Biggest High School Slut

Junior and senior year of high school, when I was going through my misanthropic, non-eating phase (still puzzles scientists how one can work 20 hours/week at Dairy Queen and still lose weight), Doctor Whatsherface gave me a prescription for birth control to "help keep me hormonally balanced." Invariably, when I went to pick up the scrip, two of my classmates, Angie and Shan, whose mouths never stopped, would be working the pharmacy counter at CVS. I knew they knew. They knew I knew they knew. I lived in fear that they would out me, Campus Ministry Girl, as the biggest slut in school.

Today, workplace is having a Blast from the Past Friday. Everyone has dressed as they did in high school. My cubemate is wearing an air-brushed T-shirt of Sebastian Bach from Skidrow. Bossman is dressed as Billy Idol. I am in full high school dress uniform, only I had to wear hub's white button-down shirt because mine doesn't fit me anymore.

Oh yes. That's right. I'm sixteen and pregnant. The prophecy has been fulfilled. If only Angie and Shan could see me now.

Linked through tightwad, nylons, boyfriend, and McGillicutty

Sometimes [read: daily] my vanity overcomes me and I check the site meter for referrals to my site. I like to know where in the world wide web people are being routed to this site. This site is my baby. I started it in January 2003 when my daily thoughts swung pendulum-like between why I didn't join the Peace Corps after graduation, and how much Origins eye shadow could I afford with my paltry paycheck. This website gave me a place to scrawl these thoughts, and I've been living the contradictions out here ever since. I started the blog for myself, and if no one else on earth reads it, this site will still exist. Because I'm one of those sickheads born with that chip that requires one to make perfectly private things public -- even if the public doesn't care -- and maybe this is not really innate, maybe it's derived from too many self esteem classes in 2nd grade. My thoughts about creamy eye shadow and sustainable agriculture in Caracas matter, even if they only matter to me. And of course the few friends who read this to humor me. And occasionally my sister, probably, because I never bring up anything about myself in our convos unless they deal with dreams I had about how Now and Laters were suddenly selling for $5,000 at the Bay Pool concession stand (the nightmare!) and she might be scouring this site to see if I was doing anything else with my life besides analyzing dreams about freak candy inflation.

Then, there are the others who land here. The following are just a few of the search entries that have routed the internet scavengers to my real estate:

"Catholic School Swim Test" - I've done both, just not interrelatedly.

Glenbay Drug" - one of my favorite entries ever.

"tightwad, boyfriend" - I'm tempted to write a self-help manual on breaking up with Fruggie Frugalpants based on the frequency of these referrals alone.

"Stanton McGillicutty" -- I should note that the former is both my maiden and middle name and the latter is a nickname given me by my dad; however, the route was through Yahoo in Japanese, so who could have known?

"witticisms johnny mac hollywood squares" - I hope they found what they were seeking...

"girl next door kendra bathing suit" - They so did not find what they were seeking...

"girlfriends nylons" - Interestingly, this linked to a picture of my friends on a golf course in summer, so not wearing nylons.

"addressee etiquette" - Among other Calligraphy related queries.

"baby hahahahahaha" - Again, this was through Japanese Yahoo, and linked multiple times. That baby just kept laughing and laughing and they didn't know what to do, evidently.

Too Tightly Wound

I am having a day in which everything feels too tightly wound around me. The sheets were too suffocatingly sausaged-wrapped around me this morning. The trash in my car - because I forget to bring the trash receptacle into the vehicle everyday after I Lysoled it on Sunday - is forming its own landfill in the front seat. The car ride was good, I held a private concert with the Dixie Chicks as my accompaniment and sang loudly, with bravado, during the songs "I'll Take Care of You" and "There's Your Trouble." But then I arrived at my destination and I felt as though the concert had been cut short all too soon, as in the event of a wardrobe malfunction. The walls are closing in on me and you would think that would cause me to focus even more on Important Tasks Du Jour, but my thoughts are all paranoia. I am paranoid about encroaching hemorrhoids, whether or not a piece of Laffy Taffy will set me just over the edge that I am a new candidate for gestational diabetes, whether or not my friends today will still be my friends when I have nothing to offer about What's New other than news of baby's hangnails and how I bought a Hooter Hider for cheap on e-bay. If I'm really honest with myself, I have to admit that I'm just maintaining these days. I'm just staying afloat. I'm not sick, I'm just hormo-tional, and am trying to cultivate the most gentle part of myself so that the patch of gentleness will bloom and grow and leave the weeds in the shadows so that they die. The weeds are wrapped too tightly around me now, though, and I have no idea what Virginia Woolf wanted in a room of her own. I want a big expansive beach and a beach chair with an umbrella and I want the big raging ocean that lulls all other sounds, other than those of the cawing seagulls, and I want it all, all to myself.