My who’s this chick? page (AKA Meet the mind behind the blog…) snagged the highest number of views for both 2017 and RFTM’s lifetime, so I thought it might be a fun topic to revisit. I know, I know…you’re probably wondering how I can “revisit” telling readers about myself, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned after two years of blogging it’s that posts can always benefit from a fresh look.
Boy, what I wouldn’t give for a closeup of my eyeball right now. Oh, wait, I’ve got a phone with a camera!
Yep. That’s not at all creepy.
So here are a few more random thoughts about, well, me. And life.
Growing up military is a little like being raised in a home with asbestos. (Hang with me now.) Sometimes it’s in the forefront, sometimes the background, but it constantly seeps into your body, affecting you in ways you might not even realize until you’re dazed and confused in your mid-forties.
I’ve been told a story for years now – so many years that I’ve told it myself on more than one occasion. About how we’d move to a new neighborhood and I’d march myself out to knock on doors, looking for someone to play with. I accepted that truth for decades…until I realized I didn’t remember being that brazen young thing, utterly confident people would like me. I remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach on the first day of school. Wondering where I would sit in the cafeteria. Questioning why I should bother making friends at all when I’d only have to leave them behind.
But I also remember our family traditions being the same, no matter our address. Roller skating in the basement on rainy days. And that wardrobe moving boxes made the best forts and rocket ships.
We failed at fish and hamsters but managed not to kill our Siamese cats. Their yowls were furiously loud and piercing…like a baby’s cry. Years later I was shocked to learn that some people have their cats’ voice boxes removed to silence them, and I wondered why on earth they didn’t just buy a quiet cat in the first place.
I remember their gorgeous markings and how Cat – this is the only “name” my father ever used, and it stuck – came running at the sound of the can opener. That mom would treat him to some milk and he’d spy on us from the top of the kitchen cabinets. I remember how the Great Hunter would find himself stranded at the far end of the yard when he got too close to a nest of baby birds, so mom armed me with a broom to defend against dive bomber blue jays as she carried Cat back to safety.
This cat lived with my parents for a great many years, even after he got old and crotchety and scratched at the vet’s staff when they tried to take him out of his carrier. He was the first pet I loved and lost. But Cat visited my mom for years after he left us, every once in a while showing up to sit in the family room with her.
I have giant swiss cheese holes in my memories. Sometimes a sibling will start to tell a story and I’m all, “Wait, what? I did that?!” It’s like childhood blackouts, only without the drinking or drugs. BrightSide’s theory is that I wasn’t sleeping properly (I did toss, turn, and sleepwalk) so my short term memories didn’t get transferred to the long term part of the brain. (Only he explained it much more science-y than that.) Could be, I dunno. Here’s some of what I do remember:
- I took swim lessons in New Jersey. They were early in the day and the pool was like ice water – I never wanted to get in.
- Hanging my little gold angel ornament on the tree every single year.
- My dad’s chocolate covered cherries on the coffee table every Christmas morning.
- Playing with kids in Virginia. Everyone was kneeling on a skateboard to ride down the neighbor’s driveway. I was sure I could do it, too, but halfway down I got scared and dropped my knees on either side of the skateboard as a sort of makeshift emergency brake. I then experienced the joy of having my mom paint both knees with mecuricome. Now that sh*t hurt.
- That neighbor had a St. Bernard. It Was So Furry!!
- Making hot chocolate from the packets and adding extra miniature marshmallows.
- Licking the batter off the spatula and beaters.
- I was trying out for a soccer team in New Jersey. We were down to the final few minutes when the right wing crossed a perfect ball over the field. It just hung there in the air, calling to me – Laura! Head me into the goal! You can do it!! I ran toward it, jumped, and felt the ball ricochet off the top of my head – by some miracle it actually landed in the goal. Never before and never since, but they say timing is everything.
Well, there you go…that’s a bit more of the mind behind the blog.