Twisted Pieces of My Heart

I’ve been the kind of mother who is a pain in the ass to all authority.  I once wrote 2 pages of instructions regarding my daughter’s potential haircut.  After handing them over to the salon owner I proceeded to burst into tears.  She did not get her hair cut that day.

Oh, yes, I am a fucking freak. 

In my defense, I have had fine, straight, brown hair my entire life.  My daughter has magnificent blonde curls.  How can she possibly be mine?!  If you fuck with her curls, if you even tell her she should straighten her hair, you awaken a wildebeast that slumbers inside me.

There are other issues at play.  My sister-in-law gave my son his first haircut without my permission.  I came home from work and his hair was trimmed.  If I’d thought the police would take me seriously I probably would have filed assault charges.

I was forced to wear a short pixie cut with bangs my entire childhood.  My reactionary response was my daughter’s hair grew to her ass.  When she was little it sometimes took us as much as an hour to get the tangles out.  I will skip the details about getting lice twice.  Let’s just say, I am an honorary monkey.

But as much as I adore and love my daughter, my son is my moon and stars.  His father died when he was a year and two days old.  My father died when I was ten.  It made me doubly psychotic with regard to protecting him.  My focus was nuclear and that is probably part of why he now lives in California.  He was cognizant of the fact that I was living through him even before I was aware of it.

For over three years now I’ve been blaming a majority of my wack-a-doodle brain frack on my brother Jim’s death.  This morning I realized OOPS!

Yes, I’m sad about my brother but he lived across the country all my adult life.

Yes, I loved him like mad before I ever knew my kids would even exist, he was the one thing in my family I felt good about, that I was proud to be associated with.

I will love and adore that little boy forever, the one who drove my mother insane with his antics, breaking her prized possessions and gleefully telling her to go fuck herself.

But I realized this morning that the real earthquake in my life occurred when my son grew up.  There is no preparation for losing the love of your life.  And say what you will about him still being there, my little boy is gone.

I judge my self-analysis on one thing only, whether the thought that pops into my head makes me cry like a fool.  Well, I can think about my brother and laugh, remembering all the good things.  When I think about the fact that for all intents and purposes my son is gone I lose my shit.

I compare myself to friends whose sons are dead and I think I’m a dipshit for feeling this way.  But I can’t dispute the fact that the hole in me, the one that grew into an abyss in childhood, was filled by my son.  Suddenly I had a family, I had someone to take care of, someone to play mother bear to.  And I did.  I had a purpose for the first time in my life.  I hung onto that purpose like a lifesaver from the Titanic.

Then he left.  It would appear I should have transferred all my attention onto my daughter.  Instead, the old shit came back.

After my father died, then my grandmother, the two people who loved me most in the world, I was a mess.  I moved to California, I got pregnant, and then that fucking guy died.

It didn’t even make any sense for me to give my heart away again, but I did.  I gave it to my son.  And then I gave it to my daughter.

Although I’ve given the girl more love & adoration than many people get in a lifetime, sometimes I wonder if I’m slacking off because she has a father.

Today I began to wonder if it’s because I want to leave before she leaves me.

The complete & total devotion I’ve felt toward my childen was the one thing that made me proud of myself.  But recently I’ve been focused on me and surprised by my selfishness, ashamed of it.

Now I think it may just be survival instinct.  My chidren will always be my heart.  But I need to make room for myself in there.

Miserable Twisted Mofo

No doubt I probably should be placed on anti-depressants (plus anti-cholesterol meds and something to bring down my blood sugar) but fuck it.  I’m not willing to numb myself out to make other people comfortable, so they can live their lives with all the pawns in proper position.

Although I do occasionally use cake.  Oh, and I did take a recreational Vidodin yesterday.

I’m not enjoying my life. 

My daughter is in the basement, where she spends most of her time when we’re in the house.  The single time I mentioned the possibility of divorce she began to cry and that was all it took to shut me up.

My husband is staring at the TV screen.  He got flustered when I walked out of the room,”Where are you going?!” but barely noticed I was there otherwise.  He would have taken me anywhere I wanted to go, but there is nowhere.

I am an unhappy motherfucker. 

And because I am a co-dependent unhappy motherfucker I feel bad that you’re reading this.

The problem is in me and I know that, but nothing sounds enticing enough to make me take action to find happiness.  I can do anything I want.  I’ve been carrying around the book “Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway” for months now but haven’t finished it.

The things I want are things I should have done at 25 or even 35, and now at 50 they are becoming silly & embarrassing fantasy.  Ray keeps telling me how old I am and I wonder how he imagines that will make him popular.  But then that’s so typical of us.  He moved a couple tons of dirt today and we discussed how happy mindless tasks make him.  Mindless tasks are the bane of my existence.

I wanted children, I had them and lost myself, or maybe I never really existed. 

People freak out when I say my children don’t need me any more.  Maybe my vision is skewed because I really didn’t have a parent by the time I was 13, the age my daughter is today.  My dad had already been gone 3 years and my mother was never there.  Plus, I’m kind of a black & white sort of person.  I thrive on desperation and crisis, not love and harmony.

So, yes, my children need me in some obtuse kind of way.  But not really.  My son doesn’t call and I don’t like the idea of pressuring him to do so.  Even if he did, it wouldn’t change my life.  He is in a good place and I’m thrilled about that.  My daughter only wants food and money and to be allowed to sleep whenever she pleases.  That’s a pretty simple task. 

Would it fuck her up if I was gone? Of course it would.  But for 23 out of 24 hours a day I could sit a dummy in a chair and she might easily think Mommy was home.

Other people get excited about grandchildren or cleaning their homes or their jobs or some freaking homemaker project.  Nope, not me.  I wish I was back living in an apartment, as long as I could be near all the peeps I love.  At this point, they are spread across the country and it’s impossible.  I’d rather scratch at my wrists with a fork than plant flowers or tend a vegetable garden.  Fuck that boring ass shit.

I would love to make lots of money, I just can’t figure out how to do it.  It would absolutely make me happy if I could take my daughter into NYC every day or play craps in AC or Las Vegas.  I enjoy shopping and I love sharing cash with others.  I’d like to get my niece out of her predicament.  I’d love to take my son’s grandmother all over the world and pay off her many bills.

But I can’t do any of that.

The only things I enjoy otherwise are escapist: watching movies or tv or reading books.  But how long can I use escapism and not want something real?  Would anything at all make me content?  I really don’t know. 

Yet I’m happier than a lot of people.   I’m like a bi-polar bitch, laughing one minute and crying the next.  I do a lot of both.

I’ve even lost friends and let them go without making any effort to change things.  I’ve learned a huge lesson in the last couple of years about controlling other people.  I don’t want to control anyone and I don’t want them to try and do it to me.  Control is mistaken for love and we end up living our lives for other people.

I am a miserable motherfucker. 

Watching TV day before yesterday with big silent tears plopping down my face and onto my shirt.   No one noticed.  Usually a sign of PMS, although it’s been worse for a couple of years now.  Could definitely blame it on perimenopause, but then that’s just fucking disgusting.

Such a spoiled brat, daring to be miserable when I have every possible need taken care of without having to do anything at all for it.  We watched a show on HBO yesterday about children who were cast out on the street and called witches, some as young as 3 months, one little girl was all of 5.  I’d love to go to Africa and take care of those babies.  Well, actually, I’d need to bring them here.  The heat and flies and nasty smells would bother me.  God, sometimes I hate myself.  Once that 3 month old was 15 and asking for a car she would just completely piss me off. 

Too twisted to stay, too freaking scared to take action.  Never in my life have I felt so completely stuck.  I always prided myself on leaving, cutting my losses, never being willing to stay when I knew it was over. 

Where did that ballsy chick go?

I’ve tried to remind myself of the shit I’ve been through, the things I’ve survived:   the death of my father, a raving maniacal bitch of a mother, the death of my grandmother, loving a drug addict, having a baby with him & then his death from AIDS & all that entailed, losing him, moving across country alone five times, working in NYC, driving thousands of miles on my own, supporting myself, a blood transfusion during childbirth, my brother’s funeral, a 3-week marriage, being beaten in the head by that ugly bastard, a physical attack in the middle of the night, flat tires on freeways and finally calling my mother a c*nt  . . . it sounds like someone else’s life.

And then there are the catastrophic things other people are going through and I hear myself  whining like a fucking gnat that won’t go away. 

Oh, I am just so sick of myself.

 

Twisted Homeschool Sex Education

Yesterday was entertaining, to say the least.  By the time it was over I told Rachel to file this one under “Homeschool Sex Ed.”

My step-brother Scott & crazy wonderful girlriend Patty have been getting to know each other virtually for about six months.  I introduced them because they’re the funniest people I know, with the biggest hearts.   They both happen to be sexy wackjobs, too. 

A conversation with either can make you feel high from lack of oxygen as you can’t catch your breath, laughing at their unvarnished takes on life and willingness to say whatever.  Both have had enough crazy shit happen they’ve got their priorities straight & will also tell you to go fuck yourself in a heartbeat.  You just might not realize it till the following day.

Scott drives a truck full of ink, one so big I could never, ever, ever drive it on the Pennsylvania Turnpike without knocking out cement dividers and wreaking havoc.  His route includes the northeast.  We live in central Jersey & he drives into North Jersey, so we’d never managed to get together until this matchmaking situation.   I only saw him when I made the drive to KY, then he’d want me to drive 90 miles further to his house out in the middle of nowhere.  When I say “the middle of nowhere” I mean he doesn’t get telephone reception.  WTF?

He is a big ass hot man with hands the size of dinner plates.  He hasn’t been in a relationship for several years with anyone he didn’t just pick up for the fun of it and toss her out when she said too many damned words.  He’s got a few . . . . issues.  After all, my mother was his step-mother.  (A loud groan would be appropriate at this point.)  We were both 7 when our parents married.  He has become very popular with Mom since she thinks I blocked him on Facebook along with her and my sister.  He just goes along and laughs about it.  He is far more family to me than the original blood relatives.

Patty is in the midst of figuring out what she wants to do with her life.  Her son died just over 2 years ago, she’s divorced and living with a man she’s in the process of leaving.  Recently she met a friend of her sister’s in Florida, had relative fun with him but no big deal.  She came back to NJ and EIGHT DAYS LATER he moved here.  This is the kind of effect she has on men.  Except women love her, too.

She is a tiny blonde with an easy laugh and blonde hair she sometimes wears like Pebbles Flintstone, piled high on top her head.  She’s into tanning, like most natural born Jersey girls.  Her mouth is wonderfully filthy.  She exudes a major vibe that makes men hang their heads out the windows of moving vehicles the way dogs do.  Yet she might as well wear a chastity belt for as often as she gives that shit up.  This chick is no fool.

When the over-zealous dude moved up here and gave her an ultimatum about moving she blatantly said, “Who the fuck are you?”  When he sent her a text that he thinks he’s “easy on the eyes, a 7,” she replied, “Don’t flatter yourself, I’ve seen better.  Try a 5.”  I love her far more than chocolate peanut butter ice cream.

We met Scott in a parking lot.  I personally find romance hard to stomach & it was difficult to watch!  The look on his face was  jungle cat stalking prey.  This was new for me, I’ve never seen him in action before, only heard about it.  We double-dated for the Senior Prom, but  he didn’t quite have his entire game together at 17.

Patty did nothing to calm the situation.  If she’d flipped her hair one more time or giggled or touched him any more than she did I would have needed a fire extinguisher.  As it was, he insisted on putting her on his lap when we drove a mile to the restaurant and then again on the way back.  In the front seat of my car, even though the back was available.

