Why Isn't Life Like Mashed Potatoes?

My first day of class! I had to write this in an hour but I thought it turned out well for a spur of the moment paper...

Jessica B...
Eng 121-096
Professor G...
Why Isn't Life Like Mashed Potatoes?

Quinessential New Jersey suburbia is completely underrated, especially in the fall when the color pallette changes and kids are going back to school. The neighborhood I grew up in was tireless, kids on bikes and skateboards created a mobile obstacle course for all drivers. Constantly annoying my Mom when she had to navigate her blue mini van home to the best house ever. When I went back to visit it recently I couldn’t believe how small it was. Barn house red with a daffodil-lined walkway leading up to the front porch. Whoever currently lived there had taken down the porch swing, how unfortunate for them.

When my parents unexpectedly announced over dinner that we were moving out of the best house ever, to what was defiantly not the best house ever, my eleven year old mind was boggled. They were ripping my heart out and doing the Mexican hat dance on it.

Luckily I'd learned at an early age that arguing with your parents is undisputedly the most counter productive activity any individual can engage in. I believe that this knowledge granted me at least a month of life that cumulatively would have been spent in my room. I stared at my mashed potatoes, using my fork to make little canals while deciding on a plan of action.
Potatoes are a funny thing; I never really saw them as being a vegetable therefore making them entirely acceptable dinner food. But what’s really cool is the fact that you can smash them, draw faces, and create various landscapes then erase it all and start over. If only life was like mashed potatoes. You see, I’ve always been an avid reader, giving me ridiculous ideas that were executed with very little thought. My mother is a tremendously stressed individual. If life had been like mashed potatoes on that fall day I could have hit my rewind button on life’s VCR on the way to the emergency room.

When I drove back to see the best house ever, 7 years after the day I’d moved. (Fondly nicknamed Dooms Day, it was January, and that very day was the start of a huge blizzard. I’d been convinced it was a sign.) The first thing I did was gaze through the rusty chain link fence and look up at my beloved tree house. My Dad, Uncle and Grandfather had spent many long Saturdays slaving over their project while I watched and gave directions. Eventually they got tired of my dictatorship and made me go garage saleing with my grandmother on Saturdays.
I’m an expert at convincing my parents to do what I want, with minimal effort. After reading Swiss Family Robinson I was sure I would not be able to go on with my life without a tree house. So I crusaded for my cause. I got out paper and spent hours creating the blueprint to my perfect treehouse. I wrote down all the supplies I would need, and even estimated the cost, trying to figure out if I could pay for it out of my allowance. Conveniently I’d concluded that we would only need wood, nails, a hammer and curtains, all for the low, low price of fifteen dollars. Provided everything was on sale, as well as taking into account that we already had a hammer. I put out some cookies, sat down my parents and began my presentation.

My Dad was an easy target, however my Mom was worried that I would fall climbing down, resulting in a long yellow slide protruding from the left side.

When it was completed, I covered it with crepe paper and announced the grand opening. I think briefly I’d named my treehouse Wednesday, however my friends had informed me that any tree house named Wednesday was stripped of all dignity, and why was I naming my treehouse? Officially it was named Jessica the Second, if anyone said they didn’t like that name then I would have to take personal offense, who is going to tell me my own name is stupid?

The two years after the birth of Jessica the Second were excellent. I assembled a bookshelf for myself and would sit up in Jessica the Second every afternoon. I even tried installing a lamp behind my Mom’s back, using 4 extension cords. Apparently that’s not so good if it rains, who knew?

Watching my ‘juvenile’ (I was homeschooled, my Mom stopped the vocabulary lessons after it got to the point where she never wanted to hear the word juvenile again) little brother play with his refrigerator box, popping out with excessive glee every so often, proclaiming that he’d scared us all, caused me to roll my eyes and shake my head with such dramatics that eventually I was forbidden from doing that as well. For fear my face would “stay like that”

7 years later, Jessica the Second had been stripped of its glory. A faded Italian flag was draped over the entrance, and the wood had started to warp to a dingy gray. I realized that after we moved, my escapades had essentially come to a close. Although during my childhood I’d had more than my fair share of trips to the doctor, in fact I’d been something of a hypochondriac. (Again, too many books) My most recent was the day I’d found out we were moving.

I went on strike.

There was no way I was leaving behind the best house ever and Jessica the Second. I would have no such ignorance, clearly my parents heads had been filled with nonsense by the television or something. After dinner that night I promptly brought out a warm blanket, pillow and food provisions outside, prepared to stay up there for as long as it took. Going to the bathroom had crossed my mind as a potential problem, so I sent the boxes of grape Juicy Juice flying down the slide and watched them sink into the pile of leaves I’d raked in front of the bottom of the slide.

It also occurred to me that I should have made signs of some sort to picket with. Oh well.

It took approximately two hours for my parents to realize I was gone. However I’ve always had a skewed sense of time perception when I’m bored, so in reality it could have been 10 minutes. At any rate, they marched out of the house and wearily asked what I thought I was doing.

“I’m not moving.” I announced, using as firm of a voice as I could muster.
My parents shrugged and walked back inside the house.

I must say this was the most confusing moment of my childhood. They’d never done this before! What the heck…they are going to leave me here? To sleep?

I panicked. Racking my brain for something, anything that I could possibly do to affect these people. I needed shock value, and fast because I was getting cold. Then it came to me, my epiphany. The stupidest thought I have ever had.

I swung myself upside-down on the rope ladder that I used to climb into Jessica the Second. Hanging by my knees, my head dangling about 5 feet from the ground. Clearly that was the most prudent thing to do. As I stared my parents in the face I felt the blood rushing to my head, and saw the blood rushing to theirs as well. They had defiantly been thrown for a loop, no doubt about that.

“If you don’t promise we won’t move, then I am going to drop myself onto my head.” Obviously I lived by the theory that I was invincible. My parents tried to decide whether or not I was bluffing.

“And don’t say we won’t move so that I’ll get down, but then we move anyway. Because then you are a liar and then I can lie whenever I want.” I added.

William and Christine Beckett are really very nice people, they are well liked and they are fabulous parents. But good ol’ Bill and Chris gave each other looks, trying to find an answer. But they were taking to long. I felt dizzy. They say it’s not the fall that hurts, but it’s when you hit the ground. They’re right.

Now I have a bump on my lip where it had hit a rock and split open. You can’t really see it anymore, after 14 it wasn’t visible. Thank God, because it looked like a zit.