Cousins

As a small child I remember being baffled by her girly demeanor. Growing up next door to a house full of boys, I was a combination of awkward bookworm and tomboy so I imagine she was just as baffled by me too.

Her mother dressed her in fashionable dresses, leaving her waist length brown hair loose and lovely, while my mother stuffed me into overalls and cut my frizzy bangs at an awkward angle. When I went over to play there were tea parties instead of teepees made of sticks and dress up games instead of chase. She had shelf upon shelf of Barbies, all in their original boxes, and when I tried to play with them I was reprimanded. She was prissy and I was rough, as different as two little girls could possibly be, yet every time we had to be parted we cried and begged our parents for just a little more time.

At the age of twelve we got what we asked for, but in the worst possible way. Her parents were in a boating accident – her father killed on impact and her mother in a coma with severe brain trauma. She and her brother moved in with our Papa, right next door to me.

I remember fighting my way through the adults until they allowed me to sit next to her at her father’s funeral. I clutched her hand and looked straight ahead. And when the minister finished a monologue with “for all the Days of Our Lives”, we looked at each other, unable to stop the grins and tiny giggles that escaped simultaneously. It was our favorite soap opera, we watched it with our moms all the time, but we knew how much her father had hated it.

I was so excited when she started attending my school. We didn’t have any classes together, but we saw each other at lunch, recess and of course every day at home.

But it soon became apparent that our differences, however easy to work around when we hadn’t seen each other daily at home, weren’t so easy to ignore anymore. She became part of the popular crowd and I took a backseat, watching from the sidelines as she crooked her finger and got all the things most young girls are interested in – the good looking boyfriend, being a member of the cheerleading squad, and being invited to all the coolest events and parties.

I was jealous and resentful that she walked in and things seemed to fall into her lap, but I kept that to myself and I felt guilty for even feeling that way. Her father was gone and her mother was the child rather than the parent, living next door with a nurse maid. How could I possibly begrudge her the attention? She deserved to be happy and enjoy life as much as possible.

But my feelings of discontent grew as, little by little, she developed a habit of putting me down in front of other people. She would have her friends spend the night and I would be there, sitting on the edges, only included as an afterthought or a joke. I would go home crying, devastated about the way I was treated, but too afraid to stand up for myself for fear of losing the good parts of our relationship.

And there were a lot of good parts. When we were alone or just with family, we were the best of friends. We had sleepovers and inside jokes. She comforted me when my dad went on drunken rampages and I comforted her when she was depressed about her family. And the summers were the best – spending every day in our bathing suits with our other cousins, swimming and tubing, riding our bikes barefoot in the hot afternoons, picking handfuls of honeysuckle and exploring every inch of the woods around our houses. She played a major part in a lot of my fondest childhood memories.

Then, when we were 15 and 16, in the summer of 2001, our cousin Ben died in a Jet Ski accident. And we turned to each other first. I was home alone with my sister, doing chores as quickly as possible so we could go swimming, and she was just down the hill at her house, vegging and waiting on us to finish. We each got a call about the accident from someone different, but at the same time. After I hung up I took off running through the house and out the backdoor, across the porch and down the stairs, shouting her name...and she was doing the same. We met with a crash in the grass a few yards from my house and held on.

Later we prayed on our knees and I’ve never begged God for anything as hard, before or since, as I did that day in the hour after receiving the news of the crash, waiting to find out if he survived. And when he didn’t, I became something she was already well on her way to becoming – reckless.

The three of us had been born three months apart – her birthday was in March, mine in June, and Ben’s in October – and though he was the baby, I’d been the only one to really hold back on the partying, only occasionally indulging in smoking or drinking. But soon after his death I was sneaking out of the house with her, getting high most days and drunk every weekend.

She still treated me badly at school sometimes, and even at home if the neighbor girls were around, but the closest I ever got to confronting her then was a letter that she shrugged off. Because of Ben, my fear of confrontation had turned into my fear of losing her...and I was willing to be occasionally miserable in order to keep us close. I made every concession I could and when it sometimes became too much, I avoided her for a week or two to get my head on straight, always eventually giving in. After all, we’d been through so much together.

People began to notice how unbalanced our relationship had become, namely my mother, and started badgering me about standing up to her, about taking instead of always giving. Instead I continued to run when she called and I let all the resentment, all the hurt and anger continue to build up.

After we graduated and went our separate ways, it got a little easier. We still saw each other often, but not every day. In the past my attitude with her had been largely submissive, obviously, but because of the stuff I was going through, every little thing set me off. Combined with all those stored up years of fat jokes and nerd jokes, it turned me into almost as big a bitch as she was. She was thinner and had better hair, but I was witty and well read. I took every opportunity to make her look like an idiot, but with a smile on my face and more cunning than she’d ever managed to use when insulting me in public. And for a long time I was satisfied with that, with what I thought of as subtle retribution.

Over the next few years I still gave far more of myself than I thought was fair, but I’ve always been sort of a masochist. Then (I believe) the addition of being a parent stole the last shred of patience I had for the old games. I finally began to let her know that I thought she was ungrateful and took advantage of me (albeit often with my help), but instead of a reaction I expected (anger, sadness or denial), she practically laughed in my face. That, and an upsetting diatribe about what a shitty mother I was, ended it. I turned my back, ignored her calls, and went on my way.

In the long stretch of months that we didn’t speak, I had plenty of time to think about our situation. I admitted my areas of wrong doing (to myself, and later to her), but I still felt good about my decision to cut off contact. At first I felt healthier, and generally happier, without the added drama.

But soon I missed her to the point of nearly caving and calling. I missed the stories that only we shared, the laughter and all night gab sessions. She’d always been the first person I told everything to and though I knew I needed the space I’d created, it hurt.

It was nearly two years ago that, after months and months of silence, we had our first adult discussion about why things were the way they were. She was living with her then boyfriend and, for reasons that had nothing to do with me, was alienated from the majority of our family. I’d been the last one to cut off contact and the last one she’d expected it from. As I sat there on the couch I could literally see the toll it had taken on her and it shocked me. For the first time since I wrote her that letter in my childish, bubbly script, I told her how I really felt...about everything. And she listened without a trace of a smirk or hint of a laugh.

We were up all night and well into the morning, crying and confessing, hugging and promising. Underneath all the negativity that surrounded our relationship, we’d always loved each other.

And over the past year we’ve really worked at changing the way we interact. I’ve become more assertive and outspoken with her...and she’s curbed her temper, become more thoughtful. But it’s a process and, though she’ll always be my family and I’ll always love her, there’s a scar there. I knew we could never go back to being those two little girls, arguing over which game to play and nothing else, but I hoped we’d still fight tooth and nail to stay together, just like they did. I hoped we’d still go to each other first when shit went down.

I hoped, but until this past Monday, I really wasn’t sure.

*****

I woke at 5:15 to the radio alarm playing Lady Gaga and the phone bleeping and flashing red. I switched off the music, reached for the phone and turned over on my back, squinting at the bright screen. Three missed calls, all within the last 10 minutes, were from her.

And then I saw the text message, sent a mere three minutes before: “He shot his self in the face beside me. Help.” I jumped up and fumbled for my glasses, putting them on to make sure I’d read it correctly. Unfortunately, I had.

I hit redial and she answered immediately, sobbing and managing to tell me that she was going to the hospital; he was still alive. “I’m on my way”, I said. “I’ll meet you there.” The moment we hung up I ran around my room tugging on clothes. I grabbed my purse, slipped my feet into flip flops, alerted my mom and ran out the door.

It takes an hour to get there in good weather, but it was freezing and pouring down rain that morning. And while I navigated the dark, wet roads at a pace I wouldn’t normally, I thought about what I’d say to her. Even without knowing all the details I was horrified. I wasn’t thinking about him at all – I didn’t wonder why or how. I liked him alright, but I’d only met him a few times and he was still just the boyfriend to me. All I could think was, “After everything she’s been through...dear god, I can’t even begin to imagine...I’ve got to get there.”

Arriving at the hospital, I parked and ran through the rain, cursing my flip flops and lack of umbrella. My glasses fogged as I sloshed through the lobby, wet pants legs clung to my ankles and dripping hair was plastered to my neck. I rode the elevator alone to the third floor, getting out in front of another, nearly empty, lobby.

We saw each other at the same time. She was sitting in a chair next to two women and as I moved toward her she stood up and took a step, clearly unable to do more. But we crashed into each other with the same force that we had on that summer day ten years ago.

I held her thin, shaking frame tightly, until her knees started to buckle. Then we sat and I held her over the armrest, noticing that the two women she’d been sitting beside were staring. The one closest to us introduced herself awkwardly over my cousin’s crying. It was his mother. “I’m glad you’re here for her”, she said.

After a few minutes I was able to let go and she began to tell me the story. The more she spoke, the sicker I felt. She’d told me before that he had anger and depression issues, had threatened to kill his self before, but the way she’d relayed it made it sound like it was all in the past. Apparently things were strained and he “flipped out” too often. She’d always been able to calm him and talk him down before, but not this time.

And still, after I knew the details, I couldn’t think about him and his issues. I didn’t think about how I’d laughed with him at the wedding the weekend before, how young he was or about what a blow it was for his family. All that would come later. What I couldn’t stop thinking about was how close she came to being killed, how horrific it must have been to witness such a thing and how maybe, if I’d been talking to her more often, she would have told me everything from the beginning and I could have helped her get out of the situation.

After speaking with his mother, it was decided that I would take her back to their neighborhood to get her dogs safely put away. She has two Great Danes that she loves more than anything and they were scared and alone. She immediately agreed and we left.

I didn’t think we were going into his house where it happened because the dogs were at his mother’s right around the corner, but she said she needed her keys. I was hesitant, but I couldn’t let her go alone so I followed her into the entryway. While she went to the bathroom immediately inside the front door, I stood in the foyer. I stared at a cell phone lying halfway open on the carpet, surrounded by broken glass and shredded items, and shuddered.

When she came out we decided to get some of her clothes so we wouldn’t have to come back, but that required us going through the master bath and into the closet, where he’d done it. I’ve always been an extremely squeamish person, covering my eyes during anything bloody on TV and occasionally vomiting when around bodily fluids, so she told me I didn’t have to go in there...that she’d already seen the worst. But again, I couldn’t let her do that alone.

I cannot go into detail, but it was the most grisly thing I’ve ever seen in my life. She was unable to go all the way in after all and I had to make my way around the closet, picking things that were clean and holding my breath. I steeled myself and thought of nothing but getting her out immediately. It wasn’t until she was settled back at the hospital that I made my way to the bathroom and was sick.

All day we sat and waited, alternately speaking to friends and family as they found out and called to check on her. She broke down every once in awhile, finally passing out from a pill and exhaustion for about half an hour.

He made it through surgery, but was still critical. His parents were able to see him for a moment late that afternoon and they allowed her to go in too. She wouldn’t leave the hospital until she’d seen him anyway, and when she came out she nearly collapsed. I said “enough”, and took her home with me.

*****

These past few days have been exhausting, emotionally and physically. She’s getting a little better each day and truthfully, I’m in awe over her ability to keep going. He’s as stable as he can be at the moment and won’t be awake this week so she’s staying away from the hospital for now. Yesterday she saw a trauma therapist and it went well. She’s still staying at my house and between our family, his family, and their friends, there’s someone with her all the time. I’ve been managing the phone calls, the insurance information and anything else that crops up. Making sure she eats and rests.

I’ve been silently struggling a bit, trying to comfort her and keep things together. It’s a repetitive, draining task and I’ve never had to deal with anything quite this difficult before. But I love her and I’m going to keep helping her and listening, distracting her and making her laugh. And though I’d never wish this tragedy on anyone, ever, positive things have happened as a result. She’s getting therapy, which we’ve been trying to get her to do for a long time. Bridges are being mended. He’s going to get the help he needs.

And I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that we’re going to be ok. Because when everything fell apart she dialed my number...and I fought my way there, without hesitation, to hold her hand.

Letters to Santa

I don’t remember a lot about the days leading up to Christmas when I was younger, though I have a general idea of what transpired. I spent the entire month of December anticipating – not really doing anything. There was just waiting and more waiting punctuated with Frosty cartoons and a trip to see Santa at the mall. And though I’ve seen pictures, I can’t recall one solid memory of ever sitting on some fat man’s lap. Unless you count my Papa, of course.

But I remember being full of excitement on Christmas Eve – tossing in my bed for what felt like forever and finally drifting off, only to wake a few hours later with the house still muffled by darkness. I’d force myself to lie there for another hour, knowing mom wouldn’t let me drag my little sister out of bed quite yet. Sometimes I’d creep to the living room and squint through my nerdy, round framed glasses at the piles of presents – trying to decipher what they were by the gloomy silhouettes. Santa didn’t leave wrapped presents at our house; he arranged them artfully around our stockings, like a shop window display.

I’d eventually succumb to temptation, still always before the sun made an appearance, and tiptoe to my sister’s room. I’d prod her awake and make her go ahead of me into our parent’s room to soften the early wake up call. Once Lee had done her thing, mom would get up and start the coffee while I danced anxiously from foot to foot.

Dad was always the last to wander out, stretching and grinning in his old blue robe, knowing we had to wait on him to get started. It was the only day of the year that he was always home and sober, no matter what. He loved Christmas and was always so excited to give us our gifts and watch us get excited in turn. I remember wishing it could be Christmas every day – not for the presents, but to keep him that way, smiling and pleasant.

While our parents sat on the loveseat in their robes, sipping steaming coffee and looking very pleased with themselves, we would exclaim over our piles from Santa Claus. Upending our stockings, we’d eye each other’s lot suspiciously, making sure one wasn’t better that the other. Then dad would dig under the tree and hand out the family presents. Paper would fly and squealing echoed off the walls.

When there was nothing left but the presents to take to The Grandmother’s later that day and a sea of brightly colored paper up to our ears, dad would get a trash bag and gather up the debris. And while mom got in the shower and did last minute food preparations, he would put batteries in our new toys. He would sit cross legged on the floor in his pajama bottoms, robe and coffee cup discarded, and the three of us would play. We would wait until the last possible minute to get dressed and pile in the car.

Now I’m a (and I use this term loosely) grown up and, though all our traditions are essentially the same, the players have switched roles. My part is no longer that of the excited, vision impaired child. I’m now the “arranger”. I’m the groggy adult pulled from her warm bed, forced to ooh and ahh over the presents the fat man gets credit for. The person that cleans the mess rather than makes it, and pays out her ass rather than sits on it.

I envy my five year old this holiday season. All she has to do is sit on the couch, stuff her face with cookies, and irritate me with the incessant ping, ping, ping of her Nintendo DS games. She has no monetary worries, no gift giving stresses, and no desire to best anyone in the cake baking arena. She won’t be bothered with crazed shoppers and her Christmas party will be full of laughter, not the ubiquitous sound of ass kissing.

The major difference between my new role and my old one is not that I buy more than I receive (though that is so pitifully true). It isn’t that I get drunk on wine rather than lie in bed counting the hours till someone comes along breaking and entering, or that I stay up chatting about blowjobs rather than reciting The Night Before Christmas. The major difference, people, is that the mysteries of the holiday have now been revealed. The veil has lifted and as a result, some of the magic has been lost.

Ahem. (Shield your child's eyes. I know you let them read this blog.)

There is no Santa Claus. I repeat: There is NO Santa Claus! Presents are not free and they are not made by elves. There are things called credit cards and one nasty event called Black Friday that was created by Satan and Martha Stewart’s minions. Adults do not get piles of presents, they get bills.

It’s not that I’m a complete scrooge or anything like that. Truthfully, even though it usually hurts me in the end, now I love to give presents a bit more than I like receiving them. (I said a bit more.)

I like watching the kid’s little face light up when she sees her gifts. I like buying things for people that I know they’re going to love, and basking in the warm glow of feeling superior. “They like my present better than yours! Ha, in your face!” I’m absurdly pleased when someone raves about something I got them. Receiving is kick ass, but I’ll agree that giving is more...fulfilling.

It’s rather like my views on oral sex – “Oh, that’s nice...” as opposed to “I noh ou ike it, eeeahh!” How many compliments do you get upon receiving something? None. People don’t just go around saying, “Damn, you’re good at taking that gift!” Or, “Thank you so much for letting me give this to you.” No. The receiver is the one that gives the compliments and gushes with gratitude, and honestly, I’m not always good at handing out thank yous. But I definitely excel at swallowing them.

Anyway, I know people that tell their kids right off the bat that Santa doesn’t exist. My cousin and her husband did that with their three boys, and that was their prerogative. But if one of those little fuckers ruins my kid’s magic prematurely – I will light their bible thumping asses on fire. I may not like giving up the credit for the best presents to the fat guy, but I get to experience a little bit of my old excitement through her and it is kind of nice. It helps to take my mind off the grown up responsibilities – if only for a little while.

As a matter of fact, we’ve been working on her letter to Santa Claus and it’s almost ready to go out. Still being the sweet, blissfully ignorant child that she is, the kid encouraged me to write a letter to him too. “He’ll bring you something too, Mama. You’ve been good!” And you know what? I decided I would do it. Did you know there are places you can mail them to and receive an actual reply?

Dear Santa Claus,


Even though I know you aren’t real, my daughter insisted we both write to you. And since I’ve recently drained the last of my wine bottle and taken a Xanax, I suddenly feel as though anything is possible. You could be out there, hammering away in your workshop with a passel of little people, just waiting to hear from me.


I feel I’ve been rather good this year too. I’ve barely slept with anyone at all, comparatively speaking, and definitely with no one underage. I know you’re remembering the Halloween party, but let me just assure you, I would never have acted on those thoughts. Wait...are you even a mind reader? That’s not important! What is important is that I’m morphing into a sporadically responsible adult, and as an almost always irresponsible child that received presents no matter how many times I was suspended from the school bus, I feel it’s only fair that you cough up the goods now too.


So, without further ado, here, sir, are my requirements:


I would like a pony. That’s a vibrator, not an actual pony. And it must be pink.


I would like a gift certificate to the plastic surgeon. What I want it for is none of your nevermind.


Free health insurance, a new car (and while you’re at it, please pay off my old one first), a book deal, and a foreign boyfriend with a huge penis.


And just to show you that I’m not all that picky, if you’re unable to acquire a foreigner with a huge penis, I’ll settle for a mute, or extremely quiet, American with a huge penis. The rest, though, is non-negotiable. Oh, and while I’m feeling generous...why not throw in a little world peace?


In return, I’ll try to leave out some milk and cookies for you. I can’t promise anything, mind. I never know when I’ll get the munchies or a sudden craving for White Russians.


You need not send a reply just in case you aren’t real. I don’t want to be disappointed before I’m disappointed, you see.


Merry Christmas!

I think that should suffice. I wonder if one of these Santa services would actually reply to that.

Well. There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?

Love letter fail

I wasn’t your typical angst ridden, obsessive teenager writing things that would embarrass me later. Unless you want to count the 4evers and hearts scribbled amongst the pages of my diary – but no one would ever read those. Unlike the majority of my female peers, I avoided passing folded squares of notebook paper professing one’s love for some unworthy boy.

Being a bit of a nerd I was, of course, afraid of rejection. But I was also disappointed in the process. In my mind it just wasn’t romantic for the girl to initiate things. My head was full of paperback and movie heroes that swept the geeky girl off her feet, that marveled at her wit and intelligence – not the bloomers peeking out from under her cheerleading skirt.

I didn’t write my first love letter until I was a freshman in high school – until I thought I’d found the guy that would really appreciate it. I never felt the urge until I met him.

His name was Ben and he was a senior. The all American guy – good looking, friendly, charming, athletic, talented, smart. Girls practically drooled on themselves when he walked by and I was no exception. Just to cement his dreamy status, he was one of the leads in Chorus – dropping by during our freshman class to show our guys how it was really done and send the girls into convulsions. That voice combined with the rest of the package was just lethal.

My cousin Ashley was also a senior and they hung out in the same group. We were allowed to eat lunch in the hallways back then and their designated area was by the trophy case. Trespassers were not welcome and invitations were coveted. The guys lounged around in their letterman jackets, leaning against the brightly painted walls like demy gods, goofing off and surveying the girls that sat on the floor in a neat row – their hair perfectly coiffed and their makeup shellacked on with a spatula.

Despite the fact that I was a freshman nerd, I was granted an all access pass. Having a hot cheerleader cousin had its perks. I sat with the senior girls and pretended I wasn’t dying to eat the half bag of Doritos concealed in my book bag, and that I was like, totally interested in what semi-matching outfits everyone was planning to wear the next day. I was nothing like them, but Ashley did her best to help me fit in. My paperbacks were concealed during lunch; traded for whatever girly magazine the rest were pouring over. I got contacts and kept my mouth full of metal closed as much as possible. I let Ashley cake layer upon layer of thick, too dark foundation on my pale skin and line my lips where I actually had none.

