I was recently reading a post on Phoenix's blog that reminded me of something that happened to the daughter of a family friend. Thought I might share it.
Once upon a time, a young woman was working at a convenience store in a small semi-rural town. She was working the swing shift to help pay for school.
Now, usually someone else worked the shift with her, because she tended to work weekends and those were busy nights. But one week she covered the shift for someone on a different night and ended up working by herself.
Late that rainy night a man came into the store and started wandering up and down the aisles as if looking for something. After a few minutes he came up to the counter and asked if they had any peaches. "I'm looking for canned peaches and I can't find them." The young woman replied that the peaches were on isle 2. The man went to isle 2 looked around and came back to the counter. "I can't find them. Would you see if you can?"
By now the young woman was beginning to think that there was something wrong with the man, but she complied and went to the isle where the peaches were and then called to him, "Do you want the large can or the small one?" He replied that the large one would be fine. When she returned to the register with the can of peaches, she saw that the man had opened his raincoat. Underneath he was naked. And to add insult to injury, he was standing with his hips up against the counter and his penis laying on the counter.
Very flustered and not sure quite what to do, she didn't want to encourage him, she did the first thing that came to mind. "That will be $2.oo sir", she said as she slammed the can down onto the penis.
Of course the man then fell to the floor moaning and screaming and holding himself. She, being a kind hearted girl, began to worry that she might have done him serious damage and called the paramedics.
When they arrived, they were a bit surprised to find a man lying on the floor holding his crotch, crying an wearing nothing but an overcoat and boots. As they placed him on a stretcher and started to raise it up and release the wheels, they asked what had happened. When they heard the story they laughed so hard that they dropped the stretcher and broke the man's arm.
My guess is that if the guy ever tries that again, he'll be asking for cotton balls.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Driver's Ed
OK, that's it. I cannot keep my mouth shut any longer! (As if I ever could.) Having moved here to PA last August, and keenly observing what pass as motorists in this state, I have a few things to say. Specifically to PA drivers. But if you don't live in PA and the shoe fits...well you know the rest.
1. You know those things on the sides of the road? The sticks with the funny shapes on top? They're called SIGNS. They have pictures on them or numbers or words. All of these have a PURPOSE. If you don't know how to read, then LEARN and if you do, THEN LEARN TO FOLLOW DIRECTIONS!
2. You know those pretty lines that are painted on the roadways? Contrary to what seems to be popular opinion, THEY ARE NOT ART! They have a PURPOSE. PICK A LANE, ANY LANE, AS LONG AS IT IS ONLY ONE AT A TIME!
3. Now, if this offends left handed people, I apologize. The reality is that in this country we drive on the RIGHT side of the road. And like it or not, left turns do NOT have the right of way. Even in Pennsylvania. I checked. So if you want to drive on the left or for left turns to have the right of way, I suggest you move to Europe.
4. An intersection is a place where two or more roads meet, cross or in some way come together. Notice those cool psychedelic lights hanging there? THEY ARE NOT FOR DECORATION! RED means to STOP. Preferably BEFORE entering said intersection. GREEN means to GO, not sit and check your makeup. And contrary to popular belief, as well as the movie Starman, YELLOW DOES NOT MEAN GO VERY FAST.
thanks for listening.
P.S. DO NOT USE THE RIGHT LANE TO TURN LEFT DAMN IT! y'all are startin' to piss me off!
1. You know those things on the sides of the road? The sticks with the funny shapes on top? They're called SIGNS. They have pictures on them or numbers or words. All of these have a PURPOSE. If you don't know how to read, then LEARN and if you do, THEN LEARN TO FOLLOW DIRECTIONS!
2. You know those pretty lines that are painted on the roadways? Contrary to what seems to be popular opinion, THEY ARE NOT ART! They have a PURPOSE. PICK A LANE, ANY LANE, AS LONG AS IT IS ONLY ONE AT A TIME!
3. Now, if this offends left handed people, I apologize. The reality is that in this country we drive on the RIGHT side of the road. And like it or not, left turns do NOT have the right of way. Even in Pennsylvania. I checked. So if you want to drive on the left or for left turns to have the right of way, I suggest you move to Europe.
