What I've Realized I Want...

I want someone who isn’t embarrassed to be with my weird goofy self. In fact, I want someone who loves that about me. And who can act like that too. I want someone who can rap. It’s a weird thing to want, but I want it. Mostly because I’m not the best rapper, so I want to practice more, but I am awesome at beat boxing so I can “boots n skirts” it while they’re rapping. I want someone who not only doesn’t mind my obsession with sparkly things, but encourages it. Although not through fancy jewelry. I need someone who will buy me bedazzles when I run out. And who won’t say anything when at least 1 piece of every outfit is sparkly. Also, I’ve gotten pretty attached to headscarves since being in Africa. So I’ll be wearing them when I’m in my leisure clothing a lot. And probably sleeping in them. They really help my hair from getting super greasy. Although when I’m back in America I’ll wash my hair again more than twice a week, probably. So even if I look stupid in headscarves (which I’m pretty sure I do but I’ve convinced myself I look awesome), I want someone who pretends they aren’t completely stupid all the time. Or at least doesn’t stop dating me because of them. I want someone who will join My iPod. They don’t have to be the lead singer (cause I am) or guitarist or violinist (cause Corn is), or tambourine player (cause Meg is) or manager (cause Sarah is). They can play something cool, like the spoons! Also, I need someone who will sing karaoke. I LOVE karaoke. Seriously, it’s one of my favorite things. I need someone who will do that with me and look just as stupid as me. I want someone who likes to watch scary movies, or who at least pretends to like to watch scary movies. Because I love watching scary movies. Especially when cuddling, so it’s not like they wouldn’t get anything out of this either. The person I end up with must be weird. But they cannot be socially awkward. I can’t do socially awkward. And I can’t spend all my time trying to make them feel like their weirdness is okay. They have to love their weirdness as much as I love mine. Then we will take on the world together! I want someone who wants to travel. Because I want to travel. But I also know myself and I’m pretty bad at planning, so I need someone else who wants to do it too so we actually do it. I want someone who wants a family, maybe, I don’t know. I go back and forth on this. I think I do want kids. Or at least one. I think I’d be really good at being a mother. I would totally get this fairy tale mural painted in the nursery and I would be just as much of a child as my child (when we were playing, I could be an adult too when it comes down to it). And I would play it music and make it take piano lessons even if it wanted to quit because children don’t know what they want when they’re in fifth grade (thanks Mom). And we would travel with our kid(s), because I’ll be damned if they grow up without culture or without seeing how amazing the world is. I want someone who wants all of that and is right there with me acting like the friendly dragon (cause why do all dragons have to be mean?), and playing chopsticks with our child, and carrying it up the 15^th castle we’ve seen in Germany that day because someone is obsessed with castles (this will be my dad’s dream trip). I want all of that. 

But mostly, I want someone who makes staying with them look easy, or at least possible. I want someone who is 50% the decision maker (or let’s be realistic 40%). I want someone who wants me to find what I love and do it. Even if that means helping me find a way to tag along with Nat Geo explorers in residence. Actually, that should say Especially if that means helping me find a way to tag along with Nat Geo explorers in residence. Cause I would totally want the same thing for them, and if they were already a Nat Geo explorer in residence, then that would make my life goal that much easier. I want someone who doesn’t obsess about money (although obviously it will be something to take into consideration). But I don’t want money to be their purpose. Money should never be someone’s purpose.

I want someone who thinks I’m just the bees knees. And that will fight for me. And I will try to not make them have to fight for me. But I’ll totally fight for them too. All of my violent urges to punch people (but I always ask them first – they usually say no so I don’t) will finally come in handy. And I’ll like them so much that I won’t even ask first and totally just punch someone and they’ll bail me out of jail and find someone to get the assault charges taken away. I want someone who understands that I should not dance while chopping vegetables, but also realizes that I can’t cook without dancing, so they’ll obviously take over all the deadly knife work while cooking. And they’ll also think I’m endearing when every time I try out a new recipe I tend to set it on fire. But the second time it normally rocks! I want someone who dances with me to Call Me Maybe, and doesn’t give me a stupid lecture on how lame the song is. Because, seriously, IT’S A HAPPY SONG! The world has too much sadness in it already, who cares if it’s stupid? It makes me smile and dance, so I don’t see what’s wrong with that. The same goes for Glee, and Pitch Perfect and most Top 40 songs. I want them to understand how important my friends are in my life, and I’ll do the same for them. And I also want them to realize that they’re really lucky that my family is so awesome, because I’ve met other peoples’ families and they are not all as fantastic (and adorably weird) as mine. I want someone who respects my Peace Corps service, but doesn’t just put it on a pedestal, or ignore it, but who actually cares to listen about the things I went through.

