About 17 years ago my Grandmother died. It wasn't any huge shock or great tragic event. She had been sick and old since I was born and it just seemed like she wasn't really "there" anyway.
Her name was Mary. When she was 16 she married my Grandfather Alvin. The two of them lived in a farmhouse in Embro, population 60. Six of those 60 people were her kids. Each and every one of them born in the stone farmhouse, just down the road from the volunteer firestation.
The first time my Mother met my father's parents (who were by any definition of the word "hicks") my Dad brought her to dinner in that farmhouse. Everything took place in the kitchen - the woodstove heated the whole house and cooked all the meals. Later, when they had tv, that would be in the kitchen as well. My mother met them in that kitchen.
My Dad, knowing my Mom was really nervous asked her what she though they were having for dinner - what could she smell? Well, my mother had no idea. Dad said, open the woodstove and check. No way was my mother brought up to open other people's ovens - but with Dad's family watching her - she really had no choice.
So as my mother told the story, she walked to the woodstove with everyone staring at her, opened it up and SCREAMED! Inside a wooden box lined with a towel were half a dozen live piglets! The sow had given birth that morning and they were keeping them in the woodstove because it was winter and no one wanted them to freeze. Of course they were. And dinner was sandwiches. It scared her to death. Actually, thinking about it now, its a wonder she ever at pork again!
Back to Grandma's funeral. My boyfriend, now my husband, and I drove to Stratford then followed my parents to Embro along the snowy back roads. This place is the bermuda triangle of the snowbelt and has some really wicked winter weather. Really bad. And, as we were driving our mustang to the funeral, we drove off of the road and into a ditch.
Because my parents were up ahead, of course they didn't see us get ditched. The just drove along on their merry way.
I suppose that I could have pushed the car, if I really wanted to, in my funeral suit and sensible pumps. But I didn't want to. So Wayne, in his funeral suit and dress shoes, got out and pushed us out of the ditch. We made the funeral in the nick of time although its not like she was going anywhere.
Six months later, at my Auntie Anna's funeral in Embro (my Dad's sister) we had more car troubles. At the burial at the cemetary in town (I know you are thinking 60 people? how could they need a cemetary? but they did!) my parent's locked their keys in their van. Of course everyone had already left by the time they figured it out and this was well before the time of cell phones. Eventually someone missed them and went back to help them out.
The point I'm trying to make is that in my family - the funeral itself is never the event. Its the coming and going that are the things you remember. The bright greenish blue sweet funeral pickles that the ladies of the legion make and serve at funerals. That's the memory maker!
A couple of years ago in a drunken diatribe I said to my friends - "when I go, you will all remember what a good person I was - what a great mom and an excellent friend. You're not going to sit around saying she kept the messiest house ever!" And shockingly one said - "Oh yes we will! We say that now!" I just hope that when my time does come someone goes into the ditch, locks their keys in the car and the guy that thinks I'm a terrible housekeeper chokes on a funeral pickle!
Friday, May 11, 2007
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Big Pig Party
There comes a time in every fag hags career that you get the opportunity to choose to take one road or another with your friends. For those of you who don't know, let me explain how this works. Each hag is allotted one or more faggots. Sometimes a lot - sometimes a little - sometimes it depends on the season or the location. Faggots tend to be tempremental so, they tend to come and go.
I have been blessed with the greatest set of friends. And yes, they have come and gone through the years. Its only natural really.
Out of the group you are given, you may be truly blessed and have a very best friend. Sometimes its a bff (best friend forever) or a best girlfriend - depends on the guy really. I have been the luckiest bitch alive and have the best bff ever. But like I said, every trip has that road that gives you the opportunity to make a choice.
Many many years ago my family had what would go down in history as our worst family reunion ever. We had it at my cousin's cottage on Lake Huron - a beautiful place - right on the lake. My family brought our trailer (yes we had a trailer - why?) and I brought my best friend Rick. We took the train from Toronto to Stratford and drove with my parents the rest of the way - neither of us could drive then. I must have been about 24.
Rick and I always tell people that we met at a party: I buzzed the door and he answered it, made me laugh and I've never left his side since. For all intents and purposes, that's right. But it was more intense than than really. At that very first party, I got to the apartment - demanded to know who had answered the buzzer and didn't let him out of my sight that whole night. He made me laugh. I made him laugh. And at the end of those 2 or 3 hours I'd found the other half of my brain!
My mother adored Rick. He could do no wrong in her eyes and as a matter of fact, I think she is the only person that has ever ever said to me, "too bad he's gay". She always made sure to make him is favourite meal (these really disgusting super sweet spare ribs) whenever he came to town and treated him like the sun shone out of his ass and lit up the world. Sometimes I still think it does.
Anyway, we went to the cottage on Saturday. There was no room in the family trailer for Rick and I so we were sleeping in my cousins old tent trailer. As a matter of fact, my Uncle Chub had made the tent trailer himself so it was a homemade tent trailer - nothing classier than a home made trailer! And Uncle Chub is a whole other story.
Saturday was a fun play day at the lake. We swam out forever over the sandbars that go on forever out into the lake. We played in the inner tubes. We sat on the beach. We played volley ball. We did everything that we could wedge in. Dinner was bbqed something - but the best part was actually sitting around the fire later. We sat with my whole extended family - joking around, laughing at nothing and of course eating marshmallows and weiners on a stick.
When we finally stumbled to bed, we decided to put the sleeping bags together and sleep on the one bed, mattresses stacked in the name of comfort.
We talked until we fell asleep - mostly about nothing. This was something we did all the time - and still do. We get on the phone and talk about everything, nothing, people, places and things until one of us falls asleep and the other one has the good sense to hang up or fall asleep too.
I remember so clearly being just happy. Happy-happy-happy that night.
In the morning I awoke to Rick's horrific snoring. We were laying there face to face. At that point, he had long hair - beautiful naturally blondish and curly. I stared at his face, and even with those beautiful blue eyes closed, he was quite the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen.
And he loves me and I love him. And it wasn't of course in the traditional way that I always imagined someone would love me. There were no trumpets blaring and butterflies in my stomach. He didn't kiss me with a burning white hot passion. And of course there would never be sex.
He wasn't tall dark and handsome and riding on a white horse. He wasn't going to shower me with gifts. He was a vain, slutty, man-whore with an intollerance for people who ask questions. He lived life with no apology for who or what he is and who or what he does. He was hysterically funny and kind of mean. But then, as now, he is all I needed and in a totally untraditional way, he completed me - so sappy but true.
He was laying there beside me and I watched him sleep. I felt such overwhelming love. That very minute - that very day - that was when I decided that person who made me so very happy - that person was the love of my life. I would never let that go - no matter what.
During the day my family showed up in droves. Cousins, Uncles and Aunts from all over southwestern Ontario. My Mom and my cousins started to roast the WHOLE PIG over a fire. People brought the traditional Southwestern Ontario summer buffet foods: devilled eggs, jellied salads, many things with mayonaise and baked beans. All went nicely with the pig - right?
Rick and I did the same things we had done the day before and it was so fun.
Rick is a great person to introduce to any family. I have seriously in the 20+ years I've known him never heard anyone say that they don't like him. He makes a great first impression and I really admire that about him. Sometimes what I do is just watch him be him. As sad as that is it can be enough fun for me!
Supper came and we, of course were the first person to get to that big pig. Of course we were because my mother idolized Rick and whatever she could do to please him - like feed him - she would! We got our plate filled - loved it and....... hey - what was wrong with the pig? Well, apparently you need to cook a pig a hell of a lot longer than my family did! We and about 6 other people got the only edible cooked pork. The rest was a jellified jiggly salmonella filled mess. It ended up being mostly a vegetarian reunion. This in my family qualified as an unmitigated DISASTER!
We got back in the car, back on the train and home again - that part I know happened but don't really remember well. The thing about that weekend that makes it one of those times that I never forget is the sheer joy of being just who I was with just who I was with. My family and my very best friend.
That road you are given and the opportunity to make the choices - it is well worth travelling. Do we ever find love often enough that we should ever turn it way? Whatever form it takes whatever its length or its intesity, it is always worth taking that risk.
I have been blessed with the greatest set of friends. And yes, they have come and gone through the years. Its only natural really.
Out of the group you are given, you may be truly blessed and have a very best friend. Sometimes its a bff (best friend forever) or a best girlfriend - depends on the guy really. I have been the luckiest bitch alive and have the best bff ever. But like I said, every trip has that road that gives you the opportunity to make a choice.
Many many years ago my family had what would go down in history as our worst family reunion ever. We had it at my cousin's cottage on Lake Huron - a beautiful place - right on the lake. My family brought our trailer (yes we had a trailer - why?) and I brought my best friend Rick. We took the train from Toronto to Stratford and drove with my parents the rest of the way - neither of us could drive then. I must have been about 24.
Rick and I always tell people that we met at a party: I buzzed the door and he answered it, made me laugh and I've never left his side since. For all intents and purposes, that's right. But it was more intense than than really. At that very first party, I got to the apartment - demanded to know who had answered the buzzer and didn't let him out of my sight that whole night. He made me laugh. I made him laugh. And at the end of those 2 or 3 hours I'd found the other half of my brain!
My mother adored Rick. He could do no wrong in her eyes and as a matter of fact, I think she is the only person that has ever ever said to me, "too bad he's gay". She always made sure to make him is favourite meal (these really disgusting super sweet spare ribs) whenever he came to town and treated him like the sun shone out of his ass and lit up the world. Sometimes I still think it does.
Anyway, we went to the cottage on Saturday. There was no room in the family trailer for Rick and I so we were sleeping in my cousins old tent trailer. As a matter of fact, my Uncle Chub had made the tent trailer himself so it was a homemade tent trailer - nothing classier than a home made trailer! And Uncle Chub is a whole other story.
