So....I am not a fan of carnivals

When all  my friends would get excited about the rides when the carnival came to town, I would try to find excuses to get out of going on them. Never one to enjoy being whipped around, turned upside down, or taken to heights that birds don't even fly, I had no intention of joining the masses in line to get the terror of their lives. I could get dizzy doing summersaults. I had managed for many years to avoid them. Being short allotted me many opportunities to be turned away while feigning disappointment. That wasn't going to last though. I knew I would never be tall, but I also knew that one day, I would surpass the "you must be this tall" line. And I did.

It was 7th grade and my best friend wanted to go to the carnival that was in town during spring break. Always a big tradition, I had gone many times. I had already made it past the "you can't ride this" line, but I had managed to turn myself into the "stuff holder" so I didn't have to worry about riding the metal traps of death myself. I assumed this time wouldn't be any different. I was wrong. Since a few of our friends were out of town, it turned out to be just me and my bestie. When we first got there we did the normal walk through. We stopped at the fortune teller. She told me I was going to get married some day. Eerily accurate. Then we walked over to the games where we spent a small fortune in order to try and win a prize that was worth about a dollar. After meandering around for a while, my friend said she wanted to check out the rides. I went along, but admit I was skeptical since it was just the two of us. I was relieved to see that we weren't stopping. That is, until we got to The Zipper. Suddenly my friend got all excited and looked at me with this anxious grin on her face. Before she even asked the question I was already shaking my head no. Exasperated, she said, "Come on! I don't want to go by myself and you always end up holding peoples stuff. It's your turn to go on. It'll be fun!" She continued to badger me and I continued to shake my head until, out of nowhere, my crush of the week showed up. He had a couple friends with him and they all stopped to talk. He said they had ridden The Zipper earlier and it was super cool. He told us how some lady rode it at the same time they did and screamed the whole time. All his friends laughed and nodded and said they thought it was hilarious. He asked us if we were going to ride. My friend was just about to open her mouth, probably to solidify to them how uncool I was, when I said, "Yea! Totally! Only reason I even came. I love going on rides!" I gave my friend a quick look that told her to go along with it then I strolled over to the ticket taker and boldly handed him my stubs. There was no way I was going to let the guy I was pretty sure the tarot lady was talking about, think I was a baby.

We were escorted over to these steel cages that seemed awfully flimsy and were belted in with straps that looked as secure as dental floss. I glanced over to where the boys had been standing and saw that they were still there, watching us. I gave a thumbs up and they returned it. I then mentally prepared myself for the ride and what I assumed my crushes reaction would be to my act of bravery once I stepped off. Lost in my fantasy of him telling me how awesome and cool I was, I was jolted slightly when the ride started. Moving slowly, I waited. When we just continued a slow climb, I started laughing. Was this it? It's not so bad. I could totally handle it. Piece of cake. I looked over at my friend and told her as much. She then informed me that the ride hadn't even started yet. They were still letting people on. We were only moving so they could open the next cage.

As we slowly inched higher, the cage started to turn so that we were on our backs, looking up at the sky. Feeling a little disoriented, I closed my eyes in an attempt to ground myself while my friend chatted on excitedly. I started feeling a little better, opened my eyes....and that's when the ride finally started. We didn't move really fast at first and as we started to come around the loop, I could feel my stomach flip. I looked down, which wasn't the best idea, and I could see my crush was still there talking to his friends. I got my stomach under control and then imagined the boy of my dreams smiling at me when I got off, holding his arms open, and telling me how brave I was. I envisioned us holding hands and walking the rest of the carnival together as other girls looked on, jealous. I was about to wave and try to get his attention so he knew which cage we were in when suddenly we were plummeting towards the ground at warp speed. I had a dreadful feeling that the ride was broken and we were about to crash into the pavement. Panic set in and holding my breath, I froze. My friend started laughing and doing the 'woo-hoo" yell. I barely had time to acknowledge her as we came mere inches away from the ground. Finally finding my voice, I screamed. Not that "I like to be scared" scream, but the kind where you are being chased by a murderer and if you don't get someone's attention soon, you are going to die. Once my vocal chords started working, they wouldn't stop. I started pleading loudly that I wanted them to stop the ride. I wanted off! Right now! I even tried to sound authoritative. I told whoever was running the ride that they had to stop it or I would sue. I claimed my buckle wasn't working properly and I was floating out of my seat. When that didn't work, I said I was going to be sick and that I'm sure the people behind me wouldn't appreciate being hit in the face with my lunch. Tears streaming down my face, I yelled that I needed to go to the restroom or I would end up peeing myself and I didn't bring a change of clothes. No matter what I said though, the ride continued. I tried closing my eyes, but that just made things worse. I continued yelling. Begged for my life. Then resorted to name calling when it was obvious the guy in charge of the ride didn't care that I was going to die By the time the whole thing was over, my voice was gravely, my eyes were getting puffy from crying, and my nose was running.

Once it was our turn to be released from the death trap we had just spent the last 5 minutes on, I glared at the ride guy and got off the platform as fast as I could. Unfortunately my legs were wobbly and I was a bit dizzy. I ended up tripping over my own feet and landed on the ground right in front of the guy I was planning on devoting my life to. I took a quick minute to quietly thank the ground for being so solid, then composed myself and stood up with the help of my soon to be former best friend. I looked at the boys and laughed while I wiped off my knees, hoping they couldn't see my hands shaking. "Just a little dizzy," I said, "Hey! Did you hear that screamer? Wow right? Seriously, if you can't handle the rides, you shouldn't get on them." No one said anything for a moment. I cleared my throat, tried to act cool and continued my ridicule. With one hand on my hip, I shook my head at the foolishness of some people. Finally one of them said, "Uh, you've got black stuff running down your face." I looked over at my friend who nodded and already had a tissue in her hand for me. I cursed myself for my dislike of waterproof mascara. I grabbed the tissue, dabbing my face, and explained that while we were up there, I got something in my eye and they started watering. I was about to explain the dangers of foreign objects in your eye and how you could go blind when his other friend started laughing really loud and said, "We saw you! Every time your cage came around, you yelled at the ride guy. You weren't really going to pee yourself, were you?"

I didn't go to carnivals much after that. The few that I did was after we had our kids (no, this crush was not my future husband), I stuck to the game area or the kiddie rides. I figured my husband heard enough of my screaming in the delivery room.

So.....I shoplifted once

Ok, so once isn't exactly true. That's what everyone says though right? "I only did it that one time." Truth is I got caught once. I'd actually done it several times before then. Don't worry, I'm not proud of myself, but I was 17, stupid, and a smoker. Something my parents didn't know yet. Oh they knew I was 17. They were there when I was born. And I'm pretty sure they knew I was prone to stupidity. If I interpreted the looks they gave me whenever I came up with one of my most brilliant ideas that I shared with them correctly. But as far as the smoking? No. They didn't know. But they were about to find out in the worst way possible.

