This is going to be intensely long. I will probably have to break it into two parts.
As mentioned prior, I've been cleaning out my townhouse and finding pictures. I'm going to share more of them. I'm sort of unhappy about it. Then again, they're also incredibly funny to me, and the mortification is all in good fun.
First, Allen and I finished the townhouse. At 11:50, we locked the keys in the place and shut the door behind us. It's sad saying goodbye to that chapter in my life. I had been there almost five years. I went through a LOT in that house. So did Allen, to be fair. We spent a shitload of time in there building up this fucking outstanding, amazing friendship. The greater percentage of my happiest memories with him took place in that townhouse, and things like that really do make closing those doors...very literally...a bit sad. My entire relationship with Danimal took place there, and as silly as it sounds, leaving that house was really the last bit of saying goodbye I had to do. I saw bits of him everywhere there still, and it was always such a sad reminder of him being gone. But so it goes, and so I went, and now, everything is fresh.
To part from that ridiculous bullshit, here we go.
More pictures of me when I was a kid!
(After taking pictures of my pictures, I have definitely decided to break this post up into at least two, maybe three, posts. This one is going to have a lot, though. Brace yourself)
I have no idea who that girl is. And I believe this photo is evidence of the fact that I haven't smiled legitimately on film since 1987. I want to say this is Jessica Barnes, and she was my best friend when I was a kid due to her dad being best friends with my dad, and that's just kind of how friendship works sometimes. Obviously we stayed in touch.
Christmas, 1986. I'm brushing my doll's hair with a plastic pitchfork, because beauty waits for no one. Additionally, the year afterwards, I had the chickenpox on Christmas. There are boxes of photos of me that some member of my family has, and that Christmas is in there. I got something huge from Fisher Price that year. But that isn't the year of this picture. This was 86, and I'm still trying to learn the finer points of cosmetology. Namely, how to create hair knots inadvertently.
I'm hard pressed to accurately guess what year this is, but I'm pretty sure it was either '90 or '91. I looked on the back of the photo: 1991. This was at my Aunt Mary's house, and while I clearly didn't pull in much of a haul for halloween that year, I DID get to wear one of my ballet tutus out in public and pretend I was a cat. A black and orange cat. With a bow in my hair, and a fucking mop on my head. Actually, these are still the good curl years. But don't worry. Those are leaving shortly.
That is legitimately a face I made, a hand gesture I went with, and for some reason, it seems like the plan for world domination I had going for me at the moment this picture was taken didn't quite pan out, because I am not dominating anything.
Fuck yeah, Christmas again! This is also in 1987, and you can tell by the accidental midriff shirt I'm wearing that this was when ballet started for me. And yes, that's my Teddy Ruxpin. I'm pretty sure that thing was possessed. I also enjoy my classy track pants.
This is another Halloween...probably...'93, if I had to guess. Which I didn't. The date was on the back. I went as a cowgirl. My dad went as a member of Toto wearing a Canadian Tuxedo. That's not true, he didn't dress up, but my made up costume for him is convincing as fuck.
This may be the only indication that I would grow up and be alright looking. Look at those fucking cheekbones! Those huge eyes! That goddamn hair. The fucking hair ruins everything. But see what I mean about it being brushed out? WHO DOES THAT TO THEIR CHILD. I'm not sure what birthday that is. I want to say it was my eighth. I baked that cake with my daddy, and he let me decorate it. As you might have noticed.
Uh oh. We're getting back to the good shit. And by good shit, I mean things where I'm sporting the kind of 'do that would make Richard Simmons blush.
Maybe not blush, but at the very least, be envious of my look and ask me for pointers. What in the holy actual fucking christ. I could be a little boy. I'd almost RATHER be a little boy, because little girls are supposed to be pretty and delicate, not look like some sort of living, walking shrub wearing a bad tshirt. That fabulous woman with her arm around me is my great grandmother. I took care of her for awhile when I was sixteen, and as racist as I found out she was, I miss her desperately. I could tell stories about the times my grandmother and I had together for days, but I won't. Besides, here's an insider secret about my great-grandmother that wasn't really a secret to any of us inside: she wore wigs. Well, one wig style, several copies. That silver thing on her head is one of said wigs. OUR HAIRSTYLES FUCKING MATCH. Except she was old. She was about 84 in this picture. It's acceptable to look like a large haired monster when you're old. You've had your time to shine as someone adorable. No. No no no, it was my turn, and instead, my mom cut my hair so I'd look like a sheep's balls. And this was ok with my grandmother. She LOVED that hairstyle. But what the fuck does she know? She was 84 and racist with a wig. Which is hateful, but so is not chastising my mother for sanctioning that tremendously bad hair.
Check the date: June 3rd, 1997. NINETEEN NINETY SEVEN. I was thirteen, and I...you know what? I'm done. I've run out of similes. There aren't anymore left. I'm an ugly, awkward, chipmunk looking thing of a child. This was my daddy's last day in Florida before he left for Las Vegas. We went to eat lunch at a place called The Bimini Boatyard, not that that matters, except wait, it does. Because Bimini Boatyard was a nicer establishment, and you know what my mom made me wear? That AWFUL shirt, which, by the way, is all once piece. Don't let the "jacket" fool you. It's all connected at the armpit, because nobody in the world wanted me to have an acceptable piece of clothing at the time. Anyway, that awful shirt, and then the things under the table that you can't see. And I know EXACTLY what they are. An incredibly stupid pair of FAUX DENIM...not even good faux denim...elastic waistband shorts with a big, fat, applique of Garfield on it. She dressed me like a special needs kid. The fact that she was still dressing me when I was thirteen is a god damn travesty, and I have never understood this. I talked to her (read: yelled good naturedly) about this last night. More on that in a bit, for the piece de resistance.