Saturday was a fun play day at the lake. We swam out forever over the sandbars that go on forever out into the lake. We played in the inner tubes. We sat on the beach. We played volley ball. We did everything that we could wedge in. Dinner was bbqed something - but the best part was actually sitting around the fire later. We sat with my whole extended family - joking around, laughing at nothing and of course eating marshmallows and weiners on a stick.
When we finally stumbled to bed, we decided to put the sleeping bags together and sleep on the one bed, mattresses stacked in the name of comfort.
We talked until we fell asleep - mostly about nothing. This was something we did all the time - and still do. We get on the phone and talk about everything, nothing, people, places and things until one of us falls asleep and the other one has the good sense to hang up or fall asleep too.
I remember so clearly being just happy. Happy-happy-happy that night.
In the morning I awoke to Rick's horrific snoring. We were laying there face to face. At that point, he had long hair - beautiful naturally blondish and curly. I stared at his face, and even with those beautiful blue eyes closed, he was quite the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen.
And he loves me and I love him. And it wasn't of course in the traditional way that I always imagined someone would love me. There were no trumpets blaring and butterflies in my stomach. He didn't kiss me with a burning white hot passion. And of course there would never be sex.
He wasn't tall dark and handsome and riding on a white horse. He wasn't going to shower me with gifts. He was a vain, slutty, man-whore with an intollerance for people who ask questions. He lived life with no apology for who or what he is and who or what he does. He was hysterically funny and kind of mean. But then, as now, he is all I needed and in a totally untraditional way, he completed me - so sappy but true.
He was laying there beside me and I watched him sleep. I felt such overwhelming love. That very minute - that very day - that was when I decided that person who made me so very happy - that person was the love of my life. I would never let that go - no matter what.
During the day my family showed up in droves. Cousins, Uncles and Aunts from all over southwestern Ontario. My Mom and my cousins started to roast the WHOLE PIG over a fire. People brought the traditional Southwestern Ontario summer buffet foods: devilled eggs, jellied salads, many things with mayonaise and baked beans. All went nicely with the pig - right?
Rick and I did the same things we had done the day before and it was so fun.
Rick is a great person to introduce to any family. I have seriously in the 20+ years I've known him never heard anyone say that they don't like him. He makes a great first impression and I really admire that about him. Sometimes what I do is just watch him be him. As sad as that is it can be enough fun for me!
Supper came and we, of course were the first person to get to that big pig. Of course we were because my mother idolized Rick and whatever she could do to please him - like feed him - she would! We got our plate filled - loved it and....... hey - what was wrong with the pig? Well, apparently you need to cook a pig a hell of a lot longer than my family did! We and about 6 other people got the only edible cooked pork. The rest was a jellified jiggly salmonella filled mess. It ended up being mostly a vegetarian reunion. This in my family qualified as an unmitigated DISASTER!
We got back in the car, back on the train and home again - that part I know happened but don't really remember well. The thing about that weekend that makes it one of those times that I never forget is the sheer joy of being just who I was with just who I was with. My family and my very best friend.
That road you are given and the opportunity to make the choices - it is well worth travelling. Do we ever find love often enough that we should ever turn it way? Whatever form it takes whatever its length or its intesity, it is always worth taking that risk.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Laundry List
Bone Scan
Mammogram
Pelvic Ultrasound
Transvaginal Ultrasound
Pelvic and Abdominal Cat Scan
Chest xray
Colonoscopy
Excision
MRI
Mammogram
Pelvic Ultrasound
Transvaginal Ultrasound
Pelvic and Abdominal Cat Scan
Chest xray
Colonoscopy
Excision
MRI
Sunday, April 29, 2007
The Big Dilemma
So. The Big Dilemma. Do I talk about it? Do I not talk about it? Then I figured, hey its my blog. Its where I am allowed to express myself. I don't want my friends to be overwhelmed by me whining or being afraid. I don't want my husband to know how worried I am. And I need to kind of "let it all out". So. There you are.
I have this thing on my leg. Started as a freckle. Morphed into a bump the size of a nickle, purple and scaley. Yep. Its attractive. And its also skin cancer. Truth be told I knew it was skin cancer from the second it started to get all gross. Even then, it was Rick who had to force me to tell the doctor about it. I knew he was right. I knew I had to say something. But I also knew it wasn't going to be good. Just today I found a note that I wrote for myself in a book that said "DON'T FORGET LEFT LEG".
Well now, I can't forget it. The fucking thing has turned out to be more than I bargained for.
I went to see the dermatologist. The 12 year old Doctor explained it all to me. I went there expecting that the worst thing that they could tell me was that it was the bad kind of skin cancer. I'd need radiation and it would hurt and I would be fine but I'd have to wear SpH100 for the rest of my life.
What she told me was that the extrammary paget's disease is the skin cancer part. Its just the secondary cancer. Actually what I heard her say was the extra mammary patches - thank god for google sorting me out! I swear when she started explaining to me that this cancer doesn't usually occur without a primary cancer being present - the voices inside my head started to scream...."help me help me"! As she started explaining what kind of cancer it could possibly be: bowel, colon, gyne, breast - my head just screamed "no no no no no no no no no".
I didn't cry. I kept joking with her. She brought in Doctor Cold Hands. We should do your excision today - we need to do it right away. "fuck off - no way - no no no" But there isn't time. Go book the surgery - next available appointment.
Turns out next available is May 10th. I have weeks to wait. In the mean time - I shall be tested up the wazoo - quite literally - to see what kind of host cancer I have. I have cancer. Or do I? I do. Do I have to have a host? Not according to the internet.
Oh yes. I looked it up on the internet. I gave myself one day. One day to look stuff up on the internet. One day to panic. One day to cry. One day to freak the fuck out. Okay, I have had a few extra episodes, but for the most part I've been okay.
I've told people. At first I didn't want to. To tell you the truth, I was kind of ashamed. Its just one more lousy thing that has happened to me because I have not taken care of myself. I have done something else to fuck up my health. I have done something else....I have done it...
The people I told were amazing. I have the most amazing friends. The ones I didn't expect to cry with me did. The ones that I thought would be supportive weren't. The right people told me the right things. People are great. But people have their own lives. They only get to be so invested in yours.
My husband hates sickness. If one of our kids has a cold he demands to know how they caught it and who's fault it is. He has been mercifully NOT like that with this. He does think that is was a mistake in the lab and it is the incompetance of others that are causing me this stress. God I hope he's right. But last night he took me for Flaming Saganaki on the Danforth. If I could eat only one food for the rest of my life it would be sheeps cheese fried in olive oil, set on fire with ouzo and put out with lemon juice. He knows what makes me forget my troubles.
What's the plan?
The plan is to vent here - so if that sucks for you don't read it.
The plan is to write my stories until they are done - because IF and IF is a big IF something is really really wrong, I want to make sure its all documented.
And I need to make some plans - in a just in case kind of way. It would be stupid not to because - my kids. My kids. Goddamn it. My little kids. I don't want them to see me sick and I damn well don't want them to see me die. My heart hurts just thinking about it.
That's my dilemma and I've solved it. This blog is my new release - to help me work it out and sort out my head.
I have this thing on my leg. Started as a freckle. Morphed into a bump the size of a nickle, purple and scaley. Yep. Its attractive. And its also skin cancer. Truth be told I knew it was skin cancer from the second it started to get all gross. Even then, it was Rick who had to force me to tell the doctor about it. I knew he was right. I knew I had to say something. But I also knew it wasn't going to be good. Just today I found a note that I wrote for myself in a book that said "DON'T FORGET LEFT LEG".
Well now, I can't forget it. The fucking thing has turned out to be more than I bargained for.
I went to see the dermatologist. The 12 year old Doctor explained it all to me. I went there expecting that the worst thing that they could tell me was that it was the bad kind of skin cancer. I'd need radiation and it would hurt and I would be fine but I'd have to wear SpH100 for the rest of my life.
What she told me was that the extrammary paget's disease is the skin cancer part. Its just the secondary cancer. Actually what I heard her say was the extra mammary patches - thank god for google sorting me out! I swear when she started explaining to me that this cancer doesn't usually occur without a primary cancer being present - the voices inside my head started to scream...."help me help me"! As she started explaining what kind of cancer it could possibly be: bowel, colon, gyne, breast - my head just screamed "no no no no no no no no no".
I didn't cry. I kept joking with her. She brought in Doctor Cold Hands. We should do your excision today - we need to do it right away. "fuck off - no way - no no no" But there isn't time. Go book the surgery - next available appointment.
Turns out next available is May 10th. I have weeks to wait. In the mean time - I shall be tested up the wazoo - quite literally - to see what kind of host cancer I have. I have cancer. Or do I? I do. Do I have to have a host? Not according to the internet.
Oh yes. I looked it up on the internet. I gave myself one day. One day to look stuff up on the internet. One day to panic. One day to cry. One day to freak the fuck out. Okay, I have had a few extra episodes, but for the most part I've been okay.
I've told people. At first I didn't want to. To tell you the truth, I was kind of ashamed. Its just one more lousy thing that has happened to me because I have not taken care of myself. I have done something else to fuck up my health. I have done something else....I have done it...
The people I told were amazing. I have the most amazing friends. The ones I didn't expect to cry with me did. The ones that I thought would be supportive weren't. The right people told me the right things. People are great. But people have their own lives. They only get to be so invested in yours.
My husband hates sickness. If one of our kids has a cold he demands to know how they caught it and who's fault it is. He has been mercifully NOT like that with this. He does think that is was a mistake in the lab and it is the incompetance of others that are causing me this stress. God I hope he's right. But last night he took me for Flaming Saganaki on the Danforth. If I could eat only one food for the rest of my life it would be sheeps cheese fried in olive oil, set on fire with ouzo and put out with lemon juice. He knows what makes me forget my troubles.
