theorangeinkblot

Looking at life through orange colored glasses…

Archive for the category “Humor”

I Wish I Ate Hay (Sing to the Tune of “Stay” by Rihanna)

The tragic story of a rooster in love with a cow who is looking for greener pastures…

All along it was a heifer

A bovid mammal with no feathers

I perched on a rock, said, “Crow me something,”

She said, “All you cocks think you are so kosher.”

Day after day after day after day you moo.

Couldn’t care less about my cock a doodle doos.

I know you don’t feel the same about me

but something in the way you moo.

Makes me feel like I can’t roost w/o you.

You help me greet each day.

I wish I ate hay.

I think that you are quite amazing

Sometimes I just sit and watch you grazing.

Day after day after day after day you moo.

Couldn’t care less about my cock a doodle doos.

I know you don’t feel the same about me.

but something in the way you moo.

Makes me feel like I can’t roost w/o you

You help me greet each day.

I wish I ate hay.

Oooh, oooh, oooh you’re waiting for a bull.

Oooh, ooooh, oooh but I’m ready and able.

True a hen can lay an egg but you make milk that’s used for cheese and butter.

And I’ve come to realize that for this rooster that there can be no udder.

I know you don’t feel the same about me but something in the way you moo.

Makes me feel like I can’t roost w/o you

You help me greet each day

I wish I ate hay

I wish I ate hay.

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The World According to Rachel, Part 3: Wide Awake

The following is a reprint from a short-lived blog I started when my youngest daughter was about 18 months old.  It is written from what I imagined her point of view would be.  If you missed Part 1 and Part 2, you can check it out at: http://wp.me/p1ZHOE-8W or check my recent posts…

Usually, I am a pretty good sleeper. But one night last week I woke up while it was still dark out and I wasn’t even tired. I was feeling a little lonely, so I decided to call for mommy, because she is my favorite one to play with. I called, “mommy” really loud and drawn out and then I waited. I didn’t hear any footsteps, so I called again, “mommy” as loud as I could. Still nothing. Since I am a stubborn little bugger (this is what mommy calls me sometimes) I decided to keep trying. I stood up in my crib and started shaking the side as hard as I could- RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE. I thought this would work for sure because mommy had just read an article about a crib recall where the sliding crib wall could separate from the crib and smush the innocent little baby, but mommy STILL didn’t come. Talk about stubborn. Then I had a great idea, so I started yelling, “I’m stuck, I’m stuck!!” I don’t know if mommy believed me, but right after that I heard footsteps and I knew that she was on her way.

Unfortunately, when mommy came into the room, she did not look happy to see me. She said in a very soft but serious voice- “Rachel, it is 3:30 in the morning.”

Oh good, I thought. It is morning!!

Mommy kept talking, “It is not play time, it is sleep time. I will sit with you in your chair and help you fall back to sleep, but we are NOT going into the living room and we are NOT playing. Got it?”

Mommy sounded sort of grouchy, so I just said, “got it, mommy.” Then she picked me up out of my crib and put me on her lap in the rocking chair. She still looked grouchy and I wanted her to smile, so after we had rocked for a minute or two I looked up at mommy and said, “nice to meet you, mommy!” And it worked! Mommy smiled and said, “nice to meet you too Rachel, now go to sleep.”

Mommy started singing to me all my bed time songs, such as: Never Surrender, Faithfully, and Wind Beneath My Wings. Just as I started to doze off, that dumb dog who lives next door started barking. At least, I think his name is “that dumb dog.” That’s what my daddy usually calls him. But I think he must have a few different names because daddy also calls him “that little yappy dog,” “the furry rat,” and some other names that a two year old is not supposed to repeat. So, I opened my eyes and said, “woof-woof” and started to laugh.

This time, mommy didn’t laugh. Instead, she started saying something I didn’t understand about “God granting her the serenity to accept the things she cannot change”… so I just closed my eyes and tried to fall back to sleep. I guess I did because when I woke up, I was back in my crib and it was light out and when I called for mommy she came right away. It’s nice when mommy keeps me company at night, but she is much more smiley during the day. Maybe next time, I’ll call for daddy and see how that goes.Image

The World According to Rachel: Play Doh (reprint)

My summer schedule is kicking my butt and writing has taken a back seat to other things.  So, I’m cheating this time and reprinting something I wrote about 3 years ago when my youngest daughter was about to turn 2.  Anyone with a 2 year old knows what a challenging time it can be.  As I rode the terrible 2 roller coaster, I tried to imagine what my daughter might write if she could keep a diary/blog.  This is what I came up with… If you like it, then maybe I’ll cheat again next week ;).