I have no idea what's going on here, but my hair is ten times more wild and unable to be tamed than the ocean behind me. That sure is a keen pose, though. I'm practically a model.
Ok. Hang on. Because I know what you're thinking. this is another one of those photo disasters that I'm going to dissect piece by piece, and when you're done reading about everything, I'll still be looking like I do, but maybe it'll be understandable (spoiler: it really wont). I believe this was two days before that picture at Bimini Boatyard was taken. We had a family picnic to say goodbye to my dad, and for some reason, this made my dad feel patriotic. I chose to wear the very popular baggy shirt/bicycle sorts combo, with some sort of terrible, terrible pattern (and honestly, I think I chose this outfit myself, so I can't even blame my mother. Which is terrible, terrible news), and thanks to my memory, I remember CHOOSING to sit in the back of my dad's truck so my hair would look "windswept". That is an ACTUAL decision I made when I was thirteen years old. How unfortunate for me that I didn't realize I couldn't undo my do. So my desire to have the glorious hair of a harlequin romance novel cover turned into looking like a permanent staple in a York Peppermint Patty commercial circa 1994. In hindsight, I regret it all. The watch. That awful, ugly watch. I found it and appropriated it, because I made solid fashion choices. That ring is a Claddagh that my grandmother gave me, because she was from Ireland, and Irish stuff meant everything to her. The ring was the only Claddagh thing I'd wear. I also had a necklace, but it disappeared. In the menacing way. I think I threw it in the lake. That's not a joke, though I wish it were, and I'm deeply ashamed of that. I did the same thing to an amethyst ring my mother gave me. She made me exceptionally mad, and I just...disappeared her gift to me. I'm such a shit. I almost deserve the hair and the clothes, I guess. Perhaps they were a preemptive strike on my mother's account. The world may never know. The necklace I'm wearing, though, is special. This might be long, so bear with me.
It's a pendant. On the pendant is Saint Christopher. My father had given it to me that day. When I was not so little, I completely eschewed the faith I had grown up in. I told my grandmother (a deeply religious woman that had, at one point in her life, been a nun) that I thought the story of Jesus was a fairy tale. I was seven; she was devastated. Anyway, my dad was leaving for Las Vegas. He gave me the St. Christopher pendant and told me that if I kept it on, I'd be keeping him safe. Despite my lack of any kind of faith for the last two decades, St. Christopher has always been deeply, deeply personal to me. As I write this, I'm wearing my own St. Christopher pendant that I almost NEVER take off since it was given back to me. I can't explain why, but something about my dad giving me that pendant and telling me I'd be keeping him safe with St. Christopher stuck with me. It was something I wanted to pass on, but it could only be done for something important. I had to wait fifteen years to find someone worth quietly giving that legacy to, and I did. I never shared the story about my first St. Christopher pendant with him, though I suppose that I should have, but I also suppose that he will not be surprised by its origin. My daddy means the world to me. Almost nobody comes close to owning as much of my silly little heart as my daddy, but it made sense to me that the person who did got the same gift my father gave me on his behalf all those years ago. I will never, ever again give anyone a pendant, much less a pendant with a patron saint on it, ESPECIALLY not Christopher. But I did once. I wore it to keep him safe. And I still do, even if he doesn't need it.
Now that that's out of the way, we can get back to the hilarity.
Me and my daddy, mugging it up at my grandmother's house. I can tell it's her house, because of the art in the background. I cannot and will not explain my shoes, or my dad's mustache/brows combo.
When I was four, my great grandmother gt me a kitten for my birthday. I was so fucking ecstatic. We already had quite a few kitties living wth us. We had Alexander Sebastian Khan, my mom's purebred Persian that was an absolute menace in desperate need of being stopped (sidenote: I remember the day my mom had to give him away because she and my dad had split and we were moving out of New York. She was sitting in her car, talking to Alex and crying her fucking heart out. I was so crushed to see her crying that it made me cry. I sat under the big tree in our yard and cried in solidarity with my mother. Perhaps I've always been empathetic, though I hate admitting as much). Then there was Apricat, an orange tabby that was more of an outdoor fellow, but came in for snuggles, food, and the occasional shit in a potted plant. We had another cat whose name escapes me. He was white and black and fat. And then, there was this little guy. I also can't remember his name, but I remember he was the worst cat to ever be born under a cursed star or otherwise. Every night, without fail, he would come up into my bed, lay down beside my face, and puke in my fucking ears. Every. Night. For a week. Until my parents started shutting my door to keep him out, and then he howled. All night long. When they let him back in again after deciding to cut his food from free grazing to scheduled feedings, he ate two of my hamsters (Mark Summers and Binky Joe) and barfed them up, to. Not in my ears, though. In the kitchen. Grey kitten lasted in the house for all of two months before my mom had had enough.
Two more pictures, but they're both kind of the same picture. Keep in mind I have a LOT more old photos to post, but I have homework to do, and this post has taken literally HOURS to finish.
This is my fifth grade yearbook photo. I...I don't know how to explain this, other than I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. For all of it. For having to BE that girl, for keeping the picture, for not refusing to show up that day...I'm sorry. So, so deeply and truly sorry.
That. Fucking.....everything. That everything. The hair. Good god, the hair. The outfit. Sweet tapdancing Jesus. That outfit came with a matching pleated skirt that my mother made me wear jean shorts underneath. JEAN SHORTS. UNDERNEATH.
When confronted with her hideous treatment, my mother had this to say:
Nothing else needs to be said. Seriously.
I'll post more photos...a LOT more photos...soon. But I really do have so much homework to do, and a twenty mile bike ride in about five hours. Eesh.
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