I just stood there...
I watched her being beaten. I watched her fighting him off. I watched him rip her clothes, force her down and, ultimately, force himself upon her.
I watched it
and I did nothing
in my own house.
I can't even remember her fucking name.
I watched her being beaten. I watched her fighting him off. I watched him rip her clothes, force her down and, ultimately, force himself upon her.
I watched it
and I did nothing
in my own house.
I can't even remember her fucking name.
My grandmother had taken this girl under her wing. She had been staying at our house for a few days. She was a few years older than me, blonde, cute. I don't know what was happening in her life but she was there - until she wasn't.
I grew up being molested, I lost my virginity at 13 (and in a shitty way), my entire concept of love was fucked up, to say the least. Basically, if I wasn't treated like shit, then obviously, they didn't care. Because you only fight with/for the things we care about the most, right?
I was great at picking assholes who would treat me like I thought I deserved to be treated. I recall being forced into the shower and scalding hot water turned on as everyone laughed and held the door closed. There was the guy who would lock my head between his thighs and burn me with his cigarette. I'd been strangled, beat up, brutalized, raped, controlled - all by the guys who were supposed to "love" me. But - this was the first time I saw it happening to someone else. I was 16 years old.
I honestly have not thought about that day in so long and I don't even know how it all started but my grandparents were both gone (which was rare) and the guy I was seeing came over. At some point he began trying to talk to her and when she wasn't open to his flirting he began to step it up and get aggressive about it. I got jealous and we got into an argument so I locked myself in my room.
Then came the screams and crying.
I stood in the family room looking into the dining room. He had her on the floor, his knees digging into her upper arms as he was hitting her. Her kicking and screaming not stopping him at all.
I remember yelling and telling him to stop but he didn't even seem to hear me. Maybe nothing came out of my throat, maybe I just imagined yelling. I don't know. But I stood there.
I just fucking stood there.
He got her pants down and forced himself in, and I stood there. My throat clenched, tears in my eyes, and I stood there watching the nightmare unfold in front of me, like the many times as a kid, I would lay on the bed and watch the shadows dance across the ceiling from the trees and just imagine myself somewhere else until it was safe to come back into my head...I just stood there.
He finished, got up, walked over and grabbed me by the throat and told me to keep my fucking mouth shut, and walked out the door.
The girl got up and yelled at me for not doing anything and I defended him! I fucking defended HIM! What the actual fuck was wrong with me? She didn't deserve that, NOBODY deserved that. I justified the entire ordeal, placed the blame on her for being a fucking girl and encouraging it in some way. I am not proud of this, not in the least. But, karma has a way of coming back at you - I paid many times over for this, including being raped myself, but those are other stories for other days.
She grabbed her stuff and took off.
My grandmother questioned me about it all later and, like I was told, I didn't say a fucking word. I never saw the girl again.
For the majority of my life I was with assholes who treated me like dirt, really until I left my first husband. About that time I grew a brain and found myself...I also found the ability to run toward a fight lol. God help the person who is abusing someone around me as I'm the first to jump in and get in the middle to protect someone else. Many times without thinking about my own safety, but I'm guessing maybe this memory is where it stems from.
I can't even remember her name...
God Dammit, Alice!
I'd hear the gun go off in my head a million times to try to prepare myself for what it might really sound like. I had fired a gun, I knew how loud it was. I imagined the kick back and the smell...I tried not to imagine the impact but it was really hard not to.
I spent most of my years growing up listening to my grandfather and grandmother arguing. I don't remember what it would be about usually, but the ending was always the same.
My grandmother would say something, he'd say something back, and then after she responded it was always "God dammit, Alice! I'll just go on out and blow my damned head off, then you can be happy. Hell, you'll all be happy once I'm gone!" Then he'd storm off down the stairs to the basement. Occasionally he'd change it up and offer to take her with him too.
Being about 6 or 7 this was completely tragic. This was even more terrifying than when I thought my friend being grounded meant like hamburger - that scared the shit out of me...this was damn near mortifying.
I'd run to my room and hide in the corner between the bed and the wall and plug my ears and hum to myself just waiting.
and waiting
and waiting.
