The Dictator

It was a cool, stormy summer day as I strolled down the glossy wooden staircase that led to the basement. The Princess of Daycareland arrived. I had just eaten ice cream in my clandestine kitchen corner and it was now time to take order of all the daycare children again. My 7 year old sister, 3 years my senior, should have been heir to the throne; she should have been Princess of Daycareland. But she gave up her position for something as pitiful as education. She was in the process of receiving her second-grade degree while I stayed home at my mother’s abode and ruled the basement play area. 

On this day, my beloved older sister was in fact home. Maybe she decided second grade was a just a little too stressful and needed a day off, but I think that the teachers all collaborated and decided to take a day off from all the students. Nonetheless, this story isn’t about her… maybe it would have been if she hadn’t decided to give up the Princess of Daycareland position. BIG MISTAKE.

Anyway, as I walked past, the girls bowed and the boys turned their heads, all except one child, the new comer, Chelsea. Oh, maybe that four-year-old did have platinum blonde hair… and maybe she was getting a little attention for being rather new, but if she stepped out of line, I’d be the one to put her back in her place.

Would it surprise you to say that what I had expected actually happened? 

My sister, that day, decided it would be a grand idea to take on the role of court jester. Yes, sister, go ahead and tell jokes all you want, we’ll see who’s laughing in the end.  The newcomer thought it would be her laughing in the end, but she thought wrong.

I watched as Chelsea giggled her sweet four-year-old giggle. Pah! How dare that peasant!? Soon thunder sounded and lightening stuck, lighting up the universe… and the room. My vision blacked out as my eyes turned green with envy. Nobody messes with the Princess of Daycareland. 

Before I knew what happened, I was standing over the crying girl as she held her hands at her head and I limply held the pink plastic (toy) vacuum cleaner in my hands. Yes, I had put her in her place by striking her upon the head, but hadn’t thought about the consequences. 

Soon I would have to suffer the wrath of my mother, Queen of Daycareland. The Queen made a grand entrance after hearing about the commotion, silencing the room with every stride. 

TO THE DUNGEON YOUNG LADY! She shouted as she pointed on long, strict finger directly at me. Apparently she did not condone cruel and unusual punishment of out-of-place subjects.

I trudged with my head hanging to my timeout spot. But don’t worry… I still reigned over Daycareland.

7... 8... no 7... Somewhere between 7 and 8 Things That Make Me Faint

Ever since I was young, I've had this problem... with fainting. I mean it's not that big of a deal... It's not like I faint left and right with no reason at all... but I get a lot of crap from my family for fainting for "stupid" reasons. It's gotten to the point where if I faint before unsuspecting victims who fretfully inform my sister of the incident... she just laughs. Nothing new.

Anyway, here are a few incidents where I have been known to faint. (WARNING: Reader's Discretion Advised! The following stories are not for the weak stomached. These are not your typical "Oh, one day I got heat stroke and fainted" type stories.)

The daycare I used to go to had a few different rooms for the different age levels of kids. Oh! how I longed to be art of the "big kid" group. They had the largest room and the best toys! It seemed like they got to do whatever they wanted when they wanted. To make matters worse, my friend Chelsea, who was a few months older, was allowed to enter the "big kid" area before me. After begging... probably quite a bit... the daycare "teachers" let me have a trial-run in the "big kid" area... just to see how I'd handle the older kids and the energized environment.

Yes! I couldn't wait! My chance to show the adults that I truly was a "big kid!" Well, things didn't go quite as planned. After being shown around the new area, I was brought outside to observe some of the activities going on on the playground. One of the adult ladies carried me over to a group of kids painting a mural on a large sheet of paper.

To my dismay... one kid thought it would be a good idea to use of a lot of RED! I couldn't help but stare... Suddenly my vision clouded over as REDRUM! REDRUM! flashed through my brain (ok, maybe the REDRUM part isn't true). Next thing I know, I'm sitting over one of the toilets with a blanket around my shoulders gagging into the white porcelain of glory. Yep... you have it... red PAINT got me the first time. Needless to say, I wasn't allowed to spend my time in the "big kid" area for a few more months since I couldn't handle the stress.

