I know that I've been writing about my family lately. I even agree that it's been cathartic, but this week something happened that brings the past to the present, and I feel the need to share it.
Last night, I fell off my treadmill.
No, you didn't read that wrong. I fell OFF my treadmill. My bat-shit crazy dog was playing in the basement, and she chased her ball across my treadmill... as I was using it. To quote the great Muhammad Ali, "It was a two hit fight." She hit me, and I hit the floor.
This is why I miss my goldfish, Mr. Carp E. Diem (may he rest in peace). Not just because his name was clever (given that goldfish ARE members of the Carp family), and not just because he was so easy to take care of (which he was), or even because he was the Chuck Norris of fish who killed each and every thing I put into his tank (seriously, he was the reason that fish sleep with their eyes open), but because in the ten years that I owned him - he never, ever gave me a bloody lip.
Don't get me wrong, I love my dog, but last night, I was at my wit's end. And, as I was getting ice from the refrigerator to control the swelling, I played a sick fantasy in my head about slipping the groomer an extra twenty dollars to shave a bulls-eye into her pelt. I had the same fantasies about my neighbor, and that’s when I knew that DB and I needed to move. But... unlike my neighbor (who I have seen in his underwear), she wouldn’t notice or even care about what I shave into her back hair. This is an animal who eye-balls you while she masturbates on her dog bed. However, I have a theory about why she’s so bat-shit crazy and destructive.
She was a heroin addict in a previous life.
She was, and while that may make you feel sad for her, DON’T BE! She hasn’t learned a damn thing though reincarnation. If it were up to her, she would live this life like she lived the last one… in a spiked dog collar… with all eight nipples pierced… and track marks up all four of her legs. I swear, one day I expect to walk into my house and find her wrapping the leash around her doggy arm and tightening it with her teeth. The only thing that might be missing when she dies this time is cheap beer and a pimp. So don’t feel bad for her AT ALL. Instead, feel bad for ME.
Adding to my current misery, in the two years that I've owned her, she's eaten numerous pairs of shoes, $150 worth of underwear, a $75 bottle of perfume, and a $250 pair of glasses all for the low-low cost of several trips to the vet at $100 a pop (not to mention the thousands of dollars I've paid in carpet cleaning expenses). I’m not sure what I was mumbling under my breath as I was telling my sister about my treadmill trauma, but it couldn’t have been good, because - after she laughed she said, "Are you going to kill her like you did the lizards?” OK, yes… many years ago, we had pet lizards, and I killed them, but it was honestly an accident.
However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
You see, growing up in the Appalachian Mountains with two brothers, it is a given that - at some point in your life - you and/or your siblings will own box turtles, lizards, dogs, cats, and fish. And, much to my mother's chagrin, we were no different. We owned everything we ever saved, found, or caught. A fact which may have contributed to me being a vegetarian who minored in Peace Studies (yes, really). I can’t even eat an animal much less kill one. So while it’s true that I killed our lizards, their death was never premeditated. In fact, I LIKED the Anoles. They were wickedly fast and incredibly cool to watch. They ate live crickets, and I felt bad about that… UNTIL ONE OF THOSE DAMN INSECTS ESCAPED AND LIVED IN OUR HEATING DUCTS FOR A WEEK.
Do you know what it’s like to be laying in bed… trying to fall asleep… and suddenly hear bug chirping… that ECHOES… through your WHOLE HOUSE? Do you? It’s like living in a Kafka novel: Metamorphosis, the home edition. For the record, Eric Carle was wrong. Crickets aren’t quiet unless you crank your heat to 90 degrees and let karma handle the details, which is exactly what happened.
I don’t like playing God, but I’m not opposed to it when my sleep is on the line… Regardless of how old I am.
So, while I may have deliberately killed that cricket (who TOTALLY had it coming), I swear I didn’t intentionally kill the lizards. In fact, I was trying to be helpful. I was cleaning their tank, and I put them on our patio in their carrying crate. When I came back twenty minutes later, they were more dehydrated than the apricots in your trail mix. The spare tank had reached 120 degrees… So I stood there… tapping the glass… hoping beyond hope that I was wrong… trying to figure out what to tell my family, and the only message I could craft was, “Well, at least you can catch them now.” They didn’t find it comforting, and clearly my sister is concerned history could repeat itself with my current pet. Like a good little-sister, I told her, “Not to worry! I can’t fit the puppy into a lizard-sized carrying crate.” That said, if that damn dog does disappear one day, follow the money…
Talk to you next week!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
He ain't heavy. He's my brother.
My oldest brother is a shit. Don't get me wrong, I mean that in the nicest way possible. He's smart and he's funny, and the whole world thinks he's charming, but he's a shit. That said, though it pains me to admit it, he's also a very good big brother, and I love him to bits. At least I do now, anyway.
You see, growing up, he was the bane of my existence... even though the funniest moments of my childhood involve (and often revolve around) him. In fact, it wasn't until he’d left for college that I realized how much I actually missed him. Lucky for me, he didn't go too far away, so I still had front row seats to his stupidity. One time, while he was pledging a fraternity, he called my mother and said, "I'm naked, and I'm at a pay phone. Can you please come pick us up?" My mother said, "You're in a phone booth... and you're naked? Why… and exactly WHO is the US you want ME to pick up?" My question was... where the hell did he pull the quarter from so he could make the call.
With all my heart I hope he's reading this, and I truly hope I finally get the answer I've waited so long to hear. Butt I digress...
The point is that I can't remember a time when we weren't at each other's throats, even though we always had each other's backs. My earliest recollection is probably when I was in fourth grade and he was in tenth. I was just starting to care about my appearance, and he had a full length mirror in his bedroom. So, one day, I went into his room to look at my outfit, and I noticed that his mirror was crooked. Being the anal-retentive person that I am, I straightened it. Lo and behold, a Playboy fell from the back. Please note that, while I had NO idea what it was, I was certain my mother would and that she would be pissed. So I did what any good, little sister would do... I put it up my shirt... carried it downstairs... put it into an empty coffee can... went into the woods behind our house... dug a hole... and buried it. Then I proceeded to draw two treasure maps: one for him and one for my mom.
Given that our mother was always home at exactly 5:30 PM, I waited until 5:20 to hand the map to him. When I explained what I had done, he threatened to kill me. Then I reminded him that mom's copy was also finished and his ten minute lead was a courtesy not a requirement. I believe the phrase I used was, "TICK TOCK." Needless to say, he found it before she got home. That night at dinner, as he passed my plate to me, he blew on my food. When I asked him why, he whispered, "Because revenge is a dish best served cold." I had no idea he meant that literally.
Now, growing up in Appalachia has certain drawbacks; however, it also has certain perks. Every house sits on a hill… every yard gets several feet of snow… and every kid is guaranteed at least two snow days each winter. Our childhood was no different. And that Christmas, after the Playboy “incident,” instead of getting coal, we got new sleds, specifically the kind of sleds that had brakes. If you've never seen them, they're AWESOME! They’re your run-of-the-mill plastic sled, but with hand brakes, like the kind you see in a car, except the brakes are on each side of the sled. When you pull the brakes up, they dig into the snow, and they slow you down until they stop you completely. And when your front yard is a one acre long, forty-five degree slope, brakes are a VERY good idea.
Anyway... there we were, ready to go outside. But this was the 1970s… you didn't wear North Face, Patagonia, or Marmot. They didn’t even exist yet. Instead, you wore three pairs of corduroy pants, an L.L. Bean sweater your grandmother gave you for Christmas, and a snowsuit that you had to lay on your kitchen floor and be zipped into. You honestly walked like Frankenstein after he’d shit himself, but you didn't care because you were warm, you had a new sled, and you were getting ready to use it. And better than that, it was a snow day.