I'd hear the gun go off in my head a million times to try to prepare myself for what it might really sound like. I had fired a gun, I knew how loud it was. I imagined the kick back and the smell...I tried not to imagine the impact but it was really hard not to.
Eventually, as the years went by, I just kind of got used to it, and even though I would still brace myself for the sound, there were parts of me that wished that he would.
Crouched in my corner,
thumbs in my ears,
rocking myself...
Just do it already.
Put me out of this fucking misery.
Relieve me from this pain, and filth, and shame that I live in.
JUST FUCKING DO IT!!!
He never did, but by the time he finally passed away I swear I had imagined it 1000 different ways, many times by my own hands.
Hardened Criminal - Part 3 - The Riot
People were grabbing and yelling and hitting others and chaos was in full effect. There were way too many people in that block and too many unstable emotions mixing.
So, I was back in county jail. And this time it looked to be for quite a while.
My deal for a reduced/misdemeanor sentence was revoked, I was a felon now and I was going to do 2 years.
Happy Fucking New Year.
The jail was getting severely overcrowded at that point and many of the prisoners waiting for space at the county mental institution were bunking in our block.
Each small 5x8 cell was still maintained by one inmate (thankfully). There was one metal platform bolted into the floor to sleep on, there was a non-flammable mattress pad and a narrow metal writing desk, bolted to the floor. There was also a small metal shelf to store your toiletries.
Those who were overflow inmates had mattress pads lined along the outer walls of the block. At the time there were about 8-10 people, all mentally unstable to some degree.
Luckily I got a cell and wasn't forced to stay in the common area.
I was cell #1. What that meant was that I had to be the first one up and out of my cell in line for breakfast, and most everything else, but I was extra nervous about not being late to get in line as that caused quite a disruption among everyone. (That may be the reason I am chronically early to everything now)
Like usual, most days were spent playing spades and smoking hand rolled cigarettes. I much preferred to buy packs of smokes but those were super expensive and I didn't have a ton of commissary money, so I got pretty frugal. The one splurge I loved was getting the big bag of Koolaid. Not to make and drink, but to just lick it off my finger like one of those FunDip packages. It was cheap and it was sugar - all good things!
I also occupied part of my time by having a little flirtmance with one of the dudes on the laundry crew. We would slip letters and food offerings back and forth during laundry exchange. It was nice to have something to focus on that didn't include ticking off days.
Unfortunately, this bothered CatGirl.
CatGirl was one of the overflow women in our block. She was super thin and stalked around much like a cat on prey. She had really dark skin and would stand in the shadows just outside my cell at night and just stare in at me, it freaked the hell out of me.
Most days she just spent her time slinking around the outer walls of the block, she didn't really interact with anyone and when she did, it was usually fairly aggressive. I just tried to stay away from that shit - until the day that I couldn't.
I don't remember how it started, but I can tell you how it escalated and ended.
She came at me.
And, of course, my first reaction was to swing - hard. Unfortunately, I missed her face and punched the cinder block wall - hard. There was some wrestling around, some scratching, punching and pulling, and then everyone else began getting involved.
People were grabbing and yelling and hitting others and chaos was in full effect. There were way too many people in that block and too many unstable emotions mixing.
As I looked up I saw one of the ladies I hung around with coming towards us with the industrial sized hot water dispenser. I ducked away just as she proceeded to dump it on CatGirl.
There were screams of pain and guards rushing in yelling and then -
LOCKDOWN
We were punished by having our cells searched where they tossed every single thing in your room looking for contraband, we were strip searched and we were all in lockdown for 24 hours. My friend with the water was placed in solitary. CatGirl was placed in the infirmary.
My hand was swollen and hurt so fucking bad and my knuckles were scraped up and bleeding from the concrete but, you know what, I felt like a bad ass. I was in a motherfucking jail brawl y'all. ;)
Achievement unlocked.
Now, of course, when my husband tells the story, It was a giant prison riot with shivs and gangs and I was the one who dumped the scalding hot water on her. Cuz, you know, I'm hard like that. LOL.
