DISCLAIMER:  I share my writing on this platform since there is a high probability it will never find its way into a book. You are here because you clicked on a link. I am not forcing you to read these excerpts from my life as I remember them. I understand there are multiple versions of any shared experience, and this is just one version. I change names where possible to protect identities and request that you do not try to "reveal" them. I am not out to hurt anyone, but I do love me some sarcastic humor and creative license...hope the difference comes across. If you are offended by or don't agree with something in my writing that you chose to read, I 100% decline to care and 25% suggest you start your own blog. Sometimes I swear or talk about things that might make you uncomfortable, like religion and my vagina. If that last sentence made you slightly uncomfortable, this is probably a great stopping point for you. However, if you choose to continue reading, please do so respectfully so this site can continue to be a safe space.

​Boys and Girls

I don’t think I was one of those girls with “daddy” issues. But for some reason I chose to be one of those girls with a perpetual older boyfriend. It sounds snotty to say I was mature for my age, but I was (hair flip). I spent most of my teenage years biding my time until I could finally fly the coup. Maybe I thought older boys were my ticket out of town, maybe I hated being alone, maybe I liked being the sole focus of someone’s attention, or maybe I didn’t want to bother making BFF girlfriends. I still haven’t really cracked the case, but the fact remains that I have not really been “single” for any significant period of time since I was 13 years old. The following is a list of the boys I busied myself with over the years. There were other flings here and there, but these are the “landmark” fellows. Please keep in mind while reading (and this is no excuse) that when measured against the girls I grew up with and the town I grew up in, my antics were relatively normal, if not vanilla. If you come from a dirty little town, you tend to do dirty little things to pass the time. The thing that makes me sad is this: all these guys, with the exception of one, genuinely loved me. But for some reason, I repeated the pattern of slowly making them suffer until I was ready to try something else. I was a man-eater and I didn’t even know it. The thing that makes me even more sad is this: if I wouldn’t have been so scared of being alone, and if I would have actually tried spending any amount of time getting to know myself, I may have realized I didn’t need them to fill in some imaginary hole in my life, thereby preventing years of pain and suffering for all parties involved. I won’t make assumptions that any of these guys even care about my wrong-doings at this point, but I do still carry with me the residual guilt of being such a dishonest person and the shame of being so horrible to people who loved me. Not to mention I am embarrassed for being somewhat of a teenage hoe-bag.

John: He was about 16, I was about 13, and my mom was about to shit a brick. This guy had no business being with someone my age, but in his defense, someone my age had no business being at the party where we first met. We clung to each other for a couple years, me for the reasons listed above, him for reasons having to do with trying to take my virginity, bless his heart. J/k, he really loved me, I think. Due to my parents‘ legitimate concern over our relationship, I somehow found myself turning into some sort of secret agent in order to spend time with him and experiment with the sensations I was having between my legs. Sometimes I look back on my time with John and I am repulsed. I think I may have given him a blow job in the back of a church van, but the memory is fuzzy due to years of trying to block it out. Other times, I find a sweet little silver lining of tenderness. Many nights I found myself scooting down the hallway stairs one-by-one on my butt so the floorboards wouldn’t creak, then slipping out of the garage door into the night where John would be waiting at the school across the street. He spread out blankets and we would lay there under the vast black starry sky keeping each other warm and listening only to the sounds of a train rolling through town every half hour. Even though it was a wildly inappropriate relationship, those particular memories remain clear in my mind and I think of them fondly.

Check back next week for Boys and Girls - Part 2

DISCLAIMER:  I share my writing on this platform since there is a high probability it will never find its way into a book. You are here because you clicked on a link. I am not forcing you to read these excerpts from my life as I remember them. I understand there are multiple versions of any shared experience, and this is just one version. I change names where possible to protect identities and request that you do not try to "reveal" them. I am not out to hurt anyone, but I do love me some sarcastic humor and creative license...hope the difference comes across. If you are offended by or don't agree with something in my writing that you chose to read, I 100% decline to care and 25% suggest you start your own blog. Sometimes I swear or talk about things that might make you uncomfortable, like religion and my vagina. If that last sentence made you slightly uncomfortable, this is probably a great stopping point for you. However, if you choose to continue reading, please do so respectfully so this site can continue to be a safe space.

The Ugly… (Continued from Part 2: The Bad - Click to read)

Mom: I am able to take my religious experiences with a grain of salt. It was what it was. I am who I am in part to its influence, good or bad. But I can not forgive religion for destroying my relationship with my mother beyond repair. You’ll hear a lot more about Mom as you turn the pages of this book (or scroll down the screen - whatever the kids are doing these days). But I feel it’s worthwhile to give you the starter package before we upgrade to the pro version: 

With the best intentions, my mom set out to build a wall-o-Christianity around her children. She had been through enough shit in her life to know the world was a cruel, mean place and the only place she felt safe was inside this wall. This was a place where disappointment and unhappiness could be justified with patience and sacrifice. This was a place where questions would be quieted with scripture and fear would be rewarded with love. This place was as good as any when I was little. I was fed, clothed, and sheltered. I felt safe, I felt loved, I behaved. But there came a time when I realized I belonged to myself, not my mother. And I wanted the FUCK.OUT. I was a born creator and performer; my mind asked question after question, my eyes looked for new colors, my ears ached for more notes. There was no way I could stay in that cocoon and be happy with my life. As I got older, I had to make a decision: sneak back and forth over the God wall when and only when Mom wasn’t looking, or tell her I didn’t want to be there in the first place. I eventually chose the latter (ladder) and climbed over that wall for good. This was viewed by Mom as an ultimate act of betrayal. She took it personally. She demanded explanations and when those explanations weren’t good enough she demanded more explanations. It came to a point where we couldn’t, and didn’t, communicate at all. How can you communicate with someone who refuses to acknowledge that a different belief system is just as valid as their own? You can’t. So you don’t. And the tragedy of it all is this: if I had “turned out” the way my mom wanted - she would have been the best mother. So proud of me. So warm. So loving. We would have sent each other letters in the mail, full of scriptures and interesting tidbits from that month’s Focus on the Family newsletter. But I didn’t turn out. I entered adulthood feeling like a burnt batch of cookies. Damaged goods. As a result, “unconditional love” was too much to ask. Sure, she used the phrase a lot in emails and letters and conversations. I knew she loved me just as much as I knew I still loved her. Neither one of us could feel it though. Why? Because of that damn wall. It became the condition - the barrier that refused to let love travel through it. And that, my friends, is why I can’t get on board with any religion that looks more like a fort than a welcome mat.

Keeping it Real: Look, believe what you want. I’m not here to tell you what to do. But could you at least have some manners about it? And maybe find a way to acknowledge the someone else’s current reality even if goes against your beliefs? My fellow Christian Americans - please tell me how you can sing along to Elton John (I know you have), watch Ellen (I know you do), be nice to your gay neighbors at the grocery store (You might have actually been flirting), and then turn around and ignore or shame your gay relatives to the point of suicide. After I told my mom I was engaged, she decided to refer to my fiancee as my friend because she couldn't handle the fact (yes, fact) that I am engaged to a woman. My lady has it worse; her parents refuse to acknowledge my existence at all. If you’re trying to make a loved one feel unloved, you’re knocking it out of the park with this behavior.  But if you’re trying to be a loving man or woman of God, there is some disconnect here. I can’t figure out why some Christians think acknowledging reality suddenly makes them a PFLAG ambassador. It doesn’t. And guess what? Sacrificing reality for a delusional dreamland where everyone around you suffers just so you can earn your martyr card doesn’t make you a Jesus ambassador, either. It just makes you rude. I’m talking to you, Kim Davis.

