Baaaaa!

Have you ever felt the blood thrumming through your fingertips? Have you ever felt the weight of the breath in your lungs? Have you ever felt alive? And I mean really alive. We as a people conform willingly, go into our cocoons of monotony, and let the seasons pass us by as we refuse to change into what we could become.

We need to wake up and experience the life we’ve been given. Otherwise the exhilaration of simply being able to breathe is lost. I am not suggesting you high tail it to Everest or attempt some death-defying stunt to get your juices going. Something small, some minor deviation from your normal routine will do.

Personally I’ve been nestled in my cocoon, fooling myself into believing that I have already left it. But lately I’ve been noticing how drab my life has become. Not from lack of interesting things around me. I am involved in the musical, and am constantly busy with my workload from school. But when the noise stops, when the dust settles, when it is just me, myself, and the mouse in my pocket I feel numb.

What this boils down to is I am dissatisfied with my life. I am involved, yes, but I am not experiencing. I think I stopped experiencing a long time ago. Emotions are fleeting, drama gets downplayed, crises are easily averted. I have been trying to build a magnificent glorious house with no foundation.

I find myself simply going through the motions of what I want life to be. I shop. I go to parties. I dance. I crack jokes. I read. I write. I shop. I go to parties. I dance. I crack jokes. I read. I write. Around and around so much that I’ve worn down a circuit of sameness in the hearty rug of life. I am bored with me.

A simple example is personal style. I have had the same haircut for the past six or seven years. You have probably seen a million of me—mid-length, straight hair, parted slightly to the side. It’s real low maintenance. It’s classic. I suppose that’s why I have kept it this way for so long. I know it looks good. More importantly I know it’s safe.

Mind you, I don’t think a classic look is bad. It was the sameness that got to me. It made me itch. I like the idea of being an individual, of not being just another sheep. The more I saw the sameness staring at me from the bathroom mirror, the more my hair seemed like wool. It was time for me to get sheared.

I knew it when I woke up this morning. The itching sensation was too much. I was going to change. I was going to break out of my safe cocoon. I was going to stop the sameness. I gave some vague warning to my mother as I headed out for my appointment at Silano Milano. For those of you who don’t know me I dye my hair Platinum blonde, and go in every four to six weeks for touchups (dying my hair this shade of blonde has also gone on for six or seven years but has never contributed to the sense of sameness because not many people have hair brighter than a streetlight).

My stylist, Kathy, is without doubt one of the most individual personalities on this planet. She has deep chestnut hair highlighted golden blonde that falls straight to her waist with arching bangs. She always wears bright pink lipstick and smoky eye shadow. I would steal her wardrobe if I could. When I came in this morning she was wearing a Halloween themed Frankenstein t-shirt, black leggings, and knee high leather boots. The t-shirt was ironic considering she was about to make a monster out of my ego.

At first I was scared to leave my comfort zone and change the style that had been sufficient for most of my life. I shyly explained what I thought I wanted. Kathy nodded along enthusiastically, asked me a couple of questions, and started cutting. I screwed my eyes shut, breathing slowly, trying not to panic. I opened my eyes not two minutes later to see the pile of hair in my lap. If a pale person can pale then I did.

I looked in the mirror and could hardly recognize myself. No sameness here. I now have bangs. Shaggy, poofy, blonde bangs. To a girl that has snootily sworn on a few saints that she will never have bangs this is a big deal. It may not seem like that big of a deal, it’s such a small thing really, but that is exactly my point.

I didn’t have to go bungee jumping or sky diving to experience something new and pivotal in my life. It is a baby step to be sure, but a small step that has made me feel alive. I feel electrified. Everything seems shiny and new. I have deviated from a long-standing pattern and discovered how free it all feels. I still want to do the same things. I just see them as opportunities to make other changes. I see them through bang tinged eyes.

Bitter Sweet Sugar

We were driving back from a prosperous shopping trip, taking the scenic route from the West County mall to home. We had caught the trees in the midst of changing colors—trading their proper housewife green ensemble for the more daring violets, crimsons, and marigolds of a Vegas showgirl. How bold Mother Nature was becoming. The sun beamed down in warm approval. The day was perfect. I gazed out the car window at the private roads peeking behind the foliage and the magnificent houses that not even the tallest trees could make cower. I have always been in awe of these wonders both natural and man-made.

