What Makes a 9 Year-Old Do This?

So my dear old dad drove a truck from Houston to Utah to bring my brother and his family some furniture for their new house. I haven’t really lived at home since I graduated from high school, and I thought that I had removed any and all personal items from the “homestead”. But apparently, I had left a box of significant items.

Yesterday, my brother presented me with a box that contained some of my earliest relics: a couple of photo albums, some diplomas (eighth grade and the like), and a couple of journals.

Carefully folded and placed in one of the journals was a letter I had written to Michael Jackson on March 8, 1983. I was 9 years old.

Here is the letter in all its worshiping glory (original spelling and punctuation):

“3/8/83

Dearest M.J.,

I don’t know how to spell your name so I write it M.J. My Name Is Carrie Ann Oscarson. I know I’m pretty young, I’m 9 years old I’m in 3rd grade but I would like to meet you some day but I dowt I will. I have a best friend named Missy Mgee, she’s crazy about you to I let my mom read this letter she said you might like it, you may not even get this letter I don’t even know why I am doing this, I suppose it’s because I like you alot.

We have seven in our family and that’s only the kids.

I would like to come and visit you and Kathren Hetbern very but thats only a dream.

I think you are a very cute and sweet.

I would like you to write ME a letter!

I like you very, very, very much! I’d like it very much if I could come to your concert and see you, but that’s another dream. I have three dollars and I am going to buy a pin with your pitcher on it!
Now let’s talk about your songs! Now I can sing real good and dance not to brag or any thing. See if there’s any thing I missed about you, Missy ceaps me up to date on you sining something new or something. My favorite video is “Thriller”! My favorite song is: “Billy Jean” I guess. Now please remember to write me!!

Love, Love, Love,
Love, Love, Love,
Carrie

P.S. Here is a pitcher A Horses head.
P.S.S. I want to go on writin this letter for ever!”

Now let me comment on this letter a little. Did you notice my sophisticated punctuation? I had never before, nor since, written a fan letter. The thought had never even crossed my mind! What possessed me to write with such ardor? I remember so clearly how much I liked him.

I knew that this would be one of millions of letters and that he probably had people to read them FOR him. But I was trying to play the old sympathy card by saying I wanted to go to a concert but only had three dollars. And where did I get three dollars?

So interesting. You can view the letter below…and the sweet drawing of the “Horses head”. If you look close I tried to draw a ballerina, but chickened out and went for the horse instead.






I’m kind of mad that my dad didn’t mail this like I asked him to, but then again…it’s awfully cute that I wrote a letter to Michael Jackson, and considering his behavior over the last, say…TWENTY YEARS, maybe my did was acting on some incredible foresight.

“Just So You Know…”

I fancy myself an expert. On what?...you might ask. Oh pretty much anything and everything. Some people would say I am opinionated. But I really don’t try and push my opinions…ahem…my expert opinions on others; I am really a live and let live kinda gal.

But recently, emboldened by my regular watching of “What Not to Wear” (American version), I feel the need to tell it like it is…to strangers…

For instance…

I often pass by a complex of doctor and dentist’s offices. This week, a clean cut looking man in a button up shirt and slacks (not jeans) was picketing the offices along the main road with a sign that said: “American Dental is untrustworthy.”

This impressed me for several reasons: A) the man was well dressed and seemingly poised unlike the union stand-ins that picket malls and other such large jobs where it’s easy to get screwed by contractors etc B) the use of the word “untrustworthy” was more insightful, carried more depth and resonance than, say, “sucks” or “cheated me”…

But then the very next day, I saw the same man and the same sign, but this time he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned, bare chest showing, and shorts with flip flops. His credibility went out the window. I SERIOUSLY contemplated pulling up to the curb and saying something like: “Just so you know, yesterday, when you were dressed nicely, I actually cared about your cause; was curious about it…but today, you look like just the kind of jerk who would picket a dentist’s office instead of handling the matter in a different way…say like a letter from a lawyer…”

But as the light changed, I chickened out. Besides, it was Friday, and who knows…maybe there is some unspoken dictate that says that picketers can dress down on the weekends, too.

Other moments where I just wanted to walk up and begin with:

1. “Just so you know… that kind of attitude will get you no where.”

2. “Just so you know…a shampoo, a set of dentures, a couple of highlights, and not having your crack show would do you wonders!”