What's the plan?
The plan is to vent here - so if that sucks for you don't read it.
The plan is to write my stories until they are done - because IF and IF is a big IF something is really really wrong, I want to make sure its all documented.
And I need to make some plans - in a just in case kind of way. It would be stupid not to because - my kids. My kids. Goddamn it. My little kids. I don't want them to see me sick and I damn well don't want them to see me die. My heart hurts just thinking about it.
That's my dilemma and I've solved it. This blog is my new release - to help me work it out and sort out my head.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
And the Oscar goes to...
For someone who is used to doing things half-assedly and never truly completing anything to the best of their ability, I am finding my recent completion of stuff quite disturbing. I feel an "episode" coming on!
I've managed to do my taxes not only from 2005 but from 2006 as well. On time. Sent in. Refund received. Off the hook until next year. This is unprecidented.
I've finished the course I was taking and found out that I am a solid B student. I was a B student in high school, a B student in University and now I'm a B student in Adult Continuing Ed at College. Woo hoo for consistency!
I've paid my bills, done some projects for the PTA and even started and finished a scarf for someone for Christmas NEXT YEAR!
I'm feeling a bit out of sorts though - and that tends to happen to me when this very extremely rare phenomenon of achievement occurs. Unless I have a dozen half done projects on the go, I get panicky about what to do and what to do next. Its the same reason that I read 3 novels at a time - what would I do if I finished one?!?!
What generally will happen next is that I will start to shirk thinks - you know - make plans and cancel them. Unless I feel like I really HAVE to do something or that it involves the kids - that I am obligated to do it - I won't.
I become the dreaded cancelling friend. You know what that is and you all have one. Admit it. You ALL have a cancelling friend who makes plans and then cancels at the last minute. I have one friend who I actuall make bets with myself how they will get out of the plans that we've made and let me tell you, I'm VERY good.
I don't mean to be this way. It could be part of my charm. It could be part of my mental illness. Who knows.
There are a bunch of things coming up that I actually want to do - I hope I don't fuck up and cancel them. I am taking bets that I will. My fear of something will win out. That niggling inadequacy will creep in. The overwhelming sense of not belonging that I fight against will tip me over and pour me out. My imagination will run wild.
All of this just so that I have more to worry about. I wouldn't want to make anything too easy on myself now, would I?
I've managed to do my taxes not only from 2005 but from 2006 as well. On time. Sent in. Refund received. Off the hook until next year. This is unprecidented.
I've finished the course I was taking and found out that I am a solid B student. I was a B student in high school, a B student in University and now I'm a B student in Adult Continuing Ed at College. Woo hoo for consistency!
I've paid my bills, done some projects for the PTA and even started and finished a scarf for someone for Christmas NEXT YEAR!
I'm feeling a bit out of sorts though - and that tends to happen to me when this very extremely rare phenomenon of achievement occurs. Unless I have a dozen half done projects on the go, I get panicky about what to do and what to do next. Its the same reason that I read 3 novels at a time - what would I do if I finished one?!?!
What generally will happen next is that I will start to shirk thinks - you know - make plans and cancel them. Unless I feel like I really HAVE to do something or that it involves the kids - that I am obligated to do it - I won't.
I become the dreaded cancelling friend. You know what that is and you all have one. Admit it. You ALL have a cancelling friend who makes plans and then cancels at the last minute. I have one friend who I actuall make bets with myself how they will get out of the plans that we've made and let me tell you, I'm VERY good.
I don't mean to be this way. It could be part of my charm. It could be part of my mental illness. Who knows.
There are a bunch of things coming up that I actually want to do - I hope I don't fuck up and cancel them. I am taking bets that I will. My fear of something will win out. That niggling inadequacy will creep in. The overwhelming sense of not belonging that I fight against will tip me over and pour me out. My imagination will run wild.
All of this just so that I have more to worry about. I wouldn't want to make anything too easy on myself now, would I?
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
The long and winding road
When I was a kid my parents used to force my brother and I to go for endless long car rides all over hell's half acre. They just loved nothing more to sit in the damn GMC Suburban for hours on end and just "look at the colours". I hated it more than life itself.
As a matter of fact, I still hate to drive anywhere and look eagerly ahead to the star trek teleportation phase of the future.
On this particular weekend we were headed somewhere US bound - more than likely Port Huron Michigan as this was my Mom's favourite place for shopping at Target and going to the Sweden House all you can eat buffet (but I think we covered that one in an earlier blog!)
My parents piled our suitcases into the back of the giant ass 1970s suburban - this must have been about 1976 - and hurried us in to the car.
Brush your teeth! Comb your hair! Put your coat on! Tie your shoes! Get in the bloody buggery car!!!!
So we got in the car - didn't fasten our seatbelts because there were none - and headed off on the St. Clair family road trip.
When we hit London, the car had heated up to boiling and my sullen 7 year old brother was still sitting there with his coat on. I remember that coat - it was plaid with a corduroy beige collar - what a weird thing to remember.
"Take off your coat" my Mom said.
"No." my brother said.
"Take off the damned coat"
"No - I'm cold"
"You are not. Take off that coat NOW!"
And off came the coat.
Under the coat, my brother wore no shirt.
He cried and cried and insisted that my mother had told him to put his coat on but mentioned nothing about a shirt.
We ended up stopping in London at Kmart that day. And my brother got a nice new shirt. A cowboy shirt as I remember it.
Rewarded for being just that little bit dumb. But funny. Oh so funny.
As a matter of fact, I still hate to drive anywhere and look eagerly ahead to the star trek teleportation phase of the future.
On this particular weekend we were headed somewhere US bound - more than likely Port Huron Michigan as this was my Mom's favourite place for shopping at Target and going to the Sweden House all you can eat buffet (but I think we covered that one in an earlier blog!)
My parents piled our suitcases into the back of the giant ass 1970s suburban - this must have been about 1976 - and hurried us in to the car.
Brush your teeth! Comb your hair! Put your coat on! Tie your shoes! Get in the bloody buggery car!!!!
So we got in the car - didn't fasten our seatbelts because there were none - and headed off on the St. Clair family road trip.
When we hit London, the car had heated up to boiling and my sullen 7 year old brother was still sitting there with his coat on. I remember that coat - it was plaid with a corduroy beige collar - what a weird thing to remember.
"Take off your coat" my Mom said.
"No." my brother said.
"Take off the damned coat"
"No - I'm cold"
"You are not. Take off that coat NOW!"
And off came the coat.
Under the coat, my brother wore no shirt.
He cried and cried and insisted that my mother had told him to put his coat on but mentioned nothing about a shirt.
We ended up stopping in London at Kmart that day. And my brother got a nice new shirt. A cowboy shirt as I remember it.
Rewarded for being just that little bit dumb. But funny. Oh so funny.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Easter Dinner
Eleven years ago on Easter Wayne and I took the obligatory road trip from our apartment in Toronto to Goderich where my parents were. The had moved from their house in the metropolis of Stratford to a mobile home in a trailer park outside of Goderich – which is actually crowned “Canada’s Prettiest Town”. My family had morphed into actual trailer trash!
Wayne and I slept in the tiny back bedroom that barely fit a double bed. It was right beside the somewhat stinky toilet. Whatever. They loved the place.
My family is not religious. Not in the least. I have often joked that Easter is the holiday where we celebrate the day that the Easter Bunny killed Jesus and then came back to life to curse the bunny by hiding all his eggs every year. I think I’m right.
My brother hadn’t come home for Easter that year. He and his wife were living in Alberta at the time while he explored his inner cattle rancher. They did call though during Easter dinner.
Now, my Mom, in her tradition as the world’s worst cook, had prepared a fiesta of ham, scalloped potatoes, mixed veg, cabbage salad and rolls. MMMMMMM. Okay, not really mmm but okay. She never really cared to try, God bless her.
Anyway, my brother called during dinner. We passed the phone around the table and everyone talked to Craig. It is my opinion that my parents sincerely believed that the sun shone out of my brother’s ass and lit up the world. Whatever.
My Mother inevitably started to cry. She missed having my brother around so much and it was especially hard at a holiday – any holiday. She hung up the phone, and came back to the table. She kept crying and we were all just trying to be supportive, “you’ll see him soon” “at least he’s doing something he loves!”
And then we all turn and look at Wayne. My husband is eating his dinner. Not saying a word. And he has two baby carrots – one shoved up each nostril. And he’s just eating his dinner. My Mother laughed and laughed and laughed. We all did. And Wayne just looked at us and said, “what?”
Its an especially happy story for me because it was the last time we spent with my Mom. Shortly after dinner, we left to head back to Toronto. We never saw her again. I’m glad we left her on an insane note. It just makes sense that way.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Let's hear it for the boys
Tonight I was having a nice soccer-mom-type chat with one of my son's friend's Mom's and making arrangements to get my son to her son's birthday party. As we discussed the massiveness of the party, I said that my husband would drop him off because I was going away for the weekend. She said - "Are you going for work or with the girls? I go away twice a year with the girls - once skiing and once to play golf!"
My answer was slightly more complicated. So I told a version of the truth. I'm going away to visit friends in Windsor.
Truth be told, I have no "girls". As a general rule, girls don't like me and I don't like them.
From the time I was 8 years old I have almost always had friends that were boys. I tried and tried to have girlfriends but it just never stuck.
When I was around 9 I tried and tried to hang out with Lisa and Maria. But, they went to the catholic school around the corner and it just never seemed to work out. Okay - they really didn't seem to like me much and only wanted me around when they were fighting with each other or looking for a scapegoat or someone to mistreat. But, why not blame religious differences!
