I have to say that Julie-Mom is having way too much fun reminding me of the things that I will never live down.
Of course, she's a big part of why they come up at every family gathering.
And why I will never live them down.
Mostly she has a lot of dirt on me for my adult years.
You would think you would grow out of this kind of stuff?
As a teenager I thought I would be funny and I squirted Dick-Dad with a small water gun.
And I mean small.
But it was right in the face.
He was shocked, I giggled and ran away.
I don't recall why I thought this would be a good idea, or what possessed me to even do it.
I ran away to my room where I proceeded to get ready for a meeting of some sort or other for the youth at church.
My room was in the basement. It was decorated in pinks and grays. At one point it had a giant round bed that I hated making because it was so hard to tuck square sheets around a a giant round mattress.
My parents had no sympathy on me, which is probably why I now have no sympathy on my own kids when they complain about changing their sheets on a top bunk bed.
Later in my teen years that round bed was swapped out for a king sized waterbed (do they still make those?) and I still hated making it.
And my parents still had no sympathy for me.
I stood at my dresser that was cluttered with make-up, jewelry, and hair supplies. A large, and very heavy antique mirror hung on the wall above my dresser.
This spot is where I would stand and primp to my teenager heart's content.
This spot was kitty-corner from the door of my room, and as I stood at my dresser my back was to my door, but I could see it clearly in my mirror.
I was leaned in, over the dresser, inspecting my face or some other such silly thing when I noticed movement in my mirror. As I straightened up I saw my dad looking at me from the door way.
We made eye contact through the mirror and then suddenly I saw nothing but a giant spray of water coming at me from behind.
It was like a movie.
I was drenching and screaming like, well, a little girl.
When the water finally stopped I turned and looked at my dad.
He was a fireman and had access to all sorts of things that I wasn't even aware that we had in our home.
Like a water fire extinguisher that now stood in front of him, as tall as his knees.
He'd taken its hose, aimed, and turned that bad boy on.
Let this be a lesson to all of you who have fire fighter fathers.
Do not take them on with a small water gun.
You will not win.
And you will go to your church meeting with wet hair and have water warped posters on your wall.
You will.
And I have no defense for this story. It is what it is.
Unless stupid teenage girl is a defense? It sounds perfectly reasonable to me.
Right after graduation Julie-Mom loaded up all five of we kids and we drove off to the airport for an adventure of a lifetime.
My Brent-dad was currently stationed in Germany with the Army and as a graduation gift to me, we were going to fly over to there and bum around for two weeks. My dad would be taking his leave to show us around.
The trip was grueling.
If a flight could be delayed, it was.
If a connecting flight could be missed, it was.
I should probably dig out my old journals where I wrote down every detail of this trip because I didn't want to forget a moment of it, and give you the details of how long and miserable our travel around the globe was, but that will have to be a post for another time.
Let it be said that by the time we reached the airport in Germany, we were all exhausted to the bone.
To tell the story from here in Julie-Mom's words:
"We were so exhausted when we finally got to Germany... and we all got in the elevator at the airport there and you just let one rip. You didn't even care. We tried to call you out on it but you were like, so what? It was so unlike you because you usually have it all together (and I hate bathroom humor!) but you were so tired after our cross the world trip that you just farted and wouldn't even laugh about it."
For the record I have blanked this memory out and have no recollection of it whatsoever.
I did no such thing.
But the thought of me doing it...
No... I didn't.
Though on that same trip while visiting a concentration camp I did tell my little sister Kimmy that if she went into the bathroom she might get gassed.
In my defense I was totally joking and didn't expect her to believe it.
Who ever believes me?
But the poor girl wouldn't go near a bathroom (and she had to pee) while we were at that place and I've felt bad about it ever since.
Sorry Kimmy.
There was also the time when my friends and I were hanging out in my basement TV Room and for some reason we decided to light a fire in the fireplace.
Because I knew how to do that.
But someone *ahem* forgot to open the flue and smoke started pouring into the room.
We were coughing and eyes were burning as I struggled to open that dang thing and get the air flow in the direction it needed to go.
Actually, I might have done that as an adult, as a single mom in my brand new house with my girls.
You'd think a person would learn.
In my defense, if a chimney is cold the air won't suck up, so you have to hold burning paper up the chimney to get the heat going.
At least this is what my Dick-Dad always did.
And I have learned a few times that it's not a bad way to start it out.
You might die of smoke inhalation otherwise.
Also, this is a lesson to not brag up your fire making skills until
after you've got the fire going.
For The things I will never live down: the childhood years go
HERE
For The things I will never live down: the adult years (so far) go
HERE