3. “Just so you know…screaming your kids in public is seriously frowned upon.”

4. “Just so you know… it’s 2005, not 1985.”

5. “ Just so you know…showing skin between your shirt and pants is SO passé! Don’t you ever read a magazine?”

6. “Just so you know… I’m totally going to blog about this.”

I’m Definitely Not a Never-Nude

May I tell you of my experience in a bath house? Because I just remembered it:



Back when I worked for Del Sol, one of the perks was being able to travel to some fab places, like the Caribbean, the Mexican Riviera, and Hawaii. Occasionally, we would have to go somewhere less exciting like Gatlinburg, Tenn. or Hot Springs, AK.

But in downtown Hot Springs, there is still a row of old fashioned operating bath houses, and if you’re lucky and brave, which I definitely am, you too can experience the old time baths in all the splendor and technology of the early 1930’s!

Here’s how it played out (warning: nudity will be discussed…my nudity…in front of strangers…if you are not comfortable with this, or with words like pubic, sauna, or toga, stop here and go get a glass of water then return here and Google non-nudity requiring vacation hot spots…):

I made an appointment and showed up along with my insane co-worker, Miss Handstand. They gave me a little dressing room in which to take off all my clothing, and I was instructed to put on a fluffy robe and slippers. With all my stuff locked away, I was led into the bath room. Not the bathroom, the bath room.

Now keep in mind that pretty much the entire building it lined in white tile ala 1905; it gave me a strong sensation of “Return to Oz” type institution or sanitarium/sanatorium. This gives everything the impression that it is clean and sterile, but I still had a really hard time trying not to think about all of the other naked people who had been here before me.

Luckily, there were some fab stained glass ceilings, and the thought that Al Capone would come here all the time back in the 20’s. Luckily, the men are kept separate, because I would HATE to think that I was sitting naked somewhere Al Capone sat naked. Gross!



The attendant (dressed in white) led me into my own bath room where there were hooks on the wall and a HUGE white tub. Nice and deep. The attendant turned on the taps and pure, hot spring water came gushing out.

Now these aren’t sulfur hot springs, this water is clean and tasty mineral water, it is heated by decomposing forest matter and filtered by hundreds of feet of limestone. It is definitely not your run of the mill tap water.

But here’s where it’s time to feel a little awkward. The attendant didn’t leave at first. She just turned her head, averted her eyes, and said, “Step into the tub, please.” And I didn’t allow myself to stop and think: I just did. The attendants are very skilled at “not looking”. You know they have seen the full gamut of pretty to pretty ugly, and they couldn’t care less about your hairy legs and dimply bottom.

But then she got out the loofah. In my mind I was thinking, “You’re going to hand that loofah to me any second, right?” Wrong. It is HER loofah, and you are the loofee. They put some yummy lavender soapy stuff on it and say, “Hold out your arm.” So I did. I followed commands to hold out my other arm, legs and feet, and I ignored the face that my pubic hair is clearly visible to another adult (and a stranger at that), and I complied. Because after all, a good loofa-ing is a good loofah-ing.

Then I was left to soak “for as long as I like”; which was as long as I thought was polite considering it was closing time and people were waiting on me.

What happened next is fuzzy…I know that said attendant was also present to see me raise my almost weightless body IN the water OUT of the water, where it was retuned to full gravitational pull, where I lumbered my tree stumps called gams out of the deep tub, and was wrapped into a huge towel. She took me into some sort of room where I was laying down? Or perhaps being wrapped into a toga-like sheet? In any case, the gist of that whole lost few moments was her being sure to tell me that I was expected to give her a tip when this was all over…

…there was also something called a spitz bath and a neddle shower which sounds awful, but I fuzzily remember it being wonderful…

She then led me into the sauna. I love saunas. In a sauna, you feel lithe, thin, and inexplicably tan. It’s the dim, orangey lights. Much to my dismay, I had to share my sauna with Miss Handstand. I just knew she was going to remove her toga, so I positioned myself with my eyes facing a blank wall and told her I was meditating. She is one of THOSE ladies… you know the type…the one who feels comfy walking around locker rooms nekkid. With her, nudity is about competition; who can be the most naked, the most comfortable with their own bodies. Compared with Miss Handstand, I’m practically a never-nude…

The attendant came and got us and laid us out on lawn chair-like lounges in the middle of the room. She wrapped me from head to toe in clean smelling hot towels. It was just like returning to the womb, I’m sure of it. Words cannot express the feeling of comfort and security I experienced at the hands of some wet cotton.

