Why any parent would trust a sixteen-year-old version of myself with their offspring is kind of baffling to a now twenty-three year old me. At present some might describe me as exhibiting the following endearing traits: neurotic, obsessive, a bit impulsive and at times impractical. Imagine how a how lot of adolescent angst, raging hormones, and unsightly acne might intensify the manifestation of these characteristics. Combine this with my aversion to all things furry, whiny, un-housebroken/potty-trained and you come up with the worst caregiver ever-other than Michael Jackson (may his pedophile soul rest in peace).
Yet for some mysterious reason, the suburban yuppies of Northern New Jersey not only entrusted me with their newborns and beloved children, they paid me twelve dollars an hour to watch their mini-devils. The summer before my junior year of high school was a long one. I was license-less and counting down the days until my seventeenth birthday which coincided with the start of senior year. By day I was a lifeguard at the local NORC (Naturally Occurring Retirement Community), protecting the lives of the Elderly Women's Water Aerobics group and working on my tan. By night I was Mephanie, babysitter extraordinaire, keeper of children, fairy tales and all things sacred.
My date book was filled with exciting engagements with the Davis' and Millers and Browns. Every night it was a new thrilling experience, would I be watching Hook or All Dogs go to Heaven? Would I be changing diapers or playing with Lego's? The sky was really the limit. I was playing the field and I loving it. Among all the randoms and one night stands there were of course the regulars, my old stand by, the Mosenbergs.
The Mosenbergs were a nice Jewish family I met at synagogue earlier that spring (temple, was not a place I frequented but my mom dragged me from time to time and occasionally there was a pretty nice lunch spread). We clicked instantly; they had two young sons and satellite TV, I had nothing to do that Friday night and some debt (that ten speed Schwinn was a bad investment).
At 7:00 p.m. the next Friday night my sister dropped me off at the Mosenberg's house in the South End of town (without a license I was forced to beg Memma for rides, she got a 5% cut of the night's take). The South End was an enclave of estates and over sized mansions on the edge of the poorest section of town. What better to flaunt in the face of disenfranchised impoverished minorities than the wealth of the elite, that's what I always say. The Mosenberg's house was on the smaller side of palatial. They had recently purchased it and were doing renovations (which meant lots of those plastic sheets which look a lot like ghosts in the dark). It was under-furnished and poorly decorated.
Mrs. Mosenberg greeted me at the front door, ushering me into the cavernous entryway. At this point I should mention that I was carrying a bag-an army green over the shoulder satchel of sorts. It was from The Gap. In this bag was a book, a magazine, my wallet and my pride and joy, my brand new cell phone. As it was summer I didn't have a coat, it was just me and the bag. This bag was a point of anxiety for me. Despite having babysat many, many times before-for some reason at this moment with this babysitting job the presence of a bag, a purse really, made me nervous. What if the Mosenbergs thought I was trying to smuggle drugs into their house? Might they assume this bag was the agent of some terrorist plot? Would they know I had a cell phone in the bag and that I intended to call friends on it or play Snake (that's right it was a Nokia) after the boys went to sleep? I talked all these scenarios out with Memma and her friend Manne sitting around our kitchen table earlier that afternoon.
"Should I tell them what's in the bag when I get there?" I asked earnestly.
"No." Memma munched on a wheat thin.
"But what if they think I'm bringing alcohol or something?" I said, my anxiety getting worse every minute.
"They won't." Memma rolled her eyes.
"Maybe I should just be like 'This is my bag, it just has my book in it in case I want to read later.' You know, just give them a heads up that I might read or something." I thought this was the smartest course of action, let them know so they wouldn't assume the worst. Memma, it appeared did not agree, she laughed at me.
"Mephanie, it's a goddamn bag, they won't care what's in it." Manne piped in.
"Okay but what should I do with it when I get there?" The thought of bag placement within their house drove me to a new level of near hysteria. "Should I put it by the door as soon as I walk in? Should I carry it with me as they show me around? Maybe I should ask where I can put my bag."
"Why don't you hide it behind the house before you ring the doorbell and you can retrieve it after the parents leave." Manne offered. She and Memma broke into a fit of wheat thin spewing giggles. I laughed nervously but secretly began to hope there would be sufficient shrubbery surrounding the house for bag stowing.
I forced Memma and Manne to engage in multiple role plays where I played me and they played the Mosenbergs. We acted out different scenarios in which they questioned the bag, asked to inspect the contents of the bag, pondered whether there were weapons in the bag and finally told me to go home and come back sans bag. I think they may have been toying with me slightly. In the end we decided I would just put the bag down on or near the foyer area. Thinking back, I'm not quite sure what I did with that bag once I got to the house. However, I do remember quite vividly the intense feeling of panic nestled in my stomach that afternoon as I contemplated the presence of my army green Gap carrier bag.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
The Tale of the Over-Aggressive Texter
It was a cold rainy Wednesday night. The moon was full and dark clouds dotted the starless sky. It was the kind of night where anything and everything could happen and on this particular night, it almost did. A heavy mist hung in the air as she walked towards the designated metro. The deserted streets, normally bustling with students and hipsters, echoed with an eerie silence. A shiver went down her spine as she approached the barren metro station. There he stood, in the shadow of a lone street lamp. He was shorter than she'd imagined, with a surprisingly receding hairline and scars from what she presumed were poorly popped pimples, the product of adolescent/adult acne.
"Hey there Meph!" His enthusiasm caught her off guard. "I'm so excited to finally meet you." His arms reached out in what she could only assume was meant to be an introductory embrace. The slight stench of body odor and axe mingled with the night air.
"Hi Mohn." she said, trying unsuccessfully to dodge his hug, instead ending up with a half hug of his malodorous shoulder. "I'm excited to meet you too, I guess." He laughed at her candor, mistaking it for sarcasm.
"I've really been looking forward to this date. You are the first person I've seen on match that I really click with."
"Really? Well I don't know if we click, we just met." Again, laughter.
They walked towards a restaurant Meph had meticulously researched and chosen earlier that day. Knowing that Mohn, her internet date, was coming in from the suburbs of DC and wanted to "make a night of it" she had been forced to agree to a dinner date, something she usually tried to avoid. While not dainty by any stretch of the imagination, Meph was a picky eater and her refusal to ingest nuts, peanut butter, olives, mushrooms and avocados sometimes made for awkward moments and stunted dinner table conversation. Restrictive eating habits aside, there were other issues to confront when meeting someone for an actual meal. How expensive was too expensive? How ethnic was too ethnic for food on a first meeting? Should they go somewhere that offered a kid's menu? After much debate and input from annoyed friends and family, Meph settled on a trendy Thai restaurant that had received good reviews but had a moderately priced menu.
The walk to the restaurant felt long, like a dream where no matter how fast or far you run, you never reach your destination. Mohn rambled. He was at graduate school in near by College Park, Md studying orchestral music. He was hoping to transfer to a better school to receive his PhD. He wanted to be a conductor! He went to Emory undergrad and recently had surgery on his smelly shoulder. Meph listened and nodded when appropriate, secretly judging him all the while. She could hear wolves howling in the distance.
The restaurant was staffed by small Asian women, all with a dead stare in their eye. Despite the heaters and the fact that it was July in DC, Meph could not shake the chill that had encumbered her. Mohn suggested an appetizer, saying he would pick because he was the man.
"You know what episode of The Office this reminds me of?" Mohn asked after the waitress took their order. Meph resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "The one were Kelly invites everyone to the Indian event..." His voice faded off as Meph began to die inside. A girl full of neurosis and a natural tendency towards anal retentiveness, there were many things about a great number of people that bothered her. On the top of this long and irrational list was referencing Office episodes excessively. Yes, the tv show starring Steve Carrell is great. It is funny and at times relevant, however bringing it up in conversation was probably funnier and fresher four years ago when it first came out, she reasoned.
The appetizer arrived just as Mohn finished making his outdated and longwinded Office comparison. It had peanuts on it.
"I won't eat those," Meph said, sticking the food with her fork.
"That's what she said." Mohn laughed. "Do you think we'll talk about anything serious all night or will it be a battle of the wits and all sarcasm?"
This baffled Meph, up until now she had been totally sincere. When she told him she didn't care about his musical career, when she said he was being dramatic about shoulder surgery, when she said his Match.com picture wasn't really that accurate and she was in fact disappointed by the reality of his face, when she asked him if he was really six feet tall, she did so in earnest.
"Ha," was all she could muster.
he rain came down steadily outside while the daters ate. Lightening crashed down on the streets outside as thunder, her constant companion clapped in approval. The conversation turned serious. Mohn was of the conservative sort, a supporter of John McCain and his sidekick Sarah Palin. He was brought up Roman Catholic and attended Church weekly. He believed that the Pope, the Earthly incarnation of God, should be worshipped and his decrees strictly adhered to. Choice, Mohn said, was not a woman's right. "I mean if you got pregnant Meph, we'd figure it out, but I wouldn't put abortion on the table" he concluded. Meph felt a pang of disapproval and the need to go third wave feminist on his ass, but refrained instead taking comfort in the knowledge that Mohn would not be getting her pregnant any time soon.
"So do you go to Church?" Mohn stuffed a bite of pork fried rice in his full mouth.
"No, I'm a big Jew. A big liberal Jew. I think Obama is a sexy black man. I hope we socialize health care. Class based society is dumb, I am a communist."
"Diversity is our strength." Mohn remained visibly unshaken
"What should we do after this?" Mohn said as the waitress placed the check on the table. "I'll pay for this, you get dessert. Lets do something romantic like ice cream or Starbucks." Meph held back the vomit that sprang up in her throat.
