Age isn't a number

It's an attitude. yadda,yadda, yaddaaaaaaa

I'm pretty dang old for being so young. 37 to be exact. Yeah, that's right...I said 37. Ain't no shame in a lady revealing her age! (cue mother choking on dirt as she rolls in her grave!) I grew up around old people. My parents were considered "very old" when they had me. Of course that was in the 70's & any women over 35 having babies were considered geratric...no...really.







And back in the day a lady NEVER revealed her true age. For SHAME! Oh no...a true lady would do the honorable thing and LIE. Lie about her age. Since I was surrounded by "old" people I saw a lot of this. I heard my mom lie many times. I learned early on not to correct her about her age in front of people......I never knew a stare could burn your skin!







Random old person: "Why Gail, you are too funny! Your skin looks great! How old are you now?"



Mom: "Oh you are so sweet, why I just turned 37." says the 45 year old



Little Jenny: "Mom! You're not 37 you're fortyyyyyyyy....."



Mom: cue death stare



Little Jenny "AAhhhhhhhh, my skin! It's on fireeeeee"







I always got a kick out of these obviously OLD women lying about their age. Even as a kid I could tell they were lying! After attending one swinging old folks party, I commented to my mom how horrible Billy Jean looked for being 35. My mom said Billy was really 54.







It was then I swore to myself that I would end this archaic law of age lying! For Billy Jean looked like a train wreak as a 35 year old women but she looked great for 54. I felt embarrassed for her. Did she really think telling people she was 35 would make them magically see her as 35? No, of course not! It made people walk away saying "wow! She looks like sh%$! for her age!"





But here is my dilemma.....I'm 37...and only getting older.
I have bad circulation (I'm a slow bleeder...which pisses off tecs trying to take my blood...I hate pissing off people who stick needles in my arm) so I am always cold.
I'm so cold, I wear thermal undies.
My back is trashed.
My bladder threatens to detach itself from me & bounce down the highway,
I have to cross my legs every time I laugh, sneeze, cough or run...in fear the bladder jiggles it's self free....I really don't need that thing skittering across the floor. "Hey, did someone lose a bladder? I have a bladder in aisle 5, lost bladder is aisle 5!"
My eyesight is shot to hades,
Things pop & creek when I move.
I fart at random times...which always catches me off guard.
...did I mention I'm only 37? Great Scott! How will I functions at 65?





Even though my body ages...I still feel like I am 15. Gawky & weird...out of place. I randomly say really stupid & disturbing things. I sometimes I snort when I laugh. I like stupid humor (The World Vs. Scott Pilgrim is a must see! Theatrical genius!) I jump up & down when I'm excited...well more like jiggle up & down...I don't want to give bladder an excuse for bailing early.





In short...I am a immature 37 year old women.

Most of the time I embrace it. I try to think of myself as a slightly less hairy Robin Williams. Why Robin you ask? Well lets just say one night long ago, at a hot party at my friends house. I...a 17 year old weirdo did NOT play spin the bottle...I turned on HBO & watched Robin....all by myself. And I had a very good time by myself. So much fun that my cries were heard down stairs by the party people that they rushed upstairs to rescue me from the bear trap I obviously got my foot clamped into. There they found me on all fours , tears streaming out of my eyes, trying desperately to breath....yes, he was THAT funny! Very bad & very funny. So I admire the heck out of him....I like...totally understand Robin Williams....well I don't understand the binge drinking faze he had....or the coke fueled rages...or the melt downs....or the mental problems....oh heck, the man made me laugh, that's all that counts!


Hopefully.... I can fully embrace my lame, immature self, because pretty soon I'll truly be old. And let's face it...which is cooler? To have Grandma scour at her grandchildren & say things like "Damn kids these days! Be useful & get Grandma her scriptures & Metamucil float."





or





"Hey kids, Wanna have a farting contest?"





I think I'm going to have to go with the farting Grandma.





Which reminds me....I got to have a Fiber One bar cuz you can't have a healthy enough colon!

There are.... days

Many days I walk , teetering on a thin rail hovering over vast dark water. One foot in front of the other, I am aware of the blackness that churns beneath me. Often times I feel her blackness caress my foot. When she slowly rises to meet me, I shake her off. But there are times, she snakes herself slowing around... up my body. The blackness is smooth and warm. An old friend begging me to let her in. There are days I refuse her, but I blink & she has silently slithered into my veins without invitation. She settles in my belly, warm, comfortable, destructive. She blinds me & holds me captive. She confuses me with her familiar warmth and her screaming cold. How can 2 polar opposites exist in one body? How can this pain be so heartbreaking beautiful?

There are days she sneaks silently up behind me. I can't feel her lurk. Wordlessly she descends upon me. Wrapping her steel arms around my waist. Embedding her nails into my skin. Tangling her fingers into my hair. One moment I am happy & chatting with friends, then next moment she has me in a death grip flinging me backwards. Opening up the ground & encasing me in thick mud. I hate when she does that. You brat, here I was minding my own business & you yank me out of the scene. That's not fair! But she just hold me tighter. Squeezing the air out of my lungs & soon I forget we are fighting.

The days she eases into me are the days I can fight her. Resist her pull. I shake my head free of her lies. I breath in truth. I fight an internal struggle. Some days I emerge bloody & triumphant. Some days...I lose. I hold up my hands & surrender. I sink down with her. I allow her to hold me down under the black water. I can see the life swirl around me. Can anyone see me down here?

Have you ever made friends with your enemies? Have you ever been so terrified of them you develop the utmost respect for them? Have you ever bowed to their power? If you can't fight them, join them? There are days...I join my enemy. I allow her to weave her fingers in between mine. Her darkness shrouds me. We go down together. I am miserable and mindless. My own words eat into my head. Devour my spirit. Like any bad drug I want it to relieve it's hold on me, yet it's all I know. Some days, I'm afraid for it to leave me. Afraid she will leave me, that's how wickedly clever she is. She kills me & I don't want her to leave. How's that for a sick relationship?

No prayer, no Dr., no friend, no lover, no God can pull her from me. I have trying all these "solutions." I have screamed, I have kicked, I have raged, I have prayed on bloody knees & with a destroyed heart....and nothing. Nothing will take her from me. Try as I might, I can not rid her.

So now, she walks with me. She is all around. Under my feet, in the corner of my brain, on my breath. She is me & I am her. The fear I have of her... still lingers. She is deadly. She can destroy. She can not be trusted. But then again....I can not be trusted. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. I hold her close. I weave my fingers between hers....& I hold my enemy tight. When she takes me under that warm black water.... I wait her out. The moment she loses her grip, I push myself up for a gulp of air. I find the hand of that friend, that lover, that God & I allow them to pull me completely from the watery grave.

There are days I fight myself & I win. But there are days....there...are..... days.

Please read with the lights off

Come on in kids & I'll tell you a tale. A tale of things that go bump in the night & ghostly whispers that rattle your insides.

MMMuuuaaahhhhhh!

First I must tell you , I don't believe in ghosts....kind of...sort off...well sometimes I do. I strongly believe that our brains are the one freaking us out most of the time.

Most of the time

I can explain "scary things" away...just like I have the ability to explain "spiritual things" away. (That's not such a good thing when one struggles to hold on to The Religion.)

Ghosts may or may not exist. I have seen, felt & heard things that to the average emotional train wreck could be viewed as "unexplainable ghostly activity." All those times...I have been able to use my very black/white thinking to dig deeper & figure out what is really happening. My brain/overactive imagination...on scare mode, was usually the culprit.

There have only been 2 time in my life that I could not explain away what has happen to me. 2 times that I have felt my blood turn to ice & my body scream from every crevice. 2 times I have felt...shear, blinding, terror.................

This story is an account of one of those times. Do you dare to read further?

Love Affair

Anyone who know me, knows I love, adore, devour old houses. I was 6 when I moved into a sturdy, stone barn built in 1850. I soon fell in love with the wonder of old homes, thanks to our stone barn in Poedunkville.

