My Disneyland

Before there was me, there was a family of five.  My 3 brothers and my parents.  This family took family vacations, had a family camper, and also owned a family cabin.  By the time I came into the world, we no longer had that camper, the cabin, and for some reason, we stopped doing things as a family unit.  Perhaps a fourth child added one too many children; perhaps our age differences were so vast that it made vacations too difficult; or perhaps by the time I joined the family, my parents were just too worn out.  Whatever the case, I don't remember one time when the entire family loaded into the car and enjoyed a family outing of any kind.

My mom never drove and my dad worked odd hours (and drank whenever he wasn't working).  My Auntie Dorie kind of became my second parent, and if we ever went on a mini vacation, it always included my mom, my aunt, my best friend and me.  We spent many a weekend at local beaches, local fairs, and slightly out of town road trips.

Once I got a little older (around 10 or so), my brothers were  in their mid to late teens.  Like most teenagers, they didn't want to hang out with the family anyway.  In fact they reveled in the thought of staying by themselves, having parties, blaring their music, drinking, and smoking pot all without the parents, and especially without their tattletale younger sister (it was often said that I was actually babysitting my brothers when all the siblings were left alone together).

But I digress, back to family vacations.  Or lack there of.  Like I said, family vacations did not exist in my household.  Then the family vacation of all family vacations presented itself.  It became a "family tradition" for about 5 years or so.  Once a year before school started, my mom, dad, aunt, her boyfriend, my best friend, and me would load into the car for a weekend getaway.  To Da Range.  Most families take off and go to Disney World, Hollywood, or the Grand Canyon.  Not my family.  We went less than 2 hours north to the grand area known as The Range. 

We stayed in a Holiday Inn in Virginia, MN.  This wasn't any old Holiday Inn.  This hotel had a mini golf course, ping pong table, arcade, and not to mention the pool and hot tub.  My parents allowed me to bring my best friend so that I stayed out of their hair and had someone to interact with since all my brothers were at home getting high.

It may not have been Disneyland, but it was Disneyland in my eyes.  And one of my few memories of my mom, my dad, and me having so much fun together.

A Carnie By any Other Name

Every time this year a carnival comes to town.  A rinky dink, traveling carnival complete with fast rides, expensive games, and carnies.  Our city has a sordid history with carnies that led to the hanging of 3 innocent African Americans back when lynching was still commonplace. 

The carnival also marks the first time I made a vulgar comment directly to an adult.

I was in 6th or 7th grade at the time.  A friend and I were at the carnival by ourselves having a grand ole time on the rides and just walking around doing what pre-teens do.  We happened upon the Tilt-A-Whirl.  My friend wanted to ride and begged me to join her.  I protested.  Rides that move in a fast circular motion results in an upset tummy for me.  Hell, even riding in the backseat of a moving car gets me a little queasy.  So I declined her offer to accompany her on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

The ride operator heard our conversation and offered a proposition.  This nice man said, if I waved to him when I felt a little ill, he would stop the ride. 

What a nice guy!  So, I hopped on aboard the Tilt-A-Whirl and was happily whirling around and around and around. 

Then, my stomach started feeling a little unhappy.

On the next go 'round, I waved to the nice man to signal him that I was beginning to get sick in anticipation of him stopping the ride.  Only he waved back as though he were waving at a long lost friend with a goofy smile upon his face. 

Huh, this nice guy must have misunderstood my wave for a hello.  So, I try again and flag him when I we go around him again.

He chuckles again, waves again, and made that damn ride twirl faster.  And faster.  And faster.  And he kept us on longer than usual too.  Just to see a young girl barf. 

I wish I could have barfed because I would have let loose on his shoes, or better yet, in his face.  But, the contents of my stomach stayed at bay.  Instead, I got off the ride, looked at the laughing carnie and called him an Asshole.

Yes, an Asshole. 

Not exactly the worst thing I could have said, but at the time, I thought I was shattering the child/adult barrier.  And it left a big enough impact that I remember that moment every year when the carnies roll into town.

The Oldest Brother

John, eight years my senior, taught me all I needed to know when growing up with three older brothers.  He taught me how to make the motorcycle and car noises with my mouth.  He taught me what a hattrick was while playing floor hockey in our basement.  (I think he enjoyed smacking me with the ball more than making a goal.)  Most importantly, he taught me all the names of the members from the band KISS.  He loved, and still does love, music.  He thought it was pretty cool that I could name all the KISS members from his poster hanging up in his room. 

He also taught me the correct usage for the term "Choice".  When I landed in the hospital for an over night stay due to walking pneumonia, my mom and aunt brought me a stuffed Cookie Monster.  Upon seeing it, I exclaimed, "Choice!"  Apparently all the nurses thought that was the cutest thing out of a one year old's mouth. 

Looks like I have two peacocks coming out of my head :)~

John is known to be rude, crude, and not very politically correct.  However, he has a deep respect for his immediate family so much so that he doesn't even smoke in front of his parents to this day.  He sees it as a sign of disrespect.  Out of all the brothers, I talk with John on the phone most often.  He calls me for advice on raising his daughter, he calls to hear about family gossip, and he always always makes the annual Christmas call for advice on what he should get as gifts for our parents.

My mom tells me I am pouting in this picture because I was not allowed cake until after the photo was taken. 

John has ebbed in and out from being favorite brother to being least favorite brother.  Now, all my brothers are "my favorite" each for their unique individual qualities they bring to my family.