4. An intersection is a place where two or more roads meet, cross or in some way come together. Notice those cool psychedelic lights hanging there? THEY ARE NOT FOR DECORATION! RED means to STOP. Preferably BEFORE entering said intersection. GREEN means to GO, not sit and check your makeup. And contrary to popular belief, as well as the movie Starman, YELLOW DOES NOT MEAN GO VERY FAST.
thanks for listening.
P.S. DO NOT USE THE RIGHT LANE TO TURN LEFT DAMN IT! y'all are startin' to piss me off!
Monday, April 25, 2005
Hey Nineteen
For fairly obvious reasons,(obvious that is, if you've read any of my prior postings) I've spent a good bit of time thinking about adolescence. Mine, my children's and in general. Also about my early adulthood. Choices made, the road not taken...you get the idea. Hindsight, after all, is twenty-twenty.
Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but looking back, and during that time, I thought being a teenager sucked. Big time. Jr. High, for example, was for me a trip through hell that made Dante look like a day at Disneyland. I was shunned, despised, made the butt of cruel jokes and on a good day only had to put up with whispered insults and laughter. Some of those memories still have the power to make me cry or cringe with shame and embarrassment.
High school was a slight improvement, although the school day itself was not much improved. I had finally developed some friendships with people outside of my school district and since they didn't know that I was a pariah, their friendship kept me going. Then too, I had to some degree achieved camouflage. I managed to pretend to fit in. Sort of.
So, over the years, when people would say things like "Oh, I'd give anything to be 16 again" I'd think "I'd rather be stripped naked, rolled in honey and staked on an anthill." I've often been heard to say that there is no amount of money that could induce me to live those years over again, even knowing what I know now.
Also, I've come to believe that regret is, for the most part, a wasted emotion. The past is what it is. Deal with it and move on. If you don't like the results of past choices, learn from it or forget it and start again from where you are. The reality is that we do the best we can with what we have at the time. Right?
But. I have recently come to the conclusion that nineteen is the best year. If there were any way to go back and start over from that point, especially with today's knowledge, then I would give everything I own for the opportunity. I'd probably even sell my soul for it.
Nineteen is the perfect age. You're finally an adult. Yeah, I know, eighteen is supposedly the big year, but I was still in my senior year. Nineteen and you have the first year of adulthood under your belt. But you're still given leeway in some quarters because you have a way to go before you're twenty one. At nineteen you have energy, health and exuberant youth on your side. No permanent life altering decisions have yet been made (at least in my case). That was the year I got engaged. Trust me, that would be different the second time around!
At nineteen the world is at your feet. Wide open with opportunities. No holds barred, all is possible. And the sad part is that at the time I sensed that, but wasn't smart enough to grab hold and tenaciously pursue my dreams. For you see, I could only conceive of one way to achieve something. Once I had in my thick skull an idea of how something could be accomplished, I became a victim of tunnel vision. If my way didn't work then I couldn't conceive of there being an alternative. My god what and idiot! And so, choice by choice, I boxed myself in and was left with fewer and fewer options.
Eventually I pulled said skull out of rear bodily orifice and started to try to resurrect my dreams. Little by little I have reclaimed myself over the last ten years and am gaining ground all the time. But some things have passed me by. That's life. And if I spent too much time wallowing in regrets, then I'd be shortchanging my present and future. And to be fair, I like who I am. For the most part.
But if anyone ever offers me the chance to do it all again, starting at nineteen, with today's knowledge, then watch out world. I'd take it by storm. And I'd be willing to give just about anything for the chance. All my worldly possessions. My aforementioned soul. Hey, even better, my firstborn! Where's Rumplestiltskin when you need him? I mean to a guy who can turn straw into gold, what's a little time travel? If any of you run across him, send him my way. I think we could do business.
Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but looking back, and during that time, I thought being a teenager sucked. Big time. Jr. High, for example, was for me a trip through hell that made Dante look like a day at Disneyland. I was shunned, despised, made the butt of cruel jokes and on a good day only had to put up with whispered insults and laughter. Some of those memories still have the power to make me cry or cringe with shame and embarrassment.
High school was a slight improvement, although the school day itself was not much improved. I had finally developed some friendships with people outside of my school district and since they didn't know that I was a pariah, their friendship kept me going. Then too, I had to some degree achieved camouflage. I managed to pretend to fit in. Sort of.
