Dawn mentioned awhile back that one of her nicknames growing up was 'crack of Dawn', which, in all honesty, and though I'm sure it sucked for her, still makes me laugh out loud.  I mean, seriously...that's comedy, right there.

It made me start thinking about some of the horrible nicknames people get/give growing up.  I had many given to me by my family, but we don't have that kind of time...so I'll stick with the ones I remember from my schoolmates.

• Bird - because my chest was as flat as a robin's.  Mean boys.
• Breasteses - because, hey!, my boobs got really big one year!  Jealous boys.
• Meat and Potatoes - because...well, everything else got a little bigger, too. MEAN. BOYS.
• Monkey Arms - I forgot about this one until tonight. I suppose it makes sense that that is why I shaved them.

After I read Dawn's post, I was thinking how cruel kids are and how, though I have a nickname for almost everyone I know, I would NEVER make up a mean one!  I called my good friend, Misty Sutton, "Miss Button".  I mean, how cute is that?  And sweet! I'm sweeeeeet! 

But then I remembered a few more that I gave that weren't...the sweetest:

• A boyfriend in middle school, who had a sternum bone that jutted out a little tiny bit.  I called him Poppy-Chest.   I don't know why he broke up with me.
• My best friend, whose last name was Rathbone.  I called her Rat Bones.  Nothing says I LOVE YOU BFF! like Rat Bones.
• Another great friend of mine with the last name Vargas.  To me, she was lovingly known as Fart Gas.   What??  It was CUTE.  Oh, it wasn't?   What's that? That's why I haven't talked to her since high school? Ohh.
• And then there was my friend Melissa Humphrey.  Melissa.  Hump-For-Free.  Ahem.

Ok, yeah...so I was an ass.  But I blame that totally on my brothers!! 

So, spill it.  Did you have any horrible nicknames?  Did you *gasp* GIVE any horrible nicknames?

I was a Girl Scout for (*gasp*) 6 years.

While unpacking boxes, I found my Brownie sash that I've had since 1983...and a slew of badges that went along with it.  I was a very driven Girl Scout*.

Here are some of my tokens.  I am quite proud.

The "Giving Money To Oral Roberts" Badge

The "Picking Up Ssssailors" Badge

I'm proud of my "Surviving A Night In Sing Sing" Badge

The "Having Your Father Embarass You In Public" Badge

My annual "Effectively Annoying Your Neighbors" Badge

My hard-earned "Brokeback Mountain" Badge

The coveted and very hush-hush "Becoming A Scientologist" Badge

The "Joining The Mile-High Club" Badge (somehow I have 2 of these)

(*whoever can tell me where this line comes from, gets an extra box of Thin Mints)

When I was younger, my dad would let me sit on his lap and drive his car.  Well, that is, if by "drive" you mean "while going 2mph on a dirt road, I can put my hands on the steering wheel while he holds on the bottom of it with a death grip and he also gets to do all the pedals because who would let a 10-year-old actually drive a car with other people within a 5-mile radius of that murder-mobile?"

Hey! I just realized he let my 4-year-old nephew do the same thing.  Hmmm. And there I was thinking I was cool.  Crap.

But I digress.

So.  On September 25, 1991?  I turned sixteen.

I had taken Driver's Ed.  And, despite almost wiping out an entire block with a way-too-wide-turn and subsequent freaking-out-and-slamming-on-the-gas during my first behind-the-wheel test, I had aced the class. 

I was ready to be a full-fledged DRIVER.  On the road.  With other humans. 

It took until December for my parents to let me go take my driver's test.  

I can't imagine why. 

But finally, I got to go.  After taking the written test (100%, thankyouverymuch), my dad handed me the keys and the driving test dude and I went outside to the car.  He stopped in the parking lot, dumbfounded at what he saw.

My parents' 1982 Cadillac Coupe DeVille.

Now, I can't say for sure, but I have a good feeling the '82 Coupe was THE LONGEST GODDAMN CAR EVER MADE.  You could probably fit 74 bodies in that trunk.

Driver test dude looked at the hooptie, looked at me, and laughed.  I know he was thinking there was NO WAY this 5'4", 120-pound weakling would be able to even see over the steering wheel, let alone drive its badassness in a reasonable manner.

But, see, he didn't realize I'd driven it before.**  On a lap. Six years ago.

But I had.

We got in the car and he struggled for his seatbelt.  I puffed out my chest, looked at him out of the corner of my eye, grinned, and adjusted my seat with the automatic levers (which I thought were FREAKING cool in 1991!).

I'm pretty sure he said a prayer when I started the engine.

But, much to his surprise, I did just fine.  I drove and stopped and turned and backed up like a pro.  And no one died.  The only thing that didn't happen that day was the whole parallel parking thing.  When we reached the place to do it, the car was too big to even FIT between the posts.  So he said, "you wanna just go back?"  I said yes.

And I passed. 

Without anyone else on the pedals. 

**Little did he know, too, I had also been flying airplanes and helicopters by myself at that time.  What's a stupid ol' Cadillac when you can fly a Cessna and a chopper?!

Never underestimate the ability of a scrawny little girl.

<-----------  I think the picture to your left pretty much sums up how I felt all last weekend.

(Thanks, Karl, for letting me steal the picture right off your Flickr album without my even asking!)

Even though I tend to keep my blog posts on a light, goofy note, I often go through dark spots where I feel hopeless and simply numb to the world.  I always have, even when I was little - though it was much worse when I was young. I remember many times sitting alone in my room, crying and fierecly praying : please just let me die now, I'm done. 

A school mate of mine (not a friend) died in a car wreck when I was in middle school.  I would walk to the cemetery everyday and sit on her grave, crying because it should have been me instead - asking God for a do-over.  I was so very jealous of her getting to die while I was left in this life.

I constantly had suicidal thoughts, and had pill bottles in my hands more times than I can count.  I'd hold the bottles and look at myself in the mirror, crying, considering my options.  And I was always too scared to try.  Thank god for being a chicken to try new things, yeah?

Not having anyone to really confide in, I pushed myself through my young years by writing. I had a diary and I wrote dark, disturbing poetry.  I showed very little of it to anyone...and often wrote something, perfected it, and then made sure to destroy it.  What I did show, I blew off as just writing, lying about how true it may have been.

Another thing that kept me going was my list.  It was a very short list, but something that kept my heart beating.  It was titled "Reasons To Live" and was scribbled on a torn sheet of notebook paper.  There were five things on the list :

• God
• Tracy (my best friend growing up)
• Bubba
• Yay-yay (what I called my other brother)
• Grandma

I told Tracy about this list several months ago.  I wanted to thank her for being on my list...that, even though I could never tell her what was going through my head at the time, that I could never tell anyone what was really happening at home...I wanted to thank her for being one of five things that kept me from taking my own life back then.

Since I know at least one other person on that list reads my blog, I wanted to post about this and tell him thanks, too.

So...thank you, Bubba.  I love you more than you could possibly know.  Thank you for being my reason.  Thank you for being my Bubby.  Thank you for being the meanest, dumbest, smelliest, most amazing brother in the world.  I owe ya one.

Growing up, there was a pretty girl my age down the street named Amber.  She was the type that did it all.  Sports, pageants, plays, singing, etc.  You name it, Amber was all about it.

Because we rode the same bus, I got to chat with her a little bit and was thrilled when she invited me, the nerdy no-friend girl, over to play.  She was, afterall, a lot more popular than I was and I jumped at the chance to hang out with her. 

I went to her house one evening soon after and was immediately dragged by the hands to the back room by Amber and her mother.  It was an addition that was turned into Amber's own little place.  Two walls were fully mirrored and they had installed overhead lighting and a runway and stage.  It was explained to me that this was where Amber practiced her singing and dancing and modeling.

