Not So Much Blues as Blahs December 14, 2010Posted by Kimmothy in Fam Damily, Holidays, Moods, Youth.
As is fairly common for people this time of year, the other night I was stressed and foul and disgusted with humanity. It was however quickly remedied with stringing the little white lights through the ficus tree and over the mantle, Brian getting a good fire going and watching A Charlie Brown Christmas. I’ve never made it through Linus’s Bible quote without tearing up and it’s impossible for me to be in a bad mood while hearing that music. Above all the Christmas specials, that one is my childhood for me.
I said, “Remember when Christmas used to be exciting? It’s so NOT anymore.”
He replied, “Damn – I better step it up with the presents!”
And not to be totally cliche, but I said it has absolutely nothing to do with the presents. Yes, I do realize I’ll never again have that exquisite joy of excitedly trying to sleep on Christmas Eve and waking up to a tree buried in gifts, but it’s so much more than that. My parents made a huge deal out of the holidays for us (I very much appreciated the fact, even then, that besides lighting a candle for the menorah each night of Hanukkah, they felt Christmas was a lot more fun for kids and went the Santa Claus route for us). We had the usual traditions – going for the Christmas lights ride, visiting our Italian friends who opened their presents on Christmas Eve (I used to strongly campaign for that for us to no avail), eating bagels, lox and cream cheese on Christmas morning…yeah, that one was probably just ours, but still.
For me, the entire month of December used to be one long anticipatory stream of glee and that lasted well beyond high school. Even after I went away to college, that month meant school breaks and reuniting with friends to drink beer in the woods and really it felt like one long party. And I know obviously part of this whole current malaise is because we no longer have my dad – he made everything more fun, let alone the most fun time of the year. And I also realize I’m not unique in missing a loved one during the holidays. I can easily identify the reasons for these blahs; the challenge is in trying to figure out how to fix them. Or if they’re not fixable I guess learning ways around them? Something.
I just reread all that and like always, I feel guilty for even giving voice these “problems.” Awww, I’m not EXCITED anymore – go tell that to the homeless people down at the bus stop freezing their asses off this morning and see how much sympathy it produces. I know I’m lucky to even have the luxury of being warm right now, being at work and not working, drinking my sweet sweet coffee. And I have been actively trying to remind myself of all the good things I have so as to knock the meh out of me, which does work to a certain extent.
But still. I want some Christmas magic, damn it.
Viva la Difference! March 21, 2010Posted by Kimmothy in Baptists, Fam Damily, Jews, Youth.
I’ve spent a lot of time over the past week reading the info so many nice people have provided me regarding adoption stories. I’ve loved every minute of it, not just because it gives me hope and some confidence with how to proceed, but also because I’m a voyeur who loves reading about other people’s lives.
One thing that stuck out was when someone talked about the home study foster and adoptive parents go through and how among the many questions asked is how *you* were raised. This has always been a fun compare-and-contrast topic in our house, mostly because of the GLARING differences.
First, the similarities –
We’re both the oldest of two siblings.
Except that’s not even totally true, because Brian’s dad actually had a son with his first wife, so Brian has an older half-brother. So scratch that one.
The differences –
Him: Strict, church-going, not allowed playtime on Saturdays until chores were done, unrealistic curfews (he regularly broke), very restricted TV watching (The Jeffersons were not allowed into their living room for obvious reasons), arbitrary rules, regulations, Bible-invoking spare the rod, spoil the child, child rearing. Which of course made him start to rebel at a fairly young age and years of troublesome problems commenced.
Me: Bedtimes were strictly enforced, as was nutritional intake – for a little while there in the mid-70’s, my mom went on a health kick where she stopped buying Kool-aid and replaced it with the abomination that is Juicy Juice – but other than that, things were pretty laid back. Well too, good grades were stressed – I was put on phone restriction once in 9th grade when I brought home a less-than-stellar report card (damn algebra) and I got my car taken away from me a month after I got it for skipping school my senior year. And Brian laughs – “You had a CAR. That they BOUGHT you. Rough life! Hahaha!” He’s still amazed by the fact our parents took us to see Eddie Murphy in concert. Hey, they thought he was funny in the early 80’s just like mostly everyone else. Well, excluding Brian’s parents.
We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, but pretty much all the disposable income they did have, most of it went toward making me and my sister happy. I’d like to think we knew how lucky we were at the time, but come on. No kid really thinks that, do they? I was too busy comparing my JC Penny’s fake Polo shirts to the kids who wore their Calvins and Vanderbilts and United Colors of Benetton every day. Especially Melody Dixon, who not only had all the right clothes but accessorized them with a large yellow gold jewelry collection and her full 1-karat diamond studs.
