Um, Not a Story..

Hey guys! Thanks so much for all the positive feedback from this blog. I'm sorry my posts have been few and far between. I'll do better from here on out. If you have a memory, even if it's just a small one, please send it to me. Every now and then, I have trouble remembering, so a little memory jog would be great! Email me at courtneyaboyles@gmail.com.

Breaking the Rules... and Nick

I grew up fortunate enough to have cousins my age to double as my best friends. Lucky for us, our parents seemed to have all gotten together and decided to have kids at the same time. Five of us were born in three years time. Being a close family, every Sunday we went to church together, and we had lunch afterwards at our Grandma's house. Grandma lived in a big house all alone and was often a target for theives. One Sunday after church, we all arrived at Grandma's looking forward to cookies and transforming her garage into a skating rink. When we got there, Kool-Aid packages littered the yard, the door was broken down, and the microwave and stereo had been stolen (clearly the meth heads couldn't carry the console tv). After this happened a few times, Grandma decided to buy a smaller house "in the city". While we were sad to see our skating rink go and we could no longer refer to a room by the color of the shag carpeting, we were excited that Grandma was now going to live close to a conveinance store. One Sunday afternoon, my cousins Stacy and Marcus, my brother, Nathan, and I went outside to play in the back yard. Staying inside was never an option. Even if our parents didn't make us get out of their hair and go outside, we'd still have preffered being outdoors than in. We didn't have a lot of toys to play with at Grandma's. So, when she bought a small exercise trampoline, we knew we had gold. As with most toys, we grew tired of just jumping on the trampoline one at a time. Like I've mentioned before, my cousin Stacy was quite the gymnast. She was athletic and spunky while I was considered the nerdy, honor roll one. When the idea came about to create an obstacle course using the trampoline and swing set, I sensed trouble. I took a minute to consider the worst that could happen. Nothing came to me. I looked at the boys already setting up a course, and I looked at Stacy doing her stretches. I knew that if I was ever going to kick my good girl stigma, I had to ditch the sweater vests and have some fun. (I know what you're thinking, but sweater vests were so "in" back then). We took turns jumping on the trampoline and swinging up to the swing set bar and turning flips. It was a lot of fun. About that time, Nick Yoder, a boy who lived down the street, walked by. We weren't friends with Nick. He was one of those kids that at the age of 9, knew that Jack Daniels wasn't a guy his parents worked with. To Nick, "the S word" didn't refer to the word "suck" like it did to us. He saw the fun we were having catapulting ourselves over the swing set and decided to join us. Naturally, Stacy was getting the best results from our game, but Nick knew he could beat her. He jumped on the trampoline, flew over the swing set, but unlike Stacy, missed his landing. Nick was lying on the ground crying. I knew something bad had happened. I had to ride the same school bus as Nick, and he was a tough guy who never cried. Once, I saw him curse at the bus driver and welcomed the suspension that followed. As we all huddled around the sobbing lump that was Nick, I became quesy. I had never seen an arm bone break completely in half before. I had fainted when I was six and had my tooth pulled, so I really couldn't handle the sight that was clearly from a scene of ER in Grandma's back yard. Being the good one, everyone turned to me. What were we going to do? My dad had shot a cow with a broken leg to put him out of his misery. Maybe we should too? I'm sure the bus driver would appreciate it. No. Of course not. And if we told our parents, we'd be in trouble too. There was no way out of it. I went inside and told our parents what had happened. Strangely, my aunt ordered Nick to walk home to his mother. I was surprised that this poor guy was going to have to walk all the way home carrying his detached limbs. I thought about it for a minute, but decided that unless I was going to carry him on my back, there's nothing I could do. The rest of the afternoon, my cousins and I sat in Grandma's front yard in shame. We weren't allowed to play as punishment, but our parents didn't want us in the house annoying them either. After a couple hours of "the incident" taking place, we heard a loud string of profanities. We looked up to see Nick's mother driving him back and forth in front of Grandma's house. He had his arm in a cast, hanging out of his mother's van, flipping us off and introducing us to words we had never heard before. The next Sunday, I put on my sweater vest and laced up my goody two shoes with pride.

