Throwing the "N" word around in the real world

When I was a little girl, my parents worked really hard to provide us with the most idyllic life possible. We had dogs, they drove a station wagon, we went to the local Presbyterian Church, we took dance classes, they were Co-Presidents of the PTA, and our dad worked while our mom stayed hope and established our sense of self worth. It was just glorious. I've said it before, we were just like the Cleavers, I mean if Mr. Cleaver was black and Mrs. Cleaver had once tended bar in hot pants and go-go boots. We had a great life and I think that was because my parents wanted to give my sister and I everything that they had never had. My paternal grandparents had not had much money (which was to be expected - they were black and raising ten children in the 30s, 40s and 50s) and my maternal grandparents were not on quite as limited a budget but they were nowhere near rich and were raging racists. So, my parents banded together to raise their children in the most nurturing and comfortable setting humanly possible. And for that I will be eternally grateful... but I was surrounded by the Real World and the Real World was interesting.

At the time I was sure that I lived on the most interesting street in the whole world. There was a boy named Gary that lived across the street from us who's dad (to the best of my recollection) was in a wheelchair because of some torturous war wound... His house was always dark. The little girl to the left of us used to take off all of her clothes and run naked up and down the street until her mom could catch her. Across the street on the other side of our house, was the poorest family on the block - the dad didn't work, drank too much, and used to scream and shout all of the time. (Eventually their house caught fire when, in drunken stupor, he fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand). P.D., my first real "tomboy" friend, lived down the block from our house. P.D.'s legs were always dirty and covered in band-aids and her hair was consistently disheveled. For some reason I always got the impression that my mother was not thrilled about our friendship but I thought she was just the coolest girl ever. She taught me how to spit and more importantly how to cuss. (Which is remarkable for two reasons - 1.) my father had a mouth that could make Richard Pryor blush and 2.) because whatever she did stuck and now I have a mouth that would make both, Richard Pryor and my father blush). And finally, right next door was the Wingerter family. The Wingerters were more of a traditional family. One of their sons, Dennis, was my age and my mother was happier about my friendship with him. Dennis and I walked home from school together everyday and I loved it. Although his older brother walked with us, I felt so free and emancipated walking without my mom and occasionally that new found liberation went straight to my 6 year-old brain and made me completely crazy. How so? Let me tell you.

On our way home one day, Dennis's big brother started to tease us about being friends. We tried to ignore him but he just kept going. Eventually we started to get embarrassed and began fighting with each other. He tried to trip me to prove to his "stinky faced" brother that he didn't like me and I very haughtily responded by telling him if he didn't stop I was going to throw "a nigger at him" (P.D. taught me how to cuss but she didn't actually teach me what any of the words meant) The minute we made it to my house, Dennis's "stinky faced" brother told my mom. You can imagine the hysteria that ensued... My mom was livid! And then she told my dad and he was not any happier!

Did I get a time out? No, of course not (I told you my dad was black... we don't do that!) Did I get my ass beat? No (my mom is generally a pacifist - except when she is kicking ass at the roller rink). So they just let it go? Hell no (this is my life remember). They made me look "Nigger" up in the dictionary, write it down and then go to the Wingerter's house read the definition and apologize to his entire family for the misuse of the word. It was humiliating and quite frankly I didn't understand why "Stinky Face" didn't have to say he was sorry for teasing me and Dennis didn't have to apologize to me for trying to trip me. In hindsight though, I think my parents did the right thing. "Stinky Face" grew up to be some sort of professional heckler and I am almost positive that Dennis went on to trip again... but me... I never again, not even once, threatened to throw a nigger at someone.

Take two aspirins and call me in the morning...

I would once again like to apologize for the absence of yesterday's post. My back has been killing me for the past few days and after taking the amount of medicine that it takes for me to be able to rest comfortably it is utterly impossible for me to put together any sort of coherent thoughts (shut up, Mark!). So last night I popped some pills, curled up in bed, watched American Idol, and (according to my very, very patient and handsome husband) started babbling nonsensically and fell asleep... mid-sentence. It was fabulous!