GASP!  Modeling, too?!

I was beyond jealous.  I, like most young girls, gawked at the poetically tall creatures when they graced the covers of Vogue and Cosmo, and got to star in George Michael videos.  George Michael!

Amber explained how she was taking modeling lessons and was getting to do photo shoots with real photographers.  At that moment, it became my secret obsession.  While I never thought I was even close to being pretty enough to be a model, I suddenly wanted it more than anything. I ran home that night and begged my parents to put me in modeling class, too. 

HA!  I bet you can guess how that one went over.

I was crushed, but the dreamed lived on inside my little head.  As a matter of fact, it stayed with me so long, that when I turned 21, I decided to finally go talk to a modeling agent.  After sifting through a couple crappy ones, I found one who actually got me paying work.  I did all kinds of stuff for the agency - things I couldn't imagine paying someone for (i.e., making $35 an hour to ask people to sign up to win a prize at a convention, or making $25 an hour handing out free chili samples).

The money was pretty cool, but the people in the biz were...well, people in the biz.  I didn't meet one single person that I would have ever called my friend, though they all pretended to be mine pretty well.  Girls were just like the stereotype goes : dense, snooty, petty and shallow.  And they acted like modeling was THE most important thing on the planet. 

When I had my most work, I was 5'7" and weighed about 110 pounds.  My agent would constantly tell me to lose 5 more pounds or I wouldn't be getting anymore jobs. No matter how much you weigh, it's always "just five more, honey!"

I was not impressed, to say the least.  I stopped modeling about a year into it, when my agent told me going to college was a waste of time and that I needed to focus on the important stuff, like doing this big runway show for Gadzooks.

Mmmhmmm.

But I did it.  And I'm so glad I did. It's out of my system. The most I actually got out of it was getting to say I did it - and I took some really neat pictures that often make my friends say, "umm....that's you? But you look....good."  

And really?  Who needs mean ol' models when you got friends like that?

When I was in 7th grade, I ran for Student Council.  I wanted more than anything to be the Vice President.  Why, I have no idea, as I'd never ran for office before, I certainly wasn't a popular kid, I didn't like being in control of anything, and I honestly didn't even know what a Student Council did.

But, by god, I put my heart and soul into the campaign; I made signs, passed out notes to my friends, vote for Chase! please?, and wrote one heck of a campaign speech - which I had to deliver in front of the entire middle school. 

I wrote a big ol' speech, telling of how I'd help improve the system...how I'd fight for the little man...how I'd try to get more functions going because, honestly, why the hell isn't there a Groundhog's Day dance??  You know, typical politician B.S.   I couldn't have cared less - it's not like I'd have been invited to any dances anyway.  (Did I mention I didn't have any boobs?)

The night before the assembly, I read the speech to my father.  He looked up over his glasses at me, wrinkled his nose, and told me it was horrible.  He reminded me that I'm a goofball...that I don't take anything seriously : why should I take the speech so?  He said I needed to be myself, to write like I am - not like I think people want me to be.  He said to be stupid and silly and laugh at myself because that's how I really was.

A light went off in my head and I got it.  It was enlightenment.  Well, about as much enlightenment as a 7th-grader could handle, anyway.  I ran back into my room and wrote a gut-busting, silly, flop-on-the-floor speech.  I read it to him and he smiled and nodded.  I'd done it.  I'd written the winning speech and I was STOKED.

The next day?  I chickened out.  I couldn't read a silly speech - what if people thought I was silly?!  This was a serious office with serious responsibilities...who would vote for someone who was a big ol' goofball?   So I read the serious speech.  And I won.  I won!

But I always wondered what they would have thought about my me speech.

Last night, I was given the opportunity to try it again - to give my me speech - to be....Chase.  Lisa over at Niihaus (one of the most brilliant bloggers there is, by the way) presented the Perfect Post Award to me last night. 

She wanted to honor my Puberty Is Awesome! post....one that ended up being so long and drawn out, I didn't think anyone would read it.  But she did.  And she liked it!  And I WON!  So here's my speech.

Dear blog world,

I'd like to thank you for the opportuni.....eh, screw it. 

I FREAKIN' WON, YO!!!!  Now, where's the tequila?!

Love,

Chase

ps. Thank you, Lisa.  The money I bribed you with will be sent this week.

Going right along the same lines as my lack of training bra, I was the only girl left in my grade who had never shaved her legs (or so I assumed).  And, at 11-years-old, I wanted to so desperately.  It was another symbol of womanhood that I was begging for.

I suppose I just could have done it, but I didn't.  I wasn't a troublemaker (at least not at that age).  Instead, I would sit in the bath, get the razor and pretend.  I'd hold it a few inches above my skin and shave the air, tilting my head to the side, lifting my leg up all sexy-like, just like they did on the commercials.

One day, as I was sitting there playing with the razor, I wanted to see what it felt like.  I couldn't possibly shave my legs, that would be wrong.  So I lightly dragged the sharp razor against the back of my left hand.

Oooooh, neat! 

I lightly shaved the back of my hand a few strokes....but, yeah, that got boring pretty quickly.  Then I got an idea.  A brilliant idea, by jove!   (I'm full of 'em, I know)  I had a little hair above my wrist - I could just shave that off! 

EUREKA!!

So I did just that.  Shave, shave, shave....no hair!  Ooooh, smooth.  I giggled at my cleverness and thought to myself that they would never know of my deed.  I mean, it wasn't like I'd gone and shaved my legs, for god's sake.  So I shaved a little more.

And a little more.  Shave, shave, shave...yay!

Before I realized it, I'd shaved all the hair off my left arm up to the elbow.  I fawned over its silky smoothness...until I realized...oh crap, my right arm doesn't match now!  That, my friends, would be noticed by the parents.  And we couldn't have non-matching arms, now, could we?

So I steadied my left hand and shaved all the hair off my right arm, too.  Poifect!

Then I realized - damn - I didn't have any hair on my arms.  How could they not notice that?? So, after drying off and getting dressed, I took to walking with my arms crossed or behind my back.  Yeah.  Like that wasn't noticeable. It took a whole 2 hours before my stepmom saw my arms.  I got in lots of trouble for that one.  And she pointed out that I looked like a moron.

Who knew?!

Thank god I don't remember the growing-out process.  I can only imagine the horror of hearing "ewwwww! Stubble Arms!!!" (because you KNOW someone had to have said it!) And the itching, god almighty, the itching!?  People probably thought I had fleas.  Or cooties.  Or lice.

Or worse - that I'd shaved all the hair off my arms like a retard and was in process of growing it back out.

I know. 

I never said I was the smartest kid out there.   Eh.  At least I thought I was.

I read an entry by GGC recently about puberty, and that made all those fantastic memories come rushing back to me, so I thought I'd share.  If you don't want to hear about boobs and periods, you might want to move on about now.

*cough*Bubba*cough*

When I entered 8th grade, I was about 5'5", and weighed 94 pounds.  Ninety-four. I remember that number because I had stopped growing altogether and was 94 freaking skinny pounds for what seemed like FOR.EVER.  I bought size 12 pants.  TWELVE.  In kids.

I was little and scrawny. I had chicken legs and NO boobs. None. Not even a bump's worth.  The boy I liked called me "Bird" because my chest was as flat as a bird's.  I couldn't look at a redbreast robin without being jealous because at least she had pretty feathers there, the bitch.

I was terrified of bathing suits and tube tops. I didn't like wearing tank tops because helllooo!? I looked like a little boy.  And forget about even buying a training bra...I had nothing to train.