Rachel was literally gagging.  Yes, in the midst of comments about sagging balls and handjobs I had a 13-year old girl with me.  In their defense, it’s hard to remember that a 5’9″ chick is so young until you notice she’s rolling her eyes and whispering to me about “old people” trying to act hot. 

Patty and I decided Scott could be a movie double for Tommy Lee Jones.  He is so adorable.  After finding out about Patty’s kidney problems he’d gone on the internet to determine how she should change her diet.  She couldn’t believe it.

A couple of times I had to translate  Patty’s Jersey mumble and hyper-speed speak versus Scott’s southern drawl and hearing loss.  Patty made several references to hillbilly weddings and Scott told her she would not be able to continue her habit of throwing furniture on the curb and replacing it with something new more than once per year.  They are both neat freaks. 

He wanted her to bring a bag and go home in the truck with him.  She’s a mom of five grown kids, all whom she’s very close with.  Her unorthodox parenting methods turned out far better kids than most.  She’s got kidney surgery looming at the end of the month.  So she did not get in the truck other than to pose for pictures and insisted Rachel stay with her, no doubt as a bodyguard.

All in all, it was worth the trip.  They are two of my most favorite people in all the world.  Next time he’s hopefully going to stay all weekend.

Twisted Fasting

So I started fasting today and wrote a blog entry about it.

Then I lost said blog entry. This did not go over well. However, I have not eaten a Twinkie or a HoHo yet and that alone is a success.

But I’m determined to post daily dammit.

So here’s the story condensed: the people in my family have a history of being fat motherfuckers, myself included. I never got into the 400 pound zone, like my brother, but I nearly made it to 250.

For some ungodly reason I decided it would help my look to cut my hair really short at that time. Take it from me, bad move.

Eventually my brother Jim had gastric bypass surgery, but it only helped kill him, not make him thin. My mother has had lap band surgery and it wasn’t successful either. She would snort chicken and intubate biscuits if need be.

There does not seem to be a quick fix, other than the horrible awful duo of vegetables and sweat.

I am an obnoxious donut-eating, ice cream licking, raw cookie dough consuming disaster. My addiction is sugar, not really all that different from a junkie.

As a kid I wasn’t fat. As a teenager I was really happy I didn’t look like my mother, who was utterly miserable with herself. I couldn’t imagine letting myself go. Then I did.

About five years ago I found out I was diabetic and took it seriously, probably because it killed my grandmother with a massive heart attack at age 57. I completely stopped eating white sugar and white flour. I lost enough weight to leave behind plus size clothing and the mockery of fashion designers decorating fat women with stripes and zoo animals and wooden beads.

Then slowly I began to cheat. Cheating begets cheating. Then suddenly one day you don’t think you can live without a Hundred Thousand Dollar bar. Today I’m back to the same intense cravings I imagine mice have when faced with a block of cheese.

So I’m fasting in an attempt to get back to the point where a sweet potato looks like a gastronomical delight and snow peas make me shudder with glee. By tomorrow I will feel disgusting, my head will hurt like a bitch as the detox hits full swing. If I can make it through the third day I will be home free.

Wish me luck! I need it.

Update On Potato-Head Brother-In-Law &/or Thanks, Mom!

Scott (my step-brother) called yesterday laughing like a hyena and talking like he’s been on  a 100-day meth bender.  This is the norm, although he doesn’t even drink alcohol.  He does, however, spend weeks alone in a truck.  So when he finally speaks it comes out with volcanic force. 

Occasionally he picks up some chick and spends a few hours feeding his need for human contact, but then he kicks her out and goes back to being the most kind-hearted, adorable, funny, anti-social freak I know.

He was calling to say that he told the pseudo brother-in-law Mike (my sister’s boyfriend who is married for the 5th time, yet engaged to sis) a big fat lie about buying his own truck, which in turn got Mike talking to him again.  Talking so much that Mike called 7 times in a matter of 2 hours.

Somewhere in the mix Mike asked Scott, “Kin ah ask yew a question ‘n will ya tell me the Gawd’s honest truth?”

“Sure!” was Scott’s answer, although anyone who would believe him is nuts, since Scott is never completely serious.

Evidently the fact that I’d written on Scott’s Facebook page the words

“Scott Eric“

had come to Mike’s attention.  Since I don’t always have shit to say I just put down anything to simply express the fact that I’m thinking of someone.  After I’d written that, my niece wrote back ”Pamela Jo.”  Amazingly, she gets it.

Cause it’s my name, fer goodness sakes.  Nothing more.

Then I made the mistake of saying something else on my own page about my 50th birthday approaching and how I might just stand naked in the road for the purpose of trying to get truckers to honk their horns.  Utterly stupid bullshit.  You know, the kind of thing Facebook would die without.

Mike’s question to Scott was,

“Are you fuckin’ Pam?”

Scott’s reply:

“Pam who?” 

Then he thought for a second and said,

“YOU MEAN MY SISTER?”

I’m kind of at a loss as to where I can even go with this from here.  I knew Mike was a pervert, I knew his mind worked this way, but the absolute confirmation of same is icky and troubling. 

There really are times I wish I was wrong about people.

I should acknowledge that from a different perspective this should be a compliment.  I am nearing 50 and most of Scott’s chiclets are 35 or less.  I have wings under my arms that resemble an owl, my skin bears the remnants of carrying two big ass babies, and Scott’s ex-wife is a Scandinavian bombshell.

So it might be a compliment if Mike didn’t have the IQ of a pork chop.

* * * * *

Then Scott mentioned that Mom has had pneumonia and went for an MRI recently.  Does this mean I’ll be feeling sympathetic and send her a Mother’s Day card with a nice gift?

Aw, fuck it.  I’ll spend the cash at the psychologist’s on Friday, trying to figure out why I am the most unforgiving person I’ve ever met. 

I mean if Mom wasn’t so fucked up then my sister would think she deserved better than this piece of garbage she’s aligned herself with.  She might be with someone normal, like a tax accountant.  Her children might never have gone to prison or had sex with chicks whose parents were jailed for murder.  This would play havoc with my superiority complex.

My brother, without my mother’s hideous interference, might have played for the NFL and be living the life of riley with a mansion in Miami.  Can you imagine how hot it is down there right now, if I had to make that trip for the holiday, if he wasn’t dead?  My husband could be forced to sit at the pool with hot, young cheerleaders. 

My sister’s tax accountant might have an affair with one of them and she’d be devastated.  My husband might be having a threesome with that motherfucking cheerleader and the wimpy tax accountant this very fucking second!

And since Mike was from Florida and I’d be really pissed off, standing on the side of the road trying to get truckers to honk their horns, that ugly bastard might have picked me up and we’d be together now, with me caressing his flaccid un-muscled skin and bad Harley tats.

So thanks, Mom! 

Happy Mother’s Day!

My Twisted Valentine Tattoo

Dear Augusten,

You probably have lots of people show up at your book signings with tears in their eyes, mumbling like dumbstruck idiots, so you won’t remember me from the two times we met in Manhattan.

 

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day and would’ve been my little brother’s 46th birthday.  He died from complications related to alcoholism after having weight loss surgery.  (Fucking addictions abound!)  I wanted to get a memorial tattoo, like his name in a heart, but it started bothering me that other important people would be excluded.  I might need like a dozen or more tattoos then!

You’ve been my favorite author forever it seems.  I went back and looked up the piece in “Dry” towards the end of the book.  George had died and you got the call from the jewelry store to pick up the inscribed piece.  A surprise, like a voice from the dead.

That’s when it came to me.

You were walking down the street screaming it, both laughing and crying.  The yin and the yang.   As always, your words are perfection.

The tattoo is in the middle of my right foot, made more spectacular by the attribution at the bottom.   I particularly like the fact that it means a million different things. 

 

Love you, Augusten.  Hope you’re doing really well.

 

Pamajama

 

Twisted Siblings &/or Pre-Teens Prefer Solemn, Serious, Silent Parents

It’s true, my laugh can be obnoxious as hell, a hooting kind of cackle that’s embarrassing as shit if I hear a recording of my own voice.  However, my daughter seems to think it emanates only from a desire to personally attack her, as if I’m wielding a comedic weapon, trying to ruin her life with my joy. 

In the car tonight she lay back, turned on her side and covered her ears as if they were bleeding.  It’s just ridiculous. 

Plus, it wasn’t my fault.

I was on the cell talking to my brother Scott.  He was driving an 18-wheeler and regaling me with familial tales from the Kentucky front.  One story after another, the amusement and disbelief continued to build. 

It wasn’t enough that my mother’s third husband drove his pick-up truck into the ditch of their dry driveway once last week and blamed it on his dog.  Three days later he drove it into the ditch on the opposite side of the same driveway, a straight 200-yard path he’s maneuvered daily for 20 years.  A tow truck had to be called to pull him out.  Twice.  (No further explanation available.)

Would anyone really take a riding lawnmower for repair, pay a large amount of cash for the job, then allow it to fall onto the highway while transporting it home, more messed up than before you started?  Yes.

* * * * *

I was already laughing too loudly for Rachel’s taste when Scott informed me he’d been thinking and had the perfect answer for perking up my marriage . . .

taking a gourmet cooking class with my husband. 

It was then that I erupted into the kind of hee-haw that sends cats running for cover & makes my daughter long for a place of her own.

For some background, both Scott and this guy I’m married to are into cooking (they don’t have much choice cause nobody’s doing it for them).  Scott has a classier, more refined taste.  He was making a Cornish Hen just for himself the last time we discussed one of his menus.  Let me repeat, there were no guests invited.  He’d been off the road for 3 weeks and was moving in the general direction of metrosexuality, even while living in such serious backwoods that he does not get cell phone reception or an internet connection from home. 

I have never eaten a tiny bird with a special name, never considered buying it or even investigating such a purchase.  Scott grew up eating the same 7 meals I did, so I have no idea what happened. 

Here in New Jersey, Hamburger Helper Lasagna (with added corn) would regularly be on the stove if I didn’t put my foot down.  My extended Italian relatives would disown me.  I mean, they know I’m no cook but there are lines that cannot be crossed. 

Still, last week our household shopper brought home bologna and white bread.  He can’t seem to help himself.  He says I am haughty for insisting on serving chicken caesar salad or a nice pasta fagiole when people come over, claiming hot dogs and Ruffles are the perfect party menu.

If potato chips, ketchup or a can of ridiculously soft mixed vegetables can be added to the mix, the man who lives in my house becomes nostalgic for his Pennsylvanian youth.  That’s the type of  recipe he’d copy off his browser while sitting behind the Chief’s desk, wearing his police uniform & a sidearm.  (I’m desperate to ticket the whole freaking world but don’t have the power; he’s searching dinners that use Campbell’s soup as a binder.)

In the past six months or so I have cooked next to nothing.  It’s one more thing I’ve just given up on completely.  So the idea that I would go to a gourmet cooking class is snort worthy.  The only possible purpose of such a thing would be to find my husband a gay boyfriend.  I can only imagine how happy a nice guy might make him.  I’m not being a bigot here, I totally support gay marriage AND prostate massage.

But seriously, is there really a reason for ME to go to the class?  It seems that having a wife in attendance would only slow the courting process.

Especially because all the gourmet peeps would HATE me so completely.  My eating habits are pretty much that of an unhealthy 9-year old boy.  Do not put mushrooms on my plate or I must tell you their texture makes me think of penis, something you’re not supposed to bite.  Tomatoes make me gag, even the seeds left behind after picking out most of their pulp. 

