There’s A Burrito In My Pants
March 11, 2012
My daughter and I were on our way to meet friends at Barnes & Noble. As always, I was running late.
The only time it would ever interest me to scrub out the tub is when the car is packed to go on vacation. Similarly, I might start a blog entry when I’m supposed to meet someone, like today, in an hour.
The end result: I never take the time to properly put myself together. I wear the same clothes I slept in more often than the average bear.
On this particular Saturday night, as Rachel and I flew down the road, I looked down at myself and discovered I was wearing (1) camo pants, (2) a scarf & (3) an old 4x sweatshirt of my brother’s emblazoned “Fat City Tavern.”
I said to her,
“Oh my God, what was I thinking when I got dressed?”
and laughed like a freaking loon.
She stifled a giggle and bit her tongue. I could see her do it. There was something she was about to say but she stopped herself.
“What were you going to say? TELL ME! TELL ME NOW!”
Quite hesitantly she said,
“Well, I think that every day when I look at you.”
This led into an uproarious conversation that made me laugh and scream in equal measure.
“What?! What do you mean?!”
“Well, like when we go to bowling I think everyone there wonders if you’re nuts and why is Daddy married to you?”
This was truly one of the funniest things anyone had ever said to me.
I mean, if my presentation IN A RUNDOWN BOWLING ALLEY is that noticeably bad then I must be even worse than I realized.
I’ve always known that I do not dress like a normal middle-aged woman, not in the least. But, I asked her,
“If it’s that bad every week, how could you not tell me this is what you’re thinking?!”
Her reply: “Well, I think it’s funny. And I don’t want you to get mad!”
Me?!
I mean, yes, if she told me my ass looked like the cheesy side of Mars when I still had two games to go, 48 more times bending over at the foul line, it would have thrown me. There’s a timing issue involved.
But she’s been sitting back laughing at me, enjoying my fashion ineptitude, never saying much of anything! Meanwhile, she’s wearing one of my best sweaters and has the sweetest perfect face done up with expensive make-up from Sephora, looking like the princess of the lanes.
This was all quite thrilling, someone actually saying what they really think about me, a dream come true.
She went on to say that last year at Great Adventure I’d walked out to the car to get a forgotten item and upon my return she saw me walking toward her and literally cringed at my appearance, a sweatshirt in 90 degree weather. No doubt a stained sweatshirt.
I was mortified at the idea I had embarrassed her.
“Oh no, I wasn’t embarrassed! I looked just fine! It’s kind of entertaining.”
I began asking about other specific items I’ve worn and asking her opinion. Each and every item, some which I believed were better than others, left her hooting and hollering over their hideous factor.
“What about that sleeveless shirt with the ruffles? And the black pants. That looked good, right?”
“Oh, I HATE THAT SHIRT! It’s just HORRIBLE! The print looks like you’re covered in a mud puddle. And those pants you wear, oh my God! Really, you should just let me dress you.”
She also mentioned I should change my hair from blonde to brown and told me when it’s down I look like I have a mullet. Her father was completely disgusted I would listen to her, said she’s a negative teenager who should not be taken seriously.
I think she’s just the most honest person I know.
* * *
The following Thursday, bowling night, I did not forget.
I called her into my room and we went through my drawers in an attempt to find a single outfit that might make people think I was “normal” or “attractive.”
Specifically, there is one uptight fellow, Rich, who always comments on my long-sleeved t-shirt covered with a paint-splattered Jimi Hendrix. At least 12 times Rich has suggested I’m wearing an Obama tee, no matter how many times I tell him differently.
I wanted Rich to be surprised by my outfit. So I began trying on clothes.
What the f*ck! I must be brain damaged. Who bought all this sh*t?! Half of the items are hand me downs from my children, ripped jeans from my son and pink shirts with dancing monkeys and hoods from my daughter.
After emptying my entire closet and dresser drawers, Rachel had come to the conclusion that nothing could make me look better, as I appear to have “a burrito” around my waist.
Yes, that’s what she called it.
Exasperatedly she also said “You’re shaped like a man, with no curves!”
I looked in the mirror and agreed. “I look lumpy.” It’s not about the clothes, it’s me!
It was really a weird kind of relief, a confirmation that I’m not nuts or completely lacking in fashion sense. There are perfectly good reasons why I dress like I do.
I’d rather look like a wackjob than a frumpy housewife.
Truth in advertising.
Twisted Pattycakes &/Or My Barbie Doll BFF
January 7, 2012
My insane BFF Pattycakes called again today.
Lately I’ve been letting the phone ring without answering.
Her last voicemail: “WHATAYA DOIN? GIVEN YUR HUZBAN A BLOWJOB?” followed by raucous throaty laughter.
* * * * *
She had a visitor recently and although the woman seemed absolutely lovely there was just . . . something . . . that didn’t sit right. So Patricia, with her usual down played intelligence and beyond the norm street smartz, tricked the woman into giving her a last name after the chick called a second and third time asking for help finding employment.
It’s not like Patty has a manufacturing business or owns fruit fields. She’s unemployed herself, after collapsing a lung pushing a garbage cart through a home for the aged. Yes, this 98-pounder man-handled an enormous plastic bin to the point where she punctured her own right lung. The girl has a heart the size of the moon.
Anyway, since this unknown prior woman came to visit with her boyfriend’s pal, a dude who’d just recently been released from government custody, Patty searched her on the state website. Lo and behold, she was in prison for the attempted murder of her husband, an ex-police officer. How did she do it? Poison.
She received a miniscule 5 years for putting anti-freeze in his drinks and cyanide in his food “on a number of occasions.” She supposedly considered suicide but decided punishing her husband was a better idea. You know someone is pissed when their preferred method of your demise is watching you writhe on the floor for 30 minutes before your eyes go dark.
My favorite part is the neighbor: “She was a little ditsy but didn’t seem like the type . . . always smiling.”
No shit! The smile should have been the tip off. I only trust someone who’s exhibiting annoyance with the world.
Patty got the woman back on the phone and said she’d come close to finding her a job when she called the mayor, but the mayor wanted to know “ARE YOU FUCKING NUTS? SHE JUST GOT OUT OF PRISON FOR ATTEMPTED MANSLAUGHTER.”
I almost forgot the best part, when she told the woman: “Do me a favor, don’t be fixing me any drinks!”
* * * * *
I kept listening.
She mentioned a woman I met once before, Debbie.
‘That bitch is fucking everybody! She’s almost 50 years old and still posting Facebook self portraits taken in the bathroom. Jesus Christ, pay attention.
At least keep the toilet out of the shot!”
“Can you believe it, she went to Atlantic City and picked up some guy down there, slept with him. The next morning he gives her money for a cab ride home!”
I told her, “You got fucked twice!”
* * * * *
But what’s really got her going is a certified letter that insists she show up in court or a warrant for her arrest will be filed. Why? Because she called 9-1-1 five years ago when she heard a commotion across the street behind her house. Someone was in the process of being robbed and having his throat slit.
She recalls testifying: “You gotta look at the judge when you curse.”
The attorney asked her what she heard: “Gimme your money you fucking spic.” Uproarious laughter follows. Testimony lasted two days. Worst of all, she couldn’t smoke during the breaks.
“They took me in this little room. The officer said, “You can’t smoke in here.” I was like WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Now the accused, a scary looking man with an enormous rap sheet, dread locks and a neck tattoo, is asking for a new trial and she has to testify AGAIN. She says, “No fucking way will I ever call again unless it’s a loved one. I don’t give a shit what happens!”
Then she ends the call like she always does, ever since she lost her son:
“Call me! Let’s do lunch. I love ya!”
* * * * *
There are people in this world you will spend oodles of time with and yet they add nothing to your life. But there may be one who catches your attention returning to school with kindergarteners from the circus when she says:
“This was a great trip for these lil’ motherfuckers, wasn’t it?”
Do not pass go. Do not look straight ahead and pretend you didn’t hear her.
Immediately strike up a conversation and say: “Did I really hear you say you have five kids?”
You will never regret it.
I’ve always had ugly dentists.
In high school my sister and I used to purposely go to Steak ‘n Shake and eat burgers with onions before check-ups. Dr. Hauserman’s breath was just awful, so we wanted to re-pay the favor. (In retrospect, the man put fillings in my mouth that would survive a nuclear attack.) I still remember his thick glasses and big yellow incisors bearing down upon me.
Who knew I would actually care about messing up the schedule of a tooth specialist if he happened to be great looking, like the new guy that bought the practice of my former dude (who was obese & had a stomach that made it necessary he extend his arms fully to do the job.)
My normal sleep hours are something like 5-11 a.m. So when I have to be somewhere at 9 or 10 or 11 (or even 1) it can be a problem. I am late & miss appointments so often it’s embarrassing.
I missed a big appointment last week, a double or maybe triple time slot for 9 a.m. These people do not play.
Can you imagine, after calling our house and my cell phone, his receptionist (with a heavy German accent) called my husband at work to track me down? Did he do the right thing and say I’d been checked into rehab for drug addiction or maybe placed in jail for assault of a child, something that would allow me to maintain a semblance of self-respect?
No! He told them I was . . .
HOME IN BED AFTER A LATE NIGHT! THAT I’M “A HEAVY SLEEPER!”
Yes, I know it’s true, but come on! I didn’t even hear the phone ring until 12:45. Help me out here!
This new dentist looks like he should have his own show on VH-1 or Bravo or maybe even MTV. When he comes at me from above it’s kinda dreamy. This is potentially the answer for all dental phobics. The fantasy gets a little fucked up when his assistant appears out of the corner of my eye with a big plastic face mask, what could be a freaky S&M prop. Other than that . . .
Even with his intimidating good looks, I say stupid things because I figure
WTF? It’s a short life!
I told him the only thing more embarrassing than having him in my mouth is having my proctologist in my ass. Really and truly, though, I’m not sure that’s accurate. I hate my teeth. In general I’m pretty grossed out by (1) saliva, (2) bad breath, (3) spitting, and (4) mouth germs. Really, ALL OF IT! The whole french kissing thing is over-rated when you put it under a microscope. It’s the catalyst for a freakish acid trip, combine enough tongue, tartar and gingivitis and I could jump out a fucking window.
On the other hand, I’ve never been up close and personal with my own rectum. Don’t they all look pretty much alike? I mean, some chicks have GREAT freaking teeth! There is no f’ing way their butt holes are somehow spectacular. I simply refuse to believe it. Don’t forget, I’ve had a succcessful hemorrhoidectomy. My ass is quite up to par, thank you very much.
I couldn’t even allow him to give me nitrous oxide when he ripped a 30-year old cap out of my face with a crowbar because I remember being completely inappropriate the single time I had the stuff. And the oral surgeon wasn’t even attractive! I had such an urge to reach out and touch.
If I went with the gas I would really do it this time.
Pathetic!
* * * * *
Friday I had a regular doctor’s appointment at 2 p.m., one of the least favorite things I ever force myself to do, even though I absolutely adore the negative, unhappy, miserable fat man who told me yesterday he thinks maybe he should start smoking dope to deal with the stupid people surrounding him. Yes, that’s my doc.
I’ve stopped going to the gynecologist because I can, there are no prescriptions to fill. But my general practitioner is a different story. I tried to stop that too, but someone mentioned if you don’t continue taking thyroid medication you can drop dead.
Oh bother!
The highlight was peeing in a cup. Normally I don’t have to do this, but I guess the whole sugar testing/diabetic thing is supposed to be taken seriously. I couldn’t even figure out the mechanics of what I was to do, so I had to ask for help. “Where are the bottles? What do you want me to do? Where should I put it?” So embarrassing.
I managed to pee all over my hand and began laughing out loud behind the closed door. Here I have my hand in the toilet trying to catch the flow, I can’t bear the idea that my skin might actually touch the porcelain, and so of course it does. I wash my hands like an OCD wackjob. Then I notice the pen I’m supposed to use to write my name on the outside of the bottle. It has a paper flag attached about 5 inches wide, with the word P-E-N scrawled on it.
Seriously, I’m supposed to TOUCH THAT THING? How many other people peed in cups and chose to use the pen BEFORE washing their hands? I want to puke!
How is it that doctor’s offices tend to be such petri dishes, something so clear to me but evidently not to the medical personnel working in them? It’s like the toys in the waiting room! When my kids went to touch those things I’d scream with the intensity of a woman watching her toddler stick her finger in the butt-hole of a mangy kitty-cat at the park.
I’d taken a Xanax before the appointment and it gave me the ability to use that pee-wadden pen, then wash my hands once again before I used my sleeve to twist the door handle and escape my nightmare.
* * * * *
So how was your day?
I’m So Surprised When People Allow Me Near Their Children
March 19, 2010
Recently we joined a co-op. Families gather once a week from 9-3. Unlike myself, the proactive, responsible mothers choose a topic in which they have some level of expertise, a subject both educational & entertaining. Then they teach a class and “cooperatively” share their knowledge. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work. (Two families have already dropped out, leaving people in the lurch a bit.)
My position? I’m on the cleaning crew.
