Okay, I call Stockholm Syndrome.
Anyway, clearly I haven't really done anything productive with my break. Why haven't I blogged more, you ask? Because that would require brainpower, of which I have precious little right now. Going back to school shall be a rude awakening.
Ah, well. I wrung out all of my mind mojo to write this blogpost. You're welcome. Here's an embarrassing story from my childhood.
My fifth birthday occurred in the middle of life-altering changes.
My family had just moved to a new house.
Only months before the move, my brother's and my turtle, Leonardo, had run away.
Only weeks before the move, my dad had built this radical treehouse in our backyard--only for us to move away from it.
Only days before the move, I found out that my best (male) friend owned more Barbies and Barbie paraphernalia than an Al's Toy Barn.
The new house was barely even five minutes away from our old one, but this whole concept of "distance" had not yet entered my consciousness. For all I knew, we could have moved three states away, never to see our precious neighbors and friends ever again.
And the cherry on top of this melted, sugar-free sundae was the fact that I'd be transferring to a new elementary school the next month. With my awkward social skills, it had been difficult enough to make friends at my previous school (never mind the fact that these so-called "friends" were slightly psychotic--beggars can't be choosers, y'know), I didn't have the capacity to make a whole new set of friends at this "accelerated" school they were sending me to.
Basically, my tiny five-year-old self had been through a lot and I was under the impression that my abbreviated life was over. No turtle. No treehouse. No friends. How can one live without these essential components? Exactly. You can't.
Thus, in the midst of such emotional turmoil, my fifth birthday was kind of a downer. My family had gone out to dinner to celebrate the occasion, but I wasn't much in the celebration mood. I opened my presents at dinner with little enthusiasm. "Oh. A Polly Pocket. How swell." At least it's not a Barbie. "Oh, look. An Easy Bake Oven. Yipee." Now I can go bake semi-real treats for my nonexistent friends. It seemed that nothing was going to jerk me out of my pout sesh.
The ride home was eerily quiet. Suspicious glances were shared between my other family members. They even appeared to be giving each other a secret nod. I didn't think much of it until we stopped in the middle of our street.
My mother looked back at me from the passenger's seat. "Mitchie and I are just gonna go for a walk, okay, baby girl?" My brother exited the vehicle.
"Wait, I wanna come!" I unfastened my seatbelt. No way I was gonna let them leave me out of something fun on my birthday.
"No, honey, why don't you just stay in the car. We'll be home soon. We just wanna go for a walk."
"Yeah, and I wanna go too!"
Before I knew it, my mom had shut the door and my dad was gunning it down the street. What is happening!? I began to bawl my eyes out. Not only had my turtle, my treehouse, and my friends abandoned me, but now my brother and mother were too? This was beyond offensive. Can't a girl catch a break?
We pulled up to the house and I immediately went upstairs to lock myself in my room. These savages! Have they no sympathy! I'm not invited on a stupid, lousy walk? I didn't get it. My self-pity bout lasted only briefly, however. I moved on to bigger and better plans. Like making my family some yummy dirt pies in my new Easy Bake Evil.
Minutes later, I heard my kinfolk arrive back at the homestead.
"Baby girl, come down here a minute! We wanna show you something!"
Ha! Like such a banal request would get me down those stairs after what they did to me. I wasn't biting.
"Come on, pinky lee, we've got a surprise for you!"
Wait--a surprise? No, no, no, I cannot be so easily swayed!
Well, hold on, what if it's a Barbie Jeep? Granted, the Barbie thing will probably haunt me, but no sane five-year-old girl would pass up a Barbie Jeep!
I bounded happily down the stairs, imagining how my brother and mother drove the Barbie Jeep from down the street, jolly grins on their faces, the pink and purple flowers shimmering in the sunset. I turned the corner into the den, expecting to be lead outside to take that beauty for a spin. I suddenly wondered where my blue-tinted sunglasses were; obviously I was gonna need to joyride in style.
But what appeared around the corner was not at all what I expected. In my mother's arms, she held the most adorable blue-eyed orange kitty I had ever seen. I squealed.
"Really!? For me!? No way!!" I had been under the impression that no one in my family liked cats. (According to them, that is still true.)
"Yup, she's all yours. The neighbors down the street rescued some kittens who had been abandoned and they were giving them away for free. What're you gonna name her?"
"Angel!"
Only a few days later, that name was altered to "Sassy," so as to be more fitting to her temperament.
Only a few years later, that name was again altered, this time to "Fatty," so as to be more fitting to her physical appearance. She is pictured at the bottom of this blogpost. (And yes, she really is that fat.)
Sassy and I were inseparable. She didn't really like anyone but me--and she still doesn't--but we were the best of pals. I treated her like she was my very own child, and she snuggled with me because I put food in her bowl. The logistics of this relationship remain about the same today.
