My Twisted Reaction to Facebook Memorials &/Or Please Just STFU

A single memorial entry regarding a loved one is entirely appropriate on Facebook, not that I’m the queen of the world or anything.  Occasionally I even do it myself with a picture on an anniversary.

But take it overboard, post on and on and on about death, and I become livid.

As always, I try self-analysis to figure out what this reaction means about me.  It’s all gray area, there is no black and white answer, no definitive right or wrong.  I just know that I become a f*cking beast when someone takes more than their share of grief time.  It was the same in group therapy.  I can sit silently only so long and then I purge, often inappropriately.

Today’s “friend” has been grieving her deceased husband for something like 26 years.  I’m sorry she experienced such loss but it’s time to get the fuck over it or at least not beat the rest of us over the head with your much over-used and ancient club.  This time, though, her widowhood is not the subject.  She has posted 3 pictures today regarding her college band director, a close friend of her widowed spouse, who is apparently meeting him at the gates of heaven with a “brewski.”

I can’t take it.

Worse yet, earlier today I noticed she commented on this entry from someone who is a stranger to me: “Dad is going downhill.”  Honest to God, I thought he must be skiing.  I left her a private message about it because I thought it was hilarious.  Her, not so much.  She proceeded to tell me, again, “It’s so sad.”

No.  No, it’s not.  Not to me.  It has nothing to do with me.

This is where my analysis comes into play, probably as a way to reduce my guilt over being such a total and complete bitch.

I don’t need to borrow pain from strangers.  There have been enough deaths in my family that I do not have any additional emotion left over with which to grieve Donna Summer, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson or Walter Cronkite.  Therefore, I do not give a miniscule shit about a band director I do not know, a man who evidently had a decent career and lived into at least his 60′s.

* * * * *

The worst of the worst is another “friend” who has not stopped writing about a drummer for a rock band, a man who was apprently her great friend, for nearly a year now.  She posts morbid photos of him shirtless, though dead.  She speaks of crying and falling to the floor.

I did not allow myself to fall to the floor when I was 10 and my father died.

According to her and her cadre of sympathetic friends, I’m sure this is because my father and I were not “soulmates”  and I do not know what true pain feels like.

I have also lived through her grandparents many trips to the hospital.  She is over 40 years old.  This is when I become evil and actually begin looking forward to the day when she loses them.  Yes, I know I am evil.  I am also deadly serious.

* * * * *

It wasn’t more than a few months ago that I blocked several family members after a scathing comment I intended to leave in a private group but placed on my actual wall for no more than 30 seconds.  I am a bitch who tries to keep it private, it’s never my intention to hurt anyone no matter how much they may annoy the shit out of me.

I try to remember that my reactions are not normal.

The family matriarch on my sister-in-law’s side died at age 89 or so.  She had been catered to and treated like a queen.  Yet I’d rarely heard a kind word spoken about the old sourpuss and for good reason.

She’d been in a nursing home for a couple of years, not because her family threw her away but because she completely refused to cooperate with anything they asked her to do.

Mind you, she had no disease that sadly wastes away a body or causes tremendous pain.  She had no actual illness other than old age.  As it turns out, if you refuse to walk anywhere you eventually lose the use of your legs.

When this woman died the non-stop tributes had me screaming.  Worst of all was the 3-year old quoted as saying, “We’ll have to go to the airport and take a plane to visit Nanny in heaven” followed by adults who stated “I want to go, too.”  Or “Please buy me a ticket.”  And “I need directions, what a great idea.”

* * * * *

Granted, we all grieve differently.  My protestant midwest ethic has me convinced it’s best I do it on my own.  I regret that sometimes.

I’d love to scream and rant and rave and cry to the heavens but could never let myself.  I’ve never gotten over my father’s death, I carry such rage still that it seems it could smother me at times.  I have perfected the angry victim role.

But ultimately I always know I am so fortunate, so blessed.  I have not lost a child like my friends Patty and Kathy and Rose, my grandmothers Charlotte & Bessie, and even my own mother.

Nothing else in the entire world matters.  Thank you, God, for this ultimate grace.

* * * * *

As for those other bitches, the ones who seem to be looking for something to cry about, I beg of you to shut the f*ck up.

H-IV Negative &/or Still Twisted After All These Years

It came up again today, which doesn’t happen very often.  Someone asked me how I could possibly be H-IV negative when I’d had a baby with a man who was H-IV positive.

I began to stutter.  The fear is never completely gone, it’s always there, at least the memory of it.

Such a crazy time it was, pregnant at 25 by a guy with this new disease I’d barely heard of but knew could kill me.  A disease I couldn’t talk about because people would run, shun, shy away, freak out, even those in the medical profession.  I had to keep it to myself and make life and death decisions and still go to work every day even though it felt like my world was ending.

I chose to keep the baby.  I chose to stay with the man.  I wasn’t brave, more like fearless.  I didn’t know enough to make informed decisions.

