A Sidenote on Senilism

I know I know, my plan with this blog was to start in my childhood and work my way up but this story was too good to not write about.  I know if I wait, that I will most likely forget about it completely.  So here we go.

Monday night at work I developed a sore throat.  I felt sure that this was leading to a cold that I did not want to have.  I went straight home and boiled a kettle of water and made a pot of hot mint chocolate flavored tea to sooth my throat.  I poured myself a cup and settled down on the couch in my pjs to cuddle with my pooch and watch some tv while I suffered.  

After polishing off my second cup I went into the kitchen again to refill my cup with sugar overdosed caffeine packed tea.  As usual, I got distracted by the mess and sidetracked to put away some dishes.  I walked back to the living room and remembered that I had forgotten my tea.  I traipsed back into the kitchen for my forgotten cup and stood looking at the counter.  My cup wasn't there.  I thought for sure that I had left it on the counter next to the tea pot.  

I walked back to the living room but it wasn't there either.  Immediately suspecting my always-plays-innocent pup I searched the floor to see if she had knocked it over.  I even made her stand up so I could check under her bum to see if she was trying to hide it.  No luck.  Back in the kitchen I thoroughly searched the counter assuming that I was just overlooking it.  After all, I felt pretty miserable and my eyes were somewhat clouded over.  Still no cup.  I decided I must have set it down somewhere and forgot.  I retraced my steps from the living room and checked the rest of the kitchen counters, the cabinet, the fridge, the dishwasher, and even the oven.  

I was starting to doubt that I had even had a cup of tea.  I mean, where else could it have gone.  I was alone in the house, apart from the dog, and my house is less that 1000 square feet.  How could I have lost a cup and what is wrong with me that I can't remember where I put it?  I was literally starting to panic at my own senile nature when I heard a beeping in the kitchen.

What would be beeping you ask?  Not my cup of course although I should clearly put a homing device on it.  I walked into the kitchen and opened the microwave to find my cup.  I stood in shocked horror as I realized that I had forgotten that I put the cup in there to nuke my tea a little as it had gotten cold.  I had checked everywhere in the kitchen except the microwave.  What exactly is wrong with my brain that I could forget where I put my cup and then search everywhere except the most logical place for it to be.  

Needless to say, I am clearly becoming senile before my age.  Who knows what I'll lose next.  I always thought I had a decent memory but maybe I am just forgetting all that I forgot. 

Imaginative or Compulsive Liar

Being an only child you would think that I am very creative and imaginative.  Well that creativity went a little wild in middle school when I made up a whole separate life for myself and convinced an acquaintance at school that it was all true.  

We were in science class which was the most boring class ever made to a 7th grader.  We were passing notes as usual when I was asked who I had a crush on.  I hated that question.  I barely knew this girl and don't even remember her name now so I was not about to share such "private" information.  I decided to tell her that I didn't have a crush since I already had a boyfriend (a total lie).  It then became clear that I needed to, of course, have this boyfriend go to a different school.  And, why not include a female friend that was dating my ex who was still pining over me?  That is an obvious jump right?  I ended up with some huge elaborate story that involved me hanging out with this group of people most days after school.  

This went on for weeks.  We would pass notes in science class talking about how my imaginary boyfriend Brent got caught stealing from Walgreens and my ex boyfriend Mitch was fighting to get me back.  I even went so far as to say I would try to set this girl up with my ex Mitch since she needed a boyfriend and I needed to get him off my back.   This story was not even believable but I delivered it with such fake passion that she bought every word.  I will tell you now, I am not a good liar.  Even a stranger can look at my face and tell when I am lying so I am not sure why this girl thought I was telling the truth.  

Once I started, I couldn't seem to stop.  The stories kept getting more and more extravagant and unbelievable and this girl just kept eating it up.  Now, I will make a point to say that I did not turn into some crazy person and start believing my own stories, this is not one of those kind of stories.  Eventually I broke up with "Brent" and the gang stopped hanging out with me because of the awkward break up.  That seemed to be the only way I could get myself out of this crazy lie.  The girl and I continued to be "friends" until the next school year when we had different classes and I am still not sure whether she really believed me or was just playing along the whole time.  Did I mention during this time I also started wearing those fake tattoos on my ankle that you apply with a wet paper towel?  And what do you know, she thought it was real.  A tribute to my boyfriend of course.  I guess she didn't notice when it kept washing off every two days.

Regardless, I am not a good liar and don't know how I got myself into that situation.  So, was I just an over imaginative child or am I really a compulsive liar in the making?

Just the Treat Please

Halloween has always been a stressful time for me.  As a child I was very shy.  I mean hide behind my mother painfully shy.  On top of being shy I also had an embarrassing lisp that prevented me from even being able to say my unheard of name correctly.  Whenever I was forced to tell a stranger my name they always looked at me like I was crazy and had me repeat it five times before butchering it in a new fantastic way.  My name, however, is not the topic of this story.

I loved Trick or Treating as any normal elementary age child does.  This was back in the day when kids actually went door to door instead of just going to the mall or to a "Trunk or Treat".  I loved candy and wanted to collect as much as possible.  The problem being that I didn't want to actually talk to any of the people providing the candy.  Or knock on their door for that matter.

My mom would follow me around, knock on the door for me, say trick or treat and I would stand there mute holding out my plastic pumpkin.  I can't imagine what these people thought by the time I was in the 4th or 5th grade and this was still going on.  Some would try to talk to me about my costume and I would just stare blankly at them until they shut up and forked over the candy.  

What really gets me are the people who require a joke or some sort of talent to be performed before they will give out the candy.  I mean, who started this?  Trick or treat does not mean I do a trick for a treat.  It means that if I don't get a treat then I will play a trick on you.  Like toilet papering your entire house or leaving poop on your door step.  I don't know where these people get off demanding a joke from a child.  If they don't want to hand out the free candy then just turn your porch light off.  Whenever I was put in this situation as a child I would just do my usual stare and they would usually just give up and give over the candy.  On the rare occasion that they would actually not give in and require a joke of some sort I would just start to cry and run to my mommy totally upset that I didn't get any candy.  She would have to apologize and explain that I was really shy.  Of course, I would totally end up with the candy.  Crying always gets you candy.  

With all of this happening, I am not sure why I love Halloween so much.  I don't like scary things either.  If a house looked too scary I would skip it and pass on the candy entirely.  Any adult that dressed up and tried to scare me with a "BOO" would always end up with me bawling and cowering behind my mother while she collected the entire bowl of candy as an apology.

I have, of course, grown out of this painfully shy stage.  I can ask for my own candy now, not that I would Trick or Treat at my age.  I just hope that if I ever have kids I won't have to do the Trick or Treating for them like my mom did.

British Imposter

I was a Girl Scout.  Go ahead, get your laughs out now.  I was in Girl Scouts from 1st grade through 12th grade graduation.  I was also a Girl Scout troop leader.  

As a Girl Scout we often went camping.  And by camping I mean staying in a heated lodge on a camp ground.  We usually spent the weekend eating as much food as possible, doing make overs, and watching movies on the tv we brought with us.  We were not rough and tough scouts by any means.  Most of the time we did "camping" for fun but sometimes we were involved in events and volunteer work which took us out to our "camp".  