As a matter of fact, I went to the doctor one day to check out a mole I had on my back.  I remember it clearly : the doc told my stepmom, "for now, it's just fine...but it might bother her once she's starts wearing a bra."   Simple, yeah?  It may as well have been a dagger through my puberty-stricken heart.

Later, when my stepmom repeated the diagnosis to my father in Dillards, I freaked out, crossed my arms over my non-existent chest and squealed like a banshee, "THAT'S MY PROBLEM!!!!" and stormed through the mall like a boobless psychopath. No one knew what I was even talking about.  I assume they chalked it up to teen angst and put it way up on a shelf so they wouldn't have to ask me about it...because they never did.  Probably a good call on their part.

All my girlfriends at school had started their periods.  We were all 14, of course everyone had started by then.  Except the freakish bird girl.  My best friend kept asking me throughout the year "did you start yet? Do you need to borrow a tampon? Are you SURE you haven't started yet? What is wrong with you??"  

One day, after basketball practice, my best friend grabbed my purse and saw a stockpile of pads in there.  She squealed and whipped one of the pink-plastic-wrapped torture devices out and said in front of God and all the basketball team members, "YOU STARTED YOUR PERIOD!! YOU DID!! YOU'RE FINALLY ALL GROWN UP!!!!!!!!"  

Um. Kill me now, God. Thanks.

I hadn't started yet...I just carried them around in my stupid purse so I could feign stupid embarrassment when someone saw into my stupid purse and saw the stupid pad that I wasn't stupid using yet.

Stupid.

I snached the pad from her and smiled and shrugged all coy-like.  Then I rushed into the stall to pretend change my pad because my pretend period was pretending to get a little worse.  I even took the pad out of the wrapper so she'd never know the difference.  And I don't think she ever did.

The summer between 8th and 9th grades?  Yeah. I grew like a freaking rhino.

I started my period (yay for bleeding!) and got big boobs (yay for stretchmarks!) and got new skin (yay for blackheads!) and gained, like, 60 pounds (yay for a new fat ass!).  I kept growing and growing and growing.  And so did those damn boobs.  Every week, I'd look down and they were another size up. 

Fuck! 

I went from being petrified of no boobs to petrified of the big mounds of fat that had settled on my chest and that everyone had to freaking stare at.

The next year at school, the boys stopped calling me Bird.  They had a new-found respect for me and my grand chestal area. 

They called me Breasteses. 

As if having none wasn't bad enough. Thankyouverymuch, boys. Way to boost back up my already trampled self-esteem.

I've since overcome the whole 'Bird' thing.  I've gotten over the 'Breasteses' name-calling.  I can look back on my early teen years with a sense of pride and accomplishment. 

*twitch*

I can proudly say 'I survived unscathed!'

*twitchtwitch*

I can hold my breasts head up high and be proud to be the woman I am today.  And I couldn't have done it without you, high school boys.  So, thank you.  Thank you all.

*cleans gun*

*twitch*

I got a text message from my brother today that said something about me meeting Penn Jillette.  Now,there are only two ways he would know this : 1) I told him or 2) he reads my blog.

Let me tell ya a little secret.... 

I. Didn't. Tell. Him.

(!!!!!!!)

Yeah. So. My oldest brother reads my blog.  (Hi, Bubba)  As soon as that fact clicked in my little brain, I immediately began searching my memory for things I've said on here that could possibly destroy my existence.  Older brother = overly protective.  This means I'm still a virgin, I've never done any drugs and I'm a sweetheart angel that doesn't say words like fuck shit poop.

So, if you see him lurking around, that's exactly who I am.  Right?  Right. 

I try not to censor myself on here, and so far I've done pretty well.  So I won't change anything on account of my (sweet, wonderful, super freaking awesome) brother reading this.  So, Bubba....be warned, yo.

In honor of this revelation, I'll tell a heartwarming story about my brother and I.

I was about 14.  My brother was in the army and I would write to him, updating him on school, family, whatnot.  As if you can't tell by my blog entries, I can be a bit long-winded in my writing...and this is with editing, so you should see my handwritten letters.  They're 'please god, let her jump off a cliff' long.

I wrote one particular letter to my brother wherein I told him I loved him...I missed him...and that I was pregnant.  At 14.  The letter went on and on about the reaction of my parents, what I would do in the future, how I was going to keep the baby and love it and I was scared but ready to have this child.  This storyline went on for a couple of pages.

Well, of course, at the very end, I said I was just kidding ha ha.  I thought I was freaking hilarious. This was before "LOL" was invented, but if it were, I would have written it in big fat capital letters and highlighted it with pink marker.

Unfortunately, once brother read the pregnancy news, he got upset and stopped reading.

HE. STOPPED. READING.

He put down the letter and didn't finish it for days.  He marched around his army base thinking his poor, stupid sister was knocked up at 14 and was keeping the baby.  I'm surprised he didn't fly his ass home and kill the little bastard who porked his little sister.

Ah...good time, good times.

Here we are about the time I wrote that letter.  This is one of my favorite pictures of us together.

Look.  See how he's clinging to me, begging me to teach him how to be cool?  Oh, how he loves me.  He's so lucky to have such a beautiful, perfect sister.  Too bad he's a gaybo ugly loser.

(Who I love more than anyone in the world)

In honor of flying out to Dallas in several hours, I thought I'd share the memory of my first plane ride.

I was 12.  I was flying from Oklahoma to Denver to stay a couple of weeks with my grandma.  (In other words, I was going away so my parents could get a break from fighting with me to go outside and be a real child for once, fortheloveofgod)

This was still when people dressed up for plane rides, so I got all prettied-up for my trip.  I still remember the outfit - a brand new gray, knee-length skirt, a pink top with a picture of a koala reading a book (how fitting), and black shoes.  And tights...can't forget that freak of fashion nature.

Side note : why is it tights were always about 4 inches below your crotch area so you felt like you have a big turd in your drawers?  And you're supposed to wear these things to church?  Something just ain't right, there. 

I carried my first purse on the plane with me.  It was gray with a bow on it and I had a dangly, yellow, plastic toy slot machine clipped on the outside of it.  Classy, I know.  Don't be jealous.  What I could have possibly had in that purse, I have no idea...maybe lip balm and a note from my BFF telling me 'LYLAS' and 'TTYL' and 'Tracy + Jared = 4EVER!' 

But whatever...I felt grown up.  I was going on an airplane.  By myself.

The first thing I remember in flight is the guy sitting next to me ordering a drink : bourbon and milk.  I cringed when I heard that, even though I didn't know what bourbon even was. He drank them all through the flight, repeatedly asking me to have some with him.  Errrrm, I was 12.  I don't want to know why he kept offering me liquor. 

The flight itself was uneventful, save the scary guy trying to get me drunk.  I mostly stared out the window at the clouds.  When we began the descent, the lady across the aisle from me took full use of her barf bag.  Repeatedly.  I think she filled the thing up to the brim.  I couldn't help but giggle, but I kept it quiet so barfo lady wouldn't see me making fun of her.  I mean, I wasn't rude about it.

When I got off the plane and I met my grandparents at the gate, the first thing I did was tell them an animated story of the lady throwing up next to me and how totally sicko gross she was.  I didn't realize she was walking in front of me until she turned around and gave me a dirty look.  I was scared of her, and I thought she might even try to make me carry her full bag-o-goodies.  To this day, I make sure to look ALL around if I'm going to talk about someone that was on my plane...and I think of scary barfbag woman everytime.

My dear bloggees, I believe in karma.  And now that my barfbag lady story is out there in the universe, I will probably get vomity on tomorrow's flight and have to make use of my own leftovers bag.  And there will be some little snot-faced girl sitting across from me in her new outfit and her first purse and her saggy-crotch tights laughing at me, just waiting to tell the story to her stupid family.

