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.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 6, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 3, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Day 19. The Rapist.
1994. I was living on the first floor of a row house on a pretty, dark street. The house was set up a hill, off the road, and it wasn't only affordable - it was gorgeous. For the kind of rent I was paying I should have been living in a basement dungeon, but there, I had the entire basement and first floor all to myself. I'll admit, it was sorta' creepy. The basement was filled with the owner's belongings - nothing was organized, but everything interested me. I'd spend all kinds of time sifting through her stuff, and on occasion I took ownership of a few things. Not very nice, but wait 'til you hear why I deserved to.
At the time I had a cat I'd adopted from a super rich foster lady. My cat Oscar had just died a short while back and I decided to get off the purebred train and head for the unwanted misfits. Sounds corny, but when I saw the kitty for the first time I knew immediately she was mine. I named her Sophie and she became my little friend for a few years.
One night, I was sleeping in my bedroom at the back of the house, over the basement. Right outside my window there was a fiberglass covering that tilted down towards the backyard, which was one giant jungle because no one ever went back there to clean it up. I quickly found out why.
3 am. I'm sleeping and Sophie's stretched out on the windowsill because the window's open. Suddenly, shrieking like nothing I've ever heard before tears through the room. I shoot up, jump out of bed to walk over to her, and she leaps right at my face like a crazed, rabid lunatic. Now, she had never done anything like this before, and I'd never heard a noise like that come out of a cat, so I was shocked. I thought maybe she had seen another cat outside the window or something so I slammed it shut and went back to bed.
A couple weeks later. 3 am. I'm sleeping and Sophie's stretched out on the windowsill because the window's open. Suddenly, shrieking like nothing I've ever heard before tears through the room. I shoot up, jump out of bed and walk over to her. But this time I look out the window.
A pair of eyeballs, attached to one scary-assed face is staring back at me.
At this point, most normal people would either a) pee; b) scream; or c) faint. I just stood there for a few seconds, then calmly picked up the phone and called the police, who arrived within a few minutes. After a full search of the premises - they even went through the backyard jungle with guns and stuff - they came up with nothing, but left me with a few genius words of advice.
"Ma'am, you really should consider getting a dog."
Um. My cat just saved me from the miscreant trying to crawl through my window and ruin a perfectly good night's sleep. Why in the hell would I need to get a dog?
Needless to say, I was up until the sun was blazing in the sky and came to the conclusion that only a madman rapist, murderer or thief would have the balls to try and climb in my window. This called for drastic action, because no way in hell was I going to sleep in that room for one more night without protection.
I enlisted a friend of mine to help with the job. Armed with epoxy and nails we hauled our asses up to the top of that fiberglass and started attaching. We must have glued hundreds of spikes to that thing. No way anyone - or anything - was gonna' get a chance at me and my guard cat again.
Soon after, I installed bars on the windows and doors, which my landlady said she'd reimburse me for. Get everything in writing, people. I never saw a dime. Which brings me full circle to the stolen belongings. I got out of there with a desk, a night table, and a bunch of odd trinkets. I don't feel guilty, either. The way I see it is I paid a few thousand dollars for the bars, so that more than covers the items I took.
Sophie's no longer alive. She got liver failure and I put her out of her misery. I'm no crazy cat lady, but putting that cat down was incredibly hard.
I'll never know what that perv in the window was after, but whatever it was, Sophie saved me from having to find out. Good kitty.
At the time I had a cat I'd adopted from a super rich foster lady. My cat Oscar had just died a short while back and I decided to get off the purebred train and head for the unwanted misfits. Sounds corny, but when I saw the kitty for the first time I knew immediately she was mine. I named her Sophie and she became my little friend for a few years.
One night, I was sleeping in my bedroom at the back of the house, over the basement. Right outside my window there was a fiberglass covering that tilted down towards the backyard, which was one giant jungle because no one ever went back there to clean it up. I quickly found out why.
3 am. I'm sleeping and Sophie's stretched out on the windowsill because the window's open. Suddenly, shrieking like nothing I've ever heard before tears through the room. I shoot up, jump out of bed to walk over to her, and she leaps right at my face like a crazed, rabid lunatic. Now, she had never done anything like this before, and I'd never heard a noise like that come out of a cat, so I was shocked. I thought maybe she had seen another cat outside the window or something so I slammed it shut and went back to bed.
A couple weeks later. 3 am. I'm sleeping and Sophie's stretched out on the windowsill because the window's open. Suddenly, shrieking like nothing I've ever heard before tears through the room. I shoot up, jump out of bed and walk over to her. But this time I look out the window.
A pair of eyeballs, attached to one scary-assed face is staring back at me.
