I'm Big in New Zealand

And when I say "big" what I really mean is that they're burning me in effigy right now. Here's the sitch -- one of the gossip items I posted on Yeeeah! last week got picked up by a big New Zealand legitimate news organization. Well apparently, New Zealanders are fans of both Mena Suvari and shaved heads. Smarmy American gossip bloggers? Ehhhhhnotsomuch.

If you don't feel like scrolling through them all, here are a few of my favorites:

"Get out from behind your anonymous blog you fat ugly bastard! Typical American male chauvinist drivel."

"Why don’t you shave your hair off and when you’ve done that have a lawn mover run over your face."

"Who cares who is the more talented actor/singer with shaved head, they have more talent in a gram of their shit than the waste of space jealous slag who wote this shit. Get a haircut and find a real job douche."

"You f’n americans - when are you gonna grow up. Short hair on a girl is very cool, very sexy!"

"litelysalted SUCKS SHIT !"

No death threats, but fortunately they didn't have access to my personal email. So mayhap my publisher is getting those little nuggets. However, I would just like to say in my defense -- I have short hair! I've had "lesbian" yelled at me before by college kids passing by in an automobile. I don't care! I even think it's kind of funny, because I can laugh at myself.

I make fun of Mena Suvari because A.) it's my job and B.) I don't care much for Mena Suvari. I read once that she's a right-wing nutjob. And whether that's true or not the girl just bugs. Is that a crime? Jesus. They probably don't even know what a "flowbee" is in New Zealand, because if they did they'd know that's comedy gold.

Guess I can scratch New Zealand off of the list of places to see before I die.

30 Days Later

At the end of this month, in exactly 30 days, on the 30th of August, I will turn 30 years old. For some reason or another I've spent the past 11 months in a mild state of terror about this. So stupid, right? By this point I just want to get it over with so I can stop dreading it already -- kind of like when I was waiting to have my wisdom teeth removed. Infection notwithstanding, I think that might prove to be slightly less painful. Although -- Mr. Salted turned 30 a few years ago and he's fine! Right? A little worse for wear with some grey starting to show around his temples -- but overall still displaying a level of youthful exuberance.

There is one thing that's making me feel slightly better about this, and that's these photos that recently surfaced of actress Jamie Pressly's 30th birthday celebration. Becuase, damn! She's just turning 30? Man -- I may be old as dirt, but at least I look a hell of a lot better than this haggard tranny. You go girl, it takes a lot of guts to dress up like a Pirate Whore for your old lady milestone. But if you need me on August 30th? I'll be under the covers cradling a box of wine.

Spook Lane's Number One Threat*

I live out in the wilderness, and it's not unusual to see and hear a vast array of forest creatures about the property. For example -- earlier this week around dusk, I saw a deer standing about 10 feet outside our bedroom window; last week there was a flock of wild turkeys in the backyard (which, unfortunately for them I didn't see until after I threw the frisbee for the dog in their immediate direction); and the week before that we were awoken by a squirrel who had wandered in and made his presence known at 3:30AM.

Last night, Mr. Salty and I had the following conversation:

Him: Oh, just so you know, there's a black bear around here.

Me: What do you mean by here? Here in Berks County?

Him: No, here here. Tom [co-worker of Mr. S who lives a mile away] took a picture of it outside his house.

Me: And, you didn't think of telling me this before I went for my two mile walk earlier this evening?

Him: ::Silent realization -- followed by a sheepish grin::

Me: ::PissFace McGee::

Him: Well you had the dogs with you! Bears are afraid of dogs!

Me: It's a BEAR. And I went out at DUSK! That's when the bears come out!

Him: Plus they're only aggressive if they have cubs with them.

I think it's the dream of every little girl, to grow up and meet a Prince Charming who is totally indifferent to whether or not she gets eaten by a bear.

* Yes I really do live on Spook Lane. Please don't stalk me, though.

