Speedo?
Check.
Sunscreen?
Check.
Ridiculous amount of tiny travel containers that I have only recently decided are my favorite things ever except maybe for pop tarts?
Check.
Oh, yeah. Pop tarts?
Check.
Okay, I think we're ready for Costa Rica. The first thing I plan on doing is playing a rousing game of my -farmers- tan -can -kick -your -farmer's -tan's -trash. I plan on dominating. See you next week!
Disclaimer: So I haven't actually included EVERYTHING we're taking to Costa Rica. Clearly it would be foolish to travel to Costa Rica with only a Speedo, sunscreen, pop tarts and travel containers, although I do enjoy the mental picture that provides. Also, Paul bought the Speedo as a joke. As a side note, I am bringing a camera.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
dear diary
December 27, 1990 9:28pm
David was quite annoying today, Walt, a little better. I feel like an ant carrying a large pineapple. Ah, well. I have never really thought of myself as very pretty before this year. Mr. Layton says that boys will chase me all over at the Junior High, but I don't think I am THAT glamorous. My fondest dream is to become a writer.
There she is, teenage me. Staring out at me from the pages of an old journal. I can see her, with her braces, bangs, and pink lipstick, teeth too big for her mouth. I remember being her, remember how clothes felt too loose, how she loved to daydream. I love her. I want to pick her up off the page and hug her, and tell her that it gets better, that someday she does get a bra. I want to protect her, from things she's already experienced. I want to tell her, don't wear that shirt on the first day of seventh grade, the one with the geometric puffy paint design and huge rolled up sleeves. Trust me.
I am so thrilled with the delightfully cringe worthy material shouting at me from these pages that I feel I simply must inform Paul. Surely he would want to become acquainted with the adolescent experiences of his bride?
Nope.
We sit in Manhattan Diner, and as Paul slurps the last bit of chocolate shake, I grin.
I found an old journal yesterday, I say.
Oh? Paul looks amused.
Yeah, and it's awesome! I mean, HUGE cringe factor, but I say things like "my fondest dream is to become a writer", plus there's a letter to my future husband! That's YOU!!! I can't wait for you to read it.
Paul looks at me as if I should have known better.
I'm not reading that. No way.
But it's ME, I croon.
Exactly. I know you.
But it's TEENAGE ME, I plead.
Yep. Teenage girls are crazy. No way I'm reading that.
What??? You don't want to get to know teenage me??? Well, that about does it, Paul Boerem. I am quite offended. I can't believe you don't want to get to know teenage me. I fold my arms for emphasis, and make my angry eyes.
Why are you offended? You know I love you.
But you don't love teenage me. You don't even care about teenage me. You've just rejected my teenage self, is what you've done.
Paul looks at me, puzzled.
Um......didn't mean to offend you....
How could you think I wouldn't be offended??? If you had a teenage journal, I'd want to read it. I'd want to get to know teenage you!! YOU REJECTED TEENAGE ME, I shriek. Why won't you give her a chance?
Here, I picture Paul on trial. He sits on the witness stand as I pace. I am judge, jury and lawyer. I offer him a chance, one last chance to redeem himself. Will he get to know teenage me? Paul leans in close to the microphone and clearly enunciates:
No, I do not ever, EVER, ever, want to read your teenage journal. Ever, ever ever. Ever.
Sentencing is pending.
I really love him, so I figure on being lenient.
David was quite annoying today, Walt, a little better. I feel like an ant carrying a large pineapple. Ah, well. I have never really thought of myself as very pretty before this year. Mr. Layton says that boys will chase me all over at the Junior High, but I don't think I am THAT glamorous. My fondest dream is to become a writer.
There she is, teenage me. Staring out at me from the pages of an old journal. I can see her, with her braces, bangs, and pink lipstick, teeth too big for her mouth. I remember being her, remember how clothes felt too loose, how she loved to daydream. I love her. I want to pick her up off the page and hug her, and tell her that it gets better, that someday she does get a bra. I want to protect her, from things she's already experienced. I want to tell her, don't wear that shirt on the first day of seventh grade, the one with the geometric puffy paint design and huge rolled up sleeves. Trust me.
I am so thrilled with the delightfully cringe worthy material shouting at me from these pages that I feel I simply must inform Paul. Surely he would want to become acquainted with the adolescent experiences of his bride?
Nope.
We sit in Manhattan Diner, and as Paul slurps the last bit of chocolate shake, I grin.
I found an old journal yesterday, I say.
Oh? Paul looks amused.
Yeah, and it's awesome! I mean, HUGE cringe factor, but I say things like "my fondest dream is to become a writer", plus there's a letter to my future husband! That's YOU!!! I can't wait for you to read it.
Paul looks at me as if I should have known better.
I'm not reading that. No way.
But it's ME, I croon.
Exactly. I know you.
But it's TEENAGE ME, I plead.
Yep. Teenage girls are crazy. No way I'm reading that.
What??? You don't want to get to know teenage me??? Well, that about does it, Paul Boerem. I am quite offended. I can't believe you don't want to get to know teenage me. I fold my arms for emphasis, and make my angry eyes.
Why are you offended? You know I love you.
But you don't love teenage me. You don't even care about teenage me. You've just rejected my teenage self, is what you've done.
Paul looks at me, puzzled.
Um......didn't mean to offend you....
How could you think I wouldn't be offended??? If you had a teenage journal, I'd want to read it. I'd want to get to know teenage you!! YOU REJECTED TEENAGE ME, I shriek. Why won't you give her a chance?
Here, I picture Paul on trial. He sits on the witness stand as I pace. I am judge, jury and lawyer. I offer him a chance, one last chance to redeem himself. Will he get to know teenage me? Paul leans in close to the microphone and clearly enunciates:
No, I do not ever, EVER, ever, want to read your teenage journal. Ever, ever ever. Ever.
Sentencing is pending.
I really love him, so I figure on being lenient.
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