At this point, most normal people would either a) pee; b) scream; or c) faint. I just stood there for a few seconds, then calmly picked up the phone and called the police, who arrived within a few minutes. After a full search of the premises - they even went through the backyard jungle with guns and stuff - they came up with nothing, but left me with a few genius words of advice.
"Ma'am, you really should consider getting a dog."
Um. My cat just saved me from the miscreant trying to crawl through my window and ruin a perfectly good night's sleep. Why in the hell would I need to get a dog?
Needless to say, I was up until the sun was blazing in the sky and came to the conclusion that only a madman rapist, murderer or thief would have the balls to try and climb in my window. This called for drastic action, because no way in hell was I going to sleep in that room for one more night without protection.
I enlisted a friend of mine to help with the job. Armed with epoxy and nails we hauled our asses up to the top of that fiberglass and started attaching. We must have glued hundreds of spikes to that thing. No way anyone - or anything - was gonna' get a chance at me and my guard cat again.
Soon after, I installed bars on the windows and doors, which my landlady said she'd reimburse me for. Get everything in writing, people. I never saw a dime. Which brings me full circle to the stolen belongings. I got out of there with a desk, a night table, and a bunch of odd trinkets. I don't feel guilty, either. The way I see it is I paid a few thousand dollars for the bars, so that more than covers the items I took.
Sophie's no longer alive. She got liver failure and I put her out of her misery. I'm no crazy cat lady, but putting that cat down was incredibly hard.
I'll never know what that perv in the window was after, but whatever it was, Sophie saved me from having to find out. Good kitty.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Um... day 18. The Gash.
Ok, people. I only have one follower but I'm getting my ass kicked about not having any new posts. I was on vacation, and that's allowed. I'll try my best to hold up my end of the deal from now on, as I don't foresee any more out-of-town fun heading my way.
The good news is that my puffer and gramma made it through the poisoning, so the tank death seems to be done. I have a few newbies coming my way, so I'll be sure to let you know their names and what-not. Maybe I'll even post some pictures.
Considering I just got back from a week at one of the most beautiful places in the world, I'm not really looking to write about something unfortunate today. It was great times with fabulous friends and I gotta' go back to work tomorrow, so isn't that depressing enough?
Oh, here's a good story. I was living over in England during my 'abnormal' years - you know, you're a girl, you hit puberty, you get all chubby and gross looking. Well, except for you fortunate babes out there - many of us suffer the excruciating humiliation of being a 6th or 7th grader. Anyway. My dad was in the military at the time so we lived on the Air Force base and those in charge figured it would be a good idea to have a fair of sorts - with rides and everything. I was excited.
I got as dolled up as I could during this ugly phase of mine, but skipped the leg shaving, and the hairs on my legs were long, I'm not kidding. But I had stolen a pair of my sister's Levi's to wear, so they were covered up. Who cared!?
I hit the fair with my friends and we did it up big. There was this one ride I had my sights on - a humongous metal cage that imprisons up to 4 people. You use your body to get the thing to start swinging and then swing all the way around like a big ferris wheel, but much faster. I got in with a girlfriend and 2 big guys and we started gyrating all over the place to get that big chunk of steel to move. It did. And I didn't mention that none of us was strapped in in any way shape or form.
So just as we were about to go over the top (literally), there wasn't enough momentum so the cage swung back around and the 4 of us went flying all over the place. It took me a few minutes, but I realized that I had blood seeping through my jeans from my knee down to my ankle. Um. Yes, I was wearing my sister's jeans. My older sister's jeans.
I started screaming and hollering for the guy to stop the ride, but since it wasn't controlled mechanically, there was nothing he could do but watch until we all stopped shooting around like human popcorn in the f'n cage.
When I got out I started high-tailing it to the port-a-trailer. It was an actual trailer versus a porta-potty so I was at least having good luck there. But then, who did I run into but my sister, and when she saw my jeans (her jeans) she threw daggers at me out of her beautiful brown eyes (she wasn't one of those awkward looking puberty victims). Thank God I was all bloody, because suddenly she was on me like white on rice, asking if I was OK and walking me to the trailer to help 'clean me up.'
We got in there. She told me to pull my jeans down so she could clean my knee. She went to wet some paper towels. I pushed the blood-red fabric over my kneecap and she turned around to look at it. Her face went white. My face. Well, I don't know what color my face was, but I imagine it was a mixture of purple, red, white and yellow. We were looking at the sickest sight ever. My right knee was split open a good 3 inches long and an inch wide. Tendons and flesh were sticking out. I'm not even shitting you.
You can imagine that not only is it bad enough being an ugly 7th grader. Throw an ambulance ride on top of that in the middle of a fair where all your friends are and you may as well throw in the towel. I felt like a real a-hole - not to mention that I had this blow-up thing on my leg and everyone could see all my leg hairs sprouting out of it.
