As the cold weather approaches, one’s thoughts generally turn to the holidays and traditional foods. We had a few staples at our holiday meals. Homemade cherry cheesecake, green beans with a jar of spaghetti sauce poured over them, and a three bean salad.
The cheesecake was surprisingly good, despite being homemade. And I’m not really sure what the green beans in red sauce were all about; perhaps my mother thought it was some sort of traditional Italian dish? But it was the three bean salad that was my absolute favorite. And what’s not to love - - fiber, protein, vegetables, omega-3s? Perfection.
I can still vividly recall the last time I ate three bean salad. I wasn’t much older than four or maybe five. I had helped myself to a post-dinner snack of the favored salad and was happily munching away on it huddled in front of the stove for warmth, when the screaming started. Sibling #1 and Sibling #2 were killing each other in the front room. I have no idea what they were fighting over. I think I was too young to remember much more than the trauma of the pounding feet chasing each other through the house and the shrieks. And the spitting and the blood.
But I do remember Sibling #2 flying into the kitchen with big brother Sibling #1 hot on her heels. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, more pounding feet, more screaming, more disgusting hockers being spat at each other. And then blood. Sibling #1 had given Sibling #2 a bloody nose and a few drops of that blood fell almost on top of where I was crouching in terror, trying to protect my precious bowl of bean salad from their vile bodily secretions. Of course, I couldn’t be sure if any of the spilled blood had actually landed in my bean salad, so that was it. In my tender four year old mind, bean salad was now equated with blood and screaming and terror. I haven’t touched it since. But then we all have our issues.
I would like to say that was the end of the trauma, but it was really only the beginning. Sibling #4 soon grew old enough to join in. I’m not sure what it was about the dark haired demon siblings, but they were the only ones that seemed to relish the fight. We light haired siblings were far more civilized.
I dare say I never got in a single fight over a Nutty Buddy. Sibling #1, the oldest so the first to have a job and money, would buy himself Nutty Buddys or some other treat meant only for him. Of course, with little other treats in the house, some of his Nutty Buddys would go missing. And then the battles began. “Who ate my Nutty Buddy?” could be heard echoing throughout the house. Then pounding feet, then the sound of hockers being dragged from the filthy depths of their throats before being shot out at each other. Sibling #1 and #2 fought primarily over food if I recall. Yet, when they would see on the news that a pair of brothers had shot each other over a steak, they would make derisive comments.
Siblings #2 and #4, the blood-thirsty as Vikings dark-haired sisters, liked to fight over the use of the car. This must have been after Sibling #3 luckily escaped injury after attempting to drive the brand new car on ice covered roads to the local Dunkin Donuts for her “large coffee, black” and bran muffin and ended up almost totaling it. Sibling #3 learned quickly that Sibling #2 was probably not the best person to call for help after smashing up the new family car. (Which, incidentally, Mother actually won at a race she ran down on the Magnificent Mile. Only you had to be a licensed driver in order to win the car and she didn’t have a license and had to learn how to drive in a matter of hours. Fortunately, that was back before the License for Bribes scandal that resulted in the governor going to jail.) And of course, this fighting was prior to Sibling #4 getting the now damaged goods new car stolen while out on an illicit date with a non-Catholic that Mother secretly purified by sprinkling with holy water. Oh, and they liked to fight over whose fault it was that Sibling #2’s cat, that seemed to make a habit of disappearing in severe weather, was, surprise, surprise, out lost in a raging thunderstorm.
Sibling #4 also liked to mix it up with big brother Sibling #1. Although, really, who didn’t Sibling #4 like to mix it up with? And while I’m sure that Sibling #1 and Sibling #4 fought over more than the corner chair, the chair is what I primarily remember as being the source of many hocker-fests. I can still picture Sibling #4, always shorter than the rest of us, desperately clinging with all of her limbs to the skuzzy, corner chair that our big brother believed was his birthright to occupy. He would attempt to pull her out of it and she would cling so tightly that when he pulled, both she and the chair to which she had attached herself would lift off the floor. Eventually, after lots of screaming, he would just pick the chair up and hold it upside down until she lost her grip. To her credit, this usually took a while. Then she would pick herself up off the floor and spit a giant hocker on him before fleeing to the stairs with Sibling #1 in hot pursuit. Then they would stand in the stairwell, spitting hockers up and down at each other.
After one such episode, all of which likely had a lot to do with the stroke Mother suffered many years later, Mother threw Sibling #1 out of the house. It was during a particularly hot summer and he was simply hell bent on being the anti-Christ. For two blissful days, peace reigned. Then my father actually went to Sibling #1’s friend’s house, where Sibling #1 had himself holed up, and, inconceivably, asked Sibling #1 to come home. And so the first born and only male child, returned to reclaim his corner chair throne. I’d hate to think of what Sibling #4 might have rubbed on it when he returned.
And so it is that I have been depriving myself of a favorite holiday dish. I think, though, that just maybe I’ll find a recipe and make a batch to bring to our next family gathering. After all, the physical fighting has long since stopped. Granted, it has been replaced by a variety of other neurotic behaviors such as twitching, obsessive dishwashing, wearing protective tin foil hats, and the like, but at least the bean salad should remain blood free.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Rat Girl
At the age of about thirteen, I had an Irish boyfriend that the locals all seemed to think looked like Roland Rat, a popular cartoon character. As I looked like a q-tip, I was undaunted by the rat characterization. Since then, I’ve noticed that rodents seem to have a natural affinity to me. Or as the husband would argue, maybe it’s the other way around.
While I was still in my q-tip stage of development, I was out walking one afternoon with Sibling #4, after a soaking summer thunderstorm. We both looked down when we heard the rather sickening sound of squishhh coming from under my foot. That sickening sound, for me, was accompanied by the even more sickening, yet familiar, sensation of having an object actually squishhh under my foot. I can tell you there is nothing quite like the sensation of a soft, yet rubbery, water laden dead rodent squishing under one’s weight.
My first, thought, upon hearing that squeamish squishhh? Not, as you might suspect, Holy Mother of God, what was that? But rather, Oh, no, not again! Yes, this was the second, not the first, mouse that I inadvertently squished under my foot while out for a walk with Sibling #4. Not on the same day, of course, but within a fairly close time span. And while she has no substantial proof, Sibling #4 counters my contention that the mice were already dead when I came upon them. She seems to recall motion out of the corner of her eye prior to hearing that soggy squishhh. And to this day, is just delighted, her big Gollum eyes all aglow, whenever a rodent opportunity presents itself for her to make that sound in my presence. Which, one would think, wouldn’t be very often. Like I said, though, I seem to have an affinity to rodents.
When I was pregnant with Child #1, the husband came in from the yard and said nonchalantly, ‘you know, you’re feeding a rat out there under your bird feeder?’ He went on to describe how fat it was, feasting on birdseed in the middle of the day, as if I was intentionally trying to fatten up part of the neighborhood rat population. Brazen bastard. The rodent, that is, not the husband. At least in this case.
