Dancing Queen

Toward the end of my tomboy phase I developed a fascination with ballerinas. Movies, books, posters – I devoured and displayed them all. When my cousin wasn’t using my Barbies to initiate a sex ed lesson, I would drench them in glitter and dance their scantily clad forms across every available surface.

Though I’m sure ballet is a very common interest of young girls, there was something quite sad about my bookish bulk twirling about the room in a makeshift tablecloth tutu. With my round, unflattering glasses slipping down my nose, frizzy uneven bangs plastered to my forehead, and sounds better suited to a buffalo mating ritual – I’d dance my chubby heart out. It’s a wonder my parents didn’t claim I was adopted. Though, in my defense, my mother was the source of the uneven bangs.

Like most things, ballet failed to hold my attention for very long. After several months of insisting my family refer to me only as Madame Nicole (Nicole being my middle name), I turned to a hobby I could really put my weight behind: Karate.

But as I’ve mentioned before, my mother was horrified by my success in combat and pulled me out before I reached my full ass kicking potential. When she told me that I was going to be enrolled in dance classes instead, my thoughts immediately turned to my previous obsession. As loathe as I was to give up my belt and sparring gear, I couldn’t help having visions of Swan Lake finery. My mother had other ideas.

We went to a small family run store downtown that sold all manner of dancing shoes right next to their main selection of old lady footwear. My Nana would take me there every summer to help pick out gold sandals to match her gold bikinis, purses, and the gold case that covered her oxygen tank. So I was quite used to the balding old owner that measured my feet and pinched my cheeks, and he was quite used to my demands for two suckers – one to eat immediately and one to stuff in my pocket.

But my contentment faded when, instead of the coveted ballet slippers, I was presented with a box containing black, soft soled jazz shoes. My mother flitted about, watching as he pressed his thumb down on my big toe, and I scowled – arms crossed and mouth screwed up tight around the sucker stick. No amount of pleading, threats of dying, or arguing would sway her. I was going to take jazz lessons and that was that. “Has her Nana’s temper, doesn’t she”, he commented to mom with a pitying smile.

The studio was small and unassuming, but the dance teacher was another matter entirely. Her name was Deena and she was the most theatrical person I’d ever met. Her hair was a tall, reddish brown thicket that looked like it would have been more at home tumbling across the desert. Her clothing and makeup were bright, her frame thick, and her choices of décor leaned toward the middle aged cat woman with a doily obsession. In fact, she was a single middle aged woman, with no children, that lived right next door to the studio with her parents...who still treated her like the 10 year old child star she allegedly used to be.

I wasn’t even allowed the luxury of private lessons. I had to shuffle and sashay across the room, accompanied by a thin black girl named Brittany, who hated me on sight, and Deena’s sullen nephew Dan who, in the absence of another girl, was chosen to be the stardom hungry family’s whipping post. I felt more pity for him than I did myself and we formed a hesitant friendship built on mutual misery.

The lessons were only 30 minutes long, but my sister was enrolled in a toddler class called “creative movement”, so I had to sit in the lobby and wait. I wasn’t exactly sure at the time what “creative moment” meant, but I knew they got to wear tiny ballet slippers and I was pissed. I also wasn’t too happy when, after a few weeks of classes, I was informed that I would be expected to participate in an end of the year recital.

I didn’t like the idea of dancing on stage to begin with, but when I saw the outfit they intended to shove me into I almost died from humiliation in advance. It was a black spandex affair, all one piece, with gold sequined elastic around the edges of the shorts and sleeves and crisscrossed with silver sequins across the chest. Oh, and of course the gold sequined elastic headband that went “across the forehead, Alyson, not in your hair”.

That first recital was one giant lesson in futility. Crying, reasoning, threatening to “tell Grandma”, and claims of broken legs were pointless. I was going to get up on that stage three times whether I wanted to or not: for the introduction with all the dancers, my routine, and the awards ceremony. The majority of the students were excited about getting a trophy for doing nothing more than shuffling around a room with an ageing diva that talked too much. The only thing I had to be excited about was the celebratory dinner I’d been promised if I cooperated and stopped telling everyone that I was being “forced to perform like a monkey” and mumbling about “reporting this to social services”.

