Priceless gems from 1988.

Every once in awhile I like to pour myself a nice big glass of wine, sit down, and get some perspective on my life. Often this involves taking down my big green box of shit (also known as: memorabilia) and reminiscing. I felt the perspective-gaining urge coming on during last night's super-boring Grey's Anatomy and today, well, in my bag is a little flowered diary just brimming with 12-year-old juiciness to share with all of you.

(Alright. I know. I hate these kinds of blog posts as much as you do. I mean, who the hell will think my sixth grade diary is remotely interesting? (OK, besides you, Jess!)This is where I put the kabosh on what you all think. I happen to find it entertaining as hell.)

So without further adieu.....

Some priceless gems from 1988.

Preface: I have made no bones about the fact that me and my iron are like this. Not only do I place great value on the appearance of pressed garments (I iron jeans and T-shirts, OK?), I actually LIKE ironing. I find it extremely satisfying, meditative almost. Hell, my mother used to pay me 50 cents an item to iron her stuff...I even did this as recently as 2003 (I was unemployed, shut up.).

Anyway. Perspective:

June 1, 1988

Dearest Diary-

Hey evry'one wasn't as sad. [a girl in our middle school had hung herself in her garage over the weekend] I can't go to the funeral. I want to stay home tomorrow. Chris was actually talking to me today. He asked my phone # and he's supposed to call. Jessi is being annoying. She teases me cause I iron. So what if I'm not a slob.

Luv-n-stuff-
Rosie

I was already ironing my clothes at the tender age of 12! That's just one year older than my little sister and I certainly cannot imagine her wielding an iron on all her stuff. Although, come to think of it, the last time we were home we woke up to find Sophie mopping the kitchen floor because "Mama said it was a big cleaning day."

(JESUS WE ARE SUCH OUR MOTHER'S DAUGHTERS!)

It is a little scary to think Soph might possibly be as boy-crazy (and supremely insecure) as I was:

June 5, 1988

Diary -

I feel so much better now. AD told me that CT really likes me but it is a bet. I just thought it was a bet and he didn't like me. Today I had to babysit. CT is in New York. I wish he could have been at the dance. He better go to Tory's party. My biggest prayers right now are 1: that me and Chris are still going together until Mon. 2: He goes to Tory's party. I (heart) him!

Love
Rosie

So in my mind, it was OK that, depsite the fact that some loser bet his friend to "go with me", it was all somehow excusable because he really liked me anyway? Good lord. (And as for me making prayers in the diary - weird. I wasn't the least bit religious.)

Apparently I woke the hell up and dumped his ass 2 days later. Here, I start to show some sense:

June 10, 1988

Dear Diary -

Today CT asked me to go with him again. He says it's NOT a bet. He even called me and asked me. Well if I go with him he'll have to be nicer to me and my friends and he'll have to talk to me! I can't believe Jessi is going with Jeff. (Puke) Maybe CT's parents will change their minds I hope! Tomorrow nite is Tory's party. Please let it be good.

Rosie

Hell yeah, girlfriend. That's what I'm talking about. Make them come crawling back! No self-respecting woman would ever date a guy who wasn't nice to her friends and didn't talk to her. (But I still said yes. Booooo to that! I was weak!)

But yay to the fact that it was over for good the next week! Then I think Jess started going with him ;) Ha ha. And then I think I took him back for a brief period of time in 11th grade. And then at our 10 year high school reunion 2 years ago he was still exactly the same, all gropey and drunk, except he had blossomed into a ginormous 250 El-BEES. And then we were all, like, what the hell were we thinking?

There's more good shit in the box. Just you wait. I'm so glad that not only did I write it all down in multiple diaries, but that I kept all of them! And now...I so know what Sophie's getting for Christmas. And no, it's not an iron, fools.