The Domesticated Kitty

KONY 2012

2012-03-10T09:50:00.000-08:00

Dear Young Doctor,

2012-02-23T05:37:00.001-08:00

Photo Credit: guardian.uk

Dear Young Doctor,
Clearly your large intellect is accompanied by a big jug o' dumb. Waking up in the morning to hear you chat about how there are "too many patients" but that it will all pay off because "someday you will make a lot of money" is slightly disgusting.
This passive-aggressive note was brought to you by the letter C- for CANCER. I hope you enjoy a lavish lifestyle someday with all the money you make taking care of sick and dying children.
Sincerely,
The Mom in the Pediatric Hematology Oncology Ward
P.S. I know sound waves and the like are not your specialty- but surely you are aware that sound travels. Next time you feel the need to complain about your job, make sure you are not standing next to the open doors of children who have been vomiting all night.

There, in the atmosphere

2012-01-31T17:07:00.000-08:00

The Great Diaper Bag Rescue of 2011

This afternoon I went outside and stared up at the sky. It was clear and blue; vast and serene. I tried hard to envision the world and it's place in the universe. Feeling small felt good; it made my anger and anxiety seem small too.
I tried to think about the buzzing atmosphere dissolving into space, becoming dark and silent. The quiet felt right. It felt lonely and sad.
That is where I am now.
But I know I have everything to be happy about... so maybe tomorrow I'll come back down.

Angry at the world

2012-01-30T06:56:00.000-08:00

Back when his biggest worry was
what to play next.

Three days ago, our son started Delayed Intensification- the most intense round of chemo that he will face during the entire two-year protocol. The details of what side effects the chemo will have on him are too scary for me to recount. It feels like our family has entered a nightmare en masse and we can't control the dream even though we know we are in it. I feel shell shocked, numb, small- like my heart is sealed in a sound proof room, but I can still faintly hear the war going on outside.

There is nothing worse than the feeling of seeing him in pain, depressed and weak- knowing that we are doing everything we know to ease the awfulness. The steroids make him angry. It breaks me apart when he glares at me with a look that says, "I hate you, mom."

What can I do? There he is, curled up, saying his back hurts- crying it- and he has had all the pain meds he is allowed for the next four hours.
"I'm such a loser." he says, because he can not get up and play like he wants.
"You won't let me!" he growls, because he has to rest instead of going outside.

I get angry. I get angry at the world. I get angry at people who whine over petty garbage. I want to grab them by the shoulders, shake them and scream - Give it to him, then! Give my son the time on earth that you are wasting! Give him the moments without pain. Give him the days you spend wallowing in your own self-indulgent self-pity... because he will make better use of them than you could ever dream of!

So yes, I'm giving a big "Shut the hell up!" to the lazy, whining, life wasters out there. Do something with yourselves in honor of those whose lives are on pause; on the edge.

For a more even tempered view of this phase, read this >>> How to survive DI<<<

D.A.R.E. to Be Difficult- Part 3

2011-11-10T05:58:00.000-08:00

Part V.3
(click here for V.1)

(click here for V.2)

How Growing Up White Trash Can Build Character*

*I do not advocate or recommend the child rearing techniques described herein

But wait… there’s more!

Flash forward to some weeks later. Officer Tad had finished up the D.A.R.E. course and planned an elaborate graduation ceremony for all us fifth graders, during which we were to sing I Believe the Children are our Future and then take the Pledge to be Drug Free. There would also be one student chosen from each class as the winner of the Drug Free Me essay contest. The whole shindig was to take place in our cafeteria on a Wednesday evening.
I pestered mom for days in advance. “Don’t forget. We have to go to the D.A.R.E. graduation. You have to bring me after school.”
“It might be the graduation she ever has!” she prophesized much to the amusement of Betty, who smiled blankly in between her Betty-Boop earrings. “Alright, little girl, but you better get changed ‘cause you look like a rag-a-muffin.”
It was the big night. I knew I would not be winning the essay contest, because I didn’t write any essay. When I first showed my assignment to the mother-person, she made jokes with the neighbor; something to the tune of Free Drugs for Me instead of Drug Free Me. I never mentioned it again. I still had some magical thinking though, that I might get some award for awesome coloring in my D.A.R.E. book or maybe for awesome singing (I guess it’s as good a time as any to tell you that as a child I was fully convinced that I would be “discovered” for my talents and taken away to a life of fame and fortune). I was all dressed up in my favorite jean skirt and big puffy headband.
Getting my outfit together had kept me so consumed that I failed to realize how mom was preparing for the ceremony. Boy was I disappointed when I realized that I would be escorted to the Drug Abuse Resistance Education by a completely intoxicated parent and her equally bombed best friend. sigh.
Utter embarrassment- those are the best words to describe the events of the evening. Let’s review, shall we?
1. Mom and friend chanting my name before the essay winners were announced. Did she forget I did not turn an essay in? Probably not.
2. Mom laughing loudly as Officer Tad described how us kids would take a stand against drugs.
3. Mom pondering out loud, repeatedly “How friggin’ long” this was going to take.
4. Her Drunken Highness commenting that clearly the essay winners had help from their parents (as if that were a bad thing?)
5. The Great Drinkinator stumbling as she made her way to the restroom announcing loudly that she “gotta take a p!ss”.
6. You-know-who whistling at Officer Tad to indicate his hotness.
7. Queen o’ Class using a loud sarcastic tone while she repeated the Drug Free Me oath with the rest of the parents.

8. Princess of Politeness welcoming me back to my seat with a “This is so boring…” after our class rendition of The Greatest Love Of All.

It was a magical night.

D.A.R.E. to Be Difficult- Part 2

2011-11-09T13:03:00.000-08:00

Part V.2
(click here for V.1)

How Growing Up White Trash Can Build Character*

*I do not advocate or recommend the child rearing techniques described herein

....It didn’t take long for the opportunity to arise. My sister’s eighth birthday was coming and my dad gave mom some money to buy her a present. Mom stuffed me into my winter coat and moonboots (K-Mart Kickers, they were called by the kids who had any ounce of cool) before we hopped into her ancient, maroon Chevy Malibu.
Pumping the gas, turning the ignition over and over, all the while swearing; this was how you started the Malibu (or any other vehicle as far as I knew). After a few minutes, the engine turned over and we were on our way down the icy slush side streets of our town. Just me and mom, this was the perfect time to tell her about my discovery. I gathered all my courage took a deep breath and… mom stopped me before I started.

The bigger the hair, the hotter the girl.

“Okay, little girl, we’re pickin’ up Joy on the way.”
Ugh. Joy. She was our babysitter, and a good one, too. She was a few years younger than mom and had watched us several times, always bringing glitter and markers to keep us busy. Unfortunately, Joy as the sitter was not the same experience as Joy the friend of mom. Joy and mom together were an uncomfortable combination for me to be around. Big Momma Dawn was always schooling Joy about sex, drugs and all manner of things that were way too grown-up for me to hear about.
We pulled up at Joy’s house and Mom learned on the horn. The gaudy electric Nativity scene on the front lawn turned off and Joy came bouncing out the front door; stonewashed jeans, white high-tops, black suede jacket and a huge 80’s perm. I thought she looked super cool. Then a surprise: two guys followed, pretty much in the same wardrobe as Joy, but with mullets instead. Right away, I knew this was going to be a very sketchy adventure.
“Get in the back seat, little girl.” Mom said to me in a quick, hushed spit that meant and do it real fast, kid.
Well there I was, all smooshed to the side in the backseat. We had driven only a few miles before pulling into gravel parking lot near the highway. I could feel something in the air and it was not just Aqua Net. It was all wrong. I don’t know how, but I knew at that moment that we would be doing no birthday shopping that night, and that I was merely a cog in Mom’s feel-good-fun-time machine. I was simply her cover. She took me on this adventure only so that she could get out of the house without an argument. To top it all off, I could smell… pot. Awkward.
I slunk low in my seat, feeling just defeated. With the scratchy flick of a Zippo lighter, the sound of deeply drawn breaths and coughing; there was nothing for me to do but sit there and wait, until…
“Marijuana!” Mom said with a crappy Spanish accent. Did I just hear that? My ears burned with a wild fury. Neurons in my brain were zapping, trying like heck to put two and two together, reaching for what was right there on the tip of my tongue. Hold on just a second here!
“You are doing drugs and you know it!” blasted forth from my ten year old lips with all the authority I could muster.

Victory is not mine.

