I'm caught in this mood this weekend in which I pretty much hate everything and then want to kick everything's ass. I have a heap of first world problems and other nagging irritants that have me making stab hands. It's a good thing that I tend to be physically lazy and that the knife drawer is too far from my soft chair. In a way, my laziness is kind of a blessing to all those animate and inanimate who have had the good fortunate of remaining stab free over the last couple of days. Stab hands!
I was thinking about my stabbiness and how my ankle hurt from my sitting on my foot for an hour straight and whether veterinarians would have ethical issues with removing feline vocal chords when I realized that I was making a very glowery, grumpy face, and so I started to think of other grumpy faces, and I immediately remembered Sam the Eagle, one of the rarer muppets, and how I had this big crush on him when I was a little kid. I think that Sam the Eagle was the first individual that gave me that funny feeling in my pants, and I got a little thrill every time I saw him on television.
In hindsight, having a crush on a muppet, especially a grumpy muppet, seems a little odd, but I was maybe five years old, so I'm choosing not to judge my little kid self for her first sexy thoughts. In the many intervening years since then, I have had much more sexy thought experience, and I am much better at choosing both the sexy objects/individuals and the sexy thoughts I have about them. When I was five, I pretty much just felt wiggly when Sam the Eagle's eyebrows showed up on the screen, and then I went to eat raisins out of a cup for snack time and pulled all the petals off my mother's daisies in the front yard, because I had this thing where I wanted to count seven of them in a row, but I was both really scatterbrained and really determined, so I kept losing track and having to start over, and pretty soon I found myself at the end of the patch looking back at all these long stems with nothing but small, yellow buttons on top. Oops. I knew that everything would be okay, though, because Jesus had sent me a meteor from space as a sign that I was special. Okay, well, that meteor was really a charcoal briquet from my dad's barbecue that had fallen on the lawn, but I was a little kid, and the world was magic, and why wouldn't Jesus send me space meteors to tell me how awesome I was?
I might have had pre-Sam-the-Eagle crushes, but I'm fairly certain that he was the first, because I was only five. Of course, like with most of my past relationships, I look back and wonder what the hell I was thinking. I mean, he had a beak, for god's sake. And what was up with those eyebrows? It's not like they didn't have tweezers in the 1970s. I did date a guy later on in my life who had this strange desire to suck on my eyelashes, though, so I guess it's always something.