Because You Come Here for the Lawn Mower Stories

Story #1:

The kids and I were talking about conflict and how it shows up in literature, Character vs. Character, or Character vs. Self, occasionally Character vs. Society, and sometimes Character vs. Nature. We’d get that last one in a lot of adventure stories, we figured out, and often it was a matter of the character’s survival.

I tossed out how most of us have conflict with nature at times, just not usually for survival, usually just because it gets in the way of what we want to do. I mentioned how I’d wanted to mow the lawn the day before but it had started raining so I was out of luck.

Boy: Wait. Why were you gonna mow the lawn?

Me: Because the grass was getting long.

Boy: But why were you gonna mow it?

Me: …Because it’s my lawn. Who else is gonna mow it?

Boy: That’s not normal.

Me: I mow my lawn every week. I’d say that’s pretty normal for me.

Girl: What he means is, you’re a girl.

Me: Well, I’m a woman, but so what? There’s no man around at my house, but even if there was, I have two arms that work and two legs that work. I own that house and that yard and that lawn mower. I like the way it looks when I finish and the smell of cut grass in the air. Why wouldn’t I mow my own lawn?

Boy: (agape)

Amy Scott, blowing up gender paradigms for kids since 2002.

Story #2:

I finally got around to taking a whack at the lawn on Sunday. A neighbor I’d never seen nor spoken to approached, stopped, and waved. I killed the engine and said hey.

Guy: I’m coming over to ask the question we all been wanting to know.

Me: Yeah, what’s that?

Guy: Why are you not married?

Me: I guess I haven’t found him yet.

Guy: Second question, do you date black boys?*

Me: If I like him enough, I’ll date anybody.

Guy: So when are we going to lunch?

So,

(a) I hate that African-American people in this day and age still feel like they need to ask *this question, and I hate even more that some people would say no;

(b) I need to take some improv classes because I had nothing. I think I said, “Psh. Let me get back to this yard”; and

(c) Dan NJ, Kate K., all-a-yous, I believe you now. I am clearly goddamn irresistible when I mow the lawn.

You Guys, It’s My 4-Year Blogiversary (with Retrobruxist Friday 8/2/13)

I’ll be accepting your gifts of linen, silk, fruit, flowers, and/or electrical appliances. Thank you. You’re too kind.

Three years ago, as one commenter said, I was paying off some bad karma.

I learned two years ago that what I was doing had a name: the Valsalva Maneuver.

A year ago, I was having one of those ducks-but-water moments. I finally bought one of those reusable ones. Today, when I arrived back at the classroom with my mug in hand:

Student: You sure do like coffee.
Me: I sure do like being caffeinated.

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I get pretty excited about dinner too.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

 

 

(insert pic of me with pockets inside out, moths flying out of them)

Hey, remember when Violet’s ACL blew out,
and I took her to N.C. State Veterinary School,
and they sliced and sutured her,
and I changed jobs so that I could afford to pay for the surgery,
and I had to keep her doped up so she wouldn’t injure herself during recovery,
but she totally did anyway,
so she had to have a second surgery,
and how she still limped, and they wanted to do another surgery,
but I didn’t have any more monies,
so she’s just kinda limped around for a couple years?

And remember how the vets told me about the great likelihood that she’d tear the knee on the other side at some point?

Guess what happened when she was chasing a bird on Friday night.

These things don't work so good.
“Hm. These things don’t work so good.”

She’s going to be fine.

She won’t put any weight on the right, so she’s hobbling around on her gimpy left leg, the one that’s atrophied from a couple years’ lack of use. But she’s back on her food, and she pooped finally after 40 hours of holding it post-injury.

She’s trying to do everything she could do before, and that makes me scared and sad, but I’m not as spastically emotional as I was last time. Because she’s going to be fine.

Off to the orthopedist we go on Thursday. This ortho—NOT the vet school; they can suck it—has a great reputation.

So she’s going to be fine.

You know, I took on extra responsibility at work and got a freelance second job so that I could have money to maybe buy a vial or two of baby juice. Now I get to use that money to buy an anterior cruciate ligament repair job for my dog.

I think the Universe is telling me not to procreate.

#pityparty

Retrobruxist Friday, 7/26/13, Also I Could Use a Little Guidance

It’s funny how once you’re aware of a thing it clicks. Like with my finances—as soon as I over-drafted, I was all, “Oh yeah, regular bikini waxes during an extended (I mean extended) dry spell? Probably not the wisest investment.” Click.

(Seriously though: extended.)

Same with my avoiding intimacy.

I thought about the time recently when I tried to buy a movie ticket at the machine (so I wouldn’t have to talk to the ticket person, natch) and it wouldn’t give me the discount I thought I was supposed to get. I went through the line, asked the clerk about the discount, and when she told me they no longer honored it, what did I do? Did I buy a ticket from her? No no, I walked out of the line and back over to the machine. Saved myself a good 15 seconds of one-on-one human interaction. Click.