Tennis is Hard

As I mentioned in the comments in the post below -- I've been on vacation for the past few days. Due to our massive home construction project we couldn't actually afford to go anywhere this year, which was kinda depressing. Instead we just took some days to do work on the house and play outside and do whatever else is fun to do in the summer.

Well, because we have such fabulous fucking luck, we got slammed with a heatwave from Saturday to Wednesday, which were precisely the days we had off. It was too humid to finish painting, and too hot to do much outside. And since my car is having some kind of heat-related starting issues and his truck (aside from having broken AC) is also having problems, we couldn't so much as take a day trip. So basically, we just holed ourselves up for five days and acted like lazy people.

Pretty much the only thing of note I did all week was taking up tennis. Mr. Salty has been playing with his friends at work for a few weeks -- so on Tuesday we went out to the K-Mart and picked me out a shiny pink new racket. I don't know if shopping at K-Mart is any more PC then Wal-Mart (which I refuse) or Target (which I avoid) but dammit, we live in Berks County, Pennsylvania and where the hell else am I going to get a tennis racket? I'll say one thing for K-Mart's karma, they do employ handicapped people. Although to my discredit, after a long glance at the creepy retarded guy working the cashier with his tongue sticking out, (yes -- like a dog does) I put my soda back in the cooler because "I don't want that guy touching something I'm going to drink."

After getting stranded in the K-Mart parking lot for an hour after my car wouldn't start, (perhaps a dose of my own brand of karma after the soda incident) we got down to business. Now I haven't played tennis in a good dozen years or more (and even then my "skills" were questionable at best) but I figured, hell -- pushing 30 I'm probably in the best shape of my life! I should practically be a like a small, white Venus and/or Serena Williams on the court! I don't know why, but I always presume myself to have exceptional athletic abilities. When I was eight, I got it into my head that I wanted to play soccer. I fancied myself to be a natural at the sport, a virtual dynamo on the field! Which was, of course, reasonable imagined potential for an unusually small, pigeon-toed girl. If my parents were level-headed, responsible parents, they would have simply bought me a soccer ball so that I could carry out my fantasy in the backyard where no one would be the wiser. But since my parents were neither level headed or responsible, they went ahead and signed me up for a co-ed soccer team playing against boys twice my size, to have my dreams of prowess effectually crushed before me. I quit after one practice.

So it's no big surprise that I soon figured out that the fact that I can now run 5 miles in 45 minutes, or do big girl chin-ups has nothing whatsoever to do with any inherent tennis playing abilities. Apparently, being in athletic shape does not actually give you athletic abilities, like hand eye coordination and such. In fact, if anyone had been filming my performance, I guarantee you I would already be the next big YouTube sensation. I can see it now: "Spastic Girl Fails at Tennis." Mr. Salty could barely attempt to return my "serve" he was laughing so hard. Eventually, I got the hang of it enough that we were able to play a game of what I like to refer to as "Guerrilla Tennis," which simply means that there are no rules if you can manage to hit the ball back on the other side of the net -- whether it bounces three times or no times, each hit over the net is a minor victory. As I continue to excel at the sport, I think I may try to indoctrinate "Guerrilla Tennis" into the Olympics... or at least the Special Olympics.

The Coleslaw Incident

One thing that you would probably enjoy knowing about me, is that I am a fucking clumsy ass mess. Really, at any given time or place, I'm a 108lb bull in a china shop. By body is perpetually covered in horrifically unsexy bruises from run-ins with furniture, gym equipment, walls, canines, and any other object that might have a chance encounter with my person. I am not exaggerating this whatsoever -- to the extent that my doctor once prodded me to admit that I was a victim of domestic abuse. The latest crop of bruises include some scabby ones on my wrist and forearm from falling off a barstool. It was not one of my finer moments, considering that I wasn't exactly drunk at the time.

Luckily for me, I'm also fairly resilient. I've never broken a bone despite various feats of injury, which include getting thrown on my face by a wave as a kid, and having my braces insert themselves into my lower lip, getting hit head-on by a truck (a truck!) on my bike when I was 15, and the recent incident with a patch of ice that sent the bone in my elbow tearing through both my skin and a $150 cashmere sweater.