Fifth Grade Freak 2

Fifth grade was an awkward time for everybody. That was the year all the boys had to have a chat with Coach Denney while all the girls had to have their own chat with Mrs Gregory, the counselor. After that, all the fifth graders began looking at each other a little differently. So, obviously, I didn't need to do anything on my own to make myself feel more awkward or out of place. At this time, I didn't have any special skills or talents that stood out to anyone. If my parents had any ideas of a lifestyle like that of Dina Lohan, then by my 5th grade year, it was obvious they should give up hope on me and focus on my little brother. So, when I found a skill I was great at, I did all I could to be the best in my field: the field of gerbil catching. Our class had 2 gerbils as class pets, a tan one named Brownie and a black one named Blackie. (Reference previous posts regarding the lack of creativity of my class in both nicknames and pet names). Every now and then (read: all the time) Brownie and Blackie would somehow manage to McGuyver themselves out of their posh gerbil palaces and roam the classroom, free to eat whatever and poop wherever. Because my friend, Angela, and I rode the same bus to school, we always arrived together to wait for the bell. Lining up to wait for the bell to ring was alot like a first recess. While we couldn't play on the playground, we did get to socialize which is what recess was all about anyways. We'd stand outside waiting from 7:30 until 8 talking about how cute Jonathan Taylor Thomas was the night before on "Home Improvement" or how I had gotten my mom to sew a huge sunflower on my flip up denim hat to match Blossom's. One morning, it was freezing outside and there wasn't much to talk about, so Angela and I were glad when Mrs Norris came outside to ask us to catch the runaway gerbils. Mrs Norris left Angela and I to our hunt while she sipped her morning coffee in the teacher's lounge. I decided the best thing to do before beginning was to secure the parameter. I shoved my scarf under the bottom of the door to insure no escape for these rats who didn't appreciate the palacial home full of tunnels a class of fifth graders had provided for them. Brownie was an easy catch. That gerbil was fat and not as stealthy as Blackie. I suspected Blackie to be the one who figured out all those McGuyver moves to free the two. It was obvious that Blackie had stolen a sharpened pencil from beside their home and hid it under their cedar chip carpet. Then, using the sharp pencil, one of Brownie's whiskers, and those crafty little paws, Blackie manuevered an escape. Angela and I were sure to wear our gloves while searching for Blackie because he was a biter, and it gave us a tough edge like Dog the Bounty Hunter. Angela spotted Blackie scurrying across the floor in front of a bookcase. After trying to catch him by blocking him off, we decided to lure out Blackie with food. I was sure it wouldn't work. This wasn't your everyday gerbil we were dealing with. This one was smart. I was considering striking a deal with Blackie to see if he'd take my math test for me in exchange for a little freedom each week. I guess I overestimated the brillance of a hungry gerbil, because he fell for the bait. Once Blackie realized he had been dooped, he high tailed it across the room. I saw him heading my way and dropped to the floor to catch him. My awkwardly long legs and plump torso came crashing down on the cold floor far more quickly than I had anticipated. I look at Angela in confusion because it seemed that Blackie had developed the skill to also fly as he was no longer anywhere to be found. Angela looked stunned. As I stood to try to track down this genius gerbil, I realized I wouldn't have to look far. Blackie had been crushed by my shin. His small, lifeless body laid on the cold, hard floor. I checked my Levi's for any evidence before I urged Angela to leave the gerbil there and come with me to seek help from Mrs Norris. As we walked to halls, I began to get nervous and my palms started to sweat. Was I going to get a demerit for murder? Could I take my $2 lunch money and run to a pet store for a quick replacement? How could I hide the body? How could I get Angela to keep her mouth shut about the whole thing? Mrs Norris came back to class to help us put Blackie in paper towels and in a small box while the rest of the students began to file in. Once roll had been called and lunch orders taken, Mrs Norris made the fateful announcement. The class seemed sad about the loss, but didn't seem to be out for justice. I decided I was overreacting and went about my day as normal. We were to have a funeral for Blackie during third recess. By the time recess after lunch came around, rumors were already circling. Everyone in fifth grade knew Blackie's death wasn't a natural one, and everyone knew I was to blame. During our third recess, the time of the funeral came about. Blackie was set to be buried beside the air conditioning unit just outside our classroom window. As everyone began gathering around the ac unit, I heard others whispering and pointing at me. Not long after, I was asked to leave the memorial service because it wasn't right for me to attend since I had killed Blackie. "Whatever, weirdos," I thought as I walked over to the playground. I don't need those guys. I have friends in other classes and these people were not ones I wanted to go into middle school being associated with anyways. I mean, remember John talks to a beanie baby. How did he and Rattail Cliff think they could throw such big rocks from their psycho and unstylish glass houses?!

Heel. Toe. Exposed.

