Antiques..

My mother and I frequently go on “adventures.” We enter any store we find interesting, threatening, or anything else that sparks our curiosity (pawn shops, “psychic” book shops, consignment stores, antique stores, Goodwill, and Summerlin furniture stores far out of our price range just to mess around, etc) These “adventures” usually consist of going on errands to find something generally out of the blue (and there is little chance we actually find it). This weekend, it was a chest of drawers.
The drawers in my room broke more than a month ago, and are now jutting out at strange angles. Not to mention, I can’t open the drawers and put my clothes inside, so the floor surrounding is stacked up with various articles of clothing. I never imagined how difficult it would be to find a replacement- something unique, preferably paintable for the sake of personalization, the correct size, and not hideously expensive.

So far we’ve had zero luck, and have gone out searching for said chest of drawers every weekend for nearly a month. This weekend my mother proposed we go downtown and check out the thrift and antique stores to see if we could find anything of interest.

We passed a large antique mall, and decided to venture inside. They didn’t have what we were looking for, but they had just about everything else one could possibly imagine.

Antique stores are inspiring in a way, and the items there spawn questions in my mind as I look at them. I am quite fond of old things. Old books have an exquisite, unique scent and are genuinely charming (Where were they shelved before this? Who read them?), old dolls are wonderful (Who played with these throughout the years? Who was this special to?), old photographs are enchanting (Who possibly could have parted with these? How did they end up here? Who are these people and what were they like?), and whatever I decide to purchase (if anything) makes me feel like I’ve come home with a miniscule slice of history, however worthless it may be.

Needless to say, it was nearly impossible for my mother to pry me from the store. It seemed to continue endlessly: I would spend a long while inside any particular section, gazing at perhaps old Star Trek figurines, and then something like an old telephone would catch my eye from across the room, but on the way I would just need to stop and look at a nameless woman’s ancient wedding photos, strewn helplessly among the lost articles of other people, fractions of unknown lives- an eerie sort of memoriam. Entire photo albums- the year 1927 of someone’s life, photographs paired with cursive-penned descriptions: a year lost and now stacked among musty bags of Marvel comic books and old postcards.

The Past 18 Minutes

Yesterday, when I plugged in my computer to the power strip sitting beside my bed, an error screen materialized after I turned on my laptop. It stated that somehow the power source was messing up or something, and wondered if I wanted to continue on down this seemingly threatening path.

Because I had never received such a message before, I was curious to see if I could discover the cause. So I checked to make sure the power strip was plugged into the wall completely, which it was. Then I checked to make sure the thingy that connects the laptop to the power strip was plugged in completely to the power strip, which it was. Finally, I checked to make sure the thingy that connects the laptop to the power strip was plugged in completely to the laptop which is was…n’t.

Actually, it was. However, the black covering had been bent to such extremes that it had ripped, revealing the wires underneath. Not the greatest of signs. Because of its potentially hazardous state, I resorted to using my computer’s battery instead, which is something I rarely do. Close to never. I only use my battery when I need to bring my computer elsewhere besides my all-too-comfortable bed, where it is about 99.7% of the time. (I understand that keeping a laptop in one place continuously defeats the purpose of even having a laptop, but that is an argument for later date.)

Using the battery causes the screen of my computer to become perpetually dim, which is disappointing in comparison to the brightly-colored and stimulating graphics that typically accompany the usage of my laptop. Instead of a pure, mind-boggling white, the background of this Microsoft Word document has a twinge of sickly grey, which looks downright unhealthy.

I do not use to battery frequently for that reason, along with the fact that using a battery instead of a constant power source can be utterly unnerving. I find my eyes constantly darting to the bottom right corner of the screen, checking to see just how much time I have left. The battery icon empties spitefully, its life shrinking down to nothingness, and it mocks me so cruelly: Only thirty-seven more minutes, Julia. Thirty-seven minutes until the end.

This was my experience today, when I opened my computer and turned it on to realize that I had but thirty-seven minutes to spit out this article. Now the malicious battery reads that I have twenty-four minutes until oblivion. Twenty-three now. Twenty-two.

