BBQ Anyone?

Whenever I see some form of logo for pork, ham, bacon, ect. it usually includes a pig. Creepy logo makers even venture to sometimes have the pig appear in a apron to make sure that his belly does not get the pork he's frying on it. Yes, this is perfectly normal and accepted. You see this all the time, grocery stores, billboards on the interstate where they only cost about 25 cents, even on invitations to neighborhood BBQs.

In most of these illustrations the pig is smiling. Is he happy about the death of his fellow pig? Did he kill him himself? Is he happy that he is about to eat his friend? His expression, at first glance, does not seem very menacing, but sometimes the eyebrows are just arched enough to give our little porker an evil glare.

When I was younger I imagined people making him smile, threatening to have him fried by his friend too (at this age for some reason I thought that cartoons were just like actors).

This pig was cooking his friend and, somehow, making people want pork. First of all, who thought of the idea? More importantly, why did people adopt it? Is cannibalism humorous?

Does anyone even look closely at this type of thing? Maybe we've grown so accustomed to it no one cares.

Another similar logo is the famous cow wearing leather, or even more manly, bull wearing leather, but that post is for another day...

Cheese Please!

I haven't had cheese pizza after waiting in a line full of my own age group since I turned old enough to say "no, you can go right ahead". I hopefully wait in the back of the line with other vegetarians and some Jewish people on kosher diets. We chat, conspiring against the mass of cheese pizza hogging 7th graders, but, because we are the type of people who end up in the back of the line, no action ever comes of it. Our stomachs growl in unison, trying to provoke us into cutting. We all stand in a horizontal line in the back, no one in front or behind the other; an assembled mass of vegetarianism and mutted cries for cheese.

When we finally come to the front we hopefully peer into the buffet and then, finding no cheese, we move quitely along. We weren't even in line. Don't mind us.

Somehow we collect enough courage to confront the lunch lady who's expression was screaming "Don't make my job difficult!"

Us: "is there any cheese left?"

Lunch Lady: No.

Us: Will you be making anymore today?

Lunch Lady: No

Us: is there anything vegetarian?

Lunch Lady: You can pick off the sausage.

We all leave. We know that it leaves a taste and defeats the purpose. So we graze on the chips they sell.

I don't understand why the cafeteria even makes any sausage; everyone hates it. The pizza line concept makes no sense. The type of people who are vegetarians are usually the type that will let a hungry meat-eaters in front to take the coveted cheese pizza.

"No it's okay you can go right ahead"... ugh, curse my lack of assertiveness!

Anti-controversy-post-posting-note:

I have nothing against meat eaters, I apologize if I offended anyone. I'm a vegetarian for good reasons that I know thoroughly but I do not think meat-eaters are any worse than vegetarians. My vegetarianism was a personal decision so please do not judge me for it.

A Laugh With A Job

Part of my morning get-the-heck-out-of-bed routine involves the daily hunt for the comics. It is sometimes interesting to see what random place they've put them today. Some mornings it's nestled in between the depressing international news and the less depressing but still depressing local news, others it's wedged in between sports and entertainment.

This morning they were finally found in the classified section.They weren't just next to the classifieds, they were in the middle.Who decided to put them there? They must have a wild sense of humor. What is this person saying? If you have enough time to read the comics in this economy you should stop being lazy and get off you're butt and find a job.

Thank goodness for child labor laws. I have an excuse to read the comics, the rest is depressing and I'm only a kid.

I wonder if the organizer for our ever-thinning local paper enjoys his job. Maybe he reads the comics every morning and wants to find them where he could find a new job that does not require getting up early just so Bob can have his sports pages in order when he gets up.

Maybe the organizer guy/girl has an unemployed spouse or roomie and wanted to organize a message just for them.

I'm still not liking this guy.

Comics are so pure and innocent; an escape from the bad news that is printed on every other page. Why would someone spoil them with reality?

Maybe the paper organizer meant well, to give unemployed job-seeking people a break- to relax and read the funnies for a bit, but that is forcing the loyal comics reader to fish through pages where job opportunities usually are.

Yet another morning, the glass of O.J. is half empty.

Jersey Girl

My parents lived in Europe. Not just an overnight stay they lived there. While living there they had my older sister; who got to be born there. After having the exotic first born in Holland they moved back to the U.S. just to have me, the lesser second child.

They knew that I wasn't going to be as good of a child so they had to flee to New Jersey to have me so that I can be eternally punished for being born after my sister. Only cool babies are born abroad. That's right,I was born in New Jersey the famous "Garden State" that every one hears so much about. I have nothing personal against New Jersey I'm sure it is a fine state, but what type of parents let such a thing happen?

My sister's name is Holland, just to make it better. My mother claims it is a family name and that is the only reason for the name but I doubt it. I'm constantly reminded "Your sister was born in Holland" from every name tag she wears. I can be thankful that they didn't name me Jersey but it doesn't console the annoyance.

On her passport "The Netherlands" is printed under "Place of birth". She gets to say she was born in Holland. Who would not resent my birthplace in my situation?

As stated in my mother's blog on the same subject, I do believe they did it on purpose. I was not worthy of a foreign country; I was the second born.