​You Gotta Serve Somebody: I spend a lot of time wondering where I stand on the topic of religion and spirituality. The truth is, I don’t stand anywhere. I float. I don’t appreciate the fact that, as an extension of my estrangement with my mother, so many people who know me might describe me as godless. Once, a person on Facebook asked me what I believe in. I answered “not nothing.” I believe evolution and creation and God and universe and love are all interchangeable words. I believe love is the absence of walls. I believe prayer and positive energy are the same thing. I believe that souls move through space with the “soul” purpose of evolving. I believe we have only scratched the surface of understanding anything about everything, and that is how it is supposed to be. I am fascinated by time because I feel absolutely constricted by it but simultaneously suspect that it’s a completely imagined concept. I believe in the power of ambiguity and the necessity of opposites. I believe in order and chaos. I believe I am a piece of God, representative of God, and vehicle for God. I believe that being vulnerable to yourself, to others, and to the present moment are all equally valid ways to become closer to God. I believe that one can demonstrate godliness via gratitude and giving and self-reflection and self-care and writing and art and music and forgiveness and compassion and acceptance and letting go. I am God. And so are you. But I'll never try to force you to believe that. 

DISCLAIMER:  I share my writing on this platform since there is a high probability it will never find its way into a book. You are here because you clicked on a link. I am not forcing you to read these excerpts from my life as I remember them. I understand there are multiple versions of any shared experience, and this is just one version. I changed names to protect identities and request that you do not try to "reveal" them. I am not out to hurt anyone, but I do love me some sarcastic humor and creative license...hope the difference comes across. If you are offended by or don't agree with something in my writing that you chose to read, I 100% decline to care and 25% suggest you start your own blog. Sometimes I swear or talk about things that might make you uncomfortable, like religion and my vagina. If that last sentence made you slightly uncomfortable, this is probably a great stopping point for you. Talkin' to you, dad. :) However, if you choose to continue reading, please do so respectfully so this site can continue to be a safe space.

The Bad… (Continued from Part 1: The Good - Click to read)

Preacher Man: I don’t even know how it works when it comes to preachers. Our town was so small we didn’t have our own homegrown version, so maybe we ordered ours through some Baptist catalog? (If that is a real thing, I hope they call it J.C. Plenty). Roy Little was our preacher’s name. I'm not sure how we got stuck with this dude, but surely we lost some sort of Hunger Games-style lottery. Maybe he was all we could afford. A clergy clearance sale, perhaps. Roy was a part-time pest control man, which made sense to me. He seemed sneaky and slimy and creepy and all the other things one might associate with insects and rodents and varmints. It did not make sense to me that he was a preacher. His sermons packed judgment and lacked character, just like him. Once after church I heard him telling people how he refused to give a dying man CPR because he was afraid he’d get sued. Maybe he thought the saying was "What Would Jesus Do Not Resuscitate."  

Praised and Confused: You have a free will. But be careful with that thing, because God knows how you plan on using it. If you do that thing you’re not supposed to do, even though God knows you’re going to do it, you’re gonna get punished. Don’t worry, though, God is totes forgiving. But he will straight up torch your ass for the rest of time if you forget to ask for forgiveness. Be not afraid though, God loves everyone equally and so should we. But we should hate the crap out of their sins. Not only in church and in the privacy of our own homes, but also in legislation. Especially legislation. We need it to keep the devil from controlling the world with his flock of homos, jews, whores, abortion doctors, a-rabs, liberals, and starving kids in China and Africa, bless their hearts. Can you believe they allow sex education in schools? Can you believe scientists try to discover the origin of life when all along the story of Adam and Eve is just spelled out clear as day? Can you believe everyone else in the world is so wrong about religion and we are so lucky to be so right about everything? Blind faith, bi-yotch. Let’s close our eyes and talk about gold streets and pearly gates and paired-off animals and trumpets and choirs and clouds, followed by some good-old fashioned discussion of fear-based eternal damnation. Shh, let’s not talk about science. Or shellfish. Or context. Or history. Or education. Or racism. Or sexism. Or classism. Or violence. Or hypocrisy. Or critical thinking. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Shh. Praise the Lord ‘cause I said so. Vote yes cause Pat Robertson said so. Glory, gory Hallelujah.

