That time I crowd surfed

Back in the 90’s there was a phenomenon of dancing called “Moshing”. This is where you get with a group of people who would randomly bump into each other for no other reason than releasing pent up aggression and hormones. This was predominantly done in the teenage and young adult circuits.

One day at the beginning of senior year my friend had just announced that there would be a group performing at her church across the street. We were all excited and loved live music. There couldn’t have been a more fitting beginning to last year of high school. The night of the concert, we assembled with many local teenagers in the church parking lot to hear some grunge music. Well; Christian grunge music.

When I told my boyfriend at the time about the concert, he agreed he was going as well with his group of friends. In conversation with him leading up to the concert he had joked that I could go in the “baby” mosh pit which “is next to the actual, much larger mosh pit.” He made the comment away from me, chuckling with his friends. Unbeknownst to him this irritated me to my very core. There is nothing more I don’t like than being told I can’t do something.

When I arrived at the concert with my friends, it was hot, the sun was about to set and we were waiting for the band to come out on the stage. We began to cheer when four young men clad in orange shirts with the word “Juda” on them appeared. By the time they were in their second song, a small crowd of moshers began stomping, ramming into each other with their shoulders.

I had just been told I couldn’t do something because I’m a girl and I wanted in.

I didn’t blink when I fled from my boyfriend’s side. I ran into the sweaty cesspool of teenagers and began ramming myself against strangers. It was a strange freeing experience feeling like a pinball being struck against others who were going through their own angsty rebellion. In that brief moment running from being a spectator in my life I became a mover and shaker. We did what we did because we could. Nobody could stop us and it was incredible.

The crowd then started to give way from moshing to surfing people through the crowd on a sea of teenaged phalanges. It was very much like the scenes you see in movies where hippies, metal heads, or hair band fans are frenetically dancing and begin passing people over their heads while the person being surfed has an epiphany. In the movies the scene plays out over some poignant music of that decade in an arena or an open farm field like Woodstock. This scene played out in four to ten parking spaces.

When I looked to my left, the people launching others into the crowd were my boyfriend’s friends. He was standing in front of me to the left of them, just watching me. Not looking at him, I sensed his disapproval at what I was about to accomplish. I smiled at his friends as they put their hands down and we gave each other the signal. I ran full force, stepping into their grasp in my beloved brown Doc Martens as they launched me into the air.

I flew. In that moment I had no fear and was full of trust. I landed on a bed of fingers, with nails of metallic blue, gently rolling me through the crowd as I screamed all the air out of my lungs.

Photo courtesy of Mindy C.

The crowd gently set me back down on the ground as the music began to pick up. When I was placed on the ground, I hadn’t quite found my footing yet. The rush from being carried by a crowd full of adrenaline quickly stopped when two moshers accidentally knocked me to the ground. When I tried to get up their buttocks hit my head on the left and right side knocking me down again. I crouched in a Spider-man stance getting a whiff of something rancid. One of the gluteus maximuses had passed gas. I got up again only to be struck repeatedly by the pair of posteriors. I was able to perfunctorily wiggle my way out of the permeated labyrinth of derrieres when one of the owners of said derrieres lended a hand pulling me up. A few moments later a church official called out saying there would be no more crowd surfing.

They should have been more specific. We still moshed.

What is something you were discouraged from doing but did anyway? What did/do you do as an act of rebellion?

An app to look back

Dear Facebook,

I’ve noticed you’ve added a new feature. Does this new feature really have to be ghosts of my past self?

Do you realize reminding some people of their past is like turning a thorn in their side?

The other night you reminded me of when I admitted in a round-about-way to being lonely and flirting with the IT guy at the other end of my phone while setting up my internet.  This also reminded me that my parents were kind of forced into helping me move last minute (even though they won’t admit they were.) It also reminded me upon walking out of the bedroom after the phonecall my parents asked me if I had been talking to a friend because I was laughing so much.  You reminded me that I was glad to remember how it felt for someone to be flirty with me just based on my personality.