I really don't remember what happened after that, but somehow, after they factored in all the time I had already been in jail and all the shock time I did and the fact that they were severely overcrowded, I was only in there for 3 weeks and they let me go.
Just go,
leave,
walk away.
Time served.
There was no probation, no restitution, no nothing.
Seriously?
All the shit I went through and I could have just sat there for a few more weeks at the very beginning and not had to jump all those bullshit hoops of probation?
Son Of A Bitch!
I returned home to my grandparents and went back to high school to finish off my senior year. There were just a few months left till graduation. Of course, I was told I wouldn't graduate because I was half a credit short. I sure as hell wasn't going to take their stupid correspondence course to get it because if I wasn't going to get the pomp and circumstance of graduating with everyone else then who the fuck cared. I sure as hell didn't.
I was headed full steam ahead to Reckless Blvd with no chance of slowing down.
Life After Beige
The after pain of the cut was sort of therapeutic. A constant reminder that the pain I was feeling was real. That I was still there - I could still feel. And the thing is - I had control of that pain. I could decide how much to cut, when to do it, where on my body and when it would stop. It was the only thing in my life I had control over. It was my goto drug for many, many years.
I used to be depressed. I fought depression for years. Actually even as a child I had depression. I also had stomach problems, shingles, bladder infections, and a whole lot of UTIs.
My grandmother would take me to the doctor all the time, nobody could "fix" me. I was a stressed out kid who became a stressed out adult.
Initially, I was a cutter. I didn't know that was even a "thing" back then. I just wanted a release. To feel actual, physical pain as a way to express some of the emotional shit that was inside me. Somehow, seeing the blood would make me feel just a tiny bit better. I wouldn't cut deep, just enough to see the drops of blood. The after pain of the cut was sort of therapeutic. A constant reminder that the pain I was feeling was real. That I was still there - I could still feel. And the thing is - I had control of that pain. I could decide how much to cut, when to do it, where on my body and when it would stop. It was the only thing in my life I had control over. It was my goto drug for many, many years.
I tried alcohol, though I'm a really bad drunk. Now that's not to say that I don't tie one on, occasionally. Back in the day - I tried to keep it perpetually tied for quite a while. But alcohol didn't work. I wasn't a "fun" drunk back then, I was a sad drunk and I hate hangovers and to this day, I will "will" myself not to throw up. I mean, seriously. I will do anything in the world to not puke. Even though I know I will feel better - I just can't....I can't. It's the worst thing in the world to me, lol. You'd think I'd get flu shots and things - but I'm too afraid it will backfire and I'd get the flu....seriously, I can't throw up.
In high school I used to get stoned. We'd get high all the fucking time. I'd laugh and laugh. This one time my friend Trish, her brother, and I were sitting at the top of her stairs one day and swore we were on a boat. We'd feel it rocking and just laugh our fucking asses off - at nothing. Actually, that was after smoking some hash. Still. I got high, it was fun but it wasn't the release I was looking for. Btw, I tried getting high again - just cuz, you know, it's legal here - now it makes me sick as shit. No joke.
We tripped acid, once. That was enough. Luckily it was a good trip. Actually it was a fucking hysterical trip. Holy shit - I gotta tell this one!
I was 17, living with Trish and her family. She had THE perpetual party house. It was movie quality legendary. No lie. Anyway, at some point she had the bright idea that we should do it. (See, I'm not the only crazy one)
So, there was a keg in the basement (it was also our bedroom). Ice leaking all over the carpet - it was fucking soaked. Some how I got it in my head that if I touched the ground I was going to melt into it. Of course, I got Trish on board with this because, she was my best friend and dammit I wasn't gonna let her melt.
We used Kleenexs and paper towels as our floatation devices. Kleenex +waterlogged carpet = mess
We had wet paper clumps everywhere in the house, all over our legs. It was awful. Her sister came home and was fucking PISSED!!! (oh, and did I mention it was her bedroom too....?)
I recall the toilet paper breathing heavily in the bathroom. Oh, at one point I was sitting in the living room looking into the kitchen as everyone was playing poker or quarters...I don't know. But, anyway, I swore I was watching tv. Every once in a while one of them would get up and act out a commercial even. It was cool till someone actually walked out of the kitchen and I freaked the fuck out! You can't come OUT! WTF!
