Because inquiring minds want to know

*This is my blog. And so I get to write about whatever I want to write about. Today you are fortunate enough to read random stories from my childhood. Settle in, it’s gonna be a good time.

We had this yard worker who smoked cigarettes. He asked me if I wanted to see him blow smoke out of his ears. Like any kid prompted with this question, I eagerly said yes. So he took a drag, closed his mouth, concentrated real hard, and smoke came out his nose. I was still impressed.

My dad had a huge American flag that he hung on the wall of our basement gym. To this day, it is the scariest thing in any place I’ve ever lived. And that includes those freaky life-size child dolls that pretend like they’re hiding in a corner. (If you’ve been to Otis, you know what I’m talking about.)

My mom stood with me at my bus stop until I was in the 6th grade.

I was sent to my room once and I had such a temper tantrum about it that I threw my Lite Brite against my closet door. That certainly got my parents’ attention.

I used to put my chewed gum behind the lamp on my night table before I fell asleep at night. I would start chewing it again in the morning. I started doing this after I fell asleep with gum in my mouth and woke up with it tangled in my hair.

When our dog Max got to be real old, he could no longer make it outside to go to the bathroom. This one afternoon, my sister and I came home from school and started watching Santa Barbara, her soap opera of choice. Max decided that while we watched tv, he would crap in the middle of our living room. I looked at Stacey and told her to clean it up. She refused. I told her that I certainly wasn’t cleaning it up. So we sat there. And so did the poo. It was the world’s worst game of chicken, reeking more and more as each minute passed. But then. Someone knocked on our door. I got up to answer it and holy crap (no pun intended), it was my teacher, Mrs. Fallon. She was stopping by to thank me for giving her flowers (she had cancer - but that’s a different story). So I open the door but I can’t invite her in because there’s a steaming pile of shit on the rug not 15 feet from where we’re standing, and all I can do is pray that she doesn’t smell it. If she thought it rude that I didn’t invite her in, I’ll never know because she never said anything about it. But after she left, I remember screaming at Stacey and blaming her for putting me in that horribly awkward situation. I wish I could tell you who ended up cleaning the dog crap, but I honestly don’t remember.