After the toweling it was massage time. Imagine going INTO the massage already relaxed…it was heavenly. No sore muscles to work through, no lumps and bumps and knots to untie…it was pure icing on the cake…except for the folksy manner with which my masseuse carried on a conversation where she made it quite apparent what she thought of Utah and Mormons in general. Oops, lady, there goes YOUR tip.

And the piece de resistance…cucumbers on my eyes. OK, old-lady-with-really-strong-hands-who-thinks-I’m-a-devil-worshipper, you can have your tip…

And so I had been soaked, scrubbed, needled, spitzed, streamed, rubbed, and lotioned. It definitely wasn’t the fussy pampering of a spa, it was way more primitive, more earthy somehow. But in my perfect world, that would be my personal hygiene routine… except I’d replace all the people with robots… including Miss Handstand.

http://www.buckstaffbaths.com/

Ear Plug Addiction

Hi. I’m Carrie Ann, and I am an ear plug addict.

At first, I was given a free pair, you know, to just try out. And then I went back and bought a pair, but only to use every once in a while. Then I started traveling more, which is really stressful, and I found that I needed them more and more. Before long, I was using them at home. Now, I am an every day user. I use ear plugs every day.

Using them while traveling is a no-brainer…you know that exhausted feeling you can sometimes get from a long flight? Well, I read that part of that exhaustion is caused because an airplane cabin is really loud; you become quickly accustomed to it. But it has a draining effect on your body. Ear plugs reduce the noise and the exhaustion later.

Plus, and this is a huge bonus for an introvert such as I am, you don’t have to talk to people on the flight, unless you want to. All you have to do is make a big show of pulling out the ear plug when your neighbor asks you a question, and pretty soon they don’t want to bug you anymore.

Using them for sleeping while in a foreign country or foreign hotel is a no-brainer. I found that they come in handy when my co-worker would come back to the hotel room late at night (or early in the morning) from the clubs or from her date she agreed to go on with a stranger in a foreign country where she doesn’t speak the language.

Ear plugs also come in handy when said co-worker comes home late and decides that this moment is the perfect moment to practice yoga or hand stands, in a skirt, wearing a thong. At this point ear plugs don’t do much good, so I have to quit pretending I’m asleep and ask her to cut it out. She then obliges and goes outside to continue hand stands in the hall of our open air hotel in Mexico.

I began using ear plugs at home to assuage the less than symphonic cacophony of chirping, barking, quacking, squawking, and cock-a-doodle-doing that goes on 24/7 at the goat/chicken/dog/duck farm next door. You thought roosters only crowed at dawn? I’m schoolin’ you, dog, they crow whenever they feel like it.

So when I go to bed, part of the ritual now includes rolling two nude colored foam cones (memory foam for the ears) into what resembles tiny joints (not that I would know) and sliding them into my ear holes where they gently expand causing a rushing sound (not unlike the rushing sound of the Spirit of the Lord…not that I would know) until they seal out the outside world like the air lock of a space shuttle. Shhhhhhhhcp.

Silence


Bliss


And I sleep like I’ve been drugged.

The Awkward Walk

As inspired by Rebecca’s insights on various walks…

I have spent many an hour in dance class. As most young girls, I wanted to be a dancer more than anything. It was my DREAM. A lot of young girls have this dream whether they are talented or merely determined, coordinated or awkward.

I realized rather quickly, and I suspect that dance teachers also know this, that there is a simple way to determine whether or not someone is “awkward.” A means of separating the herd to determine true talent and coordination….

All you have to do is make up a pretense of learning a simple dance routine. You know, like you did when you were little. The routine must incorporate at least 4 counts of walking…yes, I said walking, in the forward direction preferably.

A coordinated person does not think about walking. They will extend a foot and the opposite arm.

For example: if your routine calls for 4 walks forward starting on the right foot then a pas de bouree to the left then to the right…the coordinated person will begin with their right foot and their left arm extended…

The awkward person will inevitably pause for a fraction of a second while they THINK about walking and then will ALWAYS extend a foot and the same arm i.e. right foot AND right arm.