In other words, you had two feet of snow and no school.
After zipping up our snowsuits and handing us our sleds, our parents went onto the front porch to watch their DNA in action. My sister went first. My brothers went next. Then I took off... The last thing I remember hearing in my head was Orson Wells saying, “Rosebud.” It was like Jackass meets Citizen Kane, the home edition. My brother… the one who is a complete shit… had sawed off one of the brakes on my sled… just one. It went something like this:
1. I took a running start.
2. I landed on my sled.
3. I accelerated.
4. I caught air.
5. I landed.
6. God reminded me that he hates me.
7. I pulled the brakes.
8. I went into a NASCAR-esque tailspin.
9. I flew OFF the sled… ACROSS the yard… and INTO a bush.
10. I lay there… unconscious… peeing in my pink snowsuit.
Thank GOD my dad got it on film. Because, clearly, there's a moral here that we need to be reminded of every holiday: when you bury your brother's porn, it's a slippery slope to violence.
Talk to you next week.
You see, growing up, he was the bane of my existence... even though the funniest moments of my childhood involve (and often revolve around) him. In fact, it wasn't until he’d left for college that I realized how much I actually missed him. Lucky for me, he didn't go too far away, so I still had front row seats to his stupidity. One time, while he was pledging a fraternity, he called my mother and said, "I'm naked, and I'm at a pay phone. Can you please come pick us up?" My mother said, "You're in a phone booth... and you're naked? Why… and exactly WHO is the US you want ME to pick up?" My question was... where the hell did he pull the quarter from so he could make the call.
With all my heart I hope he's reading this, and I truly hope I finally get the answer I've waited so long to hear. Butt I digress...
The point is that I can't remember a time when we weren't at each other's throats, even though we always had each other's backs. My earliest recollection is probably when I was in fourth grade and he was in tenth. I was just starting to care about my appearance, and he had a full length mirror in his bedroom. So, one day, I went into his room to look at my outfit, and I noticed that his mirror was crooked. Being the anal-retentive person that I am, I straightened it. Lo and behold, a Playboy fell from the back. Please note that, while I had NO idea what it was, I was certain my mother would and that she would be pissed. So I did what any good, little sister would do... I put it up my shirt... carried it downstairs... put it into an empty coffee can... went into the woods behind our house... dug a hole... and buried it. Then I proceeded to draw two treasure maps: one for him and one for my mom.
Given that our mother was always home at exactly 5:30 PM, I waited until 5:20 to hand the map to him. When I explained what I had done, he threatened to kill me. Then I reminded him that mom's copy was also finished and his ten minute lead was a courtesy not a requirement. I believe the phrase I used was, "TICK TOCK." Needless to say, he found it before she got home. That night at dinner, as he passed my plate to me, he blew on my food. When I asked him why, he whispered, "Because revenge is a dish best served cold." I had no idea he meant that literally.
Now, growing up in Appalachia has certain drawbacks; however, it also has certain perks. Every house sits on a hill… every yard gets several feet of snow… and every kid is guaranteed at least two snow days each winter. Our childhood was no different. And that Christmas, after the Playboy “incident,” instead of getting coal, we got new sleds, specifically the kind of sleds that had brakes. If you've never seen them, they're AWESOME! They’re your run-of-the-mill plastic sled, but with hand brakes, like the kind you see in a car, except the brakes are on each side of the sled. When you pull the brakes up, they dig into the snow, and they slow you down until they stop you completely. And when your front yard is a one acre long, forty-five degree slope, brakes are a VERY good idea.
Anyway... there we were, ready to go outside. But this was the 1970s… you didn't wear North Face, Patagonia, or Marmot. They didn’t even exist yet. Instead, you wore three pairs of corduroy pants, an L.L. Bean sweater your grandmother gave you for Christmas, and a snowsuit that you had to lay on your kitchen floor and be zipped into. You honestly walked like Frankenstein after he’d shit himself, but you didn't care because you were warm, you had a new sled, and you were getting ready to use it. And better than that, it was a snow day.
In other words, you had two feet of snow and no school.
After zipping up our snowsuits and handing us our sleds, our parents went onto the front porch to watch their DNA in action. My sister went first. My brothers went next. Then I took off... The last thing I remember hearing in my head was Orson Wells saying, “Rosebud.” It was like Jackass meets Citizen Kane, the home edition. My brother… the one who is a complete shit… had sawed off one of the brakes on my sled… just one. It went something like this:
1. I took a running start.
2. I landed on my sled.
3. I accelerated.
4. I caught air.
5. I landed.
6. God reminded me that he hates me.
7. I pulled the brakes.
8. I went into a NASCAR-esque tailspin.
9. I flew OFF the sled… ACROSS the yard… and INTO a bush.
10. I lay there… unconscious… peeing in my pink snowsuit.
Thank GOD my dad got it on film. Because, clearly, there's a moral here that we need to be reminded of every holiday: when you bury your brother's porn, it's a slippery slope to violence.
Talk to you next week.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The best part of me is him
I love my mother. After reading my last post, "Putting the Fun back in Dysfunctional," she called me to say, "mkromd, I'm not at all the way you described me. I am NOT the epitome of a White Anglo Saxon Protestant Woman," and she actually even believed her own PR... until I reminded her that - when I turned eighteen - she handed me the keys to my car on a Tiffany's key chain with a card that said, "Happy birthday, sweetheart. The keys are the real gift. The key chain is because every woman should have a college education, a black bra, and something from Tiffanys... and she should know how to use all three." To this day, she thinks that's, "Just good life advice."
But this week's story isn't about my mom. It's about my dad.
You see, my father was born during the Great Depression. By three, he was performing in street theatre. By five, he was playing drums to help pay the rent. The story goes something like this... Every day, my dad would sit on the front steps of his apartment building and play popular tunes on garbage can lids and passersby would stop and watch. One day, the owner of a local shoe shop heard him and was so moved that he went to his store, got some leather from the back, and made a drum for my dad - the first one he ever owned. Mr. D liked to say that he discovered my father. My father liked to say, "There's probably some truth in that."
At any rate, by the time my dad was seven, you could tell he was talented. By ten, he was getting noticed. By fourteen, he was sneaking into clubs and playing Jazz all night with locals and legends. By eighteen, he was married, divorced, ex-communicated, and enlisted. And even though it was around the Korean War, the military actually saved his life.
Supposedly, one weekend on leave, my dad and his buddies went out, and my dad did what he always did. He got on stage, picked up the drumsticks, and played. Turns out, someone who knew someone, who knew someone, was there and got him an audition with the Commander and Conductor of the Air Force Band.
When the day came, he and the Master Sergeant for Percussion asked my dad to play something, so he did, and they were impressed. Then they handed him a sheet of music and asked to play something specific... and he couldn't. He couldn't read music. So, he did the next best thing. He asked to hear it played once, then he played it back to them... perfectly. They agreed to take him, but on one condition - that he learn to read music. When my dad said, "Why? If I hear it, I can play it." the Master Seargent replied, "But what about all of the music you never hear?"
He not only became my dad's mentor, they became lifelong friends.
And while our local shoe shop owner loved to take credit for my dad's career, it was actually during those years that he evolved as a musician and learned to play piano. In fact, as a result of being in the Air Force Band, he abandoned drums altogether and became a jazz pianist... a decision he never regretted. It was truly the second love of his life. The first he'd met some years later... it was our mother.
When they were introduced by a mutual friend, my mother thought my father was dashing and Beatnik. He read Kerouac and quoted Allen Ginsberg, and he was worldly and interesting and funny... He thought she was beautiful and brilliant and "a little intimidating," so he asked her out. Much to his genuine surprise, she said yes. So there she was, a week later, ready to go out. Too bad my dad had forgotten the day and time. He stood her up.