Because she was a new member of our family, and because we (read: I) were all excited about her, we bought her lots of toys and treats those first few months. One of the items we purchased was a little cat house. (An example is pictured below.) Little did I know, that cat house was to almost end my life.
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| The actual one was a god-awful teal color. |
********************This is supposed to denote a transition, okay?************************
It was a fairly typical night in the Noah household. We were all gathered in the living room, watching television together, listening to my father talk to himself, snuggling with our animals. For some reason, I was seated on the floor--I probably got kicked off the couch because I suck the glass when I drink (true fact) and this disturbs my family members, particularly my brother. I began rolling around on the floor like a bloody idiot (see, there's that BBC America creepin' in), making noises and doing weird gymnastics moves. My usual behavior.
And then I spotted the cat house.
And for some reason, I got the ingenious idea to stick my leg in the cat house. Up to my knee.
My relatives found this a little strange, but I was hamming it up, having a rollicking good time, pretending I was an amputee and all that good five-year-old stuff. We all had a laugh. Good, clean fun. No harm done. I went to remove my leg from the cat house.
I wiggled. I jiggled. I jaggled.
My face transitioned from computer paper white to tickle-me-pink to lavender to purple mountain's majesty.
It turned into a fearsome battle: in this corner, ugly teal cat house, in the other corner, the featherweight five-year-old. We wrestled and wrestled, the cat house and I.
Nothing else existed but me and a carpeted feline lodging.
A few exhausting minutes later, I had removed the sock of my free leg and was waving a white flag.
My leg is stuck inside a cat house. I cannot believe this.
At first, it was belittling. How could I let such a ridiculous thing happen to me? Seriously? But this self-loathing soon turned to panic. Oh my god, my leg is stuck in a cat house! It's going to have to be amputated for real! I may bleed out and die! What am I supposed to do!? Dear God, lend a sister a hand!
It was not until I erupted into eardrum-shattering screams and fountains of tears that my family finally noticed my plight. I guess whatever was on TV had been too compelling. Must've been Boy Meets World.
"Sweetheart, is your leg stuck in the cat house? Aww, come here, let's have a looksie at it!"
I plopped over to my parents, irrationally distressed. My father got a hold of the cat house and yanked. And yanked and yanked and yanked. No go.
"Wow, that sucker's really stuck in there!" Yes, thank you for that gem of information, Captain Useless.
They were all clearly amused, much to my dismay.
"What if they have to cut off my leg!? What if my leg is stuck in here forever!? I'll be a freak!" I guess at this point I wasn't self-aware enough to know that I was, in fact, already a freak.
"Yeah, well you'd be okay," my family joked. "Maybe you could be in a circus sideshow or something!" Not only was my family having a good ole laugh at my expense, but they were also trying to exploit me! I have no doubt that, had the thought occurred to them, they would have videotaped my ordeal for America's Funniest Videos. I'm sure Bob Saget would've gotten a real kick outta that one.
I continued to cry and scream dramatically to show my folks that I was not messin' around. I then noticed that all the wrestling and yanking had caused my leg to rub up against the edges of the cat house, leading to a nasty rug burn that was on the brink of drawing blood. We needed to get this thing off my poor little leg, and we needed to do it like yesterday.
"Okay, okay," my father declared. "I'll just cut it off you with a steak knife."
"YOU'RE GONNA CUT OFF MY LEG WITH A STEAK KNIFE!? I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME, DADDY!" When you're in a frenzied state, it's easy to misinterpret.
"No, sweetie, I'm gonna cut the cat house so you can get your leg out. You'll be fine."
He went to fetch the instrument of destruction. By this point, all of the excitement and anxiety had gotten me really worked up (not to mention that, because it had been in the same position for so long, my leg had gotten a charlie horse), and I was starting to see stars. Any more sudden movements, and I'd be out cold.
He returned with the steak knife and bent down next to where I was splayed across the floor. I trembled. "Okay, hon, just hold still and I'll getcha out of there." I winced, as a reflex to the nonexistent pain I thought he was about to inflict.
I heard some sawing for what felt like hours. "Sorry, sweetie, this is really hard to cut through. Just hold on a minute." Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw. "Almost got it." Saw, saw, saw, saw. "There! Take your leg out now!"
I shook my leg with all my strength and the cat house came flying off. FREEDOM! I moved my leg around, stretching it out and walking around on it. I had never been happier to possess an appendage. It was glorious.
For the next few weeks, I took my aggression for the incident out on my cat, playing extra rough with her and withholding her daily treats. Of course, she could not possibly have been responsible for my own ridiculous stupidity--but hey, she was easier to blame. And, at the end of the day, she was easier to forgive because she was so darn cute.
And I still think she's just as cute as she was as a kitten. Despite all the fat rolls.
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| Sassy Angel "Fatty" Noah |
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