so many people who just care so hard? 

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Driving

Some thoughts about driving…

-Always remember the turn signal is not only your friend, but it’s my friend too. That lovely little blinking light gives me a precise warning of the intent to change lanes. It works much better than slowly drifting over the lines assuming it will all work out just fine.

-Have you ever noticed that old people tend to buy cars that are built like coffins? Think about how one would describe a late 90’s Buick or Cadillac. They’re big, bulky, usually boxy, and very plush on the inside.

-A sticker on the rear window depicting each member of your family is not even remotely cute. Please stop.

-There is a special circle in Dante’s hell for people who cut you off only to go slower than you were going. I’m not sure which circle exactly, but it has to be somewhere near the bottom.

-I hypothesize the height that someone’s pick-up truck is lifted directly correlates to how little self-awareness they have. I’m sure Freud would have plenty to say about this topic as well.

-Contrary to popular belief making a turn does not require a geologic age to complete.

-If you are too busy talking on, or playing with your phone to realize that the light has changed to green for the past 30 seconds then congratulations, you are the worst person on Earth.

-Finally, if ever in doubt about a certain action while driving stop and simply ask “does doing this make me an asshole?”

Office Scene


(This is just a scene from a potential young adult fiction book I might write)
 
I clicked my nails on the white table with my right hand, while my left supported my head. My long hair tangled itself between my fingers. The ticking of the clock in the otherwise silent office seemed sharper as each second passed. I looked up at the unembellished circle in irritation and sighed when I realized it was a quarter past one.

            But I had expected nothing less. Matthew had become particularly vengeful towards me as of late. His being unpunctual to our appointment was nothing compared to when he “accidentally” spilled hot coffee over my blouse three days ago. His childishness belonged on an elementary school playground, where the teasing between boys and girls exemplify affection, rather than in a professional office filled with supposedly professional adults.

            My teeth began to grind together when I heard his laugh from the other side of the door. I could hear hushed words exchanged between him and, presumably, a coworker. When the handle began to turn with deliberate slowness, I hastily straightened up to look dignified and pointedly irritated at his rude behavior.

            Matthew stepped inside and flashed me a too-perfect smile. “Katherine.” He said my name the way friends who haven’t seen each other in a while do. When the word’s pronunciation is stretched longer than it needs to be. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was caught up in a rather important project and lost track of time.”

            I’m sure you did. “I know how that goes.” I gave him a fake smile. He raised an eyebrow. He could always tell when I was not being genuine.

            Instead of calling me out on it, Matthew set down his briefcase on the table and took a seat in the leather swivel chair directly across from me. He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for something, and pulled at his red tie to loosen it.

            Rather than dealing with all of the routine courtesies, I proceeded straight to business. “I have a first draft of the presentation for upper management next Tuesday. I changed a few of your slides, but they were minor modifications.”

            “Why do I get the feeling that they were more than minor?” Matthew asked with a laugh that filled me with the desire to smack him.

            “Why do I get the feeling that when you said you would pay the bill on my blouse, I don’t believe I will ever see the money?” I retorted, still bitter about the brown splotch that stained the white silk. I realized I shouldn’t talk to my supervisor’s son in this tone, but it was only Matthew.

            “Do you remember when you spilled cranberry juice on my superhero shirt back in the sixth grade? I was absolutely devastated about that. I believe we can call it even.”

            There was a joking edge to his voice. It made me feel as if his mockery was veiled behind playful banter. “Why am I not surprised that you would bring that up?” It was more of a rhetorical question.

            “You may think I spilled the coffee on purpose, but it really was accidental, Katherine. I would never injure you purposely.” Matthew looked away from me and snapped open his briefcase. He shuffled through papers as if he were trying to avoid my hard gaze.

            “No. Instead you are intent on ruining my potential career within this company,” I replied icily.

