The Ex Factor

Thinking back on my dating life makes me make an "I just ate a sour lemon" face. It is painfully embarrassing to think back on the melodramatic verging on coo coo dater I was.  That is why I don't think of it, but as far as telling my tales and getting to the goods I have to think just a little about it.

After my first love fizzled, the internet romance, I moved on to what some would call "my high school sweet heart."  I will be calling him "jazz hands."   "Jazz hands " was a nice person. He and I were together a long time. We became fat Elvis. If that makes sense to you, then you get it and if it doesn't I cannot explain it.

Jazz Hands and I, in hindsight, bickered a lot. I spend most of my time trying to be what I thought he would want me to be.  (This was no fault of his.  This was my own thing.)  If he liked a band, I liked the band just as much.  If he liked  a movie, it was my favorite too. If he wanted to study, I wanted to study till my face fell off.   Once we finally emploded, which was hard because I adore his family and I didn't want to lose them, I took a new dating approach.  No more nice guys.

If a guys seemed to have a future, thanks but no thanks.  Been there, done that.   I decided perhaps I would have better luck with a "bad boy."  Once I secured my new dream boat, who didn't have a job, a car, or an actual residence, I felt like I had met my match.  We will call him "Sleeps on sister's couch."  "Sleeps on sister's couch" was fun and attractive.  At twenty years old that was enough.  I took on the same morph into my boyfriend approach.  You like to drink? Sweet, I can pound back to back jager shots and not even flinch.   You like to hang out  at a bar all day long, seven days a week?   Awesome, just call me "Norm."

As you can predict, that fizzled quicker than it started.  It was a painful, yucky,blah,gag, ending for me that lead me further down the path of being jaded. But luckily for me I met someone who didn't care that I was jaded.  He didn't  buy into my Miss Independent act and he called all my bluffs.  And that is when being in a relationship began to not be so hard.

Puppy Love

Where do I even begin?  Now that I am in a good relationship, it is easy for me to see just how hilarious my previous relationships were.  I will start from the top.   This entire story and most of the details are so embarrassing, but I am going to share them anyways.  Okay, I was fifteen years old.  My family got a computer and the most wonderful invention, the Internet.  I could not get enough of it. I would go to chat rooms and visit with kids just my age (or so they said).  

 Did I meet my first boyfriend online?  I wish I could say no.   I feel fairly confident that I was the first, and last, person to meet someone on the Internet that was actually what they said they were.  I started emailing back and forth with this guy who lived about an hour away.  One day he was going to be at the mall, and I was supposed to meet him.  I didn't really know what he was going to look like.  I had an image in my head.   I was surprised when I met him.  Apparently you do not pronounce the last name "Flores" like "floors."  I thought his last name was floors, as in my hardwood floors.  He was not blond headed as I had assumed he would be.   We ended up having a long distance  relationship for more than a year.  

I think it is pretty common for young girls to get their first boyfriend, "fall in love," and expect to marry them and have lots of babies.  I remember a family friend telling me, "you will date a hundred guys before you find the one."  I thought, "what does he know?"  Of course he was the one. I mean he was perfect.  We didn't live in the same town,  he would not call me for a week before or after my birthday or any holiday, I mean what else could a girl ask for? 

Old Soul

According to Urban Dictionary, an old soul is a person whom is beyond their years; people of strong emotional stability.  That is such a lovely term and I wish I could say I was an old soul.   A more accurate concept of what I would be considered is just an old person, trapped in the body of an old person, that resembles a young person. 

When I was in the fifth grade, I advanced to the Regional Science Fair for my exhibit on what juice best cleans a dirty penny.  If that wasn't nerdy enough on its own, I kicked it up a notch with my "reward."  My parents told me I could have anything I wanted.  (A side note: I am pretty sure they never told my sister she could have anything she wanted because she would have done the appropriate thing and request something lavish).  My request was to leave right then and go to the movie theatre to see Schindler's List.  My parents agreed and off we went to see the pre-teen cult classic.  The entire audience was there dressed up as characters from the movie.  Oh wait, no that isn't true.  I was probably the youngest, and only, kid in the theater.  

I remember going over to this old man's house to hear all of his World War II stories.  That was my idea of a fun Sunday afternoon.   Most of the time when a kid goes to his or her friend's house, they say "are your parents here?"  What they mean is "please tell me your parents are gone so we can break the rules."  If I were to ask that, my wish would be that the answer was yes, and I would get to chat with them a little. You know about politics or just whatever.  

Some of my earliest childhood memories are not of cartoons or childhood books.  Some of my earliest memories are scenes from Days of Our Lives.  I mean, who doesn't vividly remember a young Bo Brady, gazing into the eyes of a young Hope and saying something like , "Blah blah blah Fancy Face"?  

I was so into the OJ Simpson trial. I spent the entire summer break glued to the TV. I couldn't get enough of that crazy Kato. Marsha Clark's hair always killed me.   When school started, it was so hard to be at school knowing that the trial wasn't over.  I remember the day the verdict came out. I asked one of the teachers at lunch if she knew what happened.

It wasn't just my interests that were a bit on the old side.  My ailments also verged on being elderly.  In elementary school I had an upper gi.  I was put on an economy sized bottle of Tagamet to help with my social situation  induced/ performance anxiety. 

 I remember starting junior high hoping I would not get a bottom locker.   I was afraid it would be too hard on my knees.

Ra! Ra! Ra!

