When I was a little girl, I had a penchant for writing…anything. Ok, so I still do. I practiced my handwriting for endless hours. Yes, I still do this, too, but not for endless hours, but if I try out a new pen I write my name over and over. I smell books, too. Oh, sorry. That slipped. I loved to write my name, especially where people could see it. Like on our house. In Chapstick.
Yes, I said on our house in Chapstick, my dad’s chapstick to be exact. He used to have Chapstick everywhere. The regular kind in the black tube. Mom used the cherry kind in the red tube. I thought they would work great as a writing impliment. So I took one of Dad’s because our house was red and I didn’t think pink Chapstick would look good on a red vinyl sided house. Of course it wouldn’t! So I took the clear kind.With Chapstick in hand and smile on face, I created. I wrote my name on the back of the house–bottom right hand corner. And I loved it! I remember standing back, admiring my work. From the left. From the right. Oh, gotta fix that, forgot the dot over the i. There. Perfect.
I don’t remember how long it took my dad to find it. Maybe my baby brother told on me? I don’t recall. But I remember dad yelling.
“Michelle Lynn! Why did you write on the house?”
“Your name is on the house.”
So dad promptly took me to the back of the house and pointed, “There.”
“That’s not my handwriting. That’s sloppy.”
“Young lady, don’t play games with me.”
“Dad, do you think I’m stupid? Why would I write my own name on the house? That would mean you would know it was me. Johnny did it to get me in trouble.”
“Johnny,” dad yelled, “Get your ass over here, now!!”
“Clean this off of the house.”
“I didn’t do that,” Johnny protested.
“Don’t lie, clean.”
And there I stood, watching my brother clean my masterpiece off the house with a smug smirk on my face, reveling in my genius.