Childhood Nostalgia

I remember summers at my grandmother and grandfather's house in Roselle, NJ. I was about 6 years old. In the eyes of my childhood I took such wonder in the small things that I found there.

I would often sneak outside to be alone and explore. I enjoyed being alone as a child, making up imaginary friends and talking to myself. Imaginary friends were the best as I could always boss them around and make them do what I said.

As I'd make my way out the door I'd run around the side of the house. I could always smell them before I saw them. The smell of the mint leaves. I loved to kneel down in the grass, pick the mint leaves with my little fingers and eat them. I would pretend I was chewing Wrigley's Spearmint Gum. It was always a delightful experience. Then I'd run to the back of the house where the honeysuckle was hanging. I'd gingerly pick the flowers and pull out the tall stem in the middle and sip the honey on the end. These were my secret outdoor treasures and I hid their riches in my mouth.

Upon finishing my seasonal ritual, I'd make my way to the end of the block. At this point I'd usually be dragging my bratty and sweaty little brother and we'd cross the street and run to the little bridge and hang over it and stare down into the brook.

As always curiosity would brew over and we'd be sliding down the bank to splash in the shallow waters. I would be picking flowers and my brother would be standing in the brook in his sandals trying to catch small fish, frogs or the occasional piece of strange garbage floating by.

Then my grandmother would come and get us for dinner. "Veneca a Comer!" She would say as she walked towards us. Which meant "Come and eat" in Spanish. We'd scamper up the bank and run home to wash our hands and and prepare for and eventful meal of my Papa's goofy faces while he tried to touch us with his "scary ugly finger". We called it the scary ugly finger because he had the tip of his middle finger sawed off in an accident once. He always thought it was funny to give people "the finger" just so he could show off how ugly it was.

The best part about dinner was after it was over, my brother and I would hide under the table and anyone who was barefoot was in for a brutal game of Toe Pinching. My Papa would hand me my dessert under the table while I acted like a hungry animal. Then my mother would scold my grandfather for encouraging me to act like a dog that was begging for it's food.

Evenings were polished off with me sitting in my Papa's leather recliner watching the original Battle Star Galactica or the Muppets. I'd have my great-grandmother's afghan flopped over my stuffed belly and I'd slowly drift off to sleep with my mouth open until my mother would pick me up and carry me off to bed.

The Closet

The Closet of my grandmother's old house was the portal to her past. She was and still is the only person who's past I was ever able to enter. Her world became mine when I opened the door and I had many a Narnia moment in the back of that closet.

What was the best was that everything was real. It wasn't the kind of dress up stuff you buy for little kids. It was real grown-up clothes and I liked real grown-up clothes best. She had everything that a little girl could need in order to become a woman at the tender age of six.

I would wear her sparkly silver and glass high heels which I called her "Cinderella Shoes" because that's exactly what they looked like. The closet was about three feet deep inside and when you pushed back all the clothes there were piles and piles of hat boxes.

I would turn the low watt light bulb on which hung from a very old pull string and get to work digging through the boxes in order to determine what sort of outfit I was looking to pull together.

To this day the scent of musty cedar reminds me of her closet and all those gently worn clothes. Even in the summer heat, I would be in that closet on the second floor with no central air, practically suffocating. I remember sticking my head out between the clothes, gasping for breaths of fresh air while my fine brown hair would get matted to my forehead. Then like a baby seal I would go back under. But I didn't care.

Eventually I would emerge with the most fabulous ensemble I could find:
A short brown wig.
A pink pill box hat.
White gloves with black polk-a-dots on them.
Gobs of jewelry about my neck. Coral lipstick, and her Cinderella Shoes.
I was Audrey Hepburn A-la-Carte and I loved myself.

But I don't know who enjoyed the game more. Me, because I got to play dress up, or her, getting the biggest kick out of her granddaughter clop, clopping around in those Cinderella Shoes.

The Vice President's in the Wheel Barrel and the Police are on the Scene

Some years back, during the summer my father had a hernia operation. Afterwards, my mother drove him home. When they pulled into the driveway my father realized that he was unable to lift himself up out of the car. All of us kids came around to try and help my father out. My father is not one who is comfortable showing signs of physical weakness and needing help. Therefore the fact that his lovely wife and three grown children where attempting to hoist his weakened frame out of the car made him less than amiable.

After much fussing and snapping from my father, my mother decided to come up with Brilliant Idea #1, Put my father in a wheel barrel. The reason being was that if he couldn't stand up then we could sit him down in the wheel barrel and wheel him into the house. My father refused, but my mother insisted and since Dad was virtually immobile, my mother won this battle.

Now you should know that my Dad is a regional vice president of a prominent international business. I don't say this to brag, but rather to make sure you understand we are not talking about a farmer in a wheel barrel. We're talking about a man who wears business suits to work, a man of taste and class. He was furious.

