I'll go ahead and apologize first

'Cause someone's bound to get offended. If you happen to be a friend of mine, and you fit or have ever fit the description below, don't think I don't like you. If I didn't like you, I wouldn't hang out with you. And why do you care if I like you anyway?

There. I said it.

A couple of days ago Mina, as she does on an almost daily basis, asked me a hard-to-answer question completely out of left field.

Sometimes she wants to know what would happen if our house caught on fire.

"...but what if you and Daddy were asleep and couldn't save us?"

"...but what if you didn't wake up in time?"

"...but what if all my toys burned up? I like my toys!"

..."but I DON'T WANT NEW ONES!"

Neurosis is hereditary, and her future therapist(s) are going to hate me.

Her latest was, "Mama, what's a hippy?"

I try to keep it clean and, when necessary, clear cut and simple around the kidlets, so I told her it was someone who cared a lot about the Earth.

She thought about it for a moment.

"I care about the Earth! And Jesus."

Always with the Jesus, that one.

Then she wanted to know if Jesus was a hippy, and the more I thought about it the more I felt I could honestly answer in the affirmative.

"Mama, am I a hippy?"

I went through a more extensive checklist in my head:

-cares about the environment: check

-likes to run around naked: check

-doesn't brush hair: check

-listens to crappy music: not when I can help it

-smells like patchouli: negative

-feels superiority over everyone else: sometimes

-follows overrated bands around the country: not that I know of

-sleeps with everyone's boyfriend: presently, no

"No honey, you are not a hippy. And if I have anything to say about it, you won't ever be."

While I was out

A few weeks ago, we had an "incident".

To back up a little, Mina has a classmate that, from the time he joined their class late in the year, took a liking to her.

At first, she came home and told me that he always insisted on sitting next to her at lunch. They aren't allowed to tell anyone that they can't sit with them at her school (a good rule, in my opinion), so I told her to try and sit between her friends if she didn't want to sit next to him.

Next she came home and told me that he put his arm around her and called her "his woman". Yes, this is a kindergartener we're talking about. She said it bugged her, but she would tell him to leave her alone.

A few weeks later, he smacked her butt. Again, she assured me that she would tell him in no uncertain terms that he needs to leave her alone.

I asked her if she told a teacher or if a teacher saw this happen, and she said no to both.

I also asked her if she wanted me to talk to her teacher. She said she would handle it.

If you don't know Mina, let me assure you that she is no wall flower. The girl knows how to speak her mind. I trusted her when she told me that I didn't need to step in.

Then, a few weeks ago Mina and I were driving to a dinner out. She had earned a free pizza through the Book-It program, and I thought it would be nice if I took just her to celebrate her accomplishment.

On the way there, we were just chatting about nothing when she said, "Mama, during resting time at school, Eric hit me in the (private) parts."

All at once, I felt my face go hot and my heart sink into my stomach. A million things raced through my mind and I had to concentrate on driving like I've never had to before.

I again asked her if she told the teacher, and again she didn't say anything.

Then she said, "Don't worry Mama. He's my problem."

And that's when I felt like throwing up in my lap.

I turned around and told her that I was now his problem.


I wanted to storm the castle the next morning, but instead wrote an email to her teacher and principal. They got back to me almost immediately. I knew they would. I also knew that if I went there in person to discuss it I would have gotten overly emotional and that wasn't going to solve anything.

I won't go into the whole spiel of how they handled it, but they handled it to my approval. I was pretty impressed with how quickly they took care of the matter. They took my concerns very very seriously and it was dealt with immediately.

Since then I've come to find out that Eric has a less-than-favorable home life. Really, I already knew that from his behavior. It doesn't take a psychologist to figure that one out.


Yesterday when I walked Mina into school, Eric was already lined up. He started talking to me about how tomorrow was his last day. He was going to "bring in cupcakes and suckers and balloons and candy" for everyone.

I asked him if he was moving away and he told me that he was going to live in Chicago with his grandparents.

I didn't ask him why, but he was more than willing to share the reason: "Carol yells at me too much."

He told me Carol was his foster mom.

His foster mom yells at him too much, so now he is being uprooted to a whole other life to live with grandparents who, for whatever reason, didn't have him living with them in the first place.

