Pleasantly Demented

For my new readers who don't know, my husband has multiple sclerosis.  And he is on active duty in the US Army.  And he's gone right now.  He isn't deployed, and he isn't in combat or anything, but he is on temporary duty away from home.  I don't bitch about this often.  I don't even talk about  it often.  So, I figure I at least get a freebie every once in a while.  Today is my freebie.  So either read it, or move along.  Nothing to see here. 

His MS medication is taken in the form of a weekly intramuscular injection.  This is an 1-1/2 inch needle straight into the thigh muscle.  He's only been on this medication for 3 or 4 months, and he still has wicked side effects.  Flu symptoms, uncontrollable shaking, sweats, fatigue.

When he's home, I give him his shot, he's able to go straight to bed and sleep it off.  But since he's been gone, he's had to give himself his shots.  And it's killing him.  He hates it.  He's miserable.  And I can't help him.  I feel helpless.

He's been in the Army for 17 years.  He's still having to be an active duty soldier in a leadership position while suffering from the symptoms of his MS, and the side effects of his medication, all while being a husband and father.  And right now, he's alone.  And I'm alone.  He's dealing with his MS alone.  And I can't help him. 


So, I guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself right now.  Because Friday is his shot day.  And I've just been sitting here on my lazy ass all day long knowing that he's miserable, and there is absolutely nothing I can do.


On the bright side, I had a wicked conversation with a 15-year-old boy today about aunt flow.  Periods.  Menstruation.  The Red Tide.  Eve's Punishment.  That sort of thing.  It was pretty fucking hilarious, actually.


My kids have zero inhibition when it comes to asking me shit.  NONE.  ZERO SHAME.  No hesitation whatsoever.


So I get slammed with in-your-face questions like, "So, does it squirt like when you see someone's throat get slashed in a horror movie, or does it come out slow, or is it like the same way as pee?"

And, "How much comes out?  Can't you die from losing too much blood?"


And, "Do tampons hurt?"


And, "Why do you get cramps?"


And, "Why do you get bitchy?"


And, "Should I tell my girlfriend that I can tell when she's on the rag, or would that embarrass her?"


And, "So lemme get this straight.  The egg comes out of your ovary, goes down your fallopian tube, and sticks itself onto your uterus, right?  Soo..... draw me a diagram here.  What exactly happens next?"


Have I mentioned before that I have the most AWESOME. KIDS. EVER?


So, this has been my Saturday.  Sitting on the couch twiddling my thumbs because I'm worried about my husband.  And fielding a barrage of questions from totally shameless, unapologetic teenage boys about periods.


It's a fucking banner day at 666 Psycho Street today, folks.  Someone come help me suck down this bottle of cheap wine, puh-leeeeeeeze?

February 24, 2011

Mine does.  Yep, that's right.  Sarge reads my blog.  (Heeeey BAYBAY!! I know yer there!)

And you know what's super strange?  I think it turns me on.  No, seriously.

Honestly, I don't know exactly how much he reads.  Hell, for all I know, he just clicks the link on his facebook wall just in the off chance that he'll be met with a gigantic pic of my tits.  You know, because guys think like that.  I'm sure, in his mind, it's perfectly logical and possible that one day, he will click on the link to my blog and there will be a picture of my tits.  Of course!  How is that not possible?

Pffffft!

Is that why you're here, my darlin' lover? You and I both know you don't need any more pictures of my fabulously fabulous boobies, so you MUST be reading my blog.  Am I right?

Perhaps you're making sure I don't say anything against OPSEC.  (That would be "operation security" for all of you non-GI-Joe types).

Perhaps you're making sure I don't tell anyone how totally mind-blowing you are in the sack.  Because that would just be embarrassing!

Perhaps you're making sure I don't unleash the fierce beef I have with the number of pairs of shoes you own.  Or the way you like to leave piles of your crap all over the house that you absolutely SWEAR you're going to "take care of" one day.

Perhaps you're worried I will tell people how you reach your foot over to touch mine when I crawl in the bed at night. 

Maybe you don't want me to say anything about the impressive amount of time you spend fixing your hair every morning, complete with the flashing of the supermodel pose in the mirror, and then saying shit like "You know I look good! Huh? Huh?! Am I right?  Hell yeah, I'm right!"

Yes. Of course you're right. 

Or, maybe it's the morning kissy you're worried I'll talk about.  All those mornings you think I'm asleep when you lean over to kiss me goodbye, sometimes I wake up right at the very end, just as your turning to walk away. 

No.  I'd never talk about those things!

But, regardless of the reason, I am glad you're here.  Even if I can't even keep your attention long enough for you to make it this far without boobs. 

It still totally turns me on.