As the car hugged a corner, I turned my head as I always do to a road that had long been reclaimed by the wildlife. Everything seemed to move in slow motion then. The sunlight splashed its dappled light on an area of the path that had been hacked back. A large white sign dully proclaimed this place was for sale. My breath paused long enough for me to do a double take. Gray slabs of stone whispered to me from farther back on the property—such cold mutterings. The moment passed. The car turned that tight corner; my lungs remembered their purpose; I blinked hard. And so it ends.

I have been familiar with this road since I was about nine. For me the summer of 1999 meant change. We had recently moved to Webster Groves, and my mother not knowing about the schools system’s form of childcare was putting me into a summer camp. Sugar Creek Day Care held every day at the Praise Fellowship Church in Kirkwood of all places. Being the illustrious age of nine I believed that I did not need to be babied by a day care, after all I was almost a double digit. The drives to and from the day camp were spent in silence partly because I was being sullen and partly because of the trees.

Then the gravel drive of the day camp was well kept, the wild bushes pruned back in the friendliest way possible. The archway of greenery gave way to open air and the sun would pour through the windshield only to be blocked shortly thereafter by the looming church. The Praise Fellowship Church was a pale gray building that never failed to remind me of a castle. Early morning light would twinkle off the glass panes like fey lights. On either side of the church were emerald lawns. To the left was a fenced in playground with the expected slides, swings, and playhouses. Behind the church was an Olympic size pool filled this time of year by the peculiar pale blue water of all pools. To the right of the humongous pool was a wooden awning with wizened picnic tables. Everything reeked of chlorine, even the dreary concrete.

I would be ushered through the church’s large medieval looking doors, and up the arching red velvet staircase to the top floor where the day care was held, by whichever parent had custody of me that week. They would hand me my brown bagged lunch, which always contained a peanut butter sandwich (no crusts), a bag of chips, a box of chocolate milk, and if I was lucky a cookie. And then they would leave me to my fate. I was in the middle range of ages at Sugar Creek. The little kids thought I was too big, and the big kids thought I was too little. I was a misfit. And to top it off I was a Statesman in the middle of Pioneer territory and strangely vocal about it. This did not win me many friends.

Despite this I did make a few friends at Sugar Creek Day Care. Two girls, one whose name I cannot remember for the life of me but I shall call her Sarah, and the other girl’s name was Danielle. But as I was still shaking off the remnants of my tomboy phase I played more with the boys. My closest friend at that camp was a six-year-old boy named Daniel (which is the only reason I can remember Danielle’s name). Daniel was the brother I couldn’t decide if I wanted to keep or not. He had a little monkey face with tan skin, close cropped, soft brown-black hair, and laughing eyes.

We had an understanding, Daniel and I. At lunch we would trade: my chocolate milk for his juice box, or Fritos for Cheetos. Then we would sit, munching in companionable silence, at the plain tables, our legs dangling off the folding chairs. We were close, closer than I ever could have claimed to be with Sarah or Danielle. So I made sure no one picked on Daniel. He was slightly small, and like me he had the tendency to annoy the beejeezus out of people. But Daniel irked people by playing pranks on them. He was a joker who wouldn’t quit when the joke got tired. Not only that but Daniel was stubborn, possibly more stubborn than me. He would not admit he was wrong even after he had proof waved in front of his face.

I remember we got into an argument one day about the new Star Wars movie, which now seems ludicrous. He was adamant that it was the fourth in the series. I kept telling him it was the fourth movie made, yes, but it was the first part of the story. Neither of us was willing to let it go and we almost came to blows over it until camp counselors separated us. The day care had taken us to the near by Sugar Creek Park, and in order to put distance between Daniel and I a counselor took me, Sarah, and Danielle down to the little stream running through the park.

Our tiny tennis shoes slid down the incline and plopped into the gurgling creek. The water was soaking through to my socks and beginning to cool off my temper. But like a wounded puppy, Daniel had followed us to the creek. He wanted to come play too. I turned, hands fisted on my hips and told him he couldn’t come down because he wasn’t old enough and he might get hurt. He clapped his hands over his ears and told me he was no longer talking to me. Fuming, I went further down the creek. Fine, we would just never speak again.