I then tried Debbie. While she did teach me how to melt eyeliner on the lightbulb in the bathroom so that it went on hot and stayed on - which i definitely appreciated, she was a sharp as a pillow. I couldn't then and I can't now abide by people who can't keep up.
However, I did meet Rick through Debbie. Ironically, they were dating. When they broke up, I inherited Rick and Debbie found God.
Rick and I did everything together and went everywhere in each others pockets. He was my first gay boyfriend. I found out that he was gay when he started dating the twins, Mark and Mike.
After Rick I found a plethera of boys. I seemed to trip over them everywhere I went - school, work, home - everywhere. Soon came, in no particular order: Jamie, Lindsay, Doug (I lost my virginity to Doug - LONG story for another day!), Joey, Victor, Rick, Bill, Dan, Rob, George, Steve&Levi, Dave, David, Mike, Steven, Cameron & Sandy another Rick and another Dan and looks like another Dan.
When I got married, I had a terrible time. There was a lot of pressure to have bridesmaids. My mother insisted on 4. I have my cousin Amy who I dearly love. I fought my mom something fierce. She let me have a best man instead of a maid of honour - and of course it was my bff Rick. But I had to come up with 2 girls I could tolerate.
Michelle and Denise. From work. I swear they fought with each other through the whole thing. If it hadn't been for them jockeying for Rick's attention (pick me I'm ever so much prettier!)and him refereeing, I would have killed them both.
One weekend they had to share a room and they both came to me and confided that they hadn't slept at all. Denise said she couldn't sleep for Michelle's snoring. Michelle said she didn't get a wink of sleep because Denise snored too much. Which one was asleep enough to snore?????
See now, boys are much less complicated. I stayed at Bill's place one weekend in the basement. Rick and I shared one bed and Dave stayed in the other. Dave snores so loud he wakes the dead. So, the trick is to fall asleep before Dave does then the next day mock him mercilessly. Not bitch behind his back and definitely not whine. That, my friends, is the difference between girls and boys. Bitching and whining. Its really THAT simple.
I've tried other times, with no great success to hang with girls. It never seems to work. I'm either irritated by them or bored or ostracized. Its unnnatural for me.
Michelle came to stay with me last spring for a weekend and I said something about Rick. Her response was that I had to "give up the fag hag thing" because it wasn't "working for me". What?
I've been a lot of things in my life but I don't think I ever consider myself a fag hag. Okay well I've been a date to a million weddings and Christmas parties but that was just hanging with a friend to me. I did have a gay boyfriend once. And a gay prom date. But, where do you draw the line? What makes you a hag? Self definition?
Sure, 99% of my friends are gay. All of them also have brown hair. About half are adopted and only one has living parents. Really the only other thing they have in common is me. Perhaps I am the common thread.
So, I started this blog with a purpose - but unfortunately, I am left with only a question. What's odd? - the fact that all of my friends are gay men or the theory that girls don't like me and I don't like girls? Hmmmm. And I suppose, what does it really matter?
My answer was slightly more complicated. So I told a version of the truth. I'm going away to visit friends in Windsor.
Truth be told, I have no "girls". As a general rule, girls don't like me and I don't like them.
From the time I was 8 years old I have almost always had friends that were boys. I tried and tried to have girlfriends but it just never stuck.
When I was around 9 I tried and tried to hang out with Lisa and Maria. But, they went to the catholic school around the corner and it just never seemed to work out. Okay - they really didn't seem to like me much and only wanted me around when they were fighting with each other or looking for a scapegoat or someone to mistreat. But, why not blame religious differences!
I then tried Debbie. While she did teach me how to melt eyeliner on the lightbulb in the bathroom so that it went on hot and stayed on - which i definitely appreciated, she was a sharp as a pillow. I couldn't then and I can't now abide by people who can't keep up.
However, I did meet Rick through Debbie. Ironically, they were dating. When they broke up, I inherited Rick and Debbie found God.
Rick and I did everything together and went everywhere in each others pockets. He was my first gay boyfriend. I found out that he was gay when he started dating the twins, Mark and Mike.
After Rick I found a plethera of boys. I seemed to trip over them everywhere I went - school, work, home - everywhere. Soon came, in no particular order: Jamie, Lindsay, Doug (I lost my virginity to Doug - LONG story for another day!), Joey, Victor, Rick, Bill, Dan, Rob, George, Steve&Levi, Dave, David, Mike, Steven, Cameron & Sandy another Rick and another Dan and looks like another Dan.
When I got married, I had a terrible time. There was a lot of pressure to have bridesmaids. My mother insisted on 4. I have my cousin Amy who I dearly love. I fought my mom something fierce. She let me have a best man instead of a maid of honour - and of course it was my bff Rick. But I had to come up with 2 girls I could tolerate.
Michelle and Denise. From work. I swear they fought with each other through the whole thing. If it hadn't been for them jockeying for Rick's attention (pick me I'm ever so much prettier!)and him refereeing, I would have killed them both.
One weekend they had to share a room and they both came to me and confided that they hadn't slept at all. Denise said she couldn't sleep for Michelle's snoring. Michelle said she didn't get a wink of sleep because Denise snored too much. Which one was asleep enough to snore?????
See now, boys are much less complicated. I stayed at Bill's place one weekend in the basement. Rick and I shared one bed and Dave stayed in the other. Dave snores so loud he wakes the dead. So, the trick is to fall asleep before Dave does then the next day mock him mercilessly. Not bitch behind his back and definitely not whine. That, my friends, is the difference between girls and boys. Bitching and whining. Its really THAT simple.
I've tried other times, with no great success to hang with girls. It never seems to work. I'm either irritated by them or bored or ostracized. Its unnnatural for me.
Michelle came to stay with me last spring for a weekend and I said something about Rick. Her response was that I had to "give up the fag hag thing" because it wasn't "working for me". What?
I've been a lot of things in my life but I don't think I ever consider myself a fag hag. Okay well I've been a date to a million weddings and Christmas parties but that was just hanging with a friend to me. I did have a gay boyfriend once. And a gay prom date. But, where do you draw the line? What makes you a hag? Self definition?
Sure, 99% of my friends are gay. All of them also have brown hair. About half are adopted and only one has living parents. Really the only other thing they have in common is me. Perhaps I am the common thread.
So, I started this blog with a purpose - but unfortunately, I am left with only a question. What's odd? - the fact that all of my friends are gay men or the theory that girls don't like me and I don't like girls? Hmmmm. And I suppose, what does it really matter?
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Thunderclouds
I'm in a right royal mood. I can't tell you exactly why. I wish I knew. Don't we all though. Whenever I'm feeling like this its best to stay clear just leave me alone and let me sort it out on my own.
I've always been like this. So was my mother. I come by it honestly I guess.
I don't want to talk to anyone and share my feelings. I don't want someone to tell me that I should behave rationally and just get over myself. I don't want to chat and hold hands. I don't want anyone to bring me flowers and try to make me feel better. I just want to be angry.
Every once in a while I just get mad.
No reason.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Chinese Food
I have a long and very colourful history with the weight loss industry that began when I was 11 years old. Its been a help and a hindrance and a bain to my existance for the best part of 30 years. I imagine, it helped to make me who I am today.
Not long before she died, my mother and I had a discussion in which I blamed her for my neverending battle with my weight. Whether or not she believed it was true - I, to this day, believe that it is. I don't think anyone will convince me otherwise. My mother bred my bad habits, nurtured them and cemented them over the years.
When I was 11 my mother enrolled me in her Weight Watchers group held each Tuesday in the basement of the church. I'm not sure if you are familiar with the ritutals of the Weight Watchers weigh in - but, basically, you get in a line when you arrive - a line of fat women. You wait your turn while Marge or Lois or whatever her name is says that its your time.
The weigh-in out of the way, you shuffle to your seat and wait. Then the worst part - roll call. Your name is called and you shout out what you lost or if you had a bad week what you gained. It is truly one of the most demoralizing things that you can do to an 11 year old kid. There we lessons on nutrition and recipes exchanged and pledges and elections and a whole nightmare of boring administration type things.
After we left Weight Watchers each Tuesday night we would go out for chinese food. I'm from a small town - but not that small- in Southwestern Ontario. We had one chinese food restaurant and it was the quintessential Canadian Chinese food. Chicken balls with orange sauce and fried rice all around. We would all order the special dinner with egg rolls and sit around and chat. Or rather my mother and her other portly 1970's stay at home mom friends would chat and I would eat and look sullen and disinterested.
Wedneday and Thursday we would eat like normal people. You know, as normal as my family got. We had very odd food habits. We only ate fried rice - and then only with chinese food. We never ate pasta because the only Italians eat pasta - and that by the way is pronounced "EYEtalian". We were big on potatoes with every meal and almost always had some nice white bread with whatever we were eating, and ate tonnes of butter and salt on both.
As for meat - my family loved meat - ground beef and lots of it and all the salty processed meats. Yum Yum.
One of my mother's specialties was "thickened hamburger". It is as disgusting as it sounds by the way. Here is the full recipe for those of you who want to follow along and make this at home. Fry regular ground beef. DON'T drain off the fat! That is where all the goodness hides! Add lots of salt and a tiny bit of pepper. Thicken the disgusting fat that this mess produces by adding a slurry of cornstarch and water. Stir until it makes a greyish but translucent gravy type mess. Serve over mashed potatoes and canned green peas. YUM. I swear to you we ate that twice a week. Its a wonder I survived at all.
Actually, when I say we ate normally I mean - normal for my family. We breakfasted on sugarry cereal and/or toast; lunched on our hot meal of the day; and had a dinner of white bread and canned soup every night. My father was from a family of farmers and the big meal of the day was always lunch and it continued into our house.
To continue, on Friday and Saturday we ate like crazy people. We ate in restaurants on those days or ordered pizza. Pizza in our house was NOT a meal - it was a snack. We would eat our regular meals for the day then, at 10 or 11pm we would order pizza - like some people eat popcorn! And I'm not talking about a slice of pizza here. No - one medium pizza per person. Yum.
