TBT: Our Collaborative Embarrassing Moments.

I want to shake up my Throwbacks to Hell series this week by making the humiliation more of a group exercise. Fun, right?! Must be the social worker in me. Therefore, this post is about ALL of us - our embarrassing childhood memories. I'm going to start us off by recalling some of my own, but it will be so much more fun when YOU all start telling us your stories. You can share them in the comments section (which can be done using your name or anonymously, depending on how awful the story is) or email me at gorgac1980@gmail.com. I'll update this post with everyone's shared moments. Bonus points for pictures, if you have some handy! (In fact, your embarrassing memory may solely consist of a picture. MEGA bonus points for THAT.)


Okay. Here we go.

:: In fourth or fifth grade, I was supposed to go over to my friend Sarah's house after school. At the end of the school day, we were gathering our papers and books at our desks, and I realized I had to pee. I crouched down to hold it in, pretending to rifle through the contents of my desk, but as I stood back up? I totally peed my pants. When we were riding the bus home, I told Sarah I thought we should play in the sprinkler at her house...even though it was springtime and pretty chilly outside. She gave me a funny look and said, "Okay. You can borrow a bathing suit, I guess." And I said, "That's okay! I'll just run through with my clothes on!" So we did, and I still don't know if she ever guessed why.

:: I also peed my pants on the fourth-grade field trip to Lansing - right before we got on the bus for the hour and a half drive back to school.

:: I slipped in the shower on vacation and cut my chin open when I was nine years old and refused to take showers again for a long time; I would only take baths. When I finally started showering again, my mom showed me that there was conditioner in the shower that I should start using. A few months later (MONTHS later), I was about to go take a shower, and my mom said, "Hold on, there's no more shampoo in there. Let me grab some." I replied, "That's okay, I use the conditioner now!" I had misunderstood her directions and was using ONLY conditioner, not shampoo. For MONTHS.

:: Okay, this one is actually an adult memory, not one from my childhood...but it's the one that sticks out in my mind whenever I try to think of embarrassing moments. Once, when I was a preschool teacher, I was talking to some parents at the end of the day while the kids ran in circles around us. One of the older siblings who was playing with my preschoolers ran behind me, and then pulled my pants down. And my underwear.

Not actually a picture from any of the time periods above, but
almost qualifies as an embarrassing moment in and of
itself. The bowl cut, the bangs, the Chandler smile,
the ruffled turtleneck, the vest. THE VEST.

Wow! Super therapeutic to share my moments! And by "therapeutic" I mean "dredging up horrific social anxiety and causing me to feel like a therapy appointment is necessary, stat."

Your turn!


******************** 
Leeanna said...
"When I was about 11 and my sister was 8, we would pick on each other all the time. I always made fun of her because her legs were so hairy (she was pre-leg shaving age). It would make her mad. So one day we were outside playing with friends and I called her 'Grizzla,' my go-to hairy leg name! And she yelled out, 'Well, at least I don't have spider legs on my crotch!!!' So embarrassing!!!" (For your viewing pleasure, here's a pic of Leeanna. Holy crap.)

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{Read about Kendal's awesome trip down the stairs in the comments below! Kendal, I did a similar thing in ninth grade, and of course my crush was standing nearby. OF COURSE.}

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Amanda* said...
"I remember this one time when I was 16 and I went to my boyfriend's house for Thanksgiving with his family. It was the first time that I was going to be with all FOUR of his older sisters and was terrified.

During dinner, his sisters started to make fun of 'Michigan sorority girls' - with their long hair, tight black pants, and baby blue sweaters. Picture me sitting there wearing, you guessed it, long hair, tight black pants, and a baby blue sweater. 16-year-old me was mortified and thought that they were straight up making fun of me at the table and that they all hated me. Cue the waterworks.

Little did I know that those sisters would eventually become my in-laws!  They claim they weren't making fun of me, but I'm still not sure!