My brother and sister and I were trying not to laugh as we got the green wheel barrel from the garage and slowly lower Dad into it from the car. I don't recall ever seeing my father so cantankerous in my life. Once we carefully wheeled him through the garden we realized we had another problem. How were we going to get the wheel barrel up the steps to the house? What bunch of idiots we were. No one thought about anything before hand. We decided to try once again to get my dad up but he just couldn't move.

That's when Mom came up with Brilliant Idea #2, call the police.
Why the police and not a neighbor, I'm not sure, but there you have it. My father refused and scolded my mother as if she was a child for even considering the idea. To which my mother completely ignored him and went inside and promptly dialed the police department.

The next thing we know all five of us are standing around with a squad car in the driveway and two officers trying to assess the situation. They had their hand to their mouths trying to look serious, but really I think they were just trying to keep from laughing. It was these hefty gentleman who managed to lift my father from the wheel barrel and help him into his room.

Once we got Dad settled the rest of us showed the police officers through the house on their way out. Just before reaching the door, one of them stopped and looked at the other cop. "Hey, haven't we been here before?" He said as he stopped and glanced around our kitchen. "Heeeeeey! Yeah! We have been here. Maloney, Right?" Said the other cop to my brother. "Uh, yes officer." My brother said looking slightly nervous. "Yeah we broke up a big party here this summer!" Said the first cop. "You did WHAT?" Said my mother, looking from the cops to my brother and sister as they smiled sheepishly at her. "Yeah, the neighbors called because of the noise!" They said as they smiled confidently at each other and impressed that they remembered.

After that comment I think my brother wanted to kick them in the back and out the door. Once they left however, my mother started grilling the three of us. Oh, but that's another story...;-)

Driving Lessons

I learned to drive in England. I had a maroon, two door Ford Escort. I can't remember what year the car was, but it didn't have power anything so it was old. I had two driving instructors. My first instructor David, was planning on retiring fairly soon. I kid you not when I say that after giving me a handful of lessons he told my mother that I needed way more help then he had the patience to offer. Can you guess why? I was the kind of teenage driver that every parent prays they will not have. I WAS AWFUL and I terrified anyone who got in the car with me. My next teacher was a tall, soft spoken, patient man named Nigel.

Nigel was wonderful. He didn't yell at me when I came close to hitting cars. He didn't brace himself against the dash when I would slam on the breaks at every traffic stop and he didn't clench his jaw. Instead, he would make me laugh and that relaxed me, since I white knuckled the wheel at every lesson.

"Colleen, I'll give you 20 points if you can hit that old lady." He would say in his lovely English accent. I thought that was so funny, that he would make light of such a stressful situation for me. I started taking my driving lessons in April when I turned 17. I was one of the first of my friends to start lessons because I was older than most everyone else. It was embarrassing when months later, many of my friends caught up to me, passed me and received their license before me. After the third time I failed my driving test, I was officially humiliated. Nigel, the ever good teacher that he was, was always encouraging, sympathetic and kind to me. I looked at him with glassy eyes and a stinging red nose. "I don't think I'll ever be able to pass." I said. "Nonsense. You're a good driver now, it's just that tests make you nervous." He was actually right. I had had so many lessons by this point, that I was comfortable behind the wheel, even a bit cocky. (Yikes!) I just would collapse under the pressure of testing.

Things got the slightest bit awkward for me when after so many lessons and so much time together, Nigel commented on how he liked the smell of my perfume and he kinda started looking at me funny. Not so much like a dad anymore, but maybe a little bit like an admirer. I remember thinking to myself after that lesson, "He's like, 35! He's like, old!"

I laugh now, because I don't think 35 is that old to me anymore. But I remember determining that I would pass very soon. Thankfully by the time I took the test for the 4th time, I was pretty relaxed about the whole routine and I passed. Thankfully Nigel never said another word about my perfume and once we got home we shook hands and said what was to be good-bye forever.

I miss the winding roads of England now. I miss the terribly narrow neighborhoods and all the round-abouts. I even miss that silly Ford Escort. But I will never forget the feeling that I felt the first time I got into my car all by myself and drove off to pick up my best friend. I had the windows down and was singing along to my built in cassett playing, no doubt playing something from the Indigo Girls or Natalie Merchant. Although I was singing the words to the song, in my heart I was singing of my independence and I was singing of my Freedom.

True and Ridiculous Stories from the Life of A Single Girl- Part 1

Here are some tips that guys should never do when dating or hoping to date the girl they fancy. These stories are the true accounts of dates I've been on.

Tip #1. Do not ever attempt to stand on your head for a girl unless you are a professional gymnast.

