I live every day longing to have been born 7 years earlier.

If you don't know me, or if you haven't made this realization on your own, the 90s are the best 10 years that the world will ever know. If you disagree, then go drink bleach.

I grew up with 3 people who got to fully experience the essence of the 90s: my sister, who is often mistaken for a red-headed Cabbage Patch kid, my brother, whose Doppelganger would have easily been Zack Morris and my cousin Erin, who mourned over Kurt Cobain's death more than Courtney Love did. Those 3 got to live in the 90s. And I say "live" with the utmost intent. I got to be alive in the 90s, but I didn't get to live. I didn't get to experience my pre-teen years, tween years, teen years, and all other synonyms for adolescence in the 90s. They get to remember everything! They remember grunge, Nirvana, the sexual innuendos in Clueless that I didn't get until I was 17, Blimpie, The Cookie Monster when he was actually eating cookies instead of vegetables, the never-ending competition between MTV and VH1, and everything else that could possibly bring a human being joy.

And here I am. Being forced into the digital age, expected to erase my memory of disposable cameras and JNCO jeans.

But I refuse.

Thus, consider this long-overdue post a refresher of joy. A pedestal for awesome music, perfect humor and undeniably cool fashion. Consider this... an ode to the few wonderful things I remember from my brief childhood in the 90s:

Childhood memory #1: Adidas wind pants.

Adidas wind pants were my go-to pair of pants when I went to the skating rink. I liked the way they flowed and flapped behind me as I speed skated to the tunes of any Boyz II Men song, and "Everybody" by Backstreet Boys. The only reason I was cool was because I wore Adidas wind pants to Hurst Skate, which was just as appropriate as someone wearing flannel and a weed pendant necklace to a Third Eye Blind concert. There was another skating rink called Skatetown that was slightly less white trash and more for a popular crowd. But I never went to Skatetown. My mom didn't want to drive that far.

Childhood memory #2: Grand Champions.

Grand Champions, the most beautiful horses in the world! Palamino, Stallion, Thoroughbred, Spotted Appaloosa... Not only did I have about 47 different plastic Grand Champions, I had the game, reins, hygienal supplies, saddles, blankets,  and a large suitcase to tote my prized collection. I made everyone shut up for the commercials, and spent a large sum of minutes in the toy aisle of any grocery store, staring at the beautiful, faux equines. My parents were smarter than to take me to Toys 'R Us, as I would have had a heart attack partially due to obesity and partially due to stress.

Childhood memory #3: After school specials.

The best shows on TV came on after school. And did I know every single opening jingle? Yes. Full House, Step by Step, Family Matters, Boy Meets World, Saved by the Bell, Doug, and Legends of the Hidden temple, to name a few. Everyday at 3:30 I would walk home from school, fix a large bowl of Kix and/or 2 turkey and mayonnaise sandwiches to consume during my primetime TV. It's a wonder I was overweight.

There are so many memories that I want to ramble on about, but will spare you the paragraphs. My only request is that someone find me the jean overalls I used to wear with a sports bra, and go rollerblading with me.

Where my dogs at?

Chafing and perpetual camel toe aside, I've recently become a fan of stationary cycling at my gym. Amidst other workouts that I'm trying to have compensate for me being an ex-collegiate athlete, I've found that cycling is the best workout because I'm not really aware I'm working out until I try to get up for  a drink of water and my legs stop working due to the longevity of my faux bike ride.

I was at the gym today, cycling my little chocolate-loving heart out, and a movie began playing on one of the tiny treadmill televisions directly in front of me. Alas, I began watching "I Am Legend."

After a few minutes of gawking at Will Smith's hot black bod, and growing increasingly more curious about what it would be like to live in a deserted world, I embark on the most awful and depressing scene of the movie:

When his precious dog, Sam, dies in his toned arms because a douche bag zombie-human's zombie-dog bit her in a vicious battle.

Then, it hit me. The saddest part of any movie pertaining to a dog, is if/when the dog dies. Examples include but are not limited to: Old Yellar, Homeward Bound, Lassie, My Dog Skip and Air Bud. Say the dog and its owner get into a street debacle with a gang. Shots fire and we see the owner is still standing strong while its puppy is left on the ground to bleed to its death.

Boom. Instant tears.