February 21, 2011

I'm writing for the Red Writing Hood memoir prompt this week.  Vivid childhood memories and what they mean.  I actually hesitated to publish this for fear that it would make me sound whiny and redundant or make it seem as though I have some sort of victim mentality.  That couldn't be farther from the truth.  I just simply like telling stories.  And it just so happens that I have a lot of them to tell.  I'm constantly reminded of the adage that all wannabe writers have heard a million times over- write about what you know.  Well, this is what I know.  I've exorcised these demons long ago.  Today, I'm simply telling a story.  Because that's what I do. 
______________________________________________________________________________


Being the oldest child by 3 years, and my parents having split when I was only 5, it's really amazing how many memories I have of that life.  Memories that my little sister doesn't have.  In a strange way, I feel privileged, as though I'm in an exclusive club whose members are only myself and my mother.  In another way, I feel relieved for my sister.  Her little heart was so much more tender than mine.  And perhaps I was chosen as the keeper of these memories so she wouldn't have to carry them.

In my head, the memories I have are like a silent movie that plays on a loop.  Sepia-toned with frayed corners, fading to black.  Hot Wheels cars, a swing set, playing in the snow.  A little girl in a very big world with very big faces and very big voices.  Some good.  Some bad.  Some so nondescript that I often wonder why my subconscious chose to hold onto them. 

I remember living in an apartment in Texas.  There, a family of skunks would faithfully besiege our back porch on a nightly basis, waiting for my mother to feed them our stale bread.  I was 2 or 3 years old.

I remember living in an apartment in Virginia or Tennessee.  I had a best friend named Timmy.  Timmy was a black boy with an afro hair style.  His mom would give us juice and popsicles.  One day, I decided I wanted to look like Timmy, so I painted myself black with charcoal.  Head to toe.  I was 3 or 4 years old.

By the time I was 5, several months before my mother finally gathered her babies and ran, we moved to Atlanta.  It is from this time that I have the most memories of my parents together.  And those memories are of a life nothing short of chaotic.  My father was becoming more and more emotionally unstable and violent.  Being with him at this time, and all the way up to the very last time I saw him, can be best described as crossing a bridge made of eggshells over the entrance to Hell.

I have vivid memories of the screaming.  The crashing.  The crying.  An ashtray thrown against a stone fireplace; drinking glasses, plates, and tchotchkes disintegrating into a million pieces against whatever surface was in their way.  A Big Bang.  The creation of a universe of glass and porcelain and screaming under my feet.

I have memories of my mom rushing me to my bedroom, warning me to stay quiet, and locking the door behind her.  I'd scream and cry and bang on the door, feeling utterly helpless and terrified as I listened to the wailing and screeching and panic in her voice, as I heard the smacking sound of knuckles meeting flesh.  That's a sound you don't forget.  The feeling of weakness and helplessness at such a young age, from a man who was supposed to cherish me and call me his princess, would become a cancer in my marrow and a devil in my brain.  This is the birth of hate. 

But in between his fierce conniptions, he'd put on his mask of sanity and play daddy for a while.  And I have those memories, too, although with a curious undercurrent of strain, perhaps hope unsatisfied.

There always seemed to be a sense of desperation in my mother, a concentrated fervor in her attempt to maintain status quo.  Maintain happy.  Maintain normal.  If he was happy, she'd try to grow it.  Cultivate it.  Make it stick.  But even when he was in a good mood, it was intense, like every electron in his body was vibrating on an unnatural frequency.  An unnerving high.

It's these little things she did to placate him, these silly trinkets of afterthought, that would remind me that I was a child, that would remind me that it's okay to laugh.

Little things.  Like blue mashed potatoes.  She'd use food coloring- sometimes green or red or blue.  And that would be a good day.  Or at least a good dinner.

My dad would shovel a huge glob of potatoes into his mouth.  Puff his cheeks out as far as they would go.  Raise his eyebrows in frenetic anticipation.

I'd clap and giggle and cheer him on.

And in a moment of vacuous abandon, he'd shoot them straight through his teeth.

I would laugh maniacally, stand on my chair and clap my hands until they stung.  A disturbingly familiar intensity, like every electron in my body was vibrating on an unnatural frequency.  An unnerving high.

An incipient intimacy between father and daughter.  A tapeworm he must have slipped in my drink.

It's just a trinket.

An afterthought.

A straw to grasp.

But there they were.  The blue mashed potatoes.  Dripping down his chin and onto the tablecloth.  He would throw his hands into the air in a fleeting wink of fatherhood victory.

And then I'd shimmy down into my chair, sliding forward to reach the table on my ruffled panties, and shovel a huge glob of potatoes into my mouth. 

So I could be just like daddy.

February 20, 2011

I love the wind.  Don't you?

Okay, no.  I lied.  I actually hate the wind.  Really.  I hate it.

But more than that, I hate the cookie cutter wind.

The wind that "whips through the trees."

The wind that "stings the back of my throat."

The wind that "slaps me in the face."

And I understand if you feel that way, because those are some understandable metaphors.  Grossly tired, overused, banal.  But understandable.

8th grade.  At best. 

Does it make you feel alive to watch the same old fish that have lived in that pond for years?
Not me.  I want to create my own fish.  Fish with horns.  And maybe an elephant's trunk.  Or even boobs.

