COLLEGE TIEMZ.
You've heard the rumors, now see the legend that is... THE OSCAR MAYER WIENER ESSAY.
---
Ever since I was a child, I would curl up in front of the television to take care of my need for cartoons, which contained a sort of humor both disturbing and beloved. There were always commercials poked in between Saturday morning Fairly Oddparents and Spongebob, yet despite the ads for Barbies, Tyco racecars (“That’s how you spell RC!”), and robotic pets, there was one commercial in particular that always caught my eye.
“Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener
That is what I truly want to be
'Cause if I were an Oscar Mayer wiener
Everyone would be in love with me.”
For years, I would brush it off as a snappy jingle and nothing more. But recently the tune has started to grow on me, and I cannot deny it any longer. All I really want to be is an Oscar Mayer wiener.
It seems absurd, I know. All the other kids want to grow up to be something big, like astronauts, video game designers, or Presidents of the United States. But here I am, a girl who can’t think of anything that would be more worthwhile than becoming an Oscar Mayer Wiener. The confession has earned many a strange look, coupled with a bewildered, “Why? Why don’t you want to be something normal, like an astronaut or video game designer or President of the United States?”
The reason is simple: a wiener cannot feel pain, or sorrow, or hatred. They are loving foodstuffs. Their only desire is to provide their eater with a satisfying meal. They carry no prejudices, no petty dislikes of anyone or anything. Perhaps that is what I admire about them.
As a child in the fifth grade, I learned to hate my peers because it made me safe. If I hated them, then I could always be on my guard when they came near, and I would not be tricked or hurt. It was a sham of a fortress that I created for myself to hide in, made of rage and frustration and acute self-loathing for letting myself fall under Untouchable categories such as different and weird.
Yet an Oscar Mayer wiener does not need hate to guard itself. It merely sits, serene as the Buddha, in its bun. It does not need safety because the ultimate goal is one of supreme protection: the belly of a hungry human.
I would like to live like that. I would like to be fully comfortable with myself in my entirety, from my flesh to my heritage to my core. No longer am I the scared girl who hated my school with a violence unnatural for a ten-year-old. In fact, I’m happier than most adolescents, with friends who appreciate my oddities and a family who supports me as best as they can. But whether I like it or not, that girl from middle school still lurks within me. Were I to become a wiener, I believe that she will leave forever, and I will be free to enjoy life for what it is.
---
And now, the personal narrative. This was actually for a grade, but I don't know how I did on it yet.
---
Usually when a girl gets attached to a piece of jewelry, it’s her grandmother’s locket, or a pair of earrings that her boyfriend bought on their one-month anniversary. We treasure these things because they remind us of love, and in that respect, I am no different from the girl with the locket or the earrings. It is the piece itself that is the odd one: a dog collar, complete with a tag and a ribbon.
The collar is more comfortable than one would think. It rests just above my collarbone, and if it weren’t for the tag, which jangles audibly at every opportunity, then I’d hardly notice that I’m wearing it at all. Unfortunately however, I’m a sap. I like knowing that it’s there, because to me, it’s made of more than just nylon and metal.
It began with my best friend, whose name I must disguise with one of her favorite songs, since bad luck seems to follow whenever I acknowledge that someone has managed buried him- or herself into my heart. Iris, as we’ll call her, lives a two-hour drive away. Through the magic of halfway-point rest stops, we get to see each other once in a while, and it was during one of those visits that we went to the mall. I had a collar already, black leather with small, flat studs. Bought at a tiny shop in Serbia, it could have passed for knockoff Hot Topic merchandise, but after wearing it for a couple of years, it was cracked and rusty. I needed a new one. Thus, I hit the pet store. When I picked up a bright blue dog collar, Iris informed me that I was a freak, but she loved me anyway. I agreed, but who was she to call me a freak, when she was the one obsessed with a rock star easily 30 years her senior? This was our truce.
Fast forward a couple of years later and I hadn’t worn that collar much, nor was I planning on it. But another friend, who’ll be known as Summertime, surprised me with a pink, bone-shaped tag that she’d had engraved with my name. My birthday wouldn’t have been for another three months-she did this for no other reason than “I thought of you.” As soon as I found that out, I was dumbstruck. There was this funny twinge in my chest that I had never felt before, and every short joke I’d ever used on her flew right out of my head. Out came the blue collar again, and on went the tag.
Then came the ribbon, even if I don’t remember where I found it. The only thing I do recall was how it was such an enticing shade of grey-dove-grey, or ash-that I kept it like the magpie I am. It was only recently that I decided to do something with it once and for all, and tied it onto my collar. Quirky, I had been telling myself. Dress quirkily. And this, I thought, was certainly quirky enough. After two years of being hostile and wearing nothing but various incarnations of black, I was in the process of resolving my irrational anger and re-discovering color. This collar, which would match nothing,-and thus, everything-was the perfect solution.
It is impossible to wear my collar without thinking of Iris, Summertime, and the promise of quirky fashion. Like I said, I am a magpie. A packrat of memories. I collect knickknacks and faces and habits, often for no better reason than they glint attractively in the light. But everything has a memory attached to it, whether it is monstrous summer heat, phone calls at midnight, or a distinctive laugh. Iris can flick my collar and once again call me a freak, but neither of us would have it any other way. Summertime knows that I detest the color pink, yet I wear it proudly on my neck because she gave it to me, and she knows that, too.
This is part of what love is like, I imagine. Not the romantic, dinner-by-candlelight love, but love between friends: something far less complicated, yet infinitely more vast.