Let’s (not) Talk About Sex, Baby: Religion fucked me up when it came to fucking. I was brought up on this concept called abstinence. You’ve probably heard of it, but just in case, here’s the gist when taught in a religious household: you keep you legs and your mind completely closed until your wedding day so no one gets knocked up. In return, God turns into Willy Wonka and rewards you with a golden ticket into heaven. In middle school my mom pulled me from my school’s required sex education class. This was fine with me since the last thing I wanted to do was learn how to put a condom on a banana in front of my peers. This particular moment in time coincided with puberty and as a result, I felt two conflicting identities forming inside me:

There was the identity that wanted to believe practicing abstinence was the only way I would not be a disappointment to my parents or to God. If I could just keep a penis out of my vagina until I was married, my soul would be saved and my parents would be happy. What’s more, I could gift my vagina to my husband on our wedding night like a brand new X Box, and he would love and respect me even more for doing so. I believed this shit, and it destroyed me for the next, oh I don't know, DECADE AND A HALF.

Believing in the abstinence method didn’t mean I was successful at it. (By the way, I would like to know the number of people who have been successful at it by choice. I bet they could all fit in one single Cheerio). It only served to confuse and shame the part of my identity that was completely controlled by hormones. I didn’t know what the hell was happening inside my body, but I was compelled to find out. This was before kids my age had access to smartphones or tablets or knew what “Clear Browser History” meant. If I wanted to search-engine my sexuality, I would've had to do it on the one family computer sitting in the middle of our living room using AOL on a dial-up connection. That didn’t seem like a very discrete option, so I took matters into my own hands. Check that. I wish I would have taken matters into my own hands. I think a lot of my sexuality problems could have been avoided if I would have discovered masturbation sooner. I thought it was something only boys did. So I turned to my boyfriends for their expertise. I experimented sexually and secretively with all of them, to a point. You know which point. The point of no return. Every single sexual encounter, no matter how innocent or how risqué, was followed by mountains of guilt. I am a horrible person. I am going to hell. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I stop doing this? It's not like I'm even enjoying it that much. God must think I’m the weakest person he’s ever created. 

I was 18 years old when I had "real" sex for the first time with my boyfriend on the top bunk of my college dorm room after The Roots performed on our campus. I remember the concert vividly because Questlove threw his drumstick out in the crowd, and I fought some girl off me like a rabid animal so I could keep that splintered piece of wood forever. Maybe I was tired of fighting by the time we got back to my place. Maybe it was the 700 gallons of gin I drank that night. (Who do I think I am, Snoop Dogg? Maybe I do deserve to go to hell for drinking that shit.) I don't really remember the actual act of having sex, but knowing it happened was enough to devastate me for at least two weeks. From that point on, I continued to associate sex with guilt. I continued to believe the reason I wasn’t enjoying sex very much was because it was happening outside of marriage. God was not letting me enjoy it. I continued to lie and not ask my parents questions about sex because I was so afraid they would not be able or willing to field those questions without redirecting me back to the “because-God-said-so” explanation. It took me many years to learn that I am a human mammal whose body is naturally built to have and enjoy sex. 

Now I don’t want you to think I endorse the idea that parents should wave from their porches as their kids go skipping down the street with pockets full of condoms and birth control screaming “Who wants to fuck me!?” I can’t imagine how hard it must be to safely guide your child through puberty. If I ever have kids I fully intend on citing the scariest statistics I can find on teenage pregnancy and STDs. I will make Name-That-Disease flash cards using disgusting Google images of crabs and warts and such. I will borrow someone's baby for a week and make my kids change diapers all the livelong day. But just as much as I’ll want to teach them about the risk that comes with sex, I will also want to teach them about the rewards. Mostly, I'll want them to know that the sexuality discussion is allowed to be just that: a discussion. With multiple options, including abstinence as the star of the show. Like an Applebee's sampler platter, where abstinence is the chicken strips. The funny thing is, I really do believe that sex can be spiritual. But sometimes it’s just straight up Olivia Newton-John physical, and we all need to accept that.  