Some of the clumsiness is inherent -- after all, I was born pigeon toed. This was self corrected after the torment of junior high set in coupled with threats of surgery from my parents, who hated having a "defective" kid. But some of it is just plain laziness. One thing I would probably benefit from learning is not to pick up containers by their lids. This morning while preparing breakfast, I sent an entire canister of oatmeal careening to the floor. Sophie looked at the mess, and then with perfect comedic timing, darted her head up to look at me, eyes as wide as dinner plates. Since it was just oatmeal, (and not broken glass like the last time this happened) I laughed. This seemed to rest her nerves, and she tentatively approached the mess on the floor. Only after I said, "It's okay, you can have some" she gingerly tasted a nibble and then looked up at me again, confused as to whether or not she was supposed be be enjoying this impromptu snack.

As I was cleaning up dry oatmeal this morning, I got to thinking about the Coleslaw Incident. The Coleslaw Incident was one of the most fantastically outstanding messes I've ever had the good fortune of making in my entire life. I can't think of too many complimentary things to say about my mother, but if nothing else the woman makes a mean fucking coleslaw. The perfect combination of sweet and savory -- my mother's coleslaw is a finely-shredded (no prepared bags for this lady) work of art.

It was on Easter Sunday a few years ago, and Mr. Salty and I were once again grudgingly spending the holiday at my parents house. We got there early as usual, with the intention of pulling our typical "eat and run." So the two of us sat in the family room, bored out of our skulls while my dad was upstairs getting showered and dressed and my mother was in some stage of holiday meal preparation. It suddenly occurred to me that the kitchen was unoccupied, so I decided to sneak the coleslaw out of the fridge to score a little taste.

It should be duly noted, that when my mother makes coleslaw, she doesn't fuck around with quantity. If she's gonna shred and chop all of the shit, she's gonna make it worth her time. So I pull an enormous, lidded tupperware bowl out of the refrigerator containing no less than a gallon of coleslaw. I am not making this up. I set it down on the counter, and with a serving spoon dug out a heaping spoonful. Instead of doing the rational thing, which would eating the spoonful of coleslaw, and then putting away the bowl of coleslaw with two unoccupied hands, I instead chose to attempt to hold the bowl still with the elbow of the hand holding the spoon while I tried to squeeze the lid back on with my free hand.

Well. As I pressed on the lid trying to affix it to the lip of the far side of the bowl, the bowl did pretty much exactly what the laws of physics would have it do -- which would be shoot out like a greased pig from between my elbow and side, coming to a brief Wile E. Coyote stop in mid air, before plummeting straight down to the kitchen floor.

Now this is where the fantastic part comes in -- somehow, amazingly -- the trajectory, velocity, and position of the Earth around the sun made the conditions just right for the bowl of coleslaw to literally explode. It looked like a coleslaw bomb went off in my parents kitchen. There was not a conceivable surface in the room that was not completely covered in coleslaw. It was on the floor. It was on the ceiling. It was on the counter. It was on the underside of the counter. It was in the crevices of the cupboard doors. It was on me, totally caking up my right leg. It was matted in Sophie's fur (who was present for the day's festivities) and from earlier in this story, is pretty much accustomed to the sort of thing happening by now. If Mr. Wizard (God rest his soul) tried to recreate this scene, I assure you he would fail. It was just fucking incredible.

And I was just fucking horrified. I think a little wheeze of air came out from between my lips as blinding panic set in. As I took in the state of my parent's coleslaw covered kitchen, for a moment I completely forgot that I was a 26 year old who could leave whenever I wanted and imagined the obscene degree of ass kicking I was about to receive. But then as the menagerie of animals came running in for their Easter feast, and I witnessed the now two dogs and two cats furiously eating coleslaw off of the floor -- I remembered that I was an adult, so, tough shit mom and dad. Only then did I burst out hysterically and manically laughing before going to find my mother by calling, "Ohhh Mo-om!" in a sing-songy voice.