A smattering of the folks involved include: a multi-talented polymer clay artist, an attorney, a ridiculously fit & flexible yoga master, an amazingly down to earth woman who earned her doctorate working on an AIDS vaccine, and a breast-feeding guidance counselor (who was actually Roxanne’s first wedding client after her internet-ordination as a minister). I so completely love it when I’ve pigeon-holed someone as a regular moron & then discover they’re not, in the process confirming I truly am a jackass.
Even in my position sterilizing the nursery I must fight the devilish urge to shirk my duties. Who would ever know if I really bleached the fingerprints & spit off tiny toys
. . . . or not?
My 12-year old’s courseload is on the heavy side: Art, Yoga, Cooking (vegetarian cuisine which disgusts her to a place where I believe she wants to bring contraband beef jerky in her pockets and gnaw on pork chops during breaks), Lunch & Science.
I am a horrible person.
I do not kid myself, my awareness continues to grow in leaps and bounds. I have oodles of knowledge about things of no importance (pop culture, obscure spellings, bizarre news items), and practically none in intellectual pursuits (mention Shakespeare or another haughty author held in high regard by academicians & my eyes roll to the back of my head. However, I read everything Truman Capote ever wrote & would be happy to lead a discourse on ”In Cold Blood.”)
Most of all my lazy & belligerent attitude spells disaster. “Commitment phobic” downplays what happens once I’m locked into even the things I WANT to do. The 9 a.m. arrival time is nearly equivalent to asking me to snake your toilet or re-attach a severed limb. My students would eventually be found playing near double yellow lines or hanging in the tops of trees.
After years of fighting my own nature, I no longer volunteer to jump from cliffs or corral children whose parents may be standing nearby. I have control issues that flash like the lights on a patrol car and the standard for reasonable behavior falls across such an enormous continuum.
I am reminded of hated classmates when a child believes they are more adorable, intellectually gifted &/or worthy of special treatment than all others, as no doubt convinced by a self-absorbed mother. Even worse is when the aforementioned parent is present & ignores behavior that would have been included in the script for “Problem Child” if only the writers had better imagination.
Coming from a dysfunctional wack-a-doodle family, it seems I have what some consider a heavy hand, unreachable standards, & ridiculous expectations. Like I want the kids to decline from eating boogers (no matter how tasty or protein deprived) & never, ever, emit a high-pitched scream without accompaniment of a rodent or splintered bone (spiders are not rodents & gleeful best friends do not have pediatric orthopedic surgeons). I’ll agree, my margin for error is slim.
* * * * *
But occasionally the cosmos grabs your groin, twists and giggles. At 11 p.m. last night I heard the voice message: “We need you to teach the “Numbers” class for 3-5 year olds. No one else can do it.” I was the only slacker with flexibility in my schedule even though “assisting” this week with “Letters” and “Poetry.” My lackluster motivation has been completely ignored.
I never went to bed. It was the only way to assure gremlins could not disconnect my weak link to punctuality. The perfect combination: A hopped-up nutjob with a class full of moldable minds.
Upon arrival I pulled out the items I brought for my curriculum. Two “friends” began to laugh. “Pam, they’re 3!”
Okay, so I tempered my expectations once I noticed the adorable little chick with her finger in her nose to the knuckle. I wanted to heave when I remembered the affection small children have for sharing their own germs. But more than half the class looked like they’d stepped out of a Mary Poppins movie: perfect hair bows, striped knit dresses & bright tights. My favorite pattern contained wiener dogs wearing sweaters. I could not fight the cuteness quotient.
It was fun & it was exhausting. A captive & appreciative audience is the stuff of my dreams (mostly prison scenarios with tremendously grateful muscle-bound bald men).
I could have told these kids they were frogs and made them hop. Actually, I did make them hop. Does it get better than that? Oh, it does. They laughed at my jokes, the way my 24-year old used to when he was a tiny little thing who believed my lies & distortions.
They agreed that it’s not a good thing when your name is “Pam” and it rhymes with “ham.”
When we went around the table telling our names and ages, then counting and shouting it loud and proud, Besamela claimed she was eight. We took it for granted she was telling the truth, even as her grandmother in the corner sputtered something about the veracity of her answer. When I asked the class which cost more, sneakers or a laptop computer, it came to a 50/50 split decision. No one asked for the correct answer, so I didn’t give them one.
At one point Dominic appeared a bit annoyed with the goofballs. As an oldest child myself I could completely identify with his frustrations. Emily’s little sister, Abbie, had trouble with her scissors but was happy after chopping up 30 paper towels I held taught while dodging her shaky weapon.
If only I used that much patience when dealing with my own kids more often.
In a stroke of genius I’d thrown the tape measure in my bag as I ran out the garage door. These excitable little doe-eyed moppets wanted their height measured, along with their hair and their eye sockets. We measured feet and fingers and shoulders. Could I do it twice?
It escapes me how belly buttons became part of the mix (mostly 1-1.5 inches).
Most importantly, all children were alive and accounted for at the end of the day. To my own amazement I didn’t swear a single time, not even at their mothers.
Even as a girl of 9 I recognized my own natural proclivities. I have a snapshot memory of standing at our back door, gazing outside, thinking “I want to be good, I do God, but being bad is so much more fun.” How did I get that idea in my warped little head? What bad things had I done that gave me so much joy? I know I didn’t begin masturbating until 10 or 11, hadn’t yet become a binge eater, didn’t even know how to play craps.
I was never brave enough to be openly defiant or obviously wicked because I was way too afraid of (1) my mother, (2) getting punched in the face and/or (3) going to prison. I stayed with the only other option available, sly and sneaky. It’s unsatisfying compared with an in your face “Fuck you!” but still beats being a kiss ass.
My brother Scott once told my mom, “Say ‘when!’” as he poured her a glass of milk. She didn’t say it. He kept going as it hit the floor and probably her feet. As far as I was concerned, his balls were a gargantuan work of art and I wanted to bow to their mastery.
It’s possible that this is the event which pushed me to touch my boyfriend Richard’s testicles when I was 12, as we made out in the park across from the swimming pool. I even named them. I wouldn’t clean out a drain to save my own life until age 35 cause it was just too gross, but I would touch hairy nuts because I so totally wished I had a humongous pair.
For the most part I’m still a sneaky bitch. I want people to like me, such an annoying trait. Makes no sense, convincing other people that I’m milk white, vanilla, sweetness and light, when the peeps who prefer such tastes are not even the kind I like! As I get older and the duct tape on my alter ego’s lips wears thin, the more my true self pops up unexpectedly. I’ve muzzled the wrong voice, nearly forgotten how to be completely honest.
The most dangerous time of all for my wimpy fake front is when I’m writing. I’m so fucking brave when face to face confrontation is just a conceptual problem facing future me.
Letters to the editor were my first fire bombs. Standing on the school playground or sitting in a seat at a town council meeting, no doubt my lips held a goofy grin that begged to be under-estimated. When my concerns were ignored or blown off I started writing letters. I cannot exaggerate the power available to anyone willing to say the truth out loud. God, does it ever piss people off.
* * * * *
Since I met my husband’s family, particularly his sister and her daughters, I’ve been aware that they would not be impressed with (1) my history, (2) my thought processes, (3) my refusal to behave like a proper wife, (4) my unorthodox parenting practices, (5) my enthusiastic use of foul language, or (6) my love of all things inappopriate. None of that mattered when we saw them only 3 or 4 days a year.
I would yammer on ceaselessly, entertaining their mostly silent potato faces with endless nonsensical tales, curbing any potentially controversial or revealing subject material. From all outward appearance, they loved me. The girls are now grown and each has an infant son, the youngest is pregnant with #2. Both now live in New Mexico.
Daughter #1 has been a focus over the past decade, ranging from her perfect high school graduation, on to her perfect college career, her perfect job, her perfect wedding (that we were not invited to because it was held atop a mountain or some shit), and now her perfect child. Daughter #2 has taken mostly a backseat, but her husband (#2) is also maddeningly wonderful, her life beyond magical and her son a blonde baby Jesus.
I pride myself on being able to see the good in everyone. I would, however, prefer to seek it out than have it shoved down my throat.
* * * * *
Then came ~you might have guessed~ Facebook: the daily updates, the status lines, the multiple mother/daughter interactions put forth for the world to suckle that sickly sweet syrup straight from Aunt Jemima’s teat.
Along with my attraction to negativity is an aversion to enthusiastic, energetic, happy motherfuckers. I wish upon these poor, naive fools just enough pain and misery that they may have a more realistic view of the world.
They remind me of girls I went to high school with, girls whose mothers did their hair and said “I love you, honey.” The same girls with fathers who would one day walk them down the aisle, look lovingly into their eyes during the father/daughter dance and then leave them a fat inheritance. Of course the bitches were smiling toothy grins like crackheads with a huge hidden stash!
The perfect storm: positive peeps who spout bullshit & a written form of communication. All this time I’ve presented such a nice, happy front, like I’m living with the seven dwarves. Then with just a few comments I expose myself as the bitch bringing the apple to Snow White.
It’s not even entirely me, it’s mostly them. Consider a recent status line from Sister #1, who holds a master’s degree in geology:
“Dream job is coming up with the names for paint colors… What’s yours?”
And, God so help me it’s true, this was one of the responses:
“Following birds around in the forest all day to find out what they do in their spare time.”
And this (please note the affected spelling of ‘shoppe’):
“Owning a dog shoppe and leading doggy day hikes in the mountains. 
“
Commercial break necessary as I beat my head into the nearest wall in an attempt to empty my mind of these hideous images of goodness and light. I mean, I wouldn’t even lead children on hikes unless it was to a candy store and they all had money in their pockets and promised to share it with me and the SHOPPE was down the block, a flat block with no hills.
Followed by this entry:
“. . . is puzzled. N. took 2 90-minute naps today, with hardly a wimper going down or waking up (the norm is 2 60-minute naps with a few minutes of crying on either end). Watch out everyone, I think the world may be coming to an end! =)”
And after months of restrained silence, my response (note false tone of sweetness & insincere use of ‘honey’:
“Oh honey, you take this stuff so seriously. I never could have told you in a single day what nap either kid took or for how long or possibly even where, although usually it was in my lap. “Schedule” is such an evil, evil word! So is “normal.” Eeeeyuch!”
Which initiated this obnoxious response:
“Aunt Pam – Fortunately, N. is MY child when it comes to scheduling and being organized… as much as any toddler is on a “schedule”, N. is! =) When he takes his 60-minute naps… they last 60 minutes plus/minus 2 minutes (literally, you could set your watch by it, it was amazing!).”
Oh no, she didn’t really say that did she? Oh, yes, she did. So my alter ego got involved and increased the smart ass factor (with an LOL to keep it breezy):
“LOL – Are there any graphs involved in all of this? A sun dial perhaps?”
And that’s when she came out with the fact that she’s clinically insane:
“Oh, there will be — graphs for sure!! (I’m an excel addict, any excuse I can use to organize my life in excel… right now I track exercise and how much water I drink in excel!)”
* * * * *
At about the same time her sister was writing this:
“I laid B. down an hour and 1/2 earlier than normal b/c I need him to wake up sooner today and he went right to bed!! He makes being a mom too easy (sometimes anyway!!)- Im super scared for the new baby though…”
You might be wondering, as I did, what is she scared about? Well, she’s afraid this new one might be BAD. The brilliant “Ashley,” who may be an expert on Dr. Phil (my educated guess) said:
“Just like the saying behind a good man is a good woman, well behind a good child is a good mommy!!! and I totally believe that!”
Michele, who gets her parenting tips from Oprah, agrees:
“i also agree with ashley. V. is the most laid back kid ever….its all about how you parent!”
First, let me say I would like to take a horse whip after that fucking Ashley, who dare use the “behind a good man is a good woman” line. Reading it again gives me convulsions.
It was all going along so obnoxiously until the thread completely died when I mentioned:
“HAHAHAHA . . . I am hysterical over the people who think it’s all about how you parent. That’s so funny! I know wonderful moms who got kids with a variety of fantastical personalities, some who jump from high places and shave their heads and can get into things better than any locksmith.”
Hey, don’t judge me! I left out my sister-in-law whose daughter has her master’s in education and whose son spent time in Rikers Island and beats his pitbull on purpose to make it meaner.
I think my take on pre-natal vitamins, which were making her “SUPER SICK with HORRIBLE HEADACHES,” bothered them more. (Are you fucking kidding me? Why not add flecks of rat poison to your hot cereal?)
After 12 replies I wrote the following and again was the last to jump in on the subject:
“I would never take anything that made me sick . . . but then I’m a baby like that. And a brat. I’m pretty sure they gave them to me with Rachel and I never took’em. Yeah, I know, practically child abuse, right? She might have weighed 16 pounds instead of just 10’11. She is a little slow with the multiplication tables though, but I figure she can always be a pole dancer. YES, I’m going to leave that line there. I’m in the middle of a midlife crisis and I’m going to start acting like a 70 year old woman who eats pickles in the street and wears purple and farts in the grocery store and blames the person next to her.”
