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.