The Twisted Nature of Life &/or A Conversation With Mom

Spring has sprung and in all the excitement I picked up the phone and called my mother.  I know!  What a bizarre way to celebrate.  We’d had no communication since Christmas.  I’d essentially cut all ties with her and my sister due to the most recent stupidity.  When I say “cut all ties” I did it the virtual way, by blocking them from my Facebook page like a passive-aggressive dork.

I’d made a snarky comment about Mom on my page & she’d replied with something like “You must be talking about some other mother I’m unaware of, I don’t give a shit what you do.”  Rest assured, her stories of my childhood would read oh so differently.  Our communication patterns are clearly warped & then fried like a Twinkie at the county fair.

As for my sister, she let her boyfriend (we’ll call him “Sick Fuck”) back into the house after throwing him out due to the altercation relating to his comments about my niece’s breasts.  Somehow I’ve gotten pulled into everything by virtue of the fact that I’m my niece’s #1 supporter.  It’s not that I believe she makes no mistakes, it’s just that I’ve never understood this idea of kicking the underdog.  Especially if she happens to be your daughter or my niece.

Anyway, my sister is incredibly pissed off that I am close with Samantha.  She hurls curses at her and screams things like, “Go ahead, call Pammy!  I know you tell her EVERYTHING!”  She has some how turned everything around, when Sam is her daughter, not mine.  I have become the moral arbiter in my sister’s eyes, not a position I applied for or qualified to fill.

So fuck it, I felt like neither Mom or Penny were happy to hear anything other than perhaps I’d (1) been run over by a car or (2) was working in the power plant demolished by the recent tsunami or (3) my husband had finally acknowledged my worthlessness and set me out on the road in ratty underwear to be hit by the aforementioned (1). 

We’re not the kind of family that applauds one another’s successes.  More often it’s the family tradition to jump for joy over a blatant mess.  That’s the only way to get bumped up the ladder of success, climbing over each other’s backs, preferably in work boots or high heels.

* * * * *

By having no contact with the two of them, though, it put my niece in an awkward position.  She found my mother reading my Facebook page on her own computer.  I had skipped contacting Mom on her 70th birthday because of something she said to Sam.  This weird silent split was only making it more difficult for my niece, the last thing I wanted.

So I called mom and she was of course surprised to hear from me.  If my own daughter blew me off the way I do her, I’m not sure I’d be willing to just pick up where we left off.  So although she never admits to any wrong doing whatsoever there must be some vein of guilt or conscience deep within that acknowledges she owns a part in our epic butt fuck of a mother/daughter saga.

We were on the phone for 90 minutes.  It’s not how you would imagine it, as I am one of those nervous laughter types and after I call Mom on anything I cackle in the hope that she will do the same instead of call me names like when I was 10.  It’s a laugh riot. 

I can only hope that some of what I said will ring in her ears during the weeks and months ahead.  It only matters because I need someone to realize Samantha is not the only bad guy, as she’s trying so hard and yet being treated as the devil’s spawn.

This is a girl who was addicted to crack and hasn’t returned to it since being released from prison even though she is consistently told (1) she doesn’t care at all about her kids and (2) she’s a worthless piece of shit.  My mother stated several times, “Oh, she’ll never do that again.” 

Duh, you freaking dumbass.

 This led to a discussion about addiction and the fact that neither she or I can get off sugar or get our food in order, my brother is dead from the same shit, and my sister’s addicted to alcohol, cigarettes & gambling.  Since we can’t rid ourselves of these substances, how is it possible not to deem Sam a huge success?  Instead of being the black sheep she should be the shining star. 

Although I repeated it several times, I’m not sure she could ever take it in.  She’s too selfish to be able to give credit to anyone other than herself.  She is so incredibly egomaniacal, egocentric, childish and warped.

Eventually I told her there was a reason I didn’t call on her birthday and asked if she wanted to know why.  Did she remember saying something to Sam about how many cocks had been in her during a fight over a $300 electric bill? 

“Well, I don’t know, I might have.”

REALLY, Mom?  This is something you could FORGET saying to your beautiful beloved granddaughter?

I replied, “Mom, you’re 70!  At what point do you realize you’re the grown up and these kind of hurtful words are inappropriate when screamed at your granddaughter?  When do we learn a better way?  You know this isn’t something you should be saying to her.”  Mind you, I continue to laugh inappropriately because it is so ABSURD to need to say these words.

Her reply? 

“Well, Pam!  She fucked a black man for crack!” 

She stated this as if she couldn’t imagine anything worse in the world, with such indignation you’d think she’d led her life by Dear Abby’s advice. 

So I said, “Well, Mom, when I was about 11 you brought a black man into our van at the Indy Time Trials, got under a blanket with him and unzipped his pants then proceeded to jerk him off with me right there.  How is that different?”

“Well, I was probably drunk.”  And that part she said as if she were telling me she’d made me an omelet for breakfast and left it on the counter.  Perfectly reasonable, oh well, not a big deal really.

I said, “Are you going to tell me that a lot of women in America don’t fuck a man they don’t particularly want to on any given night?  At least Samantha got something out of it.  We’ve all done our fair share of whoring around.”

Her reply: “Oh God, not like that!”

How the fuck do you argue against such ignorance?

So I asked: “Do you remember taking me with you to put notes in your boyfriend’s cars?”

“Well, yes, but at least I kept you with me!  At least I didn’t leave you with a babysitter!” 

At this point I just snort.

We talked about Sam’s current boyfriend, who is back in jail, probably getting more facial tattoos as I write this.  Mom went on and on about how Sam had the opportunity to date “a nice guy” who wanted to take care of her and the kids but Sam wanted nothing to do with him.

My reply: “Mom, you married a man who has never, ever treated you properly or respected what you’ve done for him or even thanked you.  And you left everything to be with him, gave up everything.”

She said, “Well, you’re probably right about that.”

I said, “Mom, you left my father and immediately married a man who had a drawer full of bills you paid off.  You have never, ever been with a man who took care of you.  It’s always been the other way around.  And my sister, Sam’s mom, your daughter, left her second husband because he “was too nice.”  So how can you expect more of your granddaughter, or for her to behave any differently than every woman in this family?”

“Well . . . “

Then I add, “And what about the babies, Mom?  She had 3 beautiful children and our family tradition has always been to scream and cry and wring hands at the idea of a baby being born, as far back as my grandmother when she found out you were pregnant with me!  Yet you wanted Sam to have an abortion and that baby is the most beloved of all of them since she reminds us of Jim (my deceased brother).”

Her reply: “Oh, I don’t know what I’d do without those kids!”

I tried to throw in some positives, mentioning that she at least never allowed a man to live in our home who would say negative things about us or cut us down at every turn, the way my sister’s boyfriend treats Samantha.  It’s impossible to describe what a huge ordeal it is for me to see a way in which MY MOTHER is superior in any way to MY SISTER.  But my sister has really lost her way.

Still, I felt I had to make the first move to patch that relationship up too because, once again, this situation is not helpful to Sam.  So I sent my sister a Friend Request with a paragraph about knowing she is frustrated and stressed out.  I mentioned that I don’t handle being screamed at very well and I apologize for that because I know she is in need of help.  I told her I loved her and am sorry.  She accepted the following day with a comparable paragraph.

Not that things have changed.  Sam’s youngest one had a seizure day before yesterday and the idiotic boyfriend wanted to go with her in the ambulance.  What the fuck?!  This is a guy who’s still married to his fourth wife and has never taken care of his own children, on federal probation for having back-due child support in so many states.

My sister got pissed at her daughter for looking askance at this jerk-off and telling him she’d go with her own daughter, thank you very much.  This was somehow considered “selfish.”

I have no doubt that this piece of shit is trying to do his best.  His best is just really fucking similar to worthless.

One minute my niece is selfish, the next she doesn’t give a shit about her kids.  The girl can’t win.  I have no idea how she’s lasted this long.

 * * * * *

Clearly what I need to focus on throughout all of this is my own part in it, my own foibles, mistakes and improper behavior.  As angry as I am at my sister when it appears she is putting her boyfriend first, the reality is I have made and continue to make so many mistakes with my own children.  More often than not, I am incredibly selfish and put my own needs in front of theirs . . . just like Mom. 

It’s a balancing act and I will never be a 1950′s housewife type. 

As this crazy aging process continues I’m not even sure if any particular balance is the correct one.  We all have a limited amount of days on the planet and who is to say having children precludes our ability to ever again live life however we want, even if it displeases our kids (or anyone else)?  I don’t know the answer to this.

Certainly in the past five years, since my son became an adult & my brother died, my perspective has changed 180 degrees.  I don’t enjoy seeing the ways in which I am like my mother but I have to acknowledge I’ve done no better when it comes to some of her most outrageous behaviors.  

I just thank God I have the ability to analyze and apologize. 

Twisted Job Interview &/or I Hate Pretending I’d Hire Myself

Oh, I present so nicely at an interview with my toothy midwestern smile & expensive highlights & thick silver rings.  My laugh is pleasant and I make comments that clearly show empathy for how difficult the interviewer’s job must be.  After all, I did hire a chick to replace me once and she was an absolute disaster. 

(Her name was Jameelah and she changed all the computer file names for multiple appellate death penalty cases, with a brief due the following week.  Then she quit.  The attorney nearly had a nervous breakdown.  Clearly, I am not personnel material.)

* * * * *

But let’s put it out there right from the start, I hate sitting in an interview pretending like I’m an employer’s dream, because it’s the rare job I’d ever hire myself for.  What can I really say that’s genuine?  “You’re taking a big chance here and I really appreciate it, I’m completely unreliable, totally unpredictable and even I consider myself a royal pain in the ass.”  Then maybe we could laugh together and have a shot of tequila.

There are a multitude of qualities that make me say such a thing with utter conviction:

(1) I rarely succeed at doing anything I don’t really want to do & quite often people want you to do such total shit.  Yes, I cleaned houses for a while and I was great at it, I remember being on my hands and knees with my head in some bitches toilet.  But later that day I did masturbate on her bed. 

