The Special People Club

Nice camera angle. No wonder my mom was always telling me to sit like a lady. Luckily, though, that's just a bit of teenage cellulite and not a full Britney.

See, Pam? I can do better. You can almost see the short bus pulling up around the corner.

Thirteen years old, and my pajamas still had rubber feet. We don't call this "The Special People Club" for nothing.

I've been informed by several of my UK readers that they thought the photo image to the left was actually me as a child. Should you also be wondering this, let me clarify that that is not, in fact, me, but rather the image of Dawn Wiener from the classic dark comedy, Welcome to the Dollhouse . While I certainly had my geeky stages and often demonstrated a strong sense of misguided fashion, Dawn does not look like me on the outside...she only represents how I felt on the inside. If you are new to Melinda June, you can click on the label below for a visual tour of my youth.

Our heroine dishes out some tough love to keep the family on task..."Focus, Grandma, FOCUS! These presents aren't going to open themselves!" I TOLD you I was a taskmaster with the present opening.

My t-shirt had a silk screen of the revolutionary war on the front. It was the bi-centennial, and boy howdy did I think I was hip. Oh. And that is not a little brother. It's an Olejniczak. And another thing. My 12 year old nephew looks exactly like my brother in this picture, and Bob is probably 11 here. Spooky.

It had an elevator. Or lift, as we call them in Britain. Of course I was ecstatic. In fact wide-eyed with enthusiasm, as you will see if you enlarge the photo. This one's for my brother. Poor guy has been plagued his whole life by a geek freak sister, bless him. But at least I'm funny. And have exceptionally good taste in clothes.

Outlanders. There. No wonder they call it the Badlands.

Either I was trying to recreate the moment below, or I really need to learn to shut my yap when they're taking a picture. Note the angelic halo of poppies above my head.

My mouth may be small, but I can open it really, really wide. I believe this sticking-out-my-tongue-business was a malicious prank taught to me by my brother, in a last ditch attempt get me sent packing. Look at his smug expression.

There were at least three other girls in my kindergarten class with this JC Penney pantsuit. My dad started his job in Decorah before our whole house was finished, so he lived in the upstairs part that WAS done, and we lived in Manchester in our old house. But we would go see him on weekends. It was like a big slumber party and we got to eat Mabe's Pizza. I missed my dad, but it was great fun to go sleep in my sleeping bag. And I've always loved slumber parties.

Thanks everyone for your support and kindness. It helped to read your comments periodically in the midst of my sad few weeks. I'm safely back in the UK, and will resume blogging after I make it through my weekend at school. Unless of course I am compelled to do a jetlag post in the middle of the night tonight.

And they're not even made out of curtains. I had shorts to match.

Are those or are those not the coolest culottes ever? (That's rhetorical, FYI.)

Wherein our heroine whimpers in fear at the scary dune buggy. I am not prone to fits of tears. It happens, but not often. Therefore my family loves to tell the story of how I wailed like a banshee during the entire dune buggy ride in Michigan. I have compensated by learning to drive very fast and crying to get out of speeding tickets.

I think the snow is talking to us. And whatever it's saying must be fascinating. I hate snow. It must have been something it said. And just last night I was watching the Sex and the City episode where Carrie is a real-person model and has to wear jeweled underpants on the runway. At the time, I thought, "Who would wear that?" Apparently, I would.

Shadows of my MBA, wherein I stand in the middle of a group of men and tell them what to do I believe the one not listening to me may be dead now. Just saying.

Say, those are some funky Brady trousers.

Because nothing says, "I own the world!" like a patchwork mumuu smock. God help me, I'm wearing a tablecloth. Obviously, though, I had no idea that it made me look ridiculous. Perhaps I was too distracted by the Pebbles ponytail. Or perhaps I couldn't see through my chubby cheeks. N.B. This is now what I see in the mirror on low self esteem days.

Headbands....fashionable, AND able to keep your hair out of the chocolate. I told you I was the Rhoda. What bold blending of patterns! What bohemian style! Definitely cutting edge. With a bit of chocolate glistening on my mouth. I hope I wasn't eating off that spoon. Yuck. Please note...my mother claims that I refused to wear anything she asked me to after about age 2, so I can't even blame her for this.