I was a cheerleader. Okay it was kindergarten, but I was still a cheerleader. My sister was the coach. Everyone thought she was super cool. This bought me a few cool points, I suppose. It all went terribly wrong one day at practice. My sister tooted. How mortifying for her right? Wrong. She totally blamed it on me! I about died. Of course everyone believed it was me. I am pretty sure that is where my cheer leading career died.

In junior high I thought maybe it would be cool if I was a cheerleader, so I would turn the lights off in my bedroom and dance around to the Mortal Kombat song. I kept the lights off so if anyone walked in they wouldn't see. That would be a huge problem for try outs. If I could only have talked the school into letting me try out in the dark. I am so good at in when no one is watching and when it is dark.  

I  would think of songs I would run out to if I was on a team and involved in the pep rally.   I remember the volleyball team came out to a Destiny's Child song.   I would always think, "What would I make my grand entrance to?"   The answer, more than likely, would have been something very lame.  "MMMBop" would have gotten me booed so hard. Then again so would my cheering.  Perhaps I could have come out to the California Raisins.   Who doesn't get happy when they hear their version of "You Can't Hurry Love"?  

Fear can hold us back.  Other times it can save us.  My fear of cheering in the light was a huge life saver for me.  

What's Your Story?

Week after week, sometimes day after day, I share my stories.  I share my pictures, my thoughts, and my travels with people through the computer.  I share my past.  I have always been that person that you probably know a lot (maybe even too much) about. I am a talker.  My co-workers have always become my friends.

Part of this blog has been to tell stories from my childhood.  A lot of this blog came through self exploration, trying to figure out "who I am."  Finding out "who you are" requires looking in to "who you have been."   For those of you that know me well, I hope this blog has helped you know me a little better.  For those that don't know me well, I hope you have an idea of who I am.  For those that thought they knew me, maybe you did. Maybe you didn't.  I do know that through this blog and retelling the past, as I saw it, has been a great way to start to figure out who I am. Who I am is actually turning into who I always thought I was, instead of who I thought I should be.  This is a good feeling.

I think putting thoughts into words is a great way to find yourself.  I am just feeling the urge to ask you...what is your story?   Maybe you would like to tell me more about you.  Maybe you don't.  If you do, I am all ears. Leave me a comment.  Email me. Facebook me.   I would love to hear your story.

My Olympic Dream

Once every four years, I get the desire to be athletic.  I get pumped up about fitness. Not pumped up enough to actually join a gym or do anything fitness related, just pumped up enough to fantasize about what it would be like to be an athlete.  The Olympics always starts out the same way for me. I pretend that I couldn't care less.  Then a few days in I get the itch.  I finally give in and watch a little bit only to find myself glued to the TV for the remainder of the events.  The problem this year is I have no television.  I have started sneaking off to the TV room in our apartment at night after my son is asleep.  My husband stays in and I go watch and send him random texts about how awesome someone is in a certain sport.  He will then ask me, "what race was it?" I don't know the answer.  I say "swimming." He continues to ask.  All I know is that they are swimming. Lets not get into a bunch of details.

This year, just like 2008, I have a mad crush on Michael Phelp's abdomen.  I am not the person that goes googly for guys. (Disclaimer: as a child I had JTT and Hanson posters. There, I said it.  As an adult, I do not get all pumped up over the new Brad Pitt movie or anything). The most uncomfortable and dreadful situation I could imagine is being the person in a folding chair with a male stripper dancing in front of me, while I begrudgingly put a hard earned one dollar bill in his speedo. I had to ask someone what "Magic Mike" and "Fifty Shades of Grey" were.  Michael Phelp's torso is my version of all of that.  I am pretty glad tomorrow is his last race. I am starting to feel a touch of guilt.

Great abs are not the only thing on my mind while watching the games. I also start to wonder if I could be an Olympian.  I still think that gymnastics, although I have never once done a somersault, would be my pick.  It seems like I could ace the floor routine.  My second choice would be swimming. I do not actually know how to swim. I like my feet on the bottom of the pool.   Track and field is also very intriguing.  I would say those gals have the best look to them, in my opinion.  It is so hard to pick really.

Winter games...hands down...figure skating.  That would be my sport for sure. I am pretty sure I would prefer singles.  It all goes back to that uncomfortable with a guy in front of me in spandex kind of thing.  I am also not real good at group sports. If my partner fell, I would kind of want to stab him with my toe pick.

I will admit that it is not completely out of the realm of possibilities for me to do a little pretend floor routine, without any flips, while no one is looking.

According to Plan

I have always been a planner. I like things to go just as I think they should.  The older I get, the less I am this way.  I like to make lists.  I like to keep day planners.  I used to be very rigid when it came to planning.

I am pretty sure I came out of the womb with a plan. It probably included delegating different tasks to different people.  Most of my to do lists are actually lists of things I want other people to do.  It is a frustrating situation because I have little control on the things actually getting done.

When I was young, somewhere there was probably a to do list that read : "Wake up.   Eat peanut butter and crackers.  Drink Coke.   Do not under any circumstance ingest water. Go to school.  Eat large fries for lunch.  Drink Coke. Do not under any circumstance ingest water or use a bathroom outside of your house. Go home from school.  Eat cheese dip.  Watch tv.  Eat dinner.  Make tomorrow's list. Go to sleep. Dream..."

I was so into planning that I actually did, what I would consider now, the most ridiculous thing ever.  Some people pick out their clothes based on the kind of activity they will be doing.  Some people pick out clothes based on the weather.  Some people pick them out the day before; some the morning of.   One school year I took a spiral notebook and wrote down what I would wear to school everyday.  I wrote things down until there where no combinations left and I would have to repeat an outfit.   Who did I think I was? The Queen of England. I couldn't repeat an outfit? I am pretty sure I made it well past half the school year before I had to start over.   Remember, I shopped at K-mart.  I had a lot of options.