As for snacks - we were big into snacks. If there were no chips, cookies or junk, we were sent to the fridge to eat cheese. Yes. Big huge honking peices of cheese. You know those giant bars of cheese that the grocery store sells? We went through at least one a week. We love our cheese.
Sundays my mother broke with tradition and murdered a roast of some kind. A favourite in our house was cottage roll which is basically super fatty ham. Like ham could get any fattier. That meal was served with scalloped potatoes. Always potatoes.
Now, because we had eaten all week, on Monday we began to panic about the impending Tueday night horror show! So Monday we did the counter famine to our week long feast. Monday was strictly a "tuna from a can and iceberg lettuce" day. Tuesday was fasting all together. Even water might put on the weight! EEK!
By the time Tuesday night rolled around and I again (with my headache caused no doubt by low blood sugar and dehydration) lined up for Marge or Lois or whatever her name was I felt awful. All those bad things I had eaten: the thickened hamburger and yummy mashed potatoes, the butter and bread, the pizza and chips and cheese - the glorious cheese - those things made me have to suffer through this. They made me awful and fat. They made me be here while my friends were home watching Happy Days. They made me different from everyone else.
AND THEN BANG - I would invariably be up a pound. "Oh come on now" my mother would say, "your pants must weigh a pound - take them off!" Well then I'm up a half a pound. "Well, take off your earrings and your necklace and what about that shirt......?" With all the trappings shed taking my dignity with them, I managed to stay the same. Nothing lost but at least nothing gained. Only my humilation to show for the sins of the previous week as I stood in my training bra and underwear in front of dozens of fat chicks middle aged women who were just like me. Broken.
I truly believe that it is the cycle of reward and punishment that broke both my metabolism and my will. I've tried weight watchers twice since only after years of pressure from my husband and my doctors. Its as if as soon as soon as they hand me the weigh in book it triggers something inside my brain that makes me become instantly obsessed with everything about food. Its horrible.
And they still make you stand in line by the way. And new Marge and Loises are there to approve or disapprove of your performance. I just won't do it anymore. And I do blame my Mom - although I'm sure she knew no better as it was the cycle she forced upon herself too. Look where it got her.
Not long before she died, my mother and I had a discussion in which I blamed her for my neverending battle with my weight. Whether or not she believed it was true - I, to this day, believe that it is. I don't think anyone will convince me otherwise. My mother bred my bad habits, nurtured them and cemented them over the years.
When I was 11 my mother enrolled me in her Weight Watchers group held each Tuesday in the basement of the church. I'm not sure if you are familiar with the ritutals of the Weight Watchers weigh in - but, basically, you get in a line when you arrive - a line of fat women. You wait your turn while Marge or Lois or whatever her name is says that its your time.
The weigh-in out of the way, you shuffle to your seat and wait. Then the worst part - roll call. Your name is called and you shout out what you lost or if you had a bad week what you gained. It is truly one of the most demoralizing things that you can do to an 11 year old kid. There we lessons on nutrition and recipes exchanged and pledges and elections and a whole nightmare of boring administration type things.
After we left Weight Watchers each Tuesday night we would go out for chinese food. I'm from a small town - but not that small- in Southwestern Ontario. We had one chinese food restaurant and it was the quintessential Canadian Chinese food. Chicken balls with orange sauce and fried rice all around. We would all order the special dinner with egg rolls and sit around and chat. Or rather my mother and her other portly 1970's stay at home mom friends would chat and I would eat and look sullen and disinterested.
Wedneday and Thursday we would eat like normal people. You know, as normal as my family got. We had very odd food habits. We only ate fried rice - and then only with chinese food. We never ate pasta because the only Italians eat pasta - and that by the way is pronounced "EYEtalian". We were big on potatoes with every meal and almost always had some nice white bread with whatever we were eating, and ate tonnes of butter and salt on both.
As for meat - my family loved meat - ground beef and lots of it and all the salty processed meats. Yum Yum.
One of my mother's specialties was "thickened hamburger". It is as disgusting as it sounds by the way. Here is the full recipe for those of you who want to follow along and make this at home. Fry regular ground beef. DON'T drain off the fat! That is where all the goodness hides! Add lots of salt and a tiny bit of pepper. Thicken the disgusting fat that this mess produces by adding a slurry of cornstarch and water. Stir until it makes a greyish but translucent gravy type mess. Serve over mashed potatoes and canned green peas. YUM. I swear to you we ate that twice a week. Its a wonder I survived at all.
Actually, when I say we ate normally I mean - normal for my family. We breakfasted on sugarry cereal and/or toast; lunched on our hot meal of the day; and had a dinner of white bread and canned soup every night. My father was from a family of farmers and the big meal of the day was always lunch and it continued into our house.
To continue, on Friday and Saturday we ate like crazy people. We ate in restaurants on those days or ordered pizza. Pizza in our house was NOT a meal - it was a snack. We would eat our regular meals for the day then, at 10 or 11pm we would order pizza - like some people eat popcorn! And I'm not talking about a slice of pizza here. No - one medium pizza per person. Yum.
As for snacks - we were big into snacks. If there were no chips, cookies or junk, we were sent to the fridge to eat cheese. Yes. Big huge honking peices of cheese. You know those giant bars of cheese that the grocery store sells? We went through at least one a week. We love our cheese.
Sundays my mother broke with tradition and murdered a roast of some kind. A favourite in our house was cottage roll which is basically super fatty ham. Like ham could get any fattier. That meal was served with scalloped potatoes. Always potatoes.
Now, because we had eaten all week, on Monday we began to panic about the impending Tueday night horror show! So Monday we did the counter famine to our week long feast. Monday was strictly a "tuna from a can and iceberg lettuce" day. Tuesday was fasting all together. Even water might put on the weight! EEK!
By the time Tuesday night rolled around and I again (with my headache caused no doubt by low blood sugar and dehydration) lined up for Marge or Lois or whatever her name was I felt awful. All those bad things I had eaten: the thickened hamburger and yummy mashed potatoes, the butter and bread, the pizza and chips and cheese - the glorious cheese - those things made me have to suffer through this. They made me awful and fat. They made me be here while my friends were home watching Happy Days. They made me different from everyone else.
AND THEN BANG - I would invariably be up a pound. "Oh come on now" my mother would say, "your pants must weigh a pound - take them off!" Well then I'm up a half a pound. "Well, take off your earrings and your necklace and what about that shirt......?" With all the trappings shed taking my dignity with them, I managed to stay the same. Nothing lost but at least nothing gained. Only my humilation to show for the sins of the previous week as I stood in my training bra and underwear in front of dozens of fat chicks middle aged women who were just like me. Broken.
I truly believe that it is the cycle of reward and punishment that broke both my metabolism and my will. I've tried weight watchers twice since only after years of pressure from my husband and my doctors. Its as if as soon as soon as they hand me the weigh in book it triggers something inside my brain that makes me become instantly obsessed with everything about food. Its horrible.
And they still make you stand in line by the way. And new Marge and Loises are there to approve or disapprove of your performance. I just won't do it anymore. And I do blame my Mom - although I'm sure she knew no better as it was the cycle she forced upon herself too. Look where it got her.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Greek God
When I was in grade 6 I met a boy. A boy for whom I instantly had the most all consuming crush that a 12 year old can have. It carried on through grades 7 & 8 where I joined all the clubs that he did (to this day though, please don’t ask me to play chess!) and made friends with his friends.
His parents owned a restaurant that he had been working in after school and on weekends since he was about 9. Every Saturday and some Sundays I would tag along with our now mutual friend Mike, and sit at the counter in the restaurant for a couple of hours watching wresting or some other such “sport” but mostly watching my Steve watch wrestling or serve club sandwiches and fries.
Ah but he was so cute! He was kinda short – well shorter than I was but I was tall. He was kinda chubby – but so was I. Blonde, and Greek (which I was NOT) – very adorable. I followed him everywhere.
The summer of grade 8 he was dating Shelly. Meh, she wasn’t much to look at and as sharp as a pillow. But blessing of blessings for me she went away for half of the summer! That freed up Steve’s time to hang out with me!
Normally I would have used the fact that my family had a swimming pool to woo him but he has this terrifying fear of water. He wouldn’t even take baths. When he was 7 he and is friend were walking across the river to school and he watched his friend fall through the ice on the river and drown in front of him. He was a troubled soul…..how cool. Instead, I wooed him with my charm. I was always a funny chick – and he liked that – so we hung out. I also had big boobs from the time I was about 11 – so that helped. It certainly didn’t hurt.
One night after we had walked and talked for hours and hours I flat out said, “why CAN’T you like me the same way that you like Shelly?” I needed to know. He stood there, in front of a stop sign banging his head against it. “I just can’t” he said and we left it at that.
In the middle of grade nine the dynamic changed again. Steve started dating the girl that sat next to me in home room – Jennifer. Each night after school, Steve and Jennifer and Mike and I would walk home together. We would stop behind the abandoned gas station and Steve and Jennifer would make out for what, in my head, seemed like forever. Mike and I would chat – or should I say Mike would chat about comic books and science fiction and I would occasionally nod my head or grunt in acknowlegement. I tried not to watch – I really did because it gutted me.
It wasn’t as if Jennifer didn’t KNOW that I adored him. She did. And she would tell me things that I didn’t really want to ever hear. She told me that when they were necking she would reach down and feel him through his jeans. If I’d known then what I know now, I could have told her that she was totally full of shit. Chance would be a fine thing to find his miniscule penis through jeans.