For school picture day she loaned me her clothes – a tight, low cut yellow sweater and a short, tight black skirt. She styled my hair into what was supposed to be a replica of her own messy bun, but with my Don King frizz, I ended up looking like the drunken librarian that stuck her finger in an electrical outlet. I remember she was mad because I had to wear my glasses; I’d ripped my contact that morning. Consequently, my mother refused to buy the packet because I looked like a nerdy baby hooker, and the only record that the day ever happened is a faded proof photo stuffed in a shoe box among my other macabre school things.

Ashley also took it upon herself to tow me along to events I would never have gone to otherwise – parties, college baseball games, trips to the mall. I was largely ignored by the guys, but her girlfriends always treated me kindly. They’d all grown up using our Papa’s house as a summer retreat and to them I was already a fixture.

The first time I really spoke to Ben was at a local college’s baseball game. We never sat in the stands, preferring instead to park by the surrounding fence and tailgate. Papa allowed Ashley to use his Expedition and she packed it with as many of her friends as possible. I, of course, always ended up in the last row.

That particular night I was a bit drunk, though on what I can’t remember. I climbed onto the middle seat of the SUV to sit for awhile because I was tired of standing. A nice breeze was coming through the open door on my right and I was gazing at the baseball field through the front windshield, not really seeing anything, a half smile on my face. The back left door opened a few minutes later and Ben hopped onto the seat next to me, throwing his arm over the back of the seat.

“Hey Alyson”, he said smiling.

“Hi”, I replied, more than a little awed. He was so close the sleeve of his letterman jacket brushed my cheek when I turned to look up at him.

I wish I could remember every detail of our insignificant conversation, because it was the beginning of the end for me. When he was among the senior lunch crowd or a teacher’s aide in chorus, there was a barrier. But in that backseat he was just a guy, being nice to a girl who should have known better.

We drank a beer together – him taking large comfortable swallows, while I struggled to keep my tiny sips down. I confessed my complete ignorance about baseball and he explained a few key points, gesturing toward the game through the windshield while I watched his lips move. In the back of my mind I knew he was just being nice. He was nice to everyone. But the alcohol combined with a teenage girl’s need for acceptance won the “does he, does he not” battle. I was suddenly convinced that he liked me.

For the next few weeks I talked Ashley’s ear off about him – without much success. She never was one to pay attention unless the subject was one of her favorites: Ashley, what you could do for Ashley, or shopping. She largely ignored my hints that I wanted her to talk to him on my behalf. I know now that was likely due to the fact that she’d already infringed upon “the in crowd” enough, just by having me around.

I watched him in the halls and in the classroom – always waiting on him to notice me again, to swing an arm around my shoulders liked he’d done that night. But of course he didn’t. Every once in awhile I would get a half wave or a quick smile as he strode by, occasionally followed by a distracted “hey Alyson.”

I’d had crushes before, but I was absolutely devastated by his fleeting “moment of interest” and then nothing. That was when I decided that I should tell him exactly how I felt...in a letter.

The only letters I’d ever written before were to my Grandmother, a pen pal, and my diary. I knew nothing about winning a boy’s affection through words, but I was convinced I could do a better job of it than other girls my age. A smart guy like him would surely be more appreciative of a winning display of vocabulary, as well as a profession of deep feelings, than any of that check yes or no bullshit.

I sat Indian style on my bed for hours, alternately chewing my pen and staring into space. It had to be perfect – my words had to move him. And so I finally wrote:

Ben,


I had a wonderful time talking to you at the ballgame a few weeks ago. You aren’t like the other guys at this school; you’re definitely a lot nicer. I think you’re super hot and really sweet. I’d be ecstatic if you would give me a chance to be your girlfriend. If you aren’t inclined to date me, I believe I could settle for being your friend.


Think about it and let me know.


Love,

A

(I pieced that together from scraps of rough drafts that I found in a shoebox. The actual letter, the one I passed onto him, was perhaps a little different. Either way, it’s painfully obvious that writing love letters was (is) not my forte, no matter how highly I thought of my academic prowess.)

There was a freshman named Angela who was on very good terms with the senior athletic crowd. She was a great big barrel of a girl – tall, with a giant muffin top and pancake-like breasts. Her blonde hair was always cut in a boyish way, shaved across the back of the neck, with frizzy bangs bouncing across her forehead. I never thought about lesbians when I was that age, but now I’m relatively sure that Angela was the first one to make my acquaintance.

Her sister was a gorgeous senior, just like Ashley (only a natural blonde; not a peroxide one with “fashionable” black roots). Though she was often a part of the lunch group, she spent most of her between class times with the jocks – Ben included. I decided that she would be the best one to give him my note. I knew she wasn’t interested enough to read it and she wasn’t the sort of girl to make fun of people or start rumors.

We had chorus together every other day. I waited until we were there on a Friday to explain the situation. I hoped that it would be easier for Ben to receive the note and read it without any of his friends noticing, what with everyone leaving for the weekend.

“Angela...do you think you could give this to Ben for me?”

To her credit, she looked neither surprised nor pitying when she took the proffered note and said “sure thing”. No questions asked.

The following Monday I asked if she gave it to him and she said she had, but she offered no more information. I felt awkward asking anything else, so I waited.

A week went by and nothing happened – except that I didn’t see him very often, and when I did it was just in passing. The seniors had plenty of things to keep them busy since the end of the year was drawing to a close. It wasn’t until he finally made an appearance to help with my chorus class that I received my long awaited answer.

As I stared at him from my chair in the top row of the soprano risers, I know I looked like an anxious, wide eyed child. He smiled a sad little smile and shook his head at me. He looked genuinely sorry and he might have even mouthed the word, but my eyes had already blurred with tears.

We never once spoke about it and I spent my summer away from Ashley and her senior friends, avoiding the possibility of running into him. I was devastated by the rejection, of course, but more than that...I was angry at the anticlimactic end of it all. Shouldn’t there have been more drama over my first real profession of love for a boy – accepted or not? Wasn’t something else supposed to happen?

But over fifteen years later, I realize that I was lucky to have such a gracious, anticlimactic crush. And that I never again got the urge to write another love letter. I doubt, even at this age, that I'd be able to fill an entire page with flowery words and phrases. I wasn't that sort of girl, and I suppose I'm not that sort of woman either. "Let's get to the point, shall we!" Romantic, yes?
Ben owns a bar in our area now and I see him every once in awhile. He treats me like an old friend – sitting beside me and catching up on family and mutual acquaintances. When he came to my cousin’s wedding last year we all hung out on my patio, drinking shots of Jim Beam and laughing.

That night he put his arm around me while we stood around our friends and I thought about the last time he’d done so, in the back of my Papa’s Expedition, and I wondered if he remembered it too. I’m not the same girl that mooned over him then, it’s true, but he’ll always be special to me – firstly, because he received the only love letter I ever wrote, however miserable it was, and second, because he never once made fun of me.

Before he left that night, while our arms were still hooked around each other’s waists, he made a comment that he hadn’t realized I had a daughter. I looked up at him and smiled. The urge to ask him about the letter, about what he remembered from that time, had been with me all night. We were older, it wouldn’t hurt anymore, and I was simply curious. But rather than asking outright, I decided to remind him of my past interest in my own unique way.

“She’s four”, I replied to his comment.

“Who’s her dad?”

It was just the opening I’d been waiting for. I breathed a heavy sigh and rolled my eyes a bit.

“It could have been you, you know”, I said with exaggerated regret. We stared at each other for a moment – then suddenly burst out laughing at the same time.

Yes, I thought, he definitely remembered.

Driver's Ed

“The number on this ID card will be her driver’s license number when she’s old enough to drive. Isn’t that neat?”

I raised my eyebrow at the unusually chipper DMV employee behind the counter. “It’ll be awhile. I’m sure they’ll have risen the driving age considerably by then.” In my head I added, “And rightly so”.

The smile she gave me seemed to say, “Listen lady, I’m trying here.” But in my defense she’s the very first DMV employee I’ve ever met that didn’t appear angry or lobotomized.

According to my father the kid didn’t need an ID card to fly. He claimed he called the airline and spoke to someone directly. It was entirely possible, but not very probable, so I decided to have one made just in case. Which was why I was standing at the DMV counter, holding the wrist of an uncooperative five year old, on my coveted lunch break. And sweating, I might add, because it was approximately 103 degrees and humid enough to cause mirages in the parking lot. I was almost positive I’d seen a mariachi band and a dancing margarita.

“Mom, I’m getting a driver’s license!”

It was not a question, but a statement. And for the fifth time since walking in the door, filling out the paperwork, and taking a number I said, “No. It’s not a driver’s license. You are too young to drive.”

“When can I drive”, she whined.

The lady behind the counter paused in her typing to smile at my cranky child. “Soon”, she said...at the exact same time that I muttered, “Never”.

She crossed her arms over her chest and said what all children from a broken family say when they aren’t getting their way. “Humph. I’ll just ask my daddy.”

I only just managed to stop myself from saying, “Good luck with that, kid. If you can squeeze any money out of your broke ass father, then you’ve got a tighter grip that I do. And I don’t foresee a wealthy, car buying, insurance paying stepfather in your future. Also, shut your pie hole.”

Instead I simply laughed and escorted her to the side counter to have her picture made.

The whole process wasn’t as painful as I expected, but it caused me to think about things I hadn’t even begun to fathom. Like my child driving...in a car...with a motor. Blaring a DMX CD, smoking a stolen Virginia Slim, carting around three boys with sagging pants that are rolling up marijuana in the backseat, all while her best friend flashes truckers from the passenger side window.

Or maybe she’ll be a bit smarter than me. A mother can dream.

I can sympathize with teenagers desperately wanting to drive. I’m only 25. I remember what it was like to crave that freedom – to count the days until you didn’t have to be embarrassed about riding the school bus or being dropped off by your parents. To this day, I don’t think I ever wanted anything more than I wanted a set of car keys and that little plastic card.

But I also remember what a fucking idiot I was and how often I came close to killing not only myself, but every woodland and domestic creature in the surrounding area. Just like every teenager that knows everything and thinks they’re the best driver, like, ever.

I was luckier than most. While the majority of my friends had to wait until their sophomore year to get their license, (because there was a mandatory Driver’s Ed class that had to be taken first) I got mine that summer. Papa paid for my cousin Christine and me to take a four day course with a private driving instructor – three days of on the road training and one 8 hour day of video watching in a “class” similar to those given to drunk driving enthusiasts. At least my dad said they were similar.