I do not recall if I actually stuck to the plan or not, but knowing my personality I did.  If it was 90 degrees outside and I had written down a dickie, a pair of stirrup pants, and a graphic sweatshirt, no one short of God himself could make me not wear that outfit.

I am happy to report that 20+ years and a child later I am getting better.  I do not plan as much at all.  In fact, my day planner has one thing written down for the next month. I am not kidding.  "Friday- Dinner: Lost Dogs with new friends."  

Not having so many plans is pretty liberating.  I did not plan on ever not having a plan.

Is This Normal? Everything You Never Wanted to Know...

I have a lot of weird tendencies.  Do you?  I have started noticing some of my weird thinking and wondering if other people have weird little habits or if I am just a real live case of OCD.

• If I go to the bathroom in the dark during the night, I always tend to think "what if there was a snake in the toilet?"  As of yet, there has never been a snake in the toilet that I am aware of. 
• I almost always talk myself out of using the bathroom.   I will think "I need to pee....no I don't....I can wait."   Then I will finally give in when my kidneys start hurting.  (well....maybe I don't wait that long).  
• Once I make it to the bathroom I think of how I am going to be a rebel and not flush the toilet.   "I am not going to flush the toilet....what would it matter? It is my house. It can wait till next time."   Then I give in and go ahead and flush. 
• The next step is to think I can be a rebel by not washing my hands.  "No one will ever know."  I give in and wash them begrudgingly.  

If I am in a public restroom the same rules apply but I add a few more.

•  I cannot go in a stall and use the bathroom if I have seen the person who came out of it.  It creeps me out to know how the seat got warm. In order to not look rude, I will go in and pretend to pee.  Other times, if the opportunity presents itself, I will just pretend I didn't need to pee and only needed to look in the mirror and or stand there oddly.  
• I cannot use the toilet paper that is hanging out of the dispenser. I must rip off a few squares because I know that those squares were touched by someone who was ripping off their squares.  
• I will avoid touching the door on the way out at all costs.   If this means using a paper towel to open the handle and then running the risk of not being able to launch it all the way across the room into the trashcan, I take it.   So if you ever see a stray paper towel near a trash can and think "who would do that," it is me.  Sorry. I just don't want to touch the door. There are some people who might have actually been rebellious and not washed their hands.  

Party Hardy

When my sister turned 18, my parents did the most unthinkable thing.  They let her have a party at our house, alone.  My parents naively thought that she and her girlfriends would sit around braiding each others hair, talking about boys, eating ice cream, and having pillow fights.   Little did they know the real party would be so wild that had Charlie Sheen been there he would have said, "Wow, this s*&# is getting crazy."   The next day me and my dad returned from our stay at some low budget motel to find the house a little bit trashed.  The mailbox was messed up, front door broken, my allowance stolen from my bedroom, suspicious residue on my mom's make up mirror, and urine in the fake plants.

This obviously showed my parents the error in their thinking; therefore, when I was 18 there was no such party.  The closest thing I got was when I was 16.  They left me at home with my 22 year old sister while they went on a weekend getaway. I have no recollection of my sister's whereabouts.  I do remember that I invited some friends over.   It wasn't real scandalous.  The most memorable moment was when a guy came out of my parents' bathroom to inform me that he had overflowed the toilet. You know it is a good party when that happens.   I will not say this guy's name. Not because I am nice, but because I cannot remember it. If I did remember it, I would expose him as being a party pooper. The cops weren't called at my party, but a plumber almost was.

Let's Draw a Picture of All Your Flaws!!

Seventeen years ago an event occurred that rocked my world.  My family had gone to Six Flags.  I was around 12 years old.  My sister was 18.  I remember my bumper bangs, braces, and large glasses like it was yesterday.   We spotted a caricature artist.  Parents: NEVER let your pre-teen get a caricature.  Why? It is simple. Let us look at the definition of the word:

 car·i·ca·ture

n.a. A representation, especially pictorial or literary, in which the subject's distinctive features or peculiarities are deliberately exaggerated to produce a comic or grotesque effect.

Every twelve year old girl needs a grotesque painting of all her peculiarities.  My sister's "distinctive features," as seen by the 20 year old horny caricature artists, were her breast.   He exaggerated them all right. 

I am not sure what I expected him to draw for me.  In hindsight, he did the perfect pictorial representation of my distinctive features and peculiarities.  At the time, it felt like some 20 year old guy had just punched me in the ugly face. When I saw it, I was less than impressed, verging on depressed.  He rolled it up and gave it to me. When I got home with it and unrolled it I saw that it wasn't quite dry when he rolled it up.  This made spots that looked like I had really large zits. Perfect.  

Flash forward......

This weekend we were at a picnic for my husband's work.  Guess who was there?  A caricature artist.  I felt like this was the perfect opportunity to stick my chest out and redeem myself.  I used my son as a way to get this done.  Not to say I didn't want him to have a caricature...I just didn't want to be the only grown woman sitting there getting her picture drawn. So you know I'll just hold the baby. Go ahead and draw me too.  Anyways, I told the guy Finn loved sports.  So he made him a basketball player.  I was happy to see that I was the cheerleader!! Yes you heard me...the cheerleader.   My distinctive feature is apparently still my choppers.  They are large. I get it.  My eyelashes have apparently moved up a notch because they looked great in the drawing.   Did the picture look like me? I don't think so.  I do feel it was much less grotesque than the previous one.  

