Rope burn is like fire with pieces of rope in it

In elementary school we had a very special week in P.E. One week out of the year, the rope would be lowered from the ceiling and we were given the opportunity to compete for extreme dominance through the rope climbing challenge (it wasn’t actually a challenge or a competition, but in my mind I had to be the top rope climber). This was my time to shine. I could maneuver a rope like a spider monkey can maneuver a tropical tree.

Every year our teacher would warn us not to slide down the rope. He would explain that such a choice would cause us to horribly disfigure our hands. “Sliding down the rope will cause rope burn. You don’t want to cut up your hands, so don’t slide down the rope!” Almost every year I listened. My last year at that school I did not heed his advice.

We had all already had our opportunity to climb the rope, but there was still time left in our class. So, the teacher let us have the option of playing various P.E. games or continue rope training. I’m a champion. Champions do not need to play games. Champions need to train to fend off future would be champions that won’t get the chance to be a champion because the champion is training to prevent this. So, I opted to continue honing my monkey-like climbing skills.

I powered up the rope a second time, and I heard the voice of my teacher in my head the whole time: “Don’t slide down the rope. Cristy, don’t slide. DON’T SLIDE!” As I progressed further and further up the rope, the advice became more and more meaningless. For some reason I was no longer able to distinguish the difference in allowing my legs to slide down the rope (which I regularly did) from allowing both my legs AND hands to slide down the rope (which I never did). I convinced myself that I had always allowed my hands to slide down the rope and there were never any consequences. “I just slid down the rope and my hands feel great, they feel better than great, they feel powerful!”

I began sliding.

Things were all right for about 2 seconds. Then things started to get painful, and shaky, and scary. How had everything gone from so great (being the best in the world at rope climbing) to so bad (skin melting off my hands due to hand against rope sliding heat production) so quickly? I began to panic, but I didn’t want to show any weakness.

It didn’t matter how well I was hiding my panic. My teacher began to panic “Stop sliding, Cristy!” My classmates began to panic “Stop sliding! Stop sliding!”

But it was too late. I was no longer able to remember how to use my hands. It was as if a tiny lumberjack climbed into my ear and severed the portion of my brain that knows how to tighten a fist from the portion of my brain that actually executes on that knowledge. I realized that I shouldn’t be sliding, but my hands refused to behave accordingly, partially due to the fact that the skin was all melt-y.

I hit the mat at the bottom of the rope with tremendous speed and hobbled around before catching my balance. I was horrified about what had just happened and almost didn’t want to look at my hands that were now pulsating with pain. I took a quick glance in the moment I had before my classmates gathered around. This is what I saw:

I didn’t want to show my hands to anyone. I acted like there was nothing wrong and asked my teacher if I could go to the bathroom, while holding back the pain induced tears building up in my wincing eyes. He wanted to see the damage and made me hold out my hands. No longer trusting my judgment, he sent another little girl to the bathroom with me to help sort out the messy stubs at the ends of my lifeless arms. I put them under the faucet in an attempt to get all the rope pieces out of the cuts, but quickly succumbed to the pain and decided to live with melt-y, rope-y hands.

When I got back to the gym, my teacher put band-aids all over my hands and I sat down to watch the other kids run around with their functioning bodies.

The Mega Bed

Freshman year of college I met Amrita. She would become my roommate and fellow impulsive decision maker over the next several years. The day we officially met was pure magic. We both lived on the 4^th floor of our dorm. She lived down the hall on one side of the lounge and I loved down the hall on the opposite side. I was doing homework and attempting to relate to my fellow classmates in the lounge…and then Amrita appeared. She was also studying, but more importantly she was playing a movie. This wasn’t any movie; this was a very specific movie that would seal our friendship. Amrita was watching Rocky. We both absolutely love Rocky.

Since our chance meeting in that lounge we have been best friends. We became roommates our sophomore year in college. We both had singles our freshman year, but this wasn’t an option for us the following year (unless we wanted to live in a less than ideal location). So, my group of friends paired off so that we could get a block of doubles next to each other.

Here’s a picture of Amrita and me right after we moved into our shared room:

This is the ONLY normal picture of us. We always look back on this and wonder why most of our pictures are the way they are. We are capable of looking like normal humans. What it really comes down to is that neither of us have any interest in posing for “sexy” pictures or trying to impress people with our attempt at normalness. Pretty much all of our pictures were taken because we realized how stupid/ridiculous we looked and wanted to capture the moment.

Most of our pictures have ended up looking like this:

(Yes that is black eye liner around my lips and shame in Amrita’s eyes.)

And this:

One day, while we were living in our shared dorm room, we decided it would be brilliant to make a gigantic bed out of our two smaller beds. I have absolutely no recollection of the conversation that lead us to spend our day creating a giant bed and subsequently watching movies and doing homework on it. I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Amrita: I’m bored.

Me: Me too.

Amrita: Let’s make a giant bed!

Me: Okay!

I bet you were thinking there was going to be some sort of explanation as to where the idea came from or something to shed light into either one of our thought processes. But, that’s exactly the point of the exchange above. We make quick decisions and act even quicker. One time Amrita decided that she needed a stuffed panda so we took a taxi to Kmart to find one. We live exciting lives!