The World According To Rachel
(also called: Why mommy will at some point go back to working outside the home.)

Play Doh

Today, mommy showed me a new toy called Play Doh. I loved it. Play Doh is squishy and can be shaped into anything. I asked mommy to make me Ming-Ming, Tuck, and Linny from my favorite TV show, ‘The Wonder Pets.’ Mommy made Ming-Ming look just like a duck, and Tuck looked pretty much like a turtle, but Linny did not look like a guinea pig at all so I asked her to do it again. Linny still did not look like a guinea pig but I didn’t want to hurt mommy’s feelings so I just pretended that it looked good. Mommy showed me how to make a snake, and also a pancake. We were having so much fun and laughing a lot. She didn’t even freak out when I tasted it (play doh does not taste very good in case you were wondering).

Then, I discovered that you can take two lumps of play doh and squish them together. To make it more fun, I said “squish, squish, squish” while I pushed the blue play doh into the pink play doh. Mommy said, “lets not mix all the colors” ( sometimes mommy can be really anal about that stuff- I think I heard her say it’s because she’s a Myers-Brigg  ‘J’). I mixed the colors anyway because it was so much fun. Then, mommy walked away from the table for a minute (she should really know better). When she came back, I had ripped up all the play doh into little pieces and thrown them on the floor- and then, because it made such a good noise, I threw all the play doh toys on the floor too. CRASH!!

Mommy gave a big sigh and got down on the floor. She was muttering something real low, but I couldn’t quite hear what it was. It had something to do with not giving up her career so she could stay home and pick cat hair and cheerio crumbs out of little lumps of play doh. I wish she had told me we could add things to the play doh!! Then mommy said it was time to clean up and she started putting the play doh away. That made me very sad and I started to cry. Mommy said “sorry kiddo, but you made a huge mess and it’s time to clean up.” That made me angry so I threw myself down on the floor and screamed a little. When I looked up, mommy wasn’t even in the room anymore.

I found her in my room getting things ready for my nap. You know what? I was a little tired. How does she know these things? Mommy and I have so much fun together. Next time, I will tell you about how I played hide and seek with my shoes and we were almost late to pick Sarah up from art class.

My Friday Night (Sing to the tune of ‘Last Friday Night’ by Katy Perry)

My Friday Night

There are legos in my bed.

Children’s music in my head.

Toys are all over the room,

Dolls that talk, Cars that go vroom.

I just found a fruit snacks pouch

buried deep within the couch.

I stepped on the Barbie shoes

that my children always lose.

Reading status updates to help keep me amused-

a must.

Have to do something or I’m gonna blow a fuse.

That’s right.

My Friday night-

watched a movie from Red Box,

drank some Bailey’s on the rocks,

sorted thirty pairs of socks.

My Friday night-

never got out of my sweats,

we just sat and cooled our jets,

in front of the TV set.

My Friday night-

separated darks from lights,

the excitement reached new heights,

but I guess that’s just our plight.

My Friday night-

There was a time when I could rock

until after ten o’clock

Oh-Oh-Oh-Ohhhh.

Next Friday night-

Do it all again.

There is crayon on the walls,

it goes halfway down the hall.

There are stickers on the floor,

on the ceiling and the door.

One’s got syrup in her hair,

the other’s in her underwear,

they both do more than their share,

of complaining, “it’s not fair.”

Only fifteen years till they’re both away at school.

Oh well.

Have to do something so I do not lose my cool.

That’s right.

My Friday night-

watched a movie from Red Box,

drank some Bailey’s on the rocks,

sorted thirty pairs of socks.

My Friday night-

never got out of my sweats,

we just sat and cooled our jets,

in front of the TV set.

My Friday night-

separated darks from lights,

the excitement reached new heights,

but I guess that’s just our plight.

My Friday night-

There was a time when I could rock

until after ten o’clock

Oh-Oh-Oh-Ohhhh.

Next Friday night- do it all again.

Junk Drawer Wars

Junk Drawer Wars

 Everybody has one- a drawer (probably in the kitchen) that houses a combination of useful stuff (scissors, pens, tape, etc.) alongside the random crap (old wine corks, business cards that you MIGHT need someday, concert ticket stubs, etc.), that you just can’t bring yourself to throw away.