Don’t worry. I’m now clearly aware of what an asshole I was.
On the flip side, for as much trouble Brian got in (some of which ended up with having the law involved), I was a nerdy good kid whose biggest fear in life was the possibility of disappointing my parents. So apparently their guilt-administering skills must have been superior to those of his parents’. Score one for the Jews.
So if a social worker were to ask us to describe our childhoods, we’d be able to say that between us they were very, uh, DIVERSE. Which in my opinion is good, right? Our future kid acts up, and I’m sure we’d have some lively discussions on what the punishment would involve. I’d say something like no phone and TV for a week and Brian would make him/her re-roof the house while memorizing the New Testament.
Or some happy medium.
Overshare October 20, 2009Posted by Kimmothy in Experience, Life, Lists, Youth.
We had a super-fun weekend and hopefully tomorrow I’ll be able to do a picture post. My camera was being a crackhead today and decided to upload 267 pictures, most of which I thought I’d deleted off of the camera a long time ago. Silly me – hitting the “delete” icon that looks like a trashcan, answering that yes I really do want to delete the picture and watching it disappear apparently isn’t enough to really make the picture go away. Must figure out this problem somehow or else maybe throw the camera into the nearest brick wall and watch it smash into many small pieces, something I fantasized about doing this afternoon during the upload debacle. I mean, if you can’t immediately post your vacation pictures on Facebook, what good is it to actually go on vacation? It’s like it doesn’t even count or something.
Aside: While walking around the festival Saturday, I overheard a dad say to his daughter, “See, this is better than Facebook, isn’t it?” I didn’t hear her answer but it made me laugh. In my opinion real life is still better than a social networking site but maybe it wouldn’t be if I was fourteen.
I was talking to a friend today and the subject turned to sex as it oft does amongst women. (I have a theory that we female folk discuss it more than men do and in a way more raunchy manner most of the time, but maybe that’s just been my experience.) Anyhoo, we were talking about the old days, back long before we were married, when sex seemed like an all-consuming activity. I mean, the amount of energy we used to put into thinking and planning and talking about it, let alone doing it, is staggering to me now.
I’m now going to share some of the fascinating details of my sexual career – you’re welcome.
– I was ten days into being sixteen the first time I did it. Weirdly, that is the exact same age, to the day, how old a good friend of mine was too for her first time.
– I’ve been impaled by fourteen penises (penii?) in total (not all at once). That never sounded like a lot to me until just now.
– Not only do I know all the last names of the guys I’ve been intimate with, I know most of their middle names too. And knew them before Facebook and Myspace were around.
– I’ve done it with a few boys who were only one-time deals, but never had a one-night stand in the sense where I met the dude that night and we boinked, never to speak again. In fact, I’m still on friendly terms with roughly half my list. And yes, that is thanks to the internet.
– I think a lot of this has to do with the fact I grew up in a very small town. A small, uneventful, incestuous town.
– Most of my non-monogamus action happened between the ages of 19 and 21.
– I once was forced to crawl out of the bedroom window of a double-wide trailer after doing it with a guy a friend of mine liked. I was quickly caught, since I really had no plan figured out beyond that and had to turn right around and enter the place through the front door, thus letting her know we’d both spent the night there. That kind of sucked.
– I once hooked up with this HOT-ass dude, a blonde, blue-eyed player way out of my league. It was the most boring sex I’ve ever had (and I was only nineteen or twenty at the time but even back then I knew it sucked) and when my friend knocked on the door to tell me she had to go home, I made him stop in the middle of it. He was pissed, but luckily not an asshole about it like he sort of had the right to be.
– I’ve only done it with one Jew. We ate bagels and cream cheese afterwards and I’m not even making that up.
– I’ve never done anything with a girl besides kiss. It was midnight on New Year’s Eve, we were at a hotel room party and her boyfriend was drunk and being a dick and wouldn’t kiss her when the clock struck twelve. So I did. Her name was Kate.
– I’ve had sex in Florida, Alabama, New York, Virginia, and both Carolinas.
Sooooo…what’s new with you?
Tornado Tummy August 18, 2009Posted by Kimmothy in Health, Nail Biter, Weather, Youth.
No, that isn’t some new ailment you should concern yourself with. But it is very real – if you’re me.
Back in the Paleozoic era when I attended elementary school in Sarasota, Florida, we learned all kinds of emergency preparedness procedures. Fire drills. School bus safety. Memorizing our addresses and phone numbers and to avoid talking to strangers unless they were wearing trench coats and offering candy. But the one that sticks out most in my mind is the hurricane information.
