Asphyxiation.

As you may or may not recall, I went to Catholic school for six years. The Catholic school that I went to, St. Charles Borromeo Catholic School in Woburn, Massachusetts, accepted students from kindergarten through eighth grade. (Thankfully, I was able to escape just after the fifth grade.) The school was very small, with probably only sixty or so students in each grade at any given time. Classes were split into two buildings - grades K-4 in the "Lower Building" and grades 5-8 in the "Upper Building." The younger kids would go to the Upper Building for gym class, and the older kids would go to the Lower Building for the library, and all of the kids would go to the church on the first Friday of every month. Other than that though, you were confined to your tiny little building for the entirety of the day, every day - except for at recess.

Now I will tell you - there were a lot of weird things about Catholic school. Things that I didn't realize were bizarre until after I moved on into a public school setting, but things that were definitely, definitely strange. Gym class, for example, did not often touch upon the regularities of physical education. We didn't play football or baseball, we didn't really do too much as far as gymnastics went, or volleyball. We did, however, do a lot of jumping jacks. Like, a lot. Also, that parachute thing that you sometimes do in school? You know, where you all stand around a parachute and flop it around and hide under it and stuff, the thing that's pretty big in preschools apparently? Yeah, that was part of gym class too, every year. And the most interesting part of gym class? We didn't have a gym. Nope, apparently since the classes were so small, they felt as though we could handle holding gym class in the auditorium, in the space between the front row of seats and the stage. Completely normal, right? Oh, totally.

Lunch was also completely bizarre in Catholic school. Our cafeteria (which now, come to think of it, could easily have seconded as a gym?) was pretty average-looking. There were five long rows of tables, and for some reason, there was a small stage at the head of the room. Any tiny shred of normalcy ends right there, though. Once you arrived in the cafeteria, you were required to sit with your class. Too bad if you have friends or family in a different grade. Pretend they don't exist, because you're not going to be able to sit with them. Also, don't even think about being too loud in Catholic school lunch, because the assistant principal will stand on the stage and yell, and then he'll shut all the lights off. You'd better be quiet when those lights are off, or you will be punched directly in the face and sent straight to hell. Lastly, you'd better hope your parents gave you a bagged lunch in the morning, because hot lunch did not become an option at St. Chucks until I was in the fourth grade. "Well," you're thinking, "at least they got it eventually." Not really. They sort of started serving hot dogs sometimes and pizza sometimes, but you'd better believe that you had to order that shit days in advance. There was no coming to school and thinking that you might want pizza that day. If you weren't on the pizza roster, you were out of luck.

Uniforms are a given for Catholic school. "Oh, uniforms! What a good idea! Students will be less likely to focus on fashion and fitting in, and therefore they will be more likely to study and be awesome and have tons of friends!" Hardly. Here is the one thing that uniforms were good for: making you freeze your fucking ass off in the winter. Not the boys! Oh no, not the boys. The boys' uniform consisted of a blue button-up collared shirt, a tie, a sweater if the mood struck, and navy blue pants. Yep, pants. But the girls didn't get pants. No, regardless of the weather, I got to wear a skirt. Yes, that knee length plaid skirt that, if you are a man, you are drooling about right now. I was ten though, please calm down. Blue button-up collared shirt, girl tie, a cardigan if the mood struck, and a knee high skirt in the middle of fucking winter, too bad, deal with it, we don't care if it's cold. "If it gets to be very chilly, please feel free to wear knee high socks." Oh, you're right, knee high socks will save me from these frigid winds, thank you mein fuhrer.