That one little moment you suggested I repost also reminded me of the other blog I used to write on. It reminded me of how once the internet started working in my new place, I chronicled my first single experiences of trying to laugh instead of cry. It reminded me of how I tried to see something as a bright point in my life when it was just a dim light compared to what my life is now.

Just a suggestion facebook, if you could make this app screen for happy moments that would be a huge improvement. 


Like when I realized my career goal should be to work with Special Ed students and Behavioral disorder kids. Maybe you could remember the many times a student made me laugh with something funny they said and I posted it?

Maybe you could remind people of when they worked at a job they liked? Maybe you could remind me of the first art class I taught or the new friends I’ve since made while teaching this past year? Maybe you could remind me of all the cool things we’ve made?

What if you made an app that looked back into the user’s past  pre-Facebook?  I know this isn’t humanly possible…yet, but since I am a frequent user I figure you might hear me out and get on it.  

Maybe your app could peer into my brain and pick out moments like the following and turn them into Facebook posts:

“Today my best friends made me laugh so hard Pepsi came out of my nose! All the upperclassmen were staring. #pepsiboogers #chugchugchug 


“Oops, today I didn’t double knot my shoelaces enough and they wound around the pedals on my bike. #fellover #thankgodnotraffic

“Today my mom made me iron my Umbros before playing football with the neighborhood friends. #nerd

“Today I almost ate a bee at the zoo confusing it for a soggy Dorito chip. #onceyoupopyoucanstop

“Tried to toilet paper a neighbors yard. Note to self and my bestie, take more than one roll. #stuck #inatree

“Today I crowd surfed. #living


These are just some ideas I’mve been spit-ballin’; my two cents if you will.  

Yours Sincerely,
Quirky Girl

What moments have been brought up by Facebook that you’d rather forget? What moments do you wish you could post from your past (if you were born pre-Facebook etc.)?

15 minutes

When I was younger I wanted to be famous.  Let’s just put that out there.  When you were a kid, you wanted to be famous too, you might as well admit it.  Any kid worth their salt wants to be famous. Even if you wanted to be something with relative anonymity like an inventor, scientist, teacher, you could still be famous for it somehow.

There was also something else I wanted when I was younger.  At the beginning of the school year there’s nothing sweeter than the smell of a fresh notebook before the school season starts.  For me, going down the aisles of our local store shopping for school supplies was always one of my favorite parts of the year.  Everything was new, everything was still fresh, untouched and more importantly, it was the time of year where we were excited because everyone had the same grades.

One afternoon, I was perusing the blank pages of my new 5 subject notebook while sitting on my bedroom floor.  The Mead company had really outdone themselves that year.  Back in the early 90’s we didn’t have the internet, cell phones or access to call a company ran by several ladies and Katharine Hepburn who knew the answers to everything.

“Desk Set cinema poster” by Source (WP:NFCC#4). Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia –

Instead, Mead came up with the great idea of putting times tables in the back, along with a few other helpful goodies.

One of the helpful things listed on the final page of the notebook; quotes from famous people.  You had the likes of Winston Churchill mingling with Thomas Edison.  You might have had a quote from George Washington Carver or Marie Curry.  As my eyes read the quotes one by one, an alarming one seized my brain.

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Who was this Andy?  Why did he think this?  I knew several “Andys” and none of them had ever thought this or said anything of this nature to me.  They were usually too busy telling jokes or singing songs to other girls on the school bus.  Why was this guy so special he had a quote?  Surely he was a scientist or something and knew something we all didn’t.  I imagined a man sitting there with a giant calculator and a notebook trying to exact the least amount of minutes one would have for fame.

