Slide and Sick Day

So, a million years ago, my family went to go visit my cousin.  ...I think it was my cousin.  I honestly don't remember anymore.  I remember that there was a lot of land and giant rolls of what I think must have been hay.  I also remember my parents assumption that I should be very excited about these giant rolls of hay.  ...I was less than enthused. 

However, there was a little swing-set, complete with a slide.  I hurried up to the top of that slide, content and sure that this slide was going to lead me to pure joy.  After all, I was a child and this was a fuckin' SLIDE!  WOOO!

I got to the top, excited and thrilled that I had scaled such a structure.  Little me said, "YAY!"

This was about when I realized that I was afraid of heights.  If I had had the ability to say anything or make any more noises beyond suddenly terrified sobs, I would have said, "Shit".

I begged my parents to help me down.  It's not like they had wandered off.  They hadn't.  My parents were RIGHT THERE, watching me, right by my bits of extended family.  I was humiliated.  I was too scared to be aware of just how embarrassed I was at the time, so instead I decided that it was time to forsake all dignity and let my parents know that I would not be coming down the easy way.

My parents refused to help me down and instead took a photo of me crying and screaming because it was cute.  (I have since asked my mom to find this picture.  She remembers taking it, but it seems to have been lost to time.)
   ...They helped me down eventually, as I am not still on that slide to this day.  Otherwise, I would be "Rowyn, Queen of the Slide People". 
I'd have a castle.

If my mother ever finds that picture, I'll post it here.



Sick Day
I used to get sick.  A lot.  In fact, through out middle school and high school, I was usually sick.  I'm not really sure how I managed to graduate, since most of my time was spent at home or in the nurses office.  I guess the logic was, "well, she's going to art school.  It won't matter how she does here."

Way back in those days, cell phones weren't handed out to kids like candy on Halloween.  As such, we had pay phones in a few of the hallways. 

One day, while I was home in bed, wondering what terrible thing had decided to lay eggs in my stomach, (seriously, I'd make up HORRIBLE stories in my head as to why I was ill) I received a call from a close friend.  I don't remember how old we were, but it was definitely during high school. 

I remember my mother handing me the phone.  Groggy, I asked, "hello?"

On the other line was my hysterical and terrified friend with only, "HOW DO YOU SPELL OF???"

I blinked a few times, trying to process what I had just been asked.  After all, the girl on the other end of the line was brilliant.  She was probably going to be a doctor or a lawyer or something.  She didn't actually wind up either of those, but either way, "of" should not have been a big deal.

Finally, I answered, "you mean...  O.  F.?"

"YES!"  She hung up.  Later, I learned that she had second guessed herself into wondering if "of" was spelled "ov" or "ove" or "uhve"  ...It got complicated. 

Many people have had the experience of (ha, "of") thinking or saying a word so many times, that the word loses it's meaning or just no longer sounds right.  This is essentially what she had done.  Rather than consult a teacher or another student and possibly face ridicule, I suppose it was only natural that she call her half-dying friend.  I was so drugged up and mostly incoherent that it may have been safe to assume that I would not remember this incident the next day.  Well, I remembered.  ...and then I wrote a blog about it.