There is something about the way women understand each other, especially women in the same family. And let's say that family is virtually overrun by men, most of them self-destructive in their youth and bitter and broken after they turn 35. The women in a family like this tend to watch all the drama unfold and, depending on the situation, either react with frighteningly vicious, cat-like reflexes or gather in small groups years later and play "tag" with those ghost stories of decades past.
These would be the women in my family, the Dupont side of things (of which my mother has more than earned her stripes being the common sense, take-no-prisoners type and besides my grandmother loved her, so she was "in" from the get-go). The other night a few of us were gathered in the corner of my yard (we left the men, i.e. my dad and uncle, to their light beers, the kids to the trampoline)and "got to talking" about how shit used to go down before we knew any better. It was my aunt who got the ball rolling. She was saying how, the other day, she and my uncle were having "a discussion" that their granddaughter was privy to. Well, to them, it was a discussion, to her it was an argument.
"She told us to stop fighting," my aunt said, smiling. "I just shook my head and told her we weren't fighting. I told her this was nowhere near fighting. Sheesh, girl."
My aunt shook her head, clearly in flashback mode to the days when fighting actually was just that. Knock down, drag out affairs that usually began with booze and ended with children crying at 2 a.m., bruising on both parties and a lot of head shaking for the next week. Any of this sound familiar? My mom started giggling, yes giggling, recalling a "row" she and my father had some 30 years ago.
"Oh, we were both half in the bag and the kids were asleep," she said. "Of course, we got into it about something, who the hell even knows now, and anyway he told me to get the hell out. So I did. I was halfway down the stairs when he come running after me and grabbed my arm."
"What'd he do?" my aunt asked, slightly amused.
"He said 'Where do you think you're going? You have children to care for!'"
We all started laughing then.
"Wow, Ma, you were almost home free," I said.
"Almost. It must have dawned on him what the next morning would look like for him with three kids under the age of 10 waiting for breakfast."
There were other tales, that's what happens when you combine wine spritzers with summer heat and family women. One about an aunt who loaded up her three kids into a Radio Flyer wagon and walked to the grocery store on a Friday night because her husband was out drinking his paycheck away. Mothers calling the cops on their sons, flying salad dressing bottles, broken window panes, full out wrestling matches on the living room floor.
"I wouldn't put up with that shit for a second," I said.
"It was different back then," my mom said with the utmost patience at my self-righteous disgust. "You just worked through it. Besides, where were you gonna go? None of us had jobs or money then."
My aunt nodded her head and lit a cigarette. "I sometimes don't know how you girls do it," she said. "Always looking around for hot guys, trying to make a living and have a life and raise kids on your own. Somewhere along the way I learned that security is sexy. It may not be perfect, but you make it work. At least you can sleep most nights."
Good goddamn point. Stability tends to have that "nice guys finish last" feel to it, but these days, in this life, it's getting some good press. Or it should. How nice would it be to for any of the other single parents I know to have somebody say, "Don't worry, I got this," and suddenly a meal is cooked or lunches are made for the week or the 900 loads of laundry that have been waiting for you to get out of work are all folded and put away? Or shit, even waking up and the coffee is made or you don't have to do the quick math in your head wondering if you've got the cash to take the kids out for pizza for one night.
Or, lo and behold, you're not the only one who notices that you're low on toilet paper.
I guess the grass is ALWAYS greener. At least I know the coffee's gonna get made, and the dinner is gonna materialize somehow and that paycheck will come...but once in awhile it makes me tired just thinking about it.
This is a darkly humorous bit about life as a rural mother and freelance writer in Western Massachusetts. Little Appalachia, if you will. The title, I feel, clearly reflects how life is coming at me like an overloaded freight train, and my own ridiculous response to it. Me VERSUS all; teenage children, people who want me to work for free, conservative government, food karma, weird menfolk. You'll either laugh, shrug your shoulders, or call DSS immediately. Happy reading.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
The Day My Momma Stuck it to the PTO
There is a country song...actually, there is always a country song...that is still dead on when it comes to today's "parent organizations." I am speaking specifically about the PTO (or PTA depending on what state and era of misogyny you live in). Now, to be fair, I have never actually been to a PTO meeting so I can only tell you what my experience has been "on the outside" of this highly stealth, relentless fundraising machine that seems to run on the fumes of guilt coming from the "other" parents, us supposed non-involved folks who refuse to buy friggin' mail order cookie batter and strudel cakes for $900 a piece and sit back and wonder why the hell all the kids are getting fat.
Now I'm getting started.
This blog would not have happened, I would've kept silent for the next 10 years of wrapping paper, danishes, cookies, sh*tty candles, cheap body lotions and stale pies if I hadn't gotten an email this week basically telling the parents of the children in the school that we all suck for not being able to push through a June 18 carnival. Apparently, we, in our presumed apathy and lack of love for our own children, suck for not wanting devote an entire Saturday at the ass end of a difficult school year to some crappy ring toss in the gym and maybe a pocket lady with lead infused toys in her apron.
I think you get where I'm going with this. Who are these people, the Gestapo? Am I supposed to feel guilty that whenever a fundraiser packet, actually make that two fundraiser packets because I have two kids, comes home with stock photos of chocolate or pies that the moment I pull it out of the book bag, I sigh and chuck it in the recycling? Neither I nor my family (specifically the grandparents of these children, who by the way, in order to be fair would have to get something from each of the 9 grandchildren) can afford to buy any of this sh*t, which is exactly what it is. If I'm going to spend 40 bucks on pastry items, I will head to the local bakery and get it fresh, thanks. And if I need wrapping paper for the hundreds of Christmas presents I have to buy every year, then, Dollar Store, here I come.