When I'm standing in the wind, covering my face with the hood of my sweatshirt, cursing the day it was ever fucking invented, cursing the wind's aunt with cancer and wishing a wretched death for it's first-born child, I say things like,

One day, Wind.  One day.  It's going to be just you and me.
You've emptied my bank account.
You've raped my dog.
You've stolen my damn underwear while I was still wearing them.
Now, I'm broke.
My dog needs therapy.
And I'm panty-less.
WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
I don't care about my fucking throat.
I don't care if you like running around slapping folks.
And I have no interest in the sick and twisted way you go about molesting trees. 
All I know is that you've hurt me.  I am hurt.
You refuse to stick around long enough to have an adult conversation about this. 
You flutter around like a fairy on crack, making people want to "dance with you."
They really don't know any better.
And they clearly don't understand that the lyrics to the "song" you're whistling describe the various ways you're planning on doing things like pulling their intestines out of their belly-button or....well...raping their dog.
So, you just keep right on fooling them, but you don't fool me.
I know what you're busy doing while they're singing with trite allegory from an out-of-print hymnal. 
And I want my damn money back.  And my panties.  And my poor dog's innocence. 
I'm not even going to give you the satisfaction of being called a "thief in the night."
I'm just going to call you a whore. 

That will be all.

Taking some inspiration from a toilet brush and a hair appointment, I'm going to talk a little about hangups today.  Hangups: You know, those seemingly irrational things that bug the piss out of you.

And I'm not going to explain the 'toilet brush and hair appointment' remark.  Because it's my blog, and I'll do what I want.  Plus, it makes me sound interesting to make vague associations...and junk. 

Strange people touching me- I don't mean just inappropriate groping.  I mean completely asexual situations.  Professional massages- Never had one, never will.  I do not want your nasty hands on me.  Go away.  Hair stylists at salons- I always wash my hair before I get a haircut so they won't wash it.  It creeps me out.  They are massaging my head with their hands.  Eewww.  Shaking hands with people I don't know- Nope, I'm not a germophobe, not at all.  I just don't want to shake your hand.  And if you aren't married to me or if you didn't squeeze me out of your hoo-hoo, you're only getting a one-armed hug.  And, of course, people who think it's perfectly okay to pick me up because I'm small- Right. Yeah, that's cool.  Just go ahead and spin me around while you're at it.  You know, cuz I represent the Lollipop Guild and all that....

Mani/Pedis- This is actually sort of justified.  I'm a medical transcriptionist.  At least once or twice a day I get the privilege of hearing about fungus and toenail removals due to manicures and/or pedicures.  The doctors describe this shit in detail.  And they use words like "ooze" and "serosanguinous drainage" and "odor" and "ulceration" and "gangrene."  Yeah.  I'll pass.

Makeup- Okay, this shit is just gross.  I have yet to find a brand of makeup that doesn't feel gross on my skin.  I've tried Almay, Neutrogena, Bare Minerals, Prescriptives, eh.  It's all gross.  After a couple of hours, I'm ready to pull a Poltergeist.  And I can't just wash it off, I have to get in the damn shower to get it off.  It's greasy, heavy, and it actually starts to sting my skin.  I have fairly mild melasma; I have adult acne; I have crow's feet.  And I don't fucking care.

Hairdryers and hair chemicals-  I have insanely thick hair, insanely thick.  And I hate the way my hair feels when it has been dyed, hairsprayed, and/or blow-dried.  It's gets 80s big, heavy, and witchy. My hair has natural wave, and when it's allowed to air-dry naturally, with no mousse or hairspray, it actually looks like the girls' hair on the commercials for hair products that promise to make your hair look.......like mine already looks naturally.  I use Suave shampoo and conditioner, a buck fifty a bottle, and that's it.  And I swear to all that is good and holy, if one of those over-painted hair stylists start comin' at me with their chemicals and instruments of hair torture, I will run, and she will not get a tip. 

Dog hair- Let's get one thing straight.  Basset hounds shed all fucking year round.  It doesn't matter how expensive or super-duper Westminster-approved the shampoo you use is.  Basset hounds are going to shed enough to stuff a fucking pillow in a matter of weeks.  So it almost seems like my own brand of personal torture, considering I  have such a dog hair hangup, to allow that little hairy hooker to continue to live in my house.  But I have.  For 11 goddamn years.  Because she's just so damn cute.  I've been known to vacuum multiple times a day.  I'd vacuum the furniture, and not with the hose attachment.  I'd put the whole fucking vacuum cleaner on the sofa because the attachment just wasn't doing it for me.   And I have an incredibly shameful admission (are you ready?).....I was secretly happy when she slipped a disk in her back because that meant I had a REAL reason (other than my personal hangup) to no longer allow her on the furniture.  I mean, you know, it was a $4000 reason....but....at least there isn't a fine white layer of dog hair on my couches anymore. 

