Author: Belinda O

My second go-round with college was in Portland, Oregon, while my dad still lived in San Jose, California. That meant that holidays required a road trip down I-5, over the mountains and through the woods.

Tragically, this was the age of the I-5 killer, a serial killer who found his victims along that interstate. The school, naturally, was concerned with the number of students who took that route home, and did what they could to require we travel in groups of both men and women, preferably larger groups, but at least two.

I was extremely shy those days around men, but I had a car, so I never had a problem finding someone to drive with me. One spring break it turned out to be a fellow student named Jack, one of the most popular boys on campus who I, remarkably, had a light flirtatious relationship with. We planned to leave right after lunch and drive straight through to San Jose, which was about a twelve hour drive.

He drove most of the way, even though it was my car, which was fine with me, I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of driving in the dark.

To break the ice, I asked him, “what’s the most embarrassing moment of your life?” He proceeded to tell me a story I’ve all but forgotten now, but it took place in junior high, which was one long embarrassing moment for me, so I totally related to what he was saying. In fact, it was a bit of a relief–and revelation–to hear that this popular kid had had bad moments in eighth grade, just like I did. I didn’t realize until much later that we all had bad moments at that point in our life. It came with the territory.

Then it was my turn, and for the life of me, I couldn’t think of a story to tell. Believe me, I’d had my share of embarrassments along the way, but I totally blanked on a story. Perhaps it was because I was afraid it would get repeated, or perhaps I was just too insecure to let myself be that vulnerable. I came up with a story, a true story, but it didn’t come close to matching his.

When friends later asked how the trip went, I said, “fine,” but I wasn’t convincing, and they knew something had happened to make me uncomfortable. I wouldn’t tell them what, and I never repeated Jack’s story, believing it had been told in confidence. More importantly, I never told my friends that I couldn’t come up with a story about my own most embarrassing incident.

In retrospect, I see that trip as part of a trend in my life, a fear of making myself vulnerable to others, particularly to men. I didn’t recognize it at the time, although I don’t think I would have denied it.

I wish I’d had the courage to tell my own story.

Image Credits: Mountain Driving © Denniro–stock.adobe.com Embarrassed Kitten © Dixi_–stock.adobe.com

I’m a stress eater–I’ll admit it. I also can snack endlessly on favorite foods if there’s an endless supply of them. It’s remarkable I haven’t put on a ton of weight, but somehow, I’ve been able to maintain my slightly less than ideal size.

I’d like to lose a few pounds, but gave up on trying during the holiday season, Unfortunately, that season lasted at work until today when the last of the fudge was consumed, Not by me, but I did my share. Co-workers brought in not only fudge, but peanut brittle, chocolate covered cherries and the like. That’s in addition to all the goodies our favorite vendors sent. Any stress I felt found an outlet.

I even feel stress during my bi-weekly Scrabble games. Will she use the one letter I need? I reach for the cookies one of us supplied while waiting to find out.

Last week, tired of all the sugary snacks I’d had in the last few weeks, I found myself impulse buying a bag of tortilla chips. They tasted so good! Now, I didn’t down the whole bag in one sitting, but I made a pretty good effort at that accomplishment. Was I stressed? Well, I was when I finished.

So today, instead of fudge, instead of tortilla chips, I’ve decided to go a whole different route and eat an apple. Except there’s a winter storm going on, and I can’t safely make it to the store (which may not even be open). That stresses me out, but there’s no snack food in my apartment, so I’m safe.

Note: Today’s Bloganuary prompt is “come up with a crazy business idea.” Well, you’ll see how far I got with this prompt.

When I was young–up until about the age of twelve–we as a family drove to all our vacation spots. We lived in northern California, and those trips frequently were to the southern areas of our state, where all the amusement parks, such as Disneyland, were. We crowded into the family Corolla, the three of us kids squeezed in the back with me in the middle because I was the shortest.

To keep us amused, we had a good supply of Mad Libs books, as well as crossword puzzles and small, hand held games. Along the way there were bountiful snacks, provided as much to keep us quiet as to feed our hungry selves. You can imagine what chaos it was and what a mess we made.

My parents bemoaned these messes, although I had a simple solution. Give us one big bag for garbage and three medium-sized bags, even pillowcases, for all our “car stuff.” My mom poo-pooed the suggestion, but to this day I think it would have gone a long way to keeping things neater in that back seat.

Which makes me wonder how many others have had good ideas, even great ideas, but are told these thoughts are no good, leaving them discouraged. Or, maybe the ideas are good, but they’re not the ones to execute them. Not everyone has an entrepreneurial spirit or is good with follow through. I’m obviously not talking about pillowcases here, but bigger ideas, business concepts.

There are also those who get discouraged too easily. Thirty years ago, my then-boyfriend thought I should start a business where services for the elderly are rated and we are able to advise people which senior living center, for example, they should check out. I asked two questions: how would we go about getting these ratings? and how would we get paid? and he called me a killjoy.

Since I was never able to answer those questions and didn’t have the support to start such a business, it never happened. Now, of course, there’s the Internet as well as a few organizations that will do just what he suggested. It was a good idea. We just weren’t the pair to implement it.

There legitimately are people better suited at being entrepreneurs, but there are also a lot of people with good ideas who need to be teamed with the right people. How do you match them up? I have no idea. I suppose there’s a crazy business idea that could provide a solution, but I don’t even have that.

Image Credits: Family Car © kv_san–stock.adobe.com; The Best Idea © goir–stock.adobe.com; Puzzle pieces © Gheorghe–stock.adobe.com

On the Christmas right before my eighth birthday, my parents surprised with something I hadn’t asked for, a rag doll named Jennifer. She turned out to be one of the most important gifts of my childhood, and she stayed with me for years.

Most of our communication–for I believed Jennifer talked to me in her own silent language–was at night, after I went to bed. There, under the covers, I would tell her all my secrets. Unfortunately, I had a few my parents should have been made aware of, although of course I didn’t know that at the time. But Jennifer understood, and I always got a hug from her.

She was about sixteen inches tall, with orangey-red yarn for hair, felt cheeks and eyes, and a purple dress with bold flowers on it. Her smile was drawn on with a felt marker. Whenever my mom washed her, she needed the smile retraced and new cheeks and eyes placed on her creamy white face. Her body was shaped like an upside-down triangle. She was special.

I didn’t just tell her my secrets under the covers. Together, with the help of a flashlight I would sneak from the utility drawer, we read all the the Little House books (multiple times), The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, Alice in Wonderland and Little Women. When I was nine, we began reading a series of books from the Scholastic Book Club, none of which I can remember now.

Eventually, Jennifer began to fall apart. The stuffing started coming out of her feet, which were difficult to patch properly. The dog peed on her, and my mom never could get that stain out. The little bobbles on the bottom of her dress fell off.

One day, I came home and Jennifer was gone. My mom had thrown her out. While I won’t say I still hold a grudge, I can’t yet fathom why a mother would do that to her child. Mom knew what she meant to me. There had to be a better way.

Today, I treasure the memory of that little doll. Every child should have something they can cling to.

Note: The doll pictured above, of course, is not Jennifer. I couldn’t find a picture that looked like her, but that little doll resembles her spirit.

Image Credits: Rag Doll © Kira Nova–stock.adobe.com; Rag Doll Cats © Photocreo Bednarek–stock.adobe.com

Just for fun, here are some shots of a Rag Doll Cat: