When I was about 15, my mom and I were out running errands in her forest green Ford Windstar minivan. On our way between Target and dinner, she pulled into a gas station to refuel. With the car next to the pump, she asked if I would do it, stating plainly that I'd be driving soon. If I was out on a date with a girl and needed to get gas, I should know what I was doing. "Get some practice," and she urged me out with her credit card. I had a flash of realization: my mom trusted me with extremely flammable liquids, and considered it at least a possibility that I'd ever go out on a date with a girl.
My folks had a dinner party when I was about 11. A bunch of friends and neighbors showed up, many of whom I'd never seen before. The adults generally went their own way, and the half dozen or so kids naturally gravitated towards each other. Around the table, we were eating our food and laughing about celebrity names we knew. Dick Butkus. That brought the house down. A woman who I'd never seen before came into the kitchen and asked what we were all so hysterical about. "Dick BUTT Kiss!" I screamed in delight. "Do you know how great that is?" She, in fact, did not know how great it was, and scoweled at me. "Grow up." I was at the fucking kids table. That was the point.
Each summer between 7th and 10th grade, I went to Regis University's soccer camp. Most of the mens team would coach, and I remember being enthralled by this Danish guy named Malta. He was definitely not a Maltese guy named Dan or Mark. Malta was playing in a scrimmage against us, and I was defending him. Taking the ball away was an impossibilty, so I figured I'd show him my developing defensive skills by instead kicking him in the ankles. Not hard, just enough to let him know that I was quick on my feet. "Quit kicking my goddamn ankles." I realized that my message didn't quite get through like I'd hoped.
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