When I was 14, my friends & I went to my towns 4th. of July fest. The focal of the festival was an old, run down, dilapidated house. The food, beer tents & carnival rides were set up on her sprawling grounds. I was instantly in love with her. I begged my friend to take a tour, but they were much more interested in the Whirlly Gig. So I wanderer over to the front door & was let in. For 2 hours I stayed in the house. Peppering the chagrined older women with questions. I adored the musty, moldy smell of the place. She had once been grand. The largest, modern house in the county. She slowly, over time lost her crown. She was abused, burned, vacated, flooded, infested. And now....she sat. Just a handful of volunteers who loved her.

Mr. Doles office. Main floor





Mr. Doles bedroom. 2nd. floor





I told them that I would volunteer. Eye brows raised. Necks craned for the nearest knowledgeable person. "Can a kid be on our team? She's a bit young." The answer I received was "Honey, we'll take all the help we can get!"




So for the next 6 summers I worked the house during our Lake Side fest. Preparations would take weeks to clean & prepare the house. Our little group of volunteers had virtually no money, no city support & hardly any neighborly support. Some even argued for years to tear her down. (I would have strapped myself to her grand staircase before I let anyone touch her.)

J.J. & I taking a much needed break at the foot of the grand staircase.





My friend & I were the youngest people on the team. We were a rag tag bunch. A handful of powerful older women, a few of their aged husbands. There was Bob...who never spoke, just rocked back & forth on his feet & mumbled. Bob came hand in hand with Tim. A wirey 20 something year old man. Both Bob & Tim were mentally impaired. But that didn't matter to anyone. They work as hard as anyone else & loved the house just as much as we did.

J.J., Tim & I modeling on top of a very cool, very vintage Tin Lizzie. J.J. & I are dressed in real, honest to goodness flapper dresses circa 1927.



Tim was constantly scurrying around the house. I would catch him smoking cigarettes & I would yell at him...chase him out of the house. He gave me gum & took me on adventures around the house. Once he swear he saw something hanging in the burnt rafters on the 3rd floor. The third floor was quite...desolate. It had five rooms. One of the rooms was to unsafe to go into. The floors couldn't hold the weight of a field mouse. Next to that was a small room that use to lead up to the tower/turret at the very tippy top of the house. But the tower burned in a fire, so only the stair room with steps leading to now where was all that remained. There was an old work room. A chapel for the family, and a maids chamber. Years ago the part that held the large maid chamber burned. Behind the locked servants door, was half a room, no window, dark & singed for the decade old fire. Tim & I grab flash lights & headed into the black as tar room. I shined a flash light as 90 lb. Tim shimmied up the rafters to find...........an old cloth. Nothing special. Nothing cool. Just some old tattered cloth. We laughed as we tumbled out of the room covered in dust & old ash. Slapping each other on the back, teasing each other for thinking we found some treasure.



I tell you that because I was never afraid of the house. I rummaged around in pitch black burnt rooms. I would sneak into the house at night just to sit in the windows looking at the lake.

One of the many window seats. I would sit in the turret tower on the 3rd floor on my breaks during the fair. Successfully freaking out the people the people below. The "girl in the window" routine actually got people to buy tickets. They hoped to catch a glimpse of "the ghost in the window."

I worked alone in the vast mansion while the crew went to lunch and I never felt threaten or scared. On the contrary, I felt safe.




The Jen's bringing the glam to the dusty mansion.




I was 20 the last year I worked there. My life would soon pull me away from the house. I felt it was time to go. I had so many great time at the Dole. I cherished my memories there. I was excited to move on but terribly sad to leave my old friend behind. Her days were beginning to be numbered. I was afraid she would soon be deemed to unsafe to show to the public. I wished I had millions to donate. But all I had was my hands. All I could do is scrap her floors & place worn decorations around the house one last time.



The summer night was warm & thick. There was only one air condition unit in the house. And that was in a front porch turned dressing room/ staff lunch room. The rest of the house dripped with humidity. 7 people including my friend J.J were down on the main level working away. Cleaning, making posters for the fair & pulling out the decorations. J.J & I were hunched over a poster when one for the volunteer's, stooped with age cried out "If I have to climb those damn stairs one more time I will shot somebody! Auuggg, I need the dried flowers from the 3rd floor. I will pay anyone one great sums of $$ if they skitter up there & get those flowers." No one moved...we all just giggled. "You...Jenny! You are a full century younger then me, get your backside up there!"




I gladly went for her.




Up the grand staircase I went. Standing at the top of the 2 nd floor, the summer sun set made the ceilings explode with reds and yellows. Oh how I loved this place. I made my way over to the next stair case. Up, up, up to the 3rd floor I rose. I see the dried flowers sitting on the old work table in the butler/work room. The light from the windows illuminate the dust that swirls around in the air. Grabbing a wooden bucket, I plop the dead, dusty flowers into it. As I walk back to descend the staircase all I could think was "I really need to buy some new flowers cuz these are gross"


The menacing staircase leading up to the 3rd. floor.





What happens next...last for only 4 seconds at the most. But the memory has lasted a life time.


In my left hand I hold the bucket. My right rests lightly on the mahogany handrail. It's smooth and graceful under my fingers. I begin to descend the stairs.



One step.


I am hit with a swoosh of freezing cold air. It startles me, because the house is swimming in summer soup.



Next step, my foot hovers over the next step.




THWACK!


I am thunked on the back which such force it knocks the air from my lungs. I was hit...internally.... square on my back. My ribs felt like they buckled.



The force of the hit sends me falling down the stairs.



The bucket of flowers sail through the air. Bang! bang! Bang! Down the steep stairs it tumbles. Flowers for the dead fly through the air. I can feel my lips turn blue, it's so cold.



I close my eye & tell myself to go limp. The best was to survive the next 14 step is to just go...dead limp.




Eye squeezed tight, I fall. I wonder if my face will be the first thing to hit the stairs. "go limp, golimpgolimpgolimp" Do I die today?








Warmth.





Warmth on my chest.





Another thump, but this time it's stabilizing, not harsh. My chest is warm.




I open my eyes as both my feet plant firmly, with a thud.....5 curved steps down from where I first took flight.




I stand, upright, firmly rooted....5..... freak'n........ steps down. Cold air swirls around my back, but my chest...was warm. As if someones hand their hands on my chest.....................Holy mother of bat droppings!





All I hear is my breath , ragged like I had run a mile race. I pant & pant. With in 4 seconds I was happily making my way down a steep curve staircase that I have gone up & down on 15,000 times before to being violently internally pushed, then gently stopped. What the Hell's Bells was that for?!



I'm mad & horrified at the same time.




The blood pounds in my ears. I clutch at my breast trying to feel the invisible hand that held me. The house is sweaty again. The cold gust has dissipated. All is normal.




Then




I run like hell down the rest of the stairs. All I hear behind me is POP! POP! POP! I say out loud, "It's the old wood popping up as my foot leave the stair. Does it all the time.... not scared notscarednotSCARED"




But there ain't no way I'm looking back! I grab the buckets & the clump of flowers & run down the next stair case. The old stairs POPPING up behind me.




Safe on the main floor I stand...sucking in musty air. Shaking. Confused. I gather myself cuz the last thing I wanted to do was tumble into the front room all 'damsel in distress" mode. I back myself up against a wall....watching the staircase. Calming my heart rate. I am soothed by the chit chat behind me. I try to explain to myself what just happened. But I can't think. I don't want to remember. I just want to get out.



5 minutes. 10 minutes. Who knows how long I stand there collecting myself. When I finally turn the corner I see J.J. legs crossed chatting with an older man. Everyone is smiling. I am calm. I am safe. I walk into the room. I place my misshapen wooden bucket on a table & go back to my poster. Head down, I breath.....I breath. I am safe.




The old lady sees me. "took you long enou...oh my gawd! Are you ok? You are white as a sheet! It's as if you saw a ghost!"




That night I walked out of the mansion, I didn't look back. I just hoped on my bike & rode home in the dark.













I still love old houses. I still to this day can not figure out what happened on that 3rd floor stair case. I still don't know if I believe in ghost. But one thing is for sure......Houses are


alive!







