The Time a Sponge Was Stuck in my Nose for THREE MONTHS

Ever the jokester, Bubba attempted to amuse me the other day with an age-old toddler trick: pretending to stick a jelly bean in his ear. To a normal mother, this type of silliness likely would have been met with a swift but gentle reminder that sticking foreign bodies into any of our orifices is a no-no, and then quickly forgotten.

Not me.

When I saw that jelly bean heading towards the dear lad’s ear, flashbacks came screaming into my mind like a shellshocked soldier, adrenaline rushed through my blood and I jumped into action, intercepting the candy mid-flight with cat-like reflexes. I may or may not have shouted “NOOOOOOOO DON’T DO THAT!” and had to resist the urge to chuck the jelly bean out the window like a grenade, nearly forgetting that the confection itself was not actually to blame for the near tragedy.

I realize that probably sounds like an over-reaction, but when you consider the fact that I once lived with a piece of a rotting sponge stuck in my nasal cavity for a quarter of a year, I think it’s perfectly reasonable.

The horror began innocently: picture a three-year-old me, happily enjoying a bath with my big sister on a totally ordinary evening. In lieu of bath toys that fateful night, my sister and I were enjoying a pack of those little sponges that start off in capsule form and then expand in the water — like these, except this particular assortment featured letters of the alphabet. Well, I don’t know if it was something in the sponges themselves, the bubble bath, our shampoo, or what, but those letters smelled divine. I couldn’t stop sniffing them…which would have probably been OK, had I not also been experimenting with tearing the sponges into smaller pieces.

It was only a matter of time before one of the pieces went right up my little nose mid-sniff. A piece of an N, to be specific. And I can assure you that it was an N and not an A or L or K or any other letter, because I spent the next three months telling anyone and everyone, “THERE’S AN ‘N’ IN MY NOSE!!!” over and over again in hopes that someone would free me from my spongy torment, to no avail.

Now, to be fair to my family — because you’re probably wondering what kind of horrid neglect I was enduring that resulted in me walking around with a goddamn sponge up my nose for any longer than three minutes, much less months on end — my mom did pry out the sponge immediately after the ruinous sniff. The problem was that she only pulled out part of it, not realizing that another piece remained lodged deep within my nasal cavity. I, of course, was well aware of the stranded fragment, being that I couldn’t breathe out of my nose, but she was unaware that her extraction had been incomplete. This little problem surely could have been quickly remedied, if not for the simple fact that I was three years old and lacked the verbal dexterity to properly articulate my plight. Perhaps if I’d said something like, “Mother darling, despite your best efforts, a small portion of the sponge you attempted to withdraw was inadvertently left within my nostril and further nasal examination is necessary,” I would have seen some results…but alas, I was three and the best I could come up with was “THERE’S AN ‘N’ IN MY NOSE!!!” and thus the sponge remained.

I suppose my family just thought I was insane.

It wasn’t until three months later when I sneezed (in church, no less!) and my mom nearly gagged from the foul odor that accompanied my mucus that the figurative lightbulb went off and she finally realized that the “N” I’d been babbling about was probably related to that sponge she thought she’d removed a whole freakin’ season prior. She marched me on over to the doctor the very next day, where, at long last, with the assistance of some very large tweezers and a blindingly bright light, the now-moldy sponge was freed from its sinus prison. I don’t remember much about the aftermath of this incident — my memories of The Great N-Sponge Tragedy of ’86 all focus on the frustration of trying to get someone to believe there was an N up there in the first place — but my mom reports that I sneezed incessantly for days, my nose probably ecstatic to have such freedom after so many months. It must have felt fantastic, and it’s really too bad I don’t remember that sweet relief.

(My mom, for the record, felt terrible. AS SHE SHOULD, SINCE HER CHILD HAD A ROTTING SPONGE UP HER NOSE FOR THREE MONTHS. Ahem. I love you, Mom.)

The good news is that this experience made a lasting impression on me: never again did I allow a small object to come within sniffing distance of my nose; I’m hesitant to even get a tissue too close, if we’re being honest. I’ve used the story as a cautionary tale for babysitting charges and young relatives many times over the years, and I was happy to share the tale with Bubba after he flirted with disaster with the jelly bean. He had a lot of questions about why I felt the need to sniff the sponge and why I had chosen an N instead of another letter, so I’m not entirely sure the point of the story really sunk in…but I can assure you of this: if he’s ever spouting nonsense about something being stuck anywhere in his body, whether it’s a letter N or a number 8 or an Elmo or a tree, I’m taking him to the damn doctor.

If nothing else, they can just confirm that he’s insane and at least I’ll know his sinuses are clear.

My mom did not have the foresight to take a photo of me on the doctor’s table mid-extraction (if Facebook had existed in the mid-eighties, surely she would have), so here’s a photo of me from the same era, playing with paper dolls and wearing some kind of bonnet.