One such event involved us camping for a weekend and teaching younger scouts what it's all about and do activities with them.  They only stayed for the day but we stayed all weekend and worked with different groups of kiddos that came to visit.  We weren't the only older and wiser girls there teaching these pipsqueaks.  There were other older troops there staying the weekend and we had to double up on lodges.  We were teamed up with a troop of home schooled girls who were very responsible Girl Scouts.  They never did wrong and hadn't had much excitement in life.  Since they were there we were not able to do our usual binging and watching tv.  In other words, we were bored quickly.

What does boredom always lead to?  Hilarious antics.  Whose idea it was I do not remember.  All I know is that we decided to spend the weekend speaking with British accents.  Literally the entire time.  And you know what?  Our home schooled roomies bought it.  They thought we were all from London and had relocated our entire troop here to Midwest United states.  They asked us tons of questions about London and what kind of food we ate and what the schools there were like.  Being the non-responsible group we were, we went with it and made up all sorts of fun stories.  How anyone believed our poor rendition of the accent is a mystery to me.  We were the most popular troop in camp.  I guess none of the leaders ratted us out because our ruse lasted until we drove away on Sunday afternoon.  

What lesson did I learn from this Girl Scout outing?  People are easily fooled and adults enjoy a good joke just as much as the kids do. 

Always a Flower Girl

Growing up, for some reason, I was always called on to be a flower girl in someone's wedding whom I didn't even know.  I have never understood why someone would want some kid they don't know to be in their wedding.

Regardless, I was called on to be a flower girl for my mom's half brother's wife's daughter's wedding.  Ain't that a mouthful (and yes, I know that ain't is not really a word).  What might you ask did I have to wear to this "family" wedding?  Why of course I was wearing a little white wedding dress type gown with a peach colored sash.  Peach.  At least I wasn't one of the bridesmaids who were wearing all peach.  I think we had about ten bridesmaids, ten groomsmen of course, and two flower girls.  I have no idea who this other girl was but I was definitely the cute one.  Everyone was marveling at my hair because my mom had it professionally done for this "special" occasion.  I managed to stutter walk done the aisle as I was taught in my uncomfortable peach dyes shoes and made it to my spot on the bench next to my mom.  My part was over and I was bored.  What could possibly entertain me during a boring wedding ceremony you ask?  Ask and you shall receive.  Not five minutes into the wedding, the groom fainted.  It was awesome, and by awesome I mean totally scary for everyone else but totally hilarious to me.  I think the poor guy had his tie on too tight and choked himself out.  That stunt was enough to keep me giggling through the rest of the ceremony and on to my next flower girl gig.

A year or so later my half cousin decided to get married and low and behold I was again made flower girl.  This time I got to wear another mini wedding gown only this time it had a black sash, how risky.  I decided to do my own hair this time, and in the fashion of the times decided to crimp my hair.  Picture this if you will....long brown hair flowing down to my butt, triangle crimped into an afro of sorts.  I looked like I had been electrocuted and it was awesome.  So off to the wedding I went with my electrified hair and black and white ensemble.  I should have been at a zombie wedding.  No one commented on my hair and I again completed my duties without a hitch.  My cousin managed to stay upright and not pass out so the ceremony was a bore.

By this time I was getting a little old for a flower girl.  So what was I called on to do next, guest book attendant of course (love you guys if you are reading this).  Because you can't have a wedding without one of those.  So here I was again, working another wedding.  I got to choose my own dress this time since I clearly didn't own anything appropriate enough for a wedding.  I chose a floor length blue dress with a matching purse and one of those sheer shawl things that are good for absolutely nothing.  I mean really, they are sheer so they will never keep you warm.  They don't have sleeves so you have to spend the entire night trying to hold your elbows just right so it doesn't fall down.  Add the matching purse and I was miserable trying to keep myself together.  I guess I missed my directions because I was not really sure what exactly a guest book attendant was suppose to do.  I mean, was the book going to get up and run away if I wasn't there to watch it.  It was big enough that no one could miss seeing it so I guess my job was to tackle down anyone who refused to sign and force them to do so in blood.  Being a sweet innocent shy middle schooler I chose instead to stand there looking stupid and pointing to the book as people passed by.  All the while, trying to keep that stupid shawl and purse on my shoulders.  What did I need a purse for any way, it's not like I had any money.  I didn't wear makeup and cell phones hadn't been invented yet so I'm pretty sure that purse was empty.  But it was so cute.  I actually still own that outfit, but why I'm not sure.  Maybe I can wear it for Halloween and say I'm dressed as a 90's loser.  I am sure to win best costume.

Lets just say, I have not been asked to be in a wedding since other than my best friend's wedding.  My cute adorable stage had passed and now it was just awkward.  I remember those days fondly and when I got married I kept those thoughts alive.  I refused to have a flower girl and my guest book stood alone on a table.  No strange girl I didn't know was going to be tortured at my wedding.  You can all thank me later.

License to Drive

Before even getting my driver's permit, I just knew that I would be an excellent driver.  I mean, technically, I had been driving for years.  Along with letting me hang out the car window with no seat belt my mother also, on occasion, let me drive.  Now, she didn't just let me climb behind the wheel and take off, that would be irresponsible.  Instead, while she was driving my mother would occasionally let me scoot over on the bench seat of our boat sized car and take over the steering wheel.  I always stayed between the lines and felt I was a natural.

Fast forward to when I was fifteen and a half and finally old enough to get my permit.  After weeks of slaving over the drivers manual I easily passed the exam.  My mom decided that the school parking lot was the perfect place for my first trial run behind the wheel.  I mean, what better place than a parking lot with kids around, lots of turns and curbs to hit with all my friends to watch and laugh.  My mother was petrified I assume, by the look on her face, and I could see her leg pumping the invisible brakes in the passenger seat as I started to slowly creep forward.  As it turns out, I was a natural after all.  I managed to avoid hitting any of the kids or curbs and easily picked up how to control my speed.  Soon mom was letting me drive to and from school every day for practice.  

This daily practice though was still horrifying to my mother.  I was a perfectly good driver who drove exactly the speed limit and always followed the rules of the road.  Still, my mom was always yelling at me to slow down and pay attention.  Once, in the video store parking lot I was pulling into a parking space when my mom yelled that I was going to hit something.  I didn't see anything in the spot and proceeded to park the car.  My mom insisted that I had run it over and that I must in turn be a horrible driver.  I looked under the car to realize my tired had glided past a GI Joe figurine not any bigger than my thumb.  Clearly those GI Joe's are dangerous tire popping death toys.  Needless to say, the tire was fine and I continued to diligently practice my driving for the next six months in preparation for my driving exam.