Our instructor’s name was Karen and she was a very sweet lady. And by sweet I mean that she only made us do parallel parking five times a piece and always let us go through the drive through at Bojangles for an afternoon biscuit and a sweet tea.

We had a lot of fun in those three days. The exception being Christine’s interstate driving - which was like teetering on the edge of a precipice and not daring to breathe lest we go plummeting to our deaths... all the time knowing that had I been the one driving, I would have at least had sense enough to use signals on the way down. I read the training manual twice, after all. My skills were clearly superior.

When it came time for us to go to the DMV I was ecstatic. I knew dad was going to give me a car right before we left to take the test as a surprise. I spent a lot of time coming up with the perfect outfit to wear in my Mustang convertible, which is what I asked for and had no doubt I was getting.

And get one I did – a 1990 white model with a beige top. He tried to pull the ole Jekyll and Hyde trick on me though, because the inside looked like a warehouse after a rave. The door panels were ripped off, exposing the metal and wiring underneath, and the fabric on the seats was virtually threadbare. I wasn’t able to hide my disappointment and didn’t put much stock in his promises to fix it up. The kicker came after the driving test (which I aced) when we were on the way home. Despite his reassurances that the inside only needed a “little” fixing up and the beige top was “brand new”, we still got drenched in a sudden downpour.

“So dad”, I said, pushing wet strands of hair off my forehead, “how does a brand new top have that many leaks?”

I got a different car a few days later and though it wasn’t much better, at least it didn’t leak. It was a 1989 dark blue Mustang hatchback. The paint was peeling on the back and the inside smelled like a strip club (took me a few years, and becoming legal, before I could put a name to that smell) when he first brought it home – ashtray filled to the brim and beer cans rolling out from under the front seat. I don’t believe his story that the long haired, angry tattooed guy that dropped it off in the middle of the night just suddenly wanted to get rid of it, oh no! I’m willing to bet it had something to do with a game of poker.

It took two days of cleaning before I would even sit in it and knowing I was unhappy, dad purchased what every 15 year old girl needs in her busted ass hoopty – a state of the art CD player that flipped out of the dash with a remote control, a 1200 watt amp, and a trunk full of speakers.

In theory it was a cool gift, something I knew a lot of kids with a vehicle would love to have. But there was nothing badass about the clanging and rattling that old car emitted when the “system” was turned on. With the windows down it was tolerable, but otherwise the radio had to be kept at a manageable volume. Not only that, but I didn’t want to ride with the windows down. People would see who was inside.

When I pulled up in that ticking, shuddering mess on wheels the first day of school, I was beyond embarrassed. There I was parking next to the suped up trucks, SUVs, and sporty Eclipses. It took me a while to realize that I had to act like it didn’t bother me and then they’d stop laughing. After a few weeks I got used to the old thing and even grew to like it. Just a bit.

The more comfortable I became with my car, the more comfortable I became with driving in general. Soon I was steering with one knee, smoking a cigarette, putting on mascara, and blaring disgusting rap music up and down the roads. I had a routine – once I was two roads from home I would turn down the music, flick out the cigarette, hide the pack, and spray myself with eau de trashy teenage girl. (It amazes me that Christine and I thought that god awful stench masked our deceit.)

But one afternoon on my way home from school, I left the routine a little late. As I struggled to turn off the CD player with the remote, toss my cigarette, and make a sudden right hand turn onto our gravel driveway...I lost control of the car. I could have corrected it immediately, but when the steering wheel jerked my cigarette fell between the seats. I ran over the stop sign, flattening it to the ground, and hit a tree.

Thankfully the only thing wrong with the car was a broken headlight. I, however, wasn’t so lucky. I was unable to back it out. Instead of walking home calmly and rationally explaining to my mother that I was fiddling with the stereo (leaving out the cigarettes) and lost control, I wailed like a banshee. I walked the half a mile from the stop sign to my house, crying the entire way, went in the door and told mom that I’d gotten my goddamn shoestring caught on the gas pedal.

I was wearing flip flops.

Then just a few weeks later I was on my way to town, jamming out to my rattling windows, when I passed Christine in her bright blue, brand new Eclipse (the bitch). In the country when someone taps their breaks or flashes their lights at you, it means one of three things: they are saying hello, there are cops up ahead, or they want you to stop. As Christine drove by, she tapped her breaks and honked her horn. So I stopped.

It was on a back road close to our house and there was no one else around. So when she stopped too, and didn’t seem to be making the effort to back up, I decided to go for it. However, I went for it a little overzealously. I punched the gas too hard and flew backwards so fast it scared me, causing me to accidentally turn the wheel and do a complete 360, then slingshot straight down into a deep ditch.

It scared the living shit out of me and that’s really the only excuse I have for the first words I said to Christine when I crawled out of the car, wild eyed and disoriented, but unharmed.

“Did you see those huge deer!?”

“What deer”, she said.

“The deer”, I emphasized heavily, “you know, the ones that just ran out in front of me!”

“You’re a fucking retard.”

Funny thing is, my parents didn’t believe me either.

And those two incidents? Those were just the beginning of my long and fruitful driving record. I ran over and into things with that old Mustang that I wouldn’t even tell my dog about. Though I never hit a human at full speed, I can tell you that. And there’s a certain county judge that will never forget the day I backed into his brand new Lincoln in the Wal-Mart parking lot and took off like a bat out of hell. That one earned me a week on the bus and instilled in me the always healthy habit of checking your mirrors first.

After a year of all that unintentional mistreatment, the damn thing finally blew up. Dad sold my sound system for the crack rock and, feeling bad, Papa bought me a brand new PT Cruiser.

There’s a video somewhere of the day he took me to the dealership. In it I’m standing on the bottom step in front of the building next to Papa, my parents, and my sister when they drive the car in from the side and park it a few feet away. Papa says, “Happy Birthday, Alyson”. And I let out a scream to rival any slasher actress and say “HOLY SHIT”, launch myself at him, wrap my legs around his waist, and hang there. The poor man had to go lie down.

But as thankful as I was, I wasn’t very gentle on the PT either. There were deer, curbs, and the side of a building or two that were intimately familiar with that car. Oh, and policeman. They were pretty familiar too.

Two cars and seven years after the PT was given up, I still have a reputation as a horrendous driver. I haven’t gotten a ticket or had an accident in about three years (I think...). I’ve become infinitely more careful. But they’ll never forget and they’ll never let me live any of it down, especially ‘The Mustang Chronicles’.

Most teenagers think they’re invincible. I obviously did. And I can’t believe I’m about to parrot my grandmother...but the simple truth is that driving is a privilege, not a right. Kids need to earn the freedom to hit a deer, hose hair off the bumper, and swear someone must have hit it while they were parked at the mall. Or maybe what she said was, “Driving is a privilege, not a right. Damn it, I can’t believe I just bought you that Dodge Neon.”

In the DMV that day, as I thought about all the stupid shit I’d done, the machine spit the kid’s ID out into a tray. The woman behind the desk handed it over and we made our way out the door. She was jumping up and down chanting, “Let me see! Let me see!” I watched the grin spread across her face when she saw her picture and her own handwriting across the bottom. She chattered and chattered, excited about showing it off to the rest of the family.

As we drove out of the parking lot she handed it up to me and said, “What’s that say mom?”

“Which part?”

“The big red letters on the front...what do they say?”

I glanced down at the card then grinned at her in the rearview mirror.

“It says ‘NOT A DRIVER’S LICENSE’ and ‘UNDER 18 UNTIL 4-6-2023’.”

“Awww man!”

She wasn’t happy, but my mood had marginally improved.

Each new parenting experience, like having an ID made at the DMV, makes me feel that much closer to things I’m not sure I’m ready for. But just seeing that date made me feel marginally better, because 2023 seems like a long time from now. And even if it isn’t, I’ll keep pretending otherwise till it’s time for our next visit and a new card.

And because... according to Papa, who has the black marks on his patio to prove it, the kid has inherited my driving talents and is currently practicing her ram a ditch and lie about it routine with a pink Barbie Power- Wheel convertible. In fact, she’s pretty much got it down.

Yes, I know father's day was three days ago.

I wasn’t planning on doing a father’s day post, mostly because my dad and I have a tolerate/hate relationship. But it looks like I’m going to do a semblance of one anyway. (Basically it’s all Beta Dad’s fault. You can blame him and his awesome post for giving me the idea. I don’t think of it as cheating since our fathers are two VERY different men.)

********

This was in a Q&A forwarded email I received the other day:

“Describe your dad in one word.”

I hate this directive. One word answers have never been my style and describing anyone that way, myself included, is an irritation. This has less to do with the fact that I’m a descriptive person, and more to do with the fact that no one fits into a one word mold. No one.

My dad is, more often than not, an asshole. I’ve written about our issues before, most of which have to do with his drinking or occasional foray into the world of narcotics and/or gambling. But that’s only part of the person he is, so I figured I should be fair and introduce you to the rest of him. Not just the bad, but the good, the ugly, and the more than slightly ridiculous.

1. He’s very, very good at his job.

Starting as a welder in his late teens, he eventually became a certified steel inspector. He worked for several well known inspection companies, traveling around the US and Canada, until my grandfather (who is also an inspector) started his own company. He worked for Pop for a long time, still doing a lot of traveling, until he and mom divorced and he settled in Oklahoma. He recently returned from a job in New Jersey and is now working close to home.

Over the years I’ve had the opportunity to go on site and see at least part of what he does. I don’t pretend to understand the details of the job, but I do understand respect and it’s very obvious that the men he works with respect his ability and opinion. I used to love listening to his stories about the bridges and buildings he had a significant part in, one of which is my favorite place: the lovely, enormous glass and steel library downtown.

There’s a picture in my photo album that I look at every now and then. In it he’s no older than I am now. He’s standing with a group of men on the unfinished skeleton of a building, his hair in a youthful floppy style just visible underneath his hardhat, grinning and waving with the city skyline and the clouds at his back. It never fails to make me simultaneously pleased and anxious.

2. He introduced me to great music and taught me how to act like a redneck boy, should I feel so inclined.

Though the money spent on his various outdoor toys often made our bills late, I can’t deny they were a lot of fun. I had a go-cart, a golf cart, and a badass ATV that I would drive through the woods and around our back roads like a bat out of hell (with a full face of makeup, of course). He had his own ATV and we’d load them up on the trailer, drive to his buddy’s house for a fish fry, then spend hours in the woods driving the trails and drinking beer. I was usually the only girl on those outings and while they strapped coolers full of beer to the back of their rides, I’d strap a cooler full of Smirnoff to mine.