"What can I get that will be easiest to eat while I hold your hand?" Mohn pondered aloud as they stood in line at the ice cream parlor. This time her disgust and utter repulsion was in concealable. The chortle erupted before Meph even knew what was happening, spit and mocking laughter flew everywhere.
"You will NOT be holding my hand." Meph said, visibly shaken. "I'll have a small cone of chocolate," she then told the girl behind the counter. Mohn apparently unphased by Meph's behavior asked the girl for a large chocolate. As they approached the cash register Mohn pointed at Meph, "She'll be paying," he said smugly. She handed the cashier ten dollars knowing that no amount of money could salvage this date.
Mohn insisted they walk as they eat their creamed ice. Meph made sure to keep her hands close to her body and occupied at all times. Mohn laughed as Meph discussed the inherent unfairness of match, that all the girls were far better looking than the guys. This nuance seemed to be lost on Mohn.
"Isn't it great that we have the exact same sense of humor!" Mohn exclaimed.
"I'm not sure about that." Meph grabbed the ponytail of hair on her shoulder and began examining each individual piece for split ends..
They continued to stroll through the dark and deserted streets. Suddenly something appeared in the distance. At first Meph thought it was a mirage, a glimmer of hope flickering in front of her. It was brightly lit and the escalator was humming, it was the Metro! The end was in sight.
"Well you better hurry to make the last train!" Meph said, exhibiting more excitement in these nine words than she had all night. Mohn lingered, standing in Meph's personal space. He positioned his face directly in front of hers. He is NOT 6 feet, she thought.
"I had so much fun." She could feel his pork fried rice breath all over her face and neck.
"Yeah this was great." The sarcasm he had so yearned for earlier was finally starting to kick in!
"So I'm not sure if you're busy this weekend, but would you want to hang out on Sunday?" He was a close talker and she felt not only his hands on her waist, his spittle on her cheek, but a pressure in her heart. For so long she had yearned for a second date. Having been rejected by all those who were legitimately taller than her, she wondered, was this all that was left?
"I, I guess," she stammered, instantly knowing this was a mistake.
He wrapped her in joyous hug promising to text her.
"I hate texting." She said, tasting regret in her mouth.
Meph awoke on Thursday morning with a sense of hope and possibility. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the birds were singing, the date was over. Sure Mohn might text her. She had said she would see him again, but a casual "I guess" was not a commitment. It was one date, they hadn't signed a marriage contract. Walking to work she felt confident that if and when he contacted her she was not obliged to respond.
It wasn't until after that morning's staff meeting that she saw it, "At national gallery, shall I tell you about the paintings so you can live vicariously through me?" Ignore.
An hour later Meph was juggling G-chat, the New York Times, celebrity gossip websites and expense reports when her phone vibrated again, "What you don't like art?" Ignore.
"Too busy to text?" This kid just doesn't get the hint, Meph thought when she saw his third text in as many hours. Ignore, Meph decided to put it out of her mind and focus on work. However by the time she got home from the gym and finished dinner that night, the situation had taken a turn for the worse.
"I know I'm annoying, but I would really like to see you again, please call me." Meph began to feel the strength to reject him drain out of her. The familiar feelings of guilt and the need for male attention welled up in her chest. Maybe I led him on, she thought. Maybe I shouldn't have laughed when he made that weird Michael Jackson joke. But he did make you pay for his overpriced large ice cream, she countered herself. Her resolve returned and she put her phone away and Mohn out of her mind.
Over the next few days Mohn continued to text, undeterred by Meph's lack of response. "Am I annoying you?", "It's so nice out today!", "Hang out Sunday?" littered Meph's inbox. After three days and 234 text Meph was fed up. This must stop, she thought. Being the bleeding heart pseudo communist that she was, Meph decided to let him down easy via his favorite form of communication, the text. After coming up with what she considered to be thoughtful but firm, she sent the text. "It looks like you are looking for something far more intense than I am, I am moving away. Good Luck!"
"Hey there Meph!" His enthusiasm caught her off guard. "I'm so excited to finally meet you." His arms reached out in what she could only assume was meant to be an introductory embrace. The slight stench of body odor and axe mingled with the night air.
"Hi Mohn." she said, trying unsuccessfully to dodge his hug, instead ending up with a half hug of his malodorous shoulder. "I'm excited to meet you too, I guess." He laughed at her candor, mistaking it for sarcasm.
"I've really been looking forward to this date. You are the first person I've seen on match that I really click with."
"Really? Well I don't know if we click, we just met." Again, laughter.
They walked towards a restaurant Meph had meticulously researched and chosen earlier that day. Knowing that Mohn, her internet date, was coming in from the suburbs of DC and wanted to "make a night of it" she had been forced to agree to a dinner date, something she usually tried to avoid. While not dainty by any stretch of the imagination, Meph was a picky eater and her refusal to ingest nuts, peanut butter, olives, mushrooms and avocados sometimes made for awkward moments and stunted dinner table conversation. Restrictive eating habits aside, there were other issues to confront when meeting someone for an actual meal. How expensive was too expensive? How ethnic was too ethnic for food on a first meeting? Should they go somewhere that offered a kid's menu? After much debate and input from annoyed friends and family, Meph settled on a trendy Thai restaurant that had received good reviews but had a moderately priced menu.
The walk to the restaurant felt long, like a dream where no matter how fast or far you run, you never reach your destination. Mohn rambled. He was at graduate school in near by College Park, Md studying orchestral music. He was hoping to transfer to a better school to receive his PhD. He wanted to be a conductor! He went to Emory undergrad and recently had surgery on his smelly shoulder. Meph listened and nodded when appropriate, secretly judging him all the while. She could hear wolves howling in the distance.
The restaurant was staffed by small Asian women, all with a dead stare in their eye. Despite the heaters and the fact that it was July in DC, Meph could not shake the chill that had encumbered her. Mohn suggested an appetizer, saying he would pick because he was the man.
"You know what episode of The Office this reminds me of?" Mohn asked after the waitress took their order. Meph resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "The one were Kelly invites everyone to the Indian event..." His voice faded off as Meph began to die inside. A girl full of neurosis and a natural tendency towards anal retentiveness, there were many things about a great number of people that bothered her. On the top of this long and irrational list was referencing Office episodes excessively. Yes, the tv show starring Steve Carrell is great. It is funny and at times relevant, however bringing it up in conversation was probably funnier and fresher four years ago when it first came out, she reasoned.
The appetizer arrived just as Mohn finished making his outdated and longwinded Office comparison. It had peanuts on it.
"I won't eat those," Meph said, sticking the food with her fork.
"That's what she said." Mohn laughed. "Do you think we'll talk about anything serious all night or will it be a battle of the wits and all sarcasm?"
This baffled Meph, up until now she had been totally sincere. When she told him she didn't care about his musical career, when she said he was being dramatic about shoulder surgery, when she said his Match.com picture wasn't really that accurate and she was in fact disappointed by the reality of his face, when she asked him if he was really six feet tall, she did so in earnest.
"Ha," was all she could muster.
he rain came down steadily outside while the daters ate. Lightening crashed down on the streets outside as thunder, her constant companion clapped in approval. The conversation turned serious. Mohn was of the conservative sort, a supporter of John McCain and his sidekick Sarah Palin. He was brought up Roman Catholic and attended Church weekly. He believed that the Pope, the Earthly incarnation of God, should be worshipped and his decrees strictly adhered to. Choice, Mohn said, was not a woman's right. "I mean if you got pregnant Meph, we'd figure it out, but I wouldn't put abortion on the table" he concluded. Meph felt a pang of disapproval and the need to go third wave feminist on his ass, but refrained instead taking comfort in the knowledge that Mohn would not be getting her pregnant any time soon.
"So do you go to Church?" Mohn stuffed a bite of pork fried rice in his full mouth.
"No, I'm a big Jew. A big liberal Jew. I think Obama is a sexy black man. I hope we socialize health care. Class based society is dumb, I am a communist."
"Diversity is our strength." Mohn remained visibly unshaken
"What should we do after this?" Mohn said as the waitress placed the check on the table. "I'll pay for this, you get dessert. Lets do something romantic like ice cream or Starbucks." Meph held back the vomit that sprang up in her throat.
"What can I get that will be easiest to eat while I hold your hand?" Mohn pondered aloud as they stood in line at the ice cream parlor. This time her disgust and utter repulsion was in concealable. The chortle erupted before Meph even knew what was happening, spit and mocking laughter flew everywhere.
"You will NOT be holding my hand." Meph said, visibly shaken. "I'll have a small cone of chocolate," she then told the girl behind the counter. Mohn apparently unphased by Meph's behavior asked the girl for a large chocolate. As they approached the cash register Mohn pointed at Meph, "She'll be paying," he said smugly. She handed the cashier ten dollars knowing that no amount of money could salvage this date.
Mohn insisted they walk as they eat their creamed ice. Meph made sure to keep her hands close to her body and occupied at all times. Mohn laughed as Meph discussed the inherent unfairness of match, that all the girls were far better looking than the guys. This nuance seemed to be lost on Mohn.
"Isn't it great that we have the exact same sense of humor!" Mohn exclaimed.
"I'm not sure about that." Meph grabbed the ponytail of hair on her shoulder and began examining each individual piece for split ends..
They continued to stroll through the dark and deserted streets. Suddenly something appeared in the distance. At first Meph thought it was a mirage, a glimmer of hope flickering in front of her. It was brightly lit and the escalator was humming, it was the Metro! The end was in sight.
"Well you better hurry to make the last train!" Meph said, exhibiting more excitement in these nine words than she had all night. Mohn lingered, standing in Meph's personal space. He positioned his face directly in front of hers. He is NOT 6 feet, she thought.
"I had so much fun." She could feel his pork fried rice breath all over her face and neck.
"Yeah this was great." The sarcasm he had so yearned for earlier was finally starting to kick in!