            Matthew stifled a laugh and turned his eyes up at me, that playful sparkle there once again. “Why would I ever try to ruin you? I prefer to think of it as healthy competition. I’m keeping you on your toes. And my father thinks you’re a wonderful employee. You should be grateful.”

            I stared at him blankly. “And he likes me for me. You didn’t do anything.” Before Matthew could reply, I interrupted him. “Can we just get back to the work? Linda has been breathing down my neck for the past month about this project and I am not going to fail again.”

            “You never failed the first time,” Matthew told me sharply. The anger in his voice put me on edge. Was he angry at me? “They could not have possibly expected you to finish that budget plan in two days without knowing about it prior. You did the best you could.”

            I narrowed my eyes as I thought about that and shifted in my seat, which I suddenly noticed was uncomfortable.

            “So the presentation?”

            “Oh right.” I flipped open my laptop, typed in my password with the impressive speed that only muscle memory can perform, and opened the presentation.

            I turned my laptop so that it faced Matthew. He flicked through the slides more rapidly than I expected and wondered if he was going to be any help. As hard as I tried to understand his expressions, his blue eyes were unreadable. His eyes scanned each slide and his lips were pursed in concentration.

            A sort of hysteria washed over me as suddenly as a wave destroying the sand architecture made by children on a beach. I almost laughed when I realized Matthew hadn’t changed over the years. From English papers in high school to important projects at the company, Matthew still studied my work with shrewd diligence.

            When I noticed Matthew was looking at me with a questioning expression, probably because of the foolish smile spread across my lips, a blush crept along my face. “What do you think?” I blurted suddenly.

            “It’s very good. Organized and well thought out. I have a few suggestions for improvement though.”

            I nodded and half-stood so I could look see his recommendations. He sighed, turned the laptop towards me, and picked up his chair so that he sat beside me. I was keenly aware of smell of his cologne. It was impossible to describe. The scent seemed to be a combination of fresh clothes and something that gave me the impression I could eat it.

            Matthew pointed out a few things, we argued over a few, but I made most of the changes. I felt as if a stone had been lifted off my chest. This time, I would make Linda proud and impress the executives.

            “Which slides would you like to present? I’ll present whichever you don’t want or are uncomfortable with,” Matthew offered. He was being too kind. This wasn’t like him.

            “I don’t care. Whichever you prefer,” I replied tentatively, anticipating some sort of trick.

            Matthew rolled his eyes. “Just choose.”

            Perplexed by his strange attitude, I claimed the first half of the presentation. “Would you like to practice?”

            Matthew hesitated and checked his designer watch. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t right now. I have an appointment with my supervisor. Maybe tomorrow.”

            “Sure. Just tell me when. I want it to be perfect. Though I hate to admit it, I’m very nervous.”

            “Well of course you are. You were ripped apart last time.”

            “Yes. At least you and I will take the fall together just in case things go that direction again.” I laughed, even though I was serious.

            Matthew returned the chair to its original spot and packed up his briefcase. His hand lingered on the black handle for a moment. “Will Jonathan be at that meeting?”

            My brow furrowed. “Yes. As far as I know he will be. Why?”

            Matthew’s jaw seemed to tighten and he continued to stare at his briefcase. As if he realized his behavior appeared odd, he turned his head to smile at me. “Well you’ll have no problem impressing one person then.”

            I glared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

            Matthew laughed. “Don’t act stupid. You know Jonathan has feelings for you.”

            I felt the blush return to my face. “We are coworkers. That’s all. It would be inappropriate.”

            A strange expression spread across Matthew’s face. It seemed as though what I said bothered him somehow, though I had no idea why. “I will call you later so we can set up a time to meet.”

            Before I had the chance to reply, Matthew was out the door.
 
-Katie Becker

Monday, February 18, 2013

Strangers

Everybody has a smartphone in their hand. Necks craned to read the small print on that lighted frame, backs hunched, shoulders carved, introverted humans. Introverted humans in a public place. It's Valentines day, so all the posts on my Facebook newsfeed say the same things.