Hurricane season goes from June 1st until November 1st but in my experience, September is usually the most active month. There were plenty of school years that had just gotten under way and then were abruptly interrupted for a few days by a hurricane or tropical storm. Most kids loved it and I admit to a certain amount of excitement myself since living in Florida meant those were the closest thing we had to snow days. But when I was younger and developing all the many neurosis I still carry with me today, I didn’t enjoy discussing impending disaster one bit. In fact, I’m very surprised one of my favorite hobbies now is to read and watch weather stuff all the time because it certainly didn’t start out that way.
So one year, I think I was in second or third grade, we were in the middle of hurricane season and it appeared one was headed our way. I don’t remember much about it except one day soon before it was expected to hit, tornadoes started sprouting up like they sometimes do. Apparently one was pretty close to our school because an announcement came over the loud speaker that instructed the teachers to keep everyone in the classrooms and away from windows, as an official warning had been issued. My teacher, whom I loved and trusted, tried to keep things light and told us to sit on the floor in a circle so we could talk and have some fun. Her tone was chipper and upbeat but I wasn’t having any of it.
Immediately I felt the need to poop. Yes, I think all my bathroom issues can be traced back to that very moment, for ever since whenever pressed with a stressful situation, that’s my go-to bodily function. But there was no way in hell I was going to ask to go to the bathroom in the middle of what I was certain going to be the death of us all. I sat there in silence and suffered until the ordeal passed. Eventually my stomach calmed down but in my mind I finally had a name for what’s now called Irritable Bowel Syndrome – Tornado Tummy. It’s very effective in describing both my reaction to a weather emergency and also what it feels like goes on inside my stomach when I’m worried or upset.
I’ve been suffering from Tornado Tummy a lot lately. And the bitch of it is, there’s no damn reason for it and I can’t figure out what’s causing it. (Yes it is actually hurricane season right now, but since I no longer live five miles from the Gulf of Mexico, I no longer worry about the storms so much) No, this is the type of anxiety that bothers me the most – when things are going WELL and I’m STILL stressed out about some unnamed, obscure thing. I guess another name for it would be Waiting-For-The-Other-Shoe-To-Drop syndrome? Things are good so something bad must be just around the corner? I HATE thinking like that. Because it means that I’m unable to fully enjoy when things are going well and that’s just not how I want to be.
I’ve been off of Xanax for over six months now and I’ve been mostly fine with that. But I don’t know – it might be time to re-visit that or maybe even something else in order to maybe reign these feelings in a little bit. I don’t like the thought of medicating, but on the other hand thoughts of doom aren’t a lot of fun either. Any anxiety sucks, and there are plenty of things in this world to be concerned with every day but when I’m spending time and energy thinking up stuff to worry about? Probably time to take care of that.
Remember the Time June 26, 2009Posted by Kimmothy in Celebrities, Experience, Fam Damily, Music, Youth.
This is more a tribute to what kind of man my dad was than Michael Jackson. Because as soon as I heard the news yesterday, this is what I thought of.
I had what you might call a
crazy, insane, irrational mild obsession with Michael Jackson. I realize I’m not unique with regard to this. But whatever; he was my Elvis, my Beatles, my everything (before I discovered long-haired, skinny sweaty white boy rockers). My bedroom walls were not visible under all the posters. I got in trouble in class for arguing with this dude over which was the better album: Thriller or Bark at the Moon. (And hey, Tracy, wherever you are, I do now appreciate Ozzy much more than I did then, but which one is now the greatest selling album of all time? Yeah, I win.)
One of the great things about my dad and one of the things I miss most is how interested and supportive he was with whatever stuff I liked. He was a child of the 50’s, so he was too old to be part of the hippie generation and was fairly conservative with his tastes and views. As my MJ obsession grew, my parents were forced to sit through more and more videos, specials, awards shows – not just Thriller, but The Making of Thriller. While they had no interest in the music, they couldn’t help but notice his dancing and insane level of showmanship. You know, along with the rest of the world. He was definitely not my dad’s taste, but by pure osmosis, started growing on him a little.