"So I'm not sure if you're busy this weekend, but would you want to hang out on Sunday?" He was a close talker and she felt not only his hands on her waist, his spittle on her cheek, but a pressure in her heart. For so long she had yearned for a second date. Having been rejected by all those who were legitimately taller than her, she wondered, was this all that was left?
"I, I guess," she stammered, instantly knowing this was a mistake.
He wrapped her in joyous hug promising to text her.
"I hate texting." She said, tasting regret in her mouth.
Meph awoke on Thursday morning with a sense of hope and possibility. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the birds were singing, the date was over. Sure Mohn might text her. She had said she would see him again, but a casual "I guess" was not a commitment. It was one date, they hadn't signed a marriage contract. Walking to work she felt confident that if and when he contacted her she was not obliged to respond.
It wasn't until after that morning's staff meeting that she saw it, "At national gallery, shall I tell you about the paintings so you can live vicariously through me?" Ignore.
An hour later Meph was juggling G-chat, the New York Times, celebrity gossip websites and expense reports when her phone vibrated again, "What you don't like art?" Ignore.
"Too busy to text?" This kid just doesn't get the hint, Meph thought when she saw his third text in as many hours. Ignore, Meph decided to put it out of her mind and focus on work. However by the time she got home from the gym and finished dinner that night, the situation had taken a turn for the worse.
"I know I'm annoying, but I would really like to see you again, please call me." Meph began to feel the strength to reject him drain out of her. The familiar feelings of guilt and the need for male attention welled up in her chest. Maybe I led him on, she thought. Maybe I shouldn't have laughed when he made that weird Michael Jackson joke. But he did make you pay for his overpriced large ice cream, she countered herself. Her resolve returned and she put her phone away and Mohn out of her mind.
Over the next few days Mohn continued to text, undeterred by Meph's lack of response. "Am I annoying you?", "It's so nice out today!", "Hang out Sunday?" littered Meph's inbox. After three days and 234 text Meph was fed up. This must stop, she thought. Being the bleeding heart pseudo communist that she was, Meph decided to let him down easy via his favorite form of communication, the text. After coming up with what she considered to be thoughtful but firm, she sent the text. "It looks like you are looking for something far more intense than I am, I am moving away. Good Luck!"
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Hypochondria Mitochondria
The litmus test for a sick day in the Mevi-Madickman household was how late my mother happened to be running that day. If she was on time (read 5-15 minutes behind schedule) and I sauntered into her bathroom still clad in my over-sized Pillsbury Dough Boy sleep/school/overall favorite t-shirt (why any parent would dress their pudgy pre-pubescent daughter in a t-shirt depicting a character made of doughy carbohydrates begging to be poked in the fat of his stomach is beyond me, but I digress), whining of a sore throat, my mother would send me back to my room to dress for school (which really only required throwing on some jeans as that shirt was my uniform for the vast majority of my formative years).
If Melizabeth was truly running late (about 30-90 minutes behind schedule) and was rushing to get out the door, I was pretty much guaranteed a day in front of the TV. With no time to feel my head for fever, inspect my tonsils for inflammation, or check my neck for swollen glands Melizabeth was forced to indulge my hypochondria and grant me the coveted sick day. My mother's inability to properly plan and prepare for timely arrival to work, or really any sort of commitment or event, ensured that I got a "get out of school free" pass pretty much whenever I wanted.
Now, being the deluded child that I was, I actually believed I was sick whenever I made the frequent request to stay home due to illness. There are just so many diseases, conditions, bacterium and worms to contract; my young mind was sure I had all of them. Hook worm was of particular concern to me. It still is. Walking around barefoot, especially around a pool, is basically like an open door invitation to those parasitic little bastards. For the most part though, I kept it simple: stomach aches and throat aches, pink eye and sinusitis, Ebola and botulism.
The claim to have fallen ill with one of a myriad of deadly (or at least horribly disfiguring) diseases was accompanied by a manifestation of the symptoms. As this was before WebMD, I was forced to use my science book and my imagination to come up with these symptoms. Leprosy was accompanied by swollen toes. Bronchitis could be detected by a rash behind the knees. Indigestion was marked by an itchy throat and horse voice.
Because my parents were good Christian Scientists and supremely lazy (yet loving), my illnesses went undiagnosed by the medical establishment. Instead the cure for whatever ailed me lay in cheese doodles and a full day of "Hey Dude". Without fail this insured my full recovery and the next morning I headed off to school a healthy and happy girl. On the rare occasion that my parentals did think some sort of medical intervention was needed, my self diagnosis was almost always inexplicably "wrong". There was the time I, along with my childhood best friend Mhloe, insisted our hearing was in someway impaired. Our mothers took Mhloe and I to the local hospital where hearing tests were administered by a "medical professional". We were summarily told that it was not our hearing that was the problem. Apparently it was our listening skills that were impaired. Then there was the time I had asthma. Again my parents took me to a "doctor" to find the cause of my wheezing and shortness of breath. The "doctor" claimed that I was out of shape and chubby and perhaps this was the reason I had trouble breathing when playing rather vigorously. Fucking hack. This is why to this day I do not believe in modern medicine.
Along with my distrust of doctors my propensity for contracting rare and deadly illnesses has also stayed with me. In recent years my hypochondria has evolved to a real and ever present fear of meningitis. Yes, I have a vaccine and no, I do not live in a dorm or an otherwise communal space, but what people don't know is that meningitis is EVERYWHERE. Common signs of bacterial meningitis include but are not limited too a sore/aching neck (specifically the back of the neck), a rash around your ankles and death. I exhibit the first two symptoms about ninety percent of the time and the other ten percent I am just waiting to drop dead. Because I like to keep everyone around me aware of my pressing condition, I talk about my meningitis a lot. I complain about the pain in my neck, the inevitable and eventual amputation of limbs (a by product of the bacteria spreading throughout your body), and the long haul to death (while most people die within a week, I'm a fighter and have had it for years, always on the verge).
Most people cloak their sadness and concern in feigned annoyance. "Go to the doctor" friends will say. Or "Mephanie shut up you do not have meningitis, you would be dead by now." Oh, how they care. Of course I do have meningitis, and of course I will not be seeing any doctors for it. I will fight off this bacterial killer with soap and wits.
I mean sure, there have been a couple of times over the years when I was forced to seek the help of a trained professional. There was that time I broke my wrist in college while doing the running man and the time I broke my nose while actually running. Concerned friends forced me to go the emergency room and get a cast after the running man incident (its a damned dangerous dance). But I'm telling you, that cast looked like my 8th grade paper mache volcano. I could have made that for half the price, half the wait, and there would have been lava shooting out of my arm! Some people find it weird that someone so beset by disease should refuse medical treatment. I say what kills you slowly makes you stronger!
If Melizabeth was truly running late (about 30-90 minutes behind schedule) and was rushing to get out the door, I was pretty much guaranteed a day in front of the TV. With no time to feel my head for fever, inspect my tonsils for inflammation, or check my neck for swollen glands Melizabeth was forced to indulge my hypochondria and grant me the coveted sick day. My mother's inability to properly plan and prepare for timely arrival to work, or really any sort of commitment or event, ensured that I got a "get out of school free" pass pretty much whenever I wanted.
Now, being the deluded child that I was, I actually believed I was sick whenever I made the frequent request to stay home due to illness. There are just so many diseases, conditions, bacterium and worms to contract; my young mind was sure I had all of them. Hook worm was of particular concern to me. It still is. Walking around barefoot, especially around a pool, is basically like an open door invitation to those parasitic little bastards. For the most part though, I kept it simple: stomach aches and throat aches, pink eye and sinusitis, Ebola and botulism.
The claim to have fallen ill with one of a myriad of deadly (or at least horribly disfiguring) diseases was accompanied by a manifestation of the symptoms. As this was before WebMD, I was forced to use my science book and my imagination to come up with these symptoms. Leprosy was accompanied by swollen toes. Bronchitis could be detected by a rash behind the knees. Indigestion was marked by an itchy throat and horse voice.
Because my parents were good Christian Scientists and supremely lazy (yet loving), my illnesses went undiagnosed by the medical establishment. Instead the cure for whatever ailed me lay in cheese doodles and a full day of "Hey Dude". Without fail this insured my full recovery and the next morning I headed off to school a healthy and happy girl. On the rare occasion that my parentals did think some sort of medical intervention was needed, my self diagnosis was almost always inexplicably "wrong". There was the time I, along with my childhood best friend Mhloe, insisted our hearing was in someway impaired. Our mothers took Mhloe and I to the local hospital where hearing tests were administered by a "medical professional". We were summarily told that it was not our hearing that was the problem. Apparently it was our listening skills that were impaired. Then there was the time I had asthma. Again my parents took me to a "doctor" to find the cause of my wheezing and shortness of breath. The "doctor" claimed that I was out of shape and chubby and perhaps this was the reason I had trouble breathing when playing rather vigorously. Fucking hack. This is why to this day I do not believe in modern medicine.
Along with my distrust of doctors my propensity for contracting rare and deadly illnesses has also stayed with me. In recent years my hypochondria has evolved to a real and ever present fear of meningitis. Yes, I have a vaccine and no, I do not live in a dorm or an otherwise communal space, but what people don't know is that meningitis is EVERYWHERE. Common signs of bacterial meningitis include but are not limited too a sore/aching neck (specifically the back of the neck), a rash around your ankles and death. I exhibit the first two symptoms about ninety percent of the time and the other ten percent I am just waiting to drop dead. Because I like to keep everyone around me aware of my pressing condition, I talk about my meningitis a lot. I complain about the pain in my neck, the inevitable and eventual amputation of limbs (a by product of the bacteria spreading throughout your body), and the long haul to death (while most people die within a week, I'm a fighter and have had it for years, always on the verge).