But, ya know what?  That's ok.  

That rude little bitch is gonna get hers one day, too.

YOU HEAR THAT, YOU LITTLE TWIT??  That's right.  Laugh it up while you can. 

Laugh. It. Up. 

And, for the love of god, order me another bourbon.

One thing I've always known about myself is that I'm a good liar. I try not to do that too often, of course, but when I have in the past, I'm so convincing I even start to believe myself.  Scary enough to seek medical attention? Sure!  Handy when it comes to writing?  Hells yeah!

I realized recently that I inherited that ability from my father.  He used to tell me things when I was little that I believed with all my heart...most of them until I was WAY too old to still believe those things.

For instance, I always thought my first word was "Budweiser."  That is, until I was reliving that fake memory several years ago with my brothers, who, after slapping me on the head and calling me a moron, told me my ACTUAL first word was 'mama'.  Much better fit.  Though, I have to admit, I was always proud of myself that my first word was 3 syllables AND a tasty beverage. 

I have a tiny scar on my forehead.  I remember being about 9 and asking what it was from.  The explanation I got from my father was that when I was a toddler, he was working in the garage and I came up and asked what he was doing, sticking my face all up in his business - where he accidentally struck me in the head with his hammer.  To ask how I reached up that high, why he didn't see me coming, and why I stuck my head in there - face UP - never occurred to me.  But I told everyone (with pride) for years that I had a scar on my head where my father whacked me in the face with a hammer.  I learned when I was quite older that it was, instead, a chicken pox scar. Not as glamorous, but at least makes me look less stupid.

I also have a little mole on the back of my neck.  The first time I felt it, when I was about 10, I asked my father to tell me what it was.  He told me it was cancer and I would probably die from it. I walked around moping for a LONG time, waiting to lose my hair and die from the growth on my neck. 

When my mom was pregnant with me, they thought I was going to be a boy.  Well, because of the story my father told me, I also thought I was supposed to be born mentally retarded.  I believed that for years and told many, many people how I was only supposed to have the mental capacity of a 4-year-old and how I overcame those odds. 

Good god.  Just telling that story makes it sound true, huh?

I wonder how many stories I was told that I still have no idea they were lies?  Was I really found under a rock? Did I really fall out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down? Should I really go take a long walk off a short cliff?

I'm thinking all signs point to TRUE on those.

And, don't worry, my little internets, I have never lied to you. I love you all too much.

*snicker*

For real.

*snort*

No....really.

I was watching Ham on the Street the other night and they had some guy chasing a chicken.  Long story - just know it was funny shtuff.  Anyway, that sparked a memory and I thought I'd share with you, my lovely internets.

When I was about 4-years-old, we lived next door to some people who raised chickens.  I was playing outside and saw one of the hens corralling about six cute little chicks around the yard.  I watched as she herded them together and then went pecking a few feet away.

I sat and made a mental note of her pattern and decided if I could catch the hen with her back turned, I could chase her away and catch the babies so I could play with them.  I mean, come on, they were SO cuddly-looking!  So I grabbed a laundry basket and prepared to make my move.

As soon as she went off on her own, I ran like wild toward the birds.  Mom went one way - babies went the other.  My plan had worked!  I was catching up to the little chickies when I heard it : screetching like a banshee behind me.   It was like slow-motion.  As I was running, I turned my head to see her...momma hen was right on my tail, her wings spread out, her head down, her beak open in what looked to me like a razor-sharp death trap.  It hadn't occurred to me that she might try and protect her babies.

As I whipped back around, I screamed from the pit of my soul, tears bursting from my eyes.  I was going to die by a beak in the throat, I knew it.  I moved as fast as my little legs would carry me and made a wide u-turn back toward the house.  My mom heard my ruckus and flung open the front door to see me, running full-speed with a laundry basket in my hands, squawking like a freak.  I remember screaming "CHICKEN!!! CHICKEN!!!!!!!!" and running to her so she could save my life. 

Once I was hiding behind her, she asked me what was going on.  I turned to point at the death-chicken running after me, but she wasn't there.  She was in the yard, pecking away happily with her babies like nothing ever happened.  It was all a ploy!  She'd fooled me, the bitch!

But I never did chase birds again.  That fat ol' hen taught me a lesson I couldn't have learned any other way.

Anyone up for KFC?

...this feelin' insiiiiiiide.

Yeah. Sorry.  I must be channelling Elton John this morning.  Earlier I felt the need to wear stupid glasses and hump a man. Odd.

What's really funny, though?  In all seriousness?

The feeling you get when someone you dated for a year and a half comes up to you and gives you a big hug, smelling like you remember, feeling like you remember, hugging you so gently like you remember....and you have to say "congratulations on getting married this weekend."

That was me - last night. 

It was a mix of 'thank god it's not me' and 'why is it not me?'  A mix of 'I hope you're happy' and 'why couldn't we be happy?'  I don't regret leaving him.  I'm quite happy with that choice.  But then, you can't help but wonder - what went wrong?

Could it be that he was immature and unfaithful and guarded and waaaay too secretive? 

Yeah...that coulda been it.

Really, though? Congrats on your marriage, in case you ever read this.  It's a little bittersweet knowing you will be walking down the aisle tomorrow.  I wouldn't have married you.  But it would have meant something special to me to get the chance to tell you no.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not an outdoorsy kind of girl.  Not only would I rather chew my own arm off than go camping, but also that, minus planting a few herbs here and there, mmmmyeah-not-so-much on me doing yard work.  You read about my allergies - add about 30 years of being utterly lazy and a dash of being scared of insects that may buzz anywhere near me, and that's about where I stand on "wanna help me dig a hole in this here dirt?"

A couple of years ago, as I was leaving a local election poll, I drove by a run-down apartment and saw an old man mowing the little strip of grass next to his place.  He was using a walker, pushing the mower about 6 inches, then scooting up.  He looked so utterly pitiful and was taking FOR.EV.ER.  I, being the softy I am, and already being full of civic pride at that moment, decided it'd be a great gesture to humanity to pull over and help this old man mow his itty bitty piece of "yard."

I pulled up and asked if I could help him.  He grunted a "yes" at me and pulled up a lawn chair. I, in my clean, perfume-covered clothes and my new shoes, started pushing around the greasy, sputtering mower.  Every several steps, however, the old man would yell at me "YOU MISSED THAT STRIP RIGHT THERE" and "ARE YOU GONNA GET THAT SPOT YOU PASSED BY?!!?!"   I laughed it off and would re-mow the spot he imagined he kept seeing.  Now, I mowed many-a-lawn when I was younger...I know how to mow.  He just kept screaming at me, though, getting louder and more hateful with each rant.

I ended up mowing this 10x20 piece of "land" for about 45 minutes, even running out of gas and having to go buy him more.  Fine, whatever. I'd done my duty. I felt good about helping the mean old fart. 

After I was done, I thought since he looked lonely, I'd sit and have a chat with him. I found out he had no family around.  He didn't have any friends (oh, lord, I wonder why?).  I felt kinda bad for him, but the "YOU MISSED A SPOT YOU DUMB WHORE" still rang in my ears.  Ok, yeah, he didn't call me a dumb whore, but he may as well have.

As I was about to leave, he asked me, very politely, if I could come pick him up later so he could get his mail and then maybe run him by the doctor the next day.  Oh, no...that's right.  He didn't ask me. He told me quite rudely that's what I would be doing. "You need to come by here at 4:30...and you can't be late..."

Hrrmmm?  Wha?  I'm sorry, did you say you wanted a foot squarely planted in your old sack? Ok!