I was never angry with Eric for what he did. I knew in my heart that he was only acting out. I hate that my kid was the target of his misguided affection. I hate that this kid may fall between the cracks in the Chicago Public School system, may grow up angry and lonely from being shuffled around in his formative years.

I don't know most of this kid's story, and I kind of wish I did. I feel for the little guy.

Never would I put anyone before my own children, but I still feel like he deserves what every kid deserves: a loving home to live in and people who care about him.

As for Mina, she seems just fine. Every once in a while Jim or I will ask her if anyone "bothered" her at school today. Aside from the usual mean older kids on the playground saying stupid shit to the little kids, she's fine.

Eric brought in cookies and juice today. Eric told Mina that that's all Carol would let him bring.

Not that that's nothing, but I could see how excited he was to tell me about his big plans for today. I know. I'm being melodramatic. I've become quite a softy in my old age.

Bottom line is, someone failed him. I hope his grandparents can pick up the slack.

After this, I promise to stop talking about it

Guess who's never ever going back to Awanas?

She had fun. I knew she would. That's how "they" get you. She even came home with candy. Fun Dip to be exact (Lik-em-Aid for all you oldsters like me).

After she brushed her teeth and got into her pajamas, I laid down next to her to talk about how it went.

Right away she tells me that "if you're good, you get to spend forever with your family up in heaven. If you're bad you go down to the hot lava".

Those fuckers got that into my kid's head in two short hours.

Then she said "And you put it in your mouth and then it's in you."

(I about had a heart attack. "WHAT is in you, Mina?!")

"Like Jesus is in you and sticks to your heart"

(Again with the palpatations.)

"Like the candy they gave us."

(Coronary over, but blood pressure still high)

I didn't go into this blind. Having grown up with Fundie parents, I knew what we were getting ourselves into letting her go to this. I just didn't think they'd pull out the "big guns" the very first night!

So, I started gently with the fact that Mommy and Daddy don't necessarily agree with what those people said. Sometimes people believe different things and that's alright.

I asked her if she thought there really was a pit of hot lava waiting for the "bad people", and she thought about it for a second before deciding that both we and "they" were right.

In her six year old mind, this is a distinct possibility. I tried to tell her that what she chose to believe is up to her, but that Mommy and Daddy don't choose to believe what "they" said.

I told her that people can be good and nice and do good things for others and not go to church--that sometimes people are nice just for the sake of being nice and not to avoid this bubbling pit of iniquity.

I told her that it makes some people feel better in their hearts to believe in heaven and hell, and that's alright but Mommy and Daddy don't.

She looked like she was really thinking about it, but she was pretty tired, so who knows.

I'm going to go ahead and assume that Bethany's Mom will now invite Jim and I to go to church. That's how this works. Get the kid all fired up, then go after the parents. I may be willing to let Mina explore other avenues, but honey I've done my time and that book has been closed and put away on my end.

I actually do hope that we get invited so I can be honest with Bethany's Mom. She seems to genuinely like me. We get along and have had a few laughs together over this and that. I hope that when the proverbial ball drops, I will have somehow shattered her (assumed) preconception of Atheists.

Or maybe she will shun my ass.

She'd better invest in some kneepads for all the praying she will be doing for my everlasting soul.

Awanas Update

First, thanks to those that responded in the other post. All valid points and much appreciated.

Second, we decided to let her go. Once.

I had to call Bethany's Mom to see what she could bring to the class Valentine's Day party this week, and she brought up how much Bethany is "dying to bring Mina to Awanas".

It's tonight and meets from 6:15 until 8:15. Mina is usually dead asleep by 8:15 every night, so I made sure to make it very clear that this wasn't going to be a regular thing, but "we'd love to have Bethany over for a playdate anytime".

Turns out tonight is "Bring a Friend" night down at Awanas HQ. Hmmm....

I really didn't want to let her go because I was trying to avoid the "Mommy and Daddy are godless heathens" discussion for a later date. Now, I am letting her go so we can have that discussion.

I've even got a nice analogy all planned out.

Dearest Mina,

You know how when we go to ice cream store and you always get vanilla, but Audrey always gets chocolate? It's a choice you make for yourselves.