So it came to be in the Summer before 9th grade, the Jacksons decided to go on tour (the Pepsi-sponsored Victory Tour 1983) and were playing large stadiums around the country, one of which would be in Jacksonville, FL. They made it into a thing with all the Jackson Five, but it was obvious the tour was to support Thriller. Because of the mania, you could not simply buy tickets, but had to enter into a lottery for a block of four of them. Conveniently we had four people in my family, which convinced me it was Fate. The catch was the price. $180 is a lot of money now, let alone twenty-six years ago. Jacksonville is a three and a half hour drive from Inverness, where we lived. My dad had just bought a small golf course that left him with a very small cash flow and any and all extra money went back into the business, so there was little room for any luxuries. He had set it up so that the golf membership dues were paid in August in order that they would always have money for back-to-school clothes for us. *Sniff*
I presented my case to Dad. I professionally outlined all the reasons why I had to see this show, the most important one being I doubted I could go on to lead a happy, productive life if I didn’t. We were having this discussion in the kitchen and while I was talking, I grabbed my toothbrush and started scrubbing the kitchen floor with it. I told him I’d clean the whole house like that if he wanted me to. For the next ten years of my life. My dad didn’t enjoy seeing my psychosis so nakedly exposed like that, so he told me to stop being a turkey-ass and agreed to whatever he needed to do to try and win the chance to buy the tickets. Which obviously he did, or I wouldn’t be telling this story. Or leading a happy, productive life.
My family took our motorhome for the trip to Jacksonville, during which I spent the entire time in the bathroom. (Nothing’s really changed there). I don’t remember how many people attended that show, except that the stadium was filled to capacity, with families just like mine, old people, little kids, etc. Most people were dressed in true MJ form, with gloves, sunglasses and tight leather clothes in the Florida Summer sun. I don’t think my parents realized until then how big this guy really was. When he came out onto the stage, my mother had to grab onto me to keep me from tipping forward onto the person in front of me and was fairly frightened that I was going to pass out. After hundreds of concerts, that show remains high up there for great memories, but I think that also comes from the fun my family had together that day.
I guarantee if Dad happens to bump into MJ now, he’ll tell him how much we all enjoyed that show and what a psycho his daughter was over him.
And that opened up some kind of door, because my parents would go on to take us to see Prince, Eddie Murphy and George Michael (though that was just my sister; I was out of state at the time). Sometimes they saw the concerts with us (Eddie), sometimes they comfortably camped outside in the parking lot and had cocktails and watched TV while they waited for us to come back out, exhilarated, loud and sweaty in our stylish 80’s clothes.
All kids should have dads like my dad.
Step Away from the Television June 23, 2009Posted by Kimmothy in Tee Vee, Whatever, World, Youth.
I’ll keep it brief, I promise, but here are a couple of Lessons I’ve Learned from Jon & Kate:
1. As tempting as it may be to sell out your family’s privacy for a reality TV show, don’t do it.
2. If you feel a need to verbally castrate your husband, don’t do it in front of a national audience. Repeatedly. For four years.
3. If you feel a need to verbally castrate your husband at all, you maybe shouldn’t be married to him.
4. If your husband tells you he’s not happy, believe him. Seriously. If you don’t, the next thing you know there will be pictures of him on the front of US Weekly partying in bars with women who aren’t you.
5. Never, I repeat NEVER get a haircut like that.
Besides that trainwreck last night, I also decided it would be a great idea to watch this MTV show. I know – I think I was trying to see how many IQ points I could subtract off of my total number. This is what happens when Brian isn’t home at night and I have nobody but the dog to witness this embarrassing choice of viewing. Anyway, it was this docu-style, “reality” type drama, set at a college in Madison, Wisconsin where five or six college freshman film themselves with shaky, jerky cameras and narrate what’s going on to capture the “college experience.”
The worst part is I can’t even claim to have watched it by accident, as it was on the MTV On Demand channel, so I actually had to push several buttons on the remote to see it. And I watched almost three full episodes before I snapped out of my mouth-breathing, zoned out trance, punched myself in the face and turned it off in disgust. Not disgust for them, for myself. No, the kids on that show pretty much embody everything I picture a college freshman to be these days. One dude got a $2400 tattoo, even though his sister reminded him their mom “makes necklaces” in order to pay for him to be in school. Another one got kicked out of his dorm room (not clear about the reason) after his mom had sent the $6000 housing payment and ended up getting an apartment with two 21-year-olds – you know, for the sweet partying opportunities.
It was…not shocking. Really the only thing that sort of bothered me was how much the girls lived up to the slutty college girl stereotype. I understand that the average 18-year-old female and I have a very different set of sexual ethics, but even when I was that age I never acted like I was being filmed for Girls Gone Wild. I’m not claiming by any means to be morally superior; I’ve done my share of cringe-worthy things. But damn. Seeing how these girls acted during Spring Break – dude, I LIVED there. I’ve done the Daytona Beach thing many times and yeah, that included getting drunk and having sex. But I always knew the first and last name of the person I was having sex with and I never lost any blocks of time due to blackouts. They just act like they have it all together; they know what the hell they’re doing…and, wow do I sound old right now. Get off my lawn you little troublemakers!