I had begun to calm down by the time we returned to the church. It was a Tuesday, which meant we would go swimming in the camp’s pool the appropriate thirty minutes after lunch. I sat with Sarah and Danielle because Daniel and I were still not speaking. I glared at my lunch. Stupid chocolate milk. Stupid Fritos. Since neither of us was willing to break the silence, so we didn’t trade food as usual. I suppose neither of us ate much that day. It was all just a long wait till we could go swim. Waiting the thirty minutes for “proper digestion” was a lot like waiting for an “appropriate” time to pounce on your parents on Christmas morning. Adults’ time schedules are never accommodating enough for kids.

Finally we were led down to the changing rooms, the odor of chlorine and the damp tiles only served to make us more animated. I ducked into a stall and quickly changed into my neon blue one piece. Stuffing my other clothes and towel into my father’s old gym bag I hurried out to join Sarah and Danielle. The maroon and beige canvas bag was heavy and it dug into my bony shoulders as we stood in line waiting to be let out. I shifted trying to get comfortable as the counselors—carefully checking to make sure they had each and every one of us, counted off my golden head.

We waited longer still as two counselors took to the lifeguard stands. Once they were properly situated with their sunglasses and slouching poses we were let loose. I shuffled over to the old picnic tables under the awning and dropped my burden on the creaking tabletop. I spent an unnecessary amount of time arranging my towel and change for the soda machine. The idea of swimming was exciting, but the reality wasn’t quite as energizing for me. I wasn’t a terribly strong swimmer, and I hadn’t bothered to take the test that would let me into the deep end. All of my friends had though, even Daniel, and it made me uncomfortable.

There was a tugging at my arms, Sarah and Danielle, pulling me towards the pool. Laughing, we grasped each other’s hands and took a screaming leap into the densest part of the shallow end. We came up spitting pool water and smiling, all my worries forgotten. The game the three of us preferred was a sort of treasure hunt. The pool at Sugar Creek Day Care was old. Chips from the pool’s bottom littered the floor of the pool. We would go underwater and pick up one of those triangular shaped pieces of rubble and break the surface exclaiming at what treasures we had found—it could be anything from a gold doubloon to a princess’ lost ruby ring.

We had shortly excavated to the point where Danielle was bored of our little game. She disdainfully told us that us that she was going to the deep end, and demanded that Sarah come with her. The two of them treaded water while I gripped the shiny sidebar as Sarah looked between Danielle and me. Sarah bit her lip and then scooted closer to me and said she was going to stay in the shallow end. Sarah was a most loyal friend, which makes me feel horrible because I can’t even remember her real name.

Danielle swam off in disgust. Sarah and I continued playing around until we concurred that we were too wrinkly and cold. We lazily dog paddled over to the gleaming ladder in the left hand corner of the shallow end. Daniel was blocking the gate, sprawled on his stomach looking down at the pool floor. He often did this and would float around until you got close enough then he would scare you. Sarah and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. We knew better than to fall for one of Daniel’s tricks. I rudely told him to move but he didn’t budge. Still ignoring me.

“Come on Daniel, move it!” I shouted

“Please.” Sarah said sweetly. The magic word had always worked before why not now?

Still Daniel did not move.

I let out a breath of annoyance, “Lets just move him.”

Sarah giggled her assent and our small hands grasped his side. We hauled him up closer to the edge of the pool, Daniel was much heavier than either of us had expected. We let him go thinking he would right himself, but he slid limply down under the water. Sarah and I scowled at each other. We dove underwater and hauled him back up. Keeping one arm around his waist, I grabbed his right hand and molded it to the sidebar so he could grip it. Daniel’s eyes were closed, his lashes spiky from the pool. Water poured out of his mouth bits of foam at his lips. Sarah and I let go figuring he would now have leverage with the bar to right himself. He slid again, slower than before, his hand not even gripping the bar. He seemed to sit at the bottom of the pool, letting his right hand stick out above the water in mock salute. Still thinking he was playing with us Sarah and I dove for the third time. He was so heavy, heavier than my father’s canvas bag.

“Daniel! This isn’t funny any more. Stop it! Stop playing!” I shrieked at him, shaking him. Still his eyes did not open.

Just then a lifeguard was walking past, not even looking at us.

“Hey! Help! Look!” I shouted at her. Panic and Daniel’s weight making me incapable of forming a complete sentence.

She knelt down and smiled at us—just three kids playing a little game.

“Help. He’s…” I broke off. I didn’t know what was wrong with him but I had a sinking suspicion that I wanted this woman to tell me was wrong.

Her smile fell into the pool, and her eyes widened. Like a track runner at the sound of the gun she shot off shouting, “Brian! We have a situation.”