He had an old bronco that he put enormous tires on – like, mini monster truck tires – and we would take the hardtop off, drive to an old trucking road after a recent rain, and go mud digging. I’ve never been much on dirt or mud, but some of my fondest memories are of standing on the back seat of that jacked up truck, holding on to the roof, and being caked from head to toe in gunk. Afterward we’d drive to the boat ramp and back the truck almost all the way into the water. I’d let go of the roof and just float out over the submerged back end.

And while we were on our little excursions I got a crash course in good music: Aerosmith, Pink Floyd, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, Lynyrd Skynyrd, ZZ Top. I loved rocking out in the front seat with a soda in one hand and a Slim Jim in the other. Sometimes he would tell me things about the bands and sometimes he would just crank it up as loud as it could go.

He gave me a few of his old cassette tapes so I could listen to them in my room. My favorite was Pink Floyd’s The Wall and I wore that thing out. It drove my mom absolutely crazy.

3. He’s unintentionally funny.

When he tries to be funny, he isn’t. His jokes are always stupid and/or embarrassing. And usually, after he cracks one, he does this weird chuckle and says “Huh? Huh?”

One of his favorites was reserved for after big meals and used far too often. He would groan, stick out his stomach, rub it and say, “Hey...I’m pregnant with a baby elephant. Wanna see his trunk? Heh heh heh heh. Huh? Huh?”

Maybe unintentionally funny is the wrong choice of words.

We laugh when he lies about ridiculous things for no reason (which happens weekly), we laugh when he gets drunk and cries about nothing, we laugh at his dancing, we laugh at his solid white enormous tennis shoes, and we laugh at his facial expressions. We imitate his walk, the way he talks, and his speeches we couldn’t help but memorize.

I’m sure that all sounds terribly mean and unnecessary but trust me...finding the humor in that man is essential to dealing with him. If I couldn’t laugh at him, we just couldn’t interact.

4. He’s predictable.

“I brought ya inta this world. I ken take ya out and make anuder un jest like ya.”

If I had a nickel for every time I heard that phrase when I was a kid...

He used to say it in anger, but now that I’m an adult he usually says it in an “I’m being funny and menacing at the same time” kind of way. And I can predict, down to the second, when it’s going to come out of his mouth. And I say it with him. And he hates it.

He will wear the most vulgar t-shirt he can put his hands and go out in public. Always. It’s a given.

Probably one of the worst was when my sister was about nine and on a church softball league. He showed up late to a game one afternoon, pulled in the parking lot squealing tires on his motorcycle. From the bleachers mom and I could see him walking through the crowd on the grass. Each time he passed a group of people there was an immediate reaction. When he finally reached the low chain link fence around the field I recognized the t-shirt right away. It was one mom had attempted to throw in the trash just a few days prior. It was grey and had a bulldog on the front. And on the back it said in big letters: Big Dogs Eat More Pussy.

My mother was mortified. Still is, in fact.

“I love ya more n anything in this world. I’d die n go ta hell fer ya...ya know I would”

This is the precursor to every serious discussion, no matter what the subject matter. (Ever seen Brokeback Mountain? Say it with that accent.)

He cannot give a straight apology. It always goes like this: “I’m sorry, but”. He can’t leave the “but” off. This is because it’s never really his fault.

5. He’s got more than nine lives.

The man has been in every kind of accident you can think of and is still alive. And still doing stupid shit. Car accidents, boating accidents, ATV accidents, welding accidents, ect.

After his terrible motorcycle accident last year, where he broke all of this ribs on one side, suffered head trauma, and numerous other injuries...I thought he MIGHT be ready to wizen up a bit. Yeah, not so much.

After a few months of recuperating in Oklahoma, he went back to work in New Jersey. One night he called me and I could tell he’d been drinking. He kept laughing and carrying on while I “mmm hmm”ed and “uh huh”ed, waiting on an opportunity to get off the phone. Then he suddenly said, “I was so drunk the other night that when I was trying to get the key in the lock I fell off the porch, into the bushes, and broke the ribs on my unhurt side!” Way to go, dad.

Since he’s a habitual liar I checked with my sources and turns out, that’s exactly what happened. I suppose his resilience is a bit extraordinary for someone with his chemical history. This is probably why The Grandmother says he’s the antichrist.


But whatever his faults (or his origin), my dad is certainly a special individual.

I’m looking forward to our visit with him in a few weeks. At the moment anyway. Once I’m there, it usually only takes about 24 hours for me to start daydreaming about whacking him upside the head with a frying pan.

Happy father’s day, daddy. *WHAM*

She's the ______ to my ______.

I decided not to like her the moment we met.

Her appearance completely clashed with my shallow friendship guidelines. I didn’t want to be seen with a pint sized brunette that wore studded belts with giant mouth shaped buckles and said insanely inappropriate things at inappropriate times. I didn’t want the other servers to dislike me either. I had a lot of bad habits at that time, but being a people pleaser was perhaps my worst. The girls that looked like “my kind” called her weird, though they had no problem laughing at her antics.

She didn’t seem to care that the female staff didn’t want much to do with her. She smiled, did the robot or the worm across the floor, flashed the kitchen boys, and went about her business. Occasionally I would have a section next to hers and watching and listening to her handle her tables was a learning experience. I’d been a waitress before, and I was a good one, but she could wipe the floor with me. By the time a group finished eating they weren’t just her customers, they were her friends, and they would come back and ask for her again and again.

Most of the serving staff was over 21 or damn near, but I’d only just turned 18. There was a bar right around the corner owned by a lecherous foreign guy that would let us in no questions asked. It became a ritual: Work till around 10-12, get off, sometimes change clothes, go to the bar with the others, get wasted, and go home around dawn. She never came with us, though I’m sure the guys probably invited her.

One Sunday morning, after a particularly rough all-nighter at the bar, I decided to call in to work. I was living alone at the time and hadn’t yet gotten a phone hooked up, so I drove the five minutes into town and called my manager from a payphone to beg off.

There were two managers, Brad and Ronnie. Brad was the GM and though he could be fun and had a mouth like a sailor, he didn’t tolerate any bullshit. Ronnie, on the other hand, was a lackadaisical pot head that liked to hide in the staff bathroom and smoke. If we ever needed anything while he was in charge, we had to hunt him down...follow the smell, as it were. They would both go out drinking with us occasionally.

I knew that I couldn’t use the “I’m sick” excuse because they were all well aware that I hadn’t left the bar until 6am. So when Brad answered, I said the first thing I could think of, “Dude, my car won’t start.”

“What the fuck!”

He bitched and moaned at increasing volume and I held the phone away from my ear.

“I had to walk to the payphone to call and tell you.”

After a few more seconds of swearing, he suddenly became quiet. I was terrified that he was going to fire me, but instead he shouted “RACHEL!”

“Rachel, can you go pick Alyson up? Her car won’t start!”

I heard a chirpy “Sure!” and then Brad said to me, “Here! Give Rachel directions to your house, she’s coming to pick you up!”

“But Brad”, I stuttered, “I live over half an hour away...”

“Can’t be that far”, he boomed, and handed the phone to her.

I reluctantly gave the girl I’d pretty much managed to avoid, until that moment, directions to my house. I warned her that it was a “long way”, but she said she was ok with that. I hung up, heaved a great sigh, and drove back home to get ready. In reality it was a 25 minute drive, but I was hoping she’d get lost. Most people did.

She made it in no time at all. I answered the door, said a sullen hello, and plopped down on the couch to put on my sneakers. She stood in the doorway and silently looked around. I was just finishing with the knot on my second shoe when she said, “There’s nothing wrong with your car, is there?”

I stared at her and she stared back, a small smile on her face. It was plainly obvious that I was miserably hungover so rather than deny it, even though I wasn’t yet sure of what she’d do with the information, I simply said, “No.”

Her grin got a little bigger, but all she said was “Ok”.

I grabbed my purse and apron and followed her out the door. She had a black Dodge Neon and I had a blue one, though hers was covered in band stickers and the like. We climbed in, she started the car, and heavy metal came blasting out of the speakers. I winced and she immediately turned it down, but even at low volume the squealing and wailing was enough to make my head pound.

I was trying to decide if I should suggest she turn it off or switch it to a pop friendly radio station, but I was worried that either option would be met with a disagreeable reaction. If we turned the radio off, the silence would be awkward; we’d have nothing to talk about. And the pop station route might make her laugh at me. Whether I liked someone or not, I still didn’t want them laughing at me and I had a feeling she would.

While I was having this internal battle she was pulling out of my driveway. My stomach growled. I hadn’t had time to eat before I left. Some people can’t eat when they’re hungover. I HAVE to. Even if it makes me feel worse.

I don’t know if she heard my stomach chewing on itself or not, but she turned toward me and said, “Hey, do you wanna go to Wendy’s?”

She was smiling at me in a mischievous way and I understood what she meant before she even explained. I grinned back at her. “Hell yes.”

And then we had an actual conversation. We talked about work, my hangover, how hungry we were, and the story we’d tell Brad when we returned. She would claim that she got lost on the way there and as added ammunition I would throw in that I had tried to tell him it was a long drive to begin with.

We went through the Wendy’s drive through and she surprised me again. “Let’s take this to the park.”

We sat on picnic benches, ate our food, and talked some more. She was funny and smart and completely different from what I imagined her to be. By the time we got to work I was ashamed of myself for the way I’d treated her before. I’d deliberately avoided her because of what she looked like and what other people said. I’d never thought of myself as a snob until that moment.

We were so late to work that I think we only had one table a piece before we left again. Poor Brad. We had a good laugh over his exasperation.

I continued to go out with the other people from work, but I started talking to Rachel a lot more. She even started coming to the bar. One of the girls that was supposedly “my kind”, Kelly, moved in with me because I was scared to be alone out in the middle of nowhere. Call it a hormone thing brought on by pregnancy (long story).

And wouldn’t you know it? “My kind” of girl turned out to be a cokehead that threw massive drug parties while I was spending the weekend at my mother’s. I kicked her out the minute I heard about it and found the evidence. (After I, at around 7 months gone, attempted to murder her at work.) Having a father that snorted your grocery and field trip money up his nose has a tendency to make you a little unforgiving in that department.