The Perfect Tree

Its branches were firm and only the light leaves moved in the gentle breeze. With each swell of air the call became louder "Princessparkle, come and climb on my perfectly climbable branches". Unfortunately, I was hearing the call from the other side of the blinded windows in church on this Easter morning. I sat there, anchored to my spot on the red velvet cushion on the pew. I could barley see the choir anyway- the backs of children's tiny Easter bonnets and their mother's fancy up-dos were blocking my view. So I continued to stare longingly out the window. I had to squint to see through the layer of dead mosquito and pollen to see that beautiful tree.

I was planning the route: fist I'd jump to the lowest branch which could be a trunk by itself then I'd extend my right hand to the branch above and to the right simultaneously moving my leg up. It must be some weird childish instinct to want to climb things. Maybe the only reason I wanted to climb it so badly was I couldn't in my mostly white Easter outfit (which, by the way, is perfect for frolicking through flowery meadows or, for say, climbing a tree but I wasn’t allowed wearing it).

The tree just sat there squandering perfectly good hand and foot holds to just look good on the church lawn. I imagined myself in it, the wind brushing against my skirt as I sit triumphantly at the top. I would not be climbing on it; I’d be climbing in it- it was that big.

Who plants such a tempting tree just so it can bother children like me? I imagine they thought they were doing a good deed; planting a tree for a church, but who knew that it would grow to be the most beautiful, climbable tree to grace this good city? Maybe they even planned it; "Now children, this, this tree right here, you will never get the opportunity to climb.". The loud Alleluia chorus was muffed by the taunting calls the tree, amplified by the wind. A child cried over the chorus and I didn't even look to see how adorable it was; I was hypnotized.

I bet that magnolia is standing in that spot right now, lonely, and climberless. I can almost here it begging for a climber…

SAT

SAT. Must I say more? I must, because if I didn’t the hypothetical question would be weird and I would be slandering my reputation. Just saying it makes me feel so college-ish “SAT SAT SAT” ps (princess sparkle) mutters to herself with a smile. I should be sitting in some poetry reading and snapping softly in one hand while casually sipping on cheap coffee.

But unfortunately my hopes of Starbucks and poetry did not come true. Instead, I was embraced with purse-whacking, “My kid is a genius” bumper sticker-sticking, class schedule changing mothers and their children who cower in fear at such a large collection of moms like theirs.My father and I were baffled by the swarming crowd of honors students. We scuttle away to my testing room where a class full of horrified children sat, number two pencils in their shaking hands. My father leaves, might as well be leaving me with a pride of lions. I extend my quivering hand to the test monitor holding my photo id- my passport. The smiling about to go to France me stares up at the man. If I had known at that time what evil process I would have to endure with it I would have cried for that picture.

The children filed in in the same terrified fashion I did; mothers asking questions that aggravated the testing easily aggravated guy. The test guy who never offered us his name was shorter than my proud 5’3’’. His eyebrow(s?) covered most of his eyes which were magnified by his glasses that were those that any archetypal nerd or 80s dweller would be proud to wear, making him look like he has two large brown but graying parasites for eyes.I slid in to the nearest desk so I would have an escape route. Mr. Parasite was naming off names alphabetically and pointing to desks for each name. When my name came along he pointed to the cobwebbiest corner to ever befoul itself upon mankind. I felt like I was Scrooge watching the ghost of Christmas future point to his grave when I looked at his pudgy hand sticking out of his formal blue collard long sleeved shirt. Eventually the whole room was filled“If anybody is left-handed will you like to sit in the left hand desk?” boomed Mr. Parasite in a surprisingly masculine voice. I was surprised he would be so considerate but then I glanced at “the” left hand desk which was in the evil unkept corner adjacent to my evil unkept corner.

He droned on the SAT tester script and informed us the usual “How to correctly fill in an answer choice” drill that we will learn and have learned ever school day of our lives. They don’t even allow us to call them bubbles: that would be letting us have way too much fun.

We filled our names and other information that I wonder what use they will ever have for.We started the test and the clock ticked louder that any other. The blank white walls suddenly became interesting and the paper on my desk was like a speck of dust. I looked around at all the other children who were hunched over their test in deep concentration. I noticed Mr. Parasite was writing on something using his left hand periodically looking at his stopwatch he set to decimate in 25 minutes. My comfy sweat shirt that doubled as a blanket made me scorching though it was room temperature just moments ago.

I was panicking.

Between each section we had 10 minute breaks where we went out into the hall and ate Cheese Nips. These were awkward occasions where we were monitored by another test monitor person because we were not aloud to talk. I was the only girl who did not bring a Vera Bradley lunchbox to cradle her delicate cheese nips. This did not bother me I was proud of my bag but the uniform-ness just annoyed me.

Now, that it is over all I have to say for the acronym is:

SAT…bleh.

What I'm not Buying This Weekend:

Life in the Short Lane’s Margo (also my mother) thought of a brilliant idea to frugally buy stuff without money! In reality, we’re not actually “buying” anything, but it’s just as fun! Well I had to adopt my mother’s idea- how could I ever lose the opportunity to imagine myself adorned with all of the clothes I may never need but want insanely?

My first item is a beautiful dress. It’s price for people who don’t have blogs is $608.00.

Now I need something for my blog to wear with the dress so ($278.00):

To finish it off I need a bag ($68.00) to carry all of the babysitting money that I did not spend so:

Now I can say I've saved $954.00 this weekend. It feels great to help out with the economy!