Most vegetables sit along side the edge of my plate, ixnay on the zucchini, cucumber, cauliflower, & broccoli.  I don’t know anyone else who doesn’t eat watermelon, cantaloupe, peaches, nectarines, capers or eggplant.  I would no more eat sushi than take a bite out of a beached porpoise.  Meat with the slightest hint of pink is raw, I see no difference between bloody prime rib and a tampon.

Do I sound like a fucking gourmet to YOU?

I understand his point.  Scott thought maybe it would give R. and I something to talk about.  I think it would just be easier for Scott to call every Sunday and he and R. could discuss culinary technique and anal sex.

* * * * *

My poor daughter.  The laughter only increased.  I told Scott how Rachel was horrified by the sound of my voice, that she hates it so much when I laugh, when I’m happy, when I make a gleeful utterance.  He wanted me to ask her if she was crying, like she did when he drove us on a winding road through the Kentucky wilds at a rather fast rate of speed, crossing over the yellow line on more than one occasion.  So I asked her. 

She screamed, “NO!” 

Now that I think about it, she was pretty loud, too.  But if I’d drawn myself up into the fetal position and held my head the car would have left the road and then I couldn’t make fun of my step-father.

Scott then did me in completely.  In his deep voice with the drawling southern accent he managed to somehow remain serious as he said,

“Yeah, remember how awful that was when our parents laughed and laughed?  Oh man, I’d go up to my bedroom just to get away from the noise of them laughing so damned loud.  Man, it was terrible.”

The single funniest thing I have ever heard, made perfect with his quick, dry delivery.

The idea of his father or my mother happily annoying us with laughter was so ludicrous it took my breath away.  I mean Mom might wickedly chuckle after making someone so sufficiently miserable it momentarily satisfied her sadistic urges.  Scott’s dad would let out a sigh of relieved joy when Mom went away overnight for the State Bowling Tournament. 

But happiness instead of angry screaming expletives and/or an incredibly high misery quotient plus tears? 

No fucking way!

* * * * *

I still have a smile on my face as I think how lucky I am to have him in my life.  One single person who understands your perspective on the world makes everything so much better.

There’s a Free Falling Flying Feeling When You Let It Rip

I so screwed myself today, but I enjoyed it while it was happening.  Can you really hope for more than that?

My sister called & that’s unusual, so I answered the phone.  (On average there’s only about a 23% chance I will do so before it stops ringing, even as it vibrates in the palm of my hand.  That percentage is based on people I actually LIKE, people I ENJOY talking to most of the time.)

Since my sister’s ex-husband (the father of my only niece & nephew) died of a heart attack just two weeks ago, and my grandfather & his girlfriend died 6 years ago to the day in a car accident, and it was the birthday of my brother-in-law who died of AIDS, death was again my immediate presumption.  (The advantage of age, actual hard evidence that you’re not over-reacting, even though the kid who says I do would still not be convinced.)

But anyway, I was wrong.  It was really our mother who put her up to it, saying, “Call your sister & see what’s going on in NJ.”   The woman is smarter than she looks.  She knows my concerns lie with my niece & the children, that I probably won’t even show up for HER funeral. 

I should have known, it’s December, time to talk about the holidays.  Mom was wondering if we might want to go to Las Vegas in January.  (I live 90 minutes from Atlantic City & can’t even afford to go there with a coupon for a free hotel overnight.  When I gamble I want wads of cash in my pockets, none of this petty bullshit.)  She also wanted to tell me about the Kindle book reader she purchased for over $200, as she swears her business is in free fall.  (If she gets me one of those I swear I’m turning it in for cash.)

* * * * *

The funeral for my brother-in-law was well worth the 12-hour drive at break-neck speeds.  People who have never lived in both places cannot possibly understand the differences between New Jersey & Illinois, at least the place I come from.  We’re not talking Chicago and we’re not talking high class.  It was really going home.

 To accurately depict my brother-in-law Willie, I will once again repeat that at his wedding rehearsal dinner (circa 1982) he loudly stated

“I’m so hungry I could eat the ass end out of a SKUNK,”

just as I watched the minister walk up behind him and stop to allow those words of wisdom to really sink in.  He hung his head for a moment.  I have no idea if he was praying or trying to breathe deeply, never a good thing when you’ve got skunk on the brain.  For years I thought he’d said “possum,” but my sister insists I’m wrong.

Honestly, I liked Willie.  I love memorable characters.  There are so many boring motherfuckers in this world that I really & truly appreciate an original.  He was nothing if not exactly that.

We got along well because of our common enemy, his mother-in-law, who loved describing what a piece of shit she believed him to be, right up to the point where she mentioned “Why bother having a funeral?  He had no friends,” which was an incredible & jealous lie.

My issue was that she couldn’t completely get off except when bashing him in the presence of his children.  The fact that he broke my sister’s nose not once but twice had nothing to do with it in my opinion, he was their father.  (If she had been my daughter, no doubt I’d feel differently.  He would have died much, much sooner.) 

But my sister chose to marry him, to drink with him, to fight with him, to let him live in her house for the last couple of years even though they’d been divorced since the early 90′s. 

I love that about my sister, that her heart is way bigger than her brain.

Only the experience of sitting in a funeral parlor can so clearly highlight the advantages of being the bigger person, the kinder person, when it comes to how you treat others during this lifetime.  In a variety of ways, she took care of him right to the end.

Willie was a simple dude who had tools from the construction trade and a Budweiser Light can on the display table next to his box of ashes, as well as a deck of cards and a sweaty old ball cap.  There was no kneeling bench, no sermon.  Most of the pictures of him in the collages my nephew put together — or “colleges,” as my sister pronounced the word — “YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!” – showed him with frizzed out blonde curls standing 6 inches out from his head and a face clearly plastered from inebriation. 

He wasn’t a big guy but his personality was huge.  You would never, ever spend time in his presence without laughing out loud, sometimes unintentionally.  His repertoire was endless & unique.  He was a funny motherfucker with enough nervous energy to keep a windmill turning.   The last story I ever heard him tell was when I dropped my niece off after getting her out of prison.  His son was on his way to court for domestic assault after pushing his dad down a few times during a drunken brawl.  Evidently it was not the first time.

The son & his girlfriend had barely made it to their truck when we heard the lowdown on how Willie had come back to the house unexpectedly one recent morning and caught the 21-year-old mother of 3 (with another on the way) standing naked in front of the family webcam.  (Willie hated this girl so much he refused to speak to her 3-year old, the part of the story that really shows what a fucker he could be.)

Maybe because he was unable to show love in a typically acceptable fashion it made his kids go above & beyond to maintain a close relationship with him.  When I went on vacation with his son a few years ago, my nephew, the father/son duo spoke on the phone no less than a dozen times a day.  I was JEALOUS.  The relatonship with his daughter, not so much.  He did not treat her well in oh so many ways. 

Unfortunately his incredibly creative & masterful use of every nasty ass word under the sun did not curtail itself when it came to calling her names related to female genitalia or probably even venereal disease.  This guy could tell you he was going outside to get the mail and use all seven of George Carlin’s dirty words in a single sentence, then add in one of his own adjectives for descriptive purposes. 

I mean, seriously, of the thousands of people I met across the country in several decades, Willie was the king of profanity.  Most of you know I love curse words, but it’s way more complicated than mere cursing.  We’re talking “c*cksucker” was as common to him as “ketchup” would be to the man who serves hot dogs at a hockey stadium.  He could use the word “c*nt” in a sentence related to Illinois sweet corn in August.  Truly masterful. 

* * * * *

My personal highlight of the actual memorial was when my grand-niece, who is 18 months old, was allowed to run around the funeral parlor like Dale Earnhhardt at the Indy 500.  She smiled & laughed, crawled under chairs, nearly knocked over the lectern, hid beneath the guest book & continuously popped peppermints into her mouth then let the sticky goo run down her chin.  I was never so disappointed as when her mom sent her home with family friends about halfway through.

In New Jersey children are not invited to anything of the sort, not even weddings.  It seems so unnatural to me.  I mean you might as well get used to the fact that being a part of a family is a pain in the ass right from the get go.  Why pretend?

Wedding receptions are typically more than $100 a plate here on the East Coast.  In Illinois friends bring casseroles to the VFW hall and the bride puts on jeans and a t-shirt before she starts to dance.  As far as I know, the divorce rate is the same, maybe higher when you start out with a mountain of debt.

Experiencing these kinds of events reminds me that I’m not as weird as I sometimes feel here, even after more than 20 years, surrounded by tiny chicks with lots of vowels in their names, some I can’t even pronounce.

* * * * *

The funeral “after-party” was at my sister’s house, the one she hasn’t lived in for 5 years, the one her son and grandchildren & ex-husband have made it impossible to sell. 

I never would have suspected you could fit that many people into such a small place, more than 100 when you counted the screaming toddlers on plastic riding toys in the middle of the living room.  I’m not sure where they hid the dogs for that part of the evening, perhaps in one of the bedrooms.  Earlier my sister had been pleased when the German Shepherd finally drew blood from the Boxer she brought up from Kentucky, explaining that it had to happen.  I’m not sure it had to happen with so many children in the room, but whatever.  Clearly I’m an idiot.

It was the only funeral after-party where I guess I will ever have a chick show me her fake boobs, particularly as her husband (nephew of the deceased) sits between us and says,

 ”Can you believe those nipples?  Those are COMPLETELY REAL, they’re the originals!” 

He was not even bragging, not a little bit, cause it was a totally accurate statement, they were perfect!  He also knew exactly what they cost him, right down to the penny.  In a prior lifetime, like 1976, I worked with this woman’s older sister at a grocery store in town before she got involved with a guy, sold some drugs & ended up in prison somewhere in B*tt F*ck U.S.A.

Incidentally, I did ask ”Are those real?”, so you can’t really place blame entirely on the proud bearer of the nipple-tastic breasticals.  She was being completely accommodating, except for when she started to scream at her husband, Leland, as he stood at the doorway, dropped his pants and pissed out into the yard.  No one else really cared.  (Seriously, the house has just one bathroom & I came very close to peeing in the sink at our old house due to that exact same issue.)

Anyway, I am positive Willie was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes as he watched us celebrate his memory.  Really, it was the most appropriate send-off, except for the part where my nephew Clint drank nearly an entire bottle of Crown Royal, began screaming something unintelligible about how his father was dead, then lost consciousness and was carried to bed with limbs akimbo by 6 dudes who finally got to do something that remotely resembled the pall bearer role.

I was just glad he passed out before calling his grandmother.  When I tried to get the keys to the car away from him he got mad as hell and I reminded him we have two things that bond us: (1) we nearly drowned in the Atlantic Ocean together and (2) our hatred of the family matriarch.  It worked a little too well when he began scream, “YEAH, I WANNA CALL GRAMMA AND TELL HER SHE’S SUCH A BITCH!”

It’s times like that when I am reminded why my sister does not view me as the perfect sibling.

Don’t let me forget the best part . . .

When my nephew was carried in and laid down on the bed his girlfriend put her head in her hands and said, “Oh my God, I can’t take it.  He won’t let me have my bi-polar medication.”

Huh?

* * * * *

 Back to present day: by the time sis got me on the phone, Mom was already on another line.  I hit the mother lode on about the 10th question,

 ”How’s it going with your daughter living with you?” 

WELL, that was a half-hour conversation, only I didn’t have to speak at all. 