Some people have very organized junk drawers.  Complete with sectioned off areas for each item (paper clips here, pencils there), their drawers really do not deserve to have ‘junk’ in their title. Our junk drawer, however, was threatening to take over our house.  The paperclips were joining with the safety pins in solidarity.  The scissors were refusing to cut on the grounds of poor living conditions.  The drawer was overflowing with ,well, what exactly WAS in there?  I decided to find out.

Our junk drawer- the 'before' picture.

I took the drawer over to my dining room table and started making piles by categories such as:

  • Things that have “bands” in the name (rubber bands (including 4 that used to hold bunches of asparagus together), silly bands, and hair bands).

hair bands & silly bands & rubber bands- Oh My!

  • Products that fasten one item to another item (i.e. paper clips, safety pins, staples, binder clips, tape, Velcro).

'Fasten-ating'

  • Items that my children use to draw where they are not supposed to (100+ pens & pencils, markers, and crayons).
  • Everything else.

Here’s what falls under everything else:

A sandwich baggie containing a driedel and 8 skittles;

7 paint brushes;

2 bobby pins;

3 hair clips;

2 wood spacers, 4 wooden dowels;

A handful of assorted screws, bolts, brackets, nails, etc.;

3 business cards (one of which I have actually been looking for);

2 chuck E. Cheese tokens;

2 tokens for use at an unknown location;

58 cents in pennies, nickels, and dimes;

1 seatbelt clip for a car seat we no longer own;

2 pencil cushions;

1 eyeglass repair kit, plus 1 arm to a broken pair of glasses (actual glasses MIA);

1 ear plug;

1 toddler cabinet lock (in spite of no longer having any toddlers);

1 nail file;

2 jar openers;

A ‘void’ stamp;

You can't make this stuff up.

An office name tag for the job I left in 2006;

1 calculator;

1 key chain, 1 key to an unknown lock, 1 small lock with keys attached;

1 small plastic pig;

1 Piglet stamp;

4 marbles;

A handful of twist ties;

2 dirty birthday candles;

A piece of a wind chime;

A Wrigley Field opening day Harry Caray memorial pin from 1998;

R.I.P. Harry Caray

5 pairs of scissors;

6 plug protectors (to keep my kids from electrocuting themselves- totally helpful while in the drawer);

1 laser pointer;

4 tubes of lip balm (assorted flavors);

2 pads of post it notes;

1 pedometer (broken);

3 “sun-catcher” crafts completed by my kids but which have clearly not been catching ANY sun;

20 random pieces of plastic (yeah, I have no idea);

Your guess is as good as mine.

1 wedding favor picture frame;

1 memory card from 3 cameras ago that no longer fits in any device we own;

2 white out pens;

1 packet of sleeping pills (note the expiration date)

2 flash drives;

8 (yes, 8) pencil sharpeners;

1 lonely cough drop;

1 golf tee;

1 tape measure;

1 stain remover stick;

A handful of random stickers;

1 tube of glue;

3 Webkinz tags (Perhaps I took their instructions to “Do Not Throw Out This Tag” too seriously?).  My kids haven’t logged onto a Webkinz account in 2 years

2 empty ink cartridges that I was really intending to recycle;

A Weight Watchers point finder from 2000 (the program hasn’t changed since then, right?);

1 tube of ‘After Bite’ itch eraser and;

3 metro ‘Smart Trip’ cards- balances unknown…

Pretty scary, right?  But don’t go calling ‘Hoarders’ quite yet.  You’ll be pleased to hear I threw half of that stuff away.

Our junk drawer- 'After.' Note my handy dandy use of snack size resealable baggies in lieu of a fancy organizer.

And, I relocated other items to different overflowing drawers (that reminds me, I need to go through my arts and craft supplies).  I am now the proud owner of one organized drawer.

So, what’s in your junk drawer?  It couldn’t possibly be worse than mine- or could it?  Inquiring minds want to know!!

It’s the end of the world as we know it….

Based on the movie previews I have seen recently, Hollywood would have us believe that we should be preparing for an apocalypse of robots and aliens. Personally, I am worried about a threat that is much more real. My house is being invaded by Littlest Pet Shops.

They are arriving in droves, by luxury airliner, car, motorcycle, and pawpaw cruiser.

It started out as a small group, but they are multiplying like, well, rabbits.

