Day 47. Vomit.

I was in 7th grade and we were living in England. Yeah, the place that spelled trouble. Sometimes my sister Anne and I would hang out at the NCO club on base. They had good pizza and great video games. Maybe we went there for the music, too. As you can probably tell by now, my memory gets fuzzy on some of these stories. Anyway. We liked it there. It felt homey and the cooks used to make us laugh.

One day Anne, "Bullet" and I trekked into a nearby field to down some Mad Dog 20/20. (His nickname was Bullet because he had a shaved head in the shape of a bullet. Hey, we didn't come up with it.) I think we also had a bottle of 151. All I know is there was liquid. A lot of it. And I had no problem guzzling it down, trying to act all pro and shit.

A little while later, we all stumbled out, swerving and unsteady on our feet. I was probably a hideous shade of green. Or several. As Anne and I passed the front of the NCO club, we could see our chef friends through the massive window. Then, suddenly, I hurled. Big time. Right in front of everyone. I drank like a pro but held it down like anything but. 

Turns out, the next day my dad is walking with Anne past the front of the NCO club. 

With a quick sidestep he says, "Ew! Someone had too much fun last night!"

Um. Little did he know it was his youngest daughter, hammered from a drinking fest in the middle of a field of weeds and chiggers.

Another good ralphing story happened to me and my sister. We were living in the creepy mansion in Emsworth, PA. One of the prerequisites to us getting a cat is that we had to take care of it. Litter. Accidents. Water. Throw up. My parents weren't going to have any of it, which was fine with us. We tried to walk the damn thing outside once and it backed right out of its leash and took off into the woods. Jesus, a dog may have been easier than that cat.

His name was Wimpy. Because he was a wimp. He was gray and white, pretty cute. Pretty shy. One day my dad came downstairs and said, "hey, the cat threw up on your bed, Anne. Better go clean it up."

I've never seen someone's face go white faster. I was kind of excited about it, but she was horrified so I had to act horrified, too. We crept up the stairs together, like the puke was going to hurl itself off her bed, out the bedroom door and onto our faces. Anne was so worked up she was crying. More like sobbing. Especially when she got a look at the barf.

"I'm not touching that!" She screamed. (Even decades later she can barely touch raw meat).

"Then you're going to have to sleep on it!" said my dad. "We told you girls that cat is your responsibility."

"I'll clean it up if you give me a clothespin for my nose." I offered.

Anne sobbed in the background.

"I want gloves, too. And a plastic bag." Making demands is easy when you're the one who's doing the dirty work.

I got outfitted and pumped myself up to grab the barf off the bed. I sneaked up on it, got my face close to it, reached out and tried to pick some up. And you know what happened? It came up in one solid piece.

"What the hell!!" I shouted, as I flung the vomit across the room. Anne screamed as we watched it land on the rug, still in the same shape as pre-fling.

We sneaked up on it again.

"He must have barfed a long time ago, dad. It's all dried up and in a big, solid chunk." I explained. Anne was still beside herself in tears.

I tried picking it up again and then I knew something was up.

"Dad!! This barf isn't even real! It's plastic!"

Then all hell broke loose. My dad fell into a fit of laughter, Anne cried harder and I just got pissed. Probably because Anne was so upset. I seriously thought she was going to puke herself. She may have dry heaved a few times both during and after 'the procedure.' Those were the kinds of things my dad really got a kick out of. Teasing. Scaring. Tickling. It was all in good fun, at least until the day he almost drove the whole family off a cliff.

Day 42. Skeeters and Beetles.

Poquoson, VA. Summer. Hot. I was in third grade. Kids could still play outside without getting kidnapped. My parents loved having us out of their hair, so "go out and play" was something Anne and I were used to hearing. A lot.

One day I jumped on my bike to cruise around and meet up with friends. We tooled around for hours until it started getting dark, which was always the signal to head home for dinner.

Now, I don't know about you, but I'm a mosquito magnet. I walk out in the morning to water the flowers and walk back in the house with bites all over me. I go out at dusk to water the flowers and walk back in the house with bites all over me. Even when I spray myself down from head to toe, a few always find their way to my lower back, under my shirt, through my pants, under my pants. Then, once the biting's done, humongous welts appear and I look like a freak. It's a losing battle I'll never be able to win until I become a girl in a bubble.

Anyway. I was hauling ass on my bike and both sides of the street had huge ditches. I don't remember it being a place prone to flooding, so I don't know why they were there. But they were.

I felt a little stick to my leg. Then my arm. Another. One more. Multiple. I pedaled faster. I saw the bloodsuckers sticking their stingers in me. My legs looked polka dotted. My arms looked small pocked. I started swatting. One hand on the handle bars, SLAP! Swerve. Furrowed brow. SLAP! Stop looking at road. Never saw mosquitoes that big. Screamed. Tassels flying (on bike, not me). Bike a pink blur. THWACK!

Suddenly, my bike was on a death path. I was headed right for the ditch, but I was so determined to kill as many mosquitoes as I could, I didn't stop the bike. I went straight down the steep side of the ditch, getting completely twisted in the metal and spokes of my bike. I was a wreck. Sweating, panting, scratched up, afraid my parents were going to be pissed for my reckless behavior. And then I realized I was still blanketed with those goddamn insects.

I hopped on my barely working bike and started pumping the pedals like a competitor in the Tour de France. I know I cried, partly out of humiliation and partly out of frustration. At least my parents just felt sorry for me when I got home. Maybe it was the grass, welts, mud and blood smears all over my body.

For the next week people thought I had a deadly mixture of chicken pox, measles and elephantitus of various body parts. I thought no way could another insect encounter ever rival this one. Then I met the beetles.

South Carolina. I was a junior in high school. My parents always stayed up until Anne and I got home, no matter what time it was. Well, my mom did. Dad usually hit the sack and slept well, even through our arrival home.

One night I was out with my boyfriend and supposed to be home already. Who knows what we were doing, probably making out somewhere or goofing around with friends. I was maybe an hour late and only the outside light was on in the front of the house.

"Cool," I thought. "For once no one's waiting up for me. I can sneak in and sneak right into bed without getting busted."

I pulled back the latch on the car door, got out and closed it behind me. It was masterful. Nearly inaudible. Then, I started tiptoeing toward the front door. The closer I got, the more bewildered my facial expression became. What the hell was all over the screen door? Brown. A little shiny. A lot of them. Wait, is that flying? What the ....

They were beetles. Tons of them all over the screen door because of the outside light. I stopped dead in my tracks. Should I make a run for it and plow right through them? Sneak up as quietly as possible to avoid disturbing them?

I chose the latter. I kept tiptoeing until I reached the door. I was so grossed out I almost threw up, but I reached for the latch anyway. It was my only way in. I had no other options.

CLICK!

As I pushed in the button, a really loud CLICK reverberated through the entire door. All at once every single beetle took flight and went straight for my long, curly hair. Well, just as you'd expect any other girl to react, I screamed bloody murder at the top of my lungs. I ran all over the front yard with my head bent over and my hands shaking out my hair. Beetles flew all around and crawled all over me. My mom shot out of the house and started swatting at them, half hitting me for being late. It was a scene, especially for some of our nosier neighbors.

If I was going to stay out past my curfew in the future, I'd have to come up with a much better plan ... So I measured my body to see if it would fit out my bedroom window.

Day 41. The Log.

