From Diapers to Dorkville: Essays on Life, Love, and Why Growing up Is so Hard to Do

By Vicky DeCoster

We've all had one, whether we like it or not. No, it's not a bad date, a pimple that will not go away, or an annoying mother-in-law. It's a childhood. Who hasn't hung helplessly from the chin-up bar in grade school during the annual Presidential Fitness Test or magically transformed into a forensic pathologist during a frog dissection in seventh grade biology class or, worse yet, endured an uncomfortable birds and bees lesson from their parents? In her third book in the Wacky Womanhood series, Vicky DeCoster shares her latest compilation of hilarious essays that look back to a simpler time when trying new things was a way of life; bullies ruled like kings; and parents reveled in torturing tiny versions of themselves. As DeCoster recalls her side-splitting childhood, she also shares inspirational life lessons learned along the way, encouraging others to look at their own youth in a completely different way. From Diapers to Dorkville offers a refreshingly wicked glimpse into one girl's true adventures and shares how she somehow survived long enough to sashay her way straight into the wacky world of womanhood. ForeWord Clarion Book Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462033959

Vicky DeCoster

Award-winning humor writer Vicky DeCoster is the author of Husbands, Hot Flashes, and All That Hullabaloo! and The Wacky World of Womanhood. Her work has been published in over sixty magazines, books, and on several websites including thespiritedwoman.com, where she regularly blogs. She lives in Nebraska with her family.

Book preview

From

Diapers

to Dorkville

Essays on Life, Love, and

Why Growing Up Is So Hard to Do

VICKY DECOSTER

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

From Diapers to Dorkville

Essays on Life, Love, and Why Growing Up Is So Hard to Do

Copyright © 2011 Vicky DeCoster

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3394-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3395-9 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 8/4/2011

Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Introduction

The Day I Got in Touch with My Male Side

Step, Hop, Step, Hop

Kicking the Thumb Habit

Two Words Nearly Cause a Coronary

The Runaway Bicycle

Grade School Chin-Ups Teach a Life Lesson

I Was No Liberace

A Cat Tale like No Other

How a Trip to Candy Lane Changed Everything

The White Box and a Bloody Surprise

Suck It In, Stand Up Straight, and Dance

Do Not Pass Go … or Else

Lima Beans Should Be Illegal

An April Fool’s Day to Remember

A Curvaceous Beauty and a Dolly

Elephants without Trunks

Pet Me … I’m a Rock

Magic Ring Predicts Erratic Emotions

A Home for the Sisters

An Amphibian Massacre

A Bicycle, A S#%-Head, and One Mad Girl

Naked, Shivering, and Sisterless

When It’s Not Good to Be the It Girl

The Thanksgiving Meal No One Ever Forgot

She Who Laughs Lasts, Especially in Church

There’s More Than One Famous Shower Scene

The Snow Fort Bullies

It Goes Where?

Home, Home on the Range … or Maybe Not

The Court of Love

Da Doo Ron Ron

My Deadly Foray into Acting

Miss Elli P. Tical

The Leaning Tower of Vicky

Possessed by a Gremlin

Sounds Easy Enough, Right? Wrong!

The Pythagorean What?

I Really Was There to Serve You … I Swear

The Perm Is … Oh So Permanent

Betty Bel Air Brings the Sweetness of Freedom

The Wrath of Wolf Boy

A Kiss Is Just a Kiss … or Is It?

A Brainiac and a Typing Wizard Meet at Last

Turn the Other Cheek

The Party That Was Never Supposed to Be

Stay Sweet and Have a Great Summer!

A Big World Awaits

Foreword

When was the last time you read a book and laughed out loud? I mean laughed, not the chuckle kind of laugh, but the real ha-ha laugh that comes from your gut. Or when was the last time you read a book from beginning to end—because as you were reading it, parts of your life were reflected on each page and you simply couldn’t put it down?

If you haven’t been touched like this for a while, you are in for a treat. From Diapers to Dorkville is a cherished treasure, written by a talented humorist, Vicky DeCoster. She’s funny. Empathetic. Silly. Compassionate. And wacky. Plus, she can’t stand lima beans, so she already has my #1 vote in life.

Her essays on her childhood are so tenderly relatable. Who among us has not encountered the bully? Our first gym class? An April Fool’s prank to end all pranks? A neighborhood animal gone berserk? Our first dance? The memorable first kiss? The essays go on and on into the most poignant moments of life from childhood through high school.

Quite simply, Vicky DeCoster is delightful.

—Nancy Mills, Publisher/Founder, SpiritedWoman.com

Acknowledgments

Thank you …

To my husband, Jerry, who naively agreed on the eve of our wedding that I could write about him as long as we both shall live.

To my two beautiful children, Josh and Claire, who light up my days with their laughter, kind hearts, and unconditional love.