I am laughing like crazy as I write this, knowing I should never admit to such a thing but fuck it.  The ultimate in passive-aggression.  But then I was also caught by a co-worker doing the same thing in a restroom stall at work on third-shift in a NYC law firm, so maybe it’s more about needing a better hobby.

(2) My moods are like a crazy, bumpy wooden rollercoaster ride.  Admittedly, it’s exciting.  You never know if I will show up on time, or at all.  You will hear entertaining tales of broken limbs, dead relatives and endless car problems, all explaining why it’s not my fault I am a complete loser.  You may call my home and I will say “This isn’t Pam, this is Pam’s sister.  But I can give her a message!”  in a friendly, melodious voice.  (One ballsy supervisor said, “Pam, I know this is you.”)

Or I might quit in the middle of a shift, like the day I tried dish-washing in a college residence hall or the night I left tables of customers wondering, “Where is that damned waitress?”  Oh, it was one of the most freeing experiences of my life.  I hated that fucked up job with people leaving me quarters for tips!

Granted, I sucked.  I can’t remember shit, my hearing is shot.  It can be difficult for me to serve my own children, let alone strangers.  I am amazed by people who put 3 complete meals on a table for the little buggers.  I mean, what the fuck, take a break!  Like everything else, I blame my lack of real nurturing qualities on my mother, but who the fuck wants to go down that muddy road again?  Not me! 

In my head I am the most nurturing person on the freaking planet!  I am so loving!  I am so giving!  It’s in translating those thoughts into action that the snags of reality occur.

As my beloved author Augusten Burroughs is so often quoted saying from his book Magical Thinking:

“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.” 

(3) I expect to be paid highly, very highly, for things like my spelling ability and knowledge of current events, even though those qualities are worthless.  I don’t like cooking, filing, copying, or being ordered around by anyone  . . . unless it’s a great looking man who laughs at my jokes.  Like my dentist.  I would definitely boil him up a pot of ramen noodles for, say, $25.  I would even pour it in a bowl.  But because of the increase in gas prices I would want mileage.  See, that’s where my current events knowledge comes in handy.  If I wasn’t paying close attention I could have lost out in that transaction.

(4) I have a superiority complex infused with low self-esteem.  In other words, being my boss can be a nightmare.  I will nearly always believe I am smarter than my supervisor, but can’t handle the responsibility that comes with a position of authority.  I am a big fat pussy who thinks mean thoughts.  Luckily, people like me anyway because I tend to say those thoughts out loud and then laugh at myself and say how stupid I am.  It is my saving grace, the realization that my thoughts are insane and the ability to admit it. 

I thank my second grade teacher for this quality.  She wrote something on my report card about the fact that I would always honestly admit to my part in whatever misbehavior was going on.  It occurred to me, “You mean you can actually be rewarded for doing something wrong if you just apologize afterwards?”  This gave me tremendous freedom to continue to be a little shit.  Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.  It has taken me far in life.

* * * * *

So, anyway, I had this job interview today in a group home for girls, most who come directly from hospitalization, and I am positive I will not be hired.  The reason is I did something so incredibly dumb, I sat back and told Rodneisha all about myself. 

Oh, yes, I admitted I quit my last job and was re-hired 4 times.  I told her I can easily be intimidated and I curse a lot.  Although I did lie and say I can control it.  Fortunately I did not mention my obsession-like fear of bed bugs.  But I did admit my daughter is homeschooled.  Oh, that one is a doozy.  I might as well have said I believe in UFO’s and spend my weekends digging for gold in grocery dumpsters.

* * * * *

It’s a serious job.  I told her I have experience with many of the things these girls are going through and I do: the loss of a parent at a young age, inappropriate sexual shit, anger at the world, abandonment and PTSD.  (God only knows, I scream every time a family member walks unexpectedly around a corner, I cannot dry my hair without being freaked out by my own daughter.)

I told her I think a sense of humor can diffuse situations and it’s my preferred style.  But I doubt they’re looking to hire a comedian.  When I told her I’ve had lots of people die and so I consider it a success when everyone is alive at the end of the day she probably thought my standards were low.  Then when she asked me how I would handle aggression and I admitted I would rather sneak in cookies for the girls than restrain them it may have sealed my fate.

I’m not against holding children to keep them from hurting themselves or someone else, but I’ve seen where restraint can be overdone.  It can be contagious.  (For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it’s a way of taking a child down to the floor and holding their legs with your legs and their arms with your arms, like a controlling hug, as they try to fight their way out.  You can easily be hurt, children have been seriously injured and even died on rare occasions.  It’s commonly used with psychiatric disorders.)

I’m not big on discipline, even though I know there are occasions where it is absolutely necessary, particularly with certain types of children.  I know the rules must be followed or it can be disastrous.

But at my advanced age, 50 instead of 25, I feel motherly toward women in their 20′s and 30′s, let alone teenagers.  It’s no longer a competitive female thing, it’s about looking back and seeing why they should take it easy on themselves because they’re doing the best they can in this moment. 

For this line of work, though, that sounds like enabling.  These little chicks are going to have it rough for a long time and they have to be able to make it on their own.  Coddling is probably the wrong way to go.

I’ve even seen it happen with my niece.  The more love I show her, the more angry she becomes with her mother, the more she realizes how cheated she’s been.  Yesterday my sister screamed at her, “Call Pammy!  Tell her all about it, I know you tell her everything!” 

God forbid the dysfunctional chicks of the world were just loved and adored by their own mothers.  But then there wouldn’t be any dysfunctional chicks.  It would just fuck up everything.  There would be no whores.  Men couldn’t get blow jobs as easily from chicks begging for attention.  Tremendous self-esteem increase, lots of high-falutin bitches.  Think of the titty bar industry!  Lots of complications from that stupid idea.

Lord only knows, hiring me to work with twisted people is quite an oxymoron.  Yet, in this instance, I might be highly qualified.

Twisted Little Chick

Tonight is a sweet sixteen party and my daughter is invited.  I’m not sure how another child’s 16th birthday is costing us so much, but we must be moving in on $175 at this point.  The $25 gift card for the birthday girl has been the least of it.

Last night was dress shopping.  We were quite lucky to find not only a party dress but also a prom dress at the same store.  All I can say is thank God a single retail outlet in America realizes there are girls larger than a size 13, because the look on her face when we were looking in Lord & Taylor’s was something reminiscent of the kid who goes to an amusement park and discovers their favorite ride has been closed for the day, then drops their lunch on the ground. 

I wish every dress designer who only makes dresses for stick figures would be placed on a ship, bound together and left at sea.

Anyway, we did find beautiful stuff and she looked great and by the time we left the mall she was beaming and jumping up and down with excitement.  I wouldn’t have cared if we had to go bankrupt at that point.  Who gives a shit?  Not me.

This morning I got up early and went to our quarterly library book sale, where paperbacks are a quarter and hard covers 50 cents.  Seriously better than sex, way better, although I did buy one authored by porn star Jenna Jameson, just to keep my skills in check.  I also bought four for Rachel as she slept.  It’s nice to be a princess.

Upon return home we had to go purchase shoes.  She got two pair, one that perfectly matches tonight’s dress and another pair of sneakers covered with silver sparkles.  PayLess had a sale and we walked out with two pair of shoes and two pair of footies for $17.  Damn, I was impressed with myself.  When your feet are the size of paddle boats PayLess is a more reasonable alternative than nicer stores because they cater to the transvestite market.

On top of everything else we then took her out for her lunch, since the adults in the house are fasting.  Was that enough? 

No, I had to shave her legs.  Completely over the top.  I guess maybe in normal households mothers do things like this?  I don’t know, because I never lived in a normal household.  The only times I remember my mother being nice were (1) when I wrecked my bicycle and had to have rocks taken out of my face in the ER with a brillo pad and (2) when my girlfriend wrecked her car and we were both knocked unconscious.  During those two occasions she was stellar.  I guess I should have gotten better at self-injury.

Returning to present time, the girl is now complaining, “Do I really have to wear a bra?”  Oh my God, next she’ll ask if she really has to brush her teeth.  Sometimes I could easily confuse her with a 12-year old boy instead of a 13-year old girl.

All potential difficulties are made up for by two things: (1) her loving nature and (2) her fantastic sense of humor. 

At bowling Thursday night she had headphones in, like she often does, which annoys the fuck out of me.  One of the older women, who is close with Rachel after having conversations lasting several hours each week for more than two years, got up to answer a phone page and passed out on the germ-ridden bowling alley floor.  People surrounded her and an ambulance was called.  She’d been lying in probable ebola virus for 15 minutes when Rachel said, “Who is that?” 

Oh my God, the entire bowling alley had come to a standstill and she had paid no attention whatsoever. 

A couple minutes later she called me over and said, “Is that MY Pat?”  I said, “YES.  Who did you think it was?” 

Her reply: “Oh, I thought it was black Pat.”  Now, mind you, “black Pat” quit working at the bowling alley about a year ago . . .  and her name was Jill.  I began laughing so hard I doubled over.  She turned an entertaining shade of salmon.  After I walked away she called me back.

She said, “I am warning you, I do not EVER want to hear this mentioned again!  STOP laughing, you bitch!  First of all,  I sound RACIST.  Second, I better never hear you tell anyone about this and you had better SHUT THE FUCK UP!”  Meanwhile, we were both laughing so hard we were holding our sides and I was about to topple over.  I had tears running down my face.

The words “black Pat” have now entered the realm of family history.

Oh, here we go.  She just entered the room and told me she doesn’t like her shoes.  They are not the exact color of the dress.  In other words, she’s wearing the silver sparkly sneakers instead.  Perfect!  Directions were “dressy casual.”  She is dressy up top and casual down below.  Very Gemini for a Virgo girl.

* * * * *

She has now been delivered to a nearby firehouse, my job for today is done.  Except for the part where I have to be available at her beck and call in case she texts or calls.  If I do not reply immediately she will assume I am dead.  Her preference was that I sit in the parking lot for four hours, but she capitulated to my wishes.  This recliner is far more comfortable.  And warm.

The boy she likes will be there.  We have joked endlessly about him.