It was exciting to hear my sister’s side of the story because she’s such a careful person she rarely lets go unless she’s drunk.  If she’s drunk she repeats the same four facts over and over.  Sober is so much better.  New information continues to come to light instead of slurred repetition.

Evidently it’s not a perfect situation.  I’m shocked. 

I would have assumed that the 23-year old who was living life as a crack whore before entering prison would come out and be a relatively model kind of mother.  Who knew?  Man, I can be such a bitch I even shock myself sometimes.

* * * * *

So by the time I got on the phone with my mother it all came out in a rush.  “Oh, Las Vegas?”  And then suddenly I found myself talking about my brother & spitting out details of my current day life to the one woman who will be sure to

cook my ass like a fatty goose.

Everyone wants a mother, some imaginary entity who will accept them implicitly, even those who’ve been smacked by her time and time again, even when we all know that more often than not parents &/or children are the least accepting of all.  The best part is knowing I don’t care.  I am okay, no matter what she or anyone else thinks or says or does.  I will be fine no matter what happens, no matter who dies (as I cross myself & bless my children in a neurotic rush), even when it’s me.  (At least for today, with this particular personality in the forefront.)

This blog was created on the basis of letting it rip, of telling the tales, of revealing the secrets, even my own.

When I can respect & admire my loving little sister who picks up every stray dog off the street while I worry about insignificant fleas, even as I have no problem accepting the ultimate good in the spectacularly entertaining man who treated his own daughter like shit, love my niece the occasional crack whore with no reservations, adore my nephew who shows his ass while wearing his heart on his sleeve, & enjoy the company of Leland & J. (the breasticular peeps) more than most of the respectable assholes I meet,

then fuck it,

I need to start questioning this core belief that without perfection I am personally unacceptable, that I shouldn’t even bother to try.  I have to consider that perhaps there are people who will like my own crazy pieces best of all, as I do theirs. 

Maybe they are the only people who matter in the end.

But Grandma Told Me To: A Lesson In Violating Parole

Talked to my sister and niece today.  Quite a slow learner, I was dumb-founded to discover Mom decided to ask the newly paroled 22-year old to drive her car on the trip from Illinois to Kentucky.  It wouldn’t be a big deal

IF SHE HAD A F*CKING DRIVER’S LICENSE!

Yeah, they’d just left

the Parole Office

and gotten the papers necessary to transfer out of state when Mom had one of her genius moments.  Of course, you’d think the girl who actually

SPENT TWO YEARS IN A CAGE

away from her children, living with stinky, ugly, sometimes large & horny women, would consider saying, “Grandma, I don’t think I should start breaking the law just yet, maybe it could wait till we cross state lines?”  But NO, of course not! 

I don’t think she even said, “Grandma, do you dream of seeing my face behind a dirty plastic visitor’s window again?”  Or “Grandma, do you miss having cup-a-soup from a fancy machine with me in the waiting room?” 

As I think about it again, though, Mom most certainly went right for the candy machine.  She no doubt would scarf down a Reese’s so quickly it would get caught in her esophagus because of the balloon surgery she had for weight loss and then had to give herself the fisting Heimlich in an attempt to get the swallowed whole tasty treat to go up or down.

My sister was the first one to tell me about the parole violation.  She gave no evidence of upset, just said, “Yeah, Mom thinks she should practice since she needs to get her license soon.”  Other grandmothers teach their granddaughters to make chicken soup or sew curtains, mine incites her beloved granddaughter to go for broke against the Illinois State Police.  

I said, “Oh, well I guess she waited to get out of Illinois?”  (Kentucky officials seem to be amazingly more lax about minor rule violations like tax evasion, shooting neighbor’s dogs and such. When my nephew was given a DWI in Illinois he was ordered into months of counseling.  Then he moved to Kentucky.  The woman he was directed to see there told him to “go to church” and “get a good woman.”  That was it, concise direction in a single session.  Kind of admirable, really.  A “no bullshit” therapeutic experience.)

It wasn’t until I spoke with my niece that she came out with the details: she began driving IN THE SAME CITY AS THE PAROLE OFFICE. 

 Who knows, maybe she drove right out of the parking lot?

Might as well ask the parole officer if he’s got a bottle opener you could borrow for the drive.

This is mother’s specialty, her equivalent to brain surgery, trying to GET OVER ON THE MAN.  I can just imagine the words in her head, “Nobody’s going to fucking tell me what I can do with my own goddam granddaughter!  If I want her to drive my fucking car she’ll drive my fucking car!”  Her beady little eyes narrow and her lip turns up in a sneer, highlighting the scar from when she put her face through the back door just before leaving with the police for the mental hospital 40 freaking years ago. 

Meanwhile, if they’d been stopped and a jail visit followed, it would have been the ticketing police officer’s fault, the State of Illinois’ fault, my sister’s ex-husband’s fault, and quite possibly the black man driving along side of them who clearly should have been stopped instead of some innocent looking white women.

She’s the same woman who assisted her son in hiding stolen merchandise.  He (1) stole his grandfather’s pick-up truck to (2) steal a soda machine from in front of a grocery store.  He hoisted the full machine by himself. 

In later years she peed in bottles so he could pass urine tests for over-the-road truck drivers since he was still doing drugs while driving a semi, something that clearly wasn’t in his best interest as a heart patient.

Considering the fact that he’s dead now and all that didn’t work out so well you’d think she might evaluate her attitude, but that would be like admitting she’s ever been wrong.  I can promise you that is not a possibility.

All of these jackassian nincompoops think nothing of driving without seat belts as well.  One report detailed 4 adults and 3 children in a crew cab pick-up truck (the kind with a backseat) for two hours with my drunken ex-step-father at the wheel.  The kids rode unbelted & my mother and sister screamed about (1) getting lost in the dark and (2) wrong turns and (3) dangerous maneuvers by a mad man who occasionally likes to tell a long twisted story about killing his ex-wife’s lover and (regretfully) the dude’s wife. 

I considered screaming like a banshee that I’d call the police myself if I hear any more of that kind of shit (you’d think I’m talking about the murders, but I’m back to seatbelts).  However, knowing the way children’s protective services handled everything down the line, I no longer trust them either. 

It starts to feel like I’m living in an alternate universe where people actually want to do well by children, escape spending time in a pen and avoid living with shit in their nostrils because their head’s so far up their own ass.

Don’t get me wrong, I can be a total fucking asshole!  But usually when it’s happening I REALIZE it, I can acknowledge it and call myself a moron.  I might even STILL choose to do whatever idiotic nonsense has taken root in my mind.  I mean I am biologically tied to this clan of fools, so what can really be expected?  Certainly not perfection.

* * * * *

We’re starting to think that my sister’s boyfriend, Mike, is the brains of the whole Kentucky operation.  (That would be the dude who’s still married for the fourth time, somehow can’t get the last divorce to go through and make sis #5.  Incidentally, he’s on federal probation for overdue child support in 3 states.  Plus one of the ex-wives went on welfare when he didn’t make payments and so now he must pay the state back for the cost of that PLUS interest.)

He recently sent me a dirty joke by text.  We managed to convince him that since he sent it on my daughter’s birthday I thought it was a greeting intended for the 12-year old, so handed her the phone without reading it.  Then we told him she dropped the phone, began to cry and ran away sobbing. 

He’s apologized several times since and we just don’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

The End of My Twisted Summer Vacation &/or The Memorial Tour

Tomorrow the pool will be closed.  My summer was spent mostly on Mafia Wars, not poolside, but I like looking out the window and seeing the attractive blue color.  The husband spent an inordinate amount of time keeping it that way.  Fortunately he likes that kind of mundane task, the sort that make my eyes roll to the back of my head.  There were people actually in the water less than 12 hours total.  Personally, I did not spend an hour, not half an hour.

Except for a week on the road I sat with my laptop and cell phone in front of a big screen.  I learned to text message this summer, sending hundreds of them.  It would not have been a really big deal if I’d had no use of my legs.  (As it would happen, my favorite story this season was that of a man who met a woman on Match.com, then found out she was in a wheelchair only when he had to carry her to the car on their dinner date.) 

I thought living in a big house with all the associated accoutrements would make me happy.  Well, if finding out interesting things about yourself brings joy then I’m a gleeful mofo.  My mid-life revelations have all been surprising.  There are so many things I previously observed other people do and judged harshly,  insisted “NO WAY.”  Then I did them.  Pretty sure I would have eventually made the same revelations in a studio apartment. 

I am like my mother in so many ways that if I was really, really consistent and true to myself I’d commit suicide.  I am also unlike my mother in so many ways that it just saves me.

In August I drove to Kentucky (again) and took stops along the way in Pennsylvania and Illinois.  My daughter stayed in Pittsburgh with her paternal aunt and hated it.  It was her very first time being away from either parent.  She told me she believes I am “like a queen” now after “living in anorexia.”  We all live these private lives & have different ways of doing things that we don’t even share with our closest relatives.  They’re as foreign as if we were born in different countries. 

A single tiny chicken cutlet served with applesauce and canned carrots might as well have been a serving of pig’s feet in my daughter’s experience.  Her aunt actually told the rest of the family, “R is ALWAYS hungry.”  R no longer wants to call her “Aunt” Bev and insists I change our will so that she is not ever left in her care again.  For crying out loud, the girl grew 6 inches in the last year and is nearly 5’8″.

I drove on to Illinois and visited with a cast of characters.  My aunt and uncle, as always, were a happy highlight of the trip, reminding me that there are close family members who have never (1) spent time in jail OR prison or (2) resembled something off a “Po’ White Trash” calendar or (3) played pornography on the television during daylight hours with young children in the vicinity.  I hope that doesn’t make me sound too ultra-conservative or uptight.

It was interesting meeting my brother Jim’s girlfriend’s new lover, a guy that’s both living in his house and doing his chick.  It would take approximately four of the new guy to even come close to Jim’s size.  He was utterly lovely and answered every single one of my very nosy questions without batting an eye, including being quizzed about how soon they got together and at what point he moved into the house.  No one could ever take Jim’s place, not even with Julie.  I was surprised to discover that her oldest daughter still calls Jim’s cell phone every single day to hear his voice.  Of course then I had to do the same thing, not knowing previously that the account still exists.

* * * * *

It was my delight to be the person who picked up my niece from prison and took her home after nearly two years.  The end of that story has not been written, as she will be heading to Kentucky on Wednesday into the snake pit that consists of my mother, her mother (my sister) and a multitude of f*ckery.

Yep, this is the face of the prisoner.  WTF?!

When we arrived at my nephew’s house, where S would be staying until court, we were met by his beautiful 2-year old amidst the 20 or so broken down vehicles parked in the yard.  Hailee had used an electric razor to shave a 2-inch swath down the middle of her head, making a reverse mohawk.  According to my sister’s ex-husband, who also lives there, it probably happened when her mama was posing naked in front of the living room webcam.  He’d caught her entertaining someone that way a few days before our visit.

That would be my nephew’s fiancee, the girl whose parents were both on death row before her mother died in prison last year.  She’s both beautiful and crazier ‘n hell.  I’m sure that’s how she found our family, with dysfunctional sonar.

* * * * *

Kentucky was the last stop before saving R from Anorexia.  It was my sister’s birthday and the anniversary of my brother’s death two days later.  Our plan was to get matching tattoos, but the day to day details of taking care of three children ages 1, 2 and 3 made that impossible.  However, I’m still getting the freaking tattoo.   

