Behind These Hazel Eyes...

I remember vividly the first time a guy told me I had bedroom eyes.  I was sixteen years old and working the front desk at Days Inn in La Grange, KY.  Now, until that moment, I had always considered myself "worldly." However, I guess I was still pretty naive, because I quickly asked him what that meant.  As he explained, instantly, it dawned on me that I had discovered my catalyst, the secret weapon I'd carried with me all those years and could work to my advantage in almost any situation...

I consider my eyes to be one of my best features.  They are very unique in that they are multicolored and change with my mood, underwear, and weather.  Most days, they are green around the outer circle, and light brown with golden yellow streaks around the pupil.  Eyes are a great feature on most anyone, really.  If you think about it, they pretty much stay the same throughout your life.  Seriously, they don't get fat, hairy, or require regular workouts to stay in shape...what's not to like? 

Everything imaginable and intangible (and trust me, some things ARE better left untouched) has passed before these eyes.  They've encountered breath-taking beauty, birth, death, pervs, deadly animals in the wild (got bear?), and WTF-ness abound.  These piercing peepers have shown me the ways of the world.  They've shown me the memories I will carry with me forever...some good, some not so good. 

As a wayward, rebellious teen,  I took off with a boyfriend cross-country when I was just eighteen in my '78 Trans Am gas hog (T-top, hood scoop, thank you very much).  My precocious mind (read, troublemaker) wanted to see what was out there; what was I missing?  Well, apparrently, a lot.  During our travels, we came across a pimp beating a tranvestite hooker in Omaha (yes, Omaha, NEBRASKA); met a guy named Brutus in Albuequerque who showed us the way to the San Jose; put new brakes on the TA in Oklahoma City where it was so stinking hot the damn jack quicksanded into the parking lot blacktop (don't even ask how we got that out, BTW); we slept in an abandoned ghost town somewhere in Texas where, believe me, EVERYTHING is much bigger; and had guns drawn on us in the wee hours after a complete overreaction (and misunderstanding) by corrupt Vegas cops.  Just to name a few...

These eyes have also seen gore at its best.  Such as the time when I was young and a kid my mom babysat for pushed me off of our front porch stoop and my left tibia snapped, ripping clean through my flesh (I'm squirming just remembering it). A particularly vivid visual memory that tops that, however, would be the time a couple of friends and I stumbled upon a satanic ritual lair (daytime and vacant - thank goodness).  Let's just say, we found out what happened to all the mysteriously missing black cats in the county (and a few other poor, unsuspecting animals). 

These eyes have gotten me both into trouble and out of trouble at the same time.  One of my earliest recollections of this phenomena, was the time when I was about six and my mom sent me to the corner store with a dollar bill to get a loaf of bread.  I trudged the couple Detroit-ghetto blocks, got to the store and saw something I had to have - a Marathon bar.  Of course, I only had a dollar, but I was six, so when I put the bread and the candy bar up on the counter, Akmar says, "$1.10."  He then proceeded to explain I did not have enough to get both the bread and the candy bar so I had to pick one.  Knowing my mom would go apeshit if I didn't come home with the bread (lesson learned from the year before), I begrudgingly went to put the candy bar back when it hit me - I would klepto the candy bar!  So proud that I thought of that all by myself, I not-so-discreetly (practically right in front of him) stuck it into my pants. I went back to pay for the bread when he accosted me then proceeded to yell into the loudspeaker, "Mohammed manager! Mohammed manager!"  Mo came a-runnin' and he was not a happy man.  They were both yelling and when Mo ripped the candy from my pants (it was halfway sticking out), I knew the gig was up (I was still a little slow back then).  I thought fast and hard.  What to do? What to do?  Then, naturally it occurred to me - start crying.  Though it never worked at home, I figured these guys might not be hip to that ploy.  Well shit, they were and now Mo was threatening the worst, most dreaded punishment of all - calling my mom!  Out of sheer fear, I stopped crying and looked up with the saddest, droopiest puppy dog eyes and begged him not to call my mom promising him I would NEVER, EVER do anything so stupid like steal again.  Worked like a charm.  He sent me skipping on my way, AND even gave me a piece of Bazooka bubble gum!

