OH MY CRIPES. It has been ages upon ages upon ages since I last posted . . . Okay, not quite that long--but it certainly feels like it. It's been over a month--verging on a month and a half--which is, of course, absolutely awful and horrific and a plethora of other negative adjectives. So first of all, I'd like to apologize for my lengthy and unintended hiatus. Well, really, Davidson College is to blame for preventing me from meeting my blogging quota--but I guess I am a little guilty by association . . .
Anyway, it's been quite a semester here in good ole D-Son. Lit Crit is sucking all my hopes and dreams right out of my frail, philosophically-beaten-and-marred body, but the rest of my classes are (pretty much) manageable. Working in the chemistry department is tip-top, as per usual (I mean, who doesn't like free band-aids?), and tutoring in the writing center is (somewhat) fulfilling--that is, when I'm not babbling like an idiot and making my tutees think I'm all hopped up on meth (which is rare). And tomorrow, rehearsals start for The Little Foxes, which is A) unfathomably exciting and B) another reason why I probably won't get another blogpost in until the end of the semester . . . And if you have a problem with that, sue me. (But really, don't, as I have $4 in my bank account right now and I hear a good attorney costs at least $8.)
But without further ado (of course, I say that and I'm actually further adoing it right now just by making that addendum), here is a (fairly short) blogpost about--well, let's just say, if you didn't think I was crazy already . . . you will after you read this. Cheers!
My senior year of high school was not the super-fun, epic, lounge-by-the-beach-everyday affair that my predecessors--not to mention several prime time television shows--had fooled me into thinking it would be. This was possibly because we were nowhere near anything you could confidently refer to as a "beach," but I'm more convinced it was due to my ridiculously rigorous course load, with the added Shake Weight of college applications. This combo, mixed with a cornucopia of extra-curricular activities (e.g. rehearsal, volunteering, various clubs, varsity breathing, JV sleeping, etc.), set the stage for a stressful fall semester. Because of this, I had very little time for that thing called a "life" that I often heard people talk about during the tender moments between each bang of my head against the wall--and social drama was completely out of the question. Or so would have been the case in a fair world (and by "fair," I don't mean "corn dogs and carnies" kind of fair; I mean "just, impartial, and all that constitutional crap" kind of fair).
But this was no such world. And she was going to make sure of that.
Regina (not her actual name, but a much more fitting one--and, ironically, the name of the character I'm going to be playing in The Little Foxes) was out to get me. What I had ever done to her to cause her to loathe me, I had no idea. I mean, I may make myself out to be slightly (read: absurdly) angsty and confrontational, but it usually bothers me when people legitimately dislike me, because I like to think of myself as a generally agreeable person. I'm not actually the murderous automobile that Stephen King makes me out to be (though, admittedly, I get pretty bad road rage, so maybe he was onto something there . . .) But with Regina, it was different. I hated her back. She didn't know me, we'd barely had a conversation longer than two sentences, and yet she looked at me like I shot Tupac or had Hitler's babies or unironically watched Jersey Shore or something. Everything I did was stupid or uncool or pathetic, while she was the Queen of Sheba--or probably of somewhere more hip, like Seattle or maybe that obscure coffeehouse in that sketchy part of town. I didn't understand her hatred--so, logically, I reciprocated it. Is it possible I was imagining her hatred and dirty looks? Maybe. Did the hare imagine that the tortoise beat him in the race? I don't think so. Is that a bad analogy? Of course. Will I continue to ask questions and proceed to answer them? Only time will tell. Shut up? Okay.
And thus, Regina was my arch nemesis. It was a pretty widely known fact. We pretended to be civil in person, but, behind closed doors, the animosity abounded. Now, I had had arch nemeses before (remember the guy who's the reason I'm a vegetarian?), and it hadn't necessarily caused me any emotional strain. My world didn't revolve around my arch nemesis; she was more just a fact of life, like Tootie or Jo. I hated her, she hated me, but there wasn't much that actually resulted from this relationship. Over the course of the semester, however, it was certainly tested, like the new, longer GRE for hatred.