The the end, there was still enough coleslaw left in the bottom on the bowl (I told you, it was a lot of fucking coleslaw) to salvage for dinner; and I have to say it will probably go down in the chronicles of my personal history as the best Easter ever.

Uniform

Over in Meatworld, TK was recently mentioning how his father made him work construction summer jobs as a kid, as it was supposed to "build character." So it got me thinking a little bit about my own illustrious pre-professional career. Let me tell you, I got so much fuckin' character built into my system during my formative years, I've got it coming out my ass!

Here are some noteworthy excerpts into some of the abuse and torment I suffered at the hands of menial labor:

1993-1994: I was 15 when I got my first job at a local pharmacy/grocery/gift type of store. A couple of the 20-something female low-level managers continually harassed me, because apparently they found something threatening in my slight and affable quirkiness. One of them actually threatened to beat me up, standing in front of my register, after I wearily told her to fuck off. Nine months into the job I ended up quitting in tears, mid-shift.

1997: The summer after my Freshman year of college I got a waitressing job at a local seafood restaurant. After repeatedly fending off the advances and gropings of the 37 year old restaurant owner, "Lenny," I was eventually demoted to the lunch shift, (some new, sluttier girls got my weekend nights) which attracted so few customers I was forced to quit.

1999: The summer after Junior year of college I got a job at an Exxon station out of convenience since it was less than a mile from my parent's home. It paid minimum wage and when people stole gasoline it came out of my paycheck, although I'm pretty sure that was illegal. Let me just say, you can't fully grasp the concept of "demeaning" until you've cleaned gas station bathrooms. I quit soon after one of the cretins who worked there drop kicked a stale bagel into my face and almost broke my nose.

1999 (Pt. 2): Since the whole Exxon gig worked out so awesomely, winter break that same year I decided to try my hand at Sunoco. I lasted one day. The guy who eventually became my brother in law will probably tell you his favorite memory of me was walking into the Sunoco that day and seeing me with a coffee pot in each hand and that fruity fucking little necktie they made me wear; my face instantly turning beet red. I started plotting my escape about halfway through the shift.

2000: My last year of college I worked in a grocery store deli/seafood department. Definitely the most outstanding stopping point of our journey thus far. I think every American thinks it's his or her God given right to treat deli counter employees like pure shit. If you want to witness the lowest depths of human depravity, go observe people standing in line at a deli counter. One time two customers even got into a physical altercation in which law enforcement had to be summoned. I'm not even shitting you; one lady actually bit another lady.

It didn't help that the unsanitary practices of this store were nothing short of appalling. I was instructed to sell moldy cheese and rotting lunch meat, as well as lobsters and other shellfish that arrived to the store already dead. (Lobsters, crabs, clams and etcetera have to be alive when you you cook it, or you can get really sick.) When the little tubs of macaroni and potato salad sold on the refrigerated shelves expired, we were instructed to empty them into the tubs behind the counter to sell by the pound. Unsold rotisserie chickens? Went into storage for a couple weeks until we had accumulated enough to pick the spoiled meat from the carcasses to make "chicken salad" out of. Nothing was allowed to go to waste.

In addition to these atrocities, because of the unsafe working conditions I visited the emergency room twice in the three months I worked there. One time I cut the tip of my finger in half cleaning the cheese slicer and another time I slipped on a wet floor (MATS?? Are for pussies!!) and gouged my wrist out on a sharp, ill advised piece of metal sticking out of the wall. Here is photographic evidence of the lovely scar I carry with me to this day. (Next to my bitchin' tattoo, of course.)

