Archives for August 2012

My First Communion

In the spirit of Confession Friday (which I learned about thanks to the The Word Worm), I’ve decided to offer you some really great (read: the worst ever) pictures of my existence. In fact, if you enjoy them…let me know. I’m not short on “classy” photos of my chubby childhood. I could make this a fun Friday thing.

My First Communion

Allow me to explain to non Catholics the basics of First Communion. In the 2nd grade, Catholic children, who’ve been guilted by their mothers since birth, make this right of passage into the church. This is when they start accepting communion (Jesus) into their bodies.

Second grade was a really awkward time for me. Apparently, even though I had attended first grade CCD, 2nd grade was too full and Mom couldn’t enroll me in the class. They told her that I could make my communion next year. Obviously, my very Catholic mother would have none of that. Soooo, she pulled a trick that only a woman in my family could pull. She pitched seven fits until the Director of CCD and Father Valente had to do something.

They gave my mom the second grade CCD student and teacher books, and she “home-schooled” my religious education in the 2nd grade. Once a week, or every couple of weeks, we would sit down and go through the lessons in the book. Some weeks we would cover several lessons, other weeks just one lesson. Either way, this felt like a torturous experience for a severely awkward seven-year-old who really just wanted to go play with her friends.

When it came time for Communion preparation, I had to do it all on my own (I mean, my parents were there and all–but no kids. No classmates. No peers.) So, the second grade teacher had made a cassette tape of the songs we would sing at the Communion Mass, that I practiced with. Mom and Dad took me to my First Confession. Mom and her best friend, Kathy, took me to get my First Communion dress. I got to pick out the dress and a veil.  That part, I loved.

Then came Communion practice. My first interaction with the other second graders. I knew some from school, and some from the previous year, but mostly they were strangers to me. To make an awkward child even more angsty, Mom informed me that I was not allowed to touch Jesus. This meant that while my peers would be taking the Communion into their hands, I would be taking it into my mouth. During practice, I was to test this out. I was so nervous and embarrassed for myself that I couldn’t see straight. The catechist running the practice looked at me a little funny when I didn’t have my hand reached out, because that’s not what he had explained…but he caught on quickly. Later, this would become, in my head, something kinda neat that I did during mass, and I was proud of it…but at the time, it was so embarrassing.

Finally, the day of my Communion arrived. I barely remember the actual day. I know that I was there. I know that I made it through. I remember the priest who offered me Communion had an impressed look upon his face when he did not see my hands reaching toward him, but my open mouth. I remember that there was a party, and that was fun.

Mom made me stand like that…

 

 

A pretty white dress and flowers, but I look anything but thrilled to be there…

I took the liberty of attempting that surly look in my present… here’s what came out.

 

Grrr Baby. Grrr.

And so now, my godson is on the cusp of his second grade year. About to make his First Communion. My mom actually taught him 1st grade CCD this summer so that he could sign up to be in the second grade class. He seems excited and interested.  I think he’ll be a lot less awkward than his Auntie Chrissy. Thank God.

 

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

You’re Not a Badass Unless…

You’re not a badass unless…
You can do a shot of vodka chased with a saltine chaser.
 
You’re not a badass unless…
You can do a shot of vodka without the saltine.
 
You’re not a badass unless…
You can do a shot of vodka and six more immediately following.
 
You’re not a badass unless…
You can do seven shots of vodka followed by a shot of Ten High Whiskey.
 

Freshman year of college, I was determined to be the baddest of all asses when it came to boozin’. I realize now that this was not the smartest goal that one should go into their college years with, but I was 18 and looking to prove something to anyone.

Cue Porno Steve and all I was looking for in drunken encouragement. He repeatedly tested my drunken daring, by provoking me into doing really stupid shit like swallowing a live goldfish. Mostly with drinking a whole lot of vodka. He also tried to get me to show him my boobs, but that never did happen.

At Bradley, Calling Out Weekend, which was held in the first month of school, was the time when all of the frats and sororities chose their people. This meant very little to our group of friends, other than the fact that it was like opening day for the party season. The Greeks would all get wasted and throw some killer parties. My very first frat party! I was stoked. In fact, one of my best friends from high school was visiting from ISU. Elizabeth, Katie, Sheila, and I spent hours getting ready to go, but were still able to start pre-gaming by 8. We made our way over to Geisert 8 to meet up with Mama Missy and the gang.

