My First Kiss

   This will be a short story, because it was with my husband, Ben, of course….. Just kidding.

In middle school I was horrifically unpopular. Middle school-aged kids are the fucking worst. They are so mean. I tried to fit in, but the harder I tried, the more I was picked on. Which I now see was because I tried WAY too hard. Nowadays, I get along great with pretty much all people. But when you’re in middle school, no one cares if you’re witty or if you’re a virtual encyclopedia of useless pop culture knowledge. All they care about is if you have new Adidas, Jnco’s and a huge, white binder. The kind with the clear plastic that you can slip pictures of Usher that you ripped out of Tiger Beat into. My mom didn’t see why I needed one of those like EVERY-FUCKING-ONE ELSE, and bought me a 99 cent blue floppy binder-ish thingy that was the bane of my existence. I carried that awful thing all year with papers overflowing and spewing out the sides. Thankfully I talked her into getting me a fancy, white binder like everyone else for eighth grade, but instead of pictures of Usher, I had pictures of the oldest kid from Home Improvement. You know, the one no one thought was cool because he was totally overshadowed by JTT? Yeah, that guy. Thankfully this whore-bitch on the school bus did me a huge favor and pulled the picture out of my binder and threw it out the window when I wasn’t looking. I was pretty devastated, and to this day I am still so pissed about that.

Factoring in that, for fear of hurting peoples feelings, I would accept hand-me-downs from anyone (even my grandma [no, I’m not joking]) and the fact that with puberty came not only boobies, but also my strange velociraptor posture (boobs out, butt out, arms curled up safely at my sides), I was doomed. And as if I wasn’t doing a good enough job of being freaking awkward on my own, I am convinced that my mom was deliberately sabotaging my efforts at being cool, as well. She wouldn’t let me wear dark red lipstick like Gwen Stefani because, in her opinion, I was too pale. And when I asked if I could wear my hair in a loopy bun with the two strips of hair hanging on either side of my face like everyone else my age, she said “Is it supposed to be so messy? I don’t think so. But I’ll do your hair like mine, if you want?” If I am incapable of telling my grandma that I don’t want her hand-me-down shoes because the teacher has the same ones in red, you can be sure as shit that I couldn’t say no to my mom, for fear that she would be offended. It was only one day of mom hair. That’s not so bad, right? So I reluctantly agreed to let my mom put my hair in an Elaine from Seinfeld style pouf with a big, ugly barrette to complete the look. Imagine my horror when I showed up at school the next day looking like a home-school reject, only to discover it was picture day! I got to relive that amazingly humiliating day every time I looked at my student body card that year. Ahhh, memories.

Because of the constant bullying that only got worse as time went on, and a series of problems at home that even I can’t put a positive enough spin on to make it funny, I ended up dropping out of school in the eighth grade. Fast forwarding past all the sad and painful stuff, I re-enrolled in school about halfway into the second quarter of my freshman year of high school. At lunch on my first day I walked with my tray of food into the cafeteria, looked around and decided to make it easy on myself and I sat with the Special-Ed kids. To this day, I have a special place in my heart for the kids in Special-Ed. They make awesome friends. They don’t give a shit about your hair or shoes, they just want to tell you about their Cocker Spaniels and give you odd compliments like telling you your shirt looks jazzy.

About three seconds after I sat down, a table full of popular kids waved me over. At first I was nervous because I didn’t know what their intentions were. Did they want me to sit with them, or did they want to steal my metaphoric picture of the oldest kid from Home Improvement out of my metaphoric binder and throw it out of the metaphoric window? To my surprise, it was the former, not the latter. The next day a popular boy saved me a seat on the bus. This was completely confusing to me, but I took to being popular like a duck to water. By my sophomore year, I was very well accepted by my peers (especially the boys) and, with the exception of a few catty bitches with big foreheads who grew up to look like a freaky, tranny Skeletor, I got along with pretty much everyone.

One downside to my new-found popularity, was that apparently during my year of being a dropout, everyone my age turned into total hoe-bags. Ok, not all of them, but I was shocked when my friends would talk about having sex. Like, with boys. I now realize that some of them were lying to get attention, but here I was, 15 years old and I hadn’t even come close to kissing a boy. The thought of kissing one of the popular boys who were giving me so much attention totally freaked me out. What If I messed it up? I felt like I was way behind everyone else, experience-wise. But fear not! For I devised a brilliant plan to remedy this. The solution? Youth group, of course!

I went to a youth group that met up in the middle of nowhere in the country. I’m talkin’ dirt roads and nothing around for miles. At this youth group there were all kinds of fun things to do. There were always activities planned. There was a trampoline. There was a tree house. And there were boys. I met this one shy kid who was my age, pudgy, pubescent, and good enough! When everyone was distracted by my friend’s band playing a new song that they wrote, I grabbed that kid by his not-nearly-masculine-enough hand, and we snuck off to the tree house. That’s where the magic happened. Turns out kissing isn’t all that hard. We managed to sneak back into the crowd without anyone realizing we had left. This guy turned out to be a real asset to me. A few months later we snuck off to try other things that were also my idea, but our absence was noticed this time and it resulted in a really embarrassing lecture from one of the youth leaders about abstinence. She assumed that we had snuck off to do it, but that wasn’t the case at all. I had decided to sneak off with him because I had recently gone on a walk in the woods with a boy from school that I liked and he kept trying to get me to touch his penis through his pants, but I couldn’t stop giggling so he asked me to stop because I was weirding him out. I just wanted to sneak away from youth group for a few minutes because I was curious to know what his pee-pee looked like, which he was more than happy to demonstrate. I’m hoping because he was still in the chubby, awkward phase of puberty, that he just hadn’t quite finished developing because even though it was the first penis I had ever seen, I knew it was really small. Though fascinating, nonetheless.