I thought about that night in March when I ran lights for a Monti/Sacrificial Poets show. (It was very technical—I raised and lowered a dimmer switch.) The sound person, with whom I sat in a booth for a couple hours, told the director later that she’d wanted to talk to me—she was a fan of mine(?!)—but I didn’t seem to want to talk. I must’ve come across as a super-snob. Click.

I thought about the conversation I had with a friend a few months back at Nanataco. I made an off-hand comment about being addicted to Facebook, and she said, “Yeah, sometimes when we’re together and you’re on your phone, it makes me sad.” I apologized profusely, called myself a gaping asshole, and changed my behavior. But now it’s clear, of course, that my iPhone was a salve to soothe my intimacy-averse psyche, jangling from all that Being With. Click.

The thing about recognizing I was being a spendthrift is that there was a pretty easy fix. (In case the link breaks, google “snl don’t buy stuff”.)

But the intimacy stuff? I imagine the conversation with the guy in the commercial for that.

Him: “Just be with people.”
Me: “How do I do that? I’m scared of them.”
Him: “You be with them anyway.”
Me: “Can I do this from the comfort of my own home, without any other people around?”
Him: “No, you actually have to be with people.”
Me: “What if I just hang out with my dogs instead? Will I get the same results?”
Him: “No, they are dogs.”

Ugh. I need an action plan. Like, with SMART goals and stuff. Who’s on it?

*****

Three years ago, Redford saved me from almost-certain bovine death.

Two years back, I told the story of how I was an accessory to a crímen. Mas o menos.

I made a threat a year ago. I’m still down for it, Universe! (For real, so very, very extended. Hhhhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnngggg.)

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I always have good intentions.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

That Was Unexpected

Back in April, I over-drafted on my checking account. No big deal—I transferred money from savings and paid myself back at the end of the month. But it was kind of a shock. I hadn’t over-drafted since high school. My fear of scarcity is significant, so I always made damn sure I lived below my means. I was frugal. Thrifty. Cautious.

Except that wasn’t true. For one year prior, I had been spending like somebody else. The bitches I was running with liked to go out to eat, so we did, sometimes twice a week. I bought a new car and chose the 3-year 0.9% financing option, thus my payment was very high—literally three bucks less than my mortgage. I was getting highlights every eight weeks and Brazilian bikini waxes every five.

I wasn’t being frugal, thrifty, cautious. I was not living below my means, and I over-drafted.

*****

For about six months, I tried to break in a pair of flats. I’d wear them for about 30 minutes before hot spots would erupt on my big-toe knuckles. A week ago, my co-worker asked why I was hobbling, and I slipped a gimpy foot out of my shoe and showed him my raw heel. He said, “Yeah, I’d say those shoes are definitely too small!”

I said, “No, they’re not too small. They’re a size 7. I wear a size 7. I just can’t seem to break these ones in.”

But when he walked away, I thought, “Wait. Are they too small?” I went to DSW to see if I could find some cheapo flats to replace them. Found some Rocket Dogs with pointy toes, and guess what.

I’m not a size 7. At least not in pointy flats.

Despite a heaping pile of evidence to the contrary, I believed—so hard—that I had a size-7 foot. It’s who I was.

Except I wasn’t.

*****

If you had asked, I would’ve called myself a people person. I have some social anxiety, yes. Strangers scare me, but I have friends. Lots of friends. I do things with my friends. All the time.

But then a few days ago, my friend checked in on Facebook at a coffee shop with my other friend, and the same synapse in my brain that fired when I over-drafted went pew pew pew.

See, I don’t do that—invite a girlfriend to meet me for coffee. I have gaggles of folks over for a fire pit. I arrange river tubing trips. I plan and attend parties. I also get up on stage and tell stories—personal ones! Like that time I got a Brazilian bikini wax. And that other time I got a Brazilian bikini wax. I told 200 audience members about confessing my long-held feelings to a guy and him saying (more or less), “Thanks for sharing.” I even put my shit out here on the Internet because I feel like my shit is often other people’s shit, and it might make us all feel better to know there’s somebody whose shit is our shit.

I don’t invite a girlfriend to meet me for coffee though. I don’t seek out one-on-one experiences. I haven’t had a best friend, other than my sister or brother, for an eon, and even with my siblings who I’m fiercely close to, sometimes it’s easier to tap things out here and hit Publish, rather than tell them to their faces what I’m feeling.

Why is it so hard for me to be intimate, to be vulnerable, to be calm—shit, just to be—with one other person?