Over the years, I've honed my own "eye language." I have become attuned to reading others' eyes as well as sending messages with my own. One look can say a thousand words if it is read right.   For instance, when I make a mountain out of a molehill (rarely, but often), I can shoot the "Oh-shit-sorry-I-accidentally-kind-of-on-purpose-but-not-maliciously-on-purpose-just-didn't-want-to-remember-to-remind-you-that-you-forgot-that-you-promised-to-take-me-out-last-Saturday-so-now-I-can-sit-here-and-shoot-you-dirty-but-not-the-pervy-kind-of-dirty-looks" look.  Or, my personal fave, when I really, really, REALLY want something (often, but rarely) I can shoot the "God-I-wish-I-had-(fill in the blank)-because-even-though-it-wouldn't-necessarily-make-ME-happier-it-would-make-me-easier-to-live-with-therefore-would-make-everybody-else-happier" look. 

Believe me when I say, there are hundreds more "looks" that I have mastered over the years.  However, just like most people lucky enough to posess a superpower, I try not to abuse my gift. I will say though if you really want to understand me, look deep into my eyes.  They are truly, the window to my soul.

Ocean Commotion

When I was 13 we took a real vacation. By a real vacation, I mean it was just mom, dad and us kids (no dogs or grandmas) and a real motel! We drove the 15 hours straight (with only one bathroom break – tell me about it) to Cape Cod because dad didn’t believe in sleep. Naturally, my parents weren’t used to the planning part, so we had no motel reservations (not like Cape Cod was a HUGE resort area and it wasn’t peak season being July and all). Now this was back in 1984, so, of course, there was no internet. There were, however, telephones and even AAA offices that could have been proper means of securing said reservations. My parents liked to fly by the seat of their pants, I guess.

Nonetheless, we arrived extremely tired, crabby and beyond hungry (mom didn’t even make radiator burritos this trip – dad must have gotten a raise or something). Since we only stopped once in 15 hours, we survived on beef jerky, cheese puffs, and old jelly beans mom had scrounged from our months-old Easter baskets. There may have been SPAM involved for the others, but I don’t do mystery meat, so I voluntarily acquired my vacation anorexia. Of course, since we had been cooped up for umpteen hours, we all had to use the facilities so bad, we could hardly stand up. What made it especially bad was the fact that we drove up to a zillion motels on Cape Cod at midnight with no reservations only to be told there was NO room at the inn. Also, we were turned away at many because they told us they didn’t allow children (smart people). I don’t know if my parents were trying to sell us (wouldn’t blame them at that point) or if they were really serious, but I was starting to feel that familiar sense of dread come over me: I thought we might just have to resort to camping after all! Of course, we didn’t have our camping gear with us, but I knew dad was a survivalist (he was in the Vietnam War, after all), and he could probably fashion a tent out of a couple of mom’s muumuus, some duct tape, and some of that nasty, shoe-leather beef jerky.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen because at one of the last places on the cape, we found a room. At this point, my parents were desperate, so they conveniently told them that it was just for two adults and no kids, never mind that us kids were running around outside causing a huge commotion by the office looking for a bush. Dumb motel cryptkeeper was either deaf and blind or just took extreme pity on my parents. We got to the room and found a double bed – one - in a 10 x 10 room. Nice. My first real motel stay and I had to sleep on the freakin’ floor! Not to mention, the bathroom had no door and the shower perpetually trickled. So this was the luxury I had been missing all these years? Pffft. At least I didn’t see any bugs (yet).

We were all so tired that night; we pretty much just fell asleep in a heap on the floor. When we awoke the next morning, we went down to the motel office for the “free continental breakfast.” Well, they either saw (or heard) us all coming and put the good shit away, or they got away with calling moldy bread in smelly Tupperware containers, next to a fire-hazard toaster from the 1950’s, and equally stale corn flakes in equally smelly containers, breakfast. Mom tried to convince me that the fur on the bread was alright to eat since that is what they make penicillin with – but I knew (after consulting my PDR) that the mold had to be tempered before it was actually not dangerous. So I scraped the fur off the bread, and then it wasn’t so bad with cranberry marmalade.

