The Front Page

When I was in the 2nd grade I used to keep a daily diary. This baby was detailed. At eight I was already obsessed with food consumption and kept track of everything I ate. Sad thing was, I thought lemonade was juice. This is actually a subject for a separate entry, and subsequent entries about my childhood. I will attempt to not turn my blog into "Running with Scissors-Marla Style". So, back to the diary. I was I love with a young man named Andy P. I will afford him some anonymity here, and not use his last name. Andy was a babe. I might have called him a fox at the time-afterall it was 1984. I followed him all over the playground every day at recess. I tried to play hard-to-get, but he didn't really seem to catch onto the "get" part, so I abandoned that strategy. I remember very clearly cooking up a plan in my diary about showing him what a woman I was, and going into embarrassing detail on how I would kiss him. You have to wonder where in the hell an eight year old girl comes up with this crap. I know kids are probably having sex in elementary school broom closets at this point, but things weren't like that back then. I kept track of my plan daily in the diary and never forgot to include that daily serving of juice.

The day came when I chased Andy P at recess, tripped him, and laid a big old smootch on him. He spit at me. It really didn't go as I had planned. He was not impressed by my womanly wiles. I was mortified and confused...How could he not like me! I liked him!! Couldn't he look beyond the buck teeth and frizzy hair and see we were meant to be together? The answer is no. No, he couldn't see our connection. He was the first in a very long line of Andy's who didn't feel the connection. I am always leary when I meet an Andy, I couldn't imagine living through the Andy P. Nightmare again.

Dear Diary was stolen a few days later. An older idiot read it aloud on the playground. I just about died. I might have been more embarrassed since I did have a crush on half the damn school and now they all knew to steer clear, because I wanted to prove my womanly traits by slobbering on each and every one.

I went home demolished. My Mom was kind enough to take me under her wing of knowledge and explain that "You should never write anything down that you wouldn't want on the front page of the Free Press." This is a fine lesson. Funny thing is, I don't plan on sharing this blog with any member who shares a blood relation with me. Is this like the diary? I am scared. How much do you want people to know? Should I create a secret blog for all the crap I don't want people to know?? These are big questions when you have nothing better to worry about...

Hey, if the Free Press feels like printing me at this date, I welcome the invite.