We ended up staying with my maternal grandma and grandpa for a while until we could get back on our feet. Organizations such as the Red Cross, Salvation Army, and other local communities pulling together helped us out with that so much.
I've always loved sleepovers at my maternal grandparents' house... so this period was kind of a mini vacay, so to speak. They used to have this huge pool that we'd go swimming in every Summer. My Papaw kept the pool as pristine as they kept the Cadillac I mentioned earlier. They also had this long driveway that led up to the covered part of the driveway, and a separate little driveway right off the main one that led to a small storage building. We'd ride our bikes up and down the long driveway. The grandkids had our very own room when we stayed over, complete with a bed, recliner, and television with a VCR... bonus points if you also had one growing up.
One of my childhood friends who ended up playing a major role later also lived next door, so anytime I was over at my grandparents' house after we moved out, we would hang out together.
My parents, my brother, and I were all out and about when we all decided to just go look at the dogs at our local pet shop in the next town over. We took one look at this one dog they had there, and it was love at first sight. We asked to spend some time with her in their play area, and we fell even further in love with her. We called my grandparents and asked if we could bring her home with us.
As I previously mentioned, I get my love for animals from my Nana – so within twenty minutes, we were heading back home with a sweet, chocolate brown Chihuahua with white boots. I named her Mazi... and in no time, I had myself a new little companion.
We ended up buying a temporary trailer from a family friend that we put on the old property until we could save up for something a little bigger.
I remember that trailer vividly – as it was the calm before the storm. I had purple beads adorning my door, a mattress and a box spring atop a simple full-size frame, a cheap, navy blue plaid combination sheet and comforter set, my music, notebooks, and Mazi – or Maze, for short.
We weren't there very long before we began home shopping. After we had gotten back on our feet and somewhat stable, in addition to my mom & dad still doing their regular nine-to-five jobs, we were able to look at a slightly bigger home than what we had.
You may remember me saying my Momma was a special education teacher at the school I attended at the time of the fire, I loved having her close by. I would always tell people what my dad did because I thought it was cool. He worked for one of the biggest hospitals in the States, one that is known for its unique... pretty color. My Dad worked in the paint shop, making signs and painting for the entire hospital network and sister buildings – which is huge. This also just so happened to be the hospital where I was born. My dad's job there was a big flex to me back then, I don't know why – it just was. Probably because he made me some relatively cool stuff out of similar supplies that he used in the paint shop while I was growing up.
But going back to the house-hunting portion of this chapter. I remember there were two different homes we were setting our sights on: the one I was secretly hoping my parents would choose... and the one they eventually did.
It was nice and all, I mean it did come with one of my favorite colors in the bedroom that would ultimately be mine... a cross between teal blue and seafoam green. The house had its perks. We got a trampoline, and our house was up on this steep hill, so all of us neighborhood kids would roll and slide down it when it snowed. Icy conditions, however, were absolute hell to deal with.
Despite being hot and humid, Summers were always fun. I don't remember how old I was, I think between fourteen and sixteen, my family and I traveled to California for our first like, big vacation. We went to Disneyland and did some Hollywood sightseeing, my favorite places visited being Universal Studios and Catalina Island. Catalina is just... breathtakingly mesmerizing, and I love to see behind-the-scenes stuff like you'd find at Universal Studios.
I quickly found a few friends who also lived in the new neighborhood, and we would spend hours riding our bikes up and down the sidewalks. I had this gorgeous, turquoise-colored bike with a padded gel butt pad for the seat since I was on it so often. We'd blast music in our bedrooms, singing into hairbrushes, dancing along like no one was watching, watching all our favorite movies, playing board games, stuff like that. The typical things you'd expect a teenager growing up in the late nineties to early two-thousands to do were done almost every weekend. Sleepovers consisting of movie nights complete with late-night snacks that were mainly junk food, doing each other's hair, nails, and makeup, playing games, all the hot gossip, and making prank telephone calls on our landlines were regular festivities on the agenda. For those who know what I'm referring to, bonus points were given to those who had the luxury of having their own personal line.
