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?!