The day finally came and I am pretty sure my mom assumed there was no way I would pass on my first try so she happily took me to the DMV for my test.  Before I climbed behind the wheel she reminded me that this is just my first try and don't get too upset.  I started off well even though my instructor had the coldest iciest stare I've ever seen.  We were driving through the middle of a subdivision when she asked me to pull over on a hill.  I knew to turn my wheels in toward the curb and passed that part of the exam with ease.  Once she told me to go ahead and continue however was when it started to go down hill.  I started to drive away without realizing my tires were still turned and immediately ran into the ditch.  Why was I pulled over next to a ditch you ask?  Because everyone else who has taken the driver's exam also forgets to turn their wheels back out and now a huge tire ditch has formed in some person's yard.  I would be totally pissed if that was my yard every sixteen year old in the city was driving into.  After I regained my composure I finished the test without much problem and when I pulled back into the DMV I was told that I had passed the exam!  I ran over to my mom to share the news and I had never actually seen someones jaw hit the floor until that moment. 

I continued to drive my mom's car until the summer before senior year when I finally obtained my very first car.  For only $1500 I purchased a 1992 Geo Metro Hatchback with no air conditioning, no extras, and no power steering.  It was the best car and I drove it accident free for two whole years before trading it in for some much needed air conditioning.  I still think I am a decent driver, even though many would disagree.  I have never caused an accident and only drive a little over the speed limit.  Despite all my mother's fears, I think I really am a natural driver and anyone who disagrees can kiss my behind.

Hello, and who are you again?

I started out my educational experience at Hanna Woods Elementary School.  In first grade I had a wonderful teacher Mrs. S.  I was a good student but was also painfully shy.  I didn't raise my hand in class, I didn't chatter away to my friends behind the teacher's back, in fact  I spoke as little as possible.  Partially, I imagine, due to the fact that I had a fantastic speech impediment that prevented me from pronouncing my R's correctly.  Talk about making the name Abrea even more confusing.  I pronounced it Abwea and then didn't understand why no one could say my name correctly.

This is all beside the point.  The story I am trying to tell is of the day Mrs. S decided that the shyest girl in class should be the one she sends on an errand.  I had brought in cupcakes for the class because it was my birthday.  I am still a little confused as to why we used to bring in our own birthday treats; shouldn't someone have treated me since it was my birthday?  Again I am sidetracking, I brought in cupcakes that my mother had made out of a box the night before.  Cupcakes which, by the way, I didn't like since I don't like cake.  So, not only did I have to help make my own birthday treat, but it was a treat I didn't even like.  

I got to class with my cupcakes and all the kids enjoyed scarfing down their overdose of sugar at 9:00 in the morning.  There were a few cupcakes left over and Mrs. S didn't want to let them go to waste.  That is when she decided to traumatize me for life.  I am sure she thought it was an innocent request but to me I felt like I had been shot.  Mrs. S instructed me to take one of the extra cupcakes and give it to the school's principal.  I was mortified.  Not only did  I not know my way around the school or where the office was, I had no idea who the principal was.  I mean, I was only six years old.  Am I suppose to have directional awareness at that age?  But did I tell Mrs. S that I had no idea where to take the cupcake?  Of course not, I was shy and didn't want to say anything. 

I wandered out of the classroom clutching the cupcake thinking what a wonderful birthday this was turning out to be.  I started meandering down the hallways in the direction I hoped would land me in the office that I swear I had never seen before.  I only knew how to get to my classroom.  Whenever we went anywhere during school I just followed the kids in front of me not paying attention to which turns we were making.  I eventually made it to a large open area which must have been the entrance hallway to the school.  My chest was tight, I was having trouble breathing and I was debating just throwing the cupcake in a trash can, returning to class, and hoping Mrs. S never asked out principal how her cupcake was.  My mind was racing trying to remember if I had ever met or seen the principal before.  Was the principal a male or a female?  I had no idea.  And I couldn't ask anyone.  I mean, asking a stupid question like that would obviously give me a heat attack.  

Eventually after wandering in the lobby for a while a kind looking lady came out of what I assume now was the office and asked me where I was suppose to be going.  Tears were filling my eyes because I was sure I was going to get in trouble.  I managed to squeak out that I was suppose to take this now smooshed cupcake to the principal because it was my birthday.  She smiled and giggled a little before telling me that she, in fact, was the principal.  I was even more mortified.  I had just walked up the the principal of the school and asked where the principal was.  She was definitely going to kick me out of school now.  But of course she didn't.  She graciously accepted the disgusting looking flattened cupcake and helped me find my way back to the classroom.  Mrs. S took no notice to the fact that I had just had a complete panic attack at her request and kept on teaching the class unaware of what she had caused me.  

I, of course, now have a very irrational fear of always getting lost everywhere I go.  When traveling to a new place I always insist on using Google maps so I can get exact directions and also use the street view so I can see exactly where I am going.  Also, if possible, I Google the person I am meeting so I know what they look like.  Call me crazy but Mrs. S, unbeknown to her, scarred me for life on my 6th birthday.

Back Yard Biker

Just as with swimming and gymnastics, I got started riding a bike long after most other kids in my class.  I was perfectly content with my training wheels and saw no need to make changes.  My mother thought otherwise.  She eventually told me that I had to learn to ride my bike without the training wheels.

My mother decided that the back yard was the best place to teach me how to ride a bike.  If I fell, it would only be on grass.  The downside was that our back yard is a giant hill.  I mean, a half acre hill, literally.  The most flat spot in the yard was right by my swing set.  Mom walked around with me for a while, holding the bike up while I tried to figure out what to do.  Finally she said it was time for her to try letting go.  I started to bike and she let go of me and I rode my bike beautifully...right into the swing set.  I mean really, who sends their kid off on their own for the first time straight into a rusting metal death trap?  Luckily I wasn't injured much and was able to get up and try again.  I was waiting for mom to hold on to me but she said I had to figure it out and walked away.  She proceeded to sit on the back porch and watch me ride my bike into the swing set a dozen more times before I finally started catching on.   I was riding a bike, I was ready to go out and show the world.

Or not...after watching me almost kill myself practicing in the back yard my mom decided that the neighborhood was too dangerous for me to ride around.  She didn't want me to get hit by a car.  And, of course, since our front yard is also a hill, I couldn't ride there because I might lose control and accidentally ride into the street and get hit by a car.  She decided that I was only allowed to ride my bike in the back yard instead of out front with the rest of the neighborhood kids.  Welcome to the start of my life with no friends.  

I loved riding my bike and the hill in the yard only made it more fun.  I would ride to the very back/top of the yard close my eyes, raise my hands up to the sky and fly down the hill until I was too scared not to look.  I had pretty good timing but every once in a while I would open my eyes too late and smash into the chain link fence at the bottom.  I only have one scar to show from those rides.  I had cut it too close one time and swerved to avoid the fence a little too late.  My leg scraped along the fence and caught a jagged piece of metal scrapping all the way up my leg.  And my mother thought the back yard was safe. 

I turned the back yard into my own little imaginary town.  The garden was the grocery store and the shed the hardware store.  I would ride around on my imaginary streets pretending there were people in the "stores" to talk to.  My mother never let me out of that back yard.

I have gone back now that I am an adult and ridden my grown up bike around on the street right in front of her house.  Just because I can. 