Can you imagine not responding to such a heartfelt reply?
Meanwhile, I’m wasting my insight on a person who would post this bullshit:
“ATTENTION!!!!!!! DO NOT JOIN THE GROUP CURRENTLY ON FACEBOOK WITH THE TITLE “BECOMING A FATHER OR MOTHER WAS THE GREATEST GIFT OF MY LIFE!” THIS IS A GROUP CREATED BY PEDOPHILES WHOSE AIM IS TO ACCESS YOUR PHOTOS OF YOUR CHILDERN (sic)!!! PLEASE ROTATE THIS POST TO ALL YOUR FRIENDS ON FACEBOOK!!!!!!!!”
Which got the reply: “Great catch on that one, K.”
I need to return to my home planet as quickly as possible.
It’s true, my laugh can be obnoxious as hell, a hooting kind of cackle that’s embarrassing as shit if I hear a recording of my own voice. However, my daughter seems to think it emanates only from a desire to personally attack her, as if I’m wielding a comedic weapon, trying to ruin her life with my joy.
In the car tonight she lay back, turned on her side and covered her ears as if they were bleeding. It’s just ridiculous.
Plus, it wasn’t my fault.
I was on the cell talking to my brother Scott. He was driving an 18-wheeler and regaling me with familial tales from the Kentucky front. One story after another, the amusement and disbelief continued to build.
It wasn’t enough that my mother’s third husband drove his pick-up truck into the ditch of their dry driveway once last week and blamed it on his dog. Three days later he drove it into the ditch on the opposite side of the same driveway, a straight 200-yard path he’s maneuvered daily for 20 years. A tow truck had to be called to pull him out. Twice. (No further explanation available.)
Would anyone really take a riding lawnmower for repair, pay a large amount of cash for the job, then allow it to fall onto the highway while transporting it home, more messed up than before you started? Yes.
* * * * *
I was already laughing too loudly for Rachel’s taste when Scott informed me he’d been thinking and had the perfect answer for perking up my marriage . . .
taking a gourmet cooking class with my husband.
It was then that I erupted into the kind of hee-haw that sends cats running for cover & makes my daughter long for a place of her own.
For some background, both Scott and this guy I’m married to are into cooking (they don’t have much choice cause nobody’s doing it for them). Scott has a classier, more refined taste. He was making a Cornish Hen just for himself the last time we discussed one of his menus. Let me repeat, there were no guests invited. He’d been off the road for 3 weeks and was moving in the general direction of metrosexuality, even while living in such serious backwoods that he does not get cell phone reception or an internet connection from home.
I have never eaten a tiny bird with a special name, never considered buying it or even investigating such a purchase. Scott grew up eating the same 7 meals I did, so I have no idea what happened.
Here in New Jersey, Hamburger Helper Lasagna (with added corn) would regularly be on the stove if I didn’t put my foot down. My extended Italian relatives would disown me. I mean, they know I’m no cook but there are lines that cannot be crossed.
Still, last week our household shopper brought home bologna and white bread. He can’t seem to help himself. He says I am haughty for insisting on serving chicken caesar salad or a nice pasta fagiole when people come over, claiming hot dogs and Ruffles are the perfect party menu.
If potato chips, ketchup or a can of ridiculously soft mixed vegetables can be added to the mix, the man who lives in my house becomes nostalgic for his Pennsylvanian youth. That’s the type of recipe he’d copy off his browser while sitting behind the Chief’s desk, wearing his police uniform & a sidearm. (I’m desperate to ticket the whole freaking world but don’t have the power; he’s searching dinners that use Campbell’s soup as a binder.)
In the past six months or so I have cooked next to nothing. It’s one more thing I’ve just given up on completely. So the idea that I would go to a gourmet cooking class is snort worthy. The only possible purpose of such a thing would be to find my husband a gay boyfriend. I can only imagine how happy a nice guy might make him. I’m not being a bigot here, I totally support gay marriage AND prostate massage.
But seriously, is there really a reason for ME to go to the class? It seems that having a wife in attendance would only slow the courting process.
Especially because all the gourmet peeps would HATE me so completely. My eating habits are pretty much that of an unhealthy 9-year old boy. Do not put mushrooms on my plate or I must tell you their texture makes me think of penis, something you’re not supposed to bite. Tomatoes make me gag, even the seeds left behind after picking out most of their pulp.
Most vegetables sit along side the edge of my plate, ixnay on the zucchini, cucumber, cauliflower, & broccoli. I don’t know anyone else who doesn’t eat watermelon, cantaloupe, peaches, nectarines, capers or eggplant. I would no more eat sushi than take a bite out of a beached porpoise. Meat with the slightest hint of pink is raw, I see no difference between bloody prime rib and a tampon.
Do I sound like a fucking gourmet to YOU?
I understand his point. Scott thought maybe it would give R. and I something to talk about. I think it would just be easier for Scott to call every Sunday and he and R. could discuss culinary technique and anal sex.
* * * * *
My poor daughter. The laughter only increased. I told Scott how Rachel was horrified by the sound of my voice, that she hates it so much when I laugh, when I’m happy, when I make a gleeful utterance. He wanted me to ask her if she was crying, like she did when he drove us on a winding road through the Kentucky wilds at a rather fast rate of speed, crossing over the yellow line on more than one occasion. So I asked her.
She screamed, “NO!”
Now that I think about it, she was pretty loud, too. But if I’d drawn myself up into the fetal position and held my head the car would have left the road and then I couldn’t make fun of my step-father.
Scott then did me in completely. In his deep voice with the drawling southern accent he managed to somehow remain serious as he said,
“Yeah, remember how awful that was when our parents laughed and laughed? Oh man, I’d go up to my bedroom just to get away from the noise of them laughing so damned loud. Man, it was terrible.”
The single funniest thing I have ever heard, made perfect with his quick, dry delivery.
The idea of his father or my mother happily annoying us with laughter was so ludicrous it took my breath away. I mean Mom might wickedly chuckle after making someone so sufficiently miserable it momentarily satisfied her sadistic urges. Scott’s dad would let out a sigh of relieved joy when Mom went away overnight for the State Bowling Tournament.
But happiness instead of angry screaming expletives and/or an incredibly high misery quotient plus tears?
No fucking way!
* * * * *
I still have a smile on my face as I think how lucky I am to have him in my life. One single person who understands your perspective on the world makes everything so much better.
Follow Your Heart, Aunt Rose &/or Home Alone – Edition 49
December 7, 2009
This entry and certain photos contained within are potentially offensive
& inappropriate for minors and/or the workplace.
For the last two plus months my pseudo sister-in-law Rose has been staying in my son’s basement bedroom (the size of a small apartment with queen-sized bed, wall-sized flat screen & laptop with wireless internet). Although in the past decade she once lived in a motel paid for by the State of NJ, next door to the schizophrenic owner of a dog that bit her, she still managed to complain incessantly about a musty odor that my ridiculously sensitive nose cannot smell.
She is my son’s aunt, his deceased father’s oldest sister, the craziest chick I’ve ever known. She has no connection to my current husband or daughter (other than driving them nuts & assisting them in creating an unbreakable bond of misery that instigates great eye rolling & whispered complaints). I have known her for 25 years & love her like the sister you think might have been secretly adopted.
After she had COMPLETELY demolished the room with such an incredible amount of pure crap that it seemed to have exploded from a magician’s trunk (she has a touch of the hoarder) we sent a cell phone picture of his room to Bobby in California. From 3,000 miles he seemed almost excited, so thorougly entertained he was by the chaos & unease I’d brought into our little world.
How do I possibly describe her? A heart the size of Montana and a mouth larger than Alaska. I am so completely entertained & tortured by both. Following her around, I stay two steps back to (1) jump up & down with glee at her unbelievable antics, talking to total strangers & saying outrageous shit and (2) cover my face & pretend I don’t know her as I groan out loud, twisting with a reflective shame that can’t handle it at all.
As the oldest of 8 children, mommy’s helper from the age of two, she is a worker bee, she makes things happen. She is a f*cking force of nature. However, supposedly her heart was broken when I used those words to describe her after 48 hours in our house. This from a woman who once walked in and yelled, “Pam, you’re pregnant! I had no idea!” as a comedic way of mocking my recent weight gain.
She talks . . . A LOT. Sometimes it’s more entertaining than others.
* * * * *
I moved to North Carolina at her urging in 1985, made a cross country move with a 3 month old and her sick brother. It was monumentally stupid. We were there a week when she realized there was no way she could fulfill the promises of help made to entice our nightmare into hell. It didn’t seem to really phase her as she told me, “Yeah, well.”
Along those same lines were a few other episodes in our bizarre decades long connection. She once cut my toddler son’s hair while I was at work, did not call and ask if it was okay, thought it was ridiculous when I lost my mind. (I can’t really explain why this is equal to felony assault, but IT IS.)
She invited her grandmother to NC, my son’s great-grandmother & someone I’d never met, then became annoyed with the woman & left her at my house for 3 days without even a phone call. At that point her brother was already deceased & I was on shaky ground. It didn’t sit well when I called to my toddler and asked, “Do you want a slice of cheese?” & got the reply “Sure!” from a shaky 80-year old. It was not a good time for extra care duties.
After 72 hours Rose came by to take advantage of our community pool. When I got angry she locked herself in her car & wouldn’t discuss the situation. In a burst of maturity I kicked her car & screamed like a maniac. She has seen me at my worst and accepts me as I am, something I can’t say about many people on planet earth. She really, really knows me, far better than my own family. It’s not always an impressive sight to behold.
Her life has always been chaotic, beginning with a 25-year marriage to an alcoholic, but recently she’s been living with a 71-year old Italian who fancies himself Tommy Soprano. She left twice, he begged her to come back, it’s a rollercoaster. When they hit bottom again at the end of September she told me a few specifics. We hadn’t really spoken in months, yet my reply was, “We’re coming to get you.”
For more than 2 years I’d controlled my impulse to say or do such a thing. His mocking her appearance was the last straw. He’d done worse & I’m not sure what instigated those unthinkable words escaping my mouth. (It happened once before, more than 10 years ago, when I invited the school librarian and her two daughters into our home for a month. We later found out she’d stayed in someone else’s home for over a YEAR.)
I should mention Rose has FOUR SISTERS, none of whom have stepped up, who from my perspective have let her down beyond belief.
Did I mention she can be a little difficult?
(Or that they’re heartless bitches?)
In the mean time, while nearly homeless, she’s still spending money on food & cigarette deliveries to her parents, giving her mother money for unpaid bills when she calls crying. At least she was until her father chased her out of their senior residence with a skillet because she wasn’t willing to give him the cigarettes he saw in her purse.
This insanity is what my son’s father described as utter nirvana, a family equal only to royalty. I believed him.
* * * * *
Surprisingly, after a rough start, I really liked having her here. My daughter & her father did not. He went along with it, actually went with me to move her things, due to the domestic violence element &/or because he can’t bear confrontation or disagreement with me. Rachel chose to stay in the car, not carrying a single bag of crap down the three flights of stairs.
That first night, sitting in our den, this child of mine asked, “How do you spell ‘psycho?’”
Rose asked her, “Do you think I don’t know you’re talking about me?” Rachel blushed & snickered. It didn’t get better. The following day Rose grabbed her in a hug and whispered, “I’ll kill you, ya little bastard!”, then released her with a laugh & said, “You know I’m just joking!” Rachel took a baseball bat to bed that night, ever the drama queen, although I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.
Obviously we would have stepped in if we didn’t think the girl totally deserved it. She was unwilling to be civil, the expressions on her face mind boggling in their vehemence toward a 59-year old guest. Time and time again she tried to convince me that Rose was smoking in the house as a way to get rid of her, evidently unaware that I have dog senses when it comes to nicotine. I did wake up one morning in my upstairs bedroom to the smell of incense from two floors below.
To her credit, Rose reacted instantly to any request she make a change, including the incense, flowery perfume & speakerphone conversations below the bedroom door at 3 AM. She completely avoided the TV room. (It was the only way she could keep herself from chattering throughout entire episodes of favorite shows & unheard movies, a relatively unforgivable sin to every single member of this household.) We overlooked the cooking smells in the middle of the night and a crazed drunken message left on the counter, something she didn’t even remember writing.
She’s suffering from shoulder injuries (two years now), takes a good deal of pain medication(s), drinks more booze than she probably should considering that fact. Add in the Sudafed she took multiple doses of daily due to the basement allergy, which made her hyper as hell. No doubt she’s got Attention Deficit Disorder to begin with, as bad as any out of control grammar school boy.
* * * * *
She was the perfect accompaniment to the gay bar, minus a few nerve-wracking situations.
Once I went to the car and got this text: “In bathroom, fight with tranny.” I don’t know anyone else who would ever send me just such combination of words. She met people, got phone numbers & used them! After telling us about going to this same place previously with her sister
and pushing her into the pool with both cell phone & flip-flops,
which then got stuck in the filter and had to be retrieved by an employee, we carefully avoided standing near the water. Now remember, we’re talking about women in their 50′s, late 40′s max at the time. Both are really attractive, you would not guess their ages accurately, even minus the behavior factor. This is me on the left, you’ll have to guess which of the other two is Rose and which is really a man. Seriously, would you guess anyone in this picture is 59?