She was so offended and so irate that she called him the next day and lambasted him. Horrified, my father very sincerely apologized and asked if he could make it up to her. Begrudgingly, she agreed. Then he stood her up... again. He had gotten the flu, only this time - at least he called her beforehand to explain. Begging for one more chance, and reminding her that, "the third time is always a charm," she gave in. Turns out, it's genetic. God hated my dad, too. Because, on the way to dinner to meet my mom, he got a flat tire.
While he was changing it, my mother drove by, honked, waved, and kept driving. Within 15 minutes, they had both arrived at the restaurant and met in the lobby. My mother - calm, cool, and collected. My father - dirty, sweaty, and late. Instead of saying hello to her, he said, "Why didn't you stop to help me?" Without skipping a beat, my mother replied, "I only came tonight to tell you that you're an asshole. You were changing your tire. I figured you didn't need more bad news. Now that your tire's fixed... You're an asshole." And she walked out.
Clearly though, that's not where the story ends.
The next day at work, she got a long, slender, white box delivered to her office. When she opened it, thinking she'd gotten roses and an apology, she saw something that looked like a giant crowbar. The note read, "Next time you see me with a flat tire, you have to stop. You have my tire iron." Then he signed the card, "the Asshole." She still has it... the note, not the tire iron.
They were married for forty-five years until he passed away from cancer in 2006.
There isn't a day that goes by where I don't miss him, and when he was dying, he pulled my sister, my brothers, and I into his hospital room and one-by-one told us, "I can't believe God is so cruel that he wouldn't let me take one memory of each of you with me." Then he proceeded to tell us what those memories were. Here is the one he wanted to take of me...
When I was in sixth grade, I told a dirty joke at school... and I got caught. The joke goes something like this (I apologize in advance if it's not politically correct. It was the 1970s, no one was politically correct): Two midgets went to a convent. The first midget rang the doorbell, and when the nun answered to door, he said, "Excuse me Sister, are there any midget nuns at this convent?" To which the nun replied, "No son, there aren't. I think you've made a mistake." Then she thanked him for his time and closed the door. A minute later, he rang the doorbell again, and she answered again, only this time he said, "Excuse me Sister, are there any midget nuns in the city?" To which she replied, "No, no there aren't." And though she continued to nod disapprovingly, he continued to ask, "What about the state... the country... the world?" Frustrated, the Sister replied, "Sir, I have been all over the world, including the Vatican, and I have never, ever, EVER seen a midget nun. Please go away." When she slammed the door in his face, the second midget turned to the first and said, "Told you that you made it with a penguin."
In my defense, it wasn't a funny joke but it wasn't awful... unless you happened to attend Catholic school... which I did.
Luckily, when they called my house, they got my father, who immediately came to school, only to find me... feet kicking the air... sobbing... outside the Principal's room... again. With a slightly exasperated look on his face, he walked past me and shut the door to her office. After five minutes of dead silence, I heard him laugh at the top of his lungs. Clearly she'd told him the joke. Within a few more minutes, the door opened, he walked over, grabbed my hand, and walked me to the car. As we pulled out of the parking lot, he turned to me and said, "I told you that you made it with a penguin?" and he chuckled. Then he added, "Funny, but wildly inappropriate. Comedy is all about timing... and knowing your audience." When I laughed, he said, "Speaking of knowing your audience, let's not tell your mother about this." And we never did. We went for ice cream instead. We never told her about that either. Instead, the only thing he ever told her about it was, "Anyone can raise an ordinary child."
But now... it's my turn. I get to tell you my favorite story about him.
When I was a Freshman in college, I had a roommate from New York City. She introduced me to smoking, mixed drinks, and swearing. She was a terrible influence, and I loved her dearly for it. At any rate, like most students, Fall Break hit and I went home for Thanksgiving. There I was... full of independence... armed with an arsenal of crass phrases... helping with dinner. When the timer went off, my mother asked me to get the food out of the oven but warned me to watch out, as the dish would be hot. Without paying attention, I reached in, grabbed the food, scalded my hand, dropped the pan, and screamed, "FUCKITY FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK" at the top of my lungs.
Please note that, prior to that awkward moment, I had not once, not ever, sworn in front of my parents.
And, if my sister hadn't been so shocked that she'd dropped a plate, the silence would have been deafening. In fact, my father was so appalled that he couldn't even scream. Instead, he whispered very loudly, "mkromd, go into the sitting room and wait for dinner. I'll come get you when it's time to eat." After what seemed to be an eternity, he walked to the door and found me much like he had that day in grade school... sitting on a chair... Dr. Martens kicking the air back and forth... sobbing... waiting for my punishment. All he said was, "Come eat." When I got to the table, he explained that, "Tonight, when you need anything, you'll use the words fuckity fucking fuck fuck to describe it. For example, if you want the mashed potatoes, you need to ask for the fuckity fucking fuck fuck mashed potatoes. When you want the milk, you need to ask for the fuckity fucking fuck fuck milk."
While this may not sound awful to you, there is no way to describe how horrifying it was to me, as I was always loathe to disappoint my parents.
Thinking that this would be my Last Supper, the home edition, I tried desperately to avoid asking for anything, but in a large family with siblings who are DYING to torture you, there's no reality in that goal. And when I "forgot" the expletive, my dad would correct me. Until finally, at the end of dinner, my father said, "mkromd, in this family, if you cannot use a word in polite dinner conversation, you cannot use it." Then I got stuck with the fuckity fucking fuck fuck dishes. As I stood at the sink washing them, my father came up beside me and said, "Anyone can raise an ordinary child." The lesson stuck, because I never swore again in front of my parents, and I'm 273 in dog years.
Anyway, gotta go. Sorry for the lapse in writing. It's been crazy busy. Talk to you next week.
But this week's story isn't about my mom. It's about my dad.
You see, my father was born during the Great Depression. By three, he was performing in street theatre. By five, he was playing drums to help pay the rent. The story goes something like this... Every day, my dad would sit on the front steps of his apartment building and play popular tunes on garbage can lids and passersby would stop and watch. One day, the owner of a local shoe shop heard him and was so moved that he went to his store, got some leather from the back, and made a drum for my dad - the first one he ever owned. Mr. D liked to say that he discovered my father. My father liked to say, "There's probably some truth in that."
At any rate, by the time my dad was seven, you could tell he was talented. By ten, he was getting noticed. By fourteen, he was sneaking into clubs and playing Jazz all night with locals and legends. By eighteen, he was married, divorced, ex-communicated, and enlisted. And even though it was around the Korean War, the military actually saved his life.
Supposedly, one weekend on leave, my dad and his buddies went out, and my dad did what he always did. He got on stage, picked up the drumsticks, and played. Turns out, someone who knew someone, who knew someone, was there and got him an audition with the Commander and Conductor of the Air Force Band.
When the day came, he and the Master Sergeant for Percussion asked my dad to play something, so he did, and they were impressed. Then they handed him a sheet of music and asked to play something specific... and he couldn't. He couldn't read music. So, he did the next best thing. He asked to hear it played once, then he played it back to them... perfectly. They agreed to take him, but on one condition - that he learn to read music. When my dad said, "Why? If I hear it, I can play it." the Master Seargent replied, "But what about all of the music you never hear?"
He not only became my dad's mentor, they became lifelong friends.
And while our local shoe shop owner loved to take credit for my dad's career, it was actually during those years that he evolved as a musician and learned to play piano. In fact, as a result of being in the Air Force Band, he abandoned drums altogether and became a jazz pianist... a decision he never regretted. It was truly the second love of his life. The first he'd met some years later... it was our mother.