Most people cloak their sadness and concern in feigned annoyance. "Go to the doctor" friends will say. Or "Mephanie shut up you do not have meningitis, you would be dead by now." Oh, how they care. Of course I do have meningitis, and of course I will not be seeing any doctors for it. I will fight off this bacterial killer with soap and wits.
I mean sure, there have been a couple of times over the years when I was forced to seek the help of a trained professional. There was that time I broke my wrist in college while doing the running man and the time I broke my nose while actually running. Concerned friends forced me to go the emergency room and get a cast after the running man incident (its a damned dangerous dance). But I'm telling you, that cast looked like my 8th grade paper mache volcano. I could have made that for half the price, half the wait, and there would have been lava shooting out of my arm! Some people find it weird that someone so beset by disease should refuse medical treatment. I say what kills you slowly makes you stronger!
Thursday, July 16, 2009
But Mommy and Daddy, I thought you loved eachother...
It was summer and the house smelled of french toast. The good kind made from Challah bread floating in a river of real maple syrup from Vermont. A long month spent at sleep away camp left me hungrier than normal but with a lessened capacity for overeating. After thirty days of subsisting on jelly sandwiches (I hate peanut butter) and watered down Kool-aid, I could not put down the three hamburgers, two pizzas and one funnel cake that were the norm in those days (and pretty much these days as well). I was only on my sixth slice of thick eggy goodness when that familiar sated feeling began to settle in.
I finished off the last bite and glanced over at Memma as she reached for another slice. French toast was our favorite food. It was the only thing our mother made well and we demanded it at every meal. Memma, two years my senior, had the eating speed and dexterity I lacked. While I slowly licked my fork and fingers after each bite (lest I miss the teeniest drop of syrup), Memma moved with a hoover like speed that ensured she got to all the good pieces first. Yet where I lacked speed, Memma lacked the endurance and girth that came naturally to me. Memma might finish her third piece while I was just slurping the syrup out of my hair after only my first piece-but while she was watching cartoons an hour later, I would still be working. Slow and steady wins the race, at fat camp anyway.
My father, normally absent from these mid-morning feasts as he enjoyed being physically active and would go for long runs on the weekends before smoking a couple packs of cigarettes, was present this particular morning. He sat across from me reading the paper and attempting to hide the look of disgust on his face as he watched me clog arteries and develop love handles before his very eyes. My mother, clad in her Sunday best of an over sized "It's a Woman's Right" t-shirt and stirrup-ed stretch pants, puttered about pretending to clean the kitchen. Instead she simply shifted mounting piles of dirty dishes and papers from one spot to another (this is a keen skill of my mothers, cleaning without actually producing any sort of sanitary, organized, or otherwise worthwhile result). Baby Mannah, barely two years old, was off traveling the world with a well-trained dog (a long held dream of the toddler).
"Girls." My mother moved towards the table. I began to pour syrup on my now empty plate, covering the ceramic surface before lowering my head and slurping the sticky sweetness into my mouth. "Girls there is something your father and I would like to talk to you about." My thoughts were covered in sugar and maple and my attention was not immediately drawn to the perceptibly dour, limp tone in my mothers normally shrill and commanding voice.
"Mephie," my father abruptly pulled the plate away from my syrup covered face. Something was up, my parents knew that nothing got between me and my syrup. "Listen, there is something we need to talk to you about."
My mom continued, "We both love you very very much."
Shit. This speech could end one way and one way only. Adoption. I was being given up for adoption. I knew that eventually Mannah would edge me out as the youngest and cutest. I shouldn't have eaten so much syrup. I should have learned to wash my own clothes or done some chores. Why didn't I listen when my dad told me to clean my room or when my mom told me that if I kept eating all the cheese before anyone else had some she was going to stop buying it. Life was so unfair. Just because I didn't shower every day or contribute in any tangible way to my family, I was being kicked out?
I had long feared potential relocation to Australia. Relocation marked by familial abandonment and the use of outhouses instead of bathrooms. After watching the Meryl Streep "The Dingo ate my baby" movie and a couple lifetime made for tv movies on orphans forced to turn tricks and strip, I was pretty sure that my cushy suburban life was the purgatory stage on the journey to Australian homeless hell.
"And nothing that happens will change that," my mother continued, unaware that I was in the midst of an inner soliloquy on the inherent unfairness and cruelty of giving your nine year old daughter up for adoption.
Memma grabbed my hand under the table. This surprised me. Why was she worried? She was the favored child. She was "of normal height and weight" and "brushed her hair every night." She wasn't going to be shipped off to Australia. No that was me.
"Your father and I have decided to have a trial separation." The words reverberated in my ears. Separation, separation, separation. Australia vanished from my thoughts and I realized they weren't getting rid of me, they were getting rid of each other, I would be starring in a different lifetime movie altogether. The tears came came quickly, thick sticky tears mingling with maple syrup residue on my sunburned cheeks. The rest of my parents rehearsed speech was swallowed by the wails now erupting from the children of this newly minted broken home.
"You're UGLY." I screamed at the top of my lungs. I intuitively knew, even at this young age, that people are most affected when you attack their looks. "You're ugly and I hate you." I ran upstairs to the sanctuary of my room, slamming the door and dramatically throwing myself on the bed. I was the star of my own melodrama. I was upset, devastated, inconsolable. I was going to get two wardrobes! My parents were horrible, miserable selfish people. People were going to feel so bad for me, I would get extra attention! I was abandoned, forgotten, collateral damage. I wonder if there would be a pity trip to Six Flags!
A lot of crying and screaming ensued. I broke things. Mainly my own things in my own room, which looking back was a pretty stupid way to punish my parents. My father, it turned out, had already rented an apartment in the next town over, a town I had long considered to be haven for trashy divorcees and convicted sex offenders. He would be moving out in less than one week at which point we would begin the dreaded every other weekend rotation. My mother would stay with us in our house and be our main caregiver during this trial separation.
All of this seemed to come out of no where. Maybe it's because I was too busy trying to convince everyone to go to The Sizzler all the time, but I hadn't noticed any tension between my parents. I was also 9. Sure they weren't affectionate like on TV and maybe they never laughed together like my friends parents, but they never fought and we didn't live in a trailer, so how could they be getting divorced? Later when my sister and I compared notes I learned that while I was away at summer camp my father had started sleeping in the spare bedroom. Memma thought this was normal, I guess we know now its not.
Over the next few months I realized that divorce was not quite what I imagined. I would not, it turned out, be getting a new set of clothing for my Dad's house. My parents had the audacity to tell me to "pack an overnight bag." On the upside, I was a novelty. My friends, all products of functional families, showered me with attention. When I told a group of girls during a sleepover party, everyone started crying and hugging me. I was a tragic star! There was no pity trip to Six Flags, but there were quite a few pity trips to breakfast buffets (which are kind of like my own version of Neverland).
The trial separation turned into real separation and then divorce. My dad started dating my sister's best friend's mother, my mom started dating everyone else. I acted out, lit some things on fire, knifed some kids at school - the usual - and blamed it on my parents' divorce. I had excuses for forgetting homework and school books. It was great, you know, beyond the whole my parents got divorced, essentially ruining my young life and shattering my belief in love thing.
I finished off the last bite and glanced over at Memma as she reached for another slice. French toast was our favorite food. It was the only thing our mother made well and we demanded it at every meal. Memma, two years my senior, had the eating speed and dexterity I lacked. While I slowly licked my fork and fingers after each bite (lest I miss the teeniest drop of syrup), Memma moved with a hoover like speed that ensured she got to all the good pieces first. Yet where I lacked speed, Memma lacked the endurance and girth that came naturally to me. Memma might finish her third piece while I was just slurping the syrup out of my hair after only my first piece-but while she was watching cartoons an hour later, I would still be working. Slow and steady wins the race, at fat camp anyway.
My father, normally absent from these mid-morning feasts as he enjoyed being physically active and would go for long runs on the weekends before smoking a couple packs of cigarettes, was present this particular morning. He sat across from me reading the paper and attempting to hide the look of disgust on his face as he watched me clog arteries and develop love handles before his very eyes. My mother, clad in her Sunday best of an over sized "It's a Woman's Right" t-shirt and stirrup-ed stretch pants, puttered about pretending to clean the kitchen. Instead she simply shifted mounting piles of dirty dishes and papers from one spot to another (this is a keen skill of my mothers, cleaning without actually producing any sort of sanitary, organized, or otherwise worthwhile result). Baby Mannah, barely two years old, was off traveling the world with a well-trained dog (a long held dream of the toddler).
"Girls." My mother moved towards the table. I began to pour syrup on my now empty plate, covering the ceramic surface before lowering my head and slurping the sticky sweetness into my mouth. "Girls there is something your father and I would like to talk to you about." My thoughts were covered in sugar and maple and my attention was not immediately drawn to the perceptibly dour, limp tone in my mothers normally shrill and commanding voice.
"Mephie," my father abruptly pulled the plate away from my syrup covered face. Something was up, my parents knew that nothing got between me and my syrup. "Listen, there is something we need to talk to you about."
My mom continued, "We both love you very very much."
Shit. This speech could end one way and one way only. Adoption. I was being given up for adoption. I knew that eventually Mannah would edge me out as the youngest and cutest. I shouldn't have eaten so much syrup. I should have learned to wash my own clothes or done some chores. Why didn't I listen when my dad told me to clean my room or when my mom told me that if I kept eating all the cheese before anyone else had some she was going to stop buying it. Life was so unfair. Just because I didn't shower every day or contribute in any tangible way to my family, I was being kicked out?