Since this was my third trip in less than six months I was able to see a little clearer picture and experience more of the anger my sister barely contains.  She is miserable without her friends nearby, stuck in a house with either my mother or the kids at all times.  Her boyfriend is such an idiot that he’s jealous if the man next door stops by to play horseshoes, as if she would blow him on the kid’s trampoline.  (If she did it might at least take away a bit of her isolation and hatred for life in general.)

By the time I’d stayed just two nights I had both sister and mother in stereophonic sound stating that I wanted the kids to like me too much, acting as if I was being a show-off for trying to keep them happy even during things like clothing changes and bedtime.  Always a fan of the underdog, the boy is my favorite and it rubs everyone the wrong way when I make it clear I think he’s perfect in every way, when I insist he does not have ADD or anything of the sort.  However, arguing with my sister does not make it better for him when I eventually get in my car and drive nearly 1,000 miles to the east.

* * * * *

My niece has been out of prison for almost a month now and last weekend was her first time to Kentucky, her first time to see her kids.  She, too, was accused of being “too nice,” told she needed to “toughen up.”  When she took the baby to my mother’s house the toddler stepped in dog pee the moment she walked in the door.  My mother was angered by the ridiculous idea that her feet needed to be washed off thoroughly, what was the big deal?

Mom then offered S, a 22-year old, her old bras and underwear.  S gained weight during her prison stay, but she is still under 200 pounds.  My mother is over 250 & a filthy pig.  Mom advised her that her jeans were inappropriately tight.  This is the same c*nt who used to insist that I should buy my clothing in the men’s department. 

End result, my niece is no longer excited about going to Kentucky.

Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that she got drunk with her mother the last night she was there.  According to her reports she “only drank four beers” but then “threw up all over” her own shirt.  Yes, my 48-year old sister got drunk with her daughter the paroled crackhead.  Did she think it would be a bonding experience or was she just in the mood to tell her how completely she’s f*cked up both of their lives?  Either way, her motivational efforts had the opposite effect.

Although S has signed away rights to the children, assigning them directly to my sister, the idiotic familial expectation is that she will step right back in and begin taking care of them.  My sister and mother both feel so strongly about this subject that I could not speak up against it, could only stand there waiting for flies to occupy my mouth and throat.  In reality, after all the craziness, it might even be the best plan.

I did make a discovery that made it all worthwhile, the stash of photo albums hidden in my mother’s sunroom.  The scanning will take me weeks or months, but some of the pictures are priceless.  Here’s a sample:

This is at my mother’s wedding to her second husband in 1967, all six of us.

Penny (6), Scott (6), Jodi (8), Pam (7), Jimmy (3) and Shannon (3).

* * * * *

In the meantime, my son graduated with his Master’s degree and moved to San Diego.  He’s doing really well and seems happy, which is pretty much the best I could ask for.  He lives on the beach and tells me the people are “ridiculously beautiful,” then laughs.  Here’s a before and after of that, too:

* * * * *

Driving back to New Jersey late at night on the anniversary of my brother’s death, I decided to call Jim’s cell phone again.  As I listened to his voice the car lights lit up a big green exit sign that said “Pewee Valley.”  Our father’s nickname was PeeWee.  Dad died when Jim was only six years old and the sadness of that loss permeated his life.  It was the perfect wrap-up to my memorial tour, acknowledgment that Jim is with Dad and happy at last.

* * * * *

So how was your summer?

My 49th Summer: Facebook, Games, Gay Bars & Old Friends

Life is unpredictable and it’s necessary to roll with the changes.

God only knows, it couldn’t have been easy for this guy!

My son is apparently moving across the country within weeks.  My daughter has hit puberty with the speed of a gazelle and sometimes the charisma of a rattlesnake.  My husband is either at work, on a lawn mower, or snoring in his recliner (some things ARE predictable).

In August my little brother died a full year ago.  I kept wondering when this reality would hit me & suddenly it did.

I turned 49 in June and believe it was the beginning of a disgustingly trite & overdone mid-life crisis. 

I hate being predictable.  

As I sit here at 3:00 a.m. with my 11-year old watching “Slither” (one of the greatest & most bizarrely insane movies I have ever seen – www.slithermovie.net) I’ll agreeably acknowledge we’re living an experimental lifestyle.  We stay up all night on computers, watching recorded movies & playing games.  We rarely see the sun, except through a window. 

If we keep staying up later we’ll eventually be on a farm schedule, like that of my grandparents.  The real issue is I can find no reason to change the situation.  Does it really matter? 

I have no idea.

* * * * *

Facebook has brought many interesting people back into my life, one of whom is Linda, my old girlfriend.  She will be visiting soon and you will absolutely love her.  Finding people I adored years ago is like discovering a piece of my heart long abandoned, left to rot like green meat or black lettuce.  WTF?  How did I lose them?

No doubt it’s because I slept with most, cheated and abandoned them before they could do it to me.  Never mind that I did not choose people as cruel as myself, but instead eviscerated those with huge hearts.  I could not handle being loved.  I ran cross country both to escape my mother AND so I wouldn’t have to face my own behavior, in the hopes that no one would beat my ass like I deserved.

The people I didn’t particularly enjoy knowing before?  I clicked off 3 of those annoying bitches just yesterday.

The first full day I actually spent as a person at 50% of age 98, I found someone I’ve looked for off and on for 25 years.  I knew him before I moved to San Francisco, childless & barely out of college.  How strange that he appears when I again have little purpose, as I slowly but surely lose my chosen role.   After half a lifetime I’m back at square one.  He is able to fill in blanks that confirm how lost I was at age 23, how determined I was to self-destruct.  His memory is exacting, mine nearly non-existent. 

Anyone who attached themselves to me might as well have strapped C-4 on their chest with duct tape.  The question today is whether that statement still holds true.

* * * * *

Rather than complete annihilation, I began numbing myself.  As a result, in some ways I feel I’ve wasted half my life.

In an effort to live my final days (you think I’m joking?) with joyful abandon, I went out with my girlfriend to a popular bar catering specifically to gay men.  (There are also straight couples & lesbians, so we don’t look like total freaks, never fear.)  I walked in and immediately knew one of the bartenders, then saw an old neighbor on the dance floor.  Kiss, kiss!  It was like I was channeling Nathan Lane and screaming, “I’m home!”

We’ve gone twice and I’m thinking of applying for a job so I never have to leave.  It’s in a hotel and there are bars out by the pool, with lounge chairs and an upstairs deck.  Perfection, indeed.  Dudes humping dudes humping chicks.  It’s a free for all and I love it.

Dancing for a good portion of the five hours we spend there (Saturdays from 10 pm-3 am), surrounded by adorable boys who are alternatively (1) dancing shirtless or (2) dancing in thong only or (3) making out like they haven’t eaten in a year and their boyfriend is holding a hidden cheeseburger under his tongue, it’s the most fun I’ve had in forever.

The first time we actually stayed and closed the place down, eating breakfast in the adjoining restaurant.  A gay bar that also serves french toast dipped in Captain Crunch?  Is this heaven? 

Leaving the place at 3:30 we were approached by a young man on a bicycle peddling some type of “powder.”  It’s impossible to describe how grateful I was to discover I looked cool enough to be a crackhead.  I mean, honest to God, I should have tipped him for the compliment!

This past Saturday night we did not go to the bar.  I also did not make it to the video store, my husband did.  The only thing more depressing than watching movies where people get fingers chopped off and bleed incessantly, then spread the blood all about their bodies, is knowing I could have been dancing & laughing & jumping in time to great music along side men with what look like cucumbers in their panties. 

They’re just so sweet!  Last week a man bowed in our direction and called the two of us “Queens.”  Personally, I appreciate being considered royalty

even if it’s because I bear some resemblance to Prince Charles.

Most people go ga-ga over two chicks together.  I must disagree vehemently.  I am a devoted & incorrigible fag hag.  Those boys want nothing at all from me and I LOVE that about them.  They are welcoming, they look me in the eye and smile.  What more could I want?  

Fortunately Roxanne let me in on the fact that I have an unfortunate habit of opening my mouth and letting my tongue hang out while I dance.  I’m working on it. 

Do you think it could be the tequila shots?

* * * *

When I haven’t been bar hopping I’ve spent approximately 18 hours a day with my laptop, first in a virtual word called Yoville, decorating my apartment and my virtual self in bright colors, playing with penguins and robots. 

Really, though, how often can you redecorate?

So I opened an account in Farmville and added crops, cows, rabbits and pigs to my menagerie.  It’s a game that perhaps uses 64 of my IQ points.

When my new/old friend invited me to play Mafia Wars it was instant addiction.  Sometimes I’m only sleeping 4 hours in every 24 hour period.  Problems with insomnia?  I have the answer.

* * * * *

Things have to change soon.  My son graduates with his master’s degree on August 8th and I’ll make the trip south. 

In the mean time, you can find me on Facebook. 

Even better, Sunday mornings around 4 AM I’m playing Mafia Wars under the influence of tequila after spending the night at the bar.  Come join me.

My Mother & The Kentucky Trip ~ (Part III)

We believed Mom would take these 3 great grandchildren into her non-existant heart & alleviate a little of the grief over my brother’s death. 

WHAT THE F*CK WERE WE THINKING?!

My brother:

My great-niece:

THE WOMAN NEEDS TO BE HIT ON THE HEAD WITH AN ANVIL!

She’s been given a chance here to start fresh.  She’s only 68 years old and could easily live another 30 years.  She’s solid as any mule.  This is so clearly a repeat of the first time around. 

She doesn’t get it.

I was born when she was 19.  Within four years she had two more children, another girl and then a boy.  ALMOST FIFTY YEARS LATER SHE’S BEEN GIVEN THIS GIFT: TWO GIRLS & A BOY TO DOTE ON, TO LOVE HER. 

Life is so fucking cyclical!  She’s got a chance to fix it!

* * * * *

Getting to Mom’s house is an adventure.  It’s a half-mile off the main road down a tree covered path that reminded me of the story of Hansel & Gretel.  It’s just beautiful, even in the dark.  The ice storm this past winter did a lot of damage & she’s still upset about it.  There used to be another house on the trail, the home that held the dog she shot when it continually bit at the bumper of her car, but it’s gone now.

The whole scene was a little eery, particularly when the firearm came to mind.  I have not been an extremely kind daughter & she’s nuts, a bad combination.  At one point we stepped into an over-stuffed walk-in closet and I said, “You could bury me in here and no one would ever find the body.”

Entering her garage, she pointed out to me that she has the refrigerator from my grandparent’s farm sitting there. 

The woman hauled a forty year old fridge from Illinois to Kentucky!

We’re greeted at the door by her pack of dogs, which are much older and calmer than my sister’s brood.  Mom has four and her husband has two.  Even their dogs are separated into “yours” and “mine.”  Some are from the same batch of puppies as my sister’s.

Walking through Mom’s house is like entering a time machine.  There are photos on every wall, the same ones that hung on the walls of our home in Illinois growing up.  It would appear that she treasures family above all, but in reality she could probably tell you more about the cost of the picture frames, where she bought them & when.  She’d be happy to do that for you.

It’s all decorated nicely, much better than my own, in kind of a Martha Stewart meets country vein.  It’s a similar open style with an upstairs balcony overlooking the living room. 

At the very bottom of the photo, those are dog beds.  The floor in that area was wet with dog pee.  She did not bother to clean it up while we were there.

Unfortunately, we were hit with the smell of stench as soon as we entered through the garage door into the kitchen.  I have no idea why, but I did not want to offend my mother and ignored it.  My daughter immediately put her hand to her face and began making gagging sounds.  I kept telling her to cut it out, but she didn’t seem able.