 I want someone who will car dance with me. And car sing. It’s an important past time that I’ve had to introduce to many people, and I’m fine to introduce it to them, but they must do it. Let me just do a quick aside on dancing in general. I have some awesome dance moves. They include micro dancing, finger dancing, and leg dancing. Leg dancing can be dangerous, it’s kind of like you’re pawing the ground like a horse, but awesomer. I almost kicked Corinne in the face once when we were doing it. And those are just my dance moves with names. I’m a dancing fiend. And since being in Africa, I don’t have a chance for other people to see my dance moves that often, so I’m pretty sure they’re getting weirder and weirder. So they need to not be embarrassed that my dancing skills are better than theirs. And they need to dance with me, especially to awesome songs like Call Me Maybe (yeah, I know I’ve mentioned Call Me Maybe twice already. It was a big hit when I left and I haven’t had much exposure to new music in the last eight months, so deal).

 Also, they need to be an accepting weirdo, I’m weird, most of my friends are weird, and they need to accept them for being weird. Just like I’ll try to accept their weird friends. Also, they need to realize that if I ever get a pet, I’m going to be such a pushover and it’s going to be very pathetic. Just be prepared. And finally, I want someone who doesn’t want me to change. I don’t want to make someone change. And I refuse to do it for someone else. Well I mean, at least the important things. There are some things I really should work on. But that’s why I have friends, so they can tell me which is which.

Worry, Wait, and Wonder

Sometimes I wonder if once I get to Botswana all the stress and worry will dissipate.
Will I finally be able to breathe?
To just enjoy the fact that I made it?

Not that I let those thoughts into my mind too often.
I have to make it to Botswana before I can even think about enjoying it.
And that's no small feat.

The day I received my invitation to serve in Peace Corps, I barely ate.
All I knew is that a Placement Officer was going to call me at 1:30pm to discuss my future with Peace Corps.
Yes, I had finally passed all the medical tests. I was finally cleared to go!
But that didn't mean anything. In the very email my Placement Officer set up our phone conversation, she also warned that there were too many volunteers for the programs available, and thus Peace Corps cannot accept everyone.
And I knew that my original nomination was no longer a possibility, as I had missed the deadline.

By 1:25pm, I had shut myself in my room, told my roommate I was expecting an important call any minute, and nervously paced my room.

By the time she called (1:31pm), my hands were shaking, and she could sense the nervousness in my voice. I was taken aback when she started asking me the questions I was asked at my interview almost a year before. I answered them the best I could, trying to recall what I had said at that interview.  Then she told me about a program in Sub-Saharan Africa that started in September. She told me the volunteers would be School and Community Liaisons for Like Skills. Basically the volunteers would be stationed in schools and would teach HIV/AIDS Prevention as well as simple hygiene matters.

I listened to her describe one of my dream jobs, and when she asked what I thought of the program, I couldn't keep back my enthusiasm as I told her it sounded amazing. And then she told me she would send the invitation in the mail that day.

After a year of applications, medical clearances and road block after road block, I had to ask her to repeat herself, as I couldn't let myself believe that she had actually told me I was in.

That next week, when my invitation packet arrived, I learned I was going to Botswana. I felt a tad bit of disappointment at first. Botswana is so close to South Africa, and I was hoping to travel a little farther up Africa.
And then I realized how ridiculous I sounded. First of all, I was being given the opportunity to go to Botswana for two years. Something most people will never get to experience. And secondly, I was the lucky one here. Seeing that Botswana and  South Africa are so close to each other, they have similarities that will only make my transition and acclimation to my new life easier.

However, while I thought my worries about Peace Corps were over, they weren't.
Shortly after, I got kidney stones. Lucky me. While they didn't last long, Peace Corps wanted all the documentation as well as extra tests. And as test after test piles up, I'm again realizing that nothing is certain. Peace Corps could decide not to send me anytime before I'm to depart. One returned volunteer told me not to get too excited until I'm there. She had the misfortune of being called a day before she was supposed to head to  Mozambique, and her trip was delayed 9 months. She looks back at it as a blessing in disguise, as she was able to spend more time with her family. But it definitely took her a long time to see it that way.