It was on Geisert 8 that I introduced Elizabeth to Porno Steve. The dares got higher.

You’re not a badass unless…
You can chug Aristocrat (Aristocrap) Vodka from the handle.
 

Oh Sure, what the hell!? It was at this point that I introduced Elizabeth to vodka. As it turns out, vodka became her drink of choice as well.

Chug Chug Chug!

So after pre-gaming like rockstars, we made our way to the frat scene. There was a brief drunken cry (OK, maybe a little more than brief) that Katie still teases me about, when Elizabeth revealed some secrets she had kept from me. This is what vodka does. It lulls you into a sense of false, yet warm and fuzzy, security; then it whacks you down with truth telling and overly emotional behavior.

No worries, though, because just as fast as vodka pulls you down, another swig can lift you up. After some parties, we stopped over at our dorm to grab another beverage, and were greeted by the Bradley police, The Residence Halls Association, and a few other choice “grown ups.”

Ruh Roh Raggy.

It appeared to be a sobriety testing facility that we had walked in on…and we were defo not sober. The Director of our hall came over and explained the situation.

“We are doing sobriety tests for freshman. This is just for a study we’re doing. You can choose to participate or not participate. No one will get in any trouble. Would you be interested in joining?”

“HELL YES!” Maybe I was a little overly excited.

I touched my nose, I followed the light, I sang the alphabet, I walked the line, and I blew into a breathalizer.

I wish I could tell you how drunk I was, but the number has since left my brain. I know that I was over the “legal limit,” but hey…I wasn’t driving.

Proudly Blowing Since 2001

They posted the results on a big poster in the hall, that everyone could see. Of course, I think it had an opposite effect to what they were hoping. I’ll never forget seeing the girl with the highest level of intoxication and her pride, showing off to others and pointing to her name. I’m not going to lie… I was jealous.

What dares would you take on after a few cocktails? Did you ever breathalize when you were underage? What was your freshman year of college like?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Work for Cheese

Last summer, one of my more trouble-making friends, Sammy, came home to visit. Her dad was sick, so I met her in Naperville at the hospital. As any good friend would do, I took her out drinking to “drown her sorrows.”

What was supposed to be a few drinks turned into a few pitchers, and I could no longer make my way home safely. As one who does not condone drinking and driving, I needed to call my amazing (and still new-ish) boyfriend for a ride. After a long commute on the train, he got in his car, backtracked to pick me up, and met Sammy and I in the downtown Naperville area. Sammy and I were giggly, and she was wonderfully adorable, telling the boyfriend that I hadn’t officially declared my love for, that she could see why I love him so much. *Truth*

The problem was my vehicle. At the bright and early hours of the following morning, I had to ride with Brian to the train, take the train to Naper, and grab my car–backtracking to work before 8 AM. At the train station, though, I discovered a sign for the Aurora Farmer’s Market…

I love farmer’s markets. They usually have delicious fruits and veggies, tasty snacks, and so much more. Oh yes, I would be checking that out the following Saturday morning.

The next Saturday, during a rainy, wet weekend, I trekked over to the market. Perusing the booths under a light drizzle seemed all well and fine, until I got to The Cheese People booth. Cheese?! Yes. That’s right. Cheese. and LOTS of it.

Just as I was beginning a conversation with the man that I now lovingly refer to as Cheese Guy (whose name is actually Rick and he is fantastic), the rain turned on me. That light drizzle became a rolling storm, in which I sought out shelter under the bright yellow tent, sampling cheeses to my heart’s content.

It was that moment that turned me from slight cheese lover to cheese snob. My knowledge of cheese improved drastically over the last year all because of Cheese Guy. After the rain simmered down, and business started picking up, Cheese Guy asked what I was up to for the rest of the day. I told him that he was looking at my plans. Not a whole heck of a lot.

“Well then get back here and grab a knife.”

The next thing I knew, I had a glove on one hand, a knife in the other. I was slicing and weighing cheese, learning prices, and offering samples to passersby. I was good at what I did. We got busy, and Cheese Guy appreciated my efforts. I had already set aside a pretty hearty portion of cheese, and when the afternoon was over, I asked what I owed. Cheese Guy took an inventory of my purchase, did some mental math, and said, “Nothing. You just worked your ass off for me.” My rate was apparently equivalent to the cost of cheese that I was intending to buy.