So began the rather tricky task of ridding one’s yard of an emboldened fat rat. The city came out with rat poison in tow. But when they asked if dogs ever frequented my yard, and the neighbors’ dogs often came to visit, they recommended against baiting the yard. They wished me luck and drove off in their big, city blue truck with a friendly wave, as if it was normal to have a rat problem in one's yard. At this point, I was feeling a bit guilty for killing the thing outright so a no-kill trap was obtained from the Bug Stop, on Halsted. But the rat was too wily and I managed only to capture a couple of its rather dim-witted squirrel cousins which I then had to release without them clawing my face to pieces in their post-release terror.
Did I mention that while the rat saga ran its course outside, a squirrel was terrorizing me in the basement? I was washing lots of tiny little outfits in preparation for the imminent arrival of Child #1 when something with a bushy tail scurried by on the pipes just over my head. Perhaps out of some sort of innate loyalty to its rat cousin, a squirrel had somehow found its way into my house. I didn’t care to dwell on the omen implications of a rat and a squirrel suddenly appearing shortly before the birth of the child. If I wanted to be terror stricken by future possibilities, all I had to do was consider the child’s gene pool for a moment.
I brought the no kill trap inside and caught exactly zero squirrels. I finally left the basement door open, created a peanut trail leading out the door, went upstairs and made as much noise as possible. Then I realized that the peanut trail might just invite in some of his squirrely friends. However, I am pleased to report that when I went back to remove the peanut trail, some of the peanuts were gone, and I never caught sight of the squirrel again. The same can’t be said for the rat which continued to hang around under the now empty bird feeder.
The no kill trap was brought back outside, along with a nice hunk of cheese, but to no avail. I finally gave up on the no kill trap when I read on the Internet that rats were very territorial and if a strange rat was introduced into a new territory, the existing resident rats would rip it to shreds. That seemed a bit cruel. And I just couldn’t visualize driving to the Dan Ryan Woods with a rat in a cage in the back of the old Volvo. So, despite my feeling more than a little guilty, we found the fat rat’s rather sizable hole and I made the husband stick a hose down it. The husband laughed that my guilt in doing this was because I am part rat. Shouldn’t a husband be nurturing their nine month pregnant wife instead of telling her she has a “rat-like countenance”?
But then, I suppose most husbands don’t affectionately refer to their wives on occasion as “Rat Girl”. If the husband catches me rummaging through a hidden stash of truffles that I greedily don’t want to share, he’ll say with a knowing grin, “What ya doing, Rat Girl?” The knowing grin is because he thinks that I am merely exhibiting the rat trait of hoarding. If I am freezing cold and all hunched over in a futile attempt to conserve body warmth, a posture honed to perfection growing up in the arctic family abode, the husband, rather than offer me his toasty warm Patagonia fleece, will scrunch up his upper lip and make rat noises. The son has even picked up on this enough to make snarky comments about his mother’s relatives being on TV when he sees a rat on the screen. And he is not referring to his aunts or grandparents or any actual relatives, but some vast rodent network of which I am apparently a part.
It seems I cannot shake this rodent connection. Just the other day, I was running hills. The hill was covered in a beautiful tapestry of fallen leaves and the weather was just perfect for running - - cool and misty. Everything was going great, I even like to think I looked like I was running fast, and then suddenly, there it was. A dead mouse lying right where my foot was about to strike the sidewalk. All I could hear was a giant squishhh as I quickly lengthened my step to clear the dead rodent. Ugh. I made it to the top, squishhh-free and then tiptoed back down the hill slowly, eyes on full alert for the dead mouse masquerading as a colorful fall leaf. I didn’t want to look at it, but I didn’t want to step on it, either. And when I came upon it on my downward jog, it was very clear that someone else had stepped on it. It was sprawled out, flattened, bloody, and slightly water logged.
I ran up the next hill, my stride now choppy as I picked my steps over the dead mouse looking leaves, on the lookout for the squashed rodent and its friends. I no longer looked like I was running fast, but had the posture of a runner defeated by the hill, though it was that damned mouse that had done me in. I managed two more hills before I thought I might gag as I couldn’t get the image of that bloody, water logged mouse, nor get the perceived squishhh sound it had made when some other poor sucker stepped on it, out of my head. I finally gave up and left the hill for Mr. Squishy and his friends.
I did manage to run a few more miles. When I got home, I was starving, but couldn’t bear the thought of eating anything once living. So, I settled on my favorite lunch. Ironically, a cheese sandwich. With each bite I had to try to keep the image of that flattened body out of my head as I seem to have an overly active gag reflex. Noting my obvious discomfort, the nurturing husband asked with good humored concern in his voice, “What are you looking all ratty about now?” Clearly, I needed to work on making better choices.
While I was still in my q-tip stage of development, I was out walking one afternoon with Sibling #4, after a soaking summer thunderstorm. We both looked down when we heard the rather sickening sound of squishhh coming from under my foot. That sickening sound, for me, was accompanied by the even more sickening, yet familiar, sensation of having an object actually squishhh under my foot. I can tell you there is nothing quite like the sensation of a soft, yet rubbery, water laden dead rodent squishing under one’s weight.
My first, thought, upon hearing that squeamish squishhh? Not, as you might suspect, Holy Mother of God, what was that? But rather, Oh, no, not again! Yes, this was the second, not the first, mouse that I inadvertently squished under my foot while out for a walk with Sibling #4. Not on the same day, of course, but within a fairly close time span. And while she has no substantial proof, Sibling #4 counters my contention that the mice were already dead when I came upon them. She seems to recall motion out of the corner of her eye prior to hearing that soggy squishhh. And to this day, is just delighted, her big Gollum eyes all aglow, whenever a rodent opportunity presents itself for her to make that sound in my presence. Which, one would think, wouldn’t be very often. Like I said, though, I seem to have an affinity to rodents.
When I was pregnant with Child #1, the husband came in from the yard and said nonchalantly, ‘you know, you’re feeding a rat out there under your bird feeder?’ He went on to describe how fat it was, feasting on birdseed in the middle of the day, as if I was intentionally trying to fatten up part of the neighborhood rat population. Brazen bastard. The rodent, that is, not the husband. At least in this case.
So began the rather tricky task of ridding one’s yard of an emboldened fat rat. The city came out with rat poison in tow. But when they asked if dogs ever frequented my yard, and the neighbors’ dogs often came to visit, they recommended against baiting the yard. They wished me luck and drove off in their big, city blue truck with a friendly wave, as if it was normal to have a rat problem in one's yard. At this point, I was feeling a bit guilty for killing the thing outright so a no-kill trap was obtained from the Bug Stop, on Halsted. But the rat was too wily and I managed only to capture a couple of its rather dim-witted squirrel cousins which I then had to release without them clawing my face to pieces in their post-release terror.
Did I mention that while the rat saga ran its course outside, a squirrel was terrorizing me in the basement? I was washing lots of tiny little outfits in preparation for the imminent arrival of Child #1 when something with a bushy tail scurried by on the pipes just over my head. Perhaps out of some sort of innate loyalty to its rat cousin, a squirrel had somehow found its way into my house. I didn’t care to dwell on the omen implications of a rat and a squirrel suddenly appearing shortly before the birth of the child. If I wanted to be terror stricken by future possibilities, all I had to do was consider the child’s gene pool for a moment.
