Thieves & Heartbreakers &/or I Cried Like A Jackass in Johnny Rockets

Today I found out that someone I know spent $140,000 to get pregnant through In-Vitro Fertilization.

I told my husband about it and he said,

“To each his own.” 

What a stupid fucking thing to say.  I mean, yes, to each his own.

But isn’t that kind of a conversation stopper?

There are so many pieces of this subject we could discuss, ad nauseum.  Instead, he seems to think conversation is unnecessary, perhaps hedonistic.

How did I marry a man so adverse to communication when it’s so necessary for my mental health?

If you read my comments, though, you know that Soapbox Diva thinks I should stay here so the kids will visit on Thanksgiving!

Fuck that, fuck me, fuck everything.

Where do I even begin regarding my thoughts on that subject?

My 14-year old daughter is being such a complete shit that I’m not sure I’d pay $140 to get pregnant if I had to do it all over again.

Now I’m not saying I’m a gift to motherhood.  I’m a complete pain in the ass, especially when I burst into tears like eight times in three days, twice in different restaurants.

Abandonment, loss, grief . . . those are the buttons being pushed.  I know it’s selfish and I’m a professional victim.

As my daughter will tell you, I analyze the FUCK out of everything.  Similar in attitude to my brother, who told me the last time I saw him, ”If you’re going to ANALYZE everything, leave me out of it.”

An un-analyzed life seems so pointless to me and yet I’m surrounded by people who think otherwise.  I just don’t get it.  I want to know everything, I need to know everything, it’s the only way I can understand people.

To know all is to forgive all.

The girl was 2 when the boy hit 14 and she watched from from a front row seat.  He was so lucky to escape while I had another chick in the nest.

Nothing about my expectations were reasonable.  She fed into the insanity by telling me she would never act like a teenager and she said it with a tone of voice that almost made me believe it.

I love you, Mommy!

WARNING: CHILDREN ARE THIEVES & HEARTBREAKERS, DO NOT FALL FOR IT.

Now she just rolls her eyes and acts disgusted.  Disgusted by me.

I handle this about as well as a psychotic serial killer.

Me: Yes, I hear my own mental illness.

Alter Ego: Individuation, that’s the name of the game! 

Me: Fuck individuation.

I’m so goddam immature, she’s far more advanced in so many ways.

I refuse to look at her sometimes hours later as my passive payback, as if she cares!  I don’t want to talk to her even when she’s happy to talk to me, usually at bizarre times of the day about inane things.

Walk carefully when my feelings are hurt, I’m a grouchy injured hyena.

If I don’t think about how she used to be I’m fine for the most part.  But when I do allow myself to remember her looking at me like I was the smartest, funniest, prettiest woman who ever lived,

the sobbing is just gross.

I said I’m over it, that I don’t care if my kids spend much time with me at all as adults, and that’s true to some extent.  But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss the adorable little people they used to be.

So, surprisingly, it turns out I’m ridiculously good at creating children with fantastic self-esteem, kids who are independent and ready to take on the world.

I just didn’t realize what that meant.

All this time I think I believed if I simply loved my children, unlike my own mom, they would adore me to an unreasonable degree.

It never occurred to me they would never know the difference, that love would be their norm.

Really such a lovely outcome when properly analyzed.

Twisted Pieces of My Heart

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

Oh, yes, I am a fucking freak. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twisted Fears

Lately when I write it sounds like I’m taking myself way too seriously, sort of like a 51-year old hormonal tight ass.  Nothing could be more completely unacceptable.

But even as I write those words I hear a voice in my head say,

“Well, it IS your only life.  It would be nice if you didn’t fuck it up.  You might want to take it a LITTLE seriously.”

Some people stop eating (not me), some people get ulcers (not me).  Fear simply paralyzes me.

I just had the most evil thought . . . I’m starting to sound like Oprah.

* * *

As Anni said in a recent comment, “So change your life!“  Oh, Anni, I would if I only knew how.  But I’ve become such a pussy.

MEOW!

Although being someone’s princess looks like a lottery windfall, if you listened closely enough you’d hear the “drip, drip, drip” of eroding self-confidence.  One day you realize your balls have withered and resemble an airless old leather football.