But back to the bed story. Our beds were on opposite sides of our cramped dorm with a small aisle in between. We shoved the beds together in the middle of our room and called our friends over to see what we had done. It was a short lived dream that fizzled when we realized we couldn’t maneuver the room in its current state. Although the dream of the mega bed died quickly, it is a fond memory that I will always look back on when I’m dissatisfied with the ordinary size of my current bed.

If you look on the back wall in this picture you’ll notice several mangled versions of our normal picture.  Also, I realize the bed isn’t that enormous…but it’s bigger than any other dorm bed…and it’s super tall!

The year of the mullet

I cut my own hair. It was bad. Really bad.

I believe I had just started 1^st grade. I don’t remember if it was right before the school year had started or right after, but I think part of the motivation for the haircut was a girl in my class so I’m going to say the year had just started.

I sat next to this cute little girl with long flowing blonde hair. I loved her hair. I wanted my hair to be like her hair. Naturally, the only option to achieve her long healthy hair appearance was to cut my own hair.

I knew that this was a bad thing to do. I knew that my mom would not approve. But who was she to dictate the style of a free-minded 5 year old such as myself?

I had to come up with a plan to hide what I was doing. In my mind my parents and brothers were all keeping a very close eye on me. They knew I was about to destroy my appearance and would do everything in their power to stop me. They’d expect me to be in my room. I had to mangle the appearance of my tresses in a super secret location that no one would suspect – under the table in the entry way of my two story Utah home.

I gathered up the needed supplies. One pair of scissors, check. A toy microwave and toy food, check. “No mom, I’m not cutting my hair. Clearly I’m just fake microwaving this fake food.”

The next few minutes are all a haze. I cut ALL the hair I could SEE. Yes that’s correct, I gave myself a mullet. And I was damn proud of it. I wish I could remember emerging from the table and first encountering my parents. But that must have been one of those moments that was so mortifying and shocking (although I don’t know why because I felt no shame) that I’ve blocked it from my memory.

My mom did everything she could to salvage the situation. But, little could be done. I spent the next year as the little girl with the mullet. So, I sat proudly with my full head of mullet hair, next to the cute little girl with long flowing blonde hair. We did not become friends.

You’d think that things couldn’t get much worse for a young girl at an important development stage – learning to form human relationships. But, you would be wrong. Halloween came around shortly after and I decided to dress up as a fairy princess. Of course I did my own make-up. If I can cut my own hair, I can do my own make-up.

Brent wouldn’t let my mom put a real eye-patch on him.  So my mom had to paint one on.  Eric and I are very committed to our costumes.

My mom (bottom right corner) is still proud of her little girl, even though I looked the way I did.

Again, no shame.

Dino Bombs

If you remember how I’ve said that I generally come up with amazing ideas (here), then you can ignore this next sentence. I generally come up with amazing ideas. Like the last amazing idea, this one was triggered by a conversation with Eric.

We were discussing the concept of Jurassic Park and how ridiculous it was that the island workers weren’t better prepared to deal with a dinosaur disaster. They’re in the dinosaur management business, so their one task is to manage the dinosaur situation. Eric decided the island workers should have been provided with more weaponry. I suggested a tank. He upped the ante with missiles.

But then I had an epiphany. If the weapons were always on the dinosaurs, there would be less room for error. I had the solution – bomb backpacks. The dinosaurs would all be equipped with a backpack loaded with explosives.

And the workers would all have detonators. I haven’t worked out all the details – maybe they’d have one detonator that would explode the closest dinosaur and another that would set off every single backpack.

Eric came up with the perfect line for tour groups: “Don’t think that those dinosaurs are going to school. There aren’t books in those backpacks; they’re filled with explosives!”

And then the guide sets one off.  Or if the guide is lucky enough to be leading the last tour, he sets all of them off.

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Nail polish has a very distinct smell, even if it’s clear

I’m a very impulsive person, which is why I have a guitar that I can barely play (except Comfortably Numb, I can play the chorus over and over and over again) and an easel that holds paintings a kind person would call “niiiiiice” as in “Look at that. Look at what you’ve done there. That looks niiiice.”

I was going through a phase where I wanted to make movies. I know what you’re thinking: “that sounds cool” (or you’re thinking something dirty, so shame on you). But you’re wrong. Because you’re thinking that I’m actually making the movies. What I was doing in actuality was moving movies from my computer to CDs. I wanted to put them on DVDs and make nice little movie covers so that I could add them to my extensive movie collection.

I was lacking a key ingredient in the “movie making” recipe. I didn’t have the right software to burn DVDs in a fancy fashion. Brent had made me a DVD with his classy computer. He entitled it “Team South America” because it had both “Team America” and “South Park” on it. I still think this is funny and laugh every time I see it.

I went to the local Best Buy to pick up what I needed. When I got home and tried to install it on my computer things started to fall apart. It wouldn’t burn movies to a DVD. This particular software had one sole purpose in the world: to burn DVDs. And it could not do that. I don’t want to place all the blame on the software because my computer was on a downward spiral which would continue for 3 more years. But, the software should probably take most of the blame. The receipt for the software said something about not being able to return software that had been opened. I didn’t want it though. I wasn’t going to keep it.