It seems that every time I become more terrified than excited, every time I start thinking about how my friends are starting their lives, while I'm moving half way around the world, in a vortex that none of them will ever understand. Every time I wonder if it would be more prudent if I just got a job instead. Every time I wonder if I'm doing the right thing, moving away from everything and everyone I know for two years. Every time those worries start to clog my mind, something happens to threaten my place in Peace Corps. Whether its a kidney stone, or stubborn white blood cell counts, each time something threatens to keep me away from Botswana, I remember what I really want.

I want to move to Botswana. I want to be a School and Community Liaison for Life Skills Volunteer. I want to leave everything and everyone I know and love. I want to be thrown into a completely new culture with a new language.

And this is when my dad calls me crazy.
Which is probably true. I don't know many other people who want to do any of these things.

So instead I worry.
I sit and wait, hoping that I can pass each and every hurdle Peace Corps throws at me.
I count down the days until September 11th, 2012, when I depart on this new chapter of my life.
I wait and hope I won't be denied and devastated by Peace Corps before I can reach Botswana.
Because I would be devastated. I would survive, and I would be fine.

But I would be devastated, and that's how I know I've made the right decision.

Best Friend, Meet Peter Pan

So in case any of you are wondering, since my last post I have relocated to Cape Town, South Africa for the semester. However, I don’t plan on writing about my adventures in Cape Town in this blog, so if you want to hear about it, head over to www.liztakesafrica.blogspot.com.
Of course, that disclaimer is more of a “just in case” since I’m pretty sure (as in positive) that my only dedicated reader is my best friend. You know, the one who convinced me to start this blog, wrote about it on her Twitter and is wayyyyy better at blogging than I’ll ever be (check it out: www.literarycrap.blogspot.com).

So it’s quite fitting that I’ve decided this post is going out to her. Completely. Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with numberless affirmations of how amazing she is, how often she’s been there for me, how much she inspires me and how important she is in my life. Instead, I’m going to tell you a story about just how amazing and headstrong Miss Alison is.

Alison: Peter Pan Fashionista

It’s freshman year of high school. Alison and I are in the bathroom by the band room with a friend Ashley while Alison changes clothes for a presentation she has the next hour.

Now for a little background here. A few weeks before this incident, Alison had bought a Kelly green strapless dress while we were on one of our bimonthly shopping excursions 3 hours away. Yes, it is true. We grew up in a town that boasted of an L-shaped mall with major stores such as JC Penney, Maurices, and Payless.

So there we were in Charlotte Russe.I was waiting to harshly judge everything Alison came out of the fitting room in. And then she came out in this dress.

Except that instead of wearing it as a dress, she was wearing it as a skirt.

I immediately burst out laughing, trying to keep myself from rolling on the floor/peeing my pants. Maybe I was being a bit dramatic at the time, but when your best friend walks out of a dressing room trying to convince you that a terry cloth strapless dress is really just a long skirt by wearing it as one, then you’ll understand the humor.

As Alison has never let someone tell her what to do, she then spent the next ten minutes arguing with me, my mother, and multiple sales clerks about how this dress was obviously a skirt. After much-needed convincing and more laughter from me, she finally decided to try it on as the dress it really was. In the end, she decided to buy the dress/skirt, but on the condition that everyone in the store and in her life know that it could be worn either way and she had every intention to wear it both ways.

So back to the band room bathroom.

Alison hadn’t actually told Ashley and I what she was planning on wearing, just that she needed us to tell her how her outfit for her presentation looked. So when she walked out of the bathroom stall we had absolutely no preparation for what we saw.

Ashley and I were looking at a girl version of Peter Pan.

Alison was wearing her terry-cloth Kelly green dress, and luckily she was actually wearing it as a dress. However, the problem came with the rest of the outfit. Let’s start with the tights. Instead of Peter’s lovely forest green tights Alison was sporting hot pink tights. Paired with black flats. And a white sweater. Okay, before she crucifies me here, I might be getting the shoe and sweater colors wrong, but I promise Kelly green dress, hot pink tights.

This time I did fall on the floor laughing.