Next thing, my mind flitted to the amount of times I had been mentioned in the local newspaper.  There was that time my third grade class was featured because we all dressed up funny for school spirit week. That was probably about 6 seconds for every person who decided to read the paper that day and glazed over my name.  I knew everyone in class bought a copy so that was exactly 6 seconds times 30 kids and one teacher.  That is 3 minutes and 10 seconds off my fifteen minutes this Andy had guaranteed me.  Then there was the time I won an award in the science fair.

CRAP.

Sure it was great winning an award, but then there goes about another 3 minutes and 10 seconds of my fame, plus the time it took distant relatives to read the article which my family made sure to send them.

Within 5 minutes I had looked at my life like it was a cell phone plan, before there were cellphones.  I wasn’t worried that I wasn’t living, I wasn’t worried about finishing school, falling in love, making the coolest art, or writing the best paper.  As far as my 12 year old self was concerned I didn’t even have time for a bucket list.

I was too scared I had used up my minutes.

Lucky for me, there is more to life than fame.

What as something silly that you were afraid you had limited time on?

Pigpen

There is always that one quintessential smelly kid in class.  As a substitute teacher, you don’t figure out who these kids are until you’ve visited their classroom on numerous occasions.

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There is always the accidental case where a kid has been raising his hand while you have a million other kids needing your attention; because they’ve accidentally glued their hands together, have a shoelace undone or something else.  By the time you’ve managed to get the kid with glue hands to tie the shoes of the other and you’ve made it around to the well mannered child with his hand up, you realize you’ve accidentally miscalculated his need when you enter the musty cloud of, “I gotta go, I gotta go!”
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However in an older classroom it’s different.  I’ve forgotten how smelly young boys typically are and how they just let it loose.  In my household growing up I didn’t have siblings, so if I did something I had to fess up to it.  Sometimes I did so proudly.  In school however, it was always a different story.  In school it had to be kept secret.

This year is the year I said I would own up to things and be honest.  Here it is readers, I am confessing something to you that happened in 4th grade. This will help explain why I have such an affinity for this smelly child I encountered recently.

In 4th grade as in most small burgeoning schools, we were escorted to Physical Education class in an empty tiny gym.  It was so new that there was not enough equipment to absorb sound.  On this unfortunate day, after we had done our beginning calisthenics, we were instructed to do timed sit-ups with a partner holding our feet.  My partner was a boy.  You can already imagine why this was awkward for me.  When the teacher officially started her stop-watch, I decided to do as many sit-ups as fast as I could.  For whatever reason, back in the day, I felt I always had something to prove.  Then, I was treated to a humbling.  After about 5 to 10 sit-ups something had wrangled loose from deep inside my stomach and came out between my feet…with the boy holding them.  The sad thing is, it didn’t happen just once. No matter how hard I tried, every sit up resulted in a resounding fog horn sound which then echoed off the floor and bounced off the walls.

As we all know, flatulence in awkward situations is funny.  In this particular instance, the entire class was cracking up making it hard for them to accomplish their timed sit-ups.  I had never been so embarrassed. (Until that point at least.)  To this day, I don’t know if any of my classmates were sure it was me.

Now that you know this about me, it will be easy to understand why as a teacher I felt so badly for this kid in my class but proud of him at the same time.

I was busy working with another student when I saw this young boy whiz by the desks trying to get to the front of the room to work on math.  Next thing I knew, one boy walked by in the same spot. “AaaAgGgH!” he screamed.

Then another boy walked by, “OH GOD!”
Then another, “Oh MAN!”

The first boy is trying to stifle his laughter, and the other three boys held their arms up to their noses, laughing, trying to block what was in the air.  Raising the teacher’s suspicion, she looked over trying to hide her smile.  “What is going on over there?”

The first boy replied, “Well, I farted and then the others walked into it one after the other. You might want to get the Lysol out.”  I was proud because instead of trying to hide it, or act like it didn’t happen, he owned up to it.  Granted, it’s gross, but at least he didn’t let the ire stack up between all the boys in class leaving them to wonder who really dealt it.

pig-pen-smelly-kid-peanuts-charlie-brownHave you ever been a Pigpen?  

