So, everything was going well with Rex and me. We were smooching, we were fondling…we were doing things I would seriously whack my son upside the head if I found out he had done such things…and all was right in the world.
And then…
I dropped “The L Bomb”. 
I nibbled his ear, groped places I shouldn’t have, looked fondly into his eyes and said:
“Oh Rex..I *love* you!!!…
….with all the longing and angst and romance my jail-bait self could muster.
And he? Said nothing.
::Tweet tweet tweet tweet tweet::
Can’t you just *hear* those crickets?
“I…I…I…gotta go to the bathroom,” he said, with the look of a deer caught in the headlights, and he abruptly pushed me away. I stood up to let him leave, bewildered over what had just occurred. Apparently in those days I was just too blind to recognize a *major* teenage faux-pas when I saw one. Or had committed one. And committed one? I definitely had done that.
Gahh…
My girlfriends who had gone to the dance “stag” as a group came over to console me. Together we sat holding hands and commiserating over *stupid boys!*. Rex kept himself scarce after that, and I was left to sit it out with my home girls until it was time to leave.
I don’t remember whether he gave me a kiss, or even a hug goodnight. I really don’t. I *do*, however, remember my hot face when I tried to say goodbye but he wouldn’t turn around to even look at me. We walked out, climbed into our respective parents’ cars and that was it.
When I got into my mom’s VW she was all like, “Hey! Did you have good time!??” I wanted to scream at her about how pissed I was, but I wasn’t about to engage in conversation right then and there, what with her looking at me all happy and proud-like over my first date completion. So meekly I muttered, “Yeah….”
Heh. If only she knew.
The streetlights streamed by as they had on the way there, only in reverse. I stared at my wrist corsage, sniffed the heady scent of the carnations, bit my lip, and muttered some patronizing thoughts and redundancies to appease my beaming mother. It’s not like I was gonna say, “Oh yeah Ma! We had a real great time feelin’ each other up and examining mutual uvulas!”
Knowing my mom? I don’t think she would have been pleased. Not in the least, as I am completely certain she and The Virgin Mary were in cahoots together.
Once I got home I ran inside, dashed upstairs, washed my face, turned on the local Top 40 station, put on my headgear and cried myself to sleep. I was sure I had just effed up everything in my life simply by being in love.
A looooong Sunday followed. Really long. A really, REALLY long Sunday…
Monday came. Heretofore ever to be known as “Awkward Monday”. It was like the virginal teenage version of “Hey, I went home with you last night, but for the LIFE of me I can’t remember your name!?!”
All together now: “AWKWARD!!!”
I spotted Rex (not his real name) in the hallway early that Monday morning. Just the thought of his kisses not two nights before and the scent of his Old Spice cologne had me all in a tizzy, and more than a little freaked out about how to approach him in real life. I didn’t know what to say; I’m guessing neither did he. I was mad, hurt, lost, confused, terrified and embarrassed all in one fell swoop, but what else could I do?
I knelt down by my art locker, which just happened to be next to his. I looked at him with with giant doe eyes brimming with tears, about to say The “L” word again, and then he looked at me and said something I will never forget…
“Just leave me alone.”
That’s when I heard my heart get run over by a semi right then and there on Eichelberger Street.
Rex shook his pretty feathered hair, got up, and walked away down that freshman hallway and out of my life. I stumbled away in tears to my next class. I went on to hold that dagger to my psyche and let that wound fester there for longer than I would ever care to admit.
Eventually I found another boyfriend, and then another one, and then another, and another. I grew up, got married, had a family, and spent a lot of years discovering “Who I Really Am.”
Rex and I met up again several years later when we were both nutty 20-somethings. He was playing in a band at a party I was at and I was chasing after some other guy. It was a weird night. I wore a leather miniskirt and he sported a guitar and a couple of groupies. We mutually snubbed one another, I think. I might have snubbed him *first*, just to get back, but I am pretty sure he barely knew I was there. Suffice it to say it was all about as awkward as that original Monday, only on a Saturday and with bigger hair.
Anyhoo…
Thirty years passed.
*Thirty years*
Then?
Enter Facebook.