I was tested once, twice, three times, four, sure my luck was eventually going to run out.  But it didn’t happen that way.

* * * * *

Now I know the chance of transferring the H-IV infection through a single episode of heterosexual unprotected sex is 1 to 2 women in 1,000.  I know that I probably saved my own life by saying no the one and only time it really counted, when I refused to have anal sex, bluntly, loudly, definitively.

Say it loud, say it proud, don’t touch my ass.

I saved my kid’s life, too.

When I think of what other women went through, those who found themselves positive, discovered their children were positive, I could dry heave with sorrow and terror.

* * * * *

I kept this secret for so many years.  It didn’t even seem like a choice.

I’ve had some difficult things to get through, like every human being on the planet, but man have I been blessed.  I won the lottery of life.  The good by far outweighs the bad.

I would lose 1,000 parents rather than a child.  I would take a million fucked up mothers over finding out my baby was going to die from AIDS.  There is no comparison.

Some of the things that happened were scary and humiliating and sad.  But in the end I walked away with the most wonderful bouncing baby boy, who never gave me a moment of trouble, who has lived a charmed life as if protected by angels.

I have no doubt they are his father and his uncle, funny, bright, charismatic, beautiful men who made the simple mistake of putting needles in their arms to dull life’s pain, to catch what was once a random irresponsible high and became a life sentence.

They were behind me during his graduation from graduate school.  I swear I heard them laughing like excited boys, saying “Look at him!  You did good, Bub.”

It was all so worth it.  I need to remember all the ways in which I have been the luckiest bitch on the planet and forget the rest.

Twisted Pieces of My Heart

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

Oh, yes, I am a fucking freak. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twisted ~ All On My Own

It all began to fall apart when my brother Jim died in August of 2008.  Nothing since has ever felt the same.  Until it happened I couldn’t have known my little brother was a weight-bearing cornerstone of my planet.  It’s small solace to know how much I’m sure this pleases him.

It happened the same week my one and only son moved to NYC (soon to be San Diego, and then West Hollywood).  The same week one of my closest friend’s sons stepped in front of a train.

Every single belief I held as a sure thing came into question.  I now know there are no sure things.  I knew it all along, I just didn’t want to believe it.

My daughter became a teenager the following summer.  To see her face it was suddenly necessary I look up instead of down, more discombobulating than you might think.  Sometimes she now buckles her knees just to make me happy.

Once everything started to settle, the hole I found in the center of my heart was enormous, much bigger than my twisted family could fill with its’ entertaining stupidity.  It was so much more fun to focus on my psychotic fucking mother, to direct my anger at my bully of a sister.  They have not changed, just the insanity of the moment. 

It was so much safer to be in the eye of the storm, pretending to be above it all.

For the last three years (is it really?) I’ve been spackling and gluing, dumping a panoply of addictive possibilities into my own personal toxic landfill:  tequila & gay bars,  ice cream treats & insulin shots. 

I decided my therapist was less than helpful when she claimed I spent too much time fantasizing, supposedly a by-product of childhood.  Seriously?  Life has always been way too real.

Meanwhile, the husband whose calm demeanor once seemed like a saving grace became an emotionless choking anchor around my throat.  The promise to love, honor and cherish is one he wants me to fulfill, even if it leaves me bound and gagged on the bottom of the ocean floor. 

Forgive me for being s(h)el(l)fish.

I’m no longer happy being a twisted observer even if it means I’m safe.  The passive role leaves me gasping for the person I was meant to be: pro-active, impatient, brash and assertive.  I’d rather make an atomic mistake and go out with a spectacular bang being true to myself.

Hiding behind others is so unnecessary when I’m twisted all on my own.

Miserable Twisted Mofo

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

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

I’m not enjoying my life. 

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

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

I am an unhappy motherfucker. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I can’t do any of that.

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

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

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

I am a miserable motherfucker. 

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

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

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

Where did that ballsy chick go?

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

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

Oh, I am just so sick of myself.

 

I Wanna Be Stoopid Like Kat Von D.

Oh, it’s a whirlwind, chicks & dicks.  It’s not that I do so much, it’s that I piss & moan about it all . . . before, during & after.  I should be a happy camper, but am not particularly.  I never liked camping & am a nasty, sarcastic bitch, except when I’m laughing, but even then I’m usually laughing AT someone & I’ve been told that’s bad.

If you think this entry is about my desire to change, it is not.  Happy people are usually stupid people.  I have not lost enough brain matter to get there yet, but as my consumption of tequila increases I creep down the IQ scale.  I am deliriously happy about that because it keeps me from being the kind of jerk-off who lists an IQ on my Facebook page or hangs a paper on my wall stating that my kid is a Mensa member.  (Yes, miraculously, I know people who do both.)

I occasionally try to convince myself it’s bad to complain when I’m not dealing with the kind of trouble I see on HBO, my main source of connection to the real world.  But then some dipshit convinces me I really have been in the midst of nasty ass trauma & drama . . . and am perhaps lucky for it.