Throwback Thursday: 8th Grade Mo Was the Mayor of Munchkin City (and a non-complainer)

In elementary school, I had four hobbies: reading¹, drinking Dr Pepper¹, playing softball, and participating in school plays. My interest in the latter began with my starring turn as the eponymous rabbit in my second grade class’s production of Bunny Sue (a performance that required a great deal of hopping and not much else) and did not wane until high school when I realized that being in possession of a booming speaking voice and having the ability to easily memorize lines did not necessarily make one a great actress². Over the years I performed in a number of theatrical masterpieces ranging from Old King Cole (I was the King himself and got to wear a crown!) to The Twelve Dancing Princesses (another crown!!) to some weird fantasy nonsense called The Evil Eye of Gondor that involved a bunch of townspeople standing up to some giant eyeball³ (I got to wear…a really boring tan tunic), and while I certainly preferred to be the star of the show, I always had a great time no matter what my role.

(As a sidenote, considering all the confidence and self-esteem issues I had as a child, my enjoyment of these plays and particularly my desire for leading roles is surprising to me in retrospect! It seems incongruous with everything I know about my former fragile emotional state. I’ll make a note of it for future analysis.)

By the time eighth grade rolled around, I was a seasoned veteran. When the local children’s community theater program announced that they’d be staging a production of The Wizard of Oz, I was beside myself with excitement: the chance to be in a play that was actually a real famous story and not just some inane drivel someone wrote specifically for schoolchildren to perform⁴! And surely it would provide the opportunity to wear some fantastic costumes! I could not wait for rehearsals to begin.

Now, while I mentioned earlier that my usual goal was to have the biggest part possible, I knew that in this case I’d have to be satisfied with some background work. Unlike all the other plays I’d been in, The Wizard of Oz is, of course, a musical. And musicals, obviously, require singing, and preferably by someone who can carry a tune. I am not that person. I know this. I have always known this. I had no delusions about my lack of talent and certainly had no aspirations of playing Dorothy or Glenda or any of those exciting roles, so when casting was announced and I saw that I’d been tasked with playing the Mayor of Munchkin City, I was perfectly happy. I had some fun lines to say and got to be in a number of major scenes — how could I complain?

And I was right about the costumes. My then-toddler cousin summed up my Mayor ensemble thusly: “Mo funny hat!”

above: greeting my family after one of the performances. My older sisters look like they thoroughly enjoyed the show, but the twins — especially Jamie there on the left — were clearly unimpressed; I can only assume they were jealous of my costume. Unfortunately for all of us, I was not permitted to keep the hat.

The best part about my experience in The Wizard of Oz wasn’t actually the lines or the hat or the performances themselves, although those were all quite exciting (especially that GIANT SILVER HAT⁵). About a week or so into rehearsals, the director pulled me aside during a break and asked me if I was happy with my part. Confused, I replied that of course I was pleased to play the Mayor (again, THAT HAT!) and was having a great time. He went on to inform me that I was virtually the only castmember who hadn’t come to him to complain about their role after casting — apparently, everyone was angling for better parts or more lines while I was just relieved that my complete lack of singing talent didn’t preclude me from participating altogether. He told me he appreciated my maturity and graciousness (direct quote!) and that I was doing a great job as the Mayor, then sent me on my way. The whole interaction lasted less than ninety seconds, but even 17 years later I remember it more vividly than I remember the play itself. There was something so validating about being complimented for simply being me (it had honestly never crossed my mind to complain or to be anything less than happy with what I was offered) — it’s a rare thing to have your disposition or temperament acknowledged, and I still count it as one of the best compliments I’ve received.

Seriously, though: who would complain about getting to wear that hat?

…………………………………

Footnotes:

¹My love of literature and sugary carbonated beverages persists to this day. Put them together and you’ve got my ideal Saturday afternoon! PARTY TIME!

²That said, I would kill to participate in a high school play right now. I’m pretty young-looking, right? I could totally pass.

³I am not exaggerating when I say that I literally have NO IDEA what that play was about. And I was in it! And played a principle role! No clue.

⁴I’m looking at you, Evil Eye of Gondor.

⁵It was really heavy.

Throwback Thursday: High School Mo Showed a Lot of Skin

The other night, my friend and I took a little journey down memory lane and pored through our senior yearbook.

Big mistake.

Apparently, I had forgotten that I had some serious sartorial crises in my teens — virtually every photo of me had us cackling while I cried, “what am I wearing?!” And I’m not just talking about your run-of-the-mill embarrassing teenaged fashion choices here, kids. My problem wasn’t wearing too much flannel or one too many pairs of overalls; no, my fashion crime was shopping exclusively in the slut section of Forever 21. According to the photo evidence, between the ages of 15 and 18 I found anything that covered up more than 15% of my body to be completely unacceptable. My midriff was constantly exposed. My necklines were so low no bra could possibly be contained. There were spaghetti straps at every turn. HELP!

The really baffling thing is that despite the skank-tastic wardrobe, High School Mo was a total square. I never went to parties, was shocked and scandalized at the thought of people my age having sex, and I most certainly did not have an endless string of potential suitors chasing after me. So what the hell was I doing dressing like 2007 Nicole Richie?!