It was funny and I never did it again. I was too afraid of getting a bad trip.
The next step in my life was moving to cocaine. I'll get to the Jeff story eventually, but when I met him, he was a dealer...so ya.
I was a quick addict. Snorted, never needles. Morning till, well, morning usually. Bloody noses and sores, didn't matter. The numbness in my teeth and the bitterness down the back of my throat was the sweetest thing I knew.
There were many times I was convinced I was having a heart attack. One time I nearly died and too many others when I had wanted to.
I saw many of my friends that became so addicted they became completely different people, did things that I'm sure they regret - hell, I am sure I did too.
I was knee deep in cocaine and drinking when I got the most sobering news. I was pregnant. Not only was a I pregnant, I was 16 weeks pregnant. You know - another story.....it's a good one too.
I got away from all that after that little wake up, but sought the legal solution for my depression. I got antidepressants. I tried them all. Most would make me sick to my stomach (see irrational fear of puking above), but then I'd find one that would work. I'd be an emotionless zombie. I'd know I was sad but couldn't cry no matter how hard I tried. I also couldn't get "happy", I was level.
Better yet, I was beige. Actually, I surrounded myself in beige. My house, my walls, my furniture...everything. I wore beige. My shoes were beige. My sheets were beige. My fucking dishes were beige. Neutral. I was emotionally stuck in neutral.
Inside I was dying to FEEL something. I'd spent so many years trying to numb it, to escape it, to change it and now - I had.
The chaos of my life was still surrounding me. There was no lack of drama, for sure. But as I finally started to get my shit together and stand up for myself and begin to grow my own set of balls I was also completely incapable of finding REAL emotions that I could grab hold of. Everything was in auto pilot.
It took a long time to find my colors. And, you know what, as I look around right now - the only thing beige in my house is the carpet. It's a rental house.
Me, some random stripper, and Trish. No, those are not my panties he's holding. He did have an impressive mullet though. This was taken at Joshuas in Grandview, MO. It was a club in a crappy hotel that we went to ALL the time. I was 21, I think Trish was still 20 - not even legal ;) Course, we did lots of things that weren't legal then LOL! I loved her dearly, one of my eternally EPIC BFFs
Door To Door
Julie and I put on our Girl Scout uniforms and decided to go door-to-door collecting for "Unicef". Cuz we wanted money to buy something stupid that I don't even remember.
My friend, LeeAnne, reminded me today after reading the "Clown" post, that it was that same summer that her and I, dressed in our clown gear, and went door to door in her neighborhood trick-or-treating.
In the middle of summer.
I also recall being about 8, maybe. My friend across the street, Julie and I put on our Girl Scout uniforms and decided to go door-to-door collecting for "Unicef". Cuz we wanted money to buy something stupid that I don't even remember.
We got so mad when people would give us checks. How the hell were we going to cash checks! We dumped that shit in the creek.
We were raking in the dough though. Many trips to 7-11 were made and we were on a sugar fucking high!
Then her mom started questioning it. My friend was not as skilled at acting (i.e. lying) as I was.....damnit.
BUSTED
Holy shit balls! Our fucking parents were pissed! We had to dig the checks out of the slimy water, we were made to go back to everyones houses and apologize in person. We had to work for weeks and do chores and pay the money to Unicef....OMG....we had no idea what we were doing but we knew we weren't going to do it again.
At least not without clown makeup!
What stupid shit did you do as a kid? Time to fess up!
Loss of Innocence
I know, without a doubt that everyone will fuck you. Every One. I don't care who you are.
When you are young, you don't see people as different races, you don't see rich vs poor. People aren't born evil, racist, hateful, abusive, etc. They are taught that. Children learn from those they are surrounded by. Children trust their caregivers unconditionally.
They trust.
Unconditionally.
Devious little shit, wasn't I?
The definition of trust, according to Merriam-Webster is the belief that someone or something is reliable, good, honest, effective, etc.