Not advisable when in a public school bathroom.

After 10 minutes of non-intelligible comments tried to be made to Alison through our laughter, Ashley and I were finally able to control our breathing and figure out this situation.
Alison had of course already retreated back into the bathroom stall and was yelling insults at us, mostly to the tune of how we obviously had no sense of style, and she thought the hot pink and Kelly green would go better together in her head.

Sidenote: Alison went through a phase where everything she wore was neon. She has started to move from that color scheme, but it’s been a long, slow process. Her family and friends have been supporting her whole heartedly through this difficult transition.

Now, we only had two choices.
1). Alison would have to wear the Kelly green dress as a dress. However, due to her tall figure, this meant that she would have to wear the hot pink tights, as without the tights she would definitely be flashing the entire school.
2). Alison would pull the dress down, to around the top of her stomach, so that her skirt wasn’t too long, making her look like an Amish woman dressed for an 80s music video. She could then take off the hot pink tights and button her sweater all the way up.

The sad part here isn’t the initial outfit. We’ve all had those days when we plan something in our minds, whether it be a perfect outfit, recipe for dinner (like I did tonight) or great blog post, and then see it fall to pieces during execution.

The sad part here is that it took Ashley and I another 20 minutes to convince Alison that Option #2 was the smarter of the options. As funny as it was, and as much as I believe in letting people make their own mistakes, I could not allow her to leave that bathroom looking like Peter Pan would look to someone on ecstasy.

While I’m cracking up uncontrollably now just remembering that day, I’m sure it wasn’t as funny to you.
Sadly enough I have no picture of her in that outfit.
So if you aren’t finding this as hilarious as I did, I guess you just had to be there.
I am also expecting complete and total retaliation on Alison’s part.

P.S. I even went into my old myspace (after trying 54789758420 different passwords) to look for a single picture of the infamous dress...

Alison has hid it well.

Please Don't Cancel Super Nanny Before I Have Kids...

You know those Friday nights when you sit at home watching bad tv with your mom?

No?

I don't believe you (at all), but I guess you'll just have to humor me then.

On one of these such nights, my mother had turned on Super Nanny. I can't say I had ever seen the show before, but I knew the premise. These parents have terrible children who don't listen to anyone and turn into monsters that basically eat their pets, so ABC sends this Super Nanny to their house who teaches the kids great manners and not to scream every three seconds. All in one hour. Most of these kids have had years of training in how to be horrible little human beings, and she teaches them how to be angels in an hour? Yeah right. How much do you want to bet the kids turn back into toads three seconds after the nanny walks out the door?

Anyway, with a lack of friends around I decided it was too much effort to move off the couch, so I tuned in with my mother. This particular family had a very vocal 4 year old girl who screamed for 45 minutes of the show and managed to put 3 holes in the wall. As I was exclaiming how she was a demon child my mother informed me that I used to be exactly like her.

What?

I mean, I remember incidents where I screamed for hours. And there was that time or two I had to see a speech therapist who told me I would permanently lose my voice if I continued screaming every second I wasn't happy. I also remember needing to have surgery to remove nodes on my vocal chords. And there might have been something about me breaking numerous porcelain/glass/any-material-that-broke-when-thrown-against-a-wall objects. But that was the bad year(s?). I obviously had exaggerated my bad behavior in my mind. (Have I mentioned I have quite the over-imagination?) There's no way I could have been nearly as horrible as this spawn-of-Satan.

Then my mother told me this story:

When I was 5, my father had just returned home from a business trip in Cincinnati and had brought me back a ceramic Cincinnati Reds bobble-head (I just had to ask my roommate what the name of the Cincinnati mascot was. I stopped following baseball when I realized how boring it is to sit in the hot sun for hours while my father yells angrily at the players). Anyway, I loved the thing, (what kid doesn't love a bobble head?) and carried it around the house with me. Well that day I was about to have my afternoon snack, which consisted of a piece of cheddar cheese. That was my snack, every single day of every single week, without change. That fact needs to be understood to explain what happened next.

So that afternoon, my father (obviously not thinking) asked what I wanted for a snack. I just stared at him. Wasn't it obvious? What did I have for a snack every day? Really, and you call yourself my father? So obviously, I just continued to stare at him. He would remember soon.

He didn't.