 I remember being kissed for the first time at 12 by Dale Hansen at the bottom of the stairs in my house on Guthrie Street in Corn Field, Illinois.  Dale had a skin condition and wore black framed glasses.  When he moved in for the kiss I closed my eyes but then made the mistake of opening them and burst into laughter.  Dale looked painfully comedic with his face all screwed up and lips pursed.

Good luck with that, Rachel :p

 

* * * * *

She is home. 

The story of the night?  She was dancing in a circle with the birthday girl, flinging each other around and around.  This 16-year old happens to have a mild case of cerebral palsy and is half Rachel’s size.   One moment she was on her feet . . . the next moment she was on the floor, on her face, with her dress over her head.  Rach is mortified and feels responsible but thank God her friend is fine.   She summed it up with, “They remember me wherever I go.” 

To get a complete picture of the scene I asked, “Where was the boyfriend while this was happening?” and she said, “Oh, standing there like man candy, shaking his head.”  When I tell you this geeky boy should beg her to marry him NOW  because no one will EVER call him anything so flattering again, I am dead serious.

I could not get better entertainment if I paid for it.

Twisted Over F*cking 50 &/or Forgiveness Is For Pussies

It’s been a big week in Pamajama Land.  I turned . 

Someone had the nerve to tell me that “50 is the youth of old age.” 

Oh. My. God.  She seriously thought that would make me happy?  Some statements are so incredibly

(circle all that apply)

bad, insensitive, stupid

they should smell like old cheese or your pubescent child’s feet, as a warning they shouldn’t be repeated, not ever.

Who the f*ck would ever want to be 50?  I really never believed it could happen, didn’t even consider it.  This is not a number that in any way jives with the person living inside my head. 

In grade school I was convinced I would never make it to high school, couldn’t imagine being THAT OLD.  It kind of jived with the idea that I wouldn’t dream of walking away from my mother in a department store because I was certain she wouldn’t bother searching for me if I was lost. 

It’s the same reason I was afraid to ride my bike any further than a point where I could still see our house.  I knew the bitch would tell people, “I used to have a daughter named Pam, but she’s gone now,” and then she’d somehow use it as a sympathy ploy for free stuff or maybe some kind of tax evasion.

* * * * *

There are oh so many issues I could broach here regarding this momentous occasion, but for now I will just touch on the shoes, the magnificently un-feminine sandals my mother possibly paid $7.99 for at a Kentucky Wal-Mart.  She placed them in a manila envelope & spent $10.37 to mail them to NJ. 

She got me good, told me a package was coming.  I wanted cash & I got these:

I’m quite grateful that she can no longer shock me.  So after we laughed & snorted & screamed amongst ourselves over all the reasons the shoes are disgusting . . .  I figured what the hell, I’ll call Mom & thank her. 

I did it in front of my husband & daughter so they would know what a spectacularly gifted liar I am, how the words roll off my tongue without hesitation: “Mom, I’m calling to thank you for the package!”

“Oh, what did you think?”

“Well, I hadn’t purchased my summer sandals yet, so it was really a fortuitous gift on your part!”

Then she tells me this:

“Well, they’re GREAT, I got myself a pair, and the best part is they’re WASHABLE.”

I said, “You mean you throw them into the washing machine or what?”

“Oh no, you can just wipe them down.” 

She made it sound as if she’d never considered the idea that a pair of shoes could be kept clean. 

But of course, most shoes are not made by the people over at the famous Taiwanese factory PAU, experts in cloying plastic.  I’m guessing hot liquid (made from some kind of animal on the endangered species list (perhaps sea turtles)) is poured into these intricately designed shoe molds by 8-year olds. 

I don’t wear a size 10, like the shoes she sent, I’m an 11.  In actuality, these may be men’s shoes though.  They are so ugly that I feel I’m dirtying my blog by placing them on the page.

* * * * *

There are no doubt people who would say I’m incredibly selfish & ungrateful, that many no longer have a mother.  To them I say:

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!

Perfectly Attuned to Twisted Humor

I love nothing more than saying inappropriate things to my pre-teen and getting her eyes to light up in abject fascination.  Will it make her a stable adult human being when it’s all said and done?  I have no freaking idea. 

It’s like being the teacher in the 2-year-old room at the nursery and using lesson plans that include surreptitiously scratching their little noses with their longest digit.  “Listen, kids, if Grandma won’t let you watch that 6th hour of TV when she babysits, here’s what you do.”

It seems to me that having fun with your mother has got to be a step up from having a tight-ass rule your life, dampen your spirit and bore you to tears.  Certainly there’s got to be a middle ground, but that’s not my strong suit.  Neither is singing all the correct words to any song and damned if my bitchy little chick doesn’t mock me unmercifully for that.  So I need to keep her on her toes.

On April Fool’s Day I was desperate to find a prank at 4 a.m., as too many years have passed without observing what is no doubt the best American holiday of all.  My husband was asleep in bed, my daughter and I downstairs in the hallway after brushing our teeth.  She wanted to know if we were going to a scheduled activity the following day.  (Not that we ever make it since we stay up till 4 a.m.)

I knew the plans had been canceled for other adult (boring ass) reasons and figured I’d been handed an April Fool’s Day gift.  Unfortunately, coming from the midwest I have a shit load of rich black dirt in my frontal lobe (after years of detasseling corn at ungodly hours of the morning, which I’m sure is why I still refuse to get up at a decent hour). 

The end result is I am a plodding thinker, related to the mule family.  But in this instance I had to think fast, which does not always end up with the best result.  (It is why I cannot be expected to order meals from snarky waiters in New York City.)

Now don’t get pissed at me, all up on your high horse, but I told her someone died.  She’s a fan of horror films and scary stories, believing herself a descendant from the makers of  “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” and “Saw.”  She loves to pretend that she has testicles the size of basketballs, even though it’s so completely untrue. 

But when her guinea pig died she acted sad for a minute and then asked “Can I poke it with a stick?”  I mean, come on, this is a kid you can f*ck with just a little bit.

The alleged dead person in question is not a close friend nor family member.  (I do have ethical standards.)  It’s another mom, someone who teaches in the co-op we attend.  I said she’d been . . .  killed in a car accident. 

Rachel replied “Really?” and looked at me with those beautifully naive eyes of hers.  I hesitated a moment and then said, “Well, I didn’t want to upset you.  Are you okay?”  Her heartless reply: “Yeah, I guess so.”  So that’s when I jumped in with, “Aww, it’s a lie . . .  April Fool’s!”

She began screaming and laughing and chasing me through the house as I cackled with joyous abandon. 

Her father woke up and began shouting, “What?  What?”  For the most part we just ignored him, as this has become kind of a common occurrence here in the middle of the night.  I think she told him the next day.  Yet he still fell for it when I told him I’d cut myself with a knife and would he please bring home bandage materials from the pharmacy after he purchased his White Castle dinner.

Emergency preparedness is his bag and he immediately began re-thinking his plans and insisted he could not go to White Castle as his wife bled to death at home on the kitchen floor.  Then I began hearing the “Clink, clink, clink” of his brain waves and, just as he was about to get it on his own, I said the obligatory line: “APRIL FOOL’S.” 

I think it’s actually the 3rd time I’ve used that kind of thing with him, once including a ketchup prop.  The favorite was when I made Rachel run outside and scream, “Mommy’s not moving!  She changed that light bulb in the bathroom that she asked you to change last week and she fell off the chair!”  He came in to find me appropriately splayed out on the bathroom floor waiting for a chalk outline.  If only I hadn’t started to laugh.  The guilt ploy was such a bonus.

As I write this I am trying to figure out how I can get downstairs to the plastic wrap, bring it up and cover the toilet seat, so that when he gets up he splatters pee all over himself.  It’s a gag I’ve been wanting to pull for the longest time. 

Well, that and cover the entire door frame with the stuff.  In my mind’s eye he would bounce off it like a trampoline.  I’m guessing it has to be a little more complicated than my visualization.  Complications bore me tremendously, so IXNAY on that idea.  It would be easier just to bring an ice cube upstairs and place it in the midst of his underarm hair.  No lie, I would probably break his nose if he did something like that to me, yet he would not even get angry if I did it to him.

* * * * *

So I went to find the plastic wrap and we only have pink and purple.  The pink is now tightly wrapped across the top of the toilet.  I really, really, really hope Rachel does not get up and have to pee in the next two hours.

The Twisted Easter Bunny Travels

It’s not like I don’t know visits to my family will suck.  It’s never a question.  There will always be highlights and lowlights and I will never fit in.  My actions & opinions will be in direct opposition with the prevailing familial thoughts on most anything at all.

It’s especially noticeable with regard to children.  I miss my niece’s three, 2 girls & a boy, now aged 2, 3 & 4.  My hope is to convince them they’re perfectly wonderful, it’s the adults that are the problem.  It’s what my grandmother did for me.  I have no idea if it’s even remotely possible.

 

I miss my brother, Scott, the only person there who feels like real family.  (It makes sense that he and I are step-siblings and share no DNA.)  He’s nuts, too, but more of a richly flavored macadamia than a simple rancid peanut. 

He drives his damned bass boat so fast that I found myself counting it out & discovering I am now the same age Grandma was when she used to hold on for dear life as we all screamed “Go faster, Grandpa!”  I was holding my breath, just waiting to die.

* * * * *

The 14 hour drive seemed easy, since previously I’ve done it on my own.  My husband and daughter went this time.  He is always agreeable and she is almost always not.  However, she is the one who laughs at my snarky comments & understands them immediately.  I identify most closely with 12-year old girls (and the potty humor of 6-year old boys).  There was a tremendous amount of training involved to get her to this point & if she turns on me now I will be completely devastated.

Pointing out fashion faux pas as I travel in my son’s green over-sized camos is both fun and paradoxical.  I think I even peed a little on my purse at that stop, yet it did not stop me from mocking others.  Dedication to the art is a necessary component.

I swear there was a female Keebler elf in an Ohio Cracker Barrel bathroom.  We could hardly contain our glee without pointing or jumping up & down.  Another chick looked incredibly happy with herself while wearing a patriotic track suit from 1990.  A good looking man walked in with a cowboy hat and boots.  You just don’t see that in New Jersey.  When I mentioned him to Rachel she called me a cougar.  Ick.