And may I gently remind you that in addition to the set of two packets that come home, the individual classrooms also conduct fundraisers and can drives and presentations and parties, etc. This means, for me, a single parent, who really is only worried about groceries and shelter and happiness at this point, that I have to keep track of two sets of permission slips, field trip fees, last minute "mom I need you to make 6 dozen cookies" or, most recently, a purchase of 4 bags of veggie chips (to the tune of $4 a bag), oh and, can you take FOUR hours off of work for a school picnic.
What has happened to reality? And on top of all this pressure, you're going to send me a "You suck" email because I simply don't have another 6 hours and $30 to spend on some stupid carnival on the one day I have off this week. Ever think that maybe I'd like to take my kids out for a friggin' ice cream, or maybe sleep in, make some pancakes, go for a nice hike?
And here's another tip, oh uberparents who are clearly better somehow than the rest of us, if you're going to gossip maliciously about other parents don't do it in the school lobby. We all can hear you, even amid the throng of children being corralled to the buses. I may not have the cash for the raw cookie dough or the Tiffany's wrapping paper, but I know what class is. You can't sell that in a shiny booklet.
Oh, and FYI, maybe if some of you got a job you wouldn't have time to think about how crappy the rest of us are for trying to keep our heads above water.
Now I'm getting started.
This blog would not have happened, I would've kept silent for the next 10 years of wrapping paper, danishes, cookies, sh*tty candles, cheap body lotions and stale pies if I hadn't gotten an email this week basically telling the parents of the children in the school that we all suck for not being able to push through a June 18 carnival. Apparently, we, in our presumed apathy and lack of love for our own children, suck for not wanting devote an entire Saturday at the ass end of a difficult school year to some crappy ring toss in the gym and maybe a pocket lady with lead infused toys in her apron.
I think you get where I'm going with this. Who are these people, the Gestapo? Am I supposed to feel guilty that whenever a fundraiser packet, actually make that two fundraiser packets because I have two kids, comes home with stock photos of chocolate or pies that the moment I pull it out of the book bag, I sigh and chuck it in the recycling? Neither I nor my family (specifically the grandparents of these children, who by the way, in order to be fair would have to get something from each of the 9 grandchildren) can afford to buy any of this sh*t, which is exactly what it is. If I'm going to spend 40 bucks on pastry items, I will head to the local bakery and get it fresh, thanks. And if I need wrapping paper for the hundreds of Christmas presents I have to buy every year, then, Dollar Store, here I come.
And may I gently remind you that in addition to the set of two packets that come home, the individual classrooms also conduct fundraisers and can drives and presentations and parties, etc. This means, for me, a single parent, who really is only worried about groceries and shelter and happiness at this point, that I have to keep track of two sets of permission slips, field trip fees, last minute "mom I need you to make 6 dozen cookies" or, most recently, a purchase of 4 bags of veggie chips (to the tune of $4 a bag), oh and, can you take FOUR hours off of work for a school picnic.
What has happened to reality? And on top of all this pressure, you're going to send me a "You suck" email because I simply don't have another 6 hours and $30 to spend on some stupid carnival on the one day I have off this week. Ever think that maybe I'd like to take my kids out for a friggin' ice cream, or maybe sleep in, make some pancakes, go for a nice hike?
And here's another tip, oh uberparents who are clearly better somehow than the rest of us, if you're going to gossip maliciously about other parents don't do it in the school lobby. We all can hear you, even amid the throng of children being corralled to the buses. I may not have the cash for the raw cookie dough or the Tiffany's wrapping paper, but I know what class is. You can't sell that in a shiny booklet.
Oh, and FYI, maybe if some of you got a job you wouldn't have time to think about how crappy the rest of us are for trying to keep our heads above water.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The End of the Affair
I'm sorry, but with the latest "Weiner" news, I am convinced now that 1)men, all men (save for like 3 that I know) lead with their dicks and 2) Have you ever heard of woman in politics, making major decisions for people, f*cking around with internet porn and specialty hookers and god knows what else?! Can you imagine Hilary Clinton deciding that on her lunch break she's gonna take a picture of her "nethers" with her phone and then post it?! WTF?!
And yes, there are women who cheat. In fact, 45% of married women in this country are unfaithful. I think the percentage for married men is roughly the same, maybe a few percentage points higher, but close. So, then the issue, especially in this age of social media, isn't that men cheat more than women. It's that everybody's cheating (and that male politicians are really friggin' bad at it!).
That sound about right? Fair? And furthermore, social media is making it a lot easier, A LOT easier to "cheat" right in front of your spouse. I guess I should define my idea of cheating, because nowadays moral flexibility is a very handy tool to have. So, cheating, in my mind, is anything that makes you feel guilty, anything that you wouldn't tell your spouse because somewhere in there you know it would cause some waves. Major waves in most cases.
Based on that definition, how many of us cheat? Better yet, how many of us have "cheated" within the last 24 hours?! No need to raise your hands, but just think about it. I told my "domestic partner" the other day that I think the computer and texting is ruining good ol' fashioned love. It is melting boundaries that were once very clear and it is creating mistrust and suspicion within even the most adoring relationships. In fact, I'm willing to bet that Facebook was partly responsible (partly) responsible for the breakdown of my marriage. I didn't know who all these women were that he was friending and apparently a "friend" emailed him through FB and said that "your wife" (i.e. ME!) was "getting close" with people at grad school that summer. Of course, I have no idea to this day who the guy was that said that, and I still have no idea who all the women friends are that my ex "friended" that summer. As for me, the only "close" relationships I had were with the ticks, the bears, the moose, a newly married Ukrainian woman and my friend Lyd, who was writing great poetry AND counting points for Weight Watchers.