* * * * *

Kat Von D. entered my living room the other night on her tattoo program, the one that takes place in California, not Miami, “LA Ink.”  You don’t need to know about Kat or tattoos, or care about anything of the sort, to understand the following:

Kat came into work clearly unhappy.  (Dramatic music played in the background.)  Eventually she got around to telling her closest friends & employees that . . . da-da-da-dum . . . her cat (the kind with a ‘c’) had died the previous evening.  (It was a hairless cat, which is possibly not pertinent, though it supports my final analysis.)

She was sniffling and choking back sobs as she said that she’d never experienced a death & added:

“Wow, like now I understand my clients so much better, you know, than I did before.  Like, I see why they’re so emotional!” 

We’re talking about thousands of people who have come to her for tattooed pictures of deceased loved ones.

So basically she admitted never before understanding why anyone was so upset over death until HER CAT died. 

I know people love their animals.  Sometimes they even call them their “babies,” which is offensive.  Yes, I understand you might like them better than humans, sometimes for good reason.  But they’re not people, and they’re not infants.  We do not litter train human babies, we do not buy them rawhide bones.  (At least I hope you don’t.)

Kat Von D. is approximately 35 years of age, one of those lucky bitches who lives in la-la land, believing the world is a safe & secure place.  She is also a tremendous asshole, an egocentric maniac, missing any kind of human empathy. 

I am so fucking jealous.

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.

My Twisted Valentine Tattoo

Dear Augusten,

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

 

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

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

That’s when it came to me.

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

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

 

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

 

Pamajama

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh?

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

cook my ass like a fatty goose.

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

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

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

then fuck it,

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

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

But Grandma Told Me To: A Lesson In Violating Parole

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

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

Yeah, they’d just left

the Parole Office

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

SPENT TWO YEARS IN A CAGE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

My Alter Ego ~ A Twisted & Demented Superhero

Since I’m back to blogging I’m determined to post regularly.  Wish I could do it every day, but I’m a big fat loser and have permanent brain freeze when it comes to any kind of expectations.

I’m trying to quit my addiction to Mafia Wars but knowing my Cuban businesses are making money and that eventually the coffers will be full and unwilling to accept more if it’s not banked gnaws at me like a teething child at mommy’s boo-boo (or a grown man of a certain type).

So I’m going to make a list of things I could do instead of clicking that magical button that takes me to a comatose state similar to a quaalude (which I did ask my doctor for a prescription for but he refused).

1.) Bathe

2.) Clean the house.

3.) Take action toward earning money in the near future.

See?  I’m bored already.

4.) Send another text message.

5.) M*sturbate

We’re talking short-term here.  Neither of these take long at all.

6.) Wake up my daughter and make her day delightful.

7.) Send my son an e-mail that makes our lives sound like they are perky and wonderful and so much better than reality, in an effort to make him miss us desperately and realize that California is not that great if he can’t be near his adoring mother.

8.) Try and call my niece, who should be on her way to Kentucky right now in a car with my mother, the most hellish thing I can imagine!

9.) Read some blogs and comment so everyone knows I still love them dearly even though I seemingly dropped off the face of the earth.

10.) Call Roxanne & see if she’s going to laser tag tonight. 

Yeah, that’s what I’ll probably do. 

I really wasn’t meant to be unemployed. 

I need direction at all times, like an ADD-riddled child standing on the beach holding sand in one hand and a dirty cigarette butt in the other, wondering if he should eat the cigarette or throw sand in his sister’s eyes, therefore scratching her cornea and damaging her vision for the rest of her life.

* * * * *

Just so you know that I didn’t spend all my time on Mafia Wars just clicking buttons, there was an actual incident that occurred in which my assistance was helpful and I received a ‘Thank You” note regarding same yesterday.  Last week at 3 or 4 am, I forget which, I noticed someone leaving comments that sounded like “Help me,” “I can’t take this any more,” “I just can’t do this.”

Nosy bitch that I am, it was necessary to intervene mostly for my own mental health.  So I told the guy he was scaring me and asked what he meant by those apocalyptic messages.  After no response I instant messaged him and sent another request to his in-box, determined busy-body that I am. 

When he wrote back it was to ”Pamele.”  This was the first indication of his drunken state, such poor spelling.  Fortunately, since he was suicidal, I did not deride and mock him as I might have otherwise.  I did not tell him that my son won the whole school spelling bee in 6th grade & his current successes more than likely hinged on that fact.

BACK TO THE STORY AT HAND, MAINTAIN FOCUS PAMELE!

After half an hour of back and forth in the instant message box and repeated statements that he had to go because he needed to end it all, I finally looked up his profile page and called the police department located halfway across the country.  It took close to 30 minutes to explain the story, find his address & get an emergency unit to his house.  In the mean time I eventually had him on my house phone and a dispatcher on my cell phone asking if there were weapons in the house.  It was like an egomaniacal dream come true being in the middle of such chaos, a two-fisted chatterboxing life link.