Yes, I have actually had a guy literally stand on his head for me. I was in college. We were hanging out in my doom room (with the door open) and the guy said the four word phrase that makes me cringe on a date. "Watch me impress you." Well if that don't stink up to high Heaven in my book then I don't know what does. I said to him, "Please don't do that. Please don't try to impress me." I pleaded. But, Stand-On-His-Head-Boy insisted on doing so in my little room. Mind you, I had two drying racks set up in the corner with clothes hanging on them. Needless to say, he throws his hands up in the air and whips himself upside-down on his head. Too bad he had lousy balance. He managed for two seconds before losing control and fell over, knocking all the laundry over and landed in a heap covered in my roommate's and my unmentionables. Well well, that was a fabulous show let me tell you. He was mortified, rightly so. I on the other hand was openly laughing at him. He left shortly after that. The Bible says that pride comes before a fall...and let me tell you, it sure did that day.

Tip #2. Do not drive like a maniac or put the girls life in danger on a first date. (Or any date thereafter.)

I will often say a little prayer before I go on a date. But this was the only pre-date prayer that I found myself praying for my own protection in the guy's car.

Maniac-Driver-Boy came to pick me up in some old electric blue 1980's Beretta. He loved his car. I could have cared less. No sooner had he pick me up, did he pull out that awesome line: "Watch me impress you." "Oh no. Here we go again." I thought. "No please, don't try to impress me." I said to him boldly this time. But he went on about how great his car handles and how I would love it. I sighed, feeling like a prisoner in his car. What a fun way to start a date. As we were driving, he pulls into a church and then peels out for a hard left turn. The problem was, as soon as we peeled out his breaks locked and he lost control of the car. We spun out of control 180 degrees. I braced myself against the door, surprisingly at peace and he dropped the loudest (excuse me) F-bomb that I would ever care to hear. Nice. Especially considering we just got back from a Christian camp together and he was a lead counselor. Scripture says that out of the heart the mouth speaks. Well, I read that boy loud and clear that day and all I can say is that we definitely didn't speak the same language of love. Good grief!

Remembering Hong Kong

I am recalling first memories. So delicate, like shutter clicks in the mind. They could be a dream, but I know that they are not. I am no more than four years old, wearing little red canvas sneakers. Always red canvas sneakers. I always wanted my mother to buy me ones of a different color, like pink, but my mother said that red would hide the dirt better, so red sneakers is what I got.

I am standing outside of a large Buddhist temple in Hong Kong. I cannot go in with my sneakers on. So I take off my shoes and socks. Freedom in my little bare feet. I like the slapping sound that my feet make as I run around on the cold cement. I can smell the long thin red burning incense sticks propped up next to blue bowls of oranges, set out as offerings. My mother shushes me to be quite. She tells me that the temple is a place for prayer and meditation, like when we go to church. I don't really understand, but I like to watch everything. I like to watch the monks in their robes. In this particular temple, the Buddha is gold and I think it has red lips and always has long ear lobs with a faint smile. The Buddha is huge, as big as a one story building. Sometimes they are much bigger though.

I remember that across the street from the temple was a McDonald's.(Of all things!) I used to love to go to "Old McDonald's". (You know, like the song?) I don't think my sister was born yet, but I remember walking over there after playing around the temple, and my brother Ryan would be in the stroller and my mother wore a blue wrap skirt with white flowers on it.
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Once a week, my mother would order fish and the Fish Man would come to our apartment. I Loved the Fish Man. He wore black plants and a black shirt and little back shoes. "Nee-how-ma!" I would always say to him when he came to the door. "Oh, Nee-how-ma!" He would say and smile an almost toothless grin. He and my mother would talk in Chinese about what she wanted and then he would squat down right outside the doorway and unwrap the fish from newspaper and chop off it's head. I loved to watch him work. Then he would wrap the fish back up again in the newspaper. Before he would leave he would reach into his pocket and pull out a green piece of Wrigley's Spearmint Gum and hand it to me. That's what I loved most about the Fish Man. I could always count on him for a yummy piece of gum! "Shea Shea Nee" I would say to him. Which meant "Thank you very much." Then my mother would pay him and off he would go.

I particularly love that memory of the Fish Man and the gum. I identify so strongly with that as part of my childhood. Sometimes it feels good to reach back into the sweet thoughts of growning up and remember things that are special. Things that no one else can relate to, the simple things, things that make you, you.

The Worst Birthday Party Ever

(This post was encouraged by David McMahon and my Mom, who actually want me to write the good stories worth reading! So thanks. )

When my Aunt Maureen turned 40 my Uncle Cliff wanted to do something exciting for her. So he threw her a birthday party on a boat a few years back. I was excited. I was envisioning a Ralph Lauren Nautical magazine layout. Complete with shiny, blond skippers with rough stubble, wearing their cute blue and white stripped shirts and waiting to serve me some kind of yummy cold drink. Yeah, that's not what happened. He rented a large brown fishing boat instead. It was nice enough, I guess. But darn my snobby great expectations!