Coming from a long line of nicotine junkies on my dad's side (my mom never smoked and her family lived far away so we weren't exposed to their non-smoking ways), it should have come as no surprise that one day I would light up in attempt to impress my friends while standing in the girls bathroom like you'd see in one of those afterschool specials. When I was a kid, I would buy candy cigarettes with my allowance money and pretend they were real. I would hold them like I'd seen my grandmother do so many times and would act out the process of inhaling and exhaling, minus the coughing fits of course, and then I would eat them. The candy. I never ate an actual cigarette. So one day when I had a friend over, we were bummed to discover that both of us were out of smokes. To appear cool, I told her no problem. We could just walk down to the store and steal some. I'd done it a couple times before and gotten away with it so I figured why not do it again. She thought I was absolutely crazy but went along with it because, after all, that's what friends do. I should have known the minute I looked outside that it was a bad idea. We would have to walk and it was raining. Naturally because this was the 80s, I could not get my hair wet. The can of aqua net I used to hold my hair in place, when mixed with rain, could form a helmet that even lasers couldn't penetrate. So I did the most obvious thing. I grabbed an umbrella. Here's the thing though. Anyone who has ever lived in Washington and is a teenager, will tell you that most teens will not and would not carry an umbrella. To do so draws attention and totally takes away from your cool factor. Why? I don't know. It just does. But I was having a good hair day for a change and was not going to ruin it. So off we went with the umbrella in tow. From the minute we walked into the store, we were noticed. As I closed the umbrella, but didn't bind it, we walked over to where the cigarettes were and I nonchalantly grabbed 2 packs. My friend was already telling me to abort the plan as she could feel the judging eyes of the store manager as we walked towards an aisle while sporting our ripped acid washed jeans and Ozzy t-shirts. I looked over at her, rolled my eyes, and told her to chill out. I knew what to do. I had this. Playing it cool, I took one of the cigarette packs, slid it down my arm so it would fall into the umbrella, and then acted like I was looking at stuff on the shelf. Standing there staring at the toilet paper, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching and then loudly declared, "Not the brand that mom likes," and headed back the front of the store where I set the other pack down, acting as though having the wrong toilet paper meant I wasn't going to purchase anything. To this day, I'm still not sure why I thought that would work. Needless to say it didn't and the store manager approached us just as we were trying to leave. While being escorted to the back of the store, I looked over at my friend who was absolutely livid, and did the one thing a cold hardened criminal like myself does in situations like this. I burst into tears.

Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, this was not the day and age of cellphones. I knew before our wet and menacing trek to the store that my parents were grocery shopping and would be gone for hours. Since the officer couldn't get a hold of them, I got to experience my first ride in the back of a cop car. I also got to experience what it's like to strip down to your bra and underwear and have a female officer pat you down while asking you to shake your hair so she can make sure you aren't hiding anything in it. Don't even get me started on the other places they think you might hide things. Who does that? After sitting in a holding cell for almost 2 hours (luckily they don't double up people in there), my parents finally arrived. And that's when they found out I was a smoker. After speaking to the lady behind the desk, they turned and looked at me through the little strip of glass that I could see out of from my area of isolation. The looks on their faces confirmed to me that living in a holding cell wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. It's not very big and there is writing on the wall (I don't even want to know how they managed to smuggle a pen in there) but it was quaint and once you get over your claustrophobia, it could be a nice place to live.

The ride back to the house was filled with silence and the occasional glance my way that said I was not their favorite child at the moment. Once we got home, the silence continued for about an hour or so until the flood gates opened and the whole neighborhood got to overhear how much trouble I was in. I swear they would wander out into their yards and act as if they were doing yard work just to overhear how long I'd be grounded this time. By the time my parents had exhausted themselves from all the yelling and disappointed looks thrown my way, I was officially grounded for life. I checked recently and found that it hasn't been lifted yet. After having to attend my diversion hearing (as it was called then), I also got to be made to feel guilty repeatedly as they reminded me on a regular basis that my dad would have to take a day off work to drive me to my mandatory shoplifting class that I had to attend. My sentence also included the fun task of doing community service. More on that later.

The class, which consisted of about 10 other kids and their parents, was easily one of the most humiliating experiences. Did I mention I had a practically naked pat down? Well this was worse. I think I've mentioned before that I have a tendency to try to act cool when, in fact, I am not. Well this was no different. In my never ending attempt to do just that, I did things that made little sense to anyone else but perfect sense to me. So with that, I figured I'd walk into this class and get myself a little street cred. You know, try to come off as someone whose "been there, done that." I mean yea, it was just a shoplifting charge. Hardly anything hardcore, but I decided I could cop enough of a 'tude to give the impression that this was the most minor thing I've ever done. Strut in as if this was hardly the first time I'd been in trouble with the law. So I rolled my shoulders, got a little sneer going on my face, (which made my dad look at me and ask me if I was feeling ok because he thought I looked like I was going to be sick), and walked in like I owned the place. Loudly chewing my gum in an attempt to look aloof, I stood there. The epitome of badassery....and then realized something. I'm the oldest person there (other than the parents of course).....by about 6 years.

Sitting in a circle, we had to go around the room, tell our names, and explain why we were there. I sat, mortified, and just stared at the group of kids that should have been in daycare. Getting a nudge from my dad signaled that it was my turn. I gave my name and told of my arrest in my best monotone voice to the yawns of what would be the future delinquents of America. Turns out I was the only "first timer" there. After a few mind numbing speeches by people of varying careers telling us what a life of crime would lead to and a couple activities where you had to pick partners and tell personal details about yourself, we were finally free to leave. I couldn't get out of the building fast enough. Bolting through the doors with my head down, my dad followed, sporting the same ridiculous grin on his face that he kept the whole time we were there.

I honestly thought nothing could be worse than that. Then I had to do my community service. At the junior high that my sister and her friends attended. So far, people only knew of the arrest but not the why. So naturally as never being one to learn a lesson, I try for the cool factor again. I take on the roll of teenage troublemaker. The kind of kid you don't want your children to hang out with. I act like the whole thing is no big deal. I talked of my stint in juvie like it's a normal thing and laughed as though I've ridden in many a cop car in my day. Totally played it off like I'm some tough chick you don't want to mess with. When the rumors started swirling that I was arrested due to an assault where I broke one girls nose and the arm of another, I did nothing to dispel them. I felt pretty important and the junior high kids who came into the office treated me like I was famous. When I would walk down to use the restroom, you could feel how the other girls were intimidated by my presence. I was on top of the world being immersed in teenage respect. That is until my sister, in her attempt to save my reputation, set the record straight and told everyone the actual story. In her defense, she actually did think she was helping. Of course that didn't stop me from refusing to speak to her for about a week and since we shared a room, drawing a line down the middle like a bad Brady bunch episode. But anyway, after about a month of having to endure the smirks of her classmates for a few hours every day, I completed my required time and am happy to report that I never once shoplifted again. If only I gave up trying to be cool as easy as that.

So....did I mention how painfully shy I was?

And no one got me more tongue tied than boys.