But that wasn't the last time I'd experience such horror. My sister and I often took advantage of the outdoors as our playground when we were little. Running up the bluffs, riding our bikes through mud puddles in the driveway, stomping on those mushrooms that puff out smoke when they dry up... stuff like that. But one day, our adventures, whatever we chose to do that day, ended in reenactment of the first horror story.

Somehow, some way, I got a sliver that fateful day. I ran inside wailing, not wanting this alienated object in my body. I didn't like the look of a grey streak on my finger, and I definitely like the though of it getting infected, like I heard could happen. I knew the inevitable would come, and why not sooner than later? Get it over with. Let's just rip off the band aid as fast as possible.

My dad pulled out a pair of tweezers and sat me down. My mom sat by my side for comfort... moral support. I don't remember much of what happened next... because I was going in and out of consciousness as my dad poked and prodded the tweezers at my sore fingers. Yes, I was fainting... over... and over again as my dad attempted to pull out... a sliver.

I think now, lucky him, half the time I was unconscious, so he didn't have to deal with me kicking and screaming... Eventually he got the little bugger out and I sprung up from my spot with tear-stained cheeks, ready to go on another little outdoors adventure.

I'll try to keep this one short and sweet:
One morning in 2nd grade... before the Pledge of Allegiance and our milk break, I noticed something in my mouth, and it's wasn't food. I reach my little (and probably grubby, seeing as I was 7) fingers into my mouth and discover that I had lost a tooth... one little but blooooody tooth. I show my teacher and she lets me go to the bathroom to wash my mouth.

When I return, everyone stands up to say the Pledge. I look at the red and white stripes of the flag. Didn't the white sure contrast the red, making it stand out a little more than usual? Apparently so... because I remember the flag slowly fading away as my vision became that of an out-of-focus television.

MRS. CLARK! MRS. CLARK!
I wake up to my second grade teacher over me, shouting for the first grade teacher in the next room. I had once again fainted. Luckily the boy who would have been behind during the pledge wasn't present at the time... it was his turn to retrieve the milk. Otherwise I would have fallen straight back on him.

Let's get you the HPV shot so you don't die! Why sure, Mother, sounds like a splendid idea!
Or not...
I'm called into the room (mind you I'm a little older now... 7th...8th... 9th grade, maybe?) and asked to lay on the weird table/bed/seat thing. Well, I wasn't asked to lay down. I insisted because by now, I knew the sorts of situations that may or may not... well, you know.
Ok, this might hurt a little. The nurse says. He did it all wrong. All wrong! I wholly blame him this time. First, as soon as... and I mean PERFECT TIMING... as soon as he popped the cap off the needle, I heard a buzzing sound coming from the same area. What!? The HPV shot is a vibrating shot?! What!? I panicked. What is that sound?! I asked. He told me to calm down and lay back down. What is that sound!? I insisted. It's my pager. He replied. Thank goodness... a normal shot... not a vibrating shot.
Second, he counted to three... 1...2...3... Um... if you're going to count to 3.... don't stick the needle in at 3... stick it in at 1... or 2... not 3.
And finally... as he was injecting the shot into my already tensed arm, he kept repeating: It's hurting... it's hurting... it's hurting... aaaaaannndd done!
I just wanted out of the room, but by the end of the ordeal, my body was under so much stress that I ended up hunched over in one of the waiting room chairs as my mom and the nurse patiently told me to take it easy and drink a lot of water... (Or not get shots... I thought.)

Almost done... I swear.
I had my ears pierced when I was 6 (I think... somewhere in the ballpark anyway), but I didn't like the idea of changing my own earrings, so they eventually closed back up. But when I was older, I noticed all the pretty earrings the girls at school wore, so for my birthday, I decided to get them pierced again. This time I did it at my hair salon (instead of the mall). And instead of both my ears being done at the same time, the lady did them one at a time. No big deal... I'm a big girl now. The first one went smoothly... just a little pain. The second... whoah... wait a second! I feel the lobe of my ear being jiggled back and forth... the little piercing device jammed and the lady didn't know how to fix it, except by wiggling it back and forth. The pain and discomfort it caused led me to... well... all I remember is waking up, hunched over in the chair with a little paper cup of water in my hand. Presumably, I fainted... again.