Waiting in the wings of the dark theatre was nerve racking. On our side there were several crew members to make sure the dancers were ready, pull the curtains, and move props. On the other was Deena, dancing each dance with us in case someone forgot a step and needed to glance over. As far as I was concerned she was more of a hindrance than a help, because even if someone remembered all the steps they couldn’t help but look over at her jiggling form and get distracted.

There were video cameras everywhere. It was a rather large community theatre and from the sidelines I could see red and green lights dotted throughout the gloom. Between the photos my parents had ordered from the professional photographer the studio used before recitals and all of the tapes being made that day, it was clear I wouldn’t be able to destroy all evidence of my involvement. The only form of rebellion I had left was to look absolutely miserable while on stage. I was too much of a perfectionist to mess up the steps on purpose, but goddamn it I was not going to smile like a loon.

The curtain was lowered and we took our places, spandex clad asses facing the waiting crowd and fingers splayed out into jazz hands. The stupid sequined headband was digging into my forehead and making it itch, but I couldn’t scratch because of the massive quantities of stage makeup. As they began cranking up the curtain I forgot all about my forehead and silently panicked. My palms were sweating and I thought I was going to vomit. Stage fright was entirely new to me. I’d always been quite the attention seeker, but there was no way in hell I wanted the kind of attention I was about to get.

BAM! A spotlight came on over our heads and the first strains of our routine started to play. We were supposed to wait in place, shaking our behinds for the first 15 or so counts. While I was reluctantly shaking my ass and wiggling my jazz fingers, I heard whoops and shouts behind me.

“GO, AL! THAT’S MY DAUGHTER! WOOOOO! SHAKE IT, AL!”

I visibly winced when my uncle joined my father’s, likely drunken, encouragement. When I turned around to begin the routine I was scowling fit to kill. I step-ball-changed and galloped across that stage with windmill arms without missing a beat, face like a puckered asshole. My family filled up two entire middle rows and even in the dark I could see them: the men in ball caps and cut up t-shirts next to the women in flashing gold jewelry and teased hair.

At the end of the routine we were supposed to move together and have skinny Brittany stand up on our knees and wave her arms. I hated that part because the floor hurt my knee and even though she looked skinny, she certainly didn’t feel like it. Dan and I had let her fall accidentally on purpose in practice a time or two, and I’d briefly thought about it on stage, but in the end I decided that it wasn’t a good idea. My family knew me well and there was the possibility that they’d notice I caused the accident and renege on our dinner plans as punishment.

But as we step-ball-changed toward the center for the final formation, Brittany tripped and went sprawling across the floor. We kept going and had reached our places when she was just picking herself up. The music ended and the applause started as Dan and I kneeled side by side, jazz fingers going in the air with nothing to hold, Brittany standing crestfallen out to the side. I was genuinely grinning for all I was worth and I could hear my dad laughing over the cheers of the crowd as the curtain fell.

Long t-shirt over my glittery chub, I made my way quietly into the auditorium to sit with my family and watch until intermission and award time. I was given a coke and a rice krispy treat, clapped on the back, and praised for my performance. I was marginally pleased with myself until my sister and the rest of the toddler class took their places. They were adorable in tiny Minnie Mouse costumes with tights, tails, and tiny black slippers. While the annoying music played some of them stood shock still and stared out into the black, thumbs stuck in their mouths and eyes as wide as saucers. Some toddled around and chased each other, some cried and attempted to wander off stage, and some, like my sister, actually tried to do the routine. But she was like a two year old Hitler in mouse ears, barking orders, pulling at the others and trying to make them join her in the jumping jacks and heel step, toe point exercises.

The audience was roaring with laughter, my family was cheering, and I was pissed all over again. What was so great about what they were doing? I hadn’t missed one step, had done my routine perfectly, and here they were going all crazy for a bunch of babies that couldn’t even stay in a line. If what they wanted was kids running around in a circle, then why the hell had I spent all that time learning the moves and suffering in embarrassment?

When my name was called at the award ceremony I walked forward, bottom lip poked out, and accepted my ribbon and a gold star. Apparently only people that had been there for two or more years got trophies. Not that I wanted one of those stupid plastic statues, but damn if I didn’t deserve one.