Picture this.....6th grade. It's the early 80s, Rick Springfield is singing about Jessie's Girl in the background and there's me, rocking a wardrobe supplied by ala Kmart. With short brown hair and green eyes, I was an average looking girl. A bit too skinny with pale skin, I was barely able to speak to anyone outside of my little circle of friends. My crush at the time, the crème de la crème of the 12 year old male gene pool, had somehow gotten my phone number and called me up asking if I wanted to be his girlfriend. Seriously. That's how it happened. My immediate reaction was that of stunned silence. Surely he can't have the right number. I mean he was such a babe and the girl he had just broken up with was one of those girls who was already really pretty and you just knew she'd grow up to be even prettier. (Side note: she didn't.) But anyway, after he said my name, checking to make sure I was still on the line, I realized that he really did call the right number. He wanted me to be his girlfriend! Me! I didn't have any girlfriends over at the time so there was no opportunity to tell him to hold on while we all held hands, jumped up and down, and screamed in octaves only dogs could hear. So I settled for biting my lip really hard, doing a little bouncy dance, pointing towards the sky like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever and then quietly said, "Uh, yea, ok." And just like that, BOOM!, I had my first boyfriend. Of course there was one problem. I had wicked silence skills. By that I mean I was so painfully shy around members of the opposite sex within my age group that just the idea of talking to them in person caused my heart to race to the point of bursting and my stomach to flop so hard that I was sure I would vomit if they even looked in my general direction. That or I would just run away. Not to say I didn't have friends that were boys. I did. A couple anyway. And I could talk to them. But if I liked a boy or found out that one liked me, that was a different story. Anyone who has taken a vow of silence has nothing on a girl who is super shy and is put into direct contact with a boy she likes. The weird thing was I could totally talk to them on the phone with no problems. After all, I was the master of phone chatter. Ask my parents. But in person? I would get so nervous that my vocal cords all but abandoned me. So it shouldn't come to any surprise that after a week, the relationship ended. He couldn't understand how the girl who talked to him endlessly on the phone was the same girl who would run away and lock herself in her room when he stopped by her house. Even my parents couldn't drag me outside to talk to him. I admit I was heartbroken, but a part of me was also relieved. Being the girlfriend of the most popular boy in school was no easy task. Especially when said boy is the type who likes to hang out with you at lunch and stuff. Like I was really going to eat in front of him.

Now, fast forward one year. We are in 7th grade, officially junior high time. I've moved from The Human League to Def Leppard. I am still an average looking girl who is a bit too skinny and barely speaks to anyone outside of her circle of friends......but now I'm in junior high so obviously I am worldly and I've spent the whole summer convincing myself that I was no longer shy. Just like that! Fixed. And of course making that move from elementary school would create a different me. One who was cool and laid back. Easy going and able to chat up boys with no problem. That was the new me. So when one day while at lunch, two of my friends came running up to me all excited and animated, telling me about this boy that said he likes me and wants to ask me out, I knew that this was where the cool confident girl who I had become would stroll in and take over. I was mature now. No longer the shy, timid thing of a year ago. And besides, that would make two boyfriends in the last year! I was on a roll. I looked at my friends, their faces expectant, waiting for me to say something, when it dawned on me. I had no idea who this boy was. I'd never heard his name before. I mention this to my friends and I watched their faces fall for just a second before they quickly swung back into "best news ever" masks and they proceeded to fill me in on who this mystery person was. A person I had apparently been going to school with all year. And also to tell me he was waiting for me in the gym.

The confident, worldly, new me started heading over to where mystery boyfriend was when suddenly my palms start to sweat and my stomach begins to protest the idea of a face to face with the soon to be new man in my life. I couldn't believe it. This shouldn't be happening. I'm in junior high now! I've already had a serious relationship! I mean, my last boyfriend and I dated for a whole week! That's kind of a big deal. I take a deep breath and convince myself that it's only because I don't know who this person is that I'm becoming so nervous. I'm not shy anymore. I had already decided that. I mean I talked to that one guy over the summer and I didn't get nervous once and I kinda sorta liked him a little so obviously I was cured. I switch my thoughts and tried to focus on the idea of whether or not I want to be involved with someone at the moment. After all, I have a current crush and I'd hate to think that he would find out I'm unavailable once he notices that I sit next to him in three classes. And of course once he chooses to break it off with his super good looking, cheerleader girlfriend. Then I start to wonder if maybe this new guy, the one I still can't picture even with a detailed description from my friends and a play by play of his schedule, is even better looking than my crush. Maybe he's absolutely the best looking guy in school and I just haven't seen him yet. I don't go to some small little school so it's possible. I picture how good looking he probably is and start thinking of us as a couple and how jealous all the other girls would be. How we'd become the most popular couple in school and my crush would only wish he could date someone as perfect and wonderful as me. I'm grinning broadly and have gotten myself so wrapped up in my fantasy relationship that I don't notice we are now standing in front of the gym doors. Suddenly frozen to the spot and feeling a bit nauseated, I await the big reveal of this tall, dark and handsome guy who is going to be the big boyfriend #2. The doors open and there he is. I blink. I am now looking at what is basically the male version of myself.....only shorter and with braces. He looks up at me (which is really weird for me since I myself am not very tall) and then starts bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet while simultaneously turning 3 shades of red. Looking down at the floor, he nervously asks me if I want to "go out." The junior high equivalent of being boyfriend/girlfriend. I mentally lecture myself, pointing out once again that I am now in junior high, no longer a baby, and shouldn't be so tripped up just because a boy likes me. After all, HE likes ME. He should be the one who is all nervous and sweaty....which he totally is. So with that I muster up all my courage, take a deep breath, boldly look at the top of his head before moving my gaze to the floor as well, and say, "I guess." And there we have it! The beginning of a whirlwind romance between two strangers. The story was already forming in my head.

For the next two days, my life consisted of being walked to each class, waving to each other before heading into separate classrooms, and then repeating. We never really talked much. Just kind of acknowledged each others presence while walking side by side as other classmates started looking in our direction and noticed that there was a new couple in town. After school, we got to spend an excruciating mile long walk home in complete awkwardness while my two friends walked a few paces in front of us casting worried glances back in our direction. Every now and then, in a sad attempt to get us talking, they would turn around and yell random questions at us so we would be forced to answer and maybe learn something new about the other. Meanwhile his friends, who walked behind us, would yell things like, "Are you guys going to like, talk or something?" At which point my friends would tell them to shut up and then his friends would respond with the ever classic, "No. You shut up," or "Make me." Finally, after realizing that neither of us was ever going to really say anything to the other, we parted ways. Or rather he told his friend to tell my friend to tell me that we weren't going out anymore and I told my friend to tell his friend to tell him that I was ok with that. I chalked up my lack of conversation to just not being that into him. Plus he didn't like to talk on the phone. His loss.

Since I did have two relationships under my belt, I was the most experienced out of my social circle. A virtual "lady on the town" if you will....but not in a gross way. I was just a kid. My boyfriend-less friends really looked up to me. It felt pretty good and I could feel my maturity strengthen. My shyness was ebbing away and I would be able to speak to boys I liked and who liked me with ease. At least in my mind......it was quite a few years before I was actually able to accomplish that for real. And this time, I married him.