---
Ever since I was a child, I would curl up in front of the television to take care of my need for cartoons, which contained a sort of humor both disturbing and beloved. There were always commercials poked in between Saturday morning Fairly Oddparents and Spongebob, yet despite the ads for Barbies, Tyco racecars (“That’s how you spell RC!”), and robotic pets, there was one commercial in particular that always caught my eye.
“Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener
That is what I truly want to be
'Cause if I were an Oscar Mayer wiener
Everyone would be in love with me.”
For years, I would brush it off as a snappy jingle and nothing more. But recently the tune has started to grow on me, and I cannot deny it any longer. All I really want to be is an Oscar Mayer wiener.
It seems absurd, I know. All the other kids want to grow up to be something big, like astronauts, video game designers, or Presidents of the United States. But here I am, a girl who can’t think of anything that would be more worthwhile than becoming an Oscar Mayer Wiener. The confession has earned many a strange look, coupled with a bewildered, “Why? Why don’t you want to be something normal, like an astronaut or video game designer or President of the United States?”
The reason is simple: a wiener cannot feel pain, or sorrow, or hatred. They are loving foodstuffs. Their only desire is to provide their eater with a satisfying meal. They carry no prejudices, no petty dislikes of anyone or anything. Perhaps that is what I admire about them.
As a child in the fifth grade, I learned to hate my peers because it made me safe. If I hated them, then I could always be on my guard when they came near, and I would not be tricked or hurt. It was a sham of a fortress that I created for myself to hide in, made of rage and frustration and acute self-loathing for letting myself fall under Untouchable categories such as different and weird.
Yet an Oscar Mayer wiener does not need hate to guard itself. It merely sits, serene as the Buddha, in its bun. It does not need safety because the ultimate goal is one of supreme protection: the belly of a hungry human.
I would like to live like that. I would like to be fully comfortable with myself in my entirety, from my flesh to my heritage to my core. No longer am I the scared girl who hated my school with a violence unnatural for a ten-year-old. In fact, I’m happier than most adolescents, with friends who appreciate my oddities and a family who supports me as best as they can. But whether I like it or not, that girl from middle school still lurks within me. Were I to become a wiener, I believe that she will leave forever, and I will be free to enjoy life for what it is.
---
And now, the personal narrative. This was actually for a grade, but I don't know how I did on it yet.
---
Usually when a girl gets attached to a piece of jewelry, it’s her grandmother’s locket, or a pair of earrings that her boyfriend bought on their one-month anniversary. We treasure these things because they remind us of love, and in that respect, I am no different from the girl with the locket or the earrings. It is the piece itself that is the odd one: a dog collar, complete with a tag and a ribbon.
The collar is more comfortable than one would think. It rests just above my collarbone, and if it weren’t for the tag, which jangles audibly at every opportunity, then I’d hardly notice that I’m wearing it at all. Unfortunately however, I’m a sap. I like knowing that it’s there, because to me, it’s made of more than just nylon and metal.
It began with my best friend, whose name I must disguise with one of her favorite songs, since bad luck seems to follow whenever I acknowledge that someone has managed buried him- or herself into my heart. Iris, as we’ll call her, lives a two-hour drive away. Through the magic of halfway-point rest stops, we get to see each other once in a while, and it was during one of those visits that we went to the mall. I had a collar already, black leather with small, flat studs. Bought at a tiny shop in Serbia, it could have passed for knockoff Hot Topic merchandise, but after wearing it for a couple of years, it was cracked and rusty. I needed a new one. Thus, I hit the pet store. When I picked up a bright blue dog collar, Iris informed me that I was a freak, but she loved me anyway. I agreed, but who was she to call me a freak, when she was the one obsessed with a rock star easily 30 years her senior? This was our truce.
Fast forward a couple of years later and I hadn’t worn that collar much, nor was I planning on it. But another friend, who’ll be known as Summertime, surprised me with a pink, bone-shaped tag that she’d had engraved with my name. My birthday wouldn’t have been for another three months-she did this for no other reason than “I thought of you.” As soon as I found that out, I was dumbstruck. There was this funny twinge in my chest that I had never felt before, and every short joke I’d ever used on her flew right out of my head. Out came the blue collar again, and on went the tag.
Then came the ribbon, even if I don’t remember where I found it. The only thing I do recall was how it was such an enticing shade of grey-dove-grey, or ash-that I kept it like the magpie I am. It was only recently that I decided to do something with it once and for all, and tied it onto my collar. Quirky, I had been telling myself. Dress quirkily. And this, I thought, was certainly quirky enough. After two years of being hostile and wearing nothing but various incarnations of black, I was in the process of resolving my irrational anger and re-discovering color. This collar, which would match nothing,-and thus, everything-was the perfect solution.
It is impossible to wear my collar without thinking of Iris, Summertime, and the promise of quirky fashion. Like I said, I am a magpie. A packrat of memories. I collect knickknacks and faces and habits, often for no better reason than they glint attractively in the light. But everything has a memory attached to it, whether it is monstrous summer heat, phone calls at midnight, or a distinctive laugh. Iris can flick my collar and once again call me a freak, but neither of us would have it any other way. Summertime knows that I detest the color pink, yet I wear it proudly on my neck because she gave it to me, and she knows that, too.
This is part of what love is like, I imagine. Not the romantic, dinner-by-candlelight love, but love between friends: something far less complicated, yet infinitely more vast.