2000-2001: In the transition between college and professional employment, I got a job waitressing at an upscale dining establishment, working for a maniacal tyrant who was fond of screaming obscenities and throwing objects at the wait and kitchen staff. On my first dinner shift he threw a bread basket at my head because I didn't know where they were kept. Another time he made me cry while I was waiting on a table which sat my 6th grade teacher. I ended up getting fired after a particularly hectic evening as a result of the kitchen cooking someone's steak wrong and a new bartender telling me that they didn't carry a regular customer's favorite brand of whiskey. It was probably for the best.

And there you have it! Getting through adolescence without at least one traumatizing work experience is pretty much fucking unamerican, so please feel free to add your own stories and anecdotes. Thinking back on it all kinda puts the following 6-7 years of cubicles and petty office gripes into perspective. Moral of the story? Stay in school, kids!

Petite-O

Being small in stature, I have learned to deal with some of the minor handicaps life has thrown my way. I need the assistance of a step stool to reach any of the taller cabinets in my kitchen, being able to see over the wheel is a major consideration when purchasing a vehicle, and my two medium-sized dogs outweigh me to the extent that sometimes our walks conclude with smoke pluming from my heels.

Well, I recently happened upon another affliction of my size. Apparently, I can't wear a shirtdress. It's only like, the hottest look of the season, PEOPLE! As if it's not bad enough that I can't wear capri pants, or anything with a "cropped" fit. Do you see this dress? Isn't it pretty? WHY DOESN'T IT FIT ME LIKE THAT?! At 108 pounds, I'm rather curvy for my size; but worrying about looking "fat" is still the least of my concerns when buying clothes. Yet somehow this... this devil garment managed to add 50 pounds to my small frame.

Enthusiastically I had ripped the dress, an online purchase, from the package... But within a moment my expression went from thrilled to horrified. Mr. Salted cackled away in the background, loving every minute of it: "It looks HOOOORRIBLE!!!!" Truly, it was horrible, like something my creepy hippie high school art teacher would have worn... Or a frumpy prairie marm surrounded by children.

Luckily enough, I managed to unload the dress on ebay, making a cool $35 profit. Maybe worth my pain and suffering. Hopefully whomever receives the cursed thing next is 5'9 and rail thin.

Note: Do you guys totally love it how I can seamlessly transition from Buffy fangirl geekiness to pseudo-politics to clothes? Such is the way of the Salted One...

Then again...

Maybe short hair isn't for me after all.
Damn you, celebrity look alike generator!!!!!

Confessions of a diet pill addict.

First of all I would like to apologize for my lack of updates lately. So, sorry to all of you who have been refreshing this site every day for the past week only to get hit with a glamour shot of J-Pad's mug, again. Even I'm starting to tire of it as I check for fresh comments, and I enjoy J-Pad's lovely face more than most.

Moving on. Here's what going on with me. I have my 10 year high school reunion coming up in a few weeks, and yes I'm actually going. I'm not sure why I'm going, because I didn't really have any friends in high school, and harbored a resentment towards 90% of my graduating class.

I guess I'm going mostly because EJ is going, and the two of us can have fun pretty much anywhere. EJ was more of an acquaintance back then, but has become a good friend later in life after we attended college together. Besides, let's face it. I turned out pretty reasonably decent considering my patchy start and who wouldn't want to show off a little? Let's just say it's a little fantasy of mine to get hit on by a guy who was mean to me in high school, only to administer a verbal kick in the nuts in response.

Naturally, I had to purchase a new dress for this occasion. Because what's the point of even going if I'm not going to look faaaaabulous? Not too long after I received the invite J. Crew had a massive online fall sale and I picked up this hot little pink number. Since the last time I bought a dress from J. Crew it was a size 4 and a smidge too big, I went with the "4-Petite" in lieu of a smaller size.

Unfortunately... the dress doesn't exactly fit glove-like as I had anticipated. Depending on my daily IBS symptoms, what and how much I've eaten in the past 48 hours, and lunar cycle it ranges from "fitting acceptably if you don't mind not breathing" to "that zipper is going to fucking break." And when is this blessed occasion, you may ask? Why the day after Thanksgiving, of course!

