Stems & Seeds #1

Over the last few months that I have been on hiatus from this blog, I've written numerous posts that I have (clearly) not published, and some of these unpublished pieces are not exactly long enough to warrant their own post. So I've decided to combine them all into one sort of super-post, as a way to get them out there (and to ease myself back into posting regularly). Each one of these "S&S" posts will contain somewhere between three and six mini-stories, usually anecdotal and pointless, but entertaining nonetheless.
Note: The last two of these four have been published on Facebook previously, so if you've read them before, I apologize.

My Observation (Part 1)

For as long as I can remember, I've been a very observant person. I tend to notice things in peoples' behavior and demeanor that others don't, and because of this, people-watching has become a favorite pastime of mine in recent years.
A few months ago, I was sitting on one of the benches in my local mall doing just this, and my eye caught an average-looking Indian man walking in my direction a few dozen yards away. Seconds after I began watching him, in lieu of nothing, he dropped to his left knee, put his left hand on his right foot like he was tying it, and reached out with his right hand to rub one of the (clearly fake) leaves the mall had "planted" in the mall's medians. I assume this awkward arm-and-foot-crossing was done to check and see if the plants had been real or not, but I'm not certain because the way the action itself flowed so fluidly made me think he'd done it a dozen times before, and I can't imagine someone needing to check that many mall median planters over the course of their lifetime.

Aside #1: To fully understand just how awkward-looking this position was, I suggest you try it out for yourself using the description above as a guide. It really was insane.

Immediately after doing this, he stood up and noticed that I had been watching him the entire time. He turned around on one heel and began to quickly walk in the opposite direction, looking back a few times nervously as if I'd caught him doing some heinous act.
It was only when I watched him fade away into the crowd that I realized that he'd been wearing slip-on sandals the entire time.

My Observation (Part 2)

Another one of my favorite interesting observations came shortly after the "leaf-feeling"one, at that same mall inside of a small furniture store.
I saw a small family walking around the same portion of the store as me, with a mother, father, and two twin girls, aged around eight years old. Both girls had mild down syndrome, and their parents were very patient and understanding with them, a perfect portrait of a family dealing with disabled children.
But something was amiss. As is tradition with young twins, both girls were wearing matching clothing, save for one small detail. The first twin was wearing a red shirt adorned with a large, white circle, with the words "THING 1" on it. The second was wearing the same, but hers said "THING 2."
Now, obviously the girls were wearing these shirts because of the characters in the age-old Dr. Seuss tale "The Cat in the Hat," but did the parents of these two disabled children not realize the implications of these t-shirts before buying them? Their poor planning and execution when it came to their daughters' clothing made me feel like the worst person that had ever lived, as I had to run (not walk) to a different area of the store so I could have a laughing fit without hurting their feelings. I wasn't even laughing at the implication or the fact that the children were disabled, either. I was laughing at the parents' carelessness and blatant stupidity.

The Sun-Visor Story

When I was a kid (around the age of ten or eleven, I'd say), I was driving in the back seat of my mom's car on the driver's side, playing with her handleld vanity mirror that she always kept in her purse. We were in notorious Dallas traffic, barely inching forwards every few minutes. I was playing with the reflection of the mirror, holding it at different angles, watching how the light's reflection changed as I moved it.
I noticed a blond-haired woman with big teeth and sunglasses sitting in the car next to us, in the passenger seat. She had a very mom-ish look about her, and was talking to the man who was driving (presumably her husband). Suddenly, an idea struck me, and I aimed the reflection directly at her eyes. She immediately shielded them with her hand, and turned to try and look at me. I ducked down quickly, and the light was very bright, but I was sure she saw something.
Slowly, I poked my head back up over the edge of the door. She was looking right at me, shaking her head sadly and saying something to her husband. She didn't seem angry, or hurt, just disappointed. She pulled down the sun visor and turned it so no light could be shone in her eyes from my direction. I sat there, and stared straight ahead for the rest of the car ride home, feeling terrible.
Every single time someone around me uses a sun visor in a car, I think of that woman. I wish I could go back in time and apologize for being such a little douchebag. Not only because it was a terrible thing for me to do, but because I'm sick and fucking tired of having to see her horsey-ass face trying to guilt-trip my pre-teen self every single time someone uses an everyday fucking item in a vehicle. That shit sucks.

Fucking With People

Since before I can remember, I've been inventing new ways to fuck with people.

Aside #2: My definition of "fucking with people" is as follows:

fucking with people (slang term) - A blanket phrase used to describe any practical joke-type situation that is harmless and usually leaves the target confused.

