"it's poop again!"

I am the kind of person that likes to suppress horrific moments, to the point where I virtually forget that the moment ever actually occurred. It is brilliant...you should try it sometime. For instance, the first time you farted in front of your husband, or dare I say, pooped? It was horrible right? Or did you not clog the toilet like me, so it wasn't so bad? Well in any event...negative memories are erased from my mind.

-------------------

Just yesterday, a person contracted a memory that had long since evaporated into oblivion, waiting to be reincarnated by none other than my own kin! Not a second-cousin-of-my-best-friend's-husband-that-let-their-secretary-borrow-a-paper-clip, type of kin. The kin of all kins. The motherload. And when I say motherload...I mean, my mother. Yes, my tender mother exposed me to an open wound of horrible-ness. The Mama Face, herself. I have a bone to pick with you mom...but before that, I will fill in all of the blog readers of the world, on what really happened: Lauren, style.



So way back in the 20th century, circa 1999, I went to a blessed school. Blessed school, meaning ghetto school. Yes. Emerson Elementary. Oh, I "soared with the eagles"...let me tell ya, I kicked it old school with the green and gold like it was nobody's bizzzzness. But that is another story. So, 1999 would take us back to my 5th grade year. Check it...


"Awww...look at you!"

"Wut a cute wittle girl!"

"I could just pinch those wittle cheeks of yours!"



Yeah, yeah, yeaaaah....save it. I don't care what anyone says, but back in the day I was hott, with two T's. I mean, look at that fluffy hair...that Backstreet Boys shirt...my crooked teeth that were being held down by extra strength crow bars. Ahh, the good old days of braces. But best of all...check out those bangs. Hawt. You all know how I do.



So, in class, I was seated by 3 boys. Want me to name them off? Ok, I will. First, there was Joe, then there was Ryan, and finally, there was Peter. *cue chirping birds and any other happy thing that's associated with twitterpation....oh, birds are the only thing? that's cool* Everyone loved Peter, myself included. However, I had two advantages. (1) I sat next to him in class. And (2) the talent show...


How could a 10 year old boy refuse that? Or my husband, for that matter. Anyway...yes, I tap danced in the talent show. Apparently my dancing skills, big bangs and little black number stole his little heart, because the next day he showed up at school with a wilted rose and a love note asking me to be his girlfriend. *swoon* A wilted rose? A boyfriend? All in one day? Hot Dog!



A couple fateful weeks later, school ended, and we proceeded to walk home. As usual, we didn't exchange any words whatsoever, because that would have been against the strict code of playground romances. It was awesome. Without conversation, all I had to concentrate on was being hawt. Not too hard to do. I worked my overalls, made sure my back pack was slung on one shoulder, and that my butterfly clips were in place. Holla! I was lookin' good, let me tell ya. Mid strut, something splattered onto my head in the shhhloppiest of slops. Something, wet, warm and gooey. Confused, I slowly touched my finger to the place of offense, and found a black smear, spotted with a white cream-like substance on my hand. As the realization kicked in, I looked up (shielding my face of course) and saw a pigeon fly away from the scene of the crime.

Horrified at the ginormous poop smear running down the side of my face, I tried to act as if nothing happened. I turned my head awkwardly, to hide the carnage. But I was too late! Peter saw what the little flying rat had done! Not only had the evil pidge crapped on my head of fluffy bang-ness...it pooped on a butterfly clip! Devastated, I literally ran home, poop dripping, and conditioning my hair at the same time.

A couple of days later, Peter broke up with me.

He said he liked a different girl, but I think that is a load of crap.