goodies.

So sorry to disappoint, Jevon, but this isn't that kind of blog entry...

Me. Age one. Ted Kaczynski ain't got nothin' on me, bitch.

I found a cardboard box yesterday in the breezeway of my parents house. I don't really know what a breezeway is, other than a way to connect the main house to the garage... most people use a thing called a 'door' for this, but due to poor planning, or other unfortunate incidences I'm unaware of, we utilize a little room, with four doors... One to the front yard (a collective, wtf, is in order), one to the back patio, one to the garage and one to the kitchen. All this trouble to get from the house to the garage. A garage that's a paint studio, with fans and florescents, no less.

Anyways. I found this box, which at first sight, seemed to be filled with a hodge podge of middle school and high school memorabilia. Books (of the Harry Potter variety), movies (Disney, of course), the Beatles anthology (which is now in my car), a secret notebook, notes written on God-ish stationary and much, much more were scattered about. And I was delighted.

It was a veritable treasure chest of memories. So, naturally, with you I'm going to share. Enjoy.

Well, here I am. I don't know how old I was in this particular photo- but judging by the sheen on my nearly-bald head, I'd say I'm around 9 or 10 months. Found this little gem of a picture taped onto a collage I no doubt made in honor of, well, me. Who else would I make a collage of?

The reason this photo speaks to me, is that it illustrates just how great my parents were- always letting me explore, allowing me to follow my artistic impulses and creative drive no matter where it took me...

What, you see a child eating dirt while her parents watch gleefully from behind a Nikon lens? Pshaw. I see an intrepid explorer, diving head first into what could be... grabbing for herself the very essence of life and then, eating it. Like candy. A really minerally, dirty, infested with SO MANY FUCKING GERMS kind of candy. A candy, like the kind that comes from a skeezy fellow dwelling in a windowless van. The kind that most parents steer their children from, rather than saying, "Here, Elizabeth, eat this dirt, we're out of Gerber at the moment. Now, spit out the roly poly, that's just icky."***

***(Author's note, when I showed my Mom this entry, she said, and I quote, "Oh for God's sake Elizabeth Moss, get over it. It was Badger Canyon dirt. Sacred.")

I played many an instrument in my youth. Violin, oboe... the latter of which forced my mom to encourage me not to practice. "You sound great, Elizabeth, but you're done practicing now. YOU'RE DONE." I probably sounded like a cross between a dying duck and evil.

Why in the sixth grade, when faced with a hoard of flutes, clarinets, trumpets and trombones I chose the oboe, I'll never know. It was between that and the french horn, both of which my music teacher told me I could get a scholarship with, to which I said, "Will they give me a scholarship for just having the ability to play... or will they expect me to be in band or something?"

I also have a piano and a guitar, and while when I bought them I had delusions of grandeur about my actual abilities at playing them, I still like to dabble every now and then. Pretty much, chopsticks is my bitch.

But how could I ever forget my short run in the ORFF Ensemble at Ridge View Elementary?

I think I played the glockenspiel, mostly because of the way it just rolls off the tongue. It's a glock, and a scpiel. What more could one want? We played one song, and one song only. I have no idea what it was called, but it was a three-part harmony, and had I some mallets and Jevon and Megan (who I'm sure still remember it as well), I'd dazzle you with my skills.

Sweet misspelling, too, eh? I've always been a gifted grammarian...

My OM hat. Odyssey of the Mind, which I believe I prefaced in my last blog entry, was a big part of my youth. While other kids were out playing soccer and gaining important skills in teamwork and... running, or something, I was inside, gluing my fingers together with industrial strength adhesive. Awesome.

What little girl doesn't love Barbies? Why is this doll so pristine, still wrapped in her cardboard and plastic? Oh. Wait. This monstrosity of a doll is NOT a Barbie, ergo why it was marked down to $1.89. WTF is a Pom Pom Pal? I think the makers of this doll, not wanting to encroach upon Mattel's turf, figured, "oh, fuck it, let's put a pom pom on her head and throw in a cassette for good measure. It's a doll, and we can put right on the box, 'Be A Cheerleader'!? What's not to love? Girls will fawn all over it. They're dumb and they love pink... Score." Maybe some girls... but not this one.

I'm nothing if not a brand whore.

It's like she's Barbie's peppy Alopecia-stricken cousin. Creepy as hell.

This VHS was the hardest thing to stumble upon. Was I, Elizabeth Christine Moss, ever so lame as to record the Grammys? Also, what's with the apostrophe?


Popping it into the VCR (yes, I have one of those), I was suddenly totally grossed out by the thought that "The Grammy's" might be something one would name a tape that they never intended for public viewing...

Choking back vomit, I breathed a sigh of relief as the screen cleared. It was D3: The Mighty Ducks.

Shit I loved Banksy. The hockey playing one, not the graffiti-ish one. And Benny 'the Jet' Rodriguez, though I'm pretty sure his name was Luis in the Duck world. But mostly I loved Banksy. Ah.....





Speaking of the lost art form of videotape...

The Little Mermaid VHS, a classic. CLASSIC! Especially with a penis on the cover. Fine family fun!

I was always a writer. My first line of prose, thought up when I was walking toward Young Street during my tenor as a crosswalk attendant in the fifth grade, went something like this, "The cold, bitter wind blew through her windbreaker, biting at her skin." I thought to myself, hey, I could be a writer.

And I know, the line was brilliant, no need to shower me with praise.

While this particular notebook was barred from prying eyes, as you can see by the "Touch & Die" inscription on the cover, it held nothing short of nothingness. Seriously. It had a few lists of songs I wanted to download, mostly Britney Spears, Hilary Duff, Simple Plan and host of other music I'm sad to say I liked.

Also in it, was a chart of different emoticons and their meaning. I actually wrote out,

" :) = smiley "

I was ridiculously cool.





Lastly, tucked away in the far recesses of the box, was another box. A Godly box, filled with notes and folders and 'affirmations' from my days with Jesus, AKA most Sundays throughout high school, as I spent the majority of them sitting sleepily at the COJ.


We must have had a tradition at church camps to write out what we liked about one another, as I found many a note that said, "You're so cool," or, "You're so nice." Obviously they didn't know me at all...

But I remember this note in particular. I don't know who it was from, but it gave me a laugh. It still does. "I hear that you are funny." Haha. Ha..... I've heard that, too.

We (Kaylee, Bonnie and I) didn't take church too seriously. Obviously. Jesus, or St. Peter, or whomever, will probably laugh at us when we reach the pearly gates...

In the pews we'd 'Bible Pick', thumbing through the Book and randomly plunking our fingers down to highlight a particularly strange passage. We tried to skip service by hiding in the playhouse in the sanctuary, and sometimes we just left and went to IHOP. But as you can see, in Kaylee's handwriting, we did praise the Lord... "LOL!".


Ah, memories.

(image courtesy of Bonnie's bedazzled 'affirmations'. Seriously, Bonnie? Glitter for Jesus?)

And for now, I'm going to return to my VHS copy of D3. BANKSY!

okaybyeeee.