Enjoy, for example, this backless little number that amounted to little more than a handkerchief and a couple of shoestrings:

I believe this photo was taken at a Souplantation, which makes it all the more cringe-worthy. Who wears club-wear to eat unlimited salad and chili?! Sixteen-year-olds who spend too much money at Forever 21, that’s who.

At least I didn’t wear that top to school, I suppose. Of course, my schoolwear wasn’t much better:

Not only is that a cropped turtleneck (who knew those existed?!), but it appears that I determined those ill-fitting jeans to be too high-waisted for my tastes, because I cut off the waistband. God forbid there be an extra inch of fabric in the 12″ expanse between my pants and my shirt — that would be hideous!

This next photo was technically taken sometime during my first year of college, but I most definitely wore this very outfit back in high school, so I am including it:

Is that a four-year-old’s shirt I’m wearing? Or the top half of a bathing suit, maybe? I’m pretty punk rock with that studded belt, at least.

Finally, I’ll leave you with this gem — my senior prom dress:

It’s backless (sadly not visible from this angle), there’s a slit practically up to my waist, and it cost me $17 at Charlotte Russe. I wore it to prom. Beat that, bitches.

How to Snag a Husband by Being Super Annoying

Nine years ago today, I drove from San Diego to Los Angeles, picked up my little sisters, and headed to Hollywood for a Bad Religion concert. The girls weren’t as awesome and hardcore as I was (ahem), so they opted to hang out in the back of the venue to enjoy the show from a safe distance while I pushed my way towards the stage in anticipation of singing and moshing along with my fellow BR-loving brethren. Since I was now sans my companions, I took it upon myself to chat with the person who was standing next to me while we waited for the band to start playing. In the course of our chit-chat, I bragged that I’d seen the band over twenty times (so charming!), at which point the guy turned to his friend and said, “hey, this chick has seen BR even more times than you!”

That friend is now my husband.

And how did I pull this off, you ask? BY BEING SUPER ANNOYING. If you’re one of the millions of frustrated singles out there, wishing you were in a relationship and wondering why you can’t seem to find a suitable mate, chances are that you’re simply not annoying enough. For example, it was my obnoxious insistence upon talking to my fellow concert-goers instead of just patiently awaiting the commencement of entertainment like a normal person that led to my conversation with TFW’s friend, and then my unprompted boasting about my dedication to the band compelled the fellow to draw his similarly-obsessed pal (TFW) into the fold. Perhaps he was just sick of talking to me and wanted to pawn me off on his friend, but no matter — had I kept quiet and waited for the music, I never would have met my future husband!

So as you can see, you’ve got to put yourself out there if you want to meet someone, and that means chatting up strangers whenever possible. However, you can’t just stop there! Your next step is to ensure future contact, and that means getting his contact information so you can bug him to go out with you later. And just so I’m crystal clear here, I must stress the importance of getting his information in addition to (or as opposed to) just giving him your info. What if he loses your number, or is too nervous or shy to contact you? If you have HIS info, you can take the reins and stalk him to your heart’s content! This proved to be a bit complicated in my case, since this was back in ancient times before everyone carried cell phones everywhere they went and neither of us had pens at the ready since we were, ya know, in the mosh pit of a punk rock concert, but luckily my mark happened to carry his business cards in his wallet and he was able to give one of those to me. I tucked that sucker in my pocket and guarded it with my life until I got home (WHAT IF I LOST IT?!), when I immediately fired up the computer and emailed him.

This brings me to my next tip, which is to bypass all “games” and “rules” (and “politeness”) and just contact the damn guy right away. Waiting three days to call?! Psssh. What if he meets someone else in the interim, or forgets how hot you are? DON’T RISK IT. If he thinks you’re a nutjob for contacting him so quickly (which you totally are, but that’s OK), then it’s his loss and you can move on. I emailed TFW literally within thirty minutes of arriving home that night, telling him I’d enjoyed meeting him and giving him a brief rundown of my life (remember, we’d only talked for about 90 seconds at the show) and included about thirty different ways he could contact me, then obsessively hit “refresh” on my inbox every thirty seconds for the next 24 hours. When he wrote back the next day with his instant messenger screen name (remember, kids, this was the olden days), I added him to my buddy list immediately and then stared at the computer screen until he finally signed on so I could pester him some more.

Unfortunately for me, my new love interest had flown to New York the day after our meeting to spend a week with his family, so I had to wait an agonizing eight days to actually lure him out for a date. Believe you me, had he been in town I would have insisted upon a meeting much sooner. Again, what’s the point of waiting? What are you waiting for? Nothing good can come from waiting. The faster you can get your hooks into your intended, the better! Since I had his screen name, at least, I was able to talk to him multiple times that week, and this proved to be a valuable opportunity as it gave us ample time to get to know each other without the awkwardness or pressure associated with an actual date (in these modern times, you could substitute Facebook messaging or Gtalk and accomplish the same thing). Sure, obsessively contacting someone you barely know via social media could be considered a little annoying, but you’ve gotta go big or go home (dateless). By the time he was back in town, we were well acquainted with each other and ready to go on a date!