Conformity-  I don't mean this in a fashionably rebellious sort of way.  I mean this in a pathologic sort of way.  It has grown into a completely reflexive attitude.  In the beginning, as a teenager, it was just fun.  Refusing to conform, pushing the boundaries.  But instead of emotionally maturing, it's gotten worse.  To the point where when I hear stories of kids getting suspended because they've dyed their hair pink, my first reaction is to say, "If I were her mother, I'd burn the motherfuckin' school down! You don't fucking tell my goddamn motherfuckin kid what to do, I will dig your grandmother's body up motherfucker!.....grumble, grumble, grumble......"  I remember getting a postcard in the mail from the county once, informing me that it was against the rules to have a basketball goal set up by the curb.  I was steaming fucking mad!  It was all Sarge could do to keep me from putting the basketball goal smack in the middle of the cul-de-sac.  Needless to say, the basketball goal now gets rolled back up next to the house when the kids are done playing.  Grumble.... grumble....grumble.... Stupid ass motherfuckers tryina tell me what to do....I'll show them a thingertoo!

Talking on the phone and pointless "chatting."  This one sort of makes me feel guilty sometimes.  I know my mom likes to talk on the phone more often than I do.  But I just don't seem to.....(and this is strange)....know how to do it.  Really.  I don't know how.  I used to talk incessantly as a kid, but as an adult, silence is golden.  If I'm at a social event, I really have to pay close attention to my body language and attitude.  I can very easily fall into "sarcastic mode" that I don't even try to hide.  Mainly because I have zero desire to talk to people I don't know.  And I don't even know how to fake it.  I really don't know how.

Them- "Hi! I've heard so much about you.  It's nice to finally meet you!"
Me- "Yeah." 
Them- "So you're Sarge's wife?"
Me- "Yeah."
Them- "So, Sarge tells me you guys homeschool.  That's so interesting!"
Me- "Yeah."

Speaking is for saying things that need to be said.  It is a necessary function of being human.  If I have nothing that needs to be said (like, "OH MY GOD.....I'M ON FUCKING FIRE!!!"), then don't expect a conversation.  Unless I'm blogging.  Or you can email me.  Then, I'll write you a book. 

Oh, one more convo (and this one really happened....like, yesterday)
Sarge- "Hey sexy, whatcha doin?"
Me- "Nuthin."
Sarge- "Miss you."
Me- Miss you, too"
(Crickets).....
Me- "Okay, well, I don't have anything to talk about, soooo......bye!"

Could you imagine having to put up with me? 

Oh jeez.  I'm so ashamed.  You must understand, I get sidetracked sometimes.  With the utter insanity that is my life (read: sitting on the couch watching the ID channel), sometimes things get....forgotten.  And so it is with a very low-hanging head that I must apologize to Ms. SarcasmInAction over at Musings of a Sarcastic Mind for, what amounts to, completely fucking ignoring her.  I have no excuses, but please rest assured it was not on purpose.  I heart you, and your blog, and your uber sexy girl crush on Susanna Hoffs.

You see, she apparently likes me so much that she gave me an award.  She wrote some incredibly nice things about me on her blog and gave me an award.  And then life happened, and I forgot.

But then today, a new friend (read: virtual blogger friend because I have no social skills in real life), also gave me an award....and then I remembered....and now I feel like those little crusty pieces of dog shit that get stuck in the grooves of your tennis shoe and no matter how much you scrape your shoe in the grass, you can't get it out.  That's what I feel like. 

So, I clickety clicked my little self over to Mollie's crib at OK In UK and read this:

"Aimee @ Pleasantly Demented Bruisingly beautiful, a sledgehammer in a rosebush."

And I'm like, "WOW."

You know?

I mean, Sarge totally lost his man card this morning by facebook singing "You Are My Sunshine" to me on my facebook wall, and that was absolutely heart-melting (although I did inform him that someone was probably putting Prozac in his soda), but THIS?  THIS?  Sledgehammer in a rosebush?  I'm just beside myself.

So, I'm officially groveling at the feet of SarcasmInAction, begging for her forgiveness even though I clearly don't deserve it.  And I'm totally blushing at Mollie.  Both of you guys rock.

Now, getting down to business.  Apparently, in the world of blog awards, you don't get shit for free.  There must be some payment.  But, curiously enough, the rules seem to morph in much the same way a secret does when playing the "telephone" game in 1st grade.  That being the case, I'm gonna pick and choose to my liking.  Of course.

As far as I can tell, it goes something like this.  In order to officially claim this:


I must first thank the person who gave it to me.  I think I've groveled, gushed, thanked, and embarrased myself sufficiently.  No?

Secondly, I must tell secrets.  Seven of them, by my count.  Hmmmm.....deep breath....okay.

1.  I have a mole on a part of my body that only my mother, who has changed my diapers, and my husband, who has not changed my diapers....yet...., know about.  They like to joke about it.  Together.  Like, they laugh at my mole and high-five each other.  It's pretty much just as creepy as it sounds.

2.  I'm an exhibitionist drunk.  You know, some people are angry drunks, some people pass out.....well, I take my clothes off.  And I don't care who is around.  Dudes, chicks, parents, grandparents.  Doesn't matter.  I get my drank on and some shit's coming OFF.  Needless to say, I don't drink.