I brought the no kill trap inside and caught exactly zero squirrels. I finally left the basement door open, created a peanut trail leading out the door, went upstairs and made as much noise as possible. Then I realized that the peanut trail might just invite in some of his squirrely friends. However, I am pleased to report that when I went back to remove the peanut trail, some of the peanuts were gone, and I never caught sight of the squirrel again. The same can’t be said for the rat which continued to hang around under the now empty bird feeder.
The no kill trap was brought back outside, along with a nice hunk of cheese, but to no avail. I finally gave up on the no kill trap when I read on the Internet that rats were very territorial and if a strange rat was introduced into a new territory, the existing resident rats would rip it to shreds. That seemed a bit cruel. And I just couldn’t visualize driving to the Dan Ryan Woods with a rat in a cage in the back of the old Volvo. So, despite my feeling more than a little guilty, we found the fat rat’s rather sizable hole and I made the husband stick a hose down it. The husband laughed that my guilt in doing this was because I am part rat. Shouldn’t a husband be nurturing their nine month pregnant wife instead of telling her she has a “rat-like countenance”?
But then, I suppose most husbands don’t affectionately refer to their wives on occasion as “Rat Girl”. If the husband catches me rummaging through a hidden stash of truffles that I greedily don’t want to share, he’ll say with a knowing grin, “What ya doing, Rat Girl?” The knowing grin is because he thinks that I am merely exhibiting the rat trait of hoarding. If I am freezing cold and all hunched over in a futile attempt to conserve body warmth, a posture honed to perfection growing up in the arctic family abode, the husband, rather than offer me his toasty warm Patagonia fleece, will scrunch up his upper lip and make rat noises. The son has even picked up on this enough to make snarky comments about his mother’s relatives being on TV when he sees a rat on the screen. And he is not referring to his aunts or grandparents or any actual relatives, but some vast rodent network of which I am apparently a part.
It seems I cannot shake this rodent connection. Just the other day, I was running hills. The hill was covered in a beautiful tapestry of fallen leaves and the weather was just perfect for running - - cool and misty. Everything was going great, I even like to think I looked like I was running fast, and then suddenly, there it was. A dead mouse lying right where my foot was about to strike the sidewalk. All I could hear was a giant squishhh as I quickly lengthened my step to clear the dead rodent. Ugh. I made it to the top, squishhh-free and then tiptoed back down the hill slowly, eyes on full alert for the dead mouse masquerading as a colorful fall leaf. I didn’t want to look at it, but I didn’t want to step on it, either. And when I came upon it on my downward jog, it was very clear that someone else had stepped on it. It was sprawled out, flattened, bloody, and slightly water logged.
I ran up the next hill, my stride now choppy as I picked my steps over the dead mouse looking leaves, on the lookout for the squashed rodent and its friends. I no longer looked like I was running fast, but had the posture of a runner defeated by the hill, though it was that damned mouse that had done me in. I managed two more hills before I thought I might gag as I couldn’t get the image of that bloody, water logged mouse, nor get the perceived squishhh sound it had made when some other poor sucker stepped on it, out of my head. I finally gave up and left the hill for Mr. Squishy and his friends.
I did manage to run a few more miles. When I got home, I was starving, but couldn’t bear the thought of eating anything once living. So, I settled on my favorite lunch. Ironically, a cheese sandwich. With each bite I had to try to keep the image of that flattened body out of my head as I seem to have an overly active gag reflex. Noting my obvious discomfort, the nurturing husband asked with good humored concern in his voice, “What are you looking all ratty about now?” Clearly, I needed to work on making better choices.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Joe Meno Isn't Shakespeare
When I was little, my mother used to meet me at gymnastics practice at the park and walk me home. On one such journey home, when I was nine if I recall correctly, she spent most of the walk ripping the head off me about something. It took me rather a long time to figure out just what exactly I had been (quite wrongly, might I add) accused of doing. Being old school off the boat Irish, my mother couldn’t quite bring herself to get to the heart of the matter. The matter being that I was apparently reading pornographic material that I had checked out of the library. So removed is my mother from the subject of sex that she will say, “she went to the hospital to get the baby” instead of the more customary “she went to the hospital to have the baby.” So it took me a while to figure out my perceived crime.
I had been reading Summer of My German Soldier. Sibling #1, ten years my senior, found the book and noticed that it said on the inside cover, “Adult Fiction”, in reference to its library classification. As he would be wholly unfamiliar with the workings of a library and wouldn’t, therefore, understand that a library would not allow a nine year old to check out porn, he came to the rather brilliant conclusion that I was reading porn. And yes, I am referring to the same Summer of My German Soldier that graces many a required grammar school reading list.
Had I not been so flabbergasted that I could get in trouble for reading a classic, I might have reminded my mother of the day that I had arrived home from school to find that my bed no longer had a mattress. My parents had apparently thought it would be a good idea to give Sibling #1 my mattress for his van (a 1970s cargo van with blacked out rear windows). ‘So that he and his friends would have someplace to sit.’ Never mind that the only friend he hung around with in his van was named Lisa. And never mind that what I could only imagine my mattress was being used for would surely corrupt the mind of an innocent nine year old far more than reading the very much non-pornographic Summer of My German Soldier.
Regardless of how I tried to defend myself, it was useless. I was nine and reading porn because Sibling #1, the first born and only male, had thus spoken. So I should have known that it just doesn’t pay to get into a conversation about what constitutes literature. But I clearly hadn’t had enough contact with humans over the age of five as I eagerly jumped headlong into a conversation with a group I had already determined to be, at the very least, really annoying.
I try not to be too judgmental (alright, who am I kidding?), but in their case, they really were what they looked like - - cliquish bitches. But surely I was the bigger fool for attempting to engage them in conversation. And about literature of all things! But I just couldn’t help myself when I heard them discussing Joe Meno’s Hairstyles of the Damned, a book that I had just read and liked so much that I actually went out and bought it. And then thought it would be the perfect birthday present for a friend so I bought her a copy, too. Despite the porn incident, I am still a frequent user of the Chicago Public Library, so the fact that I bought two copies of the book is a testament to how much I enjoyed reading it.
So when I heard one of the clique girls mention the book, I turned towards their little group and said with enthusiasm, “Oh, I just read that book. Isn’t it great?” My question was met with an uncomfortable silence. I should mention that I am having this conversation on the sidelines of a soccer field where my child is participating in a ninety minute soccer camp along with their children. This was the final day of the five day camp. And I never much liked the looks of the little clique - - all huddled together every day drinking coffee and eating Starbucks pastries, dressed in expensive athletic apparel as though they were the ones participating in the soccer camp. They weren’t a very friendly group. You’d think after five days of standing around with the same group of people, a friendly smile or hello wouldn’t be out of the question. Apparently, being a cliquish bitch was too physically demanding to allow for any friendliness on their part. Perhaps that would explain their inclination to dress in athletic apparel that looked as if it never actually was used in any athletic fashion.
Finally, after looking at me as if I was quite insane, one of the clique actually responds. It is the martyr mom teacher to be that speaks. I know she is going to be a teacher because she has spent the past five days whining about how difficult her education classes are and how she routinely has to get up at five in the morning to read. "Oh,” she says to me, in a subtle like any of us really cares what you think voice that I can visualize her using on her students, “did you like that book? I guess maybe it’s okay. But I have to read it for a literature course!” She emphasizes the word “literature” as if that explains everything.
