My brother and I were sorting through old photo albums the other day and reliving some of our most regretable fashion and hair decisions of the late 80s and early 90s. One set of photos brought me back to the single greatest moment of my childhood: going to my first concert, New Kids on the Block.

This was an ironic set of photos to come across as I had recently told a group of coworkers that this was my first how during a Zoom meeting. The host asked us to go around and discuss what some of our first concerts were. I love these questions, you get a little glimpse into the past of your coworkers, and I love me some tea. When the conversation started to wind down, someone asked “does anyone have an embarrassing one, like New Kids on the Block?” Well sir, thank you for asking, because while that was my first concert, I am so far from embarrassed.

Travel back in time with me will you? Summer of 1990, I was 11 years old on the cusp of turning 12. For some reason, I felt like 12 was the peak of coolness. It would be the last year of my childhood as far as I was concerned. I was about to enter junior high which meant my classes would be on the newly renovated 3rd floor of my Catholic elementary school, and a slightly elevated version of my school uniform would now be available to us upperclasswomen: a skirt and cardigan option instead of the classic jumper. What a time to be alive! Shit was about to get REAL for me. Attending this concert was going to be my first introduction into that young adult teen life that I’d been reading about in BOP and Tiger Beat and I was counting down the days.

I had received the concert tickets from my aunt Peggy for my birthday. Peggy will get another entire blog post dedicated to her fucking bad assery, but I will just say she was the most entertaining person I had ever met at this point in my young life and I was obsessed with her. To make this event even more spectacular, her sons, my hilarious and epitome of cool 20 something year old cousins were coming with us and we would be traveling by limo to Foxboro Stadium to sit in the 10th row. Let me just say that as a very poor kid who grew up with next to nothing – this was Kardashian level shit. I had arrived.

Not not to be outdone in the cool aunt department, Peggy’s sister Mamie took me shopping for the big event. We picked out a black and white polka dot one piece ensemble with black patent leather kitten heels and an anklet. What a scandal. Let me tell you how good all of this was about to look with my short asymetrical Salt N Peppa inspired haircut, acne, giant glasses and braces. Jordan Knight was about to be astonished by my beauty.

We got on the road early so the limo could drive around town and look for any of my friends houses so I could beep and wave, because, I was a celebrity. As we got on the highway we encountered many other limos with home made signs displaying their love for Joey and Donnie and I felt like I had found my tribe. As the limo slowed to a stop to sit in concert traffic, the limo beside me rolled down a back window to allow the very cute group of teenage boys to pop their heads out for some air. I rolled my window down because they needed to see “all of this” and they erupted in laughter and gagging gestures as well as words I had become very used to by that point as a young slightly hideous ginger. This was how most boys responded to me at that age and I wasn’t about to let typical haters ruin my night, they couldn’t steal my sunshine because fuck them.

We finally arrived and it was pure magic. PURE MAGIC. When Jordan, Joey, Danny, Donnie and Jon took the stage I experienced every single emotion and then a few more. I could not stop crying happy sobs…it was so overwhelming. I belted out every single word and jumped up and down for hours. The only time I stopped yelling and jumping was to witness my aunt try to fight the girls behind me who yelled at me to put my giant poster board down. No ma’am I will not, Jordan needs to know how much I love him; this glitter took hours to create the perfect cursive message, you will just have to deal. She did NOT want to deal, at all. In typical Aunt Peggy fashion, she informed the one mouthy girl that if she spoke to us one more time she would rip her eyeballs out and feed them to her, so on I proceeded with my sign holding euphoria knowing damn well Peggy would make good on that promise. What a legend.