Bonus points will also be given to those who get that reference.
As nostalgia would have it, I remember a few funny experiences that I weirdly remember, so I'll share them for the sheer hell of it, I suppose. I want to hear point totals at the end of this, as more will be issued to those who know what 1990-2000's references I make.
I wanted a Furby so badly...
...until I did.
It ended up gathering dust at the end of the very top shelf facing the wall.
I swear that thing was possessed.
I also remember playing this game with my friends called "Mall Madness," and I don't know if it was just a glitch in the speaker box on my game, or if it happened to everyone. So, if you also had this game growing up, you'll have to let me know. But, when the speaker would tell you to go to the "Kitchen Store," it never failed, it sounded like she was saying kitchen... if you change the k to a -ch.
Yeah. Like a chit-chin. Good times.
I mean, I did give you fair warning that I was very random.
I guess I can't say anything, as I'm about to make a complete fool of myself right about now but... here goes!
I was in the kitchen baking something one day, and my momma was in the other room on standby in case I needed any help. It didn't take long, apparently, when I had to ask her what a specific ingredient was, inquiring what on earth "mar-juh-reen" was.
Margarine. The recipe called for margarine.
Then there was another time when I had just gotten home from an evening shift at work, and I asked my parents what the "blue light" meant in the dashboard when it was lit up. I quickly figured out why people were flashing their headlights at me the entirety of my drive home.
One of my nicknames to this day is "Blue Light Special" because of that whole moment.
I probably should've mentioned this occurs right after taking my driving exam for my license... after my second time trying. I got in the car with my mom after making the same mistake on the second attempt as I made the first time, when I began slapping my own forehead out of frustration... for being so stupid. My mom, of course, stopped me. Not ten seconds later, my mom couldn't refrain from laughing after I released an audible, "Ouch – that hurt!"
"Well," my momma began in between breaths as she laughed hysterically, "...what did you think it was gonna feel like, shoog?" Momma quipped, as she usually did when I would have my... bless-her-heart moments. For those curious, Shoog is short for sugar, used as a Southern term of endearment.
We Southerners know all too well about those bless-her-heart moments.
I know I do... all from experience.
There was a time when my gastroenterologist wanted to check and see if I was lactose intolerant back when I began seeing symptoms from the gluten sensitivity, so it was on the list of tests needed to find and diagnose the overall issue currently at hand. I don't know if they still test for a dairy allergy this way, but I'll be describing what I had to personally do to the best of my recollection.
Back when I tested, I was supposed to drink a small amount of milk, then blow into this breathalyzer kind of thing and it could somehow tell if you had an allergy or not. At the time, I didn't, but you know that's not the point of telling you this story. I know that you know, that's not the point. I know this because I have yet to embarrass myself to the point of avoiding eye contact, people, and society as a whole. I hold no hesitation when it comes to confessing to being one of the duller crayons in the box, but I can also be the bright, sparkly one, so that's not where my reservation lies with what I'm about to tell you. So, let's get that over with.
Not only did I not understand the directions provided for the assignment, but I also brought a textbook on another subject, to a completely different classroom, on a completely different planet altogether.
I misunderstood the directions I was given before the test... and thought I was supposed to consume a gallon of milk before my appointment. Please don't ask me why, because I honestly couldn't tell you. Anyway, I had a gallon of milk sitting in the passenger seat, gradually chugging large quantities of it while en route to the appointment. I was wondering how people were able to do this, as I had to make a detour to the nearest restroom in the building before going to my appointment, waddling with a bloated stomach the whole way there.
Then there was the time I wanted to get the recommended amount of your daily water intake done all at once instead of drinking it throughout the day. I may, or may not have, chugged the total amount all at once.
So, um, yeah. To answer the question you're more than likely, no – the question you're most definitely asking... yes.
I got a massive stomachache, in addition to other symptoms, on both occasions.
Hindsight is 20/20, ya know.
