It all began, and ended, with a seemingly innocent ad for a free U.S. Army cap. All I had to do was fill out a form with some basic information. I also had to be eighteen, but that struck me as a minor detail. I simply changed my birth date and four weeks later I was the proud owner of a U.S. Army cap, adorned with a large American flag. Before I could enjoy my newest acquisition, we started receiving phone calls from recruiters who were interested in talking to me about joining the military. Even though I had lied about my age, my first foray into criminal life was obviously flawed by my having given my correct phone number. My mother feigned ignorance with the callers, which given her English was not a far stretch, but these people were not discouraged by a confused immigrant. Finally, after the tenth successive call during dinnertime, my father took the phone and explained that I was only eleven and didn’t want to join the Army as much as I wanted the cap. The recruiter was not happy to hear this and explained to my father that since I had lied to the government I had technically committed a crime, and that this was very serious, and just this once they would let it go.

I was no longer allowed to order anything. My dad did, however, let me keep the cap, seeing no value in throwing away a perfectly good accessory. Several years later, I donated it to the Salvation Army, its memory having been tarnished by the night-mares I experienced every time I looked at it.

Had my mother not flushed my sea monkeys down the toilet while I was at school, I might never have moved on to my next hobby, sewing. My parents were so thrilled that I had taken up a normal hobby, one that did not involve pushy people making phone calls asking my whereabouts, that they even bought me a sewing machine. I pursued my new hobby with vigor, quickly filling my closet with my own creations. My sewing career reached its nadir with my eighth-grade graduation dress, a multitiered ruffled creation adorned with yards and yards of eyelet and periwinkle blue and pink satin ribbon. This was topped with a brimmed straw hat, bought from JC Penney, that I decorated with matching pastel ribbons tied in a bow.

Twenty-five years later, my daughter found the dress and asked if she could use it for Halloween. “I can be Little Bo Peep,” she exclaimed.

My sewing career came to an abrupt halt when my cousin Sharokh asked me to hem his pants. His request, coupled with the realization that my clothes were really ugly, ended what could have been a career in fashion design. I sold the sewing machine and moved on to knitting.