This is why I don’t watch a lot of TV, especially in the Summertime. But I am excited for tonight – he has to work late again, so I’ll totally get to watch Paris Hilton’s My New BFF! Ha. Not really. He didn’t get home until 11:00 last night and we stayed up until 1:00 just so we could catch up with each other which sucked ass, so tonight I’m going over to where they’re working so I can be his tile apprentice. Or be their errand girl. Or try to build some brain cells back up by reading a book. Whatever; it doesn’t matter.
I’m a little nervous about the consultation appointment with Dr. Fertility Thursday, but I’m doing my best not to dwell on it too much. There will be plenty of time for worrying when I can’t sleep Wednesday night. Wow, planning ahead for worrying. That has to be really healthy.
The tradition continues June 14, 2009Posted by Kimmothy in Experience, Fam Damily, Friends, Oldies, Youth.
This weekend has been pretty low-key for me, which seems to be the case lately. The only difference is I’ve added exercise into my daily life and I’ve managed to stick to it for five consecutive days so far – go, me! I’m really excited about the new blog and I think it’s going to help me tremendously through this, my latest adventures in weight loss.
Grace called yesterday with some mildly upsetting news: her daughter, my favorite youngster, was caught sneaking out with one of her friends the other night. The story is confusing so I won’t get into details, but what struck me the most is that for our hometown (and I’m sure many others), this seems to be an unavoidable right of passage. I mean, my friends and I certainly did our share, though my 120-lb German Shepard “brother” made it impossible for us to get away with it at home so we had to do most of our nighttime skulking from friends’ houses. No problem making curfew when you knew the real fun wasn’t going to start until after 1 a.m. anyway. Oy.
We thought we were so crafty with the whole “I’m staying over at Jen’s tonight” plan. Even though Jen’s place was THE primo place to stay, since her mom not only knew about the sneak-outs, but practically encouraged them – and loved hearing all about our adventures the next day! Yes, I know – she was a little weird. But she had her logic about it; if it was going to happen inevitably, she figured as long as the boys came to us and we stayed on their property, well then we were obviously safe and sound and that was just fine and dandy with her. Little did she know her daughter lost her virginity while on their property, but no harm no foul.
But even though her mom was way more liberal than most, that wasn’t good enough for us and we had to still push the limits. Because, why not? Where’s the fun in having permission; that takes all the rebellion out of it. Her mom’s worst punishment for our night activities was loudly waking us up at 7am, forcing us to get showered, dressed and eat breakfast, no matter how hungover we were – the worse, the better. The bitch is lucky she made fabulous pancakes.
One night, the four of us, me, Grace, Jen and my sister were out at this house party. Jen and Sister were the youngsters compared to us – sophmores in high school to our already-graduated-but-still-living-at-home status. And while we had a hair more freedom than they did, we still lived under the “As long as you’re under my roof you will have a curfew” regime. So unfair! What the hell, Dad, I’m 19 – I am a woman now and need to fly and be free!! Anyway. This party. It was one of those nights the guy to girl ratio was great and all the guys we had crushes on were present and accounted for. The cheap beer, malt liquor and Boones Farm was flowing and we were having a great time. Until so quickly, the clock (our enemy) was showing us it was time to get our asses home. But somehow in our drunken logic, Grace and I decided, Hey, we’re older; why should WE have to go home just because the youngsters do! At which point I gave the keys to my car to Jen, not because she was less drunk, but because she knew how to drive a stick and my sister didn’t. We told them to take the car and go straight home, that we’d be there shortly. Long story long, we went off with some guys to the big city of Ocala, thirty miles away, and spent the night at some dude’s (we named him “That Guy”) apartment.
Do you want to know the sickest thing a young girl can experience while driving home in the early morning hours as daylight fast approaches? No, not the hangover. Not sexual regret or wondering if the other girls made it home okay. The sight of Jen’s parents PASSING YOU ON THE ROAD BECAUSE THEY ARE DRIVING AROUND LOOKING FOR ALL OF YOU. Grace and I saw them, looked at each other and quickly surmised that yeah, apparently poor judgment was made all around and the girls never made it home either. When punishments were handed out, Grace and I got off fairly easily, as we were considered too old to really be grounded; we basically received a stern talking-to regarding the fact we were the OLDER and therefore MORE RESPONSIBLE ones and they thought we were TRUSTWORTHY when it came to looking out for the younger girls. Oops. Sister got the worst of it and was put on restriction for a month, subsequently missing one of the greatest parties of that year the following week. And you can ask her – she’s still pissed about that one.