I've forgotten now what I told him I had to do - but I'm sure it was a winner of a line. 

"I have to, um, rescue some puppies from the medical research place tomorrow...yeah..."

"Oooh, no! I forgot that my kidneys are being removed tomorrow...I'm SO sorry!"

"Sorry, guy, I really would like to help you, but I'm going to slit my wrists as soon as I leave here."

I never went back.  Anytime I drive by that old fart's apartment, I still duck.  And I flip him off.  Is that so wrong?

There has been a recent blogging uproar because of the 'false advertisings' of life.  I've seen how this applied to motherhood, marriage and being female in general.  I won't rehash what's been said by whom, but if you're shaking your head right now, you know what I'm talking about.  Today I'm going to break open another case of deception : losing one's virginity.

There are normally two thought patterns with girls and going all the way.  Either you were going to wait until it was with someone you love, someone who means the world to you, someone who it will be special with...or you thought like I did.  I was just about to turn 17. My closest friends had already had sex and snickered when I didn't know what they were talking about, so it was clear I needed to just get it over with. I was tired of being the girl who didn't have a clue. To me, the thought of sex was much like the thought of going to Disneyworld - it didn't appeal to me all that much, but everyone seemed to like it, so why not?

My friends were going camping with their boyfriends one night and said I should do it then. (Isn't it amazing how pre-planned this was...by other people?) I didn't have a boyfriend at the time, so I called a friend and asked him to come along. I clearly remember being on the phone with him:

Me : So...um...we're all going to the lake tonight. Wanna come with me?

R : Uhhh...ok sure. Should I bring protection?

Me : Yeah, if you want to.

R : Cool.

Easy as that - it was set. We both knew the point of the whole trip, as he wasn't the kind of friend I'd normally ask to go camping. So we set up at the lake, smoked a lot of pot, and went to our tents, my friend winking at me as I reluctantly zipped up the flap. I remember just sort of getting into it - we didn't chat about it or look at each other much. It wasn't that kind of encounter for either of us.

You hear all the rumors about what your first time will be like. It will hurt. There may be blood (oh the horror!). It will be strange at first, but pretty cool at the end. I was even literally listening for the pop, I mean, what is that about? The only thing about any of that stuff that turned out to be true? It was strange. I'm not sure if it was the pot I smoked or the utter bore that we were together, but I even had to fight to stay awake. I actually might have dozed off in there somewhere. Rock my world, indeed!  And the whole condom thing? Good god, we won't even go there.

Needless to say, I was not impressed. Of course, when my friends nudged me in the car on the way home and prodded for details, I made it sound like perfection, like we meshed so well together, like it was the greatest thing ever. They agreed and giggled, but you know in their minds they were thinking, "Really? Because my first time SUCKED." Out loud, I was ready to do it again, but in my head I was wondering how I could get out of it for another 16 years.

This is a false advertisement that nature must have implanted in us so that women will actually have sex that first time - regardless of if it's at 16 or when you're on your honeymoon. If all us women knew that the first time is one of the biggest "uhhh"s of your life, you men would be getting nothing.

I eventually did make it to Disneyworld. The lines were long and slow-moving, I was bored out of my mind, and the hype way outshined the actual experience.  All-in-all, I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised.  At least at the lake I got to get high first.

My father always wanted to fly airplanes when he was a kid.  When he grew up, he decided that, since he thought he was too old, he wanted me to fly airplanes.  He asked me out of the blue one day, "so...what do you think about taking flying lessons? You know, in a real plane?"  Being the unadventurous, homebody, sit-in-my-room-and-read type of 14-year-old, my answer was, "ehh...I don't know."   He must have heard woohoooo I'd love that shit! because within a couple of weeks, I found myself in the pilot's seat of a high-wing Cessna, looking at guages and knobs and levers that meant absolutely nothing to me.

I started taking weekly lessons, learning how to fly this shakey little junk heap in the sky, being taught by german brothers Ian and Hans.  I could understand about 60% of what they told me (which probably isn't a good ratio since I was manning an airplane).  I was so tiny at the time, I had to sit on a special pillow so I could see over the dashboard.  This made me the most famous little girl at the airport, walking around with my pre-flight checklist and seat cushion. 

I did actually learn.  I could take off by myself, fly around, call in to the airport, and I could almost land the thing by myself.  That part was freaking scary though, so my instructor's hands were never far away from the gears.  I started studying to get my solo license, which I had to wait to get until I was 16.  It was still ALL my father, though, because it wasn't something I necessarily liked and the pressure in small craft like that about killed my sinuses.  I always had a throbbing headache and was the most miserable little pilot in the air.

While I was studying to become a real pilot, my father decided it was time to start also taking helicopter lessons.  I must admit, that was pretty damn cool.  I loved it.  My favorite thing would be to have my parents drop me off at the airport and leave.  After the lesson, the instructor and myself would fly to my hometown and land in the church parking lot.  Of course, all the neighborhood kids would ride their bikes to the church to see what was going on, and I would step out of the craft.  I got quite a bit of attention those days - I was queen of the neighborhood.  Of course, it goes without saying that, even though kids were ooh-ing and ahh-ing, I got out, put my head down, didn't talk to anyone, walked home by myself and went and locked myself in my room with my books. I'm sure I at least had a little grin and a spring in my step, though.

Before I was old enough to get my solo, I had enough with the airplanes and got the courage to tell my father I couldn't stand it anymore.  We yelled at each other for quite awhile and I finally made him mad enough that he didn't make me do it anymore.  Unfortunately, with the airplane lessons went the helicopter lessons.  I was a little sad about that, but the trade-off was worth it.  No more eye-bleeding headaches in exchange for lack of helicopters?  Hell yeah.

My father ended up taking helicopter lessons for himself and got his solo license, so he wasn't so upset that I didn't do it.  Of course, we were all standing on the ground watching as he took his first test by himself, lost control, and started spinning like a huge metal top 30-feet in the air.  They have a video of me crying about it.  (Don't worry, he got it under control and landed shaken but in one piece.)

So yeah, if you ever doubt my coolness, go back to those days when I landed my own helicopter in the neighborhood church parking lot.  Those kids on the bikes?  They might not remember my name, but they sure thought I was cool shit on those days.  I was the most popular girl in the universe.

At least until I got back to my book shelf - then I turned into the geek you all know and love now.

Since I'm all about the travel stories lately (and since it fits the whole "Taste the World" thing), I'm going to continue today with another stop on my roadtrip : Lafayette, Louisiana.

The first night of the trip, I stayed at a friend's house in Shreveport.  From that point on, I wasn't sure where I would go, and made sure not to have any real plans or driving directions - just an atlas.  So I left his house and headed in the direction of New Orleans.  Looking at the map, I saw that Lafayette was in the general area, so I called a woman (who I'll call N) I'd known online/on phone for about 10 years, whom I had never met.  I told her the story, said I would be in the area, and she basically screamed that I MUST come see her.  So I put my compass at SSE and drove all day.

I got to Lafayette, snagged a cute hotel at the edge of town, and sunk in to my new surroundings.  N was busy all night, but suggested I eat at Blue Dog Cafe and take in their small downtown atmosphere.  I put on the new shirt I bought in Shreveport, went to the restaurant and sat at the bar by myself, garnering quite a few "wtf" looks.  A two-piece live band was draping the air with sad, throaty music, and the smell of southern cooking warmed me and made me smile.  I ordered a beer and something else suggested by the barkeep, something I'd not normally order - cajun bass something-or-another.  It was delicous - and indeed cajun.  Whew!  I talked with some locals about what to do and see and found out I needed to visit a tiny cafe, Dwyers, in the morning for their famous sweet potato cakes.

