Embarrassing Shit on the Internet

Once upon a time, this thing we call "the Internet" didn't exist.  We didn't have to read about our friends' politics on Facebook, and unless we were physically next to our friends at lunch, we had no idea what they ate.

For a few formative years, we played with real, tangible people and things so that we learned to speak in more than 140 characters and knew that poking was rude.  But technology advanced.  And before we were legal adults, we were having our every awkward, embarrassing, adolescent moment documented online for all of our "friends" to see.

When the Internet came into our lives, the first things we made were email addresses.  People used to care about forwarded emails; there used to be actual email threads.  It was our first encounter with dancing flower graphics and digital American flags.  We believed our forwards could cure people we'd never met of diseases we'd never heard of.  It was a magical time.

Eventually, our parents let us come up with our own AIM screen names, and by the time we were in middle school, we were using them every day.  We once invited dates to Preteen-Center dances under aliases like:

partygurl727

orlandobloomrox42

Wetkiss773

Alittlbtdramatic

Lilsportygrlmgs

lilsurfchick31

lazyboi8881

CAguysdoitbetter

ditzyblonde3242

MissKewl86

digitom91

Hottstuffaroo

It's obvious what was "kewl" at the time: spelling errors.  Also, apparently these "hott" 9-12-year-olds knew how to party.  I get the impression that while I was playing Oregon Trail with my cat, they were dressed up in their Limited Too finest and "wet kissing."

Personally, I want to remember myself as a kid who loved tea parties, Katharine Hepburn movies, and Irish rock.  I want to believe that I was cool.  But because the Internet butted its way into my life before I was a fully developed, semi-stable human being, it documents the embarrassing truth: that I WASN'T cool.  That's right.  I've been trying to bury this for years, but my first AIM screen name was KittyPwincess24.

This is what I imagine someone named KittyPwincess24 would look like:

 
Every day, we post things online.  We instagram photos of our breakfast as if anyone actually gives a shit, and tweet inane nonsense like, "Garbanzo beans!  Yum!"

Someday these things may embarrass us, just as we are embarrassed by our first screen names.  Someday (later tonight) I will regret having posted that photo which yes, is an impressively posed selfie of me.

Do as I say, friends, not as I do.  Remember when you were a QTpatooty32, and then DON'T post your embarrassing shit on the Internet.

Special thanks to everyone who sent me old screen names!  If I didn't use yours, don't be sad, be proud:  It wasn't quite as bad as the others.

Don't forget to "like" Annamal Crackers on Facebook!
http://www.facebook.com/AnnamalCrackersBlog
Twitter: @AnnamalHalligan

Dancing in Ballrooms with Boys

I am a 5-foot, 8-inch tall individual of medium build.  If I came packaged, my tag would read “Human, Standard Size.”  I get away with it now, but I have been this size since I was approximately 8 years old.  I had fluffy Hermione hair, glasses, and may or may not have experimented with olive khaki capris.  The word “swarthy” somehow applied to me.  If you were to see me on the street, you would imagine my name was “Gert.”

People see photos of  “Gert” now and say things like, “Oh, I remember my awkward stage!”  But this “stage” you speak of lasted for several oafish years of my life!  And it was during those years that I took cotillion.

In case you grew up with parents who didn’t know you needed proper training in ballroom dancing and cookie-nibbling in order to get ahead in life, now you know that cotillion was just that: dancing and etiquette classes.  Boys who hated girls and girls who hated boys gathered in one large community center once a week to nervously eye one another and sheepishly pose for their enthusiastic paparazzi moms. 

“Gert” did not do well in this environment.

I remember standing in line outside by petite, delicate little blonde girls, who actually argued about who would be forced to stand next to me.  “You stand next to her!”  “No YOU stand next to her!”  I shifted from one heavily clogged foot to another, sweating beneath my pink hand-me-down skirt that dropped straight from waist to mid-calf.  The goal was just to get through it—to endure—until it was time for lemonade and cookies.  We would trudge inside and I would sit wedged between two boys, who would eagerly lean over me to discuss “Dragon Ball Z” and which pretty doll-girls they hoped to dance with.