“Oh, right,” I say, in a serious tone. “I thought it was a great book. But I suppose Joe Meno isn’t Shakespeare. I mean, sure they both write about a universal human experience,” they continue to look at me in disbelief. I’m not sure if it is because of my comments, or if it is because of my appearance. Perhaps both. I am holding a slightly moldy bike water bottle in my hand instead of the requisite cup of Starbucks. (I noticed it was moldy in the morning as I filled it, but didn’t have time to find a different bottle. And, as it had probably been moldy for some time, I figured it hadn’t done me any harm so why worry about it.) I am not wearing an expensive athletic ensemble, but rather my summer running outfit which consists of ill fitting shorts and a t-shirt that makes me look like I am a box and not a female. My hair is wind blown and wild and I probably smell bad as I had recently finished running laps around the soccer fields. Quite frankly, I would likely give me looks, too. Nice people, though, wouldn’t be so obvious in their disdain. Undeterred, I continue, “But I guess, yeah, you’d probably much prefer reading Shakespeare at five in the morning. Shakespeare can be pretty hard to get through and Hairstyles of the Damned was a lot of fun to read. I can see what you mean about it not being literature.”
Martyr mom teacher to be looks confused at first, but then smiles when she interprets my comments to mean that I agree with her. “I know, right?” she actually says. I desperately want to reply, “as if!”, but cannot, surprisingly, allow myself to be so rude. At this point, happy that I am on her side, martyr mom teacher to be now confidently plants her hands on her hips and begins a soliloquy which basically just restates her position that it is truly awful to have to read good fiction in a literature class. The why questions begin in earnest in my brain. Why did I have to jump into their conversation? Why didn’t I learn when I was nine? Why does this horrible person have to become a teacher?
Martyr mom teacher to be, who has now moved on to the subject of how the Meno book cannot be literature because there is a kid with a mohawk on the cover of it, looks like she once hung out in the back of cargo vans with blacked out windows and a mattress. Since they hadn’t read the Meno book, her clique mates are happy to now be discussing something they can have an opinion on - - mohawks. I simply cannot be a part of this conversation any longer. “Excuse me,” I say to the martyr mom teacher to be, “You seem really familiar to me. Your name isn’t Lisa, by chance, is it?”
They all stare at me again. “No.” This is all she says. I imagine she does not tell me what her name actually is as she doesn’t want me to think we are now friends.
“Oh, sorry,” I smile. “I must be thinking of someone else.” And I do think of someone else as I walk away. Many someone elses. I can’t help but to think of her poor future students. But I feel better knowing that the majority of them will be smarter than her and maybe a few of them will be creative enough to have a little fun at her expense without her even realizing it.
I had been reading Summer of My German Soldier. Sibling #1, ten years my senior, found the book and noticed that it said on the inside cover, “Adult Fiction”, in reference to its library classification. As he would be wholly unfamiliar with the workings of a library and wouldn’t, therefore, understand that a library would not allow a nine year old to check out porn, he came to the rather brilliant conclusion that I was reading porn. And yes, I am referring to the same Summer of My German Soldier that graces many a required grammar school reading list.
Had I not been so flabbergasted that I could get in trouble for reading a classic, I might have reminded my mother of the day that I had arrived home from school to find that my bed no longer had a mattress. My parents had apparently thought it would be a good idea to give Sibling #1 my mattress for his van (a 1970s cargo van with blacked out rear windows). ‘So that he and his friends would have someplace to sit.’ Never mind that the only friend he hung around with in his van was named Lisa. And never mind that what I could only imagine my mattress was being used for would surely corrupt the mind of an innocent nine year old far more than reading the very much non-pornographic Summer of My German Soldier.
Regardless of how I tried to defend myself, it was useless. I was nine and reading porn because Sibling #1, the first born and only male, had thus spoken. So I should have known that it just doesn’t pay to get into a conversation about what constitutes literature. But I clearly hadn’t had enough contact with humans over the age of five as I eagerly jumped headlong into a conversation with a group I had already determined to be, at the very least, really annoying.
I try not to be too judgmental (alright, who am I kidding?), but in their case, they really were what they looked like - - cliquish bitches. But surely I was the bigger fool for attempting to engage them in conversation. And about literature of all things! But I just couldn’t help myself when I heard them discussing Joe Meno’s Hairstyles of the Damned, a book that I had just read and liked so much that I actually went out and bought it. And then thought it would be the perfect birthday present for a friend so I bought her a copy, too. Despite the porn incident, I am still a frequent user of the Chicago Public Library, so the fact that I bought two copies of the book is a testament to how much I enjoyed reading it.
So when I heard one of the clique girls mention the book, I turned towards their little group and said with enthusiasm, “Oh, I just read that book. Isn’t it great?” My question was met with an uncomfortable silence. I should mention that I am having this conversation on the sidelines of a soccer field where my child is participating in a ninety minute soccer camp along with their children. This was the final day of the five day camp. And I never much liked the looks of the little clique - - all huddled together every day drinking coffee and eating Starbucks pastries, dressed in expensive athletic apparel as though they were the ones participating in the soccer camp. They weren’t a very friendly group. You’d think after five days of standing around with the same group of people, a friendly smile or hello wouldn’t be out of the question. Apparently, being a cliquish bitch was too physically demanding to allow for any friendliness on their part. Perhaps that would explain their inclination to dress in athletic apparel that looked as if it never actually was used in any athletic fashion.
Finally, after looking at me as if I was quite insane, one of the clique actually responds. It is the martyr mom teacher to be that speaks. I know she is going to be a teacher because she has spent the past five days whining about how difficult her education classes are and how she routinely has to get up at five in the morning to read. "Oh,” she says to me, in a subtle like any of us really cares what you think voice that I can visualize her using on her students, “did you like that book? I guess maybe it’s okay. But I have to read it for a literature course!” She emphasizes the word “literature” as if that explains everything.
“Oh, right,” I say, in a serious tone. “I thought it was a great book. But I suppose Joe Meno isn’t Shakespeare. I mean, sure they both write about a universal human experience,” they continue to look at me in disbelief. I’m not sure if it is because of my comments, or if it is because of my appearance. Perhaps both. I am holding a slightly moldy bike water bottle in my hand instead of the requisite cup of Starbucks. (I noticed it was moldy in the morning as I filled it, but didn’t have time to find a different bottle. And, as it had probably been moldy for some time, I figured it hadn’t done me any harm so why worry about it.) I am not wearing an expensive athletic ensemble, but rather my summer running outfit which consists of ill fitting shorts and a t-shirt that makes me look like I am a box and not a female. My hair is wind blown and wild and I probably smell bad as I had recently finished running laps around the soccer fields. Quite frankly, I would likely give me looks, too. Nice people, though, wouldn’t be so obvious in their disdain. Undeterred, I continue, “But I guess, yeah, you’d probably much prefer reading Shakespeare at five in the morning. Shakespeare can be pretty hard to get through and Hairstyles of the Damned was a lot of fun to read. I can see what you mean about it not being literature.”