Early the next morning, I did just what I was told.  And fell head-over-heels in love.  I actually enjoyed it so much, I issued myself another night's stay in Lafayette so I could have them again the next morning.

That afternoon, after browsing through the sidewalk art festival, I met up with N at her house.  It was as if we'd known each other as neighbors instead of online buddies.  She was just like I imagined and her daughter was just plain adorable.  I confessed that I was trying new things on my trip and wanted, at some point, to try some crawfish.  She clapped her hands and said she knew where we were going for dinner.  I was nervous - but ready for just about anything.

We went to a place called Gator Cove, where they had tanks around the perimeter that you could look into steamy, tiny windows and see the future meals alligators.  Goats were running around freely, as well, but I didn't ask about the future of those guys.  They were just too cute.  I couldn't help but chase them, though - I mean, come on.

After N ordered my meal (and she'll have three pounds of 'bugs and a side of potatoes), I sat watching the other patrons slurp and slop the little things.  My stomach was in knots, but I was determined to at the very least, get one in my mouth without hurling.  I, much like the tourist I so obviously was, gawked at a large woman sucking out the heads.  Seeing my fear, N leaned over and assured me even she didn't do that and I shouldn't either.  Thank god for small favors, eh?

Our meal came and everyone's plate looked exactly like the picture I've shown - a big pile of dead sea creature (I see a theme emerging here).  I was shown, step-by-step how to hold the head, twist the body, pull the legs off, scrape off the fat, dip it in sauce, and slurp away.  I shuddered the whole time, but stuck with it.  Once I got it in my mouth, it was like...heaven.  Amazing.  I had animal juices dripping off my elbows and a pile of death in front of me, but I was grinning and licking my chops like a pro.   (And, when I say pro, I mean a pro that still sometimes squealed about having to rip apart an animal in order to eat it.)

After dinner, we sat in her living room and talked until we both almost passed out.  We said our goodbyes and hugged like family, and I went back to my hotel and fell into a blissful, food-bloated sleep.

Even with the nightmarish pictures I have in my head, I still sometimes crave a big plate of mudbugs.  You just can't get that stuff in Oklahoma.  And, I suppose, if I could, Lafayette wouldn't have meant as much to me as it now does.  Those were two days of my life I thoroughly enjoy recalling - even the yucky stuff was wonderful.

Technorati tags : Louisiana, crawfish, travel, Blue Dog

Going to the aquarium the other day made me remember a lot of stories from the Cayman trip, so I thought I'd share with my readers.  One at a time, though, since there are so many.

Several years ago, I worked for a company that only had four employees.  We were all females and all good friends outside of work.  One of the employee's dad owned the company, so we were a pretty tight-knit bunch.  He decided, after we finished a hard job, that he would reward us with a full-paid trip to the Cayman Islands.  Yep - rental house, car, plane, food, scuba, everything.

The first day we were there, we lounged around and got used to being in paradise.  The second day, we went on a full-day boat trip, where we gathered with several other people, a French-talking, boob-staring captain, and more rum punch than we could possibly handle.  (Totuga rum + big waves = useless sea legs.)

Our first stop was out in the middle of a coral reef, where we all dove in and snorkeled for 30 minutes, feeding bread to whatever creatures would come to us.  And, believe me, if you have bread, nothing is scared of you.  It was gorgeous.  We then moved on, el capitan reminding us "next, we stop at ze Conch Beds and have lonch."   We stopped in the middle of seemingly nowhere, and the captain told us to dive down, look for a conch with pink on it, and bring it on board - everyone had to get one each.  By the way, in case you're wondering, the shell picture?  Yeah.  That's a conch.

We all dove down, gleefully grabbing our shells and handing them to the captain.  Little did we know, he was going to take a hammer to the shells, pull out the creature living inside, and cook them up with onions for our lunch.  Indeed.  Of course, it was the middle of the day and we were starving and a little tipsy from the punch, so we gobbled up the little guys with no problem. Yum.

Our next stop was Stingray City, which was in my opinion, the coolest part of the entire trip.  As we drifted toward the sand bar, we could see hundreds of little black dots, which, as we were told, were the singrays.  The closer we got, the more appeared.  Everyone got into the water and, being used to tourists coming to their neck of the woods (ocean) bringing food, they swarmed us like kittens who hadn't eaten in weeks.  They rubbed against our legs and we, squealing, did our best not to step on any.  (They may be fairly tame, but they're still STING rays, after all.)  We got bits of food to give them and they swam by, sucking it quickly off our open palms.

One of the girls in our group was none-too-happy about being in the water with them, and stayed away from the swarm.  When they realized she was over there, they charged her, making her scream and latch onto me, grabbing me around the neck and curling into a ball like a true damsel in distress.  I think I nearly choked on my snorkel I laughed so hard.

After we left Stingray City, we went to another stop where a few people got off the boat and snorkeled.  I, being full of rum and cute little sea creature, layed on the deck and passed out instead.  It was a hard day, all that being lazy on a yacht and drinking rum that the captain supplied to you by the bucket-full, and all that getting ON and OFF the boat to see beautiful fish close-up.  Whew!

If you're up for a challenge, though, I would highly suggest you give it a shot.  It's certainly worth the...uh...effort.

Technorati Tags : Cayman, scuba, diving, snorkeling, Stingray City, vacation, yacht

I stumbled onto someone's blog today who just happened to be from Savannah, GA.  Reading a few posts about the city and seeing a few pictures made the memories of that stunning city come back to me.  I imagine I blocked them out before because if I'm thinking of Savannah, I'm sad.  I'm sad because I'm not there.

For all my newer readers, I'll tell the story again.

I have a list of things I want to do before I die.  On that list was always "take a long roadtrip by myself", so last May I decided to do just that.  I rented a Chrysler 300, packed a couple of bags, warned my credit card companies, and headed out the door to discover people, places, foods and, ultimately, myself.  I had an atlas and a general direction, but not many other plans.  I knew I wanted to see New Orleans and Savannah - everywhere else was 'if I end up there, cool'.  I was a lone wolf on the prowl for life.

I ended up hitting New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Pensacola, Orlando, Savannah and Memphis (among other small towns).  I met a couple of people I knew from the internet, ate food I NEVER thought I'd eat (including three pounds of crawfish!), won $400 in New Orleans after putting 15 cents into a slot machine, fell asleep on a random beach in Florida, went on a ghost tour by myself at midnight...I did a million things I never would have done without that roadtrip.

Through the 2000+ miles I ended up driving, by far the best place for me was Savannah.  As soon as I got off the highway, I was IN LOVE.  The moss in the trees, the sound of horse-drawn carriages on the cobblestone, the smell of home-cooked meals and sweet flowers, the stately manors, the perfect breeze - it called to my every sense and nudged my soul, saying, 'you're home.'

I got a hotel room right outside the main squares, so I was able to walk the whole 5 days I was there.  And I did - I walked all over the place, stopping in every shop I could handle and eating all the food I could stuff into my mouth.  Ok, so I didn't eat at Paula Deen's place because the line was INSANELY long, but I walked by it and stared in the windows quite often.

I drove to Tybee Island and hung out on the beach.  I went up in the lighthouse, took pictures and got dizzy from the unsecured lookout SO far up.

I asked everyone I talked to about living there, moving there, working there, anything I could to get a better idea of how it would be when I moved there.  I was determined.  Even a guy who worked at the hotel I stayed in was from Tulsa and he said moving to Savannah was the best decision he'd ever made.

I had to make myself finally leave Savannah.  It was the hardest thing to do.  I nearly cried on my way out.  I had one more stop to make, visiting another internet friend in SC, but Savannah was the only thing on my mind.