So, over the years, when people would say things like "Oh, I'd give anything to be 16 again" I'd think "I'd rather be stripped naked, rolled in honey and staked on an anthill." I've often been heard to say that there is no amount of money that could induce me to live those years over again, even knowing what I know now.
Also, I've come to believe that regret is, for the most part, a wasted emotion. The past is what it is. Deal with it and move on. If you don't like the results of past choices, learn from it or forget it and start again from where you are. The reality is that we do the best we can with what we have at the time. Right?
But. I have recently come to the conclusion that nineteen is the best year. If there were any way to go back and start over from that point, especially with today's knowledge, then I would give everything I own for the opportunity. I'd probably even sell my soul for it.
Nineteen is the perfect age. You're finally an adult. Yeah, I know, eighteen is supposedly the big year, but I was still in my senior year. Nineteen and you have the first year of adulthood under your belt. But you're still given leeway in some quarters because you have a way to go before you're twenty one. At nineteen you have energy, health and exuberant youth on your side. No permanent life altering decisions have yet been made (at least in my case). That was the year I got engaged. Trust me, that would be different the second time around!
At nineteen the world is at your feet. Wide open with opportunities. No holds barred, all is possible. And the sad part is that at the time I sensed that, but wasn't smart enough to grab hold and tenaciously pursue my dreams. For you see, I could only conceive of one way to achieve something. Once I had in my thick skull an idea of how something could be accomplished, I became a victim of tunnel vision. If my way didn't work then I couldn't conceive of there being an alternative. My god what and idiot! And so, choice by choice, I boxed myself in and was left with fewer and fewer options.
Eventually I pulled said skull out of rear bodily orifice and started to try to resurrect my dreams. Little by little I have reclaimed myself over the last ten years and am gaining ground all the time. But some things have passed me by. That's life. And if I spent too much time wallowing in regrets, then I'd be shortchanging my present and future. And to be fair, I like who I am. For the most part.
But if anyone ever offers me the chance to do it all again, starting at nineteen, with today's knowledge, then watch out world. I'd take it by storm. And I'd be willing to give just about anything for the chance. All my worldly possessions. My aforementioned soul. Hey, even better, my firstborn! Where's Rumplestiltskin when you need him? I mean to a guy who can turn straw into gold, what's a little time travel? If any of you run across him, send him my way. I think we could do business.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Fountain of Youth or Masochism?
I was never one of those people who liked exercise. Couldn't find the time, didn't like pain, didn't like to sweat. No aerobics or yoga for me! No sir! The only exercise I was interested in was Zen exercise. (That's where you sit and contemplate the idea of exercise.) And to be honest, for quite a few years, I didn't need to. I was always "tall and thin". Not too tall, I'm only 5' 7" but I've always been thin.
Then came the year 2000. I turned 30-something that year and low and behold, literally overnight, like a biological hostile take-over, the body I'm living in is no longer familiar to me. In a relatively short time span I steadily gained weight. About 55 lbs of weight. It was February of 2003 before I got scared and did something about it and by October of that year, I had lost the 55 lbs and was working out on a regular basis.
So now I work at the health club where get my exercise. I cover the front desk duties during the day shift. 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. Mostly this means, sitting on my tush, reading a book and checking on the computer screen each time a member of the club comes in. A few other odds and ends, but that's how I spend the majority of my day. After I clock out, I do my workout and go home. Keeping the weight off is not a task that gets easier with the years.
The other thing I do all day is people watch. It's a fascinating pastime. And they talk to me. They're all there for different reasons. Some for rehabilitation, some want to get ready for summer. There are folks who want to feel better, look better or be better. All of varying ages and sizes and degrees of health. And then I realized. We were all chasing the fountain of youth.
I mean, isn't that what we miss about being young? That feeling of health, so basic as to go unnoticed and unappreciated. That irrepressible belief that you are invincible, immortal, immune.
And then I thought about how hard many of these people work to achieve this goal. I thought of my workout routine (recently revamped and re-amped by my sadistic trainer) and the pain and torture I put myself through five days a week. I thought about the red faces, the dripping hair, the looks of sheer exhaustion on people's faces when they leave.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we're all blind. Maybe we're not chasing the fountain of youth. Maybe we're all just a bunch of middle-class, suburbanite closet masochists expressing those tendencies in a socially appropriate way.