After the lights came up and everyone started pushing out the door, we stopped at the back table to pick up our flowers, balloons, and stuffed animals that family members brought. With arms full of goodies and mom’s promise that we were on our way to dinner, I was happy once more. My sister rode my dad’s shoulders across the parking lot, her balloon trailing behind, and I walked beside my grandparents. “Hey Alyson”, someone called from behind.

I turned and there was Dan, waving, with his family. “See you in a few months! Deena says you’re taking clogging with us!”

Clogging? Clogging? My mouth opened and closed like a gulping fish. I looked over at Deena, who gave me a huge grin and a thumbs up, the gapped up tumbleweed atop her head bobbing as she nodded. I looked at my mom. She smiled, but it looked more like a grimace of determination to me.

“I’m not doing it”, I said defiantly.

“Ok”, she replied automatically. I knew a fake dismissal when I heard one. She wasn’t prepared to argue with me in a crowed parking lot.

“I’m not,” I shouted in panic.

“How about some ice cream, honey”, grandma said.

“Whatcha say, Artist! Want Papa to buy you a pretty new dress to celebrate?!”, my grandpa shouted.

“I’ve got a Yoo-Hoo with your name on it, Al”, dad said.

“Assin”, my sister lisped, “I dance pwetty.”

My uncle picked me up, tossed me over his shoulder and they continued to move en masse toward the cars. “Let them think I’m going”, I thought, “I can milk this for three months.”

Seven years, seven cringe worthy videos, seven plastic trophies, four out of state competitions, and a plethora of sparkly costumes later – I still hated it. I probably could have quit without much argument after a few years, and believe me I often wanted to, but something always stopped me.

I was good.

I knew it, they knew it, and even if it was embarrassing... having my family come together, cheer in the audience and put aside their many differences over the years, for me, was worth a little social suffering. Well, that,

and you wouldn’t believe how much awesome shit I got.

*Due to reader heckling, I've decided to post a photo of my humiliation. Sigh. Enjoy.*

I'm never going to live this down, am I? Part two

Here are the rest of my "10 things you don't know about me". There are not only sexual references but there are gross...well, you'll see.

6) I’m not as ladylike as I seem.

You’re shocked, I’m sure.

I have impeccable manners, of course. Most southern women do. I just rarely use them.

Not only that, but I cuss like a sailor, have horrible posture and I hate the fact that women aren’t supposed to sit like men, even when they wear pants. It’s a constant aggravation to me to always have to cross my legs or keep my ankles together. I’d rather sit in a chair gangsta style. It’s much more comfortable.

Despite my unwillingness to keep my legs closed and stop dropping the F bomb, there is one ladylike mannerism I observe at all times. I do not fart in front of anyone. Ever. Unfortunately this may lower my life expectancy by several years. The number one killer of southern women isn’t cancer or domestic violence, it’s holding in flatulence. Scout’s honor.

The only thing more embarrassing than slipping up and letting one loose in public is this:

I was at the fireman’s house one night (for you new comers, the fireman was my five year booty call that just ended this past fall) and we were, of course, getting busy. Everything was going great. He was staring into my eyes, his signature half angry, half arrogant “yeah I’m screwing you good” look on his face. I was staring back, my signature half amused, half defiant “you couldn’t screw a...ooh, wow...do that again” look on my face. Things were getting intense. Until...

There wasn’t even a warning feeling of built up pressure, no rumble in my stomach, nothing. It just came out: short, loud, and to the point. Like one expelled breath through a bugle horn.

My face was on fire. I couldn’t even laugh it off like I would anything else. He didn’t comment at all. There was just the briefest pause, before he soldiered on through my humiliation, doggedly pursuing his release. I almost would have preferred it if he’d stopped and laughingly acknowledged it. Being a fireman though, he’s trained to plow through smoke and falling, flaming debris. No way could he be deterred by a fart.

I kept my eyes shut tight and attempted to rejoin him in the fight for the finish, but I just couldn’t concentrate. There wasn’t a smell, thank gawd, but the noise was reverberating in my ears. It was way worse than the first time I made that squidgy, wet air pocket in the vagina noise during sex. (I refuse to use the actual term because I hate it.)