Silence.
Silence.
This was going to be bad if I didn’t do something right now. Mom did not react well to threats, whether perceived or real. I needed to make myself appear hurt, submissive, subordinate… something that needed her help instead of her slap happy hands. I got out of the car. It was a bold move. I mustered tears. I buried my face in my hands.
“Look, little girl, don’t ruin my night. Get in the car.”
What could I do? I was only ten and crying in the snow next to a busy highway. Completely defeated, I got back in the car.
There’s not much more to this story*. We drove to the mall where the five of us walked around. The “adults” took turns stepping into various store displays to pose with the mannequins. (I have to hand it to them, that part was entertaining.) No birthday shopping was done.
There was a huge fight when we got back home. I did not mention our adventure to dad. Mom had warned against it on the drive home and I did not want to test my luck with her two times in one night.
Jen, my little sister, did not get a birthday party.

*****

*Okay, this story was not as amusing as I used to think now that it is actually down on paper. Cheers for white-trashity parenting! Hurrah! (Womp womp.)

Green Tea

2011-11-05T23:45:00.000-07:00

A cup of Why the Heck Not

A happy coincidence, fate, karma, a blessing- whatever your cup of tea, today a chain of events got me thinking. I was in line to pick up some prescriptions. The line was long and slow. There was a lady with a newborn about 12 people behind me. That newborn had been crying for twenty minutes or so, and other people in the line had started giving her the type of well meaning/unsolicited advice that any mother will tell you does not help. at. all.
"Does she need a fresh diaper?"
"Has she eaten?"
"Is she cold?"
All those questions, but when she drops a blanket, no one picks it up for her. It was hard to watch. I wanted to tell her to go to the front of the line, but I was not even at the front of the line.
Finally, I was about three people from the front and I called back to her, "Excuse me? You can take my place. Please. Here, I'll go back there."
She didn't argue. She took my place. I moved (twenty minutes) back. No- the three people left in front of her did not let her go any further toward the front of the line. I felt relieved that I did something. It was not some huge, awesome thing...it was just the RIGHT thing. Too often these days, people do nothing.
The lady next to me in my "new" spot drummed up a conversation right away. Her mother had metastatic breast cancer. The doctors didn't give the brightest prognosis. She started chemo... and green tea. She finished the chemo and continues to drink a cup of green tea everyday. FOURTEEN YEARS LATER... no cancer. Fit as a fiddle. A nephew with lymphoma as a teen... chemo + green tea everyday. He's cancer free, and though he had to wait 10 years after he got married, the Dr. gave him the go ahead to have a child; to try. Now he has a son of his own.That is something I will see for Gav.

So what do I do? I stop at the local Asian market for green tea, of course. How could I ignore the woman? I go home and with skeptical thoughts a-thinking I Google Green Tea Cancer. What do you know! National Cancer Institute, Cancer.org, Cancer.gov, WebMD, Sciencedaily.com and more, all relevant sources with actual serious articles on green tea. None brush it off as some wack-job idea. All of those give positive or neutral outlooks, with some citing positive outcomes in lab experiments against cancer cells. Of course, there is no magic bullet. However, if something that shows even the slightest wink of promise with no side effects, why wouldn't we add it to our lives? After all, it is just tea.

I just wanted to get this up. Links and citations will be added at a later date, but you can easily find the info as I did.

Cancer Support Groups Garner Power

2011-11-03T20:36:00.000-07:00

When cancer patients need to feel empowered, they go to cancer support groups. There is something very powerful about writing and talking about your feelings with people who understand what you are going through. It is like a special connection that nothing else can imitate.

Understanding what a person with a cancer diagnosis of any kind goes through is something that only a select group of people in this world can do. This really has to do with any cancer diagnosis there is, from the common cancers such as breast cancer and skin cancer to rare and deadly diseases like mesothelioma. Most doctors will recommend to his or her patients to seek out and join a cancer support group. In fact, every cancer specialist understands the daily struggle that patients go through; however, most still do not understand the feelings and hardships one must endure.

Here are just a couple reasons why cancer support groups are so empowering.

It helps patients mentally

Cancer is just as much a neurological condition as it is a physical one, meaning it affects patient's sense of well-being and optimism. During this trying time, patients need to remain mentally healthy and focus on the positive aspects of life. They must search deep within themselves and find an inner peace that only they can achieve.

By being surrounded my like-minded people in the same situation, cancer patients can easily maintain a positive outlook on life, empowering them for anything that comes their way.
It helps patients physically

Though support groups do not directly heal patients, it is the positive outlook that helps patients deal and cope with their disease. Studies show that optimistic people are generally healthier and heal faster than pessimistic people. An optimistic person's brain sends certain neurological signals to the body that helps vital organs and immune system functions. Therefore, by being relaxed and positive, patients can help themselves gain back energy and desire to live.

It helps spreads awareness

Cancer support groups are not just limited to cancer patients. Anyone can attend these sessions and get a first hand look at how patients feel and what concerns them. It gives healthy people a greater appreciation for doctors, patients and treatment. Though a healthy person may still not fully comprehend everything that goes on in a cancer patient's life, he will have a greater perspective.

This article from cancer.org (Article) also explains the benefits and use of cancer groups.

If you or someone you know has cancer, it is imperative that you find a support group that can teach, advise and help. The wisdom you receive from these groups is invaluable.

David Haas
Guest Blogger

D.A.R.E. to Be Difficult- Part 1

2011-11-03T10:37:00.000-07:00

Part V

How Growing Up White Trash Can Build Character*

*I do not advocate or recommend the child rearing techniques described herein

Difficult. That’s the word my grandmother always used to describe the kind of child my mother was. It is also the word I use to describe how my mother was as a parent. It’s not that she meant to be difficult… it is just that the core fiber of her being wanted to do what felt “good”, and that made life difficult for those closest to her.

'Cause Nancy Reagan says so!

One thing that felt good was smoking pot. It was quite a normal part of my childhood, watching her light a roach with her friends. Venturing out to obtain a sandwich bag of that fragrant green stuff was as common as going to the corner store for a gallon of milk. I remember watching the sticks and seeds being carefully separated from the weed and thinking, I can do that. And sometimes I did. I was a champ at picking out the seeds; those tiny glistening brownish spheres that made a faint tink when dropped into an ashtray. Mom always told us to go in the other room/go upstairs/ go outside and play, when the crinkling of EZ-Widers stopped and one lone joint lay quietly on the dining room table- but we never strayed very far. The scent of those little hand rolled cigarettes burning made me and my little sister a bit more giggly than usual. Contact high, anyone?
It was my fifth grade year. The D.A.R.E. program was in full effect in my suburban elementary school. Officer Tad had been coming to our classroom once a week to hand out treats, work through pages in our Drug Abuse Resistance Education coloring/propaganda booklets, and generally be one cool dude. Officer Tad was an awesome big bro for the boys and somewhat of a dreamboat for the girls. Heck, he even had a rad sportscar with the big red D.A.R.E. logo emblazoned across the sides. In other words, he was the perfect talking head and we believed and hung on his every syllable.
“Mary-wanna…” he said. I don’t know what he was smoking, but my workbook said Mari-JU-Ja-Una. I guess I’d have to let it slide. “…is a drug that is very common. It is usually smoked in a Mary-wanna cigarette or a pipe. Mary-wanna is also called Mary Jane, weed…
Hold on minute…weed?
“…and pot.”
Whhaaaaaat!?
Weed and pot were what my mom called that stuff she smoked! If weed, pot and marijuana were all the same thing, then that meant that my mother was a person who did drugs. Holy sh!t. Oh, how the gears were turning in my fifth grade brain!
I made up my mind right then and there that I had to confront her. I needed to tell my mom that she was doing a drug.

Dare to pimp your ride

The rest of the D.A.R.E. lesson was blur. I knew I would have to bide my time, waiting for just the right moment to spring the news on my mother. After all, she was volatile under the best of circumstances, and to think that all this time she was doing a drug...well, someone would be paying the piper for tricking her I was was sure of that.

*****

Yes. This was my actual thought process. Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion. It's a confrontation for the ages.

Up and Down

2011-10-31T12:33:00.000-07:00

Halloween! Gav is going as a ninja.
because it fits with his medical need to cover the lower half of his face in busy places (normally with a blue hospital mask) to keep germs and viruses out.
I can't wait to do the parent thing; sneaking the "good candy" from his stash
but there won't be too much to pick from, because his legs won't carry him to far

Last night I felt like I was flying, because Gav has been feeling so... normal. He's been singing and dancing at random, like he used to before chemo.