I was in 1st grade and we were living in Quantico, VA. Another base house. Brick on the outside. Nothing fancy inside. I remember the dirt was like red clay, there were woods, old appliances, hardwood floors. 


One day my sister dared me to go into the living room, spin around in circles and say, "fuck" over and over and over again. As I mentioned in a previous entry, dare me to do something and it's a given that I'm going there. So I march out, stand in the middle of the living room, and spin in circles while saying "fuck" repeatedly for my audience. One person. My dad. Anne thought it was the funniest thing that ever happened. Ever. But I didn't. Especially when I saw the look on his face. Both of us were in deep trouble, and that was the day I learned that fuck was a bad word.


Maybe my dad was just fed up, because shortly after that incident, I, Anne, and a bunch of friends went woods exploring and came upon a fallen tree that stretched all the way across a steep, wide ravine. It looked like a bridge, but without any guard rails and a lot less safe. So, what better to do than get in a line and cross it one by one? None of us was brave enough to start walking over, so it was gonna' be a scoot to get to the other side. Seemed easy enough. 


One at a time I watched people bravely go in front of me. I wasn't about to say anything, but I was scared out of my wits to get on that log. I've always been incredibly afraid of heights, so there's no way this was helping. But I didn't want to get made fun of, so I scooted on. Last. And everyone was dry humping their way easily to the other side. Scoot. Scoot. Scoot. Don't look down. Scoot. Scoot. Then, I hit a huge bump in the log that required serious leapfrogging if I was going to clear it. What if I overdid it and went over the side of the log? If I fell, would I die? 


Everyone, safely on the other side now, cheered me on - telling me I could do it, I could do it. What did they know? They weren't inside my frozen body on the middle of that log. I couldn't go forward and I certainly couldn't go backwards. I was screwed. I started to cry. I was completely helpless and yelled to Anne to go get dad. 


"GO ... GET ... DAD!!" I screeched like a mad howler monkey. 


She took off like a bat outta' hell, running for my ultimate rescue. 


I waited. I cried. I waited. I was frozen. And who shows up? Not my knight in shining armor. My mom. My 105 pound, 5'2" mom. How in the hell was I going to fall off that log into my mother's arms? I would have flattened her like a potato latke. Only one person deserved to be injured by stupidity and that was me. But my mom wouldn't have it. She totally freaked out, and before I could say, "stop! Don't!" She dry humped her little self out onto that log to get me. I thought, "whew. Rescue on the way. Finally going to get off this thing."


And then she got stuck right behind me. She was too scared to catapult over that bump in the log, too. Not me - the actual bump in the log in front of me. At least someone knew where I was coming from. If I remember correctly, my mom might have started crying, too... Maybe it was over her poor decision to follow that of her daughter's poor decision. 


Again, Anne ran back to get my dad. Our knight in shining armor. But she came back empty handed.


"Dad says you got yourselves into this mess, so you can get yourselves out of it." 


There was also a good football game on, I think. 


I was horrified. Mom was pissed. Dad always liked to tease and make fun, but he obviously had no idea how serious the situation had become or his butt would have been out of that house in an instant. I could actually feel the heated anger radiating off my mom's chest into my back, which kind of soothed my panic a little. 


"WELL, GO GET THE NEIGHBOR!!" Mom screamed, ruining my few seconds of peace. 


Anne was off like a shot once again, running for our rescue. 


This time she came back with a neighbor. A guy. I have no idea what his name was, but he saved us that day. First, he coaxed my mom into taking a leap of faith off the log, and he caught her. She was safe. Next, they both shouted to me to do the same. 


"Uh uh!! No!!" I clung to the log like it was a life preserver in a violent sea. I just sat there. I couldn't move. Even if I wanted to fling myself off, I couldn't. 


"Well, we're just going to have to leave you here then. It's going to be dark soon and you'll be all alone out here in the woods. Stuck on a log. Unable to see. Do you really think you can sleep on tha-----"


THWOOOOOMP! 


I fell off, right into his fleshy arms. I was safe.


My dad, on the other hand, wasn't. I never told my mom, but I hope she punished him severely as only a wife can.


Even to this day, decades later (what a scary thing to say), we still give him a hard time when we think back on it. Had he had it to do all over again, though, he still would do the exact same thing he did that day. He let us fend for ourselves, but I bet somewhere within he was sweatin'.

Day 39. Failure.

My parents came up for a visit this past weekend and my mom reminded me of a story I blocked for good reason. So, instead of moving on to Fishtastrophe Part 2 I'll tell you this one. 

The only time I was behind the wheel of a car, prior to student driving, was once with my dad. I sat on his lap in a 1970 tank of a Volvo and he let me skid and veer all over a dirt road. If I was going to hit anything it would have been a tree or a cactus. Not anything that would maim either one of us unless it came through the windshield. For the life of me I couldn't keep that wheel straight. I whipped the wheel right. I whipped it left. "Small movements! Small movements!" he screamed, but I was having too much fun, laughing a maniacal giggle.

When it was time for me to learn to drive for real, my mom did what any sane mom would do. She signed me up for driving lessons with an instructor. No immediate family would be present. Just an old man with a jerry rigged car that had a brake on both the drivers and passengers (are those supposed to have apostrophes?) side of the car. Huh. Who knew they could make something like that? 

The first couple times out went off without a hitch. I think. I don't really remember those times in comparison to the one time....

I was working at a tax place as a receptionist and was headed there with my instructor after our lesson. I guess I got a little confused between the gas pedal and brake pedal because when I pulled into the parking spot in front of the place I gunned it. The car lurched forward in a great spurt of energy and then smashed right into a Coke machine. Yeah, I shattered it good. Didn't do much damage to the car, but that's probably because someone in the passenger seat hit the correct pedal. 

Somehow that guy was willing to continue teaching me how to drive. He must have dealt with far worse drivers if I couldn't even scare him off with a direct vending machine hit. 

I failed my first driving test. It was either the driving or the written part or both, but I failed. Talk about embarrassing.

My second try was even worse. I passed the written part and nearly all the driving. Then we pulled into the police parking lot, where the parallel parking poles dared me to try to squeeze between them. I pulled up, put the car in reverse, started backing up and thought, "oh yeah, I got this in the bag!" But I forgot to also look in front of me to see where the ... KKKKKRRRRRUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHH

I basically skewered the car with the front parallel parking pole, causing $800 in damage. I was still driving my instructor's car, too. I felt awful, but he still didn't dump me. Must have been the maximum insurance coverage he had. I can think of no other reason than he probably found it entertaining on some level.

I was really feeling like shit then. I figured my parents were going to have to drive me around for the rest of my life. How awkward would that be?

Just so happened that third time was a charm. My pits were like geysers, I was flushed and shaking, but I passed both the written and driving tests. Yeah, me! Finally. It only took my instructor's sanity, more than $1000 in damages, several months, and my utter humiliation to reach my goal. But at least my parents never had to be behind the wheel with me. Even today, my mom holds onto the oh shit bar like she'd fall thousands of feet without it. Mom has always known best.

Day 35. Fishtastrope Part 1.

My fish guy told me to be patient. He knows me pretty well, but not well enough. 


Like all stories, I guess it's best if I start at the beginning. Those of you with a saltwater tank will feel my pain. Those without will probably never get one after I tell you my story. And those considering one will go for it if they have the balls that I do. 