Martyr mom teacher to be looks confused at first, but then smiles when she interprets my comments to mean that I agree with her. “I know, right?” she actually says. I desperately want to reply, “as if!”, but cannot, surprisingly, allow myself to be so rude. At this point, happy that I am on her side, martyr mom teacher to be now confidently plants her hands on her hips and begins a soliloquy which basically just restates her position that it is truly awful to have to read good fiction in a literature class. The why questions begin in earnest in my brain. Why did I have to jump into their conversation? Why didn’t I learn when I was nine? Why does this horrible person have to become a teacher?
Martyr mom teacher to be, who has now moved on to the subject of how the Meno book cannot be literature because there is a kid with a mohawk on the cover of it, looks like she once hung out in the back of cargo vans with blacked out windows and a mattress. Since they hadn’t read the Meno book, her clique mates are happy to now be discussing something they can have an opinion on - - mohawks. I simply cannot be a part of this conversation any longer. “Excuse me,” I say to the martyr mom teacher to be, “You seem really familiar to me. Your name isn’t Lisa, by chance, is it?”
They all stare at me again. “No.” This is all she says. I imagine she does not tell me what her name actually is as she doesn’t want me to think we are now friends.
“Oh, sorry,” I smile. “I must be thinking of someone else.” And I do think of someone else as I walk away. Many someone elses. I can’t help but to think of her poor future students. But I feel better knowing that the majority of them will be smarter than her and maybe a few of them will be creative enough to have a little fun at her expense without her even realizing it.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Self Defense for Paranoid Lunatics
“Do you want me to be on top or do you want to be on top the first time?” I cringe as my already sweaty neighbor looks at me, awaiting an answer. I say nothing, frozen by the mere thought. “You don’t want to do this, do you?”
“Gee, what gave it away?” All around me couples have paired off and are on the floor with each other. My husband would likely suggest that I’m barely heterosexual, let alone homosexual. “And it’s great that you decided to work out first so that you’re good and sweaty when I have to touch you.” She only laughs and calls the teacher over.
“She won’t do it with me. You’ll have to do it with her.” A cringe threatening to become permanently frozen on my face, I lie down. And so I find myself with a not-unattractive man between my legs on a Saturday afternoon. His wife stands by, patiently waiting her turn. His infant daughter can be heard in the adjoining room.
Of course, I can’t get it right on the first try. We try again and this time I remember to get my arms up through the center. It’s an unpleasant sensation. My sweaty neighbor is watching. I want him off me. I need to get him off me. I struggle and manage to rock my hips up and gain enough leverage to kick him off me. “Kick him,” my neighbor is shouting. I cannot do this.
“I’m wearing a cup. You have to kick me,” the teacher says very patiently. So, I do. And it is really quite satisfying. Who knew self defense could be so much fun!
Admittedly, I wasn’t as successful at landing a blow on a dummy as I was at kicking the instructor in the cup. Grab whatever you can and use it as a weapon. Common sense, right? Should be easy enough to follow the instructors’ example. Strike down, strike down, I kept repeating as I ferociously swung at the dummy. Who’s the dummy, I laughed, as the Billy club slipped up and into my shoulder, rather than the dummy’s. I looked around, but no one seemed to think that the fact that I was turning into my own attacker was as funny as I did. Likely they were thinking, pity the poor girl and envisioning how badly things would turn out if I was attacked.
My second attempt at striking powerful blows to the dummy was equally frustrating. This time the stick actually flew out of my hand, narrowly missing a few of my classmates. I knew by now that nobody would laugh so I could only cringe as I retrieved the stick, which really could provide quite a wallop I had learned, and again attempted to take on the dummy attacker. At this point, likely fearing lawsuits from injured students, the teacher came over and suggested, “you’re aggression is great, but maybe try not to swing so hard”.
I am pleased to report that my skills with the knife went much more smoothly. Perhaps because I frequently threaten to stick a knife in my husband and make the motions at him when he is being obnoxious. I mentioned this to a classmate who smiled encouragingly, much as you would to a simpleton that manages to close a door without getting their finger caught, when I managed the knife skills without injuring myself or anyone else. However, she looked seriously concerned when I made the knife comment about my husband so I felt I should explain. “You know, like when you’re in the kitchen, making dinner. The dog is underfoot hoping you drop something, a wailing child is balanced on your hip, the garlic bread is burning, and you’re attempting to chop vegetables with one hand when your husband saunters in, scratching himself, and says, ‘Wow! You should’ve seen the goal I just saw on T.V.!’ So you thrust the knife in the general direction of his abdomen, only half jokingly?” Yeah, I could see she just wasn’t following me so I felt it best to just be quiet before I was deemed too psychotic to remain in the class.
Which brings me to the part of the class that I knew I excelled in. Paranoia. ‘It’s good to be paranoid. The best self defense is staying out of a potentially dangerous situation,’ the instructors preached to us. I knew I was in the choir. Sometimes, when I’m out running after dark, a large dog at my side, my phone in my hand, I’ll see a lone, female runner oblivious to the world around her thanks to the i-pod securely attached to her body via her high-tech, ultra cute, little runner’s outfit that has a nifty pocket on the arm for said i-pod. And I’ll think, are you really that stupid? I want to jump out of the bushes at her, just to scare some sense into her. I don’t, of course. I just run faster, as the thoughts of what could happen to her make me slightly more paranoid.
My siblings and I all have an abundance of paranoia, mixed with latent aggression, to call upon if attacked. Perhaps some of it comes from having a cop for a father. More likely it comes from having a mother stand outside the bathroom door while you wallow in a peaceful, long soak (something very rare in a house with six kids). Suddenly, you hear scratching at the door followed by a low, guttural, heart stopping moan. The large splashing noise you create as you nearly jump out of your skin is followed by peals of hysterical laughter.
Repetition was not Mother's style. She liked to inject a little fear into all kinds of situations. One night, when I was home alone with Mother and a sleeping Sibling #6, Mother thought it would be highly entertaining to go downstairs and stand quietly in the entry hallway long enough for me to forget she had gone down there. Then she started screaming like she was being hacked into a million pieces. Terror stricken, I managed my way to the stairs and gasped, my voice shaking in panic, “What’s going on?!” She was literally laughing too hard to speak. What type of mother does these things to her children?
Regardless of where this innate paranoia comes from, we’ve all got it. Sibling #1, who no longer lives in Chicago, has been known to make his family practice car jacking drills in preparation for his short return visits to the family homestead. Sibling #2 is fond of weapons, and usually travels with one. She lives in a very rural area so I can’t blame her. I’m always a bit freaked out when I visit and run down lonesome country roads, wondering if the car that passed is going to come back and kill me and toss me into one of the corn fields. I much prefer running in an urban setting - - a stray bullet is somehow more comforting than a cornfield.
While Mother is not the direct cause of Sibling #3’s night terrors, which greatly contributed to my paranoia, she did help push her towards the precipice of insanity. About five a.m. one Sunday morning, a red haired man tried to climb through Sibling #3’s window. I recall Sibling #3 scooting, low to the ground, out of her bedroom like a possessed woman, shouting, “Dad! Dad!” The self defense instructors would have been proud of how she maintained such a low center of gravity. I saw all this because my bedroom was the first floor dining room. (Again, six kids.) Then, I saw Father, dressed in his customary white t-shirt, but wearing only his briefs instead of his standard tan pants, go flying out the front door with his gun. At that point, I think I drifted back to sleep.