After it was over we just lay there next to each other. And even though we were close, it felt like there was a ghostly, gaseous body wedged between us, curling up and making itself comfortable. I ignored it and willed myself to relax into sleep.

When I woke several hours later I found it was gone, vanished into the abyss, and the fireman was in pursuit of round two.

Gone, but not forgotten...goddamnit. If Martha Stewart found out about this I’d be shipped north, stripped of my accent, and banned from the Deep Fried Everything-That-Isn’t-Red-Hot-or-Nailed-Down Club.


7) I’m secretly a 13 year old girl...on the inside. (That is not a virgin reference.)

I like the Twilight series, Harry Potter, and lots of other fantasy books and movies it’s not popular for an adult woman to like.

While I’m driving the nail in my blogging social coffin, I might as well tell you that not only do I like them...I like them a lot. I happen to have two Harry Potter Scene It games and this Christmas I received the New Moon board game. I was rather disappointed since I would have preferred the Twilight Scene It to the board game, but you can’t have everything can you?

While I refused to go see any of the movies for either series on opening night due to psychos in costume, I didn’t wait long. And while I didn’t scream and carry on when Robert Pattinson came on the screen, I do happen to think he’s delicious. And while I dislike Kristin Stewart, it’s only because of her lack luster performances in everything but that stoner movie Adventureland, in which her constantly slack jawed appearance and confused demeanor seems to fit.

I haven’t exactly kept any of this secret, but I haven’t been advertising it either. Go ahead and laugh. I’m ok with it. Just like I was ok when they made fun of me for reading Tolkien (which is admittedly better reading than the aforementioned, but not to a group of judgmental kids) and carrying around books the size of an Encyclopedia. I’m not a cutter. I can take it.

Got any chips?


8) My parenting tactics are bit eccentric.

I don’t usually hang out with other parents. This isn’t because I don’t like them, it’s because...well, yeah, usually I don’t like them. We have little more than a used uterus in common.

I refused to breast feed because it made me feel uncomfortable. I don’t see boobs as a source of nutrients and life support. Boobs are fun – you dress them up, you play with them, you show them off – the end. When the kid was just a baby and I would hold her and rock her, I would remove her hand from my boob if it ended up there. No touchy.

I guess the boob thing would also fall under the shower thing. I don’t shower with the kid unless it’s absolutely necessary. Kids are weird about nakedness. Seriously. They stare at you with those big, bug eyes all wide and innocent and ask you creepy questions. And when you give a vague answer, their response is always “Why?”

“Why are yours bigger than mine?”
“Because I’m a grown up.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“What are those?”
“Nipples.”
“Why?”
“Because. Turn around and be quiet, kid.”

I’m pretty sure other parents don’t tell their kids that McDonalds burned to the ground as a result of boy cooties, which are highly flammable. “No, no one died. They picked them up in a helicopter. No, there weren’t any fries left.”

I’m pretty sure other parents don’t taunt their kids through a glass door when they’re being particularly unmanageable and irritating. “HAHA! You can’t open it. Scream all you want ‘cause I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” And throw in a little dancing.

And I’m pretty sure that other parents, if caught doing something less than admirable, don’t shrug and say, “How often do you put yours in the closet?”

When the kid is grown up and sucker punching people in the genitals, it’ll all be worth it.


9) I was a child prodigy.

My uncle is a musician and he thought it would be a great idea for me to learn to play an instrument. (Actually, I bugged the shit out of him until he agreed to teach me.) I started with the piano, but decided that it was too hard.

I then spent an entire summer learning how to play the drums to The Lion King soundtrack. I could play them for the song ‘In the Air Tonight’ by Phil Collins too. I was awesome at the dramatic part at 3:15 on the video. As it turns out though, it’s not cool for fat kids to jam out to Phil Collins...with head banging.



According to my Papa, I also tried my hand at being an artist when I was little. By finger painting his bathroom walls with my own excrement. He still occasionally tells random people that I’m “the artist of the family”.
Good times.


10) I used to eat everything.

Now of course you’re thinking, “You were a fat kid, of course you ate everything.” But I don’t think you really understand what I’m saying.

I was usually hungry, but even if I wasn’t I would still find a reason to eat.