Tall People Problems

So I always thought I needed to be taller or shorter. I guess I am "tall," but not tall enough to be tall.  I think another inch or two might be cool.  People always referred to me as tall so I guess I am.  Growing up there were things about being one of the taller kids that annoyed me.

1)  Climbing rope in gym class-   This is a stupid, stupid activity.  It is a short person activity.  I cannot climb a rope.  How am I to cilmb it?  I am too long.  The short girls would shimmy right up the rope. I would get up there and cling to it for dear life and just hang.

2) Short policy in school-  The policy related to wearing shorts at school was not one that worked in my favor.   If you have long legs and long arms, do you know what you have? LONG SHORTS.  The small, shorter armed and legged girls could wear their underwear to school and not get in trouble.  The rule was your shorts had to go down to the tip of your middle finger when your arms were extended down your leg.  Okay.  My arms....long.  My middle finger is abnormally long.  While other girls got to wear cute shorts, I got to wear mother's walking shorts from the Jaqceuline Smith Collection.

3) Being taller than boys- Being taller than boys always limited my dating pool.  I always thought it would be ridiculous to date someone shorter than me.   I just never liked the idea of being the one to bend down for a goodnight kiss.  I still enjoy the fact that my husband is so tall because I can wear heels around him and still feel small.  This is my problem.  Consequently I probably passed up some nice short guys for some tall douche bags. At the end of the day I found a nice, tall guy. So it is all good.

4) High  waters-  Pants that are too short are not cool.  The "are you preparing for a flood," and "pull your shoes up" kind of banter is not ever appreciated.  My mom used to take the hem out of my pants. That worked out but the hems always looked strange.  I was never one to want to add a lot of rickrack to the bottom of my pants to make them longer.  To me that is just like highlighting the problem.

5) Odd crotch- Okay if you have long legs this does not mean you have a long crotch. I am pretty sure crotch could just go ahead and be a standard measurement.  I hate trying on a pair of pants that are "long" only to find an abnormally long crotch area.  I do not understand. People who make clothing...stop making long crotches. Thank you.

On a serious note...

I sit down at the computer every Monday with a few goals in mind.  One goal is to reflect on my life, to see the humor in things that have happened along the way, and to examine what got me to where I am.  Another goal is to make the reader laugh. To make the reader find the humor in my life while hopefully relating it to their own.  Another goal is to let those people that don't know me well, to know me.  For those that do know me, to know me better.
The stories I tell are usually deeper than they appear.  I hope that you can look into your own life, reflect on yourself, see what made you who you are.

I had a major turning point in my life around 2.5 years ago. Becoming a mother shook me to my core.  It has been the best thing to happen to me and for me.  It made me take a long hard look in the mirror. This has been , by far, the hardest thing I have done in my life.  To look at yourself and figure out who you are, what you believe in, what you want to be, what others think you are, etc. is emotionally exhausting. At the end of all of that reflection is a big fat rainbow with a  pot of gold at the end. This rainbow is called happiness.  Through this process I have started to see who I really am. I have done something else that is something I couldn't say before and that is I like who I am.  Having a child has shown me that hiding behind this mask of who people want you to be or who you think they want you to be, is a waste.  Having a child made me want to be me always. It made me want to make sure that he knows who his momma is.

I don't want to think that I am the same person I was when I was twelve.  That person was who I was that lead me to who I am.  People sometimes tell me "you have changed."   In my mind I think "thank God."  Change is good. Growth is good.

Being able to laugh has gotten me through some rough times in my life.  Being able to laugh at myself has gotten me through the journey of self discovery.  One thing you may or may not know about me is I have spent a lifetime worrying. Worrying about what people thought, worrying about worrying, worrying about life.  I have also spent my life with a low self-esteem. If you are surprised by that then I think I deserve an Oscar.  =)  I have never felt comfortable in my own skin until very recently.  Now I know that it's mine....too thin, too white, scarred, whatever it is it is mine.  I have grown to love it. It took 29 years but I've done it.

 Over the next few weeks, I will be out in the world trying new things, wearing a bikini and not worrying one bit that I have a 12 inch incision from back surgery, or that my hips are still a little crooked.  I will be wearing my short shorts even though my legs are whiter than this screen I am typing on and I have a lifelong situation of not being able to shave my knees well.  I will be eating foods I never thought I would eat.  I will be enjoying the moment. I will be focusing on the day I am living instead of what I am going to be doing tomorrow.

I will not be posting to my blog for a few weeks. Part of living in the moment is also not living in the past.  I will come back refreshed with many, many Mondays of stories to share. I hope that you will come back and join me.

There is No P.E. in the Real World

In school I dreamed of being old enough to not go to school. I dreamed of having a job.  I did this because I knew in the real world exercise didn't exist.  I knew that I could own a treadmill or bike and use it as a coat hanger.

There are few things I have hated more in my life than P.E.  Physical Education=total suckfest in my book.  I literally dreaded it everyday of my school life. The worst part about it was suiting out. I cannot think of a worse torture than being a teenage girl having to change clothes in front of a roomful of other teenage girls.  Not just that but you have to do it twice in one day!!  I had so many little tricks I would do in order to avoid showing skin.  In hindsight, I had so many tricks I would do to cause the hugest scene and ruckus in the locker room.

