Badger (who, by the way, this morning was in the TOP 15 (woohoo!) of Babble’s Top 50 Mommy Blogger list) has asked for 1982.

Go vote for her first. This story can wait.

lalalalala. hum dee dum dum. la la.

‘kay? You’re back?

So, 1982 it is.

Can I just tell you? 1982 sucked.

I was still (barely) a student at Michigan State, finishing my Freshman year. (Can I just say that Thank GAWD Shortman isn’t like his mother? Give me a hallelujah.)

That summer, I worked for the Parks & Recreation Department – my 4th year in a row. Besides supervising Summer Camp activities and working weekend special events, I provided set-up and refereeing for Women’s Recreational Volleyball. It was, by far, the worst fucking thing I’d had to do during those four years. Those women were MEAN. And had potty mouths. Especially when they were challenging a call that the ref made. Ehem.

I spent one weekend that summer running a concession stand at a softball tournament. We had hot dogs, candy, pop, hot chocolate, and chips for sale. Since I didn’t want to go home, (MomandDad had found out that my boyfriend and I had, um, taken a weekend trip to Toronto and had, um, shared a bed – they didn’t handle it very well), I worked from Friday afternoon straight through Sunday evening.

I ate approximately 40 hot dogs and 62 bags of bar-b-que potato chips. By Sunday night, I was so sick, I spent part of the time between midnight and 3 a.m. laying on the bathroom floor, just so I was close to the porcelain god. I prayed mightily that night, yo.

By the time late August rolled around, I knew I wouldn’t be returning to East Lansing. My parents weren’t going to give me any more money for college. Student loan funding had been slashed by the government. My grades certainly weren’t going to win me any scholarships.

I quit school. It was the only time I ever quit anything in my life, but I promised myself that as soon as I could scrape some money together, I would go back. Maybe not to M.S.U., but I wouldn’t give up on my education. (Picture me, like Scarlett O’Hara, shaking her fist at the sky.)

First things first, though. I had to find a job. In order to find a job, I’d have to buy a car. In order to buy a car, I’d have to sell my horse.

And so. Dida was sold. Mustang was purchased. Interviews ensued.

Whether struck by the sheer brilliance of my application, or simply doing a favor for my parents, the local National Bank of Detroit branch manager offered to interview me for a part-time teller position they had open. It was the start of a 26 year career in banking. Had I known then what I know now? Well, after 10 mergers or take-overs, I’d have run screaming away when the woman offered me the position. But, at the time, I was young and dumb. And part-timers got health insurance. (Wait, maybe I wasn’t dumb after all.)

Training was in downtown Detroit. In order to save commuting time and gas money, I lived with my grandmother (the same one I lived with when I was born 19 years earlier) and took the bus to the office. I learned to love high-rise buildings and city streets. Concrete, business suits and briefcases replaced my dreams of a white coat, stethoscope and wriggly puppies in need of neutering. I knew then that I was never going to be able to afford to put myself through 10 years of schooling required to become a Vet, so I turned my attention to a new goal. Business School. Boss-dom. I now wanted to be in charge.

(Gawd help the world.)

When I did go back to school, in May of 1982, I attended the same University that I’m sending my son to today. I walked into the Admissions office and enrolled in summer school – telling the Admissions officer that I wanted to major in Management.

Why?

she asked.

Because I want to work in Personnel.

Here I am – twenty-eight years later, using that Management degree and working in the Windy City. All because of a particularly crappy time in my life where I pulled my ass up off the ground and decided I wasn’t going to fold.

I guess 1982 wasn’t so bad after all.

—- Except now, I have to end this so I can go upstairs and pack. That part still kinda sucks. —-

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