That Contagious Laugh - Ty Barnes

Dear Ty,

            The past few days have been excruciating for all of us. All day my mind wanders to “What if…?” that dreaded place everyone says not to go to. Yet, I know all of us have been there thinking "What if?". What could have been is on everyone’s mind or has been at least once. What if you weren’t on your bike and were in the truck? What if you took the freeway (even though that was totally out of the way)? What if we had made an effort that would have taken that night out of alignment and kept you here with us forever? But thinking like that gets us nowhere fast. And after the “What if’s?” are questioned in my mind, I have to remind myself of the things that were and have been and are.

            You would have loved last night, Ty. Honestly, even though we were all so sad, there were glimmers of smiles. I’d like to think you were there making us think of those silly times. We smiled for moments because you brought so much thrill to our lives that we couldn’t bear to have a sad memory when thinking of you until now. You have certainly left your mark on us, and so many stories we could talk about for hours. I had the privilege of knowing you since freshman year of high school. I remember that day perfectly because I scouted you out of a crowd and asked my friend Alis who you were. Quickly, my arm was grabbed and I was being hauled across the commons floor from that weird green statue thing to the area where they have the salad bar and doughy pizza. Alis introduced us and… you blew me off! I couldn’t believe it! I wish now I could say that it was love at first sight, but you really crushed my ego. I remember instant fury running through me. But I quietly walked away. To then meet you in biology class. I remember thinking, “this is great, I have to spend a whole year with this guy.” Immediately our personalities were not a fit, and I honestly don’t remember how they ended up fitting, but I am assuming one of the girls convinced you that I wasn’t all that bad. We ended up becoming friends and lighting erasers on fire with the Bunsen Burners together in the back of the class (which is about all of the terminology I remember from bio). Man, I felt like such a rebel with you!

I will never forget the crush I had on you…like every other girl! As us girls heard the news of your accident we sat and watched movies and drank box wine (which actually wasn’t that bad) and we each realized that we all had at one point or another been infatuated with you. Even though you chose many other girls over me, I will forgive you, you heartbreaker. I mean, how could girls not fall for you… you had your ears pierced, styled hair, and played the drums in a church band (which surpassed many of the other fine young bachelors in our grade)! I remember thinking to myself  “oh my gosh, he’s smoking hot, ANNDDDDD he loves Jesus!? Who is this guy?!” To answer who is this guy, we can all refer back to our memory banks. You are the guy who’s laugh was contagious. Who could hit girls in the back of the head at the lunch table, and make everyone laugh (even though hitting girls is wildly unacceptable to most people, but not our friends). You could dance the funniest way and make the most hideous faces, and girls would still love to dance with you. Dancing was something I remember so well about high school. You and the boys would get the filthiest faces, and dances together in the ugliest unison way possible. It was hideous, but hilarious. And the way you and the boys spoke to each other, it was like you had your own language. So grown up of course. I miss those days so much. I remember the days that high school felt like it was out of a movie. We would watch you guys crush other teams playing football on a Friday night, meanwhile we would tell one person that someone’s parents were out of town (usually mine) and then fleets of people would show up after the game ready to rage, for some until curfew, and for others, all night.

            I think that this is what’s making it easier for all of us to cope with, is the fact that we all shared such a bond, like a family. Even though it changed after high school and we all went our own ways, I felt like we could come home and see each other and still laugh about the same ridiculous things, and still act like hormonal little teenagers and talk about poop and farting (because blaming a poop or fart on a girl will always be funny.) I’d like to thank you for the simple fact that it is hard to look back on your life without laughing or cracking a smile. In even the hardest times you bring such light energy to the room.

Each time I drive by that space on Reid Road I will remind myself that life is short, but can be quite full because of you. You have made such a difference in so many peoples lives and have had so many adventures. It is easy to say that many of us want to live a life like you did. Even though it was short, yours seemed jam-packed full of adventure. You truly lived it up.

Don't forget to save me a spot up there. We love you so much.

With Love,

Tara

Ps. Can't wait to hear you sing that Jimmy Eat World song again, doing the finger drums on the dash. 

All Dogs Go To Heaven

            I am almost certain that all dogs go to heaven. But, if they don’t, then I’m not going. Yesterday left me drained yet restless, sad but at peace, hopeful and dimmed. Yesterday we said good-bye to our always-smiling pup, Jessie. Even until her last breath she was licking our faces, wagging her tail and giving handshakes. That’s just the kind of spirit she had, always tough and always trying to please us.

            Yesterday we were reminiscing on the past, thinking of the early days of our little warrior while holding our laboring dog. Not less than six months ago we were given the heart wrenching news that our dog Jessie had bone cancer. The veterinarian (whom I respect but still do not agree with) was eager to put her out of her misery that day. Stating she was in quite a bit of pain, and would only be living a few more bearable days. Not our Jessie! We couldn’t give her up, and in that respect, we were selfish, but how could anyone not give her life one more chance, one more shot at making it tolerable and maybe even comfortable? And, who are WE to judge what lives or dies? We can’t legally take a human’s life… so why can we take an animal’s? I am not trying to get into the mind of ethics, laws, or principles I am just baffled by right and wrong and grey areas.