He was quite soft-spoken and thanked me several times for talking to him, even though he continued saying he had to go.  I kept asking questions.  He told me I was such a kind person (clearly hallucinating at that point).  Then I heard male voices in the background.  They entered his home without even knocking, which seemed rather aggressive.   Then he REALLY had to go.  Afterwards I was instructed by a fireman who called my house that I needed to call the Emergency Room and give them any information I had. 

How do you explain at 4:30 AM that you live in NJ and you have never met this man from Illinois before, but you’re “friends on Mafia Wars“?  I felt like a certified lunatic.  Fortunately the game is so huge that the psych tech knew exactly what I was talking about.  Unfortunately she had a voice that made me think she could convince ME to commit suicide if I had to listen to her drone on for long. 

She instructed me to send copies of everything I could find regarding the things he’d written, then she gave me an invalid e-mail address to send them to.  It did not instill a feeling in me that my unskilled and off the wall crisis intervention would be followed up on properly.  Naturally I began thinking that maybe I should drive the 14 hours and give the only appropriate counsel available in North America, my own.  Because, you know, I am a fixer freak.  I’ve never truly fixed anything in my life, but in the back of my mind I KNOW that I’m PRACTICALLY the BEST at doing EVERYTHING.  That is because I am a GENIUS and all around me are IDIOTS.

Yeah, I tell myself that as I sit home contemplating whether to twiddle myself or brush my teeth.

So, anyway, Chris sent me a note yesterday saying that he was sorry he dumped his problems on me but was glad I was there.  I was tempted to write back and tell him it was the most important I’d felt all summer and could he recommend me to other suicidal peeps or would he prefer a cash remuneration? 

Instead I wrote something nice about how I would really freaking hate it if he was dead, all the while wondering if we panic at the suggestion of suicide because, hey, if we gotta stay here you do too!  Like, what if death is actually nirvana?  You just don’t freaking know!  I mean, he said he was in physical pain from an accident.  I really freaking hate pain.  I am a huge pussy, like f*ck that!  I would totally off myself if I was painfully miserable!

Yeah, not the kind of philosophizing you want to do with a dude who’s already questioning his commitment to breathing and blinking. 

I also stopped myself from saying “Call me any time you want to talk about your problems,” because I really wouldn’t like it if this was an ongoing thing and I couldn’t feel like I fixed him in 90 minutes or less.  That would just piss me off and eventually I would say something stupid like,”Stop with the f*cking depression bullshit!  I already told you, just go to sleep!” 

Pretty much the way I act as a mother when my children are unhappy.  Like, “DON’T FUCKING CRY, IT MAKES ME SAD & I HATE THAT!”

* * * * *

Growing up in constant crazy, my brain was permanently conditioned so that NOTHING makes me feel more content than contending with a crisis, as long as there’s nothing REAL I have to do, like cope with a dead body or clean up puke or see anyone completely losing their shit from injury or loss.  I don’t like illness or icky stuff or real human emotion. 

Who knew crises of a virtual nature would fit my criteria so well?  Good God, like I needed another reason to remain behind my computer screen, tucked safely within the folds of my superhero sweatshirt.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate being predictable.  

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

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

I have no idea.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you think it could be the tequila shots?

* * * *

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

Really, though, how often can you redecorate?

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

Updating My Status To Mood-Swinging Psycho &/or The Michael Jackson Saga Continues

Today I was home all day.  The Jackson funeral was on.  I couldn’t help myself.  Similar to the OJ trials, it was a “thing.”  I hate to miss out.

I watched it on Fox.  Does that matter?  Geraldo was quite riled up from the beginning and it was interesting cause it didn’t sound like he believed the reports of Michael Jackson’s various and sundry misdeeds.  Believe it or not, I kind of like Geraldo.  He’s got a short fuse and seems relatively honest, as least as far as reporters go.

It started and I was IM’ing with an old boyfriend I found on Facebook and haven’t seen in 25 years (DANGEROUS & BIZARRELY WEIRD EMOTIONAL TERRITORY).  So as it began I started watching without realizing what I was doing.

Mariah Carey came out and blew me away.  No matter how unusual she is, the girl can sing.  The song was “I’ll Be There.”  She’s just spectacular in every way.

When I saw Brooke Shields I thought she looked good in a very natural blotchy sobbing kind of way.  In recent years I’ve kind of come to think of her as a tight-ass and this made me expect very little from her time at the lectern.  Well, she kicked my ass.  She spoke sincerely and clearly and from the heart. 

It was then that I noticed tears streaming down my face and immediately thought, “Motherf*cker, now I have to admit this on the blog!”  It’s really not a surprise that death and sadness and the people left behind in abject misery are heartbreaking to watch.  We can all identify with that shit.

John Mayer came on and played what I think was a bass guitar.  Absolutely beautiful.  Magical.  I don’t think he spoke at all.  Magic Johnson told a story about eating KFC with Michael Jackson that was so, so funny.

