On Brain Farts and Shoplifting Lessons

Today I had a couple of quick errands to run so I went by the mall to visit Dillard’s first.  The Elizabeth Arden counter was holding my pre-ordered lip balms along with my free gift for me to pick up.  (When you spend enough money at the make-up counter the clerks will start calling you to see if you need anything when they offer free gifts for purchasing a certain amount of their products – Clinique also calls and I ‘betcha I start hearing from Lancôme too!  Magic creams to prevent wrinkles and whatnot...)  Anyway, I digress.  I rushed into Dillard’s thinking I’d get this done quick before something caught my eye and sidetracked me.  I am an admitted ADHD shopper.  I get off track easy.  When Tara shops with me it’s double trouble and we find ourselves constantly reminding each other to “Get back on track for what we came for!”  My writing seems to be ADHD today as well, so good luck keeping up with this.  It’s a funny story though, so if you stick with it you might get a good laugh.

I got sidetracked before I even got close to the makeup counter.  A new shipment of yellow box flip-flops on display pulled me towards them.  I buy at least one new pair of these a year because I wear them so often they get worn out.  I wear the flat ones and find them more comfortable than tennis shoes.  (The other 2 months in the year I wear boots.)  Naturally, I did find a new pair that I couldn’t resist.  The ones at Dillard’s don’t actually come in a ‘yellow box’ though, they are connected to hangers like the cheaper flip-flops.  I still hadn’t visited the makeup counter so I let the flip-flops hang from my pinky finger and walked straight towards my planned destination.  Although my eyes were distracted along the way by lots of pretty dresses.

I ran into my friend and fellow book lover Ms. Beulah who works there and we visited for a bit.  When she handed me my bag of stuff and I didn’t realize that I had already paid for it over the phone so there was no need to check out.  Convenient.  This also meant I could walk back through the store and see if there were any dresses I wanted to buy (along with my flip-flops still dangling from my pinky finger on the same hand that I now carried the Dillard’s bag stapled shut with my Arden products inside.)  I said my good byes to Beulah and flittered through the store eyeballing a few dresses. None were casual enough (or cheap enough) for me to want to bother messing with them though.  My mind began to think of the other things I needed to do so I headed to the path way out of the store.

I walked out with my head held high, full of busy thoughts.  A big truck stopped to let me walk in front of it, so I waved while thinking, ‘that was nice of the driver.’  I had parked fairly close and just when I opened my car door I looked down and discovered the flip-flops still dangling from my pinky finger!  I was so shocked and horrified I actually spoke out loud to myself, “I just walked right outside the door with these and didn’t even pay for them!”  Nobody was around to hear (I don’t think.)  And evidently nobody noticed me leave the store with them.  But still.  I locked my car and walked back inside to the nearest clerk to tell her what I had done.  My conscience would not allow me to drive off with stolen yellow box shoes.  Even though I did it on accident and I know those stores figure in a certain amount for thievery (and much of their stuff is overpriced anyway.)  But I couldn’t do it.  The clerk was very nice and thanked me for being honest.

I was reminded of the time when I was about 3 years old (maybe 4, who knows?) and I went to the local drug store with my Mom.  I remember getting impatient waiting while my Mom shopped because she wouldn’t let me get anything.  I remember being creeped out by some old biker looking dude who rubbed my head and smiled at me while asking, “Do people call you Rusty?”  I must have looked confused because he elaborated, “Because of your red hair!  It’s the color of rust!”  He walked off chuckling and I decided to busy myself by sniffing the different flavors of Chapstick on the nearby shelf.  There was a new cherry flavored one I had not seen before and as I smelled it I couldn’t resist taking a bite out of it to see if it tasted as good as the smell.  I about gagged on the wax, it was awful and then I realized that I couldn’t put it back with a chunk taken off and my mom had already told me I was not allowed to get anything.  So I stuck it in my coat pocket.

When we got out to the car I pulled it out to look at it and sniff again, wondering what trickster made such a tantalizing smell taste so horrid.  My mom watched me do this, astounded, and screamed my name in frustration.  “Did you just steal that from the store?”