The first night she came along we immediately lost her. Eventually I realized she was the woman on stage doing a spectacularly nasty humping move with a cute young man. Since then not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES I have watched her dance with such enthusiasm & creativity that she accidentally ended up on the filthy floor.
BOOM!
On Halloween I headed for the stage once again to see the costume contest. There stood Rose with a husky man, his arm wrapped around her tightly, blonde hair cascading down his broad sweaty shoulders. He was wearing gloves & a cute skirt with tights.
We’ve since learned John’s preferred name is Tiffany, that he has Asperger’s & believes he lived previous lifetimes as (1) a German SS officer and (2) an extra-terrestrial on a planet where people morphed from bears instead of monkeys. He was thrilled I’d done a past life regression myself once. He desperately wants to make me over. I’m not glam enough for his taste. Yeah, no shit.
During our last conversation at the bar he used a vice grip to hold my attention. His spiked wrist band was causing me discomfort, as was the fine mist of saliva he sprayed me with more than once. His breath was horrendous. When I mentioned it to Rose in the car she said, “Oh God, I told him he smelled like a gremlin as soon as I walked in the door! Why didn’t you say something?!”
This is why I love her no matter what.
Can you believe it? He later told Rose he thinks I have Asperger’s, too, because of my ability to concentrate on his words so completely.
It’s not fucking Asperger’s, it’s called growing up in the midwest. It’s having ridiculous manners, non-existent boundaries, and the concern that people like me to such a ridiculous extent that I don’t even want to offend some crazy dude in a dress. (As I write this I want to puke.)
* * * * *
But that’s not even my favorite story. She met another dude who took a liking to her, one who dresses like a man. He’d rented a room in the attached hotel so he could avoid driving home drunk. Evidently ATTORNEYS are very careful about DWI’s. She had no interest in him as a date, but he was perfectly acceptable as long as he kept buying her drinks. When I found them she already knew his life story.
He was quite inebriated & got thrown off the dance floor for unzipping and allowing the ventriloquist’s dummy in his pants to take a peek around. As the bouncer escorted him out of the room, Rose’s new pal yelled out his room number & requested after hours party-goers.
She felt bad he’d been forced upstairs before closing time (by just 5 minutes) & immediately began assembling a ragtag group of young people to accompany her to his room. (Her fantastic sales skills are transferable to any occasion.) I was laughing so hard I was crying. Next I knew, I was standing in an elevator & Rose was nowhere to be seen. I was surrounded by what could only be described as a group meant for casting in the next John Waters film (if he hadn’t died recently): men who look like women, women who look like men, varied colors of the rainbow & me (prior pale PTO secretary).
I felt a moment of panic as I reconsidered my decision-making abilities & thought about what the fuck I was doing.
These things don’t happen when I go places with Roxanne.
When the doors to the elevator opened Rose had already arrived via the stairs. She began rapping on the door as the diverse crew stood around, excited to see what was behind curtain #1. They had no idea what prize awaited. When a 300-plus pound man opened the door naked & excited there was a screaming chorus of
“OH MY GOD!” and “OH FUCK NO!”
and an avalanche of 20-somethings running for the exit signs.
Rose couldn’t believe they were so disappointingly appearance-oriented, yet she would no more go out with this guy than she would date a woman. She probably would have been willing to enter the room if I had even given a HINT I might spend time in that potentially bedbug-infested cave with a man carrying a minimum of 30 pounds of impacted feces in his colon.
It wasn’t happening.
* * * * *
I know you’ll be surprised to hear this, but she did a few things that left us nervous about leaving her in the house alone for long periods. She lit candles & left them burning, forgot to lock doors. So when a trip to Florida was planned back in October it was with the presumption Rose would be gone. Otherwise, it was agreed that I would stay home. I am not a huge fan of heat, pavement, traffic, or sheets previously used by multiple patrons, so it wasn’t like I was denying myself some fantabulous pleasure-filled treat.
I didn’t care for her story about paying for car repairs with Vicodin (the whole police thing). So when I woke up Wednesday & the car dude was in our driveway using spray paint I was not happy. She went to her son’s for Thanksgiving weekend and upon return mentioned the boyfriend had called. It didn’t seem like a big deal until she left the house Tuesday on a date & never came back, for practical purposes disappearing from our lives in a matter of 12 hours. I did call to make sure she was alive.
Just the day before my husband had actually had his first real conversation with her & advised he believed it was a serious situation worthy of a restraining order. When she almost immediately chose to do the opposite it really pissed him off, not an easy thing to do. More than once I suggested she come back & simply date the guy until receiving reassurance that things were really better. She would hear nothing of the sort, not surprising since when she’s with him her personality undergoes a radical change that’s all about meeting his extensive needs.
She’d actually been surprised at how much she came to enjoy living in our house, the most low-key environment she’d ever experienced, my husband different than any other man she’s ever known. No anger, no raised voices, no insistence that things be done a certain way in a specific time-frame.
But Rachel’s advice? “I think we should tell her to follow her heart! CACKLE-CACKLE-CACKLE!”
* * * * *
The trip was set for Friday. Rose’s STUFF (3,000 small items and a busted up car bumper) is still in our house. She also still has a key, thank God, or I would have had to get in the car and head south. Instead, the girl and her father are staying in a 2-bedroom suite with 3 TV’s, 2 bathrooms and a kitchen, while I am home alone in New Jersey.
I am incredulous over what it feels like to be completely alone, loving it beyond my possible imagination. Now I remember why people like living alone, choose to have no children and no spouse. The rabbit in a hutch outside is a little more commitment than I’d choose at this moment.
It seems that even though I knew my daughter’s attitude and presence had an effect on me, I was unaware of the extent to which it changes everything. As a pre-teen she does not like going anywhere, does not want to do anything I want to do, and is quite verbal with her complaints. It’s like having an anchor around my neck. I love her dearly but the experience of being on my own is so freeing.
My husband is another story. When we are apart he tends to get a whiny tone to his voice that indicates he doesn’t like being alone. Fuck me. He has been instructed on how to deal with me but refuses to listen. “Ignore me, don’t call me. Be mean.” He can’t do it. This will be his downfall, the refusal to take my advice.
On the other hand, he is the dreamiest father you could imagine. She will have a better time alone with him than if I were there. He is more outgoing, comes up with his own ideas to have fun & even sings in the car in my absence.
WTF?
They had not yet been there 4 hours when he asked about finding a cheap ticket and flying me down for the week (they drove). Meanwhile, I’d already been to a book sale, had lunch with Roxanne & watched “Slumdog Millionaire” until 5 AM. What do you think my answer was to the idea of getting on a plane during a winter storm & leaving behind this opportunity to breathe on my own?
You all know me so well.
The Great Adventure
July 10, 2009
As mentioned in tonight’s prior post, we went to see Raven Symone in concert at Great Adventure with the “new friends” I’ve named “Control Freak and DD.” Well, sometimes it’s so much more ridiculous than you even expect.
The mother seemed entirely sane this evening, in comparison with her daughter. The first thing her girl said to mine upon arrival was, “I didn’t think your house would be this big.” The mother noticed the Christmas tree, still up in July, and didn’t blink an eye. The woman impresses me in unusual ways.
Then I made the fatal error and got in her car to drive to Great Adventure. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, and when she pulled out her handicapped placard in the crowded parking lot my face broke into a grin.
We went inside. They rode the Teacups. The other girl begged and wheedled to do the log flume. (We have season passes and they do not.) Her life was going to be over if she didn’t do the log flume. The sign at the back of the line said “120 MINUTES FROM HERE.” My daughter and I acquiesced because I am a jackass. I find myself regularly doing things for other people’s children in situations where I would laugh at my own. Her mother sat comfortably on a bench talking with another woman, a stranger, while we stood in line with 500 other people waiting to spend 90 seconds in a plastic log. The girl had the nerve to ask me several times, “Can’t we cut the line?” I told her we would either be thrown out of the park or punched in the face and she finally shut up.
I hadn’t been in a crowd like this in a while. It’s an art to avoid such large groups of people and I’ve become a master. People are dirty, nasty, disgusting. They sneeze, they cough, they sweat. Their arms display gang tattoos. But none of those individuals even came close to being as disgusting as the woman in front of us. She didn’t expose her piggy side until we were about halfway through the 75 minutes. Then she proceeded to hold her 4-year old daughter between her legs & finger her way through the braids at scalp level. There is only ONE REASON I am aware of that causes a human woman to pick at her child’s scalp like a monkey. When she began picking things OUT of the hair and flicking them to the floor my meltdown was in full swing.
I began testing the wind velocity and direction. Ten feet became the minimum I could bear between my group and these disgusting menaces to society. We had another 30 minutes to go. As other patrons stood shoulder to shoulder, the lepers stood out. Suddenly it didn’t matter that another child was with us, as the words “PIG” and “SCUMBAG” and “I HATE PEOPLE SO, SO MUCH” began flying out of my mouth. It’s really not great for my daughter when I get that crazy look in my eyes. She might believe that I can shoot people with my finger or electrocute them with my steely eyed stare, that’s how tense she gets while waiting for me to take one more step toward insanity. The other girl LOVED it. Really, it was the happiest I think she was all evening. And I must say that when she’s happy she’s delightful!
We survived but not before the little buggy girl also SPIT ON THE FLOOR. Seriously, what in the hell is the world coming to? I was truly shocked at the level of hatred I could work up for a pre-schooler.
Finally someone showed up with a Fast Pass and cut the line. The bug people were no longer directly in front of us. Those folks aside, if I get any kind of disease in the next 72-hours I know where it came from.
The girls enjoyed the ride, they screamed, they got wet, they said it was worth it. Whatever! We headed for the concert. The 12-year old we were with is a very unhappy child. I didn’t notice it so much previously, but tonight she was a monster. Nothing made her happy. She pouted and complained for hours. Her mother is either a saint or a monster-maker, perhaps both.
We bought 3 VIP tags for $10 each and headed for the front of the stadium. It was great until she wanted to use my daughter’s camera, then my phone to take photos. When the answer was “No,” the girl ended up sitting back with her mother in the stands as my daughter and I had a blast. At one point she said, “I want to go now.” I told them “Go ahead! My husband will come and get us!” I guess they didn’t think we had any other options and suddenly the girl was trapped in her own web. So she proceeded to sulk for the next 90 minutes.
Fortunately the VIP tags came with bags of Starburst, which they ate while we danced. They both have metabolic problems that are the reason for their weight gain, unrelated to Starbursts in any way, also unrelated to the french fries purchased on the way into the concert.
Did I mention that my daughter told me this girl asked her, “Why don’t you straighten your hair?” Did I mention that? Because nothing could piss me off more than someone trying to convince my kid to make her beautiful curls disappear. No doubt it was out of jealousy, but I don’t care. This lanky-haired little bitch was trying to mess with my kids head in more ways than one.
The worst was after the concert ended. First it seemed okay, the girls rode three different rides, one rollercoaster twice. They were laughing and running and getting red-faced with excitement as I sat talking with the other mother on a bench. As you may remember, she recently had a TIA, which has now been upgraded to a full-blown stroke (no surprise there). She cannot ride rides and her doctor actually has recommended she should use a scooter. She does not because her daughter told her it would be “too embarrassing.” I don’t know what to believe.
The aunt who died last week? She was 91! She was the daughter’s great-great aunt! This is worthy of histrionics on Facebook in an effort to obtain sympathy? It came up that she also cried about something entirely different during the funeral event, actually I believe she said, “I just sobbed.” I was looking at her, trying to imagine her face melting, trying to imagine my discomfort if she should ever do such a thing in my presence. I might run.
The highlight of our conversation was mind-boggling. I asked how her daughter’s appointment with the endocrinologist went. She told me she hated the doctor. The reason she hated the doctor is because she “had no personality” and at one point in their time together the doctor began “squeezing her n*pples.” As she said that statement I felt a buzz of electrical shock flood me, no different than if I tried to pet a horse across an electrified fence. I remember thinking, “Oh my.” I said, “What?” with a dumbfounded spacy sounding voice.
She said, “Oh, she was trying to see if she was lactating! She was trying to see if she could express milk, to find out if they were making milk! Endocrine problems can typically make such things happen! But she just began twisting her n*pples with no warning! I was like, ‘Don’t you think you could have told her in advance you were going to do that?’” She doesn’t plan on returning to that doctor again. It was at that point she mentioned for the 7th or 8th time that her feet were now “covered in blisters.” We had barely walked the length of the park.
But that’s not the bad part. The bad part was that at 10:00 at night this girl became insistent that we go to THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY, three words she repeated a minimum of 27 times as her mother nearly drove off the road in frustration while yelling at her daughter to stop saying “THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY!” This is after I had heard about her desire for MEXICAN FOOD over and over throughout the evening, across the park, in every venue we visited.
