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. —-

• Spending the day with Shortman yesterday.
• Watching winning Eagles basketball.
• Mr. Hot’s lentil soup.
• Scoring an exit seat on my flight out in the morning.
• Finding forgotten hotel chocolate in my purse.

—- Small, minty squares that were left on the pillow come in very handy when your stomach is growling. —-

Wage a battle against embitterment and take part in Grace in Small Things. Thanks to Schmutzie, as always.

Not mine, silly. Per the requests of Shelly at Not The Daddy and Rachel from Tales of My 30s, I’m reliving 1976. Another excellent choice with some real life changing events.

I was in seventh grade – changing classrooms every hour for the first time ever. A bunch of new teachers, but the only one I remember at all taught Social Studies. His name was Mr. A-something-or-other, I think it was Armenian, and he was nice enough, but the only one that called me out on my 7th grade new-identity experiment.

See, I figured that by going to a new school, with new people, I had a chance at re-invention. Part of that process included changing the way I spelled my first name. No, not Ree – I wouldn’t have had much luck with that, I fear – but the name I was born with. Which ends in an -i. Since my sixth grade teacher had made some snarky remark about how many girls my age had names than end in an “i”, I figured that by changing it, I was DIFFERENT.

Wow. I guess I just realized that that’s kinda been a theme throughout my life.

Annnywayyyyyy. The way I was spelling it was not the way it was on his roster, so he called me on it. And I refused to spell it the way it was on my birth certificate.

Maybe that’s why I never saw any of my homework returned.

Seventy-six was also the year that my Dad no longer had to be a resident of the city in which he worked. See, the powers-that-be had insisted that all cops reside within the city limits. That year, though, they changed that rule and only mandated that they live in the same county.

Along with that change came the freedom to move out of our tiny house in the suburbs and into the country. Five wonderful acres with a barn and a pond were in my future. Horses, cows, chicken, geese, dogs and cats. ALL in my future. It was a wonderful way to get through teenage years. Oh, the chores sucked donkey balls (not literally, we never had any of those), but plenty of room to get away from family members certainly didn’t hurt.

The nice thing was that although we weren’t moving until summer vacation, we (and by we, I mean MomandDad of course) had signed the purchase agreement and were 100% certain that this Shangri-la was going to be our new home. We befriended the current owners – who immediately hired me as a babysitter – and I got to spend many weekends hanging around with their toddler son as a mother’s helper.

There was little or no pay for my time, but the other perks were endless. Fresh air. No siblings. No parents. I was treated like an adult(ish). I had my.own.room. Heaven.

One weekend while I was not having to deal with my family watching little Jonathon, their Great Dane Athena was in heat. She was a beautiful brindle they were intending to breed (they were not irresponsible pet owners). As Jonathon and I were playing in the yard, we noticed that Athena was missing. Calling for her, I saw her ears sticking up out of some long weeds over near the pasture fence.

I started towards her, hoping that she hadn’t gotten tangled in any of the barbed wire. I got closer. She still wasn’t moving. Now, I was less worried about her being stuck and more worried that she was sick.

Closer. “Athena. C’mon sweetie. Let’s go. What’s wrong?”

She still wouldn’t move.

Finally, with about 10 yards to go, she got up and sauntered towards me – tail held high. Breathing a sigh of relief, I jogged towards her, Jonathon trailing behind me.

THEN I saw what had been keeping her occupied.

The male daschund from next door had been…well…having his way with her. I hadn’t seen him because she LAID HER ASS DOWN for him to be able to get to her lady bits.

Snatching her by the collar, I hauled all 150 pounds of post-orgasmic-Dane up to the house and yelled at Christine.

Chris! Athena and one of the weiner dogs were just in the pasture together! Oh my gawd!!! I think he was on top of her.

I have to admit, I had to try really hard not to laugh.

Chris called the vet, loaded Athena into the car, and whisked her away for a morning-after pill.

Athena survived. Chris survived. I survived. The vet said that any hanky-panky probably wouldn’t have resulted in any viable puppies, but – since I now own a Chocolate Lab/Daschund mix – I’m a little suspicious about that particular statement.

Summer came. We moved. I started spelling my name the way it was on my birth certificate again. I still had to share a bedroom, but there were plenty of other places to get away from everyone (the barn was an awesome hangout). And there were plenty of adventures waiting for me during the nine years I called that place home.

About 8 months after we moved in and Chris and her family had moved down to Florida, we got a call. Our baby was being loaded onto a flight from Ft. Lauderdale. All 30 pounds of 12 week old female Dane puppy. We named her Habibi – “beloved” in Arabic. She lived with us for the next 14 years – the same vet that had treated her mom that day proclaimed her “the oldest Dane” he’d ever heard of.

—- And yes, she was ALL Dane. Not a speck of daschund anywhere in her. —-

Pretend I’m whispering this since it’s supposed to be wordless.