First, at the beginning of the semester, she turned one of my best friends against me. (I know, how 90210 of her.) That sucked. I was not a fan. But I had other friends, and if he wanted to be friends with the female equivalent of Chinese water torture, that was his problem. I sucked it up and moved on with my life.
But then, blow number two came: she gave me mono. No, we didn't play "Spin the Bottle" at some party or decide to "experiment" with each other behind the bleachers of the football stadium--or any typical Hollywood-high-school-thing like that. We didn't even accidentally drink from the same bottle of Fanta or something more probable. As if it weren't bad enough that I had to go through having mono, missing two weeks of school, and getting crazy behind on homework--she gave me mono through her sweat. You see, she was my double in the play we were doing that fall--The Importance of Being Earnest, a gem--and she got mono during tech week. I did the entire first week and weekend of shows, and part of the next week and weekend's shows--but then she finally got "better" enough to perform. So she did the show in our costume, sweating buckets and buckets of salty, contaminated fluid which promptly soaked into the fabric. The next night, I had to perform in that very costume. Did they wash the costume? Of course not, that would be courteous and thoughtful and hygienic. Instead, they allowed me to don what was essentially a gigantic cloth virus, and her mono cooties seeped right into my pores, infecting me with illness and rage. I could have sworn she was looking at me with a smirk during my whole performance that night--like she knew I was gettin' mono all up in my orifices and she thought it was just a hoot. What is the likelihood that this was a malicious attack, that she weaponized a virus in order to deliberately get me sick? I'll admit, the odds are pretty low--she wasn't exactly a biochemical warfare whiz or anything--but I still blamed her for it. Giving people contagious infections is not a nice thing to do; just look at all those people in The Walking Dead--I don't see them giving any of those zombies a break from that crossbow. But I digress. She gave me mono, it also sucked, but, once again, I moved on with my life.
Lastly came strike number three. It's actually interesting because the severity and impact of the strikes actually progressively lessened, so number three was actually pretty petty and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. But, for some reason, it sent me over the edge: she got the part I wanted. We were doing auditions at the end of the fall semester for the productions in the spring semester, and I was dying for a part. This really made zero sense, considering that I knew the spring semester would be full of stressful college decisions and scholarship interviews and AP tests, and that being in a show would just bring completely undue stress upon myself for no practical purpose. And yet, these auditions mattered to me. I'm pretty sure it may have subconsciously been about me getting back at her for giving me mono, but that statement cannot be confirmed. All I know is, I wanted that part, and she got it.
I flew home in an uproar. "How could she do that!?" Because obviously she made that casting decision. "She's not even good! I'm way better than she is!" Because obviously modesty is my best quality. "Dkjfosjflwejdlshflsk!" Because obviously I can pronounce long strings of consonants nonsensically mixed with random vowels more coherently when I'm angry. I screamed. I hit things. I cried. Actually, I bawled--like sobbing, heaving, barely-able-to-breathe-and-when-I-did-it-was-to-yell kind of bawling. Now, it takes a lot to get me to that level of tear production; it usually requires a fight with a family member or hillbilly aliens passing me right next to a "Do Not Pass" sign. I had never cried over something so petty in my life (yeah, that's right, I'm going out on a limb here and saying that I was a pretty deep baby who only cried over serious global issues). I knew how ridiculous it was, I knew letting her get to me like that was beyond preposterous--and yet, I couldn't stop myself. And, along with all of her dirty looks and snooty comments and misplaced modifiers, those three strikes kept playing over and over in my head: she corrupted my best friend, she gave me mono, she stole my part, lather, rinse, repeat.
By the time I called my mother on her way home from work, I was basically floating in a giant vat of my own tears (which, as they were so salty, created a perfect buoyancy, so I didn't have to worry about drowning on top of everything else--thank god). Despite my inability to effectively articulate the cause of my pathetic, puffy-eyed state, it didn't take long for my mom to figure it out (partly because moms have crazy mind-reading abilities, and also partly because I kept saying Regina's name like I was possessed by a demon, or had turned into James Earl Jones and someone had made a stupid comment about me being Luke's father--like I hadn't heard that one before--or something). After a while, I finally calmed down long enough to explain why I was so upset--or at least, try to give it some sort of rational merit. "It's okay, doll," she said to me. "I know just the thing. I'm gonna make a stop and then I'll be right home." Okay, Mom. Thanks for that vague sentiment. She was probably just gonna go buy some chamomile tea--maybe some cookie dough--and act like caffeine and raw eggs were going to solve all my problems. Upset that even my own mother couldn't help me feel better, I buried my face in our couch and prepared for a long night of wallowing, self-pity, and possibly a crime show marathon.