When the Mexican food was mentioned at 10:00 at night I said, “I suppose Taco Bell is not your idea of Mexican food?” She went on a tirade regarding fast food restaurants. She, this 12-year old girl, said, “I just want to sit down at a table AND HAVE A NICE MEAL! I HAVEN’T EATEN ALL DAY!” It was as if she were channeling a 60-year old woman. The girl would not stop.
This is where I don’t understand my own behavior. I should have just said, “Take us home.” But there is a part of me who never wants to disappoint. I want people to be happy. This girl had been happy for maybe 30 minutes of the 6 hours we’d been together. We finally found a Ruby Tuesdays open until 11 p.m. She was not satisfied with TGIF, absolutely threw a shit fit, she would not eat there. She would not consider Sonic, which both she and her mother thought would somehow damage their car! I mean I’m making suggestions and the girl is acting like I’m an assistant to the devil. She’s acting as if her palate and taste buds are worthy off an exquisite French vineyard.
So we go into the restaurant and her mother refuses to purchase her first choice, A SIRLOIN at 10:00 on a Thursday night. So what do you think she orders? What does her mother proceed to tell me she orders everywhere they go? You guessed it. MOTHERF*CKING CHICKEN FINGERS.
For the 437th time in 6 hours the girl spoke to me and I said, “WHAT?” She is a mutterer. She talks fast AND she mutters with braces on. I can’t understand a word she says. The other mother asked MY daughter if she was ”in a bad mood.” I think I may have heard her swallow the words, “No, your daughter is just an obnoxious idiot and my mom won’t let me speak!”
At that point I began texting my husband, “Please come pick us up.” I had a horrible fear that when they drove us home they would somehow come into our house and never leave. They would sleep over and the girl would ask me to cook up some quail eggs and escargot for breakfast. She would cut my daughter’s hair off in her sleep, then suggest she’d done her a favor.
My husband tried to call but I wouldn’t answer the phone as it would blow my covert operation. He texted, “Call me.” I text, “NO! PLEASE! I’M BEGGING!”
So my husband, who paid for this magical trip to Great Adventure, took off his slippers and pajama pants. He threw on a pair of sweats and made his way to the car. He did not complain, he did not get angry.
As we sat at the table the waiter asked ”Is that your car out there with the lights on?” We both said, “No.” Meanwhile, I was thinking “Superman has arrived & I’m f*cking Lois Lane.” I didn’t tell her until we were out the door, “Oh, that’s my husband over there! This will be so much more convenient for you.” She couldn’t believe I would do such a thing.
I left actually feeling bad for the woman. We’re supposed to see them again in 76 hours. I’m flabbergasted by that fact. Clearly, part of me feels good when I’m in a situation where I appear all together in comparison. There’s gotta be a better way.
Once again I would like to thank my mother for pummeling my self-esteem into something that resembles a kernel of corn, a dull jelly bean that’s spent some time on the floor.
My TV tells me BEYONCE is partnering with HAMBURGER HELPER
to solve hunger in America.
Life just gets better & better as people keep doing stupid shit.
* * * * *
We attempted to make new friends recently. I belong to a few Yahoo groups for homeschoolers and a woman with a 12-year old put out several messages that she was looking for friends for her daughter, who at varying times was either (1) shy or (2) outgoing or (3) lonely or (4) wonderful beyond belief. I should have known better, oh it was so clear right from the get go.
Finally we met, against my daughter’s best judgment. She’s got plenty of friends and doesn’t care to run humanitarian aid missions at her own expense. However, I always think there’s something wonderful out there waiting for me, just around the bend. To make it less painful for Rachel, we went to the Cheesecake Factory. Her arm can always be bent if enough sugary goodness is heaped upon her.
First of all, the woman had posted pictures of her daughter with various famous people, one of whom I mistakenly thought was who I would be meeting. I was a little intimidated cause the woman was really, really petite and attractive. (This mother has connections from working PR in NYC. The photographed chick was actually a woman who plays in a televised soap opera.) So instead of a beautifully tiny woman I meet a large chick I would have assumed was a transvestite if her daughter wasn’t calling her “Mommy” every few minutes.
To be fair, the lady has all kinds of health problems and has recently been taken by ambulance to the hospital no less than 3 times in the last 6 weeks. This may be why her eyesight misses the make-up line which makes it appear she attaches her head to her body every morning with snap-on tools.
Also, her hair. I mean there are issues. But it’s not all her fault, I mean I hate my hair, too. Yet I find it amazing that she would post on Facebook that she’d used a new hair dye which caused her to be “Staying in bed with my head oozing and bleeding” after an allergic reaction. My gag reflex was activated by that statement and we didn’t see them for a while.
Juxtapose this information with the fact that she supposedly used to be Jon Bon Jovi’s assistant and was engaged to a dude in a famous band that included Brett Michaels, whom she took to the hospital on more than one occasion because he let his diabetes get out of wack.
So how could I help myself? We met a couple more times because, in all honesty, the woman is fascinating. She tells me every detail, which is really what I love. Our girls worked out at a gym together while we sat in the waiting area. During conversation she revealed more than I have ever known about a single human being in my life. It was ALL interesting in a freakish carnival kind of way. (Yes, I realize I am a cruel bitch. I’ve accepted it and moved on.)
(I mean, I am in no way saying that I am normal or beautiful or sane. When we went to the mall together I talked my daughter into having her eyebrows shaped in the middle of the mall by an Indian woman with a string. As she cried and turned red I got in her face and said, “COME ON! YOU CAN DO THIS! YOUR FATHER SERVED IN VIET NAM, FER HEAVEN’S SAKES!”)
This woman’s husband had a work accident and has been in chronic pain for 10 years. His depression was getting on her nerves, so she checked him into a psychiatric clinic, where they gave him an overdose of electric shock treatments (10 in 20 days). He now has no memory and shakes with a kind of palsy. While we were waiting for the girls, he called. This is what I hear from her end of the conversation with this man who caters to her every whim and cleans up her puke and dog shit:
“You fell? Do you think it’s broken? Can you walk on it? Do you think you need to go to the hospital? Do you think you could drive yourself? You’re bleeding? DON’T TELL ME LATER THAT YOU WANT TO GO TO THE ER WHEN I NEED TO GET MY SLEEP! Okay, just go lie down. I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.” (She did not choose to go home and check on him, did not call for an update, and then forgot to get him a take-out meal at dinner. As soon as we did finally arrive, he came out of the garage to show her his bloody hand.)
Her daughter is 12 and growing out of her DD bras. She is also growing hair on her back. They’re going for some type of adrenal work-up to see if she might have congenital issues passed down from Mom. Although she refuses to meet up in groups with other children, so she might make from friends, she was willing to dress up in a hoochie outfit at Hot Topic and stand in the doorway waving at boys. She was able to stand up in the middle of a restaurant and walk up to the manager, saying “We’ve been here 30 minutes and don’t have our appetizers yet!”
She’s a relatively attractive little girl who makes me laugh because she is so incredibly inappropriate in ways that tickle me. Like when we went out to eat at this really cool restaurant where people cook the food at the table for you and others sit really close. She had just learned the word c*cks*cker and kept repeating, louder and louder each time. She got a spot on her shirt and mom tried to clean it up at the table, proceeding to put a hole in her shirt right over the girl’s n*pple area. I mean, you can’t make this sh*t up. They were cackling with laughter and people were staring at us, I’m sure trying to decide why this transvestite was traveling with a 12-year old.
Mom was admitted to the hospital after her sister upset her on Mother’s Day by saying, over and over, “YOU’RE THE BIGGEST MOTHERFUCKER I’VE EVER KNOWN!” It was so upsetting to my new friend that she passed out on the floor. Her sister stepped over her to obtain some items she’d left behind in the kitchen, then went home. My new friend somehow drove 30 minutes home, lay in bed “vomiting profusely everywhere! Charlie had to clean it up, cause I don’t touch that stuff!” Then they called an ambulance.
They have 3 tiny dogs they dote over, but neither female cleans up dog poop, only Daddy. She convinced her mother-in-law to buy her a $3,500 new washer/dryer combo by guilting her over the recent hospitalization. They just bought a new JAGUAR and the daughter posted pics on Facebook.
Here’s the glitch! We were going to go to a mall with them today, then NYC to the wax museum on Monday. I thought it would be a kick. But then she increased her stalking behavior. The woman and her daughter call us over and over and over again. We do not answer. It seems to entice them to call more. Then they read our info on Facebook, see that we’re doing other things, and leave crazy messages like “RACHEL, I HAVE TRIED CALLING YOUR MOM BUT GET NO ANSWER! PLEASE HAVE HER CALL ME!”
I have oppositional defiance disorder, undiagnosed other than by my extremely intelligent friend Roxanne. It has answered many questions for me about my own behavior. If you push me to a wall, I will spit on you. I will climb between your legs to get away, breaking your kneecaps with a hammer in the process. I do NOT like being told what I have to do. Five days before the trip to NYC was going to happen she began leaving me messages about how we HAD to order specific tickets ON-LINE, how we HAD to talk about what train we would take from what station.
People, I do not plan ahead. When I plan ahead I have a quirk in my head that immediately goes, “Oops, changed my mind. Fuck that. What was I thinking? I don’t want to!” I must trick myself into doing things by not thinking about them before I jump up from my recliner and run to the car, revving the engine and flying down the driveway! I cannot have a transvestite mom calling me, writing me, messaging me, bossing me around. I cannot have her crazy freaking daughter — who twice now has gotten us to her home under the pretense of going to see a movie, then upon arrival said, “I don’t really want to see a movie!” in a whiny voice — who has extremely bad chunky highlights — running my life. I don’t CARE that the girl has met both the Jonas Brothers AND the Cheetah Girls. She’s not the boss of me!
So do I (A) Leave them hanging and just disappear or (B) Tell them someone died or (C) Mention my exposure to Swine Flu and express concern that their lives will be jeopardized if in my presence?
Cause, you know, doing things in a mature and civilized manner is kind of out of my realm of possible behavior.
Turning 49 & Fine Tuning My Twisted Religion
June 25, 2009
Every year on June 16th there is a (SCHIZOPHRENIC) part of me that likes the idea of a sash and crown. I have an alter ego who wants people to wave & honk at me from their cars, mouthing: “I KNOW YOU! IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!” This egomaniac wants others to thank me for gracing the planet, to love me with glee in their hearts.
So it’s really f*cking disappointing when none of that ever happens!
To change it up a bit, this year I decided to host my own First Annual Birthday Party. (Hosting people in my home is one of the most stressful things I could ever do to myself). I went with it anyway because this hideous number of 49, so close to 50, has given me the philosophy that I’ll be dead relatively soon (if I live to anything less than 99 I’m over the freaking hump & on the downhill side!)
so I should do EVERYTHING!
To keep it interesting, I brought in a hostess with www.pureromance.com and she demonstrated her wares for entertainment. I’m way more of a prude & far less experienced in this area than my obnoxious mouth would lead you to believe. Thus, I now realize that my husband and I have been living like neanderthals, using things like fingers and toes & Kool-Whip instead of C.rings and Pick.le Pleazers and Strawberry Cheesecake flavored whip.
By the time it was over I was concerned that with some of the more complicated devices my husband & I might get twisted and wrapped up to the point where we’d need to yell for help. (Some implements were more out of a Star Wars re-make by Larry Flynt, rather than anything romantic!)
I was hoping for silly, idiotic nonsense & laughter. At that we succeeded.
* * * * *
I knew there would be people who didn’t show up, people who didn’t even acknowledge the invitation. My quite reasonable solution? Girlfriends who didn’t appear would be written off like a tax exemption (no excuses, not free trips to Paris nor amputation). But then Roxanne’s kids got swine flu and I couldn’t hold true to my very simple plans, just like always! Well, except for Donna and Kathy & Diane, who . . . wait a minute. Who? I don’t know anyone by those names.
My ditzy wack job friend Kim replied with this nonsensical diatribe:
“Just realized your party was a fu.kkerware. Call me old fashioned, uptight, a jerk, but make sure it starts with pro American and add Christian so it sounds even better.”
Then she adds this little piece:
My reply:
“Regarding church, there was a time you had gotten away from the sanctimonious bullshit . . . Otherwise, I love Jesus:) But I’d rather deal in dil.dos than fake ass m*therfukers:)
How’s that for honest? I’m working on it.
49 is magical!
Love Always,
PAMAJAMA”
As for blessing my husband, what in the world does she think he prays for? Cause I’m pretty sure you’re getting very close when it comes to cotton candy flavored massage oil that warms when blown on.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, I didn’t start party planning until the day before & we were driving the streets at 10 p.m. looking for an open liquor store so I could find brandy for marinating the sangria. Our 11-year old was in the backseat yacking on and on about how “I can’t believe I’m driving around with my parents looking for an OPEN LIQUOR STORE!” She’s never had to go out at 2 a.m. for a pack of Marlboros either, but it’s not like children don’t do that every night of the year here in America. I’m sure there are roaming children on the streets right now!
