(Noticing the slow death of my beloved blog I begged Lynette from My So Called Life to come and do some major CPR. Vitals are back to normal now, and we should be out of ICU soon. Thanks Lynette!)
Mostly because I'm quite the germophobe. But Atomic Mommy is having technical difficulties and so she's ,lost her common sense , asked me to breathe some life into her lovely blog. Me. She must really NEED this break if she's asking ME to write something...'cause I, uhhh... I've never done a guest post before.
Since she just handed over her blog to a virtual (ha! get it, virtual 'cause we're on the interwebz, see?) stranger. I suppose I should introduce myself: Me llama,
Lynette, (aka Raggedy Ann) y soy de
My So Called Life. So I guess, my spanish classes DID come in handy.
I was going to talk about how hard it is to keep writing when your mind is TOTALLY somewhere else, and you feel like you feel like you're on some roller coaster from hell and it's really just emotions making you batshit crazy and you can't hold a single thought in your head and you've lost your keys like 5 times in the last 10 minutes and you can't imagine where the fuck you've put them THIS TIME because you just had them and then you realize....AGAIN...that they are in your pocket where you put them so that you wouldn't forget them one more fucking time, but you did. And then you get all mad and you're all "fuck the world!" and you're in a fucked up mood for the rest of the day and people keep asking you "what's the matter?" and you say "nothing", because you don't really want to talk about it even though you CLEARLY are in a bad mood, then some asshole says "someone must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed" and then you get even MORE pissed because, really? Who the fuck says that? Some annoyingly cheerful jackass who can literally SEE the fucking black cloud hanging over your head and is trying to cheer you up and all you can think about is how the only thing that would cheer you up is punching little miss wrong side of the bed in the eye, or maybe a marathon tequila binge --neither of which you can do right now because you're at WORK for fuck's sake and they frown at those sorts of things during business hours. So you just go back to your cubby hole/office and wish the day would move a little faster, so you can go back home and drink/cry/think/sleep (in order of importance).
Yeah, I was going to talk about that stuff..but I'm not. I'm going to talk about my first time.
I was 15 and a half. He was 17. I was nervous, because I had never done it before. My boyfriend/future babydaddy/future husband said he had, and that it wasn't going to be that hard. We'd ditched school, because we did that a LOT our senior year and decided now was just a good a time as any. Also? I'm a curious girl, I didn't want to miss out on all the fun.
He talked about what I was going to do and how to do it. I mean, I thought I SORT of knew, I'd seen it on TV...I'd taken a class. But it was still a little different from what we'd been doing up until this point.
Finally, it was time. I took a deep breath and went for it. We jerked a few times, but I started moving smoothly from gear to gear. 1-2-3-4...I was learning how to drive a stick shift!
I should also note that was the last time I drove a stick until we got hitched, because he taught me in his sister's car and when she found out she had a heart attack. Also, to be fair I guess I can understand why she shit a brick: The BF/FBD/FH and I have had sex in every car that his family owned which included 2 volvos, 1 van, HIS car, and a broken down studebaker his dad was fixing up in the garage. So, yeah...there's that.