To cap off the night- a friend of his oldest sister walked in on us kissing! Yay 16!"

*Ahem. My poor dear sister-in-law. I SWEAR I DIDN'T REALIZE YOU WERE WEARING THE SORORITY UNIFORM. I still feel guilty about it!!

Almost didn't post this because it's super cute and

not actually embarrassing. And yes, my SIL is

actually Alex Mack, AKA Bianca Stratford,

AKA Larisa Oleynik.

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{Yessss, J.J. commented with his story about ladies' underwear!!!}


********************
ANONYMOUS said...
"I got my period at 13. The day I decided to try a tampon I went into the bathroom with my instructions and it took me a whole lot of time to figure out how that cross section picture worked. Finally after what seemed like forever and was probably more than half an hour, I achieved my goal and ran down to the kitchen to announce it to my mom, extremely proud and excited. WELL, about a year later (I am 14 then), I get to my mom's best friend's house where I am greeted by her 11 year old daughter who tells me, condescendingly as I walk in the door: 'Ha, I did it on the first try.' Gee, thanks mom! That is when I realized that the confidentiality agreement was cut along with the umbilical cord.

[Hey, Anonymous: I have a similar first-tampon story that I'm actually too embarrassed to share. I forgot about it until I read your story!! Maybe I'll get up the nerve to share it later. Maybe not. lol]

********************
Michelle said...
"For the record, my whole life is a string of embarrassing moments (and I embarrass a lot less easily these days than I used to as a kid, when any unwarranted attention was MORTIFYING). One particular instance I am willing to share was 9th grade biology, first period of the day. On the day of our first semester final, my mom let me eat ice cream for breakfast. I finished my test just fine (and early), but started to feel not so hot. The class was not the closest to the bathroom, but I made it around the corner and was in sight of the door when I barfed. In my hands. All over my sweater. As some senior boy was coming from the opposite direction. Honestly can't think who he was at this point, but I can still recall the rest of the moment perfectly. Sweater was never the same."

[This is totally my nightmare. I hate barfing even in private and am TERRIFIED to barf in public. Also - how in the world did that get cleaned up? Did you have to go find  janitor? Ugh. UGH. TERRIBLE.]

********************
Carrie said...

"I pooped my pants on a walk with my friend. I tried to clean it up in her bathroom, and her parents thought the cat had shit in a houseplant but really, it was me. [Cathy: "Wait, you put your shit in their houseplant?" Carrie: "No!! I just stood next to it for a minute, so it was a particularly stinky area."] Then her sister, who was of course friends with my older sister, walked in the bathroom while I was trying to clean up the giant mess that was my pants. And somehow her dad was involved which was the worst because he was a *boy* and also my soccer coach."

[I have no words for you, sister. This is bad. Really shitty, even.]

********************

Who's next??? :) :) :)

TBT to 1991: The Parent Fight

Get ready, kids. This Throwback to Hell is way harsher, way darker, way longer, and way more real than our previous historical journeys.

...Except not really more real. Because from where in the world did I cull such a detailed drama about parents getting divorced? Not from my own household, that's for sure.

Check out this convoluted tale of a family in anguish, as documented in my 1991 novella, The Parent Fight. Please note it was published by a renowned local agency - my elementary school's "book publishing center" - when I was a 10-year-old fifth grader.