When I left the restaurant and moved back home, all those girls that I spent my nights partying and hanging out with disappeared. But Rachel didn’t. We talked on the phone and we went to lunch. When they finally induced labor, she was the only person that wasn’t family that I called.

Six years later she’s still the first person I call when anything of importance happens. She’s my daughter’s godmother, a huge part of my immediate family, and the best friend I always needed, yet never knew to ask for.

She is quirky, outspoken, honest, obnoxious, and unfailingly witty. She still wears studded belts with enormous buckles, band t-shirts, and no makeup. She’s shaved her head twice in the six years we’ve been friends – Once because she wanted to and again just recently for a very worthy cause (and she manages to pull it off, like a tiny rocker version of Demi Moore).

She’s an atheist and a self-proclaimed medical research analyst (which is a nice way of saying she’s a hypochondriac that loves Google). Her favorite author is Chuck Palahniuk and she listens to music that makes me cringe. (Yet oddly enough, also loves Britney Spears.) She collects dinosaurs and all of her dance moves are from decades past: the peewee herman, the worm, the sprinkler, etc. She’s pretty much what I used to say was the complete opposite of me.

My mother claims I’ve changed since Rachel and I became best friends, that I’m not myself anymore. She says I’m more combative and less spiritual. She’s only partially right. I have changed, but I’ve never felt more like myself. And she did that for me. She helped me be honest and original again. Being her friend allowed me to show my quirky, slightly shocking side without fear of ridicule or rejection.

Though I realized we have a good bit in common, we each have our own distinct role in the relationship. And, make no mistake, it is a relationship. (There’s nothing sexual about it, though we did make out once when we were shitfaced drunk.) She’s the dependable to my flaky, the rock to my rap, the understated elegance to my over-the-top glitz, and the reasonably grounded to my overactive imagining.

After thinking about it, just this moment in fact, it’s a wonder that I can commit myself to this person even platonically for the rest of my life yet in the past committing to a man would be giving in to the masses. We’ve had our arguments and our disputes, and I’m very much the woman in our relationship. I feel out of sorts when she’s angry at me and set out to fix it immediately. Well, unless she’s in the wrong. Which, because she’s clearly the man in our relationship, she never is. (That’s a joke. Sort of.) It’s strange, isn’t it? That women can form a bond that tight with each other and yet shy away from anything else?

My gawd. This post about my best friend has turned me into a raving lesbo.

We’re taking a trip to Alabama this weekend for her cousin’s wedding. Maybe the five hour drive will be a good time to discuss our gender roles. And that talk will be quite appropriate after I first mention that I wrote about our friendship and receive her response, which I’m 99.9% sure I already know.

She’ll flash me a coy grin and say:

“Lesbian! Wanna spoon?”

Wanderlust

The South is famous for its sedate pace. Its inhabitants never seem to be in as much a hurry as the rest of the world. Even in the larger cities their bustling has an air of nonchalance. Their attitude often clearly says, “Yes I’m late. No, I don’t care.”

But ever since I was a little girl I dreamed of leaving this quiet place and moving to a big city – somewhere like New York or even abroad to London or Paris. I loved everything about being on the move and much of that was contributed to my ADD. As a child I was given Ritalin, but if they’d paid attention they would have realized that the same effect could be achieved without medicine - I could drool on myself just listening to them drone on and on about their dull workdays and interests. “She just cannot sit still”, they would say in the parent/teacher conferences. Silly, narrow minded adults. I would sit still for hours with a book in my hand or a travel documentary on the television. I didn’t need the zombie side effects of Ritalin, I needed stimulation. To my knowledge, there’s no drug for selective ADD.

I never minded long road trips. I was comfortable curling up in the backseat with a pillow, my portable CD player, and a book or two. I’d watch the landscape whiz by with complete contentment, happy just knowing we were getting further and further away from that dull place called home. Hotel rooms, no matter how rudimentary, held a certain charm. I was sleeping in a foreign bed, living out of a suitcase, and eating “continental” breakfasts. How exciting!

The first time I set foot in an airport I was fifteen. I was going to Spain for two weeks with a tour group and for a small town, middle class girl it was the traveling lottery. My birthday would come and go while we were away, so my father hired a limo to drive me and my friends from our house to the airport in Charlotte, two hours away, as an early present. It was a very strange gift, but at the time I thought it was wonderful.

The trip was a scant three months before 9/11 and getting through the airport was a breeze. Checking bags was free, carry on rules were pretty lax, and security was friendly. Completely different from flying today.

I spent the entire flight to Barcelona fighting to stay awake, to take every single bit of it in: the in flight movie, the peanuts I hated but was determined to eat none-the-less, the tiny bathroom I insisted on inspecting, storing my luggage in the overhead compartment, the noises the plane made. I loved it all, but perhaps the part I loved most was getting off: Gathering my things together and striding purposefully up the gangway, collecting my luggage from the carousel, standing in front of the terminal and looking out at the people and the cars...knowing that I was actually standing on the other side of the world.

And wouldn’t you know it – the first hotel we stayed at was breathtaking. It was small and quaint – crammed together with a bunch of other buildings. The outside walls were old and peeling and the street out front was steep and narrow, but when we ventured inside everything was immaculate, shiny, and new. Our room had a set of tall double windows that opened up to a small wrought iron balcony, vines weaving their way through its bars. I remember leaning on that railing, looking out over the crowded city and having the sudden urge to cry.

We went on a whirlwind tour across the country. If I hadn’t taken picture after picture to prove it, sometimes I feel as if I’d never been there at all. Barcelona, Valencia, Granada, Toledo, Seville, Costa del Sol, Madrid - I’d have to locate my old itinerary to do our schedule justice. It’s funny, the things and places I remember most aren’t the guided tours and planned outings (though the tour of The Alhambra was brilliant) – they’re the free nights and afternoons when we were allowed to explore. Dancing in a discotheque, strolling along the Ramblas, eating lunch in a crowded plaza, drinking daiquiris at a beach hut, buying a sword at the factory in Toledo, my first encounter with a taxi AND a subway (both of which left me just a tad scarred).

We took the ferry and did a day trip into Morocco which was a bit terrifying. It might have been the men with guns, the snake charmers in the crowded streets, or the camels. Take your pick. Our tour guide claimed his name was Michael Douglas. “Just like the actor!” I had a strange, and overwhelming, urge to punch him in the face.

The market places were interesting, but there were children everywhere, reaching out for you and demanding your attention, trying to sell tiny drums and fans. I suppose my favorite part was lunch. We ate in the strangest looking restaurant – very ornate floors and iron grills, men balancing trays of candles on their heads. Everything looked sort of faded and surreal. We ate couscous from giant platters in the middle of the table and drank Coca Cola from small glass bottles.

It was the trip of a lifetime. And when I returned home looked even less appealing to me than usual. I became even more obsessed with travel than I’d been before. Unfortunately I’ve yet to leave the country again. Oh, I’ve been to various places in the US and enjoyed it very much, but everything gets stacked against Spain and falls flat.

This past weekend I realized why that was. (You know, aside from the fact that it’s another country and that’s exciting and romantic.)

Sunday morning I slept late. The kid finally wandered in to wake me up, struggled up onto the high bed, nestled against me and giggled when I tickled her sides. We drank coffee and ate breakfast together in the living room while cartoons played in the background.

After dishes were washed and put away my sister and I agreed to take her swimming. As always, with that promise, a brief flurry of activity commenced. Towels were gathered from the hall closet, bathing suits put on, sunscreen applied, ice cold drinks made, and all other necessary items were stored in beach bags.

We spent several hours lounging on the dock and on floats, swimming in lazy circles, and drenching each other with cannon balls off the high dive platform. It was the epitome of relaxation. (With the exception of Larry the goose attempting to drown Air Hose in the shallow end. The poor fat kid squalled like a wounded cat until we rescued her. For some reason Larry has recently gotten in the habit of sharing our floats and was under the impression that Air Hose would allow him to perch on top of her life jacket/head. Not so, unfortunately. )

It was later, on a long leisurely boat ride, that I started thinking about Spain. Stretched out on a seat, towel arranged under me, I lay on my stomach and watched the waves. I listened to the engine, the splashing, the radio pumping out country music. The sun beat down on my exposed skin and my hair whipped out behind me.

I realized that one of the reasons I felt so at home in that beautiful country overseas was the attitude, the feeling of the people. They’re unrushed; they take siestas in the afternoon. “Yes, I’m late. No, I don’t care.”

The language might be different, the architecture might be older and more ornate, the food more interesting, the music exotic – but the feeling of contentment and happiness I had on that boat was the same as the one I had wandering the beautiful gardens of a Spanish palace.

I’m lucky. I haven’t lost my wanderlust, but if I never get to travel again, at least I’m finally aware of the beauty in my surroundings.

There’s something to be said for my little corner of the world.

A moment like this

Today’s teenage girls, despite popular belief, aren’t that different from those of decades past. Sure there’s a lapse in manners and a higher pregnancy rate. The shorts are shorter, the piercings plentiful, and the sense of entitlement has reached awe inspiring heights. But the basics are still there: insecurity, vapidity, earnestness, the never ending battle to fit it, to be popular. At football games it’s still the old game of “see and be seen”. Whispering behind hands, passing notes, making out in secluded corners with boys best avoided – not much has changed at all. Even the most antiquated ritual remains largely intact: The Prom.

As a Junior I was excited about going to prom. I’d gone to several military balls with JROTC guys in previous years and the concept was exactly the same. Just exchange the uniform for a tux and there you go. But you couldn’t have told me that then. Because surely, with prom, it would be different. The decorations would be more beautiful, the music more wonderful, the punch sweeter – everything would be perfect. I would get all dressed up and make one of the best memories of my life.

I went dress shopping with my mom and godmother – a pastime that usually required a lot of tongue biting and eye rolling. But even though they irritated me a bit, I loved trying on the formal gowns in the huge dressing room with the curving stand of mirrors and raised, carpeted platform. The walls were papered in gold and there were mahogany side tables next to plush chairs and couches. I would usually take longer than necessary just to stay in the dressing area, but that year it went quickly.

It was the second dress I tried on. Black, made like an old timey dressing gown with three diamond buttons at the waist. It split above and below the buttons to reveal horizontal striped white cloth, the stripes alternately solid and sheer. The bodice was tight with thin straps and the black overcoat of sorts stood up in points on either side. It flared out at the waist, like a smaller scale version of something out of Gone with the Wind. I never wanted to take it off.