I had this way of taking my shirt off. I would move around just right where I could have one shirt going on as the other one was coming off. It really minimized any skin showing.  Another trick I had was to wear pantyhose.  Yes...pantyhose.    I would wear pantyhose then wear my shorts over the pantyhose in order to avoid showing my legs.   What is more ridiculous than a pair of skinny, knock-kneed, white legs?   A person wearing pantyhose under their athletic shorts.   That person looks more ridiculous every time I would have to assume. If I didn't have on pantyhose that particular day, I damn sure would have on the world's tallest socks.  That would cover at least the lower half of my legs.

All of this seems so ridiculous now.   At the time the best thing that could have ever happened to me was the need for back surgery. This was my ticket out of P.E. for a while and I knew it.  I was out of school for six weeks. Once I returned, I got to lay down in the nurses office, in a dark room , alone, and nap during P.E. time.   It was amazing.  I would have probably endured six weeks of agony every year if it meant napping during P.E. once it was over.   The saddest day of my life was when the Dr. said I was good to go and needed to exercise.   Back to P.E.  Back to P.E. shorts and pantyhose.

Having a Boyfriend: The Key to a Faux Self- Esteem

I remember sitting in my bedroom getting my Halloween outfit ready when my sister came home with her new boyfriend "B" for the first time. When I say Halloween outfit I do not mean costume, I mean outfit. It was pumpkin earrings and some horrible shirt. My sister and "B" walked in the doorway. She introduced him. He said "cool earrings." I remember thinking that having a boyfriend would be so cool. I thought he was serious about the earrings. Hindsight is 20/20.

I guess my first official boyfriend was in the 5th grade. "S" was alright I guess. He was a romantic. He requested "Last Dance With Mary Jane" by Tom Petty on the radio for me. He called and said, "Turn on the radio." This was my favorite song. I am sure there were not many other 5th grade girls that were huge Tom Petty fans. "S" also let me wear his Hornets Starter jacket. This, I thought, made me awesome. I am pretty sure there is a homeless man downtown that wears the same exact jacket. I wonder if it is THE jacket. "S" also bought me this rose thing from a convenience store. I thought it was sweet. Now I realize it was probably a crack pipe. I remember going to the movies with him. He wanted to kiss me. I declined. I said it was because I had braces and was afraid of getting stuck. The truth was I didn't love him. I wanted to save that moment for someone really special. Someone special that I met on the Internet.

My Internet boyfriend was the start of a string of bad relationship events that defined my "I am whoever my boyfriend is years." That is a story for a different day.

Cheaters Never Win?

Let me start by saying I am not proud of the following information. I went through a period in my childhood where I was a dirty, dirty cheater. I was never good at art. My sister is a fantastic artist. There was a brief period where I would have her do my art work for me. I cannot say that my parents knew about this. I do not remember. Surely they did not condone this. We will leave them out of it.

I had my sister draw my "Just Say No to Drugs" poster. It was for a contest. A contest that I placed in. My poster got hung up at Western Plaza or somewhere. I felt pretty dirty about this. "My" poster looked way better than the other kids poster. Obviously. It was done by someone six years older.

Another example of dirty, dirty cheating....

I entered a coloring contest to win tickets to Disney on Ice. I had to color a picture of Ursula. Well, my sister did it for me. I won. How awful. Somewhere some kid that got second place got screwed out of the ice show because I cheated! I do know that my parents knew about our scheme at least at the show. A man spilled his entire coke on my head. My parents told me "God was punishing me for lying." Good job parental units. Way to let God handle it at the last minute after I enjoyed the theatrics on ice.

My last attempt at passing my sister's talent off as my own was on a school assignment. We had to color an Indian girl. When I took it to school, my teacher was really impressed. She knew. She so knew. She said "You did this?" I didn't tell her the truth. It was obvious. My in class assignments looked like a monkey had gotten a hold of a crayon and a piece of paper. My take home assignment looked like a masterpiece.

The guilt was enough to scare me out of ever cheating again. I can honestly say I have never cheated on anything ever again. I wouldn't even skip ahead in my online defensive driving.

The moral of the story is cheaters CAN win....but they will feel so bad about it even 20-25 years later. Don't cheat. =)

Why being a mouth breather sucks...

I cannot say that there is anything positive about the inability to breathe through your nose. There are a lot of problems with mouth breathing. Here are a few:

• I do not know if this is scientifically proven, but I feel that you get more sore throats
• waking up every morning feeling like you are choking to death
• looking like a moron at red lights and stop signs
• looking like you are catching flies all the time
• catching flies
• certain death if someone held their hand over your mouth

Another thing I have noticed about mouth breathing is that mouth breathers tend to have the same look. Over the years I have been told I look like a lot of famous people. Unfortunately, they have never been attractive. Even worse, they have never been females.

Here is a list of my celebrity look a likes. (Most of which I disagree with):

• Steve Nash - the greasy haired, horse faced basketball star
• The drummer for the Foo Fighters
• David Spade (more specifically when he played a "Gap Girl.")
• Jon Heder-Napoleon Dynamite,Blades of Glory

What do all of these people have in common? I think they are all mouth breathers. I am not 100% sure of this. Well, except Jon Heder and he is undeniably a mouth breather.

I remember one time me and my sister sitting in a bar together. I just started laughing because both of us were mouth breathing hard. I commented on the fact that we looked like we were catching flies.

If in fact there is a heaven, what would you want to hear God say when you get there? "You can now close your mouth."

My Four Greatest Disappointments

I have four memories of great disappointment. They are not sad, or even important. These disappointments are ridiculous little situations that most people would not even remember.