Ok...it's not my *actual* kitty-cat, but this one looks just like him. And I'm sure he would say the same thing....
or not…
Kittens don’t know *everything*.
This pause in blogature sponsored by a serious rift in the space/time continuum.
Now…where were we?
Oh wait! I remember!
Rex (not his real name) had just arrived to escort me to my very first high school dance. I had foolishly decided to wear these evil shoes made of a molded plastic sole, heels from hell,
and only a small strap of leather to hold them onto my then-AAA width feet. They were obviously created by Satan Himself to torture poor high school girls who wanted to impress hot boys, I’m sure of it. I would end up nearly severing my right pinkie toe not six months later on those very same shoes…so yeah. Hellions those things were (and for the rest of my life shoes would end up attempting to murder me…LOTS of other stories there).
We walked from the front of the school around to the back. It was dark and there were plenty of places to stop and smooch once we knew the ‘rents were out of sight. And we took advantage of that opportunity. A lot. Ok, a LOT a lot.
Once we got into the dazzlingly exotic nightclub crepe-paper decorated gymnasium, the electricity inside me got pumped up a notch. Because nothing is more awesomer than the smell of sweat mixed with various and sundry teenage colognes, and getting to dance in a room where there’s a mud tarp on the floor and a disco ball dangling from the ceiling. Add in the mediocre cover band and, folks, there you would have found my Adolescent Heaven. Except my feet hurted…a LOT! (ouch). I was in luck because my hormone-induced endorphins were fully locked and loaded.
We danced a bit, had some soda, danced a bit more, had some more soda, and then I just had to rest ‘dem aching feetsies.
We located a table and sat down, he on one chair and me on the other. We chatted and made small talk, and I prolly giggled way too much. FTR, it was awkward trying to make actual conversation, for once, instead of taking the words literally right out of each other’s mouth. We had never spent all that much time chatting, and truth be told, I really didn’t know *all* that much about him ‘cept through art class. Nopers, our time together was usually filled up with more tongue than Gene Simmons eating a Tootsie-Pop.
But Rex (not his real name) and I found a way around that problem.
The bowmp-chick-a-wow-wow music began when he asked me to come sit on his lap.
We kissed. We fondled. We read each other’s lips in several languages. I am trying to be delicate here, so lemme see if I can ’splain what happened.
You know how when you go to Fourth of July celebrations and they have those really awesome fireworks in a lot of colors in purple and green that sparkle and fall and go all over the place and then you go, “Oooooooooooooooooh pretty!”
Yeah. Like that.
If The Blessed Virgin had been crying before, she was certainly taking a seat next to us right then and there, and sobbing her friggin’ eyes out with her head on the table. (That chick srsly needs to get a life. And her own box o’ Kleenex. Honestly…)
Then I heard the sound of a record needle being suddenly pulled off the vinyl ~ rrrrrrreeepppp!!!!
(no vinyl of any quality was harmed in the making of this blog post)
Starting high school was a major adjustment for me. I went from a really small three-grade school designed specifically for gifted kids right into a large, four story, multi-track high school. The culture shock alone would have been enough to knock me off my center. Add to it the normal pubescent gar-bahje that goes along with being 14 and it’s a wonder my head didn’t explode. I had to get used to a lot of new things: running from class to class in under two minutes, wearing a uniform where the guys didn’t have to but the girls did (go figure *that* one out), and having my grandparents drive me back and forth to school whereas I used to go by school bus. But I had high expectations and a lot of hope for the year to come.
I was never a popular kid in junior high, nor any time before that. While I don’t believe I was ugly, the fact remains that I was not pointedly a “pretty girl”. And trust me, the boys noticed (or didn’t notice, more importantly). I spent the better part of my 7th and 8th grade years swooning over a few particular boys who could not be bothered to even ignore me, they were so unaware of my existence. Let me tell you, there were more than a few tear-filled nights on the phone with my best friend, Val, bemoaning our mutual lack of male attention. The ‘tween years are such a horrible cruel curse of an existence I don’t know how anyone ever survives it all. Srsly. I have no idea.