The last few months felt like a train wreck: selling our house and searching for/ moving into a new one while at the same time finding out Gav's "noisy night breathing" was actually T-cell Lymphoblastic Lymphoma, and watching chemotherapy do its job while wreaking havoc on his body. Did I mention that the baby is getting her molars and we live states away from any relatives? All this in three months... and let me tell you that I did find my breaking point, and no- it was not pretty.
BUT
We do have a wonderful little family.
The chemo DOES seem to be working like gangbusters.
My hubby is here with me, and not deployed.
We have a warm house and plenty to eat.
The baby is becoming a sassy toddler.

In some crazy way, I still feel like we are some of the "lucky" ones.
(This is what I tell myself in order to keep sane.)

I want to kick myself in the pants sometimes when I let the cancer get me down.
I try to remind myself that when Gav grows up and gets married, that this will all be behind us.
I need to make happy memories here, because
I WILL NOT
let cancer and chemo steal two+ years from our lives.
It's my responsibility as a mother.

The Cancer Kid Comedian

2011-10-25T09:38:00.000-07:00

Don't let the screen door hit your arse on the way out!

I've tried to explain the chemotherapy treatments to Gav a few times. Basically, the Chemo Army goes in and kills the Cancer Bad Guys. Then his body poops and pees them out. The Chemo Army has to go in so many times, because those CBG's are sneaky S.O.B's, and they might be hiding out and waiting to reorganize and invade.

Last night Gav threw up his antibiotics. It's a pretty big pill that he chews up (his choice- he hates swallowing pills) and chases with few ounces of root beer. The throwing up, for Gav, is sometimes a psychological thing... he psyches himself out because he hates pills. I figured it was time for another metaphorical speech about the importance of those pills, and so I regurgitated the Chemo Army story, adding that the other pills are the Support Units or something hokey like that.

He stopped me mid-blabber and said, "So, it's like there's a party in your body, and the cops have to come and kick the cancer out the back door. Get it? Out the back door... out your butt! You poop them out. Ha!"

Gimmie! Gimmie! Gimme!

2011-10-24T11:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, so in previous posts I definitely gave the poo-poo face to materialistic, fad-driven consumers. Today, I'm in a shoppy mood, and although no actual shopping will happen, I read somewhere that some good window shopping can have the same psychological impact. The following is a list stuff I actually don't need. I'm taking a 10 minute brain break from trying to be a great time manager who focuses on all the good things that are already in my life (trying... attempting... not actually achieving.)

1. Abercrombie and Fitch Woods Cologne... old school style. Yes, it's cologne, but I wore it anyway during High School. That stuff smells friggin' awesome. Now I want my hubs to smell like it. It's stupid expensive (for a cheapo like me) and somehow the hubby's $5.00 shaving cream is eerily reminiscent of it. SO good. Sooooo good. Is Abercrombie & Fitch ___ the public by bottling the essence of Barbisol and Old Spice?

2. Lego Head Storage Thingy for Gav. Admit it, this thing is pretty cool. I like the exploded Lego skull image. Am I the only one watching Oddities on the Discovery Channel?

Why the smirk?

3. This T-Pain toy microphone... for the whole family. How much fun is this thing?! I saw it in Target a few days back and actually squealed in glee. Truly.

I feel better now.

The New Normal

2011-10-21T11:52:00.000-07:00

At the clinic with a new Lego guy

This phrase has become an unwelcome house guest. As soon as Gavin was diagnosed, it was in my face; doctors, articles, blogs, nurses, social workers, moms in the Peds Hem/onc ward, families at the RMH (Ronald McDonald House... keeping running, you'll catch up with the lingo), LLS discussion boards- everyone jabbering on about this "New Normal".
The New Normal is what you call life with cancer. You never go back to "normal". Nope. Not even after remission, I hear. You are forever in the purgatory of this New Normal, where you have to go to the Emergency Room for a fever, and an itch might be way more than an itch; where you have to poison your kid so they can get better; where you can not promise tomorrow, but you have never loved today so much- even if your baby says it hurts- because today... TODAY you can see the rise and fall of your baby's chest as they sleep.
In the New Normal, my senses are heightened. I relish every moment with my little family. I am thrilled by
Gavin chanting "I'm jogging!I'm jogging" as he moves faster than he has in weeks
Ruby saying, "Buh-yer! Gah-ee"
Thai being, well, Thai.

The C word

2011-08-14T09:39:00.000-07:00

There is no good way to say this, so here goes:
Gavin Has Lymphoblastic Lymphoma, a rare form of Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Cancer. The diagnosis came about a week ago, after about a month of "He's got asthma/allergies/sinus infection...".

He is on his third day of chemo. So far, so good. He feels great. It's hard to wrap my mind around it because he seems to be just as healthy as ever. I know that the chemo will have plenty of "sick" side effects, so all I can do is...wait.
He knows he has cancer (though he tells others he has a "breathing problem"). We have talked about the two years of treatment we have ahead. He does not know yet, that he will probably lose his hair. It's the only thing I have not talked to him about, but there are so many kids here in the unit with no hair that he probably has some idea.
The whole thing is very surreal.
My child has cancer. My child has cancer.

Gerbil Tale

2011-06-20T18:59:00.000-07:00

Part III

We Were Weird*

*really really weird.

“But you were just a little kid. You meant no harm.”

Some stories still make me cringe. This is one of them. I like to imagine that everyone was as sneaky as I was as a child. It makes me feel better about all the naughty things I did. In my very imaginative kid brain, I surmised that no one would ever trace any mischievous actions back to little old me. Incredibly, I rarely did get caught, and if I was ever was accused, I was usually able to successfully incriminate my poor, innocent little sister. That poor kid took countless punishments for me. Oh, the guilt of it all.

I was never caught for this one, and I have shouldered the guilt since I was about eight. I knew it was wrong to lie… I just could not help myself. ‘Fessing up to the truth would have had dire consequences. Twenty-three years have passed. Confession can be cleansing; so here you go.

The action started on our neighbor’s cement porch. Twenty-five year old Mom was leaning against the railing, smoking a Newport. The Cromptin siblings, who were in their late teens, lounged on the steps dripping eighties style and coolness; “Dude” in his Zubaz pants, Crystal with her Madonna hairstyle.

            “Dude, I’m bringing those things back to the store.”, our stoned teenage neighbor and sometime babysitter giggled as she passed the joint to her brother and gestured at the Habitrail. Inside it were two female gerbils, one brown, the other black with white paws and belly.

            “Ya know, maybe the girls can keep em’. It’ll teach them some responsibility.” Mom said. Jen and I were squatting on the sidewalk, inspecting a parade of ants and breathing in that nice smell. We gave one another giddy glances. Could it be true? Would those fur babies be ours? “I’ll talk to James.”

            Later that night, she did. Jen and I could barely contain ourselves when Dad came through the door with the cage. We had already agreed to name them Blackie and Brownie.

            “Listen girls, this is a big responsibility. You’ll need to remember blabity blah blah and blah to blabby blah…” Who was he kidding? Our brains were hyper excited and in no condition to process reason, let alone remember instructions on the care of our new fur babies. He finished off his long speech with, “… You got that, girls?”

            We gave the sweetest ever, “Yes, Daddy.” We nodded in unison. ‘Lil Sis and I gazed at Blackie and Brownie by the dim glow of my Smurfette nightlight until we drifted off into dreamland.

            Life with Blackie and Brownie was wonderful for the first month or so. Mom even bought a maze that attached to the top of the cage. Brownie was especially fond of climbing up and down the tube that led to the maze. Blackie loved to run on the wheel. The two of them also spent a lot of time wresting. At least, that’s what Jen and I thought they were doing.

            One afternoon, Blackie was acting strange. She was licking her butt and it seemed like she was breathing hard. Mom was drinking with the neighbors, so it was on that day that my sister and I experienced the miracle of life first hand… with no explanation. It was horrifying.

            It seemed that Blackie had “pooped out” three tiny pink fleshy things. Babies? One of them did not move, and Blackie proceeded to eat it. Gross. Then Blackie carried the two remaining pink things to her nest. Turns out, Brownie was a boy and all that wrestling had produced two live babies. We dubbed them The Edison Twins. So began the unending stream of incestuous babies that were born in our Habitrail. It was brother on sister on cousin on mother madness, and we found it hilarious.