My relationship with Jennifer lasted no longer than her relationship with him. I did my level best to see that that ended as much as I could. My maciavellian tendancies were h
Jennifer met a boy at the family trailer one weekend (yes – I said trailer). She cheated on MY Steve. As soon as I heard this I went to Steve. “Jennifer is cheating on you and I’m sure she’s going to break up with you – you should dump her first.” Then I ran right on back to Jennifer and said “Steve just told me he was going to break up with you – are you going to take that?” Boom. That was all it needed.
Steve and I stayed friends. I skipped ahead a grade in high school. He played football and joined the student council. I edited the school paper and graduated a year early. I moved away to go to University in Toronto.
One weekend when I came home to visit my parents, we met up to take yet another walk around the river. As we were headed home he asked me if I had any boyfriends now that I had moved away. Of course I had – I’m not a complete loser. But, I was smart enough to say “no one like you.”
He was smart enough to take that opportunity to reach up and kiss me – because by that time, fully grown I was 5’10” and he was 5’7”. I made a mental note to kiss him sitting down from then on.
It is hard for me to describe that kiss – not my first but my first big kiss. It was like a wave washed over me. Almost like when you feel the colour drain from you right before you throw up. Perhaps that isn’t the most appropriate analogy but, it was an actual physical feeling of having my insides turn to jello. Just jello.
We kissed a bit more and he walked me home. We kissed a bit more and he left. I remember what he was wearing – what I was wearing – the time of year – I remember everything about that day. It was a mythological awakening for me – as hokey as that sounds.
So, things carried on, he went away to university. I dropped out in second year and got a job in Toronto. I still came home the odd weekend. Strangely we didn’t ever seem to be free the same weekends.
To say his parents didn’t like me would perhaps be the understatement of the century. They were forever throwing down the phone when I called and screaming at him in greek. He told me not to worry about it but, I tended to wait until he called me. Once, that year, I sent him a letter (back in the day when people still did that kind of thing). According to him, his parents took it, opened it, and grounded him.
So what’s wrong with me? I’m not Greek. I’m a fat girl and I’m not Greek. That’s it.
In spite of that, we did hook up in the winter of what should have been his second year of university. He had dropped out too. He didn’t fit in at University, had tried to hurt himself and had in the fine Greek approach to mental health been sent away to family in Greece and England to recover his senses. Whatever they did, it seemed to work. He seemed back to himself although he did talk about his feelings, which in and of itself was a miracle.
He and I finally managed to coordinate weekends at home. He would have dinner with his family and then say he was going out for a drive. He would pick me up (no given time you see because it couldn’t be a date).
Many a night I sat by the door waiting and waiting and he never showed. He would call me the next week when he was back at school. He couldn’t get away – family showed up – couldn’t think of an excuse. I always forgave him in spite of myself. It was a Romeo and Juliet scenario that fed my need for drama.
Steve’s parents had bought him a little red sports car. It was an amazing car for a 20 year old to drive! It was their bribery gift to him to encourage him to lose weight. If you lose weight we will give you a sports car. So he lied and told them that he had lost weight and he got a car.
It was on our rides in that car that we finally made it past just making out. I was still at the point where if he opened my front door my insides went completely to jello. Hearing his voice on the phone sent me over the edge. His presence had a physical effect on me – as I’ve said before – in spite of myself. And in spite of the fact that he was one of the most selfish and uncaring lovers ever in the history of the planet – it worked for me and I sought him out whenever I could.
One night, driving back in the dead of winter from some lonely country road in what may have been the storm of the century, the car started to spin while we went around a huge turn on the way back in to town. I was terrified – he was terrified. And as we pulled out of the spin and back on to the road, he said, “My mother would never forgive me if I died with you.” Somehow to him it would be better to die alone than have his mother discover him with me.
But, things carried on, he was at the University of Windsor and I went to Western. At this point, his father was bribing him to date a girl who also went to Western. Bribing because he would give him $100 to take this girl to dinner and a movie and woo her. She was a medical student and Greek, from a good family.Steve did his duty like a good son. He took his money, picked up the girl, took her to dinner at the Olive Garden, pocketed the remaining $75 and came to my apartment. We never went out.
Time passed and these liaisons became less frequent as we both went on with other people. We still talked – whenever we could get away with no one else knowing.Several years later I stopped by his family’s restaurant. It was a Saturday and he was working in the kitchen all alone about to close up for the day. We were just talking – a lot had happened and we were catching up. I couldn’t help myself. Although we both had other people in our lives by that point – he got his doctor – I kissed him again. It was the same old jello insides feeling. It never left.
And then the unimaginable happened. His Dad walked in. We flew apart. His father said something in Greek and turned around and left. I begged Steve to tell me what he said.
Apparently, many years ago his father had somehow found out that we were seeing each other. Then, he had told Steve: “Fucking a fat girl is like riding a mo-ped. Its feels great until someone sees you – then its humiliating.” That day he caught us himself he told Steve, “I’ve seen you. You should be humiliated.”
Since we parted that day we kept in touch sporadically. He went to my wedding. I went to his. His parents were sunshine and light to me at the wedding mostly because I was pregnant at the time and brought my husband – they knew their baby was safe from me. We talk occasionally – once every 5 years or so, but I still look for him whenever I pass his parents house or the restaurant.
I truly believe that whatever lovers or friends have come before or after him that he was my first case of the perfect blend of friendship and lust. I’ve never ever had that inside jello feeling since. I’m not sure if it was passion or masochism – but I loved it either way.
His parents owned a restaurant that he had been working in after school and on weekends since he was about 9. Every Saturday and some Sundays I would tag along with our now mutual friend Mike, and sit at the counter in the restaurant for a couple of hours watching wresting or some other such “sport” but mostly watching my Steve watch wrestling or serve club sandwiches and fries.
Ah but he was so cute! He was kinda short – well shorter than I was but I was tall. He was kinda chubby – but so was I. Blonde, and Greek (which I was NOT) – very adorable. I followed him everywhere.
The summer of grade 8 he was dating Shelly. Meh, she wasn’t much to look at and as sharp as a pillow. But blessing of blessings for me she went away for half of the summer! That freed up Steve’s time to hang out with me!
Normally I would have used the fact that my family had a swimming pool to woo him but he has this terrifying fear of water. He wouldn’t even take baths. When he was 7 he and is friend were walking across the river to school and he watched his friend fall through the ice on the river and drown in front of him. He was a troubled soul…..how cool. Instead, I wooed him with my charm. I was always a funny chick – and he liked that – so we hung out. I also had big boobs from the time I was about 11 – so that helped. It certainly didn’t hurt.
One night after we had walked and talked for hours and hours I flat out said, “why CAN’T you like me the same way that you like Shelly?” I needed to know. He stood there, in front of a stop sign banging his head against it. “I just can’t” he said and we left it at that.
In the middle of grade nine the dynamic changed again. Steve started dating the girl that sat next to me in home room – Jennifer. Each night after school, Steve and Jennifer and Mike and I would walk home together. We would stop behind the abandoned gas station and Steve and Jennifer would make out for what, in my head, seemed like forever. Mike and I would chat – or should I say Mike would chat about comic books and science fiction and I would occasionally nod my head or grunt in acknowlegement. I tried not to watch – I really did because it gutted me.
It wasn’t as if Jennifer didn’t KNOW that I adored him. She did. And she would tell me things that I didn’t really want to ever hear. She told me that when they were necking she would reach down and feel him through his jeans. If I’d known then what I know now, I could have told her that she was totally full of shit. Chance would be a fine thing to find his miniscule penis through jeans.
My relationship with Jennifer lasted no longer than her relationship with him. I did my level best to see that that ended as much as I could. My maciavellian tendancies were h
Jennifer met a boy at the family trailer one weekend (yes – I said trailer). She cheated on MY Steve. As soon as I heard this I went to Steve. “Jennifer is cheating on you and I’m sure she’s going to break up with you – you should dump her first.” Then I ran right on back to Jennifer and said “Steve just told me he was going to break up with you – are you going to take that?” Boom. That was all it needed.
Steve and I stayed friends. I skipped ahead a grade in high school. He played football and joined the student council. I edited the school paper and graduated a year early. I moved away to go to University in Toronto.
One weekend when I came home to visit my parents, we met up to take yet another walk around the river. As we were headed home he asked me if I had any boyfriends now that I had moved away. Of course I had – I’m not a complete loser. But, I was smart enough to say “no one like you.”
He was smart enough to take that opportunity to reach up and kiss me – because by that time, fully grown I was 5’10” and he was 5’7”. I made a mental note to kiss him sitting down from then on.
It is hard for me to describe that kiss – not my first but my first big kiss. It was like a wave washed over me. Almost like when you feel the colour drain from you right before you throw up. Perhaps that isn’t the most appropriate analogy but, it was an actual physical feeling of having my insides turn to jello. Just jello.
We kissed a bit more and he walked me home. We kissed a bit more and he left. I remember what he was wearing – what I was wearing – the time of year – I remember everything about that day. It was a mythological awakening for me – as hokey as that sounds.
So, things carried on, he went away to university. I dropped out in second year and got a job in Toronto. I still came home the odd weekend. Strangely we didn’t ever seem to be free the same weekends.
To say his parents didn’t like me would perhaps be the understatement of the century. They were forever throwing down the phone when I called and screaming at him in greek. He told me not to worry about it but, I tended to wait until he called me. Once, that year, I sent him a letter (back in the day when people still did that kind of thing). According to him, his parents took it, opened it, and grounded him.
So what’s wrong with me? I’m not Greek. I’m a fat girl and I’m not Greek. That’s it.
In spite of that, we did hook up in the winter of what should have been his second year of university. He had dropped out too. He didn’t fit in at University, had tried to hurt himself and had in the fine Greek approach to mental health been sent away to family in Greece and England to recover his senses. Whatever they did, it seemed to work. He seemed back to himself although he did talk about his feelings, which in and of itself was a miracle.
