Huddled under a blanket in the basement with my well worn Fozzie stuffed animal is when I realized I had made a very big mistake. The cheery pinks and greens of the hand-knit fabric did nothing to soothe my anxiety and Fozzie had the same dumb, wide eyed look on his face since we started the movie. Crouching on the prickly, cheap berber rug, I tucked one end of the blanket under each foot so that I could use my hands to shield my face, save for a tiny slit I made with my middle and pointer fingers over my right eye. Originally I thought I had flipped the tv to a channel about a boy who had a doll. "How refreshing!" I'm sure I thought. Until that ugly piece-of-shit decided to kill everyone and I was too ashamed and scared to stop watching. Being 7, I was sure that this was actually happening somewhere outside my protective blanket bubble and it was only a matter or time before this "Chucky" disposed of me as well. If I ran upstairs crying, like I wanted to, my parents would know that I had been watching something I shouldn't have. I couldn't take that chance so I stayed put and convinced myself that if Chucky popped out of my toy chest I would suddenly develop Care Bear type powers and kill him with a rainbow of kindness that would emit from my tummy. This was a solid plan. To be sure my efforts weren't thwarted, I threw Fozzie at my Teddy Ruxpin with all my might making them both topple behind a tall bookshelf. (Later in the week, Mr. Ruxpin was found with an entire box of Sun-Maid raisins shoved down his throat, rendering his formerly movable jaw sticky and permanently useless. I plead the 5th.) While I survived the movie, something inside me had changed. Maybe this wasn't as large of a mistake as I had thought. Either a seed had been planted or a darkness was realized that caused me to walk up my basement stairs in a daze as I came to terms with just how much I had enjoyed being terrified. Did other people feel this way? Did I have to tell my parents? Most importantly, how was I going to get away with watching more horror movies?
Halloween instantly became my favorite holiday after my secret rendezvous with gore and carnage. My mother, may it have been poor parenting or a realized penchant of her own, fostered my new found infatuation with a fervor. I hadn't wanted to tell her, but she had her ways of figuring it out. She once caught me wrapping up one of my dolls in strips of white towel which I had adorned with smears of red nail polish. Then I slung up my homemade mummified baby on the tree in our front yard. In July. Ideas poured out of my mother's mind that excited me to the nth degree. Stuff a pair of old pants and stick them on poles which we insert next to a tombstone in our front yard so it looks like a passer-by was sucked into the underworld? Sure mom! Sit around watching "The Birds" on a rainy day while eating "bird seed" (granola)? Absolutely! I was hooked. I even went so far as to chair my own "Halloween Club" which included my sister and two neighbor boys down the street. We would meet in the aforementioned tree in my front yard and talk about how much I loved Halloween, what I was going to be for Halloween, and the latest horror movies I had seen. It was a self-indulgent endeavor to say the least. When Halloween finally rolled around I would strut proud as a peacock when my friends would comment on how scary my yard display was. "My little brother wouldn't go near your house because of the giant spiders!" or "Where did you find all those body parts?" Thanks to my mothers influence, I insisted on carving real pumpkins every year and still do to this day. My father was the handiest handyman there ever was, and his abilities plus my mothers ideas made for one hell of a holiday for this little trick-or-treater. One year my dad came home with 3 slats of plywood and cans of black spray paint. "Mookser, come downstairs and help me build a coffin." Music to my ears! I laid down on one of the slats while he traced me so as to build a box to my specifications. I got to run all the woodworking machines while he supervised and critiqued my work. He then took me to Home Depot where I picked out four silver handles that looked like knotty, old branches. We affixed them to my Marissa sized black wood coffin, nailed a cross to the front and presented our creation to the neighbors. The attention I got that year was incredible and only propelled my affinity for all that is dead and ghostly. Even after I was well into my teens, you could find me in our workroom making creepy fences, tombstones and the like.Even in July.
