F: falling, fat, feminist, firebird, fruitcake

f

FALLING

I have: fallen up the stairs, down a hill, out of bed, into bed, over my own two feet, over my dog, sideways, into a bathtub, out of a car, in and out of love, for some really crummy pranks, and into the wrong crowd.

Falling is one of my many talents.

FAT

How can such a small word have such a huge effect on a person’s psyche?

FEMINIST, EARLY SIGNS THAT YOU MIGHT BE A

Table

Age 3	Upon being offered help, started chanting, “I can do it myself!” This became childhood/adolescent mantra.
Age 5	Neighborhood boy called me his “snugglebunny” I slapped him and rode quickly away on my Big Wheel. Played with Hot Wheels in the dirt behind our house.
Age 8	Entered talent show with school underdog, created dance routine based on series of ridiculously sleepy spins and tumbles, because the popular girls were prancing around in cheerleading costumes dancing to “Hey Mickey” and it profoundly disturbed me.
Age 12(ish)	Walked in on father and friends watching intro to Lethal Weapon, where a naked woman is all drugged up and about to jump off a balcony. Stood in front of television and lectured all the men on the objectification of women. (Was quickly ushered home and grounded.)
Age 15(ish)	Dyed hair brown with belief teachers would treat me as a more mature student if my hair color wasn’t getting in the way (Dude. I don’t know. I’m just telling you what happened. There aren’t enough therapists in America to figure some of this stuff out.)
Age 16	Left more than one party that devolved into porn-watching drunk-fests because “porn is disrespectful to women and so are you!” Once told a boy that wanted to make out, “What do you think I am, a piece of meat?!?”

FIREBIRD, FORMULA

My first car was a 1988 black Formula Firebird. With T-Tops. OH yes, that’s right. I said T-Tops. Also, those headlights that pop up and down like eye lids. Mostly, it was fast (or to my 18-year-old self, it felt fast) and I was really cool driving it.

FRUITCAKE

I understand that 99.5% of humans dislike fruitcake. I certainly would never eat the stuff that comes in a tin and appears to be made of tire rubber. But my Grandma Cooper? She made a fruitcake that was out-of-this-world divine. Moist, sweet cake with brandied fruit that she somehow made all from scratch. I looked forward to it every year. De.lec.ta.ble.

To this day, I call it “fruited bread” so people won’t automatically make their minds up about it as that rubberized store-bought variety.