There was quite a large turn out of guests. Young cousins to great aunts and uncles all boarded the ship for what looked to be an enjoyable late summer afternoon along the New Jersey Shore line.

My father's side is quite a large Irish Catholic family and truth be told, when there is cause for celebration, we know how to celebrate. By the time our merry group took off most of the crowd had probably had about two beers to start.
We couldn't have been more then fifteen or twenty minutes out to sea when we realized that although it was a sunny day, the swells were terribly strong and our 35footer was rocking hard.

It seemed that the laughing and merrymaking sounds were quickly dying off and the sound of uncomfortable silence and strong lapping waves was the only thing to be heard around the boat. Nobody felt like talking and I noticed how large plates of food were left untouched everywhere.

I was sitting at the back end of the boat, trying to concentrate on the horizon and being thankful that I never had breakfast. I continued to inhale deep breaths of the salty air, trying to look casual with my arm dangling from the railing. My brother Ryan however was sitting in front of me stuffing his face with sausage, cheese and olives and downing it with beer. It was nauseating. He kept trying to have a conversation with me, but even the sight and smell of his food was disgusting so I told him to go away and leave me alone. He seemed only mildly disappointed, but disappeared and left me to my thoughts and my rolling stomach. The only conversation at this point by anyone was about who was feeling more sick and who was going to throw up first.

My Uncle Tom was one of the few who seemed completely unaffected by the rocking boat and kept going around eating to his hearts content and asking “Did you throw up yet?” Honestly, my Uncle Tom was hilarious and his ability to make light of the situation was very entertaining.

Finally I decided to get up and go into the galley and get something to drink. I walked downstairs and as I surveyed the room I found three very miserable looking people. My grandmother, my Aunt Florence and my grandfather were sitting forlornly on a bench. No one was talking and they all looked green. Off to the side were the food and drinks that had previously been set up very meticulously, buffet style. At this point though the food was now sliding off the table and cups were rolling all over the floor. For some reason you could feel the swaying of the boat more intensely from the inside and it was harder to stand.

“Hi everyone!” I said. Trying to muster the most cheerful voice I could. “Umph.” Was all my Grandfather could reply. My poor aunt was holding on to the railing behind her and trying very hard to look like she wasn’t going to throw up. “Hi Colleen.” My Grandmother managed. Trying to sound as equally polite. It was obvious no one felt like talking. I grabbed a bottle of water, faked a smile and backed up slowly. Then I turned, wobbled up the stairs and plopped back down at the back of the boat.

I sat there for awhile. Praying with earnest that God would help me keep my wits about me. I also happened to think I looked pretty cute in a kickin' yellow halter top, khaki pants and flip flops. Throwing up on myself or over the edge would definitely wreck the look.
Awhile later, my brother Ryan came back to find me. This time he wasn’t eating. He sat down across from me and let out a low disgusting lunch-beer burp. “You are so gross and I can smell that.” I said. “Sorry, but I don’t feel so good now.” He said.
Our conversation was interrupted when my Uncle Cliff announced that the captain was going to bring the boat up one of the tributaries and get us off the open sea.

It didn’t take long to get us turned around and within 10 minutes we began to find our stomachs settled as we made our way up one of the little inlets.
Up until this point, it was as if everything had been happening in slow motion. Like when you press pause on the DVD player and then hit slow and watch the way people’s movements look exaggerated and their words come out long, slow and deep. Then within a matter of minutes it was as if someone hit the play button and we began talking like normal. People started coming back to life and regained their party spirit and appetites.
My Uncle Tom spent the rest of the time as the party’s main attraction. He got the scoop on everyone and had us laughing as he recapped the poor relatives who couldn't’t manage to keep their stomachs down. He had a way of teasing my Aunt Susan, Aunt Florence and Cousin Danny in such a way that instead of embarrassing them, made them feel like the main attraction. As if throw up in public is fun and enjoyable to watch.

(Mental note for my 40Th and to any family and friends who plan on being there…no parties on boats, please. Thanks.)

Things I did as a Kid

1. In the morning, walk over to my mother while she was sleeping in bed and lift up her eyelid and peer into her face and ask "Are you in there Mommy?"

2. Laugh at my father while he was scolding me because his 'Mean Face' was hilarious to me. He would grit his teeth and his face would get red and sometimes I thought it would pop off.

3. I learned that it's not a good idea to convince your little sister to try and fit into your dresser drawer and then shut it and walk away. You get in Big trouble for that.

4. I also learned that it's not nice to tell your sister that she's adopted and swear her to secrecy.

5. Create a bungee cord out of my Madonna Bracelets and bounce my barbies out the window.

6. Make fun of my best friend Jen for wiping her boogies behind her mirror, then realize that I wiped my boogies under my window sill.