As for the Dole Mansion.....well, follow the link to find out what has happened to her.
http://www.lakesidelegacy.org/dole-mansion.html

Bury the Disturbed - 7

I feel naked with my newly cut hair. Dressed in a snappy brown suit.

My feet ached. My head felt swollen.

I stood,

walked,

avoided,

sat in corners.

I smiled & hugged & assured everyone that "yes, the man in the pink shirt is my mothers son. Yes, my Dad is fine...(dumb fluckers....my mothers dead...seriously? Don't ask if I or Dad are FINE as we stand next to our DEAD mothers/wife open coffin you stink'n jello for brains! GAH!)

6 hours I stood, in a sweltering funeral parlor at my mothers viewing. People who long ago left my mothers life filtered in & out to view the train wreck & say crap like "I always admire your mother." Big fatty fat, fat Liar, you dropped her as a friend once you found out she had cancer of the breast. Afraid "it" would rub off on you. Heaven forbid she should bump your elbow & have all your hair fall out in clumps!

"She looks lovely" Really? Whatever...she is wearing PURPLE eye shadow...it don't go well w/ death pallor GRAY.



"God needed her." Soooo a 15 year old girl didn't? Wow...your God is one greedy, needy man. I have decided I don't like him much.



"The good die young" Ok, I won't even start to to explain to your simple mind how disturbing that is...move along you nut case!




I remember all disturbing comments, looks & sighs of that day in slow motion. Slowwwww moOoOo...standing..wearing pantie hose...in a funeral parlor...on a summer day set on broil. (Just to warn you...parlors have a weird smell. Add that weird smell to a 96 degree, humid day & you get....steamed death...delishhhh.)


Even though that day was Disturbing...there was so bright, funny, shining moments I cling to.




Laughter.




My balm.





The first laughter relief came from a family friend named Mike & his collage age daughter. Mike, taking my hand & dragging me to the far back wall of the parlor...away from the corpse that stole my Mothers happy form. I was deeply aware of him taking me from that view & setting me up at the back. I loved him that moment. Then he did something that took my breath away. He said.



"What the HELLS with all these DAM$ FLIES? Their everywhere! It's not good for business! Flies in a funeral parlor says DEATH."


And for the next 15 minutes Mike, his daughter & I laughed & cackled at the jokes we traded (mostly at the visitors expense...the fake friend ones) Mike held my arm, his daughter touching me on the back....bringing me back to life.


Lovely Mike died a few months after that day. Heart attack at 48. The thought of his wife & daughters standing at his wake made me ill.




Second laughter rescue was sweet & giggly. The kind you get as you see your crush walk through the school cafeteria......as you bash into a pillar (No joke) watching him catching a glimpse of you....walking face first into said pillar.


Oh sweet mercy...The Boy. The Boy...at...... my moms FUNERAL...oh man this SUCKS! Does my breath smell? My hair feels weird! What do I say to The Boy? "Hello Boy...you remember my mom?" Do I do a ventriloquist trick? Throw my voice? "Well hello there sonny! Nice to see you again? Please excuse me if I just lay here."



The mere sight of The Boy makes my knee caps explode. I want to push him out the door horrified that he has to see...this. Death. Yet, wanting to cling to him & bury my nose in his collar & beg him to take me fishing, biking, reading...take me anywhere, but here!



I giggle like a school girl....because...... I am one....as he stands by me. "Hi Jenny."


Holy crap, he said my NAME.



"Hi Boy" giggle. "Sorry your mom dragged you here. I know this is weird." giggle



"I'm sorry about your mom. I wasn't dragged here by the way...Mom let me drive."



"Wow...you are so cool. Such a big boy driving."




"I know...you're jealous."



Here is were I catch a whiff of his deodorant mixed with boy...& I lose consciousness for a moment.



"Do you need anything? Gum? A gun? Sleeping aids? My moms a wreck...I have to drive her home now...she's going to embarrasses us by crying. See you later?"





"Thanks Boy"



He waves Goodbye to me.



Where am I?



I'm floating.




Oh mY HeCK! I was hitting on The Boy at my moms VIEWING! I am sick!




The rest of the viewing I stand, feet swelling in my heels & a goofy smile on my face.







Third and last laughter happens toward the end of the viewing. Before I see them...I feel them. I am startled by the sensation. The voice is clear. "they came for you."

I twirl around & face the parlor doorway....waiting. I feel them first....then I see it. The neon glow on the wall facing the parlor wall. The white wall become saturated by pink then yellow...orange. Oh how I love them....my friends...they come for me....SWEET Mother of PINE NUTS! My friends...coming off the camping trip...to see my dead mother! Crappy Pants! I'm embarrassed. I'm so tired of people looking at her this way. No more! I'm done & fling off my shoes & bolt for the parlor doorway. Like a good comedy I collide into 6 very sunburned, very stinky, very tired girls & their mothers. I push them away from the doorway. I do not allow them in. I want to bask in their Day-Glo shirts, their short shorts & their camp fire perfume. . We hug & hug & burst out laughing at the sight of them. They beg my forgiveness. They all decided to come straight to the viewing after driving 3 hours back from camp. What 15-16 year old girl decides to leave camp early, smelly & ratty haired...to a funeral? Girls who didn't give a rats tush for themselves. Girls who would do anything for me.




I am in love. I am surrounded by love. I pick chunks of woodland creatures out of their hair. They give me back rubs & tease me about my suit. They strain to see my mothers body...through the parlor doorway. I don't let them in. They understand.




They hand me candy.



Oh so loved!











Standing at her grave for her service I saw The Boy far in the distance. Later that night he came to my door. While my family, Grandma, Aunts, Uncles chatted in the back ground after a long day of dealing w/ death. He sat close, knee to knee with me as we ate Kentucky Fried Chicken. occasionally bumping shoulders with me as we told jokes & gossiped. We drank New York Seltzer ....blueberry. He touched the tips of my fingers every so often. & I thanked the Lord above for my happy distraction. He stayed with me...until everyone left for their hotel rooms at 12 am. To this day, I don't think he knew how much that meant to me. How much that saved me. A young boy who I know felt terribly uncomfortable in this situation he was in, still stayed. He forgot himself & he helped a friend.








My sunburned friends called & called. Not to say sorry, but to invite me out. Movies, shopping, parties. They held my hands walking down the halls of school my sophomore year. We traded clothes & we shared make-up. They asked if it made me sad when they talked about their moms. They pretended not to notice how my eyes welled up as they spoke of their moms. They didn't avoid the word "mom." I wanted to hear that word...because all the adults around me refused to say it. Afraid they would upset my little girl psyche.











Most of the adults avoided me...or wanted to stuff me into school therapy...yeah that didn't work out to well. Adults were afraid of me...except my cranky band teacher. After my mother died, my Dad bought me an electric bass. He dropped me off at school in the summer so my band teacher could give me private lessons. The day I sat down w/ my sunburst colored bass, Mr. Keyes asks me how my summer was going.


"My mom died 2 weeks ago."


Silence......"No one told me. I'm so sorry......wow....that's really...... sh%tty......"



Then

Mr. Keyes & I laugh at the absurdity of it all. He hugs me for a second, around my neck with his lumber Jack arm...his signature move...nearly snapping my clavicle.







"Wow kid....If you ever need just to hang out...you come to me. If your day gets too hard to handle I can get you out of class. But if you do come here to escape, you must escape w/ your bass & practice. No weenies or free rides allowed...ok kid? Well...let's do this. Ok, the string are just like your upright bass....."



And so....my life went on.



My mother died at 51 from pneumonia complications after her body was eaten by bone cancer brought on by breast cancer. My father was 50. I was 15.

Summer after my freshman year. My moms death left me with a hole in my little heart. But my mom never left me to struggle on alone. She was a crafty smart women. I have no doubt it was she who whispered into my sunbaked friends heads..."bypass showering & go to her." Mike...make her laugh." "Dear Boy, just swallow the oddness & sit with her" "Mr. Keyes...don't let her slack off & DON'T treat her with kidd gloves."





My mom might have left us too soon, but she made sure she stuffed that hole with friends, hope, music and experiences that would sop up the oozing pain. How relieved she must have felt when friends and adults tucked me under their wings. How giddy she felt when anyone looked at her daughter & asked......