********************
The Parent Fight
By Cathy Gorga, May 1991

     "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!"
     Tony and Drew (my two little brothers) were fighting. Tony was chasing Drew around the house, and obviously Drew did not enjoy it. Drew and Tony are four and six. (Tony's older.) Dawn, my sister, is eight.
     I'm Melody Austin, and I'm ten. I'm the oldest in my family. Personally, I think it's really okay. You get more advantages. But you do get blamed for most everything.
     I've noticed my parents fighting a lot. I really don't like it. It makes me real nervous. I hear them fighting at nighttime mostly. Hopefully they will get over it.
     "Help! Melly! Melly! Help me!" Drew was still shrieking.
     "Hold it!" I said. "Tony, stop that! Drew hates it. Why are you chasing Drew anyway?"
     "He started it!" Tony exclaimed.
     "By doing what?" I asked.
     "Hitting me," Tony replied. "Besides, it's none of your beeswax."
     I sighed. "Drew, go tell Mom."
     "Okay. Thanks, Me-"
     Drew was cut off by the sound of...
     "Pam, where did you put my keys?"
     "Derek, I'm telling you I didn't touch them!"
     "Pam, I know you have them somewhere..."
     "Derek I didn't take them! Don't you trust me?"
     "Not anymore."
     My parents were fighting again. Dad stomped into the room.
     "Daddy?" Drew said in a small voice.
     "Yes, Drew?" Dad stopped stomping for a minute.
     "Daddy, I know where your keys are." Drew reached into his pocket.
     "Oh," Dad said sheepishly as Drew handed him the keys. Then he walked off into the kitchen. Whoa, I thought.
     That night I laid in my bed listening to Mom and Dad fight.
     "Derek, I can't believe that you can't trust me!"
     "Listen, I trust you. It was all a simple, little old mistake."
     "You said so yourself - you don't trust me! It's not a simple little old mistake. Drew took your keys but you blamed me! Why?"
     "Pam, listen, I'm sorry but -"
     "Nothing! But nothing!"
     I heard some mumbles. This went on for quite awhile. Finally I heard something.
     "We're going to have to work things out, Pamela."
     "How, know-it-all?"
     "Well, there's only one way..."
     "Yes?"
     "Pamela Austin, I think that...that a divorce is the only way."
     A divorce? I gasped.
     I didn't know for sure about Mom and Dad getting a divorce until five days after they said so. I was dying of suspense. Were my parents going to be - divorced?
     After I got home from school on Wednesday I walked in the kitchen and saw Tony Drew and Dawn already there. Mom and Dad were also there.
     "Honey," Mom said, "we need to talk to you."
     Uh-oh.
     Dad took a deep breath and said, "Well, kids, you know your Mom and I have been fighting a lot lately."
     "No, really?" I thought sarcastically.
     "So we've decided to do something about it," Mom said.
     "Kids, we - we're getting a divorce." Dad looked at us.
     "Now I'll be like Rachel," Dawn wailed. (Rachel Corn is her best friend.)
     Drew asked, "What's a divorce?"
     "It's when two married people decide they can't live with each other anymore, so they decide not to be married anymore," Mom explained. Drew started crying. Tony just stood there looking bewildered.
     "How could you?" I cried. "How on earth could you? You promised me that you wouldn't get a divorce and now what are you doing? Getting a divorce! You lied to me! You lied!" I ran off crying tears of anger and tears of sadness.
     I woke up the next morning and a question came to mind. Who was I going to live with? I asked Mom that question at breakfast.
     "Well," she replied. "Dad and I decided Drew and Tony were too little to make choices on their own, so they will live with Dad. It's up to you and Dawn to make choices for yourselves."
     Wow, I thought. This will be one of the hardest decisions that I will probably ever have to make. It took me days and days to make my final decision. Dad was moving to Kentucky. Mom was staying here in Florida. Dawn and I sat in my room talking.