Even though I have many amazing memories of other shows I’ve seen since, I can remember that night 30 years ago like it was yesterday. And you’d better believe I continue to see them in concert every time they tour and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future the very second when concerts become a thing again. These days I attend their shows with my group of girlfriends who share that same sense of pride and love for that time in our lives. It takes us back and brings us all together in an indescribable way. So yes, New Kids was my first show, but no I can’t say I have an embarrassing first concert story. I have an epic tale. Sorry if it’s not cool enough for the elite music listeners out there, but I have never been cool anyway and that’s just fine with me, I’m completely happy with my basic, lame, dorky and all the other words I’ve heard, taste. I think Sheryl Crow said it best “if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad”.

2020, what a blast in a glass, ha? Well, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve taken the time to actually write something, but today, I felt inspired. Maybe it’s the 70 degree sunshine, or the 4th cup of tea, or perhaps it’s having picked up an absurd amount of dog poop today, but whatever it is, here we are, so welcome.

At the beginning of this super fun pandemic I was killing it with the time managment. I was doing it all: working out in the morning or during lunch, eating healthy meals that I would cook everyday, keeping the house spotless, journaling, emailing friends and family, reading so many books, and saving money. I lost 17 lbs, paid off some debt and had a super clean and organized life. I was #quarantinegoals. But then, I don’t know man, summer came in and I was just…over it.

Restaurants opened back up and it became my personal mission to support the living shit out of them. I so badly missed the dining out experience that I wanted to go to restaurants constantly. Maybe it was the reintroduction of trans fats and simple carbs into my blood stream, but around this time I also became addicted to my couch. I’d get up at 6:30 and sit on the couch until I had to get ready to work. Gone were the long showers, sleek hair styles and flawless(ish) makeup of early quarantine. No, that time was better spent watching YouTube Amazon haul videos, makeup tutorials, and other foolishness, and alas, the messy bun, concealer, and chapstick look of the summer was born. Outfits? glad you asked. I had made a solid commitment to never wear sweats or leggings while I work from home in the beginning. But then I bought a few pairs of leggings and every last ounce of hope was drained from my chunky body. My look can now be described as somewhat of a style mullet…business on top, complete friggin white trash disaster on bottom.

Now that we are staring down the end of the 8th month, I’m trying to remotivate to get back to early quarantine Jill before the fancy winter blues kick in. It’s a slow process, but I believe I can get there, I MUST get there before the creators of Honey Boo Boo come knocking to offer me a show about being a secret shit show. Although, if any networks are looking for an overweight 42 year-old ginger with scoliosis, asthma, a janky ring finger, and a fresh mouth to join their television family, holla at ya girl.

For the better part of 4 decades I have been fiercely dedicated to Boston’s trusty, rusty transit system, the MBTA. As a child my mom and aunts would tote me along on buses and trains to shopping trips downtown or to the South Shore Plaza. As a teen, the T was my absolute lifeline for hanging out anywhere within a 10 mile inner city radius with my friends. In my 20s, it became my loyal work transport, and of course by T was how I got to and from every ridiculous match.com date I ever had.

The things I’ve seen and smelled on these journeys could fill a small country. Every tine I step into a T vessel I know there is a chance I am going to be wildly entertained, repulsed, or charmed in some way.

When I’ve ever looked quizzically upon an unidentifiable substance and wondered “what is that ?”, it’s usually best that I don’t figure it out. Sometimes though, in dark times; my nose has been able to answer that for my eyes, those are rough memories …

But as a very short woman, the one true mystery that has plagued me for a lifetime is, “what’s worse? standing on a crowded train directly under the armpits of the people tall enough to hold the upper bar; OR sitting on a packed train and having the midsection of fellow passengers within mere inches of my face.

Take tonight for example. I made the mistake of sitting in the end seat closest to the door . This means, that at full capacity, when the door opens the person standing closest to me is going to have to squish in real, real, tight. What then, you might ask? Well then my shoulder has an ass crack on it; that’s what. So right now as I type, I have the entire ass of a stranger on my shoulder, I dare not make a move as this will end poorly for both of us. So I stare straight ahead, acting nonchalantly unaffected.

