Dawn Luebbe - My 1992 Diary

Editor: Samantha Weiner
Designer: Rachel Willey
Production Manager: Anet Sirna-Bruder

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014942811

ISBN: 978-1-4197-1586-0

Text copyright 2015 Dawn Luebbe
Front cover image iStock.com/CSA-Images

Published in 2015 by Abrams Image, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

Perhaps you think youre about to peer into the life of an incredibly popular, smart, and cute preteen. Perhaps youre anticipating the Kelly Kapowski of Lincoln, Nebraskaa talented and pretty girl all the boys adored. Perhaps youre expecting someone who could spell the word choir.

If so, you are about to be considerably disappointed.

Like most girls, I entered what you might consider an awkward phase around the age of nine. Unlike most girls, I remained there for well over a decadea decade during which people stopped looking at me with expressions of joy and endearment and gazed upon my gawky form with pity and mild distaste.

Lets start with my looks. At eleven, I was already a head taller than my friends, and though I love being tall now, being a giantess in fifth grade is like being a Misfit at a Jem concert. Despite my best efforts to stunt my growth with a steady diet of Doritos and Dairy Queen, I always towered over my classmates.

In addition to giving Andr the Giant a run for his money, I was also skinny. Not skinny in a fit, attractive kind of way, but skinny in a my stretch pants are baggy kind of way. Think Jack Skellington with Rollerblades and a perm.

And even though I was tall, I was an intensely late bloomer. Despite praying for boobs every night, every morning Id wake up, look in the mirror, and stare with disappointment at my concave chest. Apparently God had better things to do.

Glasses were a required part of my wardrobe from early on. Rather than go with a simple, understated tortoiseshell, I took my inspiration from Sally Jessy Raphaela fashion role model to all childrenand opted for a bold frame: turquoise.

Though I didnt wear braces until my junior year (the perfect look for prom), I was into wearing pretend braces, i.e., an unfolded paper clip placed atop my front teeth. I can only assume I was the inspiration for grills. Youre welcome, Lil Wayne.

Completing my style were curly, overly hair-sprayed bangs that evoked a look best described as electrocution-chic.

But I was a modern preteen, and I didnt rely on my looks alone to get by. I also relied on my coolness. I dazzled family and friends by writing and performing raps and choreographing dances to Paula Abdul hits. (As the resident family badass, I played MC Skat Kat while my sister Ginger was Paula.)

But the acts of coolness didnt stop there. I dominated my suburban neighborhood atop my splatter-painted Huffy mountain bike. I entered our schools lip-sync contest with Motownphilly. I wore my overalls with one strap down. I was pushing the coolness meter to its breaking point.

The setting of my tween trials and tribulations was the Paris of the Midwest: Lincoln, Nebraska, and its surrounding suburbs (OK, farms). A Midwestern upbringingdont be jealousis exceptional. It involved sewing glamorous fuchsia pantsuits for 4-H competitions, throwing snowballs at unsuspecting cows on my grandparents farm, dining on casseroles and pop for supper, and assuming that all people fell into two religious factions: Evangelical Lutheran or Missouri Synod Lutheran.

My family was what you might consider a typical family, though perhaps with slightly more coordinated outfits.

My pesky brother, Tom, performed his older-brother duties admirably by protecting and mentoring me being a huge annoyance. Whether he was reading my diary or stealing my hard-earned Halloween candy, he was always bugging me. But with his neon bike shorts and dancing Coke can, I couldnt help but secretly admit he was pretty cool.

My sister, Ginger, one year my junior, was the baby of the family, but she was smarter and more talented than the rest of us combined. When not playing Balloon Girl in the Lincoln Community Playhouses production of Gypsy, she could be found in an advanced swimming class or solving math problems for fun.

My father, Larry, poured concrete by day and was the ultimate mustachioed grill master by night. He also saw to it that my siblings and I were exposed to Nebraskas finest cultural eventcar racing at Eagle Raceway.

My mother, Diane, a part-time travel agent and full-time fashionista, was my inspiration when it came to style (aside from Sally Jessy, of course). Whether she was sporting her BeDazzled denim jumpsuit or her shoulder-length earrings, she always had it going on.

It was also my mom who, on a recent trip to our basement to stow her lavender cowboy boots, discovered my 19901992 diaries. After prying off the locks, I was surprised at what was inside. I had completely forgotten about the report I did on Rudy Huxtable for Black History Month. I barely remember the time I played a camel in our churchs live Nativity. And I suspect I am still blocking out any recollection of the time I threw up at Six Flags. But my diaries reminded me of all these precious moments.

I shared these diaries with some friends who also happened to be preteens in the early 90s, and I found they could totally relate. They, too, thought Brandon Walsh was a hunk. They, too, rocked out to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. They, too, were obsessed with WWF Prime Time Wrestling. (OK, maybe that last one was just me.)

Reassured that I was not the only one who hoarded trolls and rocked stonewashed Z. Cavariccis, I decided to share these entries with a wider audience through a Tumblr blog, which led to this book. The following are actual pages of my preteen diaries, unedited, uncensored, and very, very un-spell-checked.

So put on your parachute pants, turn up your Gloria Estefan, grab a can of Jolt, and enjoy.

Id like to think I had lofty goals at age eleven, such as bettering myself intellectually, being a nicer person, and contributing to society. But, frankly, I had one objectiveachieving coolness. I knew this was my ticket to securing a boyfriend and gaining popularity (the only important things on Earth).