All this giggling & whispering may get my ass shot in a state that permits concealed weapons.

Please do not comment that I am mean or self-deluding.  I already know that.

* * * * *

30 miles from our final destination my sister & her boyfriend were waiting for us in a Sam’s parking lot.  He was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt which caused us to confuse him with the cart boy.  The red Harley between his legs was the clue.  It’s my sister’s bike, he just gets to drive it.  Most noticeable to me was the fact that they don’t wear helmets.

 

They carry that most important safety gear inside a box, for driving in states with helmet laws.  The sticker on the back was my favorite part:

“My nipples get harder than most men’s dicks.”  A true classic.

Watching my sister fly down the road at 60 mph, drinking a Big Gulp, under the total control of a man I wouldn’t want picking up my garbage, left me wondering in fascination.  How is it possible we came from the same parents, grew up in the same house & became such different people?  I know it happens, but damn.

I am terrified of most everything, practically cautious in extreme.  She loves to say things like, “Everybody dies some time.”  Part of me thinks her way sounds so much better.

She does not carry a purse, wears men’s jeans & sleeveless t-shirts, lets her short hair fly in the wind.  I often carry more than one bag (OCD impulses), tend to wear women’s clothing & am forever obsessing about the state of my hair even without the complications of Harley head. 

She is a chain smoker & I am allergic to cigarettes.  I used to complain but it caused so much damage to our relationship that I now block it out and say nothing at all, really it’s hardly noticeable when there aren’t two other people in the same small house doing it too (the boyfriend & the niece).  The kids live with it year round, so who am I to bitch?  (Well, I think we all know the real answer to that question.)

My sister has two enormous & poorly disciplined Boxers, I have to wash my hands every time I touch them.  I’m allergic to their saliva, which flies through the air without restraint.  I’m pretty sure that means I’m a big fucking pain in the ass.  Last time the male began biting me, so this time I brought tennis balls along.  He got so tired in the heat that he hid under the trampoline in the shade.  I discovered that I like playing with small canine horses when they’re not trying to eat me.

I scream like a banshee if my screen door is left open for 5 seconds because I do not want bugs in my house.  My sister leaves her patio door wide open for the kids & dogs, doesn’t bother making any effort to keep insects out.  They fly in, they nosh a bit on food left uncovered on counter-tops, they fly out.  It seems to work.

Her house is much cleaner than my mother’s. 

But this year Mom’s car was the mind boggling issue, the beautiful Chrysler 300, a vehicle she drives with no seat belt and a constant dinging warning sound.

Tomorrow’s entry . . .

Twisted Lives Are So Much Better Shared

It’s common knowledge among people who know me in real life that I ask a lot of freaking questions.  We’re not talking friendly chit-chat, it’s more like invasive interrogation lobbed at your head like a racquetball.  The more information you provide, the faster I think of things I want to know, subject areas I want to delve into further.  There is never enough time.

Some people like it, some are offended and hate it.  I’ve been asked if I’m a newspaper reporter or a member of a crime-fighting squad.  Personally, I would love it if someone showed such interest in me.  If memory serves correctly it happened just once and we were at the local Italian American Club during a repast.  The experience brought me to tears at several points, not because I was unhappy about it or the memories too painful to rehash, but because it made me realize how seldom anyone ever has shown such interest in my life. 

This blog entry talks about it a bit: The Twisted State of Conversation.  I think I was actually grateful.

It’s not that people avoid asking questions due to disinterest, they don’t ask because of some reserved belief that other people’s business is not their business.  It’s just not true.  We’re all experiencing similar funky shit cause we’re all living life.  Of course one has the right at any point to refuse to discuss themselves and that’s perfectly fine.  But from my study of human nature (mostly in bowling alleys) it seems that people are desperate to be heard and I like to think I’m providing a service.

Recently it’s come slamming into my awareness that everyone has a story, bar none, and often the story is so much more than you could ever imagine it would be.  My own life has been full of unexpected twists and turns, often hinging upon the mother I grade ‘F’ for “Fucking Failure.”  But in the long run, compared to most, I should receive a ‘W’ for “Whiner.”  It’s a difficult thing to acknowledge, a little embarrassing, but inescapable.

* * * * *

This conclusion has been cemented through my re-connection with several old classmates, due to the wonders of mighty Facebook.  Our farm town held only 3,000 people.  There were about 100 students per class.  We spent 8 hours or more per day in cramped desks, listening to boring teachers, for 10 or more years.  It seemed to me that I was the only person in the entire school who went home to crazyville.  30 years later I come to find out I couldn’t have been more wrong.  Unshared drama surrounded us all.

When I think of our attention focused on some idiotic historical figure or other, instead of sharing experiences and focusing on solutions to problems and comfort in numbers, it makes me want to puke.

From just three conversations I walk away with my mind unhinged.

* * * * *

First, it was Robbie, who lived two doors down Guthrie Street.  A cute boy in the class ahead of me, I don’t know if he & I ever had much of a conversation as children.  He was quiet, low-key, never one to look for attention from anyone.  (All traits I’m fascinated by since I was pretty much the opposite.)  I remember being told Robbie was adopted & then his mother discovered she was pregnant.   I’ve always loved this story, like something out of a fairy tale proving God is real.  You know, be a loving person and in return your dreams will all come true.  (I mean I know it doesn’t always work out like that, but even I get one positive thought per year.)

When we talked recently he told me he’s tried to find his birthparents, come close, but can’t quite pull together the final details.  He’s even written to one of my favorite TV shows that find people, but was turned away.  He raised 3 kids on his own after his first young wife died suddenly.  The outgoing, funny brother who was my age is long deceased from a car accident.  No one escapes untouched, but some are mauled so much worse.

All that’s enough on its’ own, but for me the ultimate piece of the story is that Robbie . . .

is psychic. 

As in he seriously believes when he walks into a room he can read the thoughts of others & has to block them out or would lose his mind.  (Holy shit.)  I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven, that’s how interesting I found this subject.  Fuck American History, to hell with Geometry, tell me more about what you’re hearing inside your head.

* * * * *

Next was Gary, a tall, blonde, farm boy adonis.  He was in school musicals, a star, the perfectly popular American athlete.  His smile had a fucking sparkle to it, that kind of guy.  We were not part of the same social scene, to say the least.  When he friended me I was confused.  In a million years I wouldn’t have expected to connect with him, but boy was I wrong.  He is one of the sweetest, most loving, emotionally present people I’ve ever met. 

So when he told me he needed intensive psychological treatment for serious depression after his divorce, I couldn’t have been more surprised.  As it turns out, women are not the only people with feelings.  Shazam!  (I knew that.)  Even guys who drive trucks & appear to have the world by the balls.  Fifteen years divorced, he has never re-married.

Several phone calls since our first connection, I wasn’t shocked to hear that Gary is currently in love with a Filipino girl he met on Matchmaker.com.  He’s met her whole family on-line.  They call him “Steven Segal.”  His heart is huge and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make life easier for this woman and her daughter, even her extended family.  I hope it works out.

* * * * *

Third, I was most blown away by Susie.  She was someone I probably barely looked at in junior high, I seriously doubt if I gave her the time of day because that’s the kind of little bitch I was & still can be.  I believe she moved away in high school, purposely got pregnant at 15 & married to get away from her mother.  (Sometimes it seems like I just have to give away a little of my own shit to find out where the bodies are buried for someone else.)  This woman now looks barely 40, yet she has 2 grown children, several grandchildren, and 2 great-grandchildren.  Susie’s mom beat the crap out of her daily.  But that’s not the crazy part.

It’s bad enough in person, but in an instant message my typing speed completely overwhelms the victim.  I asked Susie, “Did you have any siblings?”  She mentioned her two sisters.  Then she said, “Oh, and I have a full brother who’s six years older than me, who I just met a few years ago.”  So I asked how that was possible. 

“Well, Mom and Dad left him in a bar when he was a baby and some people picked him up and took him home.  He was raised in a nearby town and we never knew he existed till my sister found his birth certificate.  Mom finally came clean cause she knew she was dying.  She called me home from Florida to tell me about him.”  I was stunned. 

As it turns out, the ”adoptive” family never did anything officially, just raised the boy.  When I asked if he was a ward of the state she said, “Oh no, back then they didn’t bother with stuff like that.  He’s still really angry at my mom, even though I keep telling him he was lucky he didn’t grow up with her.”

Then came the clincher: “They did the same thing to me, left me in the bar, but somebody brought me back.”

Here was this person I never spent a single moment being nice to during all the years I knew her. 

* * * * *

It brings tears to my eyes now, just thinking of how different it could have been for all of us.  Knowing you’re not the only one in a fucked up situation is probably the most healing possible scenario.  The secret causes the shame & that’s the most harmful piece of all.

We learn about fables and calculus and insects.  Children have gym class and recess and foreign language.  But so little time is ever put into human interaction and kindness, or how important it is to understand that everyone has a story, each person is deserving of our respect and attention, & the listener is the lucky one.  (Even when it’s the hot chick who makes other women jealous cause they don’t know she’s so miserable she can’t stand it, or the ugly ass man who would entertain you for hours with his humor if only you were willing to even look his way.)

It would make it just that much easier if we were aware right from the start that none of us are alone in this shit.

I’m So Surprised When People Allow Me Near Their Children

Recently we joined a co-op.  Families gather once a week from 9-3.  Unlike myself, the proactive, responsible mothers choose a topic in which they have some level of expertise, a subject both educational & entertaining.  Then they teach a class and “cooperatively” share their knowledge.  At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.  (Two families have already dropped out, leaving people in the lurch a bit.)

My position?  I’m on the cleaning crew.

A smattering of the folks involved include: a multi-talented polymer clay artist, an attorney, a ridiculously fit & flexible yoga master, an amazingly down to earth woman who earned her doctorate working on an AIDS vaccine, and a breast-feeding  guidance counselor (who was actually Roxanne’s first wedding client after her internet-ordination as a minister).  I so completely love it when I’ve pigeon-holed someone as a regular moron & then discover they’re not, in the process confirming  I truly am a jackass.