So, I guess I will have to come to terms with the fact that my computer will look unwell and that this battery-anxiety will plague me until my mother can locate for me a new power-cord. (Twenty-one.) That, or I can risk electrocution by using my power-cord, which I am now (Twenty.) considering.

Nineteen.

BRAAAAAAINS

Halloween is a night dedicated to merriment and rambunctiousness supplemented by sugary treats (i.e. candy). I believe it to be one of the best holidays out there, because I enjoy dressing up in costumes, walking around at nighttime, and sugary treats (i.e. candy). Perfect holiday, no?

But there are some people out there who dislike Halloween with a frightening gusto, which is something I will never understand. I can not wrap my BRAAAIN around the fact that some people just don’t enjoy this tremendous celebration. Frankly, it scares me. It scares me more than zombies, werewolves, or vampires (“I’m here to suck you blood” vampires, mind you, not “I’m here to fall in love with you and be a sparkly Calvin Klein model” vampires).

I believe that those who dislike Halloween just do not comprehend its incomparable fun-potential and decide not to bask in its gory glory.

Halloween is obviously one of the best holidays available because it allows you to go up to random people’s houses and take things from them. Its virtually stealing, masked under the label of a holiday. Even if the only bounty recovered is Three Musketeers bars and sometimes-stale licorice, it’s better than getting arrested for breaking and entering and having that on your record. Kleptomaniacs, unite.

And it’s also undeniable that scaring young children is incredibly rewarding and entertaining. My parents like to go all-out for Halloween, which occasionally terrifies the unfortunate children under the age of nine: setting up dried ice in a cauldron that looks like a convincing witch’s brew, shrouding themselves in orange and green light, blasting a haunted Halloween soundtrack complete with grotesque noises, scattering foam gravestones and other props throughout the yard, and my father, dressed as El Viscula (A demonic combination of Dracula and Elvis) cackling like a madman every few minutes.

And what could possibly be more fun than being somebody besides plain, boring, old you for one night? Personally, I think its something to take advantage of. For instance, this Halloween I dressed up as my sister, and it felt just great. (See picture above.)

A Humiliating Lesson in Fashion

I was in the sixth grade, the awkward stage between full child and preteen, and I knew nothing of fashion. At all. I hadn’t even the vaguest of notions. So, because of this handicap, I wasn’t the flashiest of dressers.

I had a jacket in the sixth grade, a very old and decrepit one belonging to my mother. I do not understand was possessed me to wear it, but I wore it still. It was ragged and fell to about my skinny knees. The outside was an obnoxious teal (85 percent polyester, 15 percent cotton), the interior a different, tacky purple nylon (100 percent). There was a large hole in the collar. Needless to say, it was completely abhorrent.

The occasion was reading class, fourth period. We were learning about prefixes and suffixes, and to better learn them our teacher forced us to volunteer to act out specific prefixed-words in front of the class. The class would then guess what the prefix was, and after a correct guess we would smile, clap, and cheer. And, I assume, if we guessed incorrectly, we would be deeply saddened, begin to cry, get burped, and then lay down for a nap, being in the sixth grade and all.

The word to be acted out had the prefix “poly” (meaning multiple, much, or many, if you weren’t aware). The person who volunteered to act it out was a guy named Wayne, who I still share classes with. Before going in front of the class, he stopped by my desk and asked if he could wear my jacket because it was multicolored, and would be a good example. “Sure,” I said.

So Wayne put on my jacket and proceeded to strut to whiteboard, like a model on the catwalk of some fashion show gone terribly, terribly awry. He was grinning and showing the inside of the jacket to the class, so they would be sure to notice the multiple colors.

Then a child, opposite of the room to me, probably having not seen Wayne get the jacket from me, shouted loudly: “Poly-UGLY?”

The class erupted with laughter. I shrunk to a smaller size, if that was even possible. I can’t recall the rest of the acting out or if we even guessed the answer, but I do remember that Wayne had to return my UGLY jacket to me at the end of the skit, and I had to wear it for the rest of the day, which was tremendously humiliating.

It was there, in that classroom, that I learned the definition of fashion. It was a quite important lesson to learn, and has helped me out immensely in life and in dressing. If it hadn’t occurred, maybe I would still be wearing my poly-UGLY jacket around campus.

