The first time I was in the news was because I had lost a tooth. It was average news, at best, for a five-year-old. I had been playing house with my baby sis in the playhouse my Pepa had built for us. "I was drinking a glass of milk and it just fell out," I told the reporter when my grandma handed me the phone trailed by a long, winding cord. 

My grandma had just so happened to be on the line in the den with her friend who wrote for The Sanford Herald when my sister and I came rambling in to tell her of the good news. 

I had most likely spilt milk all over the gray-blue carpet in the playhouse digging in the cup of milk for what I considered to be gold but what doctors and scientists would label mere bone. My calcified treasure would bring me two gifts for the price of one lost human artifact the following day: a crisp one dollar bill under my pillow and a brief excerpt quoting my maturing self in Times New Roman for the world to read. It was a very important day and lesson on how to win by losing and on timing.