Luckily, what I derived most out of a childhood filled with box-office horror was not fear and violence but acceptance and excitement. Walking my dog down dark and drafty Chicago streets in mid October, I take note of how many fewer houses have a menacing pumpkin face glowing on their stoop than when I was young. I remember the smell of rotting pumpkin and candle wax fondly as a testament to a more jovial society. While I greatly support change and am proud that people these days are giving a fuck about where our future is going... does no one have time to carve a pumpkin? Isn't there something to be said for expending energy and efforts towards celebration and happiness? Making a kid smile (and potentially cry) with a yard full of creepy things? Stand on your soapbox and protest, I support it 100%. But I can't help to think that at times, if everyone were to come on down from political pedestals and work towards making life fun again, there wouldn't be as much time for hate and fighting. I understand that's a broad statement, but look at it this way; if we give our children nothing to remember their childhoods by but protests and demonstrations, where have we instilled happiness in them? We have some very serious situations going on in our world, and I applaud the people with the guts to fight them. But I also notice a correlation between how much less fun we have with our children and how bad the world has gotten. Can you close your eyes and picture it? A world full of political unrest, devoid of holiday celebration and happy children, a non-denominational winter holiday that takes all of 10 minutes to recognize before it's back to the task at hand. Oh wait... Now try to remember how holidays went when you were young. I bet they make up a lot of your memories, don't they? You might say that with all that we have going on, there is no time for pumpkin carving or scary movie watching. To that I say, what a great opportunity to teach our children about time management. Overhearing a conversation at the park recently, I learned that an entire family will forgo pumpkin carving, or even pumpkin purchasing, this year in a protest against the mistreatment of family farms. What? Buy their fucking pumpkins! You are raising a brood of non-pumpkin carvers who will never want to buy pumpkins and who will raise generations of non-pumpkin carvers... Or this family could just buy their kids one, and carve it. Put a real candle in it and teach them about fire safety. Make it fun. Roast the seeds and eat them warm while you take the kids for a crisp autumn walk in a very difficult search for any other house that actually has a jack-o-lantern on display. Sit outside all bundled up and tell a slightly too scary story. So what if they crawl into your bed this once. That is just their imaginations at work. We adults were born with them too, but some of us forgot.
So here I am, cradling my fiercely flickering jack-o-lantern, standing on my soapbox filled with blood and Teddy Ruxpin parts. Don't forget the things, however small and seemingly insignificant, that happily molded your childhood. Don't leave them behind, sad and ignorant to future generations. Bring them back home where they belong and scare your children silly with them. If you insist on making your children fearful of something, let it be your front yard on October 31st, not the state of their future. If you heed my warnings, their futures might not look so bleak after all.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
The Day of Corn-Poo (And Other Scary Stories For Sleepovers) Part 1
Cool days spent mostly at the park are how I prefer to appropriate my time as a nanny. Watching the tops of trees dance from my perch atop a twice wrapped-over-the-bar swing has a certain je ne sais quoi that is unparalleled. I absolutely derive merit from the plethora of responsibility that comes with caring for wee ones. It's just that out in the wilds of your local playground, magic happens. Our most valuable generation become pirates and princesses, the sand becomes lava, and we call benches "home base". Years of experience have yet to strip the wonder from my eyes as I observe tiny relationships being formed right here, in our world. These are the things I yearn to tell parents. "Don't forget this moment!" Moments I want to dip in bronze and preserve, remembering each minute fondly as I hold it in my hand years from now.
Then there are the moments I want to choke with my bare hands and toss out the car window on a freeway off ramp.
Ladies and Gentleman, gather 'round the campfire. Submitted for the approval of the Mignight Society, I call this story "The Day of Corn-Poo".
It was the beginning of summer 2004 and I was making a decent days wage for an honest days work watching two toddlers as a nanny share. Amy and Ian were both two and a half, adorable, and asleep. Or so I thought. My sister had come over to keep me company while the little ones took their naps and we had just settled in on the couch when I heard the pitter patter of little feet. They were running circles around the bed above us. It was Amy, and she was relegated to an air mattress in Ian's parent's immaculately clean bedroom. Ian was in his room across the hall from Amy and all was quiet. Being patient, I waited for Amy to settle down. I waited for five minutes, then ten. The pitter grew faster, the patter grew louder and I grew impatient. "I think you should put her back in bed." my sister said casually as she flipped channels on the TV. I walked to the stairs and sternly instructed her to "get back in bed" from the landing. The running stopped and I made my way back to the couch. I had just enough time to sigh, and pull a pillow up into my arms when the running picked up full force. Still silent in Ian's room I thought it best to get as close to Amy's door as possible and coax her back to bed. I was hesitant to let her see me because then she would definitely want to bolt out of the bedroom and come out to play. As sweet as that may seem to all you non-nannies and non-parents, it's the actual, tangible recipe for all that is awful. An overtired child plus overtired parents makes for a exasperating evening that usually involves screaming and defiance. I began ascending the stairs with my sister watching me wide eyed, because the running had turned into knocking. Frustrated, my climb became brisk until I was stopped dead three stairs from the landing. The knocking stopped and so did my heart. I slowly turned to face my sister, looking white as a sheet I'm sure. I whispered "Do you smell that?" She shook her head. "It's... poo." I breathed, turning to back to the landing. I took a step, then another, and the knocking stopped. "Muh Muh?" a tiny voice asked from behind the door. No, this wasn't just poo. It was... sour. The closer I inched towards the bedroom door the more enveloped I became in a stench so raw I nearly hurled my Arthur shaped Mac & Cheese. I didn't want to look. I wanted my sister to come with me. I called down to her and asked her as such. She turned the tv up. I waited a few seconds before grasping the door knob. I waited a few more before turning it. I had a suspicion I was about to encounter a scene the might involve fecal matter running down the leg of a toddler. This is about as bad as most nannies and parents think it gets. Let me assure you, young grasshoppers, it is not. I closed my eyes, turned the knob, and gently pushed the door open.