At 19 I stood on the wing of a plane and stepped off into nothing but air. I’ve always thought it was one of the dumbest things I ever did but maybe that’s not true.  Maybe the epitome of stupid is really the hesitation to act on your own behalf, fear of success and failure in equal parts.

“There are no mistakes” according to “Zen and the Art of Happiness” by Chris Prentiss.

Intellectually I believe it.  Acting on it is an entirely different story.

* * *

So for today I’m going to make a list of my most ridiculous fears, hoping it will explain why I’m so stuck.  Here goes:

1.) If ever given the chance to escape my eagle eye, I fear my 14 year old daughter will gain 100 pounds and stop brushing her teeth.  Her deodorant will sit unused.  She will begin dating on the sly (since all men love enormous girls with atrocious breath).  Her boyfriend will be a big nasty bruiser, his hobby will be pimping.  I will be entirely to blame.  My selfishness will have caused her downfall.

2.) When I move I will lose my hairdresser. (I know, can you believe this ranks right below my daughter’s life?  This is how completely shallow and vapid I am.) Although I rarely am happy with my hair today, it will be so much worse.  I will have to go to SuperCuts and they will scalp me and my big fat face will shine like the moon.  I will never have enough money for a decent dye job, so I will purchase boxes of dye in a discount food store like Aldi’s.  I will dye my own hair and whenever I sweat the color will drip down my neck.

3.) I will end up homeless and I do not like the out of doors.  Bugs and bright sunshine are my kryptonite.  Sleep and/or the cold will no longer be my friends.  When it rains I will get wet and my hair will smell like a fat man’s feet.

4.) Pharmaceutically speaking I’ll be screwed if ever I can’t purchase the ridiculous amount of drugs I take daily.  However, if I have no money for food I can stop taking insulin, which really could be a plus.  If I don’t overeat then I don’t need to take insulin.  And I’ll lose weight.  Things are already looking up.

As you can see, my mind works like a see-saw.  I argue with myself, just like schizophrenics in the street.  On the other hand, I already have a pack of homeless compadres waiting for me to join them under a bridge somewhere.

5.) My teeth will all fall out.  I will not be able to afford dentures, my face will cave in and I will look like I give BJ’s at a truck stop for a living.

* * *

“Take me for what I am, who I was meant to be. 

And if you give a damn, take me baby, or leave me.” 

From the Broadway musical

RENT

Holy Sh*t &/or Twisted Me

So I’ve been thinking I should be a nicer person for a few reasons, namely the fact that my insensitivity and flippant comments can hurt people’s feelings when I don’t even know I’m doing it. 

Especially sensitive peeps I love tremendously.  There are only a few of those in the world and I need to make more of an effort to protect them from the fact that I open my mouth and let words spill out without considering their potential effects.

This is nothing new.  I made my best friend mad as far back as grade school because I wasn’t good at keeping her secrets.

Now that I think about it, perhaps it’s not that other people are particularly sensitive.  Maybe it’s that I’m a complete and total bitch.  Fuck me.  I am like my mother in so many freaking ways.

* * * * *

There was also a woman on this show “Heavy” who impressed me tremendously.  She had the sweetest voice and demeanor I may have ever heard.  She’d lost her mother and gained 100 pounds.  Then she lost her son to suicide and gained 60 more.  But if you saw her on the street all you would notice was that she could barely move from the weight collected in her butt and thighs.

She reminded me of the people I admire most, my grandmother and my mother-in-law, women who give nothing but love to the world around them even when they’re not getting it in return.  Both of them just have/had the kindest souls you could ask for in a person.  This woman was like them. 

But how often do I blow off someone who isn’t perfect looking in favor of some jackass who impresses me for completely ridiculous reasons?  Actually, due to my anti-social weirdness that can border on something needing diagnosis, I tend to blow off everybody.  But you know what I mean.

I can also be cruel.  My jokes are usually at someone else’s expense.  But if it gets a laugh I keep going.

* * * * *

A friend of mine placed a poll on Facebook, just a silly thing, asking people to vote as to whether I should write a book.  She was being sweet and complimentary and overblown in her kindness toward me.  It was lovely.