Check back next week for "Part 3: The Ugly" 

Church:
I have mixed feelings about the role church and religion played in my life. You know how sometimes when you go out to eat, you keep ordering the same meal, even though you know there’s something not quite right about it, even though you are fully aware your body will reject this meal, even though you are fully aware this meal will not leave your body without a fight? And as you pay your bill, you are in a full sweat, wondering if you’re even going to be able to make it back to the privacy of your own bathroom to have it out with this beast you voluntarily swallowed, or if you will have to live through the embarrassment of shitting your pants in public. Growing up, religion was like that big, dangerous plate of creamy fettuccine and funky alfredo that I always ordered, always ate, and could never digest properly.

The good…

Granny & Poppa: I got to spend so much time with my Granny and Poppa because of church. I got to sit next to my Granny and hold her hand and play with her long mauve (always mauve) fingernails, and lean on her shoulder and pass notes back and forth and see her play the piano and go to her Sunday School class and watch all the other kids, who also called her Granny, hang all over her. Looking back, it even felt good when she shushed me for whispering too loud with my friends during the sermon or when she barked at me to ‘pull up my britches.’ I didn’t interact with my Poppa so much as I observed him: the way he shook hands with everyone and meant it, the way he spoke to others with a kind heart, the way he laughed out loud at his own jokes. When we got a little older, my Granny would give us kids some money to run across the street for candy. He would always find an excuse to be outside at these times, just so he could keep a watchful eye on us. I see so many kids now who seem to have no watchful eyes on them…I wish everyone had a Granny and Poppa like mine. Every awful sermon I endured was worth it in exchange for the time I got to spend with them.

Education: My top childhood gratitude would have to be that my parents taught me how to read by the time I was four. By the time I got to kindergarten, I was nose-deep in any book I could find. Sunday School became an extra day each week for me to practice reading, writing, vocabulary, public speaking, critical thinking, working in a group, asking questions (not that they were satisfactorily answered), and being creative. That shit is priceless in this world. Not to mention I kick major ass in all the Bible-related categories on Jeopardy. That shit is priceless in my world.

For Goodness Sake:  I am a good person. Mostly. I guess. I don’t know, you can decide when you’re done reading this. I could be wrong, but I think I am I good person because of lessons I learned in church and from my read-the-bible-every-day religious mother, go-to-church-three-times-a-week religious grandparents, and pray-before-every-basketball-game religious dad. It was like someone was constantly spraying a god-flavored air freshener in my atmosphere. Sure, it was full of destructive byproducts but it made the world smell a little bit better, ya dig? I learned a lot about unconditional love, honesty, forgiveness, and most importantly, compassion. I learned about making an effort to practice these values, even if you can’t perfect them. I learned that perfection itself wasn’t an option, but the ambition to work toward goodness was a requirement. I learned that I was no better than any other person. But I also learned about conviction and knew that no other person was better than me. I learned about the comfort of community and the power of positive thinking. I knew the importance of letting go. (Let’s be real though, I didn’t quite get the hang of that one ’til I started seeing a therapist). From a young age I made a decision to be good for goodness sake, and I think that had a lot to do with the fact I was surrounded by so many good, God-loving people.