At first all I saw was sweet little Amy. She was standing at the foot of her air mattress bating her long lashes at me and tugging at her shirt. I felt relieved when I saw that she didn't have anything suspicious on her legs. But then I noticed that she wasn't wearing a diaper. Where the fuck was it? My eyes darted around the room trying to find it, hoping it hadn't landed buttered side down on the white carpet. That's when I heard Amy say "Eat it. Corn?" It was as if those were the magic words to kick my brain in its ass and jump start it. There was shit everywhere. There were shitty foot prints around her mattress and Ian's parent's bed like some kind of horrific yellow brick road. There was shit in her hair, there was shit on the full length mirror. Are you fucking KIDDING ME?! For a split second I thought this might have been an appropriate enough situation to call 911. "Katie. Katie. Katie. KATIE KATIE KATIE KATIE!" I started screaming as I turned and rigidly stumbled to the landing. "What? What's wrong?!" my sister asked as she started making her way up the stairs. At the same time the smell hit her, she saw my face and heard me mutter "I think I need help...". She grabbed her mouth gagging, turned and walked down the stairs. "Ok. Ok. Ok. Ok." I repeated to myself as I blankly reached into the upstairs bathroom and grabbed a towel. I took a deep breath and ran back to Amy, scooping her up in the towel and bringing her into the shower. I stripped her down, rolled up my sleeves and pant legs, and turned on the water. I washed her off twice for good measure, all the while she's watching my face and laughing. To her this was a game. To me it was hell. I brought her downstairs to Katie so she could dress her in her spare clothing. I grabbed bleach to clean the shower, and every other bottle of chemical cleaner I could find for the bedroom. I wrapped a kitchen towel around my mouth and held it in place with a stretchy headband. Making my way back into that living nightmare of a room, I noticed all the little yellow dots adorning everything. Amy had recently eaten corn. A lot of corn. Forty five minutes had passed before I, with sweat dripping into my eyes, finished disinfecting.
I heard Amy laughing at the TV while I turned the shower back on so that I could scour myself. I had just stepped into that warm salvation when I heard the knocking. This time it was coming from Ian's room and I wanted to die. I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped into the hallway. I saw my sister looking up the stairs at Ian's door. She was thinking what I was thinking, and she was just fine staying where she was. Like ripping off a band aid that I already knew was going to hurt, I flung Ian's door open and saw him run back to his bed and jump in. I checked the carpet first. Nothing. Curtains, nothing. Back of the door, nothing. I stepped into the room smiling a smile of a thousand joys as I started to ask Ian if he had had a good nap. "Did you have a go-" poo. Poooooooooooo. Like a zombie with the urgent hunger for sweet, delicious brains, I began feverishly hunting turds. Slack jawed and exhausted I gurgled "poo" as I shambled from the window to the bed. Ian was turned to the wall on his bed now, being incredibly quiet. I realized then that it was because he was busy. Busy painting. On the wall. With shit. "Poo!" I screamed, almost excited. I had zeroed in on it and it was my mission to quarantine it before it spread any further. I quickly ran back to the bathroom, put on my shit clothes, and my shit socks, and my shit shoes, and ran back into Ian's room like a Shitbuster. If there's something strange in your child's diaper, who ya gonna call? A nanny. I scooped up a laughing Ian. Unfortunately, that was when I had found the missing carpet doody. With my foot. I turned and ran leaving skid-marks in my wake. I had his clothes off and the water running within seconds. Up went the sleeves, out came the soap. Wash, rinse, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I wrapped him in a towel, deposited him with my sister downstairs, grabbed the cleaning supplies again, jolted back up the stairs and started with the carpet around his bed. I was getting fucking good at this! Corn. So much corn. There was even corn poo on a What To Expect: The Toddler Years book that was on his rocking chair. By the way, nowhere in there does it give advice on cleaning up corny shit. Thirty minutes later (I beat my personal best time) I was back in the bathroom. I had earned this shower and for shit's sake I was going to enjoy it.
I don't want this moment in bronze. But I wouldn't mind it in plaster on a shelf somewhere behind all those bronzed memories. It wasn't a moment of wonder and awe at the precocious nature of children, but more so a testament to what I was capable of enduring. That afternoon taught me that there are things worse than what I perceive to be the worst. I would have been MUCH happier with one room filled to capacity with corn shit as opposed to two. I learned that Oxyclean rules an Resolve drools. Most importantly that it's the plaster moments, bronze moments, and all those in between that compile the repertoire of Nanny-hood. So often I think about the day of corn-poo when I feel that my day is going south. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has come close. Wait, I forgot one more lesson I learned that day. I would sooner staple all my fingers together than ever feed corn to a kid before they were potty trained.
To Amy and Ian, who will hopefully never read this because it's disgusting, I do not hold that horrible day against you. You are still the sweet, adorable children I loved, covered in poo or otherwise. Thank you sincerely for this plaster moment.