Once you’ve made it to this stage, you’ve got it made in the shade, baby! Assuming you still like the guy and he hasn’t turned out to be a creepy weirdo or a drug dealer, your relationship is about 10 steps further along than it would have been if you’d sat around waiting for him to call or if you’d wasted precious time holding off on calling him in fear of being “too annoying.” Go on that date, and then suggest an outing for the next weekend as if a second date is a given! Invite him to meet your family! Buy him a nice Valentine’s Day gift even if you’ve only been together for a few months! Before you know it, you’ll be living together and he’ll be stuck with you!

Hey, it worked for me.

Throwback Thursday: Sixth Grade Mo Had Deep Thoughts (and ADD)

On the first day of sixth grade, my language arts teacher handed out blank composition books and announced an exciting year-long project: we would use the notebooks to respond to writing prompts she’d provide periodically in class, then turn them in quarterly for her to read. How fun! I got to work doodling all over my fresh book immediately (by the time the year was through, I had filled up two entire books):

Man, I really missed my calling as an artist or graphic designer.

Being a huge nerd, I really was quite excited about the project. I liked writing, and the idea of a year-long assignment seemed so grown-up. I took it very seriously and looked forward to the days when our teacher would tell us to take out our notebooks and reply to a prompt she had written on the blackboard. For example, here’s my response to a prompt on best friends:

My friend, Brittany, is my best friend for many reasons. She is very loyal. I’ve known her since 2nd grade and she’s never left me. She’s funny when I’m sad or mad, and she’s also cheerful. She isn’t usually sad. It’s very fun to be with a cheerful person.

See? Please admire my accurate spelling, ambitious (if not 100% correct) use of commas, and the appropriately introspective tone to match the spirit of the assignment. (On a sidenote, I also urge you to take a moment to acknowledge my comically low standards for friendship. Brittany really was a great friend, but apparently just not ditching me in favor of cooler people and not being a total Debbie Downer was pretty much all I required.)

All quarter long, I dutifully answered each prompt and eagerly anticipated the day I’d get to turn my journal in for its review. I imagined my teacher reading through my thoughtful replies, sagely nodding at my intelligence and maturity and thinking to herself, “ah, that Maureen! What a gem of a student! If only all my students could be like her!”

And then about two days before it was time to turn them in, I overheard a conversation between some classmates and realized I had missed a crucial component of the assignment: we were supposed to be writing in these stupid things EVERY SINGLE SCHOOLDAY, not just when the teacher provided a prompt on the blackboard! Evidently, on the days when no prompt was provided, we were just supposed to get creative and write about something that happened that day or whatever was on our mind.

Whoops.

You see, I have a serious case of ADD, which unfortunately went undiagnosed until I was 25 years old. My school career was riddled with situations like this, where I zoned out and completely missed the instructions for an assignment or sat through an entire lecture and then later realized I had taken precisely zero notes (or that my notes made no sense) and thus had retained absolutely no information whatsoever. The good news is that by sixth grade, even though I didn’t know that my focus issues were caused by an actual diagnosable and treatable condition, I was familiar with the pattern and wasn’t all that shocked to discover that I had missed the instructions. As soon as I realized my mistake, I sprung into action and spent the next two nights making up journal entries for the previous two months.

Obviously, I couldn’t remember what I had been doing on each of those days, so I simply racked my brain for topics I thought might belong in a journal. I actually consider it a blessing in disguise that I initially missed the instructions, because the entries I came up with during that two-day crunch time are far more entertaining that anything I wrote during the rest of the year when I was actually doing the assignment daily as intended. Here’s a sampling:

I wonder what it’s going to be like in the future. I mean, it seems fine right now, but they still keep coming up with “breakthrough” technology. If we already have computers that cheack [sic] your spelling, VCRs that turn themselves on and off, radios that have remote controlls [sic], how much better could you possibly get?

I really could have used one of those spell-cheaking computers. Also, who the hell has a remote-control radio?! I don’t even think that’s a thing. And why on earth would I think that a remote-controlled radio (if they even existed; I’m dubious) was the best that technology had to offer?

I love to read. It’s like, my hobby. I read while I eat, drink Dr. Pepper, I even read while I watch TV. It’s really fun and exciting. I could read all day!

Dudes, I wasn’t lying. Please note the book, the snack, and the cup of Dr. Pepper:

See how FUN and EXCITING reading is? (PS: I still do this now; you could swing by my house on a Saturday evening and recreate this exact same photo, save, perhaps, for the sweet purple scrunchie.)

I wonder why the CTBS test makes you use a No. 2 pencil? Why not a 2.5 pencil? Who invented CTBS tests anyway? They seem dumb to me. They’re so easy, and they don’t challenge you. And they make you fill out so much info about yourself! It’s really quite boring, and it takes up HOURS of your time. What a waste!!