I lost a day this week. Actually, all of my days are running together since I’m buried under Day 728 of January. Don’t tell me there aren’t more than 31 days in January – I got to the office this morning at 7:20 and left at 8:05 tonight. THEN I got to the hotel, logged in, and answered emails and filled in blank spreadsheet cells for another 90 minutes. My eyes are crossing and I can’t spell or type any longer. /whisper

Shilparaman – the craft village where I bought a shirt that was way.too.tight.

Schoolgirls on a field trip. I loved their braids and their uniforms.

The sign in front of the ’spa’ at the same craft village. I hope the sign is legible – it was the reason for the photo.

No, I didn’t use the facilities.

These were all taken in Hyderabad on Saturday, December 5th, 2009. Why does that seem so long ago now?

—- Tomorrow – 1976 relived. The Hotfessional goes to Junior High and moves to the boondocks. Now, though? zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz —-

1969 then… two years after the famed (infamous?) “Summer of Love” – Woodstock, hippies and all that stuff – Google it if you really don’t know. Maybe that’s how YOU (directly or INdirectly) came into this world! … Yeah, I know you’re only 21, but pretend, eh?

That comment came from AF – over at Scandalous. Now, how am I supposed to deny someone who would flatter me like that? (Oh, and AF? I may have only been 6 in 1969, but dude. I AM a child of the 60s.)

Oh, there are things I remember about this year. I was in Kindergarten at John Hill; Mrs. Staub was my teacher, Mrs. Marvin was student teaching that year. I loved them both – as only a kindergarten girl can love a teacher. Mrs. Staub was a skinny version of my favorite grandmother. Mrs. Marvin was young and beautiful. We all wanted to dress smartly in shirtwaist dresses with fashionable, but comfortable heeled pumps.

It was the year I had my first boyfriend, Roy M. (the SMARTEST boy in our class, both of his parents were math teachers, for cryin’ out loud). I learned to play Duck, Duck, Goose. Roy always goosed me. Snirk. One afternoon, during circle time, Mrs. Marvin asked us all what we wanted to be when we grew up. All of the girls responded with “Teacher” or “Nurse”. Thinking I was being very clever and non-conformist, I answered “Secretary”. It still makes me giggle to think about it. I guess I ended up in the corporate world, but I’m sure all of the Administrative Assistants that I’ve dealt with in those many years would laugh hysterically thinking about me trying to do what they do in the course of the day.

My sister was born in February – right after Valentine’s Day. My brother and I were sent off to stay with Gramma until Mom and Ski came home from the hospital. My new baby was beautiful – gorgeous, thick black hair with a blond streak running down the back of her head (seriously – how unfair is that?) and a tooth already in her mouth. Dressed in her red snowsuit, she looked just like a little Inuit baby – and therefore, forevermore, she will be Skimo to me. It drove me crazy when she got older and kept me awake gnawing on her crib slats (really, Mom, couldn’t you have gotten her a teething ring instead?), but in 1969 she couldn’t pull herself up to chew she was small and cuddly and always smiling.

My grandfathers both died in 1969. My dad’s dad, who I never remembered being out of his sick bed, finally succumbed to colon cancer on February 20th. My mom’s dad suffered a fatal heart attack exactly two weeks later. Birth and death. Even at 5 1/2, I was struck by the circle of life. (Cue Disney song here…)

But, I don’t want to just list through things – I really want to think of a defining moment – to tell you all a story – and this is probably the one I remember most from that year.

In the garage was my bike. The turquoise two-wheeler with training wheels that I sped back and forth down the street on – from my house to my best friend Laurie’s house. Eventually, the training wheels were so bent that it was obvious that I wasn’t really using them any longer and off they came. Patty (our babysitter extraordinaire) held the back of my seat as I peddled furiously. She ran behind me, yelling, “Just look where you want to go and you’ll go that way!”. I looked back at her to see what she was saying, and promptly steered off the sidewalk and into a tree. I guess if this had been 25 years later, I would have been wearing a helmet, but no one was worried about brain injuries then. Besides, I didn’t even get scratched.

Three or four hundred A few more attempts and I had that sucker down. I could ride a big girl bike! I imagined riding to school instead of walking (yes, I walked myself to Kindergarten – it was only down the block); going to see school friends that DIDN’T live on Birchwood. Freedom. I can haz it.

Then came the fateful day that I saw MY BIKE with the training wheels back on. And my brother riding it. My bike. My freedom. WTF? What did a boy even want with a turquoise two-wheeler? I was pissed and let everyone know it. It was probably the first time my parents called me selfish (okay, not the last) and Patty sang “Big Girls Don’t Cry” to me. But it didn’t matter. It was my bike, not his.

Things got worse. It was my birthday and Mom promised she’d come walk me home from school. The bell rang – we walked out the door – and … No mom. I trudged along – thinking of all of the injustices I’d endured – and here I was, barely 6. How was I going to get through the next 30 years if I had to suffer like this at my young age?

Then I turned the corner. And there was Mom – wheeling a LAVENDER bike towards me. With a banana seat! And tall handlebars with streamers!

All was forgiven in that moment. I thought that I might just be able to survive to become an adult.

—- Who had the #1 Billboard song at the end of October 1969? The Temptations. As a Detroit girl, you gotta know I love my Temps. —-