So, enter high school. There I went, donned in my crisp Peter Pan-collared new white blouse with the A-line cranberry plaid Catholic school skirt and brand new penny loafers, ready to go off and conquer that behemoth of a school called Bishop DuBourg High. Somewhere there is a picture of me my mom took on that first day; there I am all resolute and smiling. I was scared, smug, worried, excited, hopeful, resigned and mystified all in the same angst-filled moment. When I work really hard to remember what it was like to live inside my fourteen-year-old skin it helps me to be a bit more tolerant and understanding of how my daughter feels about all that she is going through these days, right out loud and right in my face.
But I digress…
A few weeks into school I removed my gaze from the floor and my eyes alit on this totally 
gorgeous guy. His name was Rex Smith (ok it was something else entirely, but suffice it to say he was the apple of this particular 14yo freshman girl’s eye, even if he was just a normal human boy and not regularly featured on a major Tiger Beat poster).
I was smitten, to say the least. We met in art class, my favorite place in all the world, and when he actually deigned to talk to me I just wanted to run skipping through fields in a frothy tutu, tossing flowers, and shouting, “Hey everyone!!! I just met the MOST fantabulous boy!!! He’s cute!!!! And he talked to MEEEEEE!”
The turpentine vapors and the heady aroma of the oil paint will do that to you, which is why most artists are blatantly bats.
The few weeks following that First Contact found us sitting on the curb over at Dairy Queen after school sucking ginormous quantities of face and dabbling in a bit of PG to R-rated petting. Being the Perfect Girl that I was back then, this was quite naughty on my part, trust me. I am very certain I heard The Blessed Virgin cry a time or two; I turned right around and handed that bitch a tissue because, hey now, this girl was FINALLY gettin’ some boy action already!
And then? He asked me to the homecoming dance. Be still my heart!
I was on Cloud 18…because Cloud 9 was already full. I was twice as excited as any normal girl would have been. Me, the lowly not-so-pretty, boring straight-A Catholic school girl who couldn’t manage to get a guy to spit on her if she were on fire found herself about to go on her very first date with The Cutest Boy In The World.
I remember getting ready that night for the dance. The only fancy dress I had was the one I wore to my 8th grade formal, and no *respectable* 9th grader would be caught dead in a dress she wore back when she was a humble 8th grader, right? So I did the next best thing – I borrowed the dress my friend JoEllen wore to 8th grade formal, because somehow, in my mind, THAT was ok. Go figure. It was a sexy little strappy peach-colored disco number in Quiana polyester that my mom almost didn’t let me out of the house in. In retrospect? I probably would have agreed with her.
I primped. I powdered. I sprayed so much Love’s Baby Soft on myself I would have made Times Beach seem like a protected nature preserve. And there just was NOT enough hairspray in the world to make my naturally curly hair feather the way all the other girls’ hair did, much to my chagrin. I remember my mom was ticked off that he wasn’t coming to pick me up. I gave her a puzzled look and reminded her the kid was just 15 and a freshman like I was, and WTF is up with that? Really?
So off mom and I went into that good October chilly night. I remember staring at the street lights as we drove through the city and trying not to let my teeth chatter too much as I had just gotten my braces and I didn’t want to make sparks fly outta my mouth. I remember my mom talking about everything and nothing and wondering why she was acting so…normal. Didn’t she know this was about to be the BESTEST night of MY LIFE, what with ME being asked out on a date by a HOT. GUY!?!
Obviously all of this was lost on her. Because SHE had NEVER been 14 like me, I was sure of it.
We arrived at school at the crack of 8pm and he wasn’t there. I was mortified. I got out and sat on the cold concrete bench while my mom waited in the car, just in case. Why didn’t I have a jacket, or a shawl, or something? He wasn’t there and I remember thinking I just might cry. Even though I had only been waiting for a few moments, I was pretty sure he had stood me up in some cruel joke on the goofy girl with the curly hair and the braces.
And then he arrived. His dad pulled up, Rex (not his real name) got out, presented me with The Most Beautiful Corsage In The World, the ‘rents drove away, and the night began…
Stay tuned!
I love the movie “Big” — lurves, lurves, LOVE “BIG” — and Tom Hanks is one of my favorite, most-special-ous of actors for all time. It doesn’t hurt that he looks a lot like my (ex) husband way back when he/they were young; that tidbit hasn’t been lost on me.
