Friday, August 16, 2013

Things I Thought Were a Good Idea... but Weren't. At All.

I may be thirty now, but even up to last week I’ve done, and most likely said, things that I thought were a good idea, only to obsess over the stupid move when the damage was already done. 

I mean just last week I referred to my new favorite underwear as business in the front, party in the back.  In front of a room of people.  At my own birthday party.

 So.. I’m not exactly daring to step out of my ironclad box at the ripe old age of 30.

Let’s start with one of my favorite, and earliest examples of things Brittany thinks are super innovative, which actually turn out to be just plain dumb.

I’m four.  I’m at another one of my brother’s hockey games and am yet again begging for money from my mom.  My dad is a coach, and my mom says what all moms say, "Dad has all the money, you'll have to wait until after the game."

I didn't care what she said.  I need a god damn blue whale right now. 

So, I did the next most likely thing a four year old would think of.  I took off a mitten, and threw it onto the ice.  You see I knew that this would cause a stoppage of play, then OBVIOUSLY my dad would see the predicament I was in, rush over to give me some money, and we would all go on happier, and certainly more satisfied.

This, as you can imagine, is not how my plan turned out.

My pink mitten went over the glass, the ref blew the whistle, and from across the ice my dad’s eyes met mine and I knew I was not getting that blue whale. 

As most four year olds, I completely forgot about the impromptu mitten toss in about as long as it took for the ref to blow the whistle to start play again. 

My friends and I were busy anyways.  Ye were hunting in the lobby for pull tickets.  We had a strange obsession with those pull tickets.  More so for the fact that grown adults bought them by the handfuls, and ripped them open, only to have them dropped on the floor like they were five minute old double bubble.  We would pick them up, and stuff them in our pockets sure that some sort of luck would come from this. 

Anyways, in my pull ticket drunken state, I had forgotten about my brilliant scheme that seemed to go horribly array.  That is, until the game ended and my left arm was grabbed suddenly and I was being pulled backwards for a little lesson on what NOT to do to get Dad’s attention.  

Fast forward a few years.  I’m now 8, and desperate to be different.  In a cool way, no less.

We’ve already discussed my fascination with a fellow classmate’s hearing aids.  However, much to my chagrin, it turned out hearing aids are kinda hard to get your hands on. 

But glasses, and fake braces, weren’t.

While doing my semi-weekly snoop session of my sister’s room, I happened upon a pair of glasses in her backpack.  While I found out later she had kept them for a friend while they were out, I decided this was a sign.

By tomorrow morning,  I was obviously going to be the coolest kid at school with brand new glasses.

I don’t know if it was the cheap metal frames, or that I was convinced I looked much older, and therefore sophisticated in these new gems, but I figured the most logical thing to do was to add braces to the picture.

One paper clip later, unbent, and remolded to my teeth, and I was ready to face the next school day in style. 

It was really too bad I couldn’t find any crutches anywhere.

I left the next morning to school looking like boring old Brittany, only to make it to the crosswalk where I hurriedly decorated my face with these fancy spectacles, and applied my new braces.  I strutted to school like a girl on the top of her game. 

Here I come world.. look out. 


Look out. 

Those glasses were an incredibly strong prescription, certainly NOT for me, and my lips were bleeding on the inside from the sharp ends of the paper clip.  Yep, I made it to school half blind, with blood coming from my mouth.  Fail.

The following summer I decided to become a poet.  I had read enough Emily Dickinson to know I could rattle off a poem or two.  I mean, even at ten I had real issue with what exactly a poet does, and how to get paid for said poetry, but my artistic mind needed development so I stole a notebook from my brother’s desk and headed outside.

Under a tree.. obviously.  I’m sure that’s exactly how all great poets wrote great poetry.

I looked around and started:

(This is actually what I wrote.. brace yourself)

Robin, robin, in a tree,

Won’t you come and play with me?

Ya.. it sucked.  I knew it, the robin knew it, and the beautiful elm tree I had settled under was harboring bugs that were biting me.

I went back inside, grabbed a blanket and two Oreos from the back of the pack so my mom wouldn’t notice, and tried again.  This time on the front lawn.