There is something incredibly outstanding about being all hopped up on painkillers and muscle relaxers. Calm down everybody! I am not stealing prescription pads and forging my way into Oxycontin heaven or scoring dirty Vicodin tablets from the medicine cabinets of abandoned houses BUT if I can grind up some legally prescribed Percocet and use it as the Margarita Salt around my little glass of tequila-based joy, I see no real harm. (Well, except for all of that DO NOT MIX WITH ALCOHOL nonsense the doctors HAVE to put on the side of the pill bottle.) And for the record, I almost always follow the instructions on any prescription bottles or medicine packets that I use (you know for my sinuses, and my allergies, and my high blood pressure, and my anxiety, and my insomnia, and all of the other pills I take daily - Yes, Walgreen's does love me!). But it just seems as though it might take a bit more Ibuprofen than most to effect me, maybe it's because I am not some tiny little teacup of a girl or perhaps it is just that my pain is more determined than other people's pain. I don't know for sure exactly what the problem is. Now, I am guessing that at this point you are recalling my previous confession that I am a hypochondriac (I am) but I actually do have x-rays proving the arthritis in my back (they found it when I went in complaining about what I thought was a tumor in my intestines... or maybe it was my stomach... anyway it turned out to be just the flu and arthritis in my back). In any case, "take two aspirin and call me in the morning" just doesn't work for me when I am hurting. So, I take the two aspirin, add two Tylenol PMs, and chase it with the daintiest glass of Boone's Farm Snow Creek Berry Wine. I just don't see the problem.

It might not seem like it, but I tend to be a tad high strung and these concoctions work wonders slowing me down. If they didn't, I might have to develop a drinking problem or something and that wouldn't be good for anyone. I would probably act all crazy (well,crazier) and start slurring my words all of the time. Nobody really likes the inebriated and I really need to be liked (I also need to sleep with a t.v. on but that is completely irrelevant, in this case). After a slow spiral into a drunken abyss, I would have to go to A.A., and well, that's just for quitters. I can't do that, it wouldn't set a good example for my little sister (for that matter, not for my kids and grand kids, either). I guess if I'm being honest, mixing my own pain "remedies" is not the best example either. Most likely, I won't support my grandson sucking down an Ambesol / Baby Tylenol / Similac Cocktail when he starts teething or my son dosing my granddaughter's popsicle with Ritalin and NyQuil the next time she gets a little wound up. For that reason, I should probably ease up some... plus, my husband slipped and called me Anna Nicole the other night. So from now on, whenever I take ANY medicine I will read (and follow) the instructions given... even if I have "borrowed" the medicine from someone else.

Dear Friends!

Dear loyal readers and remarkably tolerant friends,

I will not be submitting a blog entry today. The arthritis in my back is flairing up and tonight I plan to wash down three tylenol arthritis pills with a Bacardi Spritzer and watch American Idol (I love Adam and Matt!). I will, however, be back tomorrow (hopefully in far less pain) with a new post.

Love - D

Friends Don't Let Friends Dial Drunk!

At 2:39 a.m. this past Saturday, my son (who is well over 21) called me, DRUNK, from the bathroom of a bar. He had to tell me something funny... it was funny but what I found funnier is that he called me. Some men make booty calls, some men call to yell at ex-girlfriends and ex-wives, and some men just call around trying to score some weed, but my son called his mommy. My husband and I were very proud. However, it started me thinking about all of drunk phone calls I have made.

• My best friend, Annie, and I once sat at my house and got drunk (we finished off the end of every bottle of liquor we had in both of our houses). After videotaping ourselves lip syncing Talk Dirty To Me by Poison and Michael Jackson's Wanna Be Startin' Somethin', we got bored and decided to prank phone call my beautiful, adoring, and remarkably understanding baby sister... over and over again. She happened to be entertaining that evening (she was NOT happy)!

• After a Bachelorette Party that I was enjoying a little too much moved to a local gay bar for a superb drag show, I grabbed a strangers cell phone and called an ex-boyfriend to come get me. When he reluctantly came in to pick me up, I threw my arms around him, kissed him passionately, and turned to the lady(?) next to me and said "It's okay, he's a girl".

• When I first started dating my husband, I was fighting our relationship every step of the way. And after a night out with my friend Felicia, I left him this message, "I know you think that I am going to fall in love with you but I'm not. Just because I think I love you doesn't mean I do, because I don't. You know why because I know that you love me and that's not good. Not good at all. So I love you and I will talk to you later. O.K.? Oh, Felicia say hi! I'm a little drunk and don't love you. Bye!" He politely waited for 10 whole minutes the next time I saw him before he started laughing hysterically.

Now this is very small sampling of my drinking and dialing history. I have a laundry list of drunken moments where my mouth has run amok and I blame my friends! If you see someone you love attempting to dial a phone while intoxicated, it is your duty to stop them (the only exception being, if your drunkenness is equal to or exceeds theirs). I once staggered up to a man in a bar with the intention of telling him that his face appeared to be morphing into a werewolf or perhaps a yeti but my friends stopped me. That is friendship. When I wanted to call my ex-husband with an itemized list of ways he had never satisfied me, my friends stopped me. Again, friendship!