After breakfast, we headed straight across the road to the beach. Gypsies on the loose! We had our 20 million (slight exaggeration – but not much) blow-up water toys that we lugged down with us, found a perfect spot and settled in. My sister Dara and I could not wait to get in, so we kicked off our flip flops and ran to the shore only to stop dead short of going in – ummmmm, there were crabs EVERYWHERE running around like they owned the place. Now, this was my first experience with the ocean, so I was all like, “What the hell are they doing here?” Nobody thought to warn me about this? Mom said if she had told me, I would have complained the whole trip down (boy – does she know me or what). I found no solace in the fact that they were supposed to be there. One thing was for sure, I was NOT going to risk losing an appendage to one of those fuckers. They even looked mean – just daring me to stick my bare toe in so they could snap it off. Of course, I did exactly what mom had predicted – I plunked down on the beach towel and pouted vowing to make everybody miserable since I sure was (only fair). After about an hour of mom lecturing me about how to make the best of it and since I was the oldest, my sisters looked up to me and they would go in if I did and we didn’t drive over 1,000 miles to just sit and look at the ocean. She didn’t much like it when I retorted that she wasn’t going in so why should I (which BTW – she used the lame excuse that she had to watch my baby sister who was playing in the sand).

Anyhow, I finally devised a plan (give me long enough and I can find a way around anything). I realized that if I wore my flip flops AND got on an inner tube – those bastards couldn’t get to me! Brilliant! My one sister, Dara (AKA Slinky sis) followed close behind me (little brat couldn’t come up with her own brilliant ideas, thus she mooched mine – welcome to my world). We got situated in our inner tubes next to one another and relaxed. Ahhhhh – the ocean wasn’t so bad after all. Once we floated a little bit away from shore (and I felt my ass was safe from getting snapped by a crab or other clawed crustacean), it was pretty peaceful and serene. I laid back, shut my eyes and relaxed. Apparently Dara did as well and we both drifted off – both figuratively and literally. I don’t know how long we were asleep, but I woke up to find we were out to sea. I could just barely make out the shoreline in the distance, we were that far out. I’m sure you’re wondering, “Where the hell were your parents?” That, my friend, is a question my therapist and I have yet to get the answer to.

Now, calm, cool and collected is not my cup of tea in deadly situations, so, of course, I reacted like any loose cannon would – in absolute terror. Naturally, I started shrieking to the best of my ability (a great survival skill I had honed through the years). Holy shit, I had just seen the movie Jaws and I knew how this shit went down. From the great white’s perspective, I looked like a juicy seal kabob and I envisioned a plethora of them swirling beneath me like the aquatic sea vultures they have proven to be. My next immediate fear was being completely lost at sea and getting marooned on a deserted island (although, Gilligan’s Island was one of my favorite shows). Then I remembered I couldn’t swim well and my inner tube was starting to look a tad deflated (like my hopes). As my eyes darted around in fear, I spotted Slinky sis floating nearby who had just been rudely awaken by my ear-piecing shrillishness. I paddled my arms quickly over to her and in a tender, sisterly moment, made sure she was OK. That felt weird. So once I realized she was fine, The Blame Game ensued (our personal favorite). She blamed me for falling asleep and I blamed her for blaming me (and then she said that I would have to be ugly Mary Ann while she would get to be Ginger since she had the red hair – that REALLY pissed me off). It took all of about 10 seconds of us screaming and smacking at each other before we started wrestling – in our respective inner-tubes - on the ocean – a half-mile from shore. Needless to say, the ocean-wave wrestling ended almost as quickly as it started – by both of us falling into the sea. Imagine our surprise when we fell and our feet hit bottom and we could stand up! Yep – all that time we were that far from shore and the water was barely up to our waist (thank God for low tide)!