Listen... I'm more than okay with not being the smartest cookie in the jar. In all honesty, I'm just relieved to even be in the jar at this point. Personally, I think I'm killin' this whole life thing. I'm kicking names and taking ass... wait. No, that's not right.
You get the point. Moving along.
I had this Walkman that I'd immediately resort to on long car rides with my parents to just... escape. 'Three Days Grace' à la "Now That's What I Call Music" tracks & O.G. Billy Gilman were my go-to picks. Bonus points if, like me, you were not only around for, but can remember when the very first "Now That's What I Call Music" was released. Honestly, I could be found listening to a wide range of music from bubblegum pop to hard rock.
Another huge favorite of mine growing up was that of a local band by the name of Hanson.
You may have heard of them.
There wasn't any genre of music that I didn't listen to, or at least exposed to heavily growing up. Jazz, the oldies, bluegrass, you name it. That's not to say I was necessarily a fan of them, just to say I'm no stranger to them.
Music has always been my escape from the world, at least my world, especially in the car on the way home from Church. My dad would attend every service, pretending to be this righteous man of God and even teaching my Sunday School classes. This would be right before getting in the car and ranting and trash-mouthing the people whose faces he was just being so lovely to minutes prior. I got yelled at a lot too – so if I had my music on, I couldn't "bother" my dad while in transit.
The same went for disturbing him with a goodnight and "I love you, Dad," while he was busy playing on his computer... but that's neither here nor there. Music was my autonomous sensory meridian response that I could always count on.
It's funny to see everyone following the latest trend when those trends have been something you've been doing for years before people even knew they existed. I've been into ASMR since I was a young teen, long before I began learning about massage, reflexology, and things like that while in cosmetology school.
Another example is Nutella. My brother and I grew up on Nutella and this Milky Way stuff that was kind of like it, no one knew what it was then. Now it's used in everything, and unless they've been living under a rock, everyone and their brother knows what it is.
Every weekend and during the Summer, we would go roller skating at the local skating rink before it went out of business. That's where I ended up breaking my left wrist and wound up in a bright neon green cast for the remainder of the summer and into the start of the following school year.
This was around the time I began developing some very specific phobias for some very specific reasons. Phobias are so weird... ya know? Some phobias have an obvious source... the person knows the exact starting point the seed of the phobia first sprouted from. But then, other phobias seem to just come outta left field... the person never knowing the underlying cause of it. My phobias that first started around this time in my life were no different.
Pithikosophobia is the fear of monkeys.
Go ahead and laugh... I know you want to.
Believe me... I am overtly and keenly aware of how pathetic, ridiculous, and pathetically ridiculous a monkey phobia sounds. Especially since monkeys aren't found in the wild where I'm from, so the only reason I'd have to be around them would be, for example, a trip to the zoo. But I'm sure it goes without saying that phobias don't necessarily stop applying to the subject of the phobia live and in person alone. No, there for the longest time, I couldn't even watch movies that included any kind of real-life monkey. Cartoon monkeys, however, never really bothered me. However, this is the phobia I had for a while, and I can pinpoint the root cause of its creation... that was all thanks to a movie that I watched with my dad one day when I was younger. The movie was called "Terror Tract," starring John Ritter, who was my favorite actor alongside Nicolas Cage growing up, and the movie revolved around a killer monkey. Over time, this fear gradually decreased after finally convincing myself that having a fear of monkeys was irrational. I did this after considering the following facts:
1) a monkey behind a screen is obviously of no threat – so fearing any monkeys on television would be deemed irrational,
2) the odds of seeing a monkey in person that wasn't in an enclosure of some kind and/or without a handler, let alone out in the wild are highly unlikely – therefore fearing them, in general, could be deemed irrational,
3) finally realizing that not all monkeys are evil, and some are kind of, sort of cute.
However, I still ascertain that I find some species completely abhorrible. But with that said, what's to say monkeys don't look at humans the same way?