Then there are the moments I want to choke with my bare hands and toss out the car window on a freeway off ramp.
Ladies and Gentleman, gather 'round the campfire. Submitted for the approval of the Mignight Society, I call this story "The Day of Corn-Poo".
It was the beginning of summer 2004 and I was making a decent days wage for an honest days work watching two toddlers as a nanny share. Amy and Ian were both two and a half, adorable, and asleep. Or so I thought. My sister had come over to keep me company while the little ones took their naps and we had just settled in on the couch when I heard the pitter patter of little feet. They were running circles around the bed above us. It was Amy, and she was relegated to an air mattress in Ian's parent's immaculately clean bedroom. Ian was in his room across the hall from Amy and all was quiet. Being patient, I waited for Amy to settle down. I waited for five minutes, then ten. The pitter grew faster, the patter grew louder and I grew impatient. "I think you should put her back in bed." my sister said casually as she flipped channels on the TV. I walked to the stairs and sternly instructed her to "get back in bed" from the landing. The running stopped and I made my way back to the couch. I had just enough time to sigh, and pull a pillow up into my arms when the running picked up full force. Still silent in Ian's room I thought it best to get as close to Amy's door as possible and coax her back to bed. I was hesitant to let her see me because then she would definitely want to bolt out of the bedroom and come out to play. As sweet as that may seem to all you non-nannies and non-parents, it's the actual, tangible recipe for all that is awful. An overtired child plus overtired parents makes for a exasperating evening that usually involves screaming and defiance. I began ascending the stairs with my sister watching me wide eyed, because the running had turned into knocking. Frustrated, my climb became brisk until I was stopped dead three stairs from the landing. The knocking stopped and so did my heart. I slowly turned to face my sister, looking white as a sheet I'm sure. I whispered "Do you smell that?" She shook her head. "It's... poo." I breathed, turning to back to the landing. I took a step, then another, and the knocking stopped. "Muh Muh?" a tiny voice asked from behind the door. No, this wasn't just poo. It was... sour. The closer I inched towards the bedroom door the more enveloped I became in a stench so raw I nearly hurled my Arthur shaped Mac & Cheese. I didn't want to look. I wanted my sister to come with me. I called down to her and asked her as such. She turned the tv up. I waited a few seconds before grasping the door knob. I waited a few more before turning it. I had a suspicion I was about to encounter a scene the might involve fecal matter running down the leg of a toddler. This is about as bad as most nannies and parents think it gets. Let me assure you, young grasshoppers, it is not. I closed my eyes, turned the knob, and gently pushed the door open.
At first all I saw was sweet little Amy. She was standing at the foot of her air mattress bating her long lashes at me and tugging at her shirt. I felt relieved when I saw that she didn't have anything suspicious on her legs. But then I noticed that she wasn't wearing a diaper. Where the fuck was it? My eyes darted around the room trying to find it, hoping it hadn't landed buttered side down on the white carpet. That's when I heard Amy say "Eat it. Corn?" It was as if those were the magic words to kick my brain in its ass and jump start it. There was shit everywhere. There were shitty foot prints around her mattress and Ian's parent's bed like some kind of horrific yellow brick road. There was shit in her hair, there was shit on the full length mirror. Are you fucking KIDDING ME?! For a split second I thought this might have been an appropriate enough situation to call 911. "Katie. Katie. Katie. KATIE KATIE KATIE KATIE!" I started screaming as I turned and rigidly stumbled to the landing. "What? What's wrong?!" my sister asked as she started making her way up the stairs. At the same time the smell hit her, she saw my face and heard me mutter "I think I need help...". She grabbed her mouth gagging, turned and walked down the stairs. "Ok. Ok. Ok. Ok." I repeated to myself as I blankly reached into the upstairs bathroom and grabbed a towel. I took a deep breath and ran back to Amy, scooping her up in the towel and bringing her into the shower. I stripped her down, rolled up my sleeves and pant legs, and turned on the water. I washed her off twice for good measure, all the while she's watching my face and laughing. To her this was a game. To me it was hell. I brought her downstairs to Katie so she could dress her in her spare clothing. I grabbed bleach to clean the shower, and every other bottle of chemical cleaner I could find for the bedroom. I wrapped a kitchen towel around my mouth and held it in place with a stretchy headband. Making my way back into that living nightmare of a room, I noticed all the little yellow dots adorning everything. Amy had recently eaten corn. A lot of corn. Forty five minutes had passed before I, with sweat dripping into my eyes, finished disinfecting.