            Blackie’s babies (and their babies) were all black like her, making Papa Brownie easy to spot. He was therefore my favorite and I wanted him to know it. I would often take him out of the cage for some one on one time. Sometimes he would play hard to get, scampering away from my hand, but in the end he always acquiesced. Always. Except for that one time…

            I was alone in the bedroom Jenny and I shared. After spending a few minutes setting up my Barbie Dream House (a gold nugget pulled from some other family’s trash), I decided that Brownie should be Barbie’s new pet. I pressed my nose up against the side of the cage, trying to find him among the growing brood. There he was, making trips from the lower cage, up the tube to the maze and back down again. I pulled up the sleeve of my nappy, electric blue sweatshirt and reached inside. I cupped my hand under the tube, which he was about to descend.

Innocent Victim

            He slid right through my gentle grasp. Dang. I poised my hand for his impending return. I squeezed a bit more tightly. Again he slipped through. When he wiggled through my fingers on the third descending attempt I felt a twinge of sadness. Didn’t Brownie want to play with me? Didn’t he know the fun that was awaiting him at the Dream House? My fingers tensed. I would get him this time…

            The memory is an excruciating, slow-mo nightmare. In reality the whole thing must have taken just a few seconds. There he was, the patriarch of our gerbil colony, making his way back toward that damned climbing tube. The tip of his pink nose tickled the edge of my hand. He stepped up with caution, before scrambling with lightning speed into the plastic causeway. My reflexes were quick, but not quick enough. My hand clamped down on that little tail.

***oh the shame!***

            I should have let go. His four little legs were going full force, like a truck spinning it’s wheels. I held on and he pulled up and then the most awful thing happened. He scurried up. My hand was pulled halfway into the mouth of the cylinder. The gerbil was gone. Kind of. There was still something warm and furry in my evil little fist of misfortune.

            There I stood, in shock and denial. This was the worst thing I had ever done in my entire life. There in my trembling hand was a one inch bit of Brownie; the tip of his tail. Without thinking, I flung it into the space between the wall and my bureau. I could not bear to look at what I had done. Instead, I ran.

            My feet bounded down the stairs, carrying me out the rear door of our apartment house, through the alley, to the neighbor’s porch. Mom eyed me suspiciously.

            “What? What did you do?”

            The lie flew from my lips like magic. “One gerbil was climbing up the tube and another bit his tail and they were fighting and now Brownie is hurt BAD!”

            And that was that. She followed me up the stairs, surveyed the damage and accepted the story. Brownie seemed fine, except for the fact that there was a shiny pink nub where his tail should have been. Mom sprayed some antibiotic on it. All the while I tried not to stare at the dark space where I had tossed the tail. I don't know what happened to it.

I never told her the real story, nor did I ever look for the tail... but it called to me like Poe's Tell-Tale Heart, threatening to tell the truth of what I had done. After the big event, the details of the growing gerbil colony are fuzzy, but I remember we had quite a little pet cemetery behind the garage by the end of the summer. Then one day we came home from school and the gerbils were gone; cage and all. To be honest, I was relieved. I did not ask where they disappeared to or if they were okay.

Freddy Goes Fishing

2011-06-15T11:07:00.000-07:00

Part II
of
We Were Weird*
*really really weird.


            Terrified and paranoid, Jennifer eyed the closet next to which she found her bed placed. She had been doing everything in her power to keep Fred at bay, but this new development brought him closer than ever. She fished the glow-in-the-dark cross keychain out of her fanny pack and inspected it. If she was going to survive the night, she would need extra help from Jesus. He was the only one who could protect her from the man with the knife fingers.
***

Give Freddy some tongue!

            She and I shared a bedroom, and we never went directly to sleep at bedtime. We played all sorts of invented games, told stories, made plans (to run away) or carried out “sneak missions” where we tried to move around our apartment without being detected. The main objective of sneak missions was to reach a vantage point from which we could watch TV... grownup after bedtime TV like Real Sex on HBO, Twin Peaks, Caroline’s Comedy Hour, or scary movies… scary movies like A Nightmare on Elm Street, whose main character, Freddy Krueger, accessed, tormented and killed his victims via their dreams.
            Our missions had varying success. Sometimes we were spotted and ushered back to bed with a swift swat to the ass before the first commercial break. Others, we could sneak-watch grownup TV for more than an hour before being caught; it was during one of those rare long successful missions the night we saw A Nightmare on Elm Street: Dream Warriors.
***
            It had been at least a month since Jen and I first learned about Freddy Krueger. In that month, my imaginative lil’ sis had convinced herself that Krueger was after her, day and night… in her dreams, in the basement, and in her closet.

            Both of us had been terrified of the basement for years. It was an unfinished cement nightmare, lit by a lone, bare bulb that threatened to go dark at any moment. It was also the location of the washing machine. Since there was no dryer (unless you count the kitchen stove, which often served that purpose) it was our responsibility to get the loads of wet laundry and haul them up the stairs. We had no laundry basket, so the chore was an awkward, wet mess; made a zillion times worse by the “fact” that a monster of some sort surely chased us with a vicious bloodlust as we turned from the machine to ascend the stairs… the creaky, dusty, horror film stairs.
            For Jen, that monster now took the form of Freddy. She got it in her head that she could somehow barter with him, to get him to not kill her in her dreams. One of her tactics was to scrounge the change that was left in the washing machine. She would grasp the coins in one fist, balancing the cold, wet pile of clothes with a raised knee and her other arm. Then, she would hop backwards, telepathically reasoning with Freddy, who was surely emerging from a dusty mirror which leaned against a back wall in the darkest recesses of the concrete dungeon.
            “Take this money… there is more where that came from if you promise not to kill me in my dreams!” And with that, as her story goes, she would hurl the bribe money towards the shadows and scramble up the steps, hoping to reach our second floor apartment without feeling those sharpy knife fingers pin-pricking the skin of her neck. This, she decided, must be working because she was still alive.
            It was very common to come home from school on any given day and find the furniture in our apartment completely rearranged. Mom was either ADHD or hiding a raging coke habit that fueled these activities. It was one of those “moving” days that brought Jen’s fears even closer. The only other place Freddy was sure to be found was our bedroom closet. And that, my friends, was now less than an arm’s length away from where her bed had been placed.
            “He’s going to get me.” poor, shaking Jen said- half to me, half to herself. She sat Indian-style (that’s what my teachers called it in the years before political correctness) on my bed, with her palm opened upward on the window ledge. In that shivering hand was her glow-in-the-dark cross; a strange white-green relic from the few months we spent attending Sunday School at the First Lutheran Church. It worked best if it spent a long time in the sunlight, which was now fading.
            She begged me to switch beds, and maybe I should have, but all her paranoia had really gotten to me and I did not want Freddy to kill me either. I was too ashamed to tell her no, so instead I said,
            “Uh… I’ll go ask mom and if she says yes then I will switch beds.”
            Of course I had no intention of asking my mother about anything as I exited that bedroom. Jen’s weepy blue eyes burned into back of my skull; surely she must have sensed my deception. I just kept going, straight past the wicker room dividers, through the kitchen where my mother sat chatting on the phone with a cigarette dangling from two fingers, and right out the back door. I spent the rest of the afternoon hiding behind the garage in self-imposed exile.
            That night, bedtime was unnaturally calm. Instead of the usual begging for “Just five more minutes, please PLEASE?”, my little sister proceeded exactly when mom directed. Her body language was robotic. If she was still worried about the closet or old knife knuckles, she did not show any sign of it. This worried me. Had she struck a deal with Mr. Krueger? My head instead of hers?
            The second mom snapped the light switch to the off position and that little plastic cross glowed, my mind was at ease. If Jen was still relying on Jesus to protect her, I must still be safe.
            “I have a plan.” she whispered. With that she rolled over to face the closet and fell asleep.
***
            The morning sun shined through our rainbow heart patterned curtains the next morning. I could hear Mom in the next room, carrying on a lively one sided conversation with our cat Jay-jay. Jen had apparently been awake for a while, judging by the army of My Little Pony’s she had arranged in front of her, on her rainbow bedspread. Her face was the picture of serenity. It had been weeks since she seemed so relaxed, so it struck me as odd… maybe even a little eerie.
            “We are friends now.” she told me without looking in my direction. Goosebumps. A shiver. This kid was creeping me out.
            “Huh? What are you talking about?”
            “Me and Freddy, we are friends now. I helped him.” Finally she turned her eyes toward me. “I teached him so now he can use his claws for other things. He won’t go after me ever again.”
            “What?”
            “I made myself dream that me and Freddy were on a rowboat. I had my cross, so he could not hurt me…”
            Freddy and vampires are had the same vices, I guess?
            “I told him to use his fingers to catch fish. He is happy because now he knows what to do with his hands. He won’t try to kill me anymore.”