He and I finally managed to coordinate weekends at home. He would have dinner with his family and then say he was going out for a drive. He would pick me up (no given time you see because it couldn’t be a date).
Many a night I sat by the door waiting and waiting and he never showed. He would call me the next week when he was back at school. He couldn’t get away – family showed up – couldn’t think of an excuse. I always forgave him in spite of myself. It was a Romeo and Juliet scenario that fed my need for drama.
Steve’s parents had bought him a little red sports car. It was an amazing car for a 20 year old to drive! It was their bribery gift to him to encourage him to lose weight. If you lose weight we will give you a sports car. So he lied and told them that he had lost weight and he got a car.
It was on our rides in that car that we finally made it past just making out. I was still at the point where if he opened my front door my insides went completely to jello. Hearing his voice on the phone sent me over the edge. His presence had a physical effect on me – as I’ve said before – in spite of myself. And in spite of the fact that he was one of the most selfish and uncaring lovers ever in the history of the planet – it worked for me and I sought him out whenever I could.
One night, driving back in the dead of winter from some lonely country road in what may have been the storm of the century, the car started to spin while we went around a huge turn on the way back in to town. I was terrified – he was terrified. And as we pulled out of the spin and back on to the road, he said, “My mother would never forgive me if I died with you.” Somehow to him it would be better to die alone than have his mother discover him with me.
But, things carried on, he was at the University of Windsor and I went to Western. At this point, his father was bribing him to date a girl who also went to Western. Bribing because he would give him $100 to take this girl to dinner and a movie and woo her. She was a medical student and Greek, from a good family.Steve did his duty like a good son. He took his money, picked up the girl, took her to dinner at the Olive Garden, pocketed the remaining $75 and came to my apartment. We never went out.
Time passed and these liaisons became less frequent as we both went on with other people. We still talked – whenever we could get away with no one else knowing.Several years later I stopped by his family’s restaurant. It was a Saturday and he was working in the kitchen all alone about to close up for the day. We were just talking – a lot had happened and we were catching up. I couldn’t help myself. Although we both had other people in our lives by that point – he got his doctor – I kissed him again. It was the same old jello insides feeling. It never left.
And then the unimaginable happened. His Dad walked in. We flew apart. His father said something in Greek and turned around and left. I begged Steve to tell me what he said.
Apparently, many years ago his father had somehow found out that we were seeing each other. Then, he had told Steve: “Fucking a fat girl is like riding a mo-ped. Its feels great until someone sees you – then its humiliating.” That day he caught us himself he told Steve, “I’ve seen you. You should be humiliated.”
Since we parted that day we kept in touch sporadically. He went to my wedding. I went to his. His parents were sunshine and light to me at the wedding mostly because I was pregnant at the time and brought my husband – they knew their baby was safe from me. We talk occasionally – once every 5 years or so, but I still look for him whenever I pass his parents house or the restaurant.
I truly believe that whatever lovers or friends have come before or after him that he was my first case of the perfect blend of friendship and lust. I’ve never ever had that inside jello feeling since. I’m not sure if it was passion or masochism – but I loved it either way.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Just another Thursday
It was a Thursday like every other Thursday I guess. I had gone into work not very motivated to do anything. At that time I was working for an insurance company in the customer service department as middle management. At about 10 am I was feeling out of sorts and made up some excuse about not feeling well to use to cancel my dentist appointment that I didn't really feel like going to. At 11 I went to a meeting. I think it ended about noon.
When I returned to my desk, one of the service reps popped their head over the partition that separated our desks.
I remember exactly what she said. "Its a women's voice but she said to tell you its your Dad calling."
I took the call and heard my Dad's voice. He said, "Its your Mom. She's gone." And my natural response was "Gone where?" I seriously thought that she had finally left him. Good for her.
Before that second, that day my father had never called me. Ever. The extent of all of our phone calls had been very limited. If my Dad answered the phone I would say "Is Mom there?" and he would call her. If she had to walk far to get to the phone, he would then say one of two things "what's the weather like there?" or "How much is gas today?"
But today he called and said my Mom was dead. I didn't ask for details. He passed the phone to my Mom's best friend and neigbour, Anne. She asked if she should call anyone else and I said that NO, I would call everyone and I would be there as soon as I could.
The details of the rest of the day I can recall like it happened yesterday. I called my cousins who one by one made the one hour journey to my parent's place. I called my husband who met me at home and we made the three and a half hour trip from Toronto. I called my brother who was strangely out wrangling cattle so I had to tell my sister in law.
I muddled through the hundred or so phone calls that had to be made. Each time I told some one that she was dead and heard their condolences and their shock, I barely believed what I was saying. "Hi, its Sandra calling - Darlene's daugher. I'm sorry to have to tell you this but my Mom died today. Yes, it is quite a shock. It was very sudden. We think it was likely her heart."
I handled the transportation for my brother from BC and my other family from Alberta and organized all the arrangements: private family viewing (which I did not attend), cremation and memorial service. I cleaned the house and fed everyone and made it through the five days of post death crap. I cried like I would never stop. But I am the person who you want to go to in a crisis - I am a star under pressure.
Before that day, my Mom and I used to talk every single day. I left home at 17 for University and work and we were never as close as when we were far far away. She used to keep a pen and paper near the phone and she would write down things to tell me when I called.
People used to say how alike we were. How we looked alike and talked alike - which is odd since I'm adopted. But if I showed you a picture of us, you'd say we look just alike. No one told me what a HUGE hole in my day that one missing phone call would leave.
From the time that my parents brought me home when I was 15 days old I was the most wanted kid ever. According to my mother they brought me out of the adoption office and she immediately handed me over to my grandmother - panicking "I don't know what to do with her - you take her!" My mother had only had 2 days notice that she was getting a newborn - I can cut her some slack.
My birth mother (if that's what we're calling her) was only 13 when I was born. I doubt very much that I was the product of promiscuous teen sex. Not many 13 year olds in rural Ontario lived the 60's life of free love. I've often speculate that I was the product of rape or incest but actually it never mattered - it was just a way to get me to my real Mom.
My Mother hadn't been healthy for years. Lets face it, my mother could never have kids. If we go all the way back to when I was 11 - my Mother took me with her to Weight Watchers for the very first time (some time later I will tell you of my ongoing hell of the continuous revolving door relationship with the weight loss industry). I started weighing 135 pounds and I ended up weighing 165. Obviously not a plan for growing children. But my mother gained weight too. We switched to TOPS (that's taking off pounds sensibly) and the same happened there - we both gained more.
She had her first heart attack at 38. I remember sitting in the hospital out of my mind with worry (my grandmother had died of multiple heart attacks and I had just lost my grandfather 6 months before - I was freaked out by illness). In the memory in my head, my Dad isn't there. He was likely home drunk or upset - my memory can't decide. I remember the doctor telling her that she should stop smoking and it would be better to weigh 350 pounds than to smoke another cigarette. She tried her level best to attain that weight and never did ever smoke again.
She was also diagnosed with diabetes right then. No drugs - straight to insulin. I was diagnosed several years later. But wait - didn't I say I was adopted? Yes - its just one of those divine ironies of our relationship. It turns out that my birth mother was diabetic and so was her mother who had died from complications of diabetes (so my birth mom was motherless at 13). Non-hereditary hereditary diabetes was just a coincidence really.
My mother was very funny. She had a lot of friends, especially from those groups of weight loss chicks. She always drove a bunch of people every where they went. Of course all outings centred on food. It was always fun to be with Darlene! She had a great sense of humour, a good hearty laugh and just loved to be around people.
But she wasn't all sunshine. She had been on "nerve pills" to calm her frazzled nerves since she was 16 so basically had been doped up on valium for 40 years. She never seemed dazed but knowing what I know now - she must have been in a little bit of a fog all the time.
She was the world's most unimaginative cook - hated it and was bad at it. Our family tells stories often of her legendary "thickened hamburger". It is basically hamburger, salt, pepper, starch and water and you will have to trust me that you DON'T want the recipe!
She did some funny stuff. She would call me and tell me about jobs posted in the newspaper to work in the restaurant owned by a guy I had a crush on for years. She always assumed that if I would just move back home, work at the restaurant that he would magically fall in love with me and all would be wonderful. She never did know that I'd been sleeping with him on the sly for years.
When I was little, she used to make us wear nasty matching outfits. I have photos (and NO I will not share them) of the two of us in baby blue checked flare leg polyester pants, matching blue patterned shirts with BIG WIDE collars and baby blue sleeveless vest that had giant swans on them. We were a styling Mother and daughter team.
She carried herself well for a 300 pound plus woman. She had a HUGE ass. We called it her "shelf bum". We would joke that she could set little trinkets and collectables on it and display them. She wore two uniforms. One - plain polyester pants with a sweatshirt that had some kind of kitty cat or sparkly thing on it - sometimes it had a turtleneck under it and sometimes not. And two - the same plain polyester pants with a shell (sleeveless tshirt to you and I) and a loud colourful polyester overblouse. This last outfit was accompanied by matching jewellery - earrings and necklaces - equally loud. This is likely where I developed my devotion to the big jewellery that matches each of MY outfits.
She was sometimes mean - just Mom mean - but mean. She would let me wear the same outfit time after time and then say "you're not wearing that, are you? That always makes you look fat."
And she was hysterically funny. As I was going through the planning of the funeral, my aunts, my mother's friends, cousins - just everyone called me. The conversation went something like this:
She was the master of organization. The keeper of lists - in shorthand. The holder together of the family and friends. She was my family's glue.
Once she was gone - we lost our glue. I lost my glue. And a lot of crap happened that she would not have liked.
