My stocking is hung!
Here is my fandom stocking. Where are yours? I'd so much rather write for people I know than people I don't know.
How are your holidays going? Mine have thus far been a torturous orgy of family dysfunction. I've decided to put myself up for adoption. Can you do that when you're 32? I think there should be an agency for that. Available for adoption: 32-year-old. Would like to resolve family conflicts through open communication. Shows love through delicious home cooking. Occasionally snarky, lots of interesting travel stories, not likely to provide you with biological grandchildren. Don't apply if you can't be nice.
I didn't forget about that topics meme...I just forgot I was supposed to post something on December 15. fannishliss asked me what my first happy memory and my first sad memory were.
That question is really hard for me because I can tell you some of my first memories, but not the emotions I associated with them. I am sure that things made me sad when I was very young, but I can't really say what they are, nor can I pinpoint my first happy memory. My answers are things that happened when I was little, but whether they're the first or third or seventeenth or two hundred and eleventh happy or sad memory is beyond me.
A time I can remember being very happy when I was little was when my mom made Cornish hens for dinner. I was the pickiest eater, so much so that I used to actually gag when I had to eat vegetables. Of course, my parents wanted me to eat healthily, so dinner time became a torturous ordeal. All I wanted to eat was tortillas with a thin coating of butter -- unless my mom made Cornish hens. If you haven't had them before, they are teeny tiny little chickens, and having one on your plate feels quite special and pleasing. Whatever my mom stuffed inside them, I ate happily, even wild rice, which I loathed almost as much as vegetables. I would tear them apart with my tiny fingers, and even when I was small, I could easily down a whole chicken. Then I would beg and beg my mom to make them again, which she did because she had gotten a bounty of them at the grocery store for fifty cents each.
A sad memory when I was little was when my little sister peed on my favorite doll. Her name was Mandy, and she had a plastic head and limbs, but a cloth body. She had a red hat, a blue polka dot dress, and tiny red patent leather shoes. When my sister was newly potty trained, she squatted over Mandy, and I started screaming that she was about to pee. My mother told me she was just playing, but soon I heard a telltale hiss and the smell of urine filled the air. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed; I was so sure that she was ruined. Luckily, my mother managed to wash her on the gentle cycle with a plastic bag over the head to protect her painted face. Mandy was rescued, and it's not much of an exaggeration to say I barely put her down again.
How are your holidays going? Mine have thus far been a torturous orgy of family dysfunction. I've decided to put myself up for adoption. Can you do that when you're 32? I think there should be an agency for that. Available for adoption: 32-year-old. Would like to resolve family conflicts through open communication. Shows love through delicious home cooking. Occasionally snarky, lots of interesting travel stories, not likely to provide you with biological grandchildren. Don't apply if you can't be nice.
I didn't forget about that topics meme...I just forgot I was supposed to post something on December 15. fannishliss asked me what my first happy memory and my first sad memory were.
That question is really hard for me because I can tell you some of my first memories, but not the emotions I associated with them. I am sure that things made me sad when I was very young, but I can't really say what they are, nor can I pinpoint my first happy memory. My answers are things that happened when I was little, but whether they're the first or third or seventeenth or two hundred and eleventh happy or sad memory is beyond me.
A time I can remember being very happy when I was little was when my mom made Cornish hens for dinner. I was the pickiest eater, so much so that I used to actually gag when I had to eat vegetables. Of course, my parents wanted me to eat healthily, so dinner time became a torturous ordeal. All I wanted to eat was tortillas with a thin coating of butter -- unless my mom made Cornish hens. If you haven't had them before, they are teeny tiny little chickens, and having one on your plate feels quite special and pleasing. Whatever my mom stuffed inside them, I ate happily, even wild rice, which I loathed almost as much as vegetables. I would tear them apart with my tiny fingers, and even when I was small, I could easily down a whole chicken. Then I would beg and beg my mom to make them again, which she did because she had gotten a bounty of them at the grocery store for fifty cents each.
A sad memory when I was little was when my little sister peed on my favorite doll. Her name was Mandy, and she had a plastic head and limbs, but a cloth body. She had a red hat, a blue polka dot dress, and tiny red patent leather shoes. When my sister was newly potty trained, she squatted over Mandy, and I started screaming that she was about to pee. My mother told me she was just playing, but soon I heard a telltale hiss and the smell of urine filled the air. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed; I was so sure that she was ruined. Luckily, my mother managed to wash her on the gentle cycle with a plastic bag over the head to protect her painted face. Mandy was rescued, and it's not much of an exaggeration to say I barely put her down again.