I've always said I don't trust anyone, but really...if we go by the definition, I do trust some people - but never unconditionally. I never have. I've come close. I trust Gary in as much as I've ever trusted anyone, maybe even a little more. But I know, without a doubt that everyone will fuck you. Every One. I don't care who you are.
That's not to say that I am always waiting for it - because I am a hard believer in the power of positive thinking. Positive energy works miracles. No bullshit.
What you believe you can achieve.
Trust is a hard thing. I have faith and hope when it comes to people, not trust.
Christmas, obviously. My new doll is up on the couch. I loved her.
It's funny how certain things take you right back to a moment. I recall I had this doll, she was tall, one of those walk-with-me types. She wore the same size clothes as me basically. So, that would put me at about 4 yrs old maybe.
I had this shorts set on. It was white with these tiny little green flowers on it. My doll could wear it too, though it was a little big on her. It was my favorite.
I remember being called into my grandmother's bedroom, I remember sitting on the edge of the bed. I remember the sound of his zipper. The shadows on the wall in the late afternoon sun. I can still hear him tell me to be quiet. To touch it. To kiss it.
She watched from a safe distance.
My doll.
She never told.
Neither did I.
It was a "cousin". Everyone was somehow family but I never understood who came from where and how we were all connected. His name was Willie, or Bill.
Thankfully I didn't see him very often. Thankfully it never happened again. He was just the first.
One little fucked up footnote to this story. When i was about 12, Willie came to visit. He had married a Vietnamese woman and they were getting ready to have a baby. They named her Sharon. I swear to fucking God. I wished so badly that I would have spoken up. But, in the grand scheme of everything else at that point, it wouldn't have mattered.
It begins with a baby on a bus
Don't get me wrong, aside from the dark and dirty secrets, my grandparents were good to me, they provided well for me, and I loved them because they were all I had and I knew no different. They were FAR better than the alternative of growing up with the people who gave birth to me.
Georgeanne and Mirl, my real parents
I was born in Minot, ND on the Air Force Base. My real dad was stationed there, married to my real mother. He was 18 and she was 16 - super young and dumb.
The story goes that my father came home to find me alone in the apartment with nothing on but a dirty diaper and a high fever, I was 5 months old. Apparently my mother was next door in bed with his best friend...Many stories have circulated about what horrific acts transpired after that revelation, none of them were good.
Ultimately, he shipped me on a bus to live with his parents, giving up full legal rights to me. I arrived in Kansas City in the middle of the night with pneumonia and no provisions. My grandparents found themselves parents again. He left for Vietnam.
My Aunt Helen and Uncle Don and 2 of my cousins, my real dad and my (grandmother) mom. This would have been shortly before I was born.
Dude looks like Gomer Pile, lol. It's okay, you can laugh. He was/is a really tall, lanky guy and should be instructed to never, ever, stand like that.
I was known as the "black sheep" of the family. I was Georgeanne and Mirl's daughter. Two fuck ups that had another fuck up, that was now going to fuck up my grandparents life.
Don't get me wrong, aside from the dark and dirty secrets, my grandparents were good to me, they provided well for me, and I loved them because they were all I had and I knew no different. They were FAR better than the alternative of growing up with the people who gave birth to me.
My grandmother was a school teacher who later became the librarian at a Junior High - in a different school district, thank God! And my grandfather, he was retired from something that he got a pension from. He was always doing different things. He had inherited a farm when his mother passed away (I was like 6 maybe, but I remember she died on the toilet, lol.)
Anyway, people would pay to come fish at the farm. He stocked the ponds with catfish from Arkansas and would clean and prep fish for various restaurants around. I was the ultimate tomboy. I ran around in cutoff shorts with no shirt. I had super short hair and everyone swore I was a boy. I was a hellova fisherman too.
I'll save the dirty truth of the farm for another post....
My grandmother had 2 grown daughters that were well into their own lives and in their 30's. My Aunt Barbara (Florida) despised me but my Aunt Judy (Michigan) was always nice to me. I had an Aunt Helen and Uncle Don and their 3 kids, my cousins, Rhonda, Terri and Debbie. I loved them. They were the family I wanted...and needed, but they didn't know that till much later in life.