I said something like, “Well, if putting it in my pocket and not paying for it is stealing, then yeah.”  I knew she was angry by the tone of her voice so I started to feel bad knowing I had done something wrong.  She confirmed this with a few choice words and then she marched me back inside and made me apologize to the clerk at the counter and explain what I had done.  I was embarrassed and know my face probably turned redder than my hair.  I felt the eyes of other shoppers watching me in judgment.  I had been looking down in humiliation but looked up at the clerk with sincerity and said I was sorry again. By that time I could no longer hold back my tears of shame and I could feel their warm saltiness fall down my freckled cheeks.  The clerk must’ve felt sorry for me because he said not to worry about it and didn’t make my Mom pay for it.  But I did have just a little change in my pocket of my own and Mom made me give him that to learn my lesson.  It really stuck in my head.

I’ve never understood those people who shoplift for the thrill of it.  I certainly don’t find it thrilling!

Lesson learned Mom, lesson learned.

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Death Penalty Drugs v. Firing Squad

   “Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”  -Dylan Thomas

I saw on the front page of our local Victoria, TX newspaper a story about the governor of Utah approving the use of firing squads for executions after they run out of their lethal injection drugs.  Intrigued, I researched a little further.  I had a recent assignment for an online writing class that I’m taking that I was supposed to write a controversial letter to the editor of a newspaper regarding a front page news item.  Here is the letter I wrote:

Dear Editor:

In regards to the front page story from the state of Utah saying that their Governor has approved firing squads for executions when their lethal injection drugs are no longer available:  Kudos to Utah for a smart move!  Can we notify our new governor in hopes of him joining with this common sense approach?

We all know that the Pharmaceutical Powers (the evil over-charging, money hungry, greedy, self-serving purveyors of putrid excess) have had a monopoly on the medical field for so long that no amount of government meddling can overcome their callous disregard for moral ethics and over zealous greed for more money.  So, why should we allow them more control and money in the states’ utilization of the death penalty?  I propose we do away with ‘lethal injections’ entirely.  If a person is so deviant and corrupt that a court of law deems they receive the ultimate punishment of death, then kill them the most efficient and inexpensive way possible.  (One could argue this would be ‘Hanging’ but then again, the states would have to hire an expert hangman etc. so why go to that extreme when you are already paying trained law officers eager to use their skills to shoot)

It’s way past time for the government to start cleaning house on all of its excess wasteful spending of public money on ridiculous nonsense.  Cleanup has to start somewhere, why not with the death penalty?  (Don’t even get me started on the actual millions of dollars it costs to prosecute a death penalty case!)

Our society as a whole has become a little immune to violence since we see so much of it on television, in the media outlets and movie theatres.  Therefore, the Utah governor’s fear that a firing squad would be too gruesome is illogical.  Especially if you compare it to what happened to the criminal in Oklahoma who was given a new ‘cocktail’ of death because they were out of their standard execution drugs.  Their usual execution would last about 4 minutes after the needle was injected and the criminal would be unconscious by his death.  Not so for Clayton Lockett last April 2014 – witnesses to his death reported that he was “writhing, grimacing, making noises” and at the point that he was supposed to have been heavily sedated he was able to lift his head and shoulders off the gurney.  About 40 minutes after they started the injection he died of an actual heart attack (not necessarily from the ‘lethal’ injection drugs).  That was not what was supposed to happen and caused quite the uproar.  But it is proof that a lethal injection gone wrong is far more gruesome and torturous than a few accurately aimed bullets.

According to other Texas newspaper sources, the Texas Department of Criminal Justice officials said the cost of the lethal injection cocktail was $83.35 before all this drug shortage hoopla.  It rose to $1,286.86. (and the last source found it still rising).  Their conclusion with the new numbers has Texas spending more than $15,400 – versus $1,000 – to carry out 12 executions.

Come on Texas.  Let’s gather that ‘firing squad’ and get busy.  Maybe it will even deter some future criminals.

-signed ‘a female for the firing squad’

*******NOTE******

I did not actually send this letter to our newspaper because when I went back to find the news articles where I had found my ‘facts’ I was unable to locate the exact article a second time.  Which I found very strange because I used the exact same words in the exact same search engine.  I have a new computer so I had no clue if there was any history of my former search.  And I am not putting my name out there with possible facts that are wrong – So please take the above letter with a grain of salt and know the numbers may not be as accurate as I had first thought.