How to Survive on Ice Cubes

Has anyone looked at me recently and thought "That is one skinny girl"?  Yeah, I thought not.  But, when I was in elementary school I bet people were thinking that all the time.  I was skinny, I mean can-see-her-ribcage skinny.  You would think my mother starved me to death all of the time.

I was, and still am a very picky eater.  I have exposed myself to a lot more variety since elementary school, hence the reason I am no longer called "that skinny girl with long hair".  Now that I am called "that fat girl with long hair" I eat spaghetti with sauce on it instead of just plain noodles with a little processed Parmesan on it.  I eat three cheese garlic bread instead of just bread.  Granted I still don't eat beef, fish, anything that looks like an animal, and anything green.  I know I am still picky but trust me, this is much improved.  I like to think of myself as a carbitarian.  Yes, I just made that word up.  I can't say I'm a carnivore because I don't really like meat and I'm not a vegetarian because I mostly hate vegetables.  I love carbs therefore I am a carbitarian.

This is all besides the point because I am really trying to explain why I was so skinny when I was little and it really has nothing to do with what a picky eater I was.  I was skinny because I mainly ate ice cubes.  Yes, I ate ice cubes.  Like, all the time.  My mom refilled our ice cube trays at least once a day.  I would sit, watch tv and suck on an ice cube instead of eating dinner.  I loved it; I loved the flavor of water; I loved how it melted in my mouth, and I loved how cold it was.  Instead of grabbing a glass of water after coming inside after playing in the heat I would grab a couple ice cubes.  My mother couldn't complain because, after all, I was just eating water. 

When my mother noticed that I had no intention of stopping with the ice cubes she decided to get me some nutrients the only way she knew how.  She started flavoring my ice cubes.  She made me juice ice cubes.  She would actually freeze orange juice and feed that to me.  I didn't like the flavored ice cubes as much as the regular ones but I still ate them.  I also started eating frozen grapes because they were kind of like ice cubes.  

I am not sure why I was so obsessed with ice cubes but I eventually grew out of it and once puberty hit in middle school I started eating almost anything I could get my hands on.  That puts us at where I am now.  I still love ice, but now I eat it mainly in the form of sno cones.  I even own my own sno cone maker for winter when all the little stands are closed.  So, if anyone is craving some flavored ice in the middle of winter you know where to come.     

The Safety of Seat Belts

Now, we all know that my mother is crazy overprotective.  So explain to me how I never wore a seat belt until I starting driving in high school.  Growing up I was the only child so my mother not only let me sit in the front seat where it is now said that every kid will surely die but she never required me to wear a seat belt.  Or sit properly in the seat matter of fact.  


I have memories of mom driving me to school while I sat on my feet so I could reach out the window and try to touch signs and bushes we drove past.  As an adult this sounds horrifying to me!  I would never let my kid lean half out a car window, especially without a seat belt.  Was this just the way it was in the '80's or is my mother insane? 


Now, I was a cute kid and in elementary school I was tall and skinny so I looked older than I really was.  I always fooled those poorly paid teenagers at Six Flags that had to guess our ages and weights to prevent us from winning a giant asbestos filled stuffed animal.  Well, I was always trying to look out the car window to watch the teenagers walking home from school and to see the people in all the cars we drove past.  Of course still being in elementary school and my mom driving a battle tank of a car, I couldn't quite see over the window sill.  That is when I started sitting on my feet so that I was taller.  Little did I know at the time but this also made me appear older.  I realized this when I started noticing the teenage boys we drove past looking at me and waving.  Did they think I was a teenager too?  This was exciting so I started waving at everyone I saw.  Most people waved back.  I started doing this on a regular basis and really enjoyed my older persona in the car.  Until it backfired.


I had been sitting on my feet and waving at people for a long time when finally someone didn't just wave back.  Mom and I were riding on the highway when a pickup truck went by with some guys in the flat bed.  I waved as usual and one of the guys stood up, turned around, and pulled down his pants.  I was mooned at 60 miles per hour on the highway.  What grown man shows his booty to a child?  My mother was horrified and exited the highway immediately.  


She still let me sit on my feet and wave at people but from then on I was a lot more skeptical about who I waved at.  Eventually, years later I started driving myself.  One day mom and I were pulled over while I was driving to school.  The cop was about to give us a ticket for not wearing seat belts when he was called away to an emergency.  That ticket was all the scare that either of us needed to start wearing our seat belts.  I can't imagine not wearing one now and believe me, if I ever have kids, they will be strapped tight into a car seat with no window views until they are married.

Working a Wedding

My very first job was not the typical teenage babysitting gig.  When I was in middle school my aunt called asking if I wanted a job helping her cater weddings.  How awesome would that be?  Beautiful wedding, great food, party, fun right?  Not so much.

It started off when my aunt accidentally locked the keys into the catering van, along with most of the food.  We were already running late and I could tell that my aunt was annoyed that I didn't just magically know how to cater a wedding.  She was running around in circles while I stood there waiting for instructions and thoroughly examining the see-through factor of the white shirt I had been required to wear.  Who's smart idea is it for caterers to wear white?  That is just asking for a stain.  

My aunt managed to find a hobo outside the reception hall that jimmied the catering van open for us.  We proceeded to start setting up the food.  That is when the guests started meandering through the door.  They were early and the bride and groom were no where to be found.  They were, of course, having their photos done.  On a side note, I hate when couples make the guests stand around and wait while they spend hours getting photos taken.  I took mine before the ceremony to spare my guests the misery.  Anywho, these guests were hungry and didn't want to wait.  My aunt politely explained that they were early, we weren't set up yet, and the buffet line wasn't suppose to start until the bride and groom arrived.  They turned into food zombies!  All the guests started hovering around the buffet line yelling that they shouldn't have to wait for the bride and groom.  While my aunt tried to hold them back, I scrambled to start getting the rest of the food out.  The guest finally realized that they were never going to get any food at all if they kept yelling at my aunt instead of letting her set up.  Now, she was really bustling.  She had to get the food set up and ready for the second the bride and groom arrived to avoid another attack.

She started setting up the little warming tray things with the Stearno burner under them.  She took charge since I should clearly not be allowed around open flame.  In her panic she tossed down the stack of napkins at the front of the line...right next to the flame.  I watched in horror as the napkins went up in flames and my aunt obliviously went on setting up the rest of the trays.  I casually run-walked over and scream-whispered that she started a fire.  Luckily the fire was small and she was able to put it out with the wet rag she was carrying around for some reason.  And she thought I was the irresponsible one with fire.  Needless to say she let me handle the rest of the warming trays while she finished the rest of the food.  

We finished just in time and the rest of the reception was beautiful.  People got their food, after the bride and groom of course.  I enjoyed spying on the wedding and watching the new couple greet their guests.  They had a slide show on a big screen of photos of them growing up and then meeting and dating.  I was in the middle of watching the show when I was poked in the ribs by my aunt who seemed completely puzzled as to why I wasn't working.  Weren't we done yet?  No, we now had to undo everything and pack up and get out quick so they could set up the dance floor.  We hurriedly packed up all the leftovers and scooted before they regretted paying us so much.  I ended up getting home sometime after midnight with a bag of leftover wedding food, a not-so-white-anymore shirt, and the realization that I never wanted to work in the food industry again. 