Pretty risque, eh? But, once that seed is planted in the mind, the roots grow pretty quick. I don't even think I had a chance after that email was sent.
Which brings me to texting, and still emails. Being the jaded, thirty-something woman I get antsy when my "gentleman friend" gets a text. Not antsy-crazy, but just a sick feeling in my guts like "What the hell is he up to?" And I'm pretty sure that he feels the same way to a degree. So immediately, we have slushy trust issues which can be used against us at any time. Does it mean that I can't get texts from my guy friends, not necessarily, but then the issue comes down to "managing content" and what you should or shouldn't be saying in a text to someone who you are not in a relationship with...
It's messy people. I'm trying to stick to some basic rules to keep things simple. Oddly, it's not that simple. First off, I'm thinking if I would feel weird showing the text (or email, or tweet or picture) to my "partner" then its not an appropriate conversation to be having. And if I get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach then, again, it probably isn't right and I should deflect.
That said, every time I casually ask my boyfriend "oh, who's that?" he rarely tells me. And since he doesn't ask me, I don't tell him...
This soapbox is getting mighty crowded.
And yes, there are women who cheat. In fact, 45% of married women in this country are unfaithful. I think the percentage for married men is roughly the same, maybe a few percentage points higher, but close. So, then the issue, especially in this age of social media, isn't that men cheat more than women. It's that everybody's cheating (and that male politicians are really friggin' bad at it!).
That sound about right? Fair? And furthermore, social media is making it a lot easier, A LOT easier to "cheat" right in front of your spouse. I guess I should define my idea of cheating, because nowadays moral flexibility is a very handy tool to have. So, cheating, in my mind, is anything that makes you feel guilty, anything that you wouldn't tell your spouse because somewhere in there you know it would cause some waves. Major waves in most cases.
Based on that definition, how many of us cheat? Better yet, how many of us have "cheated" within the last 24 hours?! No need to raise your hands, but just think about it. I told my "domestic partner" the other day that I think the computer and texting is ruining good ol' fashioned love. It is melting boundaries that were once very clear and it is creating mistrust and suspicion within even the most adoring relationships. In fact, I'm willing to bet that Facebook was partly responsible (partly) responsible for the breakdown of my marriage. I didn't know who all these women were that he was friending and apparently a "friend" emailed him through FB and said that "your wife" (i.e. ME!) was "getting close" with people at grad school that summer. Of course, I have no idea to this day who the guy was that said that, and I still have no idea who all the women friends are that my ex "friended" that summer. As for me, the only "close" relationships I had were with the ticks, the bears, the moose, a newly married Ukrainian woman and my friend Lyd, who was writing great poetry AND counting points for Weight Watchers.
Pretty risque, eh? But, once that seed is planted in the mind, the roots grow pretty quick. I don't even think I had a chance after that email was sent.
Which brings me to texting, and still emails. Being the jaded, thirty-something woman I get antsy when my "gentleman friend" gets a text. Not antsy-crazy, but just a sick feeling in my guts like "What the hell is he up to?" And I'm pretty sure that he feels the same way to a degree. So immediately, we have slushy trust issues which can be used against us at any time. Does it mean that I can't get texts from my guy friends, not necessarily, but then the issue comes down to "managing content" and what you should or shouldn't be saying in a text to someone who you are not in a relationship with...
It's messy people. I'm trying to stick to some basic rules to keep things simple. Oddly, it's not that simple. First off, I'm thinking if I would feel weird showing the text (or email, or tweet or picture) to my "partner" then its not an appropriate conversation to be having. And if I get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach then, again, it probably isn't right and I should deflect.
That said, every time I casually ask my boyfriend "oh, who's that?" he rarely tells me. And since he doesn't ask me, I don't tell him...
This soapbox is getting mighty crowded.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Eve's Curse is Not Her Own
I was just watching a brief lecture on advertising and body image and, of course, how these evil images and concepts demoralize women. I know, you've heard it all before--models who weigh less than the shoes they display, photo shopping gone mad on the sides of buses, women turned into objects and violated before our very eyes--all in the name of money.
Nothing new, really. Unless you are raising a girl, who will be subject to the same stresses and internal angst that you experienced for not ever being perfect...not even coming close, actually. Even today, when we look at women, brains and personality are not the first items on the checklist of perfection (I burned that list a few years ago, and continually find myself throwing other unrealistic versions of it in the fire). It is ALL about how a woman looks, and that message is being passed on to the innocent minds of girls who still have no concept of what sex is, or love, or pressure. They think horses are beautiful and that the most beautiful woman they've ever seen is a family member, probably Mom or Nana or a vibrant aunt.
These girls know the truth all along, that is, until, the world gets hold of them and rips their childhood, and the honest bubble they live in, into tiny jagged pieces--all lies, of course. But who knew?
I look at my gorgeous 4th grader and I cannot fathom what she will endure at the hands of impossible perfection. She is nearly 5 feet tall, her hair is a brilliant mass of black coils that shoot straight out of her skull, she has broad shoulders, legs up to her neck, the beginnings of what will be a sizeable...um...booty and thick athlete's thighs. She is a powerhouse with a very big smile and even bigger brown eyes. Of course, I think she is the epitome of all things beautiful. She needs no adornment, no modification. A pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt is her uniform of choice. Yet, I can feel her doubt, even disgust, when she tells me she weighs 90 pounds. I can see her face harden when she looks at the trash magazines in the grocery store (why the fuck do they put those things there, anyway?!).