Compassionate Pineapple

When I was in the middle of moving from St. Louis back to my hometown three years ago I remarked to a close friend that I was going to start training to become a boxer.  She said, “You can’t do that.”  Slightly offended I asked why and she quipped, “You’re too sweet.” Boxing cat and dog In a way she was right.  I was a pineapple without it’s rougher exterior.  I wore my heart on my sleeve and allowed myself to be vulnerable to everything.  Fast forward to last week.

Last week was my first for substitute teaching.  As much as it pained me to leave my co-workers at my last job, this new job is the first step in a journey of becoming a certified teacher. What many don’t realize is the first step comes with a lot of tests.

I’m not talking about  literal tests where you have to fill in all those little dots until your hands bleed.  The tests many of us remember taking in college and high school. The ones where we darkened in the bubbles with the worn down graphite in our pencils only to discover we missed a question and had to erase and start over again. The tests I’m talking about are the ones the students put you through.

When you start substituting, you might think, “Oh I’ve got this.  I’m older, I’m smarter.”  Don’t kid yourself, you’re not.  On paper, you might be.  You might even have a piece of paper you forked over thousands of dollars for to say you know how to do something at an expert level, I do.  However it only proves you know how to do something.  It doesn’t prove you know how to work with people. It doesn’t prove you know how to treat a child coming from a home where their only source of parental affection comes from a television.  It doesn’t prove you are an expert in someone’s past.  It can however get you a foot in the door to doing something you really love.

I have a degree.  Proof that I have taken over sixty credit hours in school.  Proof that I can concentrate long enough to make a decent grade.  All the proof I need to willingly submit to being tested by some of the toughest people on the planet…grade schoolers.

They will try to tell you the teacher’s lesson plan.  They will knowingly pass notes about farting superheroes hoping they will get caught.  They will feign tummy aches and ouchies just to get out of class.  They will try to give you guilt trips and hold you responsible for losing a book that has been on their desk the whole time.  They will see just how many things they can get away with before their substitute for the day gives up.

Boxing taught me to tough out what you think will inevitably kill you.  It taught me to have confidence and to believe in myself.  My life training in retail, dealing with customers and quirky co-workers has taught me patience.  These kids weren’t ready for a teacher who wasn’t going to shout at them.  They weren’t ready for a teacher who was going to tough out their tests.  They weren’t ready for a teacher who doesn’t give up, or give in to their scheming plans to get out of learning correct grammar and punctuation.  They weren’t ready for someone who understands what it’s like to be a kid.

As I taught them, they taught me.

“Thank you for being nice to us even though we were bad,” remarked one of my students. The more I teach, the tougher my exterior becomes, yet at the same time, I find my insides getting sweeter. cat pineapple What life experience has taught you something when you least expected it?  

An abundance of leggings

Today on campus as I made my way toward the parking garage there were droves of young women grouping together wearing black leggings, as pants.funny-squirrel-Fall-leggings-pants     I was on the fence about Yoga pants being worn in public as official lazy day attire, but to wear leggings you can’t be lazy.  Leggings require too much effort to stretch over the legs and derriere to be considered in the same category as effortless sweat pants and Yoga pants.

     Even though all of these women had lovely shapes and sizes, I felt like I was back in the high school locker room only now it is public and everyone is letting it ALL hang out.

     Women should be free to wear what they want, when they want.  However, if you are going to wear leggings, call them for what they are, footless tights, not pants.  Maybe I’m jealous.  Maybe I’m old school.Funniest_Memes_if-leggings-were-pants-do-you-know-what_5710     Yes, lets go with that shall we?  I’m old school.  So old, that I tried to go with this trend twenty four to twenty five years ago, in fifth grade.  Fifth grade is an appropriate age to experiment with wearing things of this nature, but for me it went horribly wrong.

