Atonement! Atonement!

Would the following individuals please forgive me?

Trey--because when I said the cabin my Father rented for Thanksgiving was going to be a peaceful retreat to provide you with uninterrupted writing time, I liiiiiiied.

I wasn't trying to be a liar--but, clearly, I should have thought the whole idea through a little more thoroughly. I did not think about:

a) Joan Crawford movie marathons
b) The inconvenience of parents who refuse to sleep on the same floor as one another
c) How utterly needy I am towards you when I'm around my family for extended periods of time (You are my coping mechanism.)

Rachel--I'm sorry I said I was going to blow your brains our if you wouldn't eat at TGI Friday's with us. I was just very hungry.

The really pretty couple that I sneered at in Downtown Gatlinburg last night--I'm sorry. I just really don't like exceptionally pretty people. That's not your fault, though ... I get that. So, I'm sorry.

Everyone who came into contact with me in the past 48 hours. I know I was unpleasant. I do not know why. There was no need for me to be that way.

Mr. B, the patron who was just in the library--I'm sorry I sniggered at your hot-pink gloves. I was rude.

Mr. Compton--I'm sorry I was nearly responsible for your family receiving condolence cards before your actual demise.

To be fair, when the caretaker said "They took him off life support, soooo...", I assumed the "soooo..." meant that you had met your maker.

Still, I should have asked.

NaNoWriMo--I'm sorry I've failed you for the second year in a row. I did get some writing done, which makes me feel good. I tend, though, to make a habit of committing to the impossible (or something that's possible, but which I'm entirely too lazy to do).

I'm sure that's not all. But I need to take a breather.

Here's the Skinnie, Minnie:

Lessons I've Learned Over The Past Five Months (a.k.a. Why I haven't been blogging):

* A cookie is a dangerous promise. It's also a delectable morsel that one may be willing to lose a spouse over.

* There is nothing good on TV. Now or ever.

* So, yeah, maybe we could probably clone mammoths; but why would we want to?

* I lovelovelove everything about MTTS.

* I am two months overdue for a friend purge, but can't seem to get around to it because my stupid pregnancy mood-changes have made me unwilling to do the deed. I'm feeling the stress of not getting rid of my more toxic of acquaintances. (If any friend is reading this who's due for the purge and I haven't gotten around to it yet, can you go ahead and just not call me? ... You know who you are.)

* People think Pres.-Elect Obama is the Antichrist. Wrong... Here lay the Beast.

* Pregnancy makes you do two things pretty consistently: sleep, and complain about things. Guess which of those habits I've been frequenting?

* My house has reached a "COPS" state-of-being again. Have you ever seen those episodes of COPS? Where they break into a house and there's trash piled everywhere, and a lame Spanish-speaking parrot on the floor peeking out from underneath a Pizza-Hut box? Well, that place is where I live right now.

* Apple Jacks taste a little like apples to me.

(And, yeah, I know that it's taken me a while to blog. If you bring it up, I'll cry. Sorry, okay?)

Cordially,
Tessalah H.

I don't ever want to smell like that woman who was just in the library smelled. Because it wasn't good.

Part of my job working at the library is utilizing our materials to help people find solutions to everyday problems. Another part of my job is dealing with really, really smelly people.

This is admittedly one of my least favorite parts of my job, and yes, of course I'll be obliged to detail the different types of scents I encounter throughout the day:

* Vindaloo Curry + Glycerin
* Chlorine + Firewater
* Twenty years of four-packs-a-day + One case of budweiser
* Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds
* Falafel + Disgrace
* Human Waste

I don't mind little smells. Everyone has little smells. I can handle cigarettes, must, day-old basketball play-off, wet dog, wet cat ... these scents are a part of society that I must accept as a public servant.

But, come on. Do some people purposely swathe themselves in these musks at the door so they've achieved maximum potency seconds before leaning into me over the counter? ... Okay, I'll assume these people can't smell themselves. Has no one told them? I'll be honest with Trey if he needs to hop into the shower before interacting with other Human Beings, and I expect him to do the same. Do these people have no one to love them that much?

If I had known smelly people had no one to love them, I'd have been much nicer to them.

Please forgive me ... this same time, tomorrow.

Here are my two biggest lately-sins:

--I cannot stop thinking generally terrible thoughts about people. Right now, chances are that in my head I'm circling around some very heinous thought about you; about what a whore you are, or how fat your head is, or why you giggle like that when things aren't funny (or why you leave books on the counter, right above the bookdrop, or how you check out the same four wrestling magazines over and over ...). I'm seething all the time.

