Confessions Of A Play-Doh Binge Eater
In my previous years spent working as a campaign lackey, I learned a thing or two from savvy politicians. For one, if you can’t prevent A Bomb from dropping, that’s when you step in. And drop it yourself.
Yes, you drop that bomb on your terms, thereby controlling the message.
With the knowledge that childhood friends occasionally pop by my blog, I’ve anticipated there will come a day where an undesirable comment will appear and out me about something humiliating. (And I’m the only one who can humiliate me around here.)
So that’s why I’ve decided to beat them to it.
These confessions are nothing like the one I once made regarding my plagiarized story that won a writing contest. No, nothing I’d wear as a badge of honor. You’ll see these are genuinely dreadful confessions, stories no one would enjoy purging. But, with time, I hope we can move past these dark days, and you will learn to love me again, even one day vote me into public office.
1.) I ate Play-Doh. And liked it. Well past the age where it was normal for kids to be sticking nonfood substances into bodily orfices. I’ve always had a liking for salty foods, and Play-Doh gave me the fix that pretzels could never quite deliver. If around observing childhood pals, I would “accidentally” drop a glob of it on the floor. Then I’d sneak bites under the table while pretending to pick it up.
2.) I tried out for the cheerleading squad in 7th grade. And, even worse, I was mortified when I was rejected. If you know me in real life, you’d know I’m the person who mocks the “sport” and will sell myself as the plucky anti-establishment too-cool-for-school kid who pushed up against the conventional and would never want to belong to such a lame, personality-depleting cult. Not so. They just wouldn’t have me.
4.) I maimed my dog. At age six, while my parents were vacationing abroad, I wrapped a rubberband around my dog’s ankle to give him a “bracelet.” And I guess our babysitter didn’t recognize Bandit didn’t typically hobble like a wounded gazelle. When my parents returned, my dog required significant veterinary intervention. And then, for several weeks after that, he had to wear a plastic cone around his head to prevent him from biting off his gimpy leg.
Despite my mom’s many attempts to bait me – “What in the world, he must’ve stuck his paw in the garbage can!” – I never confessed.
5.) I was a pants-piddler. Well past the age where it was common for kids to be piddling in their pants. Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t have a bladder disease. I wasn’t born with one kidney. I wasn’t emotionally abused, outside of everyday sibling brutality. No, I was just your run-of-the-mill spaz. And apparently I laughed with all my organs. Until I had to tie a Smurf windbreaker around my waist. You’ll be pleased to know I outgrew this issue* and you will not need to roll up the rugs in your house before I enter.
[*My husband might comment about a past incident that involved him singing a spirited rendition of the theme song to Good Times, specifically the moment he threw back his head and delivered the show-stopping line “Temporary layoffs…” This is pure fabrication.]
6.) I made up a boyfriend. In 8th grade, despite having had boyfriends, I was terrified of swapping spit with them and avoided all chances of doing so. So, rather than being left behind by my friends, I concocted a make out partner. Yes, I met “Corey” while on vacation with my parents. “While staying at a Holiday Inn.” And we might’ve “made out” a bit “near the Holidome foosball table.” And, come to think of it, that creepo “never called me.” Perhaps his parents wouldn’t let him make long-distance calls from his home in Complete Bullshitland.
***Paid for by Angie Z. for Play-Doh Consumer Council.***