College... why not!? This was entirely my own fault. I woke up one morning and decided that it would be easier to jump sideways off the ladder of my lofted bed instead of straight down, for fear of stepping on some of my possessions... if only I head cleaned up after myself a little more, this whole thing could have been avoided.

Well, to nobody's surprise I lost my balance and smacked my temple (of all places!) on the corner (of all places) of my roommate's (also lofted) bed. I immediately dropped to the floor in pain, stars in my eyes, and feeling like I had to throw up.

I didn't exactly pass out this time... but I was really close. I started to feel better (after not being able to breath and getting extremely flushed for a few moments) and decided that I was well enough to take a shower. But halfway down the hall, I the stars reappeared in my vision and I ran to my favorite shower (let me note here that I woke up 5 minutes early that morning at 5:55 just so I could get my favorite shower because another girl in a different wing woke up at 6 every morning and beat me to it). I laid my towel down on the ground and put my head between my legs hoping not to die alone in the shower. Eventually I felt better and was able to shower without any more mishaps, but I was pretty sleepy the rest of the day. (Minor concussion? Maybe...)

Oh, I didn't mention my roommate's concern. There was none. She didn't wake up at all through the incident.

Last one! I promise!
So this past winter I went to a new eye doctor (big mistake by the way!). They wanted to dilate (ooooops, spelled it wrong in the picture! teehee) my eyes, but I had never had it done before, so it was a little strange to me. The lady put the drops in my eyes and the usual signs of passing out started to occur. This time I was able to warn her so she didn't stab the stupid eye-looker machine into my eyes, permanently blinding me.

A few moments later, she woke me up and informed me that I had been out for two minutes. She then got me a little paper cup of water (sound familiar), but this lady wasn't so patient. It was almost time for her to go home and she had another appointment (my sister) after me. Do you want to get up and go to the next room? NO LADY! I WAS OUT COLD AND MY LIMBS FEEL LIKE IRON AND I'M SWEATING AND THIRSTY AND IF I STAND I'LL FALL OVER AND I CAN'T SEE BECAUSE MY EYES ARE DILATED! But thanks for the suggestion. I lay sprawled out on the reclined seat for a while longer until I mustered the strength to move.

Little did I know that this sort of things was funny and weird and fainting while having your eyes dilated is just utterly ridiculous.



***I've also fainted because of the flu and after waking up from anesthesia, but I wont' tell those stories.***

Darling Dear or Chubby Bunny

The inevitable college weight gain is BREATHING DOWN MY NECK! I can't really say that I've gained any weight... last time I checked it wasn't very much... but as these last weeks of the semester have been winding down I can't help but notice the puffiness in my cheeks when I'm doing my hair in the morning. Maybe it's because I've consumed countless ropes of blue-raspberry Laffy Taffy, a blue-raspberry snow cone, and a blue-raspberry Jolly Rancher... (not to mention the tantalizing donuts screeching their siren calls to me at 7:30 every morning!)

And lately my friends can't quite get enough of my Chubby Bunny insults to myself (Just Kidding... I think they have indeed had enough of me complaining about turning into a Chubby Bunny).

I feel like:

Chubby Bunny

Chubby Bunny is so chubby, Chubby Bunny can't see Chubby Bunny's own feet!
Chubby Bunny is so chubby, Chubby Bunny's head is too big for Chubby Bunny's ears!
Chubby Bunny is so chubby, Chubby Bunny ain't got no body!
Chubby Bunny so chubby, bunny chubby chubby bunny so chubby!

My friend's response to all my complains? "Don't worry about it, Dear."

WHOAH! Wait a sixty-second time frame... am I a Chubby Bunny... or am I a...

Dear

Dear? 

After a few moments of contemplation, I started to become a little confused... Chubby Bunny? or Dear? Which one am I? Both? That's not possible... but then before I could figure out this befuddling identity crisis, I'm told, "Get over it, Darling." (Maybe that's not exactly what she said to me, but my friend definitely called me a Darling...)