3.  When my first kid was born, I thought he was ugly.  Yeah.  Most parents of ugly babies are absolutely clueless.  You know, they're showing off their little monkey-ass-looking monstrosity and you're thinking, "HOW can she not see that??"  I think it's a coping mechanism.  One that I clearly don't have.  To my credit, he was only 2 pounds and he looked like an fucking alien fetus....like....from the movie Alien.  Just to give you a visual, this is him at 5 weeks old (4 1/2 pounds):



4.  If you were to meet me in real life, I am PAINFULLY shy.  It would probably take me 2 or 3 hours and several cocktails before I started talking, and by then, I'd be naked and you couldn't pay me to shut up.  I'm even like that with people I know but haven't seen in a while.  I went to lunch with a high school friend a while back, who I actually talk to several times a week in email, but when we went to lunch, I was stumbling all over my words, staring at my toes, and I felt like such a dick.  I have zero conversational skills. 

5.  When I brush my teeth, I count the brush strokes.  Left side bottom, left outer, left side top, right side bottom, right side outer, right side top, fronts, and tongue- each get 90 brush strokes.  I have done this for years. I have no idea where the number 90 came from.  I tried to round it up to 100, but it just didn't feel right. 

6.  I've smoked since I was 14....and I started smoking Camel nonfilters......(drum roll please).....to impress a boy.  OH GOD.  Yeah, it's true.

7.  Okay, this isn't a secret or anything, but whatevs.  Here's the only picture in all existence (that I know of) of Sarge and I in high school, about 4 months before we got married.  I was 16, he was 17.  Ummm....we dyed our hair together.  It was...like...super cute...and shit.  Oh, and I still have that dress in my closet, and it still fucking fits.


WHEW! Glad that's over with.  Now onto the 3rd requirement.  I must bestow this award upon other bloggers who I read instead of making my kids do their school work.  On Sarcasm's blog, she says 5.  On Mollie's blog, she says 15.  Yeah, 15 ain't happening.  I'm going with 5.  Excellent.

1.  I'm going to start out with a chick who totally rocks my world.  Ms. AbsolutelyPrimed at Over Developed, Under Exposed.  I'm almost positive that if she didn't live hundreds of miles away, she'd probably be one of the few females I actually call a friend.  Except I swear I saw spinach on that heart-shaped pizza she made.  Sorry girl, that's just naisty (<---that's how you say 'nasty' in Alabama).

2.  Rachel at Brighten The Path- This girl is a pillar of strength.  She beautiful, honest, and incredibly brave.  And I have no doubt we could down a few and talk about how school is absolutely a creation of Satan himself, among other things.

Okay, so I lied through my overbrushed teeth.  I'm only doing 2.  And I'll tell you why.  Because I'm fucking stingy, that's why.  And this is my blog and I can do what I want.  So suck it!

Oooooh....silly little bloggy things....Once again, supposed to be working....

February 15, 2011

What's up FREAKS! Momma's gonna lighten the mood a little bit up in here.  It's starting to smell like incense and absinthe up in this mother fucker.


Yesterday
Jake- "Mom, come check out the new Marilyn Manson song I'm learning."

Me- "In a minute."

Jake (few minutes later)- "Now?"

Me- "I'm busy."

Jake- (couple hours later)- "MooooOOOooooM! You said!"

Me- "I'm working!"

Jake (couple hours later)- "Please, at least before you go to bed!!"

Me- "ZZZZZzzzzzzzz............"

Today

(Repeat above down to the "I'm working" part).

