*** BLOGGER ATE MY POST. I was trying to do some formatting (the numbers), and instead of ending up with neatly formatted numbers, IT ATE 90% OF MY POST. This was originally designed to go up on Thursday night. It has taken me that long to quit sulking like a teenager and sit back down to write it.... the problem is, I've never been good at revisions. I get really bored writing the same thing twice, so I'm sorry if this post lacks pizazz or whatever. It was hard to feel original when I was sitting in front of the computer thinking, "Wait... how did I say this before? I think I said it better the first time. What was that word again?" So, there. You've been warned.******
For the record--- this is the first award I've ever won for my writing. Okay, I know it's not a REAL award, but that didn't stop me from hopping around my house like a hyperactive Chihuahua when I was first tagged... and then repeating the same hyperactive happiness when I was tagged again. So, thank you Oregon Sunshine and Ffyyahchild . You guys made my day!
I'm supposed to tag others, but I'm not sure who I am going to tag in response. I've been putting off responding to this until I can figure out who I am going to forward it to, but enough is enough! I'll decide who I am going to poke a finger later.
So, for this award I am supposed to tell you seven things about myself that you do not know. So, let's see.... I mean, I don't know anyone out there all that well yet, so this should be easy! I want to make it interesting, though.
Alright, here goes!
1. I was twelve years old when I started reading romance novels. My mom thought I was too young to be reading the Sweet Valley High series--- little did she know that I was staying up late at night to gawk at books with half-naked women and men with bulging loincloths on the cover. It's not that I was particularly interested in romance--- in fact, I was still in the stage where I thought boys were icky and would become angry when anyone ever told me I was going to get married one day (Hi, Bean! Love you, Bean! It's not nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be!)
The problem was that my mom had been reading the books for years. Like me, she is a fast reader. Thankfully, there was a used book store just down the street. The used paperbacks were only .50 cents, and if you brought the books back in you could trade them in 2-for-1. About once a month my mom would throw together a box of already-read-books and head down to the store to switch them out. Usually she kept the books tightly locked up in her bedroom, but the day before the trip they would sit in a jumbled heap in our living room, calling me with their siren call. "I'm a boook," they would sing. "An unread book... who knows what lives between my pages? Who knows what worlds you could discover?" Every month I'd try to resist their lure, but I would end up edging closer and closer to the box, finally sneaking one out of the box and studying the back cover.
Is it really any wonder that I snuck out late one night to steal one of the books?
It was the most terrifying/exhilarating thing I'd ever done, and by the time I'd finished inching my way back to my bedroom, I was almost sweating with fear. Armed with a flashlight, I threw the covers over my head and for the several hours over the next few nights, I read in gaping disbelief before stashing the book firmly beneath my mattress. Sure, I knew how babies were made, but this was on a whole new level. At one point, I remember reading a couple of lines, then peeking down my shirt, then reading a couple more lines doubtfully. My nipples were supposed to do WHAT? I poked a finger hesitantly at my nearly-flat chest, red-faced, waiting for the fiery torment of unrelenting passion to course through my body. It didn't. Not only did I not feel the urge to fling myself with a longing cry on the nearest available man, I didn't really feel anything at all. For years after that little experiment I hid the secret fear that had a pair of defective breasts.
3. Bruce Springstein. His name made no sense to me as a kid, and as a result I could never remember it. Spring BruceStein? Stein SpringBruce? Bruce SteinSpring? Spring SteinBruce?
4. Okay, this is next one is a doozy--- this is one of my most closely guarded secret phobias, and I need you all to never, ever, EVER taking advantage of what I’m about to reveal. Promise? No, I mean do you PROMISE promise? I don’t want you just mouthing the words, I want your word that you won’t use this information against me. Okay? I have your word?
Imaginary sticky jump ropes.
No, I’m being serious here. Imaginary sticky jump ropes. They are my kryptonite. When I was 5 years old I couldn’t find a jump rope to play with during recess so I decided to just pretend that I had one. The only problem was, my imaginary jump rope wouldn’t work properly. Every time I tried to swing it in a loop over my head, I wasn’t able to get enough velocity and it would sag in the middle in a flaccid, useless pantomime of a jump rope. I tried several variations to make it work, but I never found the right way to make the imaginary jump rope swing properly. Even worse, if the jump rope touched my skin, it would immediately adhere to it. Apparently my imaginary jump rope was covered in a sticky, gooey, honey-like glue that would cause it to stick to whatever it touched.
If I grabbed it with my hand to take it off my forearm, it would stick to my hand.
If I tried to hold it down with my foot to peel my hand away, it would stick to the bottom of my shoe.
If I flipped my foot around to make it come off my shoe, the ends would waggle wildly and it would usually flip up and hit some other part of my body and adhere there.
If I could manage to make them stick to my shoe, I would usually quietly slip out of the shoe and abandon it in the house until I forgot that the imaginary sticky jump rope was supposed to be there. Sure, I looked a little silly hobbling around with one shoe on/one shoe off, but it was a small price to pay.
This may sound like just an amusing anecdote, but those imaginary sticky jump ropes plagued me for years. YEARS. I don’t know what this says about my psyche that my imagination became so real that I was unable to control it, but there you go. What made it even worse was that one day my sister saw me on the sofa, writhing around and picking at the “imaginary jump ropes” like some kind of meth addict. She asked me what was wrong with me, and in my stupidity I told her.
Older sisters are not known for their kind, loving natures.
She immediately told my dad, and the two of them proceeded to harass me endlessly. “STICKY JUMPROPES!” they’d cry out gaily, wadding a lump of the imaginary ropes in their hands before flinging it at me. “STOP IT!” I’d squeal, doing my best to dodge their throw. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes the jump ropes would hit me squarely in the chest. Long after they’d forgotten about their little trick and had returned to watching the television, I’d be stuck on the sofa, sweating and miserable, unsuccessfully trying to free myself from their sticky tendrils. And for the record, NO, I am not insane. I just had a little bit of an overactive imagination.
5. Speaking of overactive imaginations, I have CRAZY dreams. I know some people have dreams that flit about and make no sense--- not mine! Not only do I remember my dreams every day, but they are epic in length, color, plot/storyline, and oftentimes have background music. When I have a particularly good dream, I have trouble figuring out if it's a real memory or if it was something that I made up while I was sleeping. The only downside to my fantastic dream life is that I have some pretty terrible, bloody nightmares. Oh well. Par for the course, I guess.
6. I did not enjoy my childhood all that much, and think that the best years are still ahead of me. I look forward to the future.
7. I don't like riding tall horses. I'm always worried that something will happen while I'm out on a flat trail and my saddle will magically disappear, and I won't be able to mount bareback and will be stuck leading my horse back all the way back to the stables.