They claim to come in peace, but I got this aerial shot of them training what appears to be an army.

They are building settlements,

and spend their leisure time watching TV (they appear to be Rutgers fans),

and swimming. I think they have recruited my cat.

Maybe there is something in the water.

Don’t be fooled by their cuteness- I think they are watching us sleep.

Or maybe I’m letting my imagination run away with me…

I’m not laughing at you- I’m laughing with you.

You may think I’m crazy for thinking this, but sometimes I feel bad for celebrities. Oh sure, I envy them the whole making enough money to afford a personal trainer, multiple nannies, live in chef, and never having to scrub another toilet again part. But I would not trade them all of their dollars, trainers, nannies, and sous chefs for my anonymity.

Every time I am standing online at the supermarket and happen to notice a headline from one of those celebrity magazines all I can think is, boy am I glad I do not have paparazzi. That’s not to say that in this day and age I wouldn’t make the news if I locked myself in an airplane bathroom b/c I didn’t want to turn off my cell phone, but at least I can feel secure in knowing that if I run out for a cup of coffee in pajamas and bed head my picture will not show up on the cover of some tabloid magazine.

You can argue that by choosing a public career, you are susceptible to public scrutiny. But imagine what it would be like if someone was following you around with a camera capturing only your bad moments and printing them for the world to see. We would all look like self-involved people and terrible parents, with mood disorders, and no fashion sense. It’s bad enough that my children point out my short comings on a daily basis.

Mom, what’s that thing on your face?

Mom, how come your hair only looks pretty when you just get out of the shower?

Mom, how come your nostrils are shaped like potatoes?

Here are some reasons I am happy I don’t have paparazzi:

1- Gravity is not my friend. I have fallen off of walls, slipped on ice, and tripped over my shoe laces. I have slipped down a flight of stairs (twice) and have even fallen out of the shower (there’s not even a good story to go with that one). I declined the opportunity to be hoisted up in a chair during my Jewish wedding- I have learned to not tempt fate. There was a photographer at my wedding, after all.

2- Parenting is hard. The first time I cut my daughter’s finger nails, I accidently snipped off a small piece of skin from her pinky finger. I called the pediatrician. She laughed at me. Two hours later, my daughter’s finger was still bleeding. The pediatrician met us on a Sunday at the doctor’s office to stop the bleeding. She was no longer laughing.

3- I have locked myself out of my house. Twice. In one day. I have locked my keys in my car with the engine running. I have locked my car keys in my office while working late and had to call someone for a ride home. I have left my keys in the front door more times than I can count. I have accidentally taken both sets of keys with me leaving my husband stuck at home with no keys at all.

4- I lose things- besides keys. I have lost my wedding ring more than once. I have lost family heirlooms and the beautiful scarf my husband gave me one year as a gift. I have lost money, lost my patience, lost my temper, and lost my voice. I have been lucky to find them all again at some point (except the scarf- sorry honey).

5- I have unintentionally had my underwear showing. One year at our neighborhood picnic after spending three hours mingling with neighbors, my daughter told me I had a hole in the back of my jeans and she could see my pink underwear. (Note to self: wear denim colored underwear the next time I wear the jeans with the hole.)

I could keep going. But the point is that we all have flaws. We are quirky, klutzy, forgetful, underwear showing individuals. It is what makes us human. Sometimes, we have to forgive the things that make us human, and sometimes, we have to laugh at them. But just because we laugh, does not mean that we judge. Celebrities- in the highly unlikely event that you are reading this blog please know: Sometimes, the headlines on the tabloids make me chuckle because they are ridiculous. But I do not think any less of you because you forgot to buckle your child into their car seat (done it), lost twenty pounds and then gained it back (done it), or unknowingly flashed your underwear (though I do recommend wearing underwear when you know that photographers are likely to be following you). We have all had those moments- most of us just get to have them in private.

Here’s the other thing. If my neighbors saw my pink underwear that day at the picnic, they didn’t let on- and they still seem to like me. The people, who know us and like us, do so despite our flaws. Sometimes, when we show people our flaws, it even makes people feel better about their own imperfections. How many times have you seen somebody do something embarrassing and thought ‘I am so glad I am not the only person that has happened to.’ And for anyone out there who just read about some of my less honorable moments and choose to judge me based solely on that? Well, that’s your loss- I’ve got a lot of great attributes too.