Audrey wouldn't try to cram a big bowlful of chocolate ice cream down your gullet day after day until you decide you suddenly love it.

In turn, you aren't going to ring her doorbell in the middle of the day when she's trying to take a nap and try to force her to eat vanilla.

There are so many flavors of ice cream out there and everyone has their own personal favorite. Who are we to judge who's flavor tastes better for each individual?

I used to love ice cream until I got older and developed a touch of lactose intolerance. Now when I eat it, it makes me feel gassy and uncomfortable.

Kind of like Jesus.

Love,
Mama


I'll let you all know how it goes.

Seven things you don't know about me (a few a which you might wish you didn't)

I hate having my face touched--by anyone. It creeps me out to no end. A back-o-the neck grab while I'm making out is fine and dandy. Just don't touch my face. I don't even like it when my children touch my face (mostly because I know where their hands have been).

I love makeup. I love what it can do (and have learned over the years what it can't do). I have a "set" way I like to wear my makeup, but I change it up depending on my outfit and/or my mood. I'm sure no one notices, but I do and mine is the only opinion that matters in this arena.

I can't go underwater without plugging my nose. I have an unwavering aversion to even trying it. My mother told me that when I was an infant I could swim like a fish. I have no idea where or when I lost that ability.

I love being alone. I don't get a whole lot of time by myself, but when I do I cherish it. An afternoon alone without an agenda is the best gift anyone could give me.

I try to avoid crying in front of people at all costs. I don't know why. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've shed tears (during my adult life) in front of anyone else. I'm not a robot. I do cry. I just don't like company when I do.

The first time I had sex was so awful and disappointing that I didn't do it again for another three years. Then I made up for lost time.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I read somewhere that some women poop while pushing the baby out. I told Jim about it and we laughed and laughed. He said that if I pooped, he was going to start dancing around the room singing, "YOU POOPED! YOU POOPED!". We laughed some more.

I did end up pooping on the delivery table. He did not sing.

At least he's not a Scientologist

My father works in the warehouse of a Christian book publishing company (I'll give you a hint: They are the people who publish the Left Behind series). He's been with them for almost 20 years, and isn't planning on retiring until he is 70. Yeah. Seventy.

He loves his job believe it or not. I don't get it. He packs book orders in warehouse. I mean, it's an honest living and all, but not one that I would want to do until I was 70 years old. He's 66 now, so it's not that far off. Thankfully.

Ever since he got that job he's found any and every opportunity to give me one of the books he so diligently packs every day, and they suck ass like nobody's business.

I've been able to politely decline his offers of Christian Parenting Tips 101 and Cooking with Jesus and the like for quite a few years now, but that doesn't stop him from offering.

When I was pregnant with my first kid, my father and his friends from church single-handedly filled out the book table at my garage sale.

Today, after dropping the girls off after a weekend visit, my father topped even himself in pure ridiculousness.

I saw him handing my husband a book and involuntarily rolled my eyes. "What now?" I thought to myself.

"Here you go, Jim. It's a new book we put out--comic book style!"

I could feel the muscles in my neck tightening up. If it had been one of those super kick ass tracts from back in the day, I might have gotten excited, but it wasn't. Not even close.

If I was telling you this story in person, this would be the part where I'm laughing so hard I can't even finish sharing it. The part where you would also begin to giggle because this kind of laughter is contagious.

The title?

MANGA MESSIAH

If I ever embarrass my children this badly, they have full permission to commit me.

As soon as they stop laughing.

It Has Begun

I was at the grocery store the other day when I heard it. It didn't register right away. I don't normally actually listen to what they're playing over the speakers (unless it's the GoGo's in which case I sing along and dance with my shopping cart).

Maybe it was turned up just a touch louder than usual because halfway down the second aisle, it hit me. Fucking Christmas music.

I have a love/hate relationship with holiday music. Part of me gets the appropriate warm and fuzzy feelings when I hear it. The other part of me, the cynical and angry part, usually beats all that sentimentality into an unrecognizable bloody stump.

I stopped and listened for a moment. How could I even start to think about Christmas when it wasn't even cold enough for socks? I know they have to start bombarding consumers with Christmas shit early in order to convince us to buy shit. After all, nothing says "I love you" like a six page long January credit card bill, right?