Mom and Dad always let Nathan and I participate in whatever extracirricular activities we'd like. I started taking piano lessons at a fairly young age, and my parents even bought me a piano to have at home to practice and play. Every summer was spent at the ballpark going back and forth between softball and baseball games of mine, my brother, and my cousins. One Saturday, Nathan and I were playing in my bedroom. I often liked to dress him up in my Sunday church dresses and splash my (pretend) make up on his face until he had transformed into my little sister. I had a hunch he wasn't really into it, but he had no choice. Luckily, he was a pretty good sport. His misery was interrupted by my mom calling me into the livng room. She was watching a gymnastics competition on TV. She told me to watch them and explained that my cousin Stacy (my ultimate bff) was taking gymnastics and had for a long time. (Seriously, I'm pretty sure that girl started doing flips and handstands in the placenta. She could also climb a sycamore tree faster than any squirrel). The gym where Stacy took gymnastics was taking students for a beginner class. While Stacy wouldn't be in my class, she'd still be there for her workouts while my class met. I thought "Sure, sounds like fun. I have no idea why being so bendy would be beneficial to my life, but hey, this could come in handy if ever I'm in a situation where I needed to escape ninja style. And sure, those girls that can flip always had boyfriends for some reason." So, I told Mom to sign me up! I was pretty excited when the day came that I would start my first gymnastics class. Stacy had been telling me all week how awesome it was going to be. There was even a trampoline at our gym, and I had been dying to get one at home. Maybe I could talk my parents into getting me one since I'd clearly need to practice my ninja flips as much as possible. While getting ready for class, I realized that I didn't have any gymnast clothes. I couldn't show up in shorts and a tshirt when the rest of my beginner classmates would be in leotards. They'd think I wasn't serious about the sport. I'd be a mockery. Mom informed me that there was no way I was getting a leotard before the first class. Who knew if I'd even like it. Borrowing one from Stacy was out of the question (not only for sanitary reasons) because I already stood a head taller than her. Mom told me I could wear the unitard I usually wore with my Levi's for the first class. Granted, it was creamy white and waffle print and had cap sleeves, and it fastened with four snaps at the crotch. As I put it on without my Levi's, I took a long look in the mirror and decided this would have to do. I could jazz up the plain look with a neon scrunchie or two. Always accessorize! So, Mom dropped me off at class. After a brief intro from Ms. Donna, my instructor (who, by the way, was the same height as me), we began our stretches. My class consisted of a mix of boys and girls, and most the other kids went to different schools than me, so I was excited to meet them all. All during our stretches and learning the terms of the equipment, I'd glance over at the uneven bars and see Stacy swinging from one to the other with grace and ease. I thought this had to be pretty easy. The very first thing we learned to do was the balance beam. Ms. Donna had us practice the balance beam by walking on one that was flat on the floor first. Once we had mastered the floor beam, she moved us up to the big beam. I was getting a little bored. All we were doing was essentially learning to take a sobriety "walk-a-straight-line" test. When was I going to learn to flip backwards off the end of this thing like Stacy does? Ms Donna helped me up on the big beam and told me to walk from one end to the other with my arms outstretched. "Yawwwnn...," I thought as I heel toe'ed the mundane assignment. Halfway through the beam, with my entire class sitting below, looking up at me, I heard a small "clink, clink". "Hm. Keep going. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe.", I said in my head. Clink. Clink. Then, the class started giggling and snickering. Ms. Donna pulled me from the beam and ushered me to the restroom. That's when I noticed the snaps of my unitard had come undone, exposing me and all my glory to the gym. See, it's one of the situations I needed to learn to flip. I needed to ninja flip my escape pronto. Luckily, Ms Donna grabbed my purple Umbro shorts for me and suggested I invest in a gymnastics leotard. (Ya' think?!) Class didn't last much longer after that, and Stacy came to check on me and help me pick out a couple leotards. We knew after that display of embarassment, my mom was sure to give in and buy a couple. I had just given my class their first full frontal view. I didn't last much longer in gymnastics. All the amazing things Stacy could do never came too easily to me. I couldn't even do a cartwheel to move into the next level of classes. Sitting at the piano was more my kind of sport. At least with the piano, there was far less of a chance I'd debut as a girl gone wild.