"Hey, do you want to talk about your mom?"

And I wonder how she must feel when I remember her with stories.

People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life

which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to

occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive

It is as though they were traveling abroad - Marcel Proust

I laugh in your Disturbed face - Part 6

Mom's dead...check.

Dogs feed..... check.

Got Dad standing upright...check.

Next order of business on the day of my mothers death...call...my...friends.

Let me just say....having to call your buddies to tell them "Hey, my Moms been promoted to Subterranean Truffle Inspector" Is...not...cool. It's uncomfortable & weird. But it had to be done. For I was all geared up to go camping w/ some girlfriends in the Dells. But now I couldn't go....oh nooo, Mom had to awake to life immortal & leave me to tend to death crap. Uggg so unfair!

My friends were good friends, who knew my mom had cancer. So it wouldn't be a surprise to them that she died...right? Ummmmm, wellll.

Deep breath.
Exhale.
Pick up phone.
Dial Noel.
Tell her I can't go camping.

"Hello?"

"Hey Noel, listen...I can't go camping this weekend."

"What? But we always go camping? Why can't you go?"

Crappppppp. The words didn't want to form. How can I tell her this...oh geez is she going to cry? I can't take this!

"Well.....ummmmm...Iiiiii."

"Jen, are you ok?"

I don't quite know what happened. It was devastating. It was horrifying. And it was down right hilarious. I...started...to...giggle...then laugh....hard. I paniced! Here I was calling my friend to tell her my mom died & I'm LAUGHING?!

"Noel, "giggle" I... "breath innn" It's Mom..."Bawwwwhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" (Insert laugh here. Uncontrollable laughing... so hard that I can't breath & tears are running down my face) She DIED today..."HEheheheheheheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"

"Oh my Gowd Jen...are you...LAUGHING?!"

Panicked, I try to make it sound like I'm crying, but it comes out as a weird meowing sound.


"You are laughing...what the hell is wrong with you?! Your moms dead?! Is this some sort of joke?!"

Poor Noel was so upset. She starts to cry on the phone over the devastating news that her friends mother is worm food & I am laughing so hard I swear I hear a rib pop. I lie & tell her it's hard to talk & could she please pass the word on to our friends.

Oh to laugh. Such a beautiful cathartic thing. I was so...tired of CRYING. The laughter took me by surprise I must admit. It felt so good, but so wrong!

The next few days were a whirl wind. Calls were put out to family. Dad & I trudged off to buy a coffin (very expensive & very PINK...really Dad? Really?) Write an Obit. Order a head stone. Talk to the church. Call her work. Pick out her clothes. (I dressed her in a horrible school marm outfit. It was dark blue w/ tiny bunches of flowers on it....my Mom will kill me for that) Call the funeral director about 5 times trying to get things right.

Calls you never want to have to make....here is a sample.

"Hello funeral director guy. Yeah it's me again...Jenny. Yeah...um you told me to pick out clothes for moms viewing. Yeah...ummm...do I need to pick out ...underpants?"

Yes......really...I did make that call. And if you are wondering, mom went commando. Well, the director said I didn't need to bring undies...or shoes...or stockings if I didn't want to. (But I do need to pick out a bra...ummm...ok) Her feet wouldn't show...& he had underthings already there. Or DID he? I didn't have much faith in the man because...well remember back ....this is the same man who probably looked at my mom after her death makeover & ok'ed it. Her wig was on BACKWARDS & she had on PURPLE eye makeup on. 2 words for you...... GAR-ISH. "Good job Fred. Your make up application is like art. You have successfully turned this poor 51 year old women who's body was ravished by cancer into a painted whore. It's beautiful work Fred. Brings a tear to my eye."











I really hope Mom wasn't commando...but I did think about it...all...day...long. Her...in her PINK casket....quite possibly pantie-less. Easy breezy.









I laugh to myself over the thought. Soon tears stream down my face. My belly hurts from trying to stuff my gut busting laughter into my bowels . Shoulder shake. Eyes squint. Tears, Tears.








Beautiful laughter.





Whispers float around me.





"Poor Dear, she's so shook up. So hard to lose a mother."









Thank the Lord these women think I'm crying. If they only knew...if they only knew.

Mom approves panty humor...no really, she does.

Would this face lie about panty humor? I don't think so.

Bobby, I should be disturbed - Part 5

House.

Empty.

Shell.

Drained.

Home again with no mother. Mom's dogs whimper at the door when Mom doesn't follow behind us. I see their little scruffy feet scratch the garage door. "Mom's dead & she ain't coming back you stupid mutts"

The bitterness begins...and will never quite leave me. Soon the dogs give up on their scratching & then....lay down in front of the garage door, their stinky muzzles resting on their paws. There they would stay for weeks at a time. They never again whimpered, I swear they understood my words..."she's dead." Watching their dejected little faces, my heart broke for them. My heart broke for my moms loyal dogs. The thought made me giggle.

I find my father standing frozen, staring out our patio door. Such a beautiful, bright summer day. We are stuck. At a stand still. Stale. Upended. What the hell do we do now? Do we eat? Make phone calls? Put on lipstick? How does one go about their life when a loved one dies?

So there we were, a tragic little family. 2 mangy mutts slumped by the door, Dad in a trance, looking at nothing and me, wind blown hair I hadn't brushed for 8 hours (which for a girl is a rare thing) 15 years old going on 35.

We stand for minutes, hours, days...not breathing. Finally Dad drifts off upstairs to change & I am left alone. I find myself pushing the button on the stereo. Afraid I will hear my Dad weep at any moment, I push my ear up against the speaker to quiet the voices in my head. "got to call friends, cancel trip, make dinner, do laundry, call funeral hometakeshowermakebedfeedthedogstrynottothrowup" thoughts racing, racing.

I flop on the couch listening to the car SALE! SALE! SALE! commercial & all I can think is "car man, you suck, my moms' dead"

I stew.

I seethe.

Then....it happens. A song comes on I have never heard before.

"Dooo do do doOooOOOooooOOoooO. OooooOOOooooooo. OooooooOOO."

I sit on the couch & yell to dad. "Dad! Get down here! Listen to this!"

My dad soon appears behind me.

"Listen Dad."

"Here's a little song I wrote

You might want to sing it note for note

Don't worry, be happy

In every life we have some trouble

but when you worry you make it double

Don't worry, be happy"

Next thing I know, my grief stricken father is snapping his fingers & dancing. We both are hypnotised by our new found friend Bobby McFerrin. We laugh at the hilarity of it all. Dad grabs my hands, we dance & laugh.

Before we know it, our song has ended, leaving us giggling & sacked out on the couch. Dad insists mom sent us the song & I don't doubt him. Bobby McFerrin has left our souls humming & our minds clear. After we recover from our improv song & dance routine, we gather up our new found strength & battle on to our next morbid activities....all while humming "Don't worry, be happy."

The Disturbing death - Part 4

My ears are buzzing. I hate when my ears buzz. That usually means I'm having a panic attack. I do my best to step out of the elevator into my new truth. My foot hits the tile and for some reason it feels like Jello.







Oh crap...I swear if I pass out 0n this tile floor in front of my dead mothers hospital room I will punch someone in the face!







I breath and recover what little stability I have left. The buzzing in my ears stop & now my head is filled with weird moan man cries coming from my father behind me. I'm too numb to turn to him & pretend I care. We both stand there dumbstruck. Slow motion in front of me 3 nurses leave my mothers room....weeping. A 4th. nurse pushes the crash cart out of Moms room. All 4 nurses look up to see us....then they promptly drop their heads & scurry by us.







Moms Dr. sees us from the the nurses station that he is sitting at. He jumps to his feet & runs to us. Runs. I step out of his way as he flings himself at my father. Both men begin to cry & hug & cry & hug.







All I want to do is take a nap...cuz this day sucks.







"I'm sorry, we did everything we could. Do you want to see her?" Dr Shapiro asks dad & I. Of course my dad says yes & starts to take my hand.