1) I have been called a germ-a-phobe. I will agree that this is more than likely true. When I was little, I was so worried about staying at my Grandma's house. It was a little cluttered and smokey. I would not use the bathroom at her house. The problem was they lived two hours away from us. So when we went to visit, I would not go to the bathroom for a good 48 hours. When we would get home, I would want to burn my clothes. My mom told me that she had a "magic washer." I was so excited to know that my clothes and shoes would be completely sanitized. Then one day my mom spilled the beans that there was not a "magic washer." She didn't do anything at all to my clothes and shoes. I was devastated.

2) I was really into Maple Town. These were little animals figurines. I had a ton of them. One Christmas I asked for the raccoon family. Christmas morning rolled around. I was so excited when I opened the package only to be greatly disappointed when I realized I meant to ask for the squirrel family. I still think squirrels are superior to raccoons.

3) Some people may remember The California Raisins. This was a group of "raisins" that did cover songs. I loved them! My family would listen to their tape in the car. I couldn't get enough of "When a Man Loves a Woman" and "You Can't Hurry Love." One day I learned that these weren't real raisins at all. I was shocked. These were just grown up men in costumes. I was probably 10 years old when I figured this out. Why at ten I would think there were really singing raisin men is still a mystery to me.

4) I loved New Kids on The Block. My sister also loved NKOTB. She got to love them more because she was older. We went to the mall one day to get her a Joey t shirt. How dare I think that I was going to get one too! I was crushed when I left the mall empty handed because I "couldn't copy my sister." Copy my sister? Every girl in the US of A loved the New Kids. Years later, my sister gave me the shirt. It was no longer cool. I would never have worn it out in public. That didn't stop me from sleeping in it every night for a few years.

The Reason I Hate Team Sports...

There is no "I" in "team." If I am alone, I am pretty much a professional athlete. When people are watching, I get really nervous. That, and my inability to play well with others, ruined my chances for playing sports.

My first memory of hating the team approach was in first grade. I had the role of one of the pigs in The Three Little Pigs. My group was supposed to color our house on a huge piece of paper. A kid on my team, Michael, could not color to save his life. It was so irritating watching him color back and forth and up and down. I guess my intolerance for this was evident because my teacher pulled me from the group and made me the narrator. I learned a valuable lesson that day. Be a bad team player and get a promotion. I went from some little pig on a team to a big shot narrator!

I remember one time my mom picked Michael up from school to come to our house. On the way home, I pulled a scab off of his face. I did this because a) it was ready to come off and b) he was whining about it too much. He cried. When we got home, my mom sent me to my room. Later, Michael told me I could still have the cookie he brought me. My mom told him I couldn't have the cookie; I'm pretty sure even she thought he needed to grow a pair at this point.

Hairdresser vs. Hair Destroyer

My dad is a hairdresser. Growing up with a hairdresser dad is awesome. I got to do awesome stuff like spin around in salon chairs after school, get a perm when I was 7, get my hair cut anytime I wished, and have highlights in elementary school. My sister always displayed the talent necessary to follow in my dad's footsteps. I did not. This was always evident when we got new dolls. I remember us both getting Cabbage Patch dolls one Christmas. Within an hour my sister's doll looked amazing. Mine had nappy brown hair that somehow I made look like complete crap. I knew when I watched my sister take a round brush, hairspray, and a blow dryer to make the most awesome bat wings ever, hairdressing was her destiny.

I remember one time finding my Barbie dolls with new haircuts. I was furious to find my Whitney doll, who was known for her Crystal Gayle like hair, had been cut into a short stacked swing. I can't remember exactly how this played out, but I am sure I wanted it to go something like this:

Me: "Mom! Dad! Sister has ruined my Barbie doll. "

Parents: "Sister, how dare you!!! You are grounded for life!"

I am fairly confident it actually went something like this:

Me: "Mom! Dad! Sister cut my barbie doll's hair."

Parents: "Oh my gosh!! Your sister is beautiful and talented."

Barbie doll hair does not grow back. Just saying.

When my sister was twelve years old, she did hair for a wedding. This impressed everyone very much. Just for the record, I too did hair at a wedding when I was twelve. It was my Barbie's wedding. I threw one hell of a wedding bash. My family was required to watch the entire two hour long ceremony. I was enraged when my dad tried to bail out during the reception.

How Did I Not Catch On?

Having an older sibling is a guarantee for having crazy stories to tell when you are older. I have three childhood memories that puzzle me. How did I not catch on to what was really happening?

1) I always tried to fit in with my sister and her friends. During the summer, my sister would have the unwanted task of entertaining me. I always wanted to do what her and her friends were doing. One day they locked me out of the bedroom. I responded by calling my sister's friend a "b*&%H." My sister came out of her room furious. She took me and her huge boombox into the kitchen. She told me that we were going to listen to my favorite song. She just needed to rewind the tape. Then she asks me "what did you call Lori?" "I called her a b(#*H." My sister had not been rewinding the tape at all. Instead, she was recording my confession! How did I not notice that play and record were pushed down instead of rewind?

2) I have always enjoyed peanut butter and crackers. One day I ordered some from my sister, the short order cook. After I ate them, she confessed that we were out of peanut butter. So what had I just eaten? She had chewed up Ritz crackers, spit them in her hand,rolled them into a ball, and spread it onto crackers. How in the world did I not catch on?

3) One day, well before I ever wore makeup, I asked my sister to put make up on me. I set patiently while she did. I didn't pay much attention to the fact that she had not done anything other than concentrate her efforts to my upper lip. When she said she was finished, I rushed to the mirror to see how beautiful I looked; instead, I had a Pierre mustache. A sharpie, Pierre mustache. Why did I not notice that she did nothing to my eyes, lips, or cheeks?

