written by Whitney Rice http://drivingmissdrama.blogspot.

com/

I understand what Jack Nicholson was going through in The Shining. I actually feel bad for him. Are you really that surprised by his behavior? When you have two bloody twins constantly polluting your hallways while you attempt to make a dusty and isolated mansion home, you are destined to go batshit. Jack Nicholsons experience is how I can best capture my four years of childhood friendship in the cul de sac: 1606 36th St SW Rochester, Minnesota 55902

The cul de sac in Rochester, MN is located in one of those just-discovered-byColumbus locations, where you have to take a sharp right onto a dirt road that lines a llama farm, continue through an oasis of birch trees lled with sleeping wild turkeys, and try not to fall asleep while driving along a repetitious scenery of corn elds. If you begin to daydream, you may miss the turn onto 36th street, where homemade scarecrows appear to be the neighborhood mascot. Variety is not too popular here in the MidWest; in Rochester the landscape companies give you a choice between purple pansies and ivy. If you cant afford a landscaper, you herd your children and their toys onto the front lawn to keep neighbors from gossiping. Oh yea. John and Mary over there dont have any need for a landscaper. Little Lisa, Joan, Daisy, Hamlet, Rosemary, and Annabell would just destroy those pansies in seconds! Trends are limited to: Types of plastic Christmas trees, blue eye shadow, fruitcake ingredients, and homemade cat-patterned vests. I decided to go with the Calico breed for this seasons vest pattern because I feel like I should save the Siamese for winter. And I seem to be always attracted to the Midnight Velvet fabric at Joannes Arts & Crafts to make the classic black cat, so I thought I would try something a little different this year! I hope Bob likes it." When the truth is: No man or his genitals are going to care about your vest that has a cut-out cat stitched onto it

On Saturdays and Sundays, you can nd your neighbors at either Fleet Farm or the grocery store, using their paychecks to build their already enormous collection of canned beans and oil lanterns for when that blizzard nally comes around. The small adventurous population opts for spending an hour in the kitchenware section at Sears. The trek from the cul de sac to any of these locations requires a bundle of energy and concentration, so many families decide to share evenings at home with a L-shaped couch and the lull of theLifetimechannel. Once a uHaul unpacks your belongings into your new house, you have a hard time leaving 36th St SW. The cul de sac is where I faced my version of the two girls standing at the end of a hall whispering, Come play with us, Jack. Except my ghost was not as passive aggressive. Tessi Peters created a ritual out of storming up to our front door and ringing the bell like she was the pacemaker for the Rice houses heart.

Yes. Tessi. What would you like today? My parents were suspicious that Tessi was the spawn of Malecent. A creation Zeus accidentally dropped onto the earth and forgot to pick-up. A blonde whale with a poisonous blow spout and enough blubber to make an Eskimo a multi-millionaire. Where are Whitney and Alex? I want to ride bikes. They are doing their homework right now. But they will be done in -- I WANT TO PLAY NOW. While our parents only suspected that Tessi would grow-up to be an isolated sociopath, my sister and I were certain of it. Tessi didnt resemble a child who belonged in a 4th grade class. Her portly forearms looked like suffocating sausages that were rejected from the packaging factory for their dimpled surface. The MidWest is known for their tornadoes, but when Tessi came to town on her two feet, earthquakes became the new environmental phenomenon. You could often spot Tessi from your own window, rolling around in her front yard like an enormous lawn gnome that lost its balance. Her upper thighs clapping like an audience applauding for the performance of Beethovens No. 9 in the Kennedy Center, palms red and swollen.