     My parents and I were shopping at K-mart.  That is when I saw the most beautiful color of blue in the world.  The blue was brighter than azure, it was as if someone had hooked up tiny neon lights to these new lycra stretchy pants and turned them up full volume.  I finally convinced my parents to purchase a pair for me.

     As the night came to a close I went to bed knowing in the morning I would get to wear the coolest “pants” in school.  When I woke up I wore them with the appropriate sweatshirt and headed to the bus stop in a cheery mood.  By the time I had officially arrived at school, been in the “pants” for a solid 5 hours I was fed up with being lady-like.  Instead I forgot I was wearing what felt like tights but could be considered trousers.

     I made the mistake of turning to the side, leaning back in my chair and talking to a boy.  It was at that moment, said boy, pointed to my mid section saying, “You have a hole in your pants.”  Thats right, I had a hole.  A hole in the crotch.

     Ladies, it’s not necessarily that leggings aren’t pants. It’s not you, it’s me.  It’s one of my worst fears to put on a pair of leggings, walk around campus or work the whole day without realizing I had been flashing everyone my “Fruit of the looms”.

What fashion statements have you had a hard time dealing with? Which fashion statements do you wish would go away?

10 Books

Recently I was challenged by a friend to list the top 10 books that have had a major impact on my life.  Because I’m a verbose person and take challenges seriously, I couldn’t just answer his request with a few blanketed answers. Here they are in no particular order with their explanations:

     The Outsiders is a book you get something out of at different stages of your life.  Recently for a class we re-read the classic, it was mind blowing to find out it was written by a 16 year old.  

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     Eat Pray Love.  This is a great book for any one who has ever experienced divorce and tried to make sense of it.  This book made me want to travel, get lost, make new friends and then write about it.  It taught me how to put some of my past behind me and work though some life lessons.

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     If you ever want to impress a literature professor, drop the name Rex Stout.  When I finally resided alone in my apartment in St. Louis I knew I would be restless at night. The answer to listlessness was found in a fabulous mystery The Sound of Murder.  It was originally written in the early 40’s at the dawn of industrial espionage.  With quirky characters and a foresight of an upcoming industry in a new material called plastic, the setting Mr. Stout paints in so surreal yet believable.

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     The first book I remember falling in love with is, I Mean It Stanley.  This is the book my parents started reading to me and by the age of two, I had it memorized page for page.  Every night I asked them to read it to me before bed, each word drilling it’s way into my brain.  When my Grandparents came down for a visit, my Parents suggested to my Grandma she should read me a book that night.  So I retrieved this book, sat in her lap and as she turned the pages I started reciting the text.  My Grandmother was a lot like me, she was a former teacher and had a sense of wonder.  She thought I was reading the book.  She didn’t know my parents tirelessly read this to get me in the habit of a sleep routine.  She looked in amazement at my parents thinking I might be a genius.  Then my Dad cracked a smile and the gig was up.

And I Mean It Stanley

     Everyone needs a good Doctor in their life.  Mine had the last name of Seuss.  My first grade teacher asked everyone in class to pick their favorite book to bring to class and read.  I poured over my selection at home. It was between Fox in Socks and 101 Dalmatians.  In the end I chose Fox in Socks, mainly because in the beginning of the book, Dr. Seuss goads the reader with this graphic:  Fox in Socks     How could you resist?  At the young age of six I wasn’t willing to back down from a challenge and for once settled who won the tweedle beetle battle with paddles on poodles eating noodles.