Then came the year 2000. I turned 30-something that year and low and behold, literally overnight, like a biological hostile take-over, the body I'm living in is no longer familiar to me. In a relatively short time span I steadily gained weight. About 55 lbs of weight. It was February of 2003 before I got scared and did something about it and by October of that year, I had lost the 55 lbs and was working out on a regular basis.
So now I work at the health club where get my exercise. I cover the front desk duties during the day shift. 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. Mostly this means, sitting on my tush, reading a book and checking on the computer screen each time a member of the club comes in. A few other odds and ends, but that's how I spend the majority of my day. After I clock out, I do my workout and go home. Keeping the weight off is not a task that gets easier with the years.
The other thing I do all day is people watch. It's a fascinating pastime. And they talk to me. They're all there for different reasons. Some for rehabilitation, some want to get ready for summer. There are folks who want to feel better, look better or be better. All of varying ages and sizes and degrees of health. And then I realized. We were all chasing the fountain of youth.
I mean, isn't that what we miss about being young? That feeling of health, so basic as to go unnoticed and unappreciated. That irrepressible belief that you are invincible, immortal, immune.
And then I thought about how hard many of these people work to achieve this goal. I thought of my workout routine (recently revamped and re-amped by my sadistic trainer) and the pain and torture I put myself through five days a week. I thought about the red faces, the dripping hair, the looks of sheer exhaustion on people's faces when they leave.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we're all blind. Maybe we're not chasing the fountain of youth. Maybe we're all just a bunch of middle-class, suburbanite closet masochists expressing those tendencies in a socially appropriate way.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
No more Jerry
Ok. It's been three days. Three days since my life has changed in a very significant way. I thought I would be depressed at the very least and a severe basket case at the worst. For the first time in sixteen years, I am separated from the child I gave birth to. And not just for a couple of weeks at boy scout camp. He's gone for good. Barring the occasional visit. He does not live with me anymore. Two years sooner than expected.
Now, I've always said that I wouldn't be one of those women who suffer from empty nest syndrome. God please deliver me from the full nest, was almost my mantra. But I don't think I believed it when it came to my youngest. And yet.......
I admit I was a bit teary at the airport. As was he. But the sense of calmness, and peace has been spreading ever since. Am I truly the horrible mother I always suspected myself of being? Shouldn't I be tearing my hair, wailing and wearing sackcloth and ashes? This slow building of euphoria must mean that I will rot in a hell designed for unfit mothers.
I love the child in question immensely. And I do miss him. But I realized the other night, that the child I miss, is not the child that has been living with me for the last eighteen months. I've already gotten used to missing him.
He is the third of four children to wrest his freedom from the evil clutches of his parents. And he's is the youngest of the four. My husband has mentioned more than once in the last six months, that he misses our oldest daughter who moved out on her own last July. I say nothing because I don't miss her. (What I really don't miss is the drama. Same goes for the oldest). But I really don't miss them. Any of them. I just feel relief.
I've already turned his room into a guest room. It's gorgeous. Anybody want to come and visit? You'll have your own room. Kind of cold hearted, huh?
I have friends just starting their families. And I see neighbors and others in my community with precious little infants or young children. And all I can think is, thank god it's not me.
So, I guess no more Jerry Springer. Cancel that appointment with the producers. And I don't need a raise. I just needed release.
Now, I've always said that I wouldn't be one of those women who suffer from empty nest syndrome. God please deliver me from the full nest, was almost my mantra. But I don't think I believed it when it came to my youngest. And yet.......
I admit I was a bit teary at the airport. As was he. But the sense of calmness, and peace has been spreading ever since. Am I truly the horrible mother I always suspected myself of being? Shouldn't I be tearing my hair, wailing and wearing sackcloth and ashes? This slow building of euphoria must mean that I will rot in a hell designed for unfit mothers.
I love the child in question immensely. And I do miss him. But I realized the other night, that the child I miss, is not the child that has been living with me for the last eighteen months. I've already gotten used to missing him.
He is the third of four children to wrest his freedom from the evil clutches of his parents. And he's is the youngest of the four. My husband has mentioned more than once in the last six months, that he misses our oldest daughter who moved out on her own last July. I say nothing because I don't miss her. (What I really don't miss is the drama. Same goes for the oldest). But I really don't miss them. Any of them. I just feel relief.