"Doth ye have room for one more?"

***

Is the "teach a man to fish..." moral applicable here?

***

Human Sacrifice: The Game

2011-04-17T19:31:00.000-07:00

Part I

We Were Weird*

*really really weird.

It all started will a red, foam-stuffed foldable chair and four weird kids. There was me, a knock-kneed bossy pants with superstar aspirations. Cousin Clyde was the oldest, as well as the only boy. Camouflage cargo pants, buzz cut, Iron Maiden t-shirt and wire rimmed glasses were his uniform. His little sis Nova had ear, nose and toes that seemed to be growing at double the rate the rest of her body was. My lil’ sis was a pigeon toed scrapper who was ready to cry at the drop of a dime. Together, we referred to ourselves as the Family Regulators.

Nova and Clyde were Auntie Rita’s kids, and our constant playmates. Their house provided optimum play conditions. There was a small yard that housed an enormous Elm tree and an aging garage that was full of the most wonderful stuff: tools, metal and wood doohickeys that belonged to who-knows-what, dusty cardboard boxes of household doodads, and the most wonderful assortment of hardware store chemicals. There was also a traditional unfinished New England basement (technically off limits, but we could not resist), which had eight smallish, rectangular windows opening to ground level and an assortment of glorious old stuff arranged on industrial style metal shelving and stacked upon furniture relics from another era. Then there was third floor, which was sectioned into a playroom and a bedroom for each of my cousins. And there, dear readers, is where we carried out our most elaborate play.

Time, at that age, seemed to stretch and jump. School was a hiccup; playtime was a three week vacation. When the four of us got together, we would use those perceived great expanses of playtime to conjure worlds from a pile of toys or immerse ourselves in imaginary somewheres. Enchanting and innocent so far, huh? Here come the weird.

Our games and pretend started off innocently enough, but most times the endgame was a sort of depraved amalgam stuff that kids just should not know about. See, Jen and I lived in a nutty, drug and alcohol soaked environment, that was inhabited every kind of low-class-go-nowhere type you could imagine. We saw fighting, illegal escapades and immaturity regularly. We could even give you detailed descriptions of the interiors of area bars, when my mother had taken us (oh so casually) on occasion.

Clyde and Nova had something completely different to bring to the playtime table: two divorced, but supportive parents; an artsy fartsy architect dad who loved the music of Yanni and had real leather couches; a mild-mannered mom who made the best cookies ever. Both tried to feed and cultivate their children’s interests. As a result, Clyde had a ridiculously large collection of war inspired toys, literature and memorabilia. Ever the chameleon, Nova had a little bit of everything (it seemed like she really did have every thing).

So if a + b = c, then playtime was bound to be pretty kooky. Somehow from our combined experiences, we came up with “The Human Sacrifice Game”. It was a carefully crafted set of events that we acted out over and over… and over. We reveled in the ceremonial grandeur. In the moment, it seemed life really just might hang in the balance.

That red chair was the catalyst. Ever on the cutting edge of interior design, my Uncle Jee-joe had purchased two of the foldables for the playroom. Folded, they were a place to sit. Unfolded, they were perfect for lounging. They also served as excellent barriers when balanced on their side. Most important to this story was their ability to serve as a slide when paired with a seat from the Little Tykes table set.

“Get the lions!” I called to Nova.

“And the other chair” Clyde barked at Jen.

Being the older siblings, Clyde and I were the idea men. Jen and Nova toiled away for years as our servants, doing our bidding under threat of physical abuse, or worse- being exiled from the game. We deemed ourselves President and Vice president, but we were more like Dictator #1 and Dictator #2.

“...and get the horse blanket… and that glitter wand!” I was picturing myself in the role of the Queen, draped in an extravagant robe while wielding a scepter.

President Clyde had ideas of his own, “Don’t forget the tape deck!” (This was long before CD’s were common.)

We positioned ourselves in a morbid tableau when the setup was complete. Clyde sat on the “thone” as The King peering out with extreme menace from behind his crooked specs and swaddled in his blanket-robe (much to my dismay). Nova and I, in the part of The Temple Worshipers, kneeled across from one another on the ascending side of our sacrificial slide, bowing with religious fervor and chanting:

“…I am the queen of Sheba…” for reasons that have long since been forgotten; in creepy, alien-pitch voices.

Naturally having a fairly constant look of sadness and desperation made Jen THE perfect Human Sacrifice. Posing like a prisoner in chains at the opposite end of the room and decked out in a costume that was part tattered pauper, part glittery stripper; she nodded to signal that we could begin.

Ten year old King Clyde began announcing in the third person, “We have doomed you! You will go down the death slide to please the Gods! Ha ha ha! That is, unless you can change the King’s mind. Dance! Now, Dance! The King might spare your life!”

Then with a great exaggeration of his pointer finger, The King reached down and pressed the play button. Debbie Gibson’s Lost In Your Eyes blared from the speakers.

In a fluster, Jen broke character and stomped her foot. “No! Not that song!” The King fast-forwarded to Out of The Blue, which pleased the prospective sacrifice.

She danced. Side to side. Step-clap step-clap, with her arms swinging front to back in stiff L shapes. Her hands were flattened into fleshy pink spatulas. Her head tilted down, concentrating on the movements. A crowd of stuffed animals that been gathered to witness the festivities stared at her with their big blank eyes, seeming to say, Oh! That is just a shameful attempt!

Debbie Gibson’s voice faded out as Jen finished her side-stepping dance for life with an awkward spin. King Clyde shook his head, clearly dissatisfied with the display.

“Feed her to the lions!” he cried with way too much enthusiasm.

Nova and I rose, working our zombie-like temple worshiper act to the fullest. Jen put on quite the show, struggling as we ushered her to meet her maker. Our chants intensified. King Clyde laughed maniacally. The beginnings of real tears formed in Jen’s eyes as she stared down the death slide- an incredible decent of approximately three and one half feet. There at that bottom of that chair slide of doom waited (oh, horror of horrors!) two stuffed pumas, whose innocent yarn perma-smiles surely hid a bloodlust to rival Vlad the Impaler.

Now, the moment we had all waited for. The best part of The Human Sacrifice Game: chanting zombettes, cackling king, crying sacrificial dancer sliding slowly on her seven year old belly. When her feet disappeared over the edge, she played her part and the pumas', alternately yelling for her life and roaring, with wild abandon until finally… silence.

Then, the encore…

“I’m not dead! I will not die!” Jen’s fingers clawed up the red shoot, grasping for a second chance. We all tried to stifle our giggles. This was the best part; the begging for her life as she clambered back up. King Clyde rose and strode slowly toward his damned subject and dripping with apparent pleasure, placed his palm on her forehead and pushed her back down, before throwing two teddy bears plus Teddy Ruxpin and his pal Grubby the Caterpiller in after her to finish the job. At long last, it was done.

Nova broke the silence, chirping a perky, “That was a good one!”

“I’m Queen now!” I declared, holding my hands out to Clyde. He passed over the scepter and robe. We finished with a grande group interpretation of the pee-pee dance as we prepared for the next sacrifice.

What Is This Job They Call Blow?

2011-04-11T11:23:00.000-07:00

Part VI

How Growing Up White Trash Can Build Character*

*I do not advocate or recommend the child rearing techniques described herein

As a child, you tend to be left out of adult conversations. You also overhear things. My little brain would piece together bits. This is a story about that.

Betty was a friend of my mothers. She was a nice enough lady, who had a penchant for wearing all things Minnie Mouse: the XL white sweatshirt, the plastic watch, tiny sculpted rubber earrings, lace trimmed socks- all bearing the coy, high-heeled image of that cheeky mouse. Sounds like the kind of woman that a kid would enjoy being around, right? Wrong. Few things brought dread into my little heart the way a prospective visit to Betty’s house did.

It was not that Betty was an awful person. On the contrary- she had a sweet personality and never raised her voice, unless it was to laugh. She was also a skilled cook who always had a plate of peanut butter cookies or an extra bowl of homemade soup ready for hungry little tummies. But no amount of yummy food or friendliness could outweigh that smell.

Betty lived on the third floor of an apartment house owned by her family. They were a very traditional, close knit Jewish family, with an above ground pool and plenty of Matzo to go around. Grandma and Grandpa lived on the first floor, a bright space filled with late 70’s decor which they kept tidy and polished. On the second floor was Betty’s sister, Rachel, whose space was the epitome of 80’s style with its mauve, imitation leather couches and many beveled mirrors. The tiny third floor was occupied by Betty and her three boys- toddler triplets. One of these homes was not like the others.