When they were introduced by a mutual friend, my mother thought my father was dashing and Beatnik. He read Kerouac and quoted Allen Ginsberg, and he was worldly and interesting and funny... He thought she was beautiful and brilliant and "a little intimidating," so he asked her out. Much to his genuine surprise, she said yes. So there she was, a week later, ready to go out. Too bad my dad had forgotten the day and time. He stood her up.
She was so offended and so irate that she called him the next day and lambasted him. Horrified, my father very sincerely apologized and asked if he could make it up to her. Begrudgingly, she agreed. Then he stood her up... again. He had gotten the flu, only this time - at least he called her beforehand to explain. Begging for one more chance, and reminding her that, "the third time is always a charm," she gave in. Turns out, it's genetic. God hated my dad, too. Because, on the way to dinner to meet my mom, he got a flat tire.
While he was changing it, my mother drove by, honked, waved, and kept driving. Within 15 minutes, they had both arrived at the restaurant and met in the lobby. My mother - calm, cool, and collected. My father - dirty, sweaty, and late. Instead of saying hello to her, he said, "Why didn't you stop to help me?" Without skipping a beat, my mother replied, "I only came tonight to tell you that you're an asshole. You were changing your tire. I figured you didn't need more bad news. Now that your tire's fixed... You're an asshole." And she walked out.
Clearly though, that's not where the story ends.
The next day at work, she got a long, slender, white box delivered to her office. When she opened it, thinking she'd gotten roses and an apology, she saw something that looked like a giant crowbar. The note read, "Next time you see me with a flat tire, you have to stop. You have my tire iron." Then he signed the card, "the Asshole." She still has it... the note, not the tire iron.
They were married for forty-five years until he passed away from cancer in 2006.
There isn't a day that goes by where I don't miss him, and when he was dying, he pulled my sister, my brothers, and I into his hospital room and one-by-one told us, "I can't believe God is so cruel that he wouldn't let me take one memory of each of you with me." Then he proceeded to tell us what those memories were. Here is the one he wanted to take of me...
When I was in sixth grade, I told a dirty joke at school... and I got caught. The joke goes something like this (I apologize in advance if it's not politically correct. It was the 1970s, no one was politically correct): Two midgets went to a convent. The first midget rang the doorbell, and when the nun answered to door, he said, "Excuse me Sister, are there any midget nuns at this convent?" To which the nun replied, "No son, there aren't. I think you've made a mistake." Then she thanked him for his time and closed the door. A minute later, he rang the doorbell again, and she answered again, only this time he said, "Excuse me Sister, are there any midget nuns in the city?" To which she replied, "No, no there aren't." And though she continued to nod disapprovingly, he continued to ask, "What about the state... the country... the world?" Frustrated, the Sister replied, "Sir, I have been all over the world, including the Vatican, and I have never, ever, EVER seen a midget nun. Please go away." When she slammed the door in his face, the second midget turned to the first and said, "Told you that you made it with a penguin."
In my defense, it wasn't a funny joke but it wasn't awful... unless you happened to attend Catholic school... which I did.
Luckily, when they called my house, they got my father, who immediately came to school, only to find me... feet kicking the air... sobbing... outside the Principal's room... again. With a slightly exasperated look on his face, he walked past me and shut the door to her office. After five minutes of dead silence, I heard him laugh at the top of his lungs. Clearly she'd told him the joke. Within a few more minutes, the door opened, he walked over, grabbed my hand, and walked me to the car. As we pulled out of the parking lot, he turned to me and said, "I told you that you made it with a penguin?" and he chuckled. Then he added, "Funny, but wildly inappropriate. Comedy is all about timing... and knowing your audience." When I laughed, he said, "Speaking of knowing your audience, let's not tell your mother about this." And we never did. We went for ice cream instead. We never told her about that either. Instead, the only thing he ever told her about it was, "Anyone can raise an ordinary child."
But now... it's my turn. I get to tell you my favorite story about him.
When I was a Freshman in college, I had a roommate from New York City. She introduced me to smoking, mixed drinks, and swearing. She was a terrible influence, and I loved her dearly for it. At any rate, like most students, Fall Break hit and I went home for Thanksgiving. There I was... full of independence... armed with an arsenal of crass phrases... helping with dinner. When the timer went off, my mother asked me to get the food out of the oven but warned me to watch out, as the dish would be hot. Without paying attention, I reached in, grabbed the food, scalded my hand, dropped the pan, and screamed, "FUCKITY FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK" at the top of my lungs.
Please note that, prior to that awkward moment, I had not once, not ever, sworn in front of my parents.
And, if my sister hadn't been so shocked that she'd dropped a plate, the silence would have been deafening. In fact, my father was so appalled that he couldn't even scream. Instead, he whispered very loudly, "mkromd, go into the sitting room and wait for dinner. I'll come get you when it's time to eat." After what seemed to be an eternity, he walked to the door and found me much like he had that day in grade school... sitting on a chair... Dr. Martens kicking the air back and forth... sobbing... waiting for my punishment. All he said was, "Come eat." When I got to the table, he explained that, "Tonight, when you need anything, you'll use the words fuckity fucking fuck fuck to describe it. For example, if you want the mashed potatoes, you need to ask for the fuckity fucking fuck fuck mashed potatoes. When you want the milk, you need to ask for the fuckity fucking fuck fuck milk."
While this may not sound awful to you, there is no way to describe how horrifying it was to me, as I was always loathe to disappoint my parents.
Thinking that this would be my Last Supper, the home edition, I tried desperately to avoid asking for anything, but in a large family with siblings who are DYING to torture you, there's no reality in that goal. And when I "forgot" the expletive, my dad would correct me. Until finally, at the end of dinner, my father said, "mkromd, in this family, if you cannot use a word in polite dinner conversation, you cannot use it." Then I got stuck with the fuckity fucking fuck fuck dishes. As I stood at the sink washing them, my father came up beside me and said, "Anyone can raise an ordinary child." The lesson stuck, because I never swore again in front of my parents, and I'm 273 in dog years.
Anyway, gotta go. Sorry for the lapse in writing. It's been crazy busy. Talk to you next week.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Putting the fun back in dysfunctional
My mother is amazing. She’s five feet two inches, weighs 110 pounds, and has an Executive MBA from one of the top business schools in the country (which she received in 1974 as the only woman in the program). She is incredibly well read and equally well-travelled, and - when you ask her for advice – she’s as likely to quote the Godfather as she is Churchill, both of whom she believes were “brilliant at the art of negotiation.” And though she is the epitome of a White Anglo Saxon Protestant woman, she sent her children to Catholic school because she believed that any curriculum devoid of Latin was not an education… a belief she still holds at seventy.
In short, she’s my hero. And not because her list of accolades is long, distinguished, and well deserved; but because the only two of them that ever mattered to her were the ones she received for being a good partner and parent. In return, my father adored her all of his life, and my siblings and I love her immeasurably - regardless of the fact that she has handed us some very expensive shoes to fill. That said, being her daughter has not always been easy.
However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
Growing up in Appalachia in the 1970s as the youngest of four had its own unique set of pros and cons. Kids still walked or biked everywhere. Most TVs only had four channels - ABC, NBC, CBS and PBS. And - not only was dinner on the table at 6:00 every night - everyone was around the table to eat it. And it's true that we had a housekeeper/nanny, but only because my father travelled a lot and my mother worked 50 hour weeks. I assure you, our caregiver (Marlene) was not a perk, she was a necessity who became an extended member of our family and deserved EACH and EVERY dollar she made. Not only did she shuttle four kids to and from school and athletic activities, but she cooked and cleaned up after us as well. No small feat, given that my parents' home is a 10,000 square foot Victorian... and we were not good children.
