Wednesday, August 28, 2013

About Me

This is me....remember my name.
Being the daughter of a sarcastic used car salesman and an interior designer has its perks.  I could sew a window treatment for the finest castle or I could make myself at home with some vending machine Skittles while in a junk yard searching for a used catalytic converter.  My childhood was nothing short of a breeding ground for a deal making, design savvy real estate broker.  That being said, it is important that you learn about me just in case I ever become famous.

I will share the story of my birth just as it was passed down to me. 

The magic began during the blizzard of 1976.  My mother was nearing her 12th month of pregnancy, and my older sister, Shelly, the perfect child, was closing in on her third birthday.  My uncle, secretly in the closet, had come for a visit.  He wore his red suspenders.  (I do not know why this is important to the story, I am just repeating it as I have been told.)  He was teaching Shelly all about the joy of musical theater.  Dad was in the driveway shoveling out a space for his motorcycle, should he need to peeve off the neighbors in a hurry.  Everything was calm. 

Then, out of nowhere, I, the largest fetus in the history of the planet, began to hurdle my 30 pound shoulder into my mother's abdominal wall.  Then, I proceeded to relentlessly attack her all day.  At one point my uncle had to stop his rendition of “Why Can't a Woman be More Like a Man", from the musical My Fair Lady, in order to give her a ride to the hospital.  I do not know where my father was at this time, I can only assume church. 

 Luckily, the doctors knew better than to trust a mere woman who had given birth before. These feelings were simply false labor. She was clearly faking, so they sent her home immediately to take a warm bath, have a glass of wine, and relax. 

I was persistent though.  I continued my onslaught of shoulder attacks.   Today was my birthday, I just knew it.  It was the first day of winter and dammit, I would be a winter solstice child.  So, after a long afternoon of my fetal antics, my mother gathered a bit of gumption and asked my father to take her back to the hospital.  (Church had apparently been dismissed.)  She was promptly admitted to the labor and delivery ward.

The details of what transpired may be graphic, so thankfully I have blocked them out with elevator music in my brain.  You may insert classical guitar playing "Ice Ice Baby" here. 

After what I have heard to be the worst normal delivery of all time, I mean, in the history of the entire universe, and several other alternate planes of existence, I, a beautiful nine and a half pound baby Sumo wrestler was born.  I had crystal clear violet blue eyes, a sweet little voice, and dark, brown, curly hair, that delicately weaved itself into a long line all of the way down my spine.  That's right, I had hair on my back that would make any small ape rage with jealousy.  My perfect blond sister Shelly rejoiced.

Little miss perfect doing the "Fonzi"
My birth came just 3 days and 30 minutes before a much more important event: Santa's arrival from his yearly trek around the globe. Really, the man eats massive amounts of cookies, drinks warm milk that has been sitting out since bed time, and leaves reindeer poop on the roofs of small children's houses.  Then, he is welcomed back year after year, knowing full well that he will likely have gastointestinal distress and require the use of the bathroom.  This, all because he has gifts.  The doctors were kind enough to send us home so as not to miss the big event. 

Ok, ok, Mom, if you are reading this, I will clarify that we were raised devout Lutherans and it was the celebration of our Lord and Savior's birth, not the whole "Santa" thing.  It's fine.  I'm fine.  Sorry.  Well, sort of. 

That Christmas was my first.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  I started my day around 2 am and made it my goal to get upset about absolutely nothing -- a lot.  I like to imagine that my mother still managed to get up and fix everyone breakfast, make all of the beds, clean all of the bathrooms, mop, dust, vacuum, and catch up on all of the laundry, just 4 days after giving birth. She is kind of amazing. After reflecting, I'm not sure she would have gotten all of the laundry done; I tried to mess everything up pretty well that day. 

Isn't she the most beautiful mother in the world?  
You may be asking yourself why you need to know this about me.  Well, I would like to answer that question with a question.  Do you like pie?  Good, we can move on.

My childhood was littered with milkshakes, doughnuts, and lots of home-cooked wonderfulness.  My mother was a model citizen, and my father taught me how to play basketball, ride a motorcycle, and shove a man's nose bone up into his brain should he get too fresh, theoretically, of course. 

Do you remember that moment in
your childhood when you
realized who you were
meant to be?
My sister, perfect Shelly, once smacked me when I was a baby resting in my crib.  I have forgiven her, but sometimes when her roots grow out and she gets what is commonly referred to as "state fair hair", I like to think it's karma coming back to haunt her. 

Shelly and I were given the advantage of guilt early in life through parochial school training.  This continued until we each graduated from high school.  During these years, I was reasonably well behaved and attempted to gain favor with my parents.  Luckily, Shelly went through a dark phase involving hair bands, posters, and black eyeliner.  This was helpful in achieving my lilly white image.  Mostly I played basketball and secretly indulged my love of long distance running.  I kept it under wraps so as not to be recruited by the cross country coach since I thought he was a jack donkey.  To impress the boys, I curled my bangs, wore makeup, and talked about my dreams of going to medical school.  On a side note, boys don't care about medical school.

I graduated from high school with a highly mediocre grade point average.  Then, I applied to a local university where I was accepted. There, I majored in sarcasm and fun, but somehow managed to escape with a psychology degree and a best friend who would be my husband.  This is me.   

Thank you to my Husband, Mom, Dad, and Shelly, for tolerating my quirky viewpoints and for helping to create them.  If the book goes well, please remember me saying "I won't let you down".  If the book goes badly, please remember me saying "It's your fault", while I throw something across the room.  All of my love.