But if you recall; the train is packed. So the person standing directly in front of me is now being pushed in even closer by the new crop of passengers trying to squeeze in. This means, I’m now eye to , well, crotch, with my neighbor to the north.

So like any seasoned vet of the MBTA, I look down and stare at my phone and think of a time not too far from now when passengers will depart and my eyes and nose can be free to operate with reckless abandon. I dream of the long, hot shower I will take and 24 types of soap my shoulder will be scrubbed with.

Wine, you’re up !

Like many other private citizens looking for the best of their community, I have subscribed to a few of my towns Facebook groups. These are super handy when you’re looking for a local guy to scrape the ice off of your roof after a blizzard, someone to cut down the tree that is tapping on your head when you leave the window open for a mid afternoon nap, or to find out who makes the best local pizza (it’s Capone’s, fight me).

Can you get all of this information here? Sure! But you know what you can also get? Annoyed as all eff. Good lord man, how do some of these folks have the god given time to post and comment on these pages all the live long day? 90% of the content on these pages is a complete train wreck. And you know I can never turn away from a train wreck.

Today, a life long resident of my fine town posted a long review of a BBQ restaurant that he and his friend tried out. As he rated each of the dishes I found myself thinking, I like what I’m reading here, I want to try this place. But then, he rates the cornbread. Sigh. He says “no rating here because all cornbread is the same.”

Exsqueeze me?? The same? The SAME?? Sir I’m going to have to suggest you take several seats. As Danarys Targaryan said “you are small men, not worthy of judging cornbread, but I am, and so I will.” Perhaps I missed a word or two in there but that’s how I remember the scene. Drago forever.

Where was I going with this? Oh right, cornbread! I respect a man’s right to review a meal, but sometimes it is best to stay in ones lane. As much as I would love to put my two cents in on the comment thread, I must sadly abstain. Nothing good has ever come from my interjecting on an empty stomach.

So what do you think? Is all cornbread the same? If not, what’s your favorite, and I’d like to try some please.

No three words have been more equally destructive and satisfying as these three. “Treat yo Self” should really come with a disclaimer, “Treat yo self, except you Jill, you’re good”.  I can safely say I have treated myself into a mountain of credit debt and 40 extra pounds. I’m not proud of this, but I am enjoying the eff out of the short time I have left on this planet. As the great philosopher and prophet, Aria Grande sings to us “I see it, I like it, I want it, I got it.”  I do admire that little beponytailed genius. I may not be able to treat myself on her level, but there is something to be said about the whole “yolo” mentality that she is referring to.

Look, most of our money has to go toward bills, I know that, I do. But a girl just needs some oomph every so often! Now I know I can go overboard on this “oomph”, and there is room to cut back. Case in point, eyeshadow palettes, lip gloss, and bath products. It’s possible that I have enough. I can’t however ever get enough concerts, trips to Europe, and monthly deep tissue massages. I will never give these things up. Thanks to Groupon, Travelocity, Living Social,  and so many other discount sites, a lot of the treating myself can be done on the cheap, and I do love me some cheap! But you can’t put a price on 90 silent minutes of perfectly applied pressure on your muscles.

There is however, another meaning to “treat yo Self” that goes beyond material and physical objects. I believe in treating yo Self to people’s energy. What I mean by this is spending time with positive people, people with incredible energy and good vibes that give you the same kind of warm and fuzzies as new shoes, Oreos, or Kylighter.  If you’ve ever felt your heart rate increase and your face light up when you see a person, you get what I’m saying. This doesn’t mean romantically, this can happen with your best friend,  your favorite coworker, or even your favorite bus driver or train conductor. I like to treat myself to good energy. If I know a conversation or interaction with a person is going to leave me laughing, smiling, or wanting to do better, I’m going to treat myself to time with them. Plain and simple.

What are your go to “treats?” Anything you refuse to give up even when trying to stick to a budget? Favorite indulgence? Tell me! And if you’re ever looking for someone to justify your latest splurge, holla at ya girl, I specialize in treat justification!

