1977. I am born two days after Christmas, more than two weeks after my due date. The nurses tape a red bow onto my bald head and use me for the bath demonstration.
1978. My christening is postponed by the Blizzard of 78. My dad gets a week off work and walks a mile to the store for groceries.
1979. One night I'm toddling around the kitchen wearing a t-shirt, a diaper, Snoopy slippers and a Cool-Whip container on my head. The moment is immortalized on film.
1980. My sister is born. I am indignant. From whence did this interloper come, and why is she so loud and red?
1981. The small porch off the kitchen is where we spend our time when it’s warm out. In the morning my dad sits out there eating his homemade muffins and reading the newspaper, and at night it’s where my parents sit and drink iced coffee. There’s a picture of me in that room, sitting on my toy box, wearing a t-shirt that says, “Tennis Shirt” on it. Thanks, because I was totally confused about what activity I should be doing in it.
1982. I get sick and miss my first day of kindergarten. The next day, everyone but me knows where they’re going. I stand in the hallway with my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox and cry.
1983. I take ballet and tap classes. When it comes time for the recital, I freak out during dress rehearsal and refuse to participate. We watch the recital from the audience, and I never take dance classes again.
1984. In second grade I meet my friend Amanda for the first time, although we won’t become friends for another four years. We are all little preppies in our Fair Isle sweaters, corduroys, and turtlenecks with tiny whales and rainbows and hearts on them.
1985. Third grade kicks ass. I have the best teacher, and his classroom is full of plants and couches and rugs. We have a class guinea pig, I have a best friend named Amy, and my mom comes in to help us make homemade soft pretzels. I master the multiplication table and cursive writing. A dozen years later, my teacher dies of AIDS.
1986. My friend Brian and I like to play G.I. Joe in the woods behind my house. He is Quick Kick and I am Scarlet. The woods are awesome… there are dirtbike paths that facilitate exploring, an old rusted-out car that we can’t stay away from, and a hole in the ground about three feet deep that we cover with sticks and leaves and try to trick each other into falling into.
1987. My frustrations with math start with the introduction of fractions and long division. My fourth grade teacher tells my parents that I slouch.
1988. Amy moves away, which is traumatizing. We exchange “best friend” necklaces and swear to keep in touch forever, but we don’t. Amanda becomes my new best friend after we join forces against a camp counselor named Willy who combed his hair with a fork.
1989. My friend Alyssa and I do our project on Egypt for the Middle Eastern Fair at school. We make a papier mache pyramid and attach it to a piece of wood covered in sandpaper. We glue on some plastic camels and palm trees. I remember the fair well because I got my first period the night before.
1990. Life is all about New Kids on the Block. My room is covered in posters, and when I say covered I mean every inch: walls, doors and ceiling. I have a black felt Debbie Gibson hat covered in NKOTB pins. Amanda loves Donnie and I love Joey. We write stories about them, go to concerts, and wear horrible neon plastic jewelry.
1991. Amanda moves away after her parents get a divorce. I start high school and make a new group of friends, smart girls who are in all my classes. The fashions of the day are colorblock blouses with sheer sleeves, stirrup pants, tunic sweaters, and Sam & Libby ballet flats.
1992. I meet a boy on Prodigy and talk to him on the phone every night. I run up a $400 phone bill and try to hide it from my parents by intercepting the mail and then writing a check from their checkbook, thinking they won’t notice. They do.
1993. My friends and I discover grunge and express our individuality and non-conformism by all dyeing our hair purple. We wear $120 Doc Martens and $75 Abercrombie & Fitch sweaters, greatly missing the point. I become friends with some straight edge punk boys from my art class.
1994. Thanks to my impressive list of extracurricular activities, I get into the college of my choice early decision. They think that I am actively allied with other students my age to end racism and violence in my state. And also that I am an academic decathlete.
1995. I get friend-dumped, edged out by my clique. This casts a dark cloud over Senior Week but also doesn’t matter because I’m sick of high school anyway. Graduation is anticlimactic.
1996. College is great except for the classes and the studying. I live in giant sweatshirts and Adidas track pants, sleep in a bed propped up on cinderblocks, and stay up way too late every night. My friend down the hall gets herself knocked up.
1997. By the end of sophomore year, I regret going to college in the sticks and wish I had gone to BU instead. Hookups and hockey games are the only things keeping me going.
1998. I take off to London for spring semester abroad, because it’s either this or transfer. After a rocky start, I have an amazing time. I meet Joe. I finally turn 21, long after everyone else has.
1999. I graduate. Days later, I move to New York and interview for publishing jobs in 95-degree heat. I am offered an entry-level position with a whopping annual salary of $26K. But I get to go on business trips to Washington, which makes me feel important.
2000. Joe and I get engaged under the Brooklyn Bridge. We move to Massachusetts, get new jobs, and purchase our first real furniture: a kitchen set and a sleigh bed.
2001. I receive a promotion and a raise at work, with no real increase in responsibility. Score!
2002. Joe and I get married and cruise the Mediterranean on our honeymoon.
2003. We become homeowners. Joe starts grad school. I lose my job.
2004. I finally land a job after six torturous months. It’s the coldest and windiest January in about 97 years and I have to walk half a mile to and from the bus. The place and the people suck. After a month, I confess my unhappiness to Long Story Short at Starbucks and she validates everything I'm feeling with these magic words: "It sounds like you need to quit." The next day I consult Red, who had to quit an evil job once herself, spend the morning composing my resignation letter, deliver the letter to my boss's empty chair, casually put on my coat, and sprint to the T. Three weeks later I get my current—and MUCH better—job.
2005. After a couple months of casual trying and a couple more months of serious trying, we find out that I’m pregnant (WE are not pregnant… ugh).