March 2010. I'd always wanted a fish tank and during an evaluation of my life and what I wanted but never got, I decided now was the time. I have no husband, no kids, I don't have time for a dog, and I certainly didn't want more cat hair in the house since the Beast basically equals 2 really big cats. I'm not trying to paint a bleak picture, just stating the facts. 


I dragged a friend of mine with me to one of the best aquarium places around. About $1000 later I was hooked up like nobody's business. 55 gallon tank with all the goodies. One of the store workers was going to come over to hook it up in a couple days. I was ecstatic. My first two fish were green chromis. I had them for such a short period of time I didn't even get a picture. I don't think I named them, either. 


I didn't know it at the time, but the first fish you put in a saltwater tank are sacrificing themselves to get the PH right in the water. It's all about bacteria, PH, ammonia, all kinds of stuff I had no idea about and am still learning 6 months later. Poor little guys. They huffed and puffed and gave it all they had until I found their little bodies lying stiff on the sand floor.


My next two were damsels. I got a zebra and a yellowtail. If they were going to die I figured it was only appropriate to give them dead names. Zed, and I honestly can't remember the name I gave the yellowtail. Probably because she didn't live long. Here's a little picture of them. 

They were super cute until I saw Zed breathing his last breath in a plant and the blue one started getting spots all over it. My fish man at the time was kind of a dolt. He jerry rigged my UV sterilizer, put sand in the bottom of the tank, which I guess is a bad idea, put salt in not for a 55 gallon, but more like a 10 ... It was one thing after another with this fool, but at the time I had no one else so I felt kinda' stuck. 


While the blue one was still alive I got another zebra and a domino damsel. I named them Zed 2 and Fats. Then, the blue one was removed and probably killed back at the store, so I added another damsel - a neon that I named Captain Quint. He had a vertical stripe down the middle of his body and Captain Quint got bit in half in Jaws, so what could be more perfect? Zed 2 didn't make it very long, so Fats and Quint became quick buddies. It looked like the tank death was over. At least for the cycling part of it. 


I waited a few weeks before I got more fish, which my new fish guy would be particularly proud of. And I got them at a new store. A customer at the old one tipped me off to a place that was closer to my house and had better, cheaper fish. I picked up 2 clowns and a royal gramma and named them Mama Cass, Denny and Flo. (Remember, Mama Cass choked and died on a ham sandwich?) Denny was her boyfriend and Flo was named after my grandmom, a very cool lady. Here's a picture for you:

They were swimming around pretty well, not necessarily getting along with the damsels, but at least everyone was alive. When a couple weeks went by and still no one was dead, I went back to the store and got 3 pajama cardinals. Rizzo, Marty Maraschino, and Frenchie. They looked like this:

I couldn't believe nothing had happened yet.


Yet.


I went a step further. I ordered a flame angelfish, a puffer, a yellow tang and 7 chromis from a place on the internet. They came in the mail, just like pants, and I brought them to their new home. They did great. I acclimated them and despite being harassed by Fats, everyone seemed happy and healthy. I named them Norman Bates, Puff Daddy, Sophie Fatale and the 7 dwarves. Who could tell between 7 fish, seriously. 

I should have known things were too good to be true when Sophie got a brown stripe down the middle of her yellow body...

To be continued.

Day 34. Pigs.

Pre-pig note: become a follower! If it doesn't work in IE try Firefox or Safari.

I was staying at a killer house in Duck, NC about 4 years ago when I saw it for the first time. It was true love. A bright yellow FJ Cruiser. White top. Black trim. Retro looking. Best of all, the yellow was Pittsburgh Steelers yellow. To a tee. When I got home I immediately took my Honda and traded it in. One of the best decisions I've made in the automotive world. But when I bought it and started carting my friends around, one said, "you know, yellow cars get the most tickets." Whatever. I didn't care. It was mine. I call it "The Bee" and it makes me smile every single morning when I get in it, no matter how foul my mood is. 

Prior to getting the Bee, I didn't have very many run-ins with the cops. I ran a red light in high school and had had a couple beers, but luckily the cop was cool. I was on a date when the guy driving got pulled and tested for DUI. The cop made me drive home, but that was the extent of it. And then, I got the Bee. Release the pork!

I don't even know how many points I have left on my license. I was driving my sister to my dad's art show - he handcrafts beautiful Windsor chairs - and of course I got us lost. I have no sense of direction. Never have. Never will. So, in an effort to get there on time I started hauling ass. I was going 78 in a 55. It was too late when I saw the pig on the side of the road with the speed gun, and here comes the cop car and siren. I said to my sister, "please let it be a guy. Puh-leeeeze let it be a guy."

I pull over, look in the rearview mirror and not who - but what gets out of the car? A friggin' woman. Red hair. Bright red fingernails. 100% trailer trash (sorry, it's true). She wasn't even a real cop, she was a Sheriff. HAHAHAH. I guess she was real enough to give me a ticket, though. I tried everything to get out of it, telling her we were going to miss my dad's art show, apologizing, telling her I was lost. She didn't give two shits. I was slapped with a $250 fine and I just mailed in a check. Otherwise I would have had to drive all the way back down there to go to Deliverance court. No thanks. 

I was on my way home from work one night and came to a three-way stop sign. I stopped, got a little confused, then took a left. Woop woop woop woop, went the siren. I pull over. Cop with serious attitude comes to my window. 

"You just cut me off back there, ma'am. License and registration."

"Wait a second, let me get this straight - you're pulling me over because it was your TURN!?"

"Yes, that's right. I also need to see your insurance card."

"I don't have my insurance card. Who the hell carries that?"

"You do know it's a $500 fine to not have it in the car, don't you?"

I was losing my patience. There was also another cop leaning into my passenger window, which was totally obnoxious. 

"If I did, don't you think I'd have it on me? Whatever. I want to get home, so hurry up and give me the ticket you're going to give me anyway." (Asshole)

"Stay right here. I'm going to run your information."

Yeah, like where else am I going to go? Not like you can take off on a crowded city street in rush hour traffic. Tool. 

Guy comes back. Hands me the ticket. $150. I say, "thanks for nothing" and drive off.

Normally I don't have that kind of attitude towards officers of the law (a term that should be used loosely with most of them), but this particular day I'd had it. I got a ticket because of some guy having a small penis. He probably got abused in high school - made fun of, never got girls, was just a dork for his entire life and is now taking it out on all of humanity. 

I paid that ticket, too. Who has time to go to court? 

I was driving up to a stoplight and needed to take a left. No one was coming, so I started to turn. Suddenly, a pig comes flying down the street way too fast and out of nowhere, so I step on the gas and make the left to get out of his way. Woop woop woop woop, sounds the siren. "Dammit!! Not again!!" And the worst thing was, I had to pee like a Russian racehorse. Was I going to have to just go right there in the Bee? Horrifying! 

He comes up to the window. 

"Ma'am, do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Um, no - to say hello?"

"License and registration, please. You cut me off back there. It was my turn to go." 

Seriously!? Was this the same guy in disguise? No. Just another pathetic loser that had to ticket me to feel better. 

Just then, one of my friends says, "hey, are you still there?" on my Iphone speakerphone. Which was in my hand down by the parking brake.

"Oh, and you're on the phone too, huh? You know that's against the law in DC."

"No it's not, since when?"

"It's been in effect now for about a year, ma'am."