And lastly, recess. Oh recess, how odd you were in Catholic school. The grounds of St. Charles School were sort of awkward. (At this point, it shouldn't shock you that anything about this school was awkward, but I feel the need to mention it.) For instance, there was no playground. Honestly, there wasn't even really any grass. There was an upper level patch of lawn, sort of, that served as the recess area for the fifth through eighth graders, but the kindergartners through fourth graders had to run around a giant closed-off parking lot. Also, the upper level students and the lower level students could not mingle. Do not even think about trying to go to the other recess area, you will be slaughtered. Now honestly, this didn't make too much of a difference to me. Through the fourth grade, I had no desire to visit the upper level recess area, because everyone that was up there was older than me and therefore terrifying. Also, for second through fourth grade, my younger sister Jenny was around, so we got to play foursquare and jumprope and the like. (Shockingly enough, classes weren't segregated at recess, though I'm sure that was only because they couldn't think of an efficient enough way to do it.) Then, once I hit fifth grade, I didn't feel the need to go to the lower level recess area, because my youngest sister Steph had started there that year, and I knew that Jenny and Steph had each other, and I could enjoy my 5x5 foot area of grass like the upperclassman that I was.

Now this is where shit starts to get ugly. One day, while I was enjoying the hell out of myself on the grassy knoll, a mysterious stranger approached me and said, "Your sister is at the bottom of the stairs and she wants to talk to you." (Dear mysterious stranger, I just don't really remember who you were, sorry. You're not incredibly relevant to the story, so please forgive me.) I went to the top of the stairs that separated the two recesses and saw my sister at the bottom, looking shaken and nervous. I knew that something must be up because, a.) Steph was nowhere to be seen, and the two of them were generally attached at the hip, and b.) talking to people in other recess was almost as bad as trying to cross into other recess, and Jenny wasn't one for breaking the rules. I asked her, from the top of the stairs, what was up. She said

"Steph's having an asthma attack and they won't let us go into the building so she can use her inhaler and I don't know what to do."

Okay, now. Really? My asthmatic sister, who was literally five years old, was asphyxiating in a concrete parking lot. I never understood the point of keeping asthma inhalers in nurses' offices, but that's where it was, and it was not doing her any good as such. Recess was fifteen minutes long, and we were only just moments into it. If she did not get to an inhaler, it is likely that she could have died. So I told Jenny to talk to a recess attendant, and she said that she had, and they'd told her to wait until recess was over. My mind was racing, it was up to me at this very moment to save my sister's life! So I told Jenny to wait at the bottom of the stairs, and I found an upper level recess attendant. I said,

"My sister is having an asthma attack and they won't let her into the building to get her inhaler."

and the recess attendant told me,

"Muahaha, she's going to die in the fiery pits of hell for being born with less-than-average lungs! Say your prayers to the lord god above, because no one can save her now!"

(Alright, she actually said "I'm sorry, but she'll have to wait until recess is over, we can't let her inside just yet." But I mean, same thing, right?)

So I went back to the top of the stairs, and Jenny was in a panic. It was at that point that I realized what I had to do. I looked to my left, and I looked to my right, and when I was certain the coast was clear - I went into lower recess area.

Now really, I don't know who I think I was fooling. As I have previously mentioned, my uniform was a blue shirt and a blue skirt. That was for students in grades five through eight. Suddenly, I found myself wading through a pool of girls in yellow shirts and green plaid jumpers - the uniform for grades K through four. But it didn't matter, I was on a mission. I had Jenny lead me to my slowly-expiring sister, and when we got to her, she was knocking on death's door. (I'm probably exaggerating a bit. You know, traumatic memories always seem worse in your head. Really though, she wasn't awesome.) I assured her that everything would be alright, and I flagged down the lower level recess attendant who, obviously, realized that I was out of place. Before she could try to tell me that I needed to go back to the grass patch, I said in as serious and angry a voice as I could muster,

"My sister is having an asthma attack and if you don't let her get her inhaler, she will die."

I think at this point, recess was probably almost over, but apparently the woman realized that I wasn't fucking around. Steph was finally allowed inside the building, and thankfully she did not die. (I know, you were worried.)

And that's it. That's a pretty accurate representation of my memories of Catholic school. Was my education incredible? Of course it was. Did I learn things there that still affect my life? Yes I did. Would I ever send my kids to Catholic school? Maybe. But probably not if they have asthma.

