I'm an RA again!

Last week Thursday, I was able to return to school and begin Winter Training the next day. I was very excited for this opportunity. I have greatly missed much of what being an RA is. I feel more socialized with everyone else living on my floor, as well as a greater connection to the rest of the building. I get to plan and design programs, make door decorations, and put up bulletin boards. I know at times this may get to be stressful, but I am still simply so excited about it all.
Also, my car ended up in the ditch again. I had some pretty bad tires on my car, and driving through the snow was not a safe feeling. It may have taken me about 4 hours to drive from Sheboygan to Green Bay, but a portion of that was pushing my car out of the ditch, as well as pulling off in Manitowoc and scheduling an appointment at Fleet Farm to get my tires replaced upon getting to Green Bay. The other 2 1/2 hours were spent driving 40 miles an hour. I'm very glad that there were no other drivers going north on old CR, otherwise I would have annoyed a vast number of people. I am glad to say that I now have excellent new tires on my car, that I don't start drifting whenever I sneeze while driving in a straight line, and that I feel far safer and much more secure. I heartily advise everyone to keep their tires in great condition, especially as the weather turns.
I like stories. Do you like stories? I hope so, because I want to tell a story of my childhood each time I blog now. Today's story begins with a recollection brought about during RA training. We were told to give a depiction of our families; either write or draw about them, and describe them to our groups. I drew three things; a croquet mallet, a croquet ball, and a croquet wicket. When I think of my what my family was like when I was a child, I most vividly remember two things, and both involved tears. First, that we were spanked as children, though not nearly as much as we deserved. We were loud, boisterous, and often fairly misbehaved little demons for a number of years. My brother and I shared a room, and mother or father slept in the room next to us. Come 10:30, Tommy and I would get in a row, or start laughing without restraint. The first few times this occurred, we were scolded only. We began to recognize that we were still able to shriek as midnight grew closer with nearly no repercussions. This is when we began to really get to know the Bible. It was a large-print Bible, the King James edition, with a supple, soft leather cover with gold lettering embossed on the front. It was  heavy book, but also flexible. My dad read from it every night before going to bed, and as he rose each morning. It was marked, dog eared, highlighted, with references and thoughts and inspirations written in the margins. It was also able to imprint the words 'Holy Bible' on our butt cheeks when swung just right. My mother's choice of tool was a wooden spoon. They no longer sat in the utensil's section of our cupboards, but lay within easy reach of her bed as she rose to once again quiet us down. Let me point out something I think is very, VERY important; I do not believe that I was once an abused child. I was disciplined. There is a very important distinction. Judging from the stories my grandfather told us of his childhood, I was downright coddled compared to the nuns that used to show him that a ruler was intended not from measuring, but for handing out welts to students hands, butts, and the backside of their cranium. Moving on with the story, though, we were near every night becoming more acquainted with the word of God (unfortunately without reading it) as well as cooking implements (without the bonus of licking cookie dough off the tools afterwards). The problem was that I had a pain thresh hold as a child that would make a full grown bull gorilla pale in comparison. I shrugged off a lot of physical punishment from my brother in 'friendly' games of football (he was 5 years my senior, so it was like pitting little league against a Division I power house in my mind), so spankings never did much for me, but they wouldn't stop until we proved we were repentant of our disruptive deeds. Tommy and I developed the uncanny ability to cry. It is a skill I have since lost, but I could cry on cue to stop a spanking. I also broke more than a dozen wooden spoons on my butt, however my dad still studies from the same Bible.
The second story is a far brighter one. My family would play croquet. It was a marvelous game, and I am not certain we followed the exact rules of the game, but we played. Within 20 minutes, tempers would begin to smolder, and less than three turns later, someone would quit. yet we still (mostly) enjoyed this game. One day, my brother Tommy and I were playing. It was just the two of us, and I was on a roll. He went first, and he made to just through wicket four, the one in the middle of the course. I came through the two initial two wickets, soared through the third, knocked it through the fourth, and collided with my brother's ball in the process. So at this point I had a decision to make. I had at least two hits now (one for the wicket, and at least one for hitting Tom's ball). I could either knock his ball flying and take the single additional hit (meaning two from where I now resided) or leave his ball be, and have two hits (meaning three from where I was). I quickly formulated a plan. I aligned my ball with his, and gently knocked his a few feet. Tom looked at me, surprise in his eyes, and said 'That wasn't that bad. Thanks'... well, he said something of that sort, anyway. So I used my two hits, got through wicket five, and had one more to go... and Tom's ball was perfectly in line for me. I knocked into his ball again, but left it laying to take two additional hits to score on the post, then came back through and hit is ball again, knocked it between wickets 10 and 11 (and wicket 11 is also wicket 4, if you are following closely), went through 10, hit his ball again, knocked it between 11 and 12, went through 12, hit his again, knocked him between 12 and 13 (which is also wicket 2), through 12, hit his, then went through 13 and 14 to win in one single turn. I began to celebrate, but such activity was cut short when something remarkably hard made contact with the back of my head. It was not, as you may be suspecting, a croquet mallet. No. It was the ball. You see, a mallet has a bit of rubber on the end to soft blows. The ball doesn't. I fell to the ground with the impact, and began to cry (ON CUE) as I reached back to feel a large lump forming about the base of my skull. I pulled my fingers away to find blood dripping down my digits. At this point, I was actually crying. Tommy, somewhat apologetic, got me an ice pack as an apology. We played croquet again the next day.
Stayed tuned for next week's story of "The Lumpy Haircut" and "How I Got Screwed"!

Old News Thursday

So the last post I made regarding our decrepit dog, Jenna. It is with a heavy heart I tell you she passed. We took her to the vet, and they claimed she was the most peaceful animal they had ever worked with. They also want her picture for their offices. It is very, very sad, so I, of course, try and not think about it.
To lift spirits a bit relative to the nasty feelings many of you may be feeling, I have brighter news. I learned a song on piano. Now, I have claimed to have little to no musical talent, so I am very, VERY proud to say that it took me 12 hours (many of them spent eating, sleeping, and playing video games) to learn to play 'Say Something' by A Great Big World. I feel far more accomplished than I did upon waking up.
Also, I have a throwback story. When I was a child I enjoyed running. I mean, I really liked it. I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was 10 because I figured I could run everywhere. The only reason I eventually learned to ride was so that I could have a motorcycle when I grew up. Anyway, I used to  race my mom to the corner. She would pull out of the driveway, line up, and we would take off for the corner. It used to be my thing with my mom. I loved it... and then I forgot about it. So the other morning, after another nice snow, I was up before the buttcrack of dawn to clear our driveway of snow, and move the cars so my mom could leave. I am in a rather foul mood at this point. I walk back across the street as my mom backs out, and as she starts to drive away she yells out her window "race you to the corner!" It wasn't until she was already there that I remembered our races. It cheered me up a great deal.
The last news I have is regarding dinner; I made it. I made ribs, a nice salad, and rice. It was delicious! The meat was falling off the bone, the tomatoes were nice and juicy, the cheeses tasty, the rice soft yet not mushy. It was a wonderful meal, and it was all my doing! I ain't some good for nothing kid! I can cook!