You guys, did you know that there are people out there who do their chores and pesky errands as soon as they need to be done? Hence, actually enjoying an occasional lazy weekend free of guilt and anxiety? These unicorns really do exist, and what should come as a complete shock to absolutely no one, I am not one of these people.

A constant state of chaos and deadline looming panic must be good for my metabolism right? Keeps the old ticker beating strong ? Strangely, no. As a life-long procrastination champ, I have a tendency to build myself a little pile of “shit that I still need to do”. Until eventually that pile becomes “shit I really should have done last week”, and finally the “omfg get this shit done RIGHT NOW!!” pile.

Then there comes the day, (typically the 3rd week of the month for me), where I look at that pile and I mentally drop kick myself in the chest. On those days I find myself tearing through that pile and checking things off the list that take little to no time, but I’ve just pushed aside because , meh, it’ll get done. When I have one of those days it feels so great to see that dwindling, now tiny little pile. But, if I just did these little things when they appear, wouldn’t I end up with more peaceful, anxiety free time in my day? Wouldn’t I be carrying less subconscious weight without that pile looming over me? I know the answer to this and yet…here we are…

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a Virgo, and we Virgos love us some organization and lists. Fuck, I love lists! I love checking things off and being all “boo ya muthafucka I’m done !!” But the thing about lists is they always grow back. And I am one impatient little bugger.

Take this past Sunday. While putting the rakes back in the shed, Jeff decided we should move the winter tools to the front, and the lawn mower to the back. Easy enough, right? Well as I’m removing an old, moldy jug of rock salt, my eyes are drawn to other things that I can toss. Now I’m in full blown purge mode, and can’t fit anymore trash into our one, town allowed trash barrel. But I’m so hyped from the small purge that I want to keep throwing stuff away! It begins to dawn on me that if I had just thrown these moving boxes out 6 years ago when we moved in, I could be tackling a much better project right now. But instead, I go to bed pissed that I have to wait five days until the trash is picked up to fill another barrel. Meaning another Sunday will be spent on this same shed cleaning project, and my vacation photo collage will have to wait another week. The cycle my friends, is vicious!!!!

This is about the time I should pledge to start finishing a few little “this can probably wait” things each day and keep a log of how much more productive and efficient I feel. Perhaps this shows that I freed up enough time to get a little extra down time and leave work at a reasonable hour on a Friday. But this is me, so chances are I’ll just add this idea to the “some more shit I should be doing ” list…

Growing up Irish Catholic in a town known for it’s toughness, pride, and let’s face it, bigotry, the last thing you wanted to be thought of was weak. Weakness meant you were a loser, a wimp, and that other “p” word that I don’t use.

These were the types of values that were engrained in you as a child, life rules that were taught in the home along with the abc’s, the Yankees suck, your phone number, and that Santa and God were beyond a shadow of a doubt, white. (See bigotry). I’m fairly certain that when you were baptized in my neighborhood, the priest ended the ceremony with “in the name of the father, the son, and don’t be a little bitch”.

From the time I could speak it was clear that I was not the typical Southie tough girl. I was a crier, a worry wart, and afraid of my own shadow. In those days we didn’t use the term socially awkward, no, I was simply branded a “fuckin’ looza” by most of the people who knew me.

My mom was one of 9 kids, she came from a long line of tough girls, today they’d be called bad bitches, I idolized them. Though she was never a fighter, my mom was a great athlete, a total rebel, and the life of the party. These traits, unlike scoliosis, my attitude, and horrific eyesight, I did not inherit from her. I think part of her was relieved that I wouldn’t be causing the kinds of trouble she had, but the other part had no idea what to do with my anxiety. I was just weird. And that was ok with her. Since I wasn’t pregnant or on crack, I was doing just fine. Don’t get me wrong, this is not a dig at her parenting, she did the best she could and I worshiped her. She was pure magic.