Even in my position sterilizing the nursery I must fight the devilish urge to shirk my duties.  Who would ever know if I really bleached the fingerprints & spit off tiny toys  

 . . . .  or not?

My 12-year old’s courseload is on the heavy side: Art, Yoga, Cooking (vegetarian cuisine which disgusts her to a place where I believe she wants to bring contraband beef jerky in her pockets and gnaw on pork chops during breaks), Lunch & Science.

I am a horrible person.

I do not kid myself, my awareness continues to grow in leaps and bounds.  I have oodles of knowledge about things of no importance (pop culture, obscure spellings, bizarre news items), and practically none in intellectual pursuits (mention Shakespeare or another haughty author held in high regard by academicians & my eyes roll to the back of my head.  However, I read everything Truman Capote ever wrote & would be happy to lead a discourse on ”In Cold Blood.”)

Most of all my lazy & belligerent attitude spells disaster.  “Commitment phobic” downplays what happens once I’m locked into even the things I WANT to do.  The 9 a.m. arrival time is nearly equivalent to asking me to snake your toilet or re-attach a severed limb.  My students would eventually be found playing near double yellow lines or hanging in the tops of trees. 

After years of fighting my own nature, I no longer volunteer to jump from cliffs or corral children whose parents may be standing nearby.  I have control issues that flash like the lights on a patrol car and the standard for reasonable behavior falls across such an enormous continuum. 

I am reminded of hated classmates when a child believes they are more adorable, intellectually gifted &/or worthy of special treatment than all others, as no doubt convinced by a self-absorbed mother.  Even worse is when the aforementioned parent is present & ignores behavior that would have been included in the script for “Problem Child” if only the writers had better imagination.

Coming from a dysfunctional wack-a-doodle family, it seems I have what some consider a heavy hand, unreachable standards, & ridiculous expectations.  Like I want the kids to decline from eating boogers (no matter how tasty or protein deprived) & never, ever, emit a high-pitched scream without accompaniment of a rodent or splintered bone (spiders are not rodents & gleeful best friends do not have pediatric orthopedic surgeons).  I’ll agree, my margin for error is slim.

* * * * *

But occasionally the cosmos grabs your groin, twists and giggles.  At 11 p.m. last night I heard the voice message: “We need you to teach the “Numbers” class for 3-5 year olds.  No one else can do it.”  I was the only slacker with flexibility in my schedule even though “assisting” this week with “Letters” and “Poetry.”  My lackluster motivation has been completely ignored.

I never went to bed.  It was the only way to assure gremlins could not disconnect my weak link to punctuality.  The perfect combination: A hopped-up nutjob with a class full of moldable minds. 

Upon arrival I pulled out the items I brought for my curriculum.  Two “friends” began to laugh.  “Pam, they’re 3!” 

Okay, so I tempered my expectations once I noticed the adorable little chick with her finger in her nose to the knuckle.  I wanted to heave when I remembered the affection small children have for sharing their own germs.  But more than half the class looked like they’d stepped out of a Mary Poppins movie: perfect hair bows, striped knit dresses & bright tights.  My favorite pattern contained wiener dogs wearing sweaters.  I could not fight the cuteness quotient.

It was fun & it was exhausting.  A captive & appreciative audience is the stuff of my dreams (mostly prison scenarios with tremendously grateful muscle-bound bald men).

I could have told these kids they were frogs and made them hop.  Actually, I did make them hop.  Does it get better than that?  Oh, it does.  They laughed at my jokes, the way my 24-year old used to when he was a tiny little thing who believed my lies & distortions. 

They agreed that it’s not a good thing when your name is “Pam” and it rhymes with “ham.”

When we went around the table telling our names and ages, then counting and shouting it loud and proud, Besamela claimed she was eight.  We took it for granted she was telling the truth, even as her grandmother in the corner sputtered something about the veracity of her answer.  When I asked the class which cost more, sneakers or a laptop computer, it came to a 50/50 split decision.  No one asked for the correct answer, so I didn’t give them one.

At one point Dominic appeared a bit annoyed with the goofballs.  As an oldest child myself I could completely identify with his frustrations.  Emily’s little sister, Abbie, had trouble with her scissors but was happy after chopping up 30 paper towels I held taught while dodging her shaky weapon. 

If only I used that much patience when dealing with my own kids more often.

In a stroke of genius I’d thrown the tape measure in my bag as I ran out the garage door.  These excitable little doe-eyed moppets wanted their height measured, along with their hair and their eye sockets.  We measured feet and fingers and shoulders.  Could I do it twice?

It escapes me how belly buttons became part of  the mix (mostly 1-1.5 inches).

Most importantly, all children were alive and accounted for at the end of the day.  To my own amazement I didn’t swear a single time, not even at their mothers. 

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.

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?

I Hate The News Media &/or Michael Jackson Did Not Define My Childhood

I apologize profusely to those fellow bloggers who are grieving over recent deaths in the news.  You may wish to move on to a happier, less evil blog than this one today . . .

(Let me know if I say anything that offends you.  I might want to offend you again later.)

If only I wasn’t a balless wonder and that was really my attitude!

* * * * *

Was Michael Jackson’s life a sad one?  Yes, desperately tragic.  He was a psychotic egomaniac who apologized to carrots before he ate them, then (allegedly) had little boys for dessert.  

He had 50 long years to deal with whatever made him hate himself so intensely that he chose to disfigure his own face and skin.  FIFTY YEARS!  That’s way more than a lot of people get, children with cancer or soldiers on the front line in Viet Nam or Iraq.

The man died with almost 500 million dollars worth of debt, which is utterly sickening, selfish, hideous.  Self-hatred aside, he lived as if he were God, clearly believing he deserved everything created under the sun.  He even believed he could buy people, as evidenced by his adventures in that arena.  He bought his own children.

His voice, his dancing ability, those were GIFTS.  He was not thankful. 

Did he join in with Jimmy Carter & build housing for the homeless?  No, he built Neverland and took rides on ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds with an ape.  Fer Christ’s sake, are ya f*cking kidding me here people?  He no doubt treated his monkey so much better than the abused children of the world.

How is it we as a society have come to adore these morons who drive half-million dollar cars and wear shoes that cost more than a year’s salary in a third-world country?  Even as they scream their Democratic beliefs from the rooftops and insist they are humanitarians!  It’s such bullsh*t!

* * * * *

How many women would choose to have ass cancer if their entire lives they could look like Farrah Fawcett?  A helluva lot of them, I would bet.  I understand wanting to offer a bit of humanity to any other living being, but this woman had a freaking exceptional life.  Heap your pity on the cleaning lady or the garbage man.  Throw out an extra $20 in tips this week.

* * * * *

Do I give a rat flying f*ck about a TV pitch man I never heard of, who made his fortune selling shit in infomercials on television, compared with children making trips to Disney through the Make-A-Wish Foundation, their parents dazed & confused as they try to figure out how to have FUN?! 

Or the children whose fathers will never come back from Iraq?

F*CK NO!

* * * * *

I have become obsessed with Facebook and so I read many, many comments a day, a good deal of them made by people I don’t know, simpletons I would never want to know.  People who say things like “My childhood ended this week.” 

Well, my childhood ended when my father died.  He was 33.  I was 10 years old and in 5th grade.  What I would have given for another 17 years with him!  Neither Farrah Fawcett nor Ed McMahon nor Michael Jackson had even an ounce of impact upon my life then or now.

* * * * *

Years ago I wanted to get my master’s degree and become a therapist.  Then on reality TV the other day I observed a woman completely lose it, sobbing in agony, the kind of pain I feel regarding my father.  I wanted to peel my skin off with a dull carrot peeler rather than observe the expression of that kind of agony. 

It was a bonus moment.  I realized I saved about $60,000 since I would never have been able to use the therapist’s license if people dared express that kind of agony in front of me.

And that is why I can’t bear people expressing supposed grief over famous figures who don’t really touch their lives in any way compared to loved ones who die and rip your heart out.  It so totally denigrates the kind of pain a daughter has when she loses her father at the age of 10, the kind of pain everyone has at some point in their lives, the kind that is real. 

It makes my heart hurt, too, just thinking of my blog roll and things people have suffered silently — and still do — with little or no sympathy sent their way.  Just know I’m thinking of you.

There is plenty of agony in life.  Don’t take a share that doesn’t belong to you.

A Twisted Mother’s Day Tale for Shania ~ Dogs, Guns, Fat Chicks & a Jackass

A new reader has asked for more information regarding the time my mother shot her neighbor’s dog, so I’m going to re-tell the tale here.  It’s still hard to believe, but fantastical enough to repeat . . .

By the way, Shania, thanks for asking a question!  I’m thinking you might wish you didn’t, but I hate to disappoint.

Lastly, for those of you who are extra sensitive about animals, think twice!  I DO NOT like to make people cry.

* * * * *

I was 21 when marriage #3 occurred & already long gone from the house. 

THANK GOD! 

Mom has had guns ever since Jackass came into the picture, but maybe before that, too.  Something makes me think there was talk of a hidden firearm when we were growing up (with husband #2).  But if that’s the case and I never saw the gun. . .

This is what happens when I begin daydreaming of the good old days.  Considering Mother’s Day is around the corner, it’s only appropriate.

. . .  how come we so easily found the sexual implements and naked picture of #2′s gigantor erection?  

It completely BLOWS my belief that Mom was just really bad at hiding things!  I understand Christmas gifts and Easter eggs, but multi-colored dildos and hemi-powered vibrators?  (I’d think the inside of a locked safe, behind an anti-microbial glass wall, would have been the proper spot.)

ANYWAY . . .

Jackass is so talented that he once pissed off his own sister so much that she put an 8-inch butcher knife in his back, right up to the handle, just missing his heart.  Thus, he understandably has a fondness for the corner of a room and the protection of a weapon.  It then makes no sense that he lives with the craziest woman I know, but whatever.

The first I heard of actual gunplay was when Mom shot at Jackass in their bedroom while still living at the house in Illinois.  I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen the proof myself.  (Well, yeah, I probably would.)

As so many of my family’s stories do, this one includes a holiday twist.  Once, and only once, I took my son home for Christmas.  While sitting around the dining room table with my mother and sister, Mom got as excited as any little girl and insisted her husband open his present early. 

