Brother

 Few people can honestly say their brother or sister is their buddy, but that is something I can honestly say. Growing up, I never referred to my brother as “Kevin,” just “brother.”

My brother and I are about 3 years apart. When I was born, I would lay in a bassinet (as babies usually do), and my brother would lay on a bench, chair, or bed above me, and swing his arm. I was thrilled. I would giggle and babble with joy over his hand- ah simple times. Sadly, this would probably STILL entertain me.

When I was two, my mom took me with her to Iowa. I was gone for a few days. My brother came with my dad to the airport to pick me up. As my mom and dad were walking, they looked down and saw we weren't there. They looked behind them to see my bother walking with me, holding my hand through the airport, thrilled to see me.

I have a HUGE family on my mom's side, and one year we went there for christmas. There is a video of the whole thing. I was about 4 and my brother was 7. One of my uncles was dressed as Santa. My uncle was handing out presents. He called my name and acted like I had no presents. “aww, no presents for Kelly!” Not understanding sarcasm, or my Uncle's sick, sick sense of humor, I walked away defeated. In the background of the video, you hear a little voice saying “here's a present for Kelly! Kelly has a present!” He walks up and gives me my present, and once again, I am thrilled, both that my brother remembered me, AND because I got to open presents- basically the best part of Christmas when you're 4.

This asshole 7 year old boy used to pull my ponytail on the bus. His name was Lonny. He even had the name of a jackass. LONNY. Anywho, he was pulling my ponytail on the bus one day. My brother decided he didn't like that very much and he decided to teach Lonny a lesson. My brother fought him, and then got suspended for fighting. After he had been suspended, I started to get nervous and recant my story.

Technically, I had my first job when I was 11. I was a dog walker for this lady who lived across town. One day, my dad couldn't take me, so my brother walked me there while he rode his bike. On the way there, he ran into a pole, split his chin, and needed stitches. I didn't understand the seriousness of it, so I let him bike back and never told my dad. Yup, I got in trouble for that one.

One night my brother was feeling horrible and he needed to be rushed to the hospital to have his appendix removed. Early in the morning, probably 2am, my dad walks into my room and tells me to get dressed because Kevin needed to go to the hospital. He's gone for like, 5 minutes, and then he can't find me. At that point, I am all dressed and just sitting in the car, waiting to take “Brother” to the hospital. Brother needed me, I was so ready.

When I used to get picked on, my brother taught me how to box in our garage.

There is no one else who I can just sit and recite lines from Tommy Boy, Billy Madison, and obscure Saturday Night Live skits. At any point, I could call him up and blurt out a line from Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, and it would be completely normal.

It is for all these reasons, that my brother, will always be “brother.” I may or may not embellish stories now and again to get him to beat the crap out of someone for me.

The Most Awkward Child Ever

  We all go through awkward phases. Some of those phases last for a few years, or say 4^th grade. For me, it was pretty much my whole childhood. I have compiled a list of a few facts that will give you an idea as to just how awkward I was.

I got started on my coffee addiction really young. My dad used to make me coffee that was mainly milk with a little bit of coffee. I was still addicted. I would approach the counter and eerily say to my dad “mmmmmmmm coffee coffee I like coffee,” with my little beady eyes just gleaming with hope that I could get my fix.

I used to reenact the scene from the Lion King in which Scar kills Mufasa, on a chair in my living room, by myself. I would do all the voices as well.

In the second grade, I hit what you would call, early puberty. I was the tallest of all the kids- much like a 10 year old's body with a 7 year old's head sitting on top of it. I also had to start wearing a training bra in the 2^nd grade. Perhaps one of the most awkward phases of my early puberty was that I smelled- really really bad. My parents decided to get me some deodorant so I wouldn't smell. The problem with this is, as an 8 year old, you really don't know WHY you are supposed to be wearing deodorant, or why it is that you smell bad. Nor can you make the connection that, “hey, if I wear this, I can smell like a normal 8 year old!” My family would all be riding in the car, and my mom would blurt out “Oh My GOD! What is that smell!?” Guess what? Its your 8-year old oblivious daughter sitting in the back seat picking her nose in her Lion King tee-shirt- completely unaware that she smells like a grown man. Then there were the times I would sprout random and really really long armpit hairs, and my mother would insist on cutting them with kitchen scissors.

I had to wear glasses really young- around 4. It was pretty damn adorable. My glasses were much too big for my face and they amplified my eyes. This complimented my bright blonde hair that flipped in all directions. One time, when I needed a new pair of glasses, my grandmother decided to take me to pick them out. The pair I came back with was a giant pair of bifocals- bifocals I DID NOT need, but my grandmother insisted were adorable.

While on the subject of my eyes, I had a horrible lazy eye as a child. I had to wear eye patches when I was at home. To make it even worse, I made these weird sounds whenever I was concentrating really hard (such as on coloring) or when I was hungry. So often, I would be coloring with my eyepatch on, with my tongue hanging out, making a weird grunting humming noise.

When my family and I went to mass, I used to bring my bible with me. The priest would enter, and in classic Catholic mass tradition, carry the bible down the aisle above his head. I too, would hold my bible over my head. I was a dedicated Catholic. I even answered all of his rhetorical questions. It got to the point that he would call on me in the middle of mass to ask my opinion, which I always obliged.

My grandmother bought me a little purse with a book in it that had the whole mass in it- the prayers, the order of EVERYTHING, and it outlined everything the Priest should be saying. I loved it. I eventually could mimic the priest as he chanted his way through it.

When I was in second grade, I was in love with a friend of my brother. He was in 8^th grade, and in the same school I was in. To show my love for him, I would draw pictures of Orca whales swimming in the ocean and hand deliver it to his class. I'm not sure what Orca whales have to do with love, but for some reason, I felt that this was appropriate to give to him. Maybe I was just inspired by Free Willy.

We had this family friend named Janet. One year when we were all hanging out at her house, she told me that some rocks are dinosaur eggs, and therefore need hatching. I'm sure my parents LOVED that, because I proceeded to collect rocks, desperately hoping they would hatch. Guess what? THEY NEVER DID JANET- THEY. NEVER. DID.

When I was 10, I had a brief crush on Alex Trebek. He not only had me Hooked on Phonics, he had me hooked on that sweet mustache.

I always tried to be much older than I actually was. When I was 10 I tried to shave my legs, and by shave my legs I mean dry shave, and by shave, I mean cut a huge gash in my leg, scream for my mommy, only to have her come into the bathroom to see my leg covered in blood.

My school's cafeteria when I was in 5^th grade would have various things in the salad bar. One of which was peaches. I would usually fill each and every portion of my tray with peaches. I would also take my burger and put stacks and stacks of pickles on it, followed by a lot of mustard.

One day in 5^th grade we had just learned about petitions. I was inspired to write up a petition about 5^th graders being allowed to have a school dance- because normally they weren't. I actually got several classes of kids to sign it. Nothing ever came of it, except the teachers knew I meant business. I was a force to be reckoned with.

In 8^th grade we had to do a social experiment and do a presentation on it. So I did a presentation on how we are all influenced on society. I got up in front of the class and basically told them all that they were not original and were just all copies of what people wanted them to be. Lets just say I made no friends on that day.

My awkward phase never really ended. The only difference now, is that rather than being made fun of for being weird, people are like “Hey, you're kinda weird, and thats cool now. Lets be friends.”