The morning of the soiree I had old bowls of cereal still on the counter, books on the floor, garbage overflowing! (To say nothing of cookies or cake or tiny hot dogs wrapped in bacon.) In the end I remembered what I should have known from the beginning: women don’t eat! No need to cook unless you’re inviting men and children. Throw a vegetable tray on the table and open the wine.
* * * * *
My birthday brought about a level of negativity that made me nervous, a newfound depth of nastiness. Even my blogging fell to the wayside as I sat in a chair, numb with the realization that my mommy days are ending and I need to get a life, one based on my own thoughts & desires & decisions. I don’t want to. I don’t want to succeed or fail based upon my own actions, I so prefer hiding behind my children. I don’t want to get old, I don’t want to grow up, I don’t want to be mature, I don’t want to behave appropriately.
I’m railing against an imaginary entity!
I can do whatever I want!
I’ve got no f*cking idea what I want!
Sweet, simple people speaking of their normal non-obscene lives still make me cringe and feel nauseous. If I hear one more young mother coo over her babies I will surely slam myself to the floor in an attempt to dull the pangs of jealousy, the annoyance at the naivete.
We were supposed to go to New Mexico for a wedding August 1st and it’s probably a good thing that my husband has called it off. The perfectly beautiful girl getting married AND her sister both have new infants. They are psychotically happy, as fortunate in their current lives as any lottery winners. Their mother (my husband’s sister) oozes with a syrupy sweet, orgasmic, grandmotherly glow that gags me.
Recently on Facebook she replied to the utterly uncreative commentary between her two daughters with
“You two are hysterical!”
HYSTERICAL? Jim Norton’s “Monster Rain” on HBO, created by a man who hates himself and everyone else, the blackest humor imaginable, that’s hysterical.
The scene in “Jackass 2.0″ where a guy puts powder on the crack of his ass and then farts in the face of a sleeping dude, engulfing him in a fine white mist, THAT totally hits the mark for me.
When I tell my daughter that’s how I’m going to wake her the next time she bitches about getting out of bed and then she punches me in the arm 27 times as we’re driving down the road screaming at each other & laughing maniacally to the point where we can hardly catch our breath upon such a disgusting thought, yep.
I seem to have found a dark place and I’m beginning to grow mold.
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.
Twisted Prank at the Empire State Building
May 15, 2009
If I love 10 things in life, pranks are included in the list.
A few weeks ago I met a prank master who got me so good it was SICK! It made me want a job like his just so I could f*ck with stupid people and get paid for it, too.
There’s always the option of standing on a street corner near the ocean this summer, like a block away, pointing people in a westerly direction when they stop & ask how to get to the beach.
* * * * *
The story began when my step-sister, Jodi, came to visit. We haven’t spent time together since her father & my mother married, each bringing three children into the family. We were the two oldest, the alpha females, forced to share a bed together for 7 years in FarmLand, Illinois. We fought like cougars. She moved one summer & disappeared off the face of my earth.
(In this photo she’s seated and I’m standing with my arms crossed, pissed off that she is holding the baby (who is now 35!).)
We got in touch again at my brother’s funeral last August, a bright spot in the nightmare. A Chief of Police in Indiana, she’s now a freaking grandmother!
(How f*cking old am I?)
The first day we stayed in our pj’s chatting until 5 p.m. With her job she doesn’t get a chance to do such silly stuff very often. She told great stories, like passing the Police Academy at the age of 35 & chasing down a flasher who maintained his erection throughout arrest (which included a freezing cold creek & a gun pointed in his direction).
You know I love that kind of shit!
The next day we went to a garage sale at closing time & filled our car with free junk like an episode of the Beverly Hillbillies. Yes, that’s me above.
We visited the 9/11 monument overlooking the bay & Manhattan’s skyline.
I didn’t feed her much. My hostess skills really suck.
* * * * *
Sunday we went into NYC & did everything I could think of to see it all (minus downtown). We started at the TKTS booth in Times Square, walked to the most cracked out flea market I’ve ever been to in my entire life, then took a cab to Central Park & rode in a horse carriage driven by a handsome young Irishman.
It was 82 degrees. When it hits 85 the horses must be taken off the street & returned to their stalls or their owners are breaking the law.
Whenever I’m in Central Park I want to get a picture of myself lying on these rocks like a dead body in a Law & Order episode.
Failed again.
Next, we took a bicycle to Dylan’s (Lauren) Candy Bar (which is so unbelievably cool, the perfect place for a deliciously slow suicide at age 93). This photo is what it looks like from the seat on the back of the bike. Traffic at intersections is mind-bending. It’s a squirrel’s eye view.
Happy to be alive, we ate hot pizza on the street. My glasses fell off my face & into the cheese, which pleased Jodi to no end. Time for dessert at the famed Serendipity 3:
Frrrrrrozen hot chocolate ($8.50) & a
chocolate Blackout cake, ice cream, hot fudge topped with whipped cream ($
(Jodi, I apologize profusely, but I love the smile!)
Their website states that Madonna’s daughter, Lourdes, was recently there celebrating her father Carlos’ birthday with several friends. Salma Hayek visited with her daughter Valentina after her recent wedding. Cameron Diaz popped by, as did the Olsen twins (with their own champagne).
For some reason I did not see PAMAJAMA listed in the mix.
(In this photo we’re supposed to be imitating chipmunks.)
We saw an Off-Broadway show (The Marvelous Wonderettes). I sat beside an insurance salesman from Louisiana. He’d won a contest & was staying at The Waldorf on the company dime. He let me quiz him on his thoughts about the government’s response to Katrina & its’ aftermath.
Afterwards, we saw Jane Fonda signing autographs (no, I did not scream the word “Traitor!”), went to the Hershey’s store AND the M&M store, Rockefeller Center & then on to the Empire State Building at dusk.
I was just a little loosey-goosey by this point:
After hoofing it a few miles we reached our destination & a dude at the entryway wanted us to buy expensive special tickets that would allow us to avoid the line, plus see a video. I didn’t want to spend the extra money, but Jodi would have happily done so. I totally annoyed the guy with my bad attitude.
As we were wrapping up our discussion he said,
“Oh, there goes Tom Hanks, the man there with the hat! He’s been shooting a movie in the area and I guess he’s heading for dinner. We saw him earlier when he was walking to lunch.”
Classy chick that I am, I said
“F*ck the Empire State Building, let’s follow Tom Hanks!”
So we did. After two blocks we caught up with Tom, who was actually
an incredibly dirty homeless man, crazy as any bed bug.
So there you have it, something I’d be willing to get out of bed for, the opportunity to prank a middle aged jackass that thinks it makes sense to run down the street in pursuit of Tom Hanks,
a guy who would never walk alone or have the need to purchase his own meals during a movie shoot.
* * * * *
We did go up in the Empire State building & soon knew exactly what it felt like in the Octo-Mom’s crowded womb. NYC tourists are often from ANYWHERE other than America & there is a difference in personal space expectations. I don’t like to be touched. It’s a problem! I expected gigantor pink pigs to fly by the Empire State building at any moment.
While climbing lots and lots of stairs — my decision, to save from waiting on an elevator — Jodi reminded me she has a heart condition, which developed after dealing with breast cancer and the meds she had to take for treatment last year. I immediately visualized her falling over — with me to blame — being carried from the 72nd floor by EMS workers.
I ordered her to maintain consciousness and stay alive for at least another 30 years, on the off chance someone remembered our errant trip up one of the tallest landmarks in America (at my insistence).
On the way out we found the creative genius who directed us to Tom Hanks. We lauded his mastery & success in the prank department. This is a guy who knows how to entertain himself!
I can only imagine the joy he experienced, watching my ass scoot on down the sidewalk at hyperspeed, purse flying behind me in pursuit of Forrest Gump.
Whether he gets another big sale or not
who cares?
as long as he can see another ignorant tourista run down the street in the direction of the homeless Oscar winner.
Twisted Mom & The Trip to Kentucky ~ (Part II)
May 3, 2009
Let’s recount for those who are a little lost on background:
My sister received custody of her 3 grandchildren just two months ago. They have been in foster care for more than a year.
Their ages are (quite amazingly) 3, 2 and 1. The two oldest are just 11 months apart. The youngest was a total surprise: “Mom, I’m in labor.”
“You’re pregnant?!”
My niece, their mother, is in prison at least until August. Their father got 12 years. It all started when they received a “recliner-sized” package of pot through the U.S. Mail. (It’s a long story, documented throughout this blog.)
Once I was able to sit and talk with my sister, I was really quite shocked to discover she is still leaving the kids five days a week to work for my mother. The office is in Mom’s home & the house is not child friendly, to say the least. Mom plays video games while Sis does payroll & taxes.
It’s hard to believe, but true, that Mom is such a c*nt she can still surprise me. She should have her own circus act or Broadway show.
A babysitter is paid $200 per week to watch the children five hours a day. The sitter smokes (in the house) while they nap (also when they don’t nap). I met her once, just as we were leaving.
She came in the door & my sister asked, “So, how you doin’?” Her reply: “Sick as a dog. I’m sick as a dog!” She seemed kind of happy about it.
Those of you who know my aversion to germs and idiots will not be surprised to hear it took all the strength I could muster not to say, “Then get the fuck out!” Just looking at her made me queasy. I adore those babies & it made me sick to leave them. Add this chick to the mix and I wanted to set something on fire, perhaps her (no doubt) nasty panties as they lay against her milky white tobacco flavored skin.
* * * * *
Although Mom made tremendous promises about the kind of help she would provide once her great grandchildren arrived, she’s followed through with not a single one. She has not changed a diaper in two months time. She does not baby sit. (This is no doubt a good thing.)
She still complains constantly to my sister about how much & how hard she works, as my sister tries not to fall over from exhaustion or accidentally stick a car key in her ass, mistaking it for the ignition, as she twists like a spinning top.
Mom held the dogs on her lap several times while I was there, but I don’t remember her ever picking up one of the kids except during photo opportunities. She silently stared at the TV a lot.
To be fair, I really did come to like these dogs more than most. They’re funny & lovable, although I still think they’re dangerous. The kids are rough with the dogs. The dogs play like two grown men under the influence of hallucinogens or steroids, as the 14-month old totters around with no fear. It’s an accident waiting to happen.
All that aside, given the choice of loving & nuzzling a little chick and a puppy, I’ll pick the poultry every single time.
What this great-grandmother I call “Mom” has put all her efforts into is creating a fictional fairytale world wherein these children are spoiled little miscreants, particularly the 2-year old boy.
I don’t believe it’s even possible to “spoil” a baby. To use such terms to describe a child just out of foster care . . . well, it’s like science fiction. Yet she believes it to be true & voices the thought every chance she gets. She wants the children in full-time daycare & her daughter back at her beck and call.
Mom is jealous of her own great-grandchildren. She is jealous that my sister is home making their meals and giving them baths instead of doing it for her.
At one point I picked up the 3-year old girl, who reminds me of my own childhood as the oldest of three little ones. I can practically read her mind as she keeps track of who gets the love, the hugs & the kisses. I watched her count how many photos I was taking of each child, to see if she was getting short-changed.
When I think of the attention my children received at her age, it’s nearly unfathomable that any two humans born into the same family could enter into such different situations.
She became upset over something or other, so I picked her up & said: “You’re still a baby, too, aren’t you? You like to be babied just like the other two, don’t you?“
Before she could nod her head “Yes” and smile, Mom jumped in with: “I’m 68 and I’d like to be babied, too, but nobody’s babying me!” My mouth hung open that such words could be spoken out loud.
* * * * *
This is my mother at age 3, with her brother Butchie: I have never seen her smile with that kind of sweetness. I think it may have disappeared when Butchie drowned on his own 3rd birthday, after following his puppy down to a creek on the farm property where they lived.
There are always reasons for everything, but it is our responsibility to try and fix ourselves before damaging our own children similarly. Mom does not seem to have the ability to do so. She has no insight whatsoever.
She has harmed her own children, she harmed my sister’s children & now she’s passing the poison on to a third generation. (I cannot ignore that, even though I moved far away & protected my kids from personal contact with her, they received Mom’s shit directly from me. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is.)
I let my daughter go out alone with her once, to pick up a prescription and get an Icee. It was nerve-wracking. (Later, my sister informed me that Mom’s driving has become dangerous. FUCK ME! When I try to be less than neurotic I discover NEUROTIC IS GOOD.)
We went out together later that evening, after my sister had a meltdown. She’d been golfing all day, while I watched the kids. I didn’t think about feeding them dinner or giving them baths, we just played. She came home tired and sunburned. It was a recipe for disaster, especially when her daughter called from prison and wanted to chat.
Imagine this scene: My sister juggling swords in the kitchen as she holds a phone under her chin. I hear the tension in her voice as she begins frying food for dinner, telling her daughter the kids aren’t going to eat until 7 p.m., no baths until 8 and Easter prep still to do for the next day. She’s saying, “IT’S ALL FUCKED UP!”