Now I'm biting my the inside of my cheek raw and sweating bullets down my scrunched up face trying to figure out what I am.

A) A Chubby Bunny

B) A Dear
or...

Darling

C) A Darling

Why you don’t try explaining hair to a seven year old…

I have very curly hair, and always have (except for that time my mom cut it to my chin in fourth grade and the curls took a couple years to bounce back up and my hair was totally awkward and only enhanced the long stage of my life, (known as the awkward stage)).

At my sister’s graduation I was talking to my dad and my sister’s boyfriend about combing my hair and how I haven’t done so for about 5 or 6 years… but somehow I caught the attention of my sister’s boyfriend’s 7-year-old daughter. She’s at the age where everything has to have a concrete answer and everything is either black or white with no grey area in between… and I mistakenly tried explaining to her that doing things to curly hair is bad for it.

To my horror, she started running her fingers through my hair to prove that it’s ok to brush my hair—my own personal, living comb. Oh no! I thought… so I quickly pulled her hand out of my hair before further damage continued. “Why don’t you comb your hair?” She asked as if I was completely and utterly crazy. I had to remind myself that she was only 7 and she had rather straight hair, and someday when she was an old lady like me, she would understand…

Later in the day, we were at a restaurant and I had to go to the bathroom. I entered and found the 7-year-old at the sink with my mom. I stood behind them (both are shorter than me and I was wearing high heals so I was like a feminine Paul Bunyan) and fluffed out my hair… And from below I hear a high pitched “rat’s nest.” Haha! My mom thought that was funny. Yes, when I was younger my hair would knot up and my parents would spend minutes upon minutes while I shouted, kicked and screamed until all the knots were gone. But since high school, my hair was nowhere near as bad as it used to be, and brushing became more of a hassle than helpful. I laugh and say, “What?!” She said it’s a rat’s nest because that’s what her mom tells her about her hair… Well… I thought… I’m not going to be offended by a young girl’s opinion. It may have been humid and rainy, but my hair was just… poofy. Not a rat’s nest for sure. Maybe not the best hair day… but just… poofy.

So I return to the table and my gramma looks at my sister and says, “how on earth do you get your hair to part like that? Is it natural?” (My sister has a nice side part, not the kind where you can tell somebody spent hours upon hours training her hair to part sideways and only succeeding partially, and it’s all across her forehead, more like a comb-over than a side part.) Which inevitably brought my hair, once again, to the young girl’s attention (she was sitting next to me at the restaurant). She looks at me and starts playing with my bangs (not really bangs, they used to be bangs… a year ago… now they’re to my chin… but whatever… bangs is easier than saying “face framing layers” as my hair cutter calls them)… flipping behind my head, to the side… trying to figure out which way would look best. At one point she tried putting my hair half up in a small ponytail with her thin little hair tie… decided it didn’t look all that great… then continued playing with my part. After putting my “bangs” over the back of my head, attempting to give me some sort of modern side part I guess… she tried convincing me it looked way better than my natural part by shouting to our table-mates, “raise your hand if you think Chloé’s hair looks better?” To their amusement, my sister and her boyfriend decidedly raised their hands, leaving me completely helpless in the argument, because those were the only two opinions she needed.

In the end, the 7-year-old’s attention was brought elsewhere, to coloring, her kitty cocktail, and her dad’s camera, and I was left alone in the battle over my hair. I did notice, as I was dipping my delectable prime rib into my au jus that maybe she was right, maybe my hair is a little out of control as I discovered that earlier that morning I had dipped part of my hair into the homemade maple syrup I had on my pancakes. Well, although I shouldn’t feel like a 7-year-old is any competition for me, I decided not to announce to her so she wouldn’t get any extra satisfaction out of bullying my hair that day. In fact, she bullied my hair so much that not only did it’s ego deflate, but its volume as well.

That is why you don’t try explaining hair to a 7-year-old.

If You Love Me, You'd Let Me Go

They say if you love something set it free… it if loves you, it will return. Some call it love; others call it infatuation; and still others would refer to it as pure insanity. I called it love. He called it craziness. He set me free so many times and I came back every time. It must have been love if he was willing to set me free over and over again, right?