To my loyal grammar comrade, Judi Koubsky, who, believe it or not, still has most of her hair after proofreading all of my books.

And finally, to my wacky family who, despite all my quirky attempts to drive them crazy during my childhood, loved me anyway.

Introduction

I was born wacky. I entered the world six days before Halloween with a cone head, a red face, and a quirky sense of humor. As the Cuban Missile Crisis threatened world peace and the first-ever flavored potato chips lined grocery store shelves, I traveled home in a 1964 Ford Galaxy, unequivocally prepared to create my own havoc on a family completely unprepared for anything wacky whatsoever.

I grew up avant-garde in a traditional Midwestern family. As the middle child of three, I went out of my way to gain attention from anyone who would listen to me or watch my antics. I was a diplomatic, rebellious, competitive peacemaker who subconsciously believed in following birth order personality traits to a T.

My household was comprised of a conservative bank president, a women’s libber dance teacher, my two sisters, and me. We were in the midst of a revolution and we didn’t even know it. As the Vietnam War raged in a faraway world, hippies converged on Woodstock, and The Graduate hit movie theaters causing every middle-aged woman to question her availability to younger men, I was just struggling to survive in my own neighborhood amid fifty other kids attempting to do the same thing.

I was allowed to watch one hour of television a day. Unfortunately, this restriction left me completely unaware of world events and, more frighteningly, with approximately twelve additional hours daily to rely solely on my imagination for entertainment. The result was a childhood full of escapades, accomplishments, failures, and, most importantly, laughter.

We’ve all had a childhood, whether we wanted to or not. I hope that this collection of true, slightly exaggerated essays about the adventures of a wacky little girl and her family will bring back fond memories of your own childhood and the lessons you learned along the way. And if it doesn’t, just do what everyone else does. Blame your parents.

*All names have been changed to protect the innocent—and the guilty.

If you’re gonna screw up, do it while you’re young …

Winston Groom

THE PRIMARY YEARS: Growing Up Is So Hard to Do

THE PRIMARY YEARS:

Growing Up Is So Hard to Do

Life was so much easier when your clothes didn’t match and boys had cooties.

Author Unknown

The Day I Got in Touch with My Male Side

I don’t know what made me do it. I was barely into my first semester of kindergarten—a time when I should have been learning about sharing toys, writing the alphabet, and tying my shoes. Instead, one mind-numbing afternoon when I grew tired of hearing about all the life skills I was sure I would never use, I spontaneously decided to get in touch with my male side.

I raised my hand during a wildly competitive game of Duck Duck Goose. Quite frankly, I had become extremely dizzy chasing my classmates around a tiny circle for an hour. I needed a break to regroup and clear my head. My teacher glanced in my direction. Can I go to the bathroom? I asked. It seemed like a simple enough request, but later I would realize it was a request that would change my perspective on life forever.

After the teacher nodded her approval, I dashed off to the tiny bathroom in the back of the room. I locked the door behind me and stared at the toilet. All of a sudden, sitting backwards on a cold seat seemed so … well … boring. The way I looked at it in that very moment was that I had two options: the first was to take the safe route and conduct my business in the bathroom just as I always had; the second was to take a more creative approach and experience what it was like to be a boy for the very first time. After all, I was enrolled in school to learn new skills, and despite what I had heard from many adults, I hadn’t really seen any viable evidence that curiosity ever killed any cats.

I quickly developed a plan of action. The clock was ticking away. I was certain it wouldn’t be long before the teacher would come looking for me. I hiked up my skirt, straddled the toilet, and began thinking of waterfalls. Suddenly, it was like a fire hose had gone wild in the bathroom.

Shocked to the very core of my five-year-old being, I immediately realized I had absolutely no control over anything. I looked down at the puddle that was rapidly deepening beneath my feet and forced myself to stop thinking about waterfalls and start formulating a new plan of action. It only took a second for me to figure out what to do. I flushed the toilet, flicked off the light, and got the heck out of there.

I returned to my seat in the circle and smiled innocently at my teacher as Duck Duck Goose resumed. As I ran around the circle, tapping my classmates on the shoulder, out of the corner of my eye I noticed the school janitor entering our classroom. As he carried his cleaning tools and bucket to the girl’s bathroom, I felt panic well up in my throat. The janitor had never cleaned our bathroom in the middle of the day. I ran faster around the circle hoping to distract the teacher from the inevitable. And then the inevitable inevitably happened. The janitor came tearing out of the bathroom and motioned to the teacher. She ran to his side. He whispered in her ear. She grimaced. He frowned.

My teacher walked to the front of the classroom and held up her hand to stop the game. She took a deep breath and began, The janitor has just informed me that someone went potty all over the bathroom floor. I would like to know who made this mess.