    "I want to stay here, I guess. I mean, I know Mom better than Dad. I have more friends here. I like the beach but I still love Dad and I might like Kentucky. Oh, this is so hard," Dawn said.
     "I know," I replied. "I feel the same way. I love Dad, I might love Kentucky, you know..." I sighed. "I just hope I make the right decision."
     "Oh, no!" Dawn suddenly cried.
     "What? What?" I shrieked.
     "I just thought of something else. We have to decide about - well, it's either you go with Mom or you with Dad. And Drew and Tony, remember?"
     "Oh, my gosh! I totally forgot! Oh, great."
     "Well," Dawn said, "Mom said we'd be visiting whichever parent we didn't live with for three months each year. So, really, we'll still live with each of them."
     "I guess you're right," I said.
     "Well, I'm going with Mom," Dawn said.
     "Yeah...okay," I said. "Um, Dawn?"
     "Yeah?"
     "I've got some homework," I lied. "I better do it now, alone."
     "Oh, sorry. Well, talk to me later," Dawn said. "Or else."
     I smiled. "All right," I replied.
     As soon as Dawn left I closed the door. I had to think. I soon found my answer. I would be staying with...Mrs. Pamela Austin. I made my decision by taking Tony's t-ball hat, putting two slips of paper saying Mom and Dad in the hat, jiggling the hat, closing my eyes and picking the slip that said "Mom" on it, so that's who I would live with.
     Three weeks after I made up my mind, Dad, Drew and Tony moved to Kentucky. As soon as they left in Dad's Cadillac, I ran into my room and burst into tears.
     Mom knocked on my door a couple minutes later. "Honey? Melody? Can I talk to you?" she asked.
     "Go away," I grumbled.
     "Mel, I need to talk to you."
     "Leave me alone!"
     "Melody, I -"
     "Mom, go away! Now!"
     "Okay," Mom sighed, but she left me alone.
     "Dumb person," I mumbled.
     I sighed. Hot tears kept stinging my eyes. I wanted to cry. I wanted Mom and Dad to live together, along with Drew, Tony, and Dawn. This was not fair.
     Not one of my friends could relate to me, either. They all had two married parents. I started crying again. Mom and Dad were being unfair to me. But really, they were doing the right thing. And I knew it.
     At school the next day, I asked Miss Rodment, my teacher, if I could stay in for recess.
     "Sure," she said. "Read Larson has a tiny cold, so her mother asked if she could stay in, too. Hey, Melody, is anything wrong?"
     "My - my parents got...got...a...divorce." By the time I had said "divorce" I was almost whispering.
     "Oh, Mel, I'm sorry," Miss Rodment said.
     "It's okay," I told her. "It really is."
     "Okay. But I'm still sorry."
     I grinned. I found my hour and 15 minutes of recess quite helpful. I:
     1. Cleaned out my desk.
     2. Clean out my area.
     3. Finished all of my homework.
     After I was done with that, I cleaned out three bookcases. While Read and I worked, we talked.
     "I'm glad my parents aren't divorced," Read commented. "It would be really hard on Lewis and me." (Read's four year old brother is Lewis.)
     "Yeah," I agreed. "My Dad just moved to Kentucky yesterday. Drew and Tony went with him."
     "Boy," Read said after awhile. "My parents wouldn't ever do a thing like that. Or at least, they probably won't ever do a thing like that."
     "You'll be lucky if they don't," I told her.
     After months and months of having my parents divorced, I began to get used to it. And after months and months of switching from Florida to Kentucky, I finally got used to that. But the only thing I never got used to was holidays. They felt so...well, empty. But I suppose I'll get used to everything after awhile. But no matter what, I always will remember the good things that happened when Drew, Dawn, Tony, Mom, Dad, and I were one family, living together in one happy house.