"Just had the best date with my boyfriend! Thanks babe for making today so special. with -- Jackson Clements"

"#forveralone"

"I think someone forgot to ask me to be their Valentine this year. Oh wait that's every year. Lol"

I take turns scrolling between my Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram feeds. Scroll scroll scroll. I wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life. I wonder why it's taking so long for Cactus to make my ham and cheese omelet.

We're waiting for our food, all we want is our food. Call our names quickly and we can be on with our days, please. 

I look up from my iPhone only to make sure the cook behind the steel counter hasn't called my name without my knowledge and my omelet is getting cold. Still no omelet. I decide to be adventurous and tuck my cell into the back pocket of my jeans, but now what do I do with my arms? I cross them over my chest, trying to look like I belong without a screen in front of my face. It's difficult.

Whatever you do, don't make eye contact.

While I wait, I turn to the fountain machine behind me to fill up a styrofoam with water. To my left, an unfamiliar voice speaks, "How are you?"

I could feel this directed towards me, but strangers don't talk to strangers so I dismiss the words. In any case, I look out of the corner of my eye and see a student looking at me.

"I'm doing well, how are you?" This is me playing it off like conversations with strangers are a normal thing.

"I'm doing really good!"

"Good!" I proceed to take a sip of my water, and the conversation is over.

Since this moment, I haven't been content with the way society functions.  I'm wondering why people can't talk to people for the sake of talking to people. I'm wondering why you have to be drunk, or mutual friends, or physically attracted. I'm wondering why we can't leave our phones in our back pockets and have the confidence to spark up a conversation with a nearby stranger.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Date My School

Have you ever noticed how when you are dating that men seem to be more interested in you? And how when you're single all of the men in the world miraculously disappear? It's amazing really.

In todays day and age we are all so obsessed with our phones and lap tops that we don't interact with people. There is no more meet cutes, there is facebook stalking and drunken bravery. In the days of our parents people would meet, have conversation, come to the door to pick up a date. As a person just getting into the adult world of dating it seems that none of the things I had been built to believe exist do.

My grandparents grew up in northern Washington state, around lakes and trees and farms. One day when my grandfather was on the lake with his friends he saw my grandmother with her friends on the shore and said "You see her? I'm gonna marry her some day." And he did.

My parents met in a singles group at a church in Scottsdale. My mom was a wild child, and my dad was pretty quiet. She thought he was a bit of a goody good, but he knew that he was going to marry her someday. He finally asked her on a date and she accepted, but though they had a nice time he didn't ask her out again. She couldn't understand why. What she didn't know was that my dad was already falling in love with her, he decided to step back and just observe, he felt that God would give him the right timing. Little did he know God was calling my mom across the world.

She moved to Spain and joined a ministry in Alcala, a little town outside of Madrid. She was working for a pastor when my dad wrote and said he wanted to come and visit. She said yes, and he got on a plane diamond in pocket. But poor thing, upon his arrival she friend zoned him before they even left the air port. He stayed the length of his trip, and even though they had fun he was heart broken.

By the time he got home he felt maybe he had been wrong, and started seeing someone else. All the while my mom began to realize that she made a huge mistake. She wrote and wrote and he didn't answer. She came back for Christmas and before long she convinced him of her true feelings and they got engaged.

They had the chase, the romance, the story. Today we have dating sites and parties. Is it so wrong to want to be swept off my feet? To want someone to see me across a room and think "I'm gonna marry that girl"?

Maybe I've watched too many Disney movies, but I will always believe that there is a prince to my damsel in distress. I will always believe in Happily Ever After.


Sunday, February 10, 2013

Some Color

An adult, maybe a grad student,  was eaves dropping on a conversation I was having the other day with a friend in a restaurant close to campus.  I never asked for their name, and have virtually no recall when it comes to stranger's faces--it's the opposite of total, it's really not even half.  Color-recall, maybe, as I have a distinct memory that there were teal stripes on the blouse, jeans, nearly acid washed.  I never knew if they were male or female, but I do remember thinking that their particular implementation of androgyny had, in my esteem, the ring of the wanna be; high on polish, low on character.  Any one of a thousand people you see walking around the mall.