My weirdness truly peaked in high school and in my twenties. This untreated quirkiness was the cause of a lot of turmoil. I think back to being about 14 and my dad telling me that “all this crying is gonna land you in the loony bin”. So I figured it was best to hide my issues with whatever form I could to avoid being locked away like he claimed my aunts had been. Helllll no was I going to be locked up somewhere that didn’t have cable, call waiting, or the freedom to eat Oreos on my own terms. This was the 90s! I had a lot of shows to watch and snack food was in its prime! I would persevere!!

Except I never really did persevere. I learned to mask my demons with humor and attention from guys. If I can make people laugh and guys like me, nobody will know how sad I am. Sounds wicked smaht , right? I did all of the things that I could to keep my mind occupied. I worked multiple jobs at a time so that I wouldn’t have to spend much time alone thinking. I took care of everyone I could and dated one controlling, emotionally abusive guy after another. The depression I would fall into after breakups were awful. My bounce back time was far longer than “normal” people, and I could never understand why. Once someone decided I wasn’t good enough for them, I believed I wasn’t good enough, period.

A few years ago, after a series of devastating and sudden losses, the combination was taking its toll on everything and everyone around me. I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t find joy in anything, and everything I did at work was wrong, I was disappointing everyone and it was a minute by minute reminder that I was a useless, lousy employee, friend, and wife. And even though in my heart I truly wanted to be better, my brain had different plans. I became so overwhelmed with unresolved grief , relentless worry and fear, rock bottom would have been a step up.

As much as my Boston Irish brain told me that getting help was a bitch move, and that I should just suck it up and figure my shit out, 39 years of doing just that had caught up to me: I needed real help and needed it now.

Luckily for me I was and am surrounded by amazing people who talked some sense into me and made me go to therapy. I was very accustomed to showing “normal Jill” to strangers and couldn’t possibly explain to this rando what had brought me in today. But that’s the beauty of therapists, they know how to get it out of you and they recognize a hot mess when they see one.

She sent me to my doctor to get a prescription for Prozac: another no no in my Irish mind. I imagined myself turning into a zombie, or becoming an addict and spiraling into another set of problems completely. But instead of listening to that voice, I tried something new and listened to the doctors and some friends who have been there, done this.

It’s been over a year now since I got that prescription, and even though I’m still “weird” and have some bad days, I thank god for agreeing to try it, and the people that never gave up on me. If you take anything from this post please let it be this: Never, ever discourage a person who says they need help, don’t tell them therapy is crap, that it’s useless and fake. Don’t tell them what they should do instead. And don’t ignore the signs of a person who might be trying to reach out. Never shame someone for any of the (legal and safe) ways they are trying to get better. Take it from my dad “you’re a lot happier these days ha? No more of crazy shit, it’s nice”. Just don’t follow it up with his next statement of “maybe you’ll get back to the gym someday ha? You were in great shape a while back; what happened?”

Take care of you first! You’re worth it, and you need your best self , if you haven’t met that self yet; trust me, you’ll love her (or him) !!!

We’ve arrived folks, it’s fall y’all ! The time of year where open toed shoes go back to hell where they belong and feet are no longer on display. When the male tank top lives only in the gym and a full crop of strangers armpit hair is no longer a part of my commute. Ah yes, the changing of the seasons is upon us.

Baggy sweaters, flannels, and oversized hoodies have replaced the half shirts and spaghetti strap tops that crowd the racks at stores I’m probably too old to be shopping in anyway, and I no longer have to search for mid length shorts that clearly don’t exist.

I recall a few years back dragging Jeff into Target or Walmart searching for shorts to be worn as beach cover ups. Each pair I found was tinier than the next. In a hanger inspired rage, I lifted a particularly offensive pair above my head and yelled “whose ass can fit into these?? Ha??? Whose ass????!!!” Perhaps not my finest moment, and maybe not the greatest memory Jeff has of a summer day spent with me, but I digress. The point is, the season of covering up is here, and I am basking in all of its magnificent glory.