I was ahead of my time with that political stance against standardized testing. I also like my humble-brag about the tests being too easy for my brilliant mind. The test must have lacked a spelling section.

If I had to choose between being blind or deaf, I’d choose to be deaf because when you’re blind, you can’t do any of the things that you would normally do: reading, walking on your own, watching TV, etc etc. But if you’re deaf you can still drive, walk, read, etc. You just can’t hear the doorbell or the telephone, but you can buy phones that light up.

See, deaf people should never complain. All they have to do is buy a light-up telephone and their problems are solved! If you go blind, on the other hand…good luck, because your life is totally going to suck. You can’t even watch TV!

 

If you’re curious, my teacher gave my journal a 100% score that quarter, even though she had to have realized that I fucked up and did it wrong since all the prompted entries came first and were followed by a barrage of hastily-scribbled un-dated ramblings. I guess she was just that impressed by my deep thoughts!

Can you blame her? Just look at that seriously studious student!

Throwback Thursday: Junior High Mo Had Some Hair Problems

In all my thirty years, I think I’ve had about six truly good hair days. When I was young, my hair wasn’t too troublesome, but there was an awful lot of it and the waviness had a tendency to cross over into frizz-ball territory on occasion. Until I was in 7th grade, my hair pretty much looked like this all the time:

Sure, I wasn’t a Pantene model, but I didn’t look like a freakshow or anything (multi-colored braces aside).

And then one day in seventh grade, literally overnight, my hair changed and my previously slightly-frizzy waves became a mess of super-tight ringlet curls. The bad news is, I did not know what one was supposed to do with curly hair, and neither did anyone else in my family (either that or they DID know and were just super-cruel and liked to watch me suffer), so I did what I’d always done with my hair:

I BRUSHED IT.

Did you know that you are not, under any circumstances, supposed to brush curly hair? Especially if the curly hair in question is the thickest, most voluminous hair on the planet?

This is what happens when you brush out thick, curly hair:

(FYI, I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that my hair changed overnight. The above photo was taken just weeks after the photo at the top in which my hair looks semi-normal!)

You guys, it was bad. How did my mother let me out of the house?! And why didn’t anyone help me? I think we have to place some blame on my friends and family, right? On a related note, how did I even manage to make any friends looking like that¹?

I wish I could say that I quickly figured out how to deal with my curly mane, but that would be a lie. Here I am an entire year later, still not knowing what to do (and apparently still oblivious to how ridiculous I looked — I look totally happy and not at all embarrassed to be photographed like I should have been!):

This nonsense lasted all the way through 8th grade. Here I am again with my dear friend Caitlin on the day of our 8th grade graduation:

To make matters worse, as you can see above, at some point in 8th grade I used what appears to be a gallon of Sun-In to lighten my hair. It totally improved the situation, right?

Blessedly, at some point in between 8th and 9th grade, my hair calmed down a tiny bit and I got in the habit of wearing ponytails all the time (why did I not think of that before?). I consider it a stroke of supreme good luck that my hair issues were at their worst at a time when I was immature enough to not give a shit about what I looked like — believe it or not, I never gave a second thought to my frightening appearance at the time! When I look back on these pictures, though, I kind of want to cry from retroactive shame². On the bright side, I suppose it’s nice that we can be certain that my friends liked me for my charming personality, because they definitely weren’t hanging around me in hopes that my coolness would rub off on them.

That said, I’m going to call Caitlin up right now and yell at her for not telling me to put my hair in a freakin’ ponytail in 7th grade. YOU CALL YOURSELF A FRIEND?!

…………………………………

Footnotes:

¹Perhaps they just wanted to hang out in my awesome bedroom. Please check out the SWEET 1989 Gameboy and note that my decor included a fried egg candle on the shelf behind me.

²I actually did cry at the sight of one of these photos once! When my little sisters turned 21, Jamie made a slideshow containing photos of the two of them throughout the years, and she included the photo of the three of us in overalls pictured above. When she played the slideshow at their party, I literally cried embarrassed-tears when it came up. In other news, I’m insane.

Throwback Thursday: 4th Grade Mo Still Likes Laughing At People

It took me a while to get on board, but look at me now: I am officially 100% on the #TBT bandwagon!

(Primarily because I have a lot of funny old photos of myself wearing parrot earrings that need to be shared, but no matter.)

Last week I shared the survey I filled out at the end of second grade, a treasure that exposed my love for math, reading, and laughing at the misfortune of others. I’m happy to report that, like my second grade teacher, my fourth grade teacher also foresaw the potential entertainment that a book full of questionnaires could provide decades in the future! I’m similarly pleased that my mother was wise enough to preserve these fine memories — such blessed prescience. Let’s check in on Fourth Grade Mo and see if her nerdiness (or her spelling) improved:

Doesn’t look like it. Let’s examine further:

1) Favorite sport to play: soft-ball

Favorite punctuation mark: hy-phen.

probably a strike-out…

2) Favorite book this year: Mandy

A fantastic book that I truly loved and re-read countless times (and is in fact sitting on my book shelf to this very day!), but I’m honestly surprised that I didn’t mention The Babysitters Club. Maybe I thought Mandy sounded smarter, which is silly since we all know that the girls in the BSC were the most brilliant and resourceful middle schoolers in literary history!