2006. One week at a time, you know? It adds up to something amazing.
1978. My christening is postponed by the Blizzard of 78. My dad gets a week off work and walks a mile to the store for groceries.
1979. One night I'm toddling around the kitchen wearing a t-shirt, a diaper, Snoopy slippers and a Cool-Whip container on my head. The moment is immortalized on film.
1980. My sister is born. I am indignant. From whence did this interloper come, and why is she so loud and red?
1981. The small porch off the kitchen is where we spend our time when it’s warm out. In the morning my dad sits out there eating his homemade muffins and reading the newspaper, and at night it’s where my parents sit and drink iced coffee. There’s a picture of me in that room, sitting on my toy box, wearing a t-shirt that says, “Tennis Shirt” on it. Thanks, because I was totally confused about what activity I should be doing in it.
1982. I get sick and miss my first day of kindergarten. The next day, everyone but me knows where they’re going. I stand in the hallway with my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox and cry.
1983. I take ballet and tap classes. When it comes time for the recital, I freak out during dress rehearsal and refuse to participate. We watch the recital from the audience, and I never take dance classes again.
1984. In second grade I meet my friend Amanda for the first time, although we won’t become friends for another four years. We are all little preppies in our Fair Isle sweaters, corduroys, and turtlenecks with tiny whales and rainbows and hearts on them.
1985. Third grade kicks ass. I have the best teacher, and his classroom is full of plants and couches and rugs. We have a class guinea pig, I have a best friend named Amy, and my mom comes in to help us make homemade soft pretzels. I master the multiplication table and cursive writing. A dozen years later, my teacher dies of AIDS.
1986. My friend Brian and I like to play G.I. Joe in the woods behind my house. He is Quick Kick and I am Scarlet. The woods are awesome… there are dirtbike paths that facilitate exploring, an old rusted-out car that we can’t stay away from, and a hole in the ground about three feet deep that we cover with sticks and leaves and try to trick each other into falling into.
1987. My frustrations with math start with the introduction of fractions and long division. My fourth grade teacher tells my parents that I slouch.
1988. Amy moves away, which is traumatizing. We exchange “best friend” necklaces and swear to keep in touch forever, but we don’t. Amanda becomes my new best friend after we join forces against a camp counselor named Willy who combed his hair with a fork.
1989. My friend Alyssa and I do our project on Egypt for the Middle Eastern Fair at school. We make a papier mache pyramid and attach it to a piece of wood covered in sandpaper. We glue on some plastic camels and palm trees. I remember the fair well because I got my first period the night before.
1990. Life is all about New Kids on the Block. My room is covered in posters, and when I say covered I mean every inch: walls, doors and ceiling. I have a black felt Debbie Gibson hat covered in NKOTB pins. Amanda loves Donnie and I love Joey. We write stories about them, go to concerts, and wear horrible neon plastic jewelry.
1991. Amanda moves away after her parents get a divorce. I start high school and make a new group of friends, smart girls who are in all my classes. The fashions of the day are colorblock blouses with sheer sleeves, stirrup pants, tunic sweaters, and Sam & Libby ballet flats.
1992. I meet a boy on Prodigy and talk to him on the phone every night. I run up a $400 phone bill and try to hide it from my parents by intercepting the mail and then writing a check from their checkbook, thinking they won’t notice. They do.
1993. My friends and I discover grunge and express our individuality and non-conformism by all dyeing our hair purple. We wear $120 Doc Martens and $75 Abercrombie & Fitch sweaters, greatly missing the point. I become friends with some straight edge punk boys from my art class.
1994. Thanks to my impressive list of extracurricular activities, I get into the college of my choice early decision. They think that I am actively allied with other students my age to end racism and violence in my state. And also that I am an academic decathlete.
1995. I get friend-dumped, edged out by my clique. This casts a dark cloud over Senior Week but also doesn’t matter because I’m sick of high school anyway. Graduation is anticlimactic.
1996. College is great except for the classes and the studying. I live in giant sweatshirts and Adidas track pants, sleep in a bed propped up on cinderblocks, and stay up way too late every night. My friend down the hall gets herself knocked up.
1997. By the end of sophomore year, I regret going to college in the sticks and wish I had gone to BU instead. Hookups and hockey games are the only things keeping me going.
1998. I take off to London for spring semester abroad, because it’s either this or transfer. After a rocky start, I have an amazing time. I meet Joe. I finally turn 21, long after everyone else has.
1999. I graduate. Days later, I move to New York and interview for publishing jobs in 95-degree heat. I am offered an entry-level position with a whopping annual salary of $26K. But I get to go on business trips to Washington, which makes me feel important.
2000. Joe and I get engaged under the Brooklyn Bridge. We move to Massachusetts, get new jobs, and purchase our first real furniture: a kitchen set and a sleigh bed.
2001. I receive a promotion and a raise at work, with no real increase in responsibility. Score!
2002. Joe and I get married and cruise the Mediterranean on our honeymoon.
2003. We become homeowners. Joe starts grad school. I lose my job.
2004. I finally land a job after six torturous months. It’s the coldest and windiest January in about 97 years and I have to walk half a mile to and from the bus. The place and the people suck. After a month, I confess my unhappiness to Long Story Short at Starbucks and she validates everything I'm feeling with these magic words: "It sounds like you need to quit." The next day I consult Red, who had to quit an evil job once herself, spend the morning composing my resignation letter, deliver the letter to my boss's empty chair, casually put on my coat, and sprint to the T. Three weeks later I get my current—and MUCH better—job.
2005. After a couple months of casual trying and a couple more months of serious trying, we find out that I’m pregnant (WE are not pregnant… ugh).
2006. One week at a time, you know? It adds up to something amazing.