If my mom pissed me off, I’d eat. If my dad yelled at me, I’d eat. If I was afraid someone else would get to it first, I’d eat. If there was a blackout and I had no flashlight and only one match, I would use that one match to find the food supply and, I’d eat. All of it. Just in case I wasn’t able to find it again.

I once ate a piece of raw bacon just because it was there and I was “hungry” and impatient.


And on that disgusting note, I think I’ll end this embarrassing tell all and get to the next part of my assignment: naming seven Bloggers to watch for 2010.

Some of these are well known. A few are newcomers. Either way, I love every single one you and would touch you inappropriately if asked. Maybe.

In no particular order:

1) The Japing Ape - Gorilla Bananas
"The world's leading anthropological ape" has been blogging for a long time and never steps out of character. (Except maybe occasionally on a comment.) His blog is not only amusing, it's unique. He adds a naughty spin to current events and always has an interesting opinion or photo to check out. I'll likely never know who is actually behind The Japing Ape, but that's a tad intriguing. Don't you think?

2) The Yellow Factor - Jerrod
You know how people at work say they have a "work spouse"? Someone they talk to a lot and who's company they really enjoy? Well, if there were "blog spouses", Jerrod would be mine. We've had loads of conversations about blogging and everything in between and I greatly value his opinion. His blog is one I look forward to checking every day and when he posts, it always puts a smile on my face.

3) Brightened Boy - BB
BB is a young, gay, college student blogging about his experiences. No matter what he's writing about, his sincerity and talent are always apparent. He reminds me a bit of myself. Though our family situations aren't the same, they are a bit similar and I can relate to a lot of the emotions he's been dealing with over the years. He draws you in with his words and you become quickly involved, rooting for this person you've never met, but would very much like to.

4) Mr. London Street - MLS
Though he chose me for his shortlist, that's not even on the long list of reasons I chose him for mine. I'm addicted to his blog like a drug. Reading him has allowed me to become a better writer myself. That might sound trite, but it's true. There have been times when I've read one, just one, and felt just about every emotion one can feel. I think that's what makes a good writer: if I can want to laugh, cry, throw up, and punch you in the face all in one sitting. He pushes boundaries and I like that. I have no doubt that blogging is just a stepping stone to bigger things for him.

5) Steam Me Up Kid - Becky
I came across this blog randomly one day and I'd never read anything like it. I was openmouthed at the gall this woman had. Becky is absolutely hilarious. Vulgar, random, creative, completely insane - there aren't enough words to describe her blog. She's also got a talent for photoshopping pictures and adding unique catch phrases. And she's cute. Go see.

6) Contributions to Society - obviouslyapseudonym
She left a comment here and of course I went to check her out. This girl is young, but she's got something.  She's just getting started here so you should be hospitable. This post made me laugh and man, does it ever sound familiar. Cheers to you, newbie.

7) Miss.Chief's Blog - miss.chief
You never know what to expect with this one. One day it's bus stop stories, then it's pictures of new tattoos and drawings, then it's a hilarious tale about Mexico and their...toilets. Whatever she's writing about, I'm always enthralled. And she knows Spanish. Real Spanish, not that stuff where you just add and O on the end.

There's one more place I'd like to draw to your attention. Here. He's a buddy of mine and he's just started with this whole blog thing. Check him out and give him some encouragement.

Don't feel pressured to do this meme, but if you'd like to have my name written on your ass, that would be ok.

Fin.

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.

You think National Geographic is bad?

I don’t like blood and gore, children, or the smell of bleach. As a matter of fact, I’m such a complainer that I could probably write a book thicker than the dictionary on things I do not like. But those three things make up Chapter one.

Before I continue, allow me to give a small warning:

If you are a mother, if you are pregnant, if you think childbirth is the most beautiful thing on the planet, or if you are Octomom...you might not want to read this. If you are a man, you might not want to read this. If you are my mother, The Grandmother, or a member of the department of social services...I urge you to turn away before it’s too late.

Now that everyone is gone, let’s begin.

I hated pregnancy. HATED it. Of course it stripped me of all my happy vices in one fell swoop. Cigarettes? Gone. Pot? See ya. Alcohol? Buh bye!