Stand up right now and try walking this way. It’s loads of fun. Start with your right foot and make sure to extend your right arm as well, then move to the left and extend your left arm as well. Walk around the room (or cubical) a couple of times. This is how awkward people feel. Try the awkward run. You won't stop laughing, even if you're by yourself.

As I have shared this knowledge with others, it has become a game to see who can awkward walk, or run, most naturally. I have awkward walked in some pretty swanky places…just to see if I could pull it off.

But the most DELIGHTFUL thing about the awkward walk is teaching it to an awkward person; because the outcome of their awkward confusion about intentional awkward walking is always a non-awkward walk.



P.S. I am constantly bugged to see the awkward walk show up in public and or official places. For instance, the next time you watch The Apprentice, notice the little cartoon "business man" running with the briefcase by the logo. He is totally doing the awkward run. And then they freeze him into the logo to be forever immortalized in his awkwardness...

Happy Birthday Pom Pom Tankman Duck

So some of you might know that one month ago, a mommy duck laid her eggs right out my front door; in my flowers. Needless to say, she regretted her choice of nesting places. While it might seem picturesque to lay your eggs amidst daisies and violas, the traffic was an issue. After a few days, mommy duck gave up and left her eggs to us.

We decided that while I “look as fertile as the Tennessee valley, my womb is a rocky place where [Todd’s] seed can find no purchase…” we might as well become adoptive parents to 8 duck eggs.

We invested in a duck womb…


…and diligently read many websites on how to incubate eggs. They must have a constant 99.5 F temp (no more! no less!) and must be turned every four hours. We tracked their progress by shining a flashlight through a small hole in a piece of cardboard and holding it up to the shell.

Unfortunately, we are amateurs. I’m not sure what went wrong, but only one duck made it out of fetus-hood.

On May 10, 2005, after exactly 28 days in the “womb”, one of the eggs started to *peep*. Here is the progression:


It starts as a little hole…


Then it gets a little bigger…


The Activity Day girls crowd around to watch…


A tiny beak appears as the duck makes cracks all the way around the shell…


The top pops off and a little wet duck comes out!


Kacy and her kids were present for the popping out. Amy Lynn and her kids arrived a little later.


We let Jake name him/her (we won’t know until puberty). Jake chose Pom Pom Tankman Duck Rhodes.

Pom Pom has a cool new “brood” with a clip on light to keep warm and lots of tasty food and water.


Pom Pom’s favorite place to be is in between my cardigan and my shirt. Pom Pom just climbed on up and that’s where he/she likes to hang out. That won’t last too long seeing as how Pom Pom’s digestive system will kick in soon and ducks do not have sphincters.

We’ll see what happens with Pom Pom. We want to get chickens, but we are not quite ready yet. We have a pond and lots of other ducks in our back yard so we hope that Pom Pom will grow up to be a good normal duck and live in the pond, but will come visit every once in a while.

Todd and I are happy to be parents to a duck. I won’t dress up Pom Pom or take Pom Pom for walks on a leash. I promise we won’t let it get too out of hand.

(We are registered at Target and PetSmart…and Tiffany & Co.)

Freeze Dried Peas

So I may have neglected to mention that in 1999 for 4 months I worked for a food storage company. I sold food storage door to door.

It’s not what you think. It was an awesome company. I would not have sold ANYTHING door to door if I had NOT thought it was totally awesome. Trust me.

The president of the company was the father of a friend of mine, so I was psyched to go to their house one day for an orientation of the foods they sold.

Just to backtrack a bit, the company sold “normal” food packaged to last in storage so that you would not have to store wheat and crap like that. Instead you could store Krusteaz waffle, muffin, and bread mix, pasta, Bear Creek Soup, sauces, Malt-o-Meal cereals, and my favorite…freeze dried meats, fruits, and vegetables. Like I said, it was an awesome company.

All the sales reps (young, mostly male 20-somethings) were invited to the president’s house for a breakfast consisting of pancakes, waffles, muffins, juice, jams, jellies, and syrups all made from the food storage products. After breakfast we (about 15 young men, the president, and moi) congregated in the HUGE pantry to sample some of the other freeze dried products.

The freeze dried stuff was good. I used to buy the peas and strawberries just to snack on. So as we’re passing around the peas I decide to open my big mouth to add my personal endorsement.

“The thing I really love about the freeze dried stuff is that it really tastes good. Like these peas…they really retain their…their pea-ness…” PEA-NESS!