It became a big deal in my head when another ”friend” of mine, an extended relative on my husband’s side of the family (who I barely know), a man in his late 70′s, replied: “You might as well write the book, you don’t seem to have anything else to do !!!!!!!!!!”

Now, mind you, the statement is completely true.  But it still bugged the shit out of me.  Clearly the fellow does not find me entertaining  and thinks I’m an asshole.  At least, that’s how I read that sentence.

Reality is I do spend a lot more time on Facebook than I should, I write more than some, a lot more than some.  I actually feel like I’m being a drag if I don’t think of something entertaining to post. 

Like I’ve told my husband, “You have a social obligation to speak to people.”  This conflicts with the fact that I don’t answer my phone, but fuck it.

My initial instinct was to block the old bastard.  But I didn’t.  He is a fascinating conversationalist and has entertained me twice.  If you’ve got good stories I’m pretty much yours for life.  He’s also old and has health problems.

Plus, I knew what he said was the truth.

Wow!  It’s not as funny when you’re the butt of the joke.  You’d think I’d have learned that before fucking 50.

* * * * *

Later this evening I was yammering on about someone else and not being kind, not even a little.  Complete truth be told, I’m jealous of the woman I was making catty comments about..

That’s when God spoke to me with a freaking bitch slap.

At the same exact time I was saying shitty things . . .  she was writing on my Facebook wall that I should write a book because “you’re so funny, I would definitely buy it.”

Oh my God. 

I began screaming about what a whore I am.  Really, more of a slore, I have never been paid, a slutty whore. 

I cannot even express the shame I felt over my nasty ass.  This was no accident.  It had such a direct connection to everything I’ve been thinking in the last couple of days about trying to be sweet  instead of caustic.

It’s not even that I need to create a new persona, I need to tear down walls I’ve built for protection.  If I’d grown up to be who I was meant to be, if I’d been true to myself, the sweet chick is me.  She’s far more like my grandmother than my mother.  I am far more like my grandmother than my mother.

Sometimes being called on your shit is a good thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Duh, you freaking dumbass.

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

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

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

“Well, I don’t know, I might have.”

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

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

Her reply? 

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

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

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

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

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

Her reply: “Oh God, not like that!”

How the fuck do you argue against such ignorance?

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

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

At this point I just snort.

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

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

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

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

“Well . . . “

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Twisted Commitment &/or Welcome, Ray!

I told my husband last night that I don’t want him to read the blog.  You’d have thought I asked him to lop off his penis.  In other words, I’m sure he’ll be reading daily now. 

Say hello to Ray! 

If he’d comment I might be more accepting, but he will not.  I believe in the CIA they call men like him spooks.

I know this thing called marriage is far reaching and supposed to be about “commitment,” at least that’s what he keeps telling me.  To me ”commitment” is something that happens when you’re checked into a mental hospital against your will.  Good God, I have such major intimacy issues. 

Even standing at the altar, he looked so happy and I felt like my skin was peeling off.  As is typical of me, I was the one pushing for marriage and yet the moment I got what I wanted it was incredibly uncomfortable. 

Just as I question my order the moment I ask for chicken caesar salad in a restaurant, I question big things, too.  If waiters  looked at me with damp eyes and acted like they love me I’d be much thinner today, no way in hell would I order anything at all.

A vein of Borderline Personality Disorder type behavior seems to run through my family and many of my favorite people, often connected to a PTSD sort of life.  When parents don’t love you the way they’re supposed to then it’s hard to understand why anyone else ever would.  It’s almost impossible to let it sink in, sort of like when a sponge gets old and hard, that’s what happens to your heart.

I broke up with my very first boyfriend, Richard, when he said “I love you” on the phone.  I was 12 and felt sick to my stomach.  Oh, he was a sweetie and I ran in the opposite direction.  There are so many examples of this throughout my life.  Way too many examples, I was a bit of a slut.

My husband’s silence has mostly saved him.  His lack of emotion, as much as I hate it, allows me to be in his presence.  I get to create my own conversations and imagine what he’s thinking.  When he actually opens his mouth and interferes with my fantasy of who he is, that’s when the trouble begins.

* * * * *

Either the love is there or it’s not, nothing about a piece of paper or a ceremony makes it real.  It’s a legality, of course, when it comes to things like taxes and wills.  I so admire those who go against the grain and don’t need anyone else’s approval, similar to peeps who know they don’t want children.