Shit My Mom Does

My mom is a wonderful woman- smart, funny, beautiful, and a source of entertainment. Throughout my childhood, she was known for some of her sneaky ways of teaching us a lesson-which usually scared the shit out of us, or she had a way of comforting you,all the while insulting your enemies with low blows.

This is my mother:

When my brother was 5, he got super pissed at my mom and decided it was best that he run away- he was going to teach her some kind of lesson. He shouted "I'm gonna run away!" To which my mother replied "okay, Ill help you pack!" She helped him pack and sent him outside with his Ninja Turtles back pack, shut the door behind him, and locked it. He stood there in disbelief, and waited at the door, hoping that Mom would realize how wrong she was and come begging for him to come back, in which case my brother would just say "no mother, its too late for 'I'm sorry now!" THAT would teach her! But, alas, it never came. Giving up on that fantasy, my brother went and hid in a nearby tree- that was his new home. The branch just above him would hold all of his favorite snacks, the branch just to his right would be his bed- he had a plan. But home kept calling, and quite frankly, a tree is no place for a kid to grow up, it makes monsters out of men. So he ran inside begging for my mom's forgiveness. My mom thankfully let him inside. My brother never ran away again.

While we are on the subject of my brother, he and his friends thought it was a brilliant idea to shoot pinecones at cars with their slingshots .One car stopped at a halt, and my brother shot inside the house and hid out in his room. That car drove right up to my house and spoke to my mom, after which she carefully formulated her plan. "Just wait until your father gets home," she told him. That's the last thing any kid wants to hear. My mom waited a bit, and tip toed outside and rung the doorbell. She walked to my brother's room and told him 'the cops are here, they want to talk to you." It was like pulling a dog by its leash to the bath tub. My mom pulled my brother by the arm towards the door, my brother reluctantly walking behind her. she opened the door slightly so that only she could see outside and she pretended to talk to the officer. She pulled the door open to reveal no one standing there. My brother looked around and then back at my mother. "See that? That's what can happen! Now get your ass back to your room and wait for you father!!"

As any kid does, I threw crying tantrums when I did not get my way. My mom decided to tell me "go to your room and don't come out until you can smile." I would stomp off into my room and sit in front of my play armoire. I would sit and watch myself cry in disbelief wondering "How can she discipline THAT face? This face is DEVASTATING! This is the face of true torment, sadness and distress!" Seeing myself cry would just make me more pissed, so I cried more. That was until I found a loophole. I walked out to my mom, still sobbing, BUT I made sure I was smiling. How could she not buy that? I WAS smiling, just as she asked. She wasn't buying it, and sent me off to my room to watch myself cry some more. 

Every kid thinks they are sly, and can get one past mom- not my mom. This woman has eyes of a hawk and reflexes of a fucking panther. She knew we hated homework, she knew we never did it or would try to not do it and say that we did. She was also friends with other PTA members, so she knew when shit went down. She would ask us, "I'm going to ask you this once, and I want you to think really, really hard about your answer. If I catch you lying, its going to be twice as bad." She would throw that one out whether she knew anything or not. so you never knew if she knew anything. The best thing to do was to assume that she knew all, because, usually, she did. This would end in us confessing everything, doing ourselves in by giving away too much just in case she knew that too, and getting grounded. This even applies to when I am sick. Whenever I was sick and wanted to stay home, she would look at me and say "are you THAT sick?" "do you REALLY want to stay home?" I would psych myself out and pretend that I was fine. This has translated into my adult life. I will be pale as a sheet and look on the edge of death and I will tell myself "no no, Im fine. Im just fine." I get to work and people tell me I look like I am about to die, but i assure them that I am fine. I'll consider going home when I nearly pass out or sneeze so hard my brain hurts, but then my mother's voice echos to me "Are you REALLY sick?" I go through that fun cycle until someone forces me to go home and to not come back until I have at least some color in my face.

My mom was the kind of mom who watched Oprah. She knew of all the dangers out there, whether they were actually real, or just dramatic exaggerations, just because its Oprah and she can do whatever the hell she wants. Oprah probably led her to his gem:

I had just moved to a new area and I was in the 2nd grade. I had FINALLY made new friends, and these friends had some candy for me- button candy to be exact. They gave me a strip and I sat out and ate it as I waited for my mom. I proudly showed my mom the gift these new friends had bestowed upon me, to which she takes it, and tells me not to eat it because it "probably has drugs in it."

No one can comfort you quite like mom can.

I had an argument with a teacher of mine, and she told me 'its okay honey, someday you'll be making more money than him."

My mom has also has some of the best blond moments of her life.

There used to be this video of a waterskiing squirrel (really just a man in a suit). My mom blurted out " OMG How did they teach that squirrel to water ski!?" My dad informed her "thats a man in a suit....." She said 'no its not, its a squirrel," "no, thats a man in a suit."

My mom really wanted to see the movie “African Cats.” She was watching tv when the preview came on, and at the end, like every movie preview, it said “Only in theaters April 22^nd” Defeated, she says 'Aww I really wanted to see that movie but its only in theaters April 22^nd.”

In conclusion- or until my mom does something else, I will end by thanking my mom for being a good sport, being an awesome mother,  and for giving me all the material I'll ever need.

Childhood Disappointments

Tooth Fairy

The pain of losing one's teeth can only be countered by one thing- money, and this is where the tooth fairy came into play.

Every time I had a loose tooth, I would mess with it for a while, not looking forward to the moment I just had to rip it out of my head, which I usually left for my dad to take care of for me. My dad was the ultimate hero in this instance.He would rip it out of my face with superman like strength, meanwhile commending me on my heroic ability to lose a tooth. The discomfort always disappeared when I knew that I would soon be coming into money. 

I believed that the tooth fairy liked me best- my teeth were gorgeous, I was adorable, and well, i was just the favorite. It was not uncommon to be left $1, sometimes $2. I pitied the children who were left a measly quarter or two.

My mind flashed to all the things I could buy. Candy. A House. Toys. It would all be mine. This whole tooth losing business was going to make me a lot of money.

One time, I lost the tooth, so instead, I colored the most beautiful picture I could color for her, and offered it to her as an apology. She obliged and left me money.

I don't recall how I found out she was a fake, but it obviously wasn't too scarring. I don't recall throwing a tantrum.
I do, however, recall becoming quite greedy. I loved when we had garage sales, and hated when my mom sold things for way below what they were worth, which were fortunes!! How dare she sell my dresses, dresses that I WORE, for change? I cherished every dollar.
I was comforted by the fact that I still had my buddies, Santa and the Easter Bunny to keep me going.

Santa

Santa is one of those beliefs that is much like those who believe in Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster. Like a toothless hillbilly, every kid swears on their life that Santa exists. They have seen him! They saw him in the mall! Even the news people have the Santa tracker that shows you where he is at all times on his Christmas Voyage.I never questioned how the hell a fat man could be pulled through the air by reindeer or how he was able to visit every single person in the whole damn world in one day. When you're Santa, the impossible IS possible. i was devoted. I left him milk and cookies. I waited for him as if he was the second coming of Jesus. I would jerk myself awake to run and see if Santa had appeared in the time that I had fallen asleep. I was determined to catch that bastard.

The beginning of the end was when my parents, my brother, and I were staying at my grandparents on Christmas Eve. I did not have any milk or cookies to put out for Santa. Disheartened, I took to writing him a letter. It worked for the tooth fairy, surely it would work for my main man Santa. 
 To my surprise, I awoke to a letter from him! And wow! I never knew my Dad and Santa had such similar writing! He told me how he just helped himself to some juice in the fridge. I questioned it, but I brushed it off and opened presents anyways.
One time when I was about 5, i went into my parents room and found some presents. I was convinced that I had ruined Christmas for everyone.

