The original plan for this page was to post some samples of my writing from long ago, and some more recent pieces too. I'm having a little trouble coming up with the "long ago" stuff. I will continue to search, but really, until this semester my only true writing class in college was English 300, and I know that stuff is long gone. I'm thinking of a folder I have containing some silly high school stuff...that might be fun. I'll have to dig that up. In the meantime, some English 401 (Advanced Composition - in which I have been told not to use parentheses) mini writing assignments. Little exercises - some using prompts the instructor provided, some my own ideas - to keep us writing something on a regular basis. I've enjoyed putting them together. I hope you enjoy reading them.
The year was 1984. Spindly-legged, six-year-old me lined up for lunch in the cafeteria-slash-gym with my fellow first graders. Despite a persistent upset stomach that morning, I bounced around with greater than typical little kid jubilance. My grandparents were visiting from Indiana, and Grandpa Stan would be picking me up from school that day! Tray clutched in pint-size paws, I climbed into the attached bench of the big lunch table. I kicked my saddle oxfords under me and sized up the meal, deciding that carrot sticks and milk would be easy on my tummy. Things seemed to be going well, then I felt that dreaded stomach clenching, tongue drenching sensation that I now know signals "get to the bathroom!!!" Instead, six-year-old me stayed and projected a pooling, fast-moving puddle of orange-flecked white barf - guess the carrots and milk weren't such a good idea after all - that covered at least three square feet of that big lunch table. Cries of "what happened?!" and "she threw up!" and, of course, "gross!!" ensued. The rest was a blur. Someone ushered me out, cleaned me up as much as possible, and promptly called my mother. She and Grandpa Stan came and picked me up right away. Leaving school early with your grandpa almost makes it worth puking all over the lunch table. Almost. The purchase order has been sitting on my desk all week, nagging me, harassing me. Time to bite the bullet. Talking with condescending customer service reps is right up there with scrubbing toilets on my list of favorite things to do. What makes them like that, anyway?
"Just make the call," I tell myself. So I reluctantly dial the toll-free number. "Thank you for calling" drones an automated Charlie-Brown-parent wannabe on the other end of the line. "You're welcome," I grumble. I press number 1 to place an order, and am enthusiastically (not) greeted by Dan, my CSR. I can tell by Dan's voice that he is somewhere in the northern regions of the country. Not a cute Boston accent, or even a brusque Philly sound. Something more harsh and bark-like. Dan also sounds unkempt. He wears wrinkled khakis with unflattering pleats and a team sweatshirt with cracked and faded lettering. His dark hair is rumpled, outdated glasses crooked.
I give Dan what I feel is the necessary information to place my order. He seems irked at my efficiency and the fact that, no, I don't have one of his catalogs in front of me. Dan has a problem with women who don't know their place.
When a fellow employee's name shows up in their system instead of mine, I tell Dan it is fine to keep that person as the contact for account since I will only be working for company for two more weeks. He ignores my attempt at humor and says that I must be in the system to place an order. After a serious interview in which Dan obtains more information about me than my own mother is privy to, I am finally allowed to place my order.
Dan and I make the required pleasantries before hanging up. Meanwhile, I search for new boots on the internet and Dan digs wax from his ear with the cap of a pen. He glances at the clock and realizes he is mere minutes away from quitting time, when he'll go home to a complaining wife who orders him about like a disobedient puppy.
"Have a nice day," he says reluctantly. I will in just...a....second....CLICK. Ahhh. Day's getting nicer already.
"Oooh, I like your pants!" my coworker exclaimed. "Come here and lemme see those." I turned around and headed back to her office for a brief fashion interlude in the otherwise dull workday. "I have some like that I wanna wear with my white heels, but I don't know if it's okay for work," she tells me. "Well, I haven't gotten fired yet; they must be okay," I reply, as if this is reassurance.
"But I have the tattoo...."
"What tattoo? Show me!" I demand. She hikes her pants leg to knee-level, exposing a calf-sized - and it is not the smallest calf - tattoo depicting the face of a leopard or some such wildcat with the word "sexy" scrawled below. For the briefest of moments, I am speechless. It is the epitome of tackiness. And not the fun, cute kind of tacky. This is Donald Trump and Pam Anderson's love child kind of tacky. Fortunately, my silliness kicks in to save me, and I am able to offer some teasing remark about her being sexy, followed by "they can't be mad atcha for telling the truth, right?" Whew, good save. I'm sure, like most tattoos, hers seemed like a great decision at the time.
As a child, when I saw women with tattoos I immediately had a sense that this was a different kind of person than, say, my mother. This was not the type of woman I was accustomed to; my aunts, grandparents, neighbors, did not have tattoos. It just wasn't done.
My grandpa had a tattoo - a hula dancer that spanned his entire inner forearm. He had gotten in while in the army, my dad told me when I'd asked about it. So that explains that. He was in the army. Maybe because of this, I always associated tattoos with the army, and "army people" were men in my mind, so women didn't have tattoos. I don't know. Who can explain eight-year-old logic?
As I got older, probably sometime during my teen years, my view of tattooed ladies expanded from the subconscious musings of an innocent, into a pretty blatant sense of superiority. Women who had tattoos were trashy. It seemed to always be roses. Why roses? Roses on stretch-marked boobs, their black ink faded to indigo. Extra points for lettering of any kind, especially the name of a lover, former or current.
Obviously my opinion of tattoos changed, because I decided at some point that I must definitely have one. And so I got one. On my lower back. All black, sort of a Celtic knot-thingie just above the waist of my pants. Perfect for the backless shirts so popular at the time. Not tacky at all.
Now, ten or so years and two kids later, the tattoo is, of course, still there. I forget about it most of the time, though. That is, I forget until I hear something on the radio or TV about "tramp stamps," which people started calling lower back tattoos some time after I got mine. I forget until my young daughter reminds me that it's there, telling me "when I grow up, I'm getting a tattoo just like you, Mommy." Great.
At least I can hide my tattoo. Really, what choice do I have but to hide it? I'm not wearing many backless shirts these days. The ol' "tat" may make an appearance again at the pool one of these days, depending on the momliness of my swimsuit. I can see it now: my kids and I will find a spot near the water, and just as I'm removing my cover-up, two teenage girls will choose the spot in the row of chairs behind us. They'll look at my tattoo, look at each other, and roll their eyes with expressions of disgust. I give them five years til they're off to the tattoo parlor, excitedly clutching one another's hands for support as they get inked. I'm sure they'll never get anything tacky like a tramp stamp, though. No, for this generation it'll be something pretty, delicate even. Something like roses on their boobs.