"Whatever. Look, I need to pee. Can you just write up the ticket while I run in that Indian restaurant? Otherwise I'm going to pee the Bee and that's not going to happen."

"Oh, sure, OK." And he looked kind of funny and uncomfortable. 

I got back and he handed me a ticket for $100. "You can take this to court and win since this is your first offense, you know."

"If I can win, then why are you giving me the ticket in the first place? I don't have time for that crap, and I don't have any more time to talk to you. I have to get to work. Is that all?"

And I was on my less-than-merry way. Who do these guys think they are? We have to drive 25 miles an hour, which is totally ridiculous, and they haul ass going at least 50. Get on the highway and they'll pull you for going over 55, but they can go 90 whenever they want. Not all of them are crooked, but in my opinion I think the majority of them are. You know they get huge boners busting people for traffic violations. 

Oh, get this. Yesterday I'm driving to work and there's a pig in front of me. I'm dancing behind the wheel, trying to improve my mood with some hip hop, when I see that my inspection sticker is expired. September 02, 2010. Jesus Pete! I was going to tear off to the right and make a run for it, but I was at a red light, so if I went around him he'd pull me and say it was "his turn." So I just sat there. Sitting duck. But this time, I got away with it. He eventually turned off without realizing the Bee was expired. 

And you know what else pisses me off? Speed cameras. One day I went to get paint at Benjamin Moore and about 10 days later I got a couple pieces of mail from the DMV. I got busted by a speed trap camera on my way there AND on the way home. Same camera. There's my picture, the back of my head, hauling ass to get some Pistachio Mint eggshell paint. I paid both of those tickets without contest, too. 

You might say, "you have no one to blame but yourself for driving that way in the first place." Maybe so, but I drive decisively. Knock on wood, but I've never had an accident. I may be aggressive, but I act fast and stay away from weirdos on the road. 

Cops should focus on unsolved murders. Rapes. Burglaries. Assaults. Kidnappings. Missing children. Domestic abuse. Drug abuse. Instead, they're all busying themselves ticketing me for cutting them off. No wonder things are so screwed up.

I have to go to the grocery store. Hopefully I can make it there and back without getting busted.

Day 32. Sadistic Tooth Fairy.

The way I see it, you're either blessed with good teeth or cursed with really shitty ones. I got the latter and am choosing today to be really pissed off about it. In fact, I'm going to officially recognize September 14th as BOGUS BICUSPID day. And not just this year. Every year for the rest of my life I'm going to take one day to say F YOU, TEETH! You take all my money. You cause me pain. You suck!!!

Okay, so my teeth plight isn't just bad luck. It's coupled with some funky health issues I have that cause me to be extremely susceptible to cavities.

Let's start at the beginning. Of course I was living in England at the time. 6th grade. Went to the dentist on base who, after an examination, exclaimed, "you have thirty-something cavities!!"

He was referring to different surfaces of my teeth, but so what? He said thirty something. Was that even possible? What the hell was he talking about? I thought it must be some kind of a joke, but turns out it wasn't.

Then, he said, "so, you grind your teeth, too, eh? You're wearing them down to the point where they'll be nubs soon. What's going on at home? Are you having problems with your parents?" He even insinuated my dad was touching me inappropriately and that I needed a psychiatrist. Asshole.

I wish my parents had pulled me out of there permanently after that experience, but dental work was free on base, so I don't blame them for making me go back. That stupid office filled all those cavities but I was only numb for maybe 20% of the time. Those guys couldn't numb a nerve to save their pathetic, untrained lives and I was their guinea pig. Who even knows if I really had that many cavities? Maybe they just needed someone to experiment on? Like a human cadaver but alive... Sick.

After that I didn't have many tooth surfaces left, so I was okay until I graduated from college. One day I was chewing a piece of Trident gum and WHAM! A pain so intense it knocked the wind out of me shot up through one of my teeth. Because I seem to enjoy torturing myself, I did it again, just to make sure what I felt the first time was real. 

Hello, root canal # 1. 

And from there things just took off. My dentist drilled out all my old fillings and most were so deep I had to have root canal after root canal after root canal. Then crown upon crown upon crown. I figure it's about $2500-$3000 per tooth, so you do the math. It's a miracle I haven't had to move back in with my parents.

One of my root canals got infected so I had to have my gums cut open and scraped. Yeah, I know - I'm gagging too. It was freakin' sick. So gross I was crying, but no one knew since I don't have tears. It can be an advantage to be a medical mystery, I'm telling you.

About a year ago I noticed my gums receding on one of my bottom teeth. Go to the gum guy and get one of the most disgusting procedures done. Ever. He took 'material' from the roof of my mouth and sewed it onto the receding gum. Then covered it with this putty that tasted just like throw up (I'm serious) and I walked out of there in tears. Luckily, I pulled out some of the stitches by accident and had to go through the whole process again. Like I said, I like to torture myself. Was the first surgery real or did I have to go through it a second time to be 100% sure? At a few thousand dollars a pop I should have believed the first one.

Post surgery I had to get a retainer for $800 and a mouth guard for another $800. "Jesus Pete," was all I could say.

A few months ago I noticed a twinge in one of my few teeth that still has a nerve. Cold. Heat. Pressure. Biting. Sweets. You name it and it made it hurt. This morning I went to my root canal guy, who's actually pretty hot so it makes the whole thing slightly less painful. UNTIL HE PUT ICE ON MY TOOTH. I'm not kidding. I shot through the roof and my tooth throbbed until he shot me up with novocaine. Seems I have a cavity under my crown that grew and infected the nerve in my tooth. Funny how my dentist missed it at my last teeth cleaning, huh? They're all probably in cahoots with one another.

He got to the nerve and suddenly I could feel it. SO HE PUT A NEEDLE FILLED WITH NOVOCAINE DIRECTLY INTO THE NERVE OF MY TOOTH. I was shaking all over. I should mention, though, that this guy has done all my root canals. He's awesome. It's just the nature of the beast having an infected tooth, I guess. Anyway. The rest of the procedure went off without a hitch and then I left his office. $1700 poorer. The prices went up. That's for one tooth with one nerve.

I got out of there and headed for the office, my mind wandering in all directions. Seems everything has reached maximum capacity in my brain because I started to cry walking down the street. Good thing I had my shades on because at one point I was really boo-hooing. It's pointless to list everything - what do you care? People expect me to be happy, happy, happy all the time, but that's completely unrealistic. I deserve to have a bad day now and again. Screw you if you don't like it.

The only thing I want right now is a hug from my mom and dad. And they're coming on Friday. Two days with them and the world will once again be all right. Back on the funny track tomorrow.

Day 31. Condo from Hell.

I was ready to buy a place. My own place. One that I could paint any crazy way I wanted. One where I could park my car. Own an animal. Save some money on my taxes. Be a real grown-up. I got what I wished for. The first floor of a 3 flat. My real estate agent called me a 'pioneer,' since the neighborhood was for shit, but it offered more space than any of the other places I looked at. Besides, I didn't want to be in an apartment building. I wanted character. Quirks. I got that, too.

There was a guy living in the basement unit who was really nice. He had a cat named Popcorn "because that's what his poo smells like." Seriously. That's what he told me. His name was Chris. Ben and Amy lived in the top unit, which was smaller but it had two floors and a great deck. 