Chillin at the Holiday Inn, Literally

After the whole clown incident I was determined to never have a typical birthday party again.  My mom agreed and decided that I indeed deserved to be spoiled.  Since my birthday is in November I never got to have a pool party.  I mean, who wants to swim in the snow.  It never failed to snow on my birthday.

How did my mom solve this problem you ask?  Well, she decided to have my birthday party at a hotel, with an indoor pool of course.  And you can't use the pool without renting a room.  And what birthday girl wants to stay in a hotel room alone with her mother?  So, my mom invited all of my friends.  It was a sleepover party, very popular in the 6th grade, only at a hotel instead of our house.  This was the perfect idea.  We didn't have to clean the house, didn't really have to clean up much after the party, and didn't have to worry about sleeping bags all over the living room floor.  

This was the best birthday party ever!  All of my friends came to the party.  We swam all night, watched movies (mom rented a fancy VCR from blockbuster to hook up to the hotel TV), opened presents, and started a slam book.  Yes, a slam book.  I think there are many definitions for a slam book but mine consisted of a notebook with pretty pink paper and lots of stickers.  Each page had a question on it like "what is your favorite TV show?".  Each girl chose a different sticker for her entries and wrote in her answer on each page next to her sticker.  This was the coolest thing ever apparently.  I actually, still have this book to this day.  Favorite TV show?  Saved by the Bell of course.  Band?  New Kids on the Block.  I think I secretly went back years later and changed some of my answers to less embarrassing ones.  

 The party was a huge success with my friends too.  I was subtly upgraded to a slightly less loser-like kid in class.  We ate junk food all night, and my mom got us donuts in the morning for breakfast.  My party was so successful in fact that we decided to have a hotel party every year for my birthday.  Every year we added something new.  A nicer hotel, a bigger pool, an arcade, more food, longer weekends, and cute boys of course.  Of course, there were some injuries and bad moments in all those years but that is for another day.  My last hotel party was for my 18th birthday.  I decided that a huge sleepover party was not going to be so cool in college so I decided to forgo the hotel for my 19th birthday.  I still think about those parties though.  They were always the best weekend of the year. 

Anyone up for swimming this November?

Ms. Goody Goody Tells a Lie

I am and have always been a goody goody.  I did everything my mom asked, I got good grades, I never misbehaved, and didn't really lie.  That is until 5th grade. 

5th grade was a hard year for me, I had been moved into honors math which was a nightmare for me.  I didn't really think I belonged there and my grades reflected as such.  I was most definitely the dumbest kid in honors math.  Being that it was such a struggle, I spent most of my nights working on the homework and studying for math tests.  This, of course, caused my other grades to go down.  I was still doing well in my other classes but I was definitely not giving them the attention they needed.  

I always looked forward to seeing my test grades.  After all, they were almost always A's so why wouldn't I be excited.  I enjoyed knowing that I had done well.  I was never pressured to get good grades but my mother was always pleased when I did.  Well, one day I was sitting in science class gleefully awaiting the return of a test we had taken when it happened.  The teacher placed the test in front of me and I saw something I had never seen. It was a C!  I had never gotten a C.  I wasn't expecting a C.  I knew I hadn't studied much but I never studied much for tests.  I was horrified and immediately hid my test so no one else would see it.  Of course it got worse.  I was reminded by the teacher that any test score of C or lower needed to be signed by a parent and returned the next day.  What?  I had never had to have a test signed before.  What was my mother going to say?  She never commented on my grades but they had never been bad before.  I know a C is not the end of the world but to me in the 5th grade, it was.  

I got home from school to find my mother in bed with a washcloth over her forehead.  I knew what that meant.  She had a migraine.  Again.  My mother seemed to always have a migraine when I was a kid.  And I knew better than to talk to her when she had a migraine.  It was bad enough having to talk to her about my C but now she didn't feel good on top of it.  I decided that maybe my teacher would forget to collect the test.  I mean, she had never collected a signed one back from me before so she would never remember right? 

The next day in class I was nervous, and sweaty and couldn't focus on anything.  When we got to science the teacher inevitably asked everyone to get out their tests from the previous day.  I scrambled to get mine out, and in a panic, decided to forge my mother's signature.  My mother's signature is not just one of those scribbles that doesn't look like a name.  Of course, hers is legible, bubbly and a confusing mix of print and cursive.  I've never seen anything like it in my day.  And, being a 5th grader, I was not an expert forger of signatures.  I did my best to recreate my mom's name and when the teacher came by, I turned in my monstrosity.  

I thought I was clear and free.  We went on with class and I started to relax.  It was at the end of class that the teacher approached me and asked if I had signed my mom's name on my test?  Turning bright red immediately I couldn't try to lie.  I admitted to signing it myself but said that I had told my mom about it but had to sign it for her because she was in bed sick and could not sign it herself.  That was only a slight lie right?  An exaggeration if you will.  Well, my teacher didn't buy it.  She told me to tell my mother to be expecting a call from her to verify my story.  Now what was I supposed to do?  

I left school in a panic and once I got home I immediately started crying and blurted everything out to my mom.  And do you know what she did?  She laughed at me!  She thought it was hilarious that I had made up such a story.  When the teacher called, she verified my story (to the teacher's shock I'm sure) and we went to get ice cream.  Clearly, lying is awesome.  I got all upset for no reason.  My mom was not upset about the C and said she knew I would do better next time.  She told me not to lie next time but I secretly think she really enjoyed it.  

So, what lesson did I learn.  Lying makes my mom happy.  Good to know.  I got much better at "exaggerating" as the years went on and never got caught by a teacher again.  But to this day I still can not successfully forge my mother's name.

B's Birthday Bonanza

A few weeks after 5th grade ended my friend B moved out to Chesterfield with her family.  Being one of my only friends, I was pretty upset to see her go.  B's parents had planned a birthday party for her in her new house and I was invited.  I was terrified, it was a sleepover; I had never really been to a sleepover party before.  Being at someone elses house meant that my mother wouldn't be able to watch over my every move; therefore I had never really been to a sleepover.  

The day of the sleepover arrived and after about twenty minutes of driving winding roads through a subdivision we arrived at B's new house, or mansion as I would prefer to describe it.  The house was enormous.  Of course, for a house settled twenty minutes into a subdivision it had better have been amazing.  I mean, come on.  Who wants to drive more than twenty minutes just to grab a Slurpee?  Anyway, I had made it to the party and was starting to get excited.  Mom finally left after interrogating B's parents about what we would be doing and who would be watching us every second of the evening.  

The party started out great.  We watched some movies, including Labyrinth, which I had never seen before and still enjoy to this day (I love you David Bowie).  We opened presents and then the other girls decided it would be a good idea to play truth or dare.  I HATE truth or dare.  I felt like I had too many secrets to choose the truth option.  Most importantly being who I had a crush on.  I couldn't share that privileged information with just anyone.  Next thing you know it would be all over the playground and I would be standing there in front of everyone red faced and pretending I didn't like the bad boy in class.  With that image running through my mind, I chose dare.  Thankfully my dare did not involve anything embarrassing, just disgusting.  B and some other girl I didn't know or trust concocted this drink out of random nasty condiments and juices they found in the fridge.  Now, I'm a picky eater so not only was I eating foods I never ever ate, I was eating them all mixed together in a revolting vomit colored smoothie.  I managed to down about two swigs before I gagged and was relieved from drinking the rest for fear of watching me vomit all over B's new kitchen.  Thankfully truth or dare was over and we went back to watching movies.