Usher had a hard time making it through his song.  Smokey Robinson made me laugh.  He was great. 

Stevie Wonder, well, he’s like a god.  Same with Lionel Richie, who has one of my favorite voices on the planet.

The brothers all had sequined gloves on, which was kind of over the top.  Al Sharpton looks like he’s had weight loss surgery.  He’s lost at least 100 pounds and looks pretty bad. 

Queen Latifah started to choke back tears and even that was touching.

But when the little girl spoke of her father at the end, my heart broke for her.  The tears began all over again.

More than anything it was clear that everyone there really loved MJ and had nothing bad to say about him.  The commentator at the end actually mentioned something about how maybe we should take it easy on people who seem a little different and not judge them so harshly.  I couldn’t disagree.

* * * * * 

So I’m glad I watched it.  I don’t take back anything I said before, cause that would be renouncing my schizophrenia and it’s not going anywhere.  Michael Jackson did not define my life or my generation, but he was too young to die.  I’m not sure any age is acceptable, but especially not when young children are involved.

I still hate the news people who make millions off of saturating our lives with the story.

My husband’s statement when I told him about the tears was to be expected:

 “When does your period start?”

He knows me too well.

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.

My Sister Reminds Me of Mother Teresa, Which Makes Me Anna Nicole Smith

Yesterday I returned from my second trip to Kentucky.  Typically, after purposely avoiding the place for 25 years, I visit twice in less than three months.

Really, I should leave home more often.  This time my husband opened the pool, painted the kitchen AND a bathroom.  It looked so different that I said, “Oh my God, I even love the new light fixture!”  As it turns out, it wasn’t new, I just hadn’t noticed it in the three years we’ve lived here.  The previous wallpaper was so ugly I could see nothing else.

He also dealt with the 11-year old (who suddenly acts 17), the one who grew an inch taller than me in only a week’s time after counting the minutes until my departure.  (“Not to hurt your feelings or anything Mom, you understand!”)

It’s so unusual for me to be completely alone that for a good portion of my initial driving time (after dropping my son off at his university dorm) I continued to catch myself believing my daughter was in the backseat.  I would turn to check on her or begin to say something and then remember she wasn’t there.  After the fifth or sixth time I wondered how long it would take to get the hint, so I could stop feeling really stupid.

* * * * *

After 25 hours in the car, I’m not so good with adjusting to the return home.  My body continues to quiver as if I’m still moving at hyper-speed.  Actually, being on the road was fun.  I love driving 80 mph in the Charger, blowing people away with the hemi, pretending I’m part of a video game.

Of course, there’s the other piece where I’m crossing myself and begging God that I don’t die until my daughter grows up.  The various personalities in my head begin arguing, one suggesting she’d be better off without my influence TODAY, IMMEDIATELY!  Now I’m flying down the road with two bitches slugging it out as to whether my influence on her is positive or negative.  Actually, I’m sure it’s both. 

I am certain of NOTHING after spending a long weekend entirely on my own with a 1, 2 and 3-year old.

When the voices become annoying I put on the radio or a CD.  Sometimes I listen to books on tape, but it’s hard finding something to love & most are disappointing.  For this trip two new music CD’s, Duffy (it’s been years since I’ve fallen in love with someone the way I have with this chick, especially the song Mercy) and Elliot Yamin (my boy).

I do not stay in hotels on the road, preferring to sleep in my car (with embarrassingly dirty hair & a look that screams CRACKHEAD with a secondary donut addiction) rather than deal with bed bugs or filthy phones or invisible jism on the walls (cause you KNOW it’s there).

(Side Note: Does anyone reading this communicate with Red (who convinced me that every coffee pot in every hotel in the USA has been shit in at least once)?  Has anyone heard from her or know she’s okay?  I think of her daily, since she deleted her blog, and miss that crazy chick.)

I did get stopped once.  I’d been on the road since 9 a.m. & after 18 hours a young, slow-talking Tennessee Sheriff’s officer wondered why I was weaving in a confused manner.  I’m sure he expected me to slur my words and stumble, but it was just a case of serious darkness in the middle of nowhere and no clear lines on winding asphalt.  I was tickled pink when he asked, “Ma’am, do you carry a concealed weapon?“  Even the idea gave me a thrill!  I laughed out loud & said, “No one would EVER give me such a thing!”  (My dear friend Roxanne claims I should have said, “Only my rapier-like wit!” but I don’t think nearly that fast.) 

Thankfully, I left with no ticket, possibly because he was pleased I was about to leave his state behind, thus becoming Kentucky’s problem.  He happily provided me with directions.

* * * * *

I went back because I was already making a trip south.  When I came up with this brilliant idea the extra eight hours of driving time sounded utterly reasonable, sort of like making pancakes for breakfast.  So I told my sister, “I’ll watch the kids!  You just make a plan to have fun.”  She’s had her grandchildren for three months now.  The entire situation is truly mind boggling once you are there and realize the difficulties involved.  The magnitude of issues & complications does not translate well onto paper.