I heard Amy laughing at the TV while I turned the shower back on so that I could scour myself. I had just stepped into that warm salvation when I heard the knocking. This time it was coming from Ian's room and I wanted to die. I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped into the hallway. I saw my sister looking up the stairs at Ian's door. She was thinking what I was thinking, and she was just fine staying where she was. Like ripping off a band aid that I already knew was going to hurt, I flung Ian's door open and saw him run back to his bed and jump in. I checked the carpet first. Nothing. Curtains, nothing. Back of the door, nothing. I stepped into the room smiling a smile of a thousand joys as I started to ask Ian if he had had a good nap. "Did you have a go-" poo. Poooooooooooo. Like a zombie with the urgent hunger for sweet, delicious brains, I began feverishly hunting turds. Slack jawed and exhausted I gurgled "poo" as I shambled from the window to the bed. Ian was turned to the wall on his bed now, being incredibly quiet. I realized then that it was because he was busy. Busy painting. On the wall. With shit. "Poo!" I screamed, almost excited. I had zeroed in on it and it was my mission to quarantine it before it spread any further. I quickly ran back to the bathroom, put on my shit clothes, and my shit socks, and my shit shoes, and ran back into Ian's room like a Shitbuster. If there's something strange in your child's diaper, who ya gonna call? A nanny. I scooped up a laughing Ian. Unfortunately, that was when I had found the missing carpet doody. With my foot. I turned and ran leaving skid-marks in my wake. I had his clothes off and the water running within seconds. Up went the sleeves, out came the soap. Wash, rinse, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I wrapped him in a towel, deposited him with my sister downstairs, grabbed the cleaning supplies again, jolted back up the stairs and started with the carpet around his bed. I was getting fucking good at this! Corn. So much corn. There was even corn poo on a What To Expect: The Toddler Years book that was on his rocking chair. By the way, nowhere in there does it give advice on cleaning up corny shit. Thirty minutes later (I beat my personal best time) I was back in the bathroom. I had earned this shower and for shit's sake I was going to enjoy it.
I don't want this moment in bronze. But I wouldn't mind it in plaster on a shelf somewhere behind all those bronzed memories. It wasn't a moment of wonder and awe at the precocious nature of children, but more so a testament to what I was capable of enduring. That afternoon taught me that there are things worse than what I perceive to be the worst. I would have been MUCH happier with one room filled to capacity with corn shit as opposed to two. I learned that Oxyclean rules an Resolve drools. Most importantly that it's the plaster moments, bronze moments, and all those in between that compile the repertoire of Nanny-hood. So often I think about the day of corn-poo when I feel that my day is going south. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has come close. Wait, I forgot one more lesson I learned that day. I would sooner staple all my fingers together than ever feed corn to a kid before they were potty trained.
To Amy and Ian, who will hopefully never read this because it's disgusting, I do not hold that horrible day against you. You are still the sweet, adorable children I loved, covered in poo or otherwise. Thank you sincerely for this plaster moment.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
"You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do, and it's breakin' my heart in two."
My dearest Daddy,
This is one of those letters I never thought I'd write, much less blog about. I can't rightly express why I'm making this public, except to say that it's such a big part of me I'm compelled to share it. I'm fairly certain you won't mind.
You've missed a lot. Politically, things they are a changin'. We have a black president (which I am still fist-pumping about). You were alive for his inauguration but I'm not sure how "present" you were. Regardless of what people are telling you, where ever it is that you are, President Obama is doing a fine job. Fist-pumping is when something is awesome, exciting or basically just positive. You make a fist and curl your arm in towards yourself slightly. Then you just punch it up and down, or out and in, until you have sufficiently conveyed how happy you are about whatever it is you are happy about. It's a movement that was initially practiced by a bunch of d-bags on a popular-for-no-discernible-reason tv show. Now everyone does it. Think of it as the modern day peace sign, except it's not going to advance into history as a symbol of...well... anything. D-bags are people that think they are socially paramount, when really they're just awkwardly narcissistic. D-bag is short for... ya know what? You really haven't missed much. Moving on.
Josh and I ended up moving out of mom's house 6 months after you died. We tried, pops. We really did but she was too much to live with. I have no idea how you did it for so long. I must thank you for protecting me for 24 years from a lot of her antics. It might bring you some solace to know that I'm fairly certain she has Borderline Personality Disorder. You know the kind of childhood I had... double it. Then double it again. That's what happened after you left. She tried to have me arrested a few times to boot. I have tried talk to her about my suspicions regarding her condition, but part of BPD is placing blame on others when sufferers feel out of control. The chances of her getting help are very slim. I'm not sure if dealing with her contributed to you doing what you did, but I think you should know that you were not imagining it. Most of what she complained about was not your fault. You were a fantastic man and father.
Josh and I are living in the city now. We have our two little cats, a great landlord, and a deck for grilling. It feels like home here and we're quite happy. When Josh and I moved into our condo a few years ago, you came over to plant a hosta in the front of the building, and to bring me these lovely, red Le Creuset casserole dishes. I'm happy to tell you that I lovingly use those dishes regularly, they have yet to break. And that hosta plant is still growing in the front yard of the condo building. We may not live there anymore but somehow, it has taken care of itself and is bigger than ever. I drive by every so often just to check on it.