This also brings to a point how precarious any information you discover on the internet may be.  Don’t believe everything you read (and next time I will document the web address immediately, lol)

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SPORTS BRA WARNING: WOMEN BEWARE!

I have to share this embarrassing moment with other women simply to warn them of a possible issue that may occur while trying on sports bras.  I really am shocked that this hasn’t happened to anyone else yet, but I definitely want to get the word out so that no woman is harmed by these treacherous ‘sports’ bras.

Here’s my story:  Every new year I start a new exercise routine for inspiration and variety.  This year I decided to challenge myself by attempting this Couch to 5k program that so many of my Facebook friends have been posting about.  After a couple of weeks I realized I was going to need some new ‘support‘ and went to our local sports store (Academy.)  I discovered some new bras that were not only cute but promised to “Banish the Uni-boob!”  The tag touted it’s schtick “The Great Divide – Shaping, Support & No Uni-Boob.”  Wow.  I was not aware that my old sports bras were giving me a ‘uniboob,’ but upon reflection, maybe they were!  “What a wonderful new bra,” I thought to myself.  I gathered two of them with hangers that declared them a size Medium (my size, at least in my old sports bras) and decided not to try them on since I had other shopping to do and a limited amount of time.

Fast forward to the next day, Monday morning.  The kids are gone to school, husband to work and I’m flitting around the house like a, well – a dragonfly, because while I tinker on the computer, I also stop to do other things like:  “Oh, yeah, I wanted to finish cleaning the bathtubs.  Oops, laundry needs to get started.  Oh, I need to go through those papers cluttering the dining room table.  Uh, there’s some dishes that need to be put into the dishwasher.  Are those leaves on the floor?  Let me just sweep those up.”  Are you getting the picture?  I am an ADHD homemaker.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, the bra fiasco.

My daughter and her two fellow cosmetology students/friends generally swing by our house for a quick bite to eat & bathroom use before continuing on to their Cosmo class located on the other side of town.  When  they arrive this morning I’m scampering about the house when I realize I never did try on those new bras.  I needed to try them on before cutting the tags off and washing them with the laundry so I excused myself from the gals in the kitchen and shut myself in the master bedroom to get started.

“Hmmm.  I think I’ll try on this cute pink one first.”  I took the top half of my outfit off (Ok, I took off my pajama top,) released the sports bra from it’s hanger and began pulling it over my head.  “Hmm, this is a tighter squeeze than it should be.  I think they might have mislabled this one.  It seems extra small.”  I get the bra over my head and barely get one arm through it, struggling in a vain attempt to pull the other arm through and while trying to pull it down over my breasts I wonder, “Maybe it’s the new fabric, but it’s still not stretching enough.”  When I begin turning red in the face and the bra still won’t move, I give up.  “This must be an extra small!”  Geez.  Alright then, I will just take it off.

I try to pull my arm out and get it back over my head to no avail.  I am stuck.  Both literally and figuratively.  After many deep breaths, groans and near muscle pulls, I am now breathing heavy, starting to sweat and very seriously stuck half in/out of a sports bra!  It ain’t going down over my boobs and it ain’t going up over my head and I can’t move my arms.  UH OH!!!!!!!

I hear the girls talking in the kitchen and say aloud, “Thank God!  Tara is still here!”

I crack open my bedroom door and raise my voice (as much as I can considering I am out of breath from the struggles with that damn bra) “Uhhhh – Tara!  Tara, can you come help me for a minute?”

I hear her approaching and when she walks around the hallway corner she sees me peeking my head out from behind the door.  She looks at me curiously while saying, “What is it Mama?”

Yes, indeed.  What is it.  “Uhm,” I say, “This is kind of embarrassing, but uh, well – I was trying on one of my new sports bras and I think it was mislabeled because now I am stuck and I can’t pull it off!”

She starts giggling and enters the bedroom.  I can’t imagine how I must look.  A forty-four year old Mama, one arm stuck in the air, one arm stuck down through the bra, boobs popping out underneath from the pressure of being squeezed diabolically by the tightness of the fabric and hunched over – because I couldn’t even stand up straight at this point!

I bend over more at the waist, half waving my one free arm that is stuck upwards and beg, “Just pull it off of me!”