Gephyrophobia is the fear of bridges. This one is kind of unique because it isn't so much a fear of the bridge itself, as it is something that I used to do while going over one. There isn't anything I can recall that prompted it, but I do remember one day I just began holding my breath for the entire duration of crossing a bridge. No matter the kind of bridge or no matter how long I'd end up holding my breath, the minute the front tires touched one side of a bridge until the back tires were completely over the other side of it... you'd be guaranteed to find me holding my breath.
Lastly, we've got Agoraphobia on the list. Agoraphobia is the fear of public places, and in my case, crowds or gatherings of two or more people. This is my worst phobia, and one I still struggle with to this day and I think it's mostly a social fear. I honestly don't think arguing whether this one would be rational versus irrational would be beneficial... I've been severely agoraphobic for as long as I can remember. I'm not hermit status by any means, but I am most definitely a homebody. Me and my loved ones, fur baby cuddles, parmesan crisps, and my emotional support water bottle in hand while spending quality time with a work in progress, literally in my jammies... is my jam.
Cue the iconic ABBA line from Dancing Queen, "having the time of my life," as this is what you'd see if you saw me in my natural environment.
Realistically, I'd either have my creative inspiration playlist on Spotify playing that will almost definitely include heavy themes of Three Days Grace, Shinedown, Breaking Benjamin, Crossfade, Fall Out Boy, Saving Abel, Skillet, and Papa Roach contained in it. As far as television goes, the shows Big Brother, The Office, Game of Thrones, Stranger Things, or some kind of true crime video are almost always going to be cast on my screen.
Threaten me with a good time.
One kind of cool thing about the neighborhood we moved to was this potter's field-type Indian graveyard that lined up towards the back of the new neighborhood we lived in. To clarify, I found it "cool" for historical reasons.
So, I guess now is just as good a time as any to go ahead and provide some more context on my heritage. It might help you to paint a clearer picture of the setting, or possibly clear some things up for you. Earlier, I mentioned my Native American Indian heritage, saying I'd provide more information on my physical appearance a bit later.
I do not look Native American. I don't. This is because despite having prevalent Native American blood on both of my grandpa's sides... it was no match for the fighting spirit found in the Scotch-Irish blood on both of my grandma's sides.
I also have a large chunk of Scandinavian ancestry coursing through my veins, as well.
According to the two different DNA tests I took, I'm supposedly genetically related to Kevin Bacon, Maureen O'Hara, J.R.R. Tolkien, and weirdly, several cast members of The Lord of the Rings franchise... I'm pretty sure that's because of all the European blood. I don't know. That was something neither here nor there – I just wanted to flex for a moment. Not everyone can say they're genetically related to Maureen O'Hara & Kevin Bacon... and King Henry VIII, but please don't hold that one against me. That one is interesting because my stepdad's family is related to Anne Boleyn.
Okay, back to the Native American part.
Going along with the pale skin talk, I'm Cherokee and Chickamauga Indian – which are both tribes known for being more fair-skinned.
Don't even get me started on both my skin lupus and systemic lupus. Although I did not get diagnosed with those until early adulthood – the signs were still there long before.
Many lupus patients and their relationship with the sun as a whole... are not amicable. They are not cool with one another. They snub each other at the yearly picnic. They radiate frenemy vibes... if you know what I mean.
I kid you not, even with the aid of multiple applications of high-SPF sunscreen, I do the following in order:
BURN. BLISTER. PEEL. FRECKLE.
There is no reward of a tan in the end for me.
My poor skin never stood a chance.
Nope. Although, I always did find my nicknames in school interesting. They were Snow White, Albino, and Casper.
Honestly, you're not insulting me here.
Snow White is a friggin' princess.
Albino skin is stunningly beautiful... all skin tones are.
Casper is not only a ghost... but a friendly one.
You can't get much more kickass than that!
I mean, if your end goal was trying to compliment me... congrats, you understood the assignment.
I suppose this would be a good segue into the next chapter of my life... and there's quite a bit to unpack there.
So, we'll pick up there next week.