Jake (This time brings his guitar into the living room.  I am now a captive audience)- "Check it out, mom.  I decided I'm going to learn 'Turn The Page' for Gramma, so I can play it for her."  (Gramma is a Bob Seger stalker, by the way).

~~~~~Momma listens to his rendition of 'Turn The Page' ~~~~~~~~~

Me- "Wow, Jake! That was EXCELLENT!" (Typical Mom-thinks-her-kid-is-a-fucking-genius type stuff).

Jake- "See! When I want you to listen to a song I like, you blow me off all day!  When I play a song YOU like, your VAGINA explodes!"

Me- "Turn around. Walk away. NOW."

Jake- "Yes ma'am......"

February 13, 2011

I've been challenged to a writing exercise by Mollie from Ok in UK by way of Blogging Is For Dorks.  Never being one to pass up a challenge, I present to you my vignette, Man In The Box.  I'm sure it's probably too long.  I have a problem with shutting up.

_______________________________________

She watches.  Her little eyes dance from one face to another.  She knows some of these people.  She surveys and processes.  Feels her daddy's arm wrapped underneath her, holding her tightly on his hip, and together they move slowly through this room.  Soft sniffles, ladies with hats dabbing their eyes with tissues, aunts, uncles, grandmother.  Heads bowed.  Faces wrinkled.  Her daddy holds tight.

She knows some of these people.  These woebegone, wrinkled people with tears.  They seem to move en masse like a lazy susan.  Congregating small groups....shaking hands.....rubbing shoulders....patting backs.....hugging...and on to the next group.

They force a smile when they see her, when they see her perched there on her daddy's hip, little mary janes dangling on her feet.  They don't really fit very well.  Her feet are just too small.  But she had to have them.  And so they smile just enough so the corners of their mouths raise until they reach a more neutral position.  It's only a relative smile, really. 

There is a smell in this room.  This crowded room.  A mixture of cold cream, hairspray, and bleach.  But there's something else much more distinctive, nauseatingly floral, something she's never smelled before.  A chemical smell.  She can't put her finger on it.  She's only 5.  And couldn't be expected to understand that this smell was covering a darker biological process.

She watches.  Her daddy holds tight.

Music plays from nowhere in particular.  Generic.  Not anything she's ever heard before.  Indistinct.  Quiet.  Music.  Maybe a violin?  She's not sure what a violin sounds like.  It doesn't seem like the time to ask.

She flexes her toes as her shoes begin to dangle a bit too precariously, and tries to hold them on her feet.  Her daddy holds tight.  A remarkably hairy man.  She glances down at the hand squeezing her thigh tight against him.  Why does he have such huge hands?  Is that hair on his fingers?  Hold tight, daddy.  I don't want to get lost in here.

Soon they begin to move through the crowd with purpose.  Through a doorway with no door.  There are more sagging, blue people in this room.  Eyes with tears.  Faces drawn.  Tissues.  Bleach.  Music.  And a box.  A long box.  Shiny.  With handles that look like the ones on her chest of drawers.  She can never find her clothes in that thing.

She watches.  One person, another, grandmother, a cousin.  Walk to the box.  Look.  Hug.  Move along.  She knows he's in there.  She's known all along.  This man she loved, the little that she knew.  Loved may be a bit much.  He had a nice smile.  His eyebrows arched in an upside down V.  But it didn't make him look mean.  Curious.

She knew that glass he always left on the coffee table was definitely not water.   She liked when he picked her up so she could reach the apple tree in the back yard.  And he had frogs at his house.  Frogs everywhere.  She tried to take one home in her purse once, but it died before she got home.  It died in her purse.

Her tummy lurched.  She wrenched her fingers tight around the back of daddy's shirt.  Hold tight, daddy.  Don't let me go.

She knows he's in there.  She's known all along.  But she feels her thoughts begin to turn sour.  Does she feel guilty?  If 5-year-old girls know guilt, perhaps.  Strange thoughts.  Strange questions that feel.......wrong.  She thinks of the dead frog in her purse.  So much prettier as a living frog.  This ugly, brown, stiff dead frog in her purse.  She needs to know.  She needs to see.  The man with the eyebrows who drank the not-water.  Is she excited?  No.  That would be bad.  That would make her bad.  I don't want to be bad.  I just want to see.

Daddy holds tight.  He asks if she's ready.  She says yes......but thinks wait.  Wait, she says.  Just wait.  Come, daddy.  Come closer.  And she whispers in his ear.  Will he get me, daddy?  Can he reach up and grab me?

Daddy smiles.  Is that a laugh?  A laugh in this sterile place?  He won't get me.  Daddy said so.  She was ready.

February 8, 2011

There used to be a little store in downtown Auburn called Behind The Glass.  Obviously, if it's downtown, and even more so downtown in a college town, it was pretty artsy fartsy- or I suppose what folks would call "hipster" today.  There was a restaurant downstairs and a clothing store upstairs.  And right around age 13 or 14, I'd go there with my mom to eat lunch sometimes.  And after lunch, we'd go upstairs and window shop.  I remember always ordering the cheese tortellini.  And I remember we never really had the kind of money to actually shop there.  But I loved it, nonetheless.  It always smelled like patchouli and had new age music playing just loud enough to hear it, but not loud enough to kill your conversation.

It's a nice memory.  Of a mother and daughter.  Spending time together.  It was sweet.

But from where I sit, looking back, it was really so much more than that.  I'll liken it to a smoldering piece wood in what would soon become a conflagration.  A fire I'd inadvertently set upon myself, a fire I was subconsciously allowing to destroy everything I hated about myself so that I could create something new.

And I hated a lot.  That was a hard age.  I think I pretty much hated everything.

And so I set this fire under myself.  And every once in a while, someone would come along and toss something into it for me.

And it got bigger.  And I got more excited.