The Middle Brother

 Because there is such a gap between my brothers and me, I don't have a whole lot of memories that do not involve them giving me bruises.  By the time I was old enough to have lasting memories, my brothers were all at the age where they were hanging with their friends and being a little more independant.  For some reason, memories of Jim are hard to come by.

Jim is my middle brother, seven years older than me.  Often cranky and mischievous, he filled the role of Middle Child perfectly.  He demands that you walk on egg shells while in his presence even today.  However, His quick temper is outshone by his quick wit.  Jim is the family comedian and risk taker.  Be it sending away for a ventriloquist dummy as a child to learning how to SCUBA dive as an adult, Jim is always up for the next challenge.

Jim served as the little devil on my shoulder.  He encouraged me to bring out my devilish side on more than one occasion.  Most of the time, the angel on the other shoulder won the fight.  One time, though, Jim set up a fight between me and my neighborhood best friend.  He wanted us to duke it out so egged us on until we ended up in a full blown fist fight.  My neighbor went home in tears and I earned some brother bragging rights.  Did I mention that the neighbor I sent home crying was a boy?  My brothers sure were proud of me, but I couldn't say the same for myself.

My brothers and I used to always take baths together.  You can see by Jim's little grin that he is likely withholding that blue toy thing from me probably trying to get me to cry.  But as you can see, I was all smiles.

I wonder how old we were when we stopped taking baths together.  At least my mom was nice enough to cover up the important parts for a photo.

The Youngest Brother

My last post gave me an idea to blog about each one of my brothers.  I have favorite and not so favorite memories of each one of them.  I Thought I'd take some rare photos featuring just that one brother and me while putting together a few lingering memories.

Bill is the youngest of the 3 brothers, but is six years older than me.  When I was born, he was in Kindergarten and could not wait to get home to hold me.  Believe it or not, The Brothers, as they were not so affectionately called, used to argue over who got to hold me.  Since Billy was in half day Kindergarten, he was excited to come home and have me all to himself without having to share with the other two.  This is one of my mom's favorite photos:


Both babies were so tuckered out

Once it was my turn for Kindergarten, Billy was in the 6th grade and in the same school as me.  As a kid, I was a mommy's girl and did not want to go to school.  In fact, I was a pre-school drop out because I would rather stay home with mommy.   One day on the way to the car to go to pre-school, I fell and skinned my knee.  Mom couldn't resist my bawling and let me stay home from pre-school from then on :) 

My tears didn't work nearly as well once I got into the big leagues.  Yes, I cried for 2 weeks straight in Kindergarten. It was my big brother's job to ensure I was doing OK on the bus ride to school.  Not wanting to look like a sensitive brother, he decided to yell at me while I was sobbing on the bus.  He called me a big baby which didn't help matters any.  Like any little sister would, when I got home from school, I tattled on him!  He got yelled at when he got home, alright.  Mom told him he shouldn't yell at me, but he should comfort me instead.

The next day on the bus as I sat sobbing, my sweet brother took me upon his knee and began bouncing me as you would an infant.  Well, I guess I was acting like an infant.  Naturally, Mom asked me how the bus ride went, and naturally I told her that he bounced me on his knee.  Poor boy got yelled at once again for treating me like a baby.  Actually, he didn't get yelled at, per se, he just was informed that bouncing me wasn't necessary.  He can never do anything right.

Don't tell the other brothers, but Bill was probably always my favorite.  He is still the brother I am closest to, and he is the first one I run to when I need something fixed.  He runs to me whenever he needs something too, which is usually money.  He owes me the world right now which is why he would bed over backwards to help me however he can.  He is by far the most sensitive brother and the least social of any of us.  Life has been a constant struggle for him, though that is not to say he hasn't made some of those struggles for himself.  I just want to see him content for once.

Ready for my 9th Grade Dance.  Complete with puffy shoulders, permed side pony tail, and acne.

He once told his own daughter that he hopes she grows up to be like me. That was the best compliment any brother could ever say about his little sister.

A Child Called Dirt

Being the youngest, and only girl, in the family had its ups and downs.  At first, I was cherished by my brothers.  They fought over who got to hold me and play with me.  As I got a bit older, they soon figured out I was more of a pest than a treasure.  They were not very nice to me most of the time, and I had a variety of nicknames. 

The nickname that lasted that longest and had the biggest impact was "Dirt Bag".  So named for having dirty feet after playing outside barefooted.  For several years, my name was "Dirt".  Yes, even my nickname had its own nickname.  When friends called for me on the phone, my brothers would summon me to the phone by calling out "Dirt! Phone!"  As much as I tried to ignore them when they called me that name, getting a phone call was about the most exciting thing for a preteen girl.  Naturally, I had to respond.

Before too long, all of my brothers' friends referred to me as "Dirt Bag".  Even my own dad was known to call me "Dirt" once or twice.  For a while, I wasn't even sure my brothers knew what my given name was, and after a while longer, I just answered to whatever they called me.  "Dirt" or "Redneck" were the two most popular and longest lasting nicknames.

The power of my "Dirt Bag" nickname hit me when I went to visit one of my brother's friends who had been in an accident resulting in a Traumatic Brain Injury.  He was confused and disorganized requiring a one to one staff just for him.  When I first saw him and said hello, he immediately responded, "Dirt Bag?  HI!"   The nurse looked at me like he was really messed up, but I assured her that he knew exactly what he was talking about.  And exactly who I was. 

My brothers continued to call me horrible names until they started to need me.  Pretty soon, they started calling me "My Favorite Sister" when they wanted a babysitter for their children or money for themselves.  "Hi, My Favorite Sister.  Do you have 20 bucks I could borrow?" 