It's a terrible thing. I've been making up for it with manual labor--lots of manual labor--and that does make me feel better about all the bad things I've been thinking this week. The only thing I dislike about penitence is that it's difficult to stock up on it for future sins--penitence tends to have a short shelf-life. I can scrub the kitchen floor by hand tonight because I know I'm going to say something nasty about you tomorrow, but all that work just won't take the sting out like it does when you're scrubbing that floor with hard-earned shame.

--Pride. I don't normally struggle with this, but lately I've become slightly more than egotistical. Oddly, I do it in my own "Tesstastic" brand: I own my flaws and sins rather pridefully. I think I've come dangerously close to bragging about my inferiority complex. I'm not lying--I *do* actually have an inferiority complex a massive one. I'm not trying to make myself look a martyr, not trying to make myself look good; quite to the contrary, I'm trying to make myself look bad. So, I proudly, unashamedly parade my shame and weakness before my coworkers, friends and people I meet in convenience stores. Do I do it to protect myself? To give myself the power of owning my flaws before someone else discovers them? Ah, I don't think it really matters. Any respectable Tessie would keep her shame to herself.

There are so many more that I could address, but I'm pretty certain I need to be working right now, because being lazy on the clock? Totally a sin.

!!!

Here's a cover of The Ramone's "I Wanna Be Sedated" by Octogenarian choir, Young@Heart.

Auntie Tessie, at your service.

If anybody reads this tonight, comment something to keep me entertained. I'm at the hospital tonight waiting for my new niece to arrive. I'm pretty stoked.

I'm also pretty tired. I didn't get much sleep and I have to work tomorrow morning ... though chances are I won't be home until early morning.

So, if you happen to stumble here, s me a question, or entertain me with a funny anecdote. Or watch television and describe what you're watching to me. Anything to keep me alive.

Queen of the Sea

When I was a little girl I sat on the couch one afternoon, drinking hot tea and watching Maury Povich with Mummy--it was an episode about counseling people through their bizarre and embarrassing tastes in "fashion". There were lots of dowdy drag queens and overweight skanks on that episode, and I wasn't phazed by them. What did phaze me was an older teenager who designed all her own clothing and tailored it to her eclectic tastes (to the chagrin of her mother). She came on the show in a floor-length A-line organza ball gown that pushed her breasts into her chin. It was an iridescent blue with turquoise tulle layered over the skirt, and over that swooped a layer of seafoam green fishing net. Hot-glued onto the fishing net were glittering seashells and starfish in pink, orange and yellow.

I remember she twirled in the dress, her fishing net flapping about her clumsily, and she placed her hands on the conch shells on her hips and cooed, "I call it my 'Queen of the Sea' dress." Contrary to the reaction of the audience, I couldn't help cheering for her, and I clapped my hands vigorously and sighed a delighted "Bravo!". That night, and a few nights after, I dreamt of sailing the high seas in that dress, and getting married to King Triton in that dress, and getting my driving license in that dress, and accepting my Oscar in that dress.

That was thirteen years ago. I still feel sort of feel as if that dress is my soulmate. I don't know who that girl was, or where she found the inspiration for that masterpiece. But somewhere, in a closet or a landfill, I'd like to think that dress is out there, thinking of me too.

Draw 50 Disappointed Children

Here's someone who's relatively under-appreciated and who may deserve it: Lee J. Ames. You may recognize his handiwork as that sticky-tacked to the walls of any truly American elementary school, in posters of our most famous presidents--you'll also find books he's illustrated in cardboard boxes stacked in the back of Goodwill--such rare treasures as:


Daniel Boone: the Opening of the Wilderness



or

The Story of Power



If those don't look familiar, hit the sale shelves at one of your local libraries for any discarded copies of Trixie Belden novels or Landmark Books, and consider your memory refreshed. At the library, our most circulated Ames book is "Draw 50 People of the Bible" (that's right, he's the "Draw 50 ..." guy. Remember? There you go.)

I'm (at the worst) intimately familiar with his illustrations. Like most people who pay attention to these things, I can spot an Ames drawing from seventy-eight paces. He has multiple styles, all of which scream "Look at me, I'm that guy who does that stuff". When I'm tired I start to see in Ames-vision. I have to rub my eyes; I have to pause, shake my head gently, blink hard, make with the owl-eyes. For someone so ingrained with Lee Ames, you'd think I'd like him more.

My beef with Lee Ames, is he does this "anybody can draw" crap. You get his books and he says "Look, here's how to draw a polar bear. See, polar bears are really just circles and squares and cones, and then you draw in the fir." And so you learn how to copy his polar bear drawing, and you think you're really getting the composition, and you have grandeur notions of all the things you're going to be able to draw now that you've mastered his techniques, and guess what? All you can draw is a fucking polar bear, and you can only draw him in profile anyway, and you can't even make it a she-bear because Lee Ames didn't tell you how. So now you're stuck with what you don't realize is a shitty drawing of a polar bear and feelings of inadequacy because he briefly makes you feel like a champ, but you know soon thereafter that you're not.