I laid on my stomach (obviously another fantastic writing position from what I had seen on Babysitter’s Club) and began again. 


So I closed my eyes and tried my best to concentrate on the task at hand.

I feel asleep and my mom took pictures of me passed out on the lawn. 

We only found this out AFTER trying to develop pictures from our family vacation the week before, only to find that mom had popped a used cartridge back in the camera and double exposed them.  (This wasn’t her first offense in this subject). Also side note.. how in the world am I ever going to explain that to my kids someday? You know…  film? 

Fast forward a few more years, and I’m sure about a thousand more stupid moments, and I’m a recently transferred student to a new high school, in a new city, trying to fit in and make friends. 

I was like all other high school cheerleaders with gold hair (sun in… again) and her sister’s borrowed (ok stolen when she wasn’t home) clothes.  The only road I took that diverged was that in academics.  I was in an advanced program where high school kids take an accelerated program so that you have university credits (your first year of basics) under your belt before you even hit university. (International Baccalaureate.. IB henceforth).  It was very competitive and I worked hard to keep up with the geeks (the term affectionately used).

I was so hurt when I found out that some of the mean IB girls (mean girls are everywhere people) had found out my student number and had checked my marks.  Well, I wasn’t mad at that part because I knew I was smoking them in the marks department, but I was mad because they didn’t think I belonged.  They didn’t think I could be blonde, peppy (I hate that word but I find it associated to me more than I care to admit), and smart.

Looking back I can sort of see why. 

You see, I never really wear my intelligence on my sleeve, per se. 

I generally let my mouth make words and sentences before I actually think about what they mean, and as a teenager this flaw was in overdrive.  Once again accounting for things I thought were a good idea.. but weren’t.

Example #1-

I think my throat is scratchy and sore.  We are learning about Chaucer and I decide I love the Wife of Bath in her blunt frankness.  I giggle to myself about the funny things she says, try clearing my throat, only to realize I would love a cough drop.  I do what most people would do in my situation. 

I put my hand up, wait my turn and then ask the class,

“Does anyone have anything hard to suck on??”

The guy behind me quickly confirmed he did.

Example #2-

This sounds super.,. I don’t know, like a weird Japanese Anime trend, but Winnie the Pooh merchandise got kinda popular.  It was even on underwear  aimed at teens (I swear this was a thing. .. ).  So of course, being a slave to 90’s fashion trends, I bought some.

The next day in first period, I excitedly exclaimed to a friend that I had Pooh on my underwear, too!  Um ya.  Strike two.

And I couldn’t figure out why the mean girls thought that I was, well, not very SMRT.

I mean I could keep going with things I’ve said that are ridiculous.  And anyone who has ever spent time with me will attest to the fact that I do this often.  At this point we all get a good laugh, but there are some things I’ve said, like those above, that I think back upon and cringe.

How about the time I was complaining to my boss about trying to google Pussycat Dolls and the computer kept blocking me from PUSSY.  Ya.  Like I said.  SMRT sometimes.

Or Sun-IN… again.  Such a quick and easy way to get the highlights mom and dad won’t pay for.  FAIL.

Oh THE haircut.  I took in a pic of Tiffani Amber Theisen when she had her hair kinda funky and shorter when she was working at the Peach Pit After Dark. (Did anyone else DIE when Saved by The Bell AND Beverly Hills sorta joined forces there for awhile.  It makes me smile just thinking about it)  Well suffice to say there is a reason I have never worn my hair shorter than shoulder length since.  Picture coming....

Putting Nair on a sensitive area and closing my eyes for a quick second while I waited the 5 minutes.  25 minutes later.. well…

Performing a cheer routine at a school dance.  Not cool, no matter how many Melissa Joan Hart movies you’ve watched.

Buying $90 worth of soap at Bath and Body Works and rather than throwing the bill away, exclaiming to Mike what a good deal it was!!

Taking a microphone at Mike’s Christmas party, from the DJ, and singing OVERTOP of the music.  Yep I didn’t remember this little nugget until 3p the next day.  I believe it was post traumatic stress. 


I can’t even formally end this because like infinity, there is no beginning or nor end.


No comments:

Post a Comment