Misery Loves Shadow Puppets

Growing up in my house when anyone would be sick or get hurt, we all cried out for Mom. This included my dad. Looking back, I realize that my mom has the patience of a saint and the loving touch of an angel. My dad has always been a great care taker as well, as long as you weren't crying in pain or vomitting. If the latter was true, well, move over and make room for one more by the toilet. Dad hated to see me sick or not feeling well, but hated more that he couldn't do anything to fix it immediately and make it go away. Trips to the doctor usually involved Mom and the sick child while Dad worked. So, you can imagine the adventures to be had when Dad had to take me to the doctor. I had come down with the worst sore throat my little 8 year old body had ever experienced. Usually, even if sick, I'd spend the day off school laying on the itchy, brown couch watching cartoons with my dad (pausing at noon of course to catch the news and "Dialing for Dollars") and eating chicken noodle soup. This time, I didn't even want to leave my bed.  As my fever spiked, and I was sure I wouldn't live to get my hands on the New Kids on the Block digital watch I'd been eyeing, Dad decided it was time for me to see the doctor. My dad helped me get dressed in my Levi's slims (my jeans were so difficult to find.. the ones that fit my tiny waist were far too short--I'd kill for that problem today) and LA Gear Lights shoes. (Sidenote: Why are light up shoes not good enough for today's kids? I hate those shoes that squeek when the kids take a step. Do parents not realize they drive everyone around them crazy? One mother actually explained to me that it was a safety feature. Really?! Why don't you try just keeping up with your kid so you won't have to follow the sounds of the annoyingly loud squeeky shoes to find him? Plus, my argument to her is that the child is in more danger with those squeek shoes because it creates an urge in me to strangle her kid.) After my long, thick and curly hair had been pulled back in probably the best (read: worst) looking ponytail my dad could create, we were off to the doctor's office. My dad's celebrity in my hometown is nothing short of remarkable. As a kid I often wondered how he had the time and means to meet every single person who lived in White County. Did he just say he worked at Vickers as a cover story, when he was actually some famous man who peaked before my birth? I hadn't figured it out. But, like every outing with my dad, he knew every single person in the waiting room. As I sat in agony, Dad mingled with all the other waiting patients. I began wondering if we were actually at my doctor's office or if Dad had drug my weak, obviously expiring self to some kind of mixer. Some mixer, there weren't any refreshments. After waiting for what felt like long enough that I now needed my first training bra, I was finally put in an exam room. Dad noticed how horrible that I felt after waiting all day and reading every Highlights magazine in the office. With limited resources, Dad did what he did best.. goof off to make me laugh. He flipped the light switch in the exam room. I heard a little clanking around and became nervous. What was he up to?! Then, a small light from the machine that illuminated xrays filled the room. There was my dad, using tongue depresser props creating a shadow puppet show. Only my dad would come up with this routine. For just a little while, I forgot why we were even seeing a doctor.

Fifth Grade Freak

Being in fifth grade at my elementary school was a BIG deal. If you were in fifth grade, it meant you had made it. Fifth graders were the oldest, the biggest, and even got to go to Space Camp over Spring Break. You were the envy of the cafeteria and playground. I knew that fifth grade was going to be MY year. I had my Lisa Frank folders, stickers to accessorize my composition book, and even matching pencils. All of which looked great with my super cute pink and purple trapper keeper. That year, my best friend was still Angela. She had been my best friend since kindergarten. We were excited to both get in Mrs. Norris' homeroom. Mrs. Norris arranged every student's desk into clusters of four all over the classroom. As I looked for my name on all the desks, I was devastated to find that I had to share a cluster with 3 boys and nowhere near Angela. It's not like I shared my workspace with fifth grade's most eligible. There was John who kept a beanie baby on his desk at all times and even spoke to it during spelling tests; there was Colby who was caught on several occasions trying to recover treasures from deep inside his nasal cavity; and then there was Cliff. Cliff was rough and tough and rocked a rattail. His trendy hairstyle earned him the nickname "Raittail Cliff". (Creative kids, weren't we?). By the end of day one, I started to worry about what the year had in store for me. One day, while one of the other teachers summoned Mrs Norris into the hallway, the class was left alone to finish our assignments. I'm not sure if John's beanie baby planted an idea seed in Rattail Cliff's ear, but Raittail Cliff thought it would be a great idea to make paper airplanes to fly to his friend, Roger, across the room. I'm sure Colby was too busy picking a winner to deter Rattail Cliff from his plan, and I had learned the only way to survive a day at that table was to keep quiet. About this time, I was about to be affected by my first plane crash. As Roger sent his airplane on its return flight to Rattail Cliff, it crash landed in my face. The shrieks of horror that erupted all over the classroom would have made a bystander think they had witnessed an actual plane crash. The loud ruckus interrupted whatever chit chat was taking place in the hallway between the teachers. As Mrs Norris came in, she took one look at me and gasped, quickly ushering me to the principal's office. Why was I having to go to the office?! I didn't do anything! On the long trek there, Mrs Norris asked me if I was in pain. "In pain? Why would I be in pain?", I asked while scratching my eye. "Because your eye is filled with blood and it looks pretty painful," she replied. This was news to me! Naturally, being somewhat of the fifth grade hypochondriac, I immediately started thinking about what I'd do if I needed an eyeball amputation. My mother was called and was asked to take me to see a doctor. After acessing the damage, my doctor sent me back to school sporting a pretty dorky eye patch. "You have GOT to be kidding me," is all I could think. This is no way to kick off what is supposed to be the best year of my life. On the drive back to school, I thought I could arrange my bangs to conceal my eyepatch. But, no luck. Of course my mom had recently done an at home trim job on my wild, frizzy bangs. I returned to Mrs Norris' class to learn that Rattail Cliff and Roger both got their names written on the board. Wow, that's it. This eyepatch was going to really mess with my tetherball game, and all the punishment they received was their name on the board?! Where's the justice? I should have known my classmates (the same ones who came up with "Rattail Cliff") would come up with something really great to call me now. I had to give them a little credit when they started calling me "Hook" (reference Captain Hook) instead of "Eyepatchy". Little did I know, this was just the beginning of a series of horror stories to come out of the fifth grade.