Then one day I am over at a neighbors house, and she blatantly told me that Santa wasn't real. Bitch. I didn't believe her. There was only one person who could reassure me- mom. Mom could do me no wrong. Mom was the savior. Surely mom would tell me not to listen to a such a horrible, rotten, evil little child.
 I ran home all pissed off and ready for my mom to reassure me that jolly old St. Nick was alive and real. She shook her head and told me "no." Just like that, it was all shattered. Gone. Poof. Childhood had slipped through my tiny little hands. The past 9 years of my life, of opening presents, of tags addressed to me from "santa" was a lie.
 Although I was a bit angry and sad, I ultimately arrived at the conclusion that I still got to open presents and eat. In between presents I mourned the fictional fat man, but took comfort that there was still one savior left. There was one guy who could save my childhood- the Easter Bunny.

Easter Bunny

     Easter- what a wonderful holiday. Candy. Food. Bunnys. Brightly colored eggs. More candy. HIDDEN CANDY. Its like Christmas, only with more of an emphasis on candy......and maybe Jesus, but as a kid, the focus is candy.

One day, I went to the store with my parents and they told my brother and I to go do our own thing. They came back and had bought this new trash can (an important detail) I don't know why, but I decided to stick my arm in the newly picked out trash can. I felt a few bags of candy. I also saw a bean bag bunny. Curious, I waited until we got home, and I asked my parents, "what the hell?" They confirmed, that the easter bunny, was in fact, a fucking hoax.

I. WAS. PISSED. At that moment, I lost it- crying hysterically, yelling, screaming, and angry at the filthy rotten liars that were my parents. I yelled at them that I had been "lied to my whole life." How dare they? First the tooth fairy, THEN Santa, and NOW- you're gonna tell me, that the very last fragment of my childhood is not real? Now you're going to tell me that this colorful holiday about candy, colored eggs, and a fuzzy bunny actually has a LEGITIMATE  meaning!? Kiss my fat 9 year old ass.

I've managed to recover, but I will forever hold the grudge of my childhood innocence being ripped away with the disappearance of my childhood heros. While I don't tell anyone, I still look for the Santa Radar, and I still get excited to wake up on Christmas morning. There will always be a plate of cookies and milk for Santa......in my heart.

Skates

The first time I ever wanted to skate, was about 5 years old. My next door neighbor Elena, was already a boss at it, and I envied her. I begged, and begged my mom and dad to let me skate.

I would daydream and think about it all the time. I was going to OWN those skates. I would skate backwards, forwards, side to side, weave- I was going to be great.

One birthday, I got my wish. I opened my present to find a pair of bright pink roller skates. I immediately stopped what I had been doing- opening presents, and insisted that I try them on that instant.

I put them on and was instantly surprised that I could not stand in them, nor could I propel my self forward. As a matter of fact, I fell flat on my little 5 year old ass. Because I was in front of my friends, I tried not to cry. Instead my mom stood behind me, holding my arms up to keep me steady. It wasn't happening. I would roll backwards, and catch myself with my foot, only to roll backwards even more. I fell a few times and then immediately burst out into tears. Ashamed and embarrassed, I demand that the skates leave my site and that they be taken back to the store. I never wanted to see roller skates again.

When I moved to a new town in the 8^th grade, I was delighted to see that there was a roller rink. It had been a long time since I skated, so I thought I would try again. I went with my brother prepared to rock it. I was dressed in tight black pants, a studded AC/DC tee shirt, and a face full of makeup. I fell on my ass right away. I met two girls, and both of them had to hold me up by my arms as I rolled around the rink. Even with being held up, even with someone standing in front of me, I still fell. I swore after that night I would never skate again.

Last year I met a friend in my chemistry class who invited me out with a few friends to roller skate. I tried to tell her about my scarring experiences with shoes that have wheels on them, but she pushed and encouraged me to give it a try. It took no time at all for her to understand my hesitation with accepting the invite in the first place. One of the dudes who works at the rink was standing in front of me holding my hands while I took baby steps. I stumbled a few times, and finally, flew backwards, falling flat on my back, smacking my head and knocking the wind out of me. All of my friends were immediately asking me if I was okay, and even though I wanted to cry like I did at my birthday party, I tried to be a bad ass and just said “ I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm just gonna go sit down,” meanwhile my eyes obviously welling up with tears.

I've decided that roller skating, is really much more of a spectator sport. I think I will settle for WATCHING the action. Shoes with wheels on them really aren't my thing.

My Experience at Chuck E Cheeses

The first job- we've all had one. The thing with getting your first job is that no one really wants to hire you. You have no experience, you're usually in high school, and are just a random teenager. Then, magically, someone decides to take a chance on you.

When my friend jokingly mentioned the idea that I should work at Chuck E. Cheeses, I ran with it. My mind ran to fantasies of being surrounded by pizza, bright colors, and wearing the ever elusive Chuck E. Costume. So, I applied.

I went in to the interview prepared with enough enthusiasm to take down the whole damned establishment. They had me stand in the middle of the restaurant and sing and dance to the song “I'm a Little Tea Pot,” which I rocked. I got a few odd looks from little kids and the parents were too focused on letting their children drown in the ball pit to notice. Needless to say, I was hired on the spot.

There is much more to working at Chuck E. Cheeses than one realizes. The first thing we learned in our Chuck E. training videos is that you are always on stage. I walked around with a smile plastered on my face and I had to make sure that the place was the next best thing to Disneyland. For working there I owned a Chuck E sippy cup and a Chuck E bucket hat. I ate the mediocre pizza every shift, and drank soda all day so I could keep up that Chuck E pride. They served cotton candy, which I also over indulged in every shift. At the end of the day I would come home smelling like sugar, soda, pizza, sweat, and cleaning supplies.

As soon as you walk in you are greeted by popular songs that have been “chuck-a-fied,” most of which would get stuck in your head and before you knew it, you would faintly hear it in the distance, and in your sleep, and every time you needed to focus on your homework. There was the stage where the Chuck E band would play. There was Chuck himself, Helen Henny, Jasper T Jowls, and Pasqually.

Every hour or so, the band would come out and rock the shit out of the little kids. Underneath the music, you could hear the sounds of machines moving every which way. At one point, Helen Henny's eyeball got stuck and was rolled into the back of her head.

Most of the time I was out on the floor fixing games, delivering pizza, and helping kids decide what prize to spend their 10 tickets they won on. Periodically I would grab a cup full of tickets and throw them in the air. The kids would come running like rabid dogs foaming at the mouth on the tickets. They bolted away just as quickly as they came. The other thing I most frequently encountered, was angry parents who had their tokens eaten by a machine. I had an angry man ask for an “upgrade on his toy,” which I did not give him.

There were two kinds of parents. One kind just went there to let their kids play. They were generally cool. Then there were the parents who still thought they were hot shit and super important, and that their kid is more important and special than every other kid. Most walked around with bluetooths in their heads, screaming “NO NO NO, I said FAX the documents to Coorporate by 4!” and various other things that made it obvious they had a very important job, and were very important people.