It was a long road from "Dirt Bag" to "Favorite Sister", but I am very glad I outgrew my childhood nickname.

Welcome to My Pathetic Life

I like my pathetic life.  I really do.  Its always been a rather dull existence, but I will take it over drama, drama, drama.  When things are calm, it means that everyone is well, people are happy, and life is good.  And my life is good.  Pathetic maybe, but good.  Even my teenage years were stable and consistent without the Jr. and Sr. High school shenanigans that plague so many teenagers. 

From my adolescence to my adulthood, here is a meager list to illustrate my pitiful life:

1. Most preteens and teens keep a diary of their own lives. They write about their daily experiences and thoughts about the world in which they live. While they were doing that, I was writing daily about the experiences of the residents of Salem. Days of Our Lives was a huge part of my teenage years and I kept a sorry diary about what happened between Steve and Kayla, Kim and Shane, Bo and Hope, and John and Marlena. I didn't even have enough going on in my own world to keep a sustainable diary so I wrote about the lives of others. And to make it even more pathetic, the people I was writing about were fictional.
2. When parents punish their kids, they will often "ground" them so they can't leave the house, hang with friends, do what teenagers do.  I was a homebody even when I was younger preferring the comfort of my own house to the big scary world at the mall.  Now, I never got into trouble much, but as a standing joke, my mom would try to ground me.  Only in reverse.  She would say, "You are grounded!  Go to the mall!"  What teen wouldn't love getting grounded to the mall?!?
3. My self esteem is largely based on being competitive and winning inconsequential games on Facebook.  In and of itself, that may not sound so despicable, but when we scored a PSII at work and acquired a Dance Dance Revolution game, my competitive nature came full out.  I had to go and buy myself a DDR so that I could practice at home in order to beat the teenagers at their game when they summoned me to dance with them thinking I would fail.  Well, I showed them!  I beat them almost every time.  Booyah!
4. I was never one for going to parties, and I still prefer a more mellow gathering than an all out gala.  Today my idea of "party" is having a friend or two over to watch Elf on an annual basis.  More commonly, a buddy and I try to get together weekly to have American Idol "parties" where we eat food, laugh, and watch those singers struggle to etch their way into our hearts the same way Adam Lambert did.
5. Sometimes after working the evening shift, a few coworkers and I will "go out".  For the  the younger crowd this means sprucing up in the bathroom to look their best for the bar scene.  For me, it means I am salivating at the thought of what I will order off the Perkins menu.  I'm a regular party animal when there is french toast involved.  Look out, world!
6. Most of my friends are married and dedicated to their spouses.  I am married and dedicated to my job.  Though I have got better at saying no guilt free, I still have a sense of loyalty which puts my job first on my priority list.  I'm working on it though, and my social life is starting to replace my job for that coveted number one position.
7. Finally, my reality show addiction is getting out of control.  First it was American Idol, then Dancing with the Stars, then Celebrity Apprentice.  The last of that deadly trio has me completely hooked this season, and I am already eagerly anticipating Sunday to see NeNe go off on Star Jones.  In addition to those, add in The Voice and X Factor and I won't be just pathetic.  I'll be Pathetic (with a capital P).
8. I know I sad "finally" on number 7, but I just couldn't end a list on an odd number.  Ironically that just rounds out the list nicely and gives more credence to the dismal life I lead. 

Like I said, my life may be undernourished with excitement, but it really isn't.  From Days of Our Lives to eating at Perkins, from American Idol parties to beating little kids at Dance Dance Revolution, each one of those experiences bring excitement and joy to my life.  Others may find it dull or boring, but for me its contentment.  And I wouldn't want it any other way.

When Grizzly Bears Strike

When I wrote my Top Ten Defining Moments post, I have no idea why this event did not even cross my mind to add on the list.  Maybe because it wasn't one single moment, but rather years of events.  Though it was a large chunk of time, sometimes it seems as though it never really happened and it does not stay in the front of my brain very often.  It isn't until it shows up in my dreams that I remind myself how significant all of it was.  Most of the dreams are not even nightmares, and instead are just gigantic reminders of the house, the parents, and the kids.  Always the kids.  If, as a witness, I am haunted by dreams and thoughts, I cannot even imagine what effect it must have for those who lived it. 

My mom went to work outside the house when I was around 9 years old.  In an effort to avoid my mean teenage brothers, I took up solace with the single mother down the street.  She had 3 children: four year old twins and a seven year old son.  I spent a lot of time with this family and have so many stories to tell, both good and bad.  This home became my second home and my second family for 5-6 years.  I spent the night there; I ate dinner there; I watched TV there; I helped clean the house; I listened to music with her; I laughed; and I cried.  In this, my second home.

Enter the Grizzly Bear.  On a rare evening out, the mom had found a boyfriend who began severely abusing these children.  I was witness to many acts of abuse of an emotional, physical, and sexual nature.  In time, it was me who helped remove these kids from their home, but I still held on to a lot of guilt regarding this situation. 

I initially felt guilty for not being the object of his abuse while all the other kids suffered at his hands.  There was ample opportunity for him to abuse me in any way he wanted as I joined the family on weekend camping trips, overnights visits to Minneapolis, and even spent the night in their house.  But he left me untouched and I was treated as though I was their golden child receiving special treatment.  It was I who was able to ride in the front seat of the vehicle while the others rode in the back; it was I who received positive words spoken, and it was I who did not get hit or touched.  As a child, I didn't realize how this must have made those kids resent the hell out of me.  Not only that, but I am sure they were looking to me for help.  Being afraid and powerless, I could only give them support.  Despite several phone calls to the authorities from several neighbors, teachers, and myself, the kids remained in that home far too long.