I had long feared potential relocation to Australia. Relocation marked by familial abandonment and the use of outhouses instead of bathrooms. After watching the Meryl Streep "The Dingo ate my baby" movie and a couple lifetime made for tv movies on orphans forced to turn tricks and strip, I was pretty sure that my cushy suburban life was the purgatory stage on the journey to Australian homeless hell.
"And nothing that happens will change that," my mother continued, unaware that I was in the midst of an inner soliloquy on the inherent unfairness and cruelty of giving your nine year old daughter up for adoption.
Memma grabbed my hand under the table. This surprised me. Why was she worried? She was the favored child. She was "of normal height and weight" and "brushed her hair every night." She wasn't going to be shipped off to Australia. No that was me.
"Your father and I have decided to have a trial separation." The words reverberated in my ears. Separation, separation, separation. Australia vanished from my thoughts and I realized they weren't getting rid of me, they were getting rid of each other, I would be starring in a different lifetime movie altogether. The tears came came quickly, thick sticky tears mingling with maple syrup residue on my sunburned cheeks. The rest of my parents rehearsed speech was swallowed by the wails now erupting from the children of this newly minted broken home.
"You're UGLY." I screamed at the top of my lungs. I intuitively knew, even at this young age, that people are most affected when you attack their looks. "You're ugly and I hate you." I ran upstairs to the sanctuary of my room, slamming the door and dramatically throwing myself on the bed. I was the star of my own melodrama. I was upset, devastated, inconsolable. I was going to get two wardrobes! My parents were horrible, miserable selfish people. People were going to feel so bad for me, I would get extra attention! I was abandoned, forgotten, collateral damage. I wonder if there would be a pity trip to Six Flags!
A lot of crying and screaming ensued. I broke things. Mainly my own things in my own room, which looking back was a pretty stupid way to punish my parents. My father, it turned out, had already rented an apartment in the next town over, a town I had long considered to be haven for trashy divorcees and convicted sex offenders. He would be moving out in less than one week at which point we would begin the dreaded every other weekend rotation. My mother would stay with us in our house and be our main caregiver during this trial separation.
All of this seemed to come out of no where. Maybe it's because I was too busy trying to convince everyone to go to The Sizzler all the time, but I hadn't noticed any tension between my parents. I was also 9. Sure they weren't affectionate like on TV and maybe they never laughed together like my friends parents, but they never fought and we didn't live in a trailer, so how could they be getting divorced? Later when my sister and I compared notes I learned that while I was away at summer camp my father had started sleeping in the spare bedroom. Memma thought this was normal, I guess we know now its not.
Over the next few months I realized that divorce was not quite what I imagined. I would not, it turned out, be getting a new set of clothing for my Dad's house. My parents had the audacity to tell me to "pack an overnight bag." On the upside, I was a novelty. My friends, all products of functional families, showered me with attention. When I told a group of girls during a sleepover party, everyone started crying and hugging me. I was a tragic star! There was no pity trip to Six Flags, but there were quite a few pity trips to breakfast buffets (which are kind of like my own version of Neverland).
The trial separation turned into real separation and then divorce. My dad started dating my sister's best friend's mother, my mom started dating everyone else. I acted out, lit some things on fire, knifed some kids at school - the usual - and blamed it on my parents' divorce. I had excuses for forgetting homework and school books. It was great, you know, beyond the whole my parents got divorced, essentially ruining my young life and shattering my belief in love thing.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Checkers the Flying Guinea Pig
Animals are not my friends. I don't like to pet dogs on the street, coo at kittens or watch birds. Fish make me nervous. I am constantly afraid that they will somehow find their way into my mouth and I will inadvertently swallow them live. The idea of a fish swimming around my intestines is not pleasant to say the least. I kill all bugs on contact, swat at pigeons, and sneak up on squirrels before screaming boo. My cold stone like heart has no room for puppies and ponies and all things cute and cuddly.
Many people regard this distaste for all things furry to be an aberration from the human condition of swooning over anything on four legs with a wet nose. But maybe the masses are wrong. Maybe the need to domesticate animals, cut off their testicles (or take out their uterus'), collar/leash/brand/otherwise mark them, and give them ridiculous human like names is the abnormal impulse.
As children we all kill our fish, sit on our hamsters, hang our cats (you guys did that too, right?). First we covet the life we are entrusted with, then we see how much pain we can inflict before snuffing it out. We get the animals we begged for on birthdays, Christmas and Kwanzaa only to experiment on them, learning the limits of life and death. As we get older and society's standards of ethics and decency are imposed on us, we lose this desire to hurt, kill, and otherwise mutilate un-housebroken beings. But are we overcompensating by taking them into our homes and letting them eat off our plates? I would say yes, yes we are.
Oh I have had animals over the years. I wasn't always in touch with my inner hardheartedness. There were fish and gerbils, hamsters and guinea pigs, cats and dogs. I killed, or wanted to kill, just about every one of those (I never wanted to kill my dogs, but I have a feeling that I may have inadvertently contributed to their deaths - who knew you couldn't feed them chocolate and grilled cheese). This pattern of pet acquisition and death has not foreshadowed a life as a serial killer; it has however made it hard for me to watch people kiss their dogs.
Checker's death is the only one that still weighs heavily on my already condemned soul. He was Memma's, my older sister. A guinea pig for all intents and purposes, but also her best and closest friend. He had short white hair with brown square patches, much like a checker board. Memma loved him so. He was her tenth birthday gift (my parents really enjoyed giving live gifts), and he was instantly the best pet she had ever had. She would let him loose in her room and then cry for hours when she couldn't find him (he was always found days later under her bed). She would brush his little disgusting hair with my barbie brush, then place the brush back in my room so I didn't know. Luckily for her Barbie and checkers had the same color hair so I never noticed, if I had it would have been a dark day for both Memma and Checkers.
Memma held photo shoots for checkers. Arranging all her many stuffed animals at the edge of her bed, she would place Checkers in the middle and snap away with her Polaroid camera-a relic from her 9th birthday. When the pictures developed after a few quick shakes and blows (that's what she said, sorry I couldn't resist) you wouldn't notice the guinea pig at first. You would simply think it was an elaborately staged stuffed animal photo shoot. But after staring at the picture for a moment or two (not that anyone ever gives that sort of picture a second look), you would see those beady little eyes staring back at you and realize this child was going to grow up and become an animal pornographer or a financial analyst (same thing really).
One day Memma was playing with a friend in our backyard. Up in my room I also had a friend playing with me. We played Barbie and lamppost boyfriend (a fun game where we took turns slow dancing with a tall floor lamp as though he were a boy) while the afternoon sun shined through my open window.
"Mephie." I heard my name being called. "Mephie come to the window."
Recognizing my sister's voice and being all too desperate for her attention and approval I abandoned sweet lamppost boyfriend and ran to the window.
"What's up Memma, you are so cool, is there anything I can do for you?"
"I really want to play with Checker's, can you toss him down here?" She smiled as she asked.
Let's just stop and consider this for a minute. My ten-year-old sister, my living idol, had just asked me to "toss" her beloved guinea pig out my bedroom window (which mind you was on the second floor of our house), so she might play with him. I'm not even sure how one plays with a guinea pig. They do not do anything (unless you consider sitting still while you take pictures to be something). Though I was only eight and not an animal lover, something inside of my told me this was wrong. Memma persisted.
"Mephie, I promise I'll catch him." She cajoled. "Pleaseeeeeeeee."
I didn't need a lot of convincing. I ran across the hall to her room, grabbed the thing out of its tank-like cage and went to my window. My friend who had silently started slow dancing with lamppost boyfriend now took notice.
"Meph, don't do that, its a badddd idea."
My friend was a pussy.
Memma held up her hands and nodded encouragingly. Leaning as far out of my window as my chubby stomach would allow, I tossed Checkers with all my might.
He flew threw the air, gloriously ascending in a high arch. Memma and my eyes were glued to the flying pig. We were transfixed by this moment of sisterly love and guinea pig devotion. It was not to last. I guess we thought maybe he would glide for a while, but it turned out guinea pigs are not natural gliders. The guinea pig began to descend, hurtling towards the Earth. Memma being the maternal pet owner quickly covered her eyes and head with her arms. Guess who didn't catch Checkers.
Checkers landed (barely missing our massive deck and built in grill) on the grass just feet in front of Memma. She ran to him.
"Mephie, what did you do!!!!!!!" Memma was now cradling the limp guinea pig in her arms, tears streaming down her face.
"You told me to throw him." I said defensively.
"I didn't think you would actually do it. You are such an idiot." Because when someone begs you to throw a guinea pig out the window you are supposed to know they don't mean it?
Checkers didn't die from the fall/fly. Memma nursed him back to health with guinea pig food and photo shoots. I got grounded for two weeks and wasn't allowed to see lamppost boyfriend. Checkers was never the same. About two months later we found out he was a she when she birthed three baby guinea pigs. Apparently her brother in the pet store cage had taken some liberties with her. Within three days of the babies' birth, Checkers ate all three. This is when I knew I never wanted another pet again.
Many people regard this distaste for all things furry to be an aberration from the human condition of swooning over anything on four legs with a wet nose. But maybe the masses are wrong. Maybe the need to domesticate animals, cut off their testicles (or take out their uterus'), collar/leash/brand/otherwise mark them, and give them ridiculous human like names is the abnormal impulse.
As children we all kill our fish, sit on our hamsters, hang our cats (you guys did that too, right?). First we covet the life we are entrusted with, then we see how much pain we can inflict before snuffing it out. We get the animals we begged for on birthdays, Christmas and Kwanzaa only to experiment on them, learning the limits of life and death. As we get older and society's standards of ethics and decency are imposed on us, we lose this desire to hurt, kill, and otherwise mutilate un-housebroken beings. But are we overcompensating by taking them into our homes and letting them eat off our plates? I would say yes, yes we are.