3) Book(s) I plan to read this summer: The Phantom Tolbooth [sic], The battle for the castle

I can confirm that I followed through on my promise to read the former, but I have no recollection of the latter and am going to hazard a guess that I opted for some more BSC instead.

4) Vacation and activity plans for summer: go to disneyland, stay at a cabin in Lake Arrowhead

That sounds fun and all, but I’m getting concerned about my obviously tenuous grasp on the rules of capitalization at this point. I committed to capitals on The Phantom Tollbooth above, but lost it on the second book. Then I knew that Lake Arrowhead should be capitalized, but didn’t think Disneyland qualified? Come on, Fourth Grade Mo!

5) Favorite Movie: A League Of Their Own. (The Mighty Ducks)

I cannot express how giddy with glee this response makes me. ALOTO is written in cursive and was clearly my initial reply to this query, but then it appears that I gave the question further consideration and went back to show “The Mighty Ducks” some love. The fact that I enjoyed TMD enough to call it one of my favorite movies (second only to ALOTO!) is amusing in and of itself, but the way it’s written — as if “The Mighty Ducks” was the subtitle of an epic softball (soft-ball)/hockey mash-up — makes me cackle heartily every time I think of it.

6) My greatest challenge this year was: Doing those Dumb bartering comics for social studies.

Tell us how you really feel, Fourth Grade Mo! I actually remember this assignment vividly, and to say that it was my greatest challenge of the year was sadly not an exaggeration. The assignment was simple enough — to create a little comic strip that illustrated the concept of bartering — but despite understanding exactly what needed to be done, I agonized over it as if it were the SATs¹. I am not good with open-ended creative-type things and I stymied myself by overthinking it. I drove myself into a tearful tizzy trying to come up with the perfect example of bartering (made more difficult by the fact that for some reason I felt that the storyline needed to be believable, i.e. a tale of bartering that I myself had actually participated in) and then trying to make the little stick figure drawings look exactly how I thought a real comic should look (a goal that was doomed from the start considering my known lack of artistic skill). I ended up drawing a story about my neighbor and I trading baseball cards and I cried when I turned it in because I never actually traded baseball cards with anyone and plus the damn thing looked godawful.

Fourth Grade Mo had some issues, mmmkay?

(And again with the random capital letters! I suppose I felt that the aforementioned comic assignment was so dumb that it needed to stand out a bit more.)

7) Some of my accomplishments this year: Being Old King Cole, being Jennifer, reading over 80 books.

That’s right, I played Old King Cole in a class play. I believe there was a crown involved. I also played the role of Jennifer in a play whose name and plot I cannot recall, but I do remember that my costume consisted of pajamas, and that was pretty cool.

8) Some things I really enjoyed this year: both of our plays, reading, going to Lazy W. ranch, writing, and (I don’t know why) doing pentominos.

OK, first of all, Petonimos are awesome — not sure why I felt the need to act coy about my love for those little slices of math heaven. Second, pretending that I enjoyed our class trip to Lazy W. Ranch was a bald-faced lie and I’m shocked at my audacious attempt to re-write history. As has been discussed on this blog numerous times, I was the most sensitive and homesick-prone child to have ever walked the planet, and obviously I hated that overnight adventure! Nice try, Fourth Grade Mo.

Hanging out in a fort in my own house was as much traveling as I could tolerate².

9) A funny thing that happened this year was: When Julie was coming in from the computar [sic] lab and fell over a chair and landed flat on her face.

What is wrong with me?! When I cited Alberto’s puke-fest as the funniest moment of second grade I figured we could chalk that up to second graders being immature, but apparently I was no better two years later. Poor Julie. To be fair, she was my friend (it’s not like I was mocking her; it’s just funny when people fall down!) and she wasn’t injured in the fall. But still. Come on.

10) Advice to future fourth graders: If you get sick you could miss something funny.

YOU GUYS. This is the EXACT same advice I gave to future second graders two years prior! I must have missed something truly hilarious while out sick one time and wanted to make sure such a tragedy would never befall me, or anyone else, again.

11) What I am looking forward to in fifth grade: switching classes.

I suppose I thought going to different classes for math, science, etc would spice things up a bit. I learned quickly that having to lug your backpack around to different classrooms all day was just a pain in the ass.

12) Any further remarks: If you get Mrs. apRoberts, you’ll have the funnest school year of your life!

As long as you don’t get sick and miss someone falling on their face, of course!