As we trudged back to shore, we found mom asleep, baby sis with about three pounds of sand (and other unknowns) in her diaper and dad at the Galley Grub and Pub. Besides being burnt like a couple of lobsters (and left with abandonment issues), we were no worse for the wear. The rest of the trip had just as many colorful memories such as the day we went whale watching and I regurgitated my lumberjack breakfast over the edge of the boat right into the mouth of a humpback (to which the whole boat ganged up on me for doing, but it really wasn’t like I planned that and did they REALLY want me to hurl it on deck)? Finally, I witnessed my first guy-guy and girl-girl make-out sessions all over the city (apparently, had my parents researched better, they would have found that Provincetown has one of the biggest concentrations of gay population) so they had a lot of questions coming from their precocious Catholic-school youngsters. I came away from that trip learning about the importance of sunscreen (I blame my wrinkles solely on that trip), how the ocean’s tide works and that people who like people of the same sex are just as pervy as the rest of us (really, people – get a room).

The Truck Stops Here

When I was in high school, my parents made me get a job (guess they wrongly assumed it would keep me out of trouble). The local paper had advertised a job as a waitress at a nearby motel restaurant. I wasn’t even home from turning in my application when the motel had called to set up an interview (desperate much?). The next day, I went up for the interview and they offered me a job on the spot – only not the job I had applied for – they offered me a front desk clerk position. They outright told me that I was too smart (I was only 16 and a junior in high school) and overqualified for the waitress position (after all, this was Kentucky and I was still in school and had all of my teeth). According to my application, I was Albert Einstein – simply because I could read it and fill it out without any grammatical errors (plus, I didn’t sign my name with an ‘X’).


Believe me when I say, the front desk position wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds – unless, of course, you call dealing with crude, horny truckers captivating. Seriously, these guys had been on the road for days, and I could have been Cousin Itt (I sure wasn’t – though I did have a lot of hair) and they would have been pitching a tent. I got hit on so much that I could have fully funded my way through Harvard TWICE had I the loose morals they had hoped I had (with enough left over for a little red Corvette). Sometimes, too, those truckers were pretty relentless. As if when they were checking in wasn’t bad enough, they would call me from their rooms like I was a phone-sex operator. Granted, I did look like I was older than sixteen, but still, these guys were serious pervs. When they ceased to leave me alone, I would hook them up with one of the loose and toothless waitresses (although I never once got a finder’s fee).

One cold and blustery night, a particularly frisky trucker was doing his best to woo me back to his room when I got off of work. He all but jumped the counter while he was checking in to fondle me (luckily the sheriff and his fellow cops were almost always right around the corner from the front desk in the restaurant having coffee late at night – so I felt pretty safe). I good-naturedly told him I was a good girl (I sure wasn’t – but I did have standards). He offered me drugs (wasn’t into), alcohol (yawn), and money (I WAS into – but preferred to earn honestly - as opposed to easily). When the cops saw (they didn’t hear his suggestive commentary) he wasn’t leaving me alone, they sent him on his way back to his room. Well, jerk-off (what he should of done) wasn’t going to be stopped that easily. He wasn’t back there two minutes and he was calling and telling me everything he was going to do to me (like that was going to get me hot or something).

When I stopped taking his lewd calls, nasty-trucker-man marched back up front “pretending” to need towels. Well, this time of night, I was the only worker in the joint. Even the restaurant had closed, cops had gone, and all of the doors were locked. So now just the little “Check In” window was open. This made it extremely difficult for him to grope me, since the window was three-inches thick and bulletproof. I managed to get rid of him (no – I did NOT flash him) after several more minutes of haranguing. He disappeared into the darkness back to his room. Not two minutes later, I hear this EXTREMELY loud crashing noise followed by an even louder gushing noise from the back of the restaurant.

My first thought was, “Holy shit! This man just busted in through the back door and now he’s going to rape and murder me because I’ve spurned his advances one too many times! I should have just been bad and done the nasty and then I’d have my life (and a few extra bucks to boot)!”