Birthday Cards

When I was younger, my grandparents were easily the coolest grandparents in the world.

I mean, everyone thinks their grandparents are cool (you know, except for those people whose grandparents get them socks for Christmas and stuff), but really mine were the best. I didn't see them much - they lived about an hour away. Every time I did see them, though, it was sure to be an adventure.

My grandmother was a beautiful, intelligent, warm woman who, unfortunately, passed away a few years ago due to cancer. She was everything I could ever hope to be in the world. She was sunny, and bright, and vibrant. She was always laughing, always smiling. She loved The Sound of Music, she loved The Wizard of Oz. She loved Logic Problems and Bingo scratch tickets and perfume. When I was tiny, she let me sit at her vanity and put on lipstick, and she helped me blot it on a tissue. She let me try instant cappuccino when I was eight, even though she warned me that I would hate it. She helped me through my first bee sting, she rode with me in my first car. She cheered louder than anyone at my fourth grade play, at my high school graduation. And she loved, with all of her heart, my grandfather.

They say that behind every great man, there is a great woman. With my grandparents, I feel like it was the other way around. While my grandmother was loud and laughing, my grandfather was quiet and contemplative. I am lucky, at the age of twenty-seven, to still have him in my life. He is strong, and sweet, compassionate. He had a meticulously maintained video collection when I was little, but he didn't get mad when I recorded over one somehow. He bent and folded plastic cups into artistic masterpieces. (In fact, he still may.) He told me once, in secret, that I was his favorite grandchild, and I know that it was true. He was, and still is, the master of the grill. Cookouts that he is in charge of always have an incredible, unique smell to them - and it is the best thing you will ever smell in your life.

My grandparents took me everywhere as a child. Once, they took me to a renaissance fair, and they waited patiently while I tried to find a needle in a haystack. They took me to the Von Trapp Family Lodge in Vermont - once by myself, and again later on with Jenny and Steph. The took me to Ben & Jerry's, and we took a tour and sampled ice cream and took pictures with our faces on an ice cream lid. They took me and Jenny to Hershey, Pennsylvania, where the street lamps are shaped like Hershey's Kisses. We posed with men dressed as chocolate bars and taste-tested Whatchamacallits before they were even a real thing. They took me anywhere I could have ever hoped to go, and they laughed and enjoyed themselves with me as much as I did with them.

When my grandmother passed away, it was devastating. She had cancer, and it was aggressive, but she wasn't having anything to do with chemotherapy. So she got sick, and we all watched while she got thinner and weaker, but no matter what happened to her, she did not stop laughing. She was the strongest woman I ever knew, until the very last second there was. Eventually, she moved to hospice, and what happens in hospice happened in hospice. My mom and aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings came and went to see her, but my grandfather stayed by her side. When he needed to leave the room, he would volunteer in the kitchen. And no matter how much I knew for my whole life that my grandparents were in love, I saw him hold her hand for the very first time. I cried when I went to say goodbye to her. She told me not to cry, and the last thing she said to me was, "Thank you."

For the first two decades of my life, every birthday card that I ever received from my grandparents was picked out and written by my grandmother. My grandmother was the queen of birthday cards. No one in the world could pick a card as well as she could. The year that she died, though, I received my first card from my grandfather - and it was perfect. He wrote wonderful, loving things, and the card was the sweetest thing I have ever read.

I thank my grandfather for that moment, because it made me realize one of the most important things I've ever learned. I knew at that point, because of that card, that no matter what happened in my life - no matter how life-shattering, no matter how jarring - that the dust would eventually settle. And everything would be okay.

Oh whoops, Catholicism.

When I was in the fourth grade, I was the lead in the school play.

From the time I started school until I finished the fifth grade, I went to St. Charles School in Woburn, Massachusetts. It was a Catholic school, and although my family wasn't particularly religious, my mother was certain that I would acquire an excellent education at a private school. (I did, too. Standardized testing would show that, every year through the fifth grade, I would score within the 98th percentile of my age group. That's Mensa level, bitches.)