My sister became aggressively vocal and kept saying, “No, Mom, not in front of the kids!”  Considering that this sibling of mine didn’t blink when her husband said c.*c.k.s*cker multiple times per day in front of her children, I wondered if it might be dynamite or a live grenade inside the wrapped paper.

It was a handgun.  To be fair, that wouldn’t necessarily be such a big deal in the Midwest.  They’re relatively common . . . among hunters.  It was true, though, that there were no mooseheads on our walls, pheasant on our table or venison in our freezer.  Plus, aren’t those shot with rifles?  Or bow and arrow?  I have no idea.

When I asked my sister why she was so upset, she took me into the bedroom and pointed at the window, then let me finger the bullet hole for myself.  She told me Mom had shot at Jackass and missed.  (WTF?  The woman should have thrown a bowling ball at his head.  She’s got a great average!)

Bless her heart, for once Mom was doing the fair thing and giving Jackass a chance to return fire during their next altercation.  I’m sure there’s a Christmas moral there somewhere. 

All I know for sure is that my brother would have been so completely pissed off if any stray bullets had hit his extensive stolen CD collection.

* * * * *

I never heard any more about a gun until one of our demented family vacations.  Somehow the subject of the neighbor’s dog came up.  I’m sure there was laughter involved.

Preface this with the fact that everyone in my family is a big-time dog lover, except for me.  I mean, I like SOME dogs (but no dog poop).  Plus, I’m allergic.  But then so is my mother.  Actually, she might be even more allergic to children.

My brother & sister have always been far more “in the know” regarding family affairs.  I’m always in the dark.  I will NEVER know the best stories.  I’m sure many died with my brother, since my mother & he were like the villain Dastardly and her dog Muttley in this cartoon.  That’s exactly how my brother would laugh at my mother’s stupidity.

I HAD to know, what was the deal with the neighbor’s dog?

Mom is never one to back off from a story when she believes she’s in the right and someone else is in the wrong.  At that time she was living in Kentucky alone with husband #3 (a/k/a Jackass).  (My siblings were still in Illinois.)  They had moved into a beautiful new home set far back off the road, half-mile down a winding tree-lined path.

The only problem in this idyllic picture

(besides (1) they had already separated once & Jackass was presumably sleeping with his 350 pound ex-wife, & (2) Mom was working three menial jobs AND being sued for abandoning & looting the family business, leaving it worthless in her rush to follow this utter loser to Kentucky) 

I repeat, the only problem in this idyllic picture

was the dog that barked and chased their car every single time they went up or down the lane.  The dog was frenetic and crazy enough that it was actually catching their car and biting the bumper, damaging the vehicle.

According to Mom, they were driving the path up to the road one day when the dog once again begain chasing their car.  Mom was in the passenger seat.  If I know her at all, and I do, she was complaining in a loud shrewish voice:

“That God damned dog is biting the bumper of my car again.  Sonofabitch!”

Now, you know my mom loves dogs.  She loves dogs more than people or money or (definitely) cleanliness.  She literally told me, at the time of my brother’s wedding back in 1990, “My dogs have done more for me than my kids ever have.”  Yes, for the grammarians in the audience, she ended the sentence with a preposition.  I’m not making that part of the story up just to make her look bad.

The point is that HER dogs have done a lot for her.  Other people’s dogs . . . not so much.

As Mom tells the story, when she began complaining about the bumper eating dog for probably the 10,000th time, her husband replied (insert hideous marble-mouthed drawl here):

“Well, Mary, ya know, there’s a gun under yore seat.  Shoot it.”

So, like something out of Bonnie & Clyde, Mom pulled out the gun and shot the dog dead with a single bullet.  But that’s not the worst part.

Nope, the worst part is they left it in the lane.  They left it in front of the house.  They left it where the kids would come home from school and find it.

So in true backwoods fashion,

which I must say I do admire,

Mom later found one of her own dogs shot to death.

* * * * *

Jackass also enjoys telling a story about killing people, although he’s never told it to me.  I’ve only heard it third-hand.  No doubt, he’s aware of my desire to make a citizen’s arrest. 

But if I ever disappear . . .

Happy Mother’s Day.

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. 

Twisted Mom & The Trip to Kentucky ~ (Part II)

Let’s recount for those who are a little lost on background:

My sister received custody of her 3 grandchildren just two months ago.  They have been in foster care for more than a year. 

Their ages are (quite amazingly) 3, 2 and 1.  The two oldest are just 11 months apart.  The youngest was a total surprise: “Mom, I’m in labor.” 

“You’re pregnant?!”

My niece, their mother, is in prison at least until August.  Their father got 12 years.  It all started when they received a “recliner-sized” package of pot through the U.S. Mail.  (It’s a long story, documented throughout this blog.)

Once I was able to sit and talk with my sister, I was really quite shocked to discover she is still leaving the kids five days a week to work for my mother.  The office is in Mom’s home & the house is not child friendly, to say the least.  Mom plays video games while Sis does payroll & taxes.

It’s hard to believe, but true, that Mom is such a c*nt she can still surprise me.  She should have her own circus act or Broadway show.

A babysitter is paid $200 per week to watch the children five hours a day.  The sitter smokes (in the house) while they nap (also when they don’t nap).  I met her once, just as we were leaving. 

She came in the door & my sister asked, “So, how you doin’?”  Her reply: “Sick as a dog.  I’m sick as a dog!”  She seemed kind of happy about it. 

Those of you who know my aversion to germs and idiots will not be surprised to hear it took all the strength I could muster not to say, “Then get the fuck out!”  Just looking at her made me queasy.  I adore those babies & it made me sick to leave them.  Add this chick to the mix and I wanted to set something on fire, perhaps her (no doubt)  nasty panties as they lay against her milky white tobacco flavored skin.

* * * * *

Although Mom made tremendous promises about the kind of help she would provide once her great grandchildren arrived, she’s followed through with not a single one.  She has not changed a diaper in two months time.  She does not baby sit.  (This is no doubt a good thing.) 

She still complains constantly to my sister about how much & how hard she works, as my sister tries not to fall over from exhaustion or accidentally stick a car key in her ass, mistaking it for the ignition, as she twists like a spinning top.

Mom held the dogs on her lap several times while I was there, but I don’t remember her ever picking up one of the kids except during photo opportunities.  She silently stared at the TV a lot.

 

To be fair, I really did come to like these dogs more than most.  They’re funny & lovable, although I still think they’re dangerous.  The kids are rough with the dogs.  The dogs play like two grown men under the influence of hallucinogens or steroids, as the 14-month old totters around with no fear.  It’s an accident waiting to happen.

All that aside, given the choice of loving & nuzzling a little chick and a puppy, I’ll pick the poultry every single time.

What this great-grandmother I call “Mom” has put all her efforts into is creating a fictional fairytale world wherein these children are spoiled little miscreants, particularly the 2-year old boy.

I don’t believe it’s even possible to “spoil” a baby.  To use such terms to describe a child just out of foster care  . . . well, it’s like science fiction.  Yet she believes it to be true & voices the thought every chance she gets.  She wants the children in full-time daycare & her daughter back at her beck and call.

Mom is jealous of her own great-grandchildren.  She is jealous that my sister is home making their meals and giving them baths instead of doing it for her.

At one point I picked up the 3-year old girl, who reminds me of my own childhood as the oldest of three little ones.  I can practically read her mind as she keeps track of who gets the love, the hugs & the kisses.  I watched her count how many photos I was taking of each child, to see if she was getting short-changed. 

When I think of the attention my children received at her age, it’s nearly unfathomable that any two humans born into the same family could enter into such different situations.

She became upset over something or other, so I picked her up & said: “You’re still a baby, too, aren’t you?  You like to be babied just like the other two, don’t you?“ 

Before she could nod her head “Yes” and smile, Mom jumped in with: “I’m 68 and I’d like to be babied, too, but nobody’s babying me!”  My mouth hung open that such words could be spoken out loud.

* * * * *

This is my mother at age 3, with her brother Butchie:  I have never seen her smile with that kind of sweetness.  I think it may have disappeared when Butchie drowned on his own 3rd birthday, after following his puppy down to a creek on the farm property where they lived.

There are always reasons for everything, but it is our responsibility to try and fix ourselves before damaging our own children similarly.  Mom does not seem to have the ability to do so.  She has no insight whatsoever.

She has harmed her own children, she harmed my sister’s children & now she’s passing the poison on to a third generation.  (I cannot ignore that, even though I moved far away & protected my kids from personal contact with her, they received Mom’s shit directly from me.  I wish it wasn’t so, but it is.)

I let my daughter go out alone with her once, to pick up a prescription and get an Icee.  It was nerve-wracking.  (Later, my sister informed me that Mom’s driving has become dangerous.  FUCK ME!  When I try to be less than neurotic I discover NEUROTIC IS GOOD.)

We went out together later that evening, after my sister had a meltdown.  She’d been golfing all day, while I watched the kids.  I didn’t think about feeding them dinner or giving them baths, we just played.  She came home tired and sunburned.  It was a recipe for disaster, especially when her daughter called from prison and wanted to chat.

Imagine this scene: My sister juggling swords in the kitchen as she holds a phone under her chin.  I hear the tension in her voice as she begins frying food for dinner, telling her daughter the kids aren’t going to eat until 7 p.m., no baths until 8 and Easter prep still to do for the next day.  She’s saying, “IT’S ALL FUCKED UP!” 

I’m running for the door.  We’re going to go to Wal-Mart for Easter supplies, then to Mom’s house to pick up other stuff.  I’m trying to take some of the pressure off.

But Mom won’t leave.  She’s too excited by the clams frying in the deep fat fryer.  “Oh, clams!  MMMM!“  We have to stay and wait while my obese mother crams clams & other french-fried delicacies down her throat.  We stand around the kitchen jacking off while my sister melts.

While I could not dream of eating in such a tense situation, Mom doesn’t even notice it’s happening.  Either that or she likes it.

When we finally get in the car, I discover Mom does not wear a seat belt.  She also has not done anything to disable the seat belt warning system.  We drive miles and miles while the car dings five times every thirty seconds.  She ignores that it’s happening.  DING, DING, DING, DING, DING.

