I have fully come to terms with the fact that I would not be the ideal candidate for an Amazon canoe guide. I almost went into cardiac arrest last night. I was home alone when catastrophe struck and was left to solely defend my humble abode. "I am woman, hear me roar." (Or rather, hear me shriek with terror.)
There I was, content, comfortable, lazily reclined on my puffy brown sofa, indulging in my perfectly laid plan of frozen yogurt / granola and the ultimate "Cat's Meow" - aka - 2 hour Season Finale of LOST! Innocently, I meandered my way into the hallway during a commercial break (you know I can't make it more than an hour without having to pee) and spotted something moving out of the corner of my laser-defined, cat-like eyes. (Okay, I had my –4.5 correction glasses on. And, yes, thank you, I did on one occasion mistake a gecko for a cockroach without my contacts. BUT, they are both creatures that should not be in one's closet, I don't care what state you live in). In any case, there was movement in my line of vision. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, the image became clearer and more horrifying - dark creeping legs, ghastly antennas, and a hard enormous shell of invertebrate DNA against our lovely off-white front door.
My mouth was agape. It was inside! Wild creepy thing in my house! My adrenaline surged and my legs began to wobble in all directions - 1 step forward, 1 back. What the hell was I supposed to do!? I quickly scanned my surroundings, desperately seeking any primitive tool that I might use to defend my dwelling. But, it was pitiful. Only a floppy entry rug and a limp brown sandal that looked to be the size of what this prehistoric dinosaur beetle could devour for dinner. I felt myself gag as I blinked back at the repulsive invader and sprinted to the kitchen to fetch the most dreaded concoction of toxic chemicals I could find under the sink. I began tossing products over my shoulder: Organic Lemongrass Window Wash, All Natural Thyme and Ginger Counter Rub, Lavender and Rose-hip Dishwashing Detergent, some Seventh Generation, 365, Method crap…Shit! I was in no mood to save the planet. I needed to kill. The more toxic, pungent, horrible-for-the-environment, gas-mask-required-for-use, don’t-dare-get-in-the-water-supply - the better.
Then, I saw it - a forgotten canister pressed way in the back with rabid-looking hornets outfitting the label. Perfect. How specific could this stuff be anyway? I sprinted back to the hallway and positioned myself around the corner wall, squaring off with the beast. I stretched out my arm and unleashed the poison, watching in both delight and horror as it convulsed amidst the spray, twisting violently, until it fell exhausted to the floor in a puddle of toxic suds.
When I saw the twitching subside and its underside exposed to the ceiling, I resumed my breathing. That's when I noted the stench. I began to feel light-headed and dizzy, the fumes rising like spirits from the murder scene. What the heck was this stuff? I turned the bottle of wasp killer over and read the large bold letters in extra large font over and over, "NEVER USE INDOORS! NEVER USE INDOORS!". Shit!! Shit!!! I braced myself, ready to flee next door to the neighbors we don't even know and call poison control. Quickly, I scrambled around the house, blasting open doors and windows, activating ceiling fans and bathroom vents. I violently snatched a damp checkered dishtowel from the counter and tied it around my mouth and nose like a bank bandit from the local psych ward.
I yanked on yellow plastic gloves and my heavy duty Chicago boots and went to work, sopping up my self-inflicted home chemical spill. The Thing just laid there - its stringy legs protruding, its tiny fangs and vacant eyeballs reflecting light off the floor, causing me to question if it was in fact actually dead. I imagined it springing up in surprise retaliation like a crazed Kathy Bates in Misery, and attacking the flesh on my face. I think the chemicals were taking effect. The neighbors would find me strewn about on the tile, my brain overtaken by fumes while the creature indulged in the last laugh of the night.
I did eventually force myself to scoop up the Thing with two plastic plates and dispose of it on our front porch. I don't know why I didn't march directly to the garbage bins and wipe my hands of the whole experience. I suppose part of me wanted to boast about what I had accomplished like a cat that toddles home with a rat in his teeth to place on his owner's doormat. "This is my gift to you. I did this. Me. All by my lonesome. This is what I am willing to do to defend our home." The other motivation may have been slightly influenced by the fumes. I felt like a warrior positioning my kill in front of my castle as medieval beheadings on a fence post. An ominous warning to all the other creatures that creep and crawl in the night: "This is what will happen to you if you choose to venture in."