So...I use slang terms and phrases sometimes

.......Just not always correctly. One, not too long ago, example would be a post I put on Facebook. I work a 9/80 shift and it was my Friday off. I was at home lounging around and decided I should brag about it so I posted, "This has been my day. Netflix and chill..." After about 20 minutes and a handful of likes, I got a notification that someone had responded. Their comment was one of shock, asking me why, as someone who rarely posts anything personal, would I throw that out there like that. Totally confused by their comment, I responded with, "Well, that's what I'm doing today. Seriously. Lol. Not a big deal." A few seconds passed when they came back with a question. Was my husband home from work? I thought that was really weird since obviously I would have tagged him if he was and most everyone on my friends list knows our work schedules, so I said, "Uh, no. Weird question. You know he's at work." Not long after that, a laughing emoticon appeared and then a comment, "Netflix and chill doesn't mean what you obviously think it means." I stared at the screen a moment longer and then opened my Google and typed in "Netflix and chill." My face immediately got hot. I stared, speechless, at the definition before me, reading it multiple times while my brain tried to comprehend what I was seeing. Imagine my horror when I realized I just announced to the world (ok, just the people on my friends list) that I was home having sex while Netflix was playing. And they knew my husband wasn't home! Mortified, I considered acting like it was some sort of typo or autocorrect issue. You know, say it was supposed to say Netflix and Chiller or something. After all I did watch a movie earlier that day on Chiller TV so it's not lying...but I was pretty sure they wouldn't buy it. I mean we've all used that as an excuse but it only works in certain cases. I don't believe ignorance is one of them. I sat there cursing the individuals who decided to make Netflix and chill a euphemism for a booty call all while wondering how many had actually seen it. I started picturing my friends yelling "TMI" at their screens all while scrolling by and reconsidering our friendship if I was going to post such intimate details online. Maybe doing the raised eyebrows when they looked at the clock and realized that my hubby was still at work. Or laughing at how utterly naïve I was to assume that Netflix and chill actually meant chilling out while watching Netflix. I did notice that I had a few likes. I began to wonder if they were as ignorant to the meaning as I was or were they congratulating me? A Facebook high five? To make matters worse, it was then that I suddenly remembered the fact that I'm friends with my family on there. My kids! Oh god. Being in their 20's and pretty up to speed on the current slang and latest fads, there is no way they wouldn't know. Did they see it? I sat like that for about 5 minutes, contemplating all the horrific scenarios of an innocent Facebook post gone bad. After having a mini panic attack, I calmed myself down and did the only rational thing I could think of. I deactivated my account and threw my phone across the couch like it was on fire while considering never going on Facebook again.

Eventually, after scolding myself for not being more hip and with it, I decided to log back on. I immediately deleted the post and in attempt to pretend it never happened, I proceeded to flood my wall with random saying and funny cat meme's. After that I went online and began to read up on all the latest lingo so as to avoid any further public humiliation. Only problem is that words and their meanings are forever changing. You practically need to enroll in a class to keep up with it all. Maybe I'll just stick to sharing funny pictures. One's without words to be on the safe side.

So...I once wore plaid flared pants

It's true. There is an actual picture of me floating around somewhere in these most hideous of fashion faux pas. I'm not sure what possessed my parents to agree to buy them for me, but in my defense, I wanted them to show my love for the Bay City Rollers. I was 8 years old.....

The BCR were my first ever "real" band if you know what I mean. Prior to them, my musical catalog consisted mostly of anything Disney related and whatever my parents listened to. Then one day I heard them on a friend's moms radio and my whole world changed. Just like that...gone were my Sleeping Beauty 45s and in their place, the Bay City Rollers Greatest Hits. I already knew how to spell Saturday....but after that, I was a pro.

Somewhere during my eye opening experience of non-children friendly music, I decided I needed to fit in with the fashion as well. Since the BCR liked plaid (it was on most of their album covers for those that were lucky enough not to know), I did too. Since they wore widely flared pants, those were my new favorite. Going shopping with my mom and hunting for the perfect outfit, I managed to find the ugliest flared jeans for children that came out in 1978. I can't remember where exactly we got them, but I'm pretty sure it was Kmart since that's where most of my wardrobe at that time came from. What I do remember though, is seeing them and knowing right away that those were my pants. Those hideous, god awful, flared pants. They were everything I shouldn't have wanted and more. Not only did I wear them after my mostly speechless parents bought them for me, I wore the hell out of them! I would wear them every day if I could, going so far as convincing my mom to do extra loads of laundry so they could be worn more often. I really thought I was so cool. I mean here I was, 8 years old, ditching the bibbity-bobbity-boo baby music and knowing that I only wanted to be with you in my Kmart bought wide flared leg plaid pants. How was I not totally awesome? I think I even strutted a bit when I walked.

Later on of course I realized how ugly those pants were. It was a cruel reality becoming 9 and I have since decided that being 8 was no excuse for bad taste. I would use the "it was the 70's" as an out...but that can only explain away the flare. The pattern is a whole other story. I recently went through our old family photo albums because I know there is a picture that still exists. I couldn't find it. There was an empty square spot where I'm pretty sure it was supposed to be. I'm fairly certain someone in my family has it. I've been waiting for the inevitable Facebook tag. I know it's coming. So far, nothing. I won't stay that lucky...this I know.

So....I got stuck in a fence once

Ok. So stuck might not be the right word. I guess dangling would be the best term. What happened you ask? Well, I was around 17 at the time. We just got new neighbors and they happened to have three kids whose ages were in-between mine and my sister's age (we are 5 years apart). Even though they only lived across the street, new boundaries caused them to have to go to different schools than we did. It took a while for our initial meeting since right when they moved in, school started. Eventually the "heys" and "hellos" happened and they ended up inviting us over one day. We were asked to come in through the side of their property as their aunt and uncle, who they lived with, were going to be gone and preferred they didn't have people over when they weren't there. Of course that's the best time to have people over, so as a teenager, you get it. Anyway, the side of their property consisted of a large field of tall grass with a fence that ran along side it. To avoid anyone being able to report back to their aunt and uncle that we were there, we were to go to the side door. So, there we were. Me, my sister, and a friend of hers. We walked down the street a little ways and then kind of scaled back until we were in the field. We came upon the fence, which was about as tall as I was (5'2") so you had to climb up and jump over. I thought I'd be really cool and go first. Totally show the middle school kids how it's done. I always took any and every opportunity to show off my total awesomeness to my sister and her friends since they looked up to me. Unfortunately I tend to forget that I'm not always the most graceful person. As I went to jump off the top of the fence, my shoelace got caught on something. When I should have landed on my feet, acting as if I just did some amazing daredevil stunt, I'm instead dangling upside down, one leg stuck upright because of my shoes attachment to the fence post, the other flailing around as I try to jerk myself to get unstuck. Unfortunately this did nothing to get me free from the fence and I'm not acrobatic enough to fold myself in half in order to reach my shoe, so I had to rely on my sister and her friend. Once they were done laughing, they managed to get me unhooked. They really should be glad I didn't hurt myself, but whatever. I was very thankful that the grass was at least tall enough that no one else could have seen what happened. I would have died of teenage mortification. I stood up and got the grass out of my hair, brushed all the dirt off my clothes, and then we headed over to the side door and knocked. I played it real cool. Totally acting as if I hadn't just did a face plant into the ground while hanging upside down and wiggling around as if I had ants crawling all over me. Luckily I had the sense to threaten my sister and her friend into total silence. Although it didn't stop them from giggling all the way up to the door, I knew they wouldn't dare say anything. Our new neighbors opened the door and inside we went. A moment of awkwardness passed over everyone while we all just sat there, not saying anything. Finally one of them asked me if I was ok. I gave them one of my best raised eyebrow looks I do when I feel like someone just asked me something completely stupid and said, "Yea. Why?" He reached over, pulled a twig out of my hair, and then they all burst out laughing. Apparently the grass is not as tall as I thought. They saw my grand leap from the top of the fence, only to disappear from sight. That is, except my foot, which they could see sticking straight up pointing towards the sky as they looked through the window, waiting for us.