It's not just the stores with their music and decorations either. I've noticed the toy commercials are on double time. Every four seconds (as opposed to the usual eight seconds) I hear, "Mama! Can I have that?" "Mama, can Santa bring that?".

At first, I pulled out the speech from last year, "Santa can't bring everything. Let's just put it on the list and see what happens."

But I'm sick of saying it, mostly because they don't even hear me when I do. I've given up. Now, when they ask me for yet another bullshit piece of lead-laden garbage almost guaranteed to make noise/be difficult to assemble/fall apart after 5 minutes/etc, I just tell them that they can have it.

Why not?

How could it possibly backfire?

All the credit, none of the blame

I went to my first parent-teacher conference today.

Well, I guess there were a couple in preschool, but this to me counted as the first really real one, now that Mina is in kindergarten.

I'm not sure what I expected. OK, I do know. I expected to hear how awesome my kid is and how smart and friendly she is.

Mostly what I got were things she needs to work on or know by the end of the year. I was fishing too, saying things like, "Mina seems to have adjusted to all day school really well" and, "She's really enjoying school". All I got in return was a, "Oh, good" and the ol' nod/smile combo.

Don't get me wrong. I like her teacher. She's a seasoned pro. So seasoned in fact that one of the newer kindergarten teachers had to transfer a "problem" student into my kid's class knowing our gal could handle him.

I think I got spoiled at those preschool teacher meetings where they did tell me how great my kid was. I guess I just like hearing nice things about my offspring (duh), from someone not related to me, because I can pretend their good behavior and social skills are all of my doing.

I suppose I do have something to do with how well my girls are turning out, but mostly I'm trying like hell to make sure they don't end up with my neuroses.

Fuck you Barbie

It wasn't enough that you gave the little me an unrealistic expectation of what I thought my breasts would eventually look like as an adult (large, perfectly perky and nipple-less)?

Now this? You stupid cunt.



Today is my daughter's sixth birthday. Happy Birthday Mina! I got her a birdhouse kit and a Barbie doll. Not just any Barbie either--a mermaid(?)/fairy Barbie with wings that flutter and a DVD game that is supposed to be easy to use. Whatever.

People have been buying Mina Barbie dolls for a few years now, and I'm just now beginning to get over the guilt of "selling out" to Feminism's Antichrist. I allow her not only play with them, but play with the wretched little hussies with her. I expect the ghost of Betty Friedan at my doorstep at any moment.

I thought I was getting Mina the perfect gift. She wants to have a Fairy-themed birthday party this year, so getting her this particular Barbie fit the bill. She opened her gifts up this morning, and I promised her that she could play with it the second she got home from school. It may be her birthday, but I wasn't going to break the 'no television before school rule' even today.

First off, Fairy Barbie needs batteries. Thank the babyjesus I keep extra on hand at all times...for their toys...yeah...

The battery compartments are located in the doll's inner thighs. I felt like some kind of masochistic perv digging around near Barbie's no no spot. From the looks of her eyeshadow choice, I get the feeling this was not a new experience for her.

Then I was to program Barbie with the DVD remote so that she becomes the remote (so Zen, don't you think?) and can work with the game. It looks so simple, but apparently I am not, as previously thought, smarter than Barbie. I couldn't get the stupid fucker to work.

So, we forged ahead using the actual DVD remote which meant that I had to play too. What good is this toy if I can't sneak out for a smoke break while the girls are entranced by sparkly shit and an 18" waist?

The game itself involves finding jewels, eating seaweed and picking up lonely sailors on the dock.

OK, there weren't any sailors involved. I suppose no one at Mattel shares my love of the inappropriate.

Hopefully when my husband gets home, he can figure out what the hell I did wrong in trying to get that bitch to work.

I'm not touching the birdhouse kit project with a ten foot pole.

Weighing In

I've resisted until now, but it looks like my rabid obsession with stupid people has won out.

Oh Britney....

Did fame at an early age warp her grasp of reality, give her an overinflated sense of entitlement and rob her of a normal childhood? Yes. (paging Michael Jackson)

Is she a drug addict/alcoholic/fame whore? Yes.