Going to Catholic school means I missed out on a lot of things that public school kids learned about. For instance, I never learned about evolution. At least not at school. Creationism was the lay of the land in my classes, and it was only at home that my parents taught me about Darwin and all of his excellence. I also spent a lot of time learning about the ten commandments and the seven sacraments. Basically, my childhood consisted of my teachers telling me this:

"You were born. You were baptized. First we'll teach you how to tell a stranger all the bad stuff you do, but it's okay because he's a priest. Now let's teach you how to take communion, which is eating the body of that guy we want you to be a fan of. Soon, you'll be confirmed, then you'll get married! If you don't get married, it's okay, you can be ordained! Then, when you die, you'll get last rites. You'll need them, because without them, you'll go straight to hell if you've done one of these things: killed a person, stolen, cheated on your husband or wife. That makes sense. Also though, you'll go to hell if you've done one of these things: lied, wanted something someone else had, gone through a phase where you were Buddhist real quick, worshiped your new BMW over God, or if you ever were a dick to your parents. Those are sort of pushy ones, but just deal with them, okay? Also though, there's these last couple that'll send you straight to hell. They're a bit much, but we were really looking to round it out at ten: missing church EVER, and saying 'God Dammit' when the Yankees win the World Series."

So basically what I'm saying is, I lived my childhood, through the age of ten, in complete and total fear of ever doing anything at any time.

You can imagine, then, that when my fourth grade teacher approached me and said, "We would like you to play the lead role in our Christmas play, Cindy," I was hesitant as hell to say no. Did I, and do I still, have a crippling fear or public speaking? Of course I did! And of course I do! But I was not about to say no to a teacher, especially when she was asking me to be in a play about Jesus.

And you'd better believe that this play was about Jesus.

It was called "Super Gift from Heaven." In it, I would play the role of Amanda, who was a doll left in a toy store just before Christmas. The toy store has closed for the night, and all of us toys are awake and chatting all Toy Story style about what Christmas is really about. At first I am pissed that no one wants me as a present, but then as the play goes on I realize that it's not about being a present, because really there's only one present that's important, and that present is Jesus. He's the super gift from Heaven. There are musical numbers, there is a nativity scene (not just a physical representation of a nativity but, indeed, a scene in the play which involves it.) In the end, we're all psyched about God, and also, I am purchased and given to a child as a gift anyhow. It's win-win.

So as preparation for the play began, I started nearly pissing myself every day. Why the hell was I the lead in this damn play? This is not something that I would ever have signed up for. Whatever though, it was starting, I better get into it. And I did, I guess. I mean, I learned my lines. I sang. I took cues. I listened to the three wise men tell me about why Jesus was the bee's knees. I told Raggedy Ann and Andy that it sucked that I was not a gift, what the hell. I also had a love interest, no lie. I was nine years old and I was playing a doll who was in love with another doll, and we would miss each other when we were bought as gifts, yet somehow we were still angry as heck that we were not being bought as gifts. (I had to hold hands with that boy at one point, I remember. There's nothing better than holding hands with your first boy because a script and several angry teachers are forcing you to.)

Anyhow, eventually opening night came. (Also, for the record, I had to do this twice. This play was so important that we were required to have two showings.) I put on my floral doll dress and put my enormous bow in my hair and got my cheeks painted red. I climbed the rickety, terrifying staircase from the basement of the auditorium to the backstage area - I can still remember the smell. It's a smell that I recognize now as one of fear and terror, but that was honestly probably just old wood.

I took my position on stage and I recited my lines. I was a believable doll that loved Jesus. People clapped at me. I was blinded by the spotlight, but I squinted through the show. I did everything I had to do, and then it was over. Oh, I was so glad it was over. My parents weren't at this show - they had tickets to the next night, so that they could bring my grandparents, so I didn't have to deal with anyone or anything. I went home and I sighed a sigh of relief that I only had to do it one more time.