In my opinion, when witnessing a friends mouth writing a check that their ass can't cash, we should remember... Friends Don't Let Friends Dial Drunk.

Damn that little black comb!

Throughout my childhood, adolescence, and teen years there were 2 little words that brought about more fear and anxiety than any other two words in the English language (I know that, given my track record, you are assuming that I am going to say – You're pregnant – but you are wrong). It was “School Pictures”! School Pictures! School Pictures! School Pictures! No 2 more treacherous words exist and I dreaded to hear them every year! Why? I tell you why!

Let’s start by the “popularity meter”, commonly called the picture packages. You could get Package A (or the "I am eventually going to be Prom Queen" package) that had like 9 – 8x10s and 500 trading photos. Or Package B (the "I’m not a cheerleader but I‘m in the Pep Club" package) which offered something like 3 – 8x10s and 250 trading photos. But you could also buy Package C (the "I’m really hot with the Dungeons and Dragons crowd" package) that had 2 – 5x7s and 10 trading photos. And of course there was always Package D, (the "I will probably open fire at a McDonald’s someday" package) which only gave you an unfocused school ID photo and your picture in the yearbook with your name misspelled beneath. I always opted for Package B (a Package A purchase would have just been delusional) but honestly there are still dozens of my untraded elementary school photos stuffed into drawers at my mom's.

Once you decided what picture package you needed, you spent the next week to ten days picking out an outfit and planning a hairstyle. At my house, the clothes were the easy part. My dad loved to shop (no, he wasn't gay) and even though I was a chunky monkey, he could usually find something relatively cute in a 1/2 size (When you're chubby, the clothes run in 1/2 sizes. Example: Lanie Honeyman - size 5... Me - size 10 and 1/2. Understand?). My sister and I would try on various outfits all week long, trying to find the very best look, and finally the night before we would make our final pick! (My sister - oxford shirt and a monogrammed sweater, Me - something absurdly valour). The night before my father would also do our hair (I promise you, he wasn't gay! He just had a lot of sisters!). Now this is the point I may lose some of you (the white people). If you are black (or even part black) getting your hair ready for picture day in the 70s or early 80s was a really big ordeal. It involved shampoo, conditioner, an Alberto VO5 hot oil treatment, pink rollers, a big black comb, a rat-tailed comb, Afro Sheen green hair oil, a curling iron, a portable hooded hair dryer, about three hours of prep work, and the unnatural ability to sleep flat on your back without moving your head in the slightest. (I know to my Caucasian readers this might sound like a lot of work for a hair-do and you are celebrating how easy you have it, but black people don't get lice... so, nah nah-na boo boo! We are even!) My dad would plop down on the couch with his supplies, make us sit on the floor between his knees and go to work, briefly transforming us from caterpillar to butterfly. He would comb and cuss, part and roll, and for some weird and unexplained reason take any excess hair oil that may be left on his hands when he was done and wipe it all over our faces and elbows. (Is it any wonder that I was covered in pimples from age 9 until age 15?)

The next morning we would wake up a half an hour early, get dressed and let Daddy do any touch-ups, while Mom raved about how good we looked. Everyone on the bus would look fantastic but would pretend that they went through no extra work to get ready (All except for the one socially awkward girl who would board the bus dressed in some seasonally inappropriate burgundy velvet, white lace Christmas dress fiasco, ill-fitting white tights, and brown sandals, clutching her Package D envelope). All day long we would sit anxiously awaiting for our class to be called to the auditorium/photo studio and when that moment arrived panic would set in. Boys would immediately start rough-housing in line, the cool girls would busily apply their Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers, and the rest of us would pray that years photo would be better than the last. "Please, let me smile normally.", "Please, don't let me blink this year.", "Please, no boogers." As we got closer and closer to the front of the line, helpers (teacher's aids and room mothers) would aid us in straightening our clothing and check for food in our teeth... and then it was our turn! We would meet the photographer, he would point to a metal stool in front of a blue background, and just before we sat down he would get out a fresh little black comb and try to touch-up our hair. It was that one move, that one 15 second freakishly quick move, that would completely erase the hours of work my father had done the night before. That little black comb would not sail through my hair the way it would the silken locks of the fair-haired beauties before me, it would frizz and divide my age 10 roller-set hair and get tangled half way through the first stroke (at which point "helpful" photo guy would just give up and wait for me to untangle it before he screamed, "Say cheese!"