Katie is still living with mom. I ended up laying into mom last Christmas and since then things have been better for Kate. I know it's still a struggle, but she has a new job working at a CPS school and a handsome new boyfriend to occupy her time. By the way Jorge knocked up some girl and married her. Aren't you glad Kate dodged that bullet? Sheesh...
Your favorite Chinese food joint isn't what it used to be, however they still remember Katie and I when we go in for take-out. Those almond cookies always taste so much better when they're free.
We still go to Home Depot just to smell the lumber aisle and eat those delicious hot dogs that you were so fond of. Doing that is like being held by you, in a way. It's as if the entire store wraps its big, store arms around us and fills us with all the memories of you that we hold dear. Tearing down that yellowing shed on the side of the house. Building the new, blue shed in back. Staining the deck. Putting in the fireplace. Turning the fireplace around to face a different direction after mom complained about it. Putting up drywall. Laying flooring. Every time a nail drops, or pipes clang, I can still hear you cursing in your silly way. "Sum-um-uh-bitch! Communist..." Home Depot is where we go to "feel" you.
Katie and I both have bottles of Halston Z-14. I can't speak for her, but I open mine and smell it just to breathe you in. I remember, when I was little, you bending down pick me up especially after you had just taken a shower and shaved. I would put my hands on your soft face, trying to figure out why you couldn't stay that smooth all the time. My hands would smell like your cologne for hours after that. Once I even had a dream where, I swear, I could smell you. I could smell your cologne in my dream and I woke up smiling.
I'm still a nanny, but I have a wonderful new family that treats me like one of their own. I didn't think it was possible to be so happy after losing you, but I must say that I have found the will to go on. It would have been such a dishonor to you if Katie and I didn't keep striving for the futures you taught us to seek out. I want you to know that we are, now more than ever, utilizing the wisdom and insight you blessed us with while you were alive. We will always continue trying to make you proud.
I've learned a lot since you passed away. I've learned that blame isn't worth its weight in salt. I still don't blame you, or hate you for what you did. I can't go on with my life if I keep dwelling about something I'll never have the answer to. I've learned that, when faced with a tragedy, people you thought were friends will bail on you, and ones you never considered friends will come out of the woodwork to support you for as long as you need them. I have learned that love doesn't end when life does. In fact, it often grows stronger. I have learned that there is a difference between "alone" and "lonely". I have learned that my heart will always break for you. But every time I am honest about being sad when I think about you, every time I push through something that is difficult because you're not there to help me, and every time I love someone regardless of what they may have done in the past, I am slowly bridging that gap between the two halves of my heart. It will never be fully repaired, because you and your death will always be a part of me. I like it that way. But one day I will be able to skip over that pain, acknowledge that it's there as a part of my history, and carry on.
Daddy, I want to leave you with something. Sometimes I just need to listen to this and cry.
Don't worry, they aren't all sad tears.
With more love than I can convey,
Mookser
This is one of those letters I never thought I'd write, much less blog about. I can't rightly express why I'm making this public, except to say that it's such a big part of me I'm compelled to share it. I'm fairly certain you won't mind.
You've missed a lot. Politically, things they are a changin'. We have a black president (which I am still fist-pumping about). You were alive for his inauguration but I'm not sure how "present" you were. Regardless of what people are telling you, where ever it is that you are, President Obama is doing a fine job. Fist-pumping is when something is awesome, exciting or basically just positive. You make a fist and curl your arm in towards yourself slightly. Then you just punch it up and down, or out and in, until you have sufficiently conveyed how happy you are about whatever it is you are happy about. It's a movement that was initially practiced by a bunch of d-bags on a popular-for-no-discernible-reason tv show. Now everyone does it. Think of it as the modern day peace sign, except it's not going to advance into history as a symbol of...well... anything. D-bags are people that think they are socially paramount, when really they're just awkwardly narcissistic. D-bag is short for... ya know what? You really haven't missed much. Moving on.
Josh and I ended up moving out of mom's house 6 months after you died. We tried, pops. We really did but she was too much to live with. I have no idea how you did it for so long. I must thank you for protecting me for 24 years from a lot of her antics. It might bring you some solace to know that I'm fairly certain she has Borderline Personality Disorder. You know the kind of childhood I had... double it. Then double it again. That's what happened after you left. She tried to have me arrested a few times to boot. I have tried talk to her about my suspicions regarding her condition, but part of BPD is placing blame on others when sufferers feel out of control. The chances of her getting help are very slim. I'm not sure if dealing with her contributed to you doing what you did, but I think you should know that you were not imagining it. Most of what she complained about was not your fault. You were a fantastic man and father.