When Marlene was on vacation, the task of watching us fell to my grandmother... who was deaf. And while some of you may think being unable to process sound is a curse, you never got stuck supervising the four of us. To this day, I don't think she ever felt like she "suffered" from hearing loss. To the contrary, I think she relished it, and some days my mother probably prayed that it was hereditary and that she would inherit it. Ironically, it skipped a generation and hit me - but only in one ear. It's the reason I don't have an inside voice (at least that's my story and I'm sticking to it).
At any rate, my mother and Marlene had an understanding - no one was to call her office unless there was blood or vomit involved, and even then - there had to be significant amounts of either before she could be interrupted at work. Turns out, my mother's Administrative Assistant was also informed, on-board, and (as they say in politics) on-message. So, when we would squabble, which we did... all the time, and we called our mom to complain, tattle, or cry, her secretary would say, "You know the rule. Is there blood? Is there vomit?" When we would honestly reply, "no," she would tell us, "Then she'll see you tonight at 5:30."
Clearly, my mother believed that our self-esteem mattered... She just subscribed to the rule of parenting which said that self-restraint and self-reliance were equally important life skills.
And yes, my parents' home is beautiful, I won't lie. As an adult, I cannot imagine owning it, but as a child - I could not imagine growing up anywhere else. We each had our own bedroom, and each bedroom had massive windows the size of patio doors, and each window in each bedroom led to a wrap-around porch - the roof of which occasionally acted as a race track for my brothers and me... but only when my dad was gone... and my mom was at work... and Marlene was on vacation... and my grandmother's hearing aid was off.
As fate would have it, from time-to-time, those planets would align... kids from the neighborhood would assemble... and a second story 100 yard dash would ensue. We called it the Appalachian Games, and thankfully no one ever got hurt... until my mother found out.
You see, one day, half way through the first heat, someone left a window open, and our cat jumped onto the roof, which wasn't really a problem... until the dog ran out after it... which still wasn't really a problem... until we couldn't get them back in. All of a sudden, it was like dog racing meets Jackass - the home edition. After numerous failed attempts, we rock-paper-scissored, and the loser called our mom for help. As I dialed her office, sobbing, I asked my sister, "Why should I have to do it?" To which she replied, "One because you lost, and two because you're the youngest. We haven't had you very long, so we'll miss you the least when you're dead."
She was only half-joking. I really was the youngest.
So there I was... seven years old... wailing... waiting for my mom's Admin to pick up. When she finally answered, we ran through the drill, "Is there blood? Is there vomit?" To which I replied, "No, but the dog is on the roof." After an awkward pause I heard, "The DOG is on the roof?" Then I heard my mother in the background scream, "THE DOG IS ON THE ROOF! PUT THEM THROUGH." Within two seconds, I heard my mother's voice say, "mkromd, why is the DOG on the ROOF?" To which I replied, "Because it was chasing the cat." Then I handed the phone to my sister and walked away.
They said I had to call and tell her. They didn't say how long I had to wait for her response.
It may well be the only time my mother ever came home early. As the four of us and the dog stood on the roof, watching her car come up the front drive, we knew the Appalachian Games would be more like the Olympics... they would be every four years because that's how long we would be grounded.
Talk to you next week.
In short, she’s my hero. And not because her list of accolades is long, distinguished, and well deserved; but because the only two of them that ever mattered to her were the ones she received for being a good partner and parent. In return, my father adored her all of his life, and my siblings and I love her immeasurably - regardless of the fact that she has handed us some very expensive shoes to fill. That said, being her daughter has not always been easy.
However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
Growing up in Appalachia in the 1970s as the youngest of four had its own unique set of pros and cons. Kids still walked or biked everywhere. Most TVs only had four channels - ABC, NBC, CBS and PBS. And - not only was dinner on the table at 6:00 every night - everyone was around the table to eat it. And it's true that we had a housekeeper/nanny, but only because my father travelled a lot and my mother worked 50 hour weeks. I assure you, our caregiver (Marlene) was not a perk, she was a necessity who became an extended member of our family and deserved EACH and EVERY dollar she made. Not only did she shuttle four kids to and from school and athletic activities, but she cooked and cleaned up after us as well. No small feat, given that my parents' home is a 10,000 square foot Victorian... and we were not good children.
When Marlene was on vacation, the task of watching us fell to my grandmother... who was deaf. And while some of you may think being unable to process sound is a curse, you never got stuck supervising the four of us. To this day, I don't think she ever felt like she "suffered" from hearing loss. To the contrary, I think she relished it, and some days my mother probably prayed that it was hereditary and that she would inherit it. Ironically, it skipped a generation and hit me - but only in one ear. It's the reason I don't have an inside voice (at least that's my story and I'm sticking to it).
At any rate, my mother and Marlene had an understanding - no one was to call her office unless there was blood or vomit involved, and even then - there had to be significant amounts of either before she could be interrupted at work. Turns out, my mother's Administrative Assistant was also informed, on-board, and (as they say in politics) on-message. So, when we would squabble, which we did... all the time, and we called our mom to complain, tattle, or cry, her secretary would say, "You know the rule. Is there blood? Is there vomit?" When we would honestly reply, "no," she would tell us, "Then she'll see you tonight at 5:30."
Clearly, my mother believed that our self-esteem mattered... She just subscribed to the rule of parenting which said that self-restraint and self-reliance were equally important life skills.
And yes, my parents' home is beautiful, I won't lie. As an adult, I cannot imagine owning it, but as a child - I could not imagine growing up anywhere else. We each had our own bedroom, and each bedroom had massive windows the size of patio doors, and each window in each bedroom led to a wrap-around porch - the roof of which occasionally acted as a race track for my brothers and me... but only when my dad was gone... and my mom was at work... and Marlene was on vacation... and my grandmother's hearing aid was off.
As fate would have it, from time-to-time, those planets would align... kids from the neighborhood would assemble... and a second story 100 yard dash would ensue. We called it the Appalachian Games, and thankfully no one ever got hurt... until my mother found out.
You see, one day, half way through the first heat, someone left a window open, and our cat jumped onto the roof, which wasn't really a problem... until the dog ran out after it... which still wasn't really a problem... until we couldn't get them back in. All of a sudden, it was like dog racing meets Jackass - the home edition. After numerous failed attempts, we rock-paper-scissored, and the loser called our mom for help. As I dialed her office, sobbing, I asked my sister, "Why should I have to do it?" To which she replied, "One because you lost, and two because you're the youngest. We haven't had you very long, so we'll miss you the least when you're dead."
She was only half-joking. I really was the youngest.
So there I was... seven years old... wailing... waiting for my mom's Admin to pick up. When she finally answered, we ran through the drill, "Is there blood? Is there vomit?" To which I replied, "No, but the dog is on the roof." After an awkward pause I heard, "The DOG is on the roof?" Then I heard my mother in the background scream, "THE DOG IS ON THE ROOF! PUT THEM THROUGH." Within two seconds, I heard my mother's voice say, "mkromd, why is the DOG on the ROOF?" To which I replied, "Because it was chasing the cat." Then I handed the phone to my sister and walked away.
They said I had to call and tell her. They didn't say how long I had to wait for her response.
It may well be the only time my mother ever came home early. As the four of us and the dog stood on the roof, watching her car come up the front drive, we knew the Appalachian Games would be more like the Olympics... they would be every four years because that's how long we would be grounded.
Talk to you next week.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Where am I going... and why am I in this handbasket?