You could smell it when you reached the second floor landing, something acrid, sour and strong. On a scale of one to ten- with a one being the smell of a dog fart and a ten being the aroma of hot garbage topped with a bucket of diarrhea and doused with sour milk- that hallway was easily a seven. I would tug on my mother’s arm and beg to wait outside on the porch.

“Quit bein’ a frickin’ baby. It ain’t that bad!”

On Betty’s door hung a brass plaque that read Shalom in both English and Hebrew. Juxtaposed on the landing were piles of dirty clothes and broken toys that warned of the terror that lay ahead. No amount of old world welcome could ease anyone who approached that door.

Mom knocked. I held my breath. Jenny would have done the same if she was not busy crying softly, mourning the fresh air we had left behind on the sidewalk. One of the triplets (three feet tall with dark curls, a sagging diaper and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt) flung the door open, letting a solid ten smelling cloud of stink wash over me.

“Hey, Dawn! Come on in!” Betty called to my mother from somewhere.

The other two toddler boys scrambled to the door, looking exactly like the first with the exception of style: number two’s t-shirt bore the image of Spiderman, number three wore only his diaper. Mickey, Spidey and Nudie motioned for Jen and I to follow them. Mickey and Spidey took hold of my tear streaked little sister and pulled her toward their room, with Nudie and I bringing up the rear.

“We gots He-Man and Doritos!” announced Nudie.

“You girls be good and don’t make a friggin’ mess” Mom shouted as she disappeared down the junk-crowded hallway.

Oh, the irony. There was no way to make a friggin’ mess. This place was the ultimate mess. The whole apartment seemed to have been held upside down and shaken by a giant. On top of that, oooo that smell! Can’t you smell that smell? The toilet was chronically clogged and, for some reason, Betty thought it was okay to use that bathroom as some sort of dirty diaper storage facility. There must have been over a hundred soiled diapers in there at any given time. They overflowed from a teeny, sticky looking trash pail. They bulged from double knotted plastic shopping bags (points for recycling?) piled next to the sink. Sometimes, they simply amassed in the mildew riddled tub.

To compound the fecal force, it was also the summertime. Heat rises. This was a third floor apartment with no air conditioning. The only fresh air drizzled in through the rear door, located in the kitchen. I wanted to get close to that diffusing breeze.

Jen accepted her fate and got busy, alternately digging through the junk in the boys room in search of action figures and stuffing handfuls of Doritos into her mouth. She paused only occasionally to direct the triplets with her orange dusted fingers. Jen was my servant at home, but here she had three minions of her own.

“Get that box, Mickey! Nudie, that fort is toooo small! Spidey, I need more Doritos!”

I made it down the hallway at a snail’s pace. I knew that I was not welcome to sit in on the grownup conversation. I also knew that my mother had the sensory perception of a T-rex. As long as I kept quiet and moved slowly, I could remain undetected for a very long time.

Listening in on grown up conversation was always one of my very most favorite things to do when I was a little girl. Part of me felt that I was very mature for my age and so I should not be excluded in the first place. It was also a fact that I watched a great many daytime talk shows. Donahue and Sally Jessie equipped me with a wide range of background knowledge. They made it easy for me to follow along in conversations about relationships, divorce, sexuality and domestic strife in general… not that home life hadn’t filled in a lot of those blanks already.

At three feet from the kitchen doorway, I crouched next to a box filled with costume jewelry and tried to lean into the contaminated breeze. Mom and Betty were chatting about work; more specifically, the lack of work. Betty was fresh on the job market, having been fired from her job at the mail-order book warehouse where my mother was still employed. I listened as mom reassured her that it would get better and grimaced as she extolled the perks of food stamps.

“Hey who gives a sh!t. I pay taxes, ya know? It ain’t like I’m freekin’ prostitootin’ on the street. You use them like cash. Who cares who’s looking? You should go down to social services and get some.”

I tuned them out. I hate-hate-hated food stamps and was very embarrassed by them. I tried to focus on breathing shallowly and absorbing fresh air while I inspected my dirty shoes: a pair of imitation Jellies. After a few minutes of using my fingernails to dig dirt from the crevices in the plastic, faux basket weave pattern, my attention turned to the box of cheap costume jewelry. As I was rummaging through it, deciding which one to steal (Betty will never notice, I rationalized.), a phrase I had never heard before caught my attention.

“… find a blow job!” Mom finished as she and Betty let out peals of laughter.

Hmmm…blow job. Blow job. Blow job. Wheels and sprockets turned in my head, trying to process this new phrase. Blow job. It was a job I had never heard of before. I thought hard about it, whispering it to myself over and over, blow job…blooooowwwww job… job-b-b blow…

“…blow job…blow…” This was not the best time for my inner monologue to become external.

“What?! Get outta here, chick!” I had been spotted. Dang. “Put down that necklace and go play with the boys.”

Back to through the apartment I wandered. Jen was ordering the triplets around with all the excitement and fury of a crazed miniature dictator.

“More blocks! Build... it... higher!”

I was determined to decipher that phrase. I used all the deductive reasoning I could to make connections that would solve the riddle of this job that was called blow. Ready for a ride on my girlhood train of thought? Here we go:

Blow… Blow out candles? No. That can’t be right. Blow dryer. A blow dryer is used on hair. A hairdresser can use a blow dryer on hair. Betty trimmed my bangs once. That means she is a hairdresser. She got fired from her old job. She needs a new job. Since she is a hairdresser (? )she can use a hair dryer to do a blow job. Eureka! A blow job is a job that a hairdresser does.
Boy, am I smart!

That is how I reasoned through the mystery of the blow job. I felt happy that my mom would help Betty find a “blow job” because I did not think it was a good idea for anyone to get food stamps. Later that night, I told Jen all about the new job I found out about. We agreed that styling our Barbie’s hair was fun and maybe we would get a blow job when we were grownups.

It was not until years later, while riding the bus home from middle school that I found out what a blow job really was. I overheard to very mature eighth grade boy describing in great detail what he had seen in one of his father’s special movies. I decided that I did not want to have anything to do with the job they call blow, after all. That was gross and I did not know why anyone would want it.

*****

Moral of the story? Kids are sneaky. They a listening whether you know it or not. And if you do not explain, they will draw their own conclusions.

also

Your house might smell really bad, but you can’t tell because you are so used to it. Be sure to go for frequent walks in the fresh air. Whatever your house smells like when you return is what it smells like to the rest of the world, you stinky stink face!

*****

Quizzes are Fun #2

2011-04-09T09:46:00.000-07:00

Less fat, same great taste!
Don't forget to hit submit at the end.

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Domestic News and Updates

2011-04-08T06:24:00.000-07:00

Goooooood Morning! The Domesticated Kitty, L A Munro, finally has a Facebook page. Please click here and like it. If you clicked like on this blog, it has not carried over, so please click there.

Personal News:

My husband has been approved for training that will make result in some huge changes around my house. I'll update you as we go along... I may have a mini mid-life crisis. See, my brain is trained to expect the worst so when things keep getting better, it has a hard time accepting it... perhaps a kind of White Trash PTSD?
Our household has come into possession of Def Jam Rapstar and Dance Paradise. I can no longer claim to hate video games. This weekend, I will perfect my rendition of Mama Said Knock You Out.

Blog News:

An image page is being added later today to archive kid art (unintentionally hilarious) and adult crafty/arty type doodles that fall along the lines of this blog's overall feel (domestic bliss, poverty, white trashiness, childhood adventures). Submissions are welcome!
Quizzes are Fun #2 will be posted this afternoon, and it will be replete with your suggestions.
HGUWTCBC Part VI will post tonight.