The office is a glass room, which we entered from outside after going up a staircase.  We reached the stairs only after following a beautiful wooden path built around the entire circumference of the house.  It even winds through the grass to a swing.  She had the path built so she could walk around the house without ever touching the grass or accidentally stepping barefoot on pine needles.  Sadly, it was too dark for photos.

We also passed the screened in porch with both bar and hot tub, a beautiful room.  We went through the library and past the slot machine:

I DIDN’T EVEN ASK!

I was a little jealous of the real arcade Ms. Pac-Man sitting in the hallway.  She said it came from our home in Illinois, but that must have been after I’d already left.

Her bathroom has special tiles that are “self-warming,” as well as a huge reproduction of a photo I took of a sunrise on the Outer Banks.  I was pretty surprised by that. 

Hanging above the stairs is the lamp that hung over my desk when I was a teenager, circa 1976.  The plastic flowers, ceramic ducks & reindeer nearby added a bit of acid trip feel to the scene.  This picture makes me sad.  I didn’t notice the dust so much when I was actually there in the situation, nor the dirty sheen of the couch the dogs obviously lie on.

Before my sister moved down the road, just six months ago, they had family get togethers here on holidays when they did not travel to Illinois.  I can’t imagine how it was possible to sit and eat.  I do know she’s had a house cleaner come in regularly, but don’t know if that’s still the case.  Mom has asthma and she wheezes from the dogs.

The look on her face is not so evil here:

God damn it, why does that fucking make me cry?

To get to the spot where I could take this photo we had to step over a good-sized pile of dog poop.  She picked that up with a tissue, but missed a turd which I pointed out.  She shrugged and left it sit.  We walked on.  (If it had been baby shit she’d have been enraged!)

I really have no desire to mock the situation, it brings me little joy or humor at this point.  It’s just the reality.

* * * * *

I videotaped her talking about her great-grandson and the way she feels about him, but I’m afraid to post it.

Once it became clear to her that I found him adorable, she felt the need to set me straight.  She held up a pop-up book I’d brought down and showed me a page that had been torn.  She said, “This is O!” with venom dripping from her voice.  I’d dug the book out from my basement and it did not concern me in the least that it had been torn.  That’s what children do to pop-up books.  I told her so.  (We later decided we thought the 3-year old girl was the actual culprit after she ripped pages out of several more books of the non-pop-up variety!)

I asked Mom, “Do you not think your own son would have done such a thing at age two?” 

Her reply: “No!” 

It was comical and laughable and idiotic. 

She forgets that I was there when her 2-year old boy climbed up onto a chair to reach her ceramic chickens on top of the fridge just so he could slam them to the floor below.  She cried and cried and cried over those damned chickens!

She is nuts over the fact that ‘O’ is openly defiant and says “No!” (like all 2-year olds.)  She blames it on his “Latin-ness.”  I asked her what that meant and she said something about how “they think all women should jump for them!” and “It’s in their blood!” 

She has always been bothered by the fact that she thinks he “looks most Mexican.”  This is the little guy she wanted to call “Opie” instead of the name she believes is too ethnic.  It happens to be the same name as that of her brother-in-law’s father, a farmer from Illinois!  It’s too stupid to believe!

She does not even like the way ‘O’ eats, preferring the baby who seems to never stop wanting more.  She’s considered “a good eater!”  ‘O’ is “too picky!”  She never puts it together that her son died of overeating just six months ago.  She wants the gluttony trait to continue in this family forever more!  She bristles when ‘O’ refuses one food or another, then practically bursts into applause as the baby shovels in fist fulls.

She thinks nothing of telling my sister that she would “hurt him” if she was ever left to care for ‘O’.  I made her promise she would never leave him with Mom & she was already in that mind-frame, thank God.

The most insane piece of all was when she began complaining that ‘O’ “likes girl toys too much” and has a taste for pink.  The money quote of the trip was, “It’s not bad enough, a Mexican in the family, a Mexican homo!”  That’s the piece I got her to repeat on video.  She laughed while saying it.  She knew I was mocking her and didn’t care, believing I’m an idiot and just don’t get it.

I can be heard in the background of the video laughing at the absurdity of it all.  It sounds like I’m laughing along with her.  I really hate that.  It’s not the first time I’ve had that reaction to my own behavior.  For 48 years I’ve done whatever necessary to stay out of my mother’s way, to just get along, not push buttons, not set her off.  Although it’s understandable, it still makes me sick. 

The reality, though, is there is no benefit that comes from screaming or fighting or swearing at the deranged & psychotic person who signs my sister’s paychecks, who paid for the home they’re all living in, who employs my step-brother and sister’s lover, too!  My sister hates her as I do, but is taking what she can from the deal.  She knows now that she made a mistake in moving there and working for Mom, but she’s in too deep.

* * * * *

Clearly Mom does not plan to embrace this child, even though she lost her own little boy so recently.  It’s obvious to me that he’s a freaking gift from God, bestowed upon her undeserving ass, but she can’t see it.  I used to think she was smarter than I am, but now I know she’s not intelligent in any way, shape or form.

My feelings about this woman are as twisted as could be.  Her ignorance saddens me.  She’s my mother, I have no other.  The dream of a loving mommy dies hard, even though my grandmother really took that role and gave me all her best.  It was more than enough for me.  I am so-o-o-o-o-o lucky.

* * * * *

When I return in May I’m going to bring up this issue of prejudice and homosexuality.  I will make sure I mention all the things I’ve done over the years that were mostly for her benefit, those things that would make her scream. 

I will say, “Oh come on, Mom!“

This should be great! 

(My husband says I’m going to get shot this trip.)

* * * * *

I so love this little boy.  How could you not?

Although it’s true that Grandma always said this little girl’s collar bone was broken when her mother threw her from a high chair:

We look pretty similar, don’t you think? 

* * * * *

Writing this entry, more than any other, leaves me feeling like a scared little kid telling family secrets to a social worker. 

Off To See The Wizardy Psycho Bitch

We’re leaving for a long weekend while my husband paints the living room.  He’s trying not to smile, just thinking about getting rid of me for 72 or 96 hours, but his face looks like it’s going to crack any moment now.

I’m going to see my sister, brother Scott, the babies . . . & my mother.  The car is loaded down with enough crap we could survive living in a ditch for several weeks.  The drive through Pennsylvania alone feels like it takes that long when you’re in the middle of it.

Then it’s Maryland, West Virginia & finally Kentucky.  She’s been there 25 years and I’ve never visited, not a single time.  All it took was a baby, now there are three.

I’m going to be a good sister & a good great aunt.  I’m not going to complain about anything. 

I will change multiple diapers like a professional nanny while my sister golfs with her boyfriend, Mike.  Upon their return, I will breathe the second-hand cigarette smoke down deep into my lungs and lick the dog hair off my breakfast spoon with a smile on my face.

Wish me luck. 

Once I hit the KY line I’m going to start screaming blogger’s names out my window.

Sam?!!

Birdpress?!

Where are you?

Girl Scouts ~ Just Don’t Do It, Save Yourself

Parents of young children tend to take really stupid things very seriously.  It’s easy to get sucked into activities that are so completely unnecessary and time consuming, offering little or no reward.  We do them imagining our children will miss out on an INCREDIBLE EXPERIENCE if we don’t make it happen.

Therefore, I must confess, I was once a Boy Scout leader.  I learned Boy Scout songs, I helped build a wooden race car, I created so many weekly activities I could pull them out my ass by the time it was over.  I ate meals in a church, horrible dirty food we had to pay for, on paper plates.  I spent time in the company of the Q’s, a Boy Scout leader family extraordinaire.  Our family spent time with families we had nothing in common with, people we didn’t want to know. 

The head dude of the entire group in our area was once an Israeli Army soldier, seriously.  He was inflexible, anal retentive & often hated me intensely.   His son was in my troop.  I tried to follow the rules, but never succeeded to his expectations.  Our lack of military precision nearly brought him to tears.  He was a good guy, working with total idiots.   

We had two fathers who came to meetings because their kids had ADHD and they were concerned about making sure the boys behaved, which was nice, except one of them chewed tobacco and always had a big wad in his cheek.  Yes, in New Jersey, not Alabama or Oklahoma.

I did it and survived.  Would my kid have been fine without it?   Totally.  Did he get anything out of it?  Not really.

* * * * *

As a child, I was a Brownie and then a Junior Girl Scout.  My mother was a troop leader.  How that happened, I will never know.  I remember 5 specific things about my time as a Girl Scout:

1.) A girl named Joan, who was perhaps four and a half feet tall with breasts nearly as big as her head.  She looked like Sophia Loren dressed for soft-core porn as a prison guard due to the . . .

2.) Hideous brown and green uniforms.

3.) My mother getting drunk on an overnight campout, waking us to take a midnight hike, then losing her glove and making us all re-trace our steps in the dark to search for her accessory.  The odd part: she was happy.

4.) Summer camp.  I chose “Bicycling” as my core interest.  The day of the big bike trip I fell and cut my knee, which bled into my white knee sock.  We spent the night in a city park.  I had no clean socks.  It was really hot.  I got a postcard from my mother informing me that she’d taken my brother to Six Flags over St. Louis while I was riding in 100 degree heat on gravel roads wearing a bloody sock.

5.) An incident at Girl Scout camp with outdoor latrines.  I noticed an enormous log of scout (Bear?) turd at the bottom of the hole, which gave me an idea.  I brought in the other leader’s daughter, Sherri, as my accomplice.  While the leaders overcame hangovers, we lined up all the scouts and told them we had a “surprise” for them. 

We individually blindfolded each fellow troop member and walked them to the latrine, then placed their little faces in the hole above said log and removed the eye covering.  They would scream and run, then we’d get the next victim.

Great memories, huh?

* * * * *

My daughter, growing up with a suspicious cop for a father, is convinced Girl Scouts are scammers, one step removed from terrorists.  She’s got it in her head that Brownies use their cute little smiles to get cash for cookies, then laugh at us for buying such expensive & fattening treats, so many stupid boxes at a time.

Recently I’ve spent time in the company of women who are troop leaders or are starting new troops, women who waste actual moments of their short lives talking about cookie sales and meeting schedules.  Listen long enough and the conversation will include which girls make every single meeting unbearable and the psychotic district staff who expect leaders to attend monthly two-hour potlucks.  (These groups are meant for dedicated lifers, adults with their own uniforms, folks unable to make normal friends outside of a structured setting.) 

I recently observed a little girl approach her leader at a party and ask if she qualified for a particular badge.  The leader clearly wanted the child to bleed before she’d give up a badge that easily.  The national group might disband.  The entire structure of the U.S. could fail if a little girl got an undeserved badge for Knitting.

(Random Thought: Is it possible I needed that hemorrhoidectomy due to my intense dislike of tight asses?  Could I have subsconsciously loosened mine every time some bitch in a bad uniform annoyed me?)

My friend Beth, an adorable girl who’s young enough to be my daughter, is starting her own troop.  Her car will soon be full of Thin Mints and Trefoils.  I hate seeing her step in this (latrine) hole but it happens to the best of us. 

So far I’ve kept my mouth shut.  I haven’t written any e-mails in bold capital letters screaming, “SAVE YOURSELF!  DON’T DO IT!” 

It’s sad but true that almost all of us must learn from our own mistakes, ranking right up there with PTA Secretary and birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese (3 years in a row).