Should she have ever been allowed to breed. Fuck no. There should have been someone on her payroll with the sole job of sneaking birth control pills into her Red Bulls every morning.

But she did breed, and I could weep for what those poor little boys have probably seen and been subjected to. Being dropped out of a highchair is likely the least of their worries.

I think she thought she wanted the domestic life, but (in obvious news) not only did the husbitch turn out to be a skeezy loser,(in more obvious news)it turns out that having children is hard work.

"Oh mah gawd, like, why aren't they just sitting there being cute and stuff?"

So, here's the thing. Now that she's had her children taken out of her custody, why does everyone assume that she wants them back?

A quick scan of the supermarket checkout stand and a few minutes of E! is sure to clue even the most die hard Britney fan that she couldn't care less about being a mother.

I think she's relieved not to have to take care of (or rather pay someone else to take care of) her kids while she blows some douchebag in the hot tub at the Palms.

She's not going to go to rehab...rather, she'll go for show, but not take it seriously. She's not going to stop flashing her bald vag at the paparazzi, and she's not going to get those kids back. If she doesn't want them back, why would anyone want her to have them?

I don't understand how anyone who's given birth doesn't want what best for their offspring. In this case, the best thing for those boys is not being around their trainwreck of a Mom.

I would actually think more of her if she just fessed up.

Whiny kids and poop

Am I a total asshole for not liking someone else's kids?

OK, maybe that's a little harsh.

Audrey's in a swim class on Thursday mornings with two brothers. One is 3 and one is 6 and both of them are screeching messes once their bodies hit the water.

To back up a little here...

Audrey was so excited to get signed up for "big girl" swim class (the one where I don't get in the water with her). Jim and I made the mistake of bringing her to one of Mina's classes last session and Audrey wailed and tore at her face wanting to get in the water too. At the time, she wasn't potty trained, so I told her that when she graduated to big girl underpants, she too could join in on the aquatic fun.

So, here we are, four sessions into a 13 week session and Fric and Frac have turned my once enthusiastic swimmer-to-be into a puddle of tears.

What happens is that as soon as the teacher tries to hold one of the brothers in the water, they claw at her shoulders SCREAMING for their mother. "MAMA! I'M SCARED! I'M GOING TO FALL! HELP ME!"

It's kind of terrifying to watch for me, so I can only imagine what's going through my 3 year old's head with her front row seat.

Today the intstructor grabbed an assistant to help her out, and Audrey did a little better being distracted from the other two.

I hate to say it, but I wish the Mom would just stop coming to class. Half of the 30 minute class is taken up by the teacher trying to calm one or the other of the brothers down.

It's totally selfish of me to think that, but I feel like I paid $100 to watch some horrible child psychology experiment.

On a sidenote: It smells like a giant shit on my back deck. I don't see any shit in the general vicinity, but it smells like there is big steaming pile of it right next to me.

Is it any wonder why I'm so obsessed?

I've decided that I finally feel like an successful adult. Why? Because I now have a "beer fridge" in the garage.

I remember growing up, going to my friends' houses (which was jealousy inducing in the first place as we always lived in tiny apartments), and seeing a second refrigerator in the garage.

"My GOD!" I thought to myself, "It's not enough that these people don't have to share a bedroom with their brother, and now THIS?!" The humanity.

It all seemed so decadent, like the time I found out my friend's Mom had a phone in her car. A PHONE...in her CAR. The year was 1984 (I was 10 years old for those playing at home). We wouldn't get a cordless phone at my house for another 3 years, and here was this woman, able to yak it up while driving around. I was amazed.

Dishwashers were another obsession of mine. Every time I went over to a new friend's house to play, I would find myself wandering into the kitchen to check for one. To me, having a dishwasher was a sign of prosperity.

At my house, we had a small black and white TV that my Dad threatened to throw away at least once a week, much to my brother and I's deafening disapproval.

At my friends' houses, they had giant color televisions in several rooms of the house including, something quite foreign to me, the "den". I never understood why people needed a whole room to sit and watch TV (wasn't that what the living room was for?), but I wanted one just the same.

Then there was cable. My parents finally relented just last year and got themselves signed up for cable television. Only after they spent some time at my house and saw that there was more to it than boobs and crap. My Dad is now a Discovery channel junkie and my Mom can watch Columbo at just about any hour of the day.