"No." is the only word that come out of my mouth. Dad tries to pull me along but I stand firm. "No way in hell am I going in that room." My Dad looks hurt. He doesn't want to leave me alone out here in the hall.







"Mom doesn't want me to see her that way."







Finally understanding he drops my hand and walks to my dead mothers room with Dr. S & a nurse holding him upright.







I am alone in the hall. I can see the nurses trying to look busy with tears in their eyes. Down the hall 2 cancer patients peek their heads out their doors to catch a glimpse of the train wreck. For a moment I hate them...intruding on my pain. But then I notice the nurse that makes her way over to them & hugs them both. The patients are crying. Are they crying because they are staring at their future?







Out of one of the rooms pops a women. "Oh dear Lord no." Is all I can think. The women moves closer. The buzzing returns. Run, my head screams, RUN! My brain has already high tailed it out of the hallway & down into the staircase. My brain didn't have the common decency to take my body with it. Closer & closer. The women descends. The ears.... buzzing. I can't handle this. Of all the people who want to comfort me...why did it have to be her?!







She is dressed all in black. Her tiny feet glide over the shiny tile. My dread turns to calm as I realize...she is laughing. The kind of laugh a women does as she sees an old friend. In a blink the tiny women is hugging me. "You must be Jennyyyyyy! I'm so happy to met youuuuuu! You are so cute! Gail said you were so cuteee. Look at you! Gail talked about you all the time!"







Half of my brain loved this old women instantly...praise the Lord she is the only one not weeping & being all depressing like. The other half of me wants to run screaming...because I can't handle tiny Catholic nuns hugging me. Nuns scare me. Nuns are dower & cold...well they are in movies. But here under my chin is Sister Iatearainbowforbreakfast. She squeezes me and pats me & hugs me & holds my hand. She says pretty things like "Oh my...your mother was such a naughty girl! She would sneak into patient rooms & tell them jokes. She had naughty jokes. Oh I loved her. Everyone loved her. She was so funnyyyyy!"

The little nun continues to coo over me while my father & I are brought back to a little office. There I sit with my dad, Mom's Dr. & Little Nun. I am in the room but all I see is Little Nun. I hear her chat to me softly about Mom's death. She is interpreting the big words the Dr. is saying to my Dad into little, easy words I can understand.

Mom's heart stopped. And that's what killed her. It just plume tuckered out.

Dr. & my Dad started to discuss autopsy & looking into why her heart stopped. Finding out what truly killed her that sunny July day.

My Little Nun echoed the exact words I was thinking. Quietly she whispered to me. "Oh for heavens sake. The cancer ran it's course. Hearts stop. Death comes to all of us. Goodness gracious...this isn't a crime scene. Gail died of cancer. Leave the poor girl alone. No sense in opening her up."

Her spunk that day made me what to become a nun. She, holding my hand, leaning close to my ear. Tiny little women getting all worked up over an autopsy. Soon I giggle.

Then I snort.

She snorts.

Full, gut busting laughs tumble out of us.

"Let's get out of here & let the men talk." She says through clenched teeth trying not to laugh.

Up on my feet she pulls me towards the door of the office. Soon I am free. Little Nun & I stand at the nurses desk with her arm around my waist. Nurses causally gather around us. Little Nun proudly tells them who I am.

"This is Jenny. Gail's daughter."

Tears tumble out. Hugs are given. Soon the sound of laughter wafts down the hall of the cancer wing. The stories begin.

"That Gail....always giving us trouble! She was the big joker of the floor. She was so naughty & so lovely. Did I ever tell you about the time she played a joke on nurse Jackson? Well......"

The disturbing Goodbye- Part 3

My mom had been in & out of hospitals for 5 years. Mainly for infection or pneumonia. Twice the hospital told us she would be dead within 12 hours. That was a surreal situation when I had to dress from head to toe in sterile dressings just to be by mom's side. Then trying to figure out how to say goodbye to her...because you know...she was going to croak some time in the night. Very strange, very stressful. But she always deified her Dr.s orders to die...which I appreciated.

That warm July night was no different then the other casual visits we had with her. Although this time the cancer had seeped into her bone. Another infection, another weekend in the hospital. (my mom timed her hospital stays very well. She would push herself through the week, then go in on the weekend. She didn't want to miss work....hows that for commitment?!)

I remember watching Mom eat her dinner on a tray. She always gave me her jello or pudding....which made me feel guilty. "Ma...you're dying of cancer...eat the damn pudding" She knew how much I liked it...even though I tried desperately to convince her I didn't. Staring at your mothers pudding, salivating doesn't help the lie that you hate pudding.

After her dinner we settled in to watch some movie with Charles Bronson...who my Mom adored. I never got the attraction....the dude had a mustache. But it made us feel better when mom was up & able to drool over Mr. Bronson & his very violent films. I remember sitting on the left side of her bed. My hair was snarled from driving with the windows open. I was self conscious but too embarrassed to ask my mom for a hair brush. My dad was just as disturbed at the rat nest on my head as I was. Mom just beamed & told him "aww let her have her hair the way she wants it. All the kids have the messy look." I looked at her like she was crazy. Again, did she not know me?! I was grateful for her beaming at me, as she tried to rearrange the mop behind my ears. I knew the foof annoyed her, but thought it was sweet that she was allowing me to "grow up".........then I was disturbed. Wait.....mom is not annoyed by my friz factory? That's odd.

8pm. rolled around & it was time to go. We had spent the last half an hour laughing hysterically at my dad's impression of his rival...Mr. Bronson. We got up to leave with lungs that hurt from laughing & gave mom a big hug. Hug, Hug, pat, pat.

"Love you mom"

"Love you too"

"Goodnight Gail, Good night Mom."

"Goodbye"





Goodbye






Goodbye....my mother never uttered those words. It was always Goodnight...never Goodbye. She said it right as my Dad & I walked through her door & turned right towards the elevator. The moment she said it Dad & I paused...then resumed walking. Maybe I was the only one who thought her Goodbye was weird. We stepped into the elevator....and as the door closed my Dad looks at me. "She said Goodbye."

"Yeah...should we go back?"

"I'm sure it was nothing. She'll be fine......."

The warm feeling in my lungs from all the laughing dispersed. I was left feeling hollow & fidgety.

The morning was bright & warm. Dad was off to work & I was home alone. 9:30am the phone rings.......& I know. The women on the other end of the line is calm but firm. "You & your father need to get to the hospital right now."

"What's wrong w/ mom?"

"You need to come now"

"What's WRONG with MOM?!" Now I'm mad for being treated like a child.

"I'm sorry I can't tell you over the phone, you just need to come."

"That's crap & you know it. My Dad is working I may not be able to reach him for another 8 hours & you won't tell me she's dead?"

"You need to come now."

By some miracle I was able to reach my dad on his cell (you know the kind...big, bulky & connected w/ a curly wire to the battery, receiver holder thingy. The "cell phone" stayed in my Dad's truck cuz you know....it was a MONSTER.)

I blink & my Dad is home. Speeding to get to the hospital my mind is on 1 thing....I will miss the Wisconsin Dells camping trip with my girlfriends. Crap...now I need to tell then my moms dead...that sucks.

I blink again Dad & I are standing in the elevator....how did I get here?

The door slides open.

The next week will happen in slow motion. From this new beginning I see every face, every event clearly. I want it to blink by, but I am tortured by the slow motion show in front of my eyes.

The Disturbed Make Over- Part 2

"Look at you. You look so professional. Is that a new suit? It looks great....what's the special occasion?"

Silence

I heard her question....but my mind was in a tunnel. My brain was fuzzy. My feet heavy. But her question "what's the special occasion?" Had me barreling out off the tunnel...backwards...into reality.

There I sat. Propped up in a salon chain getting my hair "cut". I of course, didn't want it cut. But there I was at the Strictly Yours salon....the salon my Dad dropped me off in while he ran around doing errands.

What's the special occasion rang in my head. Then the realization....HE DIDN'T TELL THEM! Great SNOT...My Dad dropped me off at Mom's salon....& didn't TELL them?! That buttwipe! He left me here to ruin this woman's day. I battled the desire to lie & go on as if nothing was wrong. But I couldn't lie. Not to Moms salon buddies.

