I’m willing to guess that the ratio of stores to exhibits in Sea World leans largely in favor of stores. Each time you enter a darkened tunnel to survey the not-so-wild life you are motored through, told not to dawdle and promptly discarded in to the gift shop. And by “the” gift shop, I mean the penguin shop, the dolphin shop, the arctic shop, the Shamu shop, the shark shop. It is a 100% guarantee that if you just walked through the polar bears you will soon be faced with their fuzzy, beanbag miniatures. The children’s water park even has a children’s water apparel shop adjacent (in case you left your water-wings at home). There are shops by the restaurants that sell platters, glasses and assorted kitchen paraphernalia (in case … yeah, no clue). It’s quite obscene really. I’m surprised I made it out alive.

As Ryan and I walked through the gauntlet of Shamu miniatures at the “Shamu Shop” we wondered what might happen if Shamu were to pass on to the great blue beyond. Would they tell us? It seems like something the public has a right to know – but at the same time you have to wonder… what would happen to the sea of black and white plush? Would they dispose of it? Would they rename it? Would people want to buy paraphernalia riddled with the name of a dead orca? My guess is no.

Instead, the Sea World trainers would tearfully gather under the cover of night at the ocean shore as a giant crane lifted the gigantic hunk of blubber onto a makeshift raft. They would start the clap that is woefully choreographed and toss a match, igniting the pyre in a traditional Viking burial. Then they would return to work the next day to face the remaining whales. Through their tear-swollen faces they would be forced to decide which one can be spray painted to most resemble their beloved predecessor.

That was what we assumed, of course, until we were introduced to Shamu’s offspring. That’s right… the untrained calf in the middle of the pool is none other than… Shamu!

Shamu and Shamu.

So if I call Sea World and ask to talk to Shamu – which one would they put on the phone?

Read more »

I can’t sleep.

My brain just won’t – turn off.

And don’t get me wrong… I’m not claiming to be some super-genius whose brain won’t quit because I’m thinking of ways to alter the course of humanity. I’m just saying the damn thing won’t stop working long enough to give me a moment’s peace.

I’ve always had trouble going to sleep. I would lie in bed for probably an hour or two every night when I was growing up before finally drifting off. Throughout the years it really hasn’t changed much. There was a brief period during my freshman year of college when I managed to fall asleep within five minutes of hitting the pillow. I am told that was also a period filled with snoring, and can attest to the fact that it was accompanied by much drooling. I think I had a little trouble adjusting to college life and actually physically exhausted myself for the first time in history.

Although… I’m exhausted now and it’s doing me no good.

These days the one to two hour limbo time is turning into three or four. Last night it was five. Well… I say five only because after hour five I got up and out of bed so I could get on with the day.

I tried sleeping pills a few times – no luck. I think I’m just destined not to sleep at night.

I seem to have better luck sleeping during the day… maybe I really am a vampire…

Anyway.

As I lay in bed, mind churning, I wonder why exactly I must think of these things rather than go to sleep. I mean, there’s nothing really earth-shattering about any of them. Sometimes they’re reminders to myself – don’t forget to pay the rent, haircut Tuesday, you forgot to call Mom back, etc.

Those are the only ones I can rationalize as actually needing to be running through my head.

The others?

Last night I spent a good 20 minutes trying to figure out what Mary Chapin Carpenter meant when she sang, “Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.”

Is one of these options supposed to be the pleasant one? It would seem from the next line (Sometimes it all comes together, then sometimes you’re the fool in love) that it’s a sometimes you win, sometimes you lose scenario. But who is the winner in the bug/windshield pairing? The disemboweled insect or the sheet of glass with bug juice smeared all over it? That’s like saying sometimes you’re the bird crap and sometimes you’re the head it lands on. Who wants to be either?

Why does this keep me up at night? Don’t I have better things to do with my time?

Are you listening, Subconscious??? Shut OFF!

Read more »

As I lay awake in bed at 6am, I am accosted by the sounds of morning routine.

Alarms beep faintly in the distance, only barely audible as the sounds echo on the courtyard walls.

My neighbor slides open her closet door.

A car honks to unlock.

The garage gate screeches open.

A lump forms in my throat as I thank whatever power has allowed me to remain in bed.

I have a deeply rooted fear of actually becoming a part of the workforce. The sheer horror of it hits me at least once a day. And the worst part about it – I know it’s coming. One day… whether next week or two months from now… I’m going to be listening to the radio, thick with static, as it shakes me from my dreams at an ungodly hour.

I’m not okay with this. Is it healthy to constantly fear the day reality steps up to the plate?

I got a letter in the mail a few days ago. It was from me. High School Allie, to be exact.

High School Allie apparently did not share the same apprehension as I do today.

On the day before graduation, my Physics teacher (Mr. Lampert) had the class sit down and write letters to themselves which he would send out in five years time. We were instructed to tell our future selves where we thought we would be, what we thought we might be doing and remind ourselves of our previous goals.

High School Allie obviously had other things on her mind.

Inside my letter are several pictures I vaguely remember Mr. Lampert printing off his desk jet. I cut out the ones of my friends and myself and pasted them across the notebook paper. Also included is a fortune cookie that reads: Pack your bags! You are bound for an exciting destination to the far east. Uhuh.

The text of the letter says…

Allie –

Hey there. It is one day until graduation. How exciting! I plan to go to Willamette and study abroad at least one year (Europe hopefully). Good luck! Become an actress!

Then I go on to list four people I should call.

Oh, High School Allie – did you not know yourself at all? Didn’t you know you have an irrational distaste for telephone conversations and an inherent fear of calling people? Shouldn’t you have told yourself to shoot off an email or two?

And “Good luck! Become an actress!” – is that for real? Did you honestly think that was going to happen?

The thing that really disappoints me (besides the guilt that comes with the acknowledgement that not only did I not go abroad, I did not become an actress, nor do I intend to call those four people) is that High School Allie, in all her paranoia about schoolwork and getting As, couldn’t take the time out to actually write a quality letter? For shame.

It appears I wasn’t the only one in a hurry to finish sixth period and get in line for a chance at good placement in the ceremony seating chart. Attached to my letter is another sheet of notebook paper covered in chicken scratch. I take consolation in the fact that my friends had science second period and the people I managed to convince to write something to my future self were little more than acquaintances. But still… the only thing any of them had to say was “good luck” and “I’m sure you’re still a great person.” One of them took the time to remind me my nickname was Shmallie. Man. My friends were creative.

The kicker is the message from Mr. Lampert. He wrote that he was sure that by the time this letter reached me I would be a student teacher making others smile the way I made him smile every day.

Oh ow. The guilt… it hurts… the shame of it all.

Oh Shmallie, what have you become?

And should you be disappointed?

Read more »