When I was in school, I'd practice sleight-of-hand magic tricks on my classmates, often stealing small objects (erasers, candy, etc.) in the process, claiming they had "disappeared." I was and still am a master of slipping any object into my sleeve without notice, a talent I'd often practice in front of mirrors as a child and teen. Now, as an adult, I usually bum cigarettes from idiotic drunk hipsters at keggers whose minds are blown by such simple tricks, and gladly cough up a coffin nail for a short magic show.

Anyways, cheap entertainment aside, I've invented a few ways to fuck with people that I hope others will exercise and spread, to bring a little more confusion and hilarity into the world.

#1: Journey

Description: When listening to 80's rock music with other people in a car or otherwise, referring to every band as popular ballad-rockers Journey. See if anyone corrects you. More often than not, they won't. They'll just uncomfortably shift in their seat and look at the ground, or pretend to be distracted by a bit of fuzz on their slacks. It's delightful.

Aside #3: If no 80's rock is available, use the French phrase "c'est la vie" ("such is life") in the wrong context and see if anyone notices. Even further, when offered something from a friend (such as food), claim to be allergic to something that has nothing to do with what they are offering you. My personal favorite is when someone offers me a cigarette. I respond with "No thanks, I'm allergic to peanut butter."

#2: Toilet paper

Description: When in the bathroom at someone's house, fold the end of their toilet paper roll into a triangle shape like they do at hotels. Also applicable in public restrooms, though they could assume it was the janitorial staff that folded it.

Aside #4: If you don't think this is funny, imagine someone that you didn't know previously (a friend of a friend) coming over to your house and doing this while in your bathroom. Wouldn't your next bowel movement be made a bit nicer (albeit confusing) by this small, polite gesture?

#3: Sneezing

Description: While walking and holding a drink that has some amount of liquid or ice in it, fake-sneeze loudly and throw the drink into the air as if you sneezed ridiculously hard. Swear loudly and pick up your cup. Or don't.

#4: Salt and Pepper Shakers

Description: This one takes a bit of effort to pull off, but the outcome is well worth it. Go to a Goodwill or other such resale store and pick up a pair of generic salt and pepper shakers. After washing them, take them with you the next time you eat at a restaurant and exchange them with the ones they have at your table. Take the now-empty ones with you, to use the next time you go out to eat. I like to imagine the look on the busboy's face when he realizes what happened.

Before I end this, I'd like to encourage you all to come up with your own way of fucking with people. Remember that it cannot be harmful in any way, and must be executed with the utmost seriousness. Fucking with people is an art form that should be appreciated and admired, and passed down through the generations. It makes people's day a bit more interesting, and generates that minute bit of anarchy that all of our lives deserve.

My Stalker

Through the final two years of my three years in middle school, not a lot of things remained constant in my life. I was going through the hell known as puberty, I'd switched schools in between the 6th and 7th grade, and was still "discovering" myself.

Aside #1: Consider that a polite euphemism for "started to masturbate regularly."

One of the things that did remain constant towards the end, however, was the undying affection of a girl named Erica. I was thrown off by her advances when they began via a note slipped into the grates of my locker one afternoon. Written in green ink on notebook paper, it went something like this:

Dear Ty,

I saw you walking. We have a class together. Your cute [sic].

Call me.

(phone number)

Love,

Erica

Reading the name at the bottom of the note, I was confused and also flattered. I'd never heard of this person before or noticed anyone named Erica in any of my classes.

Then it hit me. A year younger than me, with braces and thick glasses, Erica was the mentally disabled girl that was in my Computer Literacy class. I wasn't sure what to do, and I definitely didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I ignored it.

Aside #2: My motto: "Don't want to hurt someone's feelings? Ignore them!"

But she was persistent. Over the next few weeks, she would drop more notes into my locker, despite the fact that I never replied to a single one or gave her any indication that her feelings were reciporicated in the slightest.

It started to get worse, too. Every time she walked by me in the hall, she would giggle, look down, and rush out of my field of vision. I was beginning to get worried. My sensitivity towards the handicapped like Erica made it difficult for me to say no without devastating her.

Aside #3: At this point in time, my mother was a Special Education teacher, so I was well aware of how emotionally unstable she may be. I don't mean to generalize this group of people, but it was a distinct possiblility.

Soon after her barrage of notes had started, spring break began. I was given a week off from my moral torture, and to be frank, forgot about it completely.

But the following Monday, I opened my locker to find a bright red envelope with my name on it. Opening it, I found a card with yet another plea to call her, and to my horror, a wallet-sized copy of her school photo with her name on the back next to a bright-red heart. She just wouldn't quit.