"What's the special occasion?"

"Today is my moms wake."

Blank look

"Mom died 2 days ago."

I watched this women's face in the mirror. I could see the statement hit her. It started in her eyes. Eyebrows edged up, redness seeps in. It flowed into her month, then slowly drifted down into her hands. Scissors drop. Hand comes to mouth. Left hand grips my shoulder...not in comfort but in desperately trying to support her body. She can't breath. Tears stream down her face.

"Gail?"

"I'm so sorry. She loved this place. I'm so so sorry." This would be the first time I would comfort someone else over the news of my mothers death. I hated the shock & sadness. I never wanted to be comforted...but I did have an intense urge to comfort others. I guess it took my mind off the reality of my life. It made me feel useful. Made me feel sane.

The stylist went to look for the manager as I sat in the chair feeling eyes burn into the back of my head. Women at the nail cabana (Strictly Yours was strictly tacky but absolutely fabulous. It was decked out in a tropical paradise. Cabanas, thatched roofs, creepy flamingo statues. They even served margaritas.) craning their heads behind them trying not to disturb the liquid cement on their nails. I watched in the mirror the reactions. Word spread that Mom is "no longer eligible for the census" 1 by 1 I watch from the mirror their reaction. Crumbled faces. Hands to mouth. Head bowed. Shoulder shake. I destroyed their day. I caused that cry.

Then.........The Pity look. Gosh I hated The Pity look.

I soon found myself clawing at my salon bib. I had to leave. I had to get this thing off me because.....the manager is heading my way. Get it off, get it OFF! Dang it...no Velcro, stupid snaps held it together. The manager glides closer. NOOOOO, I can't handle pity! Help me creepy flamingo statue in the corner! No No No! I knew what was next....pity with a side of comfort. Arrgggg! I just wanted to run.

But no.

The manager fills up the mirror. I am trapped....with half my hair cut. Notthepitynotthepitynotthepity..............

Hands rest on my shoulders. Here it comes.

"Let's finish your hair & get you on your way. I'm so sorry your mom died. She was a great lady. She was funny. I knew she had cancer but she never showed the pain. She talked about you all the time."

I looked up & realised the manager was smiling. She was easy...breezy. She was telling me about mom. I liked it.

"Now, what I want to know is ....how the hell did you end up here on the day of your moms wake?"

She used the word hell....& I loved her at this moment.

So I began my story.

Mom loved to pamper herself. Mani's/ pedi/scalp treatments/nails...you name it...she did it. She often dragged me to her salon to get her nails done. (getting your nails done...is just a way to handicap a woman. Women with nails say stupid things like "they are jewels not tools." They have a funny way of holding their hands up...like their nails are always wet. They don't garden or pick their noses. They fall down a flight of stairs & break their hips...but first thing they look at is their fake nails...to make sure they are intact) I sat in the cabana reading fashion magazines & hating myself (stupid magazines) I hated the smell of the place but I always got a kick out of my mom. You'd think she was someone famous as she breezed into the salon. Everyone would turn & shout her name. "So happy to see youuuuuu" It was erie...because...well remember the show "Cheers" Yeah, this was the chick version of Cheers.

My mom always made my Dad swear, SWEAR that after she was gone he would bring me to the salon to get pampered. It was his solemn duty to get his daughter made over & made up. I always protested. I hate paint on my nails...it makes me feel claustrophobic. Mom didn't back down on this one. My Dad had 2 jobs to do....get me to the salon & buy my sanitary napkins whenever I needed them....without acting weird about it.

Well my Dad took the words "when I'm gone" Seriously. So...Mom went to meet the reaper & Dad...hustled me off to the salon. I really think my mom had him sign a contract in blood. College? Whatever! Life skills? Pish Posh! Traveling the world? Overrated! You MUST get this girl to the salon! Her future depends on it!

My hair is cut. My bib is off. The salon manager & I laugh & laugh & laugh.

"I'm sorry, but that is so awful it's funny!"

Oh it felt good to laugh. It felt great to make someone laugh.

Soon enough Dad comes back to pick me up. Women flood around him hugging him & talking in quite voices....as the manager & I roar with laughter.

They refuse to take his money. I get hugs & The Pity look from Mom's buddies. Eyes are rimmed red. My heart swells with love for these women. I now realised why mom loved it here. In the salon they cooed & laughed with her. They rubbed her feet & styled her wigs. They gave her margaritas & made her feel normal. Whole. Feminine.

As I turned to leave the manager grabbed my arm. "Take care Sweetie. Come back to see us. Oh...would you mind if I tell the ladies in here what you told me about your make over?"

I see the women of Strictly Yours. Clients, nail techs, stylists take their places....heartsick. Crestfallen. Heavy thoughts will rule their sunny July day.

"Yes, please! I don't mind."

Yes please, one last memory of Mom...make them laugh in her honor.

The Disturbed series- Part 1

The high school "therapist" was manly looking....to put it nicely. I remember watching her lips move under her mustache & thinking..."If her mom insisted on bleaching that hairy monster at age 10...like mine had, maybe she would have grown up to CARE."

There I sat. 15 year old girl forced by the school to endure this joke called "counseling" Oh no...they could not have a young lady who's mom just bought the farm running around the High School willy nilly. This girl needs help....and the great school of South was going to give it to me, whether I wanted it or not.

I was pissed when my Dad tenderly broached the subject of the school wanting to counsel me. "Maybe you can talk about Mom? It will be good for you." So said the man who much rather drown his sorrows at bars every night instead of actually talking to a professional. "piiiishh"...men

So there I sat, awkwardly across from this professional who professed she would guide me through this difficult time. She would be there for me...a safe place to fall. I could open up about my Mom's death. "Just release all the pain" she said in a sullen, mono-toned voice.

Open up. I wanted to do that. I didn't want to burden my friends. I figured I might as well use this free counselor to my advantage. She's a professional. She will...guide me.

"How does this work?" I was hesitant but relieved to unload.

"Just start by telling me about your mom...or how you feel about her death." Dr. Ihatemyjob Counselor sighed


"O.K."


"well"


"They stapled my moms eye lids closed."

"umm, what?"

"yeah...STAPLED. I could see the staples. I know dead people sometimes have reflexes & their little dead eyes spring open so they have to glue them closed. But really? Stapled? They didn't even have the talent to cover the staples. Like...glue on some eyelashes man. Cover that up!"









"Well....I see. How did that make you feel?"


"Like....mad. Don't EVEN get me started about the fact that they painted her eyelids purple. My dead mom looked like a hooker that was trying to hard!"



"Well.....I see. So let's now talk about your future. Where do you want to go to college."


"College? Ummm, I'm only 15. I...don't... want to go to college. Do we have to talk about this now. College stresses me out. I'm only a sophomore."



"Well dear, It's never to early to start thinking about college. I have your grades right here. Lets talk about college"


And that my friends....was all the counseling I got about my moms death.

She died this month 22 years ago. I have written down little tid bits about my moms death in my little pink journal. But never have I dived head first in the story of her death. So I figured I have a blog....might as well reveal how disturbed I really am.

Hey, don't you judge me! You would have never had to deal with this if Dr. Counselor Hack had done her job!

So sit back kids and enjoy....my twisted teen hood. It will be fun...no really!

Bikini gets revenge

The summer began to fade & with that, my fear of the bikini waned. Soon it would be all over. I had a plan to rid myself of the awful bikini of shame once and for all. My plan was simple....I planned....to out grow that hideous thing, never to be able to fit in it again! Next summer I would be 13. A real, live TEENAGER! I was sure, once that magical number hit, I would become a hard nosed, say what I want, defiant teenager. (That of course...never happened...but lets not tell my 12 year old self that quite yet!) I would finally be able to say to my mom "NO Women! I shall not wear what you pick out for me! I shall wear what I want, when I want it!"



That summer, I had only worn the bikini of tackiness once. I could see the end of the tunnel! I was almost freeeeee!



That was...until I got.... THE INVITE!



