One might liken me to a delicate flower – or a cactus. Depends on when you catch me.

Temperature (hot or cold), low-density noises and bad aesthetics wear on me like a pregnant teenager does a Baptist congregation. Listening to the whir of a car’s air conditioner grates on my nerves so much that shooting sprees spring to mind. When faced with cold wind or rain, I melt into inactivity like a Hersey Bar in baby’s hand. Despite my acute low tolerance in some areas, I have a remarkably high threshold for physical pain, long and intense workdays and sickness of any kind.

Today found me exercising both extremes of my sensory oddball-ness.

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I slip into a pair of stylie disposable panties, and the laser tech snaps some "before" photos of my cottage cheese butt. If I wouldn’t have recognized my hand in the photo I would have sworn that the pictures were of someone else. The label in my pants says size 6; so, I’m not fat, but the photos made me look like Elizabeth Taylor after eating everything, including aspirin, covered in mayonnaise.

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...Teaching a child to bike is dicey. I recall that my parents sat my 6-year old body atop a white banana seat and placed my hands upon the Chopper style handlebars of my lime green bike and pushed me down a hill. Much like the child at the park, I had no natural inclination or desire to ride a bike. Apparently, my parents decided it was the day I would learn to ride a bike. The “throw her in the water, she’ll learn to swim” philosophy extended itself to bicycling instruction in my household.

Seriously, would you ever put a child on a bike and push them down a hill? Perhaps that is why I started stealing the car early. I decided I better teach myself to drive or my parents might put me in the car with a brick on the gas pedal. With those two, you never know.

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Shelly's first day of full-time employment on the Thompson & Bridges payroll was May 24, 1996, and her first job was to fly on the firm's private jet to Costa Rica to a truly magnificent 6,000-square foot estate overlooking the protected Culebra Bay and a Four Season's resort. The sleek flying machine landed in what looked to be a field, and Shelly grabbed her canvas bag off the Mark Cross leather seat of the jet and walked down the stairs to behold the rolling hills of the unspoiled pastoral land. Shelly might have been wise to be somewhat frightened or concerned to the fact that she completely alone in a foreign country and was now in a car with a strange Costa Rican man named Abel. However, the luxury of the jet and the outstanding ocean vistas took Shelly's breath away and gave her a false sense of security.

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