So yeah, I vividly remember what it’s like. The late-night adventures we had in our little town are some of my fondest memories. And living where we did, so sheltered compared to so many bigger, scarier places, our shenanigans were pretty tame. I’m very thankful Elizabeth is growing up in that same little town. But the thought that she’s right on the precipice of all this scares the living hell out of me (So, haha, imagine what her mother must feel like, haha!) She’s an intelligent, thoughtful and caring kid. She even inherited her mother’s grim intuition, telling her friend, “You know we’re going to get caught if we do this, right?” She has a conscience and God knows that’s key. I’m not saying she’s not going to screw up; I just think knowing when she’s doing it, knowing there will most definitely be consequences, really will make the difference. This won’t help Grace sleep any better at night, but I’m not sure that’s avoidable when you have a teenager you gave birth to and are responsible for keeping alive.
And she’s starting high school in August. This is one of the only reasons I wish I still lived there, because I have the feeling it’s going to be an interesting four years.
Part hippie May 5, 2009Posted by Kimmothy in Experience, Fam Damily, Oldies, Youth.
If I’m as bored as this with the whole fucking stupid baby stupid fucking thing, I can only imagine how anyone who reads this is. I’m really going to try keeping that shit to a minimum until there’s something interesting to say, like for instance if I were to actually, you know, GET PREGNANT. Fuck.
Work is just stupid too, so no talking about that either.
We were making more jokes about forming a compound/bunker the other day (because we’re hysterical like that) and then I remembered something. We’d both be terrible in a place like that. Not only does he start to break out in the cold sweats if he doesn’t have his daily dose of Fox News or the equivalent, but I get pretty grumpy away from the interwebs after a short time. Embarrassing but true. And that’s only really a small part of it.
My parents bought an RV when I was nine and we spent many fun summers traveling around the country and also spending a couple of whole summers in New York. My parents always joked about how us kids didn’t know from “roughing it” and that if we were ever forced to camp in an actual tent, we’d be horrified. Well, they weren’t entirely right, but fairly close. We spent a fun weekend tent camping in the North Carolina mountains one beautiful Fall and I also spent three wet days in a tent at the Woodstock reunion in 1994 that ranks up there in the top five vacations of my life. But I will say I can only handle a tent if the weather is nice and chilly. The one time we tried camping in North Florida one Memorial Day weekend is a nightmare I’ve been mostly successful at blocking out completely. The heat. The bugs. The skin sticking together -(Zexy)- Hell no; you can HAVE that shit.
I like TV too. There, I said it. Our motorhome had a little black & white antenna’d thing that was mostly a pain in the ass and we rarely used it. But it made us feel good just knowing it was there.
Then this one Summer, my parents sent us to stay with our hippie aunt and uncle for a few weeks. I laugh now knowing it was actually only two weeks or so when it seemed like a lifetime then. These people lived in a commune-ish place in WAAAY upstate New York, like close to Canada, and they lived pretty much isolated from civilization on top of a mountain or some shit. My aunt’s house wasn’t, but their next door neighbors had one of those built-into-the-ground houses, which we thought was cool as hell at the time because we could walk on the “roof,” which was actually just part of the “yard.” Those people had a little blond hippie kid who they encouraged to call them by their first names – I wonder what kind of an addict he is today.
What we weren’t fond of was the fact my aunt’s house had no electricity or running water (by choice – hippies, remember) so that while we sort of enjoyed being hosed off outside for our showers, we did NOT enjoy the sun going down at 9:00 and them not allowing us to use the Coleman lanterns too much for fear of wasting the oil. Dude, if I can’t read at night, even back in the day, I start to get panicky and weird. And since bedtime was strictly enforced to us all during the school year, Summer vacation was NOT when I wanted to go to bed at 9:00, damn it.
And do not EVER try to pass carob off as chocolate to me, ever, ever again. Same goes for rice cakes as a substitute for bread, bagels, English muffins or what have you. Admittedly Sister and I did have a fun time there, especially amongst ourselves, mostly by making fun of everyone around us and also amusing ourselves for hours every day singing Eddie Rabbit while swinging endlessly on the miraculously provided swing set. I actually don’t recall ever really being bored while we were there, which is really crazy. They took us to a couple of really cool concerts-in-the-park things and also to see Raiders of the Lost Ark, which scared the living shit out of us on the big screen, and I am G-D OLD.
Fond memories of the Summer of ’81. But I really do greatly enjoy lights and reading at night and water and my dvr, I really do.
Happy Cinco de Mayo – have a big fat Margarita for me, ya hear?
Happy Four-Twenty, Man April 20, 2009Posted by Kimmothy in Home Life, Oldies, Youth.
I was going to try to be a smartass and do a whole post like I was writing while I was high, but I figured no one would be able to tell the difference – HA! In honor of today though, let’s talk about weed for a minute, specifically my history with it. You’re not a cop, are you?