I love so many people, they enrich my life and make me happy.  But I appreciate the daily choice to walk away and never call again if I choose, it makes me appreciate them all the more.   Sometimes I really do believe the lesson you were to learn with someone has been completed.  Getting a divorce is a big fucking deal.  It seems to cause a lot of hard feelings.  Go figure.

* * * * *

It’s so annoying that in the end I have to bring it all back to me, to acknowledge that most of my marital issues have nothing to do with him and everything to do with my own shit, my aversion to intimacy.  If you run, I will chase you.  If you chase me back I will be so freaking confused.

Even 18 years later I still can’t figure out why he wants to keep me, other than to win the game.  This places my competitive nature in over-drive.  Part of me would rather self-destruct than let him.

Ray is determined to make me happy.  This is a big fucking problem.  Insist I be happy and my Oppositional Defiance Disorder kicks in.  I’ve told him he picked the wrong person for achieving such a ridiculous goal. 

My sister-in-law Rose is incredibly intuitive.  She is crazy as a bedbug but sees and knows things that other people miss completely.  I was talking about how emotionally healthy & stable Ray is in comparison with most everyone I’ve ever met, how nothing ever throws him off his game.  She immediately said, “He’s not damaged.  He’s never experienced trauma.”  

It was like seeing the last piece fall into a puzzle and complete the picture.

Oddly enough, he has been through VietNam, he has been a police officer and seen multitudes of accident scenes and dead people and distressing situations.  He is the person I would want to arrive at my home no matter the situation.  He stays calm always.  None of those things damaged him because he is able to separate his personal  and professional life.  He can do that because he grew up in a healthy family.

It’s a problem because he does not understand why I cannot recover from things that happened so long ago.  He has a cousin who adopted a girl who is now 23.  I identify more with this girl than I do with this man.  Today she wrote this on Facebook:

“Maybe we like the pain.  Maybe we’re wired that way. 

Because without it, I don’t know; maybe we just wouldn’t feel real. 

What’s that saying?  Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? 

Because it feels so good when I stop.”

Ray would say that was so incredibly stupid, put the hammer away, it’s just that simple.  He wouldn’t say “the fucking hammer” because he doesn’t swear, not ever.

I say it’s not so simple.

Twisted Homeschool Sex Education

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Twisted Bitch Blogs

I must begin blogging again or my head will explode and psychedelic shit will cover the surface of the earth.

There is no other way to take the pressure off my brain unless a doctor drills a hole, something like you might see at www.popthatzit.com .  I recommend clicking that link only if you have dermatological instincts which make you desire to remove the enormous yellow blemish of a stranger on a city bus, which I happen to possess.

Since it’s been a while since updating this blog I shall provide a quick synopsis:

1.) Unable to say much about my mother or sister since I haven’t spoken with either, even though yesterday was my mother’s 70th birthday. The fact that my sister allowed her boyfriend back into the house after he made comments about my niece’s breasts sickens me.

Add to that my mother’s input, telling my niece that she’s had more cocks than most farmhouse hens, and I hope you understand why I’m rotten enough to block both of them from Facebook, which is really my only communication with the outside world.

2.) My glucose levels reached a new high of 500 today thanks to fucking Girl Scout cookies. I will not be buying any next year, thank you very much.  It’s a constant struggle and I am loopy over it.

3.) My son is still living in San Diego and has A GIRLFRIEND.  I haven’t actually met her, but I love her.  I hope they get married and live happily ever after.  She is a Gemini, her birthday only two days after mine, and she likes me.  I must admit that pretty much my only criteria for liking you is that you like me.  But she’s funny, too.  He has been wonderfully successful in every other way, so why did I worry about who he would bring home?  I should have known.

4.) My daughter is now two inches taller than me and twenty pounds heavier.  I am not happy about the second part of that sentence.  We joined a gym, took a yoga class, and with her butt in my face I heard a loud putt and we ran out of that damned class, convulsing with laughter.  It turns out I do not like yoga.  I don’t like anyone bossing me around.  I certainly don’t like anyone telling me to get on the floor, then stand up, then get on the floor again.  Fuck that shit.  It completely sucks.

