I Used to Think...

Write for 10 minutes using, "I used to think..." as your starter.

I used to think that "DO NOT PASS" road signs meant that you were not supposed to pass the sign. I thought my dad was crazy for breaking a law that was so clear.

I also used to think that "PASS WITH CARE" road signs meant that you could pass the sign but only if you cared a whole lot about something, although I wasn't sure what. So, each time we passed by this sign, I would hold my hands in prayer and look to the sky (I guess to god) and say quietly to myself, "I DO care, I DO care..."

I used to think that I would never get married. I thought this when I was growing up and my sister and I would look through JC Penny's catalogs and write down all the things that we wanted to buy for our house when we grew up. I would always buy things for the kids, but never even considered that there would be a man living in the house or that he might have an opinion.

I used to think that my sister was lying to me about sex. I always thought that there was no way people would do something that disgusting. I realized she was telling the truth one day when her good friend, who will remain nameless (because I can't remember his name), brought over a porno video in a large white video case that read "hard core". Huh, I guess people actually do that.

I used to think that god would answer my every wish. I guess I thought he was a genie, not a deity. I prayed one night for a barbie house to appear on my doorstep. I could barely sleep all night, I was so excited for my new barbie house. Oh, the things I could play with that! I woke up early the next day and opened the door to....nothing. It was then that my dad explained to me that if I wished for 10 skirts, god may only give me one, because that was all that I really needed. So, god must have thought that I didn't really need the barbie house. I didn't buy that...I DID need a barbie house.

I used to think that if I said "Bloody Mary" ten times in the mirror at midnight, a scary, bloody lady would appear in the mirror and probably jump out of it and kill me. So, I never said it.

I used to think it was amazing that my mom was never accused of a crime that she didn't commit. It happened so often on TV, I guess she let me watch too many crime dramas. No more Perry Mason, mom!

I used to think that my mom knew it all...we probably all thought that about our moms.

I used to think that even though we fought as kids, my sister and I would be friends as adults. We're not.

I used to think that my best friend's deceased uncle was actually talking to us through her Ouija Board.

I used to think that NPR was for old people. Now I love it.

I See London, I See France...

After witnessing an unfortunate "I see London..." incident on a windy day, I was reminded of how smart I am to make the declaration that I will never wear a skirt. Here are my many reasons for not engaging in this female tradition:

1. Windy days (formerly my #6 reason).

2. If Lily can pull my shirt down to my navel, I can only assume she could pull a skirt up to it.

3. It gets cold here in Ohio and I don't think jeans under a skirt are cute when you're 30.

4. Bird legs. Not tweety bird legs. Big, meaty chicken drumstick legs.

5. You can't ride a bike in a skirt (this is also on my list of why I never ride a bike)

6. Bruises on my legs. Always. I am not anemic. I am not clumsy. I am not abused. I don't know how this could be, but it is.

7. Upskirt shots. I'm pretty famous and you never know when the paparazzo is right around the corner.

Our Dog, Merry

Is how we raise our dog any indication of what kind of parents we'll be? We have a five year old border collie, Merry, that we both love dearly (or, at least my husband does). We've had her since she was 8 weeks old and we were as excited as new parents. She was our baby. Our pride and joy.

This just begs the question, is how we raise our dog any indication of what kinds of parents we'll be? Never mind that we've never been able to keep a plant alive for longer than a day or even a fish alive for longer than a month (even those super-hardy gold fish). But, our precious little pooch has been alive and well for 5 years under our care...not so bad.

Here's a list of things that we've done to ensure her health and happiness:

We praise her for begging for food (at least she's not barking, right?)

Her training leash is on 24/7 (how else could we control her?)

We were always firm on NOT giving her people food, but we let her lick our plates (see #1)

She gets a walk probably about 50 times/year (no wonder she has all this crazy energy).

We lock her in our bedroom for 8 hours a day while we're at work (sorry pooch, we actually do feel bad about this one).

When we first got her, she used to bite our toes. I threatened to throw her out the window. I still do threaten this. Daily.

She scavenges in the garbage regularly.

Her punishment is to be shut into the bathroom.

She walks into the bathroom all by herself when she's been bad.

She likes to chew coins.We give her treats when she chews coins (so she'll let go of them!).

Daddy is definitely her playmate, and I am her caretaker (which may explain why she doesn't get her nails cut, is rarely brushed, and hasn't been bathed in months. She also had tuna breath, which we can't figure out, but keep hoping it will just get better).