The next night, I went back. I put on my floral doll dress and put my enormous bow in my hair and got my cheeks painted red. I walked up the stairs, I walked onto the stage, and I recited my lines. And then - all of a sudden - I had no idea what was happening. It was silent. Everyone had stopped talking. In my head I thought,

"Wow, someone forgot their line. What an asshole."

And then I looked down at my teacher, who was standing in front of the stage, and she was pointing at me. FURIOUSLY. Oh yeah, whoops, it was my line. So I remembered what I was supposed to say, and I said it, and then I shimmied to the side behind the freakishly tall kid who was playing Joseph. And I cried. It was a good thing I didn't have another line in that scene, because I wouldn't have been able to spit it out. I just hid behind super tall Joseph for the rest of the speech about Jesus being king, and then when the final line of the scene had been spoken, I ran off stage. Ran, quick like a bunny, get me the hell out of here, sprinted. Had I run that fast in gym class ever, I might have passed Presidential Fitness.

I got backstage and everyone was trying to comfort me, but that just made me feel even more ridiculous. I had basically ruined the entire show for everyone ever. In fact, if you watch the home videos that we have of the show that night, I'm pretty sure you can hear crickets, and somewhere in the world a baby cries at how bad of an actress I am. It was at that moment that I vowed to myself that I would never stand on a stage willingly again. I mean, after the play. I couldn't very well quit at that point. So I walked back out, and I finished the show. I bowed at the end, and I got applause. I went to see my family afterward, and no one mentioned that I'd forgotten a line. Everyone acted as though it had never happened, and that worked really well for me.

Unfortunately, the home video footage still exists. So, in that nativity scene, when Joseph and Mary are talking to the little doll about the importance of Jesus Christ our Lord, they look pretty insane. Because I'm hiding behind Mega-Joseph, and they look like they're talking to themselves.

Thankfully I accidentally recorded some Kids in the Hall over that tape one time.

Evel Knievel

When I was about nine years old, I almost died.

Well alright. I didn't almost die, but I thought I was going to.

Well alright. I didn't think I was going to die. Whatever.

Let's back up.

The year I turned nine, I decided I was ready for a new bike. The bike I was riding was old news. It was stupid and little and for babies. Basically, everything about it was terrible, and if I didn't get a new bike soon, someone was going to get a punch in the face, right in the damn nose, no questions asked, give me a new bike, right now.

I'm not kidding. Picture this scenario, if you will. Pretend that I am a nine year old girl, and I have been presented with two boxes. Box A is beautiful and golden, and it is glowing and sparkling and wonderful, and inside of it, if I choose to open it, is world peace and goodwill towards everyone forever. Plus I get to keep the box and be rich and famous and a stunning actress-slash-singer-slash-defense attorney. Box B is gross and ugly. It's soggy and dirty and it has spiders and cobwebs, plus it smells bad. Inside of it, if I choose to open it, all the babies in the world will die and my friends and family will be struck with an affliction in which they throw up all the time forever, but also, I get a new bike.

Guess which box I would have picked.

So finally, it's Christmas. I wake up, and you'd better believe there's this bitchin' new bike waiting for me next to the Christmas tree. It was easily the coolest bike you have ever seen in your life, and it was so definitely for a young adult such as myself. It was pink and teal (because, thanks, it was 1991), and it had what I had wanted more than anything ever in the world - handlebar brakes.

If you have a child, or if you have recently been a child, or if you maybe sort of remember being a child, you will know this: bikes for small children have foot brakes. You slam the pedals backwards and you stop. It's basically the easiest thing ever. However, foot brakes indicate to the world of nine year olds that you're completely unskilled in the ways of bikesmanship, and that you're the biggest baby ever, and oh my god I can't believe your bike still has foot brakes ARE YOU KIDDING ME.

