Flashback Friday: Journals and Demonic Dolls

Did any of you guys have a journal growing up?

I did. In fact, I had several.
I would buy (or beg mom for) a beautiful journal, and I would assign it a very specific purpose.
It was so pretty, that it had to be set aside for something special.
The only problem was, once that first page was written in, its fate was sealed.
If I used a journal to take notes at church, or to doodle in, or whatnot, I couldn't bring myself to use it for anything else. 
Guys, my room was full 90% empty journals. 
I had the classic problem of no follow through. No discipline. Which is why I'm still biting my nails, even though I'm no longer 11 years old.

I do remember one journal, though, that I think was actually full.

The Password Journal.

Do you remember those!? Oh man, they were great.

When you bought the journal, the first time you pressed the button, it would ask you to create a password. It was voice activated. What's more legit than that? Well, other than, like...every piece of technology in existence today.
But it was the 90's, and life was good.
Once the password was set, the only way to change it was to press a button inside the journal.

There was a small journal inside, and a hidden compartment behind it for notes, candies, and other secret items. I can't think of anything else right now, because what in the world is actually important at that age?

The only flaw, (and it was a rather gargantuan flaw), was that everyone could break my password.
It didn't matter what I did.
Even if I used something completely unguessable like my current crush "Matthew Broderick" as the pass code, anyone from my best friend Becky to my younger cousin Steven could whisper "Matthew Broderick is hot" and the thing would spring open.
I began to really question myself at that point, when boys started being able to break in.
I mean, I always thought me and my little brother sounded alike, but...is there such a thing as "feminizing" someone's voice? Because I'm pretty sure I needed that.
All that to say, the actual journal portion inside was only a few pages long, and before I knew it all the pages were filled with notes from people saying, "I broke in, sucker! Muaha!"

Suffice it to say, my journal-writing went steadily downhill.
Not to say I gave up completely. I still wanted to be an accomplished person, so I still bought journals and vowed to fill them.
Sometimes I would try to get really creative, and I would name the journal, so I could write "Dear ----" to my new paper-filled friend on each new entry.

I remember one journal I had featured a beautiful blue-toned landscape, with a cursive "Air" across the front.
I decided to name my new journal "Air".
...I still marvel at the extent of my wild imagination.

I think if I rummaged through my old stuff and found that journal, it would have had one entry in it.
Probably something like,

Dear Air,
(in cursive because I had to compensate in other ways for my man-voice)
Good morning my friend. I trust you slept well.
I had a wondrous day yesterday, and I must tell you about it!
But for now, I am going to go and play video games with my brother Kevin.
See you tonight!
All my love,
Caitlin

And the rest of the journal would be completely empty.

I occasionally will still catch myself eyeing a pretty leather journal at a Barnes and Noble, and I have to forcefully pull myself away.
Move away, Caitlin. You've already proven you can't keep friendships with them.

 
Journals weren't the only things I created a personal attachment to.
Oh, no. Ask anyone who knew me when I was younger, and they'll tell you, I was (am?) the most sentimental, pack-rattish fiend who ever was to own a Polly Pocket.

I collected about 57 different things, including Porcelain Dolls.
I could probably devote an entire post to Porcelain Dolls, because...well, they're evil.

That's not my actual collection, but it could have been.
(Actually, my dolls were rather beautiful, I must say. None of them had teeth showing or lazy eyes or weird puffy faces or tiny heads with massive bodies.)
All my porcelain dolls sat up on the top of my tall dresser unit. They all had names, they all...watched over me, in a sense.
In a really scary sense.

Because if you're like me, and there are wicked gangs afoot, the dolls periodically try and kill you.

On 3-5 separate occasions, I had friends and cousins play rather horrific pranks on me, trying to convince me that my dolls came alive at night.
One time, I woke up to all of my porcelain dolls surrounding me on my bed.
It was a lovely day bed, with the typical trundle bed beneath it.
The son-of-a-guns even put a doll standing on the trundle, with her arms raised, as if trying to climb onto my bed.
They included a note, with all of their names signed at the bottom.

I mean, if there's ever a time you think I'm messed up in some way, let's just all point fingers to that fateful morning.

If that wasn't bad enough, I once woke up to this glorious sight:

This is me, sleeping on the floor so that other "friends" can sleep in my bed.
And yes, that's a doll, covered in red ink (blood) with some kind of horrible note.

Suddenly, I'm really quite fine that I never had any real sisters.

Oh, the 90's.
What a great time to live. What a great era to grow up in.
These are just a few small tidbits of my experiences before modern technology ruled our lives.
I'm old. 

And I heart Flashback Fridays.