Well, when I said, “Make a plan” she took me literally.  I thought

perhaps an afternoon of golf,

she thought

53 hours in the Smoky Mountains, 300 miles and six hours away, with two overnights booked in a hotel. 

We never bothered to compare our visualized experiences until I was standing in her living room and her boyfriend was carrying enough clothes to the car for a Mexican honeymoon.

It was about then that the 2-year old little boy plucked a tick off the dog bed and said, “Here, Gramma!”  She told me then that they’d just treated the two huge Boxers for an infestation and went on to say with pride and amazement: “He’s been finding them everywhere!  He’s really got an eye for it!”  (It took me several hours to sit on anything other than a coffee table.  I never did pull the cover down and climb into the bed, choosing instead to stay on top the bedspread fully clothed.)

An hour later they left and I found myself looking at 3 children under 4 years of age, all completely dependent upon me to behave as a mature adult & keep them alive for an entire weekend.

It was quite a learning experience.  If I ever had any fairy tale dreams about (1) how I should have had more children closer in age or (2) how my (fill in the blank) makes me somehow superior to my sister in any way . . .  they’re gone.

The MF’ing Never Ending Twisted Food Battles

I’m still treating it like it’s my best friend. 

Shit food, that is. 

The stuff that has so conveniently & easily caused me all desired angst & misery.  I’m not saying it hasn’t been useful!  It’s helped me push people away, it’s provided a battering ram between myself & the rest of the world.  It’s kept me feeling inferior, which is comfortable, an easy excuse when there is no other.

I’ve never looked upon a salad with googly eyes, nor a head of broccoli.  I don’t eat tomatoes or cucumbers or celery.  I detest cantaloupe & watermelon & eggplant.  Don’t bother offering me spinach nor escarole or squash.

Even vegetables I like are in danger in this house.  It’s not unusual to find furry green beans or wilted lettuce or demented carrots in my fridge.  I’m better with fruit, but just barely.  I like apples but so rarely eat them, minus the coma inducing qualities of hot apple pie a’ la mode.  Grapefruit is fantastic, but lacks the panache of a soft, warm chocolate chip cookie.

Of course, none of the natural items contain the kind of addictive ingredients that are put into the processed products that make us crazy.  When my body is free of sugars & nasty fats my brain stops racing & screaming “More, more, more!  Now, now, now!”  (At least until I see cinnamon rolls in the very last aisle of the grocery store, practically being given away as a day old bakery item!)

After losing more than 50 pounds it’s easy to pretend that I’m thin when I’m not.  Although I’ve gone down four sizes, I could lose four more & just barely come close to my friend Donna’s proportions.  A picture taken recently shows us side by side and she looks like a tiny bunny I could turn into a stew.  Compared to what I was previously, sure, I’m in much better shape.  But compared to skinny chicks I’m a walrus or a plump old lazy dog. 

I’m tired of being the gigantor chunk of the crew, the tyrannosaurus rex, the lineman.  I’d like to be NORMAL.  I want to be thinner than my sister or JUST ONE of my sisters-in-law.  Those bitches have felt superior to me FOREVER.

Of course, I know the problem is really me.  I would no doubt find something else to feel inferior over.  Hell, I’d tend to pick a dude with a pot belly before I’d ever go for a skinny guy.  But as long as the weight exists it will always be my excuse, I can never dig deeper, I can’ t deal with the real issues.

I’m 49 in a month!  I used to think this was the kind of stupidity you grow out of; I know now that it’s just not true.  I don’t want to have to be sick or dying to find thin.  (“Damn, Pam looked hot in that casket!)   This is NOT an exaggeration.  My grandmother was overweight all her life and died of a diabetic-related heart attack at age 57.  My brother died after weight loss surgery & his third heart attack at 44.  He was started on diet pills at age 14, which he took during summer football practices when the temperature outside was near 100 degrees. 

We had actual screaming matches in my childhood home when one child or another would find Mom’s stash of butter pecan ice cream or chocolate bars.  Mom accepted shock treatments in a mental hospital, rather than tell doctors she was so addicted to diet pills that they were making her insane. 

CAN YOU IMAGINE THE DEDICATION?

Losing weight makes sense for so many reasons: (1)  Summer is coming and I’m a miserable motherfucker in the heat, (2) The fatter I am, the more I look like my mother, which is beyond hideous, (3) I have more energy when my body is not in the process of digesting food 24/7, (4) I wouldn’t have weight as my reason to feel “less than” all the time, (5) I could lose the diabetes diagnosis & all the things that entails, and (6) 127 other things.

I tend to give up if I can’t be perfect.  Rationally, I don’t think of tiny as perfect.  I like the look of a girl who is 5’7 or taller, who weighs 140 or more.  Women should not look like boys.  Yet it’s all mushed together in my psyche.  I lose focus in the time it takes to turn my head.