A shrill whistle slammed into my skull. We were told to get out of the pool. Ever obedient Sarah and I scrambled out of the pool, up the ladder we had been trying to get to all along. The lifeguards pulled Daniel out of the water and lay him out on the concrete, and the other kids formed a half circle around them. The curly-headed female lifeguard I had called over was trying to give Daniel CPR.

“Oh God, there’s so much water in his lungs.” She cried as she came up for air.

This set the kids off like bottle rockets, shrieking and whining with worry and fear. The other lifeguard, Brian, attempted to quiet them by demanding that they pray for Daniel, this was after all a church sponsored camp. Echoes of ‘in Jesus’ name’ sounded through the air bouncing off the stone walls, becoming more frantic. The half circle of children stood hunched over their clasped hands, eyes screwed shut in earnest prayer. I stood far off to the side not moving, just watching Daniel’s lungs for any sign of movement. I was dripping wet, and freezing cold but numb. I padded over to the picnic tables to get my towel and gym bag. Sirens screamed in the distance getting closer and more insistent by the second. I wrapped my threadbare towel around my shoulders and for some reason looked up.

The back of the church faced an off ramp of Interstate 270. Up the large hill, wild with vegetation, on the off ramp was a news van. Some woman with perfectly coiffed hair and a power suit was standing with a microphone in her hand, the cameraman following her every move. Their distant shapes made me angry, but there wasn’t enough heat from my anger to banish the cold. Red and blue lights flashed across my pale face. One of the older counselors put her hand on my shoulder.

“Come on, you have to go inside now.” She said quietly, nudging me in the direction the other kids had gone. I could see their inquisitive faces looking down from the top floor window.

“No,” I said as I planted my feet on the abrasive concrete, “I’m not going anywhere until I know Daniel’s okay.”

Two EMTs ran out of the ambulance someone had called and over to Daniel’s prone body. Daniel was placed on a stretcher and wheeled away amidst technical terms and an oxygen mask. I lurched toward him, but was stopped by the counselor her grip firmer on my shoulder. His eyes still would not open.

After that everything blurs. I remember being forced to color as if that would help. I remember the older girls saying dramatically that they would never use the color blue again. I remember Danielle saying it was all so tragic because Daniel was her best friend (which was a lie because they hated each other). I remember wanting to hit her when she told everyone she had found Daniel and how horrible it all was. I remember getting picked up early by my father and having to explain in a small voice what happened. I remember waking up the next morning to find both my parents on the couch. I remember hearing that Daniel was pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital. I remember crying violently. I remember blaming myself, thinking that if I had just gotten to him sooner he would have lived. I remember meeting Daniel’s mother. We looked at each other, I said I was sorry, and she began to cry.

For the longest time I had regrets. I regretted not getting to Daniel sooner on the off chance that it could have saved him. I found out later that hope was useless. Daniel had seizures, which his mother neglected to tell the camp officials. He had a seizure in the water and drowned in the shallowest part of the pool. There was nothing I could have done but it took me a long time to figure that out. I also regretted our argument or rather I regretted that we never spoke again.

Sugar Creek Day Care finished out the summer, but was not offered the next year. For various reasons I would pass by the Praise Fellowship Church. Either viewing it from the Interstate where the newscaster had stood, or through vague glimpses through the forest. I watched them drain the pool, never to be refilled. I watched the state of the building deteriorate until it truly did look like a ruined castle. I watched the wildlife reclaim the land. And now the place is for sale. The sun shining down on the moment, no longer as warm, and bright leaves blurring the past. But still the gray slabs seem to whisper to me. And so it ends.

Floorus Shelficus

It is a widely known fact that the floor is the largest shelf in any given room. For most of my life I have exploited this fact, defending it with religious zeal. If it was a mess, then at least it was my mess and I knew where everything was. There was a method to my madness. But yesterday my madness pushed me too far and slammed me back into sanity. My room needed to be cleaned.

On the rare occasions when I do clean my room I always feel as if I need to stretch out—do a few lunges, make sure I can touch my toes—like a runner preparing for a marathon. Then I need music to set the pace. I sift carefully through my massive collection of CDs (exceeding one hundred at last count), searching for the perfect room cleaning sound. It should be fast and energetic to keep me motivated. I settle on Gwen Stefani’s Love.Angel.Music.Baby and turn around.