Somewhere around eleven that night I started feeling sick.  I was just sure it was the vomit smoothie I had eaten.  I had stomach cramps and felt totally nauseous.  Without my dear mommy there to take care of me and nurse me back to health I stayed mum and didn't tell anyone about my pain and suffering.  I was starting to notice the other girls start to fall asleep and was relieved that the sleep part of the sleepover was starting.  Little did I know, the first girls to fall asleep were in for a treat.  I watched while B and the other girls still awake started sorting through the sleeping girls' bags and freezing their bras and putting their hands in water glasses.  I was amused but also terrified at the same time.  What would they do to me if I fell asleep?  Clearly, I had to be the last one asleep to avoid being messed with.  I waited patiently, watching the other girls start to dose off.  I thought I was in the clear when suddenly smoothie girl looked over and asked me if I was still awake too?  Damn, she was still awake.  I mumbled a response hoping she would turn over and fall asleep.  She didn't.  She sat up with me and talked at me for what seemed like hours.  I actually saw the sun start to rise while we were sitting there!  Giving up all hope, I realized that I was not going to be getting any sleep and my stomach ache was not going to go away.  As the sun made it's way into full view, the other girls started waking up.  Immediately when B woke up she ran and grabbed her gerbil to help her wake up her friends.  Ever wake up to a gerbil crawling on your face? Not me.  Thank goodness I hadn't fallen asleep.  
After a quick breakfast moms starting arriving to pick up the girls.  Thankfully my mom was one of the first.  At this point I was pretty much asleep with my eyes open and I was pretty sure I was gonna puke.  I fell asleep during the car ride  and once I got home discovered what was really happening.  Hello puberty, I wasn't sick from the disgusto drink after all.  I had started my period for the first time during the party.  After the puberty speech from my mother, I crawled into bed for the rest of the day and slept off the worst sleepover of my life.  I didn't really keep in touch with B after that since we didn't go to school together anymore but I will never forget her 10th birthday. 

That's Life Kid

Kindergarten was really my best year.  I wasn't the most popular kid but I had a group of friends, I was tall and skinny for my age, and apparently my friend O and I were pretty cute.  I know this because every day at recess this group of boys would chase us around trying to catch us.  We would run all over the playground, hide, and climb over everything to get away from them.  Now, I am not really sure what was supposed to happen when they caught us.  Were they supposed to kiss us or something?  Being a very spry kindergartner I was never caught.  Either that or the boys didn't know what to do either and purposely never caught us.  Regardless of the purpose, I had some really good cardio back then.  Maybe if they hadn't transferred me to another school I wouldn't be quite as out of shape today.  

All was well and good until the day the boys got a little daring.  O and I were playing on some sort of jungle gym thing when the boys decided to hang out under it and try to look up under our skirts!  O and I were both wearing dresses that day which was not unusual being the adorable stylish kindergartners we were.  We were used to climbing around the jungle gym in dresses.  We were not use to boys watching us from below.  We were horrified, O more than myself.  She was just wearing panties under her dress.  I, on the other hand, had a pair of shorts on under my dress.  Why you ask?  Well, of course my mother had predicted this very occurrence and never let me wear a dress to school without shorts underneath.  She was just sure I was going to flash my goods to the unknowing youth in the kindergarten classroom.  Needless to say, I was still horrified by the boys' behavior and O and I immediately disembarked from our jungle gym adventure.  The boys continued to follow us as usual but they weren't just chasing us, they were still trying to see up our dresses.  After about five minutes of this we decided it was time to involve the playground monitor.  Now, I can't remember if the playground monitor was a parent, teacher or random person in charge of us but I didn't know this person.  I tugged on the monitor's sleeve and she bent down to see why I was bugging her.  I explained that the boys were trying to look up our skirts and that they wouldn't stop.  I was expecting her to talk to the boys and get them in trouble.  Instead, she looked down at me and said "That's life kid, now run along and play".  I was shocked and tried to protest but she had already walked away.  O and I were forced to sit out the rest of recess for fear of O being exposed.  She vowed to always wear shorts like me and I guess that's the lesson we learned.  We stopped wearing dresses for a while and when we did again, the boys didn't try to look up our skirts.  But, I will always remember that playground monitor.  I still can't decide if that was the best monitor ever for making us figure our our own situation or the worst one for ignoring the inappropriateness of the situation.  Either way, I no longer wear shorts under my dresses so if I flash my goods I guess that's life right?

Gymnastic Head Case

Sometime after taking my swimming lessons, or lack thereof, my mother decided that I needed to be more athletic.  She decided to sign me up for gymnastics.  At the YMCA of course.  I'm pretty sure my gymnastics coach was also the same lady that was my swim coach but that's neither here nor there.  Since I had never taken gymnastics my mother put me in the beginner class....with five year olds.  I was in 3rd or 4th grade at this point so I was AGAIN the oldest kid in class.  

After fumbling through a wardrobe debacle (my mom insisted my tights should go over my leotard and I insisted they were supposed to be under the leotard) I breezed through my first class.  I somersaulted, I walked the balance beam that was only four inches off the ground, and I even did a cartwheel.  Being the oldest, I was clearly the brightest kid in class.  I was immediately noticed for my balance beam abilities and felt proud to be singled out.  I even learned how to do a cartwheel on the beam which was unheard of in "Beginners" gymnastics.  I was on top....until it all went down hill.

I am not sure what happened but one day I got a horrible headache after doing a somersault and then the next time I got one after going upside down on the uneven bars.  My mom noticed the pattern and immediately told my teacher that I shouldn't be allowed to do anything that involved going upside down because it clearly was giving me headaches and killing me.  My teacher obliged and I had to sit out for most of the class because the whole point of gymnastics is to be able to go upside down and do cool tricks right?  

Now, trust me this is related; I don't have my ears pierced.  I had a horrible fear of needles as a child and refused to pierce my ears.  Because of this I wore stick on earrings.  You know, those little stickers that kids used to stick to their ears in the 80's.  Well, I always lost my earrings while I was at gymnastics.  Since, my mother insisted they were "re-wearable" I had to keep them and wear them again for several days for fear of running out of bright pink glitter circles.  If I kept losing my sticker-rings at gymnastics then I would run out and my ears would have to go naked.  Since I had nothing better to do in gymnastics class while I was watching everyone go upside down I devised a plan to help keep my earrings and protect my ears from the shame of going undecorated.  

Before my next gymnastics class I got out the Elmer's Glue and thought it would be a great idea to glue the stickers to my earlobes.  I mean, I couldn't lose them if they were glued on right?  How very right I was.  When I got home that night I couldn't get the stickers off.  My mother refused to help me as a punishment for gluing random objects to my body.  I ended up having to rip them off like a band-aid and my earlobes were red and swollen the next day at school.  I ended up having to throw the glue covered earrings away after all and my ears went naked for several days.  My whole plan had crumbled.