In the mean time I’m going to make a list here of things that ARE NOT MY FRIENDS and hope that I remember that fact:

1) Hostess Powdered Sugar Donuts (Why commit suicide any other way?)

2) Brownies (Especially when covered with ice cream, fudge & Godiva chocolate at The Cheesecake Factory or Serendipity III)

3) Any food that’s in the house for my husband or daughter (My husband has to keep his frosted mini wheats in the garage.  I ate my daughter’s frozen chocolate brownie yogurt, but left just enough . . .)

4) Crackers, Toast, White Flour Products (entire sleeves of Ritz product can’t go down fast enough)

5) Cake (all ooey-gooey warm cake, especially with vanilla frosting, but chocolate will do, including on birthdays)

6) Soda (It’s such shit!  And POT is illegal?)

7) Black And White Cookies (The perfect combination for indecisive fools)

8) Ice Cream (including sugar-free, which does absolutely disgusting things, take my word for it)

9) French Fries (Why not drink Mazola Oil from the bottle or eat Crisco by the spoonful?)

10) Anything that comes from a fast food restaurant, anything at all

11) Candy (Valentine Candy, Easter Candy, Christmas Candy, Halloween Candy — FUCKING HOLIDAYS)

12) Potato Chips (Everyone needs at least one video of themselves eating these damned things)

13) Cheese, cheese and more cheese  (It’s from COWS)

14) Tubs of Kool Whip Free (when eaten at a single sitting)

15) 40 slices of bacon at a clip (No matter how fast you eat it, the calories remain the same!)

16) Cinnamon rolls (Even when still ooey-goody & on the day old/discount rack – they’re way too expensive in ways that have nothing to do with money)

17) Hot dogs, corn dogs & sausage (All tacky, disgusting, phallic-shaped objects that are oh so unnecessary & don’t even taste any better than your average old carnival meat)

There are such better options.  Focus, girl, focus!

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 Babbling: Family, Facebook, F*ck

Recently I started playing around with Facebook.  I love that it has Scrabble and Tetris, but hate that most of the items on there have no detail. 

Blogging is better.

Throwing a shoe at someone in the virtual world doesn’t cut it.  If I could throw an actual f*cking shoe, then count me in.

I’m not interested in the fact that a woman I barely know made a batch of gluten-free bread this morning.  Frankly, I’d rather she described the condition of her shit when she eats gluten, the agonizing stomach cramps.  Now that I could find interesting.

I’m quickly losing direction . . .

Worst of all, I was “friended” by my daughter-in-law and she sent me a hug.  I need more than a f*cking hug, considering she’s taking my husband away on Valentine’s Day. 

Honestly, I don’t give a shit about holidays until you steal my man.  Then I hate everything about you and suddenly it’s the most important day of the frigging year.

She’s moving to a far away southern state on the Gulf of Mexico, the whole family is moving to what I like to call “The Butthole of America.”

Actually, the whole family is not moving.  She’s leaving her 12-year old twins here to live with their father.  I guess you can do without a couple when you’ve got five?  Hard for me to imagine, but then she doesn’t want to be like me, either.  As evidence, this statement:  “I want to have all my children before I’m old, like you.”

I don’t speak much in her presence.  When you’re with someone who knows all about everything, it’s better to just listen.  If she was as smart as she thinks she is, then she’d be able to read my mind and this is what she’d intuit:

After seeing the movie Deliverance and paying just a little bit of attention to how views of the world can be different in other regions of the country, I’m not sure ‘Bama is where I’d be headed if I was wearing a 12-inch pentagram tattooed to my left calf.

I think this makes me the hideous mother-in-law/step-mother.  Could there be a worse combination?  Don’t give me any more of these fantastic roles, cause I seriously can’t handle all the love coming my way.

So my husband will be driving in a rental truck, traveling 20 hours southwest of here.  He will then get on a plane and return the day after Valentine’s Day.  Our 13th wedding anniversary is February 17th.  Perhaps I will be talking to him again by then, presuming he makes it home alive.

When my crazy controlling self kicks into high gear the fear becomes huge, too.  I can’t distinguish between the two.  Did the fear come first or the crazy?  The fear easily twists into rage, which I enjoy so much more. 

Basically, I see the world as a place full of trap-doors, none of them containing prizes.

My father died when I was 10, my grandmother when I was 18, three months later it was my step-father, then at 26 my pseudo-husband.   My grandfather died in a car crash five years ago.  My brother dropped dead in a parking lot at age 44 & his first heavenly birthday is Valentine’s Day.

The unfairness of it all blows my mind.  Then I remind myself I don’t believe in “fair.”  I rationalize that my husband is so wonderful he makes up for everything bad that’s ever happened in my life.  It’s absolutely true.

So don’t send me a f*cking hug on Facebook to make up for putting the best thing that’s ever happened to me in a rental truck headed for B*tt F*ck, a 20-hour trip on winter roads.

However, that’s not the only voice working in my head.  The other one is saying, “You’re being irrational.  This is your husband’s kid.  He’s done so much for your own son, you’re not being reasonable!”