About 4 times per shift, I would become... CHUCK E! Several employees would be Chuck in a shift, all of varying heights. So, Chuck would often go from 6ft tall to 5'1 in a matter of hours. However, when I wore the costume. I became Chuck E. The children loved me, and those who didn't love me, feared me. They were my puppets, and I, their master. Once I walked out, the kids would lose their mind and sprint to come see me. They would offer me food, toys, tickets, and their souls. They wanted to please me. I would walk around the store, only to turn around and see their adoring faces staring at me. While it was cute, it was also quite creepy to have a horde of 5 year old stalkers. There were, however, kids who had an adverse reaction to me. I would frequently make little kids cry and shake with fear, and I probably made a few piss themselves. I did have one 9 year old asshole punch me in the stomach.

When I wasn't tending to my flock of fans, I was making appearances at their birthdays. I would come out and do the birthday dance to a song that was sung by a Fred Schneider imitator. I was the best birthday dancer ever. I did the best robot, the best “mix the cake” move. I was electric.

My love of Chuck E Cheeses was equal to the loathing I had for my boss. She, was not very Chuck E. Cheese. She wasn't magical at ALL. She was angry, bitter, made me cry in front of customers, and sat on her fat ass in the back room and ate pizza until she was forced to come out and deal with the customers, which she also hated. I really do think that every time a child laughed, she died a bit on the inside.

I didn't last very long at Chuck E. I was there 4 months, and then school happened again, so I had to leave. I will always remember my experience, and I know they remember me. I was not just an employee. I will forever be “the girl that WAS Chuck e. Cheeses.”

Ps- Chuck E. Cheese does serve beer, so anyone who wants to pre-game Chuck E. Cheese's, drink beer there, dominate the games, and win kick ass prizes- call me.

Hey Arnold: Character Analysis

ARNOLD

On the outside, Arnold is a well adjusted kid. His parents were anthropologists and explorers of sorts, who died when he was born. Since then, he was sent to live with his grandparents who own a large home, where they rent out rooms.

His grandparents are both older, his grandpa having been in world war 2 would have been in his 80's. Although Grandpa Phil is fine now, due to his older age, he will continue to be able to move around less and less, and is sadly, nearing the end of his life. Because of this, his involvement in Arnold's life will become less and less. The likelihood of grandpa Phil making it to the point where Arnold turns 18 is less than likely, which will have a large impact on Arnold, due to the fact that Phil is the closest thing he has had to a father.

Living in the house with a group of people who has the possibility to change at any point would be very unsettling to a child. Ideally at this point in his life, he would have a home life that he knows he can count on. However, the residents of his household could move out at any point, and then he would have to get used to a new person. He is also exposed to the guests of the residents being in and out of the house.

With hope, his grandparents will have instilled the values he needs to be a well adjusted adult before he is left without a father figure at all.

HELGA

Helga is an aggressive child who treats those she really cares about poorly. Childhood aggression can usually be explained by home life. Helga's parents are completely uninvolved in Helga's life. Her older sister, Olga, is an over achiever and her parents consistently compare her to her sister. Because Helga feels she cannot become what Olga is, she compensates by being angry. Her mother is spacy and out of it. It can be suspected that she has some sort of addiction problem be it prescription medication or alcohol. She slurs her words and when she does speak it is usually wishy-washy. Because Olga was their first child, and his first daughter, Helga's father more than likely wanted Helga to be born a boy, which is why he treats her like a boy.

Her behavior shows signs of anxiety and obsessive compulsive behaviors. She has developed a crush on Arnold. Due to her lack of control in her home life, she feels a lack of control with her feelings for Arnold and therefore pushes him away for fear that he will treat her the same way her father does. However, she is still obsessed with the idea of being with him, so to compensate she has built an idol of Arnold composed of things that he has touched, worn, and even gum that he has chewed. She locks her self in her room to perform these rituals and compulsions based around Arnold and the idol she has built.

When Helga gets older she will grow to separate from her mother due to her addictive and dependent tendencies. She will also grow to resent her father for not only comparing her to her older sister, but for also treating her as the son he never had. She will grow into a maladaptive adult with control issues who pushes away friends and relationships with men for fear they will repeat the same behavior her parents did.

HAROLD

Harold is another on of the children who takes to bullying the other kids. Not much of his home life is known. However, Harold also has an issue with childhood obesity. Both of his parents are also obese. Children learn from their parents and more than likely his parents are overeaters and encourage the same in their child.

Unhealthy food is often cheaper, and since Harold usually has no healthy food choices in his lunch and otherwise avoids healthy food, his family is more than likely poor. Being in a lower income bracket can often put stress upon a marriage. No doubt, Harold's parents have fargued numerous times based on money- arguments Harold may or may not have been witness to.

Harold's mother is usually the one seen giving Harold the junk food. Harold's mother is feeling guilty for Harold having witnessed these arguments, and due to her own uncomfortable feelings discussing the current situation with her son, she chooses to compensate by using food.

Because Harold has no genuine connection with his parents, he feel the need to assert his power on the other children to feel better. Because of this, he has no friends. Through his relationship with his mother, he has learned that food equals love, and therefore uses food to comfort himself.

As Harold grows into an adult, he will continue to have issues with weight and self esteem. He will continue to use food to comfort himself and will continue into possible food addiction if he does not seek some kind of behavioral therapy to understand and correct why he does what he does.

EUGENE

Eugene is a nervous wreck of a kid. He is continually bullied for his awkwardness. However, this behavior is a vicious cycle. He has bad luck anyways and is always getting hurt, losing things, and is thought to be the “class jinx.”

Even as a 9 year old, Eugene has learned to fear the world around him. He approaches things much more cautiously than other 9 year olds. Due to his continual exposure to bullying, he also has grown to mistrust other people.

What is at risk for, is developing paranoias and obsessive compulsive behavior revolving around his bad luck. He will continue to mistrust and be paranoid of other people, fearing that they will betray him and his trust. As his luck worsens, Eugene will begin to develop the strong urge to control the world around him and his extreme caution will turn to extreme rituals that he believe will stop his bad luck. When those fail, his rituals will worsen and worsen until he he seeks cognitive behavioral therapy.

People I Hate

SCRAPBOOKERS

I've never been one for arts and crafts- in general I avoid them. However, scrapbookers, gravitate towards it at an almost unnatural rate. They collect everything for the sake of making a page to remember that moment by.

Why do I hate scrapbookers? Scrapbookers are obnoxious, and are the type of “craft people” that insist you take part in their craft. They know how to ruin a chill get together by blurting out “Hey everyone! Lets scrapbook!” You look for a reason not to and say “ah, you see, I didn't bring my pens or supplies.” Not surprisingly, they carry that shit on them. They are always prepared to make a scrapbook memory of it. They get you by saying they want to “remember this moment.” So, you join them for the sake of not looking like an asshole. Then, here you are, staring at a blank piece of paper and you realize that you have no idea what the hell you are doing. You have random pens, pieces of fabric, and other items that you are supposed to glue in random places that still make sense. Then you decide what you “vision” is and you go for it.....and still fail. You proudly hold up your scrapbook page to you friend who approves of it in the same way as a mother approves of her 4-year old bringing a piece of macaroni art home- she has no idea what the hell its supposed to be, but she hangs it on the fridge, only to remove it later hoping the kid doesn't notice. Then your scrapbooking friend hold up her page, and its a magnificent piece of art, and you again, remember why you never attempt art in the first place.

“You're going to think this is funny” People.

I love jokes. I love funny stories. What kills both of them? Being told how funny I'm going to think they are when I hear them.

These people have the best of intentions, they want to make you laugh. However, the moment they say “you wanna hear something funny?” I immediately start laughing uncontrollably because I am expecting to laugh so I just start laughing. Another one of my (not) favorites is when they say “You are gonna crack up at this one...” and they continue their story. Usually, I DON'T crack up because I was expecting something hilarious and was met with something relatively mediocre. It's not that the story isn't funny, I usually chuckle for the sake of being polite, but its just more of a “you had to be there” kind of funny.