In any case, somewhere between hunting the beast and exterminating our front room, I did manage to stealthily zip over to the TV and press record on Lost. After all, I do have my priorities straight. One definitely could argue that perhaps my phobias are a bit out of control and I might greatly benefit from some intensive Fear-Factor-Inspired Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. But, one would also have to agree that even in the face of ultimate doom, I do remember the important things. Which reminds me, where are all the gigantic bugs on Lost???? Uninhabited island! Come on!. There must be some real doosers out there, lurking behind the TV cameras, ready to pounce.
Maybe that’s all coming in Season 5.
Mar 18, 2008
Nov 15, 2007
Cement - Impressions from a Stanford Reunion
(NOVEMBER 2007)
I confess. I finally succumbed to the most selfish of modern human curiosities.
I googled my name last night.
There they were - all the articles I had written for The Stanford Daily as an aspiring young journalist, in my quest to emulate the perky blonde version of Louis Lane. Each one, cataloged in perfect order, collecting virtual dust on the world wide web.
I scrolled down and a feature story I wrote my junior eye caught my eye, “Farm-Sick in Sydney.” I had been abroad, studying at the University of New South Wales that semester, basking in the Aussie sunshine and backdrop of the 2000 Olympics. And yet, come October, I was overshadowed with a sense of longing.
“It was as though I never expected life at Stanford to go on without me. I didn't actually realize I'd be missing out - that there would be basketball games and bike accidents and Frosty Mints at the CoHo and that I wouldn't be there for them. It was the first time being abroad didn't feel so glamorous, so superior to Stanford.”
The words could be interpreted as the nostalgic musings of a twenty-year old girl, caught thousands of miles away in the Southern Hemisphere, having forgotten she was there to experience the new, fresh and wonderful. In truth, all she yearned for was to return to the familiar.
Admittedly though, a similar sense of longing prompted me to visit the Farm this past year as a real veteran this time, a five-year alum. I hadn’t been back since graduation and although life was good, I was anxious to return to a place that had been home for four enviable years.
In the beginning of Reunion weekend, there was a tangible flutter of anticipation through embracing old friends, fretting over names, and running into old loves. However, by Sunday morning, I found myself alone for the first time in days.
A hush seemed to have settled over the foothills. I decided to take a stroll and breathe in the campus before I left it again for another five years. I didn’t set off with any particular destination in mind, but I found myself passing some of my cherished spots- Moonbeams Cafe, the trees behind Castano, the shaded steps off the Quad.
It was a glorious Stanford morning, crisp and cool, although the sun was burning through the haze and heating my neck under my sweater. I soon found myself at Wilbur Field, glimpsing across the drive at my old freshman dorm - a building I had resided in for half my college years. Once as a skinny 17 year-old novice from the Midwest and again as a senior RA, queen of all dorm-planning and to be brutally honest, masking throw-up stains on carpets.
I walked around the side and into the back courtyard. I studied the tiny middle unit on the first floor and wondered who was living there now. Did he/she know about the little angle of cement that fanned out every so slightly from the foundation, forming the perfect step up to the window if you ever got locked out? Probably, I thought.
The familiar hint of yeasty waffle batter wafted past me and I glanced around at the swarm of bleary-eyed students in sweatpants and flip-flops, dangling key chains and negotiating their spots on the crooked picnic benches sorely in need of a paint job. They looked unbearably young. I flinched with the unexpected pangs of jealousy.
I wondered if I might still blend in. If they might mistake me for another freshman or perhaps a mature upperclassman, here to visit some privileged bottom-feeder. But, then I glanced down at my conspicuous Stanford bookstore bag, bursting with paraphernalia. The truth was that I was bikeless and showered at 11:30am on a Sunday morning. Probably not, I thought. I just hoped they didn’t think I was somebody’s mother.
I turned back to the building and all the memorable vignettes it housed for me. I heard far-off giggling from the maroon lounge sofas, the sharp sound of cues hitting pool balls, the muffled melody of clucking keyboards from the poor saps in the lab who didn’t yet own a PC. Faces I had struggled to picture en route to the reunion took shape for me now. I smiled, remembering. My time here had been a happy one.
What a tribute to Stanford that even now as an adult, its sights, smells, and sounds were able to evoke such nostalgia in me. Perhaps even more as an adult as I stood there, yearning for a life before taxes, mortgages, wedding debt and yearly reviews. I suppose this is what every passing reunion must bring – a wistful reminder of a time of youth.
I tried to picture myself in another five years, ten years, on that very spot, peering out at a new batch of freshman inhaling doughy waffles on wobbly picnic tables, and reminiscing about a simpler time, before potty-training, aging parents, even bigger mortgages, and those extra ten pounds.