Spelling Error Leads to Hypothetical Jail Time

After failing my first driver’s test and preparing extensively for my second test, I was determined to leave the DMV as a licensed driver. The test went without incident, and I scored a ninety-three. I was quite pleased to finally receive my license, and all I had left to do was take my license picture. With a multitude of folded papers in my grasp, my mother and I made our way to the photo area, which consists of a blue screen, a computer, a camera, a desk with a person standing behind it, and a little machine which you must autograph before getting your picture taken.

I didn’t understand the significance of the signature-machine when I had received my permit, so the signature underneath that picture was downright atrocious. Not this time. I explained to my mother that I planned to write my signature more skillfully, in order to make my license look more presentable.

“Remember,” my mother said evenly, “write slowly.”

I nodded and said of course I would. After all, it was obviously impossible for me to mess up a second time.

And then the photographer said, “Write your name here.” He gestured to the mechanical-signature-signing-like-grocery-stores-have-machine. I approached it confidently. I picked up the pen-but-not-really-a-pen. And I put it onto the screen, and attempted to sign my name legibly and gracefully. As I finished my first name, I smiled to myself.

No more catching Julia Eppes off guard, I thought. No more deception. I was going to do everything right: pass my drivers test right, write my name right, and drive right until I die right.

I put down the pen and scribbled my last name. Everything was going smoothly; it was indeed far more legible than my previous attempt. I was pleased until I reached the very end of my simple, five-letter last name. When I finished my name, I froze in disbelief. The realization hit me that I had written a second “s” at the end of my name.

It read “Julia Eppess.” The singular misplaced “s” multiplied rampantly before my eyes. Julia Eppessss. Julia Eppessssssss. Like some sort of serpent was saying my name, tongue flicking between its teeth. Sssss. Julia Eppessssssssssss.

Before I could object, the signature disappeared from the screen and the man told me to stand in from of the blue screen and look at the blue dot and smile. I felt incredibly foolish. How could I manage to misspell my own name in the first place? Secondly, I realized my name was going to be misspelled on my driver’s license until I get a new one in 2013. And a third, more disturbing idea came to mind: Could there be possible repercussions to having a differently spelled name in comparison to the printed name on the license?

My mind flashed to a hypothetical situation: being pulled over by a police officer, (for a hypothetically small offense such as going 30 miles per hour in a 25 zone, which actually knocked me down a few points on my driver’s test) and him taking one hypothetical look at my driver’s license. “Why is it spelled differently?” he would ask, hypothetically. “Good sir,” I would graciously reply, hypothetically, “I accidently spelled it incorrectly.” He would be hypothetically skeptical, and proceed to take me to the hypothetical “big house.”

And I would hypothetically go down in history as the kid who hypothetically (hysterically) spelled her own last name wrong.

The Purple Mohawk: An Absolutely Smashing Revelation

Some people believe in intelligent life-forms on other planets. Others believe in Bigfoot, or different variations of such a creature (Like a yeti or a Sasquatch). And many believe it was quite rude for Kanye West to interrupt Taylor Swift at the VMA’s. I, however, believe in something far more realistic- I believe that Kaydee should get a purple Mohawk.

My belief travels far back into the depths of my freshman year, when a majority of my school day was spent with Kaydee and our mutual friend, Rachel. It was from Rachel that the overall concept of a purple Mohawk was spawned. It began on a typical day in our sixth period P.E. class. We were sitting in the locker room, spending our final moments before being maliciously sent to run a few laps around the track chatting and taking turns spewing out the communal sentiment “I don’t want to run today!”

I remember it quite well- as if it was only about two years ago. I was sitting on the floor and Rachel on the bench. She said something, and I looked up at her to either speak or nod my head in agreement. It was from this specific vantage point that I visualized something incredible: a fan of violet hair standing on end, jutting out from Rachel’s skull.

“Rachel,” I said. “Have I ever told you that you would look absolutely smashing with a purple Mohawk?”

She disagreed. I was disappointed, of course, but I soon realized that I had been very wrong. I discovered that purple wasn’t really her color.