For the next few months, I made my way over to help Cheese Guy out whenever I could, and when the market started up in May, so did I. Cheese Guy was promoted, and my weekend schedule got hectic, so I no longer work for cheese…but I certainly consider myself a Cheesemonger now.

It’s so cliche I can hardly control myself: Out of a drunken night of debauchery sprung a cheesy love affair.

 

Apparently Dunkin isn’t as cool as Cheese Guy. That’s fine; I’d rather be paid in cheese anyways.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Which One Was He?

In order to make forthcoming blogs make a little more sense, I thought it important to explain the history of the ridiculous nicknames that boys and men in my life have acquired.

Ever since high school, it’s been important to have nicknames for the guys in our lives. At first, it was so that we could talk about our top-secret crushes in front of them, giggling and smiling, like they had no idea we were talking about our undying love for them. Freshman year, they were all named after cars. Sophomore year, they were named after candy bars. I remember secretly loving a boy we had nicknamed “Snickers,” for no other reason than a Snickers bar was delicious. Junior year, we had a bazillion created nicknames for boys, and my future high school sweetheart was TS (Tango Stud as we had been tangoing in Spanish Class).

As the years progressed, though, nicknames became more of an endearing way of referring to our men. In college, Penny was dating the Moose (God only knows why), Sheila was dating the Viking (for his blonde hair and giant Norseman-ish size), Claire was dating the Lumberjack (for his plaid shirts and big burly man facial hair), and I was dating the Ethiopian (who was just really really skinny).

After college, though, the nicknaming became a way for my friends to remember some of my boyfriends/guys I was dating. Of course, for me it had a lot to do with not wanting to get too personal. If a guy met a couple of my friends, he wasn’t just a fling. If he met a lot of my friends, he was a little important. If my friends called him by name, he was insta-important. The nicknaming system was a great way to keep track of who we were talking about.

Everyone has that one friend who is constantly moving on from guy to guy. Maybe not even stopping to call one a boyfriend, maybe trying it on like an okay-looking dress that you’re not really going to buy. You know, “Wait, which one was he?” syndrome.

I was the master of that game. I played it very very very well. I really loved dating. And then I really hated dating. I went through some very distinct phases. The really crazy phases (where the nicknames became incredibly important) were always post boyfriend. I really don’t think I could handle another one of those, so lets hope Brian intends to keep me. 🙂

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

It’s Not Easy Being a Flake

Sorry about last week kids, our internet was down (so basically it felt like losing an arm or something) so I couldn’t get online to ensure that my blog post went up. I know; I know it’s an excuse, but whatever–I got a job on Friday! So I’ll be joining the world of the truly employed with a full-time salaried gig. Go me!

Anyways, getting a job got me thinking about my first job…

Of course, I was 16 and had no idea what I was doing, yet on Sunday afternoons I would drive an hour up to Long Grove, IL. I would open a cute little boutique clothing shop (all by myself). I would sit there for 8 hours, while visited by maybe 1 or 2 customers all day, have a sack lunch, sit on the phone, and read a book. I don’t even remember the name of the store, but I remember working for several weeks during my junior year of high school.

One particularly rainy Sunday, I turned off all of the lights in the store, set the alarm, and locked the door. I was ready to get home and have some dinner. I ran quickly out to my car and unlocked the doors before jumping into Melba Toast, the Explorer. I put the key into the ignition and…nothing. My battery had died. Oh. Crap.

I think that I had my Nokia brick with a hot pink sparkly faceplate, which I used to call my mom. After she flipped out on me for my not-so-brilliance (assuming that I had left a light on or something–which I still claim to this day that I hadn’t), she made me call her pal Kay, who owned the shop.

Kay told me that she would send a Long Grove shop owner friend of hers to help me out. A half hour later, a strange man (strange is relative in this scenario, as he was merely a man I didn’t know) pulled up into the parking lot with connector cables. He jumped my battery and followed me half way home to make sure my car was running alright. I finally made it home, and got a decent amount of slack from my family.