The audience could have cared less if the human survived the gang bang, so long as the doggy made it out of there alive. What did the dog ever do to you? Nothing. Nothing but need you, love you and serve as inexorable means of bouncy, furry happiness. I began to develop a theory as I was cycling deeper into my "random uphill" workout regime. I feel as though people feel more pain when dogs die in movies because they're the most loyal species to roam this planet. I would say "animals" instead of "dogs" but cats are selfish assholes.

Think about it, do mean things to your friends - you get shit listed for a while. Do mean things to your dogs - he shits in the yard and brings you your slippers at night. You could swap your dog's water bowl for a bowl full of vodka and he would still bite a burglar for you when the time came. Do that to your friend and you're getting sand in your bed.

The innate loyalty dogs possess is astounding. Which is why I think it's sad to see them die, even in movies. It's like they're the only good people left. Well, them and the guy from the Allstate Insurance commercials. Who has an uncanny resemblance to what the prodigy of Denzel Washington and Morgan Freeman would look like.

The Outback Chronicles: The Hostess Stand

I had shoulder surgery on January 29, 2010. While the residuum was mentally euphoric, it was physically taxing. I quickly became:

1) A drug addict.
2) Constipated.
and 3) A worthless human being to society.

I somehow miraculously found it within me to keep up with my schoolwork, which gave me the upper hand when dealing with the number of absences in my classes later in the semester. But I needed money. And pronto. After applying at a slew of degrading and brainless jobs, I came across an old place of employment for one of my roommates: Outback Steakhouse.

I'm a fan of the restaurant industry. Not because of the shameless, dirty managers who get off on hiring 16-year-old blonds with an IQ of 5, and not because of the sexy, undeniably flattering outfits, but because I can manipulate innocent people into giving me free money.

How much cash I walk home with is dependent upon the intelligence level of my tables, how much twang I can incorporate in my dialogue, how much ass I can kiss and how many jokes I can crack without genuinely offending people. I'm just shy of lowering my moral standard to a point where I'd let people know that I'm a single mother who needs to make enough money for her infants as to avoid having to resort to stripping. We're all aware of the "Angel of Cloud 9"...

I'd make serious bank with the pity card.

Anyway, the Outback Chronicles are not to justify why I prefer serving food than folding clothes in order to have some kind of pre-career income. No, the Outback Chronicles are to inform the world of the slovenly servers, ridiculous banter, useless busboys and inexorable drama that occurs daily. Today, I would like to take the time to dispel the wonder that is: The Hostess Stand.

You see, because I had shoulder surgery, I was unable to do anything physical. Not to say lifting trays of hot food is a heart-racing workout, but I was incapable of doing anything pertaining to my shoulder. So, Outback management let me hostess until my shoulder was back to useful. Then I would be promoted to server.

As a hostess, you are expected to have both the IQ and the responsibility level of a 7-year-old. You keep your area clean, appear polite, and understand how to read and count. What they don't tell you in the job description, is that you're inadvertantly the Dr. Phil of the restaurant. Servers and busboys alike approach the hostess stand with this wistful look on their face that makes you wonder if someone put an "I CARE" sign on your forehead while you were dozing off.

Personal problems, shit-talking, life struggles, unwanted opinions, physical ailments... the list goes on. Once someone outside the hostesss realm leans against the stand, peers over to look at the floor chart and lets out that sigh of weariness... you know something of said characteristics is coming. At which point you can either look busy, or accidentally make eye contact. You decide your fate.

But really, you don't. Because if any employee has a spare 15 seconds, any and all of that ear-bleeding vernacular is fair game to besprinkle upon open ears. I've decided the best thing to do is nod. Any advice given will only prolong the hostess-stand confession, and give the impression that you're siding/supporting whatever and whoever approaches.

Sometimes I wish I were deaf. Maybe that will be my next table-serving scam. Everyone likes a deaf girl.

The Angel of Cloud 9.

So, I have a story.

It was the Fall semester of my sophomore year at Abilene Christian University, and I was feeling ballsy. Moreover, I was employed at Spaghetti Warehouse. Time of my life. Anyway, after work one night this boy I worked with, Quinn, asked if I would like to ever hang out. Apprehensive to commit, knowing that I never actually wanted to hang out, I said sure. As we were exchanging digits, he mentioned something going on after I got off work. Something exciting, no doubt. This is Abilene, Texas.

I was counting my $21 dollars profit after a lively night at Spag House, when I received the text message that started it all. Quinn informed me that he and a couple of his friends were hanging out that night and I was cordially invited. Omg!

As I mentioned, I was a sophomore. As I failed to mention, Quinn was a Freshman. Shut up.