What I face is nothing if not daunting. Clothes from the past week are piled against my dresser mere feet from my laundry basket. Shopping bags from sprees past brightly mark the distance of other piles of other clothes that are technically clean but have yet to be put away; books stacked in perfect miniature to the leaning tower of Pisa; and pillows randomly dashed about the floor. My dresser is likewise crammed. Three different jewelry boxes crowd the space and overflow with everything from diamonds, to pearls, to plastic bobbles. A truck-shaped piggy bank hides behind an orange picture frame of six of my long-time friends at a skating rink. Elegant gloves in a blinding yellow lie across a tin of mints and a tube of vanilla crème lip-gloss. Ticket stubs from movies dating as far back as spring ’04 peek from underneath safety pins, postcards, a toy pirate hook, and candles. A mini locker cluttered with magnets holds more makeup, incense, and nail polish. Bottles of perfume and lotion stand in formation on the edge of the dresser like eager puppies waiting to be picked. A wire replica of the Eiffel Tower reaches over a back massager, a wooden cutout of a terrier, and yet another candle. Everything is lightly coated in a layer of dust. I have gotten rid of nothing. I might as well be Miss Havisham.

I had recently made a poster of pictures and mementoes from my past that I wanted to hang up. To do that I would have to reach the back wall. So I started in on the piles of things blocking my way. Each article of clothing I came across had to pass the smell test before it would be thrown into the laundry basket or on to my bed to fold later. Right now, my main focus was clearing a path to the wall. I emptied shopping bags—well look at that I forgot I bought this—and placed books in my floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Dust bunnies came out to attack my feet but I was not deterred, and I eventually made it to the back wall. It occurred to me that I should wash my zebra rug, as it had not seen a watering hole in many years. So I herded the scruffy rug down to the washing machine in the hopes that it would be revived.

Back in my room, I came face to face with my peacock feather. We gave each other the old one-eyed stare as I tried to decide if I wanted to keep it. The feather had been a gift from my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Watters, and I figured it was worth keeping. But the piece of spaghetti on the wall would have to go. Many years ago I had decided that it made perfect sense to tape a piece of raw spaghetti on my wall. My mom hated it so naturally I had to keep it up on the wall in impish defiance. You have no idea how happy she was when I took that piece of spaghetti off the wall. There is actually a thin void on the wall where it used to hang, which sent me into a fit of giggles that left me gasping on the bed.

The poster hanging idea turned out to be a big fiasco. First we (Mom and I) had to move my Mandala of Padmapani: Savior of Great Compassion poster to the space above my second dresser, which also had a huge paper flower, a Chinese hat, and a bevy of stuffed animals to compete with. Then we tried to tape my framed collage up with adhesive tape (this later fell over and we had to find an alternate means of attaching the poster to the wall, hence fiasco). Next we taped up a poster of Washington University’s Thurteen festival. Now we were out of tape but I still wanted to hang up my Marilyn Monroe poster. Mom went off to get some more adhesive tape, and I set my sights on the closet.

Before I got started on my closet though I put on the soundtrack to Shreik 2—the day was progressing. I have a small closet so to maximize my space I have little plastic containers holding knickknacks and the bottles upon bottles of lotion I had somehow amassed. I went through the containers smelling each bottle until my nose went numb. I ended up keeping only a handful of what had to be forty some-odd products. The discard pile went into a bag that would either be tossed or regifted depending on if it had even been used. I was sneezing violently now from dust or floral fumes I don’t know. But my room was at least half clean.

Now I started hanging up clothes in my closet, cramming two to three articles of clothing on every hanger. I have a lot of clothes. Even after properly hanging some stuff up I still had a mountain of shirts and jeans that needed to be folded and put in the proper drawer. Drawer by drawer I went through refolding and organizing so I could squish more clothes in the overburdened bureaus. I decided to give up a few pairs of shorts that weren’t school legal and tossed them in the give-away pile. I wiped my forehead and sat back on my heels, there was still more to do. I replaced Shreik 2 with The Killers.

I cleared off the top of my dresser and dusted. EW! I am now committed to dusting once a week as well as sweeping because it was just nasty. Each thing found a place or it got dumped, which hurt a little. The problem with cleaning out your room is you’re expected to throw away “useless” things. To me every little thing has some sort of sentimental value; it’s why I scrapbook. That ticket stub from two years ago is where I bonded with one of my best friends for the first time, or that playbill was another friend’s first attempt at acting. But I do realize I can’t keep everything, it just takes one hell of a mess to make me see it.