Battle of the Bumper Boats

Growing up, you could easily say I was your average, good kid. I never got into trouble, except for fighting with my brother. I really don't think anyone would see me at Wal-Mart and mutter, "her parents have their hands full!". My parents have always been active members in their Baptist church, and I was raised with moral, Christian values. My dad a farmer and machinist, my mom a "lunch lady", we were a typical middle class family. While our vacations weren't as lavish as those who went to Disney World or Six Flags, you never could of convinced my brother and I of that. We had a blast on family trips to places like Dog Patch, Silver Dollar City, Magic Springs, The Memphis Zoo, and Branson. One vacation that stands out in my mind took place on a trip to Eureka Springs. At the time, my brother and I were so excited when our sky blue Aerostar van passed by a putt-putt golf and bumper boats complex. After very little begging, my brother and I were being led to the desk by our parents to check in. We wanted to do everything the little complex offered! First on our agenda was definitely the bumper boats! Since my brother and I were far too young to be in the bumper boats alone, we each paired up with a parent. It was decided this bumper boat battle would be between my dad and me versus my mom and my brother. I knew Dad and I had this in the bag. The boats were powered by our pedaling, and Dad and I had legs way longer than either Mom or Nathan. Piece of cake! As we approached the dock to get into our boats, I noticed the water would probably hit my 7-year old knees. So if the battle got ugly, and Mom and Nathan's boat capsized, they wouldn't drown. Don't let those pigtails fool you, I was out for blood! About 10 feet from the dock, before we had even bumped another boat, I noticed my teammate's face looking a bit green. Suddenly, I was the only one pedalling. "Dad! Are you ok? Pull it together!", I screeched as I realized I'd be on my own in this one. Then, in the middle of the small (seriously, puddle deep!) trenches, I had a man overboard. "Are you kidding me?!", is all I could think as I saw my partner, one hand over his mouth, sprinting towards the dock, yelling "I'm seasick! I'm seasick!". As I pedal back to the dock towards a carnie yelling "Sir, get back into your boat!", I realize this war is lost. With defeat on my face, all I could do was hope it didn't rain because, clearly, I doubt my dad's weak stomach could handle that either and I was determined to conquer putt putt.

Where It All Began...

"Are you done taking his picture yet? Look at me! I can sit on my toy box with my stuffed animals and you can take pictures of me instead!", a 2 year old me begged for attention from my Granny while she took polaroid after polaroid of my new baby brother. Once I'd decided that my shoot was complete and my photographer could be dismissed, my Granny told me that when I grew up I could spend all day getting my picture taken and get paid for it. She said I could be a model. What she failed to mention, however, was that I would need to put the lollipops down and start myself on an 800 calorie diet beginning that day. She didn't even suggest I start doing pull ups to build my flabby 2 year old arms.

So, you see, my Granny is partially (read: mostly) to blame for this blog. I'm a 20-something (yeah, I'm not sharing my age!) assistant retail manager on house arrest due to my heart condition. This is day one. Boredom has already become that friend that visits and just can't tell when you're shooting them cues to be heading out. You know the kind I'm talking about. You could literally fall asleep on them, but they'd just scoot you over then raid your fridge. Anyways, I'm always being told that really random things happen to me. Everyone seems to find my recounts entertaining, so I thought, hey.. I might as well spend my time telling the world my story. If Tori Spelling can do it 3 times, why can't I?!