Now it would be all well and good to blame the dress, and blame J. Crew for making such wacky sizes... But let's face the music here people. Litelysalted has put on a few pounds. All this stress I've been under lately with the house, work, and random family drama has made nightly bingeing a thing of the norm. For the past month I keep saying that I'm going to stop eating candy every night so I don't have a "back buttcrack" the night of the reunion but with three weeks and counting the scale still said 111-112. (This might not sound bad to most of you... But keep in mind I'm very petite.)

However! Just this week, something has changed all that. Meet my new savior: hoodia! As I was ordering my "vegan sampler" at the health food store on Wednesday I noticed the display next to the register. I said to the ladies behind the counter: "I need to lose 5 pounds in 3 weeks. Is this the stuff?" And they confirmed hoodia's appetite suppressing abilities. After an unfortunate Diet Fuel addiction I swore that I would never do diet pills again, but drastic times call for drastic measures.

So that's it folks. After the first day of taking them I arrived home after work to find that Mr. Litelysalted (aka my enabler) had bought me a little gift in the form of a bag of gummy worms. I still haven't opened them! Two days later and I am already back to 110. My appetite is gone and has left only a faint headache in it's place.

Just call me Gimpy McGimpface.*

Or how about Gimpysalted? Nice. I'm going to be totally honest with you, my preciouses. I am being treated for warts. On my foot. Blech!! One is a plantar wart that has been there, oh, threeish years now and after half-assedly attempting a home remedy, I decided upon the "let nature take it's course" approach to wart treatment. That is, until a few weeks ago until it fashioned itself a little friend to grow next to it. So it was off to the doctor with me. Also I had a less serious bumpy wart my pinky toe which has been there since early summer (conveniently arriving a week before my sister's wedding), and I figured I would kill two birds with one stone; or two warts with one super-atomic wart freeze ray, if you will.

When I arrived at my first podiatrist appointment last week, I naturally assumed he would be employing some kind of Total Wart Annihilation method of removal. (See: super-atomic wart freeze ray.) How naive I was! Apparently this particular podiatrist prefers a more progressive practice of wart removal which includes weekly treatments (on average of 6 weeks) that need to be bandaged/kept dry for 48 hours, followed by home treatments for the rest of the week. After the first treatment I immediately screwed up the bandage after my attempt at keeping it dry while I showered (by wrapping my foot/ankle in a food storage bag secured with ponytail holder) failed miserably. This week I fared a bit better; by double bagging the foot/ankle, securing with electrical tape, and wrapping my foot in saran wrap as an extra preventative measure. Success!

But let me tell you, this hurts like a mother. I've been limping around pathetically all day. And then when people ask you why you're limping, what are you gonna tell them? That you have warts? Not only is that disgusting but it sounds like an assy excuse for limping around melodramatically.

Also: It's official. I have freak feet. My podiatrist said, of my horrible freak show monkey feet, that I have the "longest skinniest feet he's ever seen." Now that one thing coming from a regular person, but this guy is a foot doctor. He does nothing but look at feet all day, and mine are so much something of a spectacle that he deems it worthy of comment. Shoot me now.

* Sorry no image for this blog. But here's some advice. Should you ever, for whatever reason, decide to do a yahoo image search for "wart," (and I don't recommend this in the first place) whatever you do DON'T do it on a full stomach of cottage cheese. Now please excuse me while I hurl.

EDITED**** 10/12 By popular demand, a photo of the monkey freak feet. Yes these are my real feet. And no, I'm not showing you a picture of the wart, because, gross. But you can see the band-aid covering the small bumpy wart. Bon appetit!

Confessions of a sissy child.

Beloved readers: Some of you know me in person; many of you know me only by my ubiquitous pseudonym. Small in stature, I'm the toughest motherfucking girl you know. But right now? I'm about to deconstruct all perceptions of what you think of me.

In some aspects I was fearless child; performing daredevil stunts on my bike, picking fights with bigger kids, catching and keeping as pets various reptiles and amphibians, and climbing to the highest branches of the tallest trees. I even punched my kindergarten teacher. In the face.