"Do you think I'll look like you when I grow up?" she asks, and I can't tell what my answer should be. Does she want to look like me? Is she horrified that she will look like me? Who knows?
"I think, Anna, that you will look a little like me but be a lot taller and more confident than I was."
At least, that is what I am hoping. The confidence part, I mean. That is where a crucial mistake was made in my raising. My mother is a tiny woman who has always been very into fashion. She has great taste and she and I would look at Vogue together commenting on the clothes, the models, etc. As I got older, Vogue became more a point of anxiety for me than inspiration. I remember reading an article about Cindy Crawford, I was about 16, and it said that she was 5'9" and 128 lbs, which by runway standards is monstrous. I nearly cried into the pages. I was only 5'5" and 135 lbs. And so, I didn't eat for weeks...drank black coffee, played soccer, and felt like shit the whole time. Did I lose weight, sure, but I was miserable.
I never want my beautiful daughther to know that side of me ever existed. I am ashamed to this day by how, when I catch a glimpse of a Victoria's Secret layout, I feel instantly unsexy and undesirable. How could an educated woman with a good career and two beautiful children ever be self-conscious? Or doubt that she, because her hair isn't tousled enough, her thighs aren't small enough, her stomach isn't anywhere near flat enough, is worth her weight in gold? Literally?
We have no fashion magazines in this house. Anna reads the New Yorker, mostly the comics. I compliment her whenever I can without being insincere, she returns the favor--saying that my arm flab really isn't that bad and that I have nice white teeth.
But even now, I can feel a little bit of the doom of adolescence coming our way. She will doubt herself, just as I continue to get mean little jabs in at my own appearance. Last night, in jest, my "gentleman friend" said that it was a good thing he didn't have a foot fetish.
"Why," I asked.
"Because you have man feet. That wouldn't work at all."
I looked at my wide, unpainted, calloused garden feet, my relaxation instantly ruined by the comment. I laughed when I felt like puking. And my first thought went to the weakest part of my brain.
"What else does he not like about me?" I should've told him to "f*ck off" which I did, but not before the needle entered the unprotected, soft tissue of my self-confidence. The heart part. If he doesn't like my feet, then, my god, what does he think of my legs? And my crazy hair and my big teeth and the giant scar across my abdomen? And my farmer's tan?
That's how I fell asleep last night. Worrying that I would wake up and someday soon it would all vanish because my shell wasn't pretty like the other turtles.
I prefer to burst out of mine, I hope Anna does the same.
Nothing new, really. Unless you are raising a girl, who will be subject to the same stresses and internal angst that you experienced for not ever being perfect...not even coming close, actually. Even today, when we look at women, brains and personality are not the first items on the checklist of perfection (I burned that list a few years ago, and continually find myself throwing other unrealistic versions of it in the fire). It is ALL about how a woman looks, and that message is being passed on to the innocent minds of girls who still have no concept of what sex is, or love, or pressure. They think horses are beautiful and that the most beautiful woman they've ever seen is a family member, probably Mom or Nana or a vibrant aunt.
These girls know the truth all along, that is, until, the world gets hold of them and rips their childhood, and the honest bubble they live in, into tiny jagged pieces--all lies, of course. But who knew?
I look at my gorgeous 4th grader and I cannot fathom what she will endure at the hands of impossible perfection. She is nearly 5 feet tall, her hair is a brilliant mass of black coils that shoot straight out of her skull, she has broad shoulders, legs up to her neck, the beginnings of what will be a sizeable...um...booty and thick athlete's thighs. She is a powerhouse with a very big smile and even bigger brown eyes. Of course, I think she is the epitome of all things beautiful. She needs no adornment, no modification. A pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt is her uniform of choice. Yet, I can feel her doubt, even disgust, when she tells me she weighs 90 pounds. I can see her face harden when she looks at the trash magazines in the grocery store (why the fuck do they put those things there, anyway?!).
"Do you think I'll look like you when I grow up?" she asks, and I can't tell what my answer should be. Does she want to look like me? Is she horrified that she will look like me? Who knows?
"I think, Anna, that you will look a little like me but be a lot taller and more confident than I was."
At least, that is what I am hoping. The confidence part, I mean. That is where a crucial mistake was made in my raising. My mother is a tiny woman who has always been very into fashion. She has great taste and she and I would look at Vogue together commenting on the clothes, the models, etc. As I got older, Vogue became more a point of anxiety for me than inspiration. I remember reading an article about Cindy Crawford, I was about 16, and it said that she was 5'9" and 128 lbs, which by runway standards is monstrous. I nearly cried into the pages. I was only 5'5" and 135 lbs. And so, I didn't eat for weeks...drank black coffee, played soccer, and felt like shit the whole time. Did I lose weight, sure, but I was miserable.
I never want my beautiful daughther to know that side of me ever existed. I am ashamed to this day by how, when I catch a glimpse of a Victoria's Secret layout, I feel instantly unsexy and undesirable. How could an educated woman with a good career and two beautiful children ever be self-conscious? Or doubt that she, because her hair isn't tousled enough, her thighs aren't small enough, her stomach isn't anywhere near flat enough, is worth her weight in gold? Literally?
We have no fashion magazines in this house. Anna reads the New Yorker, mostly the comics. I compliment her whenever I can without being insincere, she returns the favor--saying that my arm flab really isn't that bad and that I have nice white teeth.