Many people scoff at the basic-ness of folks who love fall for the pumpkin themed food. I for one am a huge pumpkin fan, and not because it’s trendy, because it’s fucking delicious. Have you had pumpkin cupcakes with cinnamon & maple infused vanilla frosting??? Well you should. Fall is the time of year where treatin’ yo self is mandatory. Ginger bread lattes? Apple muffins? Kylie Jenner’s full line of lip glosses and eyeshadows? Don’t mind if I do.

And finally, the movies. How many times will I watch The Lost Boys this month? Will I follow it up with The Craft? Oh I will! Perhaps it’s only 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday, too early? Well then let’s watch Practical Magic whilst eating muffins and drinking tea. Is it getting a little chilly on that couch? Not under this Snuggie, it’s a toasty 75 degrees under here thank you very much.

Bring on Halloween! I love handing out candy to trick or treaters. Their costumes are the best, and I don’t even mind if 16 or 17 year olds come to the door, I’ll happily hand over a pile of candy to you, you hang on to your innocence! I mean, I’m not giving you the Reese’s or the Milky Ways but have at these Whoppers and Smarties bro.

As a veteran MBTA commuter celebrating 3 decades of public transportation bliss, I feel qualified to call myself an expert. I can safely say I have taken every line of both the above and underground filth factories, and I have come out with either an iron clad immune system, or possibly a looming case of typhoid. Time and science will tell.

Tonight was a regular old, run of the mill ride home. All 3 trains arrived on time, with little to no crowding and no unusual characters. I both cherish and despise these rides. Now don’t get me wrong, I prefer a flawlessly timed, smooth sailing commute, but the ridiculous antics I have witnessed over the years have been the source of many stories and laughs, and for those I am grateful.

On the second leg of my commute, the red line, I took a break from the book I was reading when a rather large gentleman dressed in a very expensive looking suit wedged his way in between myself and the woman on the other side of the empty middle seat. I squished over as much as I could to avoid the thigh against thigh friction that was coming in hot in this seating arrangement.

As he tried to arrange himself into his seat, he pulled out a scratch ticket and started feverishly scratching away at his hopeful soon to be fortune. Now, I am a huge fan of scratch tickets, I’ll attack that in another post sometime, but for now, back to him. So I’m side eyeing his ticket not so much to see if he’s winning, but mostly because the scratch off debris is flying off the ticket and on to my lap. I have no business complaining as I have done this to myself billions of times and just wiped it off. However, this was not my own doing and therefore, the ginger rage was brewing.

In another life , or say, this time last year, a more aggressive, easily angered version of myself would have read him the riot act about manners and how to act right in shared spaces. Instead, this aged, refined (medicated) version of myself wiped the dust off my leg and on to his shoe where it belonged. He apologized and I laughed and said “hope you win big buddy”. And I truly did hope he won big, just not in such close proximity to my new pants.

Reflecting on my behavior, which in my opinion was stellar, it occurred to me that I have been all of the different types of the annoying, inconsiderate commuter myself. I’ve had excessive amounts of bags, sat in a seat that really didn’t mean to fit a whole person, and I’ve definitely not given up a seat to someone who may have needed it more. There was even that one time I boarded the train shortly after eating a particularly potent Mexican feast, and well, a crop dusting may, or may not have been left in my path. Stop judging, I was young and dumb! ok so not that young, but I’m only human, and that carne asada taco supreme was a bit more asada than my Irish stomach could handle , ok? Ok?

In closing, I can say with all the certainty in the world that I will post an entry in the near future about an incident that is not so light hearted and my red rage will have gotten the best of me, so this my dear reader is just a mild introduction into my life as a commuter. Stay tuned for the good stuff.