So handlebar brakes meant I had finally made it into the world of adult biking. Screw you, girl down the street that made fun of me a lot, my bike is way awesomer than yours now. I was immediately and without a doubt ready to go outside and start riding around the neighborhood to show people what was up with my excellence. I wheeled my bike to the door and was about to go when my parents reminded me,

"Hey, it's December in Massachusetts. Get the hell back in here, you can ride it in the spring."

The spring!? Oh the agony. As though waiting as long as I had wasn't excruciating enough, thanks for buying me a bike in the middle of a blizzard, parents. I mean Santa.

Anyhow, fastforward to when I was finally able to ride this behemoth of a bike. My father was pretty insistent that he take me on a practice run first. This was not the type of bicycle I was used to, and he wanted to make sure I knew what I was in for.

We went to the pond near my house which had riding paths all over the place, and we got started. "Remember," he said, "if you try to brake with your feet, nothing will happen. Hand brakes!" And I will tell you this, ladies and gentlemen. I was fucking good at hand brakes. Did I fall off of my bike? Not even one time. (I thank goodness for that, because it was the early nineties, and god knows I was in shorts and a tank top and no elbow or knee pads, and sure as hell no helmet.) I was all,

"Ooh, look at me, I am fucking good at this."

My father was pretty unsure of my progress and thought that our lessons should continue, but I was like, "Hell no, it's time to show the bitches back home what's up." So we left the pond, and we went home. I ran into the house as soon as we arrived and I found Jenny, who was seven at the time. I said, "GET YOUR BABY BIKE, IT'S TIME TO RIDE." Or, something similar to that. I don't know, I was nine. I said whatever nine year olds say to seven year olds who want to go bike riding. "Let's go ride bikes!" maybe? Whatever.

So we get outside, and I am riding the HELL out of that bike. I mean, I am practically Evel Knievel on that thing. It's a miracle I wasn't trying to to backflips off the roof or something. Finally, I decide it's time to do the one thing that no one in my neighborhood had dared to do before. I was going to ride down the steepest hill on the face of the planet. My sister tried to talk me out of it.

"Cindy, please don't ride your bike over the edge of the cliff."

Okay, it wasn't really like a cliff, but it was steep. Super steep. Certainly not sanctioned for nine year olds on bikes. But I was queen of the world that day, and it was on. I was going to show that hill that I was the master of all things bicycle.

Now I'm not good at measurements. I can't tell you the angle of the hill. I can't tell you how long the road was in feet or inches or kilometers or cubits. But I can tell you this. The hill was exactly enough steep, and the road was exactly enough long, for me to think this,

"Oh my god why aren't my brakes working my feet are spiraling out of control I know I should be doing something differently but I think I am about to break the sound barrier please dear Jesus,"

with just enough time to spare to crash violently into a parked truck at the bottom.

The next thing I remember is being tangled up on the ground. I was intertwined with my bike in a way that would have lead people to believe that we were intimate. I was certain that my brain was leaking out of my ears, and I was relatively sure that I had broken every bone in my body, including ones that had not existed until this accident and were spawned solely for the purpose of breaking at this moment. I looked up and I saw Jenny staring at me as though I was already dead. So I said,

"Um. Can you go get mom?"

Without a word, she turned around and ran with the speed of an Olympian towards our house. I think I passed out again at that point, because the next thing I remember is a crowd of people gathered around me, and my mother untangling my lifeless body from the wreckage that was my new bike.

Upon arriving back at our house, my mother looked me over and came to the conclusion that I had not in fact done any real damage. She took me to the bathroom and she gave me a bath (which, under any other circumstance at the age of nine, would have mortified me beyond repair. However, I had just danced with death, and all I wanted in the world was my mommy.) I had gravel in my skin and hair, and I had torn up my knee in a way that ended up leaving a scar that I still have now. I remember my mother saying that my lips were paler than my skin, and I remember her not letting me go to sleep right away in case I had a concussion.