I look back through my school pictures now and take pleasure in seeing my metamorphosis from insecure child to ridiculous adult. I wish I could have enjoyed it more when I was actually experiencing it. I wish I could have let go a bit more and worried a lot less. But what do I expect from myself? I am not Superman... but if I was, that little black comb would definitely be my kryptonite!

Gifted Little Morons

First things first - I spoke to my mother yesterday morning and she was in a bit of a tither. Apparently she is fearful that my WWRCD post might be misconstrued as sacrilegious. That is certainly not at all how it was intended. 7th Heaven was one of the best shows on television and every time I watch it I do feel a little like I left a church service. It's story lines are always wholesome and positive and the messages are based on what my God wants for me - Love, Peace, Acceptance, and Charity. So, that is why my sister would call me a half an hour before the show would start and ask me what I was wearing to Bible Study tonight. That is also why I continually ask myself WWRCD- What Would Reverend Camden Do?… Not because I feel he takes the place of Jesus (between the WW and the D) but because a.) I know that Reverend Camden follows Jesus’ teachings and b.) it is hard to envision Jesus answering the door to a crackhead or contemplating beating his children (I have seen Reverend Camden in his household setting and I feel more comfortable using my imagination with him in these types of situations). And if it helps any, I also think WWFBD when I am walking to my car late at night (What Would Foxy Brown Do). However, I would like to apologize to my mother.

Mom - I would never purposely do anything to make the general public think you raised some sort of crazed heathen and I’m sorry.

Now for the rest of you, I feel I must share something close to my heart. Working in a Public Library I see all kinds of people from varying backgrounds, mindsets, and economic levels. Individuals and families wander in and out of the doors searching for ways to explore their genealogy, occupy their days since retirement, fulfill their romantic fantasies, research facts for school assignments, or simply to find an entertaining and educational book for their children or grandchildren. To sit back and watch the interaction of these people, all hunting for something that will add to their lives, can be quite amazing and beautiful and I feel so lucky everyday to be able to bear witness to this process. However, with the sweet comes the sour and for me the sour is those over-zealous, well meaning, super obnoxious parents who mistakenly believe that their child is gifted in some way. These are the parents who come to the counter with their “special” little pumpkin in tow and check out 50 to 60 picture books on whatever topic the mother is force feeding them at that moment (I swear to Michael J. Fox, no 4 year old – gifted or not – needs 37 books on Sea Turtles. 3 books should do it) while explaining to me why McKenna or John, Jr. is not like the other children that come to our library. “He doesn’t have a lot of friends because he sees things from a more mature viewpoint than all the other children in his play group.” Or “She just loves art! The first time she saw a photo of Venus De Milo she cried… It moved her that much. She is so obviously beyond her years” Or “Can you believe that she asked me if popcorn is called popcorn because it’s popped corn? I mean, honestly, what other 5 year old could put that together? We are having her tested!”

With all of that in mind, I tell you these are not gifted children. They are just normal curious kids. Maybe little Lydia Sue cried because the Venus De Milo has NO ARMS! And Popcorn to Popped Corn is not rocket science! If Marcie had asked if it’s called a wheelchair because it’s a chair with wheels, they probably would of suggested her for Mensa! For that matter, maybe Petey doesn’t have friends at Preschool because he’s a little jackass. It is quite possible. His father’s a big jackass. I’m just sayin’!

Therefore, I have listed a few things below that may act as a screening before actually testing your child to determine if your they are indeed gifted (Hopefully it will save you the embarrassment of any further public proclamations of your child's incredible genius!):

• Just because your children are home schooled, they aren't necessarily gifted. It is not hard to be Valedictorian in a school of three taught at a kitchen counter by your mom and Aunt Glenda.
  
  
• If your child is truly gifted, he knows whether or not he is making "good choices". There really would be know need to ask him, "Carter, are you making good choices?" over and over and over and over again.
  
  
• If you have told your screaming child more than 3 times to “use her words”, she is not just frustrated at how to express herself. She needs to be punched, quickly and deliberately, once in the throat and I promise she will “use her words” next time.
  
  
• Children acting out in school, pre-school, or daycare doesn't always mean that child is "way too smart and just bored". To figure out where you child fits in, examine whether anyone outside of your family volunteers to babysit your child. If not, your kid is probably NOT gifted but just incredibly bad.
  
