On being perpetually 10 years old

I admit it, deep,deep inside me somewhere there's still a very young Kristy. I envision her to be very much like I was at 10 years old, with a curly mullet (grandma curled bangs and a long, straight 'party in the back'), Lettermanesque buck teeth, glasses with the stems at the bottoms, wearing paint-splashed, stone-washed jeans from the "Husky" section at Sears, a hypercolor top, and white, silver, and purple L.A. gear hightops with woven shoelaces. She's probably spending her time laying on her rainbow beadspread covered bed (because her favorite color is purple and the only way to get purple stuff for a kids room is to have it be part of a rainbow) reading some Saddle Club, Sweet Valley High, or V.C. Andrews, watching old musicals, waiting until the 15 minutes before Mom gets home to do her list for the day, playing on the computer or pulling on some black patent leather tap shoes with really big bows before class, dreaming that someday she'll get to be on star search, listening to the culture club and wham, almost regretting that she never got into NKOTB but not really, riding her bike up and down the long gravel driveway from the ramp up to the barn doors and through the puddles in the bit before the road, really angry she has to get up early on Saturday mornings not to be back before Soul Train signals the end of all the cartoons and wondering WHY OH WHY did weight watchers make you eat liver once a week (seriously - wtf).

This is the girl inside of me that perpetuates my interest in comics, toys, cartoons, sugared cereals, spaghettios (oh my GOD do I LOVE spaghettios) and rainbows. She is awesome, reminds me that I'll never really grow up and I'm glad she's there. She also giggles uncontrollably at immature and off color jokes and yesterday she was in full effect.

The lunch table at work is quite the hopping place and we have many a lively, random, hilarious and interesting conversation there such that eating lunch with my coworkers has become my favorite part of the day. Yesterday we got onto the subject of interesting names, and one of the ladies mentioned a housing contractor that she knew who's name, while spelled E-t-t-e-r was pronounced as "Eater" and enthusiastically introduced himself as "Dick Etter!" No, he wasn't there for the plumbing (tee HEE), but still OMG that was high-larious. My cohorts and I continued to speak as if we were Dick Etter, having a really good time and laughing our asses off. Sorry Dick, if you're googling yourself. Really, your name sounds like a sex act. Recognize.

Inner 10 year old Kristy also is the one that believes that one of the many, many perks of owning dachshunds is that you get to call them WIENERS and then also make off-color statements about them. For example, I often say that I'm going home to play with my wiener or when I'm rubbing their little bellies I say that I'm rubbing my wiener. When it's cold outside, we have to put sweaters on the dogs and, you know, you just gotta wrap your wiener. Often in the evening, there's a wiener wiggling under the covers. I love my wieners! Seriously, the possibilities are endless and cause me to break out into a hysterical fit of giggles.

Ahhh. Youth! What it is to be young! Come on, don't tell me you don't have a young person inside of you too.

08.15.07 3:57pm(6 comments)