A memoir (from the French: mémoire from the Latin memoria, meaning "memory", or a reminiscence), is a literary genre, forming a subclass of autobiography – although the terms 'memoir' and 'autobiography' are almost interchangeable.

I remember choreographing dance routines and going door to door performing in our little neighborhood to raise money to buy Sea Monkeys. My God, that little family of creatures lounging around in a fish bowl in your bedroom! They watched little TV's and were simply fabulous. It would be worth the hard work of getting all our moves just right and in sync.

...picking blackberries along what seemed to be endless fence lines and watching, always, for snakes.

...playing softball all summer. It was a summer thing then. There were snowballs (sno cones) and dirt piles and it was awesome. The Bad News Bears was so real.

...playing Barbies and concocting elaborate plots that usually found Barbie kidnapped and discovered naked by a handsome, devil may care Ken doll.

...collecting bottles in the ditch so we could cash them in at 7-11 and get gum or taffy. We would also wait for cars to pass and pretend to be in fist fights to see if the passers by would stop to intervene. Rolling around on the ground, choking each other. Some slowed down, but that's it.

...seeing huge black and blue welts on my cousin's legs where her daddy whipped her with the belt. He had used the buckle side. She told me if I told anyone she would never speak to me again. We were 8 and 9. I hope this doesn't count.

...riding with my grandma to pick up my grandpa from a bar in mid-Baton Rouge. He sang Three Blind Mice all the way home for us. Mama Louque was pissed, but we thought it was hilarious because he kept singing that the Farmer's wife cut off their noses, not their tails, with the carving knife.

...faking stomach aches in the 3rd grade so I could miss Catechism on Wednesday nights. It led to a 3 day stint in the hospital  running tests that involved enemas, catheters, and little probes all over my healthy body. I did have remote control, which was cool, and Mama got to read the Exorcist in peace. That was in itself worth it. As you might imagine, the doctors were baffled with my condition.

...being a "goody two shoes" until 9th grade when all hell broke loose. I blame Sheri Landry. :)

...drinking a little bit of Cold Duck on Christmas Eve number 11, and then shaving my legs with my new Daisy razor I got in my stocking. I still see the scars on both shins.

...knowing there was nothing more fun than when the adults would play poker and all the cousins and friends could run wild. As long as we didn't bother the grown ups. We made elaborate haunted houses, had huge bottle rocket wars, played chase in the dark. Laughed and ran. We did anything except show our faces in the poker room, because then you would have to get drinks for the card players. Screw that.

...living in an imaginary world where I was beautiful, loved, had big boobs, and overall was the shit. Don't think for one second that I did not want Jeannie powers. Most of these fantasies occurred during bus rides and at Mass. Father Stump never could compete with my mind. Walter Mitty knows what it's all about.

Have a nice day.