The other thing I dislike about him is that when you read his books, you feel like everything has to look like something. Specifically, his something. I realize books can only teach you so much. But when you're a kid and you want to be a great artist and Lee Ames' book is telling you that if you want to draw an ice cream truck you have to start with the front left tire and instead you create an existential masterpiece, you're still going to feel like a fucking failure because all you wanted to do was Draw 50 Boats, Ships, Trucks and Trains.

Here's a Married to the Sea about Ames. I know how this guy in the picture feels.

Lee Ames: Why did you break my 10-year-old heart?

Don't forget the cannoli.

Here's a video that the cast of "SpongeBob SquarePants" worked up for the Annie Awards back in February. They've dubbed over various scenes from Casablanca, Singing in the Rain, and The Godfather. I can't get that last scene out of my head, with Marlon Brando's moving speech about being a man. Somehow, the voice fits.

See more funny videos at CollegeHumor

The title of this piece is, "Whatever The Opposite of Instinct Is, That's What I Have".

I think the word would be "anstinct".

Lately I've had to make some tough calls. I hope you understand that when I say "tough calls", they are only difficult decisions for me. For you, these kinds of choices ("Oh God, white or wheat?") wouldn't send you spinning into a swirling stupor. Well, excuse me for not being blessed with all your gifts. If we were all winners, winning wouldn't mean much. I simply happen to be lacking in two very fundamental areas: instinct and reason.

So, first let's talk about my anstinct (that's right, this blog is all about me). Instinct is about natural urges, rather than reason. It is often looked upon negatively because it can get people into very serious trouble depnding on whether or not said urges are legal (or generally morally "good"). In this respect I am mostly very lucky, becuase I rarely get myself into trouble by suddenly getting the urge to do something morally ambiguous (speaking is another matter altogether though, and we will touch on this later).

The most obvious deficiency in my instinct department is with the very basic idea of "fight or flight". I was born without the fight-or-flight response. In difficult situations, I do neither. I stand there with my mouth gaping, or I sob, or I do something generally considered unhelpful. I am that person to whom the "Get out of the way!/Stand back!" bellows are repeatedly declared in high-stress situations. I'm always very thankful that I don't wet myself.

"So," you might say to me, "that's not all terribly bad, Tessicle. The world needs competent, reasonable people who can sit down and really assess a situation objectively. Not everyone needs to think on their feet." Ah. That is a very good point, only I also lack basic reasoning skills. I can google things; I can decipher recipes with relative ease; I can go on green and (most of the time) stop on red. Beyond that, I simply malfunction.

Take for example, the case of the older patron who shoved his tongue in my ear. I urged fellow employees not to make a mountain out of a molehill, said his spit was unpleasant but not harassing, per se; I let it go, even though said patron came back to the library and told me that (while perhaps he shouldn't have aurally assaulted me) he'd totally do it again, because I'm a very pretty girl.

Two weeks later, at four in the morning, I sat up in bed and smacked Trey on the arm. "Oh my Gawd," I said, "That was so not cool for him to do that."

"Mwsshi?" He said, and rolled over.

And he was right.

What was I talking about? And why did it take me two weeks to decide that Dude's behavior wasn't necessarily appropriate?

My point is, when he did that, my instinct wasn't to knee his 'nads or to run away. I stood there, hands clasped together, while he did that ("Hey, you had nachos for lunch! I can taste it in my ear!"), and continued to stand there as he walked away. (In my mind, I was replaying that one scene from "The Office" when Dwight's sitting in his Trans Am, listening to REMs "Everybody Hurts" and lolling his head from side to side. I love that scene.) And it took me two weeks to begin to reason the situation as being unfavorable.

Since instinct isn't a learned ability--and trust me, it isn't, because whenever I try to imitate the instincts that other people exhibit, I get into trouble--I feel I need to concentrate on improving my reasoning skills. This is my plan:

*Every morning upon waking I will complete two pages out of my Big Book of Mad Libs;
*At lunch I will complete two sudokus and every puzzle in Hilights Magazine (r);
*Half-hour napsies at 3 p.m. every day (work is no excuse);
*Watch more "Bill Nye the Science Guy" and less "Full House";
*Start using a cane;
*Take Geritol, because old people are smart.

Any more suggestions? Don't leave me hanging when I'm so obviously in need of help, here.

_______________________