So basically, that's the story of how I almost died one time. Thankfully, I didn't brake any bones, or get any concussions, or damage any vehicles. Also, as it turned out, my dad was able to fix my bike into almost new condition when he got home that day.

Still though, I really don't ride a bike much anymore.

Tyrannosaurus

My parents got divorced when I was in the fifth grade.

To be honest, I think they would have done it sooner, except they couldn't because I was a raging maniac.

I distinctly remember the first time that my mother mentioned to me that this was something that they were considering. (Though to be honest, I'm sure it was beyond the point of "consideration", and much more assuredly onto the point of "definitely happening, but how do we tell our crazy daughter".)

Her first attempt went as follows:

My Mom: Cindy, I need to discuss something with you.

Me: Okay mom.

My Mom: Your dad and I have been talking, and -

Now at this point, it's pretty obvious to me what's coming. I mean, I'm not an idiot. I live in my house with my parents. There's certainly no physical abuse going on, but that doesn't mean a Playskool plastic kitchen hasn't been thrown about a time or two. In fact, the yelling would sometimes get so loud at night that I would sneak into the bathroom, which was directly overhead of most of the arguing, and just stomp my feet really hard. (Basically, I was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not bad, right?)

So, knowing what's coming, my reaction went something like this, before she could even get the words out:

"NoooOOoOOoO! No you're not nooooOoooOoo NO NO nooooooooo!"

This was followed immediately by what I can only describe as the best plan ever - I ran out the back door of the house into the woods and I hid.

Because clearly, if you're hiding in the woods, your parents are not going to get divorced. They're just not, that would be silly, their daughter is hiding behind a tree, they have more important things to worry about than the fact that they're miserable.

Eventually, my mother came and consoled me in the woods, and we went back to the house together. She didn't mention the divorce again that day, nor did she mention it any time again in the immediate future. It got to the point where I had convinced myself that everything was peachy. Sure, I was still doing the bathroom stomp five nights a week. Sure, my Playskool plastic kitchen was upside-down more than it was right-side up. These things were irrelevant to me. My parents both still lived in my house, and my mom was awesome, and my dad was awesome, and really, what else matters to a ten year old? Nothing. Obviously.

So, imagine my pleasant surprise when my father told me that we would be going to Boston! Just the three of us! In my head, I knew for a fact that this meant that everything was okay. Families that are on the verge of meltdown do NOT go to the Museum of Science. That would be ridiculous. Clearly, we were a family that was thick as thieves, and we were going to be awesome for the rest of forever.

The morning of our trip, I woke up early. I got dressed into the first clothes I could find (which probably were absurd, but I couldn't tell you for sure, because trust me, there are no photos from this day), and I waited for my parents to be ready to go. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it was time to leave. I sat in the back seat of the car, and my parents talked to me about all of the things we could do while we were at the museum. We would see a show at the Mugar-Omni theater, and while we waited, I could play on the musical staircase. We could see the live lightning show, created with the world's largest Van de Graaff machine. We could see the life-sized T-Rex model, although since it wasn't winter, she wouldn't be wearing her scarf. Basically, it was a geeky little girl's dream day. Science, dinosaurs, and two parents. Yes please.

Unfortunately, specific memories of the day are sort of hazy in my mind. Am I sure that I enjoyed myself? I am beyond sure that, at the time, I was having nothing but the best day of my life. However, it seems likely that these memories are lost to me because of the significance of what came next. (You know what it is, you've known this whole time.)

Outside, in front of the museum, there is another totally awesome T-Rex model. As we were leaving, I stopped and stared at it in awe for ages until my parents decided it was time to chat.

My Mom: Cindy, we need to talk to you now, okay?

My Dad: But we need you to promise us that you'll stay here.

My Mom: You can't run away from us here, it would be very dangerous if you got lost in the city.