7. Hide from my mother in the round clothing racks at the department store and wipe my boogies on the new clothes.

8. Have an extremely wild imagination. I believed that there was a little troll that lived in my closet and he wanted to get me while I slept. I also believed that the Vikings were going to get me and nail my sheets down with me in them and I would never get out of my bed. I also believed that my carpet turned into The Blob at night and so I was terrified to get out of my bed to use the bathroom. (I could go on...)

9. I was the stereo-typical oldest child. You could call me "Little Miss Bossy" or "Little Miss Know-it-All."

10. I was only allowed chocolate once a week. It was after church and we would stop by the Seven-Eleven on the way home and the three of us would get to pick a candy bar while my dad got coffee.

11. I told my best friend Jen "I hate you, you know." Waited until she started to cry and then said. "I was only kidding."

12. Didn't deserve my best friend Jen, who was the sweetest girl in the world.

13. Watch 6 hours of TV on Saturday mornings. From 6am until noon.

14. Constantly sneak into my siblings beds at night because of all the things I came up with to be afraid of in the dark.

15. Used to throw myself out of bed so that my parents who were in the den below would think I fell out of bed, all for extra attention.

16. I loved it when my grandfather would come to babysit us because we could eat ice cream for dinner and he would do tricks with his cigarettes and let us stay up late with him and watch british Benny Hill shows.

17. Make up reasons to have lots of different parties. Example: Cabbage Patch Kids Birthday's, Christmas in July Parties.

18. I used to come home from school and either finish off a row of Oreos OR make myself a salad.

19. Dance in front of the mirror.

20. Dress up in crazy costumes and walk around the neighborhood hoping people would see me.

21. Get sick a lot or try to fake it, because I always wanted to be home with my mother.

22. Told my pre-school teacher that my mommy had a gun in the hopes of leaving pre-school. It worked, they told her never to bring me back.

23. I knew that I was a naughty little girl, and I always felt rather guilty for that. Even as a kid.

24. The Booby Room , enough said.

25. Had a rather large collection of tooth paste caps in my bathroom medicine cabinet.

26. Decorated the cabinet under my sink with cut up boxes of Kleenex. I thought the pictures were pretty.

27. Had a collection of dried gum stuck to my bed post so I could chew it when I didn't have any fresh gum.

28. Told my friend Jen that if a boy ever asked me out I would tell him before we went on the date that he was absolutly not allowed to touch me at all.

29. When I was two, I look just like the Campbells Soup Kid.

30. Before I got braces I used to undo paperclips and stick them in my mouth to pretend that I had braces.

31. When my brother would bother me, I would pick up the phone in front of him and pretend that I was talking to Santa Clause and tell him not to bring toys for my brother because he was being bad.

32. Made up this game at the table called Princess, Prince and Slob. We only played this when my parents were getting ready to go out and we were waiting for the babysitter and eating dinner on our own. I was the Princess (of course) Ryan was the Prince and Lauren was the Slob. I would remove her silverware and chair. She would serve us and then have to eat with her hands while standing up. And if we wanted anyting, she would get it for us.

(Man, Did I love being a kid (and the oldest) but paybacks on me never stop at the family gatherings for all the stuff I pulled!)

The Boy, The Christmas Present (and the ungreatful Girl who received it)

(Note: Once again, I changed the names of those involved)

The year was 1992. The place was Thorpe, in Surrey England and I was 15 years old. It was the last day of school before the Christmas holiday and I was anxious. The word around school was that Jon The Canadian was looking to give me a present and I was looking to hide. Sweet, handsome, shy Jon. He's good looks and quiet demeanor intimated the heck out of me as a young girl. He was desperate to attempt to win my heart though.

All throughout the day my girlfriends kept looking for me saying "Jon's looking for you. He has something for you." Then his friends started coming up to me. "He's looking for you, Colleen." They said. "Yeah, uh huh, I know." Was all I could awkwardly muster.

I didn't see him all day but sunk onto the school bus anyway. We were just about to take off when a blond head popped into the school bus and climbed the stairs. The next thing I knew the tall, shy Canadian was smiling and making his way to the back of the bus where I was sitting with butterflies in my stomach.

"Hello Colleen, Merry Christmas." He said in his smooth, deep voice and held out his big hand. In it was a tiny box wrapped in Christmas paper. I sat there in my seat and looked up at him. All the children on the bus were watching us. I took the present from his hand. "Thanks Jon. Merry Christmas to you too." I said and smiled weakly up at him. "Okay, well, I'll see ya." He said cheerily. And turned around and walked off the bus. I sat there with the little wrapped box in my hand. I didn't want to open it. Next thing I knew there was a tap at the window. It was Jon and he was smiling. Then like something out of an old Molly Ringwald movie, he blew on the window. It created a fog and he wrote backwards so I could read it properly "Call me" with his finger. "Okay?" I could hear him say. All I could do was nod. Then he walked off.