A couple days after Ben and Amy moved in I thought he was going to kill her. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, tons of stuff was banging around, it was madness. So I called the cops, who hauled his ass off to jail because she had marks on her arms. He swore they had the argument because she was off her meds, but I knew he was just an abusive asshole that was lying right to my face. 

For two years I took his crap. He would go out on drug deals at 3 am, peeling out of the driveway like a lunatic, spraying gravel all over my and Chris's cars. He'd blast the Grateful Dead at 5 o'clock in the morning. He'd start at one end of his apartment and jump to the other, just to make noise and be obnoxious. He broke his garbage disposal by putting a nickel in it and then used the condo money to fix it without telling anyone. He stole money from the condo fund to do who the hell knows what with. He couldn't open his mouth without bragging about something - usually himself. He was a slob who was addicted to porn. He tried to break through Chris's front door one night to beat him up. He was so mad he was spitting. He had three cats who pissed and shit all over his apartment and he didn't bother to clean it up. He took pictures of the crack whores giving blow jobs in the alley behind the house. He took pictures of the thugs out front when someone got stabbed. He wasn't making any friends in the neighborhood, but he was making a target out of our house. Everyone hated him, especially the dangerous people, and I didn't want to pay the price for it. 

I put my place on the market and sold it in a day. Made $200K and was able to get the rowhouse of my dreams. No condo fee. No one upstairs. No roommate. No bullshit. Just me, my cat and my fish. I've been here for five years and am still as happy as the day I moved in.

At closing, the couple I sold my condo to tried to shave $25K off the price because I 'misrepresented the square footage.' I didn't. My real estate agent did. I was fuming mad and my mom heard me say "fuck" for one of the first times ever. I ended up giving them $7K and said 'take it or leave it.' Isn't karma a funny thing? They treated me like dirt and then inherited one of the dirtiest, meanest, foulest guys on earth. 

If you're wondering what happened to Ben and Amy - well, Amy moved out in the middle of the night when Ben was out of town. I guess her mom came and they snuck away into the night. Good for her. At least now she'll live. As for Ben, he sure got his own. He was eventually evicted from the building - by the bank. His freelance world caved in all around him and he couldn't pay any of his bills. He must not have been able to keep his drug deals going either... As far as I know he's out roaming the streets somewhere and I don't feel an ounce of pity for him. 

The couple that bought my place tried to get out of there shortly after they moved in. Didn't take them long to realize what they'd gotten themselves into. But by then the market had changed. There was no way they were going to get anywhere near what they paid, so in desperation to get away from Ben they left it behind as a rental.  

Chris got married and moved in with his wife, I think. He was a funny guy who hopefully is doing well.

When I first moved into my condo, my real estate agent gave me a present - a sketch of the outside of the house. Today, it's still in a locker in my basement. I have a hard enough time even driving by my old place without cringing, so why have a constant reminder of it on the wall? 

Mark my words. I will never, as long as I live, ever, ever, never, ever, ever live in a condo again.  That shit's for the birds.

Day 31. World's Worst Roommate.

Okay, I know I said I was going to write about cigarettes and volcanoes, but I changed my mind because I remembered a story that's much more psychotic. 


First, a confession. I may lose many of you that actually read this thing, but it's a chance I'm willing to take. 


I vote Republican. I wouldn't say that I'm 100% right leaning, but I'm surely not leaning any more than 50% left. I see things from both sides and let people speak their minds a lot more than they let me speak mine. You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this. It has to do with my roommate in 1992.


A month after I graduated college, I got my first job, but I didn't have a place to stay so some friends of my parents were generous enough to let me stay with them for a couple months. Then, I met a girl at work who seemed sane enough to share some space with. At least that's what I thought at the time. 


We got a 2 bedroom garden style apartment. It was pretty cute, but pretty small. At the time, Clinton was running for President and I was less than thrilled. One night he was yammering on on TV and I made a rude comment.


"What an asshole," I probably said. 


To which my roommate responded, "have some pride in your vagina!"


But she didn't pronounce it like it's spelled or how most normal people say it - VUH JYE NUH.


She said VER JYE NER.


Um, yeah. 


So I yelled back, "if you had any pride in yours you'd learn how to say it properly! It's VUH JYE NUH. NOT VER JYE NER!!"


Then she started coming at me. Her face was purple she was so pissed. I think she was screaming, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!!!" So I bolted to my room and slammed and locked the door. She beat it and kicked it until the whole apartment was vibrating. She was a raging lunatic ... and what the hell do vaginas have to do with Bill Clinton? 


HAHHAHAHA I guess we all found out, didn't we? He sure took care of business in the Oral Office. Oops. Oval. 


Anyway. I let that bitch calm down for a good long time before I came out of my room. Then I announced I'd be moving out as I made a bag of red beans and rice. 


That was the last roommate I ever had. When I got away from that crazy lady, I moved into a studio apartment on the ground floor of a humongous apartment complex. It was gross. It had roaches. It always smelled of some kind of exotic food mixture that resembled barf. The fire alarms went off all the time. My landlord was a pervert who stole my security deposit. My bed was in the closet. It was concrete hell. I was thrilled to get out of there, even though the next place is where I encountered The Rapist. After that I moved to a great one bedroom in a hip, safe part of town. Then I bought my first place. Another good story.

Day 26. Cold Busted 2 and shoplifting.

Now that I'm cat pee free I can finish up my story about Anne's shenanigans, as well as tell you about my own sticky fingers. 

My neighbors are currently making fried chicken and the smell has permeated my entire house, so if I start to veer off subject, it's completely out of my control. I also feel like I've lost my sense of humor and desire to write because of this aroma.

Anne was at the bowling alley when she should have been on her way to softball practice. As soon as the guy at the counter was distracted and headed off elsewhere, she reached up, grabbed a Snickers and thought her shoplifting quest was a success. It wasn't. She got cold busted and the cops were called. 

Considering my parents were already livid about her getting trashed at school, I think this is when they tried sending her - or maybe both of us, I don't remember - to a shrinky dink. It didn't do much good, because he recommended my parents back off, let us have messy rooms, give us our freedom, etc. My dad heard that for about 10 seconds and no more shrinky dink. 

I, on the other hand, shoplifted but never got caught. I did it twice. The first time I was in the convenience store on base. I'm pretty sure it was in England, once again. I had a real hankerin' for candy. All day. Every day. Loved Big League Chew. Fire Jolly Ranchers. Suck on them long enough and they get bendy. You can actually make a rollup out of a Jolly Rancher stick if your mouth is hot enough and you have enough patience. Fireballs. I'd eat anything in the candy aisle. Chocolate. Hot Tamales. I didn't discriminate. 

One day I was perusing the candy aisle, trying to narrow down my selections, when a dare was presented to me. People who know me know that whether truth or dare, I'm playing. I was dared to steal a piece of candy. And I did. I peeked around, located the check out guy, and slick as oil slipped either a chunk of gum or piece of chocolate into my pocket. I honestly don't remember what it was, but isn't shoplifting all about the thrill? Seeing if you can pull one over on someone without getting caught? I thought I was being inconspicuous, but I bet you any money that guy knew exactly what I was doing. Maybe I just had better luck than Anne in this particular arena.

Shoplifting experience #2. England. Yes, England again. I went downtown with a friend of mine to do a little shopping - wasn't planning on lifting until faced with yet another dare. She dared me to steal a pair of earrings. 