So......I'm growing my bangs out

Let me start off by saying that there has never been a time in my life that I have not had bangs. For some reason I have always been self-conscious about my forehead. I don’t know why as it’s just a normal forehead. Nothing weird about it. It’s not like it’s a beacon for aircraft to use as a landing strip. I’m not attempting to hide a family history of the dreaded unibrow. I’ve just always been aware of it. In my younger years, I spent quite a bit of time looking at it in the mirror trying to determine why it bothers me so much. I’d pull my hair back to scrutinize it, turning from side to side. Nothing….and yet it still made me take my hair and fan it across the space above my eyes in hopes to conceal the idea that I even had a forehead to begin with. Everyone is always talking about body issues and body shaming. Maybe I have forehead issues. I guess that could be a real thing. I mean obviously it is for me. Seems a bit odd….but then I’ve never been completely normal.

Some people probably think that since I’ve had bangs this long and I obviously have issues with my forehead, why even bother growing them out. The answer? No idea. I just decided one day to give it a go. Maybe it’s my minds idea of a mid-life crisis. Although I refuse to believe I’ve reached mid-life yet. Lots of people live passed 100. Regardless of the reason, I’m finding the whole process a bit frustrating. I mean normally my bangs grow at such a rapid pace that I am practically trimming them every other day to keep them out of my eyes. Since I’ve decided to let them grow, they’ve gotten to right below the eye level point and seem to just stay there. It’s a bit annoying. I keep having to blow them out of my face. I know I could just pin them back, but for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t want to do that. I still find myself styling them in a way that causes them to fall in my direct into my eyes, causing me to blink rapidly and make sure my contacts don’t pop out. I’ve been tempted to grab the scissors, but everyone freaks out and tells me to stop. Wait it out a little longer. It will be worth it. I hope so. I’d hate to think I would go through all this just to, at the end, get bangs again. I guess I will just suffer through it. How much worse could it get?

So.....I hate spiders

The Houdini of the arachnid world, spiders just seem to be able to appear and disappear as if by magic. Many times I have left a room to get a shoe, newspaper, flame thrower….and when I come back, it’s gone. Just like that. Vanished. And of course no matter how hard I look, I can’t find it anywhere, so to continue living in my home is no longer an option. As much as I hate them though, I don’t believe the feeling is mutual. They seem to love me. They follow me everywhere. I even have had them fall into my lap. It’s occurred more than once! One particular time I was sitting in a chair in my living room reading a book when a spider fell right on the page I was reading. I have no idea where it came from as I always do a quick “spider sweep” when I enter a room. But there it was. Falling out of nowhere to land right in front of me. Needless to say, if I could throw like that all the time, I could have made a career as a softball pitcher.

The worst part of seeing a spider in your home is that when you notice it, no can of Raid is in sight. And of course no amount of pointing it out to my cats and yelling, "Well? Are you going to kill it?!?" gets them up and motivated enough to rid the home of this leggy intruder. I usually have to go to the next best thing. Whatever bottle full of chemicals or object is within arm’s reach. I’ve killed spiders with hairspray, oven cleaner, tennis rackets, coffee cups, Windex, laundry starch, you name it. Normally if I am able to get my hands on a chemical, I spray the bottle of death behind me while I run away (I'm usually screaming as well) so I can’t always say I actually hit it until I force myself to go back and examine the crime scene. I then creep real slowly back into the room with my weapon of choice (I usually upgrade to something more solid) and a flashlight, eyes darting everywhere looking for the spider body. I'd think about how nice it was when our kids still lived at home because I’d just have them do it. I figured bravery would be a good trait for them to learn. But they are adults now and don’t like it when I call asking them to come over just for that reason. If I am lucky enough to be able to send someone else in, a spider hitman if you will, I always demanded proof that it is, in fact, deceased. As unsettling as it is, I need to see the body. For the sake of myself and everyone else who lives in the home, it’s a necessity. Sometimes, when I’m absolutely certain that the spider will not suddenly spring to life, I will leave its body where it is for a little while as a warning to others.

What I find the most baffling when it comes to spiders though, is that there are people who actually like them. Seriously. They find them cute and keep them as pets. I know a couple of them. I’m pretty sure they are deranged. I refuse to go in their house. Ever. If I have to stop by their home for any reason, I will honk and talk to them from the safety of my car while it’s still running so I can make a quick getaway if need be. I know for a fact that they will let the creature out of its cage and allow it to walk freely around their home. Of course they try to say that they don’t do this when they have company. But I don’t trust them. They’ve aligned themselves with the spider community. I won’t take that chance.

So....I like to watch Lifetime movies and horrible things like that

Lifetime, the channel for women who hate men. I think that’s what it’s actually called. Anyway, I watch it. A lot. I don’t know why I do. I mean, their movies are pretty horrible actually. Someone is always crazy, or stalking someone, or sleeping with their friends husband or something like that. It’s not like the Hallmark channel where everyone is in love and happy. I don’t watch the Hallmark channel. Maybe there is something wrong with me.

My typical type of movie night consists of horror movies, superhero movies, and scifi. I’m not one to watch much in the line of chick flicks. Not that I’ve never watched any. I have. I’ve even enjoyed a couple, but normally movies like that can’t hold my interest or my lunch. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I’d watch a LMN movie over anything on Hallmark. But it’s still unsettling when a commercial comes on for their latest one and it has something to do with a woman who is betrayed and she will stop at nothing to get her revenge on everyone from the dude who pissed her off to the girl she went to grade school with that called her stupid and all I can think is, I have to set the DVR for that. And then I do.