As with many things I was a fairly late bloomer. I think most people, if they’re going to try it at all, usually try it first in their teens, but not me. I grew up in a small town with fairly protective parents. I didn’t even SEE pot until I was a senior in high school. My boyfriend at the time (he now resides in the Florida state prison system since pot interestingly did turn out to be a gateway drug for him and he eventually graduated to crack) had some one night while we were a party and it wasn’t long after he showed me the bag of evil green stuff (it smelled nasty as hell to me)(back then) I broke up with him. Not because of that though; it was more due to the fact he was a total lovey-dovey cling-on and literally bathed himself in Polo cologne. Oh, Mark. I’m guessing you’ve not aged well.
Skip ahead three years to when I’m now buying beer legally. I’m socializing with a new group of friends, one of whom is Delorme. You know, the guy who is pretty much responsible for the direction my life took. After being around these people for a few months and seeing them smoke without any detrimental results (besides having long stupid conversations regarding how awesome Carefree Sugarless Gum and Sour Cream and Onion flavored chips are and hidden meanings behind classic rock lyrics), I figured what the hey. And I don’t understand this, but I’d heard the first time you smoke it doesn’t really work. Maybe it’s God’s way of giving you one more chance not to try it? I don’t know, but that’s what happened to me. The second time? A lot different. All I remember is laughing until I sprinkled my pants and swiftly inhaling a Whopper with cheese, which is how I knew I was high – I HATE Burger King.
For the next ten years the Maryjane was my thing. I thought, like many others, I’d found the perfect drug for myself. It didn’t make me feel shitty the next day like alcohol. It wasn’t habit-forming (officially). It didn’t make me lazy (sometimes) but instead made things like cleaning the house, going grocery shopping and many other mundane chores a lot more fun. It made funny movies hysterical. It made me want to do creative things like write and paint and do crafts. True, it made some things more difficult, like following the directions on the back of the Hamburger Helper box, but I managed. I figured okay, this was good. I’d be one of those hip fifty-somethings with a long gray braid and loose hippie skirts with a garden and a sweet ass hydroponic system, living somewhere in the Pacific Northwest and voting Green Party.
It didn’t work out that way.
But this isn’t an Afterschool Special story. I didn’t have any big epiphanies or Aha moments.
During the Bad Time, when Brian and I had first separated, an opportunity arose to smoke with a friend. It had been awhile but I figured what better way to calm down and take the edge off, finally. I needed to de-stress badly. That’s not what happened. For the first time ever I didn’t catch a tasty buzz. What happened was more like an anxiety attack and believe me, I’m well versed enough in those (Expert Level even) to know real fast when it’s happening. I thought, Oh shit; this is what all those ex-stoners talked about and I just thought they had turned into big wusses. But since it sometimes takes me awhile to catch on, I tried it again a few days later, you know – just to make sure. Same thing.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me sad that I knew my stoner days had come to an end. But since that time, almost eight years ago, there have only been a couple of instances (usually while on vacation, usually in New York) that I’ve done it again, with semi-okay results. I din’t have any more panic attacks, but I didn’t have a ton of fun either. It mostly made me feel stupid and tired and unable to concentrate on what I’m reading. And I can achieve those things just as easily by myself, without inhaling an illegal smoky substance into my already damaged lung situation. (The fact that it’s illegal is completely ridiculous to me, but that’s another story.)
But There’s one thing left over from the days of weed though that I recently unearthed. It was this little notebook and in it, I saw I’d started writing (and illustrating!)a book. The working title is The (In)Complete Stoners’ Handbook and in flipping through it, I saw the thing is damn funny. Even now when I’m not under the same influence I was when I’d written it. Brian thinks it’s a masterpiece, but you know – he still smokes. In fact, he’s spent most of this morning looking for his phone that he misplaced yesterday. He finally found it though. Where? Why, in the engine area of his truck, wedged safely in a crevice so tightly it managed not to fall out while he drove over to his mom’s house to look for it. Of course that’s where it was. You mean you wouldn’t put your phone in a super place like that while putting new brake pads on your vehicle? I guess he celebrated 4/20 a little early, and by early I mean daily, but all’s well that ends well. He just told me I left my keys in his truck yesterday too and looked around for them for a half hour this morning inside the house, finally having to take my spare set to work which doesn’t have my work keys on it. What’s my excuse, because it damn sure isn’t drugs.
Disclaimer: This blogger in no way endorses or admits to the use of any illicit or fun substances including but not limited to: Marijuana, LSD, white sugar, crack, diet pills, caffeine, cigarettes, all stimulants, all depressants, and chocolate. You cannot prove otherwise.