It wasn't until after a deliberate fire was set in their home (in an attempt to collect insurance money) that the authorities began to really question the welfare of the children.  It was then that I was contacted to give my detailed report of all the horrendous acts I had seen with my own young eyes.  Later, I felt guilty for being the responsible person for removing those kids from the home.  Even though it was an abusive household, the mom loved her kids and had been a loving mom up until the Grizzly Bear showed up.  She was overprotective, and looking back, I now see she probably suffered from paranoia or another form of mental illness.  When the kids were removed I lost all contact, but had heard they went to live with their biological dad in Colorado.  He had been painted  as a horrible man, and his name could never be spoken in the presence of her children.  Imagine the horror those kids must have felt to learn they were going from one hell into another.

Several years ago, the Grizzly Bear died of a heart attack.  The mom passed away a few years after that. Never did I stop wondering what happened to those kids who were like my siblings for so many years.  My feeble attempts to find them failed until recently.  Just a few months ago, I located all 3 kids on Facebook!  Uncertain if I should contact them or not, I reluctantly sent each of them an email.  I was so nervous awaiting their responses.  Did they blame me?  Did they resent me?  Did they hate me for sending them to live with their real dad?  Did they even remember me?

When I received the first email telling me how fortunate they were to have the opportunity to live with their dad, all these years of guilt lifted from my shoulders.   The oldest said his biological dad taught them how to live and gave them as normal life as possible after having spent their time bouncing from foster home to foster home.   The "kids" are all grown up with children of their own.  They all seem happy. 

Still, I can't help but go back and play the "what if" game, and I continue to hold on to just a little bit of that mostly lifted guilt.  One of the kids thanked me for playing the pivotal role in removing them from their mom, but really I should be thanking them.  It is because of them that I am working at a job I love (on most days).  If I can help another child live a better life, it is all because of  the lessons I learned from those three kids.

Freud

Most cars are referred to as girls and are often given girl names like "Sally". My car happens to be a male whose name is "Freud". Not "Sigmund", just "Freud". The connotation is clear; Freud is my therapist. With Freud, I am allowed to have free reign. I am that weird person at the stop sign with the radio blaring, singing at the top of my lungs.  More than that though, Freud allows me to scream without having nosy neighbors overhear me and without scaring the cats. He allows me to cry without interruption and without guilt (mostly). It is with Freud whom I intend to relocate to the grand state of Nebraska. A solo drive allows for some deep reflection, and with this, sometimes things become a little clearer.

The best part about Freud is the therapy sessions that occur with another passenger. Long road trips can be the ultimate therapy session, free from everyday distractions with no escaping the confines of the vehicle. You are trapped; they are trapped. Both are forced to talk and forced to listen. Commonalities, solutions, and a sense of inner peace can be the result at the end of a good road trip. Oh, don't forget the fun and laughter too! Freud is great for bringing out the fun.

Oh!  I now remember a fun story that happened when I was just learning to drive. The best thing in the world was (and still is, if gas wasn't so damn expensive) to just toole around with friends in the car going nowhere in particular. On this night, my friend and I decided to take a detour though a cemetery. It's nearly midnight. We're sixteen. Its winter. And we have seen just about every scary movie ever made. There is quite a bit of snow on the ground and we pull into the unplowed cemetery just for fun. Yeah, we got stuck. In front of us was a towering gray tombstone. Actually we were surrounded by tombstones. She wanted me to get out of the car to push her out, but I was vying for running to the nearest house, banging on their door and begging for help. Through our nervous laughter, we were scared. Scared of the zombies that were sure to emerge from the graves like Michael Jackson's Thriller. Just about the time the zombies started to awaken, the car spontaneously broke free from the snowy grip. We were a little shaken up, but we were free at last. We escaped unscathed and never did we take another detour through a cemetery.

Be it fun jaunts, therapeutic road trips with buds, or solo reflective moments, Freud has been one of my best therapists.  With gas prices, his rates are not cheap, but somehow its worth it.

Things I Learned From my Daddy

After writing Things I Learned From my Mama, I figured I had better be an equal opportunity daughter and write about those things I learned from my Father.  From watching my dad, as well as my brothers, I have learned how not live.  I've seen and felt the effects their behaviors and actions have on those they love, and I made the very conscious decision at a very early age that I was not going to be like them.  However, its not all bad, and my dad has certainly passed on some very important life lessons which I will now pass on to you via this post:

• Children can be your slaves.  Now I know my dad loves us to death, and he probably loves us more now than when we were kids.  When we were young, though, it was evident that my dad had children to accomplish his neglected household duties.  We were his car washers, lawn mowers, snowplowerss, and remote controlers.  Yes, remote controls.  For those of you who are not old enough to remember a time without remote controls, there was a time when people had to get up from their sitting position and change the channel.  *Gasp*. I know, right?  Well, my dad would call me from my cozy bedroom where I was playing with my dollies to change the channel for him.  Not just once a day, more like once an hour.  Or more.  The inventor of the remote control is God.
• Be on time.  Honestly we didn't do a whole lot as a family unit (in fact, I cannot remember one thing we did as an entire family....).  Once in a while, though, we had plans to go somewhere or do something with my dad after work.  Or even just waiting for the family meal (yes, there was a time that still occurred).  And we would wait.  And wait.  And wait.  Wait for my dad to make it home from his after work adventures.  After a while, we didn't wait anymore and just went about our business.  From this, I learned how inconsiderate it is to be late and strive very hard not to make people wait for me. In turn, I am chronically early.  Too early most of the time.
• Be assertive.  My mom will sometimes try to put me down by saying something on the order of "you are just like your father" or "you have a bit of your father in you".  I take this as a compliment because my mom is very passive and my dad is very aggressive.  Combine the two, and you get assertive.  Me!  I stand up for myself and am proud to have a bit of my father in me.
• Its who you know.  My dad knows a lot of people from many different trades and skill sets.  He has got out of speeding tickets and other traffic violations because a buddy pulled him over.  Most household projects were completed by friends he knew, and there was always a good deal on a used car.
• Pay for the job when its done.  Because most of his friends did the little odd jobs around the house, Dad would often pay for the job up front.  Big mistake.  There are still unfinished jobs at my parents' house that he paid for in full.  It seemed strange for me, a teenager, to be lecturing my dad on the importance of paying for the work when the work was completed.  I was adamant about this, and yet, he didn't listen.  Sadly, I didn't  learn this lesson completely as I have already paid for the removal of my skunk who still has not been trapped.
• Showering is overrated.  My dad does not shower by conventional standards choosing his own showering schedule.  Yet, he does not appear dirty or even have body odor.  That does not mean I intend to adopt his same showering schedule, but its still something I felt the need to share for some strange reason.

I am a perfect blend of my mom and dad, and I feel very blessed to still be learning from them.

Things I Learned From my Mama

I don't have funny kid stories to share, but once in a while I do have funny parent stories to share.  We all learn a lot from our mamas who teach us some of life's most important lessons.  Here are just a few my mom taught to me.

• "You have to suffer to be beautiful".  My mom's version of "maybe she's born with it; maybe its Maybelline"  was one of the most common phrases uttered in my childhood.  Usually this could be heard over my whining when getting my hair permed by a do it yourself perm in the kitchen.  Also spoken when getting my hair combed or braided.  Unfortunately some of us  have to suffer more than others; I have suffered plenty and am still not beautiful.
• "Never tell a lie.  Unless you have to".  Another common mama phrase.  This lesson was first learned after I bought a toy "water wiggler" from a corner store.  Once I got that slippery gadget home, I accidentally got a hole in it causing it to leak water all over the place deeming it unfun.  Mom suggested I return it and prompted me to say it had a leak when I bought it.  She followed that up with the wise life lesson, and lo and behold, it worked.  I got myself a new water wiggler.



Water wigglers, though I think when I was young, they were called "snakes".

• "Your eyes look funny".  This was the single most commonly spoken sentence of my brother's adolescence.  Mom was, and still is,  the ultimate pot detective.  She knew immediately upon looking at my brother that he had been toking up.  Maybe that is why I never tried the stuff.  However, Mom was also a pro at noticing when I didn't feel well or had the flu.
• "Think outside the box".  OK, she never really said that, but she sure has demonstrated it over and over again.  Just a few years ago, she substituted her broken denture teeth with the white rocks from the fish aquarium.  They worked like a charm, her dentist was impressed, and they are so durable she still has them as a reserve pair in case her new dentures break. 
• Cookies make everything better.  Her cookie jar is never empty of homemade chocolate chip cookies.  Once in a while, peanut butter cookies or Oatmeal raisin cookies make an appearance, but my favorite is her chocolate chip ones fresh from the oven.  And they do make everything better!  She puts the Keebler Elves to shame.

Those are a few of my favorite lessons handed down to me from my mother.  Though I don't have children of my own, I hear myself telling the kids I work with about "suffering to be beautiful" when I am helping them untangle their knotted hair.  It feels good to pass on some of my  mama's wisdom, and now I shared some of it with you!

Orgasmic Pleasures

When I still lived at home, my mom and I would have little peanut butter races to see who could be the first person to dig their knife into that unopened jar of deliciousness.  Whoever was first would always leave a little "gotcha" message in the peanut butter itself.  A jagged "haha" or smiley face would await the loser.  There are few worse disappointments than opening that jar up thinking you were the first only to find that taunting message.  I don't have anybody to have peanut butter races with anymore, but there are a few other simple pleasures that bring about a similar feeling.

Its not often I get sunburned, and when I do get burned, it usually turns to tan.  How very fortunate I am.  Except, I love peeling off the dead layers.  The crispier the better!  Since I live in Northern Minnesota, it is a near impossibility to get sunburned 9 months out of the year so I would recreate that sensation with glue.  You've done it too, and you know it.  Elmer's Glue, on your hands, let it dry, and peel.  Its fun and it serves to clean your hands while you're at it.  I've even put Elmer's Glue on my face.  Fun times.  There is nothing quite like peeling dead sunburned skin. . . . .

. . .Except the feeling of pulling a stray strand of hair out of your nose or ear.  Ohhhhh, that sensation is glorious!  When I was younger, I would even put a single strand of hair in my various facial orifices just to be able to pull it out again.  However, that never had the same accomplished feeling as when one was a random menace.

For me, the most pleasurable feeling occurs when I am shoveling.  Not just any regular snowfall.  Digging the shovel underneath large plates of packed, icy, chunky chunks is so rewarding.  My neighbor and I would often shovel in tandem.  Her in her driveway and me in mine.  We both loved shoveling those big chunks that had been packed down by repeatedly driving on them.  To finally reach the bare driveway was....orgasmic.  Yes, orgasmic.  For real.

From peanut butter, to Elmer's glue, to hair in the nose, to shoveling chunky snow chunks......all simple pleasures of orgasmic proportions.