I’m not a total and complete moron, and it dawned on me a while ago that making it to my age without ever having a relationship longer than six months probably meant less about the variables and more about the constant.

But I didn’t get the scope or depth of my intimacy issues until my friend checked in on Facebook with our other friend at a coffee shop.cloud-ground-lightning13_20849_990x742

I’d Like to Get to Know You Well

From the kids’ get-to-know-you letters:

Recently I have held a hamster and it has vibrated in my lap. It vibrated because it was scared of all the people.

*****

Sadly I’m not the only child.

*****

Hye my name is Tayvar I was born in 2002 not that far from the years. So my family is always respecting me as a child. I really love my family, right now. But this Saturday im going to the beach with my family.

*****

I also want to own 3 dogs, mostly because I want a dog.

*****

Another hobby of mine is playing basketball. I am good at it unless I try to play against someone who was taller or faster than me. […] Another job I would like to do is be in the branch of the government that prints money.

*****

What my hopes and Dreams are that i can go to harverd and to Be a Taxidermist or a artist

*****

At Niagara Falls I got to see a 3D-4D movie that was lame and you could tell that it was made in the 80’s.

*****

The only thing I collect is money lots and lots of money.

*****

my mom is a nice stilish women that is very smart and she was in the magna cum laude. I as in me frances am fun smart and I do silly things and I don’t tell secrets.

*****

I have a brother named Raymond, I dont like hem.

*****

I’m afraid of heights, which I use for entertainment on staircases. I also have a very sensetive upper arm and unbent knees.

*****

Have you played a sport before? If you have, I would personally like to know what sport it is. I hope it is football or basketball. If it’s not, that is ok.

*****

I want you to know your the best language art teacher ever. I know we going to have fun memories in your class. I want you to know I have to use the bathroom almost every 45 min.

*****

I have 2 other brothers and 5 other sisters. I have 3 other brothers and sister. I have 1 older brother and 1 younger brother. I have 1 older sister and 4 younger sisters.

*****

When I grow up I want to become a zoologist or a vet but do it with farm animals. In the future I wish to invent something and run for president and get in the top two but not win.

*****

So now I’ll dive into my life story. I was born in duke hospital in 2002. I was admired by tons of people. The local time when my mom was given the “ it’s out “ signal was 2:40 PM.

*****

you’re turly
[signature]

*****

P.S. I ABSALLLLLLUtULY LOVE Art

Retrobruxist Friday 7/19/13

Experiencing a word shortage here at AB Headquarters.

These things happen.

Probably has to do with my cycle. And stress. The kids started back to school on Monday, and I’m doing my damnedest to teach them. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess insiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide.

The teaching and letting and showing take energy. Energy that I then don’t have for writing, or doing my second job, or socializing, or reading sperm donor profiles.

<sigh>

PITY PARTY STILL RAGING.

Three years ago, our heroine found herself on a quest.

Two years ago, I went on four dates in six days. Four dates. In six days. I think I just gave myself the runs thinking about it.

A year ago, I explained, not so gently, why CrossFit is not a cult.

What you might have missed on Fat CrossFitter this week: I’m trying to un-brainwash myself.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Retrobruxist Friday 7/12/13 Came Dangerously Close to Being Cancelled

Your Avid Bruxist has been throwing herself a really lavish multi-day Pity Party, kind of like a Jay Gatsby shindig except instead of booze-guzzling/the Charleston/general mischief, it’s been more like compulsive eating/”Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms”/general crying.

Fuck This

I almost just flung myself on the bed and pulled the covers over my head.

On the way to my boudoir, I figured I’d just check to see if there was anything worthwhile during the second week of July in previous years, but there probably wouldn’t be because I’m a terrible writer and Everything’s the Worst (stomp stomp stomp).

I wish I could say I found Greatness, but I didn’t (of course). I found when my boyfriend and I broke up three years ago. That was fun.

I found a few dating guidelines I drafted, and some really amazing comments by readers, from two years ago. You guys should just write this blog.

And I found el dia en que yo fui el machete last year. That’s an all right story, I guess.

Now excuse me while I go whimper.

Happy Stupid Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Retrobruxist Friday 7/5/13

I have no idea what I'm doing helicopter

Hahahaha! Me and that dog. We have no idea what we’re doing. Based on the <crickets> from my readers on the Road Trip Soundtrack series, I clearly need an editor. Would you like to be my editor? Or teach this poor dog to fly a helicopter right-side-up?

Three years ago, I wrote about… my road trip soundtrack.

I won at eBay two years ago.

A year ago, somebody littered porn in my yard.

What you might’ve missed on Fat CrossFitter: I illuminated the formula for every British talent show clip on the Internet, and I gave all those the-cake-doesn’t-jump-into-your-mouthers a gentle reminder.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.