In love,
Cait

Flashback Friday: Ambrosius

Last Friday, I did a flashback post about Dusty and I's first home.
This story goes hand-in-hand with that time of our lives, and is a lovely, perfect memory of a weekend.

Britany, Bryce and I were standing outside of CBU's theater.
We had just seen The Taffetas, the theater's most recent musical.
Bryce had been in it, so Brit and I went to watch him and enjoy the show. Dusty would have come with us but he was really sick, so he was cooped up in our apartment getting some rest (playing video games in his pajamas).

An important tidbit of information to this story is that the theater was known for often having a few stray cats around it.
For whatever reason, kitten-sightings were very common around the back-lot bushes of the large building.
I had never actually seen them before, but had heard stories.

While we were standing and talking outside the building, someone (I don't remember who) came over and said they had found a litter of tiny black kittens!
We followed them around the building, and sure enough, there were several little kittens hiding in the shadows.
Brit and I were able to pick two of them up. One was a little squeamish, but the one I ended up holding was extremely chill and just cuddled up to me. My heart melted, because I have a horrible tendency to love and/or want any and every tiny animal.
We walked over to show another friend nearby, and I just stood there holding the little thing until we decided it was time to go.

Just then, we spotted the momma cat and the rest of the kittens running across the lawn!

I freaked out, because I didn't want the little guy that I was holding to be separated from them.
I put him down so that he could join them, but they were already fairly far away and he didn't move a muscle.

I must have had "the look" in my eyes, because both Britany and Bryce told me, in no uncertain terms, that I needed to leave the kitten and walk away.
I was having a horrible internal struggle, that can only be described as distorted motherly intuition.
But, I put the kitten down in the bushes and said goodnight to Brit and Bryce.
They made me swear to leave the kitten there, because surely the mother cat would be back soon. It will be fine, they said. No you cannot keep it, they said.  

I began to walk away, and the most heart-wrenching cry came from those bushes.
I swear, I stood there for a whole minute, trying to force myself not to turn around.
Unable and unwilling to be so callous, I bent down and sat on my legs, trying to peer into the bushes to where I set the kitten down. I reached out my hand and whispered, "C'mere!"

Now, no one else was there that night.
The lawn was empty, the campus was closed, everyone else had wandered home for the night. No one can offer any confirmation or testimonial proof that this happened.

But that kitten sprang out of those bushes like it's tail was on fire, running full out into my arms.

And the rest, folks, is history.

While the walk home was really awkward, trying to come up with what to say to Dusty, it all just came out when I walked in and said, "Um, hi. We may have a problem. A really, really cute problem."

Dusty had always hated cats. He was not a fan. But really. Look at that face!
It was one of the best weekends of our lives.

After a while of intense discussion, we decided to name him Ambrosius.
I should say I decided to name him Ambrosius, from The Labyrinth, a masterful Jim Henson movie starring David Bowie.
Dusty hated the name, (and the movie), but since he knew we couldn't keep this kitten...he decided I could get the name out of my system.

A lot of our time was spent like this.
With a very sad, sick Dusty in the background

Ambrosius played,

And he also loved to sleep.

They made quite a pair.

I've never seen a kitten conk out like Ambrosius.
When he was asleep, he was asleep. 

One time when Brit was over, we lifted up his paws and dropped them while he was sleeping, and he wouldn't even flinch.

Brit and Ambrosius became instant friends, as well.

It was a glorious two days.
Ambrosius would sleep on our pillows, play with the little mini Christmas ornaments from the tree Lauren left with us, and was the smartest, sweetest, most well-behaved kitten I've ever seen.
We knew we couldn't keep him, but we pretended like we could for those two days.
We had no idea where we'd be going for law school, and we would be living with my parents for the summer while we prepared to move to wherever we decided to go.

We found a good home for him, and on Sunday night we met up with our friend to give Ambrosius over.
It was not easy. We had developed a most delightful bond with that little guy.
Getting home that night, to our kitten-less apartment, was a very sad moment.
For weeks afterward, we'd find bright little Christmas bulbs under the couch, in our cushions, and around our mattress. 

Sometimes, even the most short-lived joys are some of the most special moments in our lives.
I remember I had to work or something that Saturday, and Dusty was alone, sick in the apartment. He kept texting me pictures of Ambrosius sleeping against him. It was such an expected little blessing to have little Ambrosius around that weekend.
And, I believe, it paved the way for Dusty to love kittens. :)

Thanks for running to me that night, Ambrosius.

I know you have a new name, a new home, and hopefully you're doing well.
But you'll always be Ambrosius to us. Crazy little angel.

In love,
Cait