Cotillion’s saving grace was that most of the time you didn’t have to deal with the terror of choosing a dance partner; you were assigned one.  And all of the boys were over a foot shorter than me, so while they stared squarely into my brawny, guppy swim team-developed chest, I got to look over their heads and out the window, or send desperate “Save me!” faces to my laughing mom. 

When I did have to choose my partner, I would just wait until everyone else was paired off, and then wrinkle my eyebrows at the last boy standing in an, “I guess we’re both left?” kind of way.  Of course, I would have preferred to dance with the tallish-British kid who was named something like “Rupert” or “Algernon” and wore crested blazers, but I was happy to be with wee Jonathan with the high crackling voice, too.  The main goal was always to dance well enough to win a 3 Musketeers, which somehow, inevitably, made the unparalleled agony of cotillion all worth it.

This story doesn’t have a moral, but I’ll try to pin one on it anyway.  Chocolate rewards are a good thing.  Little girls can be bitches, but who cares, because they’ll probably get pregnant during high school.  It’s okay if you’re tall and oafish.  Wee Jonathan will one day come back from summer vacation and be taller than you, and you’ll get contact lenses, and people will forget that they didn’t want to dance with you, until you remind them via blog. 

And by that time, you’ll be an adult.  And you can drive to the store and buy lemonade and cookies and 3 Musketeers for yourself, and you don’t have to endure doing the foxtrot for an hour to songs by The Mamas & the Papas before you eat them.

Just eat them.

xx-Gert.

Thanks for reading!  Don’t forget to “Like” Annamal Crackers on Facebook!

https://www.facebook.com/AnnamalCrackersBlog    Twitter: @AnnamalHalligan

Fortune's Fool, or How I Learned My Future

Once a year while I was growing up, a carnival would pass through my town.  And let me tell you: it was the coolest place to be.  Tweens went to flirt.  High school students went to drunkenly vomit on rides.  And I, regardless, of age, went for the cotton candy.

Every year it was awesome, but the year I was in 8^th grade stands out in particular.  That was the year my friends and I visited the carnival psychic.

At first, we were skeptical.  Was a palm reading really worth $5?  And… was it dangerous?  After my first two friends had their palms read, though, I knew this psychic was legit.  She had somehow known that my adolescent friend Katy was having issues with her mom.  And she knew that Kelly had a crush on a boy at school!!!  THIS LADY WAS MAGICAL!

Trembling, I handed over my $5 and prepared to meet my fate.  Here is what I remember most:

1.  She said I intimidated boys my own age.  (So that’s why I didn’t have a boyfriend!  It had nothing to do with my braces and curly bangs!)

2.  She said I would “go east.”  (And you know what… I DID.  Because it turns out EVERYWHERE is east of California!)

3.  And she told me—drum roll please—that I would be a professional SPEAKER ON SUBSTANCE ABUSE. 

In retrospect, it’s obvious to me that most “palm readers” are merely good at measuring personalities.  We were a pack of giggling, gawky, 13-year-old girls, so of course we were dealing with crushes, “mean girls,” and helicopter parents.  The psychic was hardly taking a gamble when she told us our palms dictated such things.  But where the heck did she gather that I’d become a speaker on substance abuse?  I don’t remember sitting there with bloodshot eyes and bruises on my arms.  But for whatever reason, she looked at me and thought, “This girl… rough… substances.”

This incident came to mind last month when I was out with friends.  We walked past a psychic shop and, on a whim, decided to peek inside.

We warily swept past a burgundy velveteen curtain and found ourselves face to face with the shaman.  She was a chubby woman in a white tank top, smoking a cigarette and playing Angry Birds on her phone.

“Do you guys want tarot readings?” she demanded, sizing us up.  When I hesitated, she narrowed her eyes at me.  “You’re the one that needs this the most.  You’re the one with all the man problems!”

………...…WHAT?  So that’s how this works, then?  The magical spirits, who are apparently personally invested in my love life, gossip about me with the shaman?  Or was the shaman simply reading my aura, which said, “Help, I’m single?”

