A Nod to Christmas

December 14, 1993

Dear Bethany,

I was in music class and I twisted my ankle around. We went to the doctor's office it was something kinda weird. But now I'm in a cast and crutches!

I can't wait til Christmas. I already know some of my presents: 

1. 2 Taffy Sinclair books. 

2. 1 Betty Ren Wright book

3. A set of Nancy Drew books

4. An ornament

5. a video

6. An American Girl dress

I figured this out from shaking presents and snooping. 

I am a rule follower. I get this from my father. I submit to authority, I follow even the most inane rules, I have panic attacks when I am in trouble. I think it is fair to say I was thus a fairly easy child (Mom and Dad, feel free to refute this by posting a comment below. I know you are both technologically savvy enough to do this) 

My major childhood misdemeanors and secrets included such horrible things as:

- eating brown sugar in huge chunks from the box when my mom and dad were out.

- watching "Saved by the Bell", perhaps the tamest teen oriented show ever. But I thought they wouldn't approve. 

- staying up late... to read.

- snooping around the house looking for Christmas presents. 

Truth be told, at 26 years old I am still scared about what my mother will say about this revelation. But to me this was part of the joy of Christmas. It was one of my traditions, and one I assume my parents knew about. It was fun to sneak into their closet and find bags and boxes of presents... and usually they managed to hide the biggest and best presents successfully until Christmas morning. 

If you are as afraid of breaking the rules as I am, you'll understand what a HUGE deal this sneaking around was to me. This was one of my largest rebellions... um, ever. Teenaged years included. I'm not kidding.

I also need to take a moment to question my literary tastes-- Taffy Sinclair?? I don't know who or what this is, but I imagine it is complete pre-teen trash. I am a little hurt. I thought better of myself. I thought I was some super smart reader girl. But apparently, I admired someone who went by the name Taffy Sinclair. 

Crap. 

The Life That Could Have Been.

In another December journal entry as I near the end of 1993, and the end of my tenth year, I reveal my fantasy of the future. Aside from the obvious desire to marry Patrick and own a turquoise evening gown, I was shocked to confront the life I imagined. 

I wanted to go to Yale. I wanted to be an actress for one year after college. Then, after I got that out of my system, I wanted to go to medical school and become a "well loved" pediatrician. I wanted to live in a house on a cliff looking out over the ocean in Maine. Something old and cozy and quiet. 

The last sixteen years have, I guess, been longer than I thought. I went to NYU. I stopped taking science my sophomore year... of high school. I am scared of the doctor. I acted for four years after college, only to realize I was spending all my time writing and was happier doing that. And I live in New York City in a studio apartment with a lovely view of the building across the way which has bigger windows and more floor space. 

I gotta ask: What the hell happened here?

The Kittie Journal

I would like to tell the story of how I got the kittie journal. I would like a touching memory of my mother and father handing me a diary and telling me to write my dreams and wishes in its private pages. I would like to think my first entry in my sixteen year relationship with diaries and journals started with the explanation of why and how I started keeping a diary. Instead, my first entry is a vivid, detailed account of my first major crush, Patrick (all names changed to protect the innocent. As well as my mortified ten year old self who would never forgive me.) 

Dear Bethany,

Today I'll talk about PATRICK.... When we worked on the newspaper he was always showing off and typing so fast that he made mistakes. Of course he's one of the smartest in the grade and AMAZING in math. 

Luckily, this first entry also reveals that Patrick liked me as "more than a friend"! Is there anything better than being ten and having the boy you like like you back? If I remember correctly my best friend, Diana, passed him a note in class asking him to check off his feelings for me putting them in the correct category. Diana and I spent the weekend creating this ingenious system, giving him options like "A. Ew, Corey's gross; B. She's my friend; C. She's more than a friend; D. I love Corey. 

All things considered, "more than a friend" was acceptable. My expectations were at least realistic when I was ten. I also apparently had the same desire to have clearly delineated emotions. There was very little room for ambivalence or confusion. My description of Patrick is exuberant without any angst or understanding of his faults. Even his typing mistakes were reason to love him more. 

At least Patrick was smart. And a red-head.