Freak'n A man! I was invited to a 4H pool party. Yes.... I was in 4H. When you moved to the country it's mandatory that every kid joins either the FFA or the 4H. If this didn't happen, red necks pull up in their rusted out Ford & hauled your butt back to the city..."where ya belonged ya country wanna bez!"! My folks worked in "the city" to begin with. We didn't have a lot of friends in Hicksville...so off to 4H I went. I did it to save the family name. Kids are always the sacrificial lamb!



So now I had to attend an end of summer party with my little troop & their chain smoking, gossipy mothers....in my bikini.



So my Classy Mom & I showed up at this house. I am wearing shorts & a Tee clutching my bag of shame. My mother wears her pleated pants & a sweater....with pearls.

We walk into the house & say our hellos. I was then told by my 4H Pool Mom to "Go get dressed & go swimming honey!" So I trudged up to a pink bedroom & changed. I wrapped my towel around me tight like a straight jacket, hoping if I squeezed hard enough..... I would pass out.... & die..... & then not have to go swimming.


I tried to hide in the house. Standing by my moms side, doing my best to work on my telepathy skills. "mom...if..you...love...me...you'll..take...me...home" She never heard me. My friends found me & dragged me outside. All the girls are in their bathing suits (ALL 1 piece thank you very much!) I start to feel embarrassed as the bikini knit is burning into my flesh. But I push down the anxiety & decide to roll with it. " Who cares" I tell myself. This will be the last run of the bikini. After to day I'm done. And life will go on.



Soon I got comfortable chasing my friends in & out of the house killing time while the hot dogs cooked. Then up the deck latter we go. We all hold hands & jump into the ice cold water. Underwater I feel the grip of the girls hands & for a moment I feel OK. "Hey, these girls will still hold my hand even though I'm wearing this tragic thing!" Up to the survive I rise. I gulp in air as I push back my hair & rub my eyes which now STING! Great Craw Fish! My eyes are burning! I rub & rub, momentary blinded. Soon....a sound...comes from the direction of the deck. A deep voice...must be a Dad.





Trying to focus as the chemical bath seers my eye balls. There on the deck..... A dad? Vision become cleared. But now there was no missing them as they rose up on to the deck slugging each other & flexing their tiny chests. Sweet river of mercy. Boys. Half naked. At my stupid, hick 4H pool party. Half naked, punching each other. Half naked on the deck. Half...naked.



No one bothered to tell me Miss Pool had 2 brothers who came with 2 friends. Great Crackinflabbin! What the funk was I to do now?! I was TRAPPED! I had to swim...with BOYS looking at my bikini!



I wanted...to ...dieeeeee.









The wind howled on the prairie that day. It was freezing cold. Cold as my soul....& butt! I scrambled out of the pool into my towel as fast as I could. I NEEDED to check on the hot dogs! NOW! I couldn't breath. I was embarrassed & freezing cold. Soon help was on the way....lunch was served. Ahhh no more swimming. I was safe in my towel tent. Everyone races out of the pool & we all jam in together at the picnic table. Warn hot dogs before us.



But now parents head inside to eat...because it's SO cold! We all chatter & vibrate. So.....cold....in our wet bathing suits. The girls get a bright idea to put on their shirts over their suits. But soon the wet from their suit soak the shirt & they are back to being hypothermic. I decide I will be the smart one! I run up to the pink bedroom to change clothes. But just as I begin to change, my mother walks in to the room to see if I am ok. I tell her I'm done swimming. But she tells me I have 2 more hours of swimming. Oh...yeah.... So I decide to then just strip off my wet top & put on my shirt. Then I just have to put on the wet, cold top instead of the whole kitten caboodle when I get back in to swim! Brilliant! So off goes my top & on goes my long black shirt. I wrap my towel around my waist & sulk down to the party.



We stuff ourselves with hot dogs, making fun of the wimpy parents sitting in the warm house drinking their coffee in front of the huge glass bay window. We laugh & laugh. The BOYS Laugh with us. Teasing & heckling us girls. We revel in the attention. Next thing I know all of us kids are running & jumping & throwing hot dog buns & screaming & falling all over ourselves with fun. I'm full & happy. The sun warms my black shirt just right. We realise we only have a half an hour left to swim. So we throw caution to the wind & decide to take one last swim in the freezing water.



Running across the yard the boys rip off their shirts, scamper up the the deck & try to break each others necks as they jump in the pool. One by one the girls march up the deck, strip off their shirts & jump in. Screaming as they hit the water. I...am the last one up. Running to the edge of the pool. I don't want to jump in, it's so cold. But the kids beg. If they did it, I had to do it. So I throw of my towel & peel off my long, black shirt. I swing the shirt over my head, just like they do in those strip shows (where I learned about strip shows I will never know) The shirt flies behind me & I stand there for a second dreading that cold water. As I contemplate if I realllyyy want to get my now comfortably warmed body wet, a cold hand shoots out of the water, and grips my my ankle. I feel myself being pulled into the water. I hear yelling behind me. Slow motion... I am dragged into the water. The realization hits me....in slow motion.






I never put back on my bikini top.






Underwater I stay. I can hear nothing above me. No muffled voices. No laughter. Nothing. They saw me I think. No really?! I did ...a ...STRIP...tease! In front of BOYS! In front of PARENTS! I can see what the parents see....my bare back, swinging my shirt over my head giving the boys the show of my one breast! Damn that city girl!



OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!!!!



My lungs run out of air. I stay at the bottom of the pool with my eyes burning. I cry & cry & cry as fast & as hard as I can for the 21.5 seconds I am underwater. My poor mother! OH BIKINI OF SHAME how you mock me! My mom will be so mad at me. What am I going to do?



Well..........After I become faint from the lack of oxygen. I swallowed what dignity I had & stood up. Luckily one of the DAD'S (Sweet Jesuit PRIEST...could it get any worse?) threw my shirt toward me. I pulled it right on & hopped out of the water pushing past the dad. I see my poor, heart broken mother race towards me. Her face drawn tight. Her eyes rimed with red. Oh no! My mother will never survive this shame I brought on the family name. She wraps a dry towel around me & hustles me to the house. Where parents sneer at me...the slut.... as I get pushed up the stairs to the pink room. The door closes. My mom starts to cry.



Cry.








Cry because SHE IS LAUGHING SO HARD!






Are you serious?! She desperately covers her mouth with her hands trying to stay the gut busting guffaws. Tears streaming down her face. She can't breath she is laughing so hard. She tries to talk but what comes out are little crying, meowing sounds. Oh for the LOVE OF PETE!



I try not to laugh. I want to punch something. My mom is trying to be a saintly mother by dressing her humiliated naked daughter... as she laughed. Compassion mixed with bone cracking laughter. That...is my life.



My mom & I left the party in a hurry. She continued to laugh for hours. I ended up laughing too. Thankful she wasn't mad at me. Thankful that it was so funny that it turned out not to be a big deal. So I bared my one tiny breast for all to see....life happens....right? No big deal? The Good Lord didn't kill me like I had asked that day ....but he did bless us with moving to a new town shortly after that. Talk about a blessing! Can you imagine my fate if I would have stayed in Hickville....to attend Jr. High? Or High School?! I dare not even entertain that thought.



I did return to 4H for a few more months. No one said a word about "the incident." But they did feel it was necessary to take away my job.



I was the 4H entertainment councilor.

Bikini of shame

I was looking forward to our Florida vacation. I was 12. I was a kid. I was developing....1...breast...at a time. I was lanky & bony & clumsy & buck toothed & had a perm.

I was excited to flee the 1 stop light, backwater farm town for the warm sands of Florida.

I was excited....until my mother brought home.....THE BIKINI.

What possessed my mother to buy me THAT bikini? Have ya seen it? Brown, KNIT. What time period was brown knit bikinis in fashion? It certainly wasn't in the 1980's! Did she hate me? Did she get a kick out of it when I tried it on? Did she stifle a giggle as I desperately tried to maneuver the knit out of my bum cheeks without looking stupid? Did she not know me at ALL?

At first I thought it was a joke. A twisted, mean joke. But she was serious. "You'll look so cute & so grown up!" I wished it was a joke....because the feeling I got as I tried it on & as she beamed with pride..... was a feeling of piercing, bottomless, haunting, therapy inducing humiliation.