But even now, I can feel a little bit of the doom of adolescence coming our way. She will doubt herself, just as I continue to get mean little jabs in at my own appearance. Last night, in jest, my "gentleman friend" said that it was a good thing he didn't have a foot fetish.
"Why," I asked.
"Because you have man feet. That wouldn't work at all."
I looked at my wide, unpainted, calloused garden feet, my relaxation instantly ruined by the comment. I laughed when I felt like puking. And my first thought went to the weakest part of my brain.
"What else does he not like about me?" I should've told him to "f*ck off" which I did, but not before the needle entered the unprotected, soft tissue of my self-confidence. The heart part. If he doesn't like my feet, then, my god, what does he think of my legs? And my crazy hair and my big teeth and the giant scar across my abdomen? And my farmer's tan?
That's how I fell asleep last night. Worrying that I would wake up and someday soon it would all vanish because my shell wasn't pretty like the other turtles.
I prefer to burst out of mine, I hope Anna does the same.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
The Myth of the Farmer's Daughter
It was a usual morning of dropping the kids off at school (no, this is not a euphemism). Of course, the AUX feature in the car has stopped working so I was forced to listen to FM Radio and the howls of rebellion against NPR the second we got on the car were reason enough to change the station for the time being.
"I want 107.7," Anna declared. "That's what Nana always listens to."
"But that's country music," I gagged a little. "Like, modern country music."
Anna pushed her dread locked bangs off of her indolent face, "Whatever," she said, slumping into her seat. Seems to be her response for nearly everything these days.
"Fine, fine," I reluctantly changed the station. And, of course, was mortified at what I was listening to, even after the kids were "safely stowed" in the lobby of the elementary school.
First up, a song with a refrain even more simplistic than "Row Your Boat." Something along the lines of "Shake it, country girl." Of course, in the song she should be shaking it for everyone at the late-night tailgate party in the back woods but only he, the singer will get the real deal in the back of the truck. Sounds eerily like a scene from "The Accused" minus the arcade game.
I was hoping against hope that the next song would be better. And yes, I was still listening, intrigued now at what I knew was going to be a playlist of songs about chicks and how cute they are and once you get the pretty one, life is made in the shade. The announcer sounded the next song, "The Farmer's Daughter," which, apparently, is quickly climbing the charts to #1.
"Jesus Christ," I mumbled under my breath, laughing, of course, into the silence of the empty car.
Sure enough, or "sho' nuff" this one detailed the young man's journey from working the farm all day, and just when he was about to call it quits he "caught a glimpse" of the farmer's daughter. The rest is cheesy history. He works on the farm, they hook up in the back of his pick up and on the hood of the tractor every chance they get and in the end, she is serving him a glass of sweet tea after a hard day's work and they get to screw into eternity.
How sweet.
Let me tell you something about real country girls and the farmer's daughter. Real country girls couldn't get the dirt out from under their toenails no matter how hard we tried. It stays, just like the garden stays, until the dirt is froze and the last tomato is picked. The same goes for our fingernails.
Real country girls have a thin strip of brown skin right above their backsides because that's the place we always forget to put sunscreen (if we even use it) when we're outside for days at a time. We forget to offer people forks after we've filled their plates with potato salad and homemade burgers, which by the way, we met at one point when it was still a steer.
And you can forget about meeting up with us on the tractor and getting your hands up our little eyelet dress. Chances are, we've been out there since 6 am working that tractor and stink worse than you do and will run you over with the thing 'cause we are starving and need something to eat before we pass out.
Real country girls have cracked feet, crow's feet and big feet and are known to take walks down country roads with no shoes on. We rarely wear make-up and when we do it is likely that we will not have the proper means to wash it off and will look like a raccoon for a few days because we didn't know that "eye makeup remover" even existed.
As for shaking our stuff at a tailgate party, most real country boys have already ripped the tailgate off their trucks, either for convenience or to avoid having the thing rot completely through and fly off killing somebody on a country road.
Nope, we shake our business with each other in a rare appearance at a dance hall, where dressing up means putting on a clean shirt and digging around in the closet for the cowboy boots that aren't covered with REAL SH*T!
There you have it, myth debunked. If you're still interested, don't call. We leave our phones on windowsills and kitchen counters. If you cannot help yourself, stop by. But don't ask for a fork and you better drink the coffee if it's offered to you. If not, you can be sure...we ain't interested. In the least.
"I want 107.7," Anna declared. "That's what Nana always listens to."
"But that's country music," I gagged a little. "Like, modern country music."
Anna pushed her dread locked bangs off of her indolent face, "Whatever," she said, slumping into her seat. Seems to be her response for nearly everything these days.
"Fine, fine," I reluctantly changed the station. And, of course, was mortified at what I was listening to, even after the kids were "safely stowed" in the lobby of the elementary school.
First up, a song with a refrain even more simplistic than "Row Your Boat." Something along the lines of "Shake it, country girl." Of course, in the song she should be shaking it for everyone at the late-night tailgate party in the back woods but only he, the singer will get the real deal in the back of the truck. Sounds eerily like a scene from "The Accused" minus the arcade game.
I was hoping against hope that the next song would be better. And yes, I was still listening, intrigued now at what I knew was going to be a playlist of songs about chicks and how cute they are and once you get the pretty one, life is made in the shade. The announcer sounded the next song, "The Farmer's Daughter," which, apparently, is quickly climbing the charts to #1.
"Jesus Christ," I mumbled under my breath, laughing, of course, into the silence of the empty car.