I am a mermaid, shed scream as her paisley underwear bunched up in the back. We often ate lunch with Tessi after school. That is, if you want to call it eating. I SAID I DONT LIKE HOT DOGS, Tessi lectured as she cast a perfectly dressed hot dog into the air and onto the beige carpet in the living room, the hot dog now acting as a piece of modern art. Tessi's mother, The Queen of Crafts, Church, and Fruitcakes could squeeze out a reason for every one of Tessi's wrong doings. Tessi killed Whitney with an ice pick because Whitney wouldnt play with her. You know? That just isnt nice. Would you like a mulberry holiday wreath for your foyer? Because one could not leave the cul de sac, the neighborhood children had to learn how to survive a friendship with Tessi. Maybe if we just crawl through the Armstrongs backyard, she wont see us? OR maybe if we put cake on her porch, we can buy ourselves 7 minutes? But just like there was no escaping the cul de sac, there was no escaping Tessi. She was the master of enforcing game-playing. Often she made-up activities on-thespot. Many of the games had the same theme: BIKES: While Tessi's friend rides around the neighborhood, Tessi throws cherry pits at his or her helmet. JUMP ROPE: Allow Tessi to tie jump ropes to her friends arms and pull. CATS: Watch Tessi hurl your cat across the living room and stick needles in its belly. BUS STOP: Hold Tessi's backpack while she pinches and punches kids who are waiting for the morning school bus. BEAUTY DAY: Act as security guard on the sidewalk while you listen to the little girl at 1632 36th St. SW cry as Tessi takes 12 inches from her hair.

Tessi told me that if I played her new game creation, I could wear one of her bras. I didnt want anything from Tessi. But Tessi had breasts. And I wanted them. The daily regimen of goats milk, butter biscuits, and casserole owing through Tessi's body facilitated the growth process for Tessi's chest. She was an ugly tsunami carrying a gorgeous set of Victorias Secret C-cups. Id seen the girls at school wearing bras under their annel shirts, but I was nowhere near germinating. I asked my mother several times for the JCPenney adjustable strap, white fabric, rosedecorated, unpadded, training bra, but the answer was always NO. One of my many aws growing up was that I always thought I could be my own parent. In this case, I was very certain that owning a bra would help me ourish as a person. After playing a round of BIKES, CATS, and MAILMAN (Observe Tessi remove mail from the neighbors mailbox and throw it into the gutter), Tessi escorted me to her room. As promised. A very loyal monster.

Tessi already had the bra displayed on her bed, ready for the tting. Although the bra was pit-stained and the seams were lined in body dirt, I viewed my rst bra ceremony as a rite of passage into immediate adulthood. The bra could have been engulfed in ames or crawling in esh-eating sea monkeys, and I am certain I would have still slipped the straps onto my shoulders. The scenario was t for a sit-com. Upon securely hooking the bra, I faced my gure in the full-length mirror. My chest looked like a deated stack of pancakes. A concave quadrilateral. I could t my two sts into the pockets of her bra, but my chubby nipples were incapable of communicating with the cups. Take it home.

I was shocked. Take it home? Wearing a bra in public for the rst time feels as scandalous and obvious as a marital affair. I hesitated. But I doubted my mother would notice the difference in how my shirt t. Certainly the bra accentuated how my body should look. WHAT ARE YOU WEARING? She noticed. The moment I walked into the door. A phone call to Tessi's mother quickly followed. Hi, Deidre. Thank you for the leftover plaid fabric. Listen, I am calling because Whitney just walked-in wearing Tessi's bra. Silence. However, Deidre's situational manipulation crept out of the phone as thick as black oil. Well, Tessi gave Whitney her bra because Whitney forced her to. Tessi has been crying ever since your daughters left. Tessi also said that Whitney tried to take several bras.

The bra was returned. The options were either: return the bra to Tessi or report the garment to a hazmat center. No matter how many gallons of hormone-pumped milk I consumed over the next few years, I remained entirely boobless and therefore functionally braless. It wasnt until we made the move from Minnesota to Virginia that I was able to escape Tessi's reign. Like a proper MidWestern family, we bid farewell to all of our neighbors with our banana bread recipe and hand-written notes. Except we skipped over the Peters family. We just left. While many people dread moving their family half-way across the United States, I celebrated every mile we racked-up. WELCOME TO OHIO, GIRLS!" My parents shout from the front seat.

"Ohio looks so good," I said as I imagined riding my bike on the railroad tracks, cherry pit and pain free. Look! We are in West Virginia! THAT ISNT FAR ENOUGH, I think to myself. Wow. We have been driving for 12 hours straight. Maybe we should call it a day? NO! KEEP DRIVING. DONT STOP, my sister and I chime.

I hear that Tessi is married now. Like many people, she probably grew out of her demon days. She may be pregnant even. But out of my concern for the goodness of the universe and the future of our youth, I really hope not. Tessi: if you read this post, I am certain you are offended. And I only feel a little horrible about that possibility. Therefore I leave you with this gem: I still wear training bras.

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