My boobless, hairy and side-pony 6th grade year

I don’t open up much about my past.  I’ve kept that fairly private on ye’ ole’ internets, but to understand why I am a cynic or why I’m such a bad ass, you must understand who I was  as an adolescent.  

Prior to boobs, boys and deodorant, I was a mere child trying to make it amongst the halls of junior high with kids who French kissed at dances, boys who smoked after school and girls who wore bras the size of watermelons.    

This is a series on how to teach your daughters to not be like me.    

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No one could have felt more awkward in junior high than I did.  I was the new kid in a bigger town and it was my first foray into the American public school system after being educated in the Deep South by one of the finer, yet seemingly sheltered private schools in Alabama.  Prior to that, my entire educational career had taken place overseas where my parents promptly enrolled us into an international, English-speaking school in Europe. 

It wasn’t that we were fancy people with exquisite apertures for the finer things in life, but ye’ ole’ p-units always made sacrifices so the lil’ bambino bro and I were sure obtain the possible education where ever we resided.  I failed a semester of Calculus in high school, but that’s an entire conundrum for later.  My bad.  Besides who was Pythagorean and what was his stupid theory about any way?  Needless, not making good grades under my parents dictatorship was life threatening.   Dictatorship is a little harsh, but I was also encouraged to use flowery words and write beyond my self-imposed lack of confidence, so case and point…

I was still a mere child when I entered the doors of junior high that first day of the first semester of my sixth grade year in South Carolina.  Boys were cute, but I never imagined wanting to date them, let alone kiss them.  I’m pretty sure it was only months after the Civil War and the days of Antebellem had ended when we moved to SC.  The state was a little behind the times.  But at least it was ahead of Alabama during the time of Govenor George Wallace’s rule and his desire for apartheid or segregation or something like that.    So, I'm being a lot harsh on the Deep South for being a little behind the times on adapting to social  trends and you know, that whole acceptance thing.  Whatevs. 

Sixth grade.  Shaving my legs never crossed my mind and who needed bras?  Surely not my pre-pubescent self.  And make-up.  I was pretty sure my parents weren’t going to let me tinker around with that until high school.

I actually remember what I wore for the first day of school.  My mom and I went on a special mission to…wait for it…………….not Macy's or Belks or some other off-the-rack designer depot…….we went to……you ready……..TJ Maxx to pick out my first-day-of-Junior High outfit.  Pretty sure it was next toSally Beauty Supply if you catch my drift.  I also think we might have been in a part of town where we should have had a machete or pistol hiding under the dashboard, but apparently we weren’t scared, maybe oblivious, but again, whatevs.  I think she saw the outfit first and picked up the pale yellow Guess denim skirt and a white tank top with gray and matching yellow pattern.  She purchased me fake Keds and bobby socks with a yellow ball on the back of the ankles.   That’s like going to McDonalds and ordering the Big Mac with a Diet Coke.  Why bother?  Why pay for a Guess skirt but not own up to brand name Keds?  So basically, I was a Big Mac with a diet soda.  Lame sauce.

Think about that for just a minute…..

Horrified? 

Yeah, me too. 

Especially about the bobby socks.

Effing classic, man.  So classic.

To be more descriptive, I did not wear a bra or even the slightest resemblance of a training bra under the white tank top because at 11 years of age, my chest was non-existent and the hair on my legs was still pretty much visible to the entire world, yet not something I was conscious about nor gave a second thought to.   Shaving was something my Pops did in front of the mirror every morning before putting on his three-piece suit, not something I ever noticed women did.  Well, I think my PE teacher in Jr High shaved her face every morning, but I’m pretty sure she was a man.  That’s another story.  That and that stupid game of Crab Soccer we had to play in PE.  Ugh, so effing gross.

Back to my childish self walking into Junior High.

So, there I was in this huge school with a locker assignment and the changing of classes every hour for 7 hours a day.  At this time in my life I was not even 5 feet tall and weighed probably 70 pounds.  I’m now 5’8” in weigh _______.   I still have nightmares about constantly forgetting my locker combination code.  Never was good with the digits and to this day I don’t keep track of my check book and I pay some bad ass to do my taxes for me.  If a gal can’t remember her locker code from 6^th – 12^th grade, she has no bidness doing her own taxes.  Trust me there.

I started off Jr. High in my new town with a bang.  And speaking of bangs, I’m pretty sure I got a hold of the kitchen sheers and tried to trim those bitches the night before the first day.  School pictures were not something my parents purchased that year.  Just sayin’. 

Tomorrow’s post…how as a brand new 6^th grader I accidentally ruined a girls brand new white blouse on her birthday…in the cafeteria.  I had a knack for making friends.  Oh and if you're lucky I'll tell you how I spilled red jello in my crotch at lunch and trust me when I say, it stained and did not go un-noticed the remainder of the day. 

If I had 10 million George Washingtons

I have better chances of finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow than I do trying to date here in this big, retarded city of mine.   So, if I did frolic through grassy knolls and stumble across a pot of gold, I’d do the following with it.

Host my own personal concert for friends and family.  Not that I would sing for them because I can’t carry a tune in a paper bag, and I’d leave their ears permanently bleeding, but I’d invite David Gray or the lead singer from Train for a private concert at my house.  Acoustic style no less.

I’d hire one of those fancy chefs from Top Chef (which I’ve never watched because I hate to cook) and I’d invite these people to my dinner party.

I’d buy my grandmother a new Prius.  She drives about 10 miles a year and saving the earth one-step at a time, but I bet she’d love the brand new Prius series and why not.  

 Yeah, this is not my grandma.

Via

 But this is.  She's gonna kill me.

I’d make sure to visit Chelsea Handler at her house via a private Leer jet and invite myself over for some Belvedere on the rocks.  And why wouldn’t she want me?  I’d be rich and after two drinks, I’m effing hilarious.  Or not.  But still…

I’d pay off Nikki Minaj to never, ever perform in the USA again. Seriously. 

I’d build a dog sanctuary as huge as the Vatican to ensure that every abused, neglected and rejected dog in the great state of Texas was able to have a home with lots of love, tons of treats and lots of volunteers showering each and every one with attention and kindness.