Another One Bites The Dust

            I took a beginning journalism class my freshman year in college, and one of the assignments that stuck with me was one where we were told to write our own obituaries. I was halfway through composing a gripping, yet touching story of my own gruesome demise, when my teacher added “Now, don’t get cute.”  What’s that supposed to mean?! This story was anything but cute…Since then, I’ve put a lot of serious thought into how I would prefer to die. I’m not morbid, but it’s something interesting to think about. Some people would like to die a quiet, painless death at an old age. I think I’d prefer to go out with a bang, which brings me to my final decision. When my time comes, I want to get eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex…in space. This, I think, is the coolest possible way to die.

In a way, I’ve been planning this since I was four years old. I was OBSESSED with dinosaurs, to the point where I cried and tore my best friend apart with my vicious four-year-old rhetoric when she knocked the head off my T-Rex piñata at my birthday party. That curly-haired, flat-nosed, frilly-dress-wearing dinosaur murderer didn’t stand a chance. Moral of the story? Dinosaurs trump friends. Everytime. I asked my mom to buy me a new Barbie doll, not because I wanted to give her makeovers and dress her all pretty-like, but because my toy dinosaurs were hungry. Dinosaurs were my life.

T-Rex Food

            I had already decided that I wanted to be a paleontologist when I grew up (Yes, I could totally say that word at the age of four). Why? Well, because I’d seen Jurassic Park, that’s why. I was thoroughly convinced that THAT was the life of a paleontologist: run around on Isna Sorna and avoid getting eaten by ferocious scaly beasts. I was crushed when I found out that in reality, paleontologists have kind of a sucky job. This discovery was devastating for me, because at the age of 9, I had to change my entire life’s plan. So inconvenient. How will I ever make a name for myself in this cruel world? That’s when I decided that if I can’t accomplish anything of note, I might as well die in the most memorable way possible.

Oh, but my plans don’t stop there. After my untimely demise, I plan to put the “fun” in funeral. I strongly believe that my funeral should be a reflection of my life, so I planned it all out. There will be space and dinosaur decorations, carnival rides, costumes. Oh, and I want them to play “Another One Bites The Dust!” The point is that when I’m gone, I don’t want people to be sad. I want them to celebrate who I was, and this way, my loved ones won’t know whether to laugh or cry. They will be confused and entertained. Yes, yes. Those are my plans. And after all is said and done, I will go down in history as the girl who died by space T-Rex. Someday, somehow.

"Easy" Bake?

            Oh, hi there! Where am I? What is this place? A blog? My blog, you say? Oh yeah…I do have a blog…And I do write in it sometimes. Just not in December, I guess. Well, we’ll just have to fix this, won’t we? I apologize to all two of my readers for my little disappearing act. I’ve just been working like a slave so that I’ll be able to feed myself next semester at school, no big. But enough about me…It’s almost Christmas!!!

            If you can’t tell, I’m so freakin’ excited. SO FREAKIN’ EXCITED! I love Christmas with all my soul. I mean, yes, all the holly jolly Christmas music is truly awful and a bit overkill. But what I love about Christmas is that it brings back so many great childhood memories like making cookies with my mom or playing in the snow with my dad, and attempting to build the tallest, mightiest snowman our small apartment complex had ever seen. Christmas was a magical time for me growing up, and it still is, but for different reasons. For instance, now I realize exactly how much crap my parents had to go through to make Christmas morning perfect…and how unappreciative I was in return. When I was little, if my sister and I broke a toy, my mom would scream: “Do you have ANY idea how much that cost?!” To which I would smile innocently and reply in a sing-songy voice: “Nothing! ‘Cuz Santa got it for me.” Santa got ALL the credit. I’m sure my mom wanted to spill the beans right then and there, forever ruining Christmas for me. But no, she let me maintain my childhood delusions, even if I was a spoiled brat. Christmas used to be about Santa and presents and treats. Now, it’s about the time I get to spend with the people I love most.

Fred the Snowman--Winter 2010

            Now, there’s one thing that completely baffles me about Christmas, and that is the kind of presents I used to ask Santa for as a kid. One year, I wanted a Betty Spaghetti. Why? Beats me. I guess I really liked bending my dolls into impossible “yoga” positions. Another year I wanted a Baby Alive doll. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it the whole point of a fake baby that you don’t have to feed or change it? Just sayin’. Oh, and don’t even get me started on Furbies. Those things are so creepy, and I’m thankful my parents never actually got me one. It probably would have revolted and killed me in my sleep. The one thing I asked for every single year, though, was an Easy Bake Oven. I begged my parent year after year to get me one, and when they didn’t budge I begged Santa. When I finally got my Easy Bake Oven, I jumped around and squealed like any little girl would. I was so excited, but that excitement faded as I spent a good four hours on Christmas morning trying to bake a tiny brownie with my nifty new toy. What I didn’t take into account in hoping for this gift was that I suck at cooking, and I have the attention span of a squirrel. I ran off and played with all my other toys, and when I came back, my brownie was charcoal. My Easy Bake Oven taught me that I’m no Betty Crocker. Remember when I said I used to make cookies with my mom? I actually meant I watched her bake cookies while I ate all the cookie dough. Truth is, I can’t bake to save my life. Seriously, if one day some diabolical mastermind held a gun to my head and told me to make toast, I’d be toast. But, you’ve got to admit, it must take SOME skill to scorch a brownie with a 40 watt light bulb…