Oh I have had animals over the years. I wasn't always in touch with my inner hardheartedness. There were fish and gerbils, hamsters and guinea pigs, cats and dogs. I killed, or wanted to kill, just about every one of those (I never wanted to kill my dogs, but I have a feeling that I may have inadvertently contributed to their deaths - who knew you couldn't feed them chocolate and grilled cheese). This pattern of pet acquisition and death has not foreshadowed a life as a serial killer; it has however made it hard for me to watch people kiss their dogs.
Checker's death is the only one that still weighs heavily on my already condemned soul. He was Memma's, my older sister. A guinea pig for all intents and purposes, but also her best and closest friend. He had short white hair with brown square patches, much like a checker board. Memma loved him so. He was her tenth birthday gift (my parents really enjoyed giving live gifts), and he was instantly the best pet she had ever had. She would let him loose in her room and then cry for hours when she couldn't find him (he was always found days later under her bed). She would brush his little disgusting hair with my barbie brush, then place the brush back in my room so I didn't know. Luckily for her Barbie and checkers had the same color hair so I never noticed, if I had it would have been a dark day for both Memma and Checkers.
Memma held photo shoots for checkers. Arranging all her many stuffed animals at the edge of her bed, she would place Checkers in the middle and snap away with her Polaroid camera-a relic from her 9th birthday. When the pictures developed after a few quick shakes and blows (that's what she said, sorry I couldn't resist) you wouldn't notice the guinea pig at first. You would simply think it was an elaborately staged stuffed animal photo shoot. But after staring at the picture for a moment or two (not that anyone ever gives that sort of picture a second look), you would see those beady little eyes staring back at you and realize this child was going to grow up and become an animal pornographer or a financial analyst (same thing really).
One day Memma was playing with a friend in our backyard. Up in my room I also had a friend playing with me. We played Barbie and lamppost boyfriend (a fun game where we took turns slow dancing with a tall floor lamp as though he were a boy) while the afternoon sun shined through my open window.
"Mephie." I heard my name being called. "Mephie come to the window."
Recognizing my sister's voice and being all too desperate for her attention and approval I abandoned sweet lamppost boyfriend and ran to the window.
"What's up Memma, you are so cool, is there anything I can do for you?"
"I really want to play with Checker's, can you toss him down here?" She smiled as she asked.
Let's just stop and consider this for a minute. My ten-year-old sister, my living idol, had just asked me to "toss" her beloved guinea pig out my bedroom window (which mind you was on the second floor of our house), so she might play with him. I'm not even sure how one plays with a guinea pig. They do not do anything (unless you consider sitting still while you take pictures to be something). Though I was only eight and not an animal lover, something inside of my told me this was wrong. Memma persisted.
"Mephie, I promise I'll catch him." She cajoled. "Pleaseeeeeeeee."
I didn't need a lot of convincing. I ran across the hall to her room, grabbed the thing out of its tank-like cage and went to my window. My friend who had silently started slow dancing with lamppost boyfriend now took notice.
"Meph, don't do that, its a badddd idea."
My friend was a pussy.
Memma held up her hands and nodded encouragingly. Leaning as far out of my window as my chubby stomach would allow, I tossed Checkers with all my might.
He flew threw the air, gloriously ascending in a high arch. Memma and my eyes were glued to the flying pig. We were transfixed by this moment of sisterly love and guinea pig devotion. It was not to last. I guess we thought maybe he would glide for a while, but it turned out guinea pigs are not natural gliders. The guinea pig began to descend, hurtling towards the Earth. Memma being the maternal pet owner quickly covered her eyes and head with her arms. Guess who didn't catch Checkers.
Checkers landed (barely missing our massive deck and built in grill) on the grass just feet in front of Memma. She ran to him.
"Mephie, what did you do!!!!!!!" Memma was now cradling the limp guinea pig in her arms, tears streaming down her face.
"You told me to throw him." I said defensively.
"I didn't think you would actually do it. You are such an idiot." Because when someone begs you to throw a guinea pig out the window you are supposed to know they don't mean it?
Checkers didn't die from the fall/fly. Memma nursed him back to health with guinea pig food and photo shoots. I got grounded for two weeks and wasn't allowed to see lamppost boyfriend. Checkers was never the same. About two months later we found out he was a she when she birthed three baby guinea pigs. Apparently her brother in the pet store cage had taken some liberties with her. Within three days of the babies' birth, Checkers ate all three. This is when I knew I never wanted another pet again.
Friday, July 10, 2009
How to Ensure You Don't Get Asked on a Second Date, by Yours Truly
I joined match to spice things up, meet people outside of my social circle, get some free drinks, you know the regular stuff. Or that's what I told people anyway. There may, as it happens, have been some ulterior motives or otherwise subversive thoughts behind my venture in e-dating. If you are using the Internet to date you are probably seriously unattractive or an actual midget. A dim-witted fool that has unsightly hairy moles dotting his horribly misshapen face. This is how I envisioned the standard male edater. That or my father.
As a really intelligent, attractive and humble young woman I should have been the star of the fucking Internet. The ultimate catch for these socially inept losers. (Why this totally awesome person was forced to edate is not of concern here. Just assume that I tore my way through all the available men in the greater metro area and none of them could keep up with my wit and beauty, thus forcing me to look into the broader arena of computer nerds and those who play dungeons and dragons in their spare time, a diamond in the rough). These freaks should have been lining up at the Internet cafe door (or at their home PC as it is no longer 1995) to wink, message, or otherwise fawn over me. My mere presence on the world wide web should have brightened each and every one of their days.
In my recent weeks of edating it turns out this little theoretical gem upon which I predicated my match experiment may not be entirely true. Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of leprechauns and social pariahs out there, and they are genuinely excited to see me and enthusiastically let me know this in their multiple misspelled messages. But there are also some borderline normal people, perhaps even people out of my league in the mix. This can be the only explanation for the fact that I am not already in love, no one has proposed to me, and I am not in the family way.
In fact, my world has been kind of toppled and now sits on its head. Not everyone loves me. Moreover, not everyone laughs at all my jokes and appreciates my neurotic obsessive idiosyncrasies. When I meet the people I have deemed below me in person, they sometimes reject me. What the fuck is going on here? Is my self-perception somehow skewed? Am I not as cool as I think I am? Perhaps.
All of my recent first dates have a common them: no progression to date number two. My potential beloveds tend to break off all contact at the point when I say "Bye, it seems like I didn't weird you out too much. Don't worry, there are bathrooms on the way to the metro!" or one of my other favorite parting notes "Can you walk away first?" Are these not normal standard ways to let your date know that you had fun and want to do it again? Is it totally inappropriate to make jokes about your high fertility level? Maybe its because I grew up in a home in which the phrase, "Can you please pass the spermicidal jelly?" was regularly used at the breakfast table - but I happen to think excessive body hair, bizarre scars, your mother's legs, or your parents painful divorce are fun getting to know you topics.
If you are also out in the field (of love) and trying to avoid actual emotional connection and intimacy-as it appears I am by exhibiting bizarre and off putting behavior on first dates-then here are some surefire ways to make your companion uncomfortable and sufficiently afraid of you so that he will never call you again.
Get awkward with the introduction. Throw yourself into that 'nice to meet you' hug with such trepidation and nervousness that he can't help but think you were abused by some similar looking man in the past. This is guaranteed to start the date out on the wrong foot. If he doesn't go for the hug and instead opts for a handshake, make sure your palms are as sweaty as humanly possible. If you are anything like me and have overactive glands, this shouldn't be a problem.
Once you are situated in the bar/restaurant/gondola, wherever you have decided to have your date, be sure to position yourself as far away from him as the physical setting will allow. Sit back in your chair, cross your arms over you chest, and purse your lips. Nothing says I'm interested like putting a distance between you and your date that suggests you might think he has the capability to transmit swine flu.
If you have agreed upon drinks and know there is not going to be any food ingested on the date, drink quickly so as to get as drunk as humanly possible as fast as humanly possible. If you are doing drinks along with dinner, drink even more, and even faster (maybe bring a flask). Avoid sobriety at all costs. If you feel the urge to vomit don't tell him, instead make a weird face and run to the bathroom without explanation.
If you are going on your first date after e-meeting, print out his match/eharmony/craigslist picture before hand and then compare the print out to men as they walk by. It is far worse to not recognize your date and pass by them three times as they sit sadly looking up at you from a corner booth than to bring an insurance picture and feel slightly like a stalker.
Spit. Get way to excited about a joke or story that has no relevance to the natural flow of conversation and accidentally spit all over the place when you hit the punchline.
Pee at least three times. Intermittently. This will be taken as a sign that you either do not like your date, are desperately avoiding having to pay the check, or have some serious bladder issues. If you are lucky all three will be assumed.
Bring up Jesus. Whether you are Jew or Gentile, Muslim or Hindu, Jesus alienates people of all faith when discussed in improper context. Try and throw a couple exasperated "Jesus Christ"s out there when you think something is funny. Or maybe note that you just never "got into the whole Jesus thing." If you are Jewish be sure to mention it defensively. Nothing makes a guy lose interest like mentioning your time spent in Israel and going into a three hour political diatribe about your feelings on Palestinian statehood and not being religious but more culturally connected to your conflict ridden homeland.
Ask questions. Really detailed, way too personal questions. Don't stop at where they went to school, ask them where they applied for undergrad. Why they didn't get into their top choice? How much money do they make? Have they ever had to go with a girlfriend to get an abortion? Is that misdemeanor from 10th grade ever going to be expunged?
Flail. You should be sufficiently drunk at this point and no good drunken store can accurately be told without a couple arm waves and a bobbling head. If you can muster some slurred words that will work in your favor as well.