5.) Still in New Jersey but planning to put the house on the market and move, quite a frightening proposition.  I’ve come to the conclusion I never should have gotten married, never should have had children.  But since the children are wonderful I’ll keep them.  The absolute certainty is I never should have stopped working, earning my own money, having a life of my own.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the economy sucks ass and getting a job is nearly impossible now, though I continue to look.  I watched a show about millionaires giving money away last night and when a soup kitchen was highlighted and many, many toothless people were on the screen, I began imagining an entirely independent Pam.  I am such a fucking pussy about things like shiny teeth and properly highlighted hair.

As always, I would love your thoughts and comments.  I’m going to start updating daily, I swear I am.  Comments will help make it happen.

Pamajama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scott Eric“

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

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

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

Mike’s question to Scott was,

“Are you fuckin’ Pam?”

Scott’s reply:

“Pam who?” 

Then he thought for a second and said,

“YOU MEAN MY SISTER?”

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

So thanks, Mom! 

Happy Mother’s Day!

Perfectly Attuned to Twisted Humor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

Twisted Lives Are So Much Better Shared

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

is psychic. 

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

My Twisted Valentine Tattoo

Dear Augusten,

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

 

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

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

That’s when it came to me.

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

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

 

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

 

Pamajama

 

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

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

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

Plus, it wasn’t my fault.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

taking a gourmet cooking class with my husband. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do I sound like a fucking gourmet to YOU?

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

* * * * *

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

She screamed, “NO!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

No fucking way!

* * * * *

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

Follow Your Heart, Aunt Rose &/or Home Alone – Edition 49

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh?

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

cook my ass like a fatty goose.

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

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

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

then fuck it,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

So how was your summer?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate being predictable.  

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

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

I have no idea.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you think it could be the tequila shots?

* * * *

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

Really, though, how often can you redecorate?

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * 

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

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

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

 “When does your period start?”

He knows me too well.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

F*CK NO!

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Mothers & Sons ~ As Twisted As It Gets

I’ve done so little in the past week that I had to ask my husband,

“Did I leave the house at all?”

All four movies I watched Saturday were great, providing no incentive to move.

I’m convinced it’s like a bear conserving energy for the days ahead.  Today the girl & I go into NYC to pick up the boy and my life will change for a little while. 

It’s all so bizarre, this adult child thing. Each time he moves I’m suddenly involved in his life again.  On the other hand, the first time he does not ask for my help I will be more devastated than I can even put into print. 

The kid can’t win.

For some unbelievable reason my husband isn’t willing to go into the city at 1:30 in the afternoon and battle traffic when we could have gone in at 7:30 in the evening.  Can you believe he’s so unfeeling about my son’s desire to make it home in time to go to a bar tonight and meet friends? 

Such insensitivity.

For some reason it also bugs the big guy that when we get there (in his truck, the one the boy will use while he’s home) nothing will be packed (before we have to haul it down 11 stories), which will no doubt be the case. 

The boy already verbally agreed that’s how it’ll be.  (He had such an impish grin in his voice and laughing tone.  Really, it was adorable!)

* * * * *

Things I do differently when my oldest child is home:

1.) Bite my tongue way more than usual.  (No harsh voice allowed, no irritation shown, no disagreement.) 

2.) Pretend to make motions toward homemaking activities like cleaning, organizing, laundry, etc.  Sometimes I actually do that stuff. 

(I just spoke to my friend Roxanne today and she was delivering a grilled cheese to the couch for her newly graduated 22-year old.  It’s nearly impossible to compete!  I think there may be private meetings where the guys all get together and say, “Hey, what did you get your mom to do today?” 

“Mine made my bed AND french toast.”

“Mine took money right out of my dad’s wallet for me & spoon-fed me peas!”

“Ah, that’s nothing.  Mine is driving into a city full of several million people with my little sister, in a pick-up truck.  She’ll move all my stuff down 11 stories and pack it up for me while I take my computer apart AND she’ll buy me food on the way home!  All so I can get to the bar on time!”

And then they laugh and laugh!

Young moms shouldn’t feel smug cause they start practicing this shit around age 6 or so.)