My husband claims that they have the dumbest movies ever made. I can’t completely disagree with him since he’s actually right, but then he will sit down, start watching with me, and then suddenly announce he’s already seen it and proceed to tell me what happens. I usually stare at him, blinking, and he will just look back at me and shrug, saying there wasn’t anything on the other night. I guess I should mention that I work days and he works a swing shift so we don’t always see much of each other during the week. Sometimes after work if he can’t fall asleep right away, he will sit in the living room and watch TV before he goes to bed. When I turn on the TV in the morning as I'm getting ready for work it's always on the sports channel so I had always assumed he was watching something like that. Guess I was wrong. Anyway, after telling me the entire plot of the movie, including the ending, he will then go on about how stupid it was and how he can’t believe anyone would watch that crap. Yea.

I guess the worst part isn’t that I watch Lifetime though. Or that my husband secretly watches it as well. It’s that I watch it in addition to all the other horrible stuff I can't get enough of on the ID channel. You know, the channel that wants you to never trust anyone again. Not your spouse, family, friend, neighbor….nobody. I could watch the shows on that channel all day. As a matter of fact, I have. I don’t know why I can sit through a marathon of those, but something like The Notebook makes me want to scratch my eyes out and vomit until there is nothing left of me. I really can’t watch that stuff. I revert into a child. I’m either making gagging noises through the whole thing or I roll my eyes so much it gives me a headache. Needless to say, I’ve never been invited to another “girl’s movie night” after that. Which is fine. I’d rather sit at home and watch what I like while my husband pretends not to watch but can’t resist asking me what’s going on every time he comes back into the room. I’ll take that over any love story any day.

So.....I had 80s hair

Not that “super high you could touch the sky” 80s hair. Mine was more kinda big but not really. Born with natural mousy brown hair that wasn’t quite thick but wasn’t quite thin either, my hair had an aversion to being “big.” Not that I didn’t try. I ratted it and emptied my can of Aqua Net just as much as the next girl. Only problem was the minute the hair spray touched my head, it knocked my hair down and I was left with a flatter, greasy look that I couldn’t brush out thanks to the fact that it now formed the strongest wind barrier this world has ever seen. The only way to fix it was to wash the hair again. Aqua Net was some seriously potent stuff. In my numerous attempts to achieve height, I finally became desperate enough to get perms. It helped, but every time I would get one, I’d look in the mirror afterwards and immediately recoil in horror. Then eventually the perm would relax, look not half bad, and the memory would fade….prompting me to get another one once the curls relaxed to the point of non-existing. The process would then repeat itself.

This went on for several years until finally the 80s and its big hair days started to fade. Most were unhappy as they liked their big hair, and some have continued to carry on this tradition even today. I, of course, was ecstatic. I honestly hated all the maintenance and looked forward to throwing away the Aqua Net and just allowing my hair to hang there and do what it wants. Which is basically nothing. It works for us.

I’m not quite sure why we tortured ourselves to get our hair to stand at unnatural attention, but we did, and then years later, we mostly try to hide that fact. I went on a spree once to find as many photos as possible from the glory days of heavy eyeliner and acid washed jeans. I was able to locate most of them….but you can’t ever completely hide from bad taste. Luckily there is a whole generation of people who went through it with me. Now we don’t laugh at our parents old photos of themselves from high school as much as we used to. Not as much…….

So.....I'm not a camper

Traumatized at the age of eleven, I swore to never go camping again. Of course I really didn’t have much authority in that area being a kid and all. It was really up to my parents. My family enjoyed camping. Went every year while I was a kid. Then the constant complaining finally took its toll and my parents agreed to put the tent up in the rafters of the garage and leave it there, never to be retrieved again. I guess I should feel bad, but I didn’t. Not at the time anyway. I should have. It was a family affair, our camping trips. We’d all go up to this one lake resort and tent camp. Once in a while my parents would splurge for a cabin with no electricity. I hardly saw the difference.

But back to my moment of trauma. As I stated, I was eleven at the time. We had gone camping on plenty of occasions up until that point and I really didn’t complain. Everyone in our family would go. Grandparents, uncles, cousins, the whole shebang and I had fun for the most part. Then something changed. I started noticing boys…..and the lack of electrical outlets for my hair dryer and curling iron out in the woods. I wish I could say I wasn’t so superficial back then, but I can’t. That I was still a little kid who didn't think of boys and kissing but still played with her Barbies and ran around in circles to get dizzy for fun, but no. I was eleven after all. Hormones start kicking in, body starts changing and you have no idea why that boy is a little less gross. You're a kid who suddenly thinks you're one step away from adulthood. You remember, you’re not quite a teenager but you can see it on the horizon and the boy who once annoyed you is the one you constantly sneak awkward glances at because you can’t quite figure out what changed to make him not so annoying anymore. You stop playing with toys and start playing with your hair. You experiment with makeup and your appearance becomes a big deal. I mean you wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out at the mall on the weekend without looking the best you possibly could, would you? Not anymore. So imagine my horror when I stopped loathing boys and started noticing they were around.....and they were. As a kid, I had one of those short, pixie haircuts thanks to a mother who didn’t want to deal with the maintenance of long hair (it’s no wonder I keep my hair long now) but add that to the fact that I was stick thin, I was easily mistaken for a boy if I didn’t do myself up. So here we are. At the lake with the family and next thing we know, there is another family renting some cabins a little ways down and who is with them? Their 12 year old son. Their very cute 12 year old son and me and my cousin are the only kids around in his age group. My “not washed in 2 days” hair was under an LA Dodgers baseball cap that was slightly too big for my head. I was wearing some baggy shorts, tube socks, and a Garfield t-shirt (all hail Garfield). The master of 80s fashion, I looked like one of the nerds in the Revenge of the Nerds movie. Needless to say, I wasn’t looking my best and I have a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t realize at first that I was a girl. Of course that could be because he actually said that. Anyway, not something a girl wants to hear and it was after that trip that I decided camping wasn’t for me. Unless of course there was electricity, hot water, and a TV.

Over the years, that thought hasn’t changed much. I still am not a fan of camping, but I’ve been married for almost 26 years now so my husband has already seen me at my worst. Who knows? Maybe one day I might actually go again. Although I doubt it will be in a tent. Maybe a hotel……

So.....I've given birth

Not once, but twice. The first pregnancy I went au natural…not by choice really. I was induced and by the time the pain became unbearable (I was actually asked twice by the nursing staff to please quit screaming as I was scaring the other mothers) I was far too dilated to be given anything. I was much smarter with my second pregnancy and asked for drugs immediately upon arrival at the hospital. Of course first I had to check in.

I don’t care what anyone says, you remember the pain. You may not recall how long it lasted or the actual intensity of it, but you don’t completely forget it either. I had always considered myself a high tolerance type of individual. Allergic to most pain medications, I’ve grown to be able to handle pain pretty well. Not to say I still don’t cry out when I stub my toe on our living room coffee table. That just hurts.

I don’t recall how long I was in labor with either of my kids. I have pretty much blocked out most of that. So has my husband, but he has his own reasons for wanting to forget it all. I do remember the delivery and recall being asked if I would permit resident doctors to observe. I said yes, or something along the lines of a yes. I don’t think I was able to speak actual words at that point. Honestly, they could have brought in the entire hospital staff with camcorders and I wouldn’t have cared. I just wanted the whole thing to be over.