In the weeks to come, as you embark on obsessive and extensive post date analysis with your friends who are in happy and healthy relationships, your phone will remain silent. You will ultimately be left wondering why the supposed losers from match who you are better than anyway don't "feel any chem." with you. It is then you will realize that you too are on match. And just because you have already decided everyone on match is weird, you can not in fact behave like the truly bizarre and freakish person you are. At the very least, you should try and avoid spitting.
As a really intelligent, attractive and humble young woman I should have been the star of the fucking Internet. The ultimate catch for these socially inept losers. (Why this totally awesome person was forced to edate is not of concern here. Just assume that I tore my way through all the available men in the greater metro area and none of them could keep up with my wit and beauty, thus forcing me to look into the broader arena of computer nerds and those who play dungeons and dragons in their spare time, a diamond in the rough). These freaks should have been lining up at the Internet cafe door (or at their home PC as it is no longer 1995) to wink, message, or otherwise fawn over me. My mere presence on the world wide web should have brightened each and every one of their days.
In my recent weeks of edating it turns out this little theoretical gem upon which I predicated my match experiment may not be entirely true. Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of leprechauns and social pariahs out there, and they are genuinely excited to see me and enthusiastically let me know this in their multiple misspelled messages. But there are also some borderline normal people, perhaps even people out of my league in the mix. This can be the only explanation for the fact that I am not already in love, no one has proposed to me, and I am not in the family way.
In fact, my world has been kind of toppled and now sits on its head. Not everyone loves me. Moreover, not everyone laughs at all my jokes and appreciates my neurotic obsessive idiosyncrasies. When I meet the people I have deemed below me in person, they sometimes reject me. What the fuck is going on here? Is my self-perception somehow skewed? Am I not as cool as I think I am? Perhaps.
All of my recent first dates have a common them: no progression to date number two. My potential beloveds tend to break off all contact at the point when I say "Bye, it seems like I didn't weird you out too much. Don't worry, there are bathrooms on the way to the metro!" or one of my other favorite parting notes "Can you walk away first?" Are these not normal standard ways to let your date know that you had fun and want to do it again? Is it totally inappropriate to make jokes about your high fertility level? Maybe its because I grew up in a home in which the phrase, "Can you please pass the spermicidal jelly?" was regularly used at the breakfast table - but I happen to think excessive body hair, bizarre scars, your mother's legs, or your parents painful divorce are fun getting to know you topics.
If you are also out in the field (of love) and trying to avoid actual emotional connection and intimacy-as it appears I am by exhibiting bizarre and off putting behavior on first dates-then here are some surefire ways to make your companion uncomfortable and sufficiently afraid of you so that he will never call you again.
Get awkward with the introduction. Throw yourself into that 'nice to meet you' hug with such trepidation and nervousness that he can't help but think you were abused by some similar looking man in the past. This is guaranteed to start the date out on the wrong foot. If he doesn't go for the hug and instead opts for a handshake, make sure your palms are as sweaty as humanly possible. If you are anything like me and have overactive glands, this shouldn't be a problem.
Once you are situated in the bar/restaurant/gondola, wherever you have decided to have your date, be sure to position yourself as far away from him as the physical setting will allow. Sit back in your chair, cross your arms over you chest, and purse your lips. Nothing says I'm interested like putting a distance between you and your date that suggests you might think he has the capability to transmit swine flu.
If you have agreed upon drinks and know there is not going to be any food ingested on the date, drink quickly so as to get as drunk as humanly possible as fast as humanly possible. If you are doing drinks along with dinner, drink even more, and even faster (maybe bring a flask). Avoid sobriety at all costs. If you feel the urge to vomit don't tell him, instead make a weird face and run to the bathroom without explanation.
If you are going on your first date after e-meeting, print out his match/eharmony/craigslist picture before hand and then compare the print out to men as they walk by. It is far worse to not recognize your date and pass by them three times as they sit sadly looking up at you from a corner booth than to bring an insurance picture and feel slightly like a stalker.
Spit. Get way to excited about a joke or story that has no relevance to the natural flow of conversation and accidentally spit all over the place when you hit the punchline.
Pee at least three times. Intermittently. This will be taken as a sign that you either do not like your date, are desperately avoiding having to pay the check, or have some serious bladder issues. If you are lucky all three will be assumed.
Bring up Jesus. Whether you are Jew or Gentile, Muslim or Hindu, Jesus alienates people of all faith when discussed in improper context. Try and throw a couple exasperated "Jesus Christ"s out there when you think something is funny. Or maybe note that you just never "got into the whole Jesus thing." If you are Jewish be sure to mention it defensively. Nothing makes a guy lose interest like mentioning your time spent in Israel and going into a three hour political diatribe about your feelings on Palestinian statehood and not being religious but more culturally connected to your conflict ridden homeland.
Ask questions. Really detailed, way too personal questions. Don't stop at where they went to school, ask them where they applied for undergrad. Why they didn't get into their top choice? How much money do they make? Have they ever had to go with a girlfriend to get an abortion? Is that misdemeanor from 10th grade ever going to be expunged?
Flail. You should be sufficiently drunk at this point and no good drunken store can accurately be told without a couple arm waves and a bobbling head. If you can muster some slurred words that will work in your favor as well.
In the weeks to come, as you embark on obsessive and extensive post date analysis with your friends who are in happy and healthy relationships, your phone will remain silent. You will ultimately be left wondering why the supposed losers from match who you are better than anyway don't "feel any chem." with you. It is then you will realize that you too are on match. And just because you have already decided everyone on match is weird, you can not in fact behave like the truly bizarre and freakish person you are. At the very least, you should try and avoid spitting.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Happy Birthday America...and Mannah!
This past weekend millions of Americans celebrated the 233 anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. America's B-day if you will. Like most anniversary and or birthday celebrations, this special day is marked by excessive eating and drinking, parades, and large firework displays.
For me and my kin the annual celebration of America coincides with the birthday celebration of the youngest Madison girl (yes, this is not in fact our real last name, but my family has asked me to make this as anonymous for them as possible; they claim that my blogging is a self indulgent blemish on our otherwise pristine image). Little Mannah, the patriot that she is, was born the day after our nation's birthday. She graced our family on the 5th; forever reminding us that while as a country we may have been able to break free from the tyrannical grip of the British empire, as individuals we are forever bound to those we are forced to call blood relatives.
This year Mannah turned sixteen, sweet sweet sixteen. I did not get her a gift as she has never given me anything other than head lice and a headache. Instead, I dedicate this little ditty to the story of Mannah.
For the first 7 years of my existence I was the youngest of two girls. Memma, 21 months my senior, and I were the closest of siblings. She would pour toys on me (its unclear if her intent was to shower me with love and affection or to cause permanent brain damage to my soft unformed head), carry me around the house, and otherwise love me as all attention starved barely older girls love their younger, cuter baby sisters. Over the years Memma and I grew up as two sister peas in a pod. I relished my role as the youngest sister and while I wanted a puppy quite badly, I never really desired more siblings.
I'd like to note that while I love little Mannah now, for many years I resented her and its pretty much all my parents fault (love you guys!). It all started one winter evening, the eighth night of the Jewish festival of lights. For those of you unfamiliar with Jewish tradition or the Adam Sandler song, Hanukkah is a Jewish holiday that normally coincides with Christmas. While there is no historical or religious precedent for exchanging gifts during this 8 day holiday, Hallmark and the normative Christ oriented traditions of the Western world have turned it into the x-mas for Jews. Basically we get gifts for 8 whole nights.
In my family, the biggest gift was always reserved for the 8th and final night. That final night of Hanukkah back in 1992 Memma and I received a gift that would forever change our lives. All week my parents had been talking up our "big" last gift. They were so excited about it and I, having grandiose and unrealistic expectations, couldn't help but imagine things that I have only ever seen on VH1's The Fabulous Life of Celebrity Children.
The big moment came after we lit the Hanukkah candles and my mother sang 43 songs in Hebrew. My father handed us a a thin square package wrapped in blue shiny paper. It looked like a book, but of course it couldn't be. At that point in my life I still believed in all things good and holy; the general premise of my early childhood that my parents did in fact love me and desired nothing more than my happiness was vaguely in tact.
It had to be tickets to Disney World or a picture of the family yacht we had just purchased. As we tore the wrapping paper off shock and dismay slowly enveloped our small faces as they shone in the dim glimmer of CVS brand Hanukkah candlelight. It was a book. But not just any book, it's cover was shiny and featured a graphic picture of a partially developed fetus in utero. Were my parents indoctrinating us about the evils of abortion? Of course not, we are from liberalsville, NJ. Were they giving us the gift of sex education? Definitely not, my mother had been sure to explain the proper use of condoms on a banana years ago. Then what was it.
"Memma, Mephanie" My mother said, barely able to contain her happiness. "You are going to have a little sister!"
My mouth dropped open as my mothers hands clapped in the air. I'm glad one of us was excited.
"You mean the book is our gift?" I said, shocked by this sham of holiday gift.
"No Mephie, your getting a little sister, that is your gift." My father said.
"But you didn't have to pay for that." Memma observed astutely. "And the book only cost $14.95." Memma, already a financial wizard at the tender age of 9, made out the price under my mother's attempted Sharpie cover.
So it appeared, that in total, our Hanukkah gifts amounted to three pairs of socks, some pogs, a $14.95 book that graphically displayed the nature of human gestation, and the cost of a broken condom. Totally kidding on that one, my mom tricked my dad and poked holes in her diaphragm (guess who's not going to get any gifts ever again after their family reads that).