********************

I can only imagine what the poor mother who typed up this story was thinking.  The publishing center was a pretty awesome concept - students wrote their stories and chose a fabric for the cover, and parent volunteers would type them up and create an actual book. Even the kindergartners could participate. My mom was legendarily active at our elementary school, including at the publishing center, and I'm sure the other volunteers knew who she was...and wondered if Mrs. Pamela Austin (gotta love how I utilized that full name, and repeatedly) was perhaps based on a true story.

Trust me, she wasn't. My parents rarely fought, and when they did, they didn't throw out lines like, "Pam, I know you have them somewhere!" I'm guessing this story grew out of my inadvertently-romanticized view of divorce, which I garnered thanks to a slew of YA authors in the '70s and '80s who did their best to spin it in a positive light. Judy Blume, Paula Danziger, Ann M. Martin - I spent my days and nights with my nose buried in their books, where I learned that, when your parents got divorced, you got to decorate two bedrooms, celebrate two Christmases, and potentially even be separated from your most annoying siblings (score!). But I had no personal experience with divorce...just made shit up for the publishing center. You know, though - my little sister pulled a similar stunt and published a story called The Drunk Boyfriend that is both entirely fabricated and PURE GOLD (please let me post it here!!), so maybe the publishing center volunteers were used to seeing some weird shit.

^^ Probably WANTED her parents to get divorced, just to be cool like
the kids in her favorite books. And maybe so she could get her own room.

Can we also examine my name choices? I know I wasn't the only one with a running list (from elementary school through...okay, currently) of my favorite names. I'd use them for my stories, but also whenever my sisters or friends and I played pretend. Melody Austin was one of my perennial top picks, likely because I had an absolute crush on Melody from the Nickelodeon TV show "Hey Dude". If I remember correctly, my little sister and I always argued over who got to be Melody when we played. My other names are pretty solid (ahem, solidly homogenous), including the surnames - with the notable exception of Rachel Corn, Melody's sister's friend. Also not sure where I came up with the name Read Larson, but can I just say that she is...kind of a bitch? "I'm glad my parents aren't divorced....My parents wouldn't ever do a thing like that." Newsflash to Read Larson: When your recess buddy is struggling because her folks just split up, don't throw your happy family in her face, okay? God. Bitch.

So, in conclusion, if you're ever stuck on a major decision, such as which divorced parent to live with, just throw your choices into your brother's t-ball hat. You, too, might get the opportunity to live with Mrs. Pamela Austin for nine months out of the year, and then with Derek for another three months, in the weirdest custody agreement and sibling configuration my 10-year-old brain could conjure.

Oh, and? If you need to suggest divorce to your partner, the coolest way is to say it just like Derek did: "Mrs. Pamela Austin, I think that...that a divorce is the only way." BAM.

Good Throwback Thursday to you, and don't forget to check out the rest of this series if you need to feel better about yourself for a little while.

TBT to 1993: "The Queen of Not-Fair-Ness."

Is there anything more emo than the summer before you turn thirteen? You're stuck at home all the time with your annoying siblings, your friends are all off at cool sleepaway camps (or, perhaps, Orchestra Camp), and there's no school to break up the monotony of suburban tween angst. It sucks.

...That's the only disclaimer I have in defense of the following journal entry, which documents the horrors of being twelve, including NO ONE understanding me, no one UNDERSTANDING me, and no one understanding ME.

Just in case the writing isn't humiliating enough, here's a picture
of me in my bathing suit, taken a few weeks after the diary entry was
written...tan lines and all. Whoever made the middle-school swimmers and
divers (I was a diver) take a yearbook picture in their bathing suits was evil.

********************
August 7, 1993
     My only wish in the entire world is for someone - anyone - to understand me, which happens to be one of the dumbest wishes in the world because I know and everyone else knows that no one will ever, ever understand me. And the thing is, I'M NOT HARD TO UNDERSTAND. It's just that I have no one to talk to that will be ready to listen. Even pouring out my feelings in this journal doesn't help much because the journal doesn't know anything to do to make me feel better, even though I've heard that writing down your feelings is great for the mind and it helps your self-confidence (which I happen to be a little low on lately). None of my friends (except Sarah) are home. They're all at camp or on vacation. (That's true. They are.)
     I suppose I'm grounded now because I just slugged Steve for being a little brat. He deserved it, though, and that's what nobody seems to understand. I guess, though, that that's partly my fault, because I can't explain why I hit him. It's been building inside of me for a long time, my hate for him. Finally now it's out of me (my hate for him is out of me, I mean), and look at all the good it did for me.
     No one understands how hard it is for me to be stuck in the middle of things. Half the time, I'm one of "the little kids," and the other half of the time I'm old enough to earn money and it's, "Cathy, gimme money. I need money and I'm too helpless to go to the bank and oh don't worry I'll pay you back."
     WHEN THE HELL IS EVERYONE GONNA PAY ME BACK?!!?
     It's just not fair!!
     Life's not fair, Cathy.
     Dammit, I know life's not fair. Who should know better than me, the Queen of Not-Fair-ness.
     Because I hit Steve, the hard-earned money used to pay for the Nintendo Game we got is going to waste because Mom said no.
     NOT FAIR.
********************