Not prone to comment on the obvious lackings of another person's style (you've all seen me, I could easily be mistaken for some sort of sad, surreal, change wrangling, adventurous world explorer--the one that lives at the bus-stop...) I only say as much because they, friend mid-sentence, decided to interrupt.

"Hey, sorry, I read that essay (an essay I wrote for fiction) it was pretty decent."

"What do you mean you read that essay, I just wrote it..." I reply, thinking this person is lonely and just needs to chat.

"Yeah, I know, it was shared with me."

"Uh, by whom? Who shared it with you?"

"I can't say. Don't want to get them in trouble.  But, it was good, I really liked it."

"Thanks..."

"No problem.  You're like the new kid on the block, I think it shows a lot of promise.  You're older than I thought you'd be.  Where have you been hiding, what took you so long?"

My friend and I are unsure of the manomen's sincerity.  The chance that they read the essay is fractional at best, and the last comment "what took you so long" is particularly  well, stupid.  Half drunk, I feel the urge to physically defend myself, but, under the weight of thousands of years of evolution, I manage to simply stare.  Then, one of those moments of primal triumph.  The kind that, fueled by anger, but unwilling to embrace violence, usually lead to moments of dumbfoundedness followed later by those "Damn, I wish I would have said that when..."epiphanies.

This time I found myself spewing the words without thoughts to effect or affect--I'd have no wish I would haves, because I just, simply, did.

"Sorry, it took me a while to get to this block.  One block back there's a liquor store and I stopped in one day.  Liked the owner and took to getting shit faced with him everyday--even helped him clean-up at night.  By the way, which essay did you read?"

The wayward manomen skulked away and I pulled on my IPA.

"Hey, they were trying to give you a compliment, why were you so mean?" Says my friend.

"No, they were bored and looking at your tits, they just needed a reason to come over."

"Oh...was that a man or a woman?"

"No idea." Another pull on the frosty mug.

"Me either.  Maybe a manomen?"

"Maybe."





 





Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Fear O' Potty?


I have always had an illegitimate (or maybe overly legitimate) fear of port o' potties. Aside from the germs and not knowing who, what, or when previous occupants deposited the remnants of their lunches or drunken burrito consumption into the deep pit, there is something mysterious about the awkwardly fake cherry scent and the topsy-turvy look of the typical blue structure that has always bothered me. Maybe I have watched too many “Jackass”-like shows and feel as though the second I walk into one will be the second before a friend knocks it on its side. I truly cannot put my finger on it, but there is something about being contained in a plastic rectangle, mere centimeters away from the public eye, and trying to complete a rather private task that I can’t seem to shake. Also, the unknown of enough toilet paper being left on the roll or the potentially missing hand sanitization once the task is behind you is too large of a risk for me to gamble. They may be useful when you are stuck at a fair or on the run, but it would honestly take a large dose of convincing and coercing to get me to step foot in a port o’ potty on my own will.

 

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

The Choice is Yours


Is life nothing but a game, a competition, with the goal being to gain power and win? Must we treat all our fellow men as allies or enemies, always staying Machiavellian in our pursuit of power?
Or is LOVE the meaning of life? Must we be like John Lennon, loving every man, woman, creature and plant with open arms?

But wait, it's a dog-eat-dog world out there. Every man for himself. This world's a jungle and if you don't protect yourself, you'll pay. After all, it's the hippies that die first.
I don't know, that's the wrong mindset and we can't think like that. We are one, and we must work together to create a happy and equal society. With a quarter of our food being thrown out every year, it is a sin that we still let people starve. The system must be broken.

