Monthly Archives: January 2011

My First Kiss; A Story of Betrayal

 

 When I was about 5 years old, my parents took me and my little sister—who was a baby at the time—to see some of their friends out in Lockhart, Texas. 

So we loaded up in our 1980’s brown and beige Winnebago—quite noble and a majestic beast it was—and made the drive. 

 

 

I don’t remember the last name of this family in Lockhart, but I’m going to call them the Carls, because after meeting their 6 year old son, named Carl, that’s all that I remembered for years to come about that family. I remember him and that fateful week I learned of loves bitter aftertaste. 

I was convinced that Carl was the most perfect boy I had met since my daycare stint at Small World of Learning. He had everything I was looking for: a trampoline, an adventurous spirit, and a He-Man T-shirt. I was love struck. 

 

 

Well, there was another family staying with the Carls and they had a cute little blonde girl, my same age, named Chelsea. 

Immediately I knew this Chelsea was going to be trouble. 

 

 

Come to think of it, I think her name was actually Kelsey. Which just makes her all the more intolerable.  

First of all, she had a ponytail. And don’t even get me started on my issues with ponytails. 

The concept of the ponytail had always alluded me.  

I got cursed by my dad’s thin hair genes (sorry Dad). 

So, basically I didn’t start growing hair until, literally, I was 3 years old. At 5 I had only managed to grow a few whispy curls that stuck out in all directions like Little Orphan Annie with Male Pattern Baldness. 

 In fact, it was so bad, that the year before I had told my mom that all I wanted from Santa that Christmas was a ponytail. Geez, that’s a better holiday sob story than the freakin’ Gift of the Magi. 

Here’s a lesson to all you parents out there; if your child is repeatedly subjected to a debate with strangers on whether she’s a boy or a girl, you had better take this as a cue to dress her in nothing but pink and frills.  If ever there were a child in history that desperately needed to be dressed in girly clothes, it was me. Unfortunately, my parents liked to dress me like a 1970’s Sesame Street episode.

  
 So, this Kelsey girl, although the same age as me, had already genetically body slammed me with her superior chromosomes.  

In my eyes, her dirty blonde, honey colored ponytail was like a fantastic piece of art, like she had inherited the Mane of Mufasa or ate a Barbie doll.  

At the young age of 5 I was very well aware of the fact I was the less attractive of the two, but Carl had to be mine, and I would do everything in my power, to make him like me.  

If he liked grape Kool-aid; I sure as shit was going to drink me some purple stuff that week. If he wanted to watch Thundercats; I was going to learn how to round house kick off the couch like a freakin calico. 

First Carl and his brother wanted us to go treasure hunting in their yard. So, I grabbed a garden shovel and dug with all my viscosity. 

I had a break in my Race for the Carl when I found a white grub worm and a penny. I thought I was well on my way to victory. 

Then Carl wanted us to jump on the trampoline. 

This would have been fun had I not been affixed on how Kelsey’s glorious hair bounced up and down as though it were taunting me.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Take it down a notch Kels.  

I think she was the original inspiration for The Man Show. 

Finally at the end of the week, Carl and his brother wanted to play Monopoly, which I enthusiastically decided to learn. Although, when I think back, it seems like not only was I able to understand the rules of the game, but also that I enjoyed it.  

Which has to be impossible, since even today I still don’t understand the rules and I know for an absolute fact it’s the most boring game on the planet only rivaled by ESPN Poker and the Quiet Game.  

Finally on the very last day of our visit, Carl and I ended up in the same room eating a snack, together…alone. 

And then it happened, Carl leaned over, gave me a peck, and then ran out of the room. 

Just then, my mother announced it was time to get on the road and go home, but I was happy. I had done it, against all genetic odds I had won Carl. The excitement of my first innocent little kid kiss was a high that sustained me approximately for the next 15 years. 

Until one fateful day, when I discovered a truth that shattered my untainted perception of Carl and all of our mother’s promises that “personality and can win over looks.” 

 

One day, when I was in college, I was home for the holidays. A friend of mine, Chassidy, and I were going through some of my Mom’s old photos. Well, when we got to the “Party like it’s 1989” section, of the collection, I came across the pictures of that week with the Carls. 