I called “bullshit,” and coldly declined the tarot reading.  I don’t need some shaman in a Beverly Hills gypsy hut to tell me where my life is going.  I already know:

I’m going to be a speaker on substance abuse.

Don't forget to "like" Annamal Crackers on Facebook! https://www.facebook.com/AnnamalCrackersBlog

The Annamal Crackers Awkward People Club

...Do you have what it takes to join?

I'm an awkward human.  I become unexpectedly and inexplicably shy at inopportune moments, and I can't for the life of me figure out how to talk to strangers.  I am far too impassioned when singing along to music, but if I'm contemplating something, I get a blank expression on my face that makes me resemble an infant or a vegetable.  I stutter when I get excited, I'm self-conscious about the shape of my hands, and I consider a good night to be one spent in a snuggie with my cat.

So I came up with the idea for the Annamal Crackers Awkward People Club, where humans who struggle with basic human functions can feel a sense of camaraderie.  There are so many organizations out there for the charming and poised.  Charming and poised people, read this and enjoy.  But you can't waltz your way into THIS Club.  We're highly exclusive and elite.

I've compiled a list of the most incredibly awkward things I can think of.  This list is limited, but all of these items make me so unbelievably uncomfortable that I writhe in agony when one of them occurs.   Some of these things I do.  Others I would rather commit seppuku than do.  So read up, feel uncomfortable, and decide, based on these qualifiers, whether or not you are awkward enough for the Annamal Crackers Awkward People Club!

AWKWARD THINGS WARRANTING AUTOMATIC ADMISSION TO THE ANNAMAL CRACKERS AWKWARD PEOPLE CLUB:

1.  Finger Guns
For some reason, pointy finger guns make you feel cool!!  Throw in a little wink, or a sad attempt at one!  Make some clicky sounds!  It looks cool!

2.  Running With a Backpack
It should be self-explanatory why this is awkward.  The backpack flounces up and down.  You look like a sweaty bouncy ball on the edge of a mountain.  You're probably wheezing.

3.  Solo Photo Booth Pics

I don't care how good you look.  The fact is, you just sat ALONE in your room for lord knows how long attempting to capture your perfect angle.  What are these faces you're making?  What's with the hair-tuck move that keeps happening?  PS, nice dorm room.

4.  Kristen Stewart
If you're Kristen Stewart, you get to be in the Annamal Crackers Awkward People Club without even auditioning!!  Welcome, Kristen!

5.  Slowly Eating Food in a Very Still, Silent, Crowded Room
This is awkward with crunchy foods, but it's even MORE awkward with oranges.  Try it!  It might be the peeling.  Or the juiciness.  Or the scent.  But for a solid seven minutes, you and your orange are all anyone in the room will be thinking about.

6.  Saying "That's Funny" Instead of Laughing
My seeming inability to fake-laugh is one of my worst qualities, as it makes me near impossible to flirt with.  But at least I'm not the person who remarks, "...that's funny," in a bored tone after hearing a joke.

7.  #Hashtags
I know I should use #hashtags if I want people to read my tweets, but for some reason, they make me so uncomfortable I squirm.  "Dinner on the landing!  #summer #friendship #redwine #fuckthesebreadrollsaregood."
I feel like a tool when I #hashtag.  Instinct tells me that people who love hashtagging are the same people who once answered really personal questions about their love lives on Formspring.

8.  Not Swinging Your Arms When Walking

This might be something you have to try for yourself to realize how exceptionally awkward it is.  One day, I found myself watching a man from afar, thinking he looked like someone who would sentence a fuzzy puppy to death for the sake of science.  I figured out that it was because he didn't swing his arms when he walked.  Awkward AND creepy.

In the spirit of full-disclosure, I'll tell you a secret: For a brief period in high school, I was totally the Kristen Stewart-type.  Then I got into things like "joy."  At any rate, those are my auto-qualifiers for the Club, but if you have other ideas, I want to hear those, too!

Think you have enough quirks to be a member?