The BIKINI of SHAME was like I said many times before...a brown stripped, knitted monstrosity. The top had to be tied around the neck & back. The bottoms were held together by ties on the side. Ties that more then once came lose. They loosened to a point that when I came out of the water (in the sparkling pool you see in the background)....my bottom came off. My BOTTOM....CAME....OFF. Sweet Jiggly BEETLE! THE SHAME! But luckily for me the motel we were staying at in sunny Florida was a dump...that no one stayed at. So even though I came out of the water bare a$$ed, my mother was the only 1 to see it. "You are so cute!" (I think she wasn't right in the head...really)

I did survive Florida.

I survived...the Bikini.

Back at home in farm country I felt I was safe. There was no pools in Farm Town...only a private rock quarry that my Dad took me to once in awhile to go fishing & swimming. (really don't know how I survived swimming in...a rock quarry that, at its shallowest point was 20 ft. deep!) I could jump in the water with my clothes on. I didn't need no stink'n bikini!

But then...my luck ran out.

I was invited to a swim party for my 4H group.

My mother made me wear...The Bikini.

To a swim party....with BOYS.

The Lord never did kill me...no matter how hard I asked him to.

I need to go to my safe place now. Once I have my therapist on speed dial...I shall return with the rest of

THE BIKINI OF SHAME.

Stick a fork in me

I'm done!

I like to blame my bad days on the actual days. "Curse you Monday! You are rainy!" Grrr!! "Dang nab it Wednesday, you are so humpy!" Grrrrr!

I hate to place the blame on me or the kids or the dog or the husband...it always have to be the days.

Thursday...oh Thursday. Why you have to be....as the kids like to say...hate'n? I just feel like I'm banging my head against the wall....& the red spot is getting bigger. I have issues with my kids. That's the nice thing to say. The real story is at sometimes, some kids are WACK! And I...am done. I can't fix it. I can't fix them, I can't even fix breakfast anymore. Oh man I need a fix!

I have a kid I try to discipline & try to have their back at the same time. Yeah....that's a great combo! Well I had their back about something. We went over this nit picky crap their teacher was pulling. Got the whole story. Then proceeded to write a little note to her. I ended the note with a question. "Why do you have a 2x4 shoved in a place it shouldn't be?" No...I wish. I'm sassy...I ain't THAT sassy...only in my dreams! But I was stupid & ended the note with a question, so of course she calls me.

Uggg. I hate when teachers call. She explains her side of the story to me as I sit in silence. I didn't defend my child. Don't worry, it wasn't anything we needed to fix, it was just they were being "charged cash" for not turning in a form I had to sign....even though they still had 5 days before it HAD to be turned in. Yeah....little water torture techniques they hon in school.... is boring HOLES in my head!

So anyway, I didn't ask her questions. I just let her talk. Whatever, I just wanted to get back on FB. I had better things to do then listen to spin. After I got off the phone I was mad at myself. "Self....you didn't even ask her probing questions? Never defended the kid & say "give back their cash you meany mean head!" Oh no...I just said "ok, thanks for calling."

LOSER.

Oh but wait.

A few minutes later we discuss things w/ the Daddy & low & behold....my kid...LIED. Bold faced, straight up lied about what happened. (That was a slip on their part....opps, the cat I was beating in the bag, just stumbled out!") He never was charged $$. That happened to other kids. When we were discussing the stupid note to the teacher...the kid approved it & off it went.

Kid lied.

And I'm the fool. I can't do this. And to think...it only gets worse. Great...can't wait.

So I have decided my kids will be better off without me. Oh sure, they will cry for about 2.7 minutes, but life will go on & they will be fine. FINE! Because if I stay here any longer...they will NOT be fine. So moms, if you feel like you need to get away...come on over. The crazy train will be pulling out of the station & heading out to....hummmmm where can we go? Where do mom's go when they run away? Hawaii? Bourbon Street? Fuji? St. Louis? The bar down by the tracks? My van...locked...parked down the street where they can't find me?

Ah screw it...I can't even run away correctly! Who allowed me to be a mother anyway?

Mother issues

Happy Belated Mother's Day! Ahhh Mother's. Some are good, some are bad. Some are happy, some are sad. My Mother ....well she was a classy lady who taught me how to stand up straight, eat my peas & most importantly of all...she taught me how to take a good picture!





My mom was...how shall I put this....HOT. As a child I would break into her stash of pictures & stare in wonder at her black & white world. I loved the dress, the hair styles, the really high waisted pants her brother would wear. I became to despise the tacky day-glow ugly around me. I relished dressing in a manner that was more elegant & civilized. Uggg, the 80's...I was SO not into the fashion! Gag me with a spoon! In my mothers pictures I saw beauty & refinement.



Some would say I have Mother Issues....nooooo REALLY? And believe me...it's not because I had to pick out what dress my dead mother would have to wear in her pink casket....oh no. It had more to do with the image I had to life up to. Did I mention my mom was HOT?





How HOT was she?


She was so HOT she had no idea she was hot.


She was so HOT, even when she was 50 she got slapped on the bum walking down the street!

She was so HOT she was a model.


My Mother was a model....how could I compete?! ( her modeling career lasted one magazine article & one newspaper picture, but STILL!)



So excuse me if I have mother issues. After you see my proof, you will understand me better. And hopefully feel sorry enough for me to take me out for Sushi so I can wipe my tears with a napkin covered in Wasabi paste!





Mother, you are loved....even if you were HOT!










Here is my darling mom as the coveted "Yellow Pages Girl". Work that lawnmower! I remember my mom & I laughing so hard at this picture. I love the awkwardly bent finger. She said that finger pose was a doozy! I think she got paid 50 cents.









Here is a portfolio picture. She hated this picture. Why? Cuz she was "fat". I was shocked when I heard that. Look at her! Girl got some meat on her....& it's prime rib! My Dad & I thought she was perfect. Just goes to show you girls had issues with their body image that go wayyyy back.












AWWWWWW YEAHHHHH! Hey! Stop ogling my mother! Who can rock a plunging, orange jumpsuit? My mom, that's who! I swear she dressed that way just to piss off her mother....who can't even look at the camera. Awesome!

I love this photo! My 12 year old mom at the Boardwalk with her beloved father. She's so cute! Her red hair plopped on her little head! Her little bathing top! Her huge bathing bottoms that look like granny panties! Love, love it! Now if you would please direct your gaze to her "popped" knee. She how she pops it out across her other knee. That is her secret to a good pose. She learned early how to arrange her body. So next time you feel a little self conscience about your picture being taken....do the sassy "knee pop" you can't go wrong!

I....am not...knee popping. See the difference? 12 year old mom...knee pop=cute. Me...12 years old....sans knee pop=tragic. Don't let this happen to you. I know you all love the macrame bikini & you can't get enough of that eye sore. Well not to fear little campers....my next blog installment will be "The great & horrible & sad & scarring experience of the Bikini of death!!!!" Where I shall tell you all about my bikini shame. Stay tuned!

One word...stunning. This little hot tamale is my mom....at 17 years old. Yeah...I know. P.S...I still have those earrings w/ matching glass necklace. Be jealous.

Would you like to see me at 17?

Wait for it.

Waitttttt for it.

GOOD Heavens! Agggg! WHY? WHYYYYY? Do you SEE why I have issues? DO YOU?!

Lets' cleanse our eyeball pallet & end on a good note....& not a note that will be burned into your nightmares. Shake it off...shake it off!

You need not worry. My mother's lessons have paid off. I "knee pop" when I am unsure about how I look right before that picture is snapped. I fake confidence because it forces my shoulders back. I push my boobs out when I walk, because she said it will make me walk taller. That...was hard "Mom! I feel lewd! This is obscene! I feel stupid!" (Note to self...when your boobs point down to your navel...don't push out your almost 40 year old boobs.....lest you end up sticking your tummy out. Just pretend they are up where they were when you where 17....so...soooo long ago) But sure enough...she was right. In fact....she was right about everything she told me. So thanks mom for all the good advice. You...were right.