Rather than assuming your joke is hilarious and that I'm going to bust my gut laughing, tell me “hey, wanna hear a joke?” and let ME decide if I think its funny. When you set me up for something I think is going ot be the best joke or story of my life, and it flops, your credibility for the next time you say “oh you're gonna bust up at this one...” drops considerably.

People Who Talk For Their Dogs

Don't get me wrong, I love animals, and it's true that all of my animals have people names. I love them all, but I stop at giving them all human qualities.

I cringe when I hear someone say about their dog when its begging for attention, 'Look! It's as if shes saying 'look mommy! I want to party too!'”

No, your dog isn't saying that. Its a dog and therefore is incapable of higher thinking. It has no concept of party. It most certainly does not see you as “mommy.” You are “master.” To it, you are a big weird looking alpha dog.

Another, is inundating one's facebook with pictures of their cats/dogs with captions that say “Okay mom! I'm ready for my closeup.” Usually the same people have every other picture as their dog/cat/hamster. Every other status update includes updates about where they are.....with their dog.

Do you remember that speech your ex boyfriend gave you about “personal space” and not being so “clingy.” Yeah, your dog would give you the same exact speech if it could.

The person who repeats a funny line while watching a movie

Sometimes I enjoy going to the movies to see a funny movie. If something is funny, I laugh and move on.

This person, doesn't quite grasp that concept. If THEY find something funny, not only do they repeat what the person onscreen just said, but they laugh obnoxiously as they do so. Then they look at me to see if I am laughing just as hard as they are- either to “include” me or for some kind of validation.

Dear “funny line repeater” and “laugh validator”

You really don't need to repeat that line, I hear it. See that huge screen in front of us? It produces sound that the whole damn theater can hear- which means I heard the joke at the same exact volume that you did. Repeating it does not make it any funnier. It's okay to laugh- you don't need my permission.

Parents who try to make their kids classy

When I see Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes dress up their kid Suri in ridiculously expensive clothing, I want to laugh at the contradiction.

When you put your child in these clothes, they are still going to be little kids. Just because your kid is in a $5,000 Gucci dress, does not mean she won't still shit herself, pick her nose and eat it, and generally put her little jam hands all over that expensive dress.

The kid has no concept of how to behave in public, which means your effort to have the image of the “perfect family” before your children even have a concept of it, will always fail. Just when you get them dressed all perfect, they are going to do what little kids do. As soon as the parents who do this realize this, they can finally put their kids in clothing they don't have to worry about being ruined by some unknown sticky substance.  

My Attempt at Sports

 Sports and athletics have never been something that I have particularly been good at, nor enjoyed very much at all; I tried most all of them (softball, soccer, basketball, volleyball, tag, track and field), all complete failures and reminders that I do not belong in sports.
My overall problem with sports involved a few key elements. I hated running. My tiny legs tired really quickly, and after a while I just wanted to give up and not move anymore. The only exercise my lazy ass got was dancing to Backstreet Boys or Britney Spears locked away in my room. I also hated the idea of a ball of any sort flying at my face. I became intensely paranoid and aware that it would hurt, break my glasses, and overall: cause me nothing but misery, pain, and embarrassment. Lastly, playing sports is like being an animal in a zoo. Everyone is watching your every move, waiting for you to do something funny like mess up, drop the ball, or hurt yourself. Regardless, the pressure is on.
Tag- I have hated tag ever since I first played it. I was always “it.” Because I was a bit chubby, I could never catch anyone, so I always remained “it,” until I begged and pleaded with someone else to switch with me. It's a stupid, pointless game. All you do is run in circles. You don't go anywhere, the only goal you have is to avoid being tagged; BOR-ING. Why not play a game with a point and a strategy other than running around? I did, however, enjoy freeze-tag. Because I would purposely run slow so I could get tagged and then stand still. At that point, I was safe. I could fake that I was playing the game, but I had a plan. Some kid would be playing the rules and running to come tag me. I would see them coming, and then mime the words “no, no, no,” and shoo them away. My ultimate goal was to stay frozen for as much of the game as I could.
Softball- T-ball was my favorite; I owned that shit! The ball sat on a plastic stand, which made it super easy to hit; could you ask for a better sport? One that serves the ball to you on a tee. Kids are weak so the ball was never expected to go very far. It was my comfort zone; a sport of limited expectations (I thrived). I do remember getting annoyed when kids would miss the ball. How the hell do you miss a white ball, sitting on a black plastic stand that is basically directly in the line of the bat? If you just swing, you will more than likely hit it. Also, I was competitive. I wanted to win. Whenever I would ask who won, I would get a cheesy “Everyone wins in t-ball!” Bull shit. I know I won. Whatever. I just chose to drown my frustration in snack bar snacks and a soda. My fear of a giant ball hitting me in my face kept me from moving up to softball. It was to the point that I was the tallest and the biggest kid on the team and completely dominated the other kids by hitting the ball with my monstrous “older toddler” arms. I played t-ball up until I was about 8 years old. I was a Jose Canseco amongst children.
I only went into softball after being forced out of my t-ball comfort zone. You can boast the importance of friendship and teamwork, which are all completely legitimate. Given that, I still hated softball. I remained terrified of the ball, so any time that I could play the furthest out in the field, I would do it. I would position myself in such a way that it became someone else's responsibility to catch the ball, diverting all responsibility and teamwork, the very lessons I was supposed to be learning. I would make myself look important and made it look like I was really going for the ball, but I would half ass it and wait for someone else to get it, acting as if I “just couldn’t get there in time.” Teamwork. I was okay with being a catcher, mainly because I was covered in padding and a face mask so that if I happened to get hit with the ball, it didn't hurt. I did, however, need major reassurance whenever I went up to hit the ball, or run the bases (really anything that involved actually being in the game). I would swing at a ball, and look back at my dad (who was often the coach) for reassurance. He would nod in approval and I would continue. The next ball would come, I would swing, and look back at him again. I kept my eyes locked on him for approval, so I knew, that if dad said I was doing a good job, then I was doing a good job. 
Soccer- I played two years of soccer. The first year sucked ass. We lost every. Single. Game. We scored about 4 points our entire season- not exaggerating. The next year my team was amazing and we went undefeated. Not because of me, but still, that was my first and last successful attempt at soccer. Once again, I chose a position that didn’t require me to take much responsibility, and watched my teammates from a distance as they gave it their all. I was focused on snack time.
o First of all, soccer is the worst game you can play when you hate running around. That is all soccer is. Running after a damn inflated ball. It’s basically track with a ball and goals.
Second of all, I am much too polite for soccer. Again, I was afraid of the ball, but I was also much too polite to just shove my leg into someone else's privacy bubble to take said ball away. 
From the moment the game started I would count down and pray for the end to come so I could go home, eat, and listen to The Backstreet Boys.
In high school, I attempted track and field. I was smart enough to know that running and jumping, or doing anything that involved too much running was NOT my forte. What I was good at, was throwing shit around. So, I chose to throw the shot put and discus. If you don't know what those are- shot put is basically an 8 pound metal ball, and the discus is a 3 pound double sided frisbee like thing.
I wasn't much good at that either, but I had minor success; the closest to sports glory I ever came. I felt like Helga the Viking Warrior tossing a giant metal ball at my enemies. I hated training and running. In between “practicing,” me and the other girls who threw would just sun themselves. 
So, what sports AM I good at? Hide and go seek. I am so kick ass. Mainly, it's because I am so tiny that I fit into ridiculously tiny spaces. I alter my breathing and I become invisible. The best part is, is that I never run for home base. I just stay there until they all give up on finding me. Thus avoiding ever being “it.” Hide and seek is a favorite of mine, mainly because I can avoid any sense of teamwork, responsibility, or athletic ability. And that is why I stay away from any further athletic endeavors.

Diary of a 9 year old : Sept 1999

The following is a writing out of my class diary when I was 9. The prompt was to talk a little about myself:
              " Hi! I am Kelly, as you know my favorit band is the Backstreet Boys. I like all of them. But i have a favorit. You probably know already, but I will tell you anyway. My favorit is A.J. I like him because he is funny, cute, and has a good personality."

Now, Im not quite sure who my audience was in this. I think I chose to write all my entries as if some stranger was reading it, which means I have to start from the beginning. BUT, if its a stranger who knows nothing about me, why the hell am I assuming "you probably already know...." It's also to be noted that I said A.J. has a "good personality." As If I know him personally, or even know what a "good personality is."
Typical of a 9 year old, my favorite band was a boy band who was bound to disappear at any moment. I was not lying. I was a Backstreet Boys freak. I had posters, all their cd's. The Backstreet Boys were my new Garth Brooks.
On top of that, I had an obsession with A.J. Mclean, the one with all the tattoos, piercings and dyed hair. I could have chosen the 30 year old "boy," or the one that was super Christian, or even the one that was actually closer to my age, but no go. I was IN LOVE. I knew every single factoid from his favorite color down to his favorite meal at McDonalds. To me, I was doing my duty by knowing anything and everything about my love. Im sure my parents were thrilled.
I loved dancing around to them in my room with my friend Amber, who was in love with Nick. When we would play pretend we would pretend we were married to them. The world stopped every time a video of theirs came on the tv and no one was allowed to talk or change the channel. I remember one time, I was watching TRL and they were retiring the video "I Want It That Way," because it had been played too many damn times. At that point I didn't know what they meant by "retiring the video," and misconstrued it as The Backstreet Boys were retiring. I was devastated until the very concept was described to me, and then I went on my merry way.
One birthday, I got tickets to a Backstreet Boys concert. This was the famous tour in which A.J. was placed into rehab for problems with drugs and alcohol. My fragile 10 y/o mind couldn't grasp what was happening but I stood by my man. At one point, my dad was making fun of him, and I turned to him and said "at least HE is getting help for HIS problems!" I molded his ass good. No one fucks with my man.
I stood by them until i was 12 years old and discovered more interesting music and until my brother convinced me that they would not be around forever. I was convinced they would be like The Beatles and be around for all eternity. Sadly they weren't They keep trying to make a comeback, but it will NEVER be the same....EVER.

My Family's Obsession with Pets

Many families try to give their kids a normal childhood by having a family pet. My family, however, went a little overboard. We had horses, goats, cats, birds, dogs and fish. All were eccentric, and all had people names. If it’s one thing my family was great at, it was picking animals.
When we lived out in the country, we had a horse named Sam. I was too young to know much about caring for a horse, but I insisted on helping. My way of helping feed Sam was grabbing a handful of hay and dropping it over the fence for him. Not much, but I'm sure he was appreciative for such an effort to be made on his behalf. Then we had two dogs. Otis was an Australian Shepard, who I used to call a “little genius”, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Otis was not a genius; Otis was a psycho. He liked to try and herd people/animals/things, and was constantly unnerved at all times. He was like an veteran with PTSD. When you looked at him you could tell he was mentally unstable. To scratch his ass he used to drag it underneath the bumper of my dads Ford pickup, howling in a crazy, perverted whine. Then there was Dutchie: a big buffed-out Rottweiler. Not much that I can say about her; she kicked ass. Robbers, mean people, stray cats, back the fuck off. Dutchie is on guard.
Then there were our goats. My brother and I were given two goats as Easter presents. I named mine Billy. Not named after “Billy Goat,” because I was much more original, even as a 6 year old. He was named after the blue Power Ranger, who coincidentally, I had a crush on. Billie had his own stuff going on, also a bit disturbed, but more importantly, was an escape artist. We would put him in the back pasture, and instead of staying there like a well behaved goat (whatever that is), he would escape through the fence and run about the land, doing as he pleases. 
Also, we’ve had history of weird cats. Out of all the crazies we had one that took the cake: a Siamese named Charlie. He was a sneaky bastard. He had a habit of hiding under beds and attacking our feet, viciously digging his claws into them. Eventually he earned himself a bell collar, an act of deterrence so we could hopefully hear exactly where he was at all times. He was also territorial. He would beat the shit out of any cat that dared to step onto out property. This even included the kittens of our other cat, Sabrina. Sabrina was my cat. She was a whore cat who was always hookin' around the neighborhood. If she was a human, she’d be a regular on Maury Povich. Whenever she had a litter of kittens, none of them resembled Charlie; every litter was different (just sayin’). Sadly, Sabrina met her fate when my mom ran over her....while I was in the car.
Now, this magnificent pack of animals were not just eccentric, they adored me and my brother. Every morning, we would walk out to the bus stop at the front of our long driveway. Both goats, both dogs, both cats and all the kittens would follow us out and wait with us. Dutchie would do her job by chasing the cars that went by, as if they were some kind of threats to us. Soon, they learned what time our bus got home and would subsequently wait for us so that they could assist us back to the house. Just imagine that sight as a bus driver: here are these two oakie kids with an army of odd animals surrounding them, and waiting for them when they were being dropped off. Quite the site.
When we moved, we took the cat and our two dogs with us. We moved to a house with significantly less running room. Dutchie adapted. Otis spiraled further into his psychoses. He. Lost. It. He paced the yard, barked at nothing, and started taking his anger out on me and my brother. So, needless to say, he went buh bye. Charlie managed to escape out our back door when my grandfather left it open. He was gone for 8 months. For those 8 months, I, although worried, felt safe knowing I didn't have to worry about a stealthy Siamese cat attacking my feet. 8 months later my parents spotted him seemingly commanding an army of strays, and, compelled to re-domesticate him, hell has been present in my household ever since.
Since then, we had another pug named Lucy, a fish (Brian), another pug George, a bird (rico) and two Welsh Corgis named Louis and Toby Keith. Lucy, was in love with my father, and had it out for me. After a while, I would deliberately harass her, by doing things that she thought that I shouldn’t do. My favorite was slapping the coffee table, as if I wasn't supposed to. She would launch herself off the couch, and jump at me with her mouth open- prepared to rip my flesh off. How dare you defy me and slap the coffee table! 
Brian was my dearest and most favorite fish. He was a survivor. He survived longer than any goldfish should (about 4 years), and lived an incredibly dramatic life. Brian learned to recognize me. He would pop up out of the water and make little fishy blooping sound. I would stick my finger in the water and he would suck on it- probably because he thought it was food, but I choose to believe he did it out of shear love and worship for his owner. He had several near death experiences where he would go belly up, but act completely normal when I changed his water. His favorite snack was de-skinned peas. I had no problem de-shelling tiny frozen peas for him to eat. One day I came home from school to find my Brian laying belly up in a cup by the sink. My mom saved him for me so I could give him a proper and personal burial down the toilet.
We originally thought Rico, our cockatiel, was a boy. Having just seen Napoleon Dynamite, my dad named her Rico. One day, to everyone's surprise, Rico laid an egg. Apparently birds adopt their family as their flock, so to her we’re just giant featherless birds. In addition, they choose mates from those among their flock and they mate for life. Seeing how my dad was the only male in the household , he was chosen by Rico to be her life-long mate. She lays eggs for him, expecting him to fertilize her/them (I don’t know how that stuff works) so that they could have deformed human bird children. She sings to him, and calls out for him. When my dad whistles or calls back out to her, she sings back in pure happiness. Like any good bird wife, Rico has learned the sound of his truck. When his truck pulls into the drive way, she screams for him. She performs mating rituals with her branches and I'm not sure if I want to know what is going through her tiny skull at that moment. She also hates my mom. Rico hisses at her every time she walks by. Rico is attempting to claim what is rightfully hers and is letting my mom know to back the hell off of her man. My Mom, sensing this, also hates her.
My current three dogs, George, Toby Keith, and Louis are stars in their own right, and could probably have their own series.

I Love You Garth Brooks

It would be hard to envision my childhood without one particular influential force. He was a musical force; a force I could not withstand; a force to truly be reckoned with. His name was Garth Brooks. I don't particularly recall exactly how I fell so madly in love with Garth, all I know is I was all over it. I was obsessed.

It may have started when I heard his siren song blasting through the speakers of my dad’s ’91 Ford F-150. It may have been any time I turned the radio on in the mid 90’s as he frequented most Country Top 10 countdowns at the time. I’m not certain of the origin of my intoxication, but all I can say is: It was magical; that country whine, those acoustic guitars, and the thunder rolling. He blew my 6 year old mind. 
I didn't quite know what I was really hearing, but all I could tell you was that it kicked the shit out of the Disney music I had previously been obsessed with. From then on it was an all out love affair.
I started asking for all of his music. It became a way of life: All Garth, all the time. Birthdays became the form in which I chose to increase my library. For every birthday, it was a given, I got at least one Garth Brooks tape. Not only were said tapes played, but they were played over, and over, and over. When I wasn't listening to Garth Brooks, I was singing Garth Brooks. When I wasn’t singing Garth Brooks, I was repeatedly talking about Garth Brooks. I became a piggy bank of trivial Brooks knowledge, and my bedroom morphed into a Garth Marathon room of sorts.

My behavior began to border on cultish. To show my devotion to my one and only passion I created things in his honor. It started small, but began to slowly escalate. I made a sign on my door. “Gart rooles!” it incorrectly read in bright magenta letters. It hung upon my door for days. While my room was a “Garth Lovers Only” palace, I began to feel that my love for my idol could not be restricted within those walls. However, I was able to remedy the situation by constructing a series of beaded word necklaces. They all basically said the same thing, usually pertaining to or in the same vein of the “I love Garth” or “Garth rooles” theme.

Soon enough, my obsession began to help me find other Garth lovers. When I was in 3rd grade, there was a playground guard that knew of my Garth obsession. We would talk on and on about how great he was. She even took the time out of her day to copy a video tape for me of Garth Live in Concert. My excitement was all encompassing. I literally shook when she gave it to me, as if I was a heroin addict awaiting her next fix. Stashed away in my backpack, riding home on the bus, my mind never veered from what the tape could potentially offer. I rushed up my driveway, rain boots sloshing through puddles, and went straight to the living room VCR. Sitting inches away from the television screen, I watched in awe as Garth commanded the stage in his American flag button down and ten gallon hat. I was in love.

Then tragedy struck. Garth was swept up into a media sandstorm when it was reported that he had cheated on his wife with Trisha Yearwood. My little 8 year old body had never been filled with so much hatred and rage for the both of them. For the first time in my life, I was disappointed in Garth. The foundation of my obsession/cult had been shaken. How could he cheat on Sandy? Bad Garth, bad. Then, there was that slut Trisha Yearwood. I had it out for her; it was all her fault. Had she not been such a ho, Garth would not have cheated. “ Fuck Trisha Yearwood,” I thought (well maybe not in such colorful language, but in essence that’s what I thought). I’m afraid the 8 year old anger still lingers to this day (no matter how hard I try to give her a second chance, I am just not a fan of Trisha Yearwood).
By the end of my obsession with Garth, my family had had enough. They were all Garthed out.
Mr. Brooks had experienced a meteoric rise in my life, only to exit it as quickly as he had entered. Is this normal? Meh. We all have obsessions at young ages. Mine just happened to be a whiny pop/country star who cheated on his wife. I got your back, Sandy.

Phobias

Phobias

I have a long list of phobias, few of them rational, most of them seemingly irrational until you get into the reasoning.

Turkeys and/or Geese

Both are total assholes. First, some random turkey facts. Wild turkeys spend their nights in the branches of trees. I bet if you were to be walking around minding your own business, and saw a fuckin’ turkey looming over you in the branches, you would run away as fast as you can. Running is futile. The wild turkey can run up to 18 mph. So not only are those bastards stalking you, they will chase you down and peck you to death. Apparently when my dad was a child, a turkey used to block the walkway into the house and they would have to distract him somehow and beat feet to the house. My worst nightmare was on a trip to the lake down the street on my bike. I saw a goose that ALSO had a turkey waddle, a lazy eye, and was a complete asshole. He chased me as I peddaled as fast as my fat little legs would let me. 

large quantities of cats

I love kittens. Always have. I HATE CATS. One cat, cool. Two cats? Fun. Any more than that and I get weirded out. My fear started when I began watching a show about animal hoarding. Every show has SOMEONE who loves cats so much that they feel the need to possess about 80 of them. The damn things are stare you down, and crawl all over you and incessantly meow for no damn reason other than to get inside your head and drive you into a slow psychosis. 

Even without hoarding, one cat is just as bad. Cats are ominous satanic beasts who seek to control your life. Try lying down on the couch and having a cat take a nap on your chest. It doesn’t matter if you have to pee, if you’re hungry, or if some other facet of life beckons to you. You don’t move that cat. You just don’t know what will happen. It might feel generous and let you move it. Or it will scratch the shit out of you.

Semi trucks

When I started reading Stephen King, I began with the book Night Shift, which contained a collection of short stories. One of which was about a group of semi trucks that stalked its drivers while they sat in the truck stop cafe. They say nothing. They just stare inside the cafe waiting for their victim to step outside so they can run them over.

Also, I feel the need to point out that in most action films they show a car chase in which a car becomes stuck underneath the semi, or has to slide underneath it. It doesn’t matter what the terror is that I am envisioning. Either way, it ends in my demise.

Staplers

Have you ever been replacing the staples in the metal part of the stapler only to have it close unexpectedly on your hand? I have.

I am scared shitless of stapling my hand, finger, eye, face, you name it. I choose to use paper clips.

Mold

Its just gross. Even worse is when you make yourself a delicious sandwich and get halfway through eating it, and you look at the bread only to realize it has mold on it. If you know anything about mold, you know that it is like an iceburg. What you see is only part of it, and the spores extend throughout the entire piece of bread and probably the whole loaf. So, you’ve just had a stomach full of mold. Find a way to deal with THAT.

Ants and other bugs

Once you are covered in ants, the sensation of ants crawling all over your bare skin never leaves you. Its creepy as hell. I had some marshmallow peeps hanging out in my room, i come back in, pop some in my mouth and they tasted spicy. I look down to see my beautifully delicious marshmallow peeps covered in ants as well as my hands, and face. I had a panic attack and have declared a war on ants ever since.