After that shenanigan my mother decided to take me out of gymnastics class.  After all, I couldn't really participate anymore since I wasn't allowed to and my mother had, again, run out of funding.  So, now not only could I not swim, I also couldn't do gymnastics.  I wouldn't hit the good 'ol Y again until years later when my mother insisted we try an aerobics class together... 

What's Up Your Nose?

I know many of you are wondering why exactly my nose is so large.  And, no, my answer is not going to be "because I'm Jewish" because that is very stereotypical of you and that is only part of why my nose is so large.

It all started the second I was born, or should I say about to be born.  My mother does not have the best "birthing hips" I guess because as my large head was trying to pass through her pelvis, my nose was smashed flat in the process.  I guess this might explain the whole ugly baby comment my mother made upon my birth.  My nose recovered from being smashed flat as a pancake and thought it would teach my mother a lesson by becoming larger than it should.

Jump forward to when I was a toddler and I had a cold or allergies or something.  After my illness not going away my mother finally took me to the doctor.  He took one look up my nose and then asked my mother what she had done?  There was something up my nose.  The doc got some tweezers and in what seemed like a hankerchief up the sleeve trick proceeded to pull an entire latex balloon out of my nose.  My mother, of course, had no idea that I had shoved a balloon up my nose and swears she only left me alone for a minute.  Typical.  I had access to a balloon after my birthday in which my mother had thoughtfully filled the entire living room with balloons.  Bet she never does that again.  

Flash ahead again to elementary school.  I used to help my grandma in her garden.  She grew all sorts of things including beans.  We used to sit together and peel/shuck/pull out of their casing (whatever you call it) the beans together while my mother was at work.  Well I was a kid and I was tired of shucking (?) beans and decided to play with them instead.  To be specific, I decided to stick them up my nose.  Well, of course one of the beans got stuck.  I couldn't blow it out and make it fly across the room like I had done with the rest of them.  Grandma was no help because she was afraid she would just shove the bean farther up my nose.  She called my mom who rushed home and took me to a 24 emergency clinic.  Another run in with the tweezers and the bean was out and I was promising my mother that I would never shove anything in my nose again.

So, to sum it up for you, my nose is large.  It is large because I am Jewish, was squished through my mother's vagina, shoved a balloon up my nose, and shoved a bean up my nose.  Oh, the regrets of childhood.

Playground = Torture Chamber

Recess was suppose to be the best part of the day at school.  You got out of the classroom and got to go outside and play and breath fresh air and talk to your friends without getting in trouble.  But, for me, recess was the worst part of the day.

I was transferred to a new elementary school in second grade because some higher up got the bright idea to build a new elementary school and change the boundary lines to make some kids have to switch schools.  I was one of those kids and so was forced to leave all of my friends behind and started second grade out friendless.  This would not be the last time in my life for this situation.  Being shy and quiet I, of course, formed a bond with the other shy and quiet girl, K.  Our recess included walking the concrete ties around the exterior of the playground trying not to lose our balance and fall off.  Having taken all of two months of gymnastics my balance was amazing and I always won.  Which was great because falling off meant death.  We thought the concrete play yard was made of lava, or boiling water, or whatever inane situation we could come up with that day.  I was content with this daily activity.  I didn't have to talk to anyone and it kept me at the perimeter of the playground so as to avoid being hit by a stray kickball or the feet of some kid trying to kill himself on the swings.  I was content that is until the day I was invited to play Red Rover.

My mother, being the overprotective mother she is, had forbid me from playing Red Rover because it would obviously break my arms and I would die.  So, when a group of girls from my class asked me to play Red Rover with them one day, being the amazing child I was, I politely declined and started to walk away (on the ties of course, lava, hello!)  The girls followed me and said I had to play and that they would follow me until I did.  I was being confronted by bullies!  I had thought that whole bully thing was a myth.  But these girls were serious and started to follow me along the ties and stand in my way taunting me.  I tried to get away but they were chasing me.  Now, if you know me you know how I feel about being chased.  I didn't know what to do and thankfully recess was over so I had until the next day to figure it out.  

Well, I hadn't figured anything out by the next day or the day after that.  The girls continued to stalk me around the playground and taunt me for not doing what they told me to.  I even went so far as to ask a playground monitor for help which was completely useless.  What exactly is the purpose of a playground monitor if they don't help kids being bullied?  I wasn't expecting much though as I had had a bad experience with a playground monitor in Kindergarten.  But, now I'm sidetracking.  Eventually I decided that I needed to immerse myself in the middle of the playground with other kids so that the girls couldn't stalk me.  Not being athletic, I chose the kids at the four square area.  Who knows how to play four square?  Not me.  Neither did the kids at the four square area.

With the girls safely on the other side of the playground eying me up and down I proceeded to make up the rules to four square.  They turned out something like tag only in a really confined space.  The corners of the four square area were safe bases and the person that was "it" had to stand in the middle trying to catch someone off base.  Pretty simple and not that imaginative if you ask me.  But, apparently to a bunch of elementary school kids it was miraculous.  Within days, everyone on the playground wanted to play with us.  Even the stalker girls gave up their torture of me to try to get in and play a game.  The corners of the four square were loaded with at least five kids each and even the useless playground monitor noticed the action.  Somehow I turned into miss popular overnight just for creating a poor version of tag.  I, of course, was the best at the game.  My strategy was to sit down in the middle and close my eyes.  Trying to tempt the beast, the kids would run past me and I would just sit and wait.  Finally when one kid got a little too close I would catch them.  Didn't even have to move to win.  Everyone was amazed with my prowess at always catching the first person I went after.  

This was the life and recess was amazing, until about two weeks later.  Just as quickly as I had risen, I had fallen again.  The game got boring and everyone went back to their old routines.  I went back to walking the ties with K and the crazy stalker girls went back to their death defying Red Rover without even a glance in my direction.

Swimming is Not for Everyone

Yes, I am 27 years old and yes it is true, I don't really know how to swim.  Really this is all my mother's fault.  She can't swim therefore she didn't bother teaching me how to.  

At some point in elementary school she decided that I should probably take some classes and enrolled me in one at the YMCA.  A beginners class, as in little three and four year olds.  Needless to say, I was the oldest kid in the class which was not too embarrassing as my mother did this to me a lot (we'll talk about beginners gymnastics another time).  I was also the best kid in class since I was the oldest and was actually able to follow instructions unlike the three year olds.  I learned how to get from one side of the pool to the other and I learned how to hold my breath and float.  Of course, right when they were getting ready to teach me all of the really important stuff like how to hold your breath AND swim at the same time my mother pulled me out of the class because we were out of money.  

Flash forward a few years and I knew how to get from one side of the pool to the other and how to hold my breath under water by holding my nose (I am not the best independent learner).  Not the coolest thing for a middle schooler.  I avoided the deep end of the pool like a plague because I was just sure that I would start to get sucked under and everyone would assume I was alright because what middle schooler doesn't know how to swim.  I never joined in on Marco Polo and never ever dove into the deep end of the pool.

