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.