The last time I joined Jenni on a blogging challenge I learned a little something about myself: I hate talking about myself.
Which makes absolutely no sense coming from a blogger, right? But it's true -- I got all squirmy trying to answer the soul searching prompts Jenni threw out there, and instead I told stories marginally related to the prompt -- ie, that time I got in trouble for being racist, or that time I flipped hamburgers at McDonald's.
This time, I'm going to try to be more literal. Which isn't saying much, since literal literally no longer means literal.
(I'm also going to try not to give up after day 6.)
SO. Blogtember, day 1: Describe where or what you came from.
I like to say I grew up in four places, all of them contributing to the classy Southern lady I am today:
- After moving to Baton Rouge at the age of 10, I lived there until I was 23. Living in Baton Rouge inducted me into the scary, scary cult that is college football, and my high school experience taught me a lot about race relations (true story #1: we had a white and black homecoming court) and tolerance (true story #2: there was a riot protesting a gay club on campus that made it on the front page of Newsweek magazine).
- I lived in the suburbs of Houston for six years of my childhood, and thus, the soundtrack to my formative years was country music. Because of this, my dream karaoke song has always been Fancy by Reba McEntire*, and my very first concert was at the Houston Rodeo: Billy Ray Cyrus. I know what you're wondering, and no, there was no twerking.
- My dad's job took us to Holland for three years of my life (age 3-6), and I wish I remembered that time better because I was pretty awesome: I was fluent in Dutch and traveled the world. Those three years directly relate to my love of all things travel and Dutch (except raw herring) to this day.
- Also, because of those three years, I take my toast with butter and chocolate sprinkles, thank you very much.
- I never actually lived in Utica, but I did spend eight summers of my life at summer camp there. And in those eight summers, I probably developed skin cancer (I was not built for the outdoors, ask one of my three zillion freckles), made some amazing friends, realized that being Jewish is pretty awesome, learned how to curse at the ripe age of ten, and learned to be comfortable walking around naked (which has come in handy in the exhibitionist Minneapolis locker rooms). Not exactly what you expect when you send your kid to Jewish summer camp, but now you know the truth. I guarantee anyone who has been to an infamous "Jew camp" will tell you the same thing.