I’m not proud of what I did next.

I consoled with Amrita:

Me: If you broke the seal on a box and you wanted to repair that seal, but you didn’t want people to know that the seal had been broken in the first place what would you do?

The box had one of those clear circles that cover the part you open so the store knows it’s been open.

Amrita: Huh?

Me: I have to return this.

Amrita: Hmmmmmmmmm

Me: Can I borrow your clear nail polish?

This was the most genius idea ever! I took several pieces of tape and used them to seal the box closed within the flap. You all know the drill – make a loop out of tape and it acts like double sided tape. I then layered on coat after coat of clear nail polish on the circle until I thought it looked reasonable enough to pass for an un-tampered with box (with a quick glance from a semi-close distance).

This plan was flawless! I took the bus to the mall and took my shameful walk from the Target (where the bus drops off) to the Best Buy. I began to doubt the plan.

I was sweating when I walked into the store. I felt like everyone was watching me and the security camera was following me (this isn’t unusual – I feel like I give off a “she’s going to steal something” vibe and the cameras follow me on a regular basis, probably not true, but it’s a fear I have to live with).

I made my way to the return counter which is coincidentally the furthest point in the store. The following exchange is forever engraved into my mind:

Me: I need to return this.

Store Employee: Is there anything wrong with it?

Me: No, I just don’t want it.

Store Employee: Why does the box look weird?

Me: What? (Slowly taking a step back from the counter as if to prepare for my escape.)

Store Employee: This smells like nail polish. (It was a girl. I should have found a guy employee, he wouldn’t recognize the smell.)

Me: That’s weird. (I was really starting to panic now.)

She began pulling away at the label. This revealed the tape inside. At this point I knew I was screwed. I had two choices: fess up or continue down the poorly designed path I created.

Store Employee: Did you open this box and then try to seal it?

Me: Somebody else must have had it before me…and then they returned it…and then I bought it.

She did not buy this. I could tell by the expression on her face as she continued to pull apart the mess I had made. On a side note: I don’t like lying and I feel like people can tell when I am lying because I’m so bad at it.

Store Employee: I can offer you store credit.

Me: And I will accept that.

I don’t know why I thought this would go any better than it did.

Mr. Ruffles

The second semester of your senior year in high school is pretty laid back if you’ve gotten into college and are confident that you are going to get straight “A”s. At my high school some of the classes were adapted to allow for the most relaxing semester possible. AP Senior Literature had at least a month dedicated to poetry. We read poems and wrote about the corresponding poet and their work. I chose Alfred Lord Tennyson.

Because I was ready for my senior year to be over, I told my little brother that he should help me out by writing the paper. Clearly this wasn’t going to work because I can’t not do work that’s assigned to me and I need an A on everything. He agreed to write me a paper on Alfred Lord Tennyson if I agreed to turn it in to my teacher. I agreed, for some unknown reason, and he got to work.

I wrote the real version of my paper that I would then have to preset in front of my class, but committed to Brent that I would include his version on the back of my assignment – and I did just that. I turned the following piece of work in and passed a copy of it out to every student in my class.

Cristy (Brent) Watson

4-26-04

Alfred Lord Tenison

Alfred Lord Tenison is dead. He wasn’t always dead, though. In fact he was alive back sometime. He lived in Cambodia and lived off of garbage while living in a shack next to Safeway. In 1675 he began writing poems. His poems were about all kinds of things. Things like wars. One day he ate an apple. Next he ate a strawberry and it was the sweetest strawberry he had ever eaten. Its sumptuous juices ran down his chin and stained his shirt. He washed his shirt and then he wrote the charge of the light brigade.

Tenison liked to play fetch with his dog, Mr. Ruffles. His dog was a big dog. It ruffed. Once his dog got out and his neighbor killed it with poison. He was inspired to write more poems. After eating more garbage he moved to Europe in 1754. He liked it here. He had a cat here but it ran away because he beat it too much. When he was cooking dinner he burned his house down. This inspired him to write more poems.

After a short career as a boat driver, he ran his boat onto the beach and decided to right some more poems. He always liked to look at clouds. They reminded him of strawberries. He didn’t like stars, though. He liked poems a lot and then he died.

I was glad to see that Brent did an appropriate amount of research – not enough to even know how to correctly spell the poet’s name. And I also enjoy the part where we learn that Brent is in fact writing this while in Europe somewhere. I didn’t know he had ever been there.

The reactions from my class were even worse than I could have predicted. Even after me explaining why it was that I was turning it in – I had convinced Brent to write it and had to turn it in as part of the agreement, no one seemed to understand. Maybe my family’s humor doesn’t sync up with anyone else’s, but I think this is hilarious. So the strange looks from my classmates and the confused noises accompanied by “I don’t get it”/“Is this really about him?”/“Why did you write this?”/“You didn’t write this?” was totally worth it to be able to share this piece of art with the world (or at least my class).

And even though last time I got a confused reaction, I’m sharing this masterpiece again. Someone is bound to understand the brilliance behind this. Well done Brent!