Also around this time, my Dad took me to a concert.  Just me and him.  No one else.  At the age of 14, it was frankly the most amazing fucking thing I'd ever seen in my life.  It was at an amphitheater in Atlanta, and we sat closer to the stage than I'd ever been and would ever be.  And I saw things and heard things that day with my dad that, living in small town Alabama, I'd never really seen up close before.  I saw people with piercings in parts of their body I didn't know were possible.  And I heard things.  I saw this guy named Perry Farrell who played in this band.  And I listened to him talk.  And I listened to his band play.  And WOW.  I was smitten.  Everything about this man and his music ripped me completely out of my little 14-year-old self.  And if that conflagration had done no damage yet, it did some damage that day.  Band after band, all afternoon, and I just watched and swooned.  And the fire smoldered on.

And so it happened that instead of simply being a bit curious, a bit rebellious, or just simply quirky, I got angry.  Because that was the only response I knew.  It had always been my response to everything.  It was my comfort zone.  It was where I shined.  I got angry.  And, one day, the little girl with blond hair who wore Keds and swatch watches stuck a sewing machine needle in her nose and told the world to fuck off.

I'd always felt I was a little different.  Doesn't every good story begin with that sentence? Well, up until 13 or 14 years old, I hated it.  I hated feeling different.  I hated everything different about me.  I was ridiculously tiny.  Stubby.  Socially awkward.  Mentally oversexed.  My parents weren't married.  My dad was fucking psychotic, and I had the privilege of dealing with his bullshit whenever he decided to exercise his visitation.

"Hey Aimee, what did you do this weekend?"

"Oh, nothing much.  My dad almost drove off a bridge with my sisters and I in the car.  You know, the usual. "

I felt different.

I hated school.  It didn't seem to matter how many A's I got.  Or how smart my teachers thought I was.  I hated everything about being there. 

I hated church and the religiosity that seemed to seethe and writhe and invade everything in that damn town, like a parasite in the small intestine of my world.

I hated this and that and yesterday and today and hate, hate, hate, HATE, HATE. 

And so that conflagration began to billow and surge.  And, boy, I started to feel that heat.  I got tricksy and bad and sneaked out of the house for the first time (with that cousin o' mine).  Her boyfriend had a fucking CAR!  And we went to college parties.  And I tasted adrenaline.

Adrenaline and hate and fire and hormones.

Oh, the adrenaline.  It was truly my first drug.  When I couldn't get it anywhere else, I'd go to the big department store in the mall and start randomly stealing shit.  And I don't mean regular shit.  I mean, I'd walk right up to the jewelry counter, ask to see something, and then walk right the fuck out of the store with it.  I didn't want it.  I could have paid for it.  But it was like shooting up.  But didn't hurt as bad.

At one point, I even stole the change out of the water fountains in the mall (you know, the money that they donate to charity...yeah).  I'd take it and go buy condoms in the bathroom.  Why? Good question.

My ego was held hostage.  My id was the only thing that made sense.

If I had to be different, I was going to set different on fire.  And I have no trouble admitting that I had a shitload of fun.  A shitload of fun.  And sitting here today, typing this, as my kids are in the kitchen cooking dinner, folded clothes on the sofa ready to be put away, making plans for dinner with my parents this weekend, I can say with 100% certainty that I don't regret a single fucking thing.  Not a single fucking thing.  I can also say with 100% certainty that I was a very lucky girl.  In retrospect, a part of my saving grace was the very same small town I hated.  The walls that existed there kept me from the edges that existed in more worldly places.  And I was always looking for edges.  I desperately wanted edges.

But instead of edges, I had cute little boutiques with cheese tortellini, garage bands, some weed, and, instead of an enabler, a beautiful friend who seemed to always know when it was time to leave.  It was actually all pretty tame compared to what it could have been. 

In the midst of all this anger and hormones and parties and weed, something happened that sort of turned me upside down and inside out.  Life, or the end of it, brought me to my knees.  My anger wasn't fun anymore.  For a short time, it was justified.  In the summer of 1993, my little sister died.  And that's the first time and last time I will talk about that. 

Inside, I was destroyed.  Inside, I wanted to die.  And that's when I decided that if I couldn't find the edge in this one-trick town, I'd bring the edge to me.  I may have thought about suicide for a very short time.  And then I thought about my mother.  I may have thought about catching a bus in the middle of the night and disappearing into the world.  But then I thought about my mother.  I may have taken a straight razor and sliced my arms.  But then I thought about my mother.

One day, I finally lifted my head, and I noticed I had friends.  I had a best friend who, whether she knows it or not, was my conscience when I had none. I had a boy who would soon become my husband.  And despite all my emotional baggage, he never ran.  And I had friends who I'd known my whole life who were still there, and they cared about me, and they saw through the eyeliner and the hair dye and the scars and the ridiculousness.  And they saw me.

And then I had my mother.  And she needed me.  She needed me any way she could get me.  Naked or clothed.  High or sober.  Happy or sad.  Wounded or healed.  She needed me alive. 

And it seems so ironic that, being the misanthrope that I am, I was saved by people.  Because I sure as shit didn't save myself. 

I'd be lying if I said I was ever on a journey back to normalcy.  My set point for normal has been forever changed.  I'm not sure I'd be altogether successful at any attempt to find it, and I'm not sure if I even want to. 

I'd be lying if I said anything has been easy, regardless of the fact that I've probably made it harder than it ever needed to be.

I'd be lying if I said there aren't days when I wonder why the fuck that boy ever stuck around.

And I'd be lying if I said I don't have really, really bad days.

But then I think about my mother.  And that boy.  And those confounding kids who call me Mom.  And for some reason, all I want to do is make cheese tortellini.