     If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What am I doing in the Pits? This book I read because it had been sitting in the drawer of my Parents’ end tables and was begging to be read.  The cover wreaked of late 70’s artwork and humor.  I was 17 when I first picked it up, read it on a Journalism class trip to Chicago and for the first time in a long time was caught laughing out loud to a joke no one could hear.  This book appealed to me because I felt displaced, and Erma Bombeck made sense of everything.  Life is a bowl of cherries

Batman a Death in the Family was my first experience with a gritty plot only capable of taking place in between the pages of (at the time) my favorite Super Hero’s life.  Little did I know in comic books characters can perish at the hand of a madman armed with a crow bar.  Until then I was only exposed to characters who died of natural causes.  This may have been when I learned the word bludgeoned250px-Batman_Death_In_The_Family_TPB_cover

     Any Archie comic EVER.  In the 80‘s and early 90‘s Archie was all I ever read during the summer, sometimes in between Garfield books I checked out at the library.  I devoured these wishing I could be Betty Cooper. Unfortunately, one of my best friends growing up had blonde hair, where I learned the ugly truth, only she could be Betty because she had the correct hair color.  These books taught me blondes had more fun and brunettes were snooty, confusing my idea of what a woman should be.  Eventually along the way I realized these were just characters and nobody should have to be compartmentalized into either image.  Instead I developed a crush on Jughead and a love for art by trying to re-draw the images.  Archie comics also helped to forge the way for me in a literary sense.  The featured cover below is the one they published an interview I did of my Aunt. Archie Comic

     When my parents realized comic books were no longer just a hobby but something that could cause my two loves to collide they wanted to help.  They purchased two books by Will Eisner in which he states the best scenario for comic book writing is when the artist and the writer are the same person.  If this isn’t the case, he goes on to illustrate what can happen when people get their ideas mixed up.  Even if you aren’t into comics, it’s a wonderful book explaining the process with beautiful illustrations.Will Eisner

     The next book is something everyone needs to read to understand how to become a better writer, even if it only pertains to correspondence.  The Groucho Letters is a book of letters exchanged between Groucho Marx, some of his colleagues and son.  This was a gem I discovered at my parents house.  It probably belonged to my Grandma and one of my Aunts at one point.  One specific part in the book stuck out to me.  Groucho had built a rapport with a fellow funny person who was at the time living in Maine.  By the third letter of catching up, the friend wrote to Groucho, “The town is so boring the tide went out and never came back.”  This book goes to show how friendship can bring you unexpected things, like the gift of laughter or witty writing.

Groucho Letters

     To my friend, hopefully this answers your challenge. To my readers…what are some of your favorite books and which ones have influenced you the most?

 

Boldly living

In 8th grade my teacher made me afraid of space. In her defense she didn’t know she had a neurotic, imaginative junior high student in her midst, but regardless, I never looked at infinity the same.

I partially blame her for needing finite points of definition in life, infinity as a concept scared me.

Her choice of curriculum was teaching the sciences of the universe, the possibilities and theorems on how it worked, then working inward to the science of earth studies, how it was formed and analyzing fossils. The trip getting to earth scared me. She was bound and determined to make us go boldly where other 8th graders have gone before.

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First she talked about the different theories of how the universe was created. She explained how some say the Big Bang theory is the definitive theory, and then she said others will argue God did it. Her theory was God made it and “bang” there it was. This didn’t scare me, this didn’t phase me. It was the first day in basics of the universe.

Then within a few weeks she taught us about the universe having no end. Scenes in my mind like Superman 3 played out as she spoke. I imagined an astronaut being sent out on a space walk only to accidentally have his air supply disconnected and his tether to the spaceship severed. I imagined a skinny frozen lifeless body flash frozen inside a NASA space suit floating through the air. Unlike Jim Carrey in the Truman show who sails out to find the edge of his isolated world, this astronaut’s body would find no end in sight.

Once this vision floated away from my head after a week or so she introduced us to Absolute Kelvin. She explained the Kelvin scale and even had a Kelvin thermometer in her room. The thermometer was at 3, she said once it reached “absolute zero” is when we would be in trouble. Even though the theory has yet to be proven, once the scale reached zero, the entire world would stop along with the universe. All the planets would quit rotating on their axis and we would all be stationary in the position we were in when it happened. Every 15 minutes I checked the thermometer to see if the red fluid contained in the glass had yet fallen to two so I could get into a more flattering position. I feared this would happen in the class room.

