conuly: (brain)
Guess here before you read on!

As I'm sure you all have figured out without my having to say so, Read more... )

Now, I was a little disappointed in the beach at Coney Island. I had this memory of going to the beach often enough with my parents, and a park nearby, but apparently that's Manhattan Beach, which is in my memories very nice and well-maintained, and it's probably no coincidence that it's hard to get there if you don't live in the area. No parking, that sort of thing.

Coney Island, by contrast, has one measly little showerhead in the shower area, with no real pressure at all, and it's not up on the boardwalk (which would make sense) but a short walk from there so you get all sandy again. And it has insufficient water fountains, and no real changing area that I saw. Even South Beach, near me, is better equipped, and our beach fails in other ways. (For example, due to the waterflow (or possibly the fact that folks on the Island are litterbugs, not sure which), all the trash in the water ends up in THAT bit of water.) And the sand is coarser than at Coney Island.

Oh well. As for the day...

Evangeline spent some time lying on the sand "getting a tan". She may have been tired, she may have been sulking that Ana had bonded with some other kid over a shared hatred of Justin Bieber, or, most likely, she may have been doing both. At any rate, she was fascinated with the fact that you can SEE the "little rocks" that make up sand when you get close, and it is yellow even though the "little rocks" are all KINDS of colors like white and clear and black and even red. "How can red be yellow? Is red yellow, Connie? I don't THINK so! But look! The sand is all yellow, even when it's red!"

Ana, this kid, and I spent a lot of time digging a really big hole, which I carefully filled in before we left. Digging a big hole is what I've always done at the beach, I don't know why.

I also spent time moving our blanket further from the water. My phone and all my remaining money were with our bags, but I had nobody to watch them. The lifeguard had already noticed Evangeline trying to go in deeper than she should without a grown-up (and I agreed with his assessment), so she especially *really* needed to have somebody with her in the water - unlike when we went to South Beach last week there were LOTS of people on Coney Island (well, duh, though I did sigh a bit when we made our transfer and I noticed how many people on the train had umbrellas, shovels, or towels with them. The girls and I had set off to the beach singing "Oh you can't get to heaven on the BMT, 'cuz the BMT won't B M T" and it was sorely true) so I didn't really want them going in even as far as I let them go in there, not without me. So I kept my stuff as close to the water as I could manage before the tide came in and soaked everything.

And I spent some time indulging the girls in their favorite pastime, telling them stories about The Past. This was on the way home, of course. I told them all about The First Time I Rode A Rollercoaster - the Cyclone, natch. I went in with my father, all the way at the very front. And I wasn't scared at all! We went up and up, and I'd never been scared of heights, though it eventually occurred to me to ask my father how we were going to get down. I don't remember his answer, but it doesn't matter - I found out soon enough! (Ana wants to go on the Cyclone next time. Evangeline is dubious.)

One last bit of nostalgia, and then I'll shut up, promise. My mother regaled *me* with what was apparently a dear quote to my father, culled from a newspaper article: Coney Island is the place where you spend the whole day, and then refuse to buy your kid a third ice cream cone at the end of it. And that ice cream is all they'll ever remember.

And we had that too, the happy mood right up until it was meltdowns and whining for everyone. (Not me. I don't get to whine. It really sucks being the responsible grown-up!) They were hungry, they were thirsty (I'm Friday, let's get together Saturday and have a Sunday! It's a wonder the nieces haven't killed me in my sleep over that line, but even more of a wonder that they still whine "I'm thirsty" instead of asking politely for something or, better yet, getting their own damn water!), it wasn't enough that I had paid $6 for three Italian ices, couldn't they each have one more?

Luckily, I had anticipated this, and had carefully packed away a bag of potato chips (this came as a complete surprise to the nieces, despite the fact that they were with me when I bought them this morning!) and two things of bubbles. They had the potato chips on the train - and really, it's not *such* an unhealthy snack so long as it's not ALL you eat - and then the bubbles on the boat so it wasn't such a let-down. This is a very good plan on any special day out. ALWAYS have something moderately special (but not as funtastic as the day out) to do after you've left wherever-it-is. I can't promise it'll always work, but it may get you home without the whole train/boat/bus criticizing you.
conuly: Picture of a young River Tam. Quote: Independent thought, independent lives, independent dreams (independent)
The picture shrinks and dies away when she turns it off. This reminded me - it's been YEARS since I thought about this! - that when I was a kid, I used to sometimes turn the TV onto channel 3 (before we got cable) to watch the static.

I guess I wasn't the only one, because there are actually several YouTube videos showing just that. Cool, but... frankly, yeah, a bit weird.
conuly: (Default)
I told it to Ana when she asked for yet another story about "you when you were a kid", but I don't think she got the point.