Sure enough, or "sho' nuff" this one detailed the young man's journey from working the farm all day, and just when he was about to call it quits he "caught a glimpse" of the farmer's daughter. The rest is cheesy history. He works on the farm, they hook up in the back of his pick up and on the hood of the tractor every chance they get and in the end, she is serving him a glass of sweet tea after a hard day's work and they get to screw into eternity.
How sweet.
Let me tell you something about real country girls and the farmer's daughter. Real country girls couldn't get the dirt out from under their toenails no matter how hard we tried. It stays, just like the garden stays, until the dirt is froze and the last tomato is picked. The same goes for our fingernails.
Real country girls have a thin strip of brown skin right above their backsides because that's the place we always forget to put sunscreen (if we even use it) when we're outside for days at a time. We forget to offer people forks after we've filled their plates with potato salad and homemade burgers, which by the way, we met at one point when it was still a steer.
And you can forget about meeting up with us on the tractor and getting your hands up our little eyelet dress. Chances are, we've been out there since 6 am working that tractor and stink worse than you do and will run you over with the thing 'cause we are starving and need something to eat before we pass out.
Real country girls have cracked feet, crow's feet and big feet and are known to take walks down country roads with no shoes on. We rarely wear make-up and when we do it is likely that we will not have the proper means to wash it off and will look like a raccoon for a few days because we didn't know that "eye makeup remover" even existed.
As for shaking our stuff at a tailgate party, most real country boys have already ripped the tailgate off their trucks, either for convenience or to avoid having the thing rot completely through and fly off killing somebody on a country road.
Nope, we shake our business with each other in a rare appearance at a dance hall, where dressing up means putting on a clean shirt and digging around in the closet for the cowboy boots that aren't covered with REAL SH*T!
There you have it, myth debunked. If you're still interested, don't call. We leave our phones on windowsills and kitchen counters. If you cannot help yourself, stop by. But don't ask for a fork and you better drink the coffee if it's offered to you. If not, you can be sure...we ain't interested. In the least.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Warning: Offensive Content about Jesus
I received a press release in my work email folder last week. Let me reiterate, it was my work email folder, where I get stuff for work. Professional stuff. Anyway, the press release was in proper format, everything looked good until I began reading the actual text of the press release. According to Bill So-an-So the second coming of Christ is occurring on May 21st this year...so get ready. Of course, I had lots of questions, my main one being, how the f*ck does this guy know? What, did he get a call? A text? Or just a funny feeling followed by a voice that sounded like Darth Vader booming from the illusive sky?
I told my brother about the "big news." He was slumped over the steering wheel of his truck in the K-Mart parking lot watching the rain fall for the 300000000000 day in a row.
"Hey, did you know that Christ is coming again on May 21st?" I asked. "Better get ready!"
"Well, if that's the case, I'm going to kick him in the throat 'cause this isn't funny anymore."
Perhaps I should've warned you that my family is as humble as we are heathen and irreverent. Not out of malice, but out of struggle.
"Hmm, I don't know if I'd kick him in the throat 'cause I definitely want to hear what he's got to say for himself," I gestured toward a balding woman in a velour jumpsuit walking across the parking lot towards the Dollar Tree.
"Yeah, I'm curious what'd he'd have to say." We both nodded in contemplative silence.
If Christ shows up now, then every Christian church on this planet no longer has job security. Just think of that. God stocks would be down, communion cardboard cracker sales would be down, churches would be empty. It'd be a fiscal mess. Truly. And if he really did show his face (which is supposedly white with a red beard, 'cause that's how they all looked in Jerusalem back in the day: Irish) I wonder what people would have to say.
I almost feel bad for the guy, what a pessimistic place to land. What if the poor bastard (literally, ahem, let's not fight common sense here people) landed in the middle of Detroit or something? His gown flowing, his reddish beard blowing in a gentle, heavenly breeze, a serene (sort of creepy) smile on his face.
"I am here my children."
Can you imagine?! Let's say an unemployed GM factory worker is the first to see him.
"Where the f*ck you been, man?! We're dying here!" Then a swift kick to the throat.
How 'bout we take care of what's right in front of us? Maybe treat the earth as carefully as we treat our souls for that big "just in case" moment. Because while we're waiting for Jesus, Mother Earth is bleeding under our feet.
She needs resurrection more than a white guy (?) in sandals.
I told my brother about the "big news." He was slumped over the steering wheel of his truck in the K-Mart parking lot watching the rain fall for the 300000000000 day in a row.
"Hey, did you know that Christ is coming again on May 21st?" I asked. "Better get ready!"
"Well, if that's the case, I'm going to kick him in the throat 'cause this isn't funny anymore."
Perhaps I should've warned you that my family is as humble as we are heathen and irreverent. Not out of malice, but out of struggle.
"Hmm, I don't know if I'd kick him in the throat 'cause I definitely want to hear what he's got to say for himself," I gestured toward a balding woman in a velour jumpsuit walking across the parking lot towards the Dollar Tree.
"Yeah, I'm curious what'd he'd have to say." We both nodded in contemplative silence.
If Christ shows up now, then every Christian church on this planet no longer has job security. Just think of that. God stocks would be down, communion cardboard cracker sales would be down, churches would be empty. It'd be a fiscal mess. Truly. And if he really did show his face (which is supposedly white with a red beard, 'cause that's how they all looked in Jerusalem back in the day: Irish) I wonder what people would have to say.
I almost feel bad for the guy, what a pessimistic place to land. What if the poor bastard (literally, ahem, let's not fight common sense here people) landed in the middle of Detroit or something? His gown flowing, his reddish beard blowing in a gentle, heavenly breeze, a serene (sort of creepy) smile on his face.
