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Day 25: Searching For Treasure

4/30/2015

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My friend Katy was the instigator and innovator. She came up with the creative, fun adventures, and I happily went along as her accomplice.

When we were in the 3rd grade, she had the idea of going on a treasure hunt during recess. It sounded like a perfectly reasonable way to spend the morning, so off we went. We spent the entirety of our free time poking around the boundaries of the school play ground, in search of anything valuable. A variety of lost trinkets were discovered, along with the occasional blue paper lunch ticket. Our treasure hunt continued through several days’ recess.

Finally, we came upon the jackpot. At the far end of the field there was a long row of tires, used for climbing and jumping. We were inspecting the area underneath the tires when we discovered a mound of coins. The money was hidden from view, and we only found it because we were feeling around the grassy area with our hands. “We’re rich!” I exclaimed. Katy and I made a plan to keep the money hidden until we could sneak a bag onto the playground to collect the money. The next day, we discreetly shoved all the coins into a plastic grocery bag, and smuggled our booty home. When we finally were able to count the money, it turned out to be around $25, mostly quarters.

Our successful treasure hunt had several immediate outcomes. First, it solidified for me the fact that Katy was a crazy genius. Second, we decided the best use of our new financial status was to splurge on ice cream at the school snack shop.
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Day 24: Eff That

4/29/2015

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My first lesson in the power of cussing and curse words was when I was 4. I heard my dad yell, “Shit!” while working under the car hood. Later that day, I repeated the word in the presence of my mom. I had no idea what the word meant, only that I liked how strong and declarative it sounded. My mom told me it was a "bad word." I realized then that words weren't just neutral. Words had the power to reflect emotions, affect people, and create meaning. 

Later as an adolescent, I was surrounded by peers testing out cuss words at every opportunity. We delighted in the shock value and rebellious nature of profanity. There was a precision of expression that was needed to accurately express our angst and anger. Dialogue in the halls and locker rooms were spiced with words like fuck and all its variations, which seemed appropriate for the daily drama of middle school.

My college roommate, a very pretty and tall girl from Malaysia, cussed like a sailor. She wasn’t even mad. Bitch and asshole were commonplace in our conversations about school, boys, and what the dining hall was serving for breakfast. Her flippant use of profanity made me laugh, and I picked up more colorful language from her.

Now I am an adult, married with kids, with a calling as a Christian minister. Given my present life stage, my moments of swearing are severely limited. I don’t relish cussing nearly as much as I used to. But I’ll admit there are some moments when I take great pleasure and satisfaction in vocalizing a well-timed, correctly appropriated “Shit.”
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Day 23: Dog Days

4/28/2015

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We fell in love with the idea of having a dog. 

There was a woman sitting in front of a grocery store with a big cardboard box labeled “Free Puppies!” My brothers and I wore down our parents, “We promise to take care of the puppy!” The dog we chose was a scrappy brown mutt, earning her the name Mocha Almond Fudge. 

For several weeks we were the model dog owners. We took Mocha out on walks, gave her baths, and maintained her dog house. But as the novelty wore off, our enthusiasm for our dog waned. My dad eventually took on most dog duties, and we kids moved on to other interests. 

We loved the idea of having a dog, but the reality was a different matter.
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Day 22: Therapy

4/27/2015

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I was sitting with my parents in the doctor’s waiting room. My parents had prepared me ahead of time, “This is a child psychologist, who will help us all sort out what’s going on with you.” There was the underlying but obvious implication - I had some problems that weren’t normal, and my parents didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do either. I felt like something broken to be fixed.

Dr. A walked into the room, and I already knew I didn’t like him. He was old and stiff, and his office was a horrid rose color. My time with him lasted an hour, mostly consisting of him asking questions that made me feel confused and stupid.

“You’ve been stealing things. Why?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. Nothing in me wanted to be there opening up to this stranger.

“Can you tell me why you lied to your parents?”

“I don’t know.” Asking a 7-year old why seemed like a waste of time to me. You’re the doctor. You tell me! We talked in circles until the clock mercifully signaled the end of the session. 


After several meetings with Dr. A that were basically replays of the first one, my visits to his office stopped. Did he cure me? Were my parents tired of paying the monthly fee? Did he diagnose me as unfixable? I never believed those therapy sessions accomplished anything, other than confirm how screwed up I was. 

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Day 21: Working Girl

4/26/2015

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My first real job was at the newly opened movie theater in town.

Before that, I did frequent stints as neighborhood babysitter. The best babysitting gigs were with the Carters. They paid me $8 an hour to watch Fern Gully with their two mild-mannered kids while the parents went out for date nights. After the kids went to sleep, I’d recline on their leather couch to read Michael Crichton novels.

The local newspaper announced job openings for the movie theater, and my friend Sarah and I decided to apply together. We were high schoolers, and assumed safety in numbers. The interview process involved about 75 people being seated in the theater. I surveyed the competition as people filed into the room. A suave-looking manager stood in front of the crimson velvet curtain, and bragged about his qualifications and spouted off miscellaneous facts about the movie theater industry. I had dreams of becoming a film director, and figured this job was at least a tiny step for a Maui girl to get herself to Hollywood. There were several open positions - theater crew (a glorified title for ushers and janitorial staff), ticket office, and concession. Lured by the prospect of interacting with customers, Sarah and I decided to work in the concession stand. “Very good with people” was the generic phrase we wrote on our applications.

Our job as concession staff was to work hard and fast, and make sure the customer was always satisfied. We mastered the art of the up-sell. “Would you like to make that drink an extra large? Do you want the Family-Size Combo for just $3.99 more?” We turned on our friendliest smiles to the customers who were annoyed at waiting several minutes for their hot dogs to warm up. When they weren’t looking, we’d roll our eyes at each other. People get really grumpy at you when you charge them seven dollars for popcorn. By the end of the day, our aloha shirts and polyester pants reeked of fake butter sauce and nachos. We could claim any leftover popcorn (and there were garbage bags full), but that perk quickly lost its charm. If you befriended the projector operator, you could score movie paraphernalia like posters and film reels. The real highlight of the job was getting to watch movies for free on our time off. Technically employees were allowed to bring one friend to watch movies, but we all snuck entire groups in while the managers turned a blind eye.

The day we received our first paychecks was like hitting the jackpot. It didn’t matter that we were making minimum wage, or that taking orders at the cash register wasn’t exactly glamorous. When I opened the envelope and pulled out a printed check with my name on it, I was elated. I was a working girl with a real job.
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