My next thought was, “Holy shit! This guy is one horny bastard – maybe if I up the ante a little (or a lot) I’ll throw my morals out the window and save my life but to hell with my soul (the devil made me do it).”

Finally, it hit me and my fantastical mind – it wasn’t STD (Sex-crazed Trucker Dude) – it was so damn cold out (record cold temps for Kentucky) that a pipe had burst back in the now-closed restaurant. Of course, I’m there alone, I’m a common-senseless teenager, it’s almost midnight and the restaurant is quickly filling with water. WWRD (What Would Rhonda Do)? Besides panic for about a minute and 34 seconds (who’s counting), I called STD for help, naturally (hey – he owed me for harassment)! He was up there in about two seconds, shut off the main water valve to the joint (thank goodness, because I’d still be looking for it), and then waited with open arms (and a smirk) for an “I-saved-your-ass-and-this-motel hug.”

Lesson learned: many people do stuff for others out of the goodness of their hearts. Others do it with the hope of getting something in return. Others just don’t do anything. He fell in the middle since he certainly expected something in return. Nonetheless, I was happy to indulge him and he was happy with just a hug (however, he did throw in a slight ass grope). I guess we both got something good out of that situation…

I'm Not a Doctor - But I Play One

I’m kind of a savant when it comes to the human body. Seriously, I know so much about the human body that I dream of the Golgi Apparatus doing the sugar plum dance with polyribosomes and to actually fall asleep I will count neurons as they cross the synapse (works every time). Actually, the only reason I never became a legitimate doctor is because I can’t stomach the sight or smell of puke, shit or blood (plus, who needs all that money anyhow).

As far as I can remember, I have always been extremely enamored by the enigma of our bodies and the science behind it all. So intrigued I was, that for my twelfth birthday, all I asked for was a PDR (Physicians Desk Reference – but I referred to it as Perfect Doctor Rhonda). Amazingly, I did get it (albeit, a week late since my parent’s actually forgot my birthday that year) and I was so happy that I would spend hours on end geeking myself up reading that damn thing. I would drive my parents crazy (didn’t take much) because I was constantly going around the house diagnosing everybody’s problems. Whether it was dad’s gout, mom’s gallstones, Slinky sis’s missing cerebrum, baby sis’s nocturnal enuresis, or grandma’s tapeworm – I nailed it every single time. I think this pissed everybody off, because by the time they figured out I was right, they had already blown a small flea market’s worth of co-pays to the real doctors.

Nonetheless, I would have really strived to be a real doctor, except for the gore factor. That, and I was having too much fun just doing it as a hobby and annoying people with my self-taught intelligence (to think, people spend/waste hundreds of thousands on med school), that I never really considered it much. I did consider becoming a nurse since I had convinced myself that if I immersed myself in the blood, puke and shit, that I would somehow magically become accustomed to them and therefore they would not bother me in the slightest.

As it turned out, nursing school was somewhat of a breeze for me since I had pretty much taught myself all there was to know about everything I needed to know (I’m good at that - when I want to be). It was all fun and games until it came time for clinicals. That comes later in the schooling and it’s where you actually go and work in the hospital with live patients (hoping to keep them that way). Almost from the get-go I was thrown into the hustle and bustle of the med-surg floor (and so not glamorous). I was expected to administer medications, give injections, change surgical dressings, measure decubitus ulcers, you name any kind of shitty job – it was mine. The whole thing was like a light bulb going on for me ( kind of like the time it looked like the Frisbee was getting bigger and bigger, then it hit me in the face). It’s when the shit hit the fan…quite literally.

