The Scooping Stance

I'm not a hippie. I have friends that are hippies, but I, myself? Not a hippie. No dreds. (Though I've been told I could pull them off nicely. In other words, I've been told I have nappy dirty hair and I might as well doutch it in pungent wax.) No tie-dye. (Unless you count my Girl Scout days, which somehow goes from being really cool to really nerdy. Probably because 18-year-old girls shouldn't be singing songs about Joe who works in a button factory, which involves sticking your tongue out and bobbing your head up and down. That's only appropriate for minors.) No piece. (The last thing I named was a soccer ball. I named it, "Mayonnaise." Obviously if I caved under pressure in naming a ball, I would have no place in dealing with the pressure that comes with naming a marijuana-smoking device. What with all the "Freedom"s and "Virtue"s and "Liberty"s. You know, all THOSE highly original names. How dumb would I look running around with my gram and my "Dijon." Yes, Dijon as in 'mustard.' See? Caving.) Not only do I not match those hippie standards, I also don't smoke, so that automatically eliminates me. Ever heard of a hippie who doesn't go to Narnia? (as the 8th graders used to call it) Yeah. Didn't think so. The only hippie trait I possess would have to be the fact that no matter how many showers I take, my feet are constantly dirty. And that trait I don't exactly advertise.

Despite my lack of wax and lack of Dijon, I had what one may call a "hippie moment," just one week ago. I saved an animal. 

Okay, so I wasn't exactly "the one" that saved it. I basically did all the work only for some gonad to show up with a cardboard box and take all of the credit. But who was the one who sat with it for an hour? ME. Who was the one who started taking pictures of it with a cell phone? ME. Who was the one who realized it had no eyeballs? ME. 

Here's the story: I was dropping my sister's friend off at her house after school. And we see this blue jay. This beautiful blue jay just chillin in the street. And it's not moving. So we get out to, you know, scare it away or something, I don't know. And it still doesn't move. It's just looking around. So we're, you know, leaning in and daring each other to get closer ("I'll give you a quarter if you touch it's beak.")("Well I DARE you to touch it's beak.")("Well shit looks like I'm touchin it's beak then.") and poking its tail then running away because we're mature and animal-friendly. Then we realize it doesn't seem to be looking at us. So we look at its face. BAM! No fuckin eyes. Closest I've come to a Hitchcock moment, right there. The thing had no eyes, man. Were they gouged out? Closed shut? Nonexistent from the start? I don't know, I just know that the thing had no fuckin' eyes. So I dial up some Animal Awareness number, which by the way takes FOREVER. I mean I would have saved time if I had driven home and googled it and then driven back and then churned some butter and then helped the damn blue jay.

"Dial 1 for possums. Dial 2 for lizards. Dial 3 for mice. Dial 4 for raccoons. Dial 5 for kimono dragons. Dial 6 for unicorns. Dial 7 for Santa Claus."

I mean, seriously? It went on forever. As if anyone would even approach a kimono dragon. Hello? Haven't you heard about what happened to Sharon Stone's husband? By the time I got to 23, which was "baby birds" I just hit it. Which was stupid because all they told me to do was put it back in its nest or put it in a cardboard box. Hence the "baby" in "baby birds." Okay, yeah, I could have just hung up and started all over again, but I have something I like to keep on my hands. It's called TIME.

I got the info. We got the bird. Everything looks like it might just work out, then some dude pulls up in a red pick-up truck. Which of course is an automatic sign that this guy is probably a dimwit. 

"We're just trying to help this bird."

"That's a blue jay."

"Yep. We're trying to help it. It's blind."

"It doesn't have eyes."

"Yes. It's blind."

Then he leaves. Ten minutes later he's back with a cardboard box. Okay, so maybe he's not a dimwit. He approaches the bird from the side, in order to "scoop" it I would guess, but the thing is blind, remember now. So basically all it's gonna infer from the situation is that something is poking it from behind and it can't see what. So it takes off.

"Oh no! It's flyi---oh shit!"

And runs into a brick wall.

So Mr. Doofus decides to walk back up to the bird, and do what? Try the exact same approach, since you know, it worked SO WELL the last time, you know, the time the bird took off, flew into a wall, and fell down. Then hopped back up. It's not gonna hop back up every time that happens, buddy. You know how people say cats have nine lives? Well birds don't. Moron.