Jordy Tater.

That wasn’t his real name of course. That was the pet name I gave my one and only love.

I was four; he was five. He was going to school; I was still in daycare. I understand, maybe I was too young for him at the time. I mean… it’s the equivalent of a college student dating a high student right? Nonetheless, I didn’t (and still don’t) believe that those types of things should be barriers in this Romeo and Juliet word of love and love lost.

Jordy Tater, whose real full name shall not be disclosed, was (and still technically is, I guess) the son of one of my mom’s friends, Ficky (This also is not her real name, but the name by which I called her. For privacy reasons her true identity shall also remain hidden). He had a twin brother of the same age, and an older sister—by how many years older, I do not remember, but by now she is probably in her early to mid-twenties. The relationship my sister and I shared with these three children was a dramatic square of adoration, each party reaching out to another reluctant child.

The older sister always wanted me as her toy. I’m going to guess that she was at that age where she loved playing with the wee children, even though now I’m sure she couldn’t have been any older than ten years of age. I can honestly say I don’t remember much of her at that age, since my attention was focused elsewhere (you’ve got it, Tater boy) but I do know that one day she captured me and decided to put rollers in my hair. This experiment ended with a tragically hilarious afro on my part—I was her real-life doll.

Our adoration square (in relevance to a love-triangle) continues. Paige always sought the company of Miranda, who was too busy chasing my afro-clad head down. And Tater boy and his twin thought Paige was cool enough to bother.

I on the other hand, wanted to be one with the twins. Maybe this was already impossible because Jordy Tater and his brother were hardly a separate entity themselves, and adding another party would be crowded in this being of “one.” But I didn’t care. My crush on Jordy kept me coming back even after humiliations, pranks, and bullying.

The following only entail a few ways in which Jordy Tater (and his twin) attempted to set me free, quite cruelly actually, and how I came back… every time:

The first time he set me free, we were playing on their home-playground, doing cool tricks like always. At one point I decided I would impress the boys by doing exactly what they were doing, and no doubt it would impress them because we were so amazingly cool… or so I thought. As I was completed my stunt—successfully I must add—I was greeted with looks of horror from the boys. “MY DAD’S GOING TO KILL YOU FOR DOING THAT!” They said in flabbergasted shouts. I panicked; my heart started to race, feet and palms started to sweat, and I froze in this uncomfortable position on their playground. They had just got done doing the same thing!? Why would he kill me for doing it? “Really! If he sees you doing that he’ll kill you!” They said again. I didn’t know what to do so I jumped back down to safety, climbed off the playground and ran into the house crying, no wailing into the comforting arms of my mother.

That’s when Jordy let me go for the first time… and I came back.

The next time may not have been so threatening, but it was just as terrifying. The boys were tagging along behind my sister, like usual, as my sister tried to be cool enough for Miranda, and I chased behind the boys, hoping they’d finally come to the conclusion that I was epically awesome and would play with me. But alas, in the dark of the night, the full moon cast it’s light upon the yellow house in which we stayed, and upon the maddened hearts of the twins. (Mad I say! Because they would not give their attention to me, especially Tater-boy.) As they finally turned towards me, I thought I would at last be accepted as their kin, but instead I was told that if I wouldn’t leave them alone, I would be turned into a werewolf because of the full moon. . I panicked; my heart started to race, feet and palms started to sweat, and I froze standing in their hallway. I ran to the safety to the arms of my mother as she calmed my worries, assuring me I would not be turned into a werewolf.

I was let go for a second time… but I still came back. Clearly, we loved each other.

He let set me free one more time before the family packed up their bags and moved, separating us forever. We were outside running around like little maniacal rugrats on the grassy lawn.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, dearest Jordy and his twin ambushed me with their power-locked-and-loaded nerf guns. POW! Right in the face! I panicked; my heart started to race, feet and palms started to sweat, and I froze mid-run in the yard. I ran screaming to the arms of mother, who asked why I was crying. “They shot me in the poorhead (more commonly known as the forehead)!” I thought it was the end of my life right there.