She eats her own puke (all dogs do this, right?).

Worst Food Ever

What's the worst food you've ever eaten?

I love strawberries....I mean I really really LOVE strawberries. A couple of years ago when I bit into one of these delicious little fruits and pulled it away from my mouth, chewing my soft, sweet bite, I looked at what was left of the strawberry to my horror. Not only was the inside rotten and black, it contained small, black bugs! I didn't eat another strawberry the rest of that season. Predictably, however, I could not resist when my favorite fruit came back on the market the next year. But still to this day I carefully inspect every strawberry and have a much more tentative bite.

Panic Attack

I hold the door as she walks through, without so much as a thank you and she takes a right, heading for the street. “Where would you like to go? You probably know this neighborhood better than I do.”

“I…um…don’t really know. Whatever you like is fine. I don’t usually eat out of the office. It…uh…doesn’t really matter.” I stammer across my words as I want to kick myself in the ass for saying such a jumbled sentence. The words never can properly come out.

She suggests that we lunch at a local bread shop, claiming that they have the most terrific warm sandwiches. As we walk through the front door, the odor of the coffee immediately fills my nose. I wince with disgust. But this is a place that she enjoys, and I will live with it. I squint my eyes at the bright lights highlighting the day’s bread specials. The smell of coffee and cigarette smoke enters my pores. My head whirls around to avoid inhaling it directly.

I divert my head to the cackling women on their lunch hour, sipping coffee that steams up their glasses. Wearing their power suits, trying not to spill the hot liquid on their dark skirts. Shoes clicking on the hard stone floor. A couple close to the door stand up, their chairs screeching and my ears wince in pain and I close my eyes. As I reopen them, I see the lights. The bright lights are burning into my skin. My heart is pounding in my chest and my breathing barely escapes my mouth. It’s tight. Too tight. My chest cannot take the pounding. The oven beeps, a lady hollers obscenities as she spills coffee on her dress. So many breads, so much to look at. Rows and rows to choose from. Too much to chose from. I spot the menu on the wall behind the cashier. Handwritten in chalk and spreading the length of the wall. Too big, the words are a blur. They swirl in circles around my head just as the coffee steams into my pores. The sound of noisy cashiers ringing up sales then yelling the order like slaves to their customers.

Calmly, in a way that I cannot understand, Maya orders a double latte and a #34 sandwich with extra mustard. My head whirls as I search for the #34. Whatever it is, I should just say the same thing. I cannot concentrate long enough to see the damn menu. It’s swirling in my head and I have to get out. Too loud. Too busy. Too many people. That’s enough. “THAT’S ENOUGH!” Those words were shouted from my mouth. And before I realized that I even said them, the entire café became quiet. The lights seemed dimmer. The noise completely halted. No more cackling. No more screeching chairs. Lots of eyes. Eyes burning a hole in my back, my sides. My hands are shaking and I want to crumble. My heart quickens to a pace that I’m sure will overload it within seconds. My shoulders hunch, I put my hands over my ears and peer at the terrible stone floor as I walk out.

Clowny Puke Incident

I remember the Clowny Puke Incident like it was yesterday. I was only 6 years old and had just started a new kindergarten after my parents divorced. It was my first show-and-tell since my sixth birthday and I knew immediately what I would bring. My Clowny.

My Clowny was wonderful!! He had bright red hair and wore a blue jumpsuit that included an assortment of fasteners: ties, buttons, zippers, snaps and velcro on his suit and shoes.

The day came and I was nervous. There would be a roomful of other kindergarteners staring back at me and they would expect me to talk about my beloved toy. First was Andrew with his favorite picture that he drew of a rainbow. Oh, how I hated Andrew with his perfect, thin-lined rainbows. The only rainbows I could draw had large, clunky lines with too-dark crayon. Diplomatic as I was, however, I smiled and ooohed and ahhed appropriately with the other children. Next, it was my turn.

As I stood up in front of the 25 5-year-olds, Mrs. Wilson smiled at me and my new toy. I explained in a quiet voice that my Uncle Mike got him for me and I named him Clowny. The children were impressed as I snapped every snap and buttoned every button. Then, it happened.

With just one question from my unsuspecting teacher did this memory stick in my mind for more than 20 years. She asked, simply enough, where do you keep Clowny? Proudly, I answered, on the floor in my closet. The children laughed. Mrs. Wilson roared. They were laughing at me. So I threw up. I couldn’t help it and didn’t even see it coming. If I had, I probably would have averted my mouth away from my poor Clowny.