She glanced around the room. Her eyes stopped on me. I looked around at my classmates as if I were helping her determine who did it. Minutes passed. Silence filled the room. Guilt filled my soul, but still, I said nothing. The teacher stood quiet. The janitor finally sighed and walked back into the bathroom.

I hope this never happens again, the teacher sternly announced as she motioned us to begin the game again.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, my inquisitive nature had not caused any jail time, detentions, or time in the corner, but instead had provided me with a definitive answer to my question: What is it really like to be a boy? Through my experience that day in the girl’s bathroom in kindergarten, I learned one important lesson—without the proper equipment, you just can’t get the job done right.

When you’re curious, you find lots of interesting things to do.

Walt Disney

Step, Hop, Step, Hop

Just when I was getting the hang of rolling and unrolling my rug for naptime, pumping on a swing, and opening a milk carton, my kindergarten teacher was apparently devising a brilliant idea that was intended to potentially ruin my life forever.

One morning, she excitedly clapped her hands as she announced, We are all going to practice, practice, practice our large motor skills over the next few days. So far so good, I thought. My motor coordination skills were slightly behind others, but I was certain I could keep up.

And then my heart stopped and my brain ceased producing new cells when she added, After you have practiced your skills, I want all of you to take turns and skip in front of the class. We’ll start next Monday morning. As I slowly realized a competitive skipping match loomed on my horizon, I swallowed hard.

I was very shy due to my apparently nonrefundable membership in an unfortunate gene pool. My grandmother didn’t speak in school until fourth grade, so it seemed I was headed on the same doomed path. I hated being stared at, and the idea of skipping in front of an entire class of five-year-olds made me a perfect candidate for a daily dose of anti-anxiety medicine.

In the days leading up to the big event, I stewed. I worried. I envisioned myself stumbling and landing on the plastic musical cake that the teacher wound up nearly every day as student after student celebrated another year. As a result, when it was my turn to get up in front of the class, all I could remember was the joke my sister had told me before I left that morning: What lies at the bottom of the ocean and shakes all over? She was right. I was a nervous wreck.

I stood up on wobbly legs, straightened my skirt, and looked at the class. I felt like a zoo animal in saddle shoes. My biggest fear had occurred. Everyone was staring. I tried to imagine them in their underwear, which wasn’t hard since most of the girls hadn’t figured out that sitting crisscross applesauce left absolutely nothing to the imagination for those lucky souls who huddled in a circle around them. I tried to tell myself that no one cared if I was the best skipper ever, but I knew better. If there had been a skipping major in college, it was evident that a few of my fellow classmates who had already taken their turns were by now in line for a full scholarship.

Since none of my self-talk strategies seemed to be working, I decided to take the plunge into the depths of awkwardness. I took a deep breath and began skipping. With a determined tone, I silently repeated to myself, step, hop, step, hop. And off I skipped … straight to the bathroom where I promptly lost my breakfast. The only good thing about that day was that I got to go home early.

For years, I skipped rope, skipped classes, and skipped dessert, but I never really skipped anywhere after that day. The memory of that frightful morning in kindergarten was … well … easily skipped. But then a few years later as two little girls skipped past me as I walked to the park to meet my friends, I instinctively smiled. Skipping looked like fun. Unfortunately, I had let one bad memory ruin a joyful experience. I had been the one missing out.

I took a deep breath and began skipping, this time without an audience. Step, hop, step, hop, I said to myself as I skipped along the sidewalk. As my heart sang and my spirit lifted, I suddenly realized that my kindergarten teacher knew a lot more about how to achieve simple joy than I ever gave her credit for—until that very moment. She would have been so proud.

Skipping is nature’s Prozac.

Jessi Lane Adams

Kicking the Thumb Habit

My mother ruined my life the day she concluded I was an addict with a bad habit. I was innocently minding my own business one afternoon while voraciously sucking my thumb when she patted the couch next to her. Come over and sit, she said gently. A few seconds later, my thumb and I sat on the sofa with absolutely no idea we were about to be separated forever.

My mother got straight to the point. I think it’s time that you stop sucking your thumb, she said. You’re five years old now.

I pulled my thumb out of my mouth long enough to say, Come again? The woman whose very genetic makeup provided me with the wherewithal to become a thumb-sucking addict could not be serious. My thumb and I were like Frick and Frack. Romeo and Juliet. Bonnie and Clyde. Not two, but one flesh. No one could tear us apart—not even my own mother.

The last time I checked I wasn’t smoking packs of cigarettes behind the shed, downing cups of coffee as fast as a truck driver behind schedule, or shoveling candy bars one after the other in my mouth in the middle of the night. I was just a little girl who needed a little security combined with a whole lot of saliva. But my mother was adamant. I had seven days to quit my bad habit … or else. As I slowly walked away, I stared at my wet, wrinkled thumb and whispered,