Small-town Girl in the Big Bad City

I am a small-town girl. From the day my mother uprooted my life and moved us to rinky-dink Frozen-French-Fry land, I became a small-town girl. I railed against, telling my mother that I hated her and that when I was big I would move as far away to the largest city I could find. What can I say, it all sounded good at the time.

So from second grade on, I was in school with the same kids. The same 32 kids for 11 years. It sounds like it would be great: we would all grow up being friends and love one another, right? Fuck no. All the cliques you find in a bigger school still happen in a small school, it just singles you out more in a minute place like that. We had the popular sports players and nerds. We had our goths and weirdos. Then there was me. That’s right, for many years I got my own category. I didn’t even fit in with the weirdos.

It’s all because of my third grade teacher. I still blame her for everything. The year before that was great, it was only once I started in her classroom and wanted to do everything in my power to crush her that things went downhill. We started out okay. But what you have to know is that I am inherently lazy and I love to procrastinate (this began at a very young age), and this teacher listed these two qualities as her arch nemeses on the first day of school.

She told us (so pleasantly and Pollyanna-like) what hardworking, busy people we would become in her classroom. So busy, in fact, we would never have time to watch TV again, because all we would ever want to do was learn. Now, if my mom had taught me anything, it was to immediately add people like this to the list of people to be slowly tortured and killed. So I did. Let me just say third grade was a very rough year, though it was filled with lots and lots of television at all hours. That’s right: take that, Mrs. Castoneguay!*

Time warp here to much later and my early spiteful sayings to my mother have come true. I live quite near a very large city 1300 miles away from Frozen-French-Fry land with a million things to do, except now that I am here, I have found that I am frightened. I want my small town back again. I want to know someone when I walk down the street or go to the grocery store. Most of all, I want to take my kids to the park and not get odd looks from other parents who slowly move away from us as they see us coming. We can’t really be that weird, can we?

* Pronounced Cas-TONE-ee, for no apparent reason.

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3 Comments on “Small-town Girl in the Big Bad City”

  1. JenLive! Says:

    Hello, Jennie-with-an-I-E. And welcome to blogging (I’m assuming that this is your first blog). Be warned, it’s very addicting. Look forward to mounds of unwashed laundry and crabby, neglected children. You’ll soon find out that, no, you’re not THAT weird.

    I like the word blogorrhea. I will have to use it.

    See you around!


  2. You are NOT weird! You might be one of the first people I’d pick out in a group to hang out with! You are not a gold coast yuppie, be proud of it!

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