Grandma: Loved unconditionally. Laughed always. Gave birth to five children over twenty years, give or take. Mom was the youngest. Kept books and kept house on the farm. Shared the greatest love I have ever witnessed with her husband. Baked up a storm and always let us lick the frosting off the mixer. Taught me how to catch butterflies and how to play solitaire and pick-up sticks. Sat with me on a wobbly piano bench and showed me how to play easy duets. I didn’t know it was the B flat yet, but that was the one that always stuck so I used it to find my place. Always stopped to smell the roses. Literally, she would stop to smell any rose that crossed her path. One of her favorite activities was swimming in a creek with all her clothes on during family camping trips. Spent the last ten years of her life surrendering her brain slowly to a ruthless dictator named Alzheimer. Used to write “Look to the Lamb of God” over and over again on the bathroom wall. When her mind was completely gone, we took her body and spirit to Hospice and waited. I know her spirit was still there because she waited too. She waited for my grandpa to come to her bedside and say goodbye before she finally accepted death. When my mom got home that day she sat in our living room recliner and made sounds that I’ve never heard before or since.

Poppa: Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Worked his ass off until he found himself retired. Drank his ass off until he found himself Jesus. Taught me how to recite the alphabet backwards (which I can most certainly do faster than you). Used to “count ribs” in attempts of getting in some good tickles. Would drive by our house every time he heard an ambulance just to make sure we were okay. Gladly accepted my weekly kiss on his forehead as soon as I grew tall enough to place them there. Would announce to the church congregation which page to turn their hymnal to and sing along as my Granny’s wrinkled fingers would play “How Great thou Art” and “Nearer my God to Thee” on the piano while I taught myself to harmonize in the back pew. Joked around about riding a buffalo across America and always asked me if I know so-and-so who used to be stationed down in San Diego. Traded his traditional Sunday suit for a Mr. Rogers-style cardigan over a button-down shirt. A few months ago Granny had some health scares resulting in a few ER trips and a pacemaker. The trauma of these events seemed to short circuit Poppa’s brain yet again, only this time we think it’s for good. I hate that I can’t remember every single detail of the last time I saw him as himself. Now all I see is suffering. Time can be such a cruel motherfucker.

These days, parents stick an ipad in their kids' hands to shut them the eff up. In my day (oh my god, I can’t believe I said that and we’re only a few pages in) it was samesies but with back yards. Now I know “go in the back and play” means “I literally can not handle any more noises coming out of your mouth.” But I was none the wiser as a kid, and back yards never seemed like a punishment so I always happily obliged when given my orders. 

I grew up in three houses. The back yard of house number one, although no bigger than the average back yard, felt like the size of a Ringling Bros. Circus because I had a tiny body and a massive imagination. There was a sandbox with a swing set (awesome), a playhouse my sister and I could fit in at the same time (awesome) and a tall slide made out of metal (awesome, unless you forgot to run the water hose down it first on a hot day). On any given day, the sand box could be a snake-filled quicksand pit, the swing set a pirate ship, the playhouse a restaurant, and the slide a lookout for intruders. When it got too hot, we'd retreat to the shaded patio, suck water from the hose for ten Mississippi's, and stoop down on our hands and knees to work on pastel chalk murals or play gigantic games of hang-man on the cement. That back yard was our territory, and we ruled with authority and conviction. If you didn't follow our rules, we'd send your ass home without a turn on the slip n' slide. Even our parents knew to tread lightly. One summer day, my dad accidentally broke our blue plastic wading pool. We screamed and cried and made him promise to replace it. He never fulfilled that debt, but he sure received some serious 'tude about it for years to come.

The second back yard was just huge; it had nothing to do with its proportion to me. Two large patios, a giant lawn lined with tart but edible cherry plum trees, and a gated pool with a diving board. A pool! With a diving board! I was in kid heaven. (Plus this more than made up for the plastic pool our dad "owed" us.) Our kitchen door opened to a little porch on the side patio. A phone was mounted to the wall inside, and the cord would reach all the way to the first step of the stoop. I felt so mature accepting phone calls from my bestie girlfriends and gentlemen callers, closing the door behind me, petting my dog and squishing ants with my toes as we discussed important matters of the day like who wore what and who liked who. On the other side of the house, another door gave way to a tiny bathroom, where anyone who didn’t have the sense to pee in the pool could enter in their dripping swimsuit. Directly in the back of the house was a sliding glass door that looked out onto a patio and adjacent pool. It was here I broke my arm whilst decorating for a joint birthday pool party. I fell from a wobbly bench and nearly fainted at the sight of my radius doing a backbend underneath my skin. My mom rushed me to the hospital even though there was no emergency room in our town. We waited for the doctors to finish their lunch, then one finally came in to reset my arm. Now it was mom’s turn to nearly faint. Only her nearly was an actually. They had to use smelling salts and everything. The worst part of this day? We couldn’t cancel the party because it was also in honor of my best friend, who did not break her arm decorating. I have one specific shitty memory of watching breaking OJ Simpson news coverage in the living room while my friends did cannon balls into my dang pool. That was about as “not fair” as life got at that age, so I guess you could say I was pretty lucky.

The third back yard was mostly an escape/escapade route for my pubescent years. One gate swung out into the alley. This is where I would meet my first official 7th grade boyfriend for some early morning make-out seshes, braces and all. A huge orange tree overproduced and shat out the most disgusting produce you’ve ever tasted in your life. The old wooden decking was a minefield for stubbed toes and splinters. I think a gang of wasps is running the show back there now. When mom left, dad pretty much let it go to shit. My dog died here. My family did too, in a way.

When I turned 18, I left my tiny town to get a degree in Los Angeles. When I turned 22, I left my college town to be an adult in San Diego. The idea of having a back yard is pretty much laughable now. I don’t think they exist here unless you’re made entirely of money and/or good fortune. Hopefully one day I'll figure out how to acquire a back yard so the children I'm also trying to figure out how to acquire can flee there to escape my wrath. Otherwise we'll just drive to the beach and call it San Diego's back yard. Close enough.

A Sister’s Love: The house directly across the street could never hold down its tenants. One time a family moved in for like five minutes. They had a daughter who was my age, and we established a friendship before her bags were unpacked. I don’t remember her name - does that make me a bad friend? The rule in my family was you were not allowed to go into anyone else’s house without asking. One hot summer day, mystery neighbor and I were thirsty, so we walked into her kitchen to fill our cupped hands with ice from the fancy new ice-maker in her fridge. Said fridge was maybe 10 inches away from the door leading out to the driveway where we were playing. I saw my sister watch the entire event from our front yard, then run back into our house. “That bitch is going snitch,” I thought to myself but in a more G-rated way. I hadn’t taken up swearing yet, out loud nor in my head. Sure enough, when I walked into the house, Haley was crying in my mom’s arms. That bitch did snitch. After I got my ass handed to me, I hissed at her, “Why did you do that?” Her dramatic, weepy-eyed response: “I only told because I love you!”  She’s been doing lots of other stuff because she loves me ever since.

Our neighborhood could have been a set from The Wonder Years. Every summer, my sister and I romped around until supper time with the boys from across the street. Matt was the oldest and therefore the coolest. Junior lived next door to him and loved all things basketball. Once we took him on a family vacation to one of my dad’s coaching clinics in Las Vegas. He reached brotherly status during that long car ride through the desert when he peed on me during a tickle fight with my dad. Dan was the youngest and had a crush on me. But I was more interested in timed bike rides around the block than I was in boys. One time Matt rigged up a wire from the roof of his house to a tree in his back yard and we took turns hanging onto a pair of handle bars and flying from end to end. I bit off more adventure than I could chew, lost my grip and fell flat on my back. I couldn’t move. Matt freaked out because he thought my parents would kill him for letting me Evel Knievel my way to paralysis at the tender age of under ten. He picked me up and carried me home. When my mom opened the door he handed me over to her, cried like a baby and begged forgiveness. I was doing my own stunts again in less than 24 hours.

Waffle Feet: We used to have one of those floor heaters built into the actual floor of our house. Whatever genius came up with that brilliant idea is lucky people weren’t so sue-happy in the 80’s. Every year, there was always that fateful winter day when we carelessly rounded the corner and were branded by the scalding metal grates.  Waffle Feet.