I don’t know what is wrong with me but I can never type in my passwords right. I have various passwords and they are all different, but for some reason I always have to type them in twice because the first time I always get a tremor (of excitement? fear? rage?) or something. Does this happen to anyone else? Just with passwords? Usually my typing is pretty good, even though I never took “keyboarding” in high school. Do they still teach that in high school? It seems really old school, that whole idea. Especially when I am in the library and seeing little elementary school kids typing up a storm with their teeny tiny fingers like they are scary robot children. If you ever wanted to play a practical joke on me, send a little kid into the library and have them type really fast while saying “beep boop beep” or some such, with a glassy Kardashian stare. I will freak out, maybe noticeabley, if you’re lucky.
I am so helpful, giving you advice like that.
So I was going to try and post a photo essay yesterday to join in on Photo Essay Tuesday, but I just can’t be bogged down with scheduling my posts like that. It’s a wonder I can get into my blog at all (it’s password protected you see) and spewing forth such tasty golden blog niblets such as hey-I-can’t-type-my-password-it-is-so-riveting is just about all I can do.
So it’s not Tuesday. And I don’t have any new photos to share. (Does Photo Essay Tuesday have to be current photos? I don’t get the rules). But it is Thursday! And I have totally out of date photos! How’s that?
Check this out.
This photo is awesome for one reason. That reason is that it was taken MOMENTS before all hell broke loose. I am talking seconds. Can you feel the tension?
First of all, the players. That’s me in the green t-shirt there. I would say I was about three. Even so, I remember this moment like it was yesterday because I am an idiot-savant (heavy on the idiot) when it comes to childhood memories, as you well know. The girl right next to me that looks like she is about to explode with wrath was named Seema. The other girl was named Deepa. I think they were sisters, although I am not sure about that. I don’t remember the boy’s name. We were in Seema/Deepa’s house in Fiji. My family was there for the summer and their parents were friends of my parents.
When you’re a little tiny kid in Fiji, and your parents take you to someone’s house, you are thrown into the middle of whatever little kid gang that household has. It doesn’t matter if you have never seen those kids before in your life, you are told to “go play” and the grownups leave you to go about your business, pretty much unattended. Even if the house that you are visiting doesn’t have kids, there are inevitabley some kids somewhere in the neighborhood, and those kids will have heard through the village grapevine that new playmate meat has arrived, and they will show up and you are expected to run off and play with them. Saying no thanks is not an option.
Most of the time I was ok with this arrangement, as any chance I had to get away from my brothers who were just looking for ways to terrorize me was fine with me. But this time? I was kind of leery of Seema and Deepa. They seemed…off. Look at that photo. Look at the fear in my eyes. “Hey photo-taker,” I am thinking, “I am trying to act nonchalant but on my signal let’s you and me get out of here before these two go apeshit and wipe the floor with me.”
Photo taker (who must have been my mom or dad) was not picking up what I was putting down. They turned around and left the room. And as soon as they did? THOSE FUCKERS WENT NUTS. I distinctly remember that Deepa wanted the ribbon out of my hair. And when I said I didn’t know how to untie it, she started to beat the crap out of me.
You think that’s bad? Well Seema wanted a piece of the action too, and unlucky for me, Seema was a BITER. She bit my face! MY FACE, people. Like Hannibal Lechter. I don’t remember yelling anything out, but in my imagination when I remember it, I picture myself saying something like “NOT THE FACE! NOT THE FACE!”
Little kid violence, people. What is up with that?? It’s right there, under the surface. Next time someone tries to tell you about the innocence of children, feel free to refer them to this oh-so-cute photo and tell them about my face being the main course in this buffet of pain.
Apparently (although I don’t remember this part), I broke free of this peewee melee and ran off to find the grownups. “Sanctuary!” I yelled at them. Ok, no I didn’t, but that’s only because I didn’t know that word back then.
When my parents tell this story (which always comes up when this photo is seen by anyone in my family), they always talk about how I came tearing into the room screaming “Deepa hit me and Seema bit me! Deepa hit me and Seema bit me!” and this makes both my parents, usually the dearest, sweetest, most gentle parents anyone could ask for, almost cry with laughter. “It was like a siren! A rhyming siren! A siren POEM!” they laugh.
I admit I find this ridiculously funny too. Which is kind of messed up.
But that photo! I can’t help it. It’s funny.