With two godmothers, one a hairdresser and one a makeup artist, I had an easier time of it than most. I was pampered for free and quite grateful about it. My love of makeup was in the beginning stages and sitting in the studio having glittery powder dusted over my face was probably my favorite part. I’ve never been very photogenic, but when I posed for pictures that afternoon with my date and my friends, I felt beautiful and confident. And it showed.

My date and I drove to a downtown Japanese restaurant where they do the cooking in front of you. I’d always enjoyed watching their comical routine, but when the man was flipping his shrimp and teriyaki chicken into open mouths around the table, I shrank back. He turned to me, gesturing with his spatula, a piece of chicken balanced on the end. “No, no. I don’t want...” But it was too late, he let the saucy chicken fly and it missed my unready mouth, landing in my lap on the white striped part of my dress. I was horrified, then teary, then angry. No amount of cursing or scrubbing in the bathroom could get the small stain out of my dress.

When we left the restaurant my date passed me a conciliatory joint. We smoked it, got a bit giggly, and I felt better. But upon arrival I noticed that the decorations were crap. Why I’d expected anything else from a small country high school, I don’t know, but my fantasies of twirling around under a bunch of beautiful twinkling lights were brought to an abrupt halt. The walls of the facility were made of ugly brown panels and the floor was a smooth grey concrete. There were a few balloons here and there and one large banner telling us that we were indeed at the 2002 Junior/Senior Prom.

As it turned out my date was not a dancer, but rather a chain smoker who preferred the company of the tobacco chewers gathered on the outside steps. After a few fast dances with my friends and one coerced slow dance with him, I ruined his plans of a prom night conquest and demanded he take me to my friend’s house where I was to stay the night.

The 15 minute ride was mostly silent. I got out, grabbed my bag, and stalked past his outstretched arms to join the all female party that was already in full swing. I sat in my friend’s room, drinking wine coolers, and listening to the group gossip. And I fell asleep in my perfect dress with my perfectly done up curls and makeup well before the stroke of midnight, clutching a half empty Bacardi bottle in my hand.

I was so disappointed by my junior prom that I swore my senior year would be completely different, and it was. I picked out a dress I didn’t care a thing about, styled my recently cropped hair as best I could, and decided to go without a date. The one thing I didn’t skimp on was the makeup. I went back to the studio and let my godmom do the honors.

I went to dinner with a group of friends and made a 20 minute appearance at the dance before relocating to the nearest party. I remember standing alone at one point, watching my cousin and her seemingly perfect boyfriend pose for pictures under the balloon archway, and wondering what she’d remember most about that night, if being popular really made it that much better. I’ve never been able to go to dinner or a movie by myself, so looking back I’m a little bit in awe of the teenage girl that stuck her nose in the air and walked alone into that building full of judgmental kids.

The first party spanned several blocks. There were so many people crowded on lawns, passing weed and booze, dancing to the latest rap music. Prom dresses and tuxes blended with bathing suits and shorts. I’ve never seen a party to rival its scale. It was inevitable that the cops would show up, so before long we went back to my friend’s house and started up a smaller version.

The sinks and bathtubs were filled with PJ, a fruity mixed liquor drink that tastes lovely and mild, but sneaks up on you later. I drank and I danced and, as later evidenced by pictures and word of mouth, played a rousing game of Twister. At that time I just happened to be conveniently living with the friend whose house we were partying in and just as conveniently staying in her older brother’s room. Home for a rare visit, he decided that we could share his bed, no problem.

And indeed it wasn’t, because he was quite sexy and after an hour or so of talking, we spent the rest of the morning and well into the day going at it like rabbits. Unfortunately, my friend’s father came home a bit earlier than expected and opened the door to find his teenage houseguest sitting astride his adult son’s lap, doing her best to make her senior prom’s theme, “A Moment Like This”, live up to the hype.

Last weekend, as I worked the counter at my godmom’s makeup store and watched the parade of prom girls, I quietly reminisced and wondered what their night would be like. Would it end in disappointment, an irremovable stain on their dress and a date with better pot than manners? I hoped not. Because I saw the same thing in them that I saw in myself before my first prom: excitement.

The shy, smiling girl whose plain face and quiet nature seemed at odds with her anxious parents, hovering with a camera to capture her every move. The loud and obnoxious brat whose complaints elicited surprisingly strong words from the mild makeup artist, while her mother looked on in disinterest. The beautiful political fanatic, whose opinions and clothing sat on her like an often rehearsed, unbelievable speech lying atop a podium.

They were all different. Yet I could see the excitement in the tilt of their heads, the drumming of their fingers, and the looks in their eyes when they gazed at themselves in the mirror.

This coming weekend I’ll help my sister go through the same motions. We’ll go to the studio and I’ll put makeup on her face and help curl her hair. In the absence of our vacationing mother, I’ll take pictures and stay up late waiting on her to come home. She’ll be just another prom girl hoping for a memorable evening...and even though I think her boyfriend is a douche bag and manipulator of the first order, I’ll do my part to make it just that.

And as her big sister, I’ll do a bit more for her than I did for those other girls. I’ll give her a few words of wisdom:

Enjoy the preparation – it’s often as fun (or more fun) than the actual event.

Don’t eat teriyaki chicken or any other saucy food at dinner.

Always remember to lock doors.

And if the night turns out to be less than you thought, don’t worry about it. You’ve got one year left to get rid of that douche bag boyfriend and get it right. The after parties are always better when you’re a senior.

Matriarch

“Well I declare!”

My mother reads aloud from a book she just purchased, a sort of comedic take on the customs, sayings, and mannerisms of Southern women. At least I hope it was a comedic effort. The title boasts of being a “guide”, but silly lessons in manners and a few catch phrases are a paltry substitute for the real deal in front of me.

The Grandmother stands at the stove, knotty fingers deftly dredging pieces of chicken in a flour concoction and transferring them to a popping frying pan. I lean against the door frame, as fascinated as ever by her ease in the kitchen. She laughs as my mother reads, hands flying from plate to pan and back again.

I remember being a girl in this same kitchen, white 50’s style table covered with baking paraphernalia. Those same hands, albeit less spotted with age, placed over mine, kneaded a ball of dough the size of my fat little head. Sunlight poured through flowered curtains and touched the ruffled yellow apron around my waist. Kneeling on a low wooden stool with my grandmother’s bare, capable arms on either side of me, gently guiding me through my first batch of homemade biscuits, I was happy.

I’m happy now too, but there’s a tinge of urgency that wasn’t here all those years ago. I feel time’s increasing pressure on this scene.

The Grandmother’s old sheepdog, Duchess, wanders in and nudges her leg. They are the perfect pair, a vaudeville act in the early afternoon, dancing around each other on arthritic limbs. Duchess is almost completely deaf, yet TG chatters at her incessantly. “Oh Duchess, you poor old girl! Mama loves that girl! Go on now, stop pawing at me, old thing!”

The dog’s facial expression is nothing short of exasperated. I can’t say I blame her. She can’t hear, she’s always tripping over things, and to top it off she’s just received her warm weather shave. Her white fluffy coat, spotted sporadically with reddish brown, is gone, leaving her bare from neck to tail. The hair on top of her head has been trimmed haphazardly and stands up in a way that makes her look like a canine Rod Stewart.

Bored with tangling herself between TG’s legs, she ambles slowly back down the hall where she spends the next 10 minutes lowering herself to the floor, still managing to look haughty in the process. Duchess indeed.

As we eat lunch The Grandmother flutters around the dining room table. Even at holiday dinners it’s impossible to get her to sit down for more than a few minutes. Its part Southern hostess and part OCD. I wonder if there’s a chapter in my mother’s book on that.

“You need to get out in the sunshine, get some good vitamin D in your system.” TG says this to no one in particular as she picks up plates and cups. Any offers to help clear the dishes are always rebuffed.

I’m not an outdoorsy person, much to her chagrin, so she takes my daughter out instead. I watch them from the window, wandering around the well kept backyard, stopping often to examine a new bloom. I can’t hear them, but I know she’s saying the same things she used to say to me at that age in her over enunciated southern drawl. “Look at this beautiful flower! I planted this with my own two hands and my little trowel. Wouldn’t you like to help Grandmother plant more flowers?”

Back when I didn’t abhor dirt she taught me how to loosen the roots on a plant before placing it gently in a hole. We wore brightly colored gardening gloves and carried our small tools about in an old strawberry bucket. Her third husband, Hubert, made me a swing out of a wide board and two thick pieces of rope. It hung from the huge pecan tree, the main focal point of the yard, and I would swing on it for hours. In the summer time, with the flowers and tress in full bloom, you couldn’t tell that it was a tiny backyard in the middle of our buzzing capitol. I would wear my great grandmother’s dress up beads and a flowy skirt and pretend I was Alice in Wonderland, swinging out over my make believe wilderness while my grandmother, in her wide brim gardening hat, was the mad hatter.

When they troop back inside I ask TG if she has any curtains she could spare for my bedroom. I want something long and thick to keep out the light and she has quite the obsession with curtains. She’s always buying them, ripping them apart, and sewing them together to fit her current style.

“Of course I do. Check the back room, there should be a zip bag full of them.”

I find them straight away and take them to the front bedroom. She begins pulling them out and making suggestions. In the end we decide to sew two sets together – pale pink cotton for the liner and a light green lace over top. She’s surprised that I want to start on them immediately.

I dig her sewing machine out and we settle at the dining room table. While the kid watches TV and mom gently snores in the rocker, we set to work. I rip out the old seams and baste a few gathers to make the two pieces fit and she runs each one through her sewing machine, making a place for the rod to go through.

While we work, we chat about the same old things. She lectures me on being more patient and soft spoken. Rather than rile her up, I just smile and nod in agreement.

She knows anyway, even as she’s lecturing, that I’ll never be patient or soft spoken. I’ll never be able to breeze around a kitchen quite the way she does, nor will I ever be able to keep any plant other than a cactus alive for very long. I’ll likely never sew anything more than a hole in a sleeve or a button that’s in danger of falling off. She knows I have a foul mouth and a temper that doesn’t become a lady.

And still she’ll keep telling me, and I’ll keep promising, to be the Southern woman she raised me to be, even though we both know the truth: The most Southern things about me are my accent and my ability to charm the pants off anything that wears them… “When you want to” she always adds.

We don’t quite finish all four curtains before it’s time for us to leave. As I gather my things she promises to have them hemmed and ready for me to pick up after work the next day.

At the door I kiss and hug her goodbye. Sometimes I’m relieved to get away from her lectures and her attention, but not today. Today I’m sorry to go so soon. Today a silly guide for Southern women made me appreciate learning from the real deal, even if I’m not terribly adept at the execution of those lessons.

