ammogirl

Every so often either I or someone else makes a reference to singing, and everytime I think, “Oh!  I have a story about that!” and then I totally forget, because I am officially turning into That Person who forgets EVERYTHING.

Speaking of turning into That Person, I want to take a moment and digress.  I know, it’s surprising.  But I am finding that as I get older that while I care less about some things…that I can’t give an example for, I am caring a whole lot more about others.  Like, with every day that passes, germs are exponentially more disgusting to me.  My work went bowling on Friday for a team-building event, and it made my stomach turn to witness those guys sticking their fingers in the dirty depths of the bowling ball, and then turning around and eating a hamburger and fries with the same hand.  How many people have stuck their fingers in those holes?  Like, what if someone had been scratching the inside of their ear and then grabbed the ball, thus transferring bits of earwax into the holes?  And then the next person touched that earwax, and then ate their food?  WHAT THEN?  And don’t bother bringing up the ultimate of bowling grossness: rental shoes.  I’m talking about things that I acknowledge as a bit over-the-top on my part, and over-the-top does not include bowling alley rental shoes, which you, as a normal person, should already find too gross for words.  If you don’t…ahem.

There are actually more issues I’m getting worse about and want to discuss (read:ramble on endlessly until you just can’t take anymore) such as crowd anxiety and fear of travel, but tangent-y interludes, even when given by people such as myself who tend to have no point anyway, should not take up more of a post than the actual intended subject. So.

No, what I wanted to tell you is this: recently I had come across my journal from 8th grade, and had been paging through it reading some of the funnier bits to the girls, when I came across this gem of utter delusion:

“PS. I’m going for it. It’s time I got my singing career out into the open. Jenny* and I are moving to L.A. when we graduate and she’s going to be the bassist in my band. I’ll be the lead singer of course, and our band will be called

Leathur N’ Lace

We are going to rock! Whooo!”

The Leathur N’ Lace was written very hardcore, by the way, all angles and curves and points.  I read this and immediately was consumed with deep, heartfelt laughter, because hi, I CANNOT SING.  This is not a false statement.  And despite the long hours spent in front of my dresser mirror singing along with Pat Benatar, there was never a point in my life when I COULD sing.  EVER.  How I cultivated and maintained this self-deception I have no idea.

That journal is a cornucopia of hilarity, let me tell you.  And I was awful, much much worse than I remembered, although I do suspect I lied quite often to impress.  Impress who, I don’t know, other than the actual journal itself.  I must have been trying to give myself the rock n’ roll bad-girl image necessary to carry the title of Lead Singer, Leathur N’ Lace.

Anyhow.  Lunch is officially over.  Oh, for the record, I also suck at bowling (see “team-building”, paragraph two).

Tschuss!!

*Jenny, according to my journal, was my best friend for approximately two months in the 8th grade.  Obviously, we never made it to L.A.