I figured it would be in my best spiritual interest to write this story before the High Holidays to purge myself of guilt. When we are younger we all go through phases of rebellion. Ditching class, missing curfew, sneaking into an R-rated movie, putting sale stickers on full priced clothing, the usual. I have never been particularly rebellious. I was always home early, never snuck out of the house and didn’t drink or smoke #boring.
When I was 8 years old I was in a bit of a butch dyke stage. I know it is hard to imagine, but for about 4 months I pretended to be interested in sports. It was the peak for Razor scooters and I scootered my ass all over town. After I had exhausted all my stupid scooter had to offer I decided my next extreme sports would be street luging. I know… What the FUCK is street luging? Blame it on fucking “Rocket Power” but this bitch wanted to street luge. My cousin and I would lay on skateboards and “luge” down hills in our neighborhood and go looking for babes. We created this event that we called “Hottie Patrol” where we would luge to the park with our poloraid cameras and take pictures of boys we thought were cute. We then put our poloraid pics in a photo album to reminisce in all the man candy we saw that day. Gag me. Can you imagine what our parent’s must have thought? Fucking losers. Nothing brings the boys to the yard like rolling in on a skateboard with a poloraid camera in tow. You’re welcome.
Anyways, the luge act got old and we figured we would need a motorized go kart to get us around town to asses the meat market. “Hottie Patrol” was becoming very limited to our local park and we needed some motor power. We came up with the genius idea to raise money for our go kart by selling snow cones. After proposing the idea to my mother, she was delighted to have us out of the house and out of her hair. We instructed we would need to get some supplies at Party City or Smart & Final. Nothing about my mother would or will be caught dead in a Party City so she advised us to appeal to health conscious neighbors by just using ice from the fridge and cranberry juice we already had in the house. Thanks Mom. After a few weekends of wildly UNsuccessful snow cone sales (aka cranberry juice and ice cubes in home made cones) we knew there was no way in hell we would be able to buy a go-kart with such low return rate. That’s when shit got sketchy… REAL sketchy.
If I have ever had a moment with God, it was the moment I found the donation slips from my Uncle’s company. You know at supermarkets if you donate some money you get to write your name on some small flyer and they display it in the store to let people know what a wonderful, charitable, giving humanitarian you are? To be discreet (and so I never get sued) let’s just say my uncle owns a few chain restaurants with a very profitable and well known charity attached. We stole a stack of the flyers and knew this was our meal ticket. I borrowed some Girl Scout outfits from friends and decided to kick start our mitzvah projects early by going door to door and “raising money for charity” aka our go kart fund. Some might call that sick, I prefer to appreciate the entrepreneurial spirit I possessed at such a young age. Brownie scout sashes in place, we spent hours going up and down every street in the neighborhood pleading the stories of these poor children in need who desperately needed all of our help. I remember rationalizing in my head my parents may disown me if they ever found out what we were up to so technically I could be a needy kid and then they actually would be donating to the appropriate cause. Who knew charity could be so fucking lucrative? I busted my ass selling organic snow cones for barely 25 cents an hour and here I was only offering a handprint to sign and the morale of a good deed and was making more than most college grads hourly. Genius.
After 2 weekends of “community service work” we had stashed away at least $250. At the time we thought we were seriously rich. I started looking into beachfront property, hiring a private driver, getting an alligator Birkin bag – the norm. We had been stashing our dirty money under my cousin Claire’s bed and had a rude awakening one Sunday morning. Apparently the narc bitch housekeeper found our trust fund and showed it to my aunt. She confronted us and asked how the hell we got that money and why were we keeping it under the bed? After trying to think of any excuse possible we finally cracked. She made us tell her the entire story and was furious. Soon my parents were over and they all lectured us and tried to tell us we might end up in children’s jail for this sort of thing. I could tell at the time they secretly thought it was hilarious. Our punishment was we had to go door to door and explain that we lied and were being cruel and selfish and give the money back and say how sorry and wrong it was. Talk about a walk of shame. 3 hours of apologizing to neighbors for fraudulently having them donate to our go kart fund is one of the top 5 low points in my life. On top of that, we had to give any money we had from holidays, gifts whatever to the charity. You want to piss off an 8 year old girl? Make her donate her birthday money to charity. Our mother’s filled up coffee mugs of Chardonnay and watched us go door to door like 2 little hoodlums while they laughed their asses off at our misery. We never got that go-kart and “Hottie Patrol” was completely ruined. After our charity hoax most of the neighborhood boys were told not to hang out with us. “Hottie Patrol” was more like “Future Felon Patrol” and we learned our lesson big time.
I know most of you will read this and think I am a terrible person but I prefer to say I was highly motivated and pro-active #delusional. I was also fucking 8 years old so get over it.