Around the same time, someone was leaving stalker type notes under the windshield of her car, which she would then get in and drive home late at night from her waitressing job. Not being quite the normal, supportive family, the notes were dismissed as a harmless prank by one of the drunks she encountered in her bar hang out. Then, next thing you know, someone’s trying to climb through her window. Go figure. One late night around this time, Sibling #3 was hurrying through our dark yard from the garage to the house, when the Christmas tree that we had left out for the birds to roost in, started to follow her. Mother, who happened to be out looking for a cat when Sibling #3 arrived home, thought it would be a hoot to pick up the tree and have it follow the burgeoning lunatic that was her daughter. Mother is fond of retelling how poor Sibling #3 took one look at the moving tree and was off like a shot through the yard, never looking back, never mentioning it when she got in the house. At least, I think that’s what happened. Mother is always laughing so much it would be hard to fully understand the story.
It was shortly after this that the night terrors started. One night, about midnight, I was sleeping comfortably in my dining room. I was awakened by howls and screams so unimaginably awful coming from Sibling #3’s room, that I awoke to the knowledge that my sister was being brutally murdered just feet from where I lay and I was next. I heard what sounded like extremely heavy objects getting thrown around and I couldn’t move. I absolutely froze in terror, and could do nothing more than begin my own terrible screams.
Fortunately, Sibling #2 was upstairs sleeping in her room. Sibling #2 wouldn’t need to be lucky enough to find a stick on the ground if she was being attacked, she always had a weapon of her own to rely on. As the screaming escalated, Father, who had been snoozing on the couch upstairs in front of the T.V, ran into Sibling #2’s room and began marching in place, as terror stricken as I was, shouting over and over, “Something’s going on down there! Something’s going on down there!”
Sibling #2, a reliably cool head in a crisis, shouted back, “Well, get the fuck down there now!” and sprang from her bed, pausing only long enough to grab her stun gun which was always close at hand, before coming to our rescue.
What did they find? Me, almost dead from the fear, crouching in my bed. And Sibling #3, looking a bit dopey eyed from sleep, surrounded by a room that had been completely trashed. The attacker had only been in her dreams, or nightmares as the case was, but her response was quite real. When she began screaming, she tossed aside the huge wooden desk, piled high with very heavy law school books, like it weighed nothing. She still screams in her sleep sometimes. We never warned her husband about this and the first time he heard it, he was walking in the door from a stressful night of police work. He ran to the bedroom with his gun in his shaking hand. This story always makes us laugh, even though we admit she’s lucky he didn’t accidentally (or maybe not so accidentally) shoot her. But then, I suppose we laugh at the night terrors that are probably evidence of a deep, unresolved psychological issue. If Sibling #3 takes to wearing a homemade aluminum foil cap in the future, well, I guess we’ll all have had a hand in it. By then, though, we all might want our own aluminum foil caps.
Knowing that my first instinct is to curl up and scream, a little extra paranoia is good if it keeps me wary and out of potentially dangerous situations. But I am comforted by the borderline psychotic aggression I demonstrated in self-defense class when I was trapped in the instructor’s vice grip. I was never one for small, enclosed spaces. And just for a little extra added protection, it might not be a bad idea to add one of those aluminum foil caps to my nighttime running gear.
“Gee, what gave it away?” All around me couples have paired off and are on the floor with each other. My husband would likely suggest that I’m barely heterosexual, let alone homosexual. “And it’s great that you decided to work out first so that you’re good and sweaty when I have to touch you.” She only laughs and calls the teacher over.
“She won’t do it with me. You’ll have to do it with her.” A cringe threatening to become permanently frozen on my face, I lie down. And so I find myself with a not-unattractive man between my legs on a Saturday afternoon. His wife stands by, patiently waiting her turn. His infant daughter can be heard in the adjoining room.
Of course, I can’t get it right on the first try. We try again and this time I remember to get my arms up through the center. It’s an unpleasant sensation. My sweaty neighbor is watching. I want him off me. I need to get him off me. I struggle and manage to rock my hips up and gain enough leverage to kick him off me. “Kick him,” my neighbor is shouting. I cannot do this.
“I’m wearing a cup. You have to kick me,” the teacher says very patiently. So, I do. And it is really quite satisfying. Who knew self defense could be so much fun!
Admittedly, I wasn’t as successful at landing a blow on a dummy as I was at kicking the instructor in the cup. Grab whatever you can and use it as a weapon. Common sense, right? Should be easy enough to follow the instructors’ example. Strike down, strike down, I kept repeating as I ferociously swung at the dummy. Who’s the dummy, I laughed, as the Billy club slipped up and into my shoulder, rather than the dummy’s. I looked around, but no one seemed to think that the fact that I was turning into my own attacker was as funny as I did. Likely they were thinking, pity the poor girl and envisioning how badly things would turn out if I was attacked.
My second attempt at striking powerful blows to the dummy was equally frustrating. This time the stick actually flew out of my hand, narrowly missing a few of my classmates. I knew by now that nobody would laugh so I could only cringe as I retrieved the stick, which really could provide quite a wallop I had learned, and again attempted to take on the dummy attacker. At this point, likely fearing lawsuits from injured students, the teacher came over and suggested, “you’re aggression is great, but maybe try not to swing so hard”.
I am pleased to report that my skills with the knife went much more smoothly. Perhaps because I frequently threaten to stick a knife in my husband and make the motions at him when he is being obnoxious. I mentioned this to a classmate who smiled encouragingly, much as you would to a simpleton that manages to close a door without getting their finger caught, when I managed the knife skills without injuring myself or anyone else. However, she looked seriously concerned when I made the knife comment about my husband so I felt I should explain. “You know, like when you’re in the kitchen, making dinner. The dog is underfoot hoping you drop something, a wailing child is balanced on your hip, the garlic bread is burning, and you’re attempting to chop vegetables with one hand when your husband saunters in, scratching himself, and says, ‘Wow! You should’ve seen the goal I just saw on T.V.!’ So you thrust the knife in the general direction of his abdomen, only half jokingly?” Yeah, I could see she just wasn’t following me so I felt it best to just be quiet before I was deemed too psychotic to remain in the class.
Which brings me to the part of the class that I knew I excelled in. Paranoia. ‘It’s good to be paranoid. The best self defense is staying out of a potentially dangerous situation,’ the instructors preached to us. I knew I was in the choir. Sometimes, when I’m out running after dark, a large dog at my side, my phone in my hand, I’ll see a lone, female runner oblivious to the world around her thanks to the i-pod securely attached to her body via her high-tech, ultra cute, little runner’s outfit that has a nifty pocket on the arm for said i-pod. And I’ll think, are you really that stupid? I want to jump out of the bushes at her, just to scare some sense into her. I don’t, of course. I just run faster, as the thoughts of what could happen to her make me slightly more paranoid.
My siblings and I all have an abundance of paranoia, mixed with latent aggression, to call upon if attacked. Perhaps some of it comes from having a cop for a father. More likely it comes from having a mother stand outside the bathroom door while you wallow in a peaceful, long soak (something very rare in a house with six kids). Suddenly, you hear scratching at the door followed by a low, guttural, heart stopping moan. The large splashing noise you create as you nearly jump out of your skin is followed by peals of hysterical laughter.