The moral of the story- judge less, laugh more (that would be laughing with people, not at them). I am very lucky to have been raised by two very smart, (and very human individuals). They taught me not to judge a book by its cover, and not care too much what other people think. They also taught me that it is okay to forgive ourselves for our mistakes and that it’s healthy to laugh at ourselves.

So, I’m glad I don’t have paparazzi. But I’m okay with being human. It’s probably a good thing- I don’t know any other way to be.

My super hero alter ego is an On-Star agent

My husband is an all around great guy. He is a great partner and father; he is hard working, smart, funny, and successful. His accomplishments include completing a marathon, earning a black belt in karate, and putting up with my crazy family for the past thirteen years. Yet, despite all these attributes, he is desperately lacking in one area (no, not that area!!).

You’ve heard the expression “he couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag?” That expression could have been written for my hubby. After living twelve years in the DC metro area, he still doesn’t know the difference between the inner and outer loops of the DC beltway. He still asks, every single time, if he needs to go East or West on Route 66 when we visit my parents. This affliction appears to be genetic. The running joke around here is that the reason the Jews wandered in the desert for forty years is because one of my husband’s ancestors had the map.

My husband gets lost every time he travels for business. Detroit, Orlando, San Francisco, whichever the city, when my husband exits the airport, he may as well have arrived on another planet. Regardless of how near he is to his destination, or how good his directions, he can never get “there” from “here.”

Lucky for my husband, my super hero alter ego is an On-Star agent. Like Clark Kent’s Superman, my alter ego is ready at all times to answer the call of disorientation. Along with my trusty side kick, Google Maps, I can pinpoint my husband’s exact location and guide him safely, and efficiently to his destination. And like the real On Star service, I provide turn by turn directions, and can even find him a florist to send me flowers as payment.

You are probably thinking, “just get the man a GPS already.” Several years ago, I did just that- stupidly thinking that this would solve the problem. It hasn’t. Since my husband always thinks he knows where he is going, he rarely has it plugged in or programmed to his destination. Lately, our GPS seems to have developed dementia, sending my poor husband circling in a loop of ‘legal u-turns’ as if he were suddenly taken over by the spirit of Clark Griswold (look kids, Big Ben!).

Like most superheros, I wish for a day where my super power is no longer needed. But until disorientation no longer exists in my husband’s head, it’s nice to be needed.

By the way, my husband has a super hero alter ego of his own. I call him, ‘he who can jimmy rig anything’ along with his side kick duct tape. But that is a story for another blog entry…

The Funniest One in the Family…

One of my favorite childhood memories is of eating dinner together as a family.  I could say that this is because it was when we used to share things about our day, or because it was the only time each weekday that the four of us spent quality time together, but I would be lying.  I loved dinner together as a family, because during dinner, we would have votes as to who was the funniest person in the family, and I was almost always victorious.  It drove my little brother crazy.  I would make a funny editorial comment on somebody else’s story, my mother would announce a vote, and I would garner 3 out of 4 votes almost every time.

These days, I’ve been relegated to second funniest, behind my husband.   I feel certain, however, that when my daughters outgrow ‘pull my finger’ and other jokes that involve bodily functions as a punch line, I will once again claim my place at top of the funny heap.  (My husband, who is reading over my shoulder as I type this, vows to never give up the title.)

This is not to say that my brother is not funny.  My brother has always been funny.  Sometimes it was in a ‘ha-ha’ kind of way, and other times in a more ‘Ripley’s Believe It or Not’ fascinating kind of way.  My brother collected baseball cards, but also toilet paper tubes.  His bedroom was like a strange science lab, with jars of gangly potato sprouts and dishes of slowly spreading moss.  Like a lot of ninth grade boys, my brother started a band with a few of his friends.  They called themselves ‘Marsupial Cannibals’ and they specialized in exclusively playing a cover of ‘Proud Mary’ and making lists of alternative band names.  My curly-haired brother even ran for class president using the slogan, “Go with the Fro!”  So, he is funny.  He’s just not the funniest one in the family.

These days, he has a lot of competition from my very funny kids.  On a recent trip to Costco, my older daughter took off on a floor model tricycle yelling, “you’ll never catch me alive” as she pedaled away.

My four-year old has already started writing her own material:

Knock Knock

Who’s There?

Popcorn

Popcorn Who?

Poop.

You might not find it funny, but that joke killed in her preschool class.