“It doesn’t matter that they got into financial trouble by having monogrammed cigars & a personal humidor, gallon jugs of liquor and parties for 100 friends.  The fact that they didn’t pay their mortgage for three months when the daughter-in-law needed hair extensions & clear resin heels, plus four tuxedos, to participate in their best friend’s gay wedding is beside the point.  You love gays!”

“The multiple expensive tattoos are expressions of their artistic natures!  It’s only reasonable that your husband took out a loan at the bank to help them out, this is your family!  You always wanted to be a grandmother, so act like one!  Granted, the check she gave your son for Christmas bounced last year, but those things happen.  Telling you about her renunciation of Jesus Christ at the Christmas party was such an honest move on her part!”

I’ll be spending the weekend crossing myself multiple times and saying prayers for my husband’s safe return.

In addition, I’ll be going to see a production of the musical Rent with my daughter, tickets purchased via credit card just yesterday, which will cost more than his plane trip home. 

Normally I don’t even want flowers, since they cost too damned much.  Surprising how the one time we’re not together could end up being our most expensive Valentine’s Day ever.

If Only ~ Words For a Twisted Little Girl

There’s never a time when Aunt Becky over at Mommy Wants Vodka doesn’t have something funny and interesting to say, plus a question. She’s like a machine, pumping out entertaining blog entries beyond my abilities or imagination, even as she parents two young boys and prepares for the arrival of the first girl (yippee!).

Today her question was so intriguing I just had to turn it into a blog entry.

What do you wish you could tell your younger self?

This subject could easily be a bottomless pit, considering the number of things I’ve done wrong over the years, so I’m holding myself to a total of ten random pieces of advice for Baby Pamajama.  Here goes:

1. Do not pee in small bottles for other people.  First, it’s illegal.  Second, you should already be running, fast and far.  Although it may be confusing at first, drug addicts are not better partners than alcoholics.  Accept neither as appropriate for a single wasted minute of your life. 

2.  There is at least one extraordinarily kind man out there who will adore you appropriately.  Life can be both wonderful & simple, no raised voices, no arguing, no name-calling.  Hard to imagine, huh?

He’ll have to make a detour through Vietnam but will eventually find you.

3. Pay your bills on time.  Bad credit & bill collectors are more humiliation than anyone needs.  Do not loan money, never, ever, not even the first time.  Be a hard-assed selfish bitch & enjoy the role.  If you have enough to lend, put it in savings instead.  Better yet, spend less & just give it away.

4. Be an easy-going mom.  It doesn’t matter if they flunk out of school in 4th grade or plug up the toilet with your jewelry, as long as they’re still alive.  Never raise your voice to children.  It doesn’t work.  Silence is more frightening.  Screaming women look like idiots.  It’s a horrible way to live.

By the way, don’t worry, your relationship with your daughter will be NOTHING like yours with your mother. 

The more babies, the better.

5. Never allow yourself to get really fat, like belly rolls & sh*t.  It’s totally heinous.  The best way to accomplish that is by not comparing yourself to other girls, especially girls who are barely five feet tall, girls whose bones are the size of fork tines, whose heads are the size of thimbles.

Trim your bangs!

 

Wear high heels & eat your vegetables.  Strut your stuff with attitude.  Ignore Mom’s attempts to make you buy men’s clothing & cut off your hair, she is psycho.  When she tells you that your personality is not fit to make a good beautician, stab her.  By the way, it’s not true, make-up does not make you look like a slut.  Refuse any & all diet products, find a sport instead.

6. You are beautiful, funny & worthy of the best in life, no matter what anyone says.  She’s just jealous.  The only opinion of you that matters is your own and it’s contagious.  Do not share yourself as easily as smokers do a Bic lighter or a pack of Marlboros.  Stray body fluids kill. 

7. Stay in school until you find the thing you love.  Do not take the easy way out & skip statistics, do not smoke pot before every geometry class.

 After childbirth you will need every extra brain cell, there are none to spare.

8. Remember birthdays, spoil your friends, stay in touch.  Girlfriends can last 50 years but almost all boyfriends eventually marry someone else who will get both child support AND alimony if he keeps calling.  Your own marriage will be in jeopardy if you attempt to help him through it.

9. Do not allow fear to rule your life.  Death is just a thing, you will eventually see them again.  I’m sure of it.  Most of all, tell Grandma how much you love her, right now, today.  Tell her she’s wonderful & beautiful & let her know her love made all the difference.

10. Last but not least, don’t wait 40 years to tell your mom she’s a c*nt. 

Go ahead.  Do it right now.

If you don’t like how she’s treating your siblings SAY IT or you’ll live with the regret forever.  Grow wicked verbal balls.  Let her beat the sh*t out of you and smile while she does it.  It’s a much better choice than cowering from words that will stay in your head forever, crushing your soul. 

Always stand up for yourself, never back down.  It’s the only way to live.