April Foolish April 1, 2009Posted by Kimmothy in Celebrities, Fam Damily, Holidays, Oldies, Youth.
I’ve been sitting here trying to think up some funny April Fool’s joke, but I’m having problems thinking of anything that doesn’t involve a bodily function (as is my way), and nothing is even sounding funny to me, so screw it. I feel all jinxy right now anyway, so saying something like “I just pooped my pants!” even if it’s followed by a sheepish “Naw, April Fool!” I’d be scared the rest of the day of pooping in my pants.
My dad LOVED this holiday and in particular having me be the sole recipient of his jokes. Every year it was something: rigging my bathroom with boobytraps: a cup of water falling on my head when I opened the door, Saran wrap on the toilet seat, no water coming out of the faucet and “The Fool Was Here” written in soap all over the mirror. That was funny. Once he hid my car; parked it around the back of the house so that when I walked out to go to school, I had a heart attack, while he watched from the front window laughing his ass off. Even when I was on vacation away from home once he packed a bunch of plastic spiders in my suitcase and coordinated it with my boyfriend at the time to have it scare me on April 1st. I’ll admit it – I miss that a lot. All those things were good, but one year he lost his mind and went to the extreme.
I was eleven years old and completely obsessed with The Dukes of Hazzard. My sister and cousins will verify this if you have any doubts. Posters – not only all over my bedroom, but also all over my bunk bed area in our motorhome. Teen magazine collages abounded. Every Friday night at 8:00 without fail, was the highlight of my week and I was not to be interrupted by anyone (not much has changed there, but at least now there are dvr’s). I was all about Bo in particular, but loved them all; that show was my everything. We still had antenna then and only got reception on the three main networks, which was jolly good by me, as long as CBS was one of them. One dark sad night a train went by just as the show was starting, we lost reception and couldn’t get it back for hours. Unexplained to this day and also obviously very scarring to me, since I remember it.
We lived in Wildwood, Florida at the time and my dad was the golf pro at the local country club. Someone passed the information along that some relatives of Tom Wopat, the guy who played Luke Duke, were members of our club and lived nearby. It was rumored that Tom himself also had some property and a house there and I don’t remember how but we did end up confirming that was true. Strangely a few years later when we lived thirty miles west in Inverness, we met the guy who played Roscoe P. Coaltraine (and the dog who played his hound dog Flash who was also his dog in real life but who was a girl dog) who had a house THERE. I don’t know what it was about small little bumpkin Florida towns and the cast of that show, but apparently they loved the area for whatever reason.
Did you know John Travolta has a house in Ocala, right there as well? That has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but it just surprises me so many of my celebrity boyfriends lived so damn close by yet we never met and had the romantic times I dreamed about. Sucks.
Anyway. A few days before April Fool’s, Dad started really bringing up the whole Luke Duke thing, saying we’d have to ride around and see if we could find his house (stalkers!) or maybe see if he liked golf and give him a free round, etc. Assuring that I was in a highly agitated state, right up until the day I got home from school and my mom told me my dad had a surprise for me. Hmm? Yes. She told me she wasn’t sure, but she thought my dad might have found Luke and was maybe bringing him to our house?
She said, “Now don’t get too excited, Daddy’s just going to try.” Too excited? Oh, but it was already well past that point. I did what I always do in those situations and went straight to the toilet. Then after that I went directly to my room and shut and locked the door. I had to get a grip on all this somehow, because I was straight losing my shit. (Literally)
Then I heard it. Remember the Dukes’ car, the General Lee? Of course you do. Remember how the car horn played “Dixie?” That was the sound I was currently hearing and it was coming from my very own driveway. I don’t think I actually shit in my pants, but I came pretty damn close. I know I made some high pitched squealing sounds. Then I dove into my closet and slammed the door shut, refusing to come out. I’d like to think I’ve matured and could handle something like that better nowadays, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on it.
I don’t remember how, but they finally got me to come out. My dad was pretty much crying he was laughing so hard. He led me outside to the driveway, where the only car there was his little red Fiat. Wha? He leaned in the window and beeped the horn. And it played “Dixie” again. He spent $80 (and remember this is 1979 or thereabouts; that was a good amount of money back then, at least for our family) to get this horn and have someone hook it up to his car, all for a joke on me. The horn played something like a hundred different songs, but he bought it for one song. You would have thought I’d be mad at him for not delivering Luke Duke to me, but actually all I felt was relief. As much as I loved those Duke boys, I guess that love had to be from afar for me to be able to deal with it.
My dad was so awesome. He got the biggest kick out of making me laugh. I miss the hell out of him.
I didn’t mean to make so many references about pooping in pants. I’ll try to avoid that going forward.