That is not to say I didn’t love the kid in utero, I did... eventually. I just wish she could have popped out of a cabbage patch rather than my vagina, complete with cute outfit, plastic shoes, and certificate of authenticity.

The first few months were mostly fine because I ignored the “goings on”. Getting out of the shower and muttering to myself in the mirror about “eating that fucking basket of teriyaki wings and half of that goddamned pie” was my way of denial. And wearing hoodies.

One night, right before I finally told everyone I was knocked up, I met a guy. I was hanging out with friends from work when he approached me. We started chatting and he was insanely nice and good looking, and come to find out a few hours later, insanely wealthy.

That night when we left, my friends gave me the scoop. His family was very well-to-do and he owned several prosperous businesses in the area. I was already interested before I found out he was loaded, that was a bonus.

But no, not really. Because when I got home that night and did my shower, stand in the mirror and mutter about wings and pie routine, I just couldn’t deal. I couldn’t pretend anymore.

At first I was sad because now, not only would I not get the chance to spend his money, I wouldn’t get to fuck him either. I don’t care what you’ve heard about men wanting to fuck pregnant women...forget it, unless you’re married or in a relationship. That’s not to say that there aren’t some weirdo perverts out there that have this life long dream to put a dent in a baby’s head or have strange bragging rights. I’m talking about normal men.

And do you know what sucks REALLY bad? Pregnant women are off the charts horny. At least for awhile. When I wasn’t thinking about stupid teriyaki wings, I was thinking about sex. It was fucking miserable. Kind of like how things are now, come to think of it. Just without the bun in there, slowly baking.

Anyway...so I was sad. And then I got angry.

I was living alone at the time. (Well, if I’m being technical it was me, my fetus, and my special ed cat named Nugget. Named so because he ate an entire bag of some of the best pot I’d ever gotten my hands on when he was a kitten.) There was a lot of throwing things and a lot of “FUCK MY LIFE’S” going on, when the kid started kicking. Of course, that’s when I broke down and was all “Fuck my life, but now I should probably stop being a retard and tell people this isn’t fat, it’s fetus” crying sort of deal.

I told the people at work a few days later. Right before, as it turns out, the wealthy hot dude came to visit me. Thankfully, I didn’t have to tell him myself. Sigh. The rich one that got away.

I was working as a waitress, having left my old comfy job. Getting knocked up by the boss will do that to ya. But it was probably one of the most awesome jobs I’d ever had. It’s where I met my best friend and several other people I’m still in touch with.

It’s also where I found the worst roommate in the history of roommates. And that is saying some shit, because I once lived in a three bedroom house with 5 other people in the ghetto and one of them liked to walk around naked and invite gangs of hoodrats back from the local Little Cricket gas station, one of which was a really scary black man with dreadlocks and a glass eye that actually tried to stab me with a knife. Yeah, I’m serious.

But this story isn’t about my psycho roommates or hoodrats. It’s about me, me, me. So, skip some drama, skip some bitch slapping, and skip to the part where I quit my job and moved back in with my parents.

My mom had been harassing me to move back so she could “help take care of you and the baby”. (This has since turned into “get the fuck out, but when you do be sure to leave the kid”.)

I became a fucking lunatic.

It was like George Foreman, Martha Stewart, and Hitler all possessed me at once. If I wasn’t grilling meat, baking cakes, scrubbing some obscure corner of the house, or barking orders...I was obsessively doing word finder puzzles. I have no idea why, but I bought them in huge books and took them everywhere. Can’t stand them now, of course.

Once I decided I was going to change bedrooms and there was no one there to help me but my 80lb little sister. I was determined to move every single piece of furniture in that house and if anyone tried to stop me, by gawd, I’d sit on them.

I believe they call it nesting.

I have no idea where I found the strength I had that day, but I lifted an entire bed frame, my sister only balancing the other end, over the bar that separates the kitchen and the living room because I didn’t want to take it apart. I shoved dressers and lifted tables. By the time my mom came home I was triumphant and pissed off.

Everything smelled of bleach. I poured it on anything in my path. I would have poured it on the animals too, but no one would let me. Now I can’t even be near the stuff.