Well, my parents, bravo. You have shown Jerry Maguire's boss what's up even before the movie exists. Were you on the screenwriting team? Did you use your experience in telling your daughter about your divorce to jot down one of the most memorable movie scenes ever? Jerry may have been fired in a crowded restaurant to specifically avoid a scene, but you went above and beyond by bringing a ten year old to a place where you knew she could not escape you - a huge, strange city. Well done. Tip of the cap to you, lad and lass.

Anyhow. The rest of the conversation was what it was. They broke the news. I cried, they cried, I cried some more, they hugged me. I didn't try to run away, because really, where could I go? And even if I'd succeeded, then what? Massive childhunt through Boston, and then they find me, and next time they try to tell me, I get a trip to Disney World? (Hmm. Maybe I should have tried that actually.)

And eventually it happened. My parents got divorced and went on with their lives. My mother eventually married a great guy. My father eventually ended up with a fantastic woman. My life now is one that I wouldn't trade for the world, with a mom, a dad, a step-mom, a step-dad, two sisters, a brother, two step-sisters, two step-brothers, and a half-brother. I know that the world is better because of this turn of events.

But I'll tell you this much. I'll never look at that T-Rex with awe. Ever again.

Priorities.

Once, when I was about fifteen years old, I saw the bone inside my sister's finger.

But we'll get to that.

The summer after my freshman year in high school, my mother worked days. Since I was the oldest of four kids, I often found myself in charge. We didn't do a whole lot, really. Sometimes we ordered food and played board games. Sometimes we watched Full House. However, on this particular day, I remember vividly that we were playing Mario 3. We were all fighting over who would go next, and I remember that instead of playing the role of diplomatic babysitter, I instead took on a communist dictator persona and confiscated the controller as my own. I felt bad making everyone sit back and watch me play though - so I made them do chores instead. My sister Jenny was in charge of vacuuming the living room. My brother Ben had to sweep the kitchen. And lastly, my sister Steph had to do the dishes.

It was going pretty well, if you ask me. There were no siblings around to aggravate me, and the housework that my mom had left for us to do was getting done. AND I was getting really, really far in the game. Like, SUPER far. I had just used my last whistle and I was kickin' it in World 8. Things were really looking up in the world. Then, just as I entered that tank level (you know the one - the one where the screen advances on its own and you need to keep up), I heard a crash from the kitchen and my sister screamed. At that point, I did what any responsible big sister would do. I pretended not to hear her.

Unfortunately, that tactic didn't get me very far. Within seconds, everyone was yelling for me.

"Cindy! Come here! We need you! Emergency! Mayday! Crisis in progress!"

But. The tank level! It was still moving. I could have paused it, but there's no coming back from that, you know there's not. So I did what I had to do. I said, "I'll be right there!" And I kept playing. I jumped over and ducked under so many bullets while screams continued to echo out of the kitchen. All three of them kept yelling for me, but for the love of god I was not going to stop playing, I just wasn't, not at all, nope.

Finally, I got to the end of the level. I made my way into the kitchen and, sure enough, there was blood everywhere. It was as though there had been a ritualistic slaughtering of a goat or something, but to the best of my knowledge there was not a goat anywhere. It was then that I noticed that my sister had a kitchen towel wrapped around her fingers. I made her unwrap it so I could see the damage - and it was epic. She had been washing a drinking glass and it had shattered around her hand. A renegade sliver had made its way deep into the flesh of her pinky finger, and as a result, I found myself staring at what was so completely and apparently her bone. Her bone, on the inside of her hand, which generally was wrapped in a layer of flesh and muscle tissue. Yes, that bone. That's the one.

Eventually, we ended up calling 911. An ambulance came. Stitches went down. I wish I was able to say that I was never allowed to babysit again, but unfortunately that's not true. I babysat many a time after that. And although that day was incredibly and completely shocking, it taught me some things. It taught me that it is important to play the role of a responsible adult. It taught me that there is a time and place for everything. It taught me that when someone calls for you, maybe you should pay attention. But, most importantly, it taught me this. A lesson that I will never forget for as long as I live:

I am incredible at video games. No matter what.