Reasonable Resolutions ~ No More Maggots

(POSSIBLY INAPPROPRIATE FOR A WORK ENVIRONMENT)

* * * * *

THIRTY FREAKING YEARS OF FAILED RESOLUTIONS CONDENSED:

Eat right!  Fruit, vegetables, protein (fiber added after 40)!

No cursing or screaming, well-modulated voice, don’t be a bitch! 

Diet plan: “No sugar, no flour.  Weigh 142 by June 16th!”

1982, 1984, 1987, 1991, 1995, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2007

* * * * *

On January 1st, 2008 I published REASONABLE RESOLUTIONS FOR 2008.  I’m overdue for a review.

I will not be writing new resolutions for 2009.

At this rate, these should last another 50 years.

(Updates are written in bold italics!)

* * * * *

1.) I will continue to avoid all dutiful obligations of a wife and mother until it is absolutely imperative that I perform (i.e. cooking, cleaning, playdates), as I profess a profound love for my family.

No doubt I’m following through.

My husband shrunk a “dry clean only” sweater I tried to wear this morning (laundry incident #2 this week).  I called him at his high-stress important job, let the phone ring eight times  & called him a mother-f’ing Pennsylvania hick.  There was maybe some off the wall comment about his poor grammar, too, but detailed memory & black rage are incompatible.

He was not angry when I called later to apologize, so I said nothing when he forgot two chicken breasts in the oven this evening (for 3 hours) after working a full day at the office.  I am thoughtful like that. 

During a conversation with my daughter today, as she tried to speak from her heart, I told her to please use her finger to comb her eyebrows.  I can’t think until each tiny hair is aligned perfectly.  As she continues to ramble on about something or other I wonder how long before I can have her waxed, wonder who I can trust.  I think, “I am mentally deranged.”

Last week she fell asleep on the couch at the pseudo-in-laws, so afterwards I told her she drooled & snored, then her head fell on someone’s shoulder.  She kept asking “REALLY?!”  Saying, “NO, I DID NOT!”  I kept doing imitations and thinking of more hideous possibilities.  It was her fault for getting so excited, cause that totally egged me on.

Check.

Hey, at least I didn’t do THIS!

2.) I will keep my ass shaved to the point that it will not hide dingleberries in the bush, my underarm hair at no more than one-quarter inch.

Not really an issue, I am more like a hairless cat every day.  The problem is I hate hairless cats.  I will commit suicide if I ever remind myself of one of those hairless dogs with a crest on top of my head.

3.) I will refuse any and all sexual advances from strangers who find me incredibly fascinating, no matter how badly they beg or plead for my attentions.  I will continue to protect my “Exit/No Entry Zone” at all costs.

I was only approached by two strange men this past year, both at my brother’s funeral, one with quite a large beer belly plus a heart condition.  Both appeared to find me intoxicating & that’s a trait I’d like to whole-heartedly endorse, even under such tacky circumstance.  Show me adoration & you can capture my attention for at least 12 days while I pretend your buddha belly is a magic 8-ball instead of impacted feces. 

I’m not into perfection. 

(If I wasn’t married, I mean.  The dude I sometimes call “MO” or occasionally “BABY JESUS” has enthralled me for 15 years, which means he’s more magical than the spawn of David Blaine & Sylvia Browne.)

I have most certainly protected my Exit/No Entry Zone, other than that damned hemorrhoidectomy.  In that singular instance my direction was “FULL SPEED AHEAD” before losing consciousness. 

4.) I will never watch television for more than fourteen hours in a single day.  I will uphold the standards of all in-bred midwestern white trash as I avoid anything educational unless it relates to bi-sexuals like Tila Tequila or naked dwarves.  I will continue to try to find a way to work “That’s what she said” into all conversation.

I can’t prove it, but I think the computer was an even bigger issue this year.  Many times I just never went to bed.  There’s not enough time in the day to blog AND read blogs.

Plus that extra piece called life. 

How do YOU do it?

As for television, I still stay far away from the Discovery Channel in favor of “Housewives of Atlanta” & every other freak show.  That damned Vicki on ”Housewives of Orange County,” Real & Chance of  “Real Chance Of Love” and my beloved Sugar of this year’s ”Survivor” are so much better than actual pain in the @ss family members. 

Like these . . .

 

Are you wondering who those people are?  Look closely . . . 

5.) I will bathe more often than my mother, so that my brother’s girlfriend never says that I reek of butt odor as bad as my brother when he just comes off the road.  If I can smell my tampon I will acknowledge the need for a new one.

Do I get a ribbon for succeeding at this one? 

I’m sure my brother would be pleased he’s still getting named in the resolutions.  Well, maybe not.  I’m leaving it in anyway.  By the way, anyone know where the term P.U. came from?

6.) I will not beg my husband this year to take me out in his police car for my birthday & run the siren & lights, nor will I ask him to pull over & ticket people of my choosing (even though if he really loved me he would do this).  I will not search for his gun when visiting children jump on my good furniture with shoes & sticky fingers.

Change my mind on this one.  Some resolutions are stupid.

7.) Since I made my husband purchase a large house with a huge & expensive swimming pool, I will take a dip at least twice next summer.  I will attempt to invite people over at least once for a pool party & will not spend more than $1,000 on accoutrements for the get together, namely cookie cakes and new patio furniture.

We managed to find a middle ground by inviting lesbians instead of in-laws, which pleased the husband.  Perfect.

8.) When I am feeding the smelly, squealing guinea pigs multiple heads of Romaine lettuce I will consider the possibility of making a salad for our human family.  I will cook a single meat loaf for my husband at least once during each season & I will not insist that he applaud, although it would be good if he did.

F*ck that.  I live for an appreciative audience.  I must have been on drugs when I wrote some of these (or at a minimum, high on chocolate peanut butter ice cream.)

9.) I will keep trying to find a job where I will be greatly appreciated and highly paid for knowing a little bit about everything but not much about anything in particular.  I will try to perform work daily and not tell lies like I did at my last job, i.e. broken arm, broken collar bone, dead relatives, electrical failure.

No such job exists.  Since Target refused my application, I give up.  The humiliation factor is ridiculous.  Plus, one of my few talents is the ability to create believable lies.  Why should my skills be denied? 

I like making others feel good when they compare themselves to me.  Unfortunately, it’s a non-paid volunteer position.

10.) I will maintain a level of cleanliness in my house that does not invite insects of any species, I will spill nothing in the car that could cause maggots to breed again.

SCORE!  Success at last. 

Low expectations, better than anti-depressants.

* * * * *

Easy To Remember, Impossible To Forget

*

(A tribute written by my brother Jim’s high school coach.  Considering he’d graduated 26 years prior, it explains why he was so memorable.)

Big Jim, 44

Died: Aug. 27, 2008

By G.E., former MS coach

Remembering Big Jim.

Wow!  Where do you begin?

Often, the local folklore surrounding his many exploits gets confused with the reality of the man.  I will share some of both in hopes of celebrating his life as I remember it.

His mother and siblings have all moved away, so I am writing this purely from recall. I will make an honest attempt to represent him and his family in an honorable and dignified manner.

When I first met Jim in his fifth-grade year, he was already weighing around 175 pounds. Legend has it he weighed 125 pounds in kindergarten, but I didn’t know him at that early stage.

He had already lost his father due to an untimely death. His mother remarried a few years later, creating a fairly large blended family. Between Jim’s freshman and sophomore year in high school, his stepfather also suffered an untimely death, putting both Jim and his family into a tailspin. Life wasn’t easy for Jim and his family.

As his coach, I worried he would go in the wrong direction and never realize his potential as either a person or an athlete.  And while he stubbed his toe a few times, he rebounded pretty well given all that had happened to him.

Jim was a roly-poly youngster, but that would change soon.  During his seventh-grade season, he had grown to a little over 225 pounds and was starting to grow taller.  When he entered high school, he had grown to around 6-foot and weighed in at around 280 pounds.  He was no longer a boy.  As coaches, we struggled with finding workout partners for him in wrestling.  He was always so much bigger and stronger than everyone else. We had to be concerned with the safety for the other kids.

His exploits on the football field were legendary.  At the time, our head football coach was an equally large man, both in size and character.  We played a four-man defensive front.  In an effort to keep offenses honest and unable to run away from Jim, he was allowed to choose any of the front four positions he wanted on any given play.  He would simply tap someone out and align himself in a different position each down.

His speed, strength and agility were simply awesome.  At the end of his senior season, he was given recognition by playing in the All-Star football game, where he had an outstanding performance.

Jim’s greatest high school athletic exploits came on the wrestling mat.  By his sophomore year, he became the varsity heavyweight in an era where there were no maximum limits on weight.

He competed as a junior and senior at roughly 300 pounds, and he had to diet to get there.  I remember helping him get his weight down to 280 pounds the day before Christmas of his senior year.  He returned to practice the day after Christmas weighing 296 pounds.

When I asked what he ate, his reply was a whole turkey.  His mother had made two, one for the family and one for him.

One single editorial comment: My mother’s a f’ing idiot.

I wouldn’t do justice to try and recall all of his awards and accomplishments, but they were numerous.  My greatest recall is watching people look at him in absolute awe, having never seen a man with such huge proportions.

When he was a junior, he had outgrown our weight machine at school. We had nothing to measure his strength with, so we sent him out on a Saturday morning.  Astoundingly, he bench-pressed over 400 pounds while the Coach watched in awe.  Also during his junior year, he got himself into a little trouble for accepting a dare to relocate the pop machine from the local grocery store.

He was offered $50 if he could single-handedly put the machine, full of pop, into the back of a pickup truck and take it.  Unfortunately, he could and he did.

After high school, Jim enrolled at University and joined the wrestling team.  He had some immediate success, but eventually left school, purchased a semi truck and became a long-distance driver.

He lived a quiet and gentle life in the house he grew up in and was a very caring, sensitive person.

Each time I saw him around town, he brought a smile to my face, an ability he always had.  I will miss him.  He left behind a fiance and two future stepdaughters and I’m sure they miss him.  I know his family does.

He was a gentle giant who left this earth much too soon.

* * * * *

Thanks, Coach.

 

Merry Christmas From Twisted Family Antics

WARNING:  I’m absolutely certain this is not appropriate for work or children or even most sane people who have any kind of moral code whatsoever.

* * * * *

While searching through Christmas music I found a DVD my brother sent me a couple of years ago, something like 1,100 songs.  It’s an eclectic mix and he loved it all.

If I were to choose one thing I enjoy about the holiday, music is at the top of the list, but only select songs.  I never even knew this one existed, but in perfect Twisted Family synchronicity it makes me happy:

Merry Motha-F*cking Christmas by Eazy-E

Typically, it’s not romantic or sentimental or slow.  It’s crazy and obnoxious and wild.  If I could call my brother & thank him right now, we would laugh & laugh.

Merry Christmas, Jim.  All my love forever.

Hillbilly Thanksgiving

First, I want to be clear about the fact that I know I’m a bitch, I accept and acknowledge it without shame.

This is not a kind blog entry.  I could try much harder to be nice, but what fun would that be?

* * * * *

Mom forwarded me four single pictures of the Thanksgiving my family had down south.  (Since we’re not speaking, she did not put any words into the e-mail.)  I am always happy to receive photos & look forward to the surprise within.

In attendance at my sister’s on Turkey Day were three very large dogs (one just visiting), my mother &  her ex-husband (together), my sister & her boyfriend (not as together as he would like), my sister’s son & his girlfriend & their baby (who had to drive down), plus my brother Scott (single & looking for food).  There were possibly other unknown scattered persons in the mix.