For months after I made it home, all I could do was think of the little place I called home for less than a week.  I thought about how I could get back there.

Shellie said she wanted to finish school first (still another 2 years away!), but that she would go there with me.  I've even cried because I wasn't there, where I felt I belonged.  It has a pull for me that I just can't explain.  Maybe it's just that it was a neat place on my trip.  Maybe it's because I was discovering myself while there.  Maybe I just liked horses on the streets.  I don't know about all that though - I kinda doubt it.

I'll be back one day.  One day very soon, I hope. 

John Mayer - Why Georgia?

I am driving up 85
In the kind of morning
That lasts all afternoon
I'm just stuck inside the gloom

Four more exits to my apartment
But I am tempted to keep the car in drive
And leave my fears behind

Because I wonder sometimes
About the outcome
Of a still verdictless life

Am i living it right? Why, Georgia, why?

I rent a room and I fill the spaces
With wood in places to make it feel like home
But all I feel's alone

It might be a quarter-life crisis
Just stirring in my soul

Either way
I wonder sometimes about the outcome
Of a still verdictless life

Am i living it right? Why why, Georgia, why?

So what? So I've got a smile on
But its hiding the quiet superstitions in my head
Dont believe me
When I say I've got it down

Everybody's just a stranger
But that's the danger in going my own way
I guess it's a price I have to pay
Still, 'everything happens for a reason'
Is no reason not to ask myself
If I'm living it right

Technorati tags : Georgia, Savannah, travel, roadtrip, ghost tours, vacation

My grandfather was given one of the worst names I've ever heard : Hayward Issel.  Thankfully, everyone called him H.I.  Well, except for me - I called him Papa. 

He was one of those wrinkly, bald old men who always wore brown zip-up coveralls like mechanics wear.  He was a locksmith by trade, but an outstanding fisherman and grandfather by design.  There are a few things that always come to mind when I think about him, most of them make me laugh and shake my head.  Quite a character he was.

One of my earliest memories with him was when he bought me my first (and only ever!) pair of cowboy boots.  I was about 5-years-old.  I remember him handing me the box; I was thrilled.  I put the boots on and gleamed with pride, kissing him on the cheek.  They were tight on my feet, but I didn't mention it.  After about half of the day walking around in the boots, I was in so much pain I couldn't hold back anymore - I started to cry, embarrassed that his gift caused me so much pain.  Even at a young age, I knew I didn't want to hurt his feelings.  After much coaxing, I explained my pain, and he was quick about removing the boots.  Inside, he found the wadded pieces of paper the store puts in shoes so they retain their shape.  I'd been walking around with 3 inches of wadded paper curling my toes.  I remember his face as he tried to hide his laughter. 

When I was about 12, I got a package from him.  I remember grabbing it from the mailbox and running into the house, overjoyed that Papa had surely sent me something amazing.  I opened the box and found a roll of toilet paper.  Attached was a note that said "I thought you might need this one day."  It was one of my favorite gifts I'd ever gotten - so very him.  I kept that toilet paper roll on my dresser for years. 

When I was 14, after a series of heart attacks, he ended up in the hospital. By the time I was able to visit him, he was on a breathing machine and couldn't speak, but he'd wink at me when I was there.  He was also able to scribble notes to us.  He would write "want watermelon" and "fried chicken please", showing us that his appetite was still healthy despite the fact he could only eat from a tube.  

He's buried in a cemetary that's right next to a neighborhood.  He picked his plot out before he died.  Why that particular plot?  Because it was next to a house with a grill.  He said, "I'll always be able to smell when they barbeque."  And so his healthy appetite lives on.

Before he got sick, I would go fishing with him a lot.  When he was teaching me how to fish, he showed me how to bait a hook, cast the line, and watch the bobber.  He said when a fish nibbled the bait, it would feel "like this" and he pinched me lightly on the arm.  For some reason, it made complete sense to me and was a sort of infinite wisdom. 

Everytime I think about him now, I feel a little twinge in my chest.  It's hard to explain.  It feels kinda "like this."

I often make it a point to embarrass people I'm with.  Most people who would hang around me obviously don't get embarrassed easily (I mean, it is me, afterall), so I have to try a little harder.   Shellie, on the other hand, is VERY easily red-faced.  She doesn't like any unnecessary attention drawn to her.  So, of course, I try to make sure people are staring.

I got this need for glaring what-the-hell-is-she-doing attention from my father and brothers - they would do anything to make me blush.  My brothers' thing is farting very loudly in public and then yelling my name while looking at me in disgust.  They've done it to me everywhere, from restaurants to airport elevators.  Don't get me wrong, my brothers aren't 12.  They are 38 and 40.  Old enough to know better - though not too old to get punched in the stomach when they pull it.  And yes, they still pull it.  My oldest brother did it at the mall in Dallas last summer.  He got punched.

My father, while he does try to get me on occasion, is an embarassment without even trying.  For instance, he LOVES garage sales and flea markets.  In other words, he likes junk.  (Remember the dinosaur shit?)  Well, in his never-ending quest for junk, he would sometimes randomly pull up to a house, make me walk to the door with him, and he would ask them, "I like your house...can I come in and see your stuff?"  

Seriously?  Yeah, random people.  Someone let him in one time.  Another time, he got chased off with a shotgun.  The majority of his answers were "sorry, guy" with a side of slammed and quickly-locked door.  He still does it and sees nothing strange about it at all.

Another thing he does is sort of a CSI for roadkill.  If he's driving along and sees a dead animal that is unidentifyable from the car, he will pull over, get out of the car, and go poke around on it with a stick until he can tell what it may have been.  While this was quite interesting for me when I was 10, I have long since outgrown it and become disgusted by it.  He hasn't.  My poor step mother.

Sure, I inherited the 'have to embarrass everyone' gene, but I'm thinking (a.k.a. hoping/praying/wishing/pleading) that the total ass crazy gene skipped me.  I mean, come on.  At least mine don't get me gunned down or playing with guts.  I think Shellie is lucky to have that quality in a partner.  Right, babydoll?

A chat with a dear friend of mine this morning prompted this blog.  Well, when I say dear friend, I mean insane stalker.  As he was warning me with eating my internal organs with a glass of Boone's Farm, it made me remember some of the more strange things I've called dinner.  Let's explore that, shall we?

One thing I used to love was a big ol' plate of chicken gizzards covered with cream gravy.  While anything covered with cream gravy sounds like heaven to an Oklahoman, do you know what a gizzard is??  If not, let me enlighten you.  It's an organ in birds (and earthworms, of all things) that acts as a grinder.  The bird will swallow grit and rocks, among other random objects, and those things will roll around in the gizzard to help break down the food for digestion.  Then KFC goes in there, rips out those organs, deep fries them, and we call it food.  Yummy, eh?

Another Oklahoma treat I only ate when I was young.  Because I didn't know better.  I swear!  When I would stay with my grandfather, his everyday breakfast would consist of pork brains and scrambled eggs.  I ate it up like a good little carnivore.  Had no idea.  Honestly.  I still gag when I think about it.  Though...I do feel a little smarter...

When I was almost 17, I left home, got emancipated, and got my own apartment. I was working at KFC (of all places) and barely scraping by.  I would buy those gi-normous packages of store-brand bologna, a jar of grape jelly, and that would last me awhile.  Put the jelly on a slice of bologna, pop that baby in the microwave for 20 seconds, and chow down.  Breakfast (and lunch) (and dinner) of champions. 

Besides having all the leftover KFC I could handle, a friend of mine worked at a donut shop down the street.  We would trade trash food often.  There was one week that I lived off of stale donuts.  The only thing I had in my fridge was a huge black garbage bag full of random, crushed, cold pastries.  Though, pastry is kinda too a fancy word for what I was eating.  It was more like...well...garbage.