I've already turned his room into a guest room. It's gorgeous. Anybody want to come and visit? You'll have your own room. Kind of cold hearted, huh?
I have friends just starting their families. And I see neighbors and others in my community with precious little infants or young children. And all I can think is, thank god it's not me.
So, I guess no more Jerry Springer. Cancel that appointment with the producers. And I don't need a raise. I just needed release.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Parenthood
exhaustion, relief.
amazement, joy and pride.
fear.
laughter, tenderness.
wonder, recognition and accomplishment
fear.
frustration, desperation.
relief, gratitude and humility.
fear.
hope, amazement.
worry, awe and love.
fear.
sorrow, betrayal.
guilt, anger and confusion.
fear.
how do i let go?
amazement, joy and pride.
fear.
laughter, tenderness.
wonder, recognition and accomplishment
fear.
frustration, desperation.
relief, gratitude and humility.
fear.
hope, amazement.
worry, awe and love.
fear.
sorrow, betrayal.
guilt, anger and confusion.
fear.
how do i let go?
Monday, April 11, 2005
The New Living Will
I, _________________________ (fill in the blank), being of sound mind and body, do not wish to be kept alive indefinitely by artificial means.
Under no circumstances should my fate be put in the hands of ethically challenged politicians who couldn't pass ninth-grade biology if their lives depended on it. If a reasonable amount of time passes and I fail to sit up and ask for a cold beer, it should be presumed that I won't ever get better. When such a determination is reached, I hereby instruct my spouse, children and attending physicians to pull the plug, reel in the tubes and call it a day. Under no circumstances shall the hypocritical members of the Legislature (State or Federal) enact a special law to keep me on life-support machinery. It is my wish that these boneheads mind their own damn business, and pay attention instead to the health, education and future of the millions of Americans who aren't in a permanent coma. Under no circumstances shall any politicians butt into this case. I don't care how many fundamentalist votes they're trying to scrounge for their run for the presidency, it is my wish that they play politics with someone else's life and leave me alone to die in peace. I couldn't care less if a hundred religious zealots send e-mails to legislators in which they pretend to care about me. I don't know these people, and I certainly haven't authorized them to preach and crusade on my behalf. They should mind their own damn business, too. If any of my family goes against my wishes and turns my case into a political cause, I hereby promise to come back from the grave and make his or her existence a living hell.
_______________
Dated
______________________
Signature
________________________________
Witness
________________________________
Witness
Under no circumstances should my fate be put in the hands of ethically challenged politicians who couldn't pass ninth-grade biology if their lives depended on it. If a reasonable amount of time passes and I fail to sit up and ask for a cold beer, it should be presumed that I won't ever get better. When such a determination is reached, I hereby instruct my spouse, children and attending physicians to pull the plug, reel in the tubes and call it a day. Under no circumstances shall the hypocritical members of the Legislature (State or Federal) enact a special law to keep me on life-support machinery. It is my wish that these boneheads mind their own damn business, and pay attention instead to the health, education and future of the millions of Americans who aren't in a permanent coma. Under no circumstances shall any politicians butt into this case. I don't care how many fundamentalist votes they're trying to scrounge for their run for the presidency, it is my wish that they play politics with someone else's life and leave me alone to die in peace. I couldn't care less if a hundred religious zealots send e-mails to legislators in which they pretend to care about me. I don't know these people, and I certainly haven't authorized them to preach and crusade on my behalf. They should mind their own damn business, too. If any of my family goes against my wishes and turns my case into a political cause, I hereby promise to come back from the grave and make his or her existence a living hell.
_______________
Dated
______________________
Signature
________________________________
Witness
________________________________
Witness
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Jane's Addiction
You know, it's odd how the things our parents made us do as hated chores become some of our great loves when we grow up.
In my case you could take several things. Reading for example. There was a time when I hated to read. Some of you who know me may find this hard to believe, but it's true. Now, my mother is a serious reader. When I say serious I mean that there is always at least one book she's reading within easy reach. To say nothing of those she's writing, but that's for another posting.