It happened when I asked Kaydee what the Spanish translation for something was. The moment she turned around and said “nariz,” I knew. I saw the Mohawk instead protruding from Kaydee’s head. I almost spoke. I was dangerously close. But I was petrified of rejection, and so decided to wait until my theory was fully developed.

It took a long time. All summer, in fact. But by the time sophomore year began, I was ready. It was the first day of school, and Kaydee was in my early bird class. I walked up to her. I cracked my knuckles. And then I said something.

“Kaydee,” I said. “Have I ever told you that you would look absolutely smashing with a purple Mohawk?”

She looked at me quizzically, like I had said something totally ridiculous. She also disagreed. But this time, I persevered instead of letting rejection stop me. I’m proud to say that since that fateful morning I have told Kaydee to get a purple Mohawk nearly every day using a different phrase, according to what she is doing/wearing/talking about at the time.

For example, once Kaydee happened to be wearing a pink shirt: “Oh, Kaydee. I love your shirt. You know what goes nice with pink? Purple. So you should get a purple Mohawk.”

Or, on one occasion, she was eating a McDonald’s hash brown. I commented on the commonly-known fact that the hash brown was the designated food of the rock stars, and that she should also adopt the hairstyle of the rock stars (obviously the purple Mohawk).

So far, she has disagreed on that daily basis. But I’m sure that with my unfaltering dedication, I will soon persuade Kaydee to get a purple Mohawk.

Mohawk image: http://media.photobucket.com/image/purple%20mohawk/chevnic/Glare_and_Purple_Hair.jpg

Ballerina Revival: Hot Topic shoppers exchange studded belts for frills

I was once strolling down the mall, looking for nothing in particular. After finishing the last of my pretzel bites, I proceeded to do some window-shopping. I passed a few stores without incident, but when I hit Hot Topic my stroll fizzled down to nothing. What I saw in the store window made me want to regurgitate my Blue Raspberry Icee all over the shiny tiled floor.

They were tutus. Tutus. Similar to what a seven-year-old girl missing two front teeth would wear for a Christmas dance recital choreographed to the musical stylings of Mozart and Beethoven.

I mean, I’ve seen some ridiculous trends in my day. Like multicolored clip-on hair extensions, so every girl can experience the pure exhilaration of having a strip of synthetic, hot pink hair clipped to their scalp (but only temporarily, of course).

But really, a tutu? I figured a majority of teenage females had experienced their share of forced ballet lessons, and had finally whined and moaned enough that their mother finally agreed to cancel their childhood ballet-prodigy careers and let them stay home and watch Cartoon Network on Tuesday nights (At least that’s what happened to me.) So wouldn’t it be expected that most teenagers would be sick of and/or are too cool for tutus?

Apparently not, because even as the thought crossed my mind that these tutus could never possibly sell and would end up shoved together on the rack at some second-rate Halloween store or, more preferably, resold as house-breaking tools for new puppies, I began to notice that some girls at the mall were actually clothed in these abominations.

Some of these tutus were rainbow-colored, some hot pink, others a simple pearly white. The girls also wore the tutus in different ways: redundantly over pants, combined with striped stockings, or bravely all by their lonesome. But the girls all had one thing in common: they looked like they just got back from a dress rehearsal of The Nutcracker.

Did they secretly yearn to become ballerinas? Perhaps they felt a deep regret over cancelling their ballet lessons and were now trying to reclaim a segment of their lost childhood by pulling a tutu over a pair of ridiculously tight pants like an afterthought. Maybe their repressed ballet-related urges had now found a channel through which to be expressed.

There was also a chance that some of the girls thought they were being stylish, but they were blatantly mistaken.

To make matters much worse, a majority of the tutu-clad teens were also sporting clip-on neon hair extensions. This immediately reminded me of something not typically associated with Hot Topic or the clothing purchased from there: Barbie dolls. In fact, if any of these tutu-wearers were asked anything about Barbie dolls or ballerinas, they would most likely not reply positively. But when compared side-by-side, the similarities are overwhelming: Barbie has colorful removable hair extensions and ballerinas wear tutus, and so do these stylishly-misled youths.

So I ask, what will be the next deviously-devised fashion trend sent up from the depths to pollute the style of our teenagers? Can it get any worse?