She’s laughing as she yanks it off and I sigh with the freedom of release.  She looks closer at the bra and says, “Yeah, this is a small.  Have you tried the other bra yet?”  I’m frustrated and complaining as I show her the hanger, “Look it says Medium!  Darn!  I guess I better try the other one on too- while you are here, just in case I get stuck in it!”  By this time we are both laughing about my predicament.

The other bra is much easier to get over my head and one arm into, but – uh, nope.  I can’t get both arms into it either!  I bend over at the waist (again) grappling to pull it off and I hear Tara say in disbelief through her laughter, “Don’t tell me you’re stuck in that one too!

Yes, I’m stuck,” I say with disgust.  She’s laughing so hard now that I imagine tears are rolling down her face.  “Just pull it off of me,” the frustration is evident in my voice.  I know we are both girls and related, but it really is embarrassing to be witnessed half in/half out stuck in a sports bra, no matter who is viewing the chaos.

After I get dressed into regular clothes and come walking back into the kitchen where the girls are now all congregated, a light bulb goes off in my mind and I say to them, “Oh my goodness!  Can you imagine if I would have tried them on at Academy?  I would’ve been in a uni-sex dressing room stall mumbling, “Help me, I’m stuck.  Can somebody help me?  Ahh!!!!”

We are all laughing while we picture that scenario, but really – how could I have faced a store clerk stuck in that position? Can you imagine?  That’s why I am writing this and sharing my embarrassing moment – because whether you are family, friend or enemy – I would never wish that on any woman!!!!

P.S. And by the way Academy store clerks – You are very welcome for me not attempting to try on those sports bras in your store!!!!!!!

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My Outlander Book Obsession or Why I Haven’t Been Writing

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted anything.  I’d like to say that life got in the way, but I’d be lying.  Books got in the way.  Yes, I discovered a series of books that I had somehow overlooked in years past and became hooked – line and sinker.  Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series stole my attention and I became shamelessly addicted to her main characters Jamie and Claire.

I was glad that it took me so long to discover the series because that enabled me to go from sequel to sequel without waiting for that annoying process they call writing.  And some of those books ended on such cliffhangers that I might’ve gone totally loony waiting for the next one to arrive in stores.  (Yes, in stores, because the series started back when that was the way people actually bought books!)  As it worked out, I was satisfied with the ending of the latest ‘In My Own Heart’s Blood’ but it did leave me a bit bereft – you  know, like a smoker with no more cigarettes…a drinker with no more alcohol…

Okay, I have a confession to make.  My name is Deana and I am an Outlander addict.  I think I may just have to re-read the first novel in the series again.  Because I need more of Jamie and Claire.

But, I promised my family when I finished the series I would stop reading books for awhile as they were missing my attention. My youngest son likes to tell people about how he caught me reading while I was walking down the hallway – I bumped slightly into the wall and just kept on walking and reading.  (I was on my way to the laundry room to take the clothes out of the dryer, but I was at a really good part and didn’t want to put it down…)

So, I’ve been holding off – for now.  I’ve given my family lots of attention over the holidays.  But for anyone who has been hooked on this series – you know exactly my baffled state of mind.  I know I’m not the only one who started talking with a Scottish accent while reading the books because I’ve heard others admit to it on Facebook.  (By the way, I don’t think anyone ever really picked up on my Scottish accent because my Texas accent is so strong, but I dinna fash, LOL.)

At any rate, I’ve been ‘jonesin” for some more ‘Outlander’ and have enjoyed listening to some Facebook friends as they have discovered the series and I get to re-live it through their joyful posts, but it’s not the same as 1st hand Outlander relief.  Thank goodness we at least have the new Outlander series on Starz to watch this coming year, Praise Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!

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2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 900 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 15 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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Tara Turned 18 Today

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.” – William Shakespeare

Today is my daughter’s 18th birthday. My only daughter, the middle child surrounded by brothers. My beautiful baby girl with the most amazing mesmerizing, deep sky blue eyes that reveal her sugary sweet soul. When I look at her, I can’t believe I’ve been a part of making this wonderful human being, so full of goodness, kindness and love – her outside beauty is remarkable, but no match for her inner beauty. And I am lucky enough to call this real life angel my daughter. Mere words cannot express the emotion I feel for this child of mine.