Josh and I are living in the city now. We have our two little cats, a great landlord, and a deck for grilling. It feels like home here and we're quite happy. When Josh and I moved into our condo a few years ago, you came over to plant a hosta in the front of the building, and to bring me these lovely, red Le Creuset casserole dishes. I'm happy to tell you that I lovingly use those dishes regularly, they have yet to break. And that hosta plant is still growing in the front yard of the condo building. We may not live there anymore but somehow, it has taken care of itself and is bigger than ever. I drive by every so often just to check on it.
Katie is still living with mom. I ended up laying into mom last Christmas and since then things have been better for Kate. I know it's still a struggle, but she has a new job working at a CPS school and a handsome new boyfriend to occupy her time. By the way Jorge knocked up some girl and married her. Aren't you glad Kate dodged that bullet? Sheesh...
Your favorite Chinese food joint isn't what it used to be, however they still remember Katie and I when we go in for take-out. Those almond cookies always taste so much better when they're free.
We still go to Home Depot just to smell the lumber aisle and eat those delicious hot dogs that you were so fond of. Doing that is like being held by you, in a way. It's as if the entire store wraps its big, store arms around us and fills us with all the memories of you that we hold dear. Tearing down that yellowing shed on the side of the house. Building the new, blue shed in back. Staining the deck. Putting in the fireplace. Turning the fireplace around to face a different direction after mom complained about it. Putting up drywall. Laying flooring. Every time a nail drops, or pipes clang, I can still hear you cursing in your silly way. "Sum-um-uh-bitch! Communist..." Home Depot is where we go to "feel" you.
Katie and I both have bottles of Halston Z-14. I can't speak for her, but I open mine and smell it just to breathe you in. I remember, when I was little, you bending down pick me up especially after you had just taken a shower and shaved. I would put my hands on your soft face, trying to figure out why you couldn't stay that smooth all the time. My hands would smell like your cologne for hours after that. Once I even had a dream where, I swear, I could smell you. I could smell your cologne in my dream and I woke up smiling.
I'm still a nanny, but I have a wonderful new family that treats me like one of their own. I didn't think it was possible to be so happy after losing you, but I must say that I have found the will to go on. It would have been such a dishonor to you if Katie and I didn't keep striving for the futures you taught us to seek out. I want you to know that we are, now more than ever, utilizing the wisdom and insight you blessed us with while you were alive. We will always continue trying to make you proud.
I've learned a lot since you passed away. I've learned that blame isn't worth its weight in salt. I still don't blame you, or hate you for what you did. I can't go on with my life if I keep dwelling about something I'll never have the answer to. I've learned that, when faced with a tragedy, people you thought were friends will bail on you, and ones you never considered friends will come out of the woodwork to support you for as long as you need them. I have learned that love doesn't end when life does. In fact, it often grows stronger. I have learned that there is a difference between "alone" and "lonely". I have learned that my heart will always break for you. But every time I am honest about being sad when I think about you, every time I push through something that is difficult because you're not there to help me, and every time I love someone regardless of what they may have done in the past, I am slowly bridging that gap between the two halves of my heart. It will never be fully repaired, because you and your death will always be a part of me. I like it that way. But one day I will be able to skip over that pain, acknowledge that it's there as a part of my history, and carry on.
Daddy, I want to leave you with something. Sometimes I just need to listen to this and cry.
Don't worry, they aren't all sad tears.
With more love than I can convey,
Mookser
Monday, May 9, 2011
My love/hate relationship with Christmas Carols
I can't sing. Try as I might to blend in with background singers, even I hear the inappropriate twangs and pitches each time the music fades but I don't. When I was a wee little thing I would sing commercial jingles. From the Toys R Us mantra to Folgers' claim that they were the best part of waking up (FYI, there is no best part. Folgers is full of shit). I could call Empire Carpet in a pinch, and don't get me started on T.J. Maxx. They were my favorite by far. You can find their commercial from 1988 here. My mother applauded my efforts each time the commercial aired as I stood in front of the television as straight as I could, smoothed down my hot pink tutu and cleared my throat before belting out "DO DO DO DO DO DO DO DO TJ MAXX!" all the while stomping my bare feet to some unknown rhythm. I have come to realize that she probably felt I would never again hear the sound of applause should I decide to take my voice public, so she did the best she could to make my 3 year old dreams come true.
I remember the day I realized I couldn't sing. I should say, I remember the day I was outright TOLD I couldn't sing. It was freshmen year of high school, as if that weren't an awkward enough time as is. I was riding in the back of my dad's Toyota with a friend who shall remain nameless. Green Day was playing on Q101 which my dad actually enjoyed listening to. (Mad props, Pops!) My very forward friend and I were just rounding out the second chorus of Basket Case when she turns to me and with all the seriousness she can muster spits out "Are you tone deaf?" I can only imagine what my face looked like. Some twisted combination of "Did you really just say what I think you said?" and "...Am I?" I haven't sung out loud in public since that day. At least not sung while sober enough to remember doing so.