Do you believe me now when I say pregnancy sucks? You’re large, moody, and think you’re Two Men and a Truck...which causes you back problems later in life. What is beautiful about that? But wait for it....it’s not over yet.

My OB/GYN was fantastic. He was a tall, older man and he wore the most adorable glasses I’d ever seen. He was always smiling, always making jokes, and made me feel comfortable.

However, you can only be so comfortable with someone ALWAYS up in your stuff. I suppose if you’re a teenage girl you’d like it...forever getting fingered and all that. But I was over that stage in my life. Fingering was so three years ago.

The Grandmother insisted on driving me to every doctor’s appointment. Those were some of the longest car rides of my life. I made the mistake of allowing her back to see an ultrasound once. She asked the doctor so many ridiculous questions and embarrassed me so much that I refused to let her come again.

Before long I was a little past a week overdue. I’d been to the doctor’s office every week for the past month.

On this particular day I waddled in with my mom in tow, miserable and cranky due to lack of breakfast. It was around 11am. The doctor came in, checked me out, gave me a grin and said, “Well then, if you’ll go on over to the hospital I think it’s alright to induce labor today.”

Today? TODAY! FUCK YES TODAY! Let’s get this sucker cleared out!

“That’s great! I’ll just go home and get my bag, grab some lunch and...”


“Oh no, you should go on over. Someone else can bring your bag. And you can’t eat anything.”

I fixed him with my pregnant woman death-ray glare. “What do you mean I can’t eat?”

“They’re going to give you the medicine to induce you and you cannot eat.”

I almost cried. “But labor could take forever and I haven’t eaten since dinner last night!”

“You’ll be fine! They’ll give you popsicles and ice chips...”

“Fucking ice chips”, I muttered.

The doctor went over more details with my mom since I was no longer inclined to listen. I was too busy devising ways to secretly get my hands on some food.

We arrived at the hospital, signed in, and they immediately took me to a room.

The next two hours were rather boring. They stuck me in a gown and settled me in the bed with an IV drip of whatever it was. Members of my family had already started to gather in the waiting room. The only events more important than birth to a southern family are fishing tournaments and the start of deer hunting season.

The Grandmother was of course let into the room, along with my mom and godmom who wandered in and out getting me ice chips and relaying news to my subjects.

Every now and then a nurse would come in, lift the sheet and check things out. I’d taken to trying to amuse my self and embarrass everyone else in retaliation for not being fed.

“What do you see down there”, I asked her once.

She looked up at me. “Erm, nothing yet...”

“It’s pretty, huh?”


“What?”


“My...”

“Alyson!” My mom and TG shouted simultaneously. They were used to my antics.

I rolled my eyes and contented myself with crunching as loudly on my ice chips as humanly possible.

Then I felt a bit of pain. A sharp jab that made me suck an ice chip down my throat, start choking, and then yelling, as three women advanced on me and started wailing on my back like they were in a Rocky film.

I shooed them away and assured them I was fine. I’d had a few pains in the previous hours, but that was the first one that really, truly hurt. The nurse asked me if I wanted drugs.

“Hell yes! Fill ‘er up!”

The first drug they gave me was Nubain. It was lovely. I was high as a kite.

I don’t remember much of what I said while on the Nubain, but everyone was laughing at me so I imagine it was a lot of nonsense. I DO remember that at one point they all left and in my drug haze I noted the phone on my bedside table.

I picked it up and dialed my best friend, who I hadn’t had a chance to talk to yet.

“Hello”, she said.
“Hey! It’s me!”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m having a baby!”
“Um.....right now?”
“Yes!”
“Um....ok. Maybe you should call me when you’re, you know....done.”
“Ok!”

Talking to her later, she thought I was in actual, pushing labor. So much for getting her to sneak in contraband.

The Nubain wore off and they came in to do the epidural. Just remembering it makes me shudder. It didn’t exactly hurt, but it was very strange. It pinched and I felt a kind of jolt along my spine. After it was in though, I felt nothing from the waist down.

I said out loud to my godmom, “I had sex with someone once and it felt just like this.” (It was just a joke at the time. Little did I know it was going to become a reality one day.)

Finally the nurse said it was almost time. In came the doctor, but it wasn’t MY doctor.