Airbags

My parents have always been quick to trade in a car. I remember one time we got a new car because my dad had taken the car to the dealership for an oil change, and while he was waiting found a new one. It was a cherry red Bonneville. I remember the first day he dropped me off to junior high in it. I got out of the car and this girl "R" was standing there. "R" had big boobs. Looking back, they weren't THAT big. She just had boobs when the other girls really didn't yet. Anyways, her boobs kind of made her cool. So she says, "Wow, that is a nice car. Y'all must be rich." I saw this as a golden opportunity. Not sure exactly what I said but pretty sure it went something like this, "Why yes, we are. Very." She had a lot of questions about the car. I answered to the best of my knowledge. Then she says, "Does it have airbags?" It did have airbags so I tell her yes. "Oh, airbags scare me. I've heard that when they come out they can mess your face up," she replies. DARN. I had blown it. This was my chance to get in with the cool crowd and I had totally ruined it by telling her the truth. Maybe my parents next car wouldn't have airbags. Who would have thought a middle school girl would have such a strong opinion about airbags anyways?

I remember another encounter with "R." We had gym together one year. We had to weigh for some reason. Her and her friend were "totally like OMG" about me weighing 75 lbs. They told me they "wished they could weigh 75 pounds." Let me just set the record straight. They were both around 100 pounds. I would have totally killed to weigh 100 pounds. They both had bras. Real bras. Mine was more of a technicality than a necessity. This was the first time I realized girls are strange and always wish they were something else.

Dream Big

When I was little, I had a few career goals that were anything but typical. Since I loved pulling hair out of the drains, I thought plumbing might be my calling. I really appreciated the Wal-Mart checker and would always pretend to be one. Ironically enough, I loathe the self check out now. My third dream job was the fabric cutter lady at Cloth World. I loved the way she rolled out the cloth on the huge table and cut it. What a job that would be!

Long before the Kardashians made a fortune off pretending to be good at stuff, I like to think I invented that mind set. During the Olympics one year, I decided I was going to be an Olympic gymnast. There were several major set backs for me. Most importantly, I had zero gymnastic ability or training. I could not even do a flip. Another set back would be my build. I would not say I have a gymnast's build. None of this mattered because it was going to happen for me. The weirdest thing is I never really did anything outwardly to achieve my goal. I just thought about it really hard for a few weeks. Once the Olympics were over and nothing happened I figured I would give up.

If I couldn't be in the summer Olympics, why couldn't I be in the winter ones? Figure skating seemed to be a perfect fit for me. I had plenty of roller blading in my garage experience. I couldn't jump up or do any tricks, but I could imagine I was doing them. I had never skated on ice either. I had my whole short program worked out in my brain. Me in a flashy one piece dancing to "What a Man" by Salt- n- Pepa. Luckily, I have the movie Blades of Glory to watch and know how that would have turned out.

After I quit thinking about being the next Nancy Karrigan, I decided my true calling was acting. I actually put forth some effort in making this happen. I told my mother I wanted to act. She talked to the local little theater. They were going to send me something in the mail. I waited. I was so excited. I just knew they were sending me a script. I would be playing the leading role. I was greatly disappointed when I received the newsletter with audition dates on it. Audition? This dream was over.

My house. My Rules.

It surprises me that anyone who came over to spend the night at my house once would ever come back a second time. I liked people coming to my house because I could be in charge. There were a lot of mandatory activities that took place when someone spent the night with me. If you ever visited my house during the 90's , you know that I ate outrageous amounts of Velveeta cheese dip. I loved it so much that I wanted everyone to love it. Depending on the era, I also had mandatory activities planned. Here are a few of the different activities:

• School- Let's play school, but I am going to be the teacher, and the only one who can write on the make shift overhead projector.
• Barbies- Let's play barbies, but you have to be Ken, and you have to push me down the spiral stair case (or wreck my Ferrari) so that I can make toilet paper casts to put on all my limbs.
• Rollerblading- Let's roller blade in my garage to some audio tape of my choice. Oh you think it is either too hot or to cold in the garage? Tough!! Suit up.
• Hanson videos- Let's watch this VHS I have recorded all Hanson's TV appearances on. That will be fun.
• Record our own videos- Let's make videos. I will write, direct, star, and you can co-star and say what I tell you to.

I wasn't always super eager to spend the night with anyone. I knew that I would be in their domain. They may not have Velveeta. There were a few places that stick out in my mind of places I felt comfortable:

• P&D's house spending the night with their daughter J. It was always a good time. I liked the floor plan of their house. It made for a nice stay. They also had a mysterious cat that made me feel like I should sleep with one eye open.
• There was my best friend's house. She had a cool room because it attached to the garage that was converted into a small room. She had more VHS tapes than I had ever seen in my life. She also gave good back rubs. She also had the smallest/scariest dog I've ever known.
• There was my aunt's house. It was super fun. She would pick me and my sister up in her old school bronco. We would go to the store and pick out all the junk food we could dream of. We would go straight for the frozen snicker bars, Cheetos, etc. etc. I remember literally leaving her house one time throwing up because I had eaten so many tater tots.
• There was some family friends' house. J&D's house was the homiest place I'd ever been. To this day I think it is probably the homiest house there is. There was just something about it that made you want to curl up on the couch and drink hot cocoa. I would spend the night there when my parents needed me to go away for the night for sanity purposes.

There were other friends' houses I enjoyed too. I was always the person that always tried to get people to come to my house first. If all else failed, I would pack my bags and go.

Crooked as a Question Mark

My sister was the "pretty one." It was comical how many times people would come up and this situation would play out:

Person to Sister: "Oh, you are soooooo pretty."