I don't fault my parents for the way they raised me. It wasn't like they didn't want to enjoy the conveniences of life. We just couldn't afford it. I certainly appreciate what I have now more than I think I would had I grown up with privilege.

It's funny now the way my Mom showers my girls with more clothes and gifts than is humanly necessary. At first I thought she was just excited to have grandchildren (and that is part of it), but it finally dawned on me that she is trying to make up for what she couldn't give my brother and I.

I've tried to reason with her. My kids don't need all this stuff. No one does.

While it's great that I almost never have to buy clothes for my girls, I still get an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach when she brings over a pile of new outfits or toys. I don't want her to feel like she has anything to prove. She and my Dad made do with what they had, and did it very well in my opinion.

The fact that I can get excited about having a "beer fridge" is proof of that.

But I don't have any freckles

I have red hair. I was born with it. It's been changed to just about every color of the rainbow at one time or another, but it is naturally red.

As a kid, everywhere I went, some old guy would invariably call me "Red" or "Carrot Top" which pissed me off. Even at 8 years old, I had no tolerance for elderly smartasses.

"'Bet she has a real temper, that one", some smarmy retiree would quip at my Mom while waiting in line at the grocery store.

Well, wouldn't you if you couldn't go anywhere without someone pointing out the painfully obvious?

People were fascinated by it. They would ask which side of the family it came from, then share some story about how their Great-Great Aunt on their Mother's side had red hair. I couldn't help but roll my eyes and pull on my Mom's arm to get the fuck out of there.

As I got older I grew to hate my natural born locks. I felt like some kind of freak. No one I knew had red hair, and we all know that when you've been saddled with a genetic rarity such as this, kids can and will be cruel.

It didn't help any that I was a really ugly kid. Oh, good times....

We also happened to live in southern California at the time, and in addition to having the pelo roja I was as pasty as the driven snow.

I remember idolizing Cyndi Lauper and Annie Lennox back in the day. Not because of their talent, but because they had red hair. I wasn't quite clued into the fact that theirs wasn't natural. I begged my Mother to shave a checkerboard in the side of my 'do like Ms. Lauper or crop it ultra-short like Annie. She gave me a horrified "no", and I was stuck with the long in the back/feathered sides and top (pretty much a longer version of a mullet). Hey, it was the early 80's! I know--still not a good excuse.

Later in my early teens, I was asked if the "curtains matched the drapes". It took me a few times of laughing uncomfortably with a puzzled look on my face before I was filled in on what that meant. Nothing like asking a 13 year old what color her pubic hair is. Classy.

A few years later I was introduced to the phrase "redheaded stepchild". I didn't know what it meant (honestly, I still don't) but I sensed it wasn't good.

After moving away from home, I experimented with an array of shades. I was every color from the whitest blond to the blackest black. Throw in a few shades of purple, blue and an unfortunate kelly green stint and my hair had seen it all.

And that was before I went to beauty school.

And then it happened. I made peace with my cranial hue.

One summer day, I was walking around campus minding my own damn business when a car full of frat boys zoomed by. One hung out the window and as they passed me yelled, "FIRE BUSH!".

It stopped me in my tracks.

Fire Bush? Really?

At first I was embarrassed, mortified and not just a little bit angry--stupid monkey boys with nothing better to do than sexually harass a lone woman taking a stroll.

Then, I was fascinated by the fact that walking down the street with red hair could elicit such a response from total (albeit undeniably cunty) strangers.

Maybe this red hair thing wasn't the detriment I'd always seen it as. Perhaps it held some kind of magical power. I liked that.

I haven't messed with the color of my hair for years now. I used to wear it in a really short pixie (think Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby). Now it's slowly making its way down the middle of my back. I'm not just wearing it--I'm wearing it.




And yes, the carpet matches the drapes.

Fair Warning

When I was in junior high, my best friend was a girl named Leigh. Her sister was 5 years older, and was a really good sport about hanging out with us sometimes. Once in a while, she would share some little known facts with us.

For instance, there is a bone in the penis. I mean, why else would they call it a boner?

Also, she warned us, never never NEVER eat ketchup in front of a boy. It reminds them of period blood, and they will get grossed out.