He asked me over and over again what I wanted. The only phrase I would utter was “You know.”

He didn't.

That's when the screaming started. You'd think that I would remember such a traumatic experience, but knowing myself I'm sure I blocked it out years ago. I mean, hearing it replayed, it was a traumatic experience. Whose father just forgets his daughter's favorite snack? I mean, come on. The only way I can explain the rest of the night is by telling you to watch Super Nanny. Just find the screaming 4 year old and picture my angelic face on her head (this is all according to my mother, hear you, I'm still not sure she hasn't just made all of this up).

But, according to her, the climax apparently happened when my parents shut me in my room until I stopped screaming. Eventually I did stop screaming, most likely due to a loss of voice, but of course I wasn't done yet.

Something you should know about me:
I am not a quitter.

So what was conveniently in my hand? Yup, the bobble-head. This may have been the point where I threw the bobble-head out of the window. The closed window. Of course, this most likely only escalated the tantrum because now my favorite toy was broken and there was glass all over my bed.

I was having a rough day.

That night my parents not only had to move me into their room because I couldn't sleep with a broken window in the middle of the winter, but they also had to go into the backyard and pick up the glass by hand so our dog wouldn't cut her feet. And of course, to prove that I would stop screaming on my own time, I kept screaming until 2 in the morning.

My mother just looked at me after she finished the story, waiting for a reaction.

“Ooops. I guess I was just testing you to see if you really loved me.” Obviously, she did. Yay for her!

“You know how much I love you?”

“How much?” Awww. She's being sweet.

“I love you so much, I hope you have a child just like yourself.”

Fuck

Running: Alpena to Detroit

The trees are green and the leaves glisten with the early morning lake dew. The lake's whitecaps break against the pier. I'm running down the length of the sea wall with Amazing Grace riding on the wind next to me. The bag pipes and kilt are a familiar morning sight by now. The gulls are screaming as the boaters start their engines and leave the harbor. Running on the rocks. Don't slip, don't fall. There's moss , and spiders and shells. The waves are louder now, spraying me as I run by. The early morning tennis players are warming up while chatting about their kids. Their voices are indistinguishable from the gulls. They hit the ball out and I change course to throw it back. That's what you do here, no thought necessary. Biker after jogger after rollerblader pass by, all with a smile hello and a wave. Now I'm on the road. Mansion after house after shack go by. Victorian, ranch, box, all homes I know. Cars loll past - in no hurry to get to their 9 to 5s and instead more interested in the girl jogging by - honking hello. It's amazing how many I recognize. The blessing and the curse of a small town. I'm sure my dad will come home tonight telling me the City Manager wants me to even out my stride, or the cross county coach thinks I should really use my legs. You can tell the people who like their jobs by the music they're playing. Here, country music means happiness. It doesn't matter if you say you hate it, when you're happy your hand automatically turns the dial, tuning in to the local country station. Everyone has a favorite country song, one we start humming after the end of a good date or singing at the top of our lungs while speeding down the back roads. Closer to home now. Neighbors are watering their lawns and walking their dogs. I'm down to a walk now, every few moments stopping to say hello. Desperate for alone time. Next time I'll need to get up earlier.

***

I'm running. When I look ahead, there isn't a lake. There are no seagulls or the wind in my hair. I can't hear Amazing Grace playing from a set of old bagpipes. No kilt, no honking, no familiar faces. Instead there is a machine. The music in my ears is pulsating faster and faster, forcing me to keep up. Ahead of me the skyline. Six stories up, I see tower after tower. The people below are ants, they're moving so slowly, but each in their own deliberate stride. A whole mini-world functioning below me, and that's just this campus. As I peer down, some look up and wave. Six stories up, and people wave at the runner. Life surprises you. I expected fear, I expected danger and instead I got waving smiling strangers. My mind wanders from Wayne. I head down Warren, then Woodward. Woodbridge, Corktown, Indian Village, East side, West side. The city constantly changing. Desolate, prairie, wasteland, garden, ruin, murals. Urban meet rural. Rural meet urban. Now slam together, messily and completely and beautifully. That's what you are. You are the poor, and the rich. You are the planters and the urbanites. You are devastation that has hope overtaking you, act by act. You are pure potential. I look into the buildings: people begging for food, people shooting up, people crying, people angry, people hurting. Look right behind them. See them? Those people half hidden by the shadows of their hearts: people giving, people counseling, people comforting, people healing. Never have I seen so many healers.