So he's doing the brilliant "scooparoo" and what does it do but take off again. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. Except this time it's heading straight towards my car. My sister happens to be standing outside of the car watching this bird fly towards it. I'm not sure exactly what she was thinking, all I saw was her calmly staring at this blind bird headed right towards her then---

"SHIT MOTHER FUCKER JESUS CHRIST! AAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The bird flies STRAIGHT into her neck, starts fluttering its wings all up in her face, she's screaming, cursing like a sailor, and sprinting towards some bushes waving her arms around her head like Olive Oyl. 

"WHAT THE FUCK MAN WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME THE FUCKING BIRD WAS GONNA FLY INTO EEEEHHHH UHHHHH BLAAHHHH!"

She stopped making sense due to the shock. The man with the box doesn't even react. Unless you count him looking over and smiling slightly, which is really just fucking creepy, and starts walking towards the bird again, and crouches down into his "scooping" stance. 

"Um, excuse me? Yeah, sorry. Maybe if you tried putting the box over the bird, that way it couldn't fly away? You don't have to, I just thought maybe it'd work."

"That may work. I guess."

Yeah since you and your notorious scooping stance has worked wonders. 

And guess what? It worked. Then the man got into his car, waved, and left. No, "Hey sorry I made that bird fly straight into your sister's neck at 30 miles an hour." No, "Hey thanks for the advice it really worked." No, "Hey sorry I smiled like a creepy stalker man when your sister was brutally attacked." He just left. Yeah, you could say "he" was the one who "saved" it, but I'd like to take all the credit here. I mean, come on, who's the one with the box idea? ME. Who's the one who called up Animal UNawareness? ME. All that doofus did was capture it, put it in a box, and drive it down to an animal shelter where it'll be safe and happy. Please. I think we all know who the true hippie was in this story. That's right, the one with the cell phone pics to prove it. ME.

Not-So-Curious George

"I have SO much in common with Marilyn Monroe it's retarded."

"What? You're a slut?"

"NO."

"Druggie?"

"NO."

"You go by Sugar Cane?"

"NO. We just have a LOT in common."

"That's cool."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about it. I'm pretty sure I've been reincarnated."

"You believe in reincarnation?"

"No. But I do now."

"Why now?"

"Because I'm reincarnated from Marilyn Monroe."

"Ahhh. I see."

"Like, I know."

"You know."

"I know."

I've decided that the only people who believe in reincarnation are the ones who think that they've been reincarnated from some super-famous person. Of the billions of people in the world, of the hundreds of trillions of people who are dead (therefore liable to be reincarnated), YOU are the one who has been reincarnated from the most famous blonde bombshell in history. Yeah. RIGHT. Let's not mention all of the other people who have things in common with her, like the millions of tramps, the millions of pill poppers, and the billions of people with visible moles. And Marilyn has only been dead for a few decades, how long exactly does it take for someone to be reincarnated? Is it like, you die, BAM! you're someone else! Or does it take a while? It is a slow process? And isn't the point of being reincarnated that you DON'T know, and that you WOULDN'T have anything in common with them because it's not like, you die, and you're born again but with different parents! It's more of, you die, and then you're a bird. Or an ant. Or, as I've heard, a blade of grass. I think the ones who claim they were "Bridget Bardot" in a past life are really just incredibly insecure of the fact that really in their past life they were a "dew drop on a blade of grass" which is really worse than just being the blade of grass. And they know this. Therefore, they have to parade around telling everyone that they used to be Elvis Presley and they can prove it. "Check the lip." Lots of people can do that with their lip, you idiot. I must say these people are preferable to the goth kids who are like, "I was Hitler in my past life." or the inbred goth kids who are like, "I was Marilyn Manson in my past life." Yeah. You're a big fan.