Let's just say I lost my virginity before she did.

Why I never went to medical school

One day in the fourth grade, our teacher told us we would be having a "Game Day" that Friday. She told us we could bring our favorite board game to school to play with our classmates. What educational merit this held is still a mystery to me, but I've never been one to look a slacker gift horse in the mouth.

The choice was obvious: my coveted, practically brand-new, played with twice Operation. I loved playing this game. In my 10 year old mind, the fact that I was good at it was all the proof I needed that I was going to make a superb (and of course very rich) surgeon.

My Dad wanted me to bring the Ungame. To this day, the Ungame stands as the lamest.game.ever. No one ever wins--not because of the level of difficulty, but because "no one loses" is one of the main tenets of the stupid game. Why would I waste precious recreational time playing a game when there was absolutely no chance I would have the chance to shove my victory in my opponent's (likely my younger brother's) face?

I don't remember anything about the actual Game Day extravaganza. It's what happened afterwards that has stuck with me.

A classmate of mine, let's call her Jessie (mostly because I can't remember her name), liked playing Operation so much that she asked to borrow it for the weekend. I really didn't want to, but I felt bad for wanting to say no. I had no legitimate reason to deny her, and I would have felt selfish for doing so. I let her borrow the game after securing her solemn promise that it would be returned unharmed.

Monday morning came and so did Jessie with my game. I could tell by the look on her face as she handed it back inside of a brown paper grocery bag that all was not well.

I was correct in my assessment.
Not only had her little brother lost some of the pieces, but he had drawn all over the picture of the blobby body playing board with a crayon....at least that's the story she told me.

She apologized profusely, but it did nothing to assuage my anger. I was livid and took this as an affront to my very person. Hadn't she promised to take care of it? Hadn't she?

I grew up in a working-class family. We always rented, never owned (my parents just bought their first home a few years ago). We went on one vacation my entire childhood, and it was driving from our home in Southern California to visit my great-uncle in Arizona (he took us down to Tiajuana for a day). We only ever had one car even after my brother and I were old enough to drive and had part-time jobs. Our luxuries were small things, like buying me a new frim-frammin' board game.

When Jessie handed me back my molested and, for all intents and purposes, destroyed game, I felt as though she had metaphorically picked my parents' pockets.

Sidenote: One time one of my little brother's friends literally stole from my parents. He took a $10 roll of quarters my Mom had laying on the coffee table for laundry. As soon as the friend left our apartment, my brother told me what happened. I caught up to the little fucker in the parking lot and confronted him. The scene ended with me throwing said roll of quarters at his head. Looking back, I taught him an important life lesson: Don't fuck with poor chicks. They tend to have good aim.

After taking a moment to compose myself, I told Jessie that "sorry" wasn't going to replace my property, but 20 bucks would. Where I came up with this number is beyond me. That stupid game doesn't cost $20 today, let alone in 1984.

She must have known I meant business because the next day Girlfriend handed me a crisp Jackson. I thanked her, stuck the bill in the back pocket of my knock-off KMart Jordache's and closed the book on the whole ugly ordeal.

Later that day I was called out of class. I was ordered to report to the Principal's office.

Contrary to how I must sound here, I really was a good kid. I never got into trouble...well, except for that one time I wrote "Heather A. is a bitch" on a bathroom stall in the girl's bathroom. For the record, Heather A. was a total bitch. The ensuing punishment was well worth the crime.

This was different though. I had no idea why I was being summoned- in the middle of class no less- to the Big Man's office.

Dr. Fereece (or Dr. Freeze as we called him) stood well over 6 feet tall and had the steely glare of a hungry hawk. Think Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, but angrier and more intimidating.

I sat in his office, trying not to pee my pants while he asked me if I knew why I was there. I didn't. He then asked me about the $20 and the game.

I was confused. Why was I in trouble?!

I tried fruitlessly to explain my side of the story. It was no use. Apparently the way Dr. Freeze and Tattletale McSnatchface's father saw it, I was a bully at best--an extortionist at worst. I was ordered to return the money and take my sad shell of a once coveted game home with me in defeat.

I hid the game from my parents until enough time had passed and I could blame the destruction on my little brother.

"I was bored with it anyway."