Just then our mean bus driver who we mockingly named "Skippy" shouted in his thick Scottish brogue. "Siiiii dooowwwn! We're leeeavin'!" The bus lurched and off we went.
I was sitting there with the little box in my hand and his very good friend who road the bus with me. "Well open it!" Greg said. All the girls were watching me. They thought I was so cool that an upperclassmen gave me Freshman, a Christmas present.

Nothing like this had ever happened to me in my life. No guy had ever paid attention to me until now, not like this. Maybe it was because I was insecure about my looks. Maybe it was because I was immature and inexperienced. I don't really know. But as much as I enjoyed being liked, I was not emotionally ready for dating just yet.

So with trembling hands, I unwrapped the present. It was a cut glass box that you could see through, and in it was a dainty pair of gold looking flower earrings. They were very pretty, and I was speechless.

That night, I kept thinking about the fact that he wanted me to call him. But I didn't know what to say. So I didn't. I felt bad about that. It was never like me to agree to something and not follow through, but I just couldn't.

I can't remember if I ever thanked him. All I know is that those dainty earring sat in my jewelry box. And every once in awhile I would take them out and look at them and then secretly tuck them back away. They were probably the most thoughtful Christmas present I received that year and I never let him know it.

Now I am a grown-up but somewhere in the attic of my parents house, in an old white leather jewelry box there lies a pair of dainty flower earrings, that have still yet to be worn, but are to precious to throw away.

Big Momma

When I was a little girl my great-grandmother Beatriz Barcina had become bed ridden. She was a sweet old lady. A big old lady. All of her great-grandchildren always referred to her as "Big Momma" to her face. Or we called her "Big-Momma-in-the-Bed". I was four and would go running into her room shouting "Hi Big Momma!" Why is it that now as an adult, I think that name is so derogatory? Yet I think it's funny to me, but also insulting.

I mean, would you ever want your grand or great-grand-children to call you "Big Momma" or "Big Daddy"?

The Booby Room

When I was five years old my family moved to New Jersey. I remember the day we moved in. At the time it was a dark blue house with black trim. We had moved from Hong Kong and I had previously only known life in an apartment, in a city. Being in a house and living in a residential neighborhood was a very new experience for me.

I remember that the people that had previously lived in the house before us had extremely strange taste in decorating. There was pea green shag carpet all over the place and the tiles in the bathroom had been painted over in a hideous shade of brown that you could peel off the wall.

What I really liked about the house though was that it had four levels, basement through attic. This meant lots of opportunities for private play and exploration without my parents knowing what we were up too. The first time I checked out the attic however was quite an eye opening experience. The front room of the attic was previously used as a bed room and so it was a “finished” room. But the wallpaper was quite shocking for a five year old to observe. It was created to look like a negative print of a naked woman bathing from the waist up. She was striking all kinds of seductive poses with her long flowy hair. I remember standing and staring in open mouth aghast at such pictures printed over and over again all around the room. The thing was, because it was a negative print you couldn't’t see her in complete focus. Nevertheless, there was no doubt as to what I was looking at.

With all the chaos that is involved in a trans-continental move, this room was subsequently left untouched because my parents has so much redecorating and remodeling to do. The front attic room was left for storage and when someone needed something from there we began saying “It’s in the Booby Room!” The name stuck and the attic fell by the wayside.

The attic however was one of my favorite places to play dress up and make-believe. So I was always messing about in the Booby Room. The thing was, because I was always up there for one reason or another, the wallpaper began to get less and less noticeable. And less of an observation until I completely stopped seeing it all together. In fact we all stopped seeing it.

Every once in while I’d bring friends over and have to get something from the Booby Room and I’d bring them with me. It was always a shocking experience for them. It also became kind of a kick for me, because I was so immune to it. I thought “well hey, doesn’t everyone have a room in their house with somewhat visible naked women all over the walls?” Apparently not.

I remember one particular afternoon in about third or fourth grade. I had a bunch of kids over after school for CCD. For anyone who has never heard of it, it’s Catechism class. My mother was the catechism teacher at the time and we always met at our house. So after we spent a good hour and a half learning how to be good little Catholics we were hanging out waiting for the parents to show up and I got the great idea of showing the kids the Booby Room.


“Hey, you guys want to see something really cool?” I asked. They all said yes and I promptly marched everyone up from the finished basement to the attic.
I remember holding the doorknob and telling everyone that it was a secret and not to tell anyone what they were about to see. Everyone promised. I then slowly opened the door and stood aside for everyone to enter. They all filed in and the guys were like “Hey these are all naked ladies, cool!” The girls were a little more disturbed and asked me questions like,
“ Colleen, why do your parents have this wallpaper?” I explained that it was from the previous owners and that my parents just hadn’t gotten around to changing it. “Now remember!” I said.
” You can’t tell anyone that I showed you this or my mom will kill me!” What an idiot I was thinking these kids wouldn’t say anything. After all, this is just the kind of secret you want to tell everybody!