I've been thinking about this, and I've come to the realization that if I have been reincarnated, I think I used to be a sumo wrestler. Or just a really fat man. That's right. No Grace Kelly. No Bette Davis. No Bette Davis eyes. Just some random fat guy. In a diner. That's right, a diner. I was that one guy who was always at the diner. Eating. (That goes without saying.) And people would come in, "Oh, hey George!" That's right, George. An everyday, common as they come, bland as hell, name. George. So they'd come in, "Hey George!" and I'd have this mouthful of apple pie in my mouth so I'd look up, fork still in hand, NO. Fork already planted into the pie ready to get the next bite, and I'd politely nod while continuously chewing, and they'd expect that kind of response since I am, after all, George the Fat Man in the Diner. George isn't curious about the other people in the diner; he's only curious about how fast he can devour that pie so he can order another without looking greedy. And the waitress. Oh yes, George is curious about the waitress. She would know me by my first name, and maybe me and her would have some little secret fling. (Not sex. George doesn't have sex because he's insecure about his blind spot.) (Blind spot being the area underneath his massive gut.) But they'd flirt a little from time to time. Genine (George notices that her name is Genine and that the alliteration makes them meant for each other.) doesn't mind that George is fat because her three ex-husbands were skinny and they cheated on her. Probably because Genine looks like Liza Minelli but with a perm. They might be in love. In fact, they are in love. They're in love but they're too old to go through the whole "marriage" thing again. (Again for Genine, that is. George is and always will be a bachelor.) And they can't be married if they don't have sex. And they don't. And it'd be awkward if your wife was serving you food and drinks everyday and cleaning up after your messes. (Which of course is something WIVES would NEVER do.) And that's it. There's no end. There's just George. And his blind spot. No babes, no alter ego, no dark past. Just pie. That's all George needs to be happy. That's all I needed to be happy. Not some famous life where I die young but it's all okay cause I've been reincarnated! WOO HOO! Quick! Someone beautiful and famous die now so I can be born as you but as a BABY! Shit. Too late for that. I'm already alive and the only person I know I once was was George the Fat Man. Maybe I will one day find my Genine, except it'd be a boy, a boy reincarnated from Genine. Which is kind of weird if you think about it but not really because George and Genine are soulmates. And if you've seen 'Dead Again' you'd understand. The point IS,  George was a perfectly normal guy and I'm okay with that. Really. He's an average George and I like that! Unless George does have a dark past that I don't know about...like, George could have been The Godfather. I mean...it makes sense, really. Geroge...always at the diner...waiting? Like that one scene where everyone gets shot in the restaurant! I am Al! No, I am Marlon! I could have been The Godfather...I WAS THE GODFATHER. Ha! Take THAT, "Marilyn!" I was the mother fuckin GODFATHER!

But don't feel bad if you've been reincarnated from a Nobody. I don't know what that feels like, being The Godfather and all, but I'm sure you'll have better luck next time.

The Shit Has Hit The Fan

College. Dorms. Laundry Duty. Yep, we had all these things planned out. (I, being late to jump on the Roomie Wagon, missed out on choosing the "chores" such as: Cooking...forcing other people to eat what you just made and if they don't they're considered rude and fights will erupt, feeling will be hurt, and rotten eggs will eventually be swallowed, is NOT a chore. Dusting...who even owns a duster? Exactly. No one. Fifty-year-old women maybe, but 50-year-old women are not going to college. So whoever called "I got dusting!" as your "chore," I'm on to you. Blockbuster entering...Now, you may have never heard of this chore, which is perfectly alright because neither had I until I was politely explained as to what exactly it is. It's driving to Blockbuster Video Store, "entering" through the doors, and renting a movie. OH, WHAT A CHORE! THANK GOD I DIDN'T GET STUCK WITH THAT ONE! I already rent SO many movies in my free time, why would I want to bring that nasty habit with me to college? It's COLLEGE, PEOPLE. I am just so happy that I'll have someone else picking out the movie every time we all decide to watch one. Since, you know, I just HATE choosing what to watch. You have to LOOK EVERYWHERE and your eyes get all tired and sore and you're squinting non-stop to see the TITLES and then you have to REACH all the way to the damn movie case and you have to RETRACT your ARM then you realize it's the case BEHIND the one you just grabbed and you have to reach BACK and by then you have CRAMPS in your ARMS and thank GOD that's not me with that chore. So the chore I ended up with? Toilet duty. Typical. I just want to know how "Coffee Duty" differs from, "Blockbuster Duty." Here I am I'm hearing, "You can't have Coffee Duty that's not even a real thing it's whoever gets up first that makes the coffee and it's not even hard to make coffee." SINCE BLOCKBUSTER DUTY IS A REAL THING. SINCE OTHER DORMS SURELY HAVE SOMEONE WITH BLOCKBUSTER DUTY. SINCE IT'S SUCH A CHALLENGE PICKING OUT SOMETHING YOU WANT TO SEE AND YOU DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHETHER WE WANT TO SEE IT OR NOT CAUSE YOU'RE THE ONE DEEMED THE DUTY AND YOU CAN FORCE US TO WATCH ANYTHING EVEN IF IT SUCKS AS BAD AS "VANILLA SKY".)