I think it would again feel like a privilege to return to my roots and bathe in its essence for a while. Even if by then I really did look like someone’s hip young mom.
I just hope in the meantime they don’t sand down that sliver of cement. That, I think, should remain for the generations.
I confess. I finally succumbed to the most selfish of modern human curiosities.
I googled my name last night.
There they were - all the articles I had written for The Stanford Daily as an aspiring young journalist, in my quest to emulate the perky blonde version of Louis Lane. Each one, cataloged in perfect order, collecting virtual dust on the world wide web.
I scrolled down and a feature story I wrote my junior eye caught my eye, “Farm-Sick in Sydney.” I had been abroad, studying at the University of New South Wales that semester, basking in the Aussie sunshine and backdrop of the 2000 Olympics. And yet, come October, I was overshadowed with a sense of longing.
“It was as though I never expected life at Stanford to go on without me. I didn't actually realize I'd be missing out - that there would be basketball games and bike accidents and Frosty Mints at the CoHo and that I wouldn't be there for them. It was the first time being abroad didn't feel so glamorous, so superior to Stanford.”
The words could be interpreted as the nostalgic musings of a twenty-year old girl, caught thousands of miles away in the Southern Hemisphere, having forgotten she was there to experience the new, fresh and wonderful. In truth, all she yearned for was to return to the familiar.
Admittedly though, a similar sense of longing prompted me to visit the Farm this past year as a real veteran this time, a five-year alum. I hadn’t been back since graduation and although life was good, I was anxious to return to a place that had been home for four enviable years.
In the beginning of Reunion weekend, there was a tangible flutter of anticipation through embracing old friends, fretting over names, and running into old loves. However, by Sunday morning, I found myself alone for the first time in days.
A hush seemed to have settled over the foothills. I decided to take a stroll and breathe in the campus before I left it again for another five years. I didn’t set off with any particular destination in mind, but I found myself passing some of my cherished spots- Moonbeams Cafe, the trees behind Castano, the shaded steps off the Quad.
It was a glorious Stanford morning, crisp and cool, although the sun was burning through the haze and heating my neck under my sweater. I soon found myself at Wilbur Field, glimpsing across the drive at my old freshman dorm - a building I had resided in for half my college years. Once as a skinny 17 year-old novice from the Midwest and again as a senior RA, queen of all dorm-planning and to be brutally honest, masking throw-up stains on carpets.
I walked around the side and into the back courtyard. I studied the tiny middle unit on the first floor and wondered who was living there now. Did he/she know about the little angle of cement that fanned out every so slightly from the foundation, forming the perfect step up to the window if you ever got locked out? Probably, I thought.
The familiar hint of yeasty waffle batter wafted past me and I glanced around at the swarm of bleary-eyed students in sweatpants and flip-flops, dangling key chains and negotiating their spots on the crooked picnic benches sorely in need of a paint job. They looked unbearably young. I flinched with the unexpected pangs of jealousy.
I wondered if I might still blend in. If they might mistake me for another freshman or perhaps a mature upperclassman, here to visit some privileged bottom-feeder. But, then I glanced down at my conspicuous Stanford bookstore bag, bursting with paraphernalia. The truth was that I was bikeless and showered at 11:30am on a Sunday morning. Probably not, I thought. I just hoped they didn’t think I was somebody’s mother.
I turned back to the building and all the memorable vignettes it housed for me. I heard far-off giggling from the maroon lounge sofas, the sharp sound of cues hitting pool balls, the muffled melody of clucking keyboards from the poor saps in the lab who didn’t yet own a PC. Faces I had struggled to picture en route to the reunion took shape for me now. I smiled, remembering. My time here had been a happy one.
What a tribute to Stanford that even now as an adult, its sights, smells, and sounds were able to evoke such nostalgia in me. Perhaps even more as an adult as I stood there, yearning for a life before taxes, mortgages, wedding debt and yearly reviews. I suppose this is what every passing reunion must bring – a wistful reminder of a time of youth.
I tried to picture myself in another five years, ten years, on that very spot, peering out at a new batch of freshman inhaling doughy waffles on wobbly picnic tables, and reminiscing about a simpler time, before potty-training, aging parents, even bigger mortgages, and those extra ten pounds.
I think it would again feel like a privilege to return to my roots and bathe in its essence for a while. Even if by then I really did look like someone’s hip young mom.
I just hope in the meantime they don’t sand down that sliver of cement. That, I think, should remain for the generations.
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