"I am here my children."
Can you imagine?! Let's say an unemployed GM factory worker is the first to see him.
"Where the f*ck you been, man?! We're dying here!" Then a swift kick to the throat.
How 'bout we take care of what's right in front of us? Maybe treat the earth as carefully as we treat our souls for that big "just in case" moment. Because while we're waiting for Jesus, Mother Earth is bleeding under our feet.
She needs resurrection more than a white guy (?) in sandals.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Junction
I've been promising my aunts this blog for nearly two weeks. I was supposed to write it right after the fact, but, well, I work 90 hours a weeks and that wasn't happening. After mulling over the details and the nuances (which was a joy, let me tell you) I've finally got all my ducks (and f*cks!) in a row for the dysfunctional family gathering write-up.
I'm glad I waited...
So there we were, another frozen Sunday at the folks' house celebrating yet another goddamn birthday, my little brother's 32nd to be exact (haha, his kids think I'm the youngest sibling). It was around noon when the house filled up with kids (nine to be exact) and coffee and food and appalling language. We all noticed immediately that my father was much stiffer than usual.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Trust me, this is always said with concern.
"I went for a jog this morning with Patti."
You could've heard a frog fart. He looked up from his coffee at our faces, which were genetically and emotionally identical at that moment. Jake broke the silence.
"What the f*ck d'ya do that for?" Good goddamn question, little bro.
Mom piped up from the kitchen, "Because he can't say no, that's why."
"No, no, I wanted to. It was good," Dad said, clutching his chest as took another sip of coffee. "It was good."
The party got underway and about a half hour in, my mother perked up from her half a sandwich and said, "Did you invite Patti?"
Dad paused, "Oh, yeah, I did."
"Thanks for telling me."
"Hon, Patti's coming." His grin turned into a grimace when he went to uncross one leg.
"You're a moron," I said, shaking my head.
My aunt and her family entered the fray, four blonde heads glinting in the light of the living room. Patti was the first to speak.
"Mom hung up on me!"
"What," my mom said. "Why?"
"I told her we were coming here for Jake's party and she said she didn't know anything about it. She just said 'whatever' and hung up."
My mother winced. Her 82-year-old mother doesn't just hang up on people unless she's pissed, and nobody is supposed to piss off Phyllis. It's an unwritten rule after you turn 70.
The kids were shy at first but once they became aware of the destruction and doom happening outside with the other 9 cousins, they bolted out, eager to climb trees and throw sh*t at eachother in between sips of juice boxes.
Another car pulled up. It was Alice, my other aunt. In case you haven't noticed yet, I have a lot of aunts. I am sometimes referred to as the "fifth sister" although my grandmother would never claim me as her own. "I draw the line at six," she'd said.
Alice arrived with two bottles of wine and a giant jar of what looked like preserved turds floating in oil. Before my father could even take the wine or her coat, he shook his head.
"What the f*ck is that?"
"Sopressata. My neighbor is Italian. Apparently he thinks I need a jar in case the world ends." She set the disturbing floating turds down. "Mom hung up on me!"
"Me, too," Patti said. My mother shot a hate glance at my father.
"I'm calling her to explain. I don't want her to think I didn't invite her."
The day progressed nicely. My aunt Patti tried to gently convince me that I needed to become part of some jewelry cult and have selling parties. I laughed. My mom laughed harder.
"I don't do candles, bags, jewelry or cookware...ever,"I said. "If they start having lure parties or pole parties, or hell, even toy parties, I might."
Jake piped up from his slouching stance against the sink. "You could put one of those earrings on a lure and get some fish that way. They like shiny things."
After the offer of a girl party was behind us, the second item on the list, and this happens almost every time, came. Patti patted her stomach and just as I was about to take a swig of coffee she said, "I'm joining Weight Watchers." Then a breath. "You look so skinny, how much do you weigh?"
A room full of people, mind you, and I am NOT skinny. I just have a worn face.
"About a buck 30 on a good day. Why the f*ck are you joining Weight Watchers? You run every day. Dad's almost dead from this morning."
"Ehhh, portion control." She crunched on a carrot stick. I looked at Alice, who is all of 100 pounds.
"I must've missed something," she said, sipping at her wine.
We decided it would be a good idea to make sure the children hadn't eaten eachother. Outside, on the "terrace" we met up with my grandmother, who arrived, a bit angry, but still able to color coordinate her shoes with her scarf and brooch. The giant post-cataract surgery sunglasses nearly ate her face. She sidled over to us, nearly gusting away with the wind.
"Hi ladies," she said, trying to keep her sunglasses on her face. We stood, me, gram and Alice, watching the children pretend to kill eachother in the yard. Alice's gaze levelled on Anna.
"Did you notice she's getting whiter?" she asked. My grandmother nearly choked. I just laughed, hard, for about 5 minutes.
"Yeah, I need to take her to the city again."
"I meant, she looks paler. Not as...bl...er...dark."
"It's ok, there's no right way to say it." The conversation died in the breeze. Alice ran to her car to get a very belated birthday gift for more grandmother.
"Come help me," she said. "We can present it together." She was snickering.
I looked in the bag and there, next to a nice manual on how to care for lilies, was the brightest pair of Crocs, yellow, I've ever seen in my life. Ever. It hurt to look at them.
"What the f*ck are those. I'm serious, what the f*ck are those?"
"Glow in the dark Crocs," she said, laughing. "Now we'll never lose her at night."
"Now she's gonna be out there gardening in the dark. The neighbors will call."