If so, welcome to the Annamal Crackers Awkward People Club.  Congratulations!  Wear your Awkward Badge with pride.  Know that you are special.  I'll see you at the first meeting, NEVER.  Let's make a point of never meeting up, because let's be real, we're all way too antisocial and awkward for that.

-Annamal
Thanks for reading!  Please "Like" this page on Facebook and share it with your friends!  Your continued support means everything. 
https://www.facebook.com/AnnamalCrackersBlog     @AnnamalHalligan

PHOTOS OF PEOPLE LEANING AGAINST OLD TRUCKS

...BECAUSE I THINK THEY'RE FUNNY.

This is a photo of me leaning against an old truck.  I'm laughing in it because strangers were watching me pose for what was obviously a corny, not-remotely-candid picture, and I was embarrassed.

But I love my old truck photo.  I love it because it's cheesy, even though when it was taken, I think I thought it would turn out cool and artsy or something.  As I leaned back against that dirty old truck, which was probably driven by an elderly man with too much facial hair, my sepia-toned imagination told me I would look like a country western singer or an Anthropologie model.  I thought I was being original.

I WAS WRONG.

This lady's hobbies include taking old truck photos

and ruining her pretty clothes.

This gentleman is taking a break after having personally sawed his truck in half.

She's damn proud of that there truck.

She uses this truck to transport all of her fruit.  Because.. she's a migrant worker.

"Look, I'm a farm girl!!"

"Voguing with vehicles is so much fun for no apparent reason!!!"

My dad is eating a sandwich and secretly feeling smug about owning a Prius.

"We take family portraits in parking lots!!"

A truck barrels toward adorable children.

Just kidding!  These bros totally worked it at a hardcore truck photo shoot!

Ladies and a now-legendary pimp--mastering the truck-lean.

Here's my sister, posing by THE EXACT SAME TRUCK as me.

Putting a nail in the coffin of my originality.

VISION.  INSPIRATION.  TRUCKS.

People who don't have photos leaning against old trucks often don't see the appeal of photos leaning against old trucks, I guess because they don't see the world in terms of potential Facebook profile pictures.

But if you are someone who has posed for a photo leaning against an old truck, I congratulate you, and if you are one of the people who SENT me said photo, I cannot thank you enough.  You are all beautiful, fabulous, not-particularly-original people, and I love you for it.

Now, a VERY SPECIAL THANKS to ALEX HERMANN who came up with this idea with me and inspired this post by sending me a saucy photo of himself with the front half of a truck.  Alex has Ellen-like star power, so when he asks people for their old truck photos, old truck photos he receives.  Alex, you're trucking awesome.

Feel free to send me yet more of your old truck photos, if you have them!  Just sayin'... everybody loves a sequel.

Running on Empty

Question for you, team:  Why do so many characters in movies like to run?  It makes no sense to me.  How many screenwriters run, ever?  I’m tired of Jessica Biel’s calves silently mocking me.  I want fewer movies about hot people running, and more movies about plump cat-owners drinking orange soda and reading the Huffington Post.  Montages of urban singles sprinting through Central Park don’t inspire me; they make me feel terrible about my sad little wheezy life.

But earlier this year, I decided to become a runner.

I’m not sure what provoked this decision—probably the hot people in movies, along with my deeply neurotic, potentially masochistic need to succeed even at things I dislike.  I started jogging several times per week.

RIDDLE ME THIS: How long does it take for running to become easier?  Better question:  When will smug bastards stop LYING by SAYING it becomes easier??  I strongly suspect that every person who says they like running is lying.  I secretly believe they’re conspiring against people like me, and laughing at me as I flop in place on the elliptical.

Nevertheless, I do acknowledge that running has its perks.  When you’re running and you see someone you know, you can pretend that they’re impressed by how fit and motivated you are.  (They don’t have to know if all you did was run to the end of your block and home again.)  Another perk: you feel good about yourself!  Like, “Look at me go, I’m the new Jennifer Aniston!  I’m going to celebrate by drinking Smart Water!”

But me being me, I don’t go very far, I never go very fast, and I’m always vaguely worried that my knees and/or lungs will give out and I’ll end up writhing on the concrete vomiting blood.  (Sorry.)  So this summer, partially because of the heat, and partially because I decided I didn’t hate myself, I got a gym membership and stopped running outside. 