".....we all lie to our kids.  We lie outright.  We lie by omission.  We lie out of convenience.  And if you say you don't, you're lying." ~ Me.

OH GOD.

I need help.

Oh my friends....those I know....those I'd like to know....those who have the slightest interest in reading my bullshit.

I need help.

Parenting help.

I am in a quandary and I fear for my child's future soul, whatever love he may have for me, whatever respect, whatever memories of his childhood he will cherish, whatever of those things will carry him safely through this life during dark times when he cannot walk alone.  I am in a quandary.

Please help me.

My son is a musician.  And the music he makes through his guitar is absolutely electrifying.  I am so deeply proud of my child and his dedication, his talent, and his passion.

BUT.......

Recently he has begun doing something else.

He has begun to play his guitar.......

and sing.

And oh God.

Oh for the love of mother Mary and baby Jesus.


He can't fucking sing.

The poor boy can't even carry a tune in a Zip-Loc bag, stuffed in a purse, shoved in a bucket, and sat gingerly in a wagon with four wheels and a handle. 

He couldn't even carry a tune if it hopped on his back and said "Giddy up!"

WHAT......for the love of Miss Piggy on Broadway.....am I supposed to do?

Do I continue to encourage him?  Do I lie to him?  Do I tell him the uncensored truth in the nicest way possible?

Oh please, please, please help me not to melt the intricately beautiful, yet transperently fragile ice sculpture that is my relationship with my first born child.

I will be forever grateful for your wisdom.

As I currently have none.

Thank you.

February 1, 2011

Everyone does it.  It doesn't matter how much we try to tout our honesty, virtue, or inherent goodness, we all lie to our kids.  We lie outright.  We lie by omission.  We lie out of convenience.  And if you say you don't, you're lying.  Thankfully, our kids outgrow many lies we tell and secrets we keep.  I say thankfully because keeping up that kind of ruse is exhausting.  Constantly pretending to be someone you're not just so your kids won't know you weren't a virgin when you got married can feel a little.....fake after a while.

At some point (hopefully) our kids all figure out the Santa Claus conspiracy, the Tooth Fairy trick, and that their face won't get stuck that way.

There are other lies, though.  Lies that seem....well, more important.  Or at least they have an actual function.  The virgin lie, for instance.  Even if it's a lie by omission, no one wants to discuss their sex life with their child, even if they ask (which they will).

And the 'smoking weed' lie.

And the 'failed algebra' lie.

And the 'Grandad isn't really your biological Grandad' lie. (I nipped that in the bud before it got out of hand, thankfully). 

And the 'basketball signups are already over' lie (just so you don't have to get up at 7 AM on Saturdays to go to the games).  Oh yes, I lied through my sinful little teeth on that one.

But it does make one wonder.  How much should our kids know about their parents?

Personally, I think it depends on the kid.  Some kids, just by virtue of their emotional maturity, can handle some information better than others.  Let me see if I can explain.

My oldest kid is my "emotionally mature" kid.  He's an old soul.  So much so that I used to call him that when he was a baby.  It was in his aura.  You could see it in his eyes.  He just had this thing about him that said, "I've been here before." He has an uncanny knack for being able to compartmentalize, process information, and see a situation for what it really is at lightening speed.  He's clearly been doing this "life" thing for more than 15 years. 

My youngest is the baby.  He's my new soul.  When you look at him, you get a sense that he's seeing and experiencing everything for the first time.  He takes nothing for granted the way an "old soul" would.  He turns things in his hands, looks at them at every angle.  He processes quietly, taking as long as he needs to, and then speaks when he's 100% certain of what he is going to say.  Everything is new to him, or so it seems.

So, obviously, each of these types of kids will processing information differently.  While my old soul will look at the information for exactly what it is right off the bat, my new soul just doesn't understand at all until he's had enough time to look at it, ask questions, feel it in his hands, see how it fits or doesn't fit into his life.

Because of this, I have told Jake some things that I have not yet told Andrew.  And yet I still have plenty of secrets left that are mine, and probably always will be.

For instance, I have never and probably will never be able to let them read any of my yearbooks.  You know, there are just some things they should never know.  (And thanks to my awesome HS friends, it's all spelled out in black and white all over my yearbooks, along with a used condom wrapper.) 

That being said, what I've discovered about teenagers and secrets is something I think is kinda neat.

Check this out- When you sit down with your kid and entrust a part of yourself to them, they feel important.  It has to be something real.  And you need to tell them it's real.  It has to be something important to you.  In other words, you have to be vulnerable in front of your teenage child.  Show them your humanity.  Show them your weakness.  And make them feel that they have been entrusted with something fragile that belongs only to his mother or father.  Obviously, what you tell them will depend on their age, their emotional maturity, and just the kind of person they are in general.

I see the look in their faces when I tell them a story about my childhood, especially when I preface it with, "Well, I wasn't going to tell you this, but....."  Or, "Don't ever let this leave these four walls, okay?" Or, "I've never told you this before, but I think you're ready to know...." 

And then, all of a sudden, as if by magic, you have constructed one more little connection between you and your child.  Just one more, a tiny one, but it's there.  And they may file that moment away in their little growing Rolodex of memories.  But one day they'll need it.  And it will be there.  If not the secret itself, but the moment you shared it.  

We all have plenty of secrets to share, and plenty to keep.  Try sharing one with your kid and watch their eyes get all sparkly.  It's really neat.