You say this city is dead. People are slowly trickling out, lost hope trailing behind them. You say "Don't go there, it's dangerous." You say there's nothing good left there anymore. You say it's no longer worth the trouble. You say the people left there are scum, poor, sick, trash. You say it's a destitute slum. You fear I'll get shot, mugged, raped, killed just by being within its borders. You condemn it without seeing it, without opening your eyes and seeing it.

I say you're wrong. I say everywhere I look there are people who are building this city up. I say get off your ass and come here. Come and see what is moving in this city. I promise you, the people here care more about their city than you can imagine. I say these people will fight. I say they will go to hell and back for this city. They've done it before and they'll do it again. I say these people will never stop, will never leave, will never give up. I say there is something worth fighting for here. I say this condemned community is rebuilding with or without you. Open your eyes.

My focus comes back. Miles ago I lost myself in the color and beauty of my surroundings. Of the city I have spent so little time in, but have grown to adore. I look back down. The swarm has died down. Classes must have started. I look past the campus to the skyline. I've never felt such pride in a place. I've never felt so much pride in being from Michigan. This is city that is going to change everything.

I walk out of the room to the stairs. One, two, three, four flights. Down the hall, two rights and I'm there. Enter the room. Shut my door. I look out my window, closer to the ground this time. Spirit of Detroit before my eyes. If only you were to come. To see, really see. To feel and experience it. Then you would care.

Lions, Tigers and Elephants? Oh Yes!

As a child, I was a master of storytelling. These days though, I’d probably be called a compulsive liar. But then it was “a wild imagination,” which is what most of my teachers liked to write on my report cards. I was the child that begged my mom to let me watch “Men in Black” with my cooler more mature nine year old brother and his friend, and then proceeded to see aliens jumping out at me for the next two months. I was the child who ran to her mother, terrified, every time Yoda came on the screen during my brother’s favorite Star Wars movie because I swore he was going to use his Jedi powers against me (not to mention, he was creepy looking). And I was the one who was convinced that I was really Pippi Longstocking and wouldn’t let my mother unbraid my pigtails for four weeks. In any case, I had a reputation for being a bit dramatic.

As the youngest, I was constantly looking for attention in anything I did. According to my mother, that‘s why my “famous first grade incident” happened. At least, that’s how she starts out the story each Thanksgiving, Christmas, and really, at any family function. I don’t quite remember every detail from those days, honestly how could I, it seems like a million years ago, but I personally blame Ellen for everything that happened.

It was near the end of the year and Mrs. Daoust was having problems keeping our first grade class focused. My best friend, Cameron and I were the ring leaders of the noisiness. I had, and still have, a knack to continuously talk, even when I have absolutely nothing at all to say. Cameron had a tendency to get bored very easily, and since he was a budding artist, tended to draw pictures on anything in front of him. Fortunately, his mother had the good sense to never give him permanent markers.

It was the end of the year, and therefore Cameron and I were even more restless than normal. Strangely enough though, our class got a new student. Elementary school is probably the only time you can get a new student with maybe two months of school left. Ahh, the good ol’ days. I don’t remember her name, so let’s just call her Ellen.

There was a ridiculous amount of excitement when we found out there'd be a new girl in our class. You have to remember how that felt. First grade was just torment to your seven year old self. You constantly complained about how your teachers treated you like little kids while playing on the merry-go-round at recess. You would find out about a new kid around a week in advance, and all week you and your friends would sit on the spider web and ponder everything about this new person. Then of course, when the new kid finally got there, you were excited for about two days. Everyone wanted to be the new kid’s friend. And then the novelty wore off and it was back to complaining about the unfairness of sixth graders getting an extra recess.

It was different with Ellen though. Sure, the first part of the routine still went as usual, but once she got there, things didn’t change. Ellen was from New York City. She had a pink backpack and pink ribbons for her hair. And worst of all, Ellen had a cute puppy that her parents brought to school every day to pick her up. All first graders are suckers for puppies. She was instant popularity.

I had a serious problem in front of me. The class that I had so thoroughly run just a few weeks ago was now eating out of Ellen’s hand. Even Cameron wanted to sit by her at lunch. It had to stop. Now, I had nothing personally against Ellen. She was actually a very sweet girl, but she was stealing my spotlight, and according to my mother, that was my prime reason for pulling out my secret weapon.