I remember her birth – she was a week past her due date so Dr. McFarland scheduled me to be at the hospital at 7 am to have my labor induced. I was becoming about as wide as I was tall and my small frame isn’t conducive to birthing large babies. All day long we sat in my room waiting for the inducement to work, all to no avail. At 5pm the medical staff had decided that it wasn’t going to work and said that maybe I should just go back home.

My husband had been helping me pace up and down the hallway in hopes that the movement would encourage labor. I was exhausted. I was also huge and miserable. We lived a good 45 minute drive away from the hospital and I definitely didn’t want to take a chance of going back home to accidentally go into labor then. I stopped walking, stood my ground stubbornly, looked back at the staff and said, “No. I am not leaving here until this baby comes out!” Then I waddled slowly back into the room.

Twenty minutes later a nurse entered and was saying something about they might have to give my room to someone else since I hadn’t gone into labor yet. At about that time I began to feel the strange sensation of liquid leaving my body out of my control. “Uhm, either my water just broke or I’m peeing and I can’t stop,” I told the nurse. She checked me and laughed. “Looks like you’ll get to keep this room after all!

More than 4 hours later (at 9:50pm) my baby girl made her 1st appearance into the world. At 8 lbs. 1oz., she was big and healthy. After the nurses checked her and cleaned her up they handed me my adorable little bundle of joy. Taking her into my arms, I couldn’t help but think whenever I looked at her, “She looks just like she came straight from the Beauty Salon!” Her hair was dark brown all over except for the big blonde curl sitting on top of her head.

Kind of ironic that she is now working towards getting her cosmetology license, heh? The girl was born for beauty. My husband and I stuck to our guns and refused to learn the sex of the baby before birth, but I knew I was going to have a girl because of the dreams I’d been having. Dreams of girl stuff and LOTS of shopping. My pregnancy with Tara had me craving sweet iced tea and Mexican food on a regular basis. Which perhaps wasn’t a good mix because she became colicky after birth and cried for most of the first four months of her life. We tried everything from Doctors advice to Old Wives Tales, but nothing worked to ease her colic. I guess she just outgrew it. Once she stopped crying she started flashing those baby blue eyes at everyone and began melting hearts. There wasn’t a man around who could resist her charm. She had her Daddy wrapped around her little pinkie. She is still a charmer and I laugh at her little brother because he gets angry at his friends who are always asking about his “hot sister.”

Come to think of it, she started practicing her cosmetology skills early by cutting her own hair when she was about three years old. Her hair had grown long and she didn’t like wearing it in barrettes or pony tails. One day she decided it was getting in her way, so she took the scissors from the drawer, went and stood over the trash can looking down, and cut off the offending pieces of hair. I caught her just at the end. “Baby – what are you doing?” I asked, shocked.

She turned to me with a satisfied smile and said, “I fixed my hair Mommy. Now it won’t get in my way anymore!”

She didn’t stop there though. She was spending a weekend with her grandparents when her Daddy received a phone call from his Mom. He was speaking in a serious tone so I became worried and questioned him as soon as he ended the call. Before he could say anything I saw his upper body shaking and burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he couldn’t speak and tears were streaming down his face. When he finally caught a breath, he looked at me and said, “Do you know what Tara did to my Mom’s dog? She cut it’s hair!” He leaned over the counter and started laughing again.

The Chihuahua? She cut the Chihuahua’s hair?” I asked, disbelief in my voice.

Yes!” In between spurts of laughter, he said, “Mom said it looks like it has the mange now!” More laughter.

Later, I asked Tara why and wondered out loud how in the world she was able to get the dog to sit still for a hair cut. She said, “Grammy was talking on the phone a long time and I got bored. I took the dog upstairs and just sat down and sang to it, Mama. It didn’t mind me cutting its hair!”

Fifteen years later, she is learning skills in Cosmetology classes and I get her to cut my hair. Times have changed.

The one thing that hasn’t changed is my love for her. My heart warms with joy to be able to spend time with her, being not just a parent, but also a friend, sharing laughter and jokes, shopping or hanging out. She’s my girl. And like I always tell her, “Us girls gotta stick together.”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TARA, MY GIRL! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

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Behind a Smile

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters…compared to what lies within us.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

I pulled out some old pictures from my childhood the other day and a flood of memories hit me with each one. One photograph jumped out at me. It was the juxtaposition of emotions that this single picture produced that made my heart skip a beat and my throat tighten. To a bystander, it was just an old, color faded 8×10 school photo. The colors look as if they have been put through one of the new digital age photo filter mechanisms – the one that gives the picture an orange tint. For me, this picture represents the light, happy innocence of childhood before the darkness of oncoming turbulent adolescence.