That was the last time I was set free, but I couldn’t come back, even if I wanted. They moved about an hour away and I rarely, if ever saw Tater-boy and his siblings ever again. That was the last time I saw my dear love.


***Update: I'm not actually still in love with Tater-boy. This is just from the prospective of a stupid romance story in the eyes of a 4-year-old.***

Ife Cweam

The first time I had taste, I couldn’t go back. Ice cream. Ice cream has been my vice since the first time I ever encountered it, before I can even remember. Mint Chip. Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. Cookies and Cream. Chocolate Chip. Tin Roof Sundae. Fudge Swirl.  Just about anything!

It all started out with my childhood cuteness. I just had to bat my big blue eyes (which since then have shrunk) at my mom and she’d cave like one does staring at a wide-eyed kitten.

“Mama, can I haf some ife cweam?” I would ask (not being able to say some of my consonants quite yet). Mom was usually in the kitchen working on the calculator (taxes I always presumed), or working in the kitchen—either cleaning or cooking.

As soon as she looked directly into my face, like when you look into Medusa’s eyes, she was lost (she didn’t turn into stone though), but she did give me ife cweam… under one condition.

“Ok, but you have to eat it right here…” she would say, not pointing to the table like you would maybe expect, but to the corner on the floor where our kitchen counter formed a “U” shape so I was out of site of the other children.

Now don’t get your buns in a twist—or whatever that phrase is. My mom didn’t have a favorite child; in fact, it was just my sister and I… She ran an in-home daycare with a few other children. Most of the time we had to stay in the basement, but when I got explicably bored or hungry, I would sneak up without notice of the other children and find my mom hard at work.

I would greedily inhale every bite of the delicious desert in my bowl, every taste even more delectable because none of the other children got any. After I licked the bowl clean, quite literally, my mom would tell me to go wash my hands and face and go back to the basement.

My addition to ife cweam reached a new level; one weekend morning I woke up and trudged to the kitchen with only one thing on my mind: ife cweam. With my hair completely wild and tangled and my eyes probably half closed I peered over the counter at my mom, in the kitchen of course, and asked “Aw you finking what I’m finking?” because of course, anytime you utter “are you thinking what I’m thinking?” the person you’re talking to will automatically catch a glimpse into your mind at that exact moment and know exactly what you are thinking. So not to my surprise my mom answered “Yes Chloé,” SCORE! But then followed with… “What are you thinking?” Well, maybe it didn’t work this time, so I came right out and said it, “ife cweam!” Duh!

Because I was not a completely spoiled child, to my disappointment, I did not get a bowl of ice cream that early in the morning, I would have to try a new tactic if my batting the eye-lashes technique didn’t work every time.

Well, as I got a little older, my strategy changed a little. Sometimes my parents would put the ice cream in the basement freezer instead of the kitchen freezer, and when they weren’t looking, I would grab a spoon from the drawer and go into the pantry and pull out the ice cream and set it on the washing machine. First I would take on bite, but I knew I would be hungry for more, so I left it out. Half melted ice cream tastes better than frozen ice cream anyway. As I’d travel into space or to some elfish country on my computer I would occasionally go back to my ice cream and eat just one more bite… One more bite until the pint was half gone and I realized what I’d done, regrettably closing the box and shoving it back into the freezer, hoping nobody would catch me.

At my lowest point, I had convinced my parents to buy a whole gallon of vanilla chocolate chip ice cream (for every one to enjoy of course), but as they went off to work in the summer (by now my mom no longer ran the daycare), and my sister and I stayed home, I would avariciously maul my way through the bucket, bite by bite. At one point I probably heard my sister coming down the stares and I forgot to put the bucket back into the freezer as I inconspicuously raced back to the computer to make it look like nothing suspicious at all was going on.

Hours later, however, after my parents returned home, I was asked to get something from the pantry. And there, sitting next to the washing machine, was half a gallon of completely melted vanilla chocolate chip ice cream. Wasted. Gone. Horror overcame as I didn’t know what would happen when one of my family members decided they wanted ice cream and discovered that there wasn’t any left, even though they just bought it a couple days ago.

That's when I realized things needed to change... I was a child glutton.