My first (and only) experience cheating )
conuly: (Default)
A very tiny scar, and you'd only see it if you got up very close and searched for it.

I got it when I fell off the bunk bed as a kid and scratched my ear up on the card table chair. Had to have stitches. My nose bled several times in the hospital waiting room. Was quite adamant about not having the stitches taken out, but eventually my parents, and reason, prevailed.

I just now told my sister how I fell - see, I'd had it in my mind that I could get off the top bunk upside down, and sort of flip or something directly onto the bottom bunk.

Well, midway between up and down, it occurred to me that my plan was lacking in a certain amount of... well... common sense. It wouldn't work.

And now I was stuck. I couldn't get where I wanted to go, and I couldn't get back up, either. After trying for a few minutes to find another way, I finally decided that the only thing I could do was to drop. So I did.

It would have worked, too, if it hadn't been for those meddling chairs.

Well, of course, after my family found out I'd fallen, and after they worked out that I was *bleeding* (I was trying to hide the evidence - at this point, I was pretty upset, and a little scared), they rushed me to the hospital, where I was very bored for several hours, until, sometime past midnight, I got sewn up.

I told the part to my sister that she didn't know about (the stuff inside my head, that is), and she commented that I must have been "panicking, and really scared". This actually took me by surprise, because, in fact, I *wasn't* scared to be stuck upside down! Annoyed, and not exactly happy, but not scared. I was pretty calm about the whole thing, right up until the point where I got hurt.

It occurs to me as well that there was a third option I never considered until just a few minutes ago. I could have called for help. But for some reason, that option never entered my head in my childhood, not then, and not on other occasions as well. I don't know if my life would have been better or worse if it ever had.
conuly: (Default)
I've had to really stretch my memory to come up with some of them! It seems my own recollections of my childhood would fit inside one very slim book. Jenn had a similar realization, and was upset. I'm just surprised.

I guess all this thinking is what reminded me of this story from when we moved to Staten Island.

See, when we moved to the new house, I apparently lost the ability or will to choose my own clothes. I had to have my mother pick them out, which must have been a trial to her because most of the clothes she picked out I would not wear (as she heard very clearly. I think I screamed. I certainly remember crying)! They were the wrong colors, or too tight, or too scratchy, or too warm, or not warm enough. Or I'd put them on and realize they weren't comfortable here or there or had a tag, and more crying, and more screaming. And I felt bad (I still feel bad! I can only hope I stopped before my father died, because I can't stand the thought of putting her through this after that), but I could not make myself stop. I couldn't make myself pick out my own clothes, and I couldn't make myself be nicer about it to my parents.

And do you know what's really weird? I don't remember my parents getting too upset about it. They must have. I was putting them through hell many, probably most, possibly even *every* mornings (do I take a plural, since I put an every in there?), and I don't remember them doing anything more than eventually telling me it was too late and I had to just deal with it.

This seems totally uncharacteristic. I must be mistaken in my memories. I'll ask my mother in the morning.
conuly: (Default)
There was one more miserable day, and that's when I got sick sophomore year of high school.

Two weeks of having to decide, every time I was thirsty - do I drink the milk (and resign myself to being unable to properly breathe for the next few hours) or the water (which would burn going down)? Mostly, I just stayed thirsty, which was probably the wrong choice.

My mom finally sent me to school anyway. I stumbled in with a massive headache and fogginess, only to find out that finals had started. Stumbled back home. Had to take my finals, all of them, a few days late with a special doctor's note. I was actually crying, it hurt that bad. I managed to pass, but how, I don't know.

But! At least there was no vomiting.

So maybe it wasn't worse than the current illness, maybe they're just about the same. After a certain level of awfulness, does it even matter anymore? What's the point of comparing them?
conuly: (Default)
And after we had eaten, the waiter came up to me, called my by name (wrong name, too - I really disliked being called Constance back then, but I suppose that's beside the point) and apologized for being "an asshole" to me back in junior high. And I guess he was, because Jenn talked to him later and apparently he really felt bad, remembered making me cry, all this.

I have no idea who the fuck he is. I felt kinda bad about that, but maybe it's better I have no idea...?

At any rate, even if I remembered, I'd forgive him. My theory right now is that kids that age are inherantly stupid, no matter how bright they may be, and so they do stupid things. With that in mind, it's pointless to hold grudges (no matter how deserved) against people once they've grown up, unless they don't, in fact, grow up.

The whole experience was vaguely uncomfortable, and I recommend that if any old bullies of mine are reading this entry that they apologize via anonymous comment rather than in person. It'll go over a lot better. Especially if you just weren't all that memorable to me - there was a lot of that going around for a while, and they all just sort of blur together in my mind.