  
• If your child is licking the check-out counter at your Public Library, it does NOT mean that he is going through a advanced Sensory Stage and must taste things to examine them thoroughly (Yes, that did actually happen). It just means that your kid is nasty and well on his way to Hepatitis.

It is not that I do not think all children are special in their own way...they truly are. They don't have to be "gifted" to be unique. I think as parents we should own the reality of our children proudly. We should shout from the mountain top, "My daughter Carrie is hyper as hell! Maybe she'll be a cheerleader one day !" or "My daughter Madeline is a big fat liar, perhaps she should go into politics." or even, "My son Ray-Ray keeps stealing stuff from my closet. I am sure he's gonna be a Drag Queen." I admit that the way our children are and what we want them to be, is not always the same, but should we really keep lying to ourselves. Thirty years from now, our country is going to be run by these "gifted" little morons and I really think we should prepare ourselves now.

I dedicate today's blog entry to former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich

(my favorite gifted little moron).

All Hail Erica Kane!

Last night I had a dream that I was at the State Fair (but it couldn’t have been our State Fair because it was much cleaner and there were a lot of monkeys around). Anyway, my husband and I were walking around and we stopped to look at the ginormous glass snow globe filled with actual people and this lady came up and randomly started a political conversation with my husband. After everything he said, she would just coo and say, “Oh my goodness, you are so smart. I bet they don’t have smart people like you inside that snow globe!” After about the fourth time she said this I noticed that she had started caressing his arm (In all honesty, I didn’t just notice, one of the monkeys pointed it out.), and I became furious and yelled, “Husband, come on! I don’t like this lady!” and I started to walk away. He did not follow! I asked, “Aren’t you coming?” He said, “Of course, but after I finish this sentence and you take off those shoes.” (I probably should have told you that I had on clown shoes and the madder I got the bigger they got). At this point, I was fuming mad and stomped away – just the monkey and me… And then I woke up! But I was still mad! How could my husband have humiliated me that way? That woman was openly flirting with him and he didn’t storm away with me. About that time, my husband walks into the bedroom, coffee cup in his hand, and says “Good Morning, Mrs. Fisher”, the way he always does… and I began to yell at him! My poor, poor husband!

I wish I could say this is the first time I have yelled at him about something I have dreamt but it’s not. I once stayed angry for three days because he left my dog Jack behind during a vicious zombie attack (Seriously, though he could have just as easily grabbed the dog). I beat the crap out of him while I was sleeping once because I was having a nightmare that I was being assaulted by Donnie Osmond and I bit the top of my grandson’s head while we were napping together (in my dream I was trying to bite an apple before it bit me). I was pretty ashamed of myself but luckily I didn’t do any permanent damage (To him anyway, it was 3 years ago and I still have flashbacks and start frantically searching for teeth marks on top of his head).

It’s just that my dreams are so incredibly vivid and I dream most every night. Now don’t get me wrong, not all of my dreams are bad. My dreams are, more often than not, absolutely spectacular. I once dreamt that I had a disease that caused me to lose a pound every time I ate a Krispy Kreme Donut and one time I dreamt that I met Harry Connick, Jr. and we just hung out for a whole day. We went to IHOP with Morgan Freeman. It was fantastic! He is really down to earth… They both are actually. But my favorite dream was the one where I had a dinner party and all of the characters from my favorite books came (Diana Ross and Ross Perot were also there but I don’t know why) and we sat around all night eating Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato sandwiches and talking. Crazy, right? I know and the worst part is that it is not only when I sleep, my brain works overtime when I am awake, too. I probably wake my husband up from a sound sleep at least once a month because “I hear something” and generally (due to my tremendous fear of things that scurry) I am convinced that it is a raccoon in the ceiling or aliens outside my window. When people are whispering, I am certain it’s about me (complete and total strangers – yes, I am a narcissist). If the phone rings in late in the evening and stops before caller ID can register, I am sure that a serial killer is just making sure I am home.

I realize that my wild imagination gets me into trouble sometimes and usually makes me appear just a little unbalanced. It always has! I guess that is what makes me such a Drama Queen. Not the kind of Drama Queen that goes around starting drama (All Hail Erica Kane!) but when there is drama... damn it, I REACT! I react like I am on camera (Think Meryl Streep without the accents – O.K. maybe sometimes I do accents but that’s irrelevant). I guess that makes me more of Drama Princess (all the power none of the responsibility). Anyway, when you mix my god-given flair for the dramatic with an imagination like mine… WOW! It can be dangerous not so much for me but for those within a twenty feet radius. So, I guess the only thing I can do is invite all of you to take 3 great big giant steps back and watch the show.