I remember going to the mall after that with my parents and grandparents who were in town for a visit that night. I tripped on the stairs in the mall and twisted my ankle. We quickly went over to the bench to rest my ankle for a bit and suddenly science class came floating back into my mind. “What if we were all frozen in time for all eternity here? What if people were just frozen standing with their shopping bags mid step?”

Later within that same week she had us do an experiment at home as part of our homework. She asked us to go outside late at night when the stars are out and lie down on our backs for about 15 minutes or so to observe what happened. So that night, I showered, curled my hair and mom helped me put my bug repellent on. (Skin So Soft by Avon)

As I went outside and lied in the cold grass on a blanket, I realized how infinitely small we are, but this time infinity wasn’t scary, nor was Absolute Kelvin. Doing this little experiment, not only did I observe earth’s movement, but also realized how many other people in the world there are and how everything keeps moving at it’s own rhythm and pace no matter what actions we do or take.

We later learned the different constellations and for some reason Orion’s Belt stuck in my head. Later in life when I was going through a particularly tough time, I would look in the night sky for Orion’s Belt as I was heading to my apartment. I knew, someone, somewhere was doing the same thing too and I wasn’t alone. If it hadn’t been for 8th grade science I wouldn’t have found Orion’s Belt and solace in a moment of loneliness and isolation. Thanks to 8th grade science the world was less scary as an adult.

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What was the most frightening or intimidating thing you learned in school? What made you feel small and yet part of a larger system of things?

Dumb is forever

Hopefully with this blog entry I can explain my absence and tell a story for the writing challenge here on WordPress. Since May my husband and I have been working on trying to get ourselves organized, getting things together in order to have a garage sale to kickstart our relatively new life together.

Instead it turned out to be; him slimming down his book collection and me rummaging through my entire childhood. As a child, not realizing it, I would not only be forcing myself to momentarily get in the way of my future, but I would force myself to come to terms with my past, my awkwardness, my dreams, my reality…my quirks.

Among the things in the basement, I found the awkward five by seven school photos I gave to my grandparents.

Growing up, I went from being a semi normal looking kid…

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to looking like the child Weird Al Yankovic could have had with Amy Grant had they married.

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Seventh grade is an awkward stage for most people. Some people do fine in school and don’t worry about a thing. In my case I hated my school photo, and hated being a giant nerd. However, I had friends who appreciated me just as I was. At the time it didn’t seem like they liked me; usually after lunch. Why you ask? All because of a boy. A boy, they threatened to tell I had a crush on him. I distinctly remember four of my friends stealing my lunch napkin I used to blot my lipstick on, taunting me, threatening to write my number on the porous paper product and slide it between the slots in his locker. They never officially told me if they followed through with it, but that horrifying day they made me believe for sure they had.

As you can tell from the above paragraph, there was a severe amount of trauma involved in just finding a few photos. This is what I’ve been dealing with and my husband has unfortunately had to deal with it by my side. We find more things, I will hold said object and suddenly be transported to a time where the main worry was if my friends were going to embarrass me so badly I wouldn’t be able to survive third hour science class the next day and face the boy they came to call, “helmet head”. They called him this because his shiny dark hair formed a spherical protection unit around his gigantic brain.

Apparently I was so blinded by his giant brain that when I had a moment to finally read my junior high diary to my husband, we realized I painstakingly wrote about how this guy my friends teased me about had a “nice personality”. As a seventh grader who looked like Weird Al, I realized television’s Judge Judy was right, “Beauty fades, dumb is forever”. There is nothing worse than a boring person with a pretty face. If I could I would tell my seventh grade self there was nothing to worry about, not only in the future would I get the guy with a good personality, but he would also be cute and help me sort through my awkward past; physically and mentally.