I refuse to say anything at all.

We arrive at Wal-Mart and Mom pulls out her stolen handicapped placard, a Christmas gift from some employee (now outdated by more than a year).  We park with her car practically inside the store, closer than the woman beside us using a wheelchair lift. 

I feel comfortable photographing this absurdity, it’s so bizarre I can’t control myself.  You’ll notice we’re actually in a spot intended for a VAN.

Since she’s fine with such jack-assian behavior, I took a shot of that, too:

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Twisted Mom & the Trip To Kentucky ~ (Part I)

It seems I will never be ready to write Mom’s piece in the Kentucky trip.

It’s taking too long & f*cking up my blog! 

It’s complicated & convoluted.  She saddens & disgusts me in equal parts.  I always thought she was very intelligent, but this trip changed my mind.  She understands numbers, not people.  She prizes collectibles & is utterly frustrated that people are not things. 

I feel sorry for her. 

Then she does something that exposes her horns.

Spending time in close contact with family makes it clear that writing about them in secret is as evil as many of the things Mom’s done.  I am especially torn over pieces of vicious mockery which include my sister & her children, albeit occasionally they’re funnier’n hell.  But would she think so?  Obviously, I love & adore my sister.  So I’ve password-protected several entries.

However, I am my mother’s daughter & a Gemini both, torn between two personalities: (1) soft & sweet as cotton candy & (2) the hidden razor blade within.  (If you want the password, just let me know.)

* * * * *

I didn’t tell Mom I was coming, no phone calls, no e-mails beforehand.  Any small, stupid comment would have changed my mind & left me in NJ watching reality TV, the kind of insanity that feels like home.  I’d have missed out on the good stuff, just like I missed out on most of my brother’s life when I left home & never looked back, something I didn’t realize until I sat in a pew at his funeral.

Additionally, she would have wanted us to stay at her home and I’d been forewarned that I wouldn’t be able to handle the smell.  (When we visited on our second day it was actually worse for my daughter.  The poor little unscathed soul kept asking for a gas mask between gasps of putrid air & gagging noises.)

If I hadn’t visited then I’d have missed some of the most bizarre oddities of my lifetime, like the fact that Mom has her own full-size tanning bed circa 1982.  She seemed surprised that I was awestruck.   I couldn’t have been more confused if I’d found a time machine in her home. 

Evidently she believes it’s common to stumble upon such items sitting along side mounted fish and a nearly 30 year old photo montage.  (There was even a yellow plastic carousel to hold spray bottles & moisturizers!)

I’m in the dark as to whether the dog wears a little plastic eyepiece when he tans.

The only thing more bizarre was when she opened the door to her ex-husband’s room & I immediately noticed my senior pictures on the wall, right where he might see them just as he awakens or falls asleep (YUCK). 

However, he likely doesn’t even realize what’s there, since he hasn’t noticed the white petrified dog turd I immediately zoned in on as it sat near the entrance to the room, greeting us both “Hello” and “Good-bye.”

* * * * *

Let’s start at the beginning:

Upon arrival at my sister’s home I stepped out of the car, heard a sucking sound & almost lost my shoe in the mud. 

My step-father (hereafter known as “Jackass”) was way too involved in the set-up of my sister’s modular home.  He didn’t bother to level the concrete properly when the foundation was laid.  No grass seed was sewn, there are no green shoots coming up in either the front or back yards.  Each time they lay another load of gravel in the driveway it disappears. 

I did not see Jackass during the trip because at nearly 70, trying to dry out from years of alcoholic stupor, he’s back driving a truck full of livestock.  Although divorced, they continue to run a business together & live in the same home. 

He is a moron in every possible sense of the word.  He was a preacher for a short while.  His creative interpretation of the Bible is masterful.

Since my brother is no longer available to place his massive hands around Jackass’s throat, chase him around the truck garage or squat his 400 pound body upon Jackass’s head and fart into his perpetually open mouth, Jackass is no longer afraid to show the true depths of his monumental idiocy & his hatred for our mother. 

In turn, this makes her desperate for his love & approval.  She is only willing to show kindness to those willing to kick her in the head or sh*t on her face. 

Hopefully Jackass will drive his truck off a bridge in a spectacular blaze of glory & a massive shower of cow dung.  If lucky it will fill his snout & in the after-life he will finally have good reason for speaking like a mush mouth.

* * * * *

When we arrived at my sister’s, Mom was there waiting.  We were greeted at the door by two Boxers lunging for our throats.  They’re loud & sound quite vicious, which entertains Mom to no end & makes her giggle, her eyes sparkle.  I’d forewarned my daughter that it would take time for the dogs to get used to us, but even I was nervous when the big one put my hand in his mouth.  He’s barely a year old & gives me an inkling of what it was to play with a T-Rex.

It was late and the kids were in bed already.  Although clearly happy to see us, Mom had little to say.  It would be easier, more understandable, if one of us didn’t speak English.  A valid reason for our inability to communicate would bring it all into a sensible realm.  She is as wary of me as I am of her.

I’d brought lots of clothes and books from home, so I immediately distributed it all to make myself appear useful, creating the pretense of a purpose for this surprising trip that no one ever expected would actually happen.  Sort of like Halloween, with me dressed as the UPS man.

No one mentioned the 26-foot pachyderm in the room, no one said, “Gee, it’s interesting that you’re here in Kentucky after . . . . what is it?  23 years?”  Everyone pretended it was completely normal to see my daughter and I in my sister’s living room. 

We talked about our drive, the weather, and then my mother went home for the night.  It could only go downhill from there.

(To Be Continued)

Twisted Kentucky

We returned last Wednesday and nearly a week later I’m still twisted over what to say about the trip.

The drive is crazy.  80 mph in the 70 mph zones means a driving intensity I’m entertained by for the first hour or two, then I start losing it.  800 plus miles.  Left at 6:10 a.m. and arrived around 10 p.m. after a few stops. 

It rained for hours and hours.  We drove into a hail storm & a tornado.  I felt it was a clear acknowledgement of the fact that I was entering Kentucky after 22 years of avoiding my mother’s home. 

Even the atmospheric conditions were on alert.

* * * * *

We stayed at my sister’s.  The house is far neater than my own, as she is completely anti-clutter.  Toys come out and they get put away.  Amazing.  Since I knew it was a big deal to them that the house remain neat, I never stopped moving and picking up and straightening during my time there. 

Probably the reason I didn’t gain weight, even though I ate almost an entire sheet cake.

The two Boxers are like having a couple of NFL players living with you, guys who occasionally wrestle in the living room.  They eat more crumbs than ever need to be cleaned off the floor.  The kids have learned to get out of the way for the most part. 

However, they were perhaps my 11-year old’s least favorite part of the trip.  I think she summed it up nice & clear when she said, “I would kill myself if I had to live in Kentucky.”  By the last day she had tears in her eyes when she begged to get on the road.

I fell wildly in love with the babies and ran out the door in tears for an entirely different reason. 

Each child is brighter than the next.  So much for all that nonsense about pre-natal care and staying away from crack while you’re pregnant.  They are all adorable, loving & needy of every bit of attention they can get.  They sop it up like pancakes.  I was Aunt Jemima & I liked the role.

Here is the 3-year old, the one I relate to as the oldest.  It’s hard to be a baby girl when there are two younger children making it seem you should be ready to enter college any day now.  She is far too smart for her own good.

I’m planning to go back at the end of May.

My sister is doing a great job, considering she’s still working five days a week at my mother’s insistence.  She never stops moving and spinning like a top.  I think I would be a mad woman in her situation.

Most nights no one comes home through the door because her boyfriend is an over the road truck driver, so she’s completely alone with the children after a very long day.  When she’s not changing diapers or cooking or cleaning, she’s doing laundry and feeding dogs and giving baths.

Her voice, for the most part, remains sweet and kind.  She is especially taken with the baby, who looks so much like her daughter.  Honestly, who wouldn’t be?

There are things I wish were different.  However, my sympathy for her is huge.

My mother is a different story.

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?

Twisted Joyful Springtime Snowflakes

There is only an hour and nine minutes of winter left as I begin to write this entry.  I have a heinous secret to confess, similar in degree to the heavy-set blonde woman marrying a death row inmate (who perhaps killed a bunch of big blondes), the dude she met as a prison pen pal.

(Deep breath) . . .

I am one of the few freaks who likes winter.  I wish it would snow more, a lot more.  In Illinois the flat land allowed wind to blow the snow into huge, beautiful drifts on my grandparent’s farm. 

I’ve been driven home from O’Hare Airport through a snow tunnel, my step-father driving on ice with his beer cooler between the seats, scaring the utter shit out of me.  I don’t miss that jackass, but I miss the snow.

It’s one more annoying way in which I don’t fit in. Do you have any idea how much people bitch about cold, how often they complain about snow?  This winter it was unending.  I smiled.  I am FAR more likely to throw a flip-flop at the TV when a toothy grin says, “It’s so beautiful!  It looks like we could hit 90 degrees today!”  Just the thought makes me want to puke. 

I love sweatshirts & blankets.  I like layers & scarves & crawling under the covers in a freezing room at night.  We rarely put the heat higher than 65.  It’s fantastical natural air conditioning, what we pay for all summer.  When my son came home for a visit he looked at me with wild eyes & I ran for the thermostat.  Even at 23, I can’t let my little boy freeze.  Our daughter is never cold, like her mother & grandmothers before her, all relatively big women.  She wears flip-flops all year round.

It used to be that spring was my favorite, then I changed to fall (the pink & orange leaves won me over).  This winter I enjoyed myself so much in-doors that its’ taken over as #1.  I love the low expectations!  Staying home is what’s expected!

I am happy with my books, my computer, my big screen, vegetating like a sprouting potato.  A simple vacation throws me so out of wack it takes a month to recover.  I have finally come to the realization that this is just me: I am happy at home with my little family.

As other people imagine moving south I dream of north or west, where the heat never rises above 75.  I’m not a fan of sweat.  Although I like a little color, I do not worship the sun.  I do not want more wrinkles.  My son had a basal cell carcinoma at 14.  It changes how you think.