My cousins, Terri, Rhonda, Debbie and Me (2yr old) Notice the saddest, ugliest Christmas tree in the history of EVER! It looks like it has cobwebs all over it!
The REAL Parents
Like so many others, my real dad came back from Vietnam all fucked in the head. He moved to Leavenworth, KS and got a job at the penitentiary there. He married some woman who had 5 kids of her own, one who was the SPITTING image of my real dad....it was never admitted to me though, but come on! She was Latino, her kids were all Latino and then there's the young boy who was a scrawny built twig with eyes exactly like me and my real dad....but whatever.
On the back of the photo it reads:
1305 hrs, Thu 23 July '70
V.C. Prisoner Of War Camp, East of Pleiku A.F.B.
(my real dad is the one holding a gun)
On far right, a POW interpreter, on my left, AIC Tarloton, a guard for POWs. On his left, two V.C. who was captured up on Monkey Mountain which is not shown in this photo.
Mirl Hobbs
They'd all come over once a year on Christmas Eve for dinner and he'd play "Dad for a Day". He was a stranger, he wasn't my dad. But I'd wonder why he never took me with them. If he was my dad, why didn't he want me? Why did he want all those other kids and not me?
I'd hide in my closet (that was my safe zone) and cry about it every fucking year - on Christmas Eve....ugh. You know what else, I don't ever remember getting a present from him. Not once.
He's currently living in Florida, in some back wood, nothing town, I think, with a different wife who is legit psycho. We never speak. I'll have to do a separate post about that whole fucked up situation. Seriously, like graveyard curses and multiple personalities....it's quite a tale.
No idea who the woman was. But, he did come visit at some point when I was about 2.
My real mother...wow, this one's good. How much time do we have? I'll try to condense it as much as I can.
So Georgeanne, eventually went under the alias of Connie, was 16 when she had me. She divorced my real dad and married multiple times and ultimately had 6 kids by 5 different men.
The funny thing is that we all grew up within 20 miles of each other and never fucking knew it.
I remember I met her one time when I was about 7. She came to the door one night and when I opened it she said she was my mother. She had a baby with her, my sister, Michelle. I don't remember anything else about that night and didn't see her again.
At one point, when i was about 12 we drove out to some shit-ass no-tell motel she was staying at in Independence, MO for me to meet her and she was so fucked up she couldn't even answer the door.
I finally met her, for real, when i was 18. After a long string of shit, my parents decided I should go live with her - a total stranger, in New Hampshire...they flew me out there and I was left standing in an airport not having a clue who I was looking for or if anyone would actually show up.
She was an alcoholic and a drug addict. A professional liar and had no basic respect for anything or anyone. She had two of my sisters living there, the only two that hadn't been taken away or given up. They were about 7 and 8 at the time and had been raised to steal everything they could get their hands on and run the prescription scams for her. They'd never had rules or boundaries of any kind, they were out of control. It was heartbreaking.
We ended up in jail together one time - that was one for the books. Got arrested with my real mother, lol. Stealing, of course. Not that I'd never been to jail before, but this time I actually hadn't done anything.
This is one of the few pictures I have of her. This was in 1991, surprisingly she's really lucid in this pic and looks to be doing well. Well, aside from living in the basement of her husbands parents house - with her husband, the two girls, and her mentally deficient boyfriend - who was younger than me....omg. I'll get to that one eventually. The girls had so many issues. I tried to be there, I did, but at some point I had to cut ties to protect myself and, ultimately, my newborn son. (another story, of course)
I recall one night, would have been in '91, sitting at the dinner table with mom and dad (grandparents). The TV was always on in the living room and they'd listen to the news while we ate. Anyway, they did this story about prescription scammers and I shot out of my seat and yelled that that was what my real mom was doing and sure as shit! By the time I got in there they were flashing her and her husbands pics on the screen! You know what, I called the tv station and tried to turn the bitch in lol.
I don't even know if she's alive currently. I went to a grocery store she was working at once and went through her line just to see if she'd recognize me. Nope...not even a glimmer.