I’m running for the door. We’re going to go to Wal-Mart for Easter supplies, then to Mom’s house to pick up other stuff. I’m trying to take some of the pressure off.
But Mom won’t leave. She’s too excited by the clams frying in the deep fat fryer. “Oh, clams! MMMM!“ We have to stay and wait while my obese mother crams clams & other french-fried delicacies down her throat. We stand around the kitchen jacking off while my sister melts.
While I could not dream of eating in such a tense situation, Mom doesn’t even notice it’s happening. Either that or she likes it.
When we finally get in the car, I discover Mom does not wear a seat belt. She also has not done anything to disable the seat belt warning system. We drive miles and miles while the car dings five times every thirty seconds. She ignores that it’s happening. DING, DING, DING, DING, DING.
I refuse to say anything at all.
We arrive at Wal-Mart and Mom pulls out her stolen handicapped placard, a Christmas gift from some employee (now outdated by more than a year). We park with her car practically inside the store, closer than the woman beside us using a wheelchair lift.
I feel comfortable photographing this absurdity, it’s so bizarre I can’t control myself. You’ll notice we’re actually in a spot intended for a VAN.
Since she’s fine with such jack-assian behavior, I took a shot of that, too:
(TO BE CONTINUED)
The Absolute Best Twisted Book I’ve Ever Read
April 2, 2009
Various and sundry things take me away from blogging, like collecting 294 Flair on Facebook. Now that’s dedication!
I’m into philosophical sh*t, too, & humanitarian aid (for chocolate rabbits).
Also included in my busy days are book sales. I hoard books & place them in piles around the house, a kind of eccentric decor that’s welcoming to those who like dust & eau de musty. Occasionally I rearrange just for fun, taking extra care not to confuse mine with the library books, of which I rented 21 just yesterday.
I sit and peruse books while watching the big screen TV, with my laptop — where else — in my lap. Multi-tasking is a joy to the scattered Gemini brain. (My husband, in direct opposition, enjoys commercials & re-runs, watching with the glazed eyes of a bloodhound observing a Milk-Bone commercial. He dozes off, then wakes himself with a snort.)
Sometimes, I get frustrated. We have quite a heavy viewing schedule. The person in charge of the remote control is expected to hit the button as fast as possible whenever fast forwarding is an option. (We’ve had actual altercations. What is the proper waiting time (in seconds) before the person without the changer is allowed to derisively suggest the fast forwarding option?) It’s a heavy burden.
When the television schedule is weak we have Blockbuster movies. (For example, The Changeling with Angelina Jolie last week scored a 9.5 with all of us. Milk, for me at least, was a full 10. Sean Penn was outrageous!) If the movies have run dry, we turn to recorded shows on the DVR.
The kitchen is nearby for snacking purposes.
Momentarily moving away from the original subject at hand, recently my bowling partner, Lynn, informed me that she has seen “less than 100 movies in her entire lifetime.” I’d have been less shocked to hear of a vine extending from her vagina, eating away at her leg.
She is 50 years old & computer literate, not visually unusual in any way I can surmise. She is not Amish. Mathematically speaking — and I’m no genius — we’re talking fewer than 2 movies PER YEAR. Surely Patty Hearst was allowed more than that even while kidnapped.
* * * * *
Anyway, my point is I recently found
THE BEST BOOK I’VE EVER READ:
Emergency!: True Stories From The Nation’s ERs
Mark Brown, M.D., collected these stories from around the country. It’s truly fantastical. I’ve always abeen a fan of reality, but this is super-charged.
WARNING: Read no further if you lap up milk with your tongue & frequently make meowing sounds . . .
Let me give you just a sample from a piece titled “The Wish” on page 14:
“In an upper-income community hospital Emergency Department, a fifty-year-old matron complained of mild abdominal pain and fever. The patient was on an antidepressant, but she had no other significant medical history. Her physical exam was unremarkable. Lab tests did little to further the diagnosis. I decided to proceed with a pelvic exam. . .
“The pelvic exam revealed that the patient’s labia were pinned together with three large, rusty safety pins.
“The patient apparently had a long psychiatric history, including obsessive behavior focused on her inability to bear children. Two weeks earlier, the patient had purchased a small chicken at the market and had inserted it, piece by piece, into her vagina. She had pinned her labia to keep the chicken in place and was waiting for it to develop into a baby.
“The patient was subsequently admitted to the psych unit, but not before she was washed out with two liters of Betadine douche and the entire chicken carcass was accounted for.”
GREGORY DAVID POST, M.D. New York, New York
* * * * *
Here’s one more that explains the previously mentioned “vagina vine.” It’s entitled “The Human Vineyard” (pages 72-73):
“An elderly female comes to the Emergency Department complaining: ‘I got the green vines in my virginny.’ The patient reports a two-week history of a vine growing from her vagina. On physical examination it is discovered that she does indeed have a vine growing out of her vagina, about six inches in length. A pelvic exam reveals a mass which is easily removed from the vaginal vault, vine still attached. Upon extraction, the patient reports that her uterus had been falling out and that she ‘put a potato in there to hold it up’ and subsequently forgot about it.”
JOHN RIORDAN, M.D. Charlotte, North Carolina
The book gets better with each page.
* * * * *
I am so completely jealous of ER nurses now. The germ factor would be an issue, but I think I’d be willing to get over it.
Twisted Freak Says: “Screw Valentine’s Day”
February 13, 2009
Yesterday I learned that I’m not the only woman I know who will be spending Valentine’s Day with no valentine. It does not make me any happier, not at all, but it did make me laugh with glee.
Roxanne of Owl Moon Studio woke her children up screaming, “You Rat F*cking Bastard” into the phone when her husband called to say he’s a last minute team replacement for a week long job in HAWAII and will be flying out as soon as they can get him on a flight. Seriously, she’s a lovely girl & his new nickname will only be said with a smile, not more than 1,000 times.
* * * * *
My husband came home from work yesterday ready to do the monkey, since I might have said something on the phone that could have made him think we’d be dancing.
Really, he was hoping to make up for the lost time he’ll be spending in a rental truck full of things no one would buy at the lowliest of garage sales, towing a piece of sh*t van, sitting next to his 275-pound, 6’1″ son, instead of comfy on our pillow-top mattress (where he belongs) next to me.
So my psychological chess move was to completely ignore him as I sat at the computer playing a word game. I had to do that, just to put him in his place. I’ve accepted that I won’t see him on this utterly stupid holiday, but I can’t let him have clear advantage. He has to know this can never, ever, ever happen again.
Still, it’s uncomfortable having a puppy at your feet & eventually you give in to the adorable mutt and play ball.
Meanwhile, I’ve been tossing sh*t food in my mouth like a big ass baby, feeling sorry for myself, and so I forgot the green peanut M&M’s in the pocket of my sweatshirt. This is how a pile of them ended up in the bed, looking like a leprechaun laid eggs.
Unbeknownst to me, the M&M’s were falling out of my pocket & hitting my husband on the head in the dark. Really, it couldn’t have worked out better. Boink, boink, boink.
It fascinates me that he could be kerplunked on the noggin, over and over again, yet say nothing about it. Something hits me in the head in the dark, I gotta know RIGHT NOW what the hell is going on. I mean, the weight of a peanut M&M could potentially knock out a front tooth.
* * * * *
So this morning he called me a freak.
I couldn’t be happier with an Academy Award or a Nobel Peace Prize, coming up on our 13th anniversary.
I don’t have a paid job, I am really a terrible housekeeper & my cooking skills are practically non-existent.
But as long as my beloved thinks I’m a freak, clearly I’m a major f*cking success.
The perfect tattoo: Freaky Pamajama
Should I do it?
* * * * *
Deep breath. God forbid I don’t stockpile enough meds & end up in a nursing home. Attendants would bring family & friends in to laugh and point.
They’d take pictures for e-mail forwards & there I would be, gumming an ear of corn with the words “Freaky Pamajama” barely readable next to a big purple bruise.
Yeah, I don’t think so.
Twisted Thoughts, Tissues & Time Management
January 31, 2009
The winter doldrums are here & I’m questioning the way I spend my time.
I am not one of those women who love to say, “Oh, I am so busy, busy, busy!” The longer I’m on this planet the more I wonder why anyone would want to live that kind of life, let alone admit to it. I’ve dropped out of the race to do the most, have the most, be the most, blah, blah, blah.
Now I’m not talking about working two jobs to barely pay the mortgage, I’m talking about people who fill their calendars by choice and then brag under the guise of complaint.
In the end, we all still die and none of it matters for shit. (I don’t think I need to be on anti-depressants at this point, but if you disagree I’d be interested in your opposing opinions.)
HOWEVER . . . there is a need for a happy medium, as exhibited by the fact that my accomplishments this winter include:
(1) A game of Bookworm that reached almost 4,000,000 points;
(2) Convincing my husband to leave the Christmas tree up all year long as a conversation piece;
(3) Forty-eight episodes of Trading Spouses & WifeSwap;
(4) Tears spilled over Dr. Drew Pinsky’s Sober House;
(5) Learning the basics of Facebook, something I never, ever needed to do; and . . .
(6) A single dinner party for nine guests, five of whom were children.
We cleaned for 10 hours beforehand and I screamed at least 28 times over inane things that were purely caused and created by my own failure to keep up with the basics. I’m not a fan of daily, repetitive, mundane upkeep, not at all.
I even complained to my husband that he must stop buying “such ugly f*cking tissue boxes that sit on the counter for a year collecting dust.”
In reply, I received this from a UPS truck two weeks later:
Yes, my husband purchased specially ordered boxes of Kleenex just for me. You can, too, at www.kleenex.com! Briana, the girl above with curly hair, is not a member of our family. She was mistakenly included and we got to keep her.
Obviously, I don’t budget my time wisely. The real problem is that I’m not sure what’s important enough that it matters.
Cooking? Augh.
Cleaning? Ack.
No one seems to notice the cobwebs when you’ve got funny tissue boxes all over the house.
* * * * *
What I’d really like to know is how much time other people spend on blogging. I can write and re-write for hours. It’s not working for me.
When I’m writing and reading and commenting and tracking there is no time for mothering and cooking and cleaning and showering.
(Obviously I don’t really do a lot of that stuff, but sometimes I think I should at least pretend.)
How do you find time for both blogging and regular life?
Twisted Holiday Condensed
January 18, 2009
Occasionally you come across something so fantastic you must share it with your friends. “Fantastic” plus ”dysfunctional” equals “Pamajama’s Favorite Things.”
Two posts in particular, holiday hang-overs, meet that definition. To find them please visit NathalieWithAnH (whose sister has gone so completely over the edge of creative insanity that it very nearly took my breath away) and Keltic Kaos (a description of Christmas antics that had me choking with delight & in tears from laughter). If you bother reading anything at all this year, these two clicks are my recommendation.
As I’ve shared my own crazy stories, more people have shared their own experiences with me. It’s been a gift to realize it’s a rare family that escapes qualifying for an event in the Dysfunctional Family Olympics.
Like everything else, I’m usually more than happy to stick with my own medal arena. Just in the last few months I’ve come to realize that so often the people who had it the worst speak about it the least. When they do tell their stories I wonder (1.) how they survived and (2.) why I’m such a whiner.
* * * * *
I have just a smidgen to report regarding my own family’s hijinx.
My niece is still in prison & her children have not yet been released from foster care to my sister. I would attach the picture we received of the three kids visiting her, but honestly it’s so pathetic I can’t stoop quite that low. I believe the scrawled handwriting at the bottom of the instamatic photo is what completely did me in. (I know, it’s hard to imagine a low place I’m unwilling to go & I wonder what in the hell is happening to me.)
As for Christmas day itself, my mother took her favorite dog to my sister’s house Christmas Day and it of course peed on the new carpet. (I’d rather spend the day alone in a movie theater with just a single other patron, a guy with his hands in his pants.)
Mom also sent us two enormous boxes of gifts that I did not return.
Evidently I can be bought for a price and (previously unbeknownst to me) that dollar amount equals: 12 books, his & hers XL green sweatshirts, a hideous polyester pull-over with attachable tacky necklace & matching jacket, a purple pillow that says “Princess,” three horror flicks, a John Deere t-shirt, cash for the kids and a check with my name on it.
Also included was a bag of soaps & air fresheners from Pier One Imports, enough perfumed product to suggest my family expels noxious fumes at the same rate as any airport or toxic waste dump. (I’ve been told the air fresheners are so popular in Illinois that more than once they were stolen right off the toilet tank by dirt bag pals.)
In total, said items bought her a Christmas card, photo montage & two e-mails.
I’d planned on sending any checks I received to my brother’s girlfriend, but as it turns out she’s already dating someone new. So like I’m cool with that, but I’m not utterly stupid.
As would be expected, my sister’s son received $1,000 and mine got $250 for Christmas and birthday combined. The fact that my son has grown up without this particular grandmother’s influence is worth so much more than a $750 annual fee.