3.) I jump to make him special meals with lots of protein, fruits & vegetables.  I will make 100 cups of hot tea in the week to come, filling them with fresh lemon to soothe allergies.  (This does not go over well with husband and daughter, not at all.  It’s like I have a couple of puppies watching me.  Where’s mine?  Mind you, neither of them drink tea or like my cooking.)

4.) Turn my life around to make things convenient for him, break dates with friends & leave all my time free just in case.  (He leaves me hanging, puts everything off to the last second, like I am the “alternative plan,” which no doubt I am.)

5.) Occasionally find my head up my own ass after twisting and maneuvering and accidentally leaving it up there.

6.) Pray every time he gets in the car and drives away.  Worry about where he is and when he’ll be back and whether he’s safe.  (For some reason I am able to let go of this for the most part when he’s living elsewhere.  I am evidently far more afraid of vehicles than guns or muggers or street gangs or swine flu.)

7.) Ask question after question in an attempt to start a conversation, laugh at myself, converse with myself, smile like an idiot preparing to jump from a clown car.  (Those questions do nothing but annoy him, but silence feels even worse, like I’m showing no interest!  I can’t bear the idea that he might think I don’t care.  I’m looking for input from men here — tell me I should just shut up, would you?)

8.) Pick apart every single thing about myself & wonder whether it’s the one tragic piece of my make-up that makes him not like me very much.  (When normal people come to visit I tear the house apart thinking nothing is ever good enough.  When he comes to visit I tear myself apart, thinking nothing is ever good enough.)

Mind you, he says “Love you, Mom” every time we speak.

9.) Try my hardest never to bring up any of the above issues because it only makes it so much worse & removes all question as to whether I’m a complete wack job.

10.) Wonder how it’s possible the above nine items could be true and worry that the 11 year old (whom I have a relatively good relationship with today — just like I did with him) – will be just like him.  (She and I have already agreed that it might be best if we only hug from hereon in, no speaking allowed.  She told me yesterday that she believes “When you turn 50 you die inside and start staring at trees like Daddy.  I turn 49 in one month.)

* * * * *

It sounds so much worse when I put it on paper and I don’t think I’m explaining it all properly.  In person it’s really just a lot of silence on his part and perky paranoia on mine.  I need one other friend who’s had the same experience with an adult son.  Just one! 

Instead, I’m surrounded by people with beautiful babies.  I can’t bear it!  Just today one of my husband’s nieces wrote something about having “me time” and getting her husband to hold the baby while he napped!  How idiotic!  I am going to stop eating sugar & ensure that I do not go blind before I watch her cry that her son is a grown man!  I will love it so!  As she blubbers I will rub it in: “I remember when you wished he was in a crib, sleeping through the night!”  Cause, you know, you can say shit like that when you’re 70 plus!

* * * * *

He will be home for little more than a week, then I will be driving to drop him off at graduate school for a final summer semester.  We will leave early in the morning, really early, because he won’t be willing to go down the night before and stay in a hotel like civilized people, as it adds to the amount of time he must spend with me and cuts back on the time he has with friends. 

If it’s a repeat of last summer he will go out until late, drink more than necessary and want to sleep all the way there.  Then I will help him haul all the stuff out of the car, pack it into the new dorm room, make sure he’s set up and say “I love you!  Be careful!  Maybe you could call once a week, cause ya know I get physically ill when I don’t hear your voice after a while?  Good-bye!”

I will go from there to my sister’s to spend a few more days with the Kentucky peeps.  It seems silly to go again so soon, but I’m already in a southerly direction and it’s only eight hours more.

In a quick two months it will be time to return for graduation and move the boy back to NYC.  The summer will fly by, like it always does.  In eight weeks time I will get four phone calls and an e-mail or two.

This all sounds so incredibly negative & I wish it didn’t.  The boy has no tattoos of grim reapers or Disney characters.  He’s handsome as could be and has a million friends.  I just sent his cousin two letters yesterday addressed to a fucking women’s prison!  Are ya kiddin’ me?

He is perfectly normal and I’m fucked up.

It’s like that Chili’s commercial:

I want my baby back, baby back, baby back.  I want my baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back . . .

Seriously now, I want to hear

What’s your special brand of crazy?