A Moroccan Dune Buggy

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Whenever I say that my family moved every two or three years, people always ask if my father was in the military. I guess that's a better assumption than, oh, "Was your father running away from the IRS just like Willie Nelson?" but it's still wrong. My father worked in construction as a civil engineer, meaning that once a hospital or nuclear power plant was built in one city he couldn't exactly build another hospital or plant in that same city. Hence, we moved.

One year he volunteered for an overseas placement and took my mother and I to Tangier, Morocco. Since none of my grandparents ever flew on an airplane and only one of my eight aunts and uncles have ever left the country (to my knowledge), you can imagine the idea of taking a four year-old to AFRICA was a pretty stunning revelation. I wish I could have been there as the "We are moving to AFRICA" speech was given over a dinner of BBQ chicken, mashed potatoes, and lima beans. Imagine the sweat running down the side of a glass of sweat tea as everyone pictured malaria, yellow fever, and Muslims. A few other people calmly asked "Is that where Princess Grace lived?" because Monaco and Morocco sound so the same. All negativity aside, this move meant I got to do awesome things like riding a camel on the beach, as pictured above.

According to my mother, she and I were innocently walking about on the beach when this man approached her. Without so much as asking for permission he smiled and plopped me down in between the camel's humps and started to walk away with me. Since we were going to the beach my mom thankfully had her camera and was able to snap a few photos of the utterly random incident. However, since were just going to the beach my mother did not have much money on hand. She says she worried that he might not let me down until she paid, even though she hadn't asked for my camel ride in the first place.

All I can remember about the incident was how strange it felt to ride a camel. You have to sit with your torso turned sideways to hold onto a handle on the front and back of the saddle, which means your body is twisted into a position that, at least for a four year-old, really does not promote balance. Riding a camel is like an off-kilter washing machine jerking back and forth, only in slow motion and up in the air. Luckily the man accepted the few dirhams my mom had on her and I was returned safely, though probably just a little bit smellier. It was definitely worth it since it made for quite an awesome picture.

Highly Suggestible Personalities and Horror

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If the timing is right (let's say, it's night) or my surroundings are just so (let's say they are unfamiliar and I am alone) then I can be one highly suggestible person when it comes to horror movies. The problem with that is that I LOVE them and will therefore continue to watch them, no matter how many paranoid nights I spend refusing to turn my back against a door or huddled deep within the sheets of my bed. Oh, did I say my surroundings had to be unfamiliar? Scratch that.

When I traveled to Japan for a few weeks in the summer of 2005, the movie The Grudge had been out for about 9 months, but had seen it recently at the free ECU theater where movies go sometime between theatrical and DVD release. Therefore it was fresh enough on my mind to give me the willies in my single-occupancy hotel room every night. If I had woken up and seen someone standing over my bed or if the air conditioning vent made that "a-a-a-a-a" sound, then I would have been all screams and flailing fists.

Before it was a messy-haired dead Japanese woman that haunted me it was a bat-eared vampire from the 1929 German movie Nosferatu. Yes, in high school I would always imagine him waiting just outside my door whenever I had to venture from the light of my room through the dark hallway. I don't care how ridiculous that might seem and I stand beside my belief that he is effing terrifying, even in silent movie form. I mean the actor who played him has the last name Schreck, which means fear and scariness in German!

And yet something even more frightening came before either of these. Please tell me that someone out there remembers "Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark" and its many sequels. I stumbled upon this nightmare-fodder in elementary school and sometimes had to read the tales while covering up the illustrations. This is what waited outside of my bedroom door should I dare venture to the bathroom at night. He was supposed to be the last thing you saw before you died...*shudders*

Just do an image search on the name of that book, I freakin' dare you. I actually checked over my shoulder TWICE while looking through these pictures and it is broad daylight. Even though I am an adult who prides herself on thinking rationally, I have a feeling I just ruined my chances for sleep tonight...

My Second Hangover

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I should either count myself as lucky that I have only suffered four big hangovers in my life or lament the fact that I never learned my lesson after the first one. My first serious hangover was a result of mixing way too many types of liquor at a double-birthday party. The third came from drinking a liter of beer and then sharing a bottle of vodka with a Russian. The fourth came from drinking two liters of beer after who knows how much rum at Stuttgart's Fruehlingsfest. Yet by and large my second hangover was the worst in my life and therefore is today's story. Keep in mind this was after I swore I would never be hungover again.

The photograph above is the last picture taken of me before my body turned on me.

It was January of 2006 and I was a junior at ECU. For some long-forgotten reason my boyfriend Allan and I had fought and I was in a terrible mood. My roomie Jenny was going to make a spur of the moment trip to the Outer Banks to visit our other roomie Jenna and somehow my pitiful self was invited along. I skipped dinner, left an immature away message on AIM stating that I was leaving the county (specifically to bug Allan), and we drove off to the beach.

Because I am a creative genius, this night at Kelly's Tavern I named Jenny and Jenna "Miguel" and "Eduardo," respectively, and declared them my kidnappers. We even took a picture with our hair as mustaches. My butt was photographed no less than twice, we met a wannabe rapper named Spazolla, and a regular named Howie tried to wrestle me more than once. Jenna's boyfriend Scotty, a bartender there, mooned us and we all took pictures. That might have been the end of the entire tale, if not for the key fact that I had skipped dinner...and lunch. Therefore my ONE drink and my ONE (or possibly two at the most) shot took me to a place I never want to go again; bent over the toilet at Jenna's parent's beach house for the next 10 hours.

Needless to say I wasn't enthusiastic when Scotty cooked us omelets for breakfast. Jenny should just be happy I didn't throw-up until I got to the toilet, since we had shared a bed. Oh, and Allan and I made up a few days later, no thanks to my shenanigans. The mustached picture of Eduardo, Miguel, and myself hung in our apartment for the next year and a half that we lived there.

Ghetto Cat vs. Possessive Boyfriend

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Though his name may sound dapper, Gatsby is probably one of the most ghetto abominations that a beige-town such as Cary has ever seen. He's rude (bites all guests), crude (licks you after gobbling down a roach), and undoubtedly destructive (five pairs of headphones in tatters and counting). And yet, somewhere beneath that angry fur is a swift bringer-of-justice that I just couldn't do without.

I mean, just look at that face...

The Story: My boyfriend at this time hated my cat and could not come to terms with him, despite the fact that two years of our relationship were spent with said animal in my home. Gatsby, in turn, held a special place in his black heart for my ex. I honestly think it was because the ex was jealous of the cat, but that really can't be explained in just this one entry.

One day, as often occurred, my ex visited me at home. When we went to my bedroom the door HAD to be wide open and my parents constantly busied themselves in the laundry room next door (that last part still happens and I am now 23). This boyfriend was 6'5"tall (just shy of 2 meters) and had size 13 US, 47 Euro feet. As impressive as those feet may have been, they were absolutely no match for Gatsby and his ninja-claws, which unbeknownst to us, were also spying on the high school lovebirds.

My ex plopped down on my bed and laid back, kicking his sock feet up in the air. But they were no longer just sock feet, or at least one wasn't. He was now also wearing my cat. Gatsby had been hiding underneath my bed for who knows how long and pounced when the opportune moment arose. He had his back claws sunk in around the heel, his front claws up at the ball of the foot, and his razor teeth were gnawing into my ex's toes as feverishly as possible. My ex thrashed the cat about for a few moments in the air until Gatsby either gave up or got tired of tasting feet. No blood was drawn.

Still, Gatsby won that round.