When I heard my mom arrive home, I didn't budge from the couch. All that senseless crying and yelling had left me quite sleepy, and I was in no mood to defend my ridiculous behavior or "talk about it." I really just wanted to lay there and feel sorry for myself, because that was something I never ever did. Just that once, I wanted to say "Wah, poor me," instead of pretending like nothing bothered me. I covered my head with a blanket when my mom walked in the room.
"Babe, I know you're upset, but I got ya a little something that I think might help. You just . . . probably shouldn't tell your friends about this."
This peaked my curiosity. Was my mother trying to booze me up? Get me all strung out on cocaine? Get me laid? (Clearly my imagination has been tainted by an overload of inappropriate and poorly-developed French films. Thanks, French 210.) I slowly pulled the blanket from my face.
There stood my mother, smiling, her blonde hair gleaming in the light from the TV, perfectly angelic . . . holding a brand new Bratz doll.
"Um . . . Mom . . . I don't get it . . . " I mumbled, barely audible with all of the snot clogging up my sinuses from my sobbing binge.
She looked at me, a little disappointed I wasn't catching on. "It's . . . supposed to be, like . . . a voodoo doll."
My jaw dropped.
OH MY GOD, MY MOTHER BOUGHT ME A VOODOO DOLL. THIS IS INCREDIBLE.
As if the facts that I came from her womb and we look almost identical weren't enough, I knew right then and there that this was, indeed, my real, true mother. "I thought you might wanna . . . do stuff to her. I figured this might be a good way to get out all that anger." Of all the things I had ever expected my mother to suggest I do in times of trouble, making a voodoo doll was not--nor never would have been--one of them. For about two seconds, I hesitated--is this wrong? Is this normal? Am I a freak of nature? What would my friends think about this? You know what? Who cares, let's mess this doll up.
I ripped open the package and yanked the doll out. I then proceeded to perform a series of semi-disturbing violent acts upon her. I gave her a really ugly mullet haircut (take that, Little Miss Fashionista) and then stabbed her with the scissors a little bit. I cut off one of her legs (but just one--c'mon, I'm not that terrible). I gave her a swirly--yes, I actually dunked a doll's head in a toilet and flushed it. I smothered her with a pillow and hit her against some walls. I took a Sharpie and wrote obscene things on her--with an especially big, bold "SKANK" going across her forehead (I was pretty proud of that one). Last, but not least, we made a mini noose out of a shoe string, and hung the doll in my closet.
We stood there, beaming, triumphant, like two badass antelope who had just defended their family from a pack of wild lions--or, more accurately, like two people who had just mercilessly defiled an innocent children's toy, but I find the lion image to be more picturesque. We high-fived. We hugged. We had won--it didn't matter that we had essentially "won" a nonexistent battle against a plastic cartoon personality with a street-smart fashion sense; we had conquered the doll, and, in so doing, we had conquered Regina.
"Feel better now?" my mom asked with a wry smile.
I regarded my masterpiece and took a deep yoga breath. "Yes. Much, much better."
"Good. Now let's go make some cookies and watch some crime shows."
That doll hung in my closet for close to a year and a half before I took it down. And, honestly, in the end, I don't think it had much to do with Regina and her essentially faultless attacks on my personal happiness and welfare. I think it had more to do with everything that was getting me down--school, college stuff, people, self-doubt--and how I just needed a way to overcome all of it, show it who was boss. And what better way to do that than to destroy a voodoo doll? I left it hanging in my closet, not as a memento of how I got over Regina's hold on me, but how I stuck it to the Man of Life--and how my mom was there to help me through it.
But you've gotta admit, giving me mono through nasty costume sweat at least justified the swirly and the mullet. At least.