"Consider it done," I said. I started eyeballing the merchandise for the shiniest pair. 

I was scared shitless because stealing off the Air Force base was a hell of a lot different than on it. I'd be in trouble either way, but base cops are like rent-a-cops. Bobby's are like regular cops with anger management issues and a desire to beat down anyone who messes with the law. You guess which one you'd want to deal with if facing a shoplifting charge. 

I had my target picked out - a cheapo pair of danglies that no one would miss except the inventory team. I grabbed them, canvassed the scene for eyeballs and cameras, then slipped them into my pocket. I was sweaty, my heart was racing, I felt like I was going to hurl. My friend thought it was the coolest thing ever, but I couldn't bring myself to agree. 

After that day I never stole anything from a store again. I stole clothes from my dad, but that's about it. 

Tune in tomorrow for the inhalation of lit cigarette butts and volanco'd bowls. 

Yep, in England. 

Day 25. Cold Busted.

It's only fair that, as I shared the intimate details of my getting slapped for poor behavior yesterday, I do the same for my sister. Not just to even the telling score, but she's had some pretty impressive times that we should all strive to live up to.

England.

Why do all the stories involving trouble start with England?

Let's call my sister Anne. She was in 8th grade, maybe 9th? We were going to school on the Air Force base and there was an AYA (American Youth Association?) across the street and a bowling alley off to the right of the gym, if I remember correctly. Both of them were regular hangouts for me, Anne, and all our friends. The AYA had dances where everyone made out, either inside or out in the dugouts at the baseball field (not that I know from personal experience).

One day Anne decides to chug a lug some 'suicide' with a bunch of friends behind the AYA at morning break. 10:30 AM. Every kind of alcoholic liquid was in there - without any kind of mixer. I was, as usual, hoovering down the 3 candy bars I ate every day in the cafeteria.

That afternoon, I heard that Anne was outside the principal's office, busted for being drunk in school. This bitch, who hated Anne because they once came to blows over a guy and she lost, went and told on her. So Anne was rehearsing "Who's on First," chewing grape bubble yum and facing a breathalyzer. I remember running to see her, but nothing about the interaction. Anne says it was when she was locked in the office, drunk, and I was talking to her through the glass? Who knows - I just know that I was worried out of my mind that she was going to get expelled.

Anne not only failed the breathalyzer, she fell off the damn chair as she was trying to blow through the tube. Like that wasn't bad enough, she then cut and ran down the hall like a madwoman to get one of her friends out of class. And finally, she tried bolting out one of the back doors, just to be caught by the principal.

My mom - the one who slapped me for smoking - told the principal to keep Anne at the school until she got there. Then, she picked her up, brought her home and made her sit upright in a chair until my dad got home - the one who poked me in the chest really hard with his big, pointy finger.

Anne was suspended from school and in big trouble with my parents. She actually thought she'd be living the high life those few days; sleeping in, watching soaps, lazing around. Hardly. My mom dragged her to her classroom and made her play some kind of bingo bonanza with the kids until she nearly went insane.

When it was time to go back to school, it was a holiday weekend, and everyone miscalculated the date. She showed up a day early, but instead of going back home or to my mom's classroom, Anne had to sit in a detention room all by herself. All day. She says I brought her lunch, and I have a faint recollection of that. By that time I must have outgrown my tattling phase and moved on to protection.

It would have been nice if the drama stopped there. After all, it was pretty crazy already. But Anne was on a wild streak. My parents agreed to let her go to softball practice one day during her grounding, but before she got there she hit the bowling alley.

Hold on, I have to take The Beast to a kitty hair salon. More later.

You're not going to believe this. Or, you might, considering my luck. I stuffed The Beast into his kitty carrier, which he was anything but happy about. I walked out the back door, lugging him along, then realized my leg was wet. Then my foot and shoe. There was a trail of liquid coming out the bottom of the kitty carrier. Not only was The Beast pissed. He pissed right out the kitty carrier and aimed it so it dribbled all down my leg.

I'm sure you can all understand that I'll finish Anne's story tomorrow. Trust me, it'll be worth the wait.

Day 24. Slapped.

There are a few times in my life where I got slapped so hard I can still feel the sting.

Wexford, PA. I was 9 if I remember correctly. We were having a family dinner - a pretty fancy one - with my parents, me, my sister, and my grandparents on my mom's side. We called them Grandmom and Grandpop to keep from getting confused with my dad's parents - Granny and Gramps.

Dinner was going off without a hitch. I have no clue what we ate, but I do remember very clearly what I said at the table and what the consequences were.

"I love everyone at this table except for Grandmom." I blurted out, probably over some mashed potatoes.

There was a mix of horrified and stupefied stares and the room went dead silent.

I, of course, thought it was funny, so I said it again. Maybe even a couple more times. Then, I was excused from the table by my dad. A military man. Who could be really scary.

I busied myself clearing dishes and trying to stack them in the kitchen, but stuff was everywhere. There was no room.

"There's nowhere to put this stuff," I whined.

And then, it broke. You could literally hear my dad's patience pop. I had pushed him to the limit and was done for.

He chased me up the stairs, spanking me hard all the way to my room and not even the daffodils on my canopy bed could calm me down. I'd never seen him so mad and I never saw him that mad again. He poked his big sausage finger right in my chest and it hurt. I was so scared I started to pee my dress, which was no big deal because it was ugly, but I didn't want to pee on my daffodils.

I hid in the bathroom for a while - and if I had half a brain I would have locked the door and never come out. But I did. I'll never forget that day as long as I live. And it's not because my dad was mean. It's because I acted like a real asshole and told my Grandmom I didn't love her.

England. I was 11. My mom taught elementary school, so my sister and I normally beat her home. One day I had a few girlfriends over and we were smoking in the backyard. Suddenly, I heard a car pull up and I knew I was screwed. I ran into the house, grabbed a Pepsi and started chugging it - somehow thinking that would cover up the smell of a Marlboro? Of course it didn't. My mom took one whiff of me and slapped me across the face so hard I had her handprint there for about a week. My friends just slipped by behind me, out the front door to safety from this crazy lady. Boy, was she ever pissed. And she's tiny, too - 5'2", 105 pounds - so imagine the anger that propelled that hand. Oh well. It's not because my mom was mean. It's because I was stupid enough to smoke at home and get caught.

Slap #3. England. I was 11 or 12 and thought it was a hoot to borrow my sister's stuff. I'd take clothes, earrings, bracelets, makeup, pretty much anything I could get my hands on to be like her. One day I had on her purple plastic earrings. They were shaped like triangles and probably cost about a dollar. I was in my bedroom when she burst in and told me to take them off.

"Take em off, I'm serious." She said, and the look in her eye was wild. I knew I was playing with fire, but I was ready to fuel it. And but good.

"No!"

"Take them off. Now. And don't you dare throw them." God, she knew me well.

I reached up to my right ear, pulled off the back of the earring, took the earring out and replaced the back. Then I hauled my right hand back as far is it would go and chucked that earring with the force of a pro baseball pitcher. It whizzed by her face, I think, and then the rest was sort of a blur.

WHAP! Her hand made contact with my face and then she was on top of me, wrestling me on my bed and basically just beating my ass senseless.

It wasn't that my sister was mean. It's because I took her stuff without asking and then got obnoxious about returning it.