The story goes that sometime shortly after my birth Shogun was published. Now in addition to her voracious reading habit, my mother has a deep love for both Japanese culture (she lived in Japan for several years) as well as history. Of course my mother didn't waste any time in procuring a copy of said novel. She continued to meet my infant needs, but woe to anyone else in the house or the house itself. Somewhere around the third or fourth day, when my father had picked up pizza or something, again, my brother asked if mom was ever gonna make dinner again. My father sighed, looked at my mom, (who had the book in one hand and was feeding me a bottle with the other) and said, not until she's finished the book.
So, when I was in the third grade she decided that I needed to read. I didn't want to. Not like I had a choice. I was handed a large, hardcover, orange (to this day I hate the color orange) book and told I had to read a chapter a day and report it to her. Damn, this meant that I couldn't close my door, pretend to read and then be free. I actually had to know the material.
What's so bad about a chapter a day? The book was about Cowboys and Indians. It was pulled from the shelf because my brother had enjoyed it. Now, I was a nine year old girl. I was a bit of a tomboy, and I absolutely worshiped my brother, but this was going too far. Oh how I hated that reading hour. It dragged on interminably. I remember laying on my bedroom floor under the windows and studying the wallpaper much more industriously than that book.
And then, epiphany! My mother took me with her to the bookstore. Now, I'm sure I had been to many a bookstore with my mom before that fateful day. I mean, how could I not? But I have no conscious memory of ever being in one before. I, of course, was whining about not wanting to read the dreaded chapter that day. I wanted to do something with my friends. So mom tells me if I don't like the one I'm reading, then while we're here pick out something else. I started wandering aimlessly through the stacks, rather grumpily I might add, when I see a title. The Haunted Bridge.
Now, I loved scary stuff. Movies, stories (my brother told great ghost stories) whatever. So, not knowing how to judge a book except by it's cover, I bought it. And discovered Nancy Drew. Couldn't get enough of them. They were like candy to me. I stopped watching TV. I stayed up late reading with a flashlight under the covers. My friends came by and I blew them off. I hardly even got into the pool.
Of course, all good things must end, even my affair with Nancy Drew. Once again my mother stepped in. She banned Nancy from the house. Told me I needed to broaden my literary horizons. Which led to my lifelong affair with Stephen King. King was eventually followed by John Saul. At some point I discovered Sci-Fi then fantasy and so on. Now, I read anything I can get my greedy little paws on. I've outdone my mother in the bookworm category. I usually have at least three books going at one time. One on the nightstand, one in the car, one in the living room...
Some well meaning individuals have voiced the thought that perhaps I need help. Some kind of intervention. I've never argued my insanity. I'll check into the rubber room any time you like....as long as it's stocked with books.
In my case you could take several things. Reading for example. There was a time when I hated to read. Some of you who know me may find this hard to believe, but it's true. Now, my mother is a serious reader. When I say serious I mean that there is always at least one book she's reading within easy reach. To say nothing of those she's writing, but that's for another posting.
The story goes that sometime shortly after my birth Shogun was published. Now in addition to her voracious reading habit, my mother has a deep love for both Japanese culture (she lived in Japan for several years) as well as history. Of course my mother didn't waste any time in procuring a copy of said novel. She continued to meet my infant needs, but woe to anyone else in the house or the house itself. Somewhere around the third or fourth day, when my father had picked up pizza or something, again, my brother asked if mom was ever gonna make dinner again. My father sighed, looked at my mom, (who had the book in one hand and was feeding me a bottle with the other) and said, not until she's finished the book.
So, when I was in the third grade she decided that I needed to read. I didn't want to. Not like I had a choice. I was handed a large, hardcover, orange (to this day I hate the color orange) book and told I had to read a chapter a day and report it to her. Damn, this meant that I couldn't close my door, pretend to read and then be free. I actually had to know the material.
What's so bad about a chapter a day? The book was about Cowboys and Indians. It was pulled from the shelf because my brother had enjoyed it. Now, I was a nine year old girl. I was a bit of a tomboy, and I absolutely worshiped my brother, but this was going too far. Oh how I hated that reading hour. It dragged on interminably. I remember laying on my bedroom floor under the windows and studying the wallpaper much more industriously than that book.