Autumn Day

On this blustery Autumn day, I am reminded of another Autumn Day that pops up in my mind from time to time.  Last night I had a dream about that specific Autumn Day and I thought I'd take a moment and reflect on a day I will never forget.

Smaller details are blurred, but the biggest details remain.  I believe I was in high school at the time.  On this particular day I was shopping for some unknown reason at the Mariner Mall in Superior.  Like any girl with a small bladder, I used the restroom, did my business, and went on my merry way eventually returning  home.

Later that evening, there was a breaking news story about a little baby who was found in the Mariner Mall in the Women's Bathroom.  Apparently the mother of this baby just abandoned her in the bathroom.  Luckily, someone found this baby and hopefully she got the care and love every baby deserves.

What strikes me about this story is that my whole life, I have always wanted to be a rescuer.  To find and rescue an unloved puppy or kitty brings such a sense of fulfillment and makes the heart grow.  Ever since I was a young girl, I loved babies and children.  As much as I wanted to find that box of thrown away puppies on the highway, I also fantasized about finding an unwanted baby.  A baby I could keep for myself to raise, cherish, and love.  Never mind all the legal mumbo jumbo. 

In my false memory, I believe I even recall the sound of a crying baby.  Certainly something gave me a feeling of uncertainty that I could not quite put my finger on until I heard the news story.  That day I was hours, perhaps even minutes away from finding that unwanted baby in the bathroom.  To this day, I wonder what her life is like.  Where she is.  How she is.  How old she is now.  What it would have been like to raise her.  Dream about her.

Since she was found on a Fall afternoon, the "authorities" named her Autumn Day.  Somewhere out there, I have a baby girl.  And her name is Autumn Day.

Hide-n-Seek

Halloween is one of my very favorite times of year.  Fond memories of sorting out my trick or treat candy into organized piles return to me each October 31st.  I counted each stack of Peanut Butter Cups, Milky Ways, and Snickers with the latter two always vying for first place for having the most quantity.  After sorting, counting, and eating the treats, I would have to find a seemingly safe hiding place so my brother's didn't get their dirty hands on my hard earned candy. 

These days, I now have to find a seemingly safe hiding place so I don't get my dirty hands on my not so hard earned candy. 

As a person who is always prepared way too far in advance, I like to have my Halloween candy purchased long before the Big Day.  My problem is that all of the candy is often eaten before it even has a chance to be tossed into Elmo's pumpkin bucket. 

One year I resorted to keeping the candy in the trunk of my car in hopes that "out of sight, out of mind" might take effect.  That works with some things, but not with chocolate.  I took many a trip out to my vehicle to retrieve the devious candy calling my name from the darkness of my trunk. 

Another tactic was to buy candy I don't much care to eat.  The problem I encountered with that trick was that "desperate times call for desperate measures" took effect.  If there is a candy craving, I will eat whatever I can get my teeth into.  Even if I don't love it.  Who am I kidding, though? I like All candy.

I guess I just have to wait until closer to Halloween before buying any candy even though it is causing me a bit of anxiety not to be prepared.  It just doesn't work so well when the seeker of the candy is also the hider of the candy.  Especially when the seeker is ravenously addicted to chocolate.

Ode To Big Hill

There was a special place that barely exists anymore. A place I hold fondly in my heart as do most of the people who grew up in my neighborhood. Big Hill was, well, a big hill. We were kids, and perhaps not very creative, but the name described it perfectly. Some years ago, I wrote a poem about the significance of Big Hill. It Describes that special place better than I can even attempt to write about in a blog, and it actually brought tears to many who loved Big Hill as I did. So Without Further Ado, here is the poem.....

Big Hill

Big Hill.
A place where children could capture
butterflies, fireflies,
and incense.
A place for imagination, wonder,
and fantasy.
A climb to the top of Big Hill was a feat
like that of a mountain climber.
Summer time picnics,
winter time sledding.
Neighborhood friends playing
Capture the Flag and King of the Hill.
A place where we really were
on top of the world.

A peaceful place where catching a glimpse
of an occasional deer was
not uncommon.
A time when our only worry was
making it home for dinner on time.
The sounds of our youthful laughter
still audible even today.
A place where innocence was found
and also lost.
Big Hill.

As we grew taller,
Big Hill grew smaller.
Today, barely visible only
to those of us who knew of its existence.
A minuscule mound covered with trees
and memories.
Big Hill.
The symbol of my childhood.
Vanishing more and more
every year.
Eventually, not existing
at all.

9/8/03

When Talent Scouts Come Knocking

Have you seen this kid? He is quite simply Amazing.



With You Tube these days, people can be over night super stars. This kid, Grayson Chance, is an internet sensation and even made his debut on Ellen today. He's only Ten.

When I was 10, I was singing to Reba McEntire songs from a cassette tape in my bedroom with a hair brush. I had visions that there were talent scouts hiding in my wooded backyard looking for the next singing prodigy. Oh, but I would be fooling all those talent scouts! You see, I was only LIP SYNCING the words so it really looked as if I had the voice of Reba! When those scouts found out I wasn't really singing, they wouldn't care because I had impeccable lip syncing ability. I would be the next Milli Vanilli. Complete with dance moves and everything.

Despite my many delusions, those scouts never appeared. If only You Tube existed back when I was an aspiring artist. I very well could have been an overnight lip syncing phenomenon, and could be working as a famous impersonator on the Las Vegas Strip today.

Good luck to you, Mr. Grayson Chance! I'm sure there are bigger venues in your future!

Just a Building?