Despite passing out during countless surgical procedures (that didn’t go over too well with my instructors BTW), I stuck with the program, determined as hell to beat my squeamishness. I can’t tell you how many times I went in to observe even a simple hernia repair surgery, only to wake up with myself in a gurney with several of my classmates tending to me (as much as I like attention – I didn’t much appreciate ten pairs of eyes staring down at me – at least not in the pallor-as-hell state I was in). One lucky day, I came in and received my patient assignments. I went in to check on my first patient of the morning, and it quickly went to shit from there…

This woman had a new colostomy bag and my job was to assess the area for infection, measure the shit in the bag, and change, if needed (told you it wasn’t glamorous). As soon as I walked in the room, the whole thing just reeked of shit. Shit + more shit = instant nausea and/or vomiting on my part – and this was shit overload. However, I did my best to keep professional (this is where my acting skills really came in handy) and act all nursey. I get over to the lady with the bag (bag lady) and it doesn’t look right. Now this was my first live experience with a shit bag (at least the surgical kind of shit bag), but something in my fantastical brain told me it was NOT supposed to look like a balloon that had been blown up to the exploding point. It was at that point that the patient told me she was extremely uncomfortable and she had been up all night with horrible gas pains. I was afraid to touch the bag because it looked like a bomb that could detonate at the slightest touch, sound, or blink. Un-freaking-fortunately, bag lady didn’t have the same fear, because she reached down and grabbed the bag while she was explaining her discomfort, squeezed and twisted, and before I could back away – the fucker exploded. Let’s just say when a shit bag explodes – it does NOT do so gracefully. It went all over me, her, and even splattered onto the patient in the next bed (who was, thankfully, near-comatose asleep). Shockingly, I didn’t scream, rant, rave, or have a meltdown – I froze. I was afraid to even open my mouth for fear of what venture in (I know - call Ripley). Luckily, almost immediately, my instructor walked in to check on me and got quite the surprise since she almost fell flat on her ass in shit. In the whirlwind that followed, I was led to the HAZMAT shower and changed into fresh scrubs. I, however, could not cleanse the shit from my brain and began my quick descent into getting-the-hell-out-of-nursing-before-I-get-covered-in-shit-again.

Needless to say, I wasn’t cut out for nursing (thank God - for all parties involved), but I do greatly admire those that work in the medical field. After all, we need those people to deal with all of the blood, puke, and shit otherwise we’d all be in a world of hurt (and knee-deep in shit). For now, I’ll just keep saving people co-pays and offering my quack (but most-often undisputed) diagnosis (with a dash of sarcasm, when necessary). If only I could prescribe medication (legally), I’d be in business (at least as something more than a witch doctor…).

Meeting of the Fantastical Minds

I have several completely different people living inside my ginormous head (maybe that explains why it’s so damn big). These people include (but are not limited to); an OCD control freak; a Tourette’s-having drama queen; a flea-market-trolling, garage-sale going, traveling gypsy; the impulsive spur-of-the-moment decision-maker (most often chooses badly); a horny, rebellious teenager; and on occasion - a totally normal, rational person (yawn). These people together make for a colorful life (when they all get along, anyhow).

Take, for instance, my Obsessive-Compulsive control freak alter ego: that lady knows what she wants and will stop at nothing (except maybe a can’t-miss shoe sale) to get it. She is tenacious (bitchy) and will bite your head off if you so much as mess with the fringe on the pillows. She will also throw a hissy-fit (part of the drama queen is called in here) if you don’t do things exactly the way she wants them done. And, God forbid, you fuck with her mind – let’s just say hell hath NO fury than this woman scorned (she is the really shrewd one, after all). I wouldn’t be where I’m at today without her (poor example, I know).

The Tourette’s–having drama queen appears often since she is summoned most often by the other personas. OCD control freak (AKA freak) almost always needs her for a meltdown, spider-sighting (or other equally disgusting varmint), or for busting a fringe-messer-upper. However, drama queen can venture out all by herself at times. A good example of this is when she sees (a hottie), hears (Lady Gaga), or touches (insert imagination here) something she really likes – she will squeal, shriek or scream with delight. At times, she will also make an appearance as a simple eye-roll, sigh, or much-louder-than-necessary-sneeze. Then again, it could be a full-on panic-laden pissfest, shit-hit-the-fan, get-the-hell-away-from-me-right-now-before-you-lose-an-eyeball kind of drama that only a select few have been privileged enough to see. That lady keeps me guessing and certainly keeps me on my toes.