In that movie, Hanks plays a boy (named Josh…irony, anyone?) who, by the magic of an arcade fortune-telling machine, ends up in a grown man’s body. However, inside? He is still just a kid.
There is a scene in the movie where Hanks’ character is now in the body of an adult and is spending the night over at the female lead’s character (forgive me for forgetting her name). After an evening together, she makes a play for him.
And he says, “I’m only 12 years old!”
And she says, “Aren’t we all just 12 years old inside?”
That stuck with me. A lot. Because really, aren’t we all just kids inside? It’s like the creamy center of our psyches that we hesitate to touch because in doing so we might just disturb something precious. Something…untouchable, right?
So what do you do when a person from the past does just that?
Stay tuned. Don’t worry. It’s a good thing 
I promise.
My mother gave me this beautiful pin last Christmas/Yule - I wear it on my leather jacket
When I was 7 years old my dear Aunt Bee fell sick. She was my grandma’s older sister by about twelve years. She was a “maiden aunt” who never married. We all knew she was a lesbian but no one would speak it out loud as it was so…taboo. Aunt Bee continued to live in the house where she and Gram both were born along with a sister who didn’t live past six years old, and a much older brother who did…a house where you had to go outside and down the stairs to the basement to use a flushing toilet or even to take a shower. I fully and completely remember there being a red pump at the kitchen sink, even in the late 1960’s in St. Louis in the good ol’ US of A; I also know that flush toilet was a luxury, as they previously had just an outhouse.
My Grandma got married, moved into the house next door, and began to raise a family: Aunt Bee stayed in that old house and took care of their mother, my great-grandmother. Aunt Bee was such a strong woman, and I know her “Lady Friend”, Virgie, loved her very much. No one told me this, but it was obvious to this child’s eyes.
Aunt Bee died of breast cancer in 1972. I was a very young girl then; no one would tell me what was wrong with my aunt. At the time, speaking of *these* such things was also taboo. My mom told me “she fell on her breast and there was a wound the doctors couldn’t heal.” How lame. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. For many years thereafter I was scared for my very life every time I accidentally hurt one of my boobies lest I “catch” breast cancer. As if. Gads.
Flash forward a few decades to the phone call where my mother tells me she has breast cancer. My mother. My mom. My Mom. My Mommy. My Mommy. My MOMMY!!!! Oh God! My MOMMY HAS BREAST CANCER!!!!!…and I breathe breathe breathe breathe cry cry cry!!!…and she tells me it’s all gonna be ok. It’s all gonna be ok – like *I’m* the one who needs taking care of. This Only Child gig gets old, sometimes, ya know?
No! I say. WTF?
Invasive ductile carcinoma, she says. It was triggered by the hormones she was taking for her menopausal symptoms, she said. Somewhere in the mix I hear her tell me I must NEVER EVER! take those hormones because of that, and I nod my head and stare at the wall and remember when she first told me Aunt Bee died and I dropped my Pop-Tart right right there on the kitchen floor on that chilly morning. But she’s gonna be ok, she says, gonna be ok – just a lumpectomy, some chemo, and radiation…like she was detailing what she might order for lunch the next time she goes to Subway.
At that moment I was tossed from a world where I felt I was “safe” from breast cancer, having given birth to two kids before the age of 30 and having nursed them for five years collectively (use ‘em or lose ‘em, eh?), into an entirely different universe where all bets are off. I am officially “High Risk” now.
Mom had a lumpectomy, went through chemo, lost her hair with a total sense of humor, and drove her ass alone 30 miles each day during a Missouri February to get her “drive by radiation treatments”, as she called them…all the time taking care of my aging grandparents with no help at all from anyone.
The woman has balls of steel, I tell you.
Two years after the first diagnosis, Mom found another lump — this time it was Paget’s disease, and in the same breast even. Seems Paget’s grows so slowly it goes unnoticed most of the time. But Mom caught it. This time, however she had to have a mastectomy on her right breast. I tried to talk her into a bilateral – just in case – but she would have none of it.
Anyhoo, the end result of all this long-winded-ness is that my mom is still around and I have become hyper-vigilant of my breast health. I feel the girls up on a regular basis, always worrying, wondering, watching.