For Christmas that year, I got a nice shiny new set of jumper cables for Melba Toast. I only wished they were pink.

Wants

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

The Dating Game

If you’ve ever seen How I Met Your Mother, you know the “Have You Met Ted?” game. I discovered this amusing “game” while watching HIMYM with Mark, who replaced Scrubs with the cast of Barney and his pals. Not going to lie, Barney makes that show. In fact, the BF makes a really great point: Why bother watching the show, when you can watch clips of the funny parts later? Which is what he’ll say right before we look up the video about the Vicky Mendoza Diagonal (which CLEARLY makes perfect sense). Just for added fun:

Anyways, so the Have you met Ted? game translates pretty well in real life. In fact I’ve used it often. One of my most entertaining evenings, was several years ago at a dive bar in Lombard. My pal, Molly, and I were out drinking. While I was in a relationship at the time, Molly was trolling for dudes. Of course, maybe we should have known better than to be trolling for dudes at a dive bar…but we were young.

While I’ve always found a great deal of enjoyment in the chase, Molly is one of those ladies who prefers to be chased. But the shy girl thing doesn’t always work too well without additional help. That’s why girls like Molly have friends like me. To increase the chances of “the chase.” Among other things…

Cue a tall, attractive man sipping on a cheap draft. Molly scopes, then points him out to me. Oh, this should be easy. Without a second thought, I grabbed Molly and dragged her up to the bar. I squeezed in next to the cutie and ordered a drink. As I was waiting for my beverage, I turned on the Chrissy charm.

“Hi!” I grinned at this tall thinner-than-I-would-go-for guy.

He smiled back at me. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Not a whole lot. Have you met Molly?” I asked as I pulled Molly in towards my spot at the bar.

“No, I haven’t. I’m Tom.”

“Hi, I’m Molly” she whispered with the shy girl, I-have-no-idea-what’s-happening smile.

I looked at the two of them, and giggled to myself at the awkward silence that followed their sort of self-introduction. “OK, Tom, this is Molly. Molly, this is Tom. A peanut is neither a pea nor a nut. Discuss.” And with that, I walked away.

Fifteen minutes later, Molly was back at my side as I was chatting with one of my other girls, Becca. “Not so much?”

Molly shook her head. “I didn’t know what else to talk about.” Then she laughed. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

I shrugged, “Just doing my thang…”

She laughed. Just then, Becca’s douchebag boyfriend and his roommate walked up to us. His roommate seemed a little f*ed up, but harmless. He proceeded to shower Molly with compliments and affection. By the end of the night, the were canoodling and kissing. And I barely had to put in any work into that one!

Of course, he wasn’t really boyfriend material. So, even though he continued to call Molly for several weeks thereafter…and pester Becca about Molly…nothing ever came of that night. But hey, Molly had fun. I was entertained. I call that a winning night for a couple of early to mid 20-somethings.

 

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

It Only Works Once

Kids say the darnedest things. Seriously. I don’t know how parents do it: you know, parent their children without laughing at the ridiculously hilarious (and more often than not, bad) things that they say or do.

I’ve learned in my time as a teacher and auntie that kids don’t even realize the funniest things that they say or do until they’ve already been said or done…and it resulted in an outburst of laughter from the resident adult. I’m usually pretty good at holding it in when I’m teaching, but when I’m auntie-ing, LOOK-OUT. If the kid does something bad in a remotely adorable way…you’re bound to see me laugh until I cry…or pee…or both.

What’s even better, though, is when they realize that what they’ve said is funny…but they have no idea how or why. One of my students, an unfairly cute, precocious little seven-year-old girl would occasionally talk in her own little world. She would talk to me or herself, depending on how much she liked me at the time. She proceeded to talk to me, telling me that I was a mom, asking why I wasn’t a mom, and eventually calling me, “Big Mama,” at which point, I couldn’t help myself: I burst out with a large HA!

Of course, she checked back into the real world, and asked me, “Miss Christy (as children tend to call me, though I despise being a “Christy.”) What’s so funny?” She smiled a smirkish grin, knowing that whatever it was, she had done it. “Big Mama?!”

She spent the next hour attempting to call me Big Mama, without receiving the reaction that she wanted. It was so unexpected the first time, that I couldn’t help laughing. But…it only works once.