My brother is amazing in many ways.  First of all, he totally brings out my twisted sense of humor.  In the early 1990’s when I had dreams of some day being a comedy writer for ‘SNL’, he was an intricate partner in writing my first fake infomercial.  Together, we created our own song compilation album called, ‘Waco Rocks.’  Included on our album were only the ‘hottest’ songs such as ‘Burning Down the House’, ‘The Roof is on Fire’, and ‘Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot.’  (Insensitive? Perhaps.  But clever.)

My brother is a master with words.  As a kid he used to make up funny songs about our family.  Now, he is an inspiring poet and song writer who has recently gotten involved with the local spoken word scene.  I would link you to his website, but the last time I tried to draw attention to his massive talent he accused me of  pimping him out so I’ve learned my lesson.

My brother also wins the award for least judgmental sibling on the planet.  After seeing the movie ‘Cocoon’ as a kid (I’m embarrassed to say how old of a kid I actually was), I was having trouble sleeping so I went into my brother’s room to see if I could sleep in his vacant bunk bed.  But after a few minutes of worriedly staring at his ceiling I woke him up for a second time and asked him, “are you sure you’re not a pod person?”  He assured me he wasn’t, but I returned to my own room just in case.

Finally, I have to give credit where credit is due.  As the younger sibling, he had to endure my parents on his own for three years after I went off to college, which must have taken a sense of humor far beyond mine.   Even if he’s not “the funniest”, he is definitely the favorite.  When my brother shows up at my door, I am invisible to my children, something for which I am simultaneously envious and thankful.

Plant Parenthood or When Two Plants Love Each Other Very Much…

In the fourth grade, my teacher asked our class to write down what our parents did for a living. Easy, I thought- my dad taught PE and my mom worked for ‘Plant’ Parenthood. My teacher got quite a chuckle out of this, after all, my mother worked for Planned Parenthood, not some lab that cross-bred orchids or a nursery that adopted ferns out to doddering old ladies.

Looking back, her working at Planned Parenthood (as a community educator and women’s health advocate among other roles), made a lot more sense. My mother first tried to explain the facts of life to me when she was pregnant with my brother. I was not yet three years old and most of what she was trying to tell me went way over my head. By the time she was done explaining, I was convinced she had an eggplant growing inside of her. She must have tried again a few years later. In first grade, I was pulling my classmates under my teachers desk to try to explain the birds and the bees to them (complete with the correct names of all anatomical parts).

Having a mom who worked at Planned Parenthood definitely had its moments. In sixth grade, I made a new friend- I’ll call her Annie. Annie and I had been friends for a few months when we excitedly scheduled our first sleepover at my house. It was your run of the mill sleepover – magazine quizzes, makeovers, and junk food- until my mom knocked on the door and asked if we wanted to watch a movie. This might seem like an innocent enough question, but knowing my mother I immediately went into panic mode. It was too late- Annie wanted to watch a movie. We went into the living room where we spent thirty (long) minutes being guinea pigs watching a film strip called, “Am I Normal” while mom inquired, “so do you think this is appropriate for kids your age?”

Annie sat quietly- probably in a state of shock, until the end of the film, after which we resumed our sleepover activities and never spoke of the “movie” again. (The first rule of puberty films is that you never talk about puberty films.) I recently asked Annie what she remembered about this incident and she has conveniently blocked it from her memory.

In high school, I was so (over) educated about the dangers of unprotected sex that I avoided dating all together. While other kids were getting hot and heavy in the back seats of their parents cars, I was snug in my bed with visions of herpes dancing in my head. My friends would even sometimes take me as a chaperone on their dates as if my wealth of knowledge alone could protect them from unintended consequences.

There were some also some upsides to my mom’s job. While other kids were working at fast food restaurants, or babysitting, I was trained as a Peer Educator. I got paid to teach classes on teen health, birth control, decision making, and peer pressure at my own and other local high schools. I went on lobbying trips to my state capitol and got to meet my state and U.S. Senators. I was living proof that giving kids accurate information about sex and birth control does not make them more likely to be promiscuous.

What I have written so far only scratches the surface of a childhood filled with both awkward and enlightening conversations, questions that made me want to be swallowed up by the earth, and far too many TMI moments. (I really didn’t need to know about the condoms my mom put in my cousins graduation cards.) Yet, it could have been worse. I can only imagine what the conversations would have included if my mom had truly been able to fulfill her occupational goals. What she really wanted to be was a sex therapist. Thank goodness for small favors.

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