Those are the three slapping incidents I remember most vividly. I'm sure there are more, but only the best ones deserve fond recollection. I guess, along the way, I got some sense slapped into me after all.

Day 23. Kitty be Gone.

I'm a cat killer. Not on purpose, but give me a cat and I can guarantee you it'll be dead either immediately or within a few years.

Cat #1: Oscar.
I got Oscar in college - a Himalayan - super cute and friendly. Thinking I'd save myself a little cash, a vet tech friend of mine said he'd neuter Oscar in my bathroom for free. Normally I'd say no to an offer like this - what the hell, is he crazy!? But I spent a lot of money on the cat so saving on the ball tying would be great. He came over. Shot Oscar up with Special K. Oscar ran all over the place, bumping into stuff, a wild look in his diluted pupils. Then, he just dropped dead. But he wasn't dead - yet. Just heavily sedated and primed for cutting. My friend shaved 'the area,' and everything was over in just a few minutes. Oscar eventually woke up and I thought everything would be fine.
The next day I thought my bed was on fire, but it was Oscar's hot, feverish body pressed up against me. He didn't look good at all. So much for saving a few bucks. I drove him to the vet who damn near took the cat away from me because of my 'poor decision making.' And of course I spent way more fixing Oscar than fixing him properly in the first place.
Oscar stuck around for a while - he was about 6 when he got nailed with this horrifying intestinal/stomach/colon problem. I'm a firm believer that you don't spend thousands of dollars prolonging a miserable animal's life. There are too many others out there that need saving. Since this was my first experience with euthanasia, I took Oscar into the vet, plopped him on the counter, told the receptionist who I was and what I was there for, and then ran out in tears of hysteria.

Cat #2: Sophie.
If you read The Rapist, then you know about Sophie already. My gray and white life saver. She was around 3 years old when I adopted her from the rich lady and hung out with me for about 6 years. She got struck with liver disease, and I'm not kidding when I say she turned yellow. She did. It was awful. And I was devastated.  This time, a friend came with me and we sat with her until all the breath was done blowing out her sweet little face.

Cat #3: Beaker & Cat #4: Grendle.
I decided to give the SPCA a shot cuz I can't stand those animals being stuck there and killed every few minutes. They sent me to a foster home that had a pair of orange tabbies for adoption. They were really cute. Grendle was shy but Beaker seemed affectionate so I took them home. Grendle was dead within a few days and I was down more than $800. Somehow no one knew that he was dying of liver failure when they handed him over to me. Thanks a lot.
Beaker immediately developed an ear infection, which I thought would be no big deal to cure. Wrong. Nearly $2000 and 6 months later I was still watching him walk around the house with his head cocked off to the side, unable to balance himself. Eventually, in tears, I took him back to the SPCA, and you know what the guy at the desk said to me?
"So, you just don't want him anymore? Is that the reason you brought him back here?"
I was so livid my friend had to hold me back from punching him square between the eyes. Bastard.

Cat #5: Merlin & Cat #6: Regan.
A couple of my parents friends were going to build a new house and move to Ireland for a year, so their 2 Maine Coons needed a new home.  I went to see them and was sold. Regan was a tortoiseshell poof ball and Merlie a 30 pound beast the color of a Creamsicle. I had to muscle up to get that bad boy in the car. I felt like I was really doing a good deed, though, because Merlin's name had been something like Prince William Wordsworth Wilmington III or something crazy. He does have a regal look about him, but come on.
Everything was fine for a few years until I noticed Regan breathing heavily. She was only about 6 years old. Turns out, she had congestive heart failure and wasn't going to come home with me. The vet warned me against being in the room with her when she was put down because with heart problems "there's a lot of gasping." There was no way I was going to put myself through that, so I sat there with her for a long time and said my final goodbyes. She was a great kitty with a funny square mouth and I miss her all the time.

Cat #7: New Kitty.
I adopted New Kitty from the most reputable shelter in the area - a gorgeous, no-kill place. She was a short-hair tortoiseshell and super sweet. Merlin tolerated her just fine. He's really too big to care about anything other than himself. After about a year, though, New Kitty's personality started to change. She'd attack me every time I walked by (yes, she had claws), and she was starting to bite. Not nibble. Bite. It was vicious and I was starting to relate to the stories of people being afraid of cats because of a nasty attack. New Kitty was only 10 pounds, but she was a bad ass.
One night she was up on my bed and I purposely wasn't looking at her because I knew she'd jump me. She jumped me anyway, dug her claws all the way into my arm, then her 2 front fangy teeth. I pushed her off the bed with a loud "NO!" and my finger pointing at her and you know what she did? That little bitch jumped back up on the bed and shredded my ass.
The next day she was on a ride back to the shelter.

Today, I only have Merlin, but he's more than enough. He's now 39 pounds, a real kitty heifer, but he's a great cat. He doesn't even care that I got a fish tank - all that entertainment, wasted. My friend who goes with me to put my cats down once knew she had to start making jokes or I'd drowned myself in red wine.
"You know, you could start a business, considering the crap luck you have with cats. My sister's cat is 22, incontinent, blind, deaf, shits outside the litter box, but refuses to die. One day with you and that cat would finally succumb. Hey, you should start a Kitty be Gone website. Got a cat you want to get rid of? Tired of that pesky pet hair? Call 1-800-KTY-BGON."
As harsh as it sounds, it was the perfect thing to pull me out of my funk. And, once you've 'killed' as many cats as I have you start to get a little numb about it. I tell myself that the cat, while alive, had a much better life with me than anyone else, and there are millions of others out there needing a good home.

If I ever have a cat live past 10, I'm writing Guinness. Merlie's pushing that now, so keep your fingers crossed. Otherwise, you'll probably see me down at the shelter again, casting my shitty luck on the next unsuspecting victim.

Day 21. More auditorium humiliation.

We moved back to the US from Germany in 1986, midway through my sophomore year of high school. My sister was already miserable from having to leave England and that was almost two years prior. I was miserable at the thought of leaving Germany, the place I loved most in my short what, 14 years of life? But what really hit the shitter was when my dad announced that we'd be attending private school. In South Carolina. A place that still didn't allow black students. No wonder tears started shooting out our eyes. 


My sister loved England but I loved Germany. I had an incredible group of girlfriends and pretty lenient parents, so we'd go bar hopping every weekend to dance, drink and have a great time (me and my girls, not my parents). I'll write a lot more about Germany later, but have to get to the humiliation now. 


It was midway through the year at "The Academy." Whiteness and ugliness was everywhere. We couldn't chew gum. We had to wear skirts. Did I mention they didn't allow black students? Seriously, it was like the 1950's but without the good music. Anyway, as we made our miserable way through springtime, cheerleading tryouts were announced. When I wasn't geeking out in marching band I actually did cheer during basketball season. But at "The Academy" I was going to cheer during football season, so I signed up to try out. I thought, "I'll show these stuck up whities what's what!" 


Day of auditions. If you wanted to join the cheerleading squad, you had to audition in the auditorium. In front of the entire school. And they got to vote who made it and who didn't. Being the newbie, and considering the other 'contestants' looked like their mommies just got done making them up for their next trailer trash beauty pageants, I didn't think I had a chance in hell. But, I went for it. I went out there and cheered my non-existent balls off and felt great about my audition. 


Until someone yelled, "Hey! What's with the dirty knees!?" 


