Life Lessons

When I was five, my fathers job took us from our nest and planted us in a new city, far far away. It was in this city that I would learn a few very important life lessons. Sure I was only five, but they were lessons I needed to learn.

Lesson #1:

Your mother may only be concerned with the crumbs in the car made by the cookies that the new evil girl joining the carpool didn't share with you. Not that the new evil girl carpooling with you and your bestest friend ever only brought a cookie for herself and your bestest friend ever, and not you.

Of course it was an evil attempt to steal your bestest friend ever, and mock you, in your own car.

Sure, I was only 5, and "evil girl" was 6, but still - this meant war.

I would continue to battle with "evil girl" on the swings daily, at my bestest friends house playing dolls, even at "evil girls" house where I was once invited to come along and play, only to get chased out by her even evil-er mother. Finally, the school year ended and evil girl moved away, back to her evil land.

Lesson #2:

Never, ever, ever, throw mud balls. Ever.

This will surely result in your being chased down the street by an angry driver who now has mud all over his windshield because when the kids yelled "car!" you cleverly tossed it over your shoulder, not knowing that the car was right behind you.

And then your father comes home to hear about the mud ball incident only to chase the angry driver back up the street, with his trusty .45.

I swear that's how I remember it.

Lesson #3:

No matter how mad you are, no matter what your brother wont share with you, no matter what has happened, never, ever, call your brother the N word, especially when your mother is standing in earshot.

Remember the movie "A Christmas Story" with Ralphie...and how he says the mother of all curse words, and the mom calls the friends mother to blame the friend of course, but the friends mother tells her that Ralphie probably heard it from his father....well, you get where I'm going with this.

There I stood, the look of shock on their faces at hearing what I'd just said engraved in my memory to this day. I knew immediately that I'd said something very, very bad.

Lesson #4:

It's probably not a good idea to run down the newly paved street barefoot, when it's still wet.

That's it. Probably the stinkiest, stickiest life lesson yet.

To blog, or Not to blog...

Why did I finally choose to blog?

Because I want to write. I thought about it, and thought about it, refused to do it, reconsidered it, refused again, and finally gave in. Again, thanks Nathan.

Any who, I decided to start with a memoir-ish entry because that is what I'm currently working on. After reading my own posts, I've decided to continue my blogging in memoir fashion.

I'm looking forward to sharing some of the quirky moments that have made me who I am, with you.

Enjoy.

My third installment

The first half of my twenties was filled with redundancy. I did much of the same thing, year after year, after year. Nothing. I maintained the same job, maintained numerous hair colors and lengths, and managed to eat at either McDonalds or Jack in the Box every night of every year.

I was in a steady, and by steady I really mean dead, relationship which I'd toyed with ending for most of those five years. That relationship came to a screeching halt on the night of November 19th, 1999. And that is when my twenty fifth year of life, came to life.

But, if you want to know how, you'll have to buy my Memoir. Don't worry; I'll let you know when it's on the shelf.

Over the next five years I would move out for the first time, again, only I would stay out. And instead of moving half way across the country, I moved across town. No snow.

I would also become a parent and spend the final six years of my first thirty two years on earth, as a mother. And by mother I mean, I would take a seat on the wildest, most gut wrenching-est, most exciting roller coaster of all time.

Goodbye Elementary School, hello Puberty!

With 6th grade came stirrup pants, big shirts and Kung Fu shoes. And so did my boobs. That was fun. I kept my arms perpetually bent upward to block any view one might have of my new lumps. That was until a classmate sporting B's came along mid-year. Suddenly my A's weren't so bad.

7th grade I got my first permanent. I went to class each morning with near-dripping-wet hair so I'd have "curls", then they'd dry and I'd finish the day with unruly frizz. I was no longer the girl who steps on her Trapper Keeper; I was the girl with the wet hair.

I had a couple close friends, a handful of cool kids that I wished were my friends, and then there were the classmates I hated and avoided at all costs. I also had "after school friends". The friends that you don't talk to at school because you'd rather die than let the cool kids find out you were playing Memory with Susie Smarty Pants on her bedroom floor. Yea. So what.

And then, the mother of all horrific things to happen to a girl in her 12th year of life, happened.

In 8th grade I had my first real secret crush. He was in my first period English class. His mother would drop him off early in the morning forcing him to sit outside class waiting for class to begin. I also managed to get dropped off early. I never said a word to him the entire year. After all, crushes aren't supposed to know you exist. Instead, I blushed at the sight of him, prayed to sit next to him, smelled him as he passed, and doodled his name all over my Pee Chee folder.

The night before the first day of the 9th grade, I sat up trying to perfect my new look. All it really required was half a can of Aqua Net, some black eyeliner and clear lip gloss. I carried the look through all of 9th grade and half of 10th grade before I stopped caring. Then I became the grungy rocker girl, with even fewer friends.