The Icon of my childhood is being demolished as we "speak". My beloved Piedmont Elementary School is being destroyed with intentions of rebuilding a "better" school. All three of my brothers and myself went to Piedmont from K-6th grade. Sure, I cried every day for the first 2 weeks of school, but I grew to love that school and everything it stood for.



Kindergarten: Memories of sitting on the circle with letters and numbers painted right on the floor! Building towers and walls with those large, soft red blocks. Taking the wagon down to the cafeteria and getting milk for the whole class. And my first "boyfriend", Sam.

First Grade: I got in trouble for eating glue after some bitch ratted me out to the teacher. I never ate glue after that. This is also when I met my best friend, Mindy. We're still friends to this day.

Second Grade: My teacher was a bit bipolar. Rumored to throw erasers at kids, I was a little leary of being a student in her classroom. The craziest thing I saw her do was lock herself in the closet crying after we were making fun of the way she was conducting out little choir. We apologized and it was all good from there.

Third Grade: A fun teacher, Ms. Ling. We were known as the Peanuts, had a homemade classroom yearbook, danced for local nursing homes, and learned how to write in cursive! I was invited to join Sage, an extracurricular activity for kids with good grades. Oh, and our school had a set of twins in its presence. They were a bit of local celebrity. You would think Mary Kate and Ashley Olson attended our school.

Forth Grade: My teacher was a lesbian or at least appeared to be. She was divorced and had 2 dogs named Pepsi and Cola. Get it? She had certain Teacher's Pets each year. I was determined to be her Pet, but this year was not my year. This year Nathan would win.

Fifth Grade: I win! I had the same teacher for 5th grade and got to be the Pet! Woop Woop. This was also the year I had my first enemy, Stacy, who then turned out to be one of my greatest friends. Our truce? We found out we shared the same Birthday and all was gravy.

Sixth Grade: My final year in Piedmont. I started to play the violin. On the last day of school, I bawled much as I bawled on the first day. Full Circle.

Some will argue that it is just a building being torn down; argue that it is about the memories and the people. True. But, each time I drove by that Neighborhood Icon, it brought back those memories much like looking at a photo album. Without the physical building, the photo album is gone. The memories will always remain, but will continue to fade especially when the new school is erected. At least a school will be in its place and new students can make new memories.

Evolution of a Permed Mall Bang Addict

BEWARE: BLOG CONTAINS SCARY PHOTOS THAT MAY CAUSE PERMANENT EYE DAMAGE. VIEW AT YOUR OWN RISK!
As previously posted (I don't know how to link up past blogs yet), I have been pretty candid about my addiction with having mall bangs. Still to this day, I have those fluffy bangs. There have been many attempts to break the cycle of drying, curling and fluffing; but it never fails, I go back to my old ways within a matter of days.

Here is my evolution in pictures. The first few photos are not horrible, and some are even kinda cute. I can't say the same for the final few pictures so let this be your warning.


Here I am at age 1. Not adorable. In fact, my mom always thought I looked like I had Down Syndrome. I think I look like I have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Either way, there appears to be a syndrome of some kind......


Age 3. Cute and adorable even with the owie on my chin. I fell off the counter helping my mom bake cookies. Don't we all have a scar on our chin?


Ok. Kinda cute here. Age 6. Donning a sailor dress and long hair. Mall bangs and perms have yet to touch this virgin hair.


First Haircut. Actually this was supposed to be a mullet cut, but the beautician did not understand my mom's instructions and gave me this short cut instead. I cried because I wanted long hair, but in hindsight, it may have been a blessing. No mullets for me!


My hair is growing a little at this point, and its almost long enough to get a perm....


Ahhhhh, there it is! My first Perm. That was either 3rd or 4th grade. Notice how much body that perm gave me? That was the beginning of the addiction.


Fast Forward to around the 8th grade. Oooff Da! This is what years of bad perms can do to a person. Look at that frizz! I look like a mature dandelion. Blow on me, and all my hair may scatter about. Actually, it almost did....


Complete with teenage acne and a butterfly necklace. Its a wonder I wasn't the laughing stalk of Jr. High.


As seen previously, this was my final perm experience. The many years of perms created brittle hair that broke off leaving an asymmetrical "cut". This picture was my first time wearing my hair down which brought attention to how fried my hair was. Better to have fried hair than a fried brain I suppose. I could have been an 80's TV commercial though: This is your hair. This is your hair on perms. Any questions?


Sadly this is my graduation picture. I clearly remember doing my hair that day. I actually lowered the height of my bangs for my grad photos.

One of these days may find me with a hair make over. I'm not there quite yet. At least I have given up on the perms.

Bad Hair Days

My whole life's dream as a little girl was to have flowing locks of long hair. I adored long hair and envied anyone who had hair below their shoulders. My hair has always been baby fine and very thin. Not only was it fine and thin, but I grew up in the 80's which means I was getting perms by the time I was in 3rd grade. Not even standard quality salon perms, but home perms. Bad home perms. My poor hair was so over processed that it simply did not grow. In fact, it broke off from all the chemicals so it actually got shorter rather than longer. My mom determined it was very necessary for me to have perms because it contributed to my hair having some volume. So instead of looking like a skinned rat, I looked like a skinned rat with cancer.

Fast forward to 9th grade and the 9th grade dance. For this special occasion, my mom takes me to the salon to get yet another perm (a fresh perm so I have more volume). This time, the perm does not take quite so well and my hair is rather limp. A few days later, we return to the salon to inquire why my hair is so limp and the dumbass REPERMS my hair. Imagine all those chemicals on baby fine hair in just a matter of a few days! And that, my friends, was the beginning of many awkward photos.