I ended up with a boatload of stitches, which felt really great because they stuck the numbing needles right into the gash (yeah, I hate that word, too). I was crying my head off, but my dad's face was about an inch away from the entire procedure. For some reason he was fascinated and managed to watch the whole thing without puking. I don't remember where my mom was. Maybe she hyperventilated and was forced to stay in the waiting room, but I think all of us were in the car when I finally got to go home.
As much as it sounds like a real crap day, I got away lucky. Turns out, that ride was such a rickety piece of shit, some guy busted his head open on it and they shut the thing down. Never having it there in the first place would have been my choice.
And there you have it. An incident that wasn't life threatening, but lifelong. Not just because of the scar. That day, I knew that despite all the fights and nasty words between us, my sister cared about me.
The good news is that my puffer and gramma made it through the poisoning, so the tank death seems to be done. I have a few newbies coming my way, so I'll be sure to let you know their names and what-not. Maybe I'll even post some pictures.
Considering I just got back from a week at one of the most beautiful places in the world, I'm not really looking to write about something unfortunate today. It was great times with fabulous friends and I gotta' go back to work tomorrow, so isn't that depressing enough?
Oh, here's a good story. I was living over in England during my 'abnormal' years - you know, you're a girl, you hit puberty, you get all chubby and gross looking. Well, except for you fortunate babes out there - many of us suffer the excruciating humiliation of being a 6th or 7th grader. Anyway. My dad was in the military at the time so we lived on the Air Force base and those in charge figured it would be a good idea to have a fair of sorts - with rides and everything. I was excited.
I got as dolled up as I could during this ugly phase of mine, but skipped the leg shaving, and the hairs on my legs were long, I'm not kidding. But I had stolen a pair of my sister's Levi's to wear, so they were covered up. Who cared!?
I hit the fair with my friends and we did it up big. There was this one ride I had my sights on - a humongous metal cage that imprisons up to 4 people. You use your body to get the thing to start swinging and then swing all the way around like a big ferris wheel, but much faster. I got in with a girlfriend and 2 big guys and we started gyrating all over the place to get that big chunk of steel to move. It did. And I didn't mention that none of us was strapped in in any way shape or form.
So just as we were about to go over the top (literally), there wasn't enough momentum so the cage swung back around and the 4 of us went flying all over the place. It took me a few minutes, but I realized that I had blood seeping through my jeans from my knee down to my ankle. Um. Yes, I was wearing my sister's jeans. My older sister's jeans.
I started screaming and hollering for the guy to stop the ride, but since it wasn't controlled mechanically, there was nothing he could do but watch until we all stopped shooting around like human popcorn in the f'n cage.
When I got out I started high-tailing it to the port-a-trailer. It was an actual trailer versus a porta-potty so I was at least having good luck there. But then, who did I run into but my sister, and when she saw my jeans (her jeans) she threw daggers at me out of her beautiful brown eyes (she wasn't one of those awkward looking puberty victims). Thank God I was all bloody, because suddenly she was on me like white on rice, asking if I was OK and walking me to the trailer to help 'clean me up.'
We got in there. She told me to pull my jeans down so she could clean my knee. She went to wet some paper towels. I pushed the blood-red fabric over my kneecap and she turned around to look at it. Her face went white. My face. Well, I don't know what color my face was, but I imagine it was a mixture of purple, red, white and yellow. We were looking at the sickest sight ever. My right knee was split open a good 3 inches long and an inch wide. Tendons and flesh were sticking out. I'm not even shitting you.
You can imagine that not only is it bad enough being an ugly 7th grader. Throw an ambulance ride on top of that in the middle of a fair where all your friends are and you may as well throw in the towel. I felt like a real a-hole - not to mention that I had this blow-up thing on my leg and everyone could see all my leg hairs sprouting out of it.
I ended up with a boatload of stitches, which felt really great because they stuck the numbing needles right into the gash (yeah, I hate that word, too). I was crying my head off, but my dad's face was about an inch away from the entire procedure. For some reason he was fascinated and managed to watch the whole thing without puking. I don't remember where my mom was. Maybe she hyperventilated and was forced to stay in the waiting room, but I think all of us were in the car when I finally got to go home.
As much as it sounds like a real crap day, I got away lucky. Turns out, that ride was such a rickety piece of shit, some guy busted his head open on it and they shut the thing down. Never having it there in the first place would have been my choice.
And there you have it. An incident that wasn't life threatening, but lifelong. Not just because of the scar. That day, I knew that despite all the fights and nasty words between us, my sister cared about me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)