I have a confession to make. I love Adam Sandler. I've seen every movie he's ever made. I've watched every Saturday Night Live skit he's ever done, and I own every song he's ever written. No, I'm not some crazy stalker chick (unless you happen to own the Indonesian Blog kewtawa lucu - because in that case, yes - I blog stalked you, but only that one time, I promise). I just think he's brilliant, and I love that he can make fun of himself and let us in on the joke, too. And though some people think he's low brow, his album, "What the Hell Happened to Me" falls squarely into the category of possessions you would only get because you ripped it from my cold, dead hands.
But I digress... The point is that this week was one of those weeks. You know the kind - where God keeps sending hate messages to you but you still somehow think you can "turn it around"... and you can't, so instead - you pull out your sanity toolkit and just try to survive it. Yeah, that kind of week. When this happens to me, I dig deep into my bag of tricks and pull out two staples: Krispy Kreme and (yes, you guessed it) Adam Sandler. The good news is that I made it. The bad news is that my pants don't fit. I look pregnant, which only makes sense, because the second I ate that box of doughnuts, I knew I was fucked. But that's still not the point.
The point is that, as I was driving and listening to "What the Hell Happened to Me," I began to wonder why God hates me and (more importantly) how I ended up as this person. How did I actually become MKROMD? Personally, I believe I should blame my large, codependent family. I firmly think they deserve it. When I ran the idea past my mother, she said, "You read too much into things. Maybe this world is just another world's hell." And while she's probably right, she still didn't answer my question. So I asked my therapist.
Given that I'm a squirrel on Jolt, it shouldn't surprise anyone that I have one.
You see, I got divorced two years ago, and anyone who has ever been in that boat knows you're so mentally and physically exhausted and so emotionally and spiritually depleted because of it that you simply do not have the wherewithal to deal with your own problems. You aren't ready to face your trust issues or answer the question, "Who am I?" So, you outsource it... much like you do your housecleaning and your pet care, and you let someone else do the work for you, at least for a while anyway. As Meatloaf said, “You can’t run away forever, but there’s nothing wrong with getting a good head start.”
And normally, this philosophy has worked pretty well for me… that is until I realized that my life is at a STOP sign, and I can keep looking left - into the past. Or, I can look right - towards the future. I simply cannot look both directions at once anymore. And I'm ready to move forward. When I asked my therapist (Dr. A) "How?" She said, "MKROMD, you're the most guarded person I've ever met. You don't allow yourself to feel anything. Every answer you give is one hundred percent logically processed."
At that moment, three thoughts went through my head:
1) As a highly competitive person, I thought, "Sweet! I just won the MOST GUARDED HUMAN BEING SHE'S EVER MET award."
2) I do too have feelings, because right now I feel EXHAUSTED! And trust me sister, it’s real!
3) My therapist thinks I'm “emotionally challenged.”
So, when I have these revelations or a crisis of conscience, I do what I always do... I call my best friend. Now, you should know something. TB is an amazing woman. And while there are literally thousands of adjectives to describe her (wonderful, gorgeous, logical, brilliant, athletic, funny, and sincere), there are two that have never been used: soft or vulnerable. She is as street smart as she is book smart, and she is the most determined soul I have ever known. And when I told her that I was diagnosed as being emotionally disabled, she said, "I don't disagree. I just don't understand why that's a problem, and I think it's ironic that you FEEL like she THINKS that you're an emotional charity case... Besides, why do you give a shit what anyone thinks about you anyway?"
Clearly, this is why we're best friends.
We also agreed that it was probably for the best that I didn't tell Dr. A, "I have feelings... it's just that when one occasionally pops up, I beat it into submission, shove it into a bell jar, and drown it with tequila. Then, if after ALL OF THAT it still has the nerve to bother me again, I kick it one last time for good measure." I'm joking... I don't really drink anymore.
Anyway, after hearing my best friend's perspective, I was very interested in hearing DB's, and when I asked him what he thought, in his calm, Buddhisty way, he said, "I don't agree that you're emotionally crippled, but you're very guarded. Everyone sees you laugh every day, but I may be one of the only people in this world who have ever seen you cry. Some emotional archaeology might not be a bad thing." Since my degree is in Anthropology, I told him it was my professional opinion that trust was good, but control was better.
Then I realized something... Maybe he's right. You can't trust people you can't trust, but you don't have to distrust everyone, and I actually don't. I do trust DB. In fact, I trust him with my life. He is the one person in this world where I can simply be myself. He is this amazing refuge from the world when it all starts spinning out of control. And for the record, maybe Kandinsky was wrong. Maybe control isn't the counterpart to chaos. Maybe calm is. And DB brings me to that. He takes me out of the storm and pulls me to the center where it's actually peaceful.
He often says, "Just because life gets crazy, doesn't mean you have to be." But he says it far more eloquently than I ever could, and I love and adore him beyond measure for it. And I'm ready to do more than sell two houses and have one home. I'm ready for us to have a life together. So, much to my family's chagrin, I'm going to do a little emotional archaeology. And Mel - you're finally going to get your wish. I'm going to write about growing up in Appalachia. And to my large codependent family whom I also love beyond measure, I hope you laugh as hard when you read it as I will when I write it. And to DB, let's do this.
Talk to you next week.
But I digress... The point is that this week was one of those weeks. You know the kind - where God keeps sending hate messages to you but you still somehow think you can "turn it around"... and you can't, so instead - you pull out your sanity toolkit and just try to survive it. Yeah, that kind of week. When this happens to me, I dig deep into my bag of tricks and pull out two staples: Krispy Kreme and (yes, you guessed it) Adam Sandler. The good news is that I made it. The bad news is that my pants don't fit. I look pregnant, which only makes sense, because the second I ate that box of doughnuts, I knew I was fucked. But that's still not the point.
The point is that, as I was driving and listening to "What the Hell Happened to Me," I began to wonder why God hates me and (more importantly) how I ended up as this person. How did I actually become MKROMD? Personally, I believe I should blame my large, codependent family. I firmly think they deserve it. When I ran the idea past my mother, she said, "You read too much into things. Maybe this world is just another world's hell." And while she's probably right, she still didn't answer my question. So I asked my therapist.
Given that I'm a squirrel on Jolt, it shouldn't surprise anyone that I have one.
You see, I got divorced two years ago, and anyone who has ever been in that boat knows you're so mentally and physically exhausted and so emotionally and spiritually depleted because of it that you simply do not have the wherewithal to deal with your own problems. You aren't ready to face your trust issues or answer the question, "Who am I?" So, you outsource it... much like you do your housecleaning and your pet care, and you let someone else do the work for you, at least for a while anyway. As Meatloaf said, “You can’t run away forever, but there’s nothing wrong with getting a good head start.”
And normally, this philosophy has worked pretty well for me… that is until I realized that my life is at a STOP sign, and I can keep looking left - into the past. Or, I can look right - towards the future. I simply cannot look both directions at once anymore. And I'm ready to move forward. When I asked my therapist (Dr. A) "How?" She said, "MKROMD, you're the most guarded person I've ever met. You don't allow yourself to feel anything. Every answer you give is one hundred percent logically processed."
At that moment, three thoughts went through my head:
1) As a highly competitive person, I thought, "Sweet! I just won the MOST GUARDED HUMAN BEING SHE'S EVER MET award."
2) I do too have feelings, because right now I feel EXHAUSTED! And trust me sister, it’s real!
3) My therapist thinks I'm “emotionally challenged.”
So, when I have these revelations or a crisis of conscience, I do what I always do... I call my best friend. Now, you should know something. TB is an amazing woman. And while there are literally thousands of adjectives to describe her (wonderful, gorgeous, logical, brilliant, athletic, funny, and sincere), there are two that have never been used: soft or vulnerable. She is as street smart as she is book smart, and she is the most determined soul I have ever known. And when I told her that I was diagnosed as being emotionally disabled, she said, "I don't disagree. I just don't understand why that's a problem, and I think it's ironic that you FEEL like she THINKS that you're an emotional charity case... Besides, why do you give a shit what anyone thinks about you anyway?"