The flea-market-trolling, garage-sale-going, traveling gypsy is the tacky, cheesy (and a tad bit trashy) side of me. She will spend hours looking at nothing and everything all at the same time. What the hell is she looking for in these dumpsters that puked crap with price tags? She has no clue (story of my life), but she loves doing so and will do it any chance she gets. Perhaps she was born back in the 70’s and early 80’s when I was a youngster and would troll various flea markets for hours on end by myself while my dad would pile a bunch of shit on the hood of his car to make a few bucks. Funny thing was, we always spent more than we made and went home with more shit then we came with, so what did we accomplish? Nothing, except succeeding in making his house look more and more like a bad episode of Hoarders (and making friends with carnies and circus people during the off-season).

The impulsive, spur-of-the-moment decision-maker has waned over the years. She’s still there, and on occasion will pay me a visit, but she is more respectful of the OCD control freak and therefore, listens to her plan of action most often. However, there are times when she will get sick and tired of freak planning everything two in years in advance and sticking to a specific regimen, that she’ll overpower freak and do her own damn thing. If it ends badly (which is more often than not – buy the book for details, cheap ass), drama queen will inevitably step in for an all-hell-breaks-loose tantrum (don’t you love how they all intertwine?).

The horny, rebellious teenager is possibly my favorite doppelganger (hubby’s too). It needs absolutely no explanation since it is really quite self-explanatory. Seriously, I’m at the age where most women peak sexually (30’s and 40’s) so it’s not unusual (about the only thing about me that isn’t), but perhaps, most women don’t go around proclaiming it like I do. It’s not like I kiss and tell (sorry pervs), but I do have quite the passionate side and I’m proud of that. I’ve been called quite a few things in my life, but prude or frigid is not one of them.

Right about now, I know you must be thinking, “Wow - how the hell does she do it? How does she manage all of these completely different personas and still appear like she has her shit together?” Well, I must tell you, it has taken me years to achieve this perfect balance (jealous much?). A while back, I held my own meeting of the fantastical minds and I laid it all out for each one of them. I let it be known that since there were several of them living in just one body; we had to find a way to all get along. Not to mention, the meds work wonders. All kidding aside, life goes pretty swimmingly when you let your true self (selves) shine through…

Shook Me All Night Long

Back in October of 1999, when the hubs and I were still dating, we took a trip to one of our favorite places – Las Vegas. As a matter of fact, I was so sure Paul was going to pop the question to me while we were out there, I had already scoped out a cheesy Elvis/Liberace/Marilyn Monroe-esque chapel to elope. Unfortunately, he did not pop the question to me until later the next month when we were at Starbuck’s one night. When I had confessed that I had hoped he would propose to me in Vegas, he said he had considered it, but he thought that would be too tacky (Hello??? Didn’t he know me by then???).

Anyhow, it was a fun trip and, as always, a time to remember. Also, I’m all about the “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” mentality, however, some things are meant to be shared (just don’t ask me to share my bag of goldfish crackers). I cleared this story with my hubby before I posted, because I wanted to make sure it was okay with him if I talked about this one night in particular, in Vegas, dead of night (well, there’s really no dead of night in Vegas, so lets just say it was the wee hours of the morning), when I was shook all night long…

It was about three in the morning, and we had just gone to sleep. Visions of clanging slot machines were dancing in my head when suddenly, I was jolted awake by a tremendous rumbling/roaring/booming sound immediately followed by trembling/rocking/swaying motion. Now, as much as I would love to say it was action in the next room – it wasn’t. Paul and I were shocked awake at the exact same moment, however, we each had completely different reactions. His was somewhat cool and collected as he strolls over to the floor-to-ceiling 14th floor windows, throws open the blinds because he’s thinking, “If this is an apocalypse, I want a damn good view.” Really? In the mean time, we can hear tons of commotion up and down the hallways of the hotel and alarms are going off at an astoundingly shrieking decibel. No reason to panic, right?