Earlier today I was having a very intellectual conversation with someone about teeth bleaching. Having sensitive gums and teeth, I can’t endure the pain of professional bleaching, but thanks to God’s gift of photoshop apps, the folks who only see me online need never know the reality of my “ick face” as I so lovingly refer to it. Thanks to a steady diet of tea, coffee, soda, and Oreos, these filters and apps have given my online face the gift of glistening pearly whites that real life me will never know. Thank you internet.

As we discussed the yellowing of our teeth and the beverages that have gotten us to this point, he told me that he had recently enjoyed a can of Mello Yello.  This took me back to one of my favorite childhood memories of vacationing in a little cottage in New Hampshire with my immediate family and my aunt. Because we were on vacation, I got to choose some of my own meals and snacks for the week. This meant Ellio’s pizza, Mello Yello, and Oreos. As a nine year old poor kid from the city, sitting at a picnic table overlooking a lake whilst eating Ellio’s and Mello Yello made me feel like a fucking Kardashian. I was in hog heaven. Later those same nights I would be in hell because apparently I also thought I had the complexion of a Kardashian, and never used sunscreen. But you know what made me forget about the blistering pain of lobster red skin? MORE OREOS.

I sat for a while on the train smiling like a weirdo thinking about the simple things that made me so happy back then and remembered one in particular: BOOKS!! The feeling that I get now from buying shoes and eye shadow palettes doesn’t compare to the euphoria I used to experience when I went to the library to find  the new Sweet Valley High or Babysitters Club books on the new arrivals rack. I would stay up all night reading.  During summers, I spent all of my time babysitting. Every penny of my disposable income  went to books and pizza. I had a system. On Friday when my 3 regular families would pay me, I would take that envelope full of cash (probably 28 – 40 dollars, but I was 10, and that was baller status !) to I  & 8th pizza and buy lunch for my family. I would hide my left over cash in a drawer until it was time to visit my aunt in Milton. She lived down the street from my most favorite book store in the world, The Little Book Room. Weekends spent with Mamie in her beautiful suburban paradise house were such an escape. We would walk to the center of town and I would buy as many books as my babysitting cash would buy. At that time in my life, I was obsessed with “scary” young adult literature by RL Stine, and Christopher Pike. I would sit in her yard or her sun room and read until the sun went down, and then read again all night when she fell asleep. Man those were the days.

As I got older, I discovered magazines. Initially, I was drawn to the covers of BOP, Teen Beat, and Tiger Beat by the pictures of Scott and Brian Bloom, Kirk Cameron, Patrick Swayze (the older man) and of course the cast of 90210. I would buy these magazines and absorb every word about these gods that I possibly could. Teen magazines were my bible. Soon I found that I would bypass the pictures and go straight to the advice columns. Trust me I’d get right back to making out with the pictures of Scott Baio and wishing Charles were in charge of me, but I loved those advice columns. Eventually, I drifted away from the poster heavy magazines and devoured Sassy, Seventeen, and YM. I used to dream that I would become a magazine columnist and be published in these gems giving advice to young girls.

I started writing every chance I got. With notebooks and journals full of my every thought, I’d make my own little magazines. Instead of doing normal high school activities like drinking, going on dates, or going to dances, I would set up my kitchen as my magazine office. I was reporter, editor, publisher, and creative director.  I had every intention of making a career of this until my parents reminded me that this was not realistic.  I should just stick to working at Osco Drug or my summer internship until I graduated and could work at a bank or do something “normal”.

So that’s exactly what I did. I stuck it out at my high school internship for three years working in Accounts Payable, and by age nineteen, I was a junior accountant.  Processing check runs and feeling very important. I stuck with that field until eventually migrating over to payroll at 22.  Now here I am, 40 years old, still doing what my parents said was all I could or should ever try to do. But deep down, is still that little girl who wants to write. This little blog might be my gift to her, 12 year old me, writing in her Lisa Frank notebook, rediscovering the simple things that filled my heart with happiness. Pass me the Oreos, it’s go time.