Clearly, this is why we're best friends.
We also agreed that it was probably for the best that I didn't tell Dr. A, "I have feelings... it's just that when one occasionally pops up, I beat it into submission, shove it into a bell jar, and drown it with tequila. Then, if after ALL OF THAT it still has the nerve to bother me again, I kick it one last time for good measure." I'm joking... I don't really drink anymore.
Anyway, after hearing my best friend's perspective, I was very interested in hearing DB's, and when I asked him what he thought, in his calm, Buddhisty way, he said, "I don't agree that you're emotionally crippled, but you're very guarded. Everyone sees you laugh every day, but I may be one of the only people in this world who have ever seen you cry. Some emotional archaeology might not be a bad thing." Since my degree is in Anthropology, I told him it was my professional opinion that trust was good, but control was better.
Then I realized something... Maybe he's right. You can't trust people you can't trust, but you don't have to distrust everyone, and I actually don't. I do trust DB. In fact, I trust him with my life. He is the one person in this world where I can simply be myself. He is this amazing refuge from the world when it all starts spinning out of control. And for the record, maybe Kandinsky was wrong. Maybe control isn't the counterpart to chaos. Maybe calm is. And DB brings me to that. He takes me out of the storm and pulls me to the center where it's actually peaceful.
He often says, "Just because life gets crazy, doesn't mean you have to be." But he says it far more eloquently than I ever could, and I love and adore him beyond measure for it. And I'm ready to do more than sell two houses and have one home. I'm ready for us to have a life together. So, much to my family's chagrin, I'm going to do a little emotional archaeology. And Mel - you're finally going to get your wish. I'm going to write about growing up in Appalachia. And to my large codependent family whom I also love beyond measure, I hope you laugh as hard when you read it as I will when I write it. And to DB, let's do this.
Talk to you next week.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Woody Allen said it best in Sleeper: This tastes awful! I could have made a fortune selling it in my health food store.
The following is my attempt at a public service announcement. It should be said that I'm not a doctor. I don't even play one on TV, but I recently discovered something important about Addison's Disease, and I want to share it. Please note that, for the record, by no means am I suggesting you should listen to me instead of your own physician, about this or any other topic.
Two years ago, my doctor had me tested for Addison's. As far as diseases go, it's not a bad one to have, so long as you never go into a state called Addisonian Crisis, which thankfully I never have... and that's good considering that I don't actually have Addison's. What I have is a pretty lethal allergy to flax. Yes, flax. And here I thought it was the taste that would kill me... Turns out it's the actual grain itself. All jokes aside, it was poisoning me to the point that, if we were playing Clue, it'd be MKROMD, in the kitchen, from linseed. But I digress...
The point is that it was a fluke we figured it out at all. You see, after several brutal nights of leg cramps, I'd had it and logged on to Google to research my pain management options when I stumbled across an obscure article/blog that said, "Flax allergies can present as Addisons." So I read it and cut flax out of my diet. Within one week, most of my symptoms had gone away; however, because God hates me and trust is good but control is better, I immediately called one of my best friends who is a doctor and called in a favor.
Now, I try to respect that, just because she's a physician, she isn't my physician, but she owes me, and she knows it. You see, after I got divorced and before I started dating DB, she and her husband invited me out on their sailboat. I've known them forever and she's wonderful. She may actually be one of the nicest people I know, and not just because she is professionally obligated to, "First do no harm." But because this woman radiates kindness and warmth.
Clearly we're only friends because opposites attract.
Anyway, you can imagine my horror when she no longer exuded love or had my best interests at heart, and she set me up... on a date... on their boat... where I was trapped... on a lake, but I’m NOT bitter, and I want to officially state - for the record - that I thought it would just be the two of them and me. That's why I agreed to go. But no, it wasn't just the three of us TAKING MY MIND OFF MY DIVORCE. It was the two of them, another couple who had just gotten engaged, and a friend of theirs who was also divorced. It was awkward to say the least, and the second that all of us were introduced, the divorcé and I understood that our marital status and Sunday plans were NOT coincidental. We were being set up. Thank GOD for us the newly engaged couple was fascinating to the point of distraction. He was forty-six and she was twenty-seven. He was also a surgeon, and the closest she'd come to medical school was the boob job he'd given her. A boob job that I couldn't stop staring at! In my defense, we were on a boat.... and it was choppy... and when a woman's very large breasts don't bounce with the waves, you're intrigued. So I'm mouthing to my good friend, "THOSE CAN'T BE REAL" when Barbie catches us and says, "Of course they’re not real. They were an early wedding present. Want to touch them?"
Now you need to know something about me... I am drawn to the bizarre like a moth to the flame. I wish I wasn't, because it NEVER ends well for me, but I am! And it isn't that I wanted to touch them so much as I NEEDED to know what a boob job feels like. So I did it, I touched one. And I’m standing there… on a boat… getting to first base… with a woman who is engaged… in front a man who is my date. Before things could get weird, my friend handed me another Bloody Mary and said, “This isn’t a BLIND date, you idiot. HE CAN SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING.”
While she still feels awful for trying to set me up before I was ready, we laugh to this day as we wonder if he thought I was a lesbian or just a skank from Mid-Life Crisis Women Gone Wild. And since she crossed the friend line and set me up, I crossed the professional line and asked her for her take on things. At lunch, she agreed and said, "DEFINITELY, but remember what Mark Twain said: 'Careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.' Cut out the flax for a month then go see your doctor." Turns out, we were right! So if you're reading this blog because it appeared as a reference for Addison's, do yourself a favor. Read about flax allergies and go see your doctor, even if he or she isn't a friend of yours who has tried to set you up.
Talk to you next week.
Two years ago, my doctor had me tested for Addison's. As far as diseases go, it's not a bad one to have, so long as you never go into a state called Addisonian Crisis, which thankfully I never have... and that's good considering that I don't actually have Addison's. What I have is a pretty lethal allergy to flax. Yes, flax. And here I thought it was the taste that would kill me... Turns out it's the actual grain itself. All jokes aside, it was poisoning me to the point that, if we were playing Clue, it'd be MKROMD, in the kitchen, from linseed. But I digress...
The point is that it was a fluke we figured it out at all. You see, after several brutal nights of leg cramps, I'd had it and logged on to Google to research my pain management options when I stumbled across an obscure article/blog that said, "Flax allergies can present as Addisons." So I read it and cut flax out of my diet. Within one week, most of my symptoms had gone away; however, because God hates me and trust is good but control is better, I immediately called one of my best friends who is a doctor and called in a favor.
Now, I try to respect that, just because she's a physician, she isn't my physician, but she owes me, and she knows it. You see, after I got divorced and before I started dating DB, she and her husband invited me out on their sailboat. I've known them forever and she's wonderful. She may actually be one of the nicest people I know, and not just because she is professionally obligated to, "First do no harm." But because this woman radiates kindness and warmth.
Clearly we're only friends because opposites attract.
Anyway, you can imagine my horror when she no longer exuded love or had my best interests at heart, and she set me up... on a date... on their boat... where I was trapped... on a lake, but I’m NOT bitter, and I want to officially state - for the record - that I thought it would just be the two of them and me. That's why I agreed to go. But no, it wasn't just the three of us TAKING MY MIND OFF MY DIVORCE. It was the two of them, another couple who had just gotten engaged, and a friend of theirs who was also divorced. It was awkward to say the least, and the second that all of us were introduced, the divorcé and I understood that our marital status and Sunday plans were NOT coincidental. We were being set up. Thank GOD for us the newly engaged couple was fascinating to the point of distraction. He was forty-six and she was twenty-seven. He was also a surgeon, and the closest she'd come to medical school was the boob job he'd given her. A boob job that I couldn't stop staring at! In my defense, we were on a boat.... and it was choppy... and when a woman's very large breasts don't bounce with the waves, you're intrigued. So I'm mouthing to my good friend, "THOSE CAN'T BE REAL" when Barbie catches us and says, "Of course they’re not real. They were an early wedding present. Want to touch them?"
