It’s no secret that I’ve never been shy. I genuinely dig meeting all different types of people and it’s always been that way. We’re an interesting breed and the more we can learn from each other, the better.
Within me lies a need to always reach out and communicate with others (I think I get that from my mother—her Midwestern roots give her the brazenness to say whatever is in that head of hers, and for the most part, she does.)
So it’s no surprise that when we moved from one house to another in the same town, it was my mission to get to know the neighbors. And I did. One sunny afternoon I toiled away with my crayons and construction paper creating what I deemed art work. Upon completion, I took my wares on the road.
With my masterpieces under my arm I was ready to conquer the world. I left the house shouting after me: Bye mom, off to sell my art! And that was that. I was gonna meet the neighbors and make some money.
I went door to door, rang the bell, and each time someone answered the door they looked out and then realized I was…down. Probably wondering if they should call the cops, they listened to my shpeel: Hi! I’m Margaret Kelliher. I just moved to 12 Tack Street. My parents are Colin and Adrienne, and my sister is named Hannah. Nice to meet you! Would you like to buy some artwork? (Kill ‘em with cuteness, I figured. Who’s not gonna buy shit from a 2 foot tall blonde kid?) This lasted about 1 ½ – 2 hours; with an extra .26 to my name I was ready for some r&r and hard earned cookies.
I should let you know that the day before in my kindergarten class we learned how to call the cops in case of emergency. It was 631.1212. Pre 911 shit, yo. I have an uncanny ability to remember phone numbers, and I think this was the start to it. Ok. Got that? Good.
I strut back to my new house with some brass in my pocket, art work sold. I get back and yelled out to my mother: Mom! I’m home! I sold all my art! No response. I didn’t hear her voice or her foot steps…Mom? MOM?? I began to panic running from room to room, and realized that I was alone. In a new house. My mom had left me. Flipping my shit, I ran to the phone and of course dialed the only number I knew: the cops. I fucking called the cops on my mom, citing that I’d been abandoned and I’ve never been home alone before. I was told to wait outside for the police to show up.
I ran outside, waiting in front of my house. A cop showed up on a motorcycle and was asking me questions when all of a sudden my mother’s gold Mercury Sable wagon comes screeching down the street. She throws the door open freaking out screaming: MY BABY! MY BABY! flkJ OFIWEJFOH WEIOfh.
Turns out, she didn’t hear me shout that I was going to sell my artwork. So she tries to find me and realizes that I’ve either a)flown the coop (which could have been a reality–I did do it once before at an even younger age; she was gardening and had me next to her in our yard, when I decided to make a break for it and wound up in the middle of an intersection being held by a woman who stopped her car for me. I was then tied to the tree from then on out.) or b) I got snatched. She did the only reasonable thing she could think of to do which was tear around the surrounding areas: the beach, the main streets….which is when I decided to return home.
At the end of the day, the cop left, my mom returned and I made some money. Win win all around.