Anyway - after all is said and done, I suppose I am glad I had the life I did. Maybe in my next post I'll talk a bit more about the reality of life with my grandparents. Maybe I should wait...we'll see.
My mom(grandmother) and me. I'm guessing it was my first birthday. I believe in the back that is "Aunt" May. She lived to be 103. My mom passed away about 15 years ago.
and this one time, at Clown Camp....
I was so convinced that clowning was what I wanted to do, I made my parents take me to the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College when we went to Florida for vacation. I was going to join the circus!
wait, what?
I figured since it's almost Halloween, I'd share this lovely nugget with you. When I was about 14, my goal in life was to be a clown in the circus. For realsies.
Obviously, I was one of the "cool" kids, right?
Btw, that was my autographed Shel Silverstein...I'd kill to have it back EDIT - my super amazing, I don’t deserve you, husband tracked down a signed copy and now I actually DO own it again <3
(Now, since we are new here and I haven't posted enough to tell you about my fucked up life, we will start slow and easy.)
I grew up with my Grandparents, I called them Mom and Dad (that whole story another time)...what I'm getting at is that they were old. Old as fuck. They were 55 when they got me as a baby, so to me they were fucking ancient! Course, the closer I get to that age the younger it seems, but seriously they were fucking old.
ya, it was like that
So old, that they had no desire to play (deal) with me. We had nothing in common, two generations between us and a cigarette smoked haze of "Go Away" permanently lingered in the air.
They loved nothing more than to get me involved in anything that would occupy me or get me out of the house. I did Brownies/Girl Scouts, baton twirling (sucked), guitar lessons (learned one song, badly), played the flute (was pretty good at that one, but never as good as Tasha Kovich - she was the bomb). I took horseback riding lessons, swimming lessons, went to Sunday School (but skipped a lot to go to 7-11 and get candy), even went to a "finishing school" kind of thing (the only thing I took away from that is that you look like a cow when you chew gum)...you get the idea.
Yes, my love of footed jammies is legendary. I'm actually wearing some right this very minute. Go ahead, it's ok to be jealous. It's also okay to be jealous of that lovely couch. Oh, and notice behind me, my Dad's homemade slippers that he crafted himself from the hide of a sheep or some shit. Ugliest fucking slippers ever, and I swear I think he wore those till he died.
Ok, so it was getting close to Halloween and I needed a costume for school. I got a pattern to make a clown costume and found a giant metal ring that I was trying to sew into the waist. Me, being the klutz that i am managed to sew through my freaking finger. LITERALLY!
I damned near passed out from the pain while trying to get the needle out!
Not my image - but the same damned thing - Geezus Fucking Christ!!!! I still get knots in my tummy looking at it.
After a few days, I did manage to finish my costume, albeit by hand sewing. (that trauma lasted for years!) I had a big, oversized red and wide ruffle collar, a red nose and big red floppy shoes. Topped off with a giant rainbow striped afro and a foam lizard on a stick as a pet. I was Silly The Clown. (not very creative, but it's what I had)
Shortly after, I found out that there was a clown camp happening through our church. Hell ya people! I already had a costume and everything! (apparently clowns must have been all the rage back then, I mean really...a clown camp? WTF?)
My first brush with fame
I learned everything I possibly could that week. I was now a professional! We went to a hospital and a mall, I made balloon animals and the whole nine yards!
I got a couple birthday party gigs and even got hired by the local Chamber of Commerce to work a trade show. Made $100 and thought I had officially hit the big time!
I spent tons of time learning magic tricks and even got a unicycle. Yes, I had a unicycle. No, I was not very good at it. Hell, I could barely ride a bicycle.
There is still some argument about whether this is me or my bestie LeeAnne. We were two peas in a pod back then so who knows, it's all the same. Although, i was better at riding it than her ;p
I was so convinced that clowning was what I wanted to do, I made my parents take me to the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College when we went to Florida for vacation. I was going to join the circus!
FYI, it's actually a VERY difficult school to get in to.
Course, that never happened. Instead, I got into boys, Madonna and all the wrong things. But that's another story for another time.
Ok, well, some things never change ;)
Hello, World!