Now you need to know something about me... I am drawn to the bizarre like a moth to the flame. I wish I wasn't, because it NEVER ends well for me, but I am! And it isn't that I wanted to touch them so much as I NEEDED to know what a boob job feels like. So I did it, I touched one. And I’m standing there… on a boat… getting to first base… with a woman who is engaged… in front a man who is my date. Before things could get weird, my friend handed me another Bloody Mary and said, “This isn’t a BLIND date, you idiot. HE CAN SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING.”
While she still feels awful for trying to set me up before I was ready, we laugh to this day as we wonder if he thought I was a lesbian or just a skank from Mid-Life Crisis Women Gone Wild. And since she crossed the friend line and set me up, I crossed the professional line and asked her for her take on things. At lunch, she agreed and said, "DEFINITELY, but remember what Mark Twain said: 'Careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.' Cut out the flax for a month then go see your doctor." Turns out, we were right! So if you're reading this blog because it appeared as a reference for Addison's, do yourself a favor. Read about flax allergies and go see your doctor, even if he or she isn't a friend of yours who has tried to set you up.
Talk to you next week.
Friday, September 3, 2010
If blogging were an Olympic sport, I'd be losing to Indonesia
I'm officially addicted to blogging. It’s true, I am… I log on every night to see if people post comments for me to read. I'm still learning how all of this works; however, since I never see any - I'm hopeful that I'm not just missing the obvious. And, if I am, then I'm REALLY sorry.
But I digress.
The point is that, a while ago, when I was researching what it takes to "maximize my blogging experience," I stumbled across a tracker that tells me things like how many hits I get every day, the number of new visitors to my site, etc. And this really appeals to me, especially the competitive side of me. So not only do I log on every evening to write, I now also spend time checking out how I'm doing compared to other blogs.
Right now I'm 368, and actually… that’s not too bad considering I started out in 500th place. But the thing that freakishly fascinates me is that I'm always right behind an Indonesian blog called, "ketawa lucu". Now, if you know me, and some of you may, then you know I'm shallow on the surface and curious to the core. Either one of these faults by itself is fatal, combined they're the makings of an Aristotelian tragedy. But I NEEDED to know what they have that I don't, so I checked their stats and I visited their site. Yes, I blog stalked them. And here's what my exercise in futility uncovered: It's not in English, they get more hits every week than I do, and they have a bigger following than MKROMD.
In other words, if blogging were an Olympic sport, I’d be losing to a country who isn't even good at Cricket.
When I met TB for lunch and told her about it, she said, "Jesus, if that isn't a metaphor for your life, then I have no idea what is." I hate it when she's right. And MORE than that, the thing about this self-imposed "cold war" is that I now sit and wonder if there’s a middle-aged, single woman somewhere in Southeast Asia addicted to her “kewtawa lucu” blog, typing into the wee hours of the morning, posting, then tracking her progress and thinking "Aku akan makan anjing Anda.” Which is Javanese for, “You're damn right your karma ran over your dogma. You're going down, and I'll eat your dog, too.” And that makes me like her. It makes me believe that the Internet actually CAN forge relationships between like-minded people, regardless of their geography, and that a little friendly competition is not only natural, it's healthy.
That said, let’s be honest and admit that if blogging can be a unifying force between some people and cultures, it can also be dangerously divisive in others (albeit indirectly sometimes). And to prove my point, one day, not so long ago, when I was completely sleep deprived from working all day and writing all night, I had to call a Computer Help Line because of some software issues I was having (ads about Indonesian women kept popping up on my home laptop). This wasn't the first time I'd been in this boat, and like before - the Asian man on the phone who was trying to help me didn't think this was actually a problem, so he wasn't really going to do much to fix it. And that's when I snapped. I knew I was an addict because I actually heard myself say, "kewtawa lucu isn't the only ass I'm going to kick."
After a brief, awkward pause in our conversation I realized that I had used my out-loud voice, because I heard him say, "It's funny. Laugh."
Once I could regain my composure, I apologized but added that I wasn't amused. To which he replied, "No ma'am, kewtawa lucu means it's funny, laugh." And I did... I laughed harder than I'd laughed in weeks, and I STILL think I should post a comment on that Indonesian woman's blog so that she could laugh, too. Clearly, we have a lot in common... other than the occasional desire to see my destructive, bat-shit crazy dog in a large pot of boiling water.
Talk to you next week.
But I digress.
The point is that, a while ago, when I was researching what it takes to "maximize my blogging experience," I stumbled across a tracker that tells me things like how many hits I get every day, the number of new visitors to my site, etc. And this really appeals to me, especially the competitive side of me. So not only do I log on every evening to write, I now also spend time checking out how I'm doing compared to other blogs.
Right now I'm 368, and actually… that’s not too bad considering I started out in 500th place. But the thing that freakishly fascinates me is that I'm always right behind an Indonesian blog called, "ketawa lucu". Now, if you know me, and some of you may, then you know I'm shallow on the surface and curious to the core. Either one of these faults by itself is fatal, combined they're the makings of an Aristotelian tragedy. But I NEEDED to know what they have that I don't, so I checked their stats and I visited their site. Yes, I blog stalked them. And here's what my exercise in futility uncovered: It's not in English, they get more hits every week than I do, and they have a bigger following than MKROMD.
In other words, if blogging were an Olympic sport, I’d be losing to a country who isn't even good at Cricket.
When I met TB for lunch and told her about it, she said, "Jesus, if that isn't a metaphor for your life, then I have no idea what is." I hate it when she's right. And MORE than that, the thing about this self-imposed "cold war" is that I now sit and wonder if there’s a middle-aged, single woman somewhere in Southeast Asia addicted to her “kewtawa lucu” blog, typing into the wee hours of the morning, posting, then tracking her progress and thinking "Aku akan makan anjing Anda.” Which is Javanese for, “You're damn right your karma ran over your dogma. You're going down, and I'll eat your dog, too.” And that makes me like her. It makes me believe that the Internet actually CAN forge relationships between like-minded people, regardless of their geography, and that a little friendly competition is not only natural, it's healthy.
That said, let’s be honest and admit that if blogging can be a unifying force between some people and cultures, it can also be dangerously divisive in others (albeit indirectly sometimes). And to prove my point, one day, not so long ago, when I was completely sleep deprived from working all day and writing all night, I had to call a Computer Help Line because of some software issues I was having (ads about Indonesian women kept popping up on my home laptop). This wasn't the first time I'd been in this boat, and like before - the Asian man on the phone who was trying to help me didn't think this was actually a problem, so he wasn't really going to do much to fix it. And that's when I snapped. I knew I was an addict because I actually heard myself say, "kewtawa lucu isn't the only ass I'm going to kick."
After a brief, awkward pause in our conversation I realized that I had used my out-loud voice, because I heard him say, "It's funny. Laugh."
Once I could regain my composure, I apologized but added that I wasn't amused. To which he replied, "No ma'am, kewtawa lucu means it's funny, laugh." And I did... I laughed harder than I'd laughed in weeks, and I STILL think I should post a comment on that Indonesian woman's blog so that she could laugh, too. Clearly, we have a lot in common... other than the occasional desire to see my destructive, bat-shit crazy dog in a large pot of boiling water.
Talk to you next week.
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