* * * * *
On New Year’s Eve the favored grandson got drunk, punched a female bar patron in the face & went directly to jail without passing “Go.” We’ll find out what else comes of it in court on February 10th. The boy is an absolute monster when he drinks.
In other words, please butter my butt and call me a biscuit if I ever lose sight of how lucky I’ve been in this lifetime.
My Husband Can Be a Funny MFR
January 4, 2009
This morning we slept in, a normal Sunday. Once we were both awake, although still in bed, there was a lot to talk about. I thought so, anyway.
On the rare occasion we’re alone, with no questions to field from the third person in our marriage (an 11-year-old), I tend to broach every subject known to mankind. Perhaps I go overboard, filling him in on each recent thought that’s crossed the vast wasteland of my mind.
We had people over for dinner last night & didn’t have time for the usual play-by-play of the evening, so I started with that. From there we discussed a phone call, a dream & at least 37 other subjects, all initiated by yours truly.
When I say “discuss” it’s probably really 50 of my words to 5 of his, not by my choice. However, he had one very pointed remark that’s worth repeating, a real winner.
I nearly missed it when he slipped in, “You could work for a Rape Crisis Center.” There was no “CLICK” that immediately made sense or let me put two and two together. On first instinct it sounded complimentary.
Then he added, “They could put you on the phone with the rapist” and I no longer misunderstood. Evidently my voice does not have a melodious pitch that sends him into “spasms of lovin’.”
He is so completely lucky that my favorite animal is the lowly & under-appreciated jackass.
A Boy & His Mother ~ A Carnival Ride (Part IV)
January 3, 2009
(This is Part IV of a series. If you wish to read them in order click here for Part I or here for Part II or here for Part III.)
In a brutal twist of fate, although conversation & communication are as necessary to me as oxygen, my 23-year old son is relatively silent in my presence. There are moments when he will express a thought or two on some arbitrary interest or another, as long as it’s devoid of personal information or emotion (what I like to call a jackpot topic).
He has never brought a girl home, never told me a single detail of a relationship. (I am prepared: The mother of my grandchildren will most certainly adore me. It is not optional, I am determined to bring in a hypnotist if necessary.) Dobeman has expressed concern regarding the gay factor, but I don’t think so. I asked. Amanda just wants the boy to be happy, no matter his sexual orientation, and I appreciate that.
He does not watch television, probably because I love it too much. (It was a crushing blow when he realized that he, too, loves The Office.) I believe the happy memories of watching Brenda, Dylan and the gang on 90210 together are too painful for him to bear. He adored me then! We were so simpatico!
He reads only the financial section of the newspaper (I can barely do long division) & considers politics folly for fools (a decision arrived at after I was elected to the local board of education).
* * * * *
His silence nearly got me arrested once. (Well, not total silence.)
Driving him home from a distant party after midnight (not my party, his party), I insisted he speak. I told him it was only fair, if I had to drive then he had to talk. I was rambling on and on as I tend to do, like now.
His reply was simply to fart. Eyes closed. One ass speaking to another.
It was a DEAD offense on my part (Driving Enraged And Disgusted). Five blocks from home I was pulled over for speeding, my purse in the trunk. I stomped to the back of the car to retrieve it, slamming my door in the process.
The young officer said, “Ma’am, calm down. What’s wrong?”
So I told him. All of it. “I just wanted my son to speak & he farted at me!”
The officer held back a snort & quickly muttered, “Drive home safely.”
* * * * *
The kid loves me, I’m sure he does. The psychologist I made him see at 17 said he did. Surely a professional would not lie to a frantic mother who’d only occasionally heard her son’s voice in nearly three years.
I’ve since come to realize I’m in training. For nine long years now he’s been letting me know what’s acceptable & what’s not.
He has told me in the simple language of a psychiatric hospital aide that my incessant repetition of the phrase “Be Careful” has grown old.
He’s made it VERY CLEAR that 3-4 photos are fine, but the camera must then be put away. He is not Paris Hilton & I do not work for Star magazine.
He is in charge, the tables have turned. I am the big cat; he has the whip & chair. When I behave well I can sometimes see a warped gleam of success in his eye. (So can my husband & it makes him nuts. He wants his own whip but fears a repeat of the Siegfried & Roy Vegas incident.)
The whole growing up deal, the mother/son relationship is just so weird.
It’s a frigging Shakespearean tragedy.
This man is the little boy who slept in my bed until he was seven, who held my hand & laughed at all my jokes with with a beautifully up-turned beaming face.
This is the exact same DNA that once stood up for me when his grandmother bitched me out for not calling often enough, who said, “Grammy, you’ve got a phone, too!” I’ve never before or since felt such vindication and support, so utterly defended by another human being. And he was only six!
He did what he was supposed to do, he grew up.
I still want him to climb up on my lap & he can’t allow it.
He’s trying to save us from the usual Twisted Family Antics, while a part of me wants to pull us both down in a raging Oedipal tide.
* * * * *
He does make concessions.
After one or two incidents of not answering a text message or the eventual ringing phone, when I dialed his number 20 or more times in succession due to abject fear & uncontrolled hysteria, he is great about getting back to me. I do not take advantage of this gift. I text, rather than call, and I hate texting. It’s his preferred medium & I’ll take it.
I do not expect daily contact, but I can go no more than 10 days before I get the shakes. However, I do not overuse my privileges. Calls are kept to a minimum, usually to deliver only good news, never before noon. I clip my sentences to ensure quality of contact, rather than quantity. I do not dilly-dally or waste his time. I do not leave voicemails, as he will be forced to clear them from his phone & he doesn’t like that.
In return, if I say “I love you” 6 times a day when he’s home, he replies in kind, which is actually pretty amazing when I think about it. He says it with as little emotion as possible & I get that.
We are similarly uncomfortable with our selves (perceived hideous flaws) & our feelings (too much exposure leads to naked expression of hideous flaws). At times he is painfully indecisive, just like me. He is critical of others, but brutally so of himself, also like me.
In so many successful & wonderful ways he is nothing like me, which makes us both extremely happy. He is a thrifty optimist, saving for the future. I am a free spending pessimist, fearing death around every corner. He has informed me I should stop listening to the news and quit reading the paper. In his opinion, my fears are fanned by mass media. If I don’t know about it, then it didn’t happen evidently.
I work at accepting it all & I am better. I still struggle with whether the silence is his nature (it wasn’t as a child) or unconscious punishment (conscious would be too much to bear). It’s possible that my response to all things, great & small, is so over the top that his adrenal system has been completely depleted over the past 23 years. He just doesn’t have the energy for it.
I am certain he often finds me incredibly annoying, but he will not admit it when the subject is broached. If my own mother were to ask me why I’m angry I would tell her, but she doesn’t want to know, has never asked. I’ve come dangerously close to not just asking but begging. He says, “Nothing’s wrong.” He will not verbalize a single statement to explain his silence.
He says we’re fine & I guess I should believe him, how foolish not to. We communicate better by e-mail than in person, better by text than voice. Maybe I’m just crazy & he’s a little moody. I’ve got little choice but to go with it. Why jump to nuclear when bows & arrows suffice? No doubt, it is my nature. Thank God it’s not his.
* * * * *
~ My pseudo mother-in-law lost not one, but two grown sons. My great-grandmother, both paternal & maternal grandmothers, and now my own mother lived longer than their boys.
~ Three friends/acquaintances lost their teen sons last summer, another boy committed suicide just last week (totaling six locally).
It echoes in my head.
~ My husband got draft papers at 19 & went to Viet Nam at 21, all the while his mother lived with the knowledge her brother, her son’s namesake, died at war.
How did they survive it?
Clearly I am a pussy extraordinaire, lacking gratitude, complaining about things of no import when I so obviously have the perfect son. I cannot possibly reconcile a single negative thought.
The first words that went through my mind when he was born: “I can’t believe God gave me exactly what I wanted.”
They still hold true, 23 years later.
* * * * *
If you’ve read this entire series you’ve completed one full trip through the Pamajama brain, a carnival ride.
If you wish to re-enter, please exit & go to the back of the line.
A Boy & His Mother ~ A Carnival Ride (Part III)
January 1, 2009
(This is Part III of a series. If you wish to read them in order click here for Part I or here for Part II.)
A few years ago, when this adult child thing was still brand new to me, I burst into tears in the meat aisle of a grocery store at the sight of a mother holding hands with her little boy. (My husband will swear I was due to start my period 45 seconds later, but I will deny it.) My heart is super-glued into a semblance of its’ original state only by the knowledge that at least it’s universal; all parents one day face an adult child standing where their beloved Cookie or Bobo once tottered & fell upon a soggy diaper.
Nothing stops them, no matter the parental machinations (violin lessons, Eagle Scouts, batting coaches, private school, American Girl dolls & books up the ying-yang, traveling soccer AND basketball, infant sign language & opera in the womb), they all grow up.
(Except for those who die, the only worse fate. My hobbies of obituary scanning & catastrophizing cannot resist presenting such thoughts in my frontal lobe. A gift from me to you, the knowledge that of course it can always get worse, just in case you might have missed it.)
No one really talks about it much, the fact that one day they’re little, the next day they’re big. It may be skimmed over in a laughing manner, like “HAHA, THEY’RE GETTING SO BIG, HAHA.” I was not prepared. There are approximately one trillion books published on raising babies, little lumpy blobs of people who basically do three things (eat, sleep & poop). How do you possibly f*ck that up?
I haven’t seen a single publication devoted to properly defining your relationship with adult children. Really, who would read it? The comparison of the two subjects is like a choice between the Kama Sutra & something entitled “Adult Female Bedwetting Solutions.”
* * * * *
The grown up version of my son, the birthday boy (who turned out so much better than the pseudo in-laws ever hoped or dreamed with me as his mother), is a dream come true in almost all respects.
He is employed, clean shaven, & tattoo-free with 6-pack abs. College consisted of exactly 8 semesters at a state school with a merit scholarship he maintained throughout. He has never been arrested or received a moving violation & needed no financial assistance with his first apartment.
Humor me & compare this to my friend’s son, who remains unemployed after graduating from a $40,000/year liberal arts college with NO scholarship money whatsoever. He did not finish on time, thus an extra semester of expense. He got drunk & was mugged, had an MRI that insurance didn’t cover (he didn’t get it approved). He does not answer the phone when his mother calls, even though she pays the bill. On occasion she was forced to call his roommate to confirm he was still breathing.
He created a false document that placed him on the Dean’s List after his mom told him such an accomplishment would result in a pay-off of all his credit card bills. The bills added up since he regularly had a taste for steak & lobster dinners, even though he didn’t have any money, so he paid with a Visa card. He’s had several car accidents & is adamant that pot smoking should be legal, therefore he angrily asserts he will continue to act as if it is.
All that expensive schooling, plus Surf & Turf, left him so exhausted he needed to take a couple months off before even looking for a j-o-b. Seriously, I adore this kid. He’s so completely & thoroughly entertaining.
* * * * *
In the interest of full disclosure, however, my own grown son has completed doctoral training in the art of Pamajama & regularly practices a manipulative element of torture designed just for me.
He’s managed to (1) graduate both high school & college, (2) spend a year in an honors dorm with fascinating nerds (my fault), (3) live two years in an animal house (black mold & congealed beer on the kitchen floor totally not my fault), (4) spend a summer in the south, (5) move to NYC, (6) vacation in Miami twice & (7) drive cross country, then arrive home without a freely proffered story of a single event (zilch).
I want to live in his pocket & he thinks I should have my own life, an interesting concept.
If you think I’m exaggerating . . .
Last summer a friend of his was in our car and used the ‘G” word. I nearly severed my tongue, allowing myself only a simple strangulated “Oh?”
My son said, “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”
Then, with less emotion than I’d express about an overdue library book, he told of being in a restaurant when another customer dropped the slice of pizza he’d just purchased & asked for a new one. When refused a free second slice, he pulled a gun. Customers dove for cover & ran out the door.
Considering the cool & collected way my son relayed the story, I assume he continued to munch a delicious garlic knot or enjoy a plump meatball while bullets flew through the air.
All this reminiscing jogged another memory in the buddy’s mind: the dapper yet crazy black man in Penn Station — coincidentally, the same night – who beat his own head into the wall with such gusto it caused blood to gush & pool beneath him before he was carried out on a stretcher.
My son, in a surprising verbal outburst, laconically added: “Yeah, I didn’t think that guy was going to make it.”
The fact that these two stories happened in one single evening tells me everything I need to know about what I’m missing. No doubt other tales include mention of monkeys, circus clowns and drunken ducks.
On a continuum our relationship is a series of highs and lows with little in between. I must admit he doesn’t tell me stuff because of the gasping intake of air that occurs when I hear things that frighten me. When it comes to my little boy, I’m one fearful b*tch.
He gives me just enough to maintain the necessary level of adoration, to keep me sewing on buttons & cracking eggs with abandon, driving him places & jumping through hoops like a well-trained purebred. He doesn’t even ask, I anticipate. Then he withholds.
Maybe I ask for too much, a definite possibility.
(To Be Continued)