And so you have the liberal-conservative paradigm that is stretching across this country and bouncing in between my ears every day. I never quite know which side to play. It's like the classic caricature of an angel and a devil on each soldier, but instead it's Al Gore and Ted Nugent. 
One week I'll be shopping at Whole Foods, smoking and talking about how fucked up the "system" is. The next week I'll be out shooting guns in the desert, updating my stock portfolio and talking about how the homeless need to get off their asses and work.

I've lived with free-flowing, whimsical hippies and I've lived with straight-edge, patriotic conservatives and I have come to see the importance of appreciating the beauty in everyone. 
When I tack on the conservative mindset in the presence of my granola-crunching joint-packing friends, boy do I despise them. And when I'm all about free love in the presence of my straight-laced, well-to-do conservative friends they make me sick. 
Instead of seeing your friend in tye-dye as a dumb, lazy and free-riding hippie, appreciate his compassion, openness and spontaneous nature. Instead of looking at your conservative friend as a straight-edge, paranoid and greedy bastard, admire their loyalty, dependability and practicality.

 Whichever environment and whomever's company you find yourself in, embrace it. Enter their spirits. As they say,  "When in Rome, do as the Roman's do." You'll save yourself a lot of undue stress and anger that way. Just try it, see how it feels and get back to me. 


Doritos


Doritos

One of my mother’s favorite stories about me that she enjoys telling friends and family is the time I locked her and my father out of the house. When she explains it to everyone, it is a funny story and I become embarrassed. Embarrassment seems to be the typical reaction when your parent’s anecdotes have something to do with your younger self and you don’t remember those past actions at all.

My mother assures me that at the time of the ordeal, it wasn’t funny to her. Many incidents in hindsight become amusing, especially when it deals with the unpredictability of children.

            Because I was no older than two, I do not remember anything about the misadventure. It is a blessing that just about everyone is unable to recall memories from when they were a young child. The incomprehensibility of a child’s mind in an adult’s would be too much. Too confusing and invasive.

            Even though I couldn’t remember, I created the memory through what my mother told me.

            My parents were doing yard work in the backyard when I closed the kitchen door. The handle must have been locked because I know with certainty I didn’t climb the stepladder or hop onto a chair to turn the lock. I can’t recall if I was told that I closed the door with a loud slam or if my parents didn’t notice until they tried to turn the handle.

Who knew what I was thinking as I shut the door? I was the one who should know, but it was at that age that, when you think about it, you aren’t too sure you were even alive. Your life seemed to have started in elementary school since that was when your memory began to work. You have no proof of your existence before then except that you are alive now and your parents have embarrassing (possibly naked) pictures of you stored in photo albums, ready to be brought out to display to a potential mate.

It was as if I declared, “I’ve had enough of you people” as I defiantly closed the door.

Or maybe I had been trying to be helpful by not letting all the cool air out of the house.

After several minutes of panic, my mother broke the bathroom window in the master bedroom and crawled through the tight space. The window is no larger than two feet tall and two feet wide and I still find the act impressive whenever I look at it.

            When my mother got into the house, probably racked with unstable discomposure that women are instinctually inflicted with when separated from their child, I was sitting on the kitchen floor eating Doritos.

            It seemed as if that simple action of eating Doritos mocked my mother. It was her favorite type of chip. And there I was. Caught cheese-handed. While my parents were about to have panic attacks, I was stuffing my dirty face with a snack I cannot eat without remembering this story.

            Oddly enough, I can picture which cupboard I retrieved the Doritos from. It was near the kitchen door. Now it resides in the garage.

            Who knows what would have happened if my adventure had been longer? Maybe I would have found Fritos or some dip. I suppose I should be thankful for my mother’s quick thinking. I could have choked on a Dorito. The sharps edges of chips can inflict instant pain like paper cuts when you bite the chip just the right way.

            I have always wondered if the past antics of children describe their personality when they are older. My mother seemed to believe that one incident summed everything up.

            In any event, when I’m at home with my mom, eating Doritos from the bag, I tell her not to do any yard work.
 
Katie Becker