My mom was all, “Oooh! Al! You remember Dr. So-in-So! He delivered your sister!”

“I was seven”, I grumbled. “And that is soooo weird...”

“Do you want a mirror brought in so you can watch”, the doctor asked me.

“No the hell I don’t!”

Then for some reason someone let my bastard ass father in the door. “Oh, there’s my girl...you’re gonna do great...go get um’ Al...”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

He backed out grinning and waving just as massive pains started. I had no idea why the fuck my stomach was hurting so badly. I shouldn’t be able to feel anything.

“They didn’t give me enough drugs! They didn’t give me enough drugs!”

“It hurts because you aren’t pushing. You need to push”, the doctor said.

That’s when it dawned on me. If I pushed, a living human being that I’d have to take care of was going to come out of my vagina, and no amount of shoving was going to get it back in there. Not that I really wanted it back in there, but considering the alternative...

I refused to push because I was scared. I stalled.

In the movies they let you have a sheet over your legs. Not in real life. I’d yank it over me, and then the doctor would yank it off. We did this routine a few times before he finally pulled it off completely and handed it to the nurse. I was livid. I’m pretty sure I called him a fucker.

I looked up and there, reflected in the big, shiny black TV was my bizness. ALL my bizness.

“AHHH! The TV! Cover that damn TV!”

My mom says that she was so embarrassed that I made the doctor climb up on a chair and cover the TV before I would push. Well they got me back later, I’ll tell you that.

The doctor instructed my mom and godmom to get on either side of me, one holding one leg and one holding the other. At one point I looked at them and they were both staring down, wide eyed.

“What the fuck”, I yelled. “Stop looking!”

They both turned their heads up in the air quickly.

I’ll leave out the rest. Not for your sake, for mine. Suffice it to say it’s all blood, goopy stuff, and naked embarrassment.

It was over in record time...about 5 minutes after I started pushing and 5 hours from the time I was induced. I’ve heard stories about women being in labor with their first child for days. Fuck THAT. Somebody would have gotten me a plunger.

They cleaned up the kid and handed her to me. For the few minutes they let me hold her before taking her to the nursery I was in awe.

But when they took her away, everyone went with her. Nurses, family, everyone left assuring me they’d be right back. An hour later I was still waiting and getting angrier by the minute. Once they took the kid away, I remembered how fucking hungry I was.

I finally picked up the phone, called my dad and he answered, clearly emotional. “WHERE THE FUCK IS EVERYONE!”

“Oh, we’re looking at the baby! She’s beautiful! You did such a good job!”

“Can you PLEASE get a nurse in here? I'm starving! This is probably why some female animals eat their young!”

They finally sent someone to take care of me and moved me to a regular room. A few minutes later, with a room full of people, The Grandmother came walking in with a big bag of Chick-fil-A.

I almost cried I was so happy.

I was sitting up in the bed, blissfully stuffing my face with chicken sandwich and ignoring everyone, when a nurse came in.

“Here you go”, she said. I took a thick envelope out of her hand.

Still chewing, I nodded at her, set my sandwich down and pulled out the contents. Then I promptly spit out the wad of food, hopefully in her direction, and screamed.

They were Polaroids. Of my bizness. And the stuff...and my bizness...and the...oh gawd, it was horrible. Who the fuck authorized them to take photos? Not me! And more importantly, how the hell did I not notice that someone was snapping away?

I eventually calmed down and continued eating. I’d waited too long for that food to let them ruin it with birth porn. I made up my mind to burn them when I got home.

They brought the kid in a little while later and I made everyone leave so we could have our first mother/daughter discussion.

“First things first”, I said. “You are perfect. And clean now, which is even better. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it’s going to be ok. I’ve given up sex and drinking, I’ve gotten stitches in my vag, and I’ve had about 10 people I’ve never met see my junk and document it. I wouldn’t do that for just anybody. So...it's you and me kid."

I continued jabbering and cooing at her for a few minutes while she looked at me with those blue, new baby eyes. Then I had an epiphany.

“Ha! I’m not going to burn them!”

I grinned at her tiny face.

“I’m going to show them to you when you’re older! Free birth control. Hahahaha! This parenting shit is easy."