Well. That escalated quickly. I don't recall harboring such hatred for my younger brother, but there you have it. Sorry, Steve, that you were the recipient of my hormonal rage bubbling over. I also don't recall being my siblings' personal financier, and I'm not exactly sure what's up with me talking to myself towards the end of the entry ("Life's not fair, Cathy"). I think I really did wish that someone would stumble on my journal and just totally GET me and provide all the answers for me. I don't know who that someone was; probably an imaginary boyfriend.

And now look at me, with a husband who understands me all too well and enjoys nothing more than watching his wife and his daughter (the...Princess of Not-Fair-ness?) get into the ultimate Battles of Gorga-tude against one another. Can't wait to see what works of melodramatic art Rowan's tween years produce! After all, I've heard that writing down your feelings is great for the mind.

Yikes. Good night, and good Throwback Thursday to you.

(Find more Throwbacks to Hell here!)

::

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TBT to 1991: What To Wear To Orchestra Camp: An Illustrated Guide.

For this week's installment in our Throwback to Hell series, please rid your surroundings of any distractions so as to gain maximum enjoyment. Because, people, we have ILLUSTRATIONS.

Of what, you might ask? Not the optimal level of liquid hand soap as recommended by the Environmental Protection Agency; no, something much more relevant: what to wear to (are you ready for this?) ORCHESTRA CAMP.

I played the violin for...I don't know, maybe four or five years? I don't recall if I was good or bad, and all I retained from my years of school-based instruction is a dim ability to read music and a scar on my knee from that time I tripped getting off the bus and landed on my violin case. I quit in seventh or eighth grade, once my classmates started getting increasingly serious...and talented. More to the point, one year I was making my class schedule and had to choose between Dorkestra and Photography with ~*~Mrs. York~*~. It was no contest, and I went from smelling like rosin to smelling like stop bath without a second glance.

Prior to my photography-induced freefall into teenage emo-hood, though, I was a skinny fifth-grade graduate preparing for a summer trip to Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp. I'm pretty sure we were required to go to Blue Lake if we wanted to play violin in sixth grade, but I really can't remember. In fact, I had completely forgotten about Orchestra Camp until I stumbled on this journal entry.

Let me preface this by saying I STILL love to make lists of what to pack. But I don't...illustrate them anymore. *sigh* Here we go...

********************
Summer 1991

SUGGESTIONS FOR CLOTHES TO WEAR TO ORCHESTRA CAMP

(Thank goodness for the key at the top of the page, letting us know how to decipher the "white socks" drawing. Also, it's SUCH a relief to have those white socks as a backup if the purple socks just aren't possible. #blessed)

(Just to clarify, I had to actually draw the designs on my suggested shirts. For you Bloomfield Hills folks, there's an Eastover sweatshirt and a Surf Club t-shirt. Awesome.)

So these lists started out pretty basic, right? Pictures of what I planned to wear aren't THAT strange. But then I had to take it a (über-dorky) step further: a packing chart listing each of the items I planned to bring, organized first by clothing category and then by day. (omg.)

(When I say "good shoes," I meant my newest, and therefore whitest, pair of Keds.)

AND.

In the event that I was actively PACKING and simply couldn't decipher my previous charts, there was yet ANOTHER chart - a handy little packing checklist:

Should we double-check that awesome concert outfit? On POINT. And complete with photobomb by the girl in the background, who sort of stalked me during camp and then sent me letters for months and months afterwards. Awkward.