After I delivered our daughter, the nurse tried to hand her to me. I remember shaking my head no and then immediately thought they were probably scrutinizing me and thinking I was the world’s worst mother. It’s not that I didn’t want to hold my baby. The problem was my adrenaline kicked in so hard that I was shaking uncontrollably. Not just slight shaking either. My body jerked and twitched so bad that I’m sure I looked like I was convulsing. Motion sickness started to set in. Not quite the bonding moment you picture in your head after giving birth. It wasn’t any better with our son and I had to bypass holding him right away as well. Luckily the nurse that time noticed my inability to hold myself still and didn’t ask, but rather cleaned up our son and handed him to my husband.

Both our kids are in their 20s now. I still can remember the moment they came into this world. I unfortunately also remember the “rough seas” like shaking afterwards and get a little nauseated. But it was worth it. All of it. Even the parts that I have to censor in my mind because language like that is not suitable for children or adults. They are great kids. Neither are drug addicts, alcoholics, and only occasionally ask for money. I say we did pretty well.

So.....I hit a squirrel once

I was driving to work one day when a squirrel ran out into the road. I swear I didn’t see it until it was too late. I felt it as my tire went over its tiny little body. Nausea hit. I felt sick. I glanced in my rearview and saw it lying in the road. It didn’t move. I slowed down but didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I was going to be late. Waves of sadness rolled over me and then the tears started rolling.

I’d never hit an animal before. Bugs had committed suicide on my windshield many times, but I’d never hit an animal. It was my first time. Hopefully my last. I can’t even stand to see an animal’s body on the side of the road after being hit by someone else. I have to look away and close my eyes. Not the best thing to do when you are driving. I mourned that poor squirrel and his squirrel family all day. Co-workers, noticing my obvious distress, didn’t quite seem to understand why I was so upset. After I told them the tragedy of that mornings events while the tears were streaming down my face, I got more than a few strange looks and a couple of pity back pats before everyone scattered and vowed to give me my space for the day while whispering quietly to each other as they left the room. Alone in my fortress of despair, I couldn’t shake the immense sadness I felt. I killed a squirrel. Vehicular homicide! I thought about his family and imagined what it would be like for his wife and kids when he didn’t return home (I don't actually know if it was a male, I'm just assuming). What would they do? Would they would go out looking for him and stumble across his lifeless body lying in the street? Would they know he was murdered? Left to die cold and alone? Would they seek the one who destroyed their family, vowing to get revenge? Should I be concerned when I see squirrels in my yard?

These are questions I ask myself often. They come onto my property. They don’t hide. I see them. They watch my house. They know what I did. The guilt is great, but I don’t act. It’s their move…….

So.....I'm a runner

First off, let me just say I am not one of those totally dedicated marathon runners or anything like that. I don't like to drive 26 miles let alone attempt to run it. It started after I quit smoking (more on that later). I decided I needed to get into shape since the one I had wasn't working for me. Not that I'm a big girl. Not even close. I'm about 5'2" tall and weight around 104 lbs as long as I keep all my clothes on and happen to be holding a stack of books. I'm what you would call naturally thin....or skinny, stick figured, bean poled as the kids I went to school with would say. But being small does not immune you from gravity. Like the arm jiggle that occurs when you wave to people. Or the jello like motion of your upper legs while you walk. It still happens regardless of your size. I wish I would have listened back when I was young about how you need to take care of your body for when you get older. Had they just shown a picture of what your body would look like at 45 compared to 17, I might have been more diligent in those efforts. I added some light weight lifting on my non-run days to help control the amount of movement my body does without my consent. Anyway, since I didn't want to pay a gym membership because I knew I'd go non-stop for a solid week, congratulate myself on being dedicated, and then quit, I thought running might suit me. No monthly membership fee and I have an excuse to buy shoes. I know. Most women who have a love of shoes go right to the ankle breaker section, but not me. One, I still have to shop in the kids section and they don't exactly make stilettos for children, and two, I can't wear those. I mean I can. I just shouldn't. Any type of walking or standing while wearing them and I could seriously injure myself. When it comes to adorning my feet, boots and tennis shoes are my best friends. I love boots! But what I love even more than those are Converse. I have about 30 pair now. And since I still wear kids sizes, I get them for cheap! Or at least cheaper. My husband thinks I need help. I just think I need a bigger place to put them. Naturally I don't wear converse when I run. Although I do secretly think I would look pretty BA running on the trails in my Batmans, but I have to buy actual running shoes for that. And of course they tell you that one pair isn't enough so I make sure to get a few. So, yea, I run. Well, jog really. Saying you run kind of gives the impression that you're fast and I'm not. I mean I'm faster than walkers, but just barely. I've been doing it for about 4-5 years now and do about 3.5 miles every other day. Seems to be working. I'm able to run that distance without stopping....at least not a whole lot.

One thing I realized as I ventured into the world of being able to out distance a stalker, is that just because you are naturally thin, does not mean you are healthy. Of course smoking didn't do me any favors there. I quit about 6 years ago. I was lucky. It was very easy for me. That time. The other 18 times wasn't. I was never a real heavy smoker fortunately. About 1/2 pack a day was my usual thing, and I could go a day or two without a cigarette. I'd done it numerous times. One day though I skipped a day, then another, then another, and somehow kind of forgot I was a smoker. I know! How does one forget they smoke? I'm not sure, but somehow I did. When I finally realized I hadn't had a cigarette in about 2 weeks, I decided to just roll with it. They aren't kidding when they say you will feel different. I could take deep breaths, I could smell everything (that wasn't always a positive by the way), food tasted different......and I suffered from huge bouts of vertigo. I was really concerned after I googled my symptoms and had pretty much determined that it was too late. I was going to die. I had some horrible disease or tumor or something like that. They put the warning on the sides of the packs for a reason. I immediately made an appointment with my doctor and started rehearsing what I would tell my family. Turns out all that worrying was for nothing. My brain was just finally getting the oxygen it always needed to function properly.

It was about a year after I quit that I decided to look into ways to get fit and found myself with a new pair of running shoes and a desire to be able to outrun the slow people in the event of a zombie apocalypse. If anyone ever tells you that it feels great to run, they are lying. I know because those same people lied to me. Oh I feel fabulous after. I mean I finished! It's over for the day! But while I'm running? No. It's not like those promotional pictures they show you in ads for shoes or running clothes. You know the ones. Where the women look all cute and perfect in their running attire and they are smiling like it's the best thing ever. I'm not saying that there aren't people like that. I've just never seen them. But I guess they wouldn't sell their merchandise if they showed the reality. A woman all sweaty, red faced, and looking as if she's one step away from crawling to her destination or just taking a nap in the middle of the sidewalk. But it's something I can do to help keep myself in shape and I don't need any fancy equipment to do it. I usually run on my lunch break. I work close to a park that is by the river. Very beautiful and scenic. Not that I really notice to be honest. I'm more focused on how far I've run and calculating if I will be done soon. That's pretty much my entire thought process the whole time. I do see a lot of other runners when I'm out and give them the "hey you're a runner too" hand wave. That's something I found weird my first few times out. I started with the Couch to 5K running app (something I highly recommend for beginners....no I don't get paid to promote it. I wish) and people would do a type of hand wave/salute/thumbs up kind of thing as we passed each other. After this happened a few times, I realized it's a solidarity thing. A kind of encouragement nod. You know, good job! Go you! Like a private club  moment. Not the, "yea, I recognize you from that youtube video where you were drunk at your best friends wedding and vomited all over the dance floor while exposing yourself to all of their friends and family" gesture I thought it was. Not that anything like that actually happened.