It can occur in men, too. I personally know a man who is a survivor of this disease (and no, it isn’t Peter Criss, LOL as IF!). That said, Peter Criss, of KISS, speaks out personally about this on his website to dispel the stigma involved re: a man being diagnosed with breast cancer….
http://www.petercriss.net/homepage/
This cancer thingy is bad-ass; please don’t let it take any more of our loved ones. My mom would be very mad, and no one wants that.
If you didn’t already know, it’s October Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Now…go fondle your boobies and make sure they’re ok. I don’t care whether you are a man or a woman, just do it, mkay?
Because boobies rock the world and they are best in pairs 
Joshua has been in the throes of creating his original game (which I think is just amazing — because HE is so amazing!). I am so proud of him. Tonight he got to test run it with some friends, albeit just in character creation mode, but the fact remains he got to get a whole bunch of input from a pretty impressive variety of people.
And you know what? They all went nuts for it!!! Go Joshua, my beautiful
Bradley's original quick sketch from Joshua's description of a character
and talented genius of a man! I knew there was a reason I fell in love with you..
The sum result of this, however, is that I g0t to spend a bit o’ time with the man who is ultimately…sort of…in a kind of way…totally, but not completely to
my sucky version of the same character and oops I forgot the Elven ears
blame/thank that Joshua and I are together today. And that frooby dude would be Bradley, the MOST awesome 6′7″ gentle giant artist man I have ever let not fondle my boobies (not that he asked, LOL). Nopers, we have something even more special together.
We draw, and he makes me remember that I am an artist first and foremost, and I always have been. It’s in my genes; my father saw to that. Too bad my mother didn’t let him hang around for long (not that he deserved it). A part of me wonders what he would have thought of me. Oh well, no time for that now.
I have always sincerely admired Bradley’s work, and people like him. You
here is my ultra-quick sketch of Joshua from life (about 5 minutes, tops)
see, while we are both artists, he can do something I cannot — he can draw images from his own imagination. Gads, how I have always wished to high heaven I could do that, as I have so, so many things in my head I would just love to get out paper. But I can’t; I need a model, something to look at, and that can be constrictive in the creative process. Bradley, however can imagine and nothing more be done…the picture just falls out.
On the other hand, *I* have a talent he claims to have not. You be the judge, because I think he is lying. That, or he has gotten way better
here is Bradley's sketch of the same pose...WAY better for a comic book or a game book!
than he was all those years ago when I first met him (I think the latter is true).
I had such fun last night. We sat down in the living room and taught each other artsy and fun things; it was so wild. I think we bored poor Joshua, but the final result just may end in better illustrations for his new game and, ultimately, his book.
Stay tuned!
Little by little, I am pretty sure that the real soul in me is being re-awakened.
And I am loving it.
The artist company doesn’t hurt much either.
he flatters me here
For a final giggle we sketched each other. I would say Bradley, wins, but you need to know I really *do* have irises and no, I don’t actually have a chin. The curls, however, are real – and dammit, Bradley, couldn’t you have made them even MORE voluminous???
Besides, he cheated with the color thing. I never agreed to that, dammit!
Whatever.
Hope you all likey my little foray back to my roots.
I know I did.
here's my quick sketch of Bradley and no he really isn't that hirsute, I just got carried away, but yes, he really is that tall ::wink::
Maybe I should go. Maybe I should.
I don’t want to.
I, seriously, egregiously, horribly, totally, and simply??…
…Don’t want to go. I don’t want to go spend time with my child. There. I said it. She hasn’t wanted to spend time with me for an extended period since she was, like, five?
And I certainly don’t want to sit in an airless and windowless room with Therapist Chick and Kelly there and with both of them poised to pounce on me like I imagine happening. If that makes me an awful person , then so be it. Fine. I am an Awful Person. Give me my space.
But no one, not Therapist Chick and certainly not Kelly herself, has asked ever ME! what I feel about this whole thing. No one. Ever.
Am I supposed to sit by and go, “oh….I’m so sorry wasn’t perfect!”
Stupid little children running rehabs….