Repetition was not Mother's style. She liked to inject a little fear into all kinds of situations. One night, when I was home alone with Mother and a sleeping Sibling #6, Mother thought it would be highly entertaining to go downstairs and stand quietly in the entry hallway long enough for me to forget she had gone down there. Then she started screaming like she was being hacked into a million pieces. Terror stricken, I managed my way to the stairs and gasped, my voice shaking in panic, “What’s going on?!” She was literally laughing too hard to speak. What type of mother does these things to her children?
Regardless of where this innate paranoia comes from, we’ve all got it. Sibling #1, who no longer lives in Chicago, has been known to make his family practice car jacking drills in preparation for his short return visits to the family homestead. Sibling #2 is fond of weapons, and usually travels with one. She lives in a very rural area so I can’t blame her. I’m always a bit freaked out when I visit and run down lonesome country roads, wondering if the car that passed is going to come back and kill me and toss me into one of the corn fields. I much prefer running in an urban setting - - a stray bullet is somehow more comforting than a cornfield.
While Mother is not the direct cause of Sibling #3’s night terrors, which greatly contributed to my paranoia, she did help push her towards the precipice of insanity. About five a.m. one Sunday morning, a red haired man tried to climb through Sibling #3’s window. I recall Sibling #3 scooting, low to the ground, out of her bedroom like a possessed woman, shouting, “Dad! Dad!” The self defense instructors would have been proud of how she maintained such a low center of gravity. I saw all this because my bedroom was the first floor dining room. (Again, six kids.) Then, I saw Father, dressed in his customary white t-shirt, but wearing only his briefs instead of his standard tan pants, go flying out the front door with his gun. At that point, I think I drifted back to sleep.
Around the same time, someone was leaving stalker type notes under the windshield of her car, which she would then get in and drive home late at night from her waitressing job. Not being quite the normal, supportive family, the notes were dismissed as a harmless prank by one of the drunks she encountered in her bar hang out. Then, next thing you know, someone’s trying to climb through her window. Go figure. One late night around this time, Sibling #3 was hurrying through our dark yard from the garage to the house, when the Christmas tree that we had left out for the birds to roost in, started to follow her. Mother, who happened to be out looking for a cat when Sibling #3 arrived home, thought it would be a hoot to pick up the tree and have it follow the burgeoning lunatic that was her daughter. Mother is fond of retelling how poor Sibling #3 took one look at the moving tree and was off like a shot through the yard, never looking back, never mentioning it when she got in the house. At least, I think that’s what happened. Mother is always laughing so much it would be hard to fully understand the story.
It was shortly after this that the night terrors started. One night, about midnight, I was sleeping comfortably in my dining room. I was awakened by howls and screams so unimaginably awful coming from Sibling #3’s room, that I awoke to the knowledge that my sister was being brutally murdered just feet from where I lay and I was next. I heard what sounded like extremely heavy objects getting thrown around and I couldn’t move. I absolutely froze in terror, and could do nothing more than begin my own terrible screams.
Fortunately, Sibling #2 was upstairs sleeping in her room. Sibling #2 wouldn’t need to be lucky enough to find a stick on the ground if she was being attacked, she always had a weapon of her own to rely on. As the screaming escalated, Father, who had been snoozing on the couch upstairs in front of the T.V, ran into Sibling #2’s room and began marching in place, as terror stricken as I was, shouting over and over, “Something’s going on down there! Something’s going on down there!”
Sibling #2, a reliably cool head in a crisis, shouted back, “Well, get the fuck down there now!” and sprang from her bed, pausing only long enough to grab her stun gun which was always close at hand, before coming to our rescue.
What did they find? Me, almost dead from the fear, crouching in my bed. And Sibling #3, looking a bit dopey eyed from sleep, surrounded by a room that had been completely trashed. The attacker had only been in her dreams, or nightmares as the case was, but her response was quite real. When she began screaming, she tossed aside the huge wooden desk, piled high with very heavy law school books, like it weighed nothing. She still screams in her sleep sometimes. We never warned her husband about this and the first time he heard it, he was walking in the door from a stressful night of police work. He ran to the bedroom with his gun in his shaking hand. This story always makes us laugh, even though we admit she’s lucky he didn’t accidentally (or maybe not so accidentally) shoot her. But then, I suppose we laugh at the night terrors that are probably evidence of a deep, unresolved psychological issue. If Sibling #3 takes to wearing a homemade aluminum foil cap in the future, well, I guess we’ll all have had a hand in it. By then, though, we all might want our own aluminum foil caps.
Knowing that my first instinct is to curl up and scream, a little extra paranoia is good if it keeps me wary and out of potentially dangerous situations. But I am comforted by the borderline psychotic aggression I demonstrated in self-defense class when I was trapped in the instructor’s vice grip. I was never one for small, enclosed spaces. And just for a little extra added protection, it might not be a bad idea to add one of those aluminum foil caps to my nighttime running gear.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Raised by Lunatics
Sibling #3 and I frequently remind each other in the course of our conversations, that we aren’t normal. For example, we were discussing today whether or not we could deal with a family gathering at Easter. Our parents will arrive in their gang banger mobile (a 1970s Ford Granada, with plush, maroon velour interior, low riding seats, and a pimpin’ glass knob on the steering wheel that you can use to steer that bad boy like a boat), park at the end of her block, and ‘parade down her street’ like the Muensters. We have this conversation every holiday. In the end, we feel guilty, have a gathering, and our parents park at the end of her block and parade down it like the Muensters. I always like to point out that I have a lot more in common with Marilyn Muenster than just my first name.
Well, we don’t have to do anything for Easter, I say. After all, we never did anything when we were kids. Yes, she’ll point out, but we weren’t normal. And then we grow silent, reflecting on just what that means. This is new for us. We always sensed the lunacy, but we never actually verbalized it. Not until I was in the hospital, after having given birth to the daughter, that is. My sister came to visit and we talked about things normal people likely don’t talk about after having given birth. Like, should we have a family gathering for whatever the next holiday was. And, do you think the poor baby’s head really looks like the statue someone made in homage of our father’s bald, lumpy, slightly alienesque head?
A very nice nurse came in and tried to talk me out of going home after only one day. Somehow, not surprisingly, the conversation turned to family. She was raised in a traditional Muslim family. We, I said in a moment of post-childbirth clarity, were raised by lunatics. And it was, in truth, almost a moment of Zen. Suddenly, the order of the universe seemed to make a whole lot more sense.
Now I understood. A normal mother would never say to her youngest child as they drove past the woods, “that’s where your real mother lives.” Or say in a sing-song, lullaby voice, “poor (name of the child here), lost in the woods, all alone, and the birds will come and cover you up with leaves” and then laugh when the child would express fear at the darkness of the woods. A fear, might I add, she never quite outgrew.
Normal families, I’m learning, ate canned vegetables, took family trips to places like Disneyworld or Six Flaggs Great America, and had a microwave. They shopped for new clothes, drank Pepsi, and made a big deal out of each other’s accomplishments (even something as arcane as a birthday - - I mean, who cares if it’s your birthday? Right, that’s not how a normal person thinks. Sorry, it’s hard to retrain oneself to think like a non-lunatic.)