Not to be a whiny bitch, but even the fluorescent lights of a mall or department store often necessitate that I wear shades.  The bright sunlight of summer highlights my eye problems & depresses me enough that I want to live like a vampire.

More than anything, though, I think it’s the disgusting happiness that summer brings to other individuals that bugs me.  I am forced to listen to enthusiasts go on and on about “the great weather,” “the beautiful weekend,” or how they biked 50 miles on a Saturday and took their kids to the park 12 times last week. 

For years I’ve dealt with the perky bullshit as I wore long sleeves & pants, my thighs chafing with each sweaty step.  It’s nauseating.  Although I weigh less now, I can’t imagine it will be all that different.  I just hate the heat.  So does my daughter.  Her face turns beet red, her freckles begin to pop.  Before you know it, she’s bursting into tears of abject misery.  Really, it makes us both such nasty bitches.

So what I want to know is where is MY weather forecaster, the one who says, “Good God, when will this f*cking heat disappear?“  They act as if two inches of snow is quite possibly the end of the earth as we know it, but broiling like a slab of bacon is utter joy.  F*ck Me!

Summer days are like holidays, filled with ridiculous expectation.  Ninety degrees out & I’m faced with the overly enthusiastic ”Aren’t you loving this weather?”  God forbid I say “Just shut the f*ck up already.  You smell like twat!  Take another hike in the sun with the 3-month old & leave me be.”

Perhaps because we live at the shore it’s worse.  When others run to grab surfboards I’m thinking of the riptide that nearly killed me two years ago.  I’d prefer my kids never enter the ocean again.  It’s beautiful to look at, but a bitch at heart.

* * * * *

Although I totally freaking hate death anniversaries, my father died 39 years ago today & it no doubt filters my view of this day.  I remember thinking how he would never experience spring again. 

It fascinates me how those early years are set in stone.  No matter the twists and turns chosen later in life, the original caste remains.  In one way or another, each and every day, I am the the end result of what began at the hands of my parents, neither of whom I’ve spent any real time with during my entire adult life.  Regardless, my father has lived a very full life inside my head & heart all this time.

Quite surprisingly last week it even occurred to me that there was one single thing I appreciated about my mother.  I know, it’s quite shocking.

If she hadn’t been crazy then I’d likely be normal, which is so hideously boring, a fate far worse than death.

* * * * *

7:44 A.M. and it is now officially spring . . . 

Suddenly it begins to snow. 

Why I’ll Never Be On WifeSwap

My 11-year old daughter & I have the best relationship I could ever imagine.  At least, I thought so before she stepped on my big fat crazy toe last night.

For her part, she is incredibly loving & forgiving.  She adores me & I don’t especially deserve it.  However, I do wallow in it.  So when she tells me what she wants, 9 times out of 10 we make it magically happen or appear. 

For my part, I tell her she’s the best, most wonderful, prettiest girl in the world & I’m the luckiest mother ever.  Of course, this is my perspective.  As regular readers know, I am not the easiest person in the world to live with, not even close.  I am not Martha Stewart nor Rachael Ray.

Instead of china cabinets or pretty ceramic plates, my family wakes up to these unbelievably fantastic ceramic figurines each morning:

When our daughter was little & wanted to play Pretty, Pretty Princess, it was my husband who got on the floor and wore bracelets and a tiara, then had his nails painted and nose powdered.

 Still, we rarely argue unless she hasn’t brushed her teeth in 18 hours or washed her hair in 72.  I prefer she not wear the same t-shirt daily for 30 weeks in a row, approximately 210 days, but I let her do it anyway in 2006.

 

I’m also not a fan of wiping your finger in the wedge of your underarm, then smelling it to decide if the deodorant you applied last week continues to function, but it still makes me giggle.  She wears me down.

At 48 I’ve learned to take very few things seriously.  In twenty years my attitude has changed from hyper-alert to laissez-faire.  I’m sure my husband has had a lot to do with that.  He’s ten years older than I am & I’ve never seen him upset about a single thing.  There’s nothing he can’t fix.

Well, except death.  So we’re pretty cool with anything less permanent.

There will be no violin or French lessons unless she requests them.  Even at age five she looked at me like I was crazy when I asked if she wanted to join the soccer team that met at 8 a.m. on Saturday mornings.  “What?  No, Mommy!  Please don’t make me!”

We regularly took the boy to do such things, so I was jumping with joy at the realization that raising this girl really would be a different experience.  She was so much taller & stronger than the other 5-year olds that we were really afraid of what could happen if she fell on one, so it was a relief in other ways, too.

There would also be no three-hour softball games (she couldn’t bear the tight & restricting uniform, especially the socks.) 

My son’s ridiculously perfect school attendance, grades & SAT scores were appropriate for the Ivy League.  He applied to a few & was accepted to none.  M*therf*ckers.  I learned a BIG lesson with that one, especially now that he’s succeeding beyond our wildest dreams with a state school education.

All the obsession with straight A’s, the drive to be the best & brightest?   He was already that on the day he was born.  The school system had absolutely nothing to do with it, other than f*cking with his self-esteem on occasion.

* * * * *

So this time my parenting is quite different.  I say “mine” because my husband was never nuts.  I say “mine” because my concerns have always been so emotionally over the top that he just stays out of my way.

Currently, our daughter has more control over her own life than most anyone I know.  She appears quite happy, she’s outgoing & has a fun personality.  I know very few girls with such self-assurance, who like themselves as much as she does.  (She actually thinks she sings better than I do & it’s simply not true.  We both suck.)

It wasn’t always this way.  Two years ago she was shy & isolating herself from groups in the classroom.  Her best friend was a little boy who was being picked on.  As the biggest kid in the class, she decided to be his protector.

She hated school & was miserable being away from home seven hours a day.  She cried most mornings before drop off.  We tried the school counselor (in two different schools).  Lollipops & cheap candy are not my idea of counseling, but whatever.  She did enjoy the daily board games.

I was in the classroom occasionally as room mother & knew there was absolutely nothing bad happening there.  Still, after another family we knew began homeschooling she begged me to do it, too. 

We’re in our second year now & I think it’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.  Misery is not what I wanted for my only daughter’s childhood.   She was born with her own ideas & we’re just trying to keep up.

As an example of the changes we’ve seen, last year she was part of a play cast and insisted on being crew, was completely freaked by the idea of being on stage.  This year she was adamant about trying out for the lead role, despite my concerns about wanting to kill anyone who judged my daughter inadequate in any way. 

She didn’t get the big part, but she does get on stage & let it rip without a moment of hesitation, no angst, no fear of being the center of attention as she melts & people cheer.  At her age I would have died a thousand deaths.

Yet she doesn’t do sleep-overs because she’s not interested.  This is how attached she is to my hip.  When she has playdates with other children, I stay.  Otherwise, she wouldn’t want to go. 

If she does a class with our local parks system I sit outside in the car, for as long as 3 hours. (Please don’t bother telling me this is nuts, cause I’m fully aware.)  We bought her a cell phone, assuming that would fix the problem.  It did not.

She’s got both parents living at home, unlike 50% of kids in America.  Yet she’s got a personality quirk that is utterly unsure of her place in the world if we’re not BOTH within arm’s reach.  I know one day it will disappear & we won’t even notice that it’s happened.

I also KNOW that I am over-protective & have most certainly helped create whatever fears exist in my daughter’s imagination. 

I took a nap & overslept one.single.time,  which meant I picked her up ten minutes late from school in first grade four years ago.  She’s never forgotten or forgiven.  I threatened to move alone to California once.  Yeah, I know, big mistake.

I could count on two hands the number of times she’s traveled in vehicles with adults other than her parents.  I’ve never asked my son to drive her anywhere because I once read an article about a brother & sister involved in a car accident.  That’s all it took.  (In six years my son has never received a ticket or damaged a vehicle.)

Do I think we’re “normal”?  F*ck normal.  

She’s blossomed in such great ways that I rarely question our choices.

* * * * *

Every Monday this winter we’ve left the house around 9 a.m. to go ice skating in another county, 40 miles away.  It’s what we did all day yesterday, from 10 to 3.  (Tough life, huh?)

 I’ve recently been in touch with a woman I knew from grammar and high school on Facebook. We were not friends, just acquaintances. She tells me I was occasionally mean to her (not a big surprise).  She was obsessed with band, always smiling & quite naive.  We were not made for each other.

Currently she has a 12-year old daughter.   She sent me a questionnaire to fill out entitled “Kids Say the Darndest Things.”  I thought it would be fun to do with my daughter.  What a mistake.

She considers herself a bit of a comedian.  I’m almost sure that’s what last night’s incident stems from.

The first question listed was: “What does your mom say to you all the time?” The other woman’s daughter, of course, answered “I love you.”  I suspected my own would do the same.  Either that or “Did you brush your teeth?” 

I am embarrassed to tell you what she said.  It’s so completely not even true.

Her first answer was, “Uhm, I don’t know, uh, ‘Do me a favor.’”

Oh. My. God.

I completely lose focus as I fall in a dark hole of confusion & despair . . .

I had a mother who left me lists of chores as long as your arm.  If they were not completed perfectly by the time she arrived home, the best option was to run for my life.  I scrubbed our kitchen floor, weekly, on hands and knees.  I could do the laundry for the entire family before I was ten.  My mother did not do household chores, she had six children who did them.

I spend time with women whose daughters cater to family needs.  Sometimes it’s necessary when there are smaller children and extra hands are needed.  That’s not our situation.

If my daughter gets me a glass of water once a day, she thinks I’m infringing on her basic human rights to live a free life.  She says, “Aren’t you going to thank me?”  before I have the time to utter a syllable.

Focus regained momentarily, I return to the story at hand . . .

The look on my face was obviously not what she was hoping for, so she very quickly changed her answer.  “No, no, not that.  I don’t know.”  She then jumped up and down excitedly and screamed, “Oh, I know, ‘Shut up.’”

I have never said that sentence to her without a Valley Girl intonation & a giggle.

The fact that I disowned her & renounced my role as mother, however, is probably worth at least two years worth of therapy.