Later that evening we received a phone call from one of the kid’s mothers. My friend Katie Kennedy broke her promise and dropped the bomb to her mom about the Booby Room. So her mom called my mom in disbelief that a catechism teacher would have naked women all over a room in her house. My poor mother fumbled around trying to figure out how to diplomatically explain why we hadn’t chosen it and why we hadn’t gotten rid of it.

After she got off the phone I got nailed for being devious on purpose. What can I say? Sinning felt good for the moment, but the fear of my parents always cured me of doing the same wrong things twice. (Most of the time.)

Here is the interesting observation about the Booby Room. If a person is exposed to something over and over again, No matter what it is, our brains become desensitized to things. In my family we all became desensitized to this wallpaper and even though we all knew it was in our face when we were in the room, we stopped seeing it.

So there you have it. Another true story from yours truly.

I was Fifteen going on Sixteen...

Note: Some of the names have been changed to protect the privacy of those mentioned.

The month was February. I was two months shy of my sixteenth birthday and terrified that I would be "Sweet Sixteen and Never Been Kissed". I was as skinny as a rail with no figure. I had metal braces with elastic bands that attached from top to bottom, so that when I opened my mouth, it looked like strands of saliva were always hanging down. Lovely. I was also growing out my super short hair cut from the previous year. Now it almost reached the bottom of my earlobes.

That is how I looked when I met Derek and Jon. They were both Juniors and I was a Freshman. Jon was tall, blond, Canadian and shy. Derek was short, blond, crass and obnoxious. They were best friends. We all met at the international school we were attending whilst living in England. For reasons I will never know, Jon took a liking to me. Derek then made it his business to become my friend and learn all about me with the intention of pulling Jon in, since Jon was too shy to befriend me himself.

The problem was, Jon talked to Derek about me all the time and eventually Derek began to like me too. Oh the drama of teenage love triangles! Now I, being an immature 15 year old who's never been kissed, was terrified of shy, handsome, Jon. Those were my reasons for being terrified of him... shy, tall and handsome. And YES, I was the stupidest girl in the world!

Derek on the other hand was not at all shy. He always found an excuse to find me and talk to me. He also wasn't as cute as Jon. For some reason though, his candidness and average looks put me at ease and I suppose that's why I began to like him. That and the fact that he started sending me love letters between classes. My friends and I would laugh in shock in the girls locker room at the rude things he would say in his letters. Thankfully though, I can't remember what those things were, nor would I even want to try recalling them.

Eventually, to Jon's terrible dismay, Derek and I began dating. If you could call it that. We just liked knowing that we were "together". This all took place just before our school's winter break. Derek and I were going on the same school ski trip to the Austrian Alps. I was very excited. I had never been away from my parents before, let alone going to Europe and my new boyfriend was going too.

We took a plane from Heathrow Airport and flew to Munich. Then we all boarded a bus and drove another three hours into Austria. I was a nervous wreck on that bus ride. Up until this point, Derek never made a move on me. I don't even think we held hands. I wasn't even sure if he wanted to sit next to me. He was just so goofy all the time, cracking jokes and shooting his loud mouth off and talking to everyone but me.

But we did sit together. In the back. Not the way way back, that was for the maker-outters and I was not that kind of girl. That kind of stuff scared me because although I was slowly becoming a woman, I was still very much a girl inside. I could see that Derek was also very much a boy, so even though he didn't always talk to me, I knew I wouldn't get man-handled. So I felt safe.

By the time our bus headed off towards Austria it was growing late into the night. Our merry band of high schoolers and chaperons were fading in their personalities and everyone was growing sleepy. Our bus wound it's way past dark snowy meadows, and slowly headed into the Alps. As I looked out the window watching the snow fall, I could see Derek's reflection staring at me. I was too nervous to turn my head. So he kindly put his arm around me. I leaned in to rest my head on his shoulder and could smell the scent of Obsession for Men on his ski sweater. For the rest of my life, whenever I catch that sent, I am reminded of his wispy blond hair and 16 year old face.

All was quiet then and no one was watching. He tilted my chin up to his face with his hand and warmly kissed me. It was the kiss of someone who had done it before. But I didn't mind. And then he kissed me again. And just as I was feeling myself begin to melt and relish in the sweetness of the moment, I felt like someone was watching us. Before I had a chance to open my eyes, the kid in the seat in front of us was leaning over the back of his seat and proclaimed "Hey look you guys, they're kissing! Eeeoooouuu!". I broke away from Derek at that point and tried to bury my face into his chest. Everyone turned to look at us and I was mortified and terribly red in the face. I wanted to punch Charlie all the way back to Brussels where he was from. Derek told him to shut up and that the show was over. Which I thought was very protective of him. But for the rest of the ride people kept looking at us, to see if it might happen again.