On My Radar
government shutdown, kids artwork, twitter spam, couponing, aftershocks, caveman

Memory and the Definition of White Trash

2011-04-07T07:54:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow's story will tell of two incidents both parents insist never happened. Trust me they did... I lived them. I can understand why someone would not want to admit these things happened and I know that it is also possible that parties in question may have (intentionally) forgotten the details. However, both my sister and I laugh over these memories, and we know they are real.
Chances are, everyone says or does something pretty darn f'd up at some point in their lives. We live, learn and move on. The stories are not for boo-hooing. They are for ha-ha'ing. See? That is the move on part.
Erasing these moments from the story of my life would mean changing my character. Character building moments are what growing up white trash is all about! (Always looking on the bright side...)
And what do I mean anyway, when I refer to white trash? First of all, I use the term with all the love a neighborhood has for their resident flea bitten stray dog. It stinks, and no one wants to spend a lot of time around it. But gosh darn it, it is part of the neighborhood and sometimes it makes you laugh, with it's sloppy drooling grin.
Growing up white trash, to me, has nothing to do with the middle class assumption of shabby trailer parks, mullets and Nascar. In fact, none of those things were even remotely part of my upbringing. When I think white trash, I think:

spending what little money you do have, poorly
loud, frequent and mean-spirited fighting
minimal supervision of children (ex- leaving a kid in the house while you socialize for hours outside is not supervision)
little or no emphasis on the importance of education (ex- No one asked about homework or showed up to parent/teacher meetings and "College? You'd better find some other family to pay for that, chick.")
absence of proper social interaction practices or self-confidence building for children
fatalistic, denial mentality-blame, blame, blame (if something goes wrong, it's probably someone else's fault) the government, your landlord, the utility companies, your kids, your friends... anyone but yourself. The world is holding you down.

Illegal drugs, drinking and criminal activity are not requirements, but they definitely add fuel to the fire.

You can learn a lot living in that environment, not that I advocate it. I embrace that time and treasure the ridiculous stories that I have to share as a result. I will gladly continue to share in the spoils of that war!

Survey says...

2011-04-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

I had a great time seeing how the results added up. I was surprised to see how many crafty creative types there were, and like so totally shocked that so many of you are not at all sarcastic. It made my heart swell a little when not a single one of you opted to consider yourself a trendsetter. That was pure magic, and I now feel liberated to admit to the world (I mean... handful of readers) that I think trends are for either schmucks who succumb to the weak commercial psyop of media or people who suffer from severe FOMO (fear of missing out- a nasty condition that manifests sometime in middle school and can continue indefinitely ).

Crafty crazies who are totally serious

You've GOT to love that possible personality disorder ranks pretty high too. Nothing better than a bunch of crazies getting together to commiserate. Crazies have the most fun! If you checked other, what would you like to see added to the list?

On the subject of "other" responses, 22% of you checked that box in response to Kids? I wonder what other means in that regard. Number of kids and pets were covered (BTW it seems no one here is counting their pets as kids)... so does checking other indicate? I'd love to know. I should have left a space for that.

When you were a kid, you wanted to be cops, movie stars (one of you thought it would make your boobs bigger), veterinarians, waitresses, soldiers, astronauts, and if you can believe it, a cat (must have been one of my not at all sarcastic people) (?). Some are still undecided. My favorite was from someone who could not remember if anyone ever asked them that when they were a kid... three cheers for inspirational parenting!

You guys were some naughty teens, with 55% rating themselves an eight or above. Only 11% of you ranked yourselves below a 5 (completely innocent), which means 89% had teen years that were closer to illegal than innocent. (I'm rounding up... 5 and above? Give it a shove! A mathelete, I am not.)

I am going to make a wild assumption and say 0% growing up royalty has a connection with the 0% trendsetters.
I wonder what the Cameron family life was like. I have not the faintest idea, and haven't come across any stories about living in a house like that. If any of you can, please describe the emotional climate for me.

Oh, Americanas! You lucky dogs!!

Describing yourself in four words was not enough for some of you. (I guess you can't pare awesome down to just four words.) I giggled at:

a f@ckin' Lil Abner

Some words popped up multiple times (open-minded, witty) and others never materialized (I assumed I would see at least one honest... but you all are not the cliché type, apparently) Someone described themselves as explosive, which left me wondering In what way?

Guest blog enthusiasts, please do contact me. Some of the responses you guys left were almost long enough for a post. No worries about pinpointing a topic, shoot me a list and I'll be glad to help narrow it down. And yes, you can guest blog anonymously if you really want to.

**FYI (-someone-),being sensitive/emotional is not a bad thing. It makes for some great writing! So don't hesitate!

My favorite responses were for suggested questions/topics. Some were risqué, some were taboo, some were bonkers (zombies v. unicorns). I'm going to include a bunch of them in the next survey/quiz, so keep them coming. Will yours be there? You'll have to wait and see tomorrow.

These were the results as of 1:18 4/6/11.

Quiz #1 will remain open. I'll post an update

if a significant change happens.

The Doorway to Narnia and other Beliefs

2011-04-05T08:04:00.000-07:00

I truly believed in the following things when I was a child. If I was a kid these days, and wrote this list, someone would probably try to medicate me.

If I search hard enough, I will find the doorway to Narnia. I had seen the cartoon version sometime in the third grade, and spent the next year checking the closets and dark corners of every single house I went to. If a place seemed too dark and scary (see #2), I would make my little sister check for me. She assured me she never found the doorway, but I never 100% believed her. I suspected she may have found it, spent years exploring it, and did not want to share the info. (This all makes sense if you know how Narnian time works, right?)

Monster Man residence/Prince destination

Monster-man lives in the mirror in my basement. We lived on the second floor and the washing machine was in the basement. I had no doubt that as soon as I closed the machine and headed up the basement stairs, a terrifying monster-man emerged from an old mirror that was leaned against the rear wall. It raced to catch me, breathing sour breath down my neck. It wanted to drag me into that mirror. I was SURE of it.

My “Prince Charming” might come through my window one night. I can’t tell you how many nights I put on my fanciest nightgown and tried to “sleep pretty” because I was absolutely sure that my fairytale prince (we’re talking puffy shirt, blue knickers and bejeweled crown) was going to come to the window and whisk me away to my kingdom, where I would rule as a spectacular, singing princess.

Someone would spot my star quality and make me famous. I was quite the dictator when it came to forcing my sister, cousin and other neighborhood females to learn and perform the dance routines I made up. But hey, I needed backup dancers when I was performing in the backyard. It seemed totally plausible to me that a talent agent would mosey through the yard, looking for the star of their next music video.

Dolls are vengeful. If I mistreated my dolls or left them in an uncomfortable position (you know, if they couldn’t “breathe” or something), they would “get me”. I'm pretty sure this belief originated from my dad renting The Puppet Master and cemented in my thoughts when my sister finally got her very own My Buddy doll. For some reason, I did not apply this theory to Barbies, whose heads I regularly pulled off and exchanged, instead of just changing their outfits. Anyone who has ever done this knows that this can sometimes break Barbie's neck nub, which makes it impossible for her head to sit normally. Instead, you have to mash her head down to her shoulders, which makes her look nervous. Rightly so.

Jesus might come knocking on my door. An older relative had a painting that depicted Jesus outside a wooden door. My six year old brain took this as something that must happen regularly, to people who prayed a lot. I didn’t want Jesus mad at me, so I tried to do all the prayers in my Golden Books Little Prayers book as often as possible. The book was a collection of prayers, proverbs and poems from religions around the world. I took it as a literal how to guide, trying to act out each illustration as I read the accompanying text. I was especially fond on the Buddhist prayer. Ironic?

By Warner Sallman

By Eloise Wilkin

I know I am not the only one who had ridiculous ideas as a kid.

Share yours!

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2011-04-02T23:02:00.000-07:00

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The Bologna Birthday

2011-04-01T16:49:00.000-07:00

Part V

How Growing Up White Trash Can Build Character*

*I do not advocate or recommend the child rearing techniques described herein

Adoption is a huge decision, especially for an eight year old. I struggled to choose as I stood nervously in the doll aisle. Before me was a wall of cherubic faces, each smiling from behind their own little plastic window, with arms splayed out, offering a hug to whomever would be their new mommy. It was heart wrenching. I was torn between the little world traveler in the flamenco outfit with lace trim and the studious looking brunette, with a plaid dress and glasses.

Mom hurried me on, “Let’s go! We ain’t got all night!”

I picked up the sassy lass in the lace and followed my mother up to the register. My kid was gorgeous, with her brand new style of sleek hair and saucy black tights- who wouldn’t want this doll? She was perfection. But my mind drifted back to that rather plain pigtailed brunette, left behind to face another day of being passed over for fancier dolls. Would anyone ever take her home? Oh, how my heart ached!

I ran back to the display and swapped old fancy pants for the more homely option. I didn’t question my choice the least bit as I sprinted back to my mother’s side, leaving behind what had nearly been my kid; tossed on the linoleum, smiling dumbly up at the fluorescent light through her little plastic and cardboard tomb.

I knew you’d come back for me, my green eyed kid seemed to say.