I did eat a whole meal of cat food once, but I was really little and it wasn't meant for me.  I remember seeing that the neighbor had poured his cat a big pile of food on their driveway.  So I toodled on over there (lord knows where my parents were), sat down in front of it, and started eating.  I'm fairly sure I ate the whole thing.  Thank god they didn't also put out a bowl of antifreeze.

Ya know, all this food talk has me starving.  Is it wrong that I'm now craving a plate of gizzards and gravy?  *gasp*   Well, thankfully, I don't have any of those handy.  I do, however, have a brand new bag of Meow Mix.  Hmmmmmm....

I got this idea from Motherhood Uncensored and thought I might ought to put mine up because she said to - and I think she could beat me up.

The idea is to find your 80s likeness in an icon from the time.  

<--------  This is me.

All my childhood, I was made to get horrible perms exactly like  good ol' Richard's.  I, sadly, looked very much like this picture - minus all the chest hair and lip gloss.  When you have a mop like this one, there's not much variety in the style.  Maybe one day I'll find all my school pictures and post them. 

Or I won't.

Find your 80s likeness and let me know when you post it!  Come on - I can't be the only one who looked like a flaming man in shorty shorts.   

When I think of me as a child, I often think that I was pretty darn well-behaved.  But, ya know what? Yeah, not so much.

I got swats in kindergarten.  I mean, really, who does that?  All you have to do in kindergarten is play with blocks, make sparkly notes to your mom, and take naps on little rugs.  It's not that demanding.  Well, apparently, that wasn't enough for me.  I had to make it interesting.

I remember sitting at a round table with several other kids.  We were doing some sort of craft thing that involved glue and shredded bits of colored construction paper.  I don't know why, but the teacher had to leave the room and she told us all to STAY.SITTING.NO.ONE.GET.UP.UNTIL.I.GET.BACK.   Okie dokie.  Why she thought it was ok to leave a room full of 6-year-olds all alone is still a mystery.

So, as soon as she left I looked over to the kid next to me and said "dare me to drink this glue?"  The kids laughed.  They were taunting me!  They didn't think I'd do it.  Oooh, but I'd show them. The little girls gasped and the little boys stared wide-eyed as I guzzled the little bottle of Elmer's. 

I wiped my mouth all dramatic-like at the end and said "YUM!", proud of the best accomplishment of my life.  I then realized it tasted...well...like glue.  I said, "watch this!" and got up and marched myself out into the hall to get a drink of water from the fountain.  Against the teacher's wishes. The kids chattered and said 'awwwwmm' behind me as the door closed.

When I got back, the teacher was there and she glared at me.  I told her I just needed some water and informed her it was no big deal.  She then informed me that I would be getting swats for my disobedience.  Fan.Tastic.  She gave me three little swats in front of the classroom and told me to go sit back down in my seat, which I did.  And I promptly turned to the girl next to me and said, "hah! That didn't hurt!"

I was old enough to know defiance, but unfortunately wasn't old enough to know voices carried.  The teacher said, "What. Was. That??"   I shook my head like I didn't know what she was talking about.  She repeated it. "What.  Was. That?!?"  So I told her.

I got more swats.  And those DID hurt.  And I cried like a baby.  The teacher, in her act of defiance and show of power asked me "now....how about those?  Did they hurt?"  She grinned when I nodded my pouting little head.   She'd shown me.

Hey.  Whatever, man.  I got some respect from those kids.  I will always be the girl who drank glue.  Because, drinking glue and then having to go get water because it was icky and then getting swats, I mean, you can't get tougher than that. Yo.

I hereby dedicate this Valentine's Day to two of my ex-boyfriends, Brady and Jerel.  I use the term boyfriends very, very loosely because we were in the 3rd grade.  But I thought I was in love.  With both of them.  Yes, even at that young an age, I was "boy crazy", as my parents say.

I would have Jerel as my boyfriend, let him buy me things - necklaces, candy, plastic toys, wear his "Coweta Tigers" jacket with his name embroidered on the front, let him walk me home from school.  Then, I suppose Brady would pique my interest and I'd push Jerel to the side and let Brady do all those things for me.  I would switch back and forth between them on a monthly basis.  They were both my boyfriends and I saw nothing wrong with that.

One Valentine's Day, I got a big frilly box of Whitman's chocolates from Jerel.  I was thrilled!  About an hour later, I got another big frilly box of Whitman's chocolates from Brady.   Instead of being thrilled again, for some reason, I told him, "oh, no thanks. I already have one of those."

He cried.

And then he told his mom, who promptly called my parents and I got in trouble for breaking his little heart.  My parents drove over and picked him up, took him to dinner with us, and I accepted his chocolates.  I held his hand in the back seat.  Then my parents yelled at me for being too fresh, so I stopped doing that.

After about 5th grade, I never spoke to Brady or Jerel again.  They were becoming the cool kids while I was becoming the "oh-my-god-look-at-her-hair-let's-ignore-her" kid.  It was that way all through high school, too...but that's another blog.

I saw Jerel at the 10-year reunion and he mentioned our 3rd grade relationship.  He called me a little player.  Then he pushed his date to the side and told me how good I looked all grown up.

That's right. Eat your heart out, boys.  Oh, and did I introduce you to my girlfriend?

In the song, Another Brick in the Wall by Pink Floyd, you know the part that says 'no dark sarcasm in the classroom'?  Well, until a few years ago, I had no idea what it said...at one point even thinking it might say 'no dukes of hazzard in the classroom'.

Now that would have been lyrical genius.

It's Friday!  In blog language that means I can write down random, meaningless blurbs and it's ok.  Actually, that's what "blog" means, but, whatever.  Enjoy my non-sensical ramblings.  There's no running theme between the posts, so don't hurt yourself trying to see one.

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• Lately, I see a lot commercials toting that so-and-so should be governor/mayor/congressman, and then at the end of the commercial, they show so-and-so walking through a park and they shrug and say "I'm a _________, not a politician."   Errr....  Really?  You're running for office and you're proud that you don't know anything about holding an office?  Sadly, not long ago we elected one of these so-and-sos to be our senator.  Good thinkin' Oklahoma.  Proud. Proud. Proud.

• I'm addicted to Project Runway.  I always bitch about reality shows and how they're crap, but here I am, loving the hell outta this crap.  I have my DVR set to record the entire season...and that includes the special with the guy who won last season, Jay McCarroll. 

I want Daniel to win this season, by the way.

• When I was younger, one of the few times my family would gather in the same room was to watch America's Funniest Home Videos.  Of course, at that time, it was hosted by one Bob Saget - who I feel sorry for now because I know his writers should have been beaten to death for ruining any possible career outside of Full House.

Anyway.  We all hated him, but it was my father who took it a bit further.  After about 5 minutes, he would mute the tv so he didn't have to hear him speak.  He would then put down the remote and forget to UNmute it once the chatter was over. We spent the entire 30 minutes either sitting in silence, yelling at him to turn the sound back on, or catching the last half of clip commentary.  I hated it with a passion and swore I'd never be so unforgiving.

Recently, when watching old reruns of the show, I instinctively reached for the remote to push the mute button.  I got scared, laughed a little, and threw the remote down, determined once again to not be my father. 

 

• By the way, Mandajuice, after the burrito incident I spoke of yesterday, had to be taken to the ER because of her poor stomach.   No wonder my karma was so relentless.  I made fun of a lady in the hospital!   Not only that - a PREGNANT lady in the hospital. 

Here's to you, Manda.  I hope you're farting like a pro now.  I promise not to say anything about it.