But I was terrified of any kind of imagery depicting horror or the paranormal. Now don't you worry, I outgrew this mild form of retardation by my early teens and subsequently inhaled the entire works of Stephen King by the time I was 17. But for now, here for your amusement are some random things that tormented a young litelysalted.

Ghostbusters: Compared to some of the other things you'll find on this list, Ghostbusters was pretty damn scary. Except that I was also afraid of the music video for the Ghostbusters theme song, because it showed scenes from the movie, including that skeleton driving the cab. Don't even get me started on the Fat Boys' Are You Ready For Freddy.

The horror section at the local video store: When I was growing up the video store in our town was a combination mattress and video store. I shit you not. But that's besides the point. To get to the children's section where I would invariably rent The Last Unicorn or a compliation of Disney shorts, I had to walk past the horror movie section. I was so scared of all those horrible boxes with grinning skulls and titles in dripping blood lettering I would have my mom cover my eyes as we walked past.

Pee Wee's Big Adventure: I had a love/hate relationship with this movie. I loved Pee Wee, but I hated the part where Large Marge's face wigged out. We had this movie on VHS and I actually made my mom record over that part of the tape so whenever I'd play the movie it went to like, a commercial for Oreo Cookies at that part. (My poor mother must have been so ashamed of her retarded wussy child.)

Ghost Stories: We all remember those great Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark books, right? Well, obviously I avoided those. Except for this one time, which will be forever known as The Crown Jewel Of Childhood Humiliation. Third Grade. Halloween. As a special treat, one of the class mothers' came in to read stories from this book. I won't get into details, but I will say the incident ended with me crying, sitting in the hallway, and holding my teacher's hand.

Amazing Stories: For the most part, I loved this show. It was a poor man's Twilight Zone created by Stephen Spielberg, and most of the stories were fantasy based, feel goodey schmoop. But there was this one episode in particular, Mirror, Mirror, which featured a horror writer who would see a phantom trying to kill him everytime he looked in a mirror. This scared the bejeezus out of me to the point where it was literally a good 5 years before I felt that I could safely look into a mirror.

Recently I rented this show on DVD, and actually felt quite nervous playing this episode which had haunted me for the better part of my childhood. I started watching it, creeped out as I anticipated the phantom, which of course turned out to be embarrassingly stupid and not the slightest bit scary. (And played by Tim Robbins, I soon after found out.)

Honorable Mention: I won't go so far as to say this tormented or terrified me, but for some reason I really did not care for the intro scene from You Can't Do That On Television. Something about the way the guy's face cracked and fell apart inexplicably rubbed me the wrong way. So much, in fact, that I used to change the channel or leave the room when it came on.

Super Nerd

Here is another photo of me. The two main differences between this photo and the other photo I posted, is that I'm a girl in this picture, and it was taken in 1990, not 1978. So, in other words, this one is really me.

Ahh, childhood innocence. I look pretty happy here. And why not? Junior High was still a year away, when the sadistic daily torturings would commence. Plus, I was the only girl in the 6th grade with a boyfriend. Oh, you don't know him, he goes to another school. (Which was probably a good thing, because he looked just like Paul Pfeiffer.) We would ride bikes together while he did his paper route, and later head to his place to drink soda and play Nintendo and/or read Nintendo Power. Pretty romantic stuff.

You know, I'm always getting compliments on my awesome style, and I'm sure people often wonder if I was always so incredibly fashionable. Well, here is your answer. You can't see it, but the plastic red sneaker ponytail holder affixed to my limp "side ponytail" perfectly matches my converse red high top sneakers that I was actually wearing with that outfit. Pretty sweet. I was so ridiculously proud of that outfit.

Stop your blubbering, fatty!

This is me when I was a kid. I know what you're thinking, and yes, it took an unimaginable amount of squat-lunges to whittle my thighs down to the svelte twigs you see today. (Although I still am afraid of carousel horses.)