So, yea, I'm a runner. I actually do enjoy it when I'm not being chased by dogs or getting bugs in my eyes....or worse yet, my mouth. It makes me feel good. It makes me feel healthy. It makes my body jiggle just a little bit less than it did before.

So.....this is my family

Ok. So I figured if I'm going to write about my life, I should tell you a little about my family. As I mentioned in my previous post, I am married and have been for the last 26 years to a man who can handle me at my worst and my worstest. I don't really have a best so I figured I'd skip that. As a product of our undying need to be with someone just as difficult and stubborn as the other, we had 2 beautiful children. A son, who at the age of 24 is still pursuing his dream of being in a band....or as I like to call it, barely employed. Oh, he has a job. He's not living in our basement or anything like that, yet. But unfortunately he has decided that you are never too old to give up your dream so I have already started getting a guest room ready for his inevitable move back home. And then there is our daughter, 26, who also decided that college was something that only people who want a good job and don't want to live paycheck to paycheck do. She works a seasonal job in a photography processing studio and also is a promotions model. Not sure what a promotions model is? Well, basically you get hired to work promotion events like wine and beer tastings at stores like Total Wine and things like that. It can be pretty decent money actually and we had visited her at one of her "gigs" as she calls them. One thing I learned, they prefer you only have ONE sample of beer. Gets a little awkward when you are trying to hand the store manager your keys. Unfortunately the promotional model career arena isn't exactly lucrative. Which is why I'm still paying her car insurance.

As far as the rest of the family, my husband doesn't really talk to his....lucky guy. Oh he knows where they are and they acknowledge each other in public and everything, they just aren't close. My family dynamic didn't make much sense to him when they all met. Mostly because we like to be in the same room together and he found that baffling. I have a mom and dad, of course, that's how I came to be here. They are still married after 46 years together. I have one half brother who lives in another state(we will just refer to him as HB). My dad was married very briefly when he was right out of high school. It ended when she became pregnant a second time.......while he was away at boot camp. My half brother wasn't raised with us so we didn't know him very well. We've had little contact over the years and have made attempts to be closer, but he also doesn't get our family dynamic, in the sense that we all hate his wife and he doesn't. But that's another story entirely.

I have 2 brothers and a sister from the union of my parents. I am the oldest out of that group. I was also by far the most rebellious, something that has never gone completely away. My youngest brother (we'll refer to him at YB) is getting ready to move to Washington DC.....on purpose. He is a political science major (boooooring) and has just gotten accepted to go to school there to get his masters. He's all excited. I'm slightly less so. Not just because I can't fathom why anyone would want to talk politics for a living, but because we are close. Even though I am the oldest and he is the youngest and there is 15 years separating us, we are pretty much the closest (don't tell my sister that). I think it's because I helped take care of him while my parents both worked. Also because when we get together, we have the combined mentality of a 16 year old. We tend to act a bit immature. We bring out the kid in each other. Now he's moving away and leaving me here by myself. Well, not entirely by myself. My parents still live here and of course my children (it's harder to ask for money when you live far away), but he was the only sibling left here. My other brother (OB) and my sister live in Washington State, but on the other side from me. Like, a good 4 hour drive away. Which, yes, I know, that isn't that far, but if you've ever driven across Washington State then you know it's one of the most boring drives you can ever make, so really 4 hours is more like a non-scenic 14 hours. At least that's how it feels. Anyway, speaking of my other siblings, there is my sister who is an attorney and my OB who has a job title I don't know but apparently you make a lot of money if you are one. He was the lazy kid and now the total responsible one who makes the most money. Don't get me wrong, we are all responsible people who make a decent living. He's just really good at it. Go figure.

Well I think I'll leave you with this for now. I'm sure I'll have plenty of other not so interesting things to say. Until then.......

So....this is me.

I'm not sure why I started this blog since I already have a perfectly good one that nobody reads but I was bored, and at work, so I figured why not? It's basically dedicated to the completely mundane and uninteresting life I live. Or at least that's what I think I'm going to do with it.

Well, let's see, I am a 45 (soon to be 46) year old married mother of two. Someone actually had the audacity to use the term "middle aged" to me the other day. I politely, while snarling, told them that I am not anywhere near 50 yet and they proceeded to ask how many 100 year old people I know. Let's just say there is a certain someone who will NOT be getting a Christmas card from me this year. Not that they got one before. I don't send actual cards. I mean, I think about sending cards, but then I'd have to buy cards. And then there is the whole going to the post office thing and standing in line. Ugh. The holidays are painful enough. Anyway, they will not be receiving the thought of me sending a Christmas card this year and since it's the thought that actually counts, they are really missing out.

I live in Washington State (and yes, I have to add the state part, otherwise everyone asks me how far from the White House I live) but was born in California. My family moved here when I was 6 so I don't consider myself a Cali girl and I highly doubt any actual Cali girls would consider me one either. I am married to the father of both of my children......*gasp*.....it actually happens, and we have been semi happily married on a fairly regular basis for 26 years. We have two children, a son who is 24 and a daughter who is 26. I really scored on that one. One of each! After our son was born I retired from child bearing until such a time that a new sex was discovered. It wasn't so I'm safe. So is the hospital. Handling pain wasn't one of my strong suits then. They really frown on it when you scream so loudly that the nurses continuously have to come into your room and ask you to stop because you are scaring the other mothers. I probably would have been able to stop, but then the actual labor started, so......

I work in Records Management which is just as exciting as it sounds and have been in that field for more years than I care to count. Watching paint dry or counting spots on a ceiling would have been a more exciting career choice but I couldn't find any openings for those. Of course as I child what I really wanted to be was a rock star, but since I can't sing or play a single musical instrument, that didn't really work out for me. I can air guitar....but even then I keep screwing up the chords so I finally gave up on that dream and decided to leave it to the professionals. Little did I know that the screaming I did while delivering my children would have sounded excellent with some good background music. I'm pretty sure I even said some words. I could have made a fortune today.

Anyway, that's about it for now. I don't really have a plan for this blog. Probably just write whatever comes to mind I guess, tidbits about the life I lead (or lack thereof), maybe talk about my family...at least until they tell me not to. We do have an attorney in the family so we will see.....