Immediately, I knew that question was directed at me. For some reason my knees are darker than my shins and thighs. I don't know why, so don't expect me to give you an answer. 


I was hideously embarrassed and wanted the floor to crack open and swallow me whole. It didn't. But I made that cheerleading squad regardless. And how good do you think it made me feel to tell them all to F OFF because I was going to the public school directly across the street. Where whites were the minority. Where no one would notice my black knees. Where people could chew gum and wear what they wanted. Where you had to have some self respect and opinions or you'd run the risk of getting your ass beat into the dirt. 


When my sister and I told our parents there wasn't a chance in hell we were going back to "The Academy," it was tough to get them to acquiesce. They don't know it, but saying yes was the best thing they ever could have done. They kept us from becoming snotty, stuck up, disapproving, racist, materialistic, narrow minded bitches. 


I graduated from that public high school in 1988. I have memories from there that I'll never forget. That's where I found my first love. That's where I first made love (um, no, not in the school). That's where I truly started to discover who I was and what I wanted out of life. I can guarantee one thing - if we'd never gotten out of "The Academy" I wouldn't experience the love, forgiveness, generosity, compassion, contemplation, fun, determination and occasional fearlessness I do today. 


Rumor has it the school burned down, but it doesn't matter. Whether erect or in ashes, it'll always hold some of the most dear memories of my formative years.

Day 20. Musical Mishaps.

When I was in third or fourth grade, living in the haunted mansion in Pennsylvania, my parents decided it was time for my sister and me to start playing an instrument. They brought home a guitar and a flute and let us battle it out over which one each of us would master. My sister practically started playing Flight of the Bumble Bee, then said, "no, not that one. Gimme the guitar." Left with the abandoned chunk of silver, with all the intricate keys, mouthpiece, and no idea how to get a sound out of that thing, I picked it up.


And I didn't put it down until I graduated college. 


I took lessons. I practiced. I had a special cork made to make sure I held my right hand properly over the keys. I embarrassed myself at the school talent show. I played in the band. I went to All State. I went to college on a music scholarship. I took more lessons. I played in the marching band. I played in the symphony. 


And I grew to despise one of the things I once treasured. 


Everything was fine through high school, really. There was competition, but it wasn't mean or cutthroat. Aside from a couple incidents, I got through just fine. 


As I continued getting better and winning competitions and stuff, my parents decided to get me a fancy flute - one with a low B and open holes. It was gorgeous. And I could wail on that thing, especially when I was mad. Did it ever feel good. One day I was practicing outside the music trailer - yeah, that's all we had at our poor high school - and the entire surrounding area was gravel. I couldn't get the hang of this one chunk of music I had to perfect for All State, so I started swinging my flute. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Lef ---- thwooonk! The head joint went shooting out and bounced about a hundred and eighty times across the rocks. It was no longer brand new. And my parents were going to shit bricks. 


Then, our high school band went to an elementary school to perform for an auditorium filled with kindergarten through sixth graders. I was sitting first chair, which was closest to the edge of the stage. We launched into The Stars and Stripes and when the piccolo solo arrived, I had to stand up and play that shit to so many beady eyes I was sweating bullets. I managed to make it through, but as I retook my seat, I guess I sat down a little too hard and the friggin' chair tipped sideways and backwards off the stage. With me in it. I'm not kidding. 

At the time, I was totally expecting the room to break out into hysterical laughter, but it was dead silent. The band stopped playing. The kids' faces were frozen with fear. You could have heard one of my flute pads falling off in that deafening silence. 

I was righted. I was okay. We finished the piece, then I gave a special flute presentation just to prove that I was all right. 

You know what I did? I told my parents that I banged up my flute when I fell off the stage. If there was physical harm inflicted on me at the same time as my flute, it wasn't so bad.

That's the extent of my high school humiliation. And now, for college. 


Like I said, I went on a music scholarship. I remember the audition like it was yesterday. I even remember what I wore - a bright pink blouse with a vest over it, a skirt and some kind of dorky shoes. You want to know why I remember these details? Because as I was anxiously awaiting my turn, I had a full blown anxiety attack. My pits started spraying sweat and there was no way to control it. So instead of wearing a soaked shirt in front of a panel of judges, I went to the bathroom, stripped it off and played with just the vest on.


No, it wasn't appropriate. It was a v-neck with big arm holes and I looked like trailer trash. Maybe that's why they gave me the money. They felt sorry for me.


I was required to take a bunch of classes in order to fulfill my scholarship and one of those was Sight Singing and Ear Training. I can't sing to save my life, so I was white as a sheet walking into that class. Which was in an auditorium. The professor came in and played a different note on the piano for each and every person in the class. We, in turn, had to sing it back to him. Jesus Rice. He took one look at me, put his fat ass finger all the way to the right of the keys and dinged the highest note that piano would play. 


"Can I take it down an octave?" I pleaded.
"No, sing it as it's played." And he dinged it again.
"I can't. That's too high for me. I'll never be able to hit that note." 
"Sing it," the Meatloaf impersonator said.  


I started way down at the left end of the piano keys, then gradually just let my voice rise and rise until I was shrieking out a sound that rarely comes from a human. Everyone busted out laughing, but who could blame them? I think I remember laughing right along with them. 


Private lessons and marching band were two of my other requirements, and since we were practicing during sorority rush, that's something I never had a chance to do. I'm not sure I was even interested, but at least let me make the decision for myself instead of presenting me with the "opportunity" to join the band sorority. No, thanks.


My private lessons teacher was this extremely talented but very strange woman who sported one of the worst comb-overs I've ever seen. And she beat my ass every week. I look back on some of the music I used to play and I don't believe I was ever able to play it. The sheet music is black, there are so many notes and accidentals. I wouldn't know where to start today.


When marching band wasn't in full swing I had to audition for Symphony or play in the regular ol' concert band. Who wanted to play in concert band!? I wanted the real thing and I went for it. I wasn't first chair but I was in the top half and that made me feel good. The music was hard but damn, we sounded like professionals. 


Our first concert. I was a freshman. I was told to buy a "formal black gown." So that's what I did. It was pretty poofy and everyone took turns making fun of me because everyone else had a little more sense than to dress like they were visiting Tara. Whatever. 


During my sophomore year I decided to change my major from music to English/Writing. News spread through the symphony pretty quickly. One day I got to practice and there was a note on my music stand. It very plainly and rudely stated that as I wasn't a music major, I didn't take it seriously, I sucked and the band director hated me, and how dare I take a chair when others were going to dedicate their lives to music? 


I'm not gonna' lie. That hurt. What kind of psycho does a thing like that? Someone in the symphony, that's who. So I decided to shit-can that nonsense. Not because I can't take the heat. It's because I didn't love it enough. So I did my time in concert band my junior year then ceased all involvement with music from that point forward.


I did manage to squeeze in a European tour with the symphony first, though. Peeing in the Alps, not having a Visa, people having sex next to me when I'm trying to sleep, making out in Hyde Park, and a bunch of other crazy shenanigans. It was well worth it. 


Oh, I forgot to mention that I caught my rubber marching band shoe on fire and one time I was so stoned on the field I didn't play a note and went in the wrong direction at every turn. A stellar addition to the cause I was. 


So there's the story. I learned to play well enough to impress even myself. And there were times I treasured playing that instrument. 


I still have all three of my flutes. I suppose I keep them as a reminder that I once did something great. Something that even I didn't think I could do.