We snuggled down under a small blanket that he pulled out and even though I tried to fall asleep, it was impossible. I was too excited inside. I had been kissed! Finally. I didn't see him much the rest of the week. We were in different ski groups because he was a better skiier than I was.
A few weeks later, we broke up. The idiot had conquered me and he developed a crush on some other girl. I wasn't too hurt, though. It was just a puppy-love relationship. But still, Derek was my first kiss, and you never forget your first.

Embarassment en Totale

Ever walked out of the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to your shoe? Well, this story is even better then that.

I was on holiday with the family I was nannying for at the time. We were staying in a gorgeous suite in Whistler, Canada. I had only started with this family two weeks before, so we were still getting to know each other. We also had another family joining us for the vacation. After a fun day of skiing we were all preparing for dinner in our suite. I excused myself to use the loo for a moment. Sometimes, I suppose out of habit in restrooms, I still place toilet paper on the seats in hotels. I quickly hurried up as we were about to eat.

I came out of the bathroom blabbing on about something and was walking all around the room when one of the little girls came up to me and said very loudly, "Colleen, why do you have a trail of toilet paper hanging out of your pants?" "What!" "I exclaimed. I slowly turned around and looked down at my bum to see the long trail of toilet paper hanging out of my pants, just as she said.

"I, I don't know." I stammered. I could feel my face burning and my body starting to sweat. There was no getting out of this. I had walked all around the room drawing attention to myself with conversation. Everybody looked at me and quickly looked away. Which made it worse! What was I supposed to say? Admit that I put it down on the seat and it must have gotten caught in my jeans when I pulled them up? No way.
So I decided to make light of it. I let out a fake pathetic laugh. "Ha ha." I said as I grabbed the toilet paper out of my pants and waded it up into my fist. "I can't believe I did that!" I said to everyone. They again all looked away and started talking very quickly pretending not to see. The kids on the other hand, thought it was hilarious and and started to giggle.
I decided to leave the room at that point. I needed a second to swallow my pride and let the dark red beet on my head disappear so my face could return.
Regretfully, this same scenario happened one more time with this family. So from now on for me, toilet paper=slight paranoia.

Trading Baseball Cards

My brother used to trade his baseball cards while sitting on the toilet. (Sorry for telling the world this Ryan, but this is a great story and you know it.)
As I was saying...
My brother's daily routine as a little boy was to come home from school and relax on the toilet with his baseball cards on his lap. It doesn't stop there though. Our neighbor Robbie was Ryan's best friend. And what a friend he was.
A typical afternoon went like this...
We all come home from school. Ryan heads straight to the bathroom with his big baseball card notebook. Then Robbie knocks at the side door asking to play. Ryan has already given either me or Lauren instructions to send Robbie up. So Robbie heads upstairs with his baseball cards and the two of them spend ages (or so it seemed) trading in the bathroom.
Robbie would sit perched at the end of the tub and the boys would discuss business while Ryan was taking care of business. They also kept the door open to allow for fresh air. I would sometimes walk past them, stop in the doorway and casually say Hi and so would they.
Oh the joys of childhood memories...oh the joys!

"Daddy, the doody's burning."

Once upon a time in my childhood, we bought our first dog. She was a sweet Black Lab and her name was Bonnie.
It was only a couple of weeks after we bought her, when my Dad went to take Bonnie on a Saturday morning walk. Five year old Ryan and I watched at the front door as my Dad and our shiny new puppy walked down the driveway.
We were in our pajamas and had our noses pressed against the door window. We kept wiping the condensation from our breath with our hands and leaving steaks all over it. It had recently snowed and our world was beautifully white outside.
As my Dad and Bonnie reached the sidewalk, our neighbor Mr. Fox was outside too. We watched as the two of them stopped to chat. We noticed how little Bonnie began to sniff incessantly around their feet and before you knew it, she began to hunch her little back and decided to poop right there on Mr. Foxes property in front of him.
I suppose I should preface this by saying that Mr. Fox was the most meticulous person about his yard that any of us had ever met. We were not even allowed to walk on his lawn, but there's Bonnie, doing what needs to be done. This in and of itself was mortifying for my father, as he could not stop her. But as Ryan watched this from the front door he became very concerned as Bonnie's little pile began to steam in the snow. So he opened the door and shouted to my father as loud as he could "Daddy, the doody is on fire!" "Daddy, the doody is burning!" "Daddy can't you see?" He yelled.
My father decided to ignore Ryan until Mr. Fox said "Uh, Art, I think Ryan is trying to tell you something." At this point my father wincingly turned around so Ryan could yell it to him again. "Thanks Ryan, it's okay son, I know." He said. He then apologized profusely to Mr. Fox and walked away with his tail between his legs.

post script: apparently some of my dear fans thought this post to be a bit crass. :( Well...I'm sorry, that's not my intent, I personally always thought this story to be funny. :) Hopefully you will too.