Superchikk Dirt

I’ve realized that I blog about myself a lot and mention my siblings some, and even though some of you know us, there are some really fun things you don’t know about us. So here I come, being an evil sister and posting things on the internet for everyone to read. I’ll dish some dirt on myself before someone else beats me to the punch.

I was a tomboy. By necessity. There were only two or three other girls within about five miles of where we lived in Tiny-Town, and those were my little sisters and cousin. Sure, I had the giant Barbie house and the insane amount of Barbie accessories, baby dolls, toy dishes, etc. But it seemed that my cousins who were my age didn’t want to play with those things. Maybe because they were boys. So, I ended up being dirty all the time, becoming a decent baseball player, a kick-butt football player, a crack shot with all rifle-type firearms, and tougher than nails. My cousins’ friends were afraid to mess with me, because I wasn’t afraid to wail on them for their idiocy. Part of their fear was the fact that I was taller than they were, even though I was skinny. I shot up to my current height of 5’3” by the time I was in 5th grade, and they hadn’t hit their growth spurts yet. Of course, now they’re all head and shoulders taller than me, but I’ve still got my bluff in…until they read this, anyway. The transition from tomboy to actually acting like a girl was difficult for me…especially since we were transplanted from Nowheresville to the middle Small-Town, which seemed very big at the time.

Growing up in Tiny-Town, Arkansas, we didn’t have much going for us in the way of fashion and style. However, what we did have was worn by everyone, everywhere, for everything. I had the puffiest of bangs, the tightest of tight-rolled jeans, and the slouchiest of slouch socks. I even had deck shoes with barrel knots in the laces, which my Dad showed me how to tie. The painted t-shirts with “jewels” on them were all the rage, and I had a few of those too, worn with sleeves rolled up, of course.

By the time we moved to Small-Town, Arkansas, I had of course, come out of the tight-roll, different-color slouch sock-wearing phase. Wispy bangs were in, and of course, I had them. In 8th grade, I got glasses and they were huge. We’re talking enormous. Husband still makes fun of those glasses, and he didn’t even know me then.

The picture I've included illustrates well the fashion dilemma we were all in during the early 90's. This was taken by my best friend - yes, with a sheet on the wall and a blanket on the floor. What else were we to do? We couldn't drive yet, so we had to find amusement in other ways. Embarrassing ways.

I’m a very particular person…I like things a certain way, clothes that fit a certain way, certain shoes, and even certain socks. I hate going barefoot. I used to wear my socks so thin you could see through the bottoms of them. Mom quit buying socks for me when I was about 10 – I had to use my own allowance to buy them. I even numbered them on the bottoms so I would have matched pairs and wouldn’t pull out two “left” socks. In the early-mid 90’s, it was cool to wear athletic socks halfway up to your knees – or at least it was around here. I would set my socks perfectly and became rather irritated if a sib were to mess them up. I’m a bit more relaxed about the whole sock thing now. Since Husband folds the laundry, I don’t think I’ve had an actual matched pair of socks in years. But that’s ok – they’re clean and in the drawer. Some things just become less important.

Mom discovered the hard way exactly how picky, stubborn, and hard-headed I was when it came to shoes. When I was about six, she insisted on buying me the ugliest pair of gray “church” shoes I’d ever seen. I hated them. With passion. I can still picture those ugly little shoes like it was yesterday. I did my best to refuse to wear them, even in the shoe store. My feet were still growing pretty quickly, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before they didn’t fit anymore…but what to do until they got too small? I wasn’t about to wear those hideous things to church, of all places. I hid them, and hid them well. I put them in the last place I knew Mom would look…her own closet. She had a hamper with off-season and hunting clothes in it, so I dug down about half way and deposited the nasty little gray shoes. When Sunday rolled around, I denied knowing the location of the ugly shoes, and ended up having to wear my old ones. Mom continued to look for those shoes, and finally found them a few months later when she went to pull out the winter sweaters. Of course by that time, they were too small. My plan had worked! Genius! She asked me about it, and I told her very matter-of-factly what I’d done. I probably would’ve gotten a spanking if she’d been able to stop laughing long enough. I never had to wear ugly shoes again.

HLB claims I have the worst morning breath ever. Actually, I think he used to refer to it as Dragon Breath. When you sleep like the dead, you’re bound to wake up with your mouth a little pasty. I think He’s just extra sensitive about it because he was usually the one incurring wrath for waking me up. But since Husband has the same complaint, there may be something to it.

My sibs will probably tell you that I am mean. And they’re probably right. But in my defense, they made me that way. I would not have had to be quite so mean if they hadn’t been quite so mischievous, annoying, and so large in number.

I’m sure there’s more to tell, but it will come out in the wash over the next few posts. Because as I dig up the dirt on them, there’s more on me.