She cups my face in her hand and gives me a look, one I recognize as mine alone. It’s a touch of amusement, a touch exasperation, a touch pride, and, of course, love. Patting my cheek she says, “Behave yourself, you hear? Be good.”

“I will Grandma”, I say with a smile. She chuckles and moves on to my daughter. I watch them hug and TG smoothes the hair back from her face.

I’m not the praying kind, not even sure if I believe in God at all, but I find myself pleading with something or someone: Please let this woman be around long enough to teach my daughter all the things I can’t.

If there was an Oscar for best performance by a fat kid...I'd win.

Memories of my early childhood are sparse. The ones I have are like an old movie reel. Grainy, with barely legible subtitles and cheesy music.

I was about seven when things switched to glaring color. Pictures, people, and places – all thrown together like a discount movie bin, all at war with each other to be placed on the shelf and labeled: horror, romance, comedy, drama.

There are classics, pulled out and played again and again when I’m alone. There are low budget sequels...

And like every video library, there are those you lend out.


Title: Satan’s Birth
Genre: Horror
Released: September 1992

I’m no longer going to be an only child.

I’m the forgotten child, left standing in a bedroom at four in the morning while my mother is hustled out the door and to the hospital. Left with twin teenage babysitters that are too involved with themselves to care when I lock myself in my room and refuse to come out.

I’m taken to The Grandmother’s to wait and am slightly mollified when she plies me with cheetos and ice cream.

I haven’t seen my dad in days, but who cares? He’s the one at fault for this mess anyway. My cousin told me to check my new sister’s head for dents when she comes home. No one is amused when I repeat this information to my Nana’s Jehovah’s Witness friends. Nana threatens me with the yardstick.

Mom finally comes home. She’s tired and goes straight to bed, taking it with her. I watch them sleep and wonder what the big deal is anyway. It doesn’t even look like a girl, with a thick patch of black hair on its fat head and as far as I can tell, no neck. It wakes up and starts screaming. I might have poked it by accident.

I’ve never heard a sound like that in my life. My ears are ringing. “Shut up”, I tell it loudly. My mom is trying to quiet it, but then turns to me, angry. She tells me to go to my room. As I walk out I pick up a hand mirror from the dresser.

“Take it back”, I scream throwing the mirror to the floor. Glass shatters all over the kitchen and in the bedroom doorway. I see my dad heading toward me and I know it’s all over.

They’re going to kill me now. Kill me and feed it my snacks. Give it my room and my books.

As he drags me off down the hall, I pray they have cheetos in heaven. The puffs, not the crunchies.


Title: The Curious Case of Brian’s Bullying
Genre: Suspense, Drama
Released: September 1993

It’s not easy being the smart, fat kid. Being badly dressed doesn’t help either.

It’s the first day of third grade and I have to be at the bus stop early. My mom dressed me in kaki pants, white turtleneck, patterned vest, and Keds. I hate my outfit. I know I look like the kid that swallowed Nancy Drew, but agree to wear it when she presents me with a new lunch box. It’s full of my favorites: a snack pack, cheetos, and a ham sandwich. I stuff in another snack pack when she isn’t looking.

I hate the bus. Mine is the first stop in the morning and the last stop in the afternoon. It feels like I spend an eternity bouncing around on those hard black seats.

It’s too dark to read in the morning, but on the way home I stick my nose in a book. People usually leave me alone, but not today.

The normal ruckus is going on around me – kids screaming and jumping, tramping up and down the aisle. Sometime later a body falls into my seat, knocking my book from my hands. I look up and angrily shove them out, sending them across the aisle.

It’s a high school boy that lives down the road from me. His name is Brian and he’s a tall, beefy, red-faced asshole. His book bag has come open and papers are falling all over the floor as he tries to steady himself. I pick up my book.

He turns around and yells curse words in my face, spit flying from his lips. A drop lands on my cheek and I brush it off. “You’re disgusting”, I say with bookwormish dignity. “Fucking nerd”, he screams back. Snatching the book from my hands, he starts ripping out pages.

“Stop”, I yell, but he doesn’t. Furious, I do what my Nana told me to do when boys are being “sonsabitches”. I pull my leg up in the seat and kick him hard in the crotch. I’m amazed when he drops to the floor like a stone. While he moans and cries, I attempt to gather up the pages of my book. They’ve flown all over the place and I have to crawl around under seats to retrieve them.

It’s taking me a long time and I’ve practically forgotten about stupid Brian. But as I’m crawling under another seat, I’m yanked from behind. He’s gotten a hold of my legs and is dragging me down the aisle. I try to kick him loose. He picks me up by my shoulders, squeezing hard, and holds me as high as he can.

The bored bus driver finally decides to intervene. “Put her down. Now!”

Brian grins up at me and yells, “Ok!” Then he throws me down and away from him as hard as he can. I slam into the floor, my head striking a seat leg, and lie there stunned. Before I can get up the bus pulls up at Brian’s house. He laughs as he steps over me on his way out the door. The bus driver shakes her head, but doesn’t comment.

I’m hurting all over, but at least I’m almost home.

By the time I’m dropped off and make the long trek up the driveway, my face is swollen from crying. My mom is standing in the kitchen when I go in. I stand in the doorway, holding my shredded book in my hands, tears coursing down my cheeks. She immediately runs to me and asks question after question. She feels the knot on my head and surveys my dirty clothes while, in between sobs, I explain.

Later she repeats the story to my dad. He’s just gotten home from work, but he’s had a “few beers” first. He is angry and irrational. He takes a gun from the cabinet and tells mom he’s going to go over there and shoot Brian’s dad. Unable to stop him, we wait. He doesn’t come back for hours.

I’m lying in my bed with a compress on my head when I hear him come through the door, singing. He’s drunker still and in good spirits. He and Brian’s dad have bonded over a bottle of Crown Royal.

I turn over and attempt to sleep off his betrayal. Goddamn rednecks.


Title: The Accidental Flashing
Genre: Comedy, Horror
Released: Summer 1995

I’m rarely indoors during the summer months. Every day is long and action packed. It’s the only time of year that an activity takes precedence over reading. I swim and I tube and I ski. My bathing suit is my skin for three months.

I eat less too. Not because I want to eat less, but because of the “no swimming for thirty minutes after you eat” rule. And I never break it. Not because I don’t want to break it, but because my Aunt once ate three pieces of birthday cake, “dove” in, got a cramp, and I had to help tow her in before she drowned. She’s at least 350lbs. People are lighter in the water, true, but I’m not a trainer at Sea World.

I’ve been trying to learn how to water ski with only one ski, but out of all the water sports I do, it’s my least favorite. This is most likely due to the traumatic way my family tried to teach me two years ago.

Flashback:

They hooked the rope to the Jet Ski and handed over the training skis. Brandishing a video camera from the dock, they called, “No matter what you do: DON’T LET GO OF THE ROPE!” Simple enough, right?

They started to go and I tried to pull myself up. I wobbled a bit, then crashed down, sliding beneath the surface. They continued to drive forward while I alternately sunk and rose, holding on to the rope for dear life. Probably around my third or forth time breaking the surface I heard them shouting, “LET GO OF THE ROPE! LET GO OF THE ROPE!” I did as they said. While the Jet Ski turned to come back for me I shouted indignantly back at the dock watchers, “BUT YOU SAID NOT TO!”

They play the video tape all the time. Even for guests.

Today my dad is going to ski. He uses one and he’s pretty good, but he only does it once a year. He’s sober so he probably won’t fall.

I climb in the boat with the rest of the onlookers while dad sits on the dock and straps on his life jacket. He lights a cigarette and climbs down the ladder so it doesn’t get wet. I roll my eyes and toss him the rope as we go by. He gives the driver a thumbs up, his cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth.

He’s up immediately, though it takes him a minute to gain his full balance. On the straightaway he hooks an arm through the handlebar, takes one last puff of his cigarette, and tosses it away. He jumps waves and does a few spins while we clap.

I spend the rest of the afternoon swimming with my cousins. Except for the 10 minutes I stand with my nose to a post on the gazebo for punching Andy and pushing him off the dock. It’s no so bad though. Ben whispers “Andy’s a wiener” every time he passes by and I giggle.

It’s time to go home and we start the uphill walk. “You did good on the skis”, he says. He’s being nice today. Ben said it’s because he smoked pot behind the shed with his dad, but I already knew that. I like him better when he smokes pot. Not my uncle though because he laughs really weird and calls me “Ralph”. “I don’t get it”, I tell him, but he just laughs harder.

I go straight to my room to take off my bathing suit. I pull on the shorts my mom laid out for me, but I choose a different t-shirt. The one she picked has a picture of a pink cartoon elephant on the front. Once she put it in my soccer bag and I had to wear it to practice. That woman is on a mission to make me a laughing stock.

I head to the laundry room to put away my bathing suit. The folding door is partially open and I yank it back, coming face to naked crotch with my dad. For a minute we are both frozen with shock. He turns his back, but I’ve already seen it. I turn around quickly and go back to my room. I feel sick and embarrassed. I lie on the bed and press my pillow over my head. Maybe if I press hard enough the image will go away.

We avoid each other the rest of the night. My mom asks me why I’m acting weird, but I can’t tell her. When I go to bed I hear them talking in murmurs. I know it’s coming even before it happens.

She bursts out laughing and I hear her say the words “you” and “penis”, but that’s all I can make out. I’m horrified. Now she’s going to tell all her friends about it and they’re going to laugh too. It’s not like I wanted to see his nasty thing. Ugh!

I get up the next morning and peer out my door. I’ve decided that I’m going to peek and shout to announce my presence before going through any doors or around corners. It’ll be a pain, but it’s better than having to see that again. I’m convinced I’ll be scarred for life, like that kid at school that caught his parents doing it on his four-wheeler. Now he won’t ride it anymore and he wears dark sunglasses all the time. I’ll probably have to move in with my grandma if it gets too awkward. That thought cheers me up a bit though because she has better snacks at her house.

I make myself a bowl of cereal and turn on the TV. My sister wanders by in her footy pajamas, heading for my mom’s room. After a few minutes they come out and go to the kitchen. It’s demanding grits and eggs again. I figure I can eat twice.

My mom looks at me across the bar and grins. “Good morning.”

I glare at her then turn my face to the TV. She’s never going to let me live this one down, I know it. I plan to call grandma as soon as I finish watching my show and eating breakfast. And maybe a snack.