"Yup, but we'll know where she is."
Phyllis appreciated the shoes, and thankfully the sunglasses stayed on for the transaction.
The afternoon sank into wine and some old Margarita mix Dad dug out of the fridge. The baby was passed from hands to hands until she pooped, the children escaped injury and my brother liked the Leatherman I got for him. He even offered to give my older brother the free little one that came with it.
"You can trim your nails with it," he said.
I'm glad I waited...
So there we were, another frozen Sunday at the folks' house celebrating yet another goddamn birthday, my little brother's 32nd to be exact (haha, his kids think I'm the youngest sibling). It was around noon when the house filled up with kids (nine to be exact) and coffee and food and appalling language. We all noticed immediately that my father was much stiffer than usual.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Trust me, this is always said with concern.
"I went for a jog this morning with Patti."
You could've heard a frog fart. He looked up from his coffee at our faces, which were genetically and emotionally identical at that moment. Jake broke the silence.
"What the f*ck d'ya do that for?" Good goddamn question, little bro.
Mom piped up from the kitchen, "Because he can't say no, that's why."
"No, no, I wanted to. It was good," Dad said, clutching his chest as took another sip of coffee. "It was good."
The party got underway and about a half hour in, my mother perked up from her half a sandwich and said, "Did you invite Patti?"
Dad paused, "Oh, yeah, I did."
"Thanks for telling me."
"Hon, Patti's coming." His grin turned into a grimace when he went to uncross one leg.
"You're a moron," I said, shaking my head.
My aunt and her family entered the fray, four blonde heads glinting in the light of the living room. Patti was the first to speak.
"Mom hung up on me!"
"What," my mom said. "Why?"
"I told her we were coming here for Jake's party and she said she didn't know anything about it. She just said 'whatever' and hung up."
My mother winced. Her 82-year-old mother doesn't just hang up on people unless she's pissed, and nobody is supposed to piss off Phyllis. It's an unwritten rule after you turn 70.
The kids were shy at first but once they became aware of the destruction and doom happening outside with the other 9 cousins, they bolted out, eager to climb trees and throw sh*t at eachother in between sips of juice boxes.
Another car pulled up. It was Alice, my other aunt. In case you haven't noticed yet, I have a lot of aunts. I am sometimes referred to as the "fifth sister" although my grandmother would never claim me as her own. "I draw the line at six," she'd said.
Alice arrived with two bottles of wine and a giant jar of what looked like preserved turds floating in oil. Before my father could even take the wine or her coat, he shook his head.
"What the f*ck is that?"
"Sopressata. My neighbor is Italian. Apparently he thinks I need a jar in case the world ends." She set the disturbing floating turds down. "Mom hung up on me!"
"Me, too," Patti said. My mother shot a hate glance at my father.
"I'm calling her to explain. I don't want her to think I didn't invite her."
The day progressed nicely. My aunt Patti tried to gently convince me that I needed to become part of some jewelry cult and have selling parties. I laughed. My mom laughed harder.
"I don't do candles, bags, jewelry or cookware...ever,"I said. "If they start having lure parties or pole parties, or hell, even toy parties, I might."
Jake piped up from his slouching stance against the sink. "You could put one of those earrings on a lure and get some fish that way. They like shiny things."
After the offer of a girl party was behind us, the second item on the list, and this happens almost every time, came. Patti patted her stomach and just as I was about to take a swig of coffee she said, "I'm joining Weight Watchers." Then a breath. "You look so skinny, how much do you weigh?"
A room full of people, mind you, and I am NOT skinny. I just have a worn face.
"About a buck 30 on a good day. Why the f*ck are you joining Weight Watchers? You run every day. Dad's almost dead from this morning."
"Ehhh, portion control." She crunched on a carrot stick. I looked at Alice, who is all of 100 pounds.
"I must've missed something," she said, sipping at her wine.
We decided it would be a good idea to make sure the children hadn't eaten eachother. Outside, on the "terrace" we met up with my grandmother, who arrived, a bit angry, but still able to color coordinate her shoes with her scarf and brooch. The giant post-cataract surgery sunglasses nearly ate her face. She sidled over to us, nearly gusting away with the wind.
"Hi ladies," she said, trying to keep her sunglasses on her face. We stood, me, gram and Alice, watching the children pretend to kill eachother in the yard. Alice's gaze levelled on Anna.
"Did you notice she's getting whiter?" she asked. My grandmother nearly choked. I just laughed, hard, for about 5 minutes.
"Yeah, I need to take her to the city again."
"I meant, she looks paler. Not as...bl...er...dark."
"It's ok, there's no right way to say it." The conversation died in the breeze. Alice ran to her car to get a very belated birthday gift for more grandmother.
"Come help me," she said. "We can present it together." She was snickering.
I looked in the bag and there, next to a nice manual on how to care for lilies, was the brightest pair of Crocs, yellow, I've ever seen in my life. Ever. It hurt to look at them.
"What the f*ck are those. I'm serious, what the f*ck are those?"
"Glow in the dark Crocs," she said, laughing. "Now we'll never lose her at night."
"Now she's gonna be out there gardening in the dark. The neighbors will call."
"Yup, but we'll know where she is."
Phyllis appreciated the shoes, and thankfully the sunglasses stayed on for the transaction.
The afternoon sank into wine and some old Margarita mix Dad dug out of the fridge. The baby was passed from hands to hands until she pooped, the children escaped injury and my brother liked the Leatherman I got for him. He even offered to give my older brother the free little one that came with it.
"You can trim your nails with it," he said.
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