I can't even believe I am putting this horrid picture out there for all the interwebs to see, but you needed the picture to get the full effect of what a bad hair day really is. Unfortunately, there are worse pictures of me out there somewhere.

See, what happened is that those perms broke off all the hair on one side of my head so I went through all of Jr. High School with crooked hair. Kids were kind. I didn't even get teased. But I should have.

Of course we (my mom and I) didn't think that all these perms were damaging my hair, and we thought something was medically wrong with me. Or that I was lacking in some hair vitamin. Oh, I even had lab draws to determine why my hair was so awful, but all came back normal. Then it was recommended by that same dumbass beautician that we send samples of my hair in to some obscure lab to be tested. So for the bargain price of $10, I let that lady take 4 separate hunks of hair from each part of my head. Right down to the scalp. It was all I could do to sacrifice all of that hair because I needed every little strand of hair possible. So away to a lab went my hunks of hair.

The results came back saying that my hair did not have a medulla. Apparently that is the middle shaft of a single strand of hair, and it holds a curl. My hair is unlike most peoples' hair in that the more you try to curl it, the straighter it gets, which would also explain why instead of getting nice curls with my perms, I would get frizz. Along with a medulla deficiency I had very "fragile" hair.

That was the end of my perms. Unfortunately not the end of my bad hair days. They are getting better, but I still live in the 90's and have some lingering effects of the infamous "mall bang" look. Oh, I have tried and tried to give myself make overs and get a different, more updated hair style, but my hair doesn't work like that. And I am so petrified of having more pictures like the one I just posted for all the world to see. I can't believe I actually posted that picture. Don't use it to blackmail me, please!

(Just as an *aside*....those suspender pants I am wearing were MC Hammer meets Zubaz. They were big and flare-y and cost me a lot of money!)

A Resilient Woman

My Grandma was a very resilient woman who was faced with more tragedies than are compiled in a Lifetime movie. Her life wasn't a movie, though. She lived it. Not only did she live it, but she lived it with life and with joy despite the unbelievable circumstances that she endured. I have never really had a forum to outline her amazing life, and thought this is the most perfect place to do just that.

Unfortunately, I do not remember much about my Grandma as she died when I was seven. What I do remember are visits to the nursing home where she spent her last years as she coped with the debilitating effects of a stroke. I just finished having a history lesson with my own mother and am once again reminded about the lineage from which I come. One of strong and resilient women.

The time line may be a bit askew and I will do my best to outline her life as best as I can and as efficiently as I can. Her life is filled with more losses than one person should ever have to endure.

Before my Grandma married my Grandpa, she lost her own dad to a heart attack. In that same year, her brother died in a plane crash. He was on a practice flight, training to be a pilot. His name was John. Later, my Grandma would name one of her sons after him.

Grandma and Grandpa married and had 7 children. Marilyn, Kathrine, Shirley, Charlotte (my mom), John AKA "Jack", Bonnie and Randy.

Katherine married Eddie and had 3 children of her own. One tragic evening, Katherine and her husband were killed in a car crash by a drunk driver. Also in the vehicle was my Uncle "Jack" who was only 14 years old at the time. He had a love of baseball and was a terrific pitcher. In fact, earlier that day, he pitched a no hitter in a minor league baseball game. Jack suffered a traumatic brain injury and spent 3 months in a coma. Kath and Eddie left 3 young children ages 4, 3, and 1. My grandma took in and raised her 3 grandchildren after the devastating loss of her own daughter, and while her young son battled for his own life. Jack eventually pulled through, but not without permanent brain damage from the accident. He returned home where my Grandma attempted to raise him, along with her other children who still resided at home, as well as the 3 orphaned grand kids.

Eventually Jack would have to go live in a Group Home as his injuries were too severe and Grandma could not handle him at home any longer. Then another tragedy. Her husband (my Grandpa) died of a heart attack while he was still in his 50's. A year following that loss, my grandma had a stroke at which point the 3 orphaned grandchildren went to live in Arkansas with Marilyn, the oldest daughter who had 3 children of her own.

In an unbelievable and tragic circumstance, Marilyn, along with all the children, were in a car accident. This accident proved to be fatal for Marilyn. All of the children were severely injured and spent time in the hospital to recover from their injuries. So the 3 children who were orphaned by their own parents, were now orphaned a second time. They went to live with their paternal side of the family in Florida. Marilyn left behind 3 children of her own. The older two were old enough to enlist in the military so that is what they did. The youngest was only 10, and he resided with his dad.

Somewhere in all of that mess, my Grandma's sister, Evelyn, was murdered by her husband Dave. He killed her on Mother's Day.

So to recap, Grandma lost her Dad, Brother, Sister, husband, 2 daughters. And one son was permanently brain damaged. Through more natural circumstances, her mother also died of Alzheimer's disease. Intertwined within all of that, there are rumors of infidelity on my Grandpa's part as well.

Despite all of this, Grandma was "happy-go-lucky". She didn't have a pity party, and if anyone had a right to have a pity party, she did. She didn't succumb to depression. She lived. She continued to live until she died in her 70's after suffering a paralyzing stroke. She was a strong woman and I am proud to be her granddaughter. My only regret is that I never really got to know her. My memories of her are minimal. My 2 aunts also perished before I was born so I never got a chance to meet them either. For some reason, I feel close with my Auntie Katherine, and I think we would have had a fun relationship.

My family is filled with strong women. Giving women. Resilient women. When faced with adversity, I hope I can be even half as strong and resilient.