short essay 1

the more people read the more limitations i have in writing. meaning... i don't want to offend anyone. at least not yet.

here is a short essay i wrote this morning. i'll probably turn it in for my class titled "The Essay." i've done no editing to it yet.


Picking Fleas

When I was little my mom was always picking things off of me. Somehow I attracted little bits of fuzz and hairs all over my clothes and my mom felt it was her duty to preen me. We would stand in the check out line at the grocery store and my mom would plant herself behind and pluck the little hairs away. I would turn beet red and exclaim that she was embarrassing me. My mom would then say, “Ericka, all mom’s do this.” I would shake my head and turn my back towards the stand of gum flavors so she wouldn’t be able to pluck. This behavior reminded me of the monkeys in National Geographic, picking and plucking fleas from other monkey’s backs. A long line of monkeys with my mom’s maternal instincts, just picking and plucking.

Eventually I became aware of the little hairs on my sweaters, these little intruders to my freshly washed turtlenecks and dry cleaned coats. I think when I became aware of these intrusions is when I started to become like my mother. I am sure that I am not the only one who cares so much about the state of their clothing. But I feel like everyone will notice that one long white hair that is gracefully swept across the back of my left shoulder. Where did that hair come from? I don’t have white or even blonde hair and I’ve been inside my apartment the whole day. I conclude it’s from my ever-shedding cream ½ angora hair, ½ wool sweater. I pick the hair off my shoulder and my primal instincts flare. My mom has taught me well.
I have been more than self conscious lately about these hairs, these fuzzies… in fact I have been obsessed. Last spring I purchased I dog from the Humane Society. I didn’t know anything about puppies and I didn’t think she would shed. I was wrong. So wrong.

Olive is a delight. The one trick she knows is “sit.” Rather, that is the one trick she will do without a treat. But she knows other things like “jump up” or “get down” and I think she even knows “lay down” and “come here” but she chooses not to listen to those commands. We got her at 2 months old. She was this chubby, red haired, freckly puppy. She looked a lot like I did as a toddler. She had little black spots on her nose and olive green eyes. That is why we named her Olive. Since then her eyes have changed to a reddish-brown, they match her coat. She was sick when we got her. She had this horrible runny nose and she sneezed throughout the night. I never had maternal instincts until that first night. All she did was sleep. When she finally got well, the Terror started. She had these sharp little puppy teeth and sharp little puppy claws. She followed us everywhere and everywhere we went came those little sharp Horrors. She was teething…teething us. She snapped her jaws in the air just trying to catch something, anything in her jaws to gnaw on. Snap snap snap, she looked like an alligator. She ran around clumsily with her mouth wide open and when she finally skidded to stop her jaws would wrap around whatever was near her and she would chew and gnaw in a dreamy satisfaction. I didn’t notice the hairs until the summer time. She had kept most of her coat through months 3 and 4.

We took her to the vet in early June and he said, “oh she’s starting to shed.” I looked at my fiancé with dread and sent up a silent prayer that it wouldn’t be bad. But Olive has a very thick coat. Most women would die for hair like hers. And starting from that day on I found little hairs everywhere I went. On my jeans, on my socks, the pillow, my shirts, and large clumps on my sweatpants. No amount lint brushes could take away those little red hairs. Those little red reminders that Olive was with me…as if I didn’t have the teething scars to prove it.

I don’t want to be the lady covered in pet hair. I wonder if I should start wearing a colour that would match the hairs… but redheads don’t look good in red, at least that’s what I think. I guess I’m grateful that my hair matches my dog’s hair. Those fine DNA samples, oh the cloning we could do with them. It’s not just my clothing that suffers from Olive’s love it’s also the carpet, the bed, the car. The car is the worst. I promise I’m not as messy as my car looks. But when Olive is in the car; that is when she sheds the most. I guess it’s from the excitement of going somewhere. To a dog it’s a great adventure, Homeward Bound all over again. I feel like a whole other dog could be formed from the hair that sticks the grey, cloth seats.
My mother sat in the backseat of my car during Christmas. At first it was fine and we were talking about what a disappointment Christmas lunch at been at the Hilton. For the last four years no one in my family has wanted to cook on Christmas day so we have made reservations at various fancy Hotels with ice sculptures and buffets. My mom was sitting in the backseat and I was in the front passenger seat.

“I just don’t think what we paid was worth it,” mom says

“Yeah, they didn’t have that many vegetarian options,” is my response- I’m a vegetarian

“I guess we won’t…” Mom stops mid sentence and I look back behind me, her face is twisted in disgust and I know, oh I know.
All over her nice black coat is Olive. Red hairs forming patterns and puzzles. My car is a harbor for this Red Sea. I apologize profusely to my mom and she takes it gracefully. But I feel like I’m ten years old again and I’m being told to clean my room. I help my mom pick the little red hairs from her nice black coat and I explain that I usually don’t ever look in the backseat and mom says that Olive shouldn’t be allowed in my car anymore. I silently agree. My mom’s disgust is my disgust and as much as I love my dog I shudder with every little hair I pick up and toss out the window. I look at my mom and I realize I am like her. Her genetics, her mannerisms, even her smile is mine. I follow her hand as she plucks and throws, plucks and throws, my hand is a mirror imagine. We are that long line of monkeys, sitting on a large fallen tree trunk, picking fleas.