In high school gym class when we did our swimming unit I was put into the "non-swimmer" group and allowed to just hang around in the shallow end and talk to the other "non-swimmers" i.e. losers while most of the class had to do laps and learn how to dive.  Didn't really motivate me to learn how to swim if you know what I mean.  

Now, every year for my birthday from middle school through high school I went to a hotel with a pool for the weekend.  I know, how weird is that? But, you will have to wait for another post for me to explain the theory behind my birthday extravaganzas.  Anywho, one year I decided I was going to try jumping into the deep end and touching the bottom.  It took a lot of talking to myself to get to the point where I thought it would be a good idea.  Finally, after much debate I held my nose and jumped.  I successfully made it to the bottom of the pool and back up to the surface.  I even made it back out of the deep end without drowning only to have my friend tell me that there was something horribly wrong with my face.  Upon looking in the mirror I discovered that many of the blood vessels around my nose and eyes had burst leaving purplish red marks for the next week.  I guess the pressure of the water was too much for my skin to take.  I had finally gotten up the nerve to try out the deep end and this is what happens?  Never again I told myself; never again that is until I was on my honeymoon.

My husband and I decided to honeymoon in Mexico so of course, water activities were expected.  I was fine with the kayaking and boat rides but I somehow got talked into snorkeling.  Little did my husband know that this was the worst mistake his life.  First problem was that the guide warned us that there was fire corral in the water and that we should avoid touching it because it would hurt, duh!  What the guide didn't say was A. what the corral looked like B. how to avoid it and C. the fact that all of the corral was about a foot below water which made it all pretty much impossible to avoid.  Add that to the fact that I am not a swimmer, do not do well in deep water (hello broken blood vessels), plus on top of it I am klaustrophobic (yeah, I know) and couldn't seem to breath under water with the useless snorkel mask on.  I made it about five minutes before I couldn't avoid the corral, tried to use my new husband to propel myself away from the corral (pushing him into it in the process), and asked the guide if I could just go back to the boat.  The guide acted like it was no big deal and sent me on my way back to the boat.  I guess he forgot to mention that the current was heading toward me and that I would have to be a pro swimmer to make any progress against it.  After paddling and attempting to swim to the boat for what seemed like an hour, I made it back aboard exhausted, shaky, and worried that I had possibly killed my husband with fire corral.  Of course he made it out alive but will never let me live it down and will never take me snorkeling again.

So, to sum it up for you, I am not a swimmer, nor will I ever be a swimmer.  I enjoy a pool on a hot day but don't ask me to do anything but take a quick trip around the shallow end and then hop on a lounge chair with a nice book. 

Let's Talk Clowns

So, every kid loves clowns right?  Wrong, very wrong. 

When I was growing up I had a clown for my birthday every year.  I loved clowns.  I was a kid, kids love clowns.  I even had a circus themed birthday party one year.  My mom made our living room look like a circus tent with streamers and balloons hanging from the ceiling.  All of my guests had to put these ruffly collar things on that were suppose to be clown decorations but just made everyone uncomfortable and look very weird.  We had a clown/magician come with his bunny to entertain.  It was amazing.  Until I went to some other kid's clown birthday party.

I was still in elementary school and I still loved clowns.  The party was at the YMCA and we started by going swimming (did I mention I can't swim).  But, we will save that for another post.  Anywho, after the so called swimming we were ushered into a private party room where there was a clown.  I was psyched; I loved clowns.  This clown thought he was funny; he was mistaken.  He had one of those bicycle horns for God knows what reason and proceeded to chase me around the room honking the horn at me.  How is chasing a child funny?  Explain this to me.  I immediately ran to hide behind my mother in complete terror and this stupid clown had the nerve to continue trying to chase me.  Now, clearly I was cowering and afraid and this clown was completely oblivious.  Welcome to the rest of my life of being irrationally afraid of clowns and of being chased.  I have never played tag again.   


Jump ahead a few years to Disneyland.  The land of happiness and joy right?  Well, I was in love with Snow White and there just so happened to be a Snow White ride.  The ride was awesome and as we were exiting there was one of those statue things of a giant dwarf.  Snow White and her seven dwarfs right?  Well, being as how I loved Snow White I asked my mom to take a picture of me next to the statue.  Can you see where this is going?  I reached up to pretend to hold hands with the dwarf statue and told my mom that this was a very lifelike statue as the hand was warm and somewhat squishy.  Now do you see it?  She was oblivious and proceeded to snap the picture.  As I started to walk away, you guessed it, the statue came to life and started to follow me.  Just like the creepy clown.  Now I was being chased by a giant dwarf.  I again cowered behind my mom and this time the person was smart enough to realize their mistake and apologized for scaring me.  What Disneyland worker thinks it is a good idea to frighten kids?  I mean, really?  


So, now as a grown adult, not only am I afraid of clowns, I am afraid of anyone dressed up in a costume.  Clowns, Disney characters, mimes, sometimes even people at the Ren Fair.  Plus, on top of that, if you try to chase me I am guaranteed to curl up in a ball in the corner and cry.  I hope that clown is proud of what he's done.

The Beginning

So, I guess I will start at the beginning.  I was born fairly normal, if by normal you mean 28 days late.  Now, from what I am told by my nursing friend and mother of one, a woman would never be allowed to be 28 days late and would have been induced much earlier.  So my conclusion is that either my mother is a liar (quite possible) or the medical profession has decided since the '80's that waiting a month past your due date is no longer acceptable.  

Regardless, I was a healthy eight pound baby and the first words from my mother's mouth were "she's ugly".  Welcome to life little A, your mother hates you.  After the nurse almost took me from my mother out of shear panic and concern, my mom decided that I was indeed adorable, even if I was squished from having been forced through her vagina. 


My mother has told me this story many times, but the part of welcoming her only daughter into the world that she talks about the most is how much weight she lost giving birth.  Of course, forget the fact that she had just delivered, what I like to consider, the perfect child.  My mother went to the hospital, was starved of food and water while in labor for almost a day, had an eight pound baby plus all of the disgusting after birth junk, was starved some more until the next day and left the hospital weighing exactly the same as she had going in.  Now, I'm not a doctor but I do find it odd that someone can expel eight pounds of baby and not lose at least eight pounds in the process.  Now, anyone that knows my mother knows that she is crazy so I am not quite sure if she is exaggerating this story or if it's just plain weird. 


At least my mother was relieved to find that I was a baby girl.  She had been praying for nine months (ok, ten)  that she would have a baby girl.  Forget praying for a healthy baby, she wanted a girl gosh darnit! She has even told me that if I was a boy she might have given me up for adoption and tried again.  Now, I don't think she really would have done that as she had already picked out a boys name just in case.  Dustin.  As in Dustin Hoffman.  As in Dustin Hoffman from the movie The Graduate.  As in, my mother has very poor taste in men and thinks Dustin Hoffman is hot.  Ugh, thank goodness I'm a girl.


So, welcome to my life invisible readers.  I hope you enjoy and laugh, though not at me.  I am sensitive to that you know.