***I would also like to note that no, my mom did not just throw the kids in the basement and enjoy time to herself while she held daycare. 99.9% of the time she was with us coming up with fun activities for us to do. I usually caught her upstairs while she was making lunch, crunching number, or going to the bathroom--something along those lines.*** 

Crackers fix… everything.

I just shouted “Accio Earphones!” and pointed to my earphones lying on the ground. Not surprisingly, they didn’t come to me. But I’m just too darn lazy to climb out of my lofted bed to get them.

Crackers. As my title suggests, they are the cure all for everything. How do I know this? I don’t. I’ve never experienced anything at all, including illnesses that crackers have helped me conquer. But whenever I’m hungry, or sick, or nauseous, the first thing anyone tells me to do is eat crackers.

Well… here’s the low-down on the cracker situation.

Ritz:  I like Ritz crackers. They’re rather buttery with just the right amount of salt. But the problem is, I’m not much for salty food. Therefore, I rarely crave Ritz crackers. But when I do eat them, I eat them plain or with cheese spread.

Saltines: Only occasionally do I ever wish I had saltine crackers sitting in front of me. They, like Ritz crackers, are also salty… However, if I eat them, I eat them in peanut butter.

Graham: Graham crackers are alright, but they make me thirsty right away. My favorite way to eat them is breaking them into small-ish pieces and pouring milk over them like cereal. They have to be eaten super fast though because they get soggy faster than conventional cereal. At school, I am not able to access this method of graham cracker consumption—quite a disappointment on my scale. Graham crackers are useful in two other ways: smore’s and cheesecake. I’m not the biggest fan of smore’s, but they are a must eat on camping trips for the sake of camping tradition. And under cheesecake, it is the only cracker that can be substituted for an adequate crust—as long as it’s sugared before baked. However, when possible, use Oreo cookie crumbs.

Well, those are the three main types of crackers I come into contact on the most average of every day life. It’s a rather long and tedious process to explain the “cracker low-down” to somebody who tells me to eat crackers when I’m ailing, so instead, I just reply (like a child, mind you), “But I don’t like crackers…” To my horror, however, that statement doesn’t usually end the conversation. What follows is a list that typically goes:

“Drink some juice…”
”I don’t like juice.” (true statement)

“Or light soda… get a Sprite.”
”I don’t like that either…”

“But ginger ale is good for you…”

“Does that not count in the “light soda” category?”

“Have some soup…”

And by here I give up and say “Ok, I’ll go have some soup,” as if it’s that easily accessible that I can just “have soup” whenever I like.

Another thing crackers supposedly “fix:”

I contracted the stomach flu and after days of hearing: Eat crackers! Eat crackers! And I saying: YOU CAN’T FORCE ME YOU ABOMINABLE FOOLS! I decided I could stomach some rice noodle soup after fasting for a day and a half. I optimistically bought the organic soup bowl at the health food store on campus and brought it to my room to heat up. I was disappointed to find that the cooking instruction highly resembled those of Ramen Noodles, and I was wary of this new product. I decided to go for it nonetheless; I was hungry.

The rice noodles were nothing above passable, but that could have been my perception of everything at the time due to my hunger and sour mood after throwing up and passing out earlier that weekend. I left the room, probably only to use the bathroom, and returned to the most foul, garlic smelling room I ever encountered. Soon after, my roommate entered and commented on the stench. I immediately apologized because we were both suffering.

The next day, after keeping the window open and spraying a rather large amount of Febreeze, the garlic still clung to every molecule in the jail-cell of a room. I emailed my mother, who is quite the chef, because I thought she would be experienced in this sort of situation. Her solution: sit some crackers out to absorb the smell.

Now, I know that she was joking, but after days of feeling like nothing more than a pile of crap and everyone telling me: CONSUME DA MAGICAL HEAWING CWACKERS! I exploded and replied something along the lines of: Mom! I’m a poor college student! It’s not like I can just go out and get crackers whenever I want! Food doesn't just magically appear in front of me! 

This just triggered my mom’s funny bone and she then thought it would be funny to answer any of my problems or questions with the solution of “crackers.”

Needless to say: Crackers fix everything.