In conclusion and in summary,

  • You can only achieve popularity when you stop trying so damn hard to fit in (also, boobs and eyeliner help).
  • High school sucks, but not nearly as much as middle school.
  • And finally, send your kids to youth group so they can learn about God and what a penis looks like.

Me, in 6th grade at outdoor school.

My 15th birthday.

Freshman year.

Last day of school, freshman year.


Accidental Trip to the Strip Club

Since I was just telling this story and it’s still fresh on my mind, I guess I will tell the tale of my 27th birthday when Ben and I accidentally ended up in a strip club. For three hours.

My 27th birthday was easily my best birthday ever. Ben had planned a day of secret adventures around Portland. It was really easy to surprise me because I have no sense of direction whatsoever, so I will have no idea where we are until we are pulling into a parking space. My sense of direction is so bad that Ben used to stop the car a few block away from our house and ask me where we need to go to get home. Then he would humor me and drive all over the place until I either gave up, or we hit the Canadian border. In my defense, the streets were all identical and named after trees. Why can’t they just number the goddamn streets? Or better yet, just make the signs colored shapes and animals like they do with the halls at my kid’s school. “Hello, Police Man. My name is CarolAnn, I’m 28, and I’m lost. Will you please help me find my home? It’s on the corner of purple rhombus and turquoise hippo.”

We started out the day at The Grotto, looking at a bunch of really cool looking old statues of Jesus, and whatnot. I find this quite ironic, considering where we ended up later that night. 

“In the Grot-to!” -Elvis Presley

”Eyyy! Peace be with YOU, brotha!” -Jesus Christ

Later on we had dinner at Portland City Grill, where I had the most amazing ginger lemon drop known to mankind. After dinner, we stepped outside and I immediately had to pee. Ben suggested we walk thirteen miles to the Ross down the street, (Ew, no thanks) But I said “No, there’s a bar right here across the street.” We asked the guy manning the front door if there was a cover charge, he said no, but only customers can use the restroom. So we were just gonna stay and have a drink, then go on our way. As we are heading in, I tell Ben to order me a Long Island and I head strait for the ladies room. So Ben sits down at the bar and orders our drinks. He ends up making eye contact with a chick across  the bar and gives her a friendly nod, to which she responded by shaking her boobs at him. That’s when Ben looked behind her and saw the naked chick on the pole. Whoops.

We decide to find a table and sit down. Ben chose a table far enough away so that he could still see the boobies, but the strippers couldn’t hear him weep softly to himself while he repented for his sins. This is probably for the best because I get the overwhelming urge to compliment the strippers on their performance, which I think is against proper strip club etiquette. I really don’t know, though. We recently visited a strip club for a friend’s birthday (not by accident) and when one of the girls got done dancing, I told her “Good job. Way to be hot”. Call me old fashioned, but I feel like sometimes the best payment for a job well done, is to just say thank you. At this friend’s birthday party, we also met the hottest worst stripper ever. She looked like if Katy Perry had just woke from a coma. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were only half open, but she had an amazing rack. She told us that she’s been a stripper for 12 years and how she was tired and wanted to go home because she had to work from 2:00 to 11:00 the next day. Silly strippers. I don’t mean to say that being a stripper isn’t real work, but I’ve had to clean semi-liquid poop out of a bath mat before. Talk to me when you’ve stayed up all night cleaning someone else’s puke out of your bed, your hair or the outside of the toilet (Bailey had the flu and was refusing to puke. Needless to say, that was a losing battle because she spewed everywhere but in the toilet). And let’s not forget the time I got up in the wee hours of the morning to change Ava’s diaper, and she peed all over the changing table, so I picked her up so I could one-handed-mop up the mess, and she took this opportunity to projectile vomit into my hair and down my back. It was even on the back of my legs. What I wouldn’t have given in that moment to have a job that consisted of getting drunk, and dancing around naked from 2:00 to 11:00. These are things I already do for free at home.

Anyways, back to my birthday. Ben had ordered me a Long Island Iced Tea, which in and of itself, is enough to do me in. And he had ordered a vodka and Redbull for himself. He had like half a sip of his drink, and then decided that it wasn’t agreeing with his stomach. I drank both of our drinks. I couldn’t let it go to waste! I mean, there are sober kids in China, for God’s sake. So, after we had our fill of boobies, vodka, Redbull, and whatever magic they put in a Long Island, I just wanted to go home and get weird. Unfortunately Ben said we had to go see a movie at 11:00. He was teasing me about being a lesbian for wanting to cut the night short after hanging at the strip club, but I explained that I was intoxicated enough that I could watch homeless people open-mouth kiss and be good to go. That’s just one of the many great things about alcohol. Another great thing about alcohol? That look of shame and embarrassment on Ben’s face when I do my Single Ladies dance for unwitting people who didn’t really want to watch me dance in the first place.

Seeing the movie instead of rushing home for some sloppy drunk lovin’ wasn’t all that bad because afterwards Ben and I went to Voodoo Doughnut for some bacon maple bars. It was like I was in drunk people heaven. I Hasselhoffed the shit out of that bacon maple bar, and I don’t even care who knows it.

“This… is…… a mess.” -David Hasselhoff

Well, friends. That’s the story of my best birthday ever. I find it hard to believe that it can be outdone. It was THAT great.