This photo was taken my 4th grade year in elementary school. I was 9 years old and wearing the proof of my ‘Tomboy’ moniker. I remember my mother questioning my choice of clothing for the school picture that year, but I was adamant that this was the shirt I wanted to wear. Most of the other girls were in frilly dresses or nice button down blouses. Not so for me, I was proudly sporting my Cincinnati Reds T-shirt. My hero’s name, Johnny Bench, emblazoned across my chest with a picture of him catching a baseball on the side of his name. The previous summer my step-brother, Scotty, and I had orchestrated a backyard baseball game every single day of the vacation. We lived in a rural area and rarely had enough kids to fill two full teams, so we created ‘Ghost Men’ to play. I also had a shoebox full of baseball cards, always looking to trade for more‘Reds’ players. Once school started, baseball resumed on the playground, but only boys were allowed to play. Scotty took exception to that when he told them I was going to play on his team. I immediately proved myself valuable and became the only girl player. I was never picked last when teams were chosen either, because I played better than some of the boys. Those were fun times. (Later in the year, the adults would interfere and made us include other girls and then it became boys v. girls and that is when I quit playing. Most of those girls didn’t even know the difference between a mere ‘run’ and an actual ‘home-run’ and that irritated the tar out of me.)

When I attempt to look at that 4th grade photo using a stranger’s eyes, I can see that I could easily be mistaken for a little boy. My short burnt orange hair, green eyes, light skin with a spattering of freckles across my nose and cheeks blended with my clothing choice makes me look a little androgynous. My smile, though genuine, reveals the beginnings of the crooked teeth that would sully my life and contribute to the self image problems I still battle today. My teeth were the most crooked monstrosities ever possessed by an unassuming child. Each large, adult sized front tooth, besides protruding enough to be what was labeled at that time as being ‘bucked’ went outward in opposite directions of each other, as if trying to run away because they didn’t want to touch. The teeth next to them wanted to overlap them in confusion. And for some odd reason, I had too many, so they all crowded crookedly vying for space in my extra small child sized mouth. The effect of this dental horror show combined with my untamed natural curly red hair provided fodder for many jokes and name calling by both mean kids and adults alike.

As I became aware of the grimaces I would receive when I smiled, I began to try to cover my mouth with my hand. I am probably the only child ever who was okay with the orthodontia pain I would later have because I knew that it meant my teeth were being corrected. Trips to the orthodontist involved replacing or tightening the wires on my braces and I would not be able to eat for days afterwards because of the soreness that caused, which left only the bitter iron taste of blood in my mouth. I still remember one visit to the orthodontist where he had to prop one of his legs up on a chair in order to get enough leverage. He grunted and strained so hard he began to sweat. All that, just to get the wires on my braces to tighten around my severely crooked teeth. Ouch.

While the braces were working on my teeth, I worked on my hair. Learning how to style naturally curly hair is an acquired skill, as is learning how to manage it when the weather changes. Remembering the childish, cruel taunts of “I’d rather be dead than red on the head,” as a teenager I begged my mother to allow me to get my hair colored. When she finally agreed you can imagine my exasperation when the Stylist refused to do it, saying that my natural color was too beautiful to destroy. I had to go home to do a double take in the mirror. What was that stylist talking about? I still saw that rusty haired little Tom-boy with crooked teeth when I looked into the mirror. But after blinking a few times, I began to see the teenager looking back at me, the transformation of an ugly duckling to a swan, right before my eyes. It’s amazing how orthodontia, hair and make-up can make such a huge difference on how one is perceived by others. Materialistic as it may be, people treated me differently once they began to recognize me as ‘cute’ and this is when I made a silent vow to myself that I would never judge a person by their looks. I knew from personal experience that the cover of a person is not necessarily a true representation of what lies inside. And what is in a person’s heart is what matters most.

I do admit though, I enjoyed the fact that now, when I smiled at people, they smiled back.

My 4th Grade School Photo

My 4th Grade School Photo

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