Many other students, nieces, and nephews in my world have done similar things, expecting the same result. (If you haven’t heard a really good cackle, you should hear me laugh. I inherited the world’s most infectious cackle from my grandmother.) Of course, the kids don’t understand that to adults, an unexpected action seen as a joke is only funny once.

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I’m Not Crazy; I’m Hungry

A bout of insomnia last weekend made me think of this story.

During the second semester of our sophomore year of college, Penny and I decided that we were going to stop drinking as much, join Weight Watchers, and lose weight. As a team, this seemed incredibly possible. Mama Missy and her roommate were doing it. We could too.

So we joined up. We got skinny. We looked WAY hot. But… we cried a lot. We had given up the drink for water. Butter and cheese for cooking spray and butter flavored spray. Chips for veggies. The list goes on. This was when Penny and I came up with the Cinderblocks.

So it was strange that even though we were crying…we managed to get boyfriends. Sheila, Penny, and I all became non-singles in a span of 4 months–me being the last, of course. After a summer of wearing size 11 pants and medium tops, I felt like I was on top of the world. Sort of. On the verge of my first “adult relationship,” I moved into our junior year apartment.

This may seem a little crazy, but I was REALLY annoyed by the situation in the kitchen. Pots were in the same cabinet with bowls. Utensils were as far away from the stove as possible. Glasses were with plates and baking dishes, and other cups were with kitchen gadgets. It. Just. Didn’t. Make. Sense. Anyone can see that, right?

So when I couldn’t sleep one night…and woke up at 4 o’clock in the morning…I decided that it was silly to waste time that I was wide awake. I was going to do something. So I rearranged the entire kitchen. It took several hours. It freaked my roommates out. But it felt so much better. I felt much better. Maybe that’s when I started to notice my OCD tendencies, but whatever. I wasn’t crazy.

So I had my moments. We all did. After talking with my dad and the school health center doctor, I decided to try out Zoloft. I was told that it would take time to kick in, but really after 2 or 3 years, I don’t think it ever kicked in. I’m pretty sure that breaking up with Johnny for good and my minimized crazy were eerily related. But that’s a whole other story for another time.

So I went on some medication that was supposed to make me less “crazy,” but then my boyfriend broke up (for the first of many times) with me because I was “crazy.” Really, I think that I was hungry. I wasn’t eating cheese, because it would make me gain weight. I wasn’t happy with my lifestyle. It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t indulgent. It wasn’t me. This is not to say that I would rather be the fat kid…But I would rather find a healthy way to enjoy cheese…err, to enjoy good food.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

A Family Born on Geisert 8

Melisa, AKA Mama Missy, burst into our lives like a rainbow out of the clouds on a storm-filled afternoon. Her vivacious energy was like a magnet. I think that I can safely say that Penny, Sheila, and I would not be the same without her.

After my parents moved me into my U-Hall freshman dorm room, with a tearful goodbye (my mom’s tears; not mine), I was free! No parents until Fall Break! Brilliant. So, of course, I had to call home everyday just to say “Hi.”

Every morning, it was the same routine. Wake up, call mom, live college life, sleep. Every morning, mom would ask, “So, did you get drunk last night?” Every morning (for the first few days, at least, I would say, “Nope. Not yet, mom.” Of course, that was before I was reacquainted with Penny.

After our decision to be drinking buddies, I took it upon myself to bring my old pal from high school (the sophomore) into the mix. I had met him and his cute roommate (who ended up becoming one of my very best friends, Mark) for lunch earlier in the week, and I knew that they could get us the “hook up” with the Bradley party scene.

So I instant messaged Joe, and asked what he was up to that evening. It was a Friday, after all, and the weekend had just begun. He invited Penny and I over (Penny would eventually become the secret crush of a bazillion of our friends without ever having a clue that they loved her) for an evening of drinking on Geisert 8. Yes. Geisert 8. That’s where I somehow became cool. Mark and Joe had a mini-fridge full of (OK, they had a six-pack of) Mike’s Hard Lemonade to share. After one drink Penny and I were giggly and smiley.

Just as we were running out of drink options, a quick knock-turned-open-door welcomed a loud and sassy blond with a sparkly shirt, a huge cup of something, and an even bigger back pack.