Most first graders would resort to bullying or cruelty to bring down Ellen. But I was different. I was, and most likely always will be, an avoider of conflict. I hated fights or disagreements. I just couldn’t stand it if anyone was upset with me. My mother told me I went through a stage in my toddler years where every five minutes I’d ask “Mommy, are you upset with me?” And if she said yes, I threw a fit; this is obviously not the best way to deal with my problems anymore. I needed to move the spotlight off of Ellen and back on me, so since I hated conflict, I resorted to my “secret weapon”: my imagination.

It just so happened that the day I decided to put my plan into action was my “Show and Tell” day. It wasn’t the usual kindergarten show and tell though. No, we were way too old for that. Instead, two days a week, two kids (one for each day) got 15 minutes in the front of the classroom to show or tell about anything they’d like. It was 15 minutes of heaven. I had yet to tell a story because I always seemed to have something exciting to show, like my new limited edition America Bear beanie baby, or my pink Skip-It. But this time I had a story that I knew would get the entire class talking about me.

When “Show and Tell” came around, I knew exactly what I was going to say. I walked to the front of the classroom and sat on the “speaker bench” Mrs. Daoust set up. I then waited for absolute silence. Surprise, surprise that I had to wait the longest for Cameron, who was directing Ellen on her facial expression as he drew her. Traitor. When there was complete silence, I began the tall tale that was going to win back my popularity.

Now, I don’t remember what I said word for word. This was a number of years ago. But in the end, my first grade class and my teacher were under the impression that my grandfather was an exotic animal trainer. Mrs. Daoust drilled me, trying to see if I was telling the truth. What kind of animals? (Mostly large cats, like lions and tigers.) Where does he work? (He works for different zoos.) Have you ever gotten to touch any of them? (I got to pet a baby tiger named Benjamin.) I seemed to satisfy her questions well enough, at least at first. But did I mention that I tend to let my imagination run away with me?

As the week went on, I was never without at least three of my classmates beside me, bombarding me with questions about my grandfather and his business. I was loving it. Sadly, back then I had not yet perfected the fine art of lying. For instance, I hadn't realized yet that lying works best when you keep the lies simple. As time went on, I started to elaborate on my story. My grandfather went from working for random zoos to having a safari business in Africa. And the large cats that he trained expanded into exotic species ranging from alligators to elephants. My classmates ate it up, hanging on to every word, and to my naïve mind, so was my teacher. I hope for the sake of her future students that she saw through me before my fatal mistake.

The fatal mistake came about two weeks after my story thrust me into stardom; well at least as far as my first grade class considered. Coincidentally, it was “Show and Tell” time again, and it just so happened to be Ellen’s turn. She walked to the front and waited for quiet. Just like me, it was Cameron she was waiting on, but this time it was because he was engrossed in talking to me. Finally, Mrs. Daoust silenced us, and I sat there, confident that nothing she said or did could budge my popularity. Did I also mention that I tend not to have the best intuition?

Ellen went to the door to let her mother inside. Her mother was carrying the cutest bunny rabbit I had ever seen. Ellen knew how to play dirty. Instantly the class rushed Ellen and her mother. I was left alone at my desk, my two weeks of fame dissolving around me, and all I knew was I had to do something. Without thinking, at that very moment, I blurted out “Benjamin the tiger is staying in my basement for the weekend. I got to play with him all day yesterday.”

You hear about those moments when everyone in the room falls completely silent, but you rarely get to experience it. Well trust me when I tell you this was one of those rare moments. The entire room went silent. And then the mayhem started. Ellen’s fluffy bunny was forgotten as kids rushed me, pleading left and right for invitations to my basement. If it was possible, I was even more popular than before. Baby tigers beat fluffy bunnies any day. If only I had known that the few short hours left of that day would be the end of my heaven on earth, I would have treasured them even more.

When I got home from school that day I was greeted with an afternoon snack, which made me immediately suspicious. Although my mom was only working part time, she believed that by the first grade I should be able to find my own snack after school; I came to terms with my deprived existence early in life. My mom sat down with me at the table and asked me the normal questions about my day while I devoured my cookies and milk as quickly as possible just in case she had any thoughts of taking them away. She finally got to her point.