            The past six months has been a triumph and a gift. We held her in our lives for those extra months on borrowed time according to statistics. I think that’s what makes this even worse of a feeling, knowing that her life was cut short by cancer, but was prolonged because of us. It’s confusing to say the least. The most important thing I will take from this is that she was born in our lives, and died in our arms. She’s the only thing I knew from start to finish. She was ours before she was even conceived. She was so special that we reserved her before the mothers breeding process even began. I am not saying that the love we have for our dog is more than other peoples love for there’s, I am saying that there is a connection far greater that people have with animals that sometimes even surpasses connections and emotional ties with humans. To this day I am not sure if I have ever come close to loving a lost person as much as I have loved my pets. 

            If you know me at all, then you know I am dying to be around my animals all day. I don’t think its weird. If people don’t understand the bond I was lucky enough to have with my dog, then I assume they don’t know the feeling of unconditional love, which is the best feeling in the world. Hands down.

So as I sit here trying to understand the reason why she had to leave us so early, I remember my quirky dog that loved hunting but hated the noise of fireworks and thunderstorms. I think back to the time she ran away so fast that one minute she was in the yard and the next she had made it to the other side of the bay running after seagulls. I can smile as I think of each time she greeted me at the door, howling and singing me her special greeting song. I think back to the times she welcomed me from my long drives home from college, not even holding it against me that I had been absent for so long. I think about the times I would run from her in the yard with a toy and jump onto the trampoline for safety and she would follow, effortlessly. Those are the times I want to take with me forever. I think of that day that we got her, picking between her and the only other “bitch”. I desperately wanted Jessie’s sister. Taylor, my brother knew that the droopy faced, perfect masked, and docile puppy had nothing "bitchy" about her, and should be ours. Today, I am so thankful it was her. I can't even imagine the past 11 years of my life without her.

            I think the only problem with dogs is that they don’t last long enough or that we last too long.

My Vagina's Monologue

            After taking a chocolate vanilla Dilly Bar straight to the face at Dairy Queen, my grandma recommended we use the restroom to clean my sticky fingers and slimy chocolate coated face and empty my bladder. As a very free spirited 4 year old I remember waltzing into the restroom with my grandma and heading straight for my private stall. As I was shutting the door my grandma reached her arm in and stopped it from shutting. Quickly she announced I needed to learn to make a toilet seat liner (a booty basket). Not knowing what she was talking about I remember her inviting herself into the restroom to teach me the artful ways of lining the toilet seat. I am sure she gave me reasons at the time that were far beyond my grasp as a youngster for why in the world one must use toilet paper to line the porcelain throne. I assume she rambled on about the terrors of splashing yourself with others’ piss, or the fears one should have of sitting on a pee sprinkled seat, or perhaps the always-terrifying chance of receiving a STD from contact with a toilet seat. To this day, my grandma has always been full of nifty tricks for sanitation and an investor in my propriety.

That being said, my apologies to you grandma for my lack of censorship of what I am about to express. (In the off chance that she actually may follow my blog)

But, on a brighter note and to my defense this could be taken as a PSA. Something informative. A call to action. This story may save lives (or female genitalia)! Or this could bring a smile to someone’s face. Who knows, there may be people out there who will get their jollies by my discomfort. Either way, I feel this story is meant to be told.

            While working at my internship my life seemed to slow down to the mundane. I simply drove to the Tacoma Dome station, hopped on the link transit, and headed down the road to the closest stop a few blocks from the office. The only thing keeping me on my toes seemed to be that Pacific Avenue has captured the hearts of many people with very diverse cultural backgrounds. What I am really getting at here is the fact that Pac. Ave is full of creeps! Knowing this, my dad equipped me with the necessary arsenal of two different forms of pepper spray. One shoots 15 ft! The other is for short distance nearly hand-to-hand combat situations where it would actually form a coating and stick to the predators face in a thick lathery form. Another form of defense happens to be a pen to the average eye, however it is the most terrifying form of weapon in my little side bag. Thanks to my brothers’ love for martial arts, and the fact that I am actually terrible with my ninja stars (which I received for my 21^st birthday from the guy), I was also well equipped with a pen that turned into a knife to better shank the shit out of my attacker. Knowing that I had my personal anti rape kit in my bag provided me with a sense of a vaginal force field.

            After I got off the Link I would open stride to a nearly Olympic pace speed walk. My super high heals would clip-clop along, glancing over my shoulders desperately, making sure no one was hot on my trail. I would reach my office building elevator and slyly and somewhat embarrassed, unlace my keys acting as brass knuckles from between each of my fingers, simultaneously taking my right hand out of my side compartment where I kept my weaponry and tampons. Each day my routine seemed simple, I would walk to my desk, set up by turning my computer on, open my email, and step away while I waited for it to load and head to the bathroom to pee and check myself in the mirror to make sure the summers heat didn’t melt my face. Then I’d head back to my desk and start entering names of VIP’s in the company database.