Ah, Fourth Grade Mo. If only I could go back and tell her not to stress so much about that damn bartering comic, or that she should have pretended to be sick to get out of going to the Lazy W. Ranch! Also, I could have warned her that those dangly parrot earrings were a bit much:

On second thought, no: the earrings are timeless and serve as a welcome distraction from the comically large buckteeth.

……………………………………

Footnotes:

¹Ironically, by the time I got to high school I no longer cared about such things and didn’t spend so much as thirty seconds preparing for the SATs.

²Also note that I am reading a book here — all that talk about reading was no joke! Who builds a super-cool fort and then just sits there and reads in it?! Fourth Grade Mo, that’s who.

Throwback Thursday: Second Grade Survey

Like most trends, I’m about a year late to the “Throwback Thursday” party. The good news is that I’ve got a doozy here that totally makes up for the fact that I didn’t even put together why people were typing #TBT next to old photos of themselves until like a week ago.

What we have here is a questionnaire I filled out at the end of second grade, which was compiled in a cute little memory book along with surveys and photos from the rest of my class:

(Sorry about the wonkiness of the scan; the page is part of a spiral-bound book and I couldn’t be bothered to spend more than eight seconds setting it up in the scanner. Remember, this is a half-assed blog I’m running over here.)

Let’s dive in, shall we?

1) The best thing that happened during second grade was: The Get hoppin play

Solid answer, second grade Mo. Get Hoppin’ was an extremely professional theatrical production put on by our class in the school cafeteria. It enjoyed a run of precisely one performance, which I believe took place at 10am (which thespians everywhere know is the prime time for live theatre).

The plot surrounded an obnoxious little bunny named Bunny Sue who, for reasons unknown, refused to hop. Her bunny siblings were pissed at her bad attitude, and I can’t say I blame them. Get your shit together, Sue! I don’t remember the specifics, but after being yelled at by her siblings and coddled by her parents (on whom the blame for Sue’s spoiled antics should really lie), there was an encounter with a wise bird or something and eventually the little bitch started hopping.

I was Bunny Sue:

2) The worst thing was: waiting for our play

Obviously.

3) One of the funniest things that happened this year is: when Alberto threw up

I REMEMBER THIS VIVIDLY! Poor Alberto puked right on his desk in the middle of class. I can’t remember the name of the kid who was sitting next to him, but I do remember the priceless look on his face as he jumped up and tried to escape the onslaught.

The BEST part of this, though, is that almost every single other kid in the class also reported this as the funniest moment of the year! Even Alberto himself answered “when I threw up.” It’s the highlight of this memory book, no doubt.

4) One of the saddest things was: being sick and missing school.

Mo, you’re a loser.

5) My favorite subject was….because….: Math, becouse I like working with numbers.

Well, we can see that I did not like working with spelling.

6) The hardest thing that I had to do this year was: learning division

But it was very rewarding, apparently?

7) The easiest thing was: learning how to do sudtraction.

Suck it, division. And spelling.

8) I’ll never forget the time that: Alberto threw up

I haven’t!

9) Some advice I’d like to pass on to future second graders is: don’t get sick becouse you might miss something funny.

Who cares about all the learning you might miss, or your health, for that matter? No, the biggest problem with getting sick is that you might miss something funny, like Alberto throwing up again.

(And man, I really wanted “because” to be spelled with an “o”!)

10) What I am looking forward to in third grade is: doing million minuts of reading

All year long in second grade, I watched the third graders rack up stickers as part of this “Million Minutes of Reading” program. I was a big reader and I was certain that when my time to participate finally came, I could read more than any other third grader. There was a contest element to it (prizes were involved, I believe) and I literally looked forward to it all year, convinced I would be victorious.

I’m bitter to this day that I wound up finishing in second place by a margin of, like, three stickers (which represented the number of books read, or possibly the number of pages). IF ONLY I HAD MADE IT TO THE LIBRARY TO CHECK OUT BABYSITTERS CLUB BOOKS JUST ONE MORE TIME!!!!!

 

And there you have it, folks: my seven-year-old self was a math-lovin’, poor-spellin’, book-readin’ nerd who enjoyed nothing more than laughing at people who throw up in public.

Just for good #TBT measure, here are two more photos from second grade to complete your visual:

This is What Happens When You Don’t Care About Your Birthday

I am not one of those people who makes a big deal about her birthday. I’m not begrudging you birthday-loving fools and your monthlong birthday countdowns and blowout celebrations (as long as you invite me), but I just never have it in me to care about my own. Sure, I looked forward to and enjoyed my birthday as a child — I’m not a psychopath — but since celebrating my birthday as an adult requires me to do all the things I hate most in life, i.e. spending money, leaving the house, and asking other people to do things for me, it is no surprise that I prefer to lay low on August 30th each year.

The problem with not caring about your birthday is that it can lead to some very pathetic birthdays.

Take, for example, my sixteenth birthday. My firstborn nephew was born the day before I turned 15, meaning his first birthday, obviously, fell on the day before my 16th. Because I didn’t really care, my “sweet sixteen” party became a “HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY TO CHUCKIE!!! oh and it’s mo’s birthday or something too” party, and thus this is literally the only photo of me from that event:

I’m the one holding the birthday boy¹. And yes, we are sitting on a motorcycle that, incidentally, was driven to the party by my octogenarian great-uncle. This shindig was a rager!