Here is what unfolded: 

Me: Aw look at these cute pictures of me and the first boy I ever kissed. 

Chassidy: Omg how cute! 

Me: I know, it was a magical week where we shar…..Oh good God! 

Suddenly I came across a picture…nay…it was more of a black hole of an instant in time which I was ignorant to its existence.  

There before my eyes, 16 years later, was what could only be described as The Ultimate Betrayal of the Heart. And, no, I am NOT being over-dramatic. Not at all. 

 

Packed away in an 4X7 Kodak print of memory was this: 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 The little perv had literally gone behind my back. The worst part was that somebody had a camera and thought this little love triangle of betrayal was cute enough to capture as one of God’s “precious little moments.” 

That’s such bullshit. 

Whatever.  

So, I asked my mom if Carl and Kelsey were married now, but she just mumbled something about being  “over dramatic,” and then she told me she thought she heard that Carl had gotten into some kind of trouble in recent years.  

Hmph. Moral of the story: mess with me, and see what happens to your future. Let that be a lesson to you all. 

 

 Discussion questions:  

I feel like I’m the only person who couldn’t grow her hair, did anyone else have these issues? 

Who here thinks my artistic rendition of myself as a child looks like Stewie from Family Guy? 

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Little Mis-Diagnosed

 My name is Alexa Opal Hamilton and I am the first child in history to be diagnosed with ADD.
Seriously, back in the 5th grade when I was put on Ritalin, kids had never heard of ADD.

 Nowadays, if you asked a kid if they knew what ADD was they would probably punch you in the face with their IPad.

                I think my trouble in school started by day 3 of kindergarten. By the 5th grade, my mother lost all hope that my grades were naturally going to improve on a diet of Lucky Charms and Nestle Quick, so she took me to our family doctor.

                Lo and behold, Dr. F made an insightful diagnosis after one minute of looking over my straight C+ report card.

Dr. F: You’re right. These grades are terrible! I’ve never seen grades as bad as these before.

                Is that so? Well, it’s probably because YOU’RE A DOCTOR! So yeah, I’m sure you haven’t ever seen a C before. What’s that you say? You say you have a daughter who is also a doctor? Well holy shit. Mystery solved. Now give me my damned orange sucker.

                Honestly, he probably didn’t know what they were. Like the letter C was some sort of oozing boil that was bleeding out all over my report card. The guy probably panicked and scrambled to prescribe me the latest medicine the one and only drug rep in West Texas was pushing that week.

So, when I got back to school, my mom had to go through this entire process of writing notes to my school nurse and teachers.

                Dear unsuspecting victims of generation X:

            Alexa has been diagnosed with ADD—a new disease that stands for Attention Deficit Disorder. Although this sounds like some foreign made up drug company conspiracy, it’s actually not. Anyway, her doctor has prescribed her a drug called Ritalin, which she’ll need to take every morning in first period.

            I know this ADD weirdness sounds scary, but the doctor assured me that this disorder was rare and you shouldn’t see any more cases in the future. Thanks, CJ

Nowadays, I hear we’re in the middle of an entire ADD epidemic. The germs have even begun to mutant-ize and produce a strand called ADHD. Which as you may know, the “H” stand for “hyperactivity.”
Which, brings me to my next point, why in the hell would we ever want to try and cure what is in effect, ENERGY? It makes no sense to me.

As adults, we’re always complaining how “we don’t have any energy” and that we “just wish we had more energy” and we would accomplish so much more in our lives.
Here we are downing cups of Starbu-mocha-frapa-latte-latte-chinos just trying to defibrillate our system, and then we turn around and try to stamp out the exact same quality in our kids.
But that’s a whole other post.

Anyway, people are trying to figure out the underlying cause of this massive ADD/ADHD menace to society. I hear them try and blame television and MTV. As the leading lady of this disorder, I’m here to tell you, it’s not because of MTV or from all the “modern world distractions.”

How do I know? Because I literally grew up in the middle of nowhere. When I say the middle of nowhere, some of you probably think of a lovely country side with a lake and trees.
No ma’am. I’m from West Texas.
The breeding ground of dirt, tumble weeds and John Deere green.