Sister: "thanks!"

Person: (turning to me with a look of something less than excitement) "Hello." (Sometimes the "hello " would be "You have gotten tall," "You are so tall," "My goodness you are tall.")

As an adult I start to sort of see where all this came from. My sister was normal. She didn't have any strange objects stuck to her body in an effort to straighten anything out. I had an unfortunate set of teeth as a child. I could not even close my mouth. Picture day was always a huge let down. Retakes was just the day I strove to look good. I always knew it was coming, me in the room with all the kids that were sick on original picture day. One year I thought I looked especially stylish in my Simpson's sweater. Not sweatshirt. Sweater. I gave my best smile and the picture lady,or "self-esteem assassin" as I call her, said "maybe you should smile with your mouth closed." With my teeth playing peek- a -boo out of my lips, I embarrassingly said "I am."

My teeth were not the only things out of alignment. I had scoliosis. I had to wear a back brace for a while. Although I wore it under my clothes, it was still incredibly stupid! I even had to take it with me to church camp. I remember trying to figure out how I could hide it in my suitcase. I remember staying home the summer when I first got it. I would stay home in my back brace painting magnets all day. Yeah. That entire sentence sums up my coolness. I finally had back surgery to correct the problem.

After the surgery I got a different brace to wear. I remember being in a class that was mostly made up of cool kids. Some of the guys were tossing around a cat toy. It was a mouse or something that had a metal ball that jingled in it. I remember hearing someone shout "duck." I instantly quipped "I can't" as the cat toy struck me in the forehead. All the kids laughed. They pointed at me and laughed so hard they had to hold their stomachs. Actually, that last part is not true. That is what I FELT had happened. They might as well have poured blood on my head after they jokingly voted me prom queen. While there was laughter, there was nothing devious about it. It was all good, but I was mortified.

Death of the Dickie

I stopped wearing dickies shortly after my friend told me I should "stop being so uptight." She complained that I always wore headbands, dickies, and stirrup pants. My response to her was "why don't you stop being so stupid and needing tutorials before school?" This is, I hope, the meanest thing I have ever said to someone. When you are a nerdy girl with braces, scoliosis, dickies, stirrup pants, and headbands, the only thing you have in your arsenal to throw into someone's face is that you make A's. So public apology to this person for being such a meanie. Also, a public thank you for getting me out of a fashion trend that needed to die.

My fashions did not improve based on this argument ; they just changed. I specifically remember shopping for school clothes before starting junior high. My sister always wanted name brand stuff. Since we would get to spend the same amount of money, she would end up with a few pair of Girbaud or Z Cavaricci jeans and some Converse. I would end up with about 400 new items from K-Mart. To me it is quantity over quality. To this day I prefer it this way. If anyone ever needs a Christmas gift idea for me, get me 25 things out of the dollar bin at Michaels. It will be the best gift ever.

Back to clothes. This particular school year rolled around and I was super pumped up to go shopping at K-Mart. I was throwing rompers and skorts in the basket like a crazy looter. I remember standing in the mirror looking at myself in a long sleeve denim shirt, a pair of denim shorts, and a pair of hiking boots thinking "yep, this is definitely a contender for the first day of school."

Nothing highlights the fact that you have scoliosis like a skort. A skort is the mullet of fashion. It is a party in the front and casual in the back. From the front you may have not noticed that my right hip was a couple inches higher than my left. From the back....not so much.

I think in high school things started to turn around for me. I had a better time dressing myself. From high school on, it seems people actually like my clothes. The only problem is I cannot take a compliment. If anyone ever says they like something I have on, I tell them how cheap it is and how I got it at Target "a 100 years ago." If anyone ever tells me they like my hair, I will tell them it is dirty. I must learn to just say "thank you" and leave it at that.

Wind Suits and Dickies

As a child, I had these neighbors that were the coolest people ever. While my parents were listening to Doug Stone, these neighbors P&D we will call them, were listening to the Beatles, CSNY, and the Counting Crows. They drank long island iced teas while jamming to Pink Floyd. This made them completely awesome. I remember one time P&D got me a wind suit for my birthday. This wind suit was so beautiful, I thought. I actually went to get it tailored. Yes, you read this correctly. I got a wind suit tailored. Getting a wind suit tailored should tell you two things about me: A) I was that tall and skinny that a wind suit was noticeably ill fitting enough to get it tailored and B) I cared that much about a wind suit to put forth the effort to take it to a tailor. Granted I was probably in fifth grade, so there was a parent enabling me by driving me to Dunlaps to get this done. It is still completely and utterly ridiculous that I would wear this wind suit along with a turtleneck to a school dance. A wind suit is totally appropriate for certain situations. Now I can see, a school dance is not one of those situations.

Turtlenecks were so cumbersome. This was probably one of the few times I went for the full turtleneck. Most of the time, and by most of the time I mean practically every day between October and March, I sported a dickie. A dickie, for those of you who are unaware, is a mock turtleneck. It has the same great style and flare as a turtleneck but not the bother of the oh so obtrusive sleeves. It is just a neck piece really. I had one in every color. The best part about my dickie collection was that it was not just me who wore them. My entire family was proud to sport a dickie. I don’t mean that we were the family that all wore dickies in our family picture. Heavens no. We were too cheap to buy that many matching dickies. We just shared. Mom, dad, sister, and myself all shared the same green dickie and at Christmas time this became a difficult task. So many flashy Christmas sweaters that would benefit from the addition of a dickie. We made due. I finally gave up the dickie…that is a story for another day.