(And now this is going to be in my head all week, just "Who was that aproned man?", I just know it. Really annoying, that'll be, but if makes him feel better and he meant well, I can't very well blame him for it, can I?)
conuly: (Default)
See, when I was, say, three, we were having money troubles of one form or another. This all ended in my mom staying up late, counting up all our pennies to pay the rent.

And you know how you count pennies, first you dump them out, then you stack them neatly, *then* you count them, right? So she'd finished her stacking, and it was dawn, and she sat down for a bit....

Well, I don't know the exact timeline, but it seems somebody in my family came downstairs, saw all these pennies stacked neatly on the floor, shouted "PENNIES!" and ran through them all!

I deny all knowledge of these events

So I was quite amused at this story of the kid who destroyed the sand mandala. Not too concerned, though - it took them two days to get halfway done, they had three days left, and it's only made to be destroyed anyway. Besides, they weren't upset at it, or at least they don't admit to being upset at it.
conuly: (Default)
She's totally unprepared, of course.

Jenn, when she auditioned, literally threw together a dance routine the day of her audition. Of course she got in.

When I took my Stuy test, the only prepwork I did beforehand was flipping through a Regents review book. And yeah, I got in.

My family is like that - we're really good at doing things at the last minute (lots of practice, there!) and if there's something we want to do, we generally go ahead and do it. Not because of perseverence and discipline and all the stuff from movies, but because we're usually good at doing what we like to do. And it's not just Jenn and me - I grew up hearing stories about how my dad "passed current events without doing the work because he knew more than the teacher, who had to ask him for help" and how my mom "nearly failed beginning French (her first language!) because she never filled in a required notebook". I remember being told that I'd be "allowed" to stay up late when I was older, to finish up last-minute, overdue papers. (Jenn got a good grade on that essay, most likely.)

We'd be better off with a little more of that perseverence and discipline - this magic skill doesn't work when there's stuff you really don't want to do, or don't care about. Jenn passed a math class she should have failed, because she spent two days before learning a year's worth of material. But if she hadn't decided, two days prior, that she wanted to pass - yeah, she would have failed. And failed next term too, if she kept up not putting in any work.

I've written countless essays in the space between two classes, and gotten As. But if I don't care about the subject, I can't dredge up the energy to do this. And I've failed classes for just that reason.

But here's the question - how do you go about getting good study and work habits when, deep down, you really believe you don't need them? Because, like I said - generally, if I want to do something, it gets done. That's just how I am. And I have the hardest time convincing myself that I really *want* to get the stuff done that I don't want to do!

(This really pointless post was brought to you by Sinus Infections R Us. They're the gift that keeps on giving! Get one for your family today!!!!)
conuly: (Default)
Different events every day until Christmas, at which point the countdown will begin for Little Christmas.

Ana remembers Christmas from last year, so she's already hyped up for it. Halloween, she'd mostly forgotten, but Christmas she remembers. So far, she's learned that Christmas means trees, wreaths, lights, and lots of candy and cookies.

...

Well, I'm sure her grandma's got the whole "birth of Jesus" thing covered, anyway. I suppose I could start telling her about how early it's getting dark now, and how when Christmas is over it'll start staying light longer. Do you think she'll get that yet, or would it be over her head?

(Ana's also learned that horses eat shoe celery and leave candy in its place. Okay, I know I disagree with lying to kids, but it sure is fun. Remind me to tell you all about the lies I told Elise growing up someday, 'k?)

(Well, I was thirteen when she was three! I was stupid! And threatening her with vampires, werewolves, and cannibalism was the only way I knew how to make her mind!)
conuly: (Default)
I got attacked by a whole nest of fire ants. Probably my fault, I have no doubt that I kicked their hill over.

I used to think that I couldn't remember it, that I only *thought* I remembered it because I'd heard the story so much. Then I found out that my Bonpapa had been there, which was part of my memory that didn't make sense - I didn't think he could've been there. But it did clarify that it's a real memory.

This comes up because, a few days ago, my sister refered to something as "being like being bitten by fire ants".

I nodded, then pointed out that I didn't remember being bitten. I remember Bonpapa being there. I remember sitting on the floor of the car, crouched up and crying. I don't remember any pain. Not only can I not feel it in my mind, which is normal, but I can't remember feeling it then. I can remember feeling pain for other times I got hurt at very young ages, but not then.

What happened is as familiar to me as any childhood story. I got swarmed on. We rushed home and called the hospital. They didn't know what to do. My mother thought fast, and put me into a bath with baking soda. I didn't die.

I have marks on my legs, not big ones, like chicken pox scars, which we think *must* be from that time.

And all I remember is crouched on the floor of the car, crying, but no pain.

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