So, for some reason my parents felt that with everything going on in BFE there was no need for the distraction of cable. Therefore, my “ADD” couldn’t have been caused by TV because we only had 3 channels for the entire expansion of my youth and adulthood

I’m not exaggerating. 12, 9 and 32. Those were the channels.  12, 9, and 32. 12, 9, and 32. 12, 9, and 32.

Forever and ever and ever.

Apparently the people who lived in our house before us had cable because when we moved in, they had left their giant 1980’s satellite dish in our backyard. For some reason, I thought this was going to be the coolest toy ever so one evening I decided it could be a good idea to play in the disc, but that just got me a bunch of fiber glass stuck in my legs.  I ask: Why did no one stop me?

 

 

 Well, I’m from a really small town and went to an even smaller school. So, whenever a student was given a new prescription we were required to give it to the nurse and then she would come around to all the classrooms and deliver the medicine to us. Therefore, every morning the nurse would show up at my classroom door to give me my brain adrenaline. Since class was so boring, any time a new person would walk into the room, it always drew a lot of attention, which in this case, I didn’t particularly enjoy. 

All the kids began firing off questions as I tried to swallow my jagged little pill[i] while looking as inconspicuous as possible choking it down.

                Anyway, the problem though, wasn’t in my brain. In my opinion, it was a combination of factors which I will outline below:

1)      School sucked. Teachers were boring.

2)      Food.

I’ve learned as an adult that I am a hungry hungry lady. I have to have a big breakfast,2 hours later a mid-morning snack, 2 hours later lunch, 2 hours later another snack, 2 hours later dinner. I understand that formula only gets me to about 3 o’clock in the afternoon so I think there may be some discrepancy in my food schedule. Regardless, you get my point.

As an adult, I’ve learned this; plus I now know that I have an adverse reaction to sugar.
Unfortunately, not I nor anyone else for that matter, understood these connections and therefore, the combination of said factors with Ritalin added in the mix produced the following unfortunate results:

5:45am Morning Breakfast: cereal and milk would begin digesting now.

 

I lived way the f%&* out in the country and rode the bus. So basically I’ve had a “commute” ever since I was a 5 year old.

 

6:30am-7:45am Busride: violence ensues.

 

 

Cereal and milk status: almost depleted.

8:00am Reading. My favorite subject. Feeling good. Oh, but look, brain here comes the Ritalin.

9:00am English. Breakfast completely gone. Now hungry.



9:05am Still English : Want to eat. Having difficulty paying attention.

 

 9:17 Ritalin kicks in. Brain doesn’t know better, so treats it as cocaine. No longer feeling hunger.

 

10:00am: Math. F&*% math. I do my work because I feel like I’m supposed to. Or maybe it’s the pills. Not sure, but all I know is that I’ve now counted every single tile on the ceiling (526) and the leaves on the plant (62).Can feel education becoming of quality.

10:30am Feeling hunger again. There are 17 rubber bands scattered on teacher’s desk.

11:00am No idea the subject. And no idea where I am anymore. Another hour until lunch. Now soooo hungry. Blood sugar has plummeted down to soles of feet.

11:15 Gnawing on pencil so hungry.

11:17 Drooling on desk.

11:21 drew picture of sandwich on a piece of paper and ate it. Was surprisingly satisfying.

11:22 Teacher coming over to desk.

11:30: Am moved to the front of the classroom.

11:40: Spot what looks like a candybar in Teacher’s pocket. I go for it.

11:41: Find out the hard way it’s not a candy bar but an eraser. I take bite anyway to make sure.

11:42: Teacher gives up and moves me to the back of classroom where I’m no longer her problem.

11:42-11:59: Acid boring through stomach lining. Ritalin is singing Jimmie Hendrix to my brain.

Noon: LUNCHTIME!!!!  GLORY-AL-LE-LU-IA!!!!!!!!!!!!

Many a knee caps were smashed to be first one in line.


After a solid week of my wolverine like behavior, with the support of my teacher, I asked my mother if I could please get off the Ritalin.

Since she wasn’t a big fan of me taking it in the first place, she agreed and I never had to take it again.

I wish there was a happy ending or even a moral to this story, but to be completely honest, I still went through the remainder of my school years acting like an anorexic-rabid Shih Tzu until lunch time.

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