I knew I had to take some sort of action against her, for her sake and for my own. So one day, after school had ended, I walked to the special education room where Erica spent most of her time, and asked to talk to the teacher that had been assigned to her.

I was then introduced to a polite, soft-spoken teacher named Mrs. Morris, who, after I'd explained the situation, told me that one of the side-effects of Erica's particular disability was that she became obsessed with people that she found attractive, as a coping mechanism.

Aside #4: I say "coping mechanism" because she was apparently incapable of admitting these attractions like a normal person, instead choosing to become obsessive.

Apparently she'd cycled through celebrities, teachers and other students before, and had lost interest after a few weeks. Mrs. Morris assured me that Erica would become "bored" with me if I continued to ignore her, and the notes would stop. Thanking her for her candor and help, I left.

---

Three weeks later, the notes still hadn't stopped, and were becoming more and more unsettling. I began seeing her several times a day, as opposed to the two or three times I'd normally run into her. I can't say that I was scared, but I was definitely uncomfortable.

So I went to talk to Mrs. Morris again after school, to tell her that Erica's obsession with me hadn't waned. Immediately after I'd entered her room, she rushed over to me.

"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry she hasn't stopped bothering you," she said. "I haven't been able to contact you because I forgot to write down your name, and Erica refuses to tell it to me because she knows exactly why I want it. I was this close," she held her fingers apart a small amount, "to following her throughout the day and hoping she'd run into you."

After explaining what had been happening over the last few weeks, she sighed and took a folder out from her desk.

"These are what Erica has been drawing during her special ed. period," she said, opening the folder.

Handing me a stack of paper, I leafed through them. Every single one was a childlike drawing of either me alone, or she and I together, holding hands and partaking in various activities she must have assumed couples did regularly.

Aside #5: The few I can remember are she and I walking through a park, playing with a dog and eating dinner together.

"She's on a level of obsession with you that I've never witnessed before," continued Mrs. Morris. "I'm not sure what to do about it."

"Well, what if I told her that I'm not interested?" I asked. "Would she freak out?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "We've never had her take it this far before. The last time she drew pictures of someone like this, it was of Orlando Bloom, and we had to convince her that there was no hope. She didn't take it well."

Aside #6: And that was the only time in my life that I've ever been inadvertently compared to Orlando Bloom. Get on my level.

"If I were to do it," I continued, "I would be very gentle in letting her down. I could even lie and tell her that my fake-girlfriend doesn't like that she's sending me these love notes."

"You know...that actually might work," she admitted. "Well, I guess we'll try it and see how it goes."

We then made plans to call me out of class at a certain point the next day. She told me that Erica would likely "spaz out" when I entered the room, but to not show her that it made me uncomfortable. After planning out what I should say to her, I left.

The next day, I was called to the special ed. room just as planned. Walking down the hall, I rehearsed what Mrs. Morris and I had decided that I would say. Soon, I was at the door to the room. Taking a deep breath, I opened it.

The instant it swung open, Erica turned towards the door and saw me standing there. Just as Mrs. Morris had predicted, she started freaking out, not quite knowing how to contain herself. I walked over and sat in the chair across from her, as Mrs. Morris sat in the one beside her.

"Hi Erica," I said.

"Hi..." she said, in between making excited noises with her mouth.

"Erica, Ty has something that he needs to tell you," chimed in Mrs. Morris, looking at me and nodding.

"That's right. I came here to tell you that I think it would be best if you stopped writing notes to me. My girlfriend doesn't like it, and is getting jealous," I lied.

"Girl...girlfriend?" she stammered. "You...don't have a girlfriend..."

We hadn't planned for this. Thinking on my toes, I said, "Actually, I do. She goes to a different school. That's why you've never seen me with her."

"Oh...well...okay..." she said, sadness in her voice.

"But Erica, if you want to be my friend, I would be more than happy to come down to this room once a week to talk to you. But you've got to promise me you'll stop writing notes to me."

She looked at me for five seconds before looking away again and smiling.

"Okay..." she agreed, still grinning.

After spending a few more minutes talking to her, I left. I worked out a deal with Mrs. Morris before I did though, agreeing to be called out of one of my elective classes on every Thursday until her obsession with me had faded.

Two visits later, she was finished with me, and had moved on to a new crush. I saw her in the halls from time-to-time after that, but she never acted the way she had when she was obsessed with me.

I ran into Mrs. Morris some time later, close to the end of the school year. She told me that she had been working on this facet of her behavior with Erica, and that what I had done helped this cause immensely. She said that she expected this habit to be knocked within the next few months, if all went as planned. And I hope, for Erica's sake, it worked.