Marionette feet.

Today in my teenage angst, my worst fear was realized.

I have really bad joints. They hyperextend, they rotate in unnatural ways, they hurt inexplicably. It's a poor situation all the way around. My ankles are a particular issue all the way around. I call them my marionette feet. You know when you dangle a marionette it's feet just kind of hang there? Then when you set it on the stage it's feet land, but they're not as stable as they could be if they belonged to anything but a marionette. If you move the marionette too fast, not allowing for its string-attached limbs to catch up with itself, it will tumble and roll. Those are my ankles and subsequent feet.

Yesterday I was headed out to my favorite newly seven-year-old little girl's birthday party. Please understand that I am terribly afraid of stairs. As I stepped off the deck to go to the car, I was admittedly distracted. Apparently so distracted that I didn't step onto any steps at all. I stepped off the deck and landed on my in-turned ankle. I screamed and writhed and screamed some more. My father, who rushed to help me was sadly assaulted by these screams. My over-dramatist nature is never less of a gift than in the midst of my extreme pain.

This was most evident a couple of years ago when I hit black ice and rammed my car into a tree. My knee and lower leg took the brunt of the impact and were causing some disorienting pain. My passenger, dearest Laura, didn't have a scratch on her and was available to go for help. The disorientation left me wailing alone at the car for God to save us and someone else to come for help. Looking back on it, I can only laugh, thinking of how hilarious I must have looked.

I stumbled into the house, apologized a thousand times - also a shock and pain tendency - and we eventually made our way to the hospital. No break, but alas a pretty sick sprain, leaving me immobilized and off work for a week. Vacation, yes. Relaxing, no. I'm stranded and in pain, left to my own resources in getting around. I gratefully had some visitors this morning and they brought me some flowers. They were none other than these girls, featured in this post. The oldest is to whose party I was headed when the pleasant accident occurred. Her mom told me later that she remarked, "Poor, Hannah," several times throughout the party. I love kids. Emily also remarked to her mom, as they were picking out the flowers, "Hannah probably has lots of flowers." Sarah, her mom replied, "Really? Do you think so?" Emily stated, "Yep. She's got lots of friends." Sarah explained that while that were true (it's not really), they might not have all brought her flowers.

I'm not sure if there's a moral to this story. So I'll just end with this. Don't distract yourself with candy corn and your cell phone or you'll end up blogging on a tuesday afternoon wishing you could get yourself a snack with greater ease and feeling bad for Janelle, whose day off was inevitably taken away from her because you're not there to fill your shift for yourself.

Questions from Buffy #2.

Interrupted.

Today in my teenage angst, I was interrupted. This isn't an unusual occurrence for myself as I am the youngest. Don't think I'm just bemoaning my place as the youngest. I'm a driver by personality, which allows me to make my way in this world easier than my experience as a youngest might have afforded me. I do like to think however, that I have the things I have to say are of some measure of worth. None-the-less, I am interrupted. I am interrupted at the dinner table, on the phone, in general conversation, etc. It's almost a small part of my place in the family. I am the youngest, ergo I am interrupted.

My sister started school again this year. She applied to the fine arts department at the University in the next town over and got accepted. She's 26. There's a significant difference in doing a portfolio interview with a 17 year old than with a 26 year old. Needless to say, she got in. She'd been out of school for a good eight years and as such everything is new. In some ways she reverted to a freshmen's mentality which was pretty entertaining for me.

I'm in my twelfth semester of college. My experience, at this point, should be able to lend to some sort of encouragement, advice or camaraderie. This is not to be had however, because I am interrupted. I'd like to accept my place in that but really just ends with me spending more time in my fridge of a room, watching Buffy. I gotta say, that's not the worst end.

Also, re: image included in this post. Can we just talk, for a second, about Brittany Murphy in this movie?

Kleenex.

Today in my teenage angst, the facial tissue industry is a little bit fascinating. Not because facial tissue is fascinating but because we have come to depend so thoroughly on this umbrella industry we call Kleenex. I, in particular, have been having sinus issues for about three weeks now and Kleenex has been my nearest and dearest friend. Legit. But I digress.

I found this box when I reached into our storehouse of boxes of kleenex, and I laughed. As you can clearly see, this box was meant for a school child. Did you know that a box of kleenex is on most school supply lists today? Maybe this was your late-August-reality, it was mine too. But not until we moved to Canada.

My dad is American - I too, subsequently, am American - and we lived in Portland, OR for the early years of my conscious existence. Kleenex was definitely not on my supply list at Bridger Elementary. I remember thinking, after arriving in Canada as a seven-year-old, how odd it was to have that on my supply list. Why couldn't the school supply us with that item? They supply us with toilet paper. What's the difference?

I learned. The kleenex that the school buys is gross and scratchy and basically out to get you. It must have been an intervention on behalf of the teachers to provide us with a little comfort during cold season. Teachers are the nicest. You could, however, always tell when we got to a box that had been brought by a rich kid. Puffs Plus with Lotion. While we appreciated that extra bit of softness, we cursed them for the automatic tendency to buy the nicest brand.

Isn't this always the way.

Look what I found on the way to work.

Nature is fun.

Questions from Buffy.

Grandchild.

Today in my teenage angst, I am not a grandchild. I've been in a grandparent-less state for most of my life. My dad's parents were both gone by the time I was 5. My mom's dad died when I was 12 and her mom died just a couple years ago. Even so, she had dementia so we didn't have a relationship. I've accepted this as a part of my experience and am subsequently drawn to seniors who are willing to speak into my life. I value them so much more because I never really had ones that were related to me.

This morning I'm reading an ethnographic article on North American models of grandparenting and it hit me. Not only do I not have grandparents, I am not a grandchild. I guess I was but I never really identified with that state enough to say, 'I always will be.'

A big part of building self-awareness is identifying those things that you are. It's funny how you don't think to also identify the things that you're not.