“Hello boys!” she cried in an adorably central Illinois “southern” accent. She zoned in on Penny and I and introduced herself. I’m Melisa, but everyone here calls me Missy. Who are you, ladies?”

Joe interjected and introduced us, “This is my friend Chrissy from high school and her friend Penny. They’re freshman.”

“Oh my God! How cute!” From anyone else, this might have seemed patronizing, but from Missy, it seemed genuine. I’m not sure what went through her brain but she took us on as a project. We would later find out that we were her second project of that first week of school. “What are you girls drinking?”

We giggled and spoke in unison, “Mike’s Hard Lemonade.”

“But it’s almost gone!” Penny confided in her.

“Oh goodness, don’t worry about that.” Missy whipped her backpack around propped it on the desk. She pulled out 2 strange bottles in addition to a bottle of Aristocrat vodka and a bottle of Diet 7Up. She explained the unknown bottles first, “This is Boone’s Farm. It’s fucking awesome. Here. Try it.” She popped open the first bottle,Fuzzy Naveland passed it to Penny then me.

“Damn! That’s delicious!” I told her.

“I know, right?!” Missy opened the other bottle, Strawberry Hill, which was equally as delicious. “Enjoy, ladies.” Missy sat down with us and started chatting, telling us her college life story, and asking for ours (well, about the first week anyways).

By the end of the night, Missy was showing us how to properly mix a cocktail by using your hands to twist the cup back and forth, just right. We had learned about Boone’s Farm, the oh-so-important bar bag, and why we should drink Diet 7Up with our vodka instead of regular 7Up (We don’t want the freshman 15 to become the freshman 45). Penny and I, giggly as we were, decided that Missy would be forever known as Mama Missy. We also thought that Joe needed a title since he was the one who brought us all together. Papa Joey, it was.

And so our little family was created.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Speeding Excuses

I heard on the radio that the excuse most frequently used by speeders is: “I have to go to the bathroom.”

I’ve used that one…sort of. Let me give you a hint: It didn’t work. My boyfriend at the time was actually speeding so we could get to a bathroom, so I could pee…$250 (Hello, Wisconsin) and 40 minutes later, I finally got to pee. Ironically, the words I said, not 5 minutes before getting pulled over, were, “Don’t speed too much. I don’t want to be the reason you get pulled over.”

Funny, most excuses don’t work for me. My mom on the other hand seems to get speeding tickets pulled away on a silver platter.

Excuses that apparently work

My mom was pulled over on the way to the University of Chicago for her first Interferon treatment. When the police officer pulled her over, she said to him, “I’m on my way to my first chemo treatment!” and proceeded to cry. Whilst essentially true, and genuinely upset about the prospect, this excuse got her off the hook.

Many years before, mom was driving with me in the front, and my baby brother asleep under blankets in the way back of the station wagon. I’m not sure if she was pulled over for speeding or something minor, but the police officer saw me in the front without a seat belt (at 4 or 5) and asked why I wasn’t wearing a seat belt. My mom exclaimed, “I’m a terrible mother! I’m sorry officer.” The officer never noticed my brother illegally seat belt free in the far back…and I put my seat belt on. Again, mom was told to move on free and clear.

Another time, while cutting through a neighborhood near ours with a “Dead End” and “No Outlet” sign, mom was pulled over. After yelling at the police officer (AKA bitching) about how our neighborhood has cut throughs all the time and ranting that there was no fancy sign for OUR neighborhood across the street, the police officer again set my mother on without so much as a warning.

Excuses that apparently don’t work

Crying. I’ve tried it. It got me no where but yelled at.

Playing dumb: A few year ago, I was attempting to quickly get home from the grocery store while cooking dinner. I had run out to get a few things to add, and was trying to make good time. I pulled out and made an illegal right turn on right a few blocks from my house. I got dinged and the police officer asked if I knew what I had done. I told him that I didn’t, but he proceeded to ask, “How long have you lived in Glen Ellyn?”

“My whole life, officer.”

“And you didn’t know there was no turn on red there?”

“I’m not very observant.” Whoops! I was trying to come off as ignorant…but apparently came off as snotty and smart-ass. Note to self: dumb people don’t say words like observant in the proper context.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!