It’s the first holiday without our little brother, Jim, so things are changing & not necessarily for the better.  There’s no reason to get together at his house in Illinois any more, which was previously the tradition.  (Mom has already had his house appraised in anticipation of a cash bonanza and strangers will most likely not welcome us to their holiday tables.)

So this was the first family holiday in Kentucky. (I must add that my step-father grew up in KY with 12 siblings in a house that had dirt floors & an outdoor toilet.  It did not make him any less of a jackass.)

Let me preface the following by mentioning that when I send out pictures via e-mail I am probably vain to a fault.  I want my family to look their best, I doctor the photos and make the cheeks pink & the double chins fade from view.  I send out only the best shots, no nose picking or big belly rolls.

So, to be fair, I also cleaned up these photos.  Yes, incredibly, they looked even worse before I put them through my picture program.

* * * * *

You’d think I might perhaps get a group shot, something nice in front of a decorated table?  Maybe I’d see a picture of the turkey being carved or a photo of the youngest family members all together. 

Nope.

I now submit to you the full blown evidence of the Hillbilly Thanksgiving that no wordy description could really explain:

Photo Evidence #001

I can assure you that this is not a photo I would send out if it were my son, grandson, husband or son-in-law.  The Cig-A-Rillo & Budweiser ads are both no-no’s unless there’s a commission check already in the bank.

This is my nephew, named for Clint Eastwood.  Please take note of the  fingernails.  He drove six hours to get to his mother’s house without bothering to pick at them with a knife or maybe a paper clip.  On second thought, he may never have been in the presence of a paper clip, so let’s say a toothpick.

It’s truly shocking that this kid has a baby, that a girl let him get close enough to impregnate her.  It makes me wonder which item he put down during the actual sex act, the smoke or the beer?  Could he possibly be gifted enough to do all three at once?

Photo Evidence #002

This is my sister, pulling apart the turkey with her bare fingers.  Note the cigarettes and lighter beside the pan.  For those unfamiliar with the process, this is how you end up with “smoked turkey.”

I am especially impressed with the composition of this photo and the enormous ceiling fan/light that is as much a centerpiece as my sister’s head.  It looks like maybe the baby below took this picture from a position low to the ground.

I really do love my sister & I realize it’s not clear from this blog entry.

Photo Evidence #003

This is the baby, daughter of Clint Eastwood’s namesake, granddaughter of the smoked turkey manufacturer.  When I tell you I adore this little girl in person, I am not even joking.  She is just as sweet as could be. 

But are you kidding me?  No one could even take a good picture of the freaking BABY?!   No one could play with her long enough to get a little light in her eyes or maybe make her smile?

No one could trim her hair, or pile it on top of her head, or brush it to the side, or perhaps WASH IT?

Seriously, Mom sent me better looking photos when her dog had puppies.

Photo Evidence #004

Saved the best for last, the highlight of my Thanksgiving e-mail photo montage, this is Scott.

This is what it looked like before I manipulated the colors:

 

I’m not sure if someone was attempting to do some kind of specialty shadow work or turn it into a game of “Guess the Silhouette.”

Again, I wish to note the composition of the photo, the fantastic placement of the wire overhead plus the beer can on the railing.  It takes a good deal of effort to manage this kind of a set-up on every single picture. 

How someone managed to get a liquor bottle into the hands of the only person in the family who never drinks, I have no idea.  I’m guessing he was observing the behavior of other family members, treating the situation like any scientist in a wacked out laboratory.

Still, he does manage to pull it off and look cute all the same. 

(He’s 6’2″, intelligent, hard-working, sweet, funny & very single.)

* * * * *

In conclusion, I believe these four photographs should confirm something.  I’m not sure what. 

Let me know if you figure it out. 

I’m still wondering, if these were the good pictures of the bunch, what in the hell did the rest look like?

A Family Wedding ~ Part One

TWISTED TIP #101:  Happy occasions like weddings, specifically along side the dance floor, are inappropriate places to express your condolences to people who have recently lost a loved one.  It’s super tacky, uncomfortable and you just might get punched in the face.  No matter how much you think it might be a good idea, a way to get out of sending a sympathy card, just don’t do it.

* * * * *

We are back from a family wedding. 

The last one of these things I attended, I had a sudden vision of the groom brutally forcing his penis into the young bride’s mouth.  We were in a church and I felt like a wackjob for having such weird thoughts.  I felt creepily vindicated when the couple had separated by Christmas of the same year.  He was a real freak, it turns out, and my perv indicator was working on high frequency.

This wedding could not have been different.  The groom began to choke up and got tears in his eyes during the “I Do’s.”  It was magnificently perfect.

In both instances, the bride was quite beautiful.  In the long run, that doesn’t matter so much.  The choice of shoes and gown, although a big deal during the planning stages, matters so very little if your groom sucks.

However, the cake at this one was infinitely better than the other, so additional food points were added to the total tally.  I ate only a miniscule piece because I was afraid one of the hooks on my girdle might pop, starting a cascade of undergarment troubles that could send me careening around the room.

As for my family situation, in normal circumstance this event would have constituted the annual pilgrimage to hell, my personal appointment with the devil, time spent with Mary Lou, my mother.  Minimally, each year it would take the full 365 days for memories to fade & guilt to collect over missed holidays, before I began thinking “Maybe she’s not so bad, perhaps I’m over-reacting.”

This trip, however, was unusual due to the fact that everyone was together just a month ago at my brother’s funeral.  If anything, our family is more twisted than ever now that there are even fewer of us to despise one another.  Out of the basic unit, only females are left.  My sister opted out of the trip, which left . . . my mother and I.

In the name of all that is holy, fuck me.

Why did my sister cancel at the last minute?  It wasn’t a Harley rally and there was no mud wrestling scheduled.  The bride had all her teeth, she was not six months pregnant, her drug counselor did not stand up as the maid of honor.  She wore heels, her belly button did not make an appearance, she did not flick a cigarette butt into the bushes upon hearing the opening notes of the wedding march.  Where’s the excitement?

To top it off, sister and her boyfriend would have been sleeping in the same room as my mother.  When they spent the night together in a travel trailer recently (the Harley rally) boyfriend Mike could not sleep for fear my mother could possibly send a shart flying about said trailer.  Just as he would nod off he’d awaken to the rat-a-tat-tat escaping my mother’s broad & deadly ass.

There were a few minor points on which my mother and I agreed:

1.) The man wearing the all white suit did indeed appear to have a divining rod in his pants.  She pointed it out to me and I confirmed it.  This was surprising from the perspective that, although mom does not believe in inter-racial marriage, she is not above checking out a brother’s pocket rocket.

2.) Mom’s friend, Kay, ate a helluva lot of food.  Plates and plates full.  (My husband mentioned that both Mom and Kay went back and forth to the chocolate fountain enough times to leave a trail.)

3.) The macaroni & cheese served was quite tasty.

Other than that, there were a few problems.  But that’s for another entry . . .

My Questionable Relationship is Rewarded With Pussy During Ongoing Saga

Thanks to my crazy ass mother, today I was given the protection of the Nyx by Jules over at What A Tragic Comedy!  It’s description includes this: “Grab life by the horns, and accept nothing that keeps you from doing what you want to do,” plus this: “a mean ass little kitty to stare down unwanted people, objects, moods, lingering doubts, etc.”

I think it’s the words “mean ass little kitty” that make me like it so much.  Thank you, thank you, you’re utterly sweet & kind.

I’ve been asked many times, both in real life and blog-a-delphia, why I stay in touch with my mother at all.  I’m really not even sure.  (The votes are definitely trending toward a big fat “WTF?”)

Sometimes it’s to get my digs in.  When I get to the point of insanity, I finally say the things I’m thinking.  My anger overtakes my fear, and that’s a good thing.  Sometimes.

In the past two weeks we’ve had the following exchanges, and I won the first battle.  I write 100 lines & get back 12 words in response, typically.

Mom says (with the tone of a 5-year old): “If you’re talking to Julie, ask her about life insurance.  Maybe that’s why she doesn’t want a benefit.  Why does everyone think I have so much, when I don’t?  I’m responsible for the funeral and flowers and she’s getting $45,000.”

Note the fact that Mom doesn’t mention she’s now got the house, which is worth more than double the life insurance.  I still hadn’t realized it at that point.

Part of my reply: “I don’t give a flying fuck what she gets in life insurance because it would never be enough to thank her . . . [when he had the bypass surgery she even] wiped his ass.  As far as I’m concerned, the house should be handed over to her . . .

“Why does everyone think you have so much?  The money you’ve spent over the years on men whose bills you’ve paid — your son isn’t as important as they were/are?  If you don’t want people to think you have money then you shouldn’t talk about it incessantly.

“If [Julie] moves out because she feels harrassed, the house will be left an empty shell.  Is that what you’re hoping for?  If so, it will be another THING in your arsenal, as the people fade away.  You will never buy YOUR SON another birthday or Christmas gift, never pay another bill for him.  Yet you begrudge him a fucking $8,000?  I am so sad for my brother, that this is what it all comes to. 

“On the way home I was feeling like maybe I’ve been wrong over the years, not to try harder, and then it all returns to normal in an instant.”

Her next reply, the whole reply:

“A benefit in NJ must be different than IL, these people want to do something . . . it is in no way detrimental or unworthy of any person.  Only very well liked people get benefits for them.  I don’t know.” 

So I say:

“A benefit in NJ is the same as in Illinois . . .  You could sell his truck & have more than enough money to pay for all of it, plus.  But you don’t want to sell it because you’ll continue to make money off of it.  People already did things for Jim . . .  Anything above & beyond that should go to Julie. 

“His FAMILY should bury him.  If it had been a NORMAL situation, one where he became a man and stood on his own two feet, then he would presumably not have needed his mother to bury him.  However, as we both know, that was not the situation.  You could have ended your deal at any time, but you chose not to.  You wanted him to need you for everything.  Now he does & you want to change the deal when he can’t argue back.  Shameful. 

“I’d rather be left in the woods with a pack of coyotes.”

This was my brother Scott’s favorite line of all:

“Put on your big girl panties and pay the fucking funeral bill, the last thing you’ll ever do for him.”

Finally, as an after thought, I wrote this:

“Just in case you think what I’ve written is mean or cruel, rest assured that I only wrote the nice things and deleted all the bad stuff.”

The reply to ALL OF THAT was in regard to the single idea of selling his truck:

“Don’t think so.  There’s 20,000 still owed on it.”

She even ignored the “big girl panty” line!

Suddenly we’re talking finances again.  Money.  The only thing that matters.

At the end of the week I called my sister, who said Mom cried all day after getting the e-mails.  The money quote: “I don’t know why Pam hates me so much.  I don’t know what I ever did to her!”  (It’s always a possibility that I might one day accidentally send her this blog address.)

Still, making a woman cry when she’s just lost her son doesn’t sit well with me.  So I called her and we spoke for over an hour, in normal tones of voice, glossing over the details. 

By the end of the week she was sending me reports of her weight loss and I responded with this:

“248 is Great!

“You could easily have another 20 year marriage. Think about that:) LOL

“Traveling . . .

“Fishing . . .

“Fucking — Ahahahahahahahaha!”

Not exactly a normal mother/daughter correspondence, but I am a bit of a chameleon and can swing with the monkeys.  Gotta keep her spirits up cause I figure she has to live at least another six months or I’ll feel like my e-mails killed her.

Most importantly, the benefit was canceled, a minor skirmish in the mother/daughter war.

By yesterday, my niece had been hospitalized then moved to prison.

The fun never stops.