Yes, my heart was full. Like any girl growing up in the eighties, I truly loved my Cabbage Patch Kid. I could see through the packaging that her name was Audrey Rose. She was mine…all mine!

As soon as I got home I tore open the box, thinking to myself that she must need some fresh air. I freed her from her twist tie restraints and gave her an enthusiastic squeeze, before placing her on my bed. With all the delicacy a second grader could muster, I removed her identification documents and poured over them. I cemented my new status as a mother by filling in my full name in on the Adopted By line. There was a second piece of paper that sent a thrill right through me. It was an invitation to join the Cabbage Patch Kid Birthday Club! It stated that if I would just fill out the information card and mail it in, they would send a birthday card on my adopted kid’s very first birthday. Oh… joy of joys…this was just too much! I printed each letter clearly with a purple crayon and begged my mother to put it in the mailbox.

The next few months were a blur of ice pops, roller skates and family dystopia. Fights, playing a weekly role in our usual routine, grew more frequent and increasingly volatile. My sister and I distracted ourselves by creating elaborate make-believe scenarios to immerse ourselves in. Most involved us running away, escaping through the sewers and going to live with our Aunt. But in the back of my mind, I knew I would not leave until Audrey got her birthday card. That was never far from my mind. Funny, how my young brain worked.

***FAIR WARNING: If you are grossed out by lunch meat, you might not want to read more.***

Each day, when I arrived home from school, I raced to the black letter box that hung next to the front door of our apartment house, stretching my arm up and stuffing my hand inside; each day I was disappointed. Then I stomped up the stairs to face another afternoon of who knows what.

It was an incredibly warm and sunny Saturday when the day finally came. I saw the mailman moving down my street with his shoulder bag of bills and junk mail. Jen and I were sitting on the front porch playing Barbies (Ken was cheating on Barbie… oh my!). I did not run to the letter box after he stuffed it with mail and moved on with a smile.

“Hey, was that the mail? Huh? Grab it and give it to me!” Mom’s disembodied voice yelled from somewhere above.

Handing my two-timing Ken over to Jen, I pulled out the pile of mail and bounded up the stairs. I all but chucked it into Mom’s lap without slowing down, and headed back down when she called out to me.

“Hey, ya got something.”

I froze.

“Take it or it’s going into the garbage.”

Could it be? No. Don’t get your hopes up! I scolded myself. Before she placed the small envelope into my hand I could see the dull green Cabbage Patch Kid logo.

“Listen,” Mom said, pointing a finger at me from two inches in front of my nose, “I’m going to Paisano’s. Don’t you dare leave this house.” I mumbled a promise and rushed down to Jen, tearing my mail open as I went.

In the sunlight, the card was beautiful. The glossy cover bore an image of a three-layer birthday cake with one lit candle, along with the words Happy Birthday floating above it in the signature CPK font. Inside it read:

Wishing you a happy first birthday!

Hope it is filled with lots of fun and cheer!

My little brain exploded with ideas. I would need to get Audrey and all her stuffed animal friends prepared for the party. There would have to be decorations, food, drinks and a cake! My party planning train of thought was interrupted by Mom, as she walked down the wooden steps and turned toward Paisano’s, the tiny corner store three blocks away.

“Stay right here and BE GOOD!” She called over her shoulder.

“Okay, Mom!” We replied in unison.

As soon as she was on her way I got down to business. A voice inside me piped up that what I was about to do was going to end badly, but I ignored it. It was my kid’s birthday- her very first birthday- and like most moms, I was about to go overboard with the party.

“Look, Jenny! It’s Audrey Rose’s birthday. Help me make a party.” I could see in her eyes that her own inner voice was trying to warn her that my big ideas always got her in trouble. But she shook it off and agreed to help. This is a decision that she would come to regret.

We gathered our Barbies and went up to our apartment. I wasted no time giving her my first order. (I had always been the idea man, and poor Jen, she was my lackey.)

“Get all the dolls and Barbies and stuffed animals… the My little Ponies, too… and bring them in the kitchen.”

She started her task immediately as I went to the kitchen. I opened the cabinets and searched for a cake type thing. Nothing. Darn! I could not disappoint Audrey. In the refridgerator, my luck was not any better. I almost gave up. Then I saw it. There were two paper wrapped packages from the deli; one contained a half of a pound of Land O’Lakes white American cheese, the other held a full pound of German Bologna. Yes!

In case you don’t know, you should be aware that German bologna is no Oscar Meyer. Oh no. German Bologna has the diameter of a cantaloupe and has a much stronger smell. I loved the stuff. Jen was never a fan and preferred plain cheese sandwiches.

Jen plopped my rainbow striped teddy bear on top of the mound of smiling faces she had created next to the stove, and took a deep breath.

“Okay… I got all of them. I left Audrey on your bed, so it can be a surprise party!”

“Great idea! You set them up and I will make the food.”

My six year old little sister sure was a great worker. She placed three bears at the kitchen table, leaving a place open for the guest of honor. Then she made tiny tables around the kitchen using all sorts of things: piles of books, an upside down colander, the toaster oven, emptied out toy bins, and even a couple of pillows. At each table, Jen placed two or three smiling guests, then gave every single one a tiny plastic toy plate or folded napkin for each place setting.

The whole time she was setting up, I had been “cooking”. My dish of choice was “Rollups”; one slice of bologna plus half a slice of cheese, rolled up tightly. The result was an obscene mound of deli meat and cheese. I marveled at my own genius.

“Okay, we are ready.” I was very satisfied as I placed the deli-meat-mound-cake-substitute in front of Audrey’s still empty seat. Jen and I gave an impromptu speech, thanking everyone for coming, and reminding them to stay quiet until it was time to yell SURPRISE! Everything was in place, so I gave Jen the final order.

“Go get the birthday girl.”

She scurried off, and soon I could hear her talking to my doll as she made her way back toward to the kitchen.

“Don’t be sad.” she said in a soothing tone, “I’m sure someone will remember your…”

“Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” I yelled. It was magnificent. I could see in Audrey’s little eyes that she was surprised, and so very happy.

Jen placed her in her chair and we sang happy birthday. I leaned Audrey forward so she could blow out the imaginary candle on her deli-meat-mound-cake-substitute. Together, we carefully removed rolls from the mound and placed one in front of each guest. Everything was going off without a hitch. In my mind, this was one heck of an awesome bash.

It probably seems like this all would have taken a long time. It did. We weren’t concerned though, because mom always stopped to chat with whoever was working the cash register, and mom could chat for a very long time. Plus, like most kids, when we were deep in play our minds were not bothered with the possible consequences of our actions. Of course, nothing good can last. I heard the storm door at the bottom of the stairs open, making a terrible screech.

Run! It seemed to scream. Hide!

I froze. Jen froze. Oh, what had we done?!? My sister and I locked eyes as we prepared for Hurricane Mom. We could hear each step echo as she moved up the flight of stairs. When she walked through the apartment door there was a breeze that whispered, Here she comes, girls! There was nothing we could do. There was nowhere to run.

“What are yous up to?”

There was nothing we could say. We stood together, trembling. Time took on slow motion as she stepped into the kitchen and saw what we had done. Her eyes moved over the scene without emotion; over the plastic smiles and furry faces, past the scattered “tables”, pausing on what remained of the meat mound, before finally resting on us. I considered making a run for it but she was pretty fast for a mom, so I stayed put. Without a doubt, she saw terror in our eyes. At that moment, my little sister began to cry (of course).

“Clean this pigsty up, right now.” Our mother commanded, “And yous better eat all this food you took out. You ain’t wastin’ it.”

I immediately began to gather up animals and dolls. Jen picked up one of the bologna and cheese rolls and took a bite. She made a groaning sound, to which my mother replied in a growl.

“Yous better NOT throw that food in the trash.”

For reasons I cannot recall, I worked at a painfully slow pace. I glanced over as Jen ate, and I am truly ashamed to say that I gave her the "mean eyes" to signal that she had better not tell mom she was the only one eating the would be wasted food. After all, I did love bologna. I can only suppose that I was being mean for the sake of being mean. Older sisters do that sometimes.

And so it goes down in family history that that was the day poor Jen sat crying as she ate a whole pound of German Bologna. It was a lovely party.

*****

This episode definitely had an impact on how I try to raise my kids. When my son creates a ridiculous mess in the process of trying to carry out some big, wonderful idea... I try to laugh.

I will never forget the miserable look on my sister's face as she ingested a discusting amount of bologna. The guilt of letting her sit there eating while I slowly picked up the mess is still with me...Sorry, Jen. Me loves you.

*****