This example of birthday half-assery was not an isolated incident. Just last year, about a week before my birthday, my mom kindly offered to host a little family barbeque in my honor. The day before said barbeque, my mom called me and we had the following conversation²:

Mom: “So, are you guys coming to Chuck’s party tomorrow? What time are you arriving?”

Mo: “Wait, what?”

Mom: “Chuck’s birthday party! It’s at 2pm.”

Mo: “Do you mean the party you offered to have for me last week?”

Mom: “Huh? [genuine confusion!] Oh! That’s right. Yes, are you coming to ‘your’ party?”

After so many half-assed and last-minute birthday celebrations, I decided that my birthday this year should be different. It was my thirtieth, so I felt compelled to celebrate the milestone. TFW and I made plans to go to Las Vegas, even convincing my mom to come along with us so she could help watch the baby in the hotel while we went out and lost money betting on the Yankees. (And no, leaving my precious lad behind and going to Vegas alone with my husband was not an option for me, because I am, first and foremost, insane.) It sounded like a fabulous way to ring in my thirties, and I was quite excited about this plan…until we took Bubba to my sister’s wedding last month and realized that taking care of a toddler in a hotel kind of sucks.

And then I started thinking about how much money we’d spend in Las Vegas.

And how hot it would be there.

And how long the drive would be.

And how I really don’t care about my birthday anyway.

Can you see where this is going?

All of the above concerns led to me eschewing Vegas in favor of spending my 30th birthday right here at home doing absolutely nothing. We went on a thrilling adventure to the mall in the afternoon because it was too hot to sit around our hellhole of a house, then ate dinner on the couch³ and rounded out the celebration by watching Wedding Crashers because I’ve been meaning to get hip to all those oft-quoted one-liners for oh, 7 or 8 years now. I was in bed by 10pm.

So be forewarned, fellow birthday-dismissers: it’s a slippery slope! One minute you’re sharing your sixteenth birthday party with a toddler, and the next thing you know you’re spending your thirtieth birthday trying to figure out what aspects of Luke Wilson’s clearly mentally disturbed character in an eight-year-old rom-com were supposed to be at all redeemable, and you don’t even care because you’re old and cheap and lazy and celebrating your birthday is just way too much work.

……………………………………

Footnotes:

¹That’s my BFF/cousin, Cara, next to me on the chopper. I found a myriad of photos of the two of us while looking for this gem, and I was both amused and horrified to discover that in virtually every photo of us from this era, at least one of us is rocking a tube top; the photos also proved that the next year, our mutual trend of choice turned to thick black eyeliner.

²This is verbatim! It was truly a classic “Mom” moment.

³Lest you start feeling too bad for me and my pathetic birthday, allow me to assure you that my husband made jambalaya for dinner and it was spectacular.

---

Thanks to Mama Kat‘s writer’s workshop prompt (“You know you’re getting old because…”) for the inspiration!

Living Vicariously Is Still Living!

The other night, I had a dream about a friend I worked with in high school. In the dream, my old friend and I were at work and she was telling me a story about a friend of hers getting drunk before a school dance. That’s kind of a weird thing to dream about in the first place, but what’s more bizarre is that she really had told me that story in real life, thirteen years ago, and even though I hadn’t thought about that memory in well over a decade, the dream accurately recalled every goddamn detail of the story right down to where we were sitting when I first heard it.

When I woke up, I was so amused and perplexed by the fact that my brain had inexplicably remembered every minute detail of a decade-old story that hadn’t even happened to me that I immediately told TFW all about it.

This is where things took a turn.

While explaining the dream to my dear husband, I casually mentioned that I used to ask this friend to tell me stories all the time, specifically stories about her doing cool stuff I was far too lame to have experienced (see: going to a school dance with drunken friends). And yes, I mean exactly what I just said: I would literally sit there and make her tell me stories of her doing exciting things so I could live vicariously through her awesomeness. I was a rather reserved, nerdy teen, and hearing about people I actually knew doing crazy things I’d only seen on TV was incredibly fascinating to me.

Judging by TFW’s reaction, this is not a normal thing to do. The jackass nearly laughed aloud at this little peek into my teenaged nerdery, and I didn’t help my case when I added that I particularly enjoyed the stories about people getting into trouble, since I was such a goody two-shoes myself. It’s not like I was ever going to experience firsthand what it was like to get busted for spending the night at my boyfriend’s house, and I needed the scoop!

I suppose I may have seemed a wee bit strange, relishing these tales of the teenage awesomeness of others…but man, did I love hearing them. In fact, if you’re in the market for someone to listen to your personal stories about drunken high school shenanigans or pregnancy scares, please forward your resumes for my review. These days, the only stories I hear involve busses, cars, Bearski, and cupcakes: