When I was in the third grade, I got my first hate mail:
I like you a little bit, but it grows smaller every day.
First, yes, her name was Becky also, and Part B, she signed it “Love, Becky” so I knew she wasn’t entirely serious. Third graders are notoriously fickle and she was probably pissed that my bejeweledness was awesomer than hers. Because it was.
Also, I had an older brother who could REALLY insult me and frankly, hers couldn’t hold a candle to what Uncle Aunt Becky could say.
But it DID hurt because those things DO matter when you’re eight and I vividly remember trying to tell my mom about “THIS ONE TIME THAT…”
She totally didn’t get it. My mother was never terribly hip about that sort of thing because she was too busy listening to folk music and churning butter and canning *shudder* tomatoes to care about what her “Ice-Ice-Baby,” bejeweled daughter could be upset about. I think that stuff just eluded her.
She just couldn’t possibly understand how it might matter that I have the right jacket and the right song to slow dance to at the skate rink and the perfect bangs that DID NOT start at approximately the back of my neck, like she always cut them.
Butter took precedence. Which, whatever. I MIGHT have a bang phobia now.
So my kid just graduated the third grade and yesterday he went over to a friend’s house on a playdate (okay, when we were kids, my mom just kicked us out and locked the door when the sun came up. There were no “playdates,” right?).
After he got home, he confessed that he didn’t have very much fun because they’d been fighting, and inwardly I groaned, because instantly I flashed back to all of the fights I’d had with my friends at that age over, well, anything. It seemed I was always stomping away from something or another or baffled because my friends were doing the same.
He explained what had happened, and it involved telling a secret that he hadn’t been informed WAS a secret, something I informed him wasn’t a particularly heinous crime, and he informed me that this was pretty much standard behavior for this friend.
Luckily, he wasn’t overly upset by this and isn’t planning on going back. This is the part of raising an autistic kid that’s fairly awesome. The hurt feelings aren’t quite of the same caliber as they are with someone like, oh, I don’t know, YOUR AUNT BECKY.
I submit this photo as proof:
This is Your Aunt Becky, circa 1989 (ish). Clearly, I am upset by something (and it’s not my uncle, who, despite the fact that he looks like he wants to throttle me or perhaps stone me to death or sell me for parts, is actually one of my favorite people).
What could that possibly be, you ask innocently, my Pranksters?
I have enhanced the photo for your digital pleasure so that you may see PRECISELY why I have such a look upon my face.
It’s because I hate Jethro TULL! CLEARLY at age 9, I already knew that while I enjoy most classic rock, Jethro Tull is one of the few exceptions! Aqua-Lung, one of the WORST songs out there!
Clever, CLEVER girl!
But did I have to look so fucking EMO about it?
The answer is OBVIOUSLY. Because at age 9, everything is very, very serious, I am learning, and nothing is not worth a good door-slamming.
On the upside, I have years of emo jokes ahead of me. On the downside, I have years of emo jokes ahead of me.
So gather up around me, Pranksters, and grab a tall drink because I sure as shit need one and it’s only 9 AM. What were YOU like at this age?
I am at Toy With Me talking about my, well, my sex-after-three-kids-life. And I need help. No, seriously, I’m asking for help.
If you’d like, you can vote for me for Funniest Blog once per day until like July 11 (it’s only an email address thingy, not like a big ass give-them-your-first-born-child-thing) and I would hump your leg. HARD. Consider it an early birthday present!