Thankfully, that interaction did not diminish my appreciation for all that is musical. In fact, it gave me cause to appreciate all that musicians have to offer. I have some friends that just blow my mind with their enigmatic voices. They know who they are. I have one friend that called me earlier this year and sang "Happy Birthday" to me on my voice mail. I didn't even know she could sing and there she was, soulful and sultry. Nobody has ever made the words "happy birthday to you" sound more honest and loving. Sadly, that voice mail was accidentally deleted by my giant thumbs and a touch screen gone bat-shit insane. I tried my best to sing "Happy Birthday" to myself after that. I even went so far as to record my efforts. Playing them back I quickly deleted the evidence and swore never to do that again.
Clearly Christmas poses quite the pickley pickle. Oh how I adore carols. My favorite, which I figured out recently, is The Winter Song by Eisley. I have tried so hard to master it, which I swear is damned near impossible. Once, I was driving home and singing along when I thought "Maybe if I keep singing and just turn down the music real quick, I'll trick myself and will somehow sound really, really good!" So, I did this. It sounded like angry Keebler elves were torturing Yorkies in my throat. Yikes.
The next best thing to actually being a great singer, is having a fantastic imagination. You don't know it, but almost weekly I dream about reluctantly walking on stage at a bar during open mic night. All of you are there, drinking your beers and ordering second rounds of breaded mushrooms. Suddenly, the spotlight hits me. I'm dressed in something awesome I borrowed from my best dream friend, Jennifer Aniston. Oh, I'm also a size 4. You, the crowd, hushes. It's almost palpable that something prodigious is about to occur. The music starts up, your lights dim, and I bust out with M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes", the likes of which you've never seen. I mean I am kicking ASS up there! You guys always love it by the way. I rocked your socks off.
I can't sing. I will probably never be able to sing. But if I turn my radio up loud enough, or dream often enough, I am awesome enough to sate my desires. My name is Marissa, and I can totally sing. Under the right circumstances.
Seeing as it's evening while I'm writing this, I'm getting quite sleepy. I'm fairly certain I will be making an encore appearance at the dream bar tonight, as it is fresh in my mind. Any requests?
I remember the day I realized I couldn't sing. I should say, I remember the day I was outright TOLD I couldn't sing. It was freshmen year of high school, as if that weren't an awkward enough time as is. I was riding in the back of my dad's Toyota with a friend who shall remain nameless. Green Day was playing on Q101 which my dad actually enjoyed listening to. (Mad props, Pops!) My very forward friend and I were just rounding out the second chorus of Basket Case when she turns to me and with all the seriousness she can muster spits out "Are you tone deaf?" I can only imagine what my face looked like. Some twisted combination of "Did you really just say what I think you said?" and "...Am I?" I haven't sung out loud in public since that day. At least not sung while sober enough to remember doing so.
Thankfully, that interaction did not diminish my appreciation for all that is musical. In fact, it gave me cause to appreciate all that musicians have to offer. I have some friends that just blow my mind with their enigmatic voices. They know who they are. I have one friend that called me earlier this year and sang "Happy Birthday" to me on my voice mail. I didn't even know she could sing and there she was, soulful and sultry. Nobody has ever made the words "happy birthday to you" sound more honest and loving. Sadly, that voice mail was accidentally deleted by my giant thumbs and a touch screen gone bat-shit insane. I tried my best to sing "Happy Birthday" to myself after that. I even went so far as to record my efforts. Playing them back I quickly deleted the evidence and swore never to do that again.
Clearly Christmas poses quite the pickley pickle. Oh how I adore carols. My favorite, which I figured out recently, is The Winter Song by Eisley. I have tried so hard to master it, which I swear is damned near impossible. Once, I was driving home and singing along when I thought "Maybe if I keep singing and just turn down the music real quick, I'll trick myself and will somehow sound really, really good!" So, I did this. It sounded like angry Keebler elves were torturing Yorkies in my throat. Yikes.
The next best thing to actually being a great singer, is having a fantastic imagination. You don't know it, but almost weekly I dream about reluctantly walking on stage at a bar during open mic night. All of you are there, drinking your beers and ordering second rounds of breaded mushrooms. Suddenly, the spotlight hits me. I'm dressed in something awesome I borrowed from my best dream friend, Jennifer Aniston. Oh, I'm also a size 4. You, the crowd, hushes. It's almost palpable that something prodigious is about to occur. The music starts up, your lights dim, and I bust out with M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes", the likes of which you've never seen. I mean I am kicking ASS up there! You guys always love it by the way. I rocked your socks off.
I can't sing. I will probably never be able to sing. But if I turn my radio up loud enough, or dream often enough, I am awesome enough to sate my desires. My name is Marissa, and I can totally sing. Under the right circumstances.
Seeing as it's evening while I'm writing this, I'm getting quite sleepy. I'm fairly certain I will be making an encore appearance at the dream bar tonight, as it is fresh in my mind. Any requests?
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