No, but I was excited. Got the roomies picked out! Super cool gals who I could definitely live with without wanting to strangle them. I probably have strangling tendencies for reasons other people don't, though, which helps me in the long run.

Reasons to Strangle A Roomie:

1. They are boring.

2. They never speak.

3. They giggle at stupid shit and don't laugh when YOU say something witty and hilarious.

4. They drink your drinks.

5. They drink your drinks and then when confronted about it say, "I didn't drink your drinks."

6. Even when you say, "I know you drank my drinks." They still say, "I didn't drink your drinks. Somebody drank your drinks, but it wasn't me who drank them." 

7. Even when you give up and say, "Fuck it," they still say, "I didn't drink your drinks," and since you just calmly dropped it, the next step would not be where you were previously, but straight to sudden anger, because that's the next step in angry-calm-enraged, to which you would say, "I KNOW YOU WERE DRINKING MY DRINKS BECAUSE YOU DRANK MY DRINKS YESTERDAY AND I SAW YOU DRINKING THEM." to which they would now say, "Fuck it. I drank your drinks."

Any of those above reasons would make me mad enough to get physical, but that would never happen with my future roomies. First, they are never boring and always speak, and second, they have jobs. So they can buy their own damn drinks.

So everything was picture perfect. Chores set up. Lay-out being planned. Friendship in the making. Then what happens? I get an e-mail.

It was an e-mail just like any other. Except that it was in a tiny window on the screen, so I kept having to scroll down to read the next sentence. You can imagine how suspenseful this must have felt.

To Natasha Ferrier-

Ooh! My first COLLEGE e-mail! Ooh! Scroll.

We are pleased to inform you that you will be living on the UTC campus for the 09-10 year.

Ooh! Campus! Ooh! Inform! Ooh! Scroll.

You will be living in the Montague building.

Ooh! Romantic! Ooh! Wait...that wasn't the building I requested. Scroll.

Your roommates are listed below:

At least I'll be with my friends! Scroll.

Tess Arnold

Who the hell is Tess Arnold...scroll! scroll!

Zoey Stone

Who the HELL is Zoey Stone?! SCROLL! SCROLL! SCROLL!

Norah Myers

THE SHIT. HAS HIT. THE FAN.

So immediately I call up one of my "supposed to be roomies." (Okay, so that wasn't "immediately" what I did. I confess. What I "immediately" did just then was look up my new roomies on facebook. What? Curiosity killed the cat, DUH.)

Tess Arnold: Had a facebook with no comments whatsoever and two pictures. Two of those "mirror" pictures. You know the ones. You stand in front of a mirror and take a picture of yourself. It's what really cool people do. Like, REALLY cool people.

Zoey Stone: Didn't even HAVE a facebook.

Norah Myers: Friended ME first. It's been 4 weeks since I messaged her and she has yet to reply.

BAD, BAD SIGN.

So I pop my buddy a ring. 

"Hey Willow? It's Natasha."

"Hey! What's---"

"I'M NOT ROOMING WITH YOU."

I went for the "let's make this as dramatic as possible" approach.

"WHAT. DUDE FUCK UTC!"

So did Willow.

"I'm rooming with 3 random chicks. One of them DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A FACEBOOK."

"Well we know SHE'S a loser."

"EXACTLY. Probably some home-schooled Mormon FREAK."

"Who's never had a job."

"Who will drink my drinks ALL the fucking time."

"Who isn't allowed to watch PG-13."

"Whose favorite movie is Veggie Tales."

"Wait, I thought we said she was Mormon?"

"Oh yeah. ANYWAY. Go check your e-mail and see if you got anyone we requested to room with."

"Okay...I'm checking it...Dear Willow Walton blah blah blah we are sorry but blah blah blah---"

"Wait, we are sorry? Don't blah blah blah that, go back."

"We are sorry to inform you that we were not able to give you a room due to the fact that there are more females attending UTC for the 09-10 year than the number of rooms available. We will locate a sleeping space for you by the Fall semester."