********************

A very happy Throwback Thursday to each of you, and may this shitastic week come to an end quickly and quietly (more on that tomorrow).

::

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TBT to 1991: Cathy G., Fifth-Grade Social Worker

Tonight I learned that my graduate school entrance essay was secretly composed back in the early '90s, when I was ten and so very worldly and wise. [Sarcasm font, for you in the back.] In other words, I found my fifth-grade school journal. I'm happy to report that although it was available for public consumption by my teacher and therefore not as rife with juicy gossip as my private journal (DO NOT READ!), it's still chock-full of utter shame and embarrassment. 

Let's take, for example, my astute editorials on three pressing global issues: poverty, war, and the environment. I'm telling you, I was clearly a born social worker.

(AKA, please don't judge my privileged tween self for the simplistic, classist, and redonkulous ideas I espoused via my red spiral notebook circa 1991. Also, whatever, it's not like any of you have eradicated homelessness yet, either.)

********************
Cathy G. on: POVERTY

January 8, 1991
POOR PEOPLE
     There is a solution to the poverty problem. We - people who have luxuries and don't need them - can give poor people food and even money. Maybe even luxuries!
     All over the world there are people who have luxuries (and don't need them) and people who don't have luxuries or food or money. We might be helping them right now, but we need to help poor people a lot more.
     We should help poor people before people that aren't poor become poor. Because the homeless problem is getting really out of hand. People should help lots of people. Lots!

[Props for my primary-prevention approach to poverty - helping people before they become poor - and my borderline-Communist approach to wealth redistribution.]


***************
Cathy G. on: WAR

January 15, 1991
     I'm scared about war. It affects so many people. I hate it. Saddamm Husane should be named Saddamm Insane.

[Editor's note: Sic on the spelling of Saddam Hussein's name, and please note that the "In" of "Insane" was underlined three times in the original text. For proper emphasis.]

[Editor's other note: Was this entry prior to or following the fifth-grade spelling bee, which I was favored to win, but where I lost in the first round because I failed to clarify whether Mr. Schrote meant affect or effect? Anyway, clearly, I DID know which one to use and when. #TheRealInjustice]


********************
Cathy G. on: THE ENVIRONMENT

April 22, 1991
EARTH DAY: The Three R's
     Want a landfill in your backyard? If your answer is YES, don't recycle, don't reduce, don't reuse! If your answer is NO, REDUCE, REUSE, and RECYCLE!
     The three R's may someday be the answer to lots of problems. You can recycle paper, cans, and other things. You can reuse almost anything. Reducing is cool. It helps. Cut back on lots, and you can reduce.
     Someday people will want to be packrats...because they'll be reusing things and cutting back on garbage.
     If you get junk mail, DON'T THROW IT AWAY -- you can draw pictures on empty spaces. Then you can hang it up all over. (WARNING - ONLY HANG UP PICTURES WHERE YOUR PARENTS WILL LET YOU!!!)
     Reduce, reuse, and recycle, and you can become part of the coolest club on earth...if there still is an earth by the time you join.

[Strong opening, and even stronger closing line, don't you think? Yeah, that's because I - no joke - used to pretend that I was a celebrity who'd been tapped to do a series of public service announcements about the value of...wait for it...reducing the overusage of liquid hand soap. I'd practice in the bathroom for my promo spots as follows: First, examine my hands and frown at how dirty they were. Second, squirt an infinitesimal drop of soap on said hands. Third, scrub hands under the running faucet. Fourth, glance up and notice the camera in my face. Fifth, smile and say, "Oh, hello! I didn't see you there. Did you know that just a tiny bit of soap can get your hands completely clean, even after playing outside for hours? You don't need four or five pumps of soap to get the job done. So next time you wash your hands, try to use less. Because -" - and here comes my AWESOME AMAZING TAGLINE, which I composed myself - "- a little goes a long way." Then, obviously, my smiling face would fade into a The More You Know shooting star streaking across the viewers' TV screens. In the meantime, the freaking water was running continuously from the faucet. But it's cool, water is an endlessly renewable resource, unlike...hand soap.]