Don’t let anyone fool you, being awkward builds character…and distracts you from getting any work done. Period.

What is something of yours you have found that has transported you back in time? Was it a good experience or bad?

Iron your Umbros

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In the summer between 8th grade and freshman year I acquired my first pair of umbros. It seemed that just about everyone at school had a pair, and generally they were primarily worn because you could throw them on without having to worry about waking up extra early to iron them and still look like a million bucks.

Everyone had at least two or three pair. My traditional wardrobe was shorts made from worn out pairs of jeans, or jeans I had grown too tall for and a t-shirt. I was 12 now, on the brink of womanhood, I wanted to be “in” and fashionable, I wanted to care about my appearance and what my outward self said to others, I wanted to be…cool.

My summers were previously spent playing baseball or some form thereof with the neighborhood boys or pretending to be the Veronica to my friend’s Betty. (as we all know from a previous blog post, really she was the Veronica.) This summer was different, I was going to establish an identity with the neighborhood kids that would hopefully translate into the coming school year. One way to make sure this would happen; get a pair of Umbros. Not just any Umbros you see, clearance Umbros.

These shorts were waiting there for me at the local Footlocker on the clearance rack like an apple ripe for the picking. The orange shorts with the purple trim and drawstring beckoned me in all of 5 seconds. These were my ticket to being cool; to being one of the cool kids. Forget that I was the awkward goofy tomboy who was always one of the guys, I was going to be a womanly tomboy with a new image on the road to adulthood.

Little did I know, that would all be removed in one evening after this fine purchase of brightly clown colored soccer shorts.

I had been invited over for a game of football at my friend’s grandmothers’s house. Not only would my friend be there, but so would her really cool older cousin (who we later found out had already kissed a boy and could read our palm), but so would some of the neighborhood guys who had grown up with me as the awkward nerd who was into things that most were not. It seemed at times the neighborhood kids took pity upon me or asked me over to play mainly because there was no one else around. This time, these umbros were going to change that perception, instead of taking pity upon me or being the last person asked, these shorts would inevitably turn me into the first kid asked and the least pitied kid on the block; until I got stopped before going out the door by my mother.

I told my mother of these plans. Well, I told her about playing football with friends, not necessarily everything else. It was just after dinner when she said, “Let me iron your shorts before you go.”

This was preposterous! Why would my mother thwart my plans like this? How did she not know ironing your “supposed” to be wrinkled shorts was a death sentence for anyone trying to fit in and be cool for once? Could she not read my pea brained thoughts?

Then to make matters worse, she had to iron the semi-matching shirt that accompanied the shorts. The shirt featured a very 90’s looking geometric alligator with a purple background. Bear in mind, I was only 12, but I thought it was pointless to iron something when you were going to mess it up and wrinkle it in the process of an impromptu neighborhood football game. This didn’t matter to my mother. As far as she was concerned you could come back as wrinkled as a piece of notebook paper, but you had to go out looking as neat as a bed sheet.

We had finished dinner, I was still getting ready, the only thing missing was the clothing. My friend called the house wondering where I was. When I was trying to reply, I didn’t want to lie, but at the same time I didn’t want to tell her the embarrassing truth. I bit down and told her,”I was waiting on my clothes to be ironed.” I could have just told her I got sidetracked or better, that I got tied up trying to tame a lion that escaped from the Dickerson Park Zoo and had to transport it on the back of my bicycle. No, instead I told her the truth and like all childhood best friends, she laughed.

Needless to say I was the neatest looking well kept kid in “should” be wrinkled shorts and t-shirt. I was so unwrinkled they could have called “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” when I arrived skidding in on my turquoise blue splatter painted Huffy bike. I then had to explain to the neighborhood kids what caused my delay thus further taking away any cool points I might have earned having my new and only pair of Umbros.

Needless to say, I solidified my nerd status, but at least I did it in style.

What hope did you have as a kid to change what others previously thought of you?

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