“Honey, this afternoon Mrs. Daoust called me and told me an interesting story…” She proceeded on with the fine details I had embellished about my grandfather. If Mrs. Daoust was anything, she was a great listener. As my mother rehashed my tall tale, I almost forgot this meant bad news as I reveled in the brilliance of it all. Finally she finished my story and asked me if it was true. While I was great at telling stories, when it came to my mother, I could not look her in the face and lie to her. So I told her the truth. I figured she’d lecture me on telling tall tales at school and then let me on my way. But then she dropped the bomb.

“Honey, I know you were just telling a story. But you lied. Mrs. Daoust and I decided on the phone that tomorrow you will stand up in front of the entire class and tell them the truth.”

I was horrified. I had to admit to my friends that I made it all up? No one would find the truth of my grandfather being a retired electrician even half as exciting. All night I tried to come up with some way to get out of it. I finally had a great idea.

“What if I just tell everyone grandpa died? Then they’ll never have to know I made it up!”

I got sent to bed early that night. Just in case you were wondering, killing off your grandpa so that you don’t have to admit to lying is highly frowned upon.

The next morning was Friday, every student’s favorite day of the week, and this Friday dawned sunny and inviting, but all I wanted to do was hide in my room until I was old, like twenty, and everyone had forgotten about my story. I tried to fake sick, but instead I was walked to school by my mother to insure that I went. I had to skip the playground and go right to the classroom so my mother could make sure I didn’t come up with another story to tell Mrs. Daoust to keep from having to confess.

The morning bell seemed to ring hours earlier than it should have. Everyone rushed into the room and Cameron immediately started asking me how Benjamin was. For once in my life, I did not say a word. I just stared at the wall, waiting for the fateful moment. As soon as the class was in order, Mrs. Daoust called me to the front. Most of my classmates looked at me in excitement, thinking I was about to delve into another adventure that I had with Benjamin the night before. Instead, I stared straight at the wall in the back of the room, and started to speak.

I don’t remember a single word I said. I think I tried to block out my confession. It was torment to have to destroy the illusion I had worked so hard to create. All I remember is staring straight in front of me and somehow confessing to my crime. Once again, I had the complete attention of my class. Except this time, no one was looking at me with wonder, but instead, I distinctly remember confusion on the faces of my classmates.

I finished speaking and rushed back to my seat, too afraid to look at anyone. Mrs. Daoust thanked me for my honesty and then started right in on our spelling lesson. When I look back, I feel a rush of gratitude towards her for understanding how hard that confession was for me and moving on quickly. Although I tend to question her competence at times, she really was a great teacher who let me show my imagination and I think she hated the fact that I had to break the illusion as much as I did; she was just doing her job.

I didn’t say much the rest of the morning, and no one tried to speak to me. When lunch rolled around, I was completely ready to be shunned. It’s what any normal first grader would expect. But instead, as I sat down, Cameron and many of my other classmates followed suit right behind me. Then Cameron said the most beautiful words my seven year old ears could have heard at that moment.

“Hey Elizabeth, I’ll trade you my chicken for your fries.”

I was forgiven. We laughed and chatted throughout lunch; even Ellen joined in with us. She was starting to grow on me. As we went outside to enjoy a battle of chicken on the monkey bars, a boy in our group, Toby, started talking about his new 5-speed bike and how he was bringing it to school tomorrow.

Now this just wouldn’t do.

I yelled out “Hey guys, did I ever tell you how my dad’s getting me a motorcycle for Christmas?”

A little background for the road.

Okay, so this is my attempt of writing a blog. And it's all Alison's fault, after she showed me her amazing blog . While hers is a rambling of reviews for her book list, mine is just going to be rambling in general. Kind of like my title, which is a work in progress - so please advice would be GREAT!

So don't judge. Actually, go ahead and judge. I would do the same.

So I should probably add a little background here. Earlier this summer I started writing. A lot. Some of it makes no sense, okay, most of it makes no sense. And if you were looking for a cohesive unit, that's not going to happen either. But some of it is entertaining, other writings are things that have been on my mind.
Honestly, I don't expect readers, creating this blog was a promise I made. So enjoy, and if you don't, then, well, sorry. Although if you spend your time looking at random blogs, then I'm guessing you have quite a bit to waste, so I won't apologize for wasting it.

And that's the spiel.