Never Tell Anything to This Kid

 Since I was a child I have lived in two extremes. I either forget everything you say instantly or I can't keep a secret. The most common one is names. The moment you tell me your name, or even the moment you say “hello my name is.....” my brain shoots off in different directions. Basically, if you introduce yourself, don't expect me to remember your name- that's just how it is. Sometimes, you will tell me an important story, probably hoping and praying I don't say anything to anyone, meanwhile I have forgotten it the moment you tell me. Overall, I either listen way too closely or not at all. For example, in high school my mother was lecturing me on grades/computer/boys/life or something that I didn't feel like listening to. I put on what I call my “listening face” in which I nod appropriately and say “yeah” and “for sure” at the right times. However, I had just begin practicing it and didn't know how to not make my eyes glaze over. My mother caught on and blurted “KELLY! Are you listening to me?” So of course I lied and said I was. She said “what did I just say then?” Touche mother, touche.

On the other hand sometimes I can't keep my damn mouth shut. I have a few theories on this. One of which is that the more I like someone, the more I want them to like me, meaning my filter comes off and I say anything and everything hoping to strike up a conversation and that they stop and think “well, that Kelly, she sure is “clever/funny/amazing/gorgeous/model/witty/insert amazing compliment here.” The end result usually makes me sound like that time Britney Spears got wicked stoned and K. Fed was there to film it. I start sentences in the middle of a thought and bring up thoughts, stories and ideas that only have context to me.

New, funny, interesting people excite me to the point that things come out like word vomit in an attempt to make a connection to them. One time I was just hanging out with a guy I was super into. We were just laying around not saying anything and just enjoying each other's company. As usual, I was immersed in my thoughts about yummy food. Rather than keep this to myself, I wanted him to know just how amazing this thought was and I decided to express myself. I didn't even give the poor guy any intro into my story- I just started in, “This one time, I was in Studio City and had this amazing grilled cheese that had all these different kinds of cheeses in it and it had truffles. It was so good.” He looked at me and said “interesting story, Kelly.” Damn it. To him, it was out of nowhere and made no sense and was completely out of context. To me, it all made sense. I had been thinking about it for about a minute or so and was a legitimately interesting topic. In my mind we would have a lengthy discussion about food and then go eat something.

My memory is involuntarily selective. I cannot for the life of you tell you what I studied 3 hours ago, but I can tell you the most random, useless facts that for some reason stick with me. I can remember the lyrics to hundreds of songs, tell you the year and the album on which they came out. I can tell you what I ordered at that one restaurant that one time you and I went out on that one night last year. None of which is going to help me on the exam I have tomorrow.

My mind and inopportune timing have gotten me into trouble numerous times. If there is one thing I do not have a knack for, it is timing with the exception of having amazingly talented comedic timing (hint hint to the SNL execs that are most definitely reading this right now).

By the end of 2nd grade the principal had called in my parents with a laundry list of the things that I had said that they were concerned with, but lets be honest, they were more than likely amuse....am I right?

At about the age of 7 I learned about sex for the first time. I remember it very clearly. My mother, brother, and I were on a car ride from some place I don't remember. I had the front seat because I was the prettiest little girl that ever was. We were all listening to Dr. Laura. For those of you who don't know or remember Dr. Laura, she had a radio show where people with all sorts of irrelevant yet entertaining life drama would call in and get advice. She was what many people referred to as a “bitch,” but really, she was just honest. To Dr. Laura's credit, she had the credentials. She had a license to practice therapy and obtained training in Marriage and Family Therapy. Little known fact, she received a bachelors degree in “Take No Shit From Anyoneology.” She's like a less senile Judge Judy.

So we are all sitting in the car, listening to the heavenly advice of Dr. Laura when the topic of a pregnant teen came up. Wanting to be part of the conversation happening, I blurt out “well you know mommy, she shouldn't have kissed that boy so much. Then she wouldn't be pregnant.” Lets just all marvel at that adorable ignorance. I am at that age where I still think you get pregnant by kissing. I am also at that age where I have zero clues about what happens when giving birth. How does it get there? I still had the idea that the baby held up shop in the stomach or something, or built its own little house out of connective tissue elsewhere in the body. Fagedda bout asking me what happens when the baby has to come out of there- which hole it came out of was a complete mystery at this point.

Stunned by this ignorance, my mom broke it down for me- every detail. I didn't know whether to be disgusted or interested. I chose interested, and impressed with my knowledge, I went to school incredibly excited. With a smug look on my face I blurted out ”Guess what I learned!?” I informed all of my friends of my new found knowledge. The faint at heart ran off. The perverted made me retell the tale in all its gruesome (well what my 8 y/o brain saw as gruesome) detail. Although this did not end in a trip to the office, it provides an example of the floodgates that were my mouth.

One time, in the second grade I had gotten to school early and decided to play RunGuy out on the basketball courts. I had just gotten the pack together for our morning huddle when these assholes came over to pick on me. I'd been having troubles with douche bags like this for a while and had asked my grandmother what to do. She told me to tell them to “damn their filthy souls to hell.” More than likely she didn't expect me to say that. She probably say that in the way that you tell your friend “do it! Pour your heart out and tell him EXACTLY how you feel.” So that day I'd had it. That morning's huddle was VERY important and they were fucking it up, so I turn to them and say “Damn your filthy soul to hell!” The look of pure shock on their faces as they reacted to what this tiny, much younger kid just hurled at them was priceless. What do you say to someone who says that to you? What do you say to a 7 year old that says that to you? There is no comeback to that. Trip #1. As I side note, I still tell that to people when they piss me off. It's a great fight ender.

One particularly cold day, I calmly turned to my teacher and informed her that I was in fact, “freezing my balls off.” In my defense, I had heard by brother say the same damn thing. It was my understanding that “balls” meant eyeballs. So, to me, I was saying that I was freezing my eyeballs off. I imagined being so cold that your eyes were bulging out of your head and they were frozen with little ice crystals on them and......IT MADE SENSE TO ME AT THE TIME OKAY?? Trip numero deux.

On another cold day, I felt so cold that I could be made of stone. So, I walked up to my teacher, and struck a hilarious pose in which I was frozen mid step and blurted ‘Look teacher, I’M STONED!” Again, in my defense, I meant that I was so cold that I was made of stone. I did not mean that I had just smoked a marijuana cigarette of sorts. I don't recall the look on the teacher's face, but I imagine it was a look of shock and amusement. Trip 3.

I remember as a kid that DARE was quite prevalent, and they decided to make a trip to my school. That's right, the celebrities of DARE came MY school. Be. Jealous. They talked about drugs, cigarettes, alcohol and how if you do them, even once, you either do irreversible damage to your body or you die....or both. The moment they brought up beer, my little 7 year old brain made a connection. Beer? My daddy drinks beer. Desperate to make a connection with the presenters I knew I had to say something. With great enthusiasm and in front of the entire school, I informed everyone that “my daddy drinks beer.” Trip 4

There are several take aways from this story. One- If I am dating you, let me remind you that I am not in fact, a Stoner Britney Spears. If I bring up the most minute, random nonsensical point, take it as a compliment and humor me by turning my half thought into a full conversation.

Two- I have a talk now, think later attitude. Just how it is. Don't like it? DAMN YOUR FILTHY SOUL TO HELL!

Three- My family still feels the need to lead with the precursory “don't go tellin' this to blah blah blah,” and I always argue it and scoff at them. Why on earth would you think that I would EVER do that? Then I remember the above stories.