First blog, yo

I'm getting started on my memoirs - i thought to call it something along the lines of "better red than red" - heh. Not sure about that. I'll start from the start and I just want it to be my life - my REAL childhood and growing up stories against the backdrop of Rajneeshpuram and all that business. No history or research, philosophy or spirituality, just MY story. My memories. It's funny. It's real. Now i just need to figure out who will play me in the movie, right?

My memories start at about age 2. They're hazy and each significant story just sort of punctuates the haze. As i progress towards 4 and 5, the haze is filled in with more and more insignificant memories until about age 6, which is when i can remember EVERYTHING (sorry folks).

Age 2, daddy was a teacher at college and he would bring me to his office from time to time to hang out before dropping me at the college day care. He had one of those horrifying monkeys with cymbals that crashed away sitting above his desk on a shelf. That thing totally freaked me out - i made him move it and under no uncertain terms turn it on if i were in its presence. What sadistic asshole invented that terrible toy?!

I loved day care. The teacher, Sylvia, loved me, probably because i was cute and smart (i'm not sure at what age being cute and smart becomes a liability, but at age 2, everyone loves the smartie) and she called me apple, because of my giant red cheeks i guess. I liked her, I remember singing songs, and having a couple friends (both boys - grownups would always ask about my boyfriends and would get all giggly and weird, and i never understood why).

I was always annoyed when grownups would talk to me like an idiot - like hey, i'm a kid, not a moron. Guest teachers and helpers would come in each day - they were probably students - and they would explain in great repetetive detail how to color, how to put toys away, how to eat my snacks, for gods' sake and I always had this feeling that they were WASTING MY TIME! Lets get going already!

Anyway, I went happily through life at ages 2 and 3, going to day care and waiting anxiously for daddy to pick me up every day. Each day he would be done with his day and would come and pick me up, always one of the first to arrive, and i would yell and scream and drop everything and run over to him "daddy daddy daddy!" He must have loved that.

One day, I had an accident. I had been doing so good and hadn't peed or pooped in my pants or in bed for some time. It wasn't even a thought, really, any more. But this one day, something happened, i got excited or laughed a little too hard or had mexican food for lunch, anyway, i pooped. In my pants. I was horrified! Daddy would NOT like this. To be honest, I didn't really like it, but i didn't want to tell anyone, it was too embarrassing.

So I went around for the rest of the day with this weighing down my pants and worrying about what i was going to tell him when he arrived to pick me up. I didn't want to disappoint him or mommy or david. We'd all been working so hard! Thus my first lie was born. I had a whole story. I knew it was going to work, i just knew it. I had traded pants with my friend Matthew. He pooped in mine and then we traded back at the end of the day. It was foolproof.

When my dad came to pick me up, instead of rushing over to greet him as usual, i skulked over slowly, head hanging low. He was concerned, "what's the matter, sweetie?"

All I could get out was "somebody poopied in my pants."