"WHAT."

"WHAT."

"A sleeping space? What does that even mean?"

"DUDE FUCK UTC!"

"We'll figure this out."

"Yeah. We have to."

"We'll talk tomorrow."

"Bye."

So there's my dilemma. Debacle. Fan with shit that just hit it. It went from being forced to eat rotten eggs and watching Vanilla Sky to not being with anyone I requested to room with and rooming with obvious losers. I mean, who doesn't have a facebook? Even the nerdiest of the nerds have a facebook. Though this makes me very sad, and I'm going to try my hardest to fix it, at least I can choose my chores before any of them. "BLOCKBUSTER DUTY!"

Overworked, Underpaid, and Out of Jeans

Look at me. Trying to look seductive at age 4. This was the one headshot I used where all of my hair was actually IN the picture. And that's only because it's in a ponytail. I know what you're thinking. Little 4-year-olds get to be in happy commercials with an all-you-can-eat-Baby-Bottle-Pop-buffet, commercials where I get to lip sync to kid-friendly songs like, "I'm A Slave 4 U." As if bouncing up and down in some overalls while at the same time grinning and bobbing my head from side to side hides the fact that I might just be singing about hookers. Well, that wasn't the case for me. The commercials I remember being in involved me:

-playing an orphan

-playing a child who's abused by her parents

-playing a child who's father is an alcoholic

-playing a child who ran away from home

-playing a child who sees a homeless man get beat to death, then gets hit by a car as she's crossing the street, then lands in some version of Hell where an evil man is chasing her all the time with a doll

There was that one time I auditioned to be a child who sings happily and drinks soda pop. But I didn't get that role.

The kinds of roles I got were morbid.

"We're doing this commercial and we need a child to star in it."

"Well, what is this commercial about?"

"It's about a preschooler who's mom is a cokehead and so she runs away from home and ends up becoming the youngest drug dealer in history and doesn't learn what a "crayon" is until she's 14 years old, but by then she's a stripper in the Bronx."

"We have the perfect child!"

"Who?"

"Natasha Ferrier!"

Yep. I was that perfect child. The beat-up, worn down, "we all know what path she'll take later on in life" kiddie. They'd rip up my jeans, dirty up my face, and say, "Now, think of the saddest thing you can think of and look at the camera." I can't even remember what it was I thought of, probably the fact that those scoundrels tore up yet another pair of my favorite jeans, but whatever it was worked. I'd make trips to Kinko's (with my mom, that is. I'm 4, remember? This isn't Baby's Day Out.) and we'd print of copies and copies and hey, some more copies of my headshots. Then the man printing them would always look at them, and ask:

"Are you on TV, little girl?"

"Yes."

"What kinds of things do you do on TV?"

"One time I got beat up by my daddy cause he was drunk and I had to look sad in ripped jeans."

A bystander just now tuning in to our conversation would have a very demented image of our family. Me, telling this stranger holding copies of me with an afro, that my dad is a drunk who beats me up and "rips my jeans" whatever that could be made into, and my mom standing with her hand on my back smiling wide and proudly. They would think we were one fucked up family.

"Oh, really?! That's neat!"

Or maybe the bystander would focus more on how fucked up the guy with the copies must be.

"Yes."

"She's a very good little actress. She can make a very good sad face."

"Is that true, little one? Wanna show me your sad face?"

This is the part where I'd shake my head, look up at my mom and grab her leg to hide behind if necessary, you know like all shy little kids do, and the man would laugh and take it back and then out of nowhere...

BAM!

Sad face. The saddest sad face you'd ever see in your sad life.

"Oh! That IS very sad."

But they'd say it in a more "disturbed" way than an "amused" way. Instead of a "she is really talented" way, more of a "where exactly is this line drawn separating commercials and reality, hmmm?" way. 

After a few years, I quit. I was overworked, underpaid, out of jeans, and I just wanted to watch Lambchop, god damn it! Besides, if I had kept it up, I would have been in those "ABOVE THE INFLUENCE" commercials where they make it seem like if you smoke weed you'll grow 40 years older sitting in this one armchair and then you'll be asked to take out the trash by your mom who's totally cool with you being the same age as her husband after being in a marijuana cocoon the past couple of decades, and those commercials just aren't even sad. They're hilarious.