My Dad fought with her brother a week after the funeral. We had cremated her and buried her above her parents. Then we added a block to the headstone thus creating a family plot. Her brother didn't like that. My Dad told him to fuck off. It was the first and last time he ever told anyone to fuck off. We haven't seen my Uncle since. He didn't even send a card when my Dad died.
There were divorces, weddings and births that she missed. That would have pissed her right off. She wanted to have grandkids more than anything.
For weeks after her death, while sitting at home or at work, I would pick up the phone, dial her number and stop myself part way through. It was almost as if my head didn't want know she wasn't there. And of course, at that point I would burst into tears. Even now 11 years later I am a blubbering puke everytime a Mom dies. Finding Nemo. What dreams may come. Pretty in Pink. (Okay, well the Mom didn't die in that one but she wasn't THERE. )
I haven't yet told you the story of how she died. My father told it about 100 times at the lunch after the memorial service (and there were no pallbearers btw). It goes something like this (although it is better in my dad's voice):
When I returned to my desk, one of the service reps popped their head over the partition that separated our desks.
I remember exactly what she said. "Its a women's voice but she said to tell you its your Dad calling."
I took the call and heard my Dad's voice. He said, "Its your Mom. She's gone." And my natural response was "Gone where?" I seriously thought that she had finally left him. Good for her.
Before that second, that day my father had never called me. Ever. The extent of all of our phone calls had been very limited. If my Dad answered the phone I would say "Is Mom there?" and he would call her. If she had to walk far to get to the phone, he would then say one of two things "what's the weather like there?" or "How much is gas today?"
But today he called and said my Mom was dead. I didn't ask for details. He passed the phone to my Mom's best friend and neigbour, Anne. She asked if she should call anyone else and I said that NO, I would call everyone and I would be there as soon as I could.
The details of the rest of the day I can recall like it happened yesterday. I called my cousins who one by one made the one hour journey to my parent's place. I called my husband who met me at home and we made the three and a half hour trip from Toronto. I called my brother who was strangely out wrangling cattle so I had to tell my sister in law.
I muddled through the hundred or so phone calls that had to be made. Each time I told some one that she was dead and heard their condolences and their shock, I barely believed what I was saying. "Hi, its Sandra calling - Darlene's daugher. I'm sorry to have to tell you this but my Mom died today. Yes, it is quite a shock. It was very sudden. We think it was likely her heart."
I handled the transportation for my brother from BC and my other family from Alberta and organized all the arrangements: private family viewing (which I did not attend), cremation and memorial service. I cleaned the house and fed everyone and made it through the five days of post death crap. I cried like I would never stop. But I am the person who you want to go to in a crisis - I am a star under pressure.
Before that day, my Mom and I used to talk every single day. I left home at 17 for University and work and we were never as close as when we were far far away. She used to keep a pen and paper near the phone and she would write down things to tell me when I called.
People used to say how alike we were. How we looked alike and talked alike - which is odd since I'm adopted. But if I showed you a picture of us, you'd say we look just alike. No one told me what a HUGE hole in my day that one missing phone call would leave.
From the time that my parents brought me home when I was 15 days old I was the most wanted kid ever. According to my mother they brought me out of the adoption office and she immediately handed me over to my grandmother - panicking "I don't know what to do with her - you take her!" My mother had only had 2 days notice that she was getting a newborn - I can cut her some slack.
My birth mother (if that's what we're calling her) was only 13 when I was born. I doubt very much that I was the product of promiscuous teen sex. Not many 13 year olds in rural Ontario lived the 60's life of free love. I've often speculate that I was the product of rape or incest but actually it never mattered - it was just a way to get me to my real Mom.
My Mother hadn't been healthy for years. Lets face it, my mother could never have kids. If we go all the way back to when I was 11 - my Mother took me with her to Weight Watchers for the very first time (some time later I will tell you of my ongoing hell of the continuous revolving door relationship with the weight loss industry). I started weighing 135 pounds and I ended up weighing 165. Obviously not a plan for growing children. But my mother gained weight too. We switched to TOPS (that's taking off pounds sensibly) and the same happened there - we both gained more.
She had her first heart attack at 38. I remember sitting in the hospital out of my mind with worry (my grandmother had died of multiple heart attacks and I had just lost my grandfather 6 months before - I was freaked out by illness). In the memory in my head, my Dad isn't there. He was likely home drunk or upset - my memory can't decide. I remember the doctor telling her that she should stop smoking and it would be better to weigh 350 pounds than to smoke another cigarette. She tried her level best to attain that weight and never did ever smoke again.
She was also diagnosed with diabetes right then. No drugs - straight to insulin. I was diagnosed several years later. But wait - didn't I say I was adopted? Yes - its just one of those divine ironies of our relationship. It turns out that my birth mother was diabetic and so was her mother who had died from complications of diabetes (so my birth mom was motherless at 13). Non-hereditary hereditary diabetes was just a coincidence really.
My mother was very funny. She had a lot of friends, especially from those groups of weight loss chicks. She always drove a bunch of people every where they went. Of course all outings centred on food. It was always fun to be with Darlene! She had a great sense of humour, a good hearty laugh and just loved to be around people.
But she wasn't all sunshine. She had been on "nerve pills" to calm her frazzled nerves since she was 16 so basically had been doped up on valium for 40 years. She never seemed dazed but knowing what I know now - she must have been in a little bit of a fog all the time.
She was the world's most unimaginative cook - hated it and was bad at it. Our family tells stories often of her legendary "thickened hamburger". It is basically hamburger, salt, pepper, starch and water and you will have to trust me that you DON'T want the recipe!
She did some funny stuff. She would call me and tell me about jobs posted in the newspaper to work in the restaurant owned by a guy I had a crush on for years. She always assumed that if I would just move back home, work at the restaurant that he would magically fall in love with me and all would be wonderful. She never did know that I'd been sleeping with him on the sly for years.
When I was little, she used to make us wear nasty matching outfits. I have photos (and NO I will not share them) of the two of us in baby blue checked flare leg polyester pants, matching blue patterned shirts with BIG WIDE collars and baby blue sleeveless vest that had giant swans on them. We were a styling Mother and daughter team.
She carried herself well for a 300 pound plus woman. She had a HUGE ass. We called it her "shelf bum". We would joke that she could set little trinkets and collectables on it and display them. She wore two uniforms. One - plain polyester pants with a sweatshirt that had some kind of kitty cat or sparkly thing on it - sometimes it had a turtleneck under it and sometimes not. And two - the same plain polyester pants with a shell (sleeveless tshirt to you and I) and a loud colourful polyester overblouse. This last outfit was accompanied by matching jewellery - earrings and necklaces - equally loud. This is likely where I developed my devotion to the big jewellery that matches each of MY outfits.
She was sometimes mean - just Mom mean - but mean. She would let me wear the same outfit time after time and then say "you're not wearing that, are you? That always makes you look fat."
And she was hysterically funny. As I was going through the planning of the funeral, my aunts, my mother's friends, cousins - just everyone called me. The conversation went something like this:
I don't want to upset you dear (dear is optional) but your Mother
always said that she didn't want pallbearers at her funeral.
Yes I know, she didn't want people sitting around after the funeral
talking about how heavy the coffin was.
That's right - and she doesn't want to go to Joe's Funeral Parlour
(names changed to protect the innocent) either.
Yes - I know - she went to school with Mrs. Joe and she doesn't want
her to see her in her underwear.....
She was the master of organization. The keeper of lists - in shorthand. The holder together of the family and friends. She was my family's glue.
Once she was gone - we lost our glue. I lost my glue. And a lot of crap happened that she would not have liked.
My Dad fought with her brother a week after the funeral. We had cremated her and buried her above her parents. Then we added a block to the headstone thus creating a family plot. Her brother didn't like that. My Dad told him to fuck off. It was the first and last time he ever told anyone to fuck off. We haven't seen my Uncle since. He didn't even send a card when my Dad died.
There were divorces, weddings and births that she missed. That would have pissed her right off. She wanted to have grandkids more than anything.
For weeks after her death, while sitting at home or at work, I would pick up the phone, dial her number and stop myself part way through. It was almost as if my head didn't want know she wasn't there. And of course, at that point I would burst into tears. Even now 11 years later I am a blubbering puke everytime a Mom dies. Finding Nemo. What dreams may come. Pretty in Pink. (Okay, well the Mom didn't die in that one but she wasn't THERE. )
I haven't yet told you the story of how she died. My father told it about 100 times at the lunch after the memorial service (and there were no pallbearers btw). It goes something like this (although it is better in my dad's voice):
Darlene went into the bathroom right as Price is Right
started. I was sitting in my chair and fell asleep you know.
Next thing, I wake up and hear the end theme music for Price is
Right. I think, Darlene'sbeen in there a long time. I
should take her a magazine. So, I
picked up the flyers and I took
them to her - and there she was,
dead. On the toilet. So I
threw a towel over her and
called 911.
My mother would have been suitably horrifed. First because she died on the toilet and ick - who wants to do that (it was sudden cardiac death - her weight and her heart and her diabetes did eventually get her). Secondly that my Dad told the story to EVERYONE he met, for years and years.
I've often wondered if my Mom knew she was going to die. The night before she did die, we had talked on the phone (of course) and she had give me this big speech about how she had always done exactly what she pleased and had never lived her life wrapped in cotton wool because of her health. Weird at the time but after words appropriate. In the weeks before she died, she had made me set up pre authorized payment for all of her and Dad's bills and given me her sewing machine for no reason. BUT, the reason that I think she didn't know, was that there was one peice of eldeberry pie left and she loved eldeberry pie - she never would have left it behind.
My kids are at a funny age now. They've seen pictures of my Mom -and they will say things like "Is that your Mom? She's dead." Very blunt and to the point. When they ask me how she died, I tell them she died from a broken heart. Its true kind of because I know that on that normal Thurday my heart broke too.
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