And then, epiphany! My mother took me with her to the bookstore. Now, I'm sure I had been to many a bookstore with my mom before that fateful day. I mean, how could I not? But I have no conscious memory of ever being in one before. I, of course, was whining about not wanting to read the dreaded chapter that day. I wanted to do something with my friends. So mom tells me if I don't like the one I'm reading, then while we're here pick out something else. I started wandering aimlessly through the stacks, rather grumpily I might add, when I see a title. The Haunted Bridge.
Now, I loved scary stuff. Movies, stories (my brother told great ghost stories) whatever. So, not knowing how to judge a book except by it's cover, I bought it. And discovered Nancy Drew. Couldn't get enough of them. They were like candy to me. I stopped watching TV. I stayed up late reading with a flashlight under the covers. My friends came by and I blew them off. I hardly even got into the pool.
Of course, all good things must end, even my affair with Nancy Drew. Once again my mother stepped in. She banned Nancy from the house. Told me I needed to broaden my literary horizons. Which led to my lifelong affair with Stephen King. King was eventually followed by John Saul. At some point I discovered Sci-Fi then fantasy and so on. Now, I read anything I can get my greedy little paws on. I've outdone my mother in the bookworm category. I usually have at least three books going at one time. One on the nightstand, one in the car, one in the living room...
Some well meaning individuals have voiced the thought that perhaps I need help. Some kind of intervention. I've never argued my insanity. I'll check into the rubber room any time you like....as long as it's stocked with books.
Jerry Springer - Me?
Now, I don't really watch Jerry Springer. Have seen bits and pieces while channel surfing. Can't stand talk shows and DETEST what I call tabloid talk shows. But suddenly, I find myself living in what could be a Jerry Springer ongoing serial.
Don't get me wrong. I never thought adolescence would be easy. My own journey through that mine field was enough to warn me. But this? Never would have imagined it.
I was not the easiest 15 year old on the planet at the time, but I'm sure I wasn't the worst either. And there were plenty of arguments and differences of opinion between myself and my parental units. But there were limits. Certain things I might have thought, but would never dream of saying. Things I thought of doing, but would never have actually done.
You see, no matter how much they pissed me off, they were my PARENTS. Underneath all the angst and posturing, I loved them. Was conscious of an invisible line I didn't want to cross. Never wanted to hurt them. And I had a certain amount of respect for them. Of course, at the time, I often felt they were monumentally unfair. And I was going to be different with my kids. Well, the best laid plans.....
But how did my life with my son get to this? When did it become ok to heap verbal abuse on your mom? When did it become ok to threaten her? How did the norm become holes in walls made by angry fists, broken doors and windows? When did saying fuck off to your parents become an accepted means of communication? When did we start having to call the police to discipline a child? (When he grew to be over six feet tall and outweigh you by eighty pounds, I suppose).
This is so foreign to me. I did not live like this growing up and neither has my child, until recently. But last Monday, I realized that in three short months, my child has turned my home into a Jerry Springer show.
I want a word with the producers. I know Jerry gets paid more than me. I want a raise.
Don't get me wrong. I never thought adolescence would be easy. My own journey through that mine field was enough to warn me. But this? Never would have imagined it.
I was not the easiest 15 year old on the planet at the time, but I'm sure I wasn't the worst either. And there were plenty of arguments and differences of opinion between myself and my parental units. But there were limits. Certain things I might have thought, but would never dream of saying. Things I thought of doing, but would never have actually done.
You see, no matter how much they pissed me off, they were my PARENTS. Underneath all the angst and posturing, I loved them. Was conscious of an invisible line I didn't want to cross. Never wanted to hurt them. And I had a certain amount of respect for them. Of course, at the time, I often felt they were monumentally unfair. And I was going to be different with my kids. Well, the best laid plans.....
But how did my life with my son get to this? When did it become ok to heap verbal abuse on your mom? When did it become ok to threaten her? How did the norm become holes in walls made by angry fists, broken doors and windows? When did saying fuck off to your parents become an accepted means of communication? When did we start having to call the police to discipline a child? (When he grew to be over six feet tall and outweigh you by eighty pounds, I suppose).
This is so foreign to me. I did not live like this growing up and neither has my child, until recently. But last Monday, I realized that in three short months, my child has turned my home into a Jerry Springer show.
I want a word with the producers. I know Jerry gets paid more than me. I want a raise.
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