At ACU in the year 2008, if you were a Freshman - you had a weekend curfew, unless you "checked out" to someone's house. Now, the little brats don't have a curfew. But that's besides the point. Quinn and his freshman buddies picked me up in his friend, Mark's truck. Mark, Quinn and the guy whom I refer to as the "group douche" planned to buy beer at the gas station on Judge Ely notorious for selling to underage drinkers. This was before my drinking time, so I was indifferent to the plan. But you can bet your ass if cops questioned me, I was already thinking up an elaborate story to tell them. Something about how these boys I didn't even know just picked me up as I was taking a nightly stroll down Judge Ely and forced beer in my hand and blankets on my body and threw me in the backseat of their truck.

I'm sure you're anticipating me revealing that we wound up at a raging party, full of college cliches and MIPs... but we wound up trespassing on a lake shore that spilled into a lake that was unswimmable. It was freezing, so the Freshman cuties brought the beer and blankets to keep warm. I would venture to say they brought me along to keep warm as well. I'll take it as a compliment.

Either Quinn is a ridiculous lightweight or he had been drinking long before they picked me up because within 15  minutes of us arriving to the poison lake his pants were around his ankles and he was peeing everywhere. Group douche was too busy inviting other Freshman girls looking for scandal that the pee shower didn't really phase him. Moreover, Mark and I had a decent chat about various things that could have easily been covered on Facebook chat in the warmth of my dorm room, but it was pleasant enough.

It got too cold for me to play pranks on pee pee head, so I asked casually when everybody would be heading back. Freshman boys + booze = lame jokes at anything the token non-slut says. After they were through making fun of me for being cold and tired, and after Quinn emptied his tiny tank one last time, we left.

We dropped Quinn off at his Texas Chainsaw Massacre home in the back woods of Abilene. Shortly thereafter, I accidentally fell asleep  on the way back because Mark got lost. Group douche would have driven but he was drunk, [poor Mark was merely a Freshman and "I'm a female". These boys were complete not only with lame ass jokes but misogynistic ones.

Every girl's dream. No wonder we got lost.

The truck stopped and I sat up anticipating to see the warm, welcoming outer penitentiary-esque shell of A.B Morris Hall... only to discover the warm, welcoming outer venereal disease-soaked shell of Cloud 9. The shittier Abilene strip club. And by "shittier" I mean both low-class and that there was shit plastered all over the walls. I even think I saw someone finger their name, number and endearing message out of one of the smearings. Anyway, my moral compass and I refused to walk into that place. GD and Mark pleaded with me, trying to convince me to go in with them by dishing out all the benefits of going like: BYOB and an entry fee of $10. Jackasses.

I caved. Only because I didn't want to be left out in the cold, in an almost stranger's truck, in the parking lot of a strip club, at 2 in the morning. We walked in, and I'm sure you can imagine what my virgin teenage eyes saw: scantily clad, overweight, too old and too young women gyrating and pulsating on a metal pole stricken with STDs centered on a  7x7 wooden stage, adorned with strategically placed mirrors.

After I paid my dues, and declined a job offer, I sat with my knees to my chin on a couch probably soaked in jizz and Natty Light, and stared at the ground. If ever I looked up to take a breath there were endless amounts of vagina attacking my line of sight. Mark and Douche looked awkward, paranoid and pleased. Awkward, because they are prepubescents chillaxin' in a janky strip club with a girl they just met, paranoid because I'm fairly certain an undercover cop was giving them the stink eye from across the room and pleased because they are prepubescents chillaxin' in a janky strip club with a girl they just met.

It was the longest hour of my life.

But, I think God was trying to tell me something. He sent me an Angel. She was a blond, seemingly petite 20 year old who dropped out of Cisco Junior College to strip full time. Angel was wearing a letter jacket, bra and thong with giant ass shoes. I gained valuable knowledge whilst talking with Angel. If I want to hide my money from the IRS, robbers, my parents, or my roommates all I have to do is buy some stripper shoes. They're hollow and completely useful. They have a movable slat that comes in the sole of the shoe that lets you put money inside of it. That way you don't have to keep it in your pants. Or lack thereof.

After declining yet another job offer, learning about the usability of 6 inch platforms and when strippers can touch a customer, where they can do it and how much it would cost, we left.

I got back to Morris and immediately took a shower. Afterwards, I put on my high heels, my bikini and popped in "Pretty Woman".