My purple trashcan was full of things when I was done organizing my dresser. All I had left to do was sweep. But that was going to have to wait. The entire ordeal had taken about five hours. I collapsed on my bed and looked over my clean room. A new shelf just waiting to be filled.

Heaven Is In Fact Edible

I rolled over, peering through the haze of sleep at my clock its red numbers glaring right back at me. I flopped back down on my neon orange sheets and let the rhythmic buzz of the ceiling fan lull me back to dreams. It was nine-fifteen.

The only reason I woke up again was I had fallen asleep on my right hand. I tested my hand like Luke Skywalker in The Empire Strikes Back, slowly moving each finger watching them in wonder. As the digits denumbed I regained full consciousness as the initial pain skimmed over my hand. The feeling is not unlike having the first layer or two of skin slowly peeled off your hand so you’re raw. It is much more effective than any alarm clock.

As my pain eased I looked around at my lava lamp and glanced at the clock. Nine forty-five. I looked down at my right hand wondering if I wanted to chance it. But there was no way I was going to be able to sleep again.

I berated myself out of bed thinking of all the things I had to do. The sooner I got up, the sooner all of that would be accomplished, and the sooner I could go back to sitting on my arse. What a motivator! I pulled back the covers and lumbered out of bed only to be assaulted by the cold.

I traded my boxers for long linen pants—Betty Boop a much warmer companion than tired plaid. Scrambling around till I found a sweater on the floor (which reminded me I needed to clean my room), I yanked it over my head. Properly warm now I returned to my previous state of lethargy.

I shuffled past the random junk in my room—ratty tennis shoes, unpacked shopping bag, dented purple trashcan—down the mellow yellow hallway to my mother’s room. I peeked past the doorjamb to find rumpled covers. Listening to the sounds there were no creaking boards or muted noises coming from another part of the house. Clearly Mom had left.

Unperturbed I continued my trek through the house. My two dogs, Zeke and Eli, fell into step behind me, becoming my little fuzzy shadows, their claws making a familiar clacking on the black-and-white linoleum of the kitchen floor. I would like to think they have immense loyalty to me but I know they are no better than Pavlov’s mutt. A human gets up in the morning and they go outside.

I opened the back door just far enough to let them out and to let the fresh air pinch my cheeks. I closed the door and went to turn the computer on. The whir and hum of the machine starting up gave life to the quiet room. Opening my desktop I greeted the unsmiling mien of Mr. Darcy and opened the Internet.

I quickly lost track of time as I checked my p.c. email account to see if Mr. Leftridge had gotten my narrative poem (no such luck), and otherwise dallied about on the computer. I was procrastinating but it was still early enough that I could get everything done in theory.

I had almost resigned myself to writing my blog for which I had no ideas when I heard the lock on the front door turn with a metallic crunch. Mom was home. I was only vaguely interested in where she had been—I wasn’t the parent of this household and she had liberty to go where she pleased. But she had my attention when she proclaimed from the kitchen that she had doughnuts.

Oh boy. I had eaten three Krispy Kremes on Friday but that in no way, shape, or form deterred me from wanting what Mom had brought home. Because these were not run of the mill Krispy Kremes. Oh no, these were from the Doughnut Drive In. The Doughnut Drive In makes the world’s best doughnuts!

Despite the name the Doughnut Drive In isn’t really a drive-in. Maybe it was once upon a time but now it’s just like any other store. Located on Chippewa and Watson, Mom and I had been getting our doughnuts from there before we even moved to Webster. Back when I had the great ambition of being a doughnut maker by day and a rock star by night. Clearly this place has had an impact on my life.

Not that I still want to be a doughnut maker but my tastes haven’t changed much since I was younger. I still get chocolate long johns and sugar-covered doughnuts. Those chocolate covered long johns are delicious! The chocolate frosting is smooth and melts in your mouth, and the doughnut itself is light and fluffy. The sugar-covered doughnuts are just as good but more addicting. Not only are they light and fluffy, they also bring back your childhood. The childhood when you were it was excusable to eat with abandon, and have a ring of sugar around your mouth for a later snack.

That same ring of sugar was present around my lips after carefully eating three of these wonderful, wonderful doughnuts. Feeling gloriously full and content, I licked the remnants of sugar from my fingers. Purring and grinning like the Cheshire cat I was quite ready to face whatever the day wanted to throw me. I had doughnuts. Now this is what Sunday morning was made for.