Nine months later, on July 3rd, my mother went into labor. I can't say I was particularly excited about Mannah's timing. That year I was to march in our town's annual July 4th parade with my dad. I was pretty excited about this and had been looking forward to it for months. I had stocked up on patriotic attire and even had a pair of dangly troll earrings with red, white and blue hair. When my mother went into labor the night before the parade, I figured the baby would be born and then my father would return from the hospital and march with me. I was wrong. Mannah decided to drag our her birth and didn't make an appearance until the wee hours of the morning on July 5th. Guess what that meant, no parade for me (not with my father anyway, I marched with my childhood friend Mhloe and her father, but it was NOT the same).
I guess I would be lying if I didn't admit to some mild enthusiasm about the birth of Mannah. I was bizarrely excited by the idea of being at a five person table in a restaurant as opposed to our standard 4 (though this wouldn't last long, Mannah wasn't even out of the high chair when my parents divorced and the five person table went up in smoke). I had also loved to the naming process; insisting that Hillary, in an ode to our then first lady, was the name for my unborn sibling. Clearly I was overruled on this one.
Within a few weeks however, it was apparent that Mannah's presence meant less attention for me. I tried to remind my parents that I too was just a child, the baby really. I started drinking out of a small plastic bottle (I drank juice only, don't get any ideas) and insisted I sleep with my 7 year old baby blanket. Mannah still seemed to capture more attention.
Not being the cutest and most loved daughter slowly sunk in and I realized I was now a middle child. Being the positive beacon of light that I naturally am, I was able to turn this new found familial irrelevance into an opportunity. I would be, I realized with great clarity and sense of purpose, a role model, nay, the single most important role model in Mannah's life.
I was now on a mission to teach Mannah the in's and out's of life. I played Mozart over her sleeping crib. I counted her toes as each piggy went to market. I threw things at her to build her reflexes. As she got older I let her do things like fetch my snacks from the kitchen so she would develop cooking skills. I had her sit by the TV and manually turn the channel so she would know to NEVER EVER lose the remote or its batteries. I was caring to say the least.
When my parents divorced only a year after Mannah's birth, I was careful to treat the subject with sensitivity. I explained to her for years to come that she wasn't the reason they didn't love each other any more. Instead, she was a save the marriage baby and it was in spite of her that they could not stay together. (Side note: most parents do not appreciate it when you explain their separation as the fault of your younger and extremely impressionable sibling).
I taught her other life lessons. For example, when she was about 7 and I was about 15, Mannah did something to really piss me off. I can't remember what it was, but I do remember that I had a cookie in my mouth at the time. I was so mad at her childish insolence that I used the only weapon I had, the half chewed cookie. I spit said cookie in her face. This was an especially harsh lesson because everyone that knows me knows my affinity for all things cookie. But I think she really learned to never again do whatever it was that had pissed me off in the first place.
Now Mannah is 16 and I am 23. Its hard to believe that she is a woman, mostly because she still retains some of the man like qualities that garnered her the nickname Tranny at the tender age of 12. Though our relationship has been tumultuous at times, I think she knows I love her and value her as a sister, but definitely not as a holiday gift.
For me and my kin the annual celebration of America coincides with the birthday celebration of the youngest Madison girl (yes, this is not in fact our real last name, but my family has asked me to make this as anonymous for them as possible; they claim that my blogging is a self indulgent blemish on our otherwise pristine image). Little Mannah, the patriot that she is, was born the day after our nation's birthday. She graced our family on the 5th; forever reminding us that while as a country we may have been able to break free from the tyrannical grip of the British empire, as individuals we are forever bound to those we are forced to call blood relatives.
This year Mannah turned sixteen, sweet sweet sixteen. I did not get her a gift as she has never given me anything other than head lice and a headache. Instead, I dedicate this little ditty to the story of Mannah.
For the first 7 years of my existence I was the youngest of two girls. Memma, 21 months my senior, and I were the closest of siblings. She would pour toys on me (its unclear if her intent was to shower me with love and affection or to cause permanent brain damage to my soft unformed head), carry me around the house, and otherwise love me as all attention starved barely older girls love their younger, cuter baby sisters. Over the years Memma and I grew up as two sister peas in a pod. I relished my role as the youngest sister and while I wanted a puppy quite badly, I never really desired more siblings.
I'd like to note that while I love little Mannah now, for many years I resented her and its pretty much all my parents fault (love you guys!). It all started one winter evening, the eighth night of the Jewish festival of lights. For those of you unfamiliar with Jewish tradition or the Adam Sandler song, Hanukkah is a Jewish holiday that normally coincides with Christmas. While there is no historical or religious precedent for exchanging gifts during this 8 day holiday, Hallmark and the normative Christ oriented traditions of the Western world have turned it into the x-mas for Jews. Basically we get gifts for 8 whole nights.
In my family, the biggest gift was always reserved for the 8th and final night. That final night of Hanukkah back in 1992 Memma and I received a gift that would forever change our lives. All week my parents had been talking up our "big" last gift. They were so excited about it and I, having grandiose and unrealistic expectations, couldn't help but imagine things that I have only ever seen on VH1's The Fabulous Life of Celebrity Children.
The big moment came after we lit the Hanukkah candles and my mother sang 43 songs in Hebrew. My father handed us a a thin square package wrapped in blue shiny paper. It looked like a book, but of course it couldn't be. At that point in my life I still believed in all things good and holy; the general premise of my early childhood that my parents did in fact love me and desired nothing more than my happiness was vaguely in tact.
It had to be tickets to Disney World or a picture of the family yacht we had just purchased. As we tore the wrapping paper off shock and dismay slowly enveloped our small faces as they shone in the dim glimmer of CVS brand Hanukkah candlelight. It was a book. But not just any book, it's cover was shiny and featured a graphic picture of a partially developed fetus in utero. Were my parents indoctrinating us about the evils of abortion? Of course not, we are from liberalsville, NJ. Were they giving us the gift of sex education? Definitely not, my mother had been sure to explain the proper use of condoms on a banana years ago. Then what was it.
"Memma, Mephanie" My mother said, barely able to contain her happiness. "You are going to have a little sister!"
My mouth dropped open as my mothers hands clapped in the air. I'm glad one of us was excited.
"You mean the book is our gift?" I said, shocked by this sham of holiday gift.
"No Mephie, your getting a little sister, that is your gift." My father said.
"But you didn't have to pay for that." Memma observed astutely. "And the book only cost $14.95." Memma, already a financial wizard at the tender age of 9, made out the price under my mother's attempted Sharpie cover.
So it appeared, that in total, our Hanukkah gifts amounted to three pairs of socks, some pogs, a $14.95 book that graphically displayed the nature of human gestation, and the cost of a broken condom. Totally kidding on that one, my mom tricked my dad and poked holes in her diaphragm (guess who's not going to get any gifts ever again after their family reads that).
Nine months later, on July 3rd, my mother went into labor. I can't say I was particularly excited about Mannah's timing. That year I was to march in our town's annual July 4th parade with my dad. I was pretty excited about this and had been looking forward to it for months. I had stocked up on patriotic attire and even had a pair of dangly troll earrings with red, white and blue hair. When my mother went into labor the night before the parade, I figured the baby would be born and then my father would return from the hospital and march with me. I was wrong. Mannah decided to drag our her birth and didn't make an appearance until the wee hours of the morning on July 5th. Guess what that meant, no parade for me (not with my father anyway, I marched with my childhood friend Mhloe and her father, but it was NOT the same).
I guess I would be lying if I didn't admit to some mild enthusiasm about the birth of Mannah. I was bizarrely excited by the idea of being at a five person table in a restaurant as opposed to our standard 4 (though this wouldn't last long, Mannah wasn't even out of the high chair when my parents divorced and the five person table went up in smoke). I had also loved to the naming process; insisting that Hillary, in an ode to our then first lady, was the name for my unborn sibling. Clearly I was overruled on this one.
Within a few weeks however, it was apparent that Mannah's presence meant less attention for me. I tried to remind my parents that I too was just a child, the baby really. I started drinking out of a small plastic bottle (I drank juice only, don't get any ideas) and insisted I sleep with my 7 year old baby blanket. Mannah still seemed to capture more attention.
Not being the cutest and most loved daughter slowly sunk in and I realized I was now a middle child. Being the positive beacon of light that I naturally am, I was able to turn this new found familial irrelevance into an opportunity. I would be, I realized with great clarity and sense of purpose, a role model, nay, the single most important role model in Mannah's life.
I was now on a mission to teach Mannah the in's and out's of life. I played Mozart over her sleeping crib. I counted her toes as each piggy went to market. I threw things at her to build her reflexes. As she got older I let her do things like fetch my snacks from the kitchen so she would develop cooking skills. I had her sit by the TV and manually turn the channel so she would know to NEVER EVER lose the remote or its batteries. I was caring to say the least.
When my parents divorced only a year after Mannah's birth, I was careful to treat the subject with sensitivity. I explained to her for years to come that she wasn't the reason they didn't love each other any more. Instead, she was a save the marriage baby and it was in spite of her that they could not stay together. (Side note: most parents do not appreciate it when you explain their separation as the fault of your younger and extremely impressionable sibling).
I taught her other life lessons. For example, when she was about 7 and I was about 15, Mannah did something to really piss me off. I can't remember what it was, but I do remember that I had a cookie in my mouth at the time. I was so mad at her childish insolence that I used the only weapon I had, the half chewed cookie. I spit said cookie in her face. This was an especially harsh lesson because everyone that knows me knows my affinity for all things cookie. But I think she really learned to never again do whatever it was that had pissed me off in the first place.
Now Mannah is 16 and I am 23. Its hard to believe that she is a woman, mostly because she still retains some of the man like qualities that garnered her the nickname Tranny at the tender age of 12. Though our relationship has been tumultuous at times, I think she knows I love her and value her as a sister, but definitely not as a holiday gift.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)