Nothing major happened in High School. I played no sports, I was in no band, no smart kid clubs, no after school clubs, nothing. I just walked around in my torn flannel shirt, Vans and "leave me alone" attitude until Grad Nite, when I wore a dress. And platform shoes. All night. At Disneyland. While on my period.

Community College didn't last long with me. Near the end of my first semester I took a part time job after classes and got my very first paycheck. That was way more interesting than Business 101 or Math would ever be, for me. With a paycheck, I was unstoppable.

Shortly after turning 19, I got my first car. Two months later, I wrecked it.

After spending my first twenty years of life in beautiful, sunny Southern California, I moved away from home for the first time. Far, far away from home. To a horrible little town in Wisconsin. I was no football fan, no fan of farming, no lover of all cheeses known to man, and sure as hell is hot, no fan of snow. Six months later I came home.

When I turned 21, I did what most 21 year old girls do, I ordered my very first Strawberry Daiquiri, and chased it with my very first Pina Colada.

The fun was yet to be had.

11 x 3 = me

I turn 33 in two days. 33. Eleven years of fun, three times. If I look at it that way, it doesn't seem as long. I say long, because I don't want to use the word "old". Because I'm hardly old.

I'm tired, but I'm not old.

My first eleven years are pretty easy to recall; it started at birth and ended the summer before 6th grade. And while I don't remember much about birth, or being a toddler, I do remember a whole lot about 5th Grade. And 4th, 3rd, 2nd, and Preschool. Kindergarten and 1st grade are a blur.

Why is that, I wonder? Is it because Preschool was so traumatic that it took me two years to get over it and actually start enjoying school? Must be.

I can remember the first day of Preschool, and nothing more. Well, let me rephrase that; I remember throwing a tantrum and crying, and crying, and crying, on the first day of Preschool. I didn't want to be there. What 4 year old wanted to leave their mothers side for a strange world full of crayolas and glue, swings they couldn't use, and boys pulling their hair. Not I.

I didn't want to play. I didn't want to swing. I didn't want to color. I didn't want to look at that horrifically reassuring teacher. I remember her hair, long and brown, in a braid. And the dress she wore, long and pink, much like something I'd seen on Little House on the Prairie. Wait, my preschool teacher looked just like little Laura Ingalls! Oye.

Now jump ahead to 2nd grade. I had two teachers, consecutively. One would read or teach, while the other graded papers. And vice versa. One was tall, one short. One blonde, one brunette. One spunky, one "bookish". What does that mean, bookish?

I remember my lunchbox. I remember the way my lunchbox smelled. Hopscotch and jumping rope. Skinned knees and callused palms. How come I can't hang from the bars now? I had so much practice after all. My entire 2nd grade year was spent swaying back and forth, to and fro on those monkey bars. They weren't bars, they were rings. Monkey rings?

I met Charlotte that year. And Wilbur, and Templeton and all the others there on the farm.

With 3rd grade came multiplication. And flash cards. And the first story I wrote. It was about a unicorn. What eight year old girl didn't write about unicorns? I think it was about ten pages long. But it was a great story. I think. It had to be. It was about a unicorn!

4th grade was bad. I had the chicken pox. A schoolmate’s mother was killed in a car accident. We had a major earthquake. I made friends with another schoolmate whose young brother had Leukemia and playing at her house was always so depressing. I remember the feeling in the air, and her mother who was always so nice. I wonder...I suppose I'll never know.

I built a Mission! I was amazed when I found out that this is a requirement of all fourth graders. Had no clue. The San Gabriel Mission. That was my Mission. My mission, to build a Mission that I knew absolutely nothing about.

5th grade started off bad. Let me introduce you to Emily. Emily was a total and utter cow. Not cow as in obese, but cow as in I can't call her what I really want to call her here. Or can I? Long story short, she made fun of me for stepping on my own Trapper Keeper. I'd place it on the floor under my desk, and step on it. So what. It was mine. There was no where else to put it, and my feet also needed somewhere to rest, so wallah. Emily had a huge problem with this, and made sure the class was aware that I stepped on my Trapper Keeper, that I was a freak. Emily was the freak. She looked exactly like little Nancy Oleson from LHOP. Really. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pink dress, horrible little attitude.

Luckily we moved to a different school district and I only had to endure little Nancy Oleson for one week.

The rest of 5th grade was spent playing handball, trading my milk money for ice cream sandwiches on the sly, witnessing my schoolmates make out in the halls. What gets me is they were my age, and I wasn't doing that. I didn't want to do that. What was wrong with them? This was also the time that I stopped watching Little House on the Prairie.

Summer came quickly and with it came the end of my 10th year of life. If I'd known what I was in store for, I may have enjoyed it a little more.