So here’s the thing…
I seem to have been left out of this entire equation. While everyone is dashing madly around trying to “fix” Kelly, I don’t even warrant a phone call from her. Nopers, she calls daddy every week, and yet not me. Me. The one who gave birth to her on the toilet. The one who just can’t figure out what the hell in going on. The one who is slowly losing her mind over this.
I, apparently, am the idiot in this equation, and the one on the receiving end of the most venom, although I don’t deserve it, go figure.
And *that*? I have no interest in
Because I am good enough, smart enough, and Dog-gone-it! People like me!
But still…
I don’t know.
He's wearing his "Bat Goggles" to protect his privacy. Spot, however, doesn't care that her face is splashed all over the internet.
Almost every Wednesday we babysit the 8yo son one of Joshua’s (occasional) co-workers. When Kelly is here she is the one who watches the little boy, allegedly, but we all know Joshua is the person spending the most time with him, playing video games together.
L loves this. I think Joshua does, too. He gets to pass on his gaming knowledge to a new generation and craft the future of geekdom. I’m sure he is proud. Hopefully L will realize one day what a gift he has been given to have been graced by the company of the most brilliant gamer in the universe…or something like that. Da Mr J sure do know his games, dat’s fer sure!
As for me, I enjoy it too, but for a different reason. You see, I really get a kick out of the “easyness” of an eight-year-old. Why did I ever think that was hard? Lil’ kids are so much more fun! On the other hand, it could be because I don’t have to do anything more than feed him and amuse him for a few hours in the evening once a week, then put him to bed until his mom comes to get him in the wee dawn of morning whilst I am asleep. And she leaves us money, too, kinda like the tooth fairy, only she leaves it on the coffee table and we all get to wake up with most of our teeth.
But I am misty-eyed as I write this for so many reasons. Maybe I am forgetting everything that went along with having my own 8yo, but right now? I’ll take whatever drama that went along with that over dealing with the drama I am faced with right now. Blech. I’m sure I could put on my “Way Back Thinking Cap” and remember it wasn’t *all* so much puppies and kittens and happy-skippy-joy-joy by any means. Still…I am wistful.
Mebbe *this* is why grand-parenting is supposed to be so awesome? Not that I wanna move into that mode any time soon! ::shudder::
g’night, darling L!
Got another call from K yesterday. She has a six hour pass for Sunday. I fussed again with the stupid little CSW who seriously irks me with her smugness and who again insisted that family therapy was necessary for me to take K out of the facility. I begged to differ. This thing has me so pissed I just can’t see straight right now.
She put K on the phone. Again. On speaker. Nice.
Nothing good came of that, I can tell you. The end result was K attempting to guilt me into coming out to “get her out of there!!!!!!” Again.
But you know what?
She chose of her own volition (insisted even! and made up stories which I now know not to be true)…to go back to rehab. She also has chosen to be less than communicative and more than manipulative in her dealings with me, Dad, and the staff there. Trust me; Dad is on the same page as I am, and Joshua is too, and hey, even Bren is.
You see, there comes a point where I must begin to look out for myself because I daily fall further and further into the morass of all those defeating thoughts that were seriously ingrained in me for so many years. Kelly simply repeats them to me. Over and over. And over.
I am working so hard to salvage the fact that I’m worth something.
I need some peace. I’m done with her crap.
K is going to have figure out how not to alienate everyone who loves her.
Especially me.
Because you know what? Although I will always, truly, completely, and from the bottom of my heart forever love her as I can do nothing else because she is my child?
I don’t like her. And I definitely can’t fathom spending an entire day with her right now. She…scares me. There, I said it: She Scares Me. I am afraid of her, for so many reasons. I know that sounds harsh, but it is the truth.
So this is the way it is going to be: When she comes to me and tells me she loves me and will accept my love and my earnest attempts to help her and/or be close to her I will agree to “family therapy”. The day she says she wants me – yes ME! – to drive to JC to pick her up and spend bunches of money on gas and whatnot so we can go do stuff together just us and go get Taco Bell and maybe see a movie together, not just because she wants to vary her scenery?
I will go.
I will go with big giant shiny noisy bells on.
But not before then. Not one single second before then.
Unfortunately, I don’t see that happening anytime soon.
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