            On one particular day, just like any other, I sat at my desk and reached into my bag to grab some lip-gloss. Lathering my lips while I tapped my toes in boredom, I then went to the restroom to make sure I didn’t get sticky bubbles and bumps on my lips. While in the bathroom I decided I should pee and perform my feminine duties due to the time of the month (trust me, its not too much information because it goes with the story). I dug my hand into the side pocket of my purse, brushing against my armory of pepper sprays and shanks, and grabbed the plastic wrapped cylinder. Once I was through, I pulled up my atrocious business nylons and underwear and tucked in my pinstriped blouse, pulling my pencil skirt up and over the tucked in apparel, forming a seamlessly professional ensemble. I then washed my hands took a peak at myself in the mirror and headed back to the front desk where I would sit to greet businessmen and women. I sat smiling typing away at my desk, loving the freedom of creativity they left available to me, when all of a sudden the worst feeling in the world came over me.

-FIRE!- (Down there!)

            Instantly I felt my face grow red as I tried to position myself differently hoping it would help. I sat there; squirming for about two or three minutes, then dashed towards the bathroom. Something was wrong. I had never felt such a sensation in my life, and as I reached the bathroom stall I always used, it hit me. I got an instant STD from the toilet seat! I thought to myself. After all of these years of using booty baskets, and toilet seat liners, something had finally gotten through the liner and reached me! After careful attention to the placement of toilet paper or the crinkly sheets readily available in most stalls, something had failed me, and I was paying for it instantly. As I panicked and readjusted my underwear, I realized I had been in the bathroom far too long and I really didn’t want my boss to think I was skipping out (or worse, pooping (because girls don’t poop)). So I re-tucked my blouse in, less artfully than before and left the bathroom in a less than composed eyebrow-furrowed kind of way. I felt like each person I directed for the next half hour at my desk could sense that something was wrong with me.

            As soon as it seemed that all of my supervisors were at bay with their heavy workloads, I took off to the restroom to inspect, and then formulate a game plan. How the heck am I supposed to tell my doctor I got an STD from a toilet seat?! I thought to myself. No one is going to believe me. But, despite my thoughts, I knew I had to take action. Immediately I ran from the bathroom stall to the main door and locked it. I then decided I must extinguish the fire that was growing inside of my skirt. I pulled down my nylons and skirt and plunged my ass into the sink with cold running water. Yes folks, I squeezed my ass into a sink of cold water in a highly prestigious building in which city officials work. After momentary relief I realized bathing in the only bathroom on that floor of the building was probably not going to be a long-lived event. Quickly I hopped out of the sink, dabbed my ass off with paper towels and got to some prompt thinking. Grabbing a handful of paper towels and folding them into a rectangle, I then wet them in the icy cold water and laid them in my underwear. Two more hours of work to go and I thought I was going to have to be air lifted to St. Joe’s hospital.

            I sat fidgeting, typing the ABC’s and The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog- over and over again. At a time like that, I knew my literary genius wouldn’t be coming out in me. I sat, fumbling with my purse, reorganizing my utility pouch, and chewing on my fake nails, chewing them to shreds, when suddenly, my tongue was on fire too! The more I panicked the more I realized I had a bacteria that spread throughout my body from the toilet seat to my crotch into my blood stream, to my mouth, and its next stop was my brain. As I thought of asking my coworker I hadn’t spoken to before for advice, I then began connecting the dots.

            I sat at my desk and ran through each activity during my day that led me to this fire breathing mouth and vagina combo. It suddenly hit me. It had to have been through contact with something spicy. Instant STD’s from toilet seats could not actually be the answer. I began gnawing on my thumb nail some more like a teething child, when I dabbed my tongue against it and began feeling a tingling heated sensation once again. I hadn’t eaten anything spicy that day. Typical iced Americano for breakfast and skipped my lunch break to take a quick bath in the public restroom. I then wondered if when I got gas in the morning I might have some how came in contact with my crotch. But, I don’t even know if gas is actually a substance that causes burning. I know it’s not meant to be used for eye drops, but I have accidentally sprayed myself with a gas hose before like a super soaker and none of my skin got fiery hot. After a few more nibbles of the nails and a full realization that it actually tasted like pepper. It hit me. I must have made contact with my pepper spray cans and gotten it on my hand. Then the accidental skin contact. And the results were as follows:

I pepper sprayed my own vagina!!!

           

Then came the Google-ing. After typing into my company computer pepper spray vagina, and coming up with porn websites, I realized I needed to refine my search. Pepper spray contact, or something like that ended up having the remedy for it. Just as Dawn dish soap saves baby birds in oil spills, it also saves vaginas from pepper spray malfunctions. Long story long, I owe my down under wellness to the great people that created Dawn. Once I got home I soaked in a tub of dawn for an hour. And Taddaaaaa! Fancy, clean, burn-free, happy, vagina.

             So if you actually made it through the longest blog in the world, I hope you take something away from this. And please note, there was no permanent damage.