[Also, look at me, always watching out for my peers by sharing lessons I apparently learned the hard way: "ONLY HANG UP PICTURES WHERE YOUR PARENTS WILL LET YOU!!!" Just doin' you a solid, friends.]

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Happy Throwback Thursday, and Happy New Year from all the old years that were, thankfully, so meticulously documented in stacks of diaries.

{Don't forget to check out the entire cringe-worthy Throwback to Hell series!}

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TBT to the 80s: So Many Santa's Laps.

My siblings and our families spent this past Sunday at my dad's house, decorating for Christmas. We scurried around like elves, unearthing box after box of twinkle lights and garlands (so. many. garlands). My older sister and little brother and I played a super-mature game of jump rope:

Me, catching mad air before getting tangled in the lights. For the record, this would
NOT have been allowed under my mom's supervision. (With good reason.)

Later, we had pizza, and I snuck away and found as many old Santa pictures as I could in our family photo albums. I might have to do a more thorough search soon, because these are PRICELESS. Enjoy!

1979: Just my two oldest sisters. I had to include this one because Carrie, my sister on the left, looks EXACTLY like her one-and-a-half-year-old son does today! It's eerie.

1982: Three years later, two more girls, and a booger in a Carrie.

1984: The first year with all five of us!

1985: Loving Carrie's glasses and Mari's balloon shirt in this one. Also, I totally remember the shirt Steve is wearing!

198???: The next two pictures are a source of debate among the five of us siblings. As I write this, we are still texting back and forth to determine which picture comes first, and what years they were each taken. I THINK the first one is 1986 and the next one is 1987. We've been using infallible logical principles such as "missing teeth," "presence of earrings," and "Steve could be anywhere from two years old to four years old" to determine the year of each picture, but we're still not sure. I'll have to check the originals next time I go back to my dad's house!

Also, a bonus pic from 1987 (or 1986, or maybe even 1988?), which I'm including because: Stacy's eyes (classic), Carrie cuddling Steve's hand (awww), and Stacy and Carrie's super-awesome filthy Keds, push-down socks, and tight-rolled jeans. Also, my outfit (coat with geometric designs, leggings, and puffy boots) looks straight outta 2015. #FashionGameOnPoint 

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And now, leaping through time to the present! You'd think the quality of Santa pictures would increase in the thirty years between my childhood photos and my child's photos, buuuut...not so much.

Rowan's first visit to Santa ended up taking about an hour longer than I'd anticipated, and I was still very new to juggling a breast milk pumping schedule and a teeny-tiny infant. By the time we finally made it to the front of the Santa line, she was overdue for a nap (read: cranky), my boobs were ready to explode, and I just wanted to get out of there. So, naturally, the photographer forgot to use a flash, and we got this crappy shot:

He offered to retake it, but we - I - needed to GO. I'm pretty sure I cried in the car on the way home. Ah, hormones.

The next year, we went with Carrie and her family. Rowan wouldn't go anywhere near the man in red, though, so I ended up holding her. It cracks me up that all three GorgEffen boys have the same facial expression here:

And then there's our picture from this year. Rowan shocked me by agreeing to sit next to Santa, but her little cousin Emmett was more weary. I love that my nephew Fin is so psyched this time around!

I made J.J. sneak a picture of Rowan after the photographer had officially finished, only because that's when Rowan finally decided she would sit on Santa's lap. His secret shot turned out pretty cute! I love her tentative little smile:

Hope you enjoyed this Christmas-themed trip down memory lane. And get hyped...because I found some other treasures while I was at my parents' house this weekend...perfect for some future Throwback to Hell features! Mwah ha ha ha haaaa...

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