It is awesome.  I go to one of those all female gyms, where if a male mechanic is hired to fix something, you hear an announcement:  “Greetings and attention, ladies: A MAN is entering the premises!  A MAN is HERE!!!  BEWARE!!!!!!!  Namaste.” And in this safe haven of 90’s pop music, I can roll in looking like Michelle Rodriguez without makeup, and no one cares to judge me.

Anyway, that’s how I feel about running.  If jogging works for you, then great, even though you’re probably lying.  Nevertheless, I’ll still keep trying to become a good runner, if only so I can tell people about it on Twitter: 

“Ending the day with a long run to clear my head. Feels so good!”   

…Liar.  

 

Anna, Based on the Novel "Push" by Sapphire

Once upon a time, I caught on fire while making a sandwich.  It was the single best thing to ever happen to me.  Let me tell you why:

When reading about famous artists, have you ever noticed that they all seem to have some sob story attached to them?  The best comedians magically became funny after their mothers repeatedly told them they were ugly and unlovable.  Actors born in halfway houses with drug-dealing step-dads have tons of marketable depth and angst.  Kids who grow up in violent environments are forced into becoming creative, imaginative, and driven.  Their dreams lift them out of oppression and inspire them to paint sprawling murals of eagles playing saxophones.

But, surprise, my life isn't Precious, Based on the Novel “Push” by Sapphire.  THANK GOD.  But when one is born into a highly functional household with very emotionally supportive, drug-free parents, how the HELL is one supposed to succeed?  When one is granted things like, say, opportunities for guided learning and growth, and allowed outlets for healthy self-expression, how is one supposed to develop into the kind of passionate, deranged artist exalted by our modern world?  And when one's reasonably stable self-esteem is constantly reaffirmed with statements like "I'm proud of you," "You are brilliant," and "Holy shit balls this is the best blog ever," what excuse has one to become a twisted, rebellious, badass?

Are you still with me?  Do you understand that my parents royally screwed me over by not withholding their love?  I'm never even going to get to have a slutty phase, because I’ve never had “daddy issues.”  It's so unfair!

Which brings me to why it's awesome that I caught on fire while making a sandwich.  The experience was mild enough that I am not a burn victim, but extreme enough (sounding) that it qualifies as a verifiable trauma.  It might even give me an excuse for personality quirks.  I CAUGHT ON FIRE.  Imagine what that would be like.  The terror!  The flames!  The heat, rising from my charred sandwich!  Now don't I have an excuse for being a little quirky, a little "off," like a child star?  Doesn’t this give me enough of a “past” to push me into the same category as troubled geniuses and reality television stars with personality disorders?  I think so!

Catching on fire provides the shadow of mystery in my eyes, the cryptic darkness only a true artist can capture.  It gives me the color and excitement I was deprived of, growing up with the kind of parents who got Twitter accounts just because they knew I wanted followers.

It's okay, guys.  I know you feel really bad for me right now because I didn't have any character-forming traumas in my early life.  But I don't want your pity.  The thing is—and I’m going to get serious with you for a second here—we all have issues that we’re dealing with.  Except for a few very fortunate individuals including a handful of toddlers, we all have faced trauma, heartache, and some other horrible shit. What matters is how we choose to handle it.  One way any therapist would advise you to "handle" your shit is by finding a scapegoat.  (Trust me, I’m a blogger!)  Blame the time your grandmother told you that you were fat.  Blame Twihards.  Blame reality television, monster trucks, hipsters, Rush Limbaugh, and your uncle’s substance abuse. I choose to blame the time I caught on fire while making a sandwich.  BECAUSE I CAN.  Because no one can take that away from me.  And when beautiful, wonderful, fortunate things happen in my life, I can paint myself as a real-life Cinderella story.  From sandwich ashes to success.  I beat the odds.  Got over the trauma.  I’m an inspiration!  Proof that some people can catch on fire while making sandwiches and still go on to lead happy, healthy, lives.