I’ve realized it was not normal to take Sunday drives through the most dangerous parts of town. Nor was it normal to drink Hydrox pop, eat flavor of the week generic ice cream specials with names like cherry cheesecake that looked like the spinal surgery that happened to be on non-cable TV when you were eating it. I’m guessing normal families also didn’t have a sibling that needed extra credit in the cadaver lab so she stayed after class to help cut the cadaver into more manageable pieces. Then she came home and sat down to a spaghetti dinner without first changing her sweatshirt that had cadaver juice on it that looked a little too much like spaghetti dinner stains.
Normal families didn’t have a child get mumps during the infamous mumps outbreak of 1986 when, count ‘em, a total of 46 people in the state of Illinois, myself included, got them. A normal, caring sister wouldn’t come home to find her mumps stricken sibling, glands so swollen she couldn’t swallow anything despite the fact that she was starving, and say to her, “What’s the fucking incubation period? I’ve got finals next week!” I envision instead, a normal sister perhaps painting the fingernails of the mumps victim, while they shared a juicy Tigerbeat magazine.
I’m guessing normal families have normal friends, that dress stylishly, are skilled in basic social graces, boast about the accomplishments of their family members, carry around a huge cache of photos in their wallets or now on their cell phones, and when the difficult subject of funeral planning comes up, never utter the phrase, “just burn my dead ass”. A normal family probably never had a hand out of food delivered at the holidays, not because you were actually in financial need, but because you looked like you were one step away from homeless. Of course, my siblings and I then attacked the bag like savages to see if there was anything good in it. We were too young to realize someone might actually be going hungry because luck had landed a sack of donated food on our front porch.
To be fair, we would always stop at the bank on the way to the zoo to get a roll of quarters. These were then passed out to the homeless that congregated there so they could get a cup of coffee out of the machines. This was back when the zoo still had coffee machines and the homeless still hung out in Lincoln Park. We also took in countless strays, so that one of any number of cats was likely to jump on you if you were one of the few people crazy enough to visit the family homestead. And you couldn’t leave without sampling the cheese, cookies, and really thick coffee my father insisted you have. “Don’t ask, just give it to him!” He would repeat this over and over until you broke down and ate.
Being raised by lunatics does have its benefits. Running becomes an integral part of your life - - all the endorphins helps combat insanity. Instead of visiting Mickey Mouse, you have the opportunity to curse and spray holy water on your sibling while visiting a sacred shrine in Ireland. (Fortunately, your mother is too busy praying her downs syndrome daughter will somehow no longer be downs to notice your sacrilege.) You develop a worldview very different from that of your normal American. You get to take the Granada for a coveted spin around the block. And your children are taught to take pizza phone orders from their dead great, great uncle. The exercise they get as their grandfather demonstrates how they have to spin their arms really fast to lower the pizza down to hell is an added bonus.
Well, we don’t have to do anything for Easter, I say. After all, we never did anything when we were kids. Yes, she’ll point out, but we weren’t normal. And then we grow silent, reflecting on just what that means. This is new for us. We always sensed the lunacy, but we never actually verbalized it. Not until I was in the hospital, after having given birth to the daughter, that is. My sister came to visit and we talked about things normal people likely don’t talk about after having given birth. Like, should we have a family gathering for whatever the next holiday was. And, do you think the poor baby’s head really looks like the statue someone made in homage of our father’s bald, lumpy, slightly alienesque head?
A very nice nurse came in and tried to talk me out of going home after only one day. Somehow, not surprisingly, the conversation turned to family. She was raised in a traditional Muslim family. We, I said in a moment of post-childbirth clarity, were raised by lunatics. And it was, in truth, almost a moment of Zen. Suddenly, the order of the universe seemed to make a whole lot more sense.
Now I understood. A normal mother would never say to her youngest child as they drove past the woods, “that’s where your real mother lives.” Or say in a sing-song, lullaby voice, “poor (name of the child here), lost in the woods, all alone, and the birds will come and cover you up with leaves” and then laugh when the child would express fear at the darkness of the woods. A fear, might I add, she never quite outgrew.
Normal families, I’m learning, ate canned vegetables, took family trips to places like Disneyworld or Six Flaggs Great America, and had a microwave. They shopped for new clothes, drank Pepsi, and made a big deal out of each other’s accomplishments (even something as arcane as a birthday - - I mean, who cares if it’s your birthday? Right, that’s not how a normal person thinks. Sorry, it’s hard to retrain oneself to think like a non-lunatic.)
I’ve realized it was not normal to take Sunday drives through the most dangerous parts of town. Nor was it normal to drink Hydrox pop, eat flavor of the week generic ice cream specials with names like cherry cheesecake that looked like the spinal surgery that happened to be on non-cable TV when you were eating it. I’m guessing normal families also didn’t have a sibling that needed extra credit in the cadaver lab so she stayed after class to help cut the cadaver into more manageable pieces. Then she came home and sat down to a spaghetti dinner without first changing her sweatshirt that had cadaver juice on it that looked a little too much like spaghetti dinner stains.
Normal families didn’t have a child get mumps during the infamous mumps outbreak of 1986 when, count ‘em, a total of 46 people in the state of Illinois, myself included, got them. A normal, caring sister wouldn’t come home to find her mumps stricken sibling, glands so swollen she couldn’t swallow anything despite the fact that she was starving, and say to her, “What’s the fucking incubation period? I’ve got finals next week!” I envision instead, a normal sister perhaps painting the fingernails of the mumps victim, while they shared a juicy Tigerbeat magazine.
I’m guessing normal families have normal friends, that dress stylishly, are skilled in basic social graces, boast about the accomplishments of their family members, carry around a huge cache of photos in their wallets or now on their cell phones, and when the difficult subject of funeral planning comes up, never utter the phrase, “just burn my dead ass”. A normal family probably never had a hand out of food delivered at the holidays, not because you were actually in financial need, but because you looked like you were one step away from homeless. Of course, my siblings and I then attacked the bag like savages to see if there was anything good in it. We were too young to realize someone might actually be going hungry because luck had landed a sack of donated food on our front porch.
To be fair, we would always stop at the bank on the way to the zoo to get a roll of quarters. These were then passed out to the homeless that congregated there so they could get a cup of coffee out of the machines. This was back when the zoo still had coffee machines and the homeless still hung out in Lincoln Park. We also took in countless strays, so that one of any number of cats was likely to jump on you if you were one of the few people crazy enough to visit the family homestead. And you couldn’t leave without sampling the cheese, cookies, and really thick coffee my father insisted you have. “Don’t ask, just give it to him!” He would repeat this over and over until you broke down and ate.
Being raised by lunatics does have its benefits. Running becomes an integral part of your life - - all the endorphins helps combat insanity. Instead of visiting Mickey Mouse, you have the opportunity to curse and spray holy water on your sibling while visiting a sacred shrine in Ireland. (Fortunately, your mother is too busy praying her downs syndrome daughter will somehow no longer be downs to notice your sacrilege.) You develop a worldview very different from that of your normal American. You get to take the Granada for a coveted spin around the block. And your children are taught to take pizza phone orders from their dead great, great uncle. The exercise they get as their grandfather demonstrates how they have to spin their arms really fast to lower the pizza down to hell is an added bonus.
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