Hell yes! Picture this, I immediately spread-eagle myself flat on top of the bed (since I can’t fit underneath), throw every cover, bedspread, sheet, pillow, towel and suitcase (I was/am delusional - like any of these are going to help save me if the building goes down) within arms-length on top of my covering-the-whole-bed body and scream louder than any damn siren that the building is going down and we’re all going to die! Paul retorts that I’m being a tad dramatic (me? never) and that it is just an earthquake and it should be over soon. Excuse me? I’m from the flippin’ Midwest (so is he, so why is he Mr. Know-it-all?) and we do not have earthquakes there (at least not any that can make a building sway and move like a belly dancer). Not to mention, people are in clear panic mode, so I was not the only one freaking out (but possibly, the only one screaming my sins so that God would forgive me before I died – BTW, I never did finish).

Seriously, in between shouting my transgressions, I was yelling that there was NO possible way that this building could move like this and NOT go down. I’m no fucking engineer, but when a building’s windows are almost parallel to the ground, you should probably start saying your prayers. At this point, Paul is on top of me shielding my body with his (I kind of made him since I figured when they found our bodies in the rubble, at least they’d know we were together – maybe). Paul said we should probably try and exit like it seemed most people were doing, but I was too paralyzed (except my mouth – that never happens), to move from the bed. Besides, where were all of those people going? Like standing outside the building when it topples is going to fare better? Christ, I’ll take my chances (gambler that I am) in a nice cozy, rocking bed before I take cover under a $4.95 all-you-can-eat buffet sign (or worse, next to one of those hooker/call girl/prostitute/it’s-all-the-same pamphlet-shoving-no-English-speaking-desperate-need-of-a-shower dudes).

What seemed like hours, was probably only a couple of minutes – but the rumbling, roaring, swaying, and shaking finally ended (oh, and the earthquake did, too). I gave Paul permission to get off of me and he turned on the TV to find out what the hell just happened. Boy, those news people work faster than Paris Hilton at a cocktail party. It was already on the air that Vegas had been hit by a magnitude 7.0 quake! Soon following, they were live on the strip and interviewing people about their earthquake experience. One lady was on top of the Stratosphere Tower when it hit (now that would have surely sent me over the edge – literally). Some people were already packing their bags and getting out of town (wusses). Seriously, it would take more than a near-death experience to get me to cut my Vegas trip short.

The aftershocks from the quake kept coming through the night and I never did get any sleep. Each time one hit, my shrieks lessened a bit until eventually, they were just faint whimpers (once I was convinced the building was made of rubber and could bend like Stretch Armstrong only to spring back into place). But really, who the hell goes to Vegas to sleep anyhow?

Look Mom, No Hands!

It’s no secret that I have given my mom more than my fair share of gray hairs and mini heart attacks. After all, I kept her on her toes and that keeps you young, right? Regardless, she looks back now and laughs, so it’s all good (she’s either forgiven me or blocked the worst shit out – plus, I get her really good Mother’s Day, birthday, and Christmas please-forgive-me-for-being-a-shitty-rotten-kid gifts to make up for it).

One of my favorite give-mom-a-heart-stopping-breathtaking-moment stunts I loved to pull was climbing to the tippy-top of the huge old oak tree in our backyard, poke my head out of the top, wave and yell, “Look mom…no hands!” Seriously, this tree was taller than our two-story house, and I could scale that thing better than any monkey. The funniest thing was that every time I did this, she reacted the same way: she would frantically try to look up the tree from the ground, yell my whole name (middle name included), then an obscenity or two, order me down this instant and threaten me with the paddle. I would look down at her from my perch and then start rattling the branches back and forth while I pretended to lose my footing and shout that I was going to fall and die right before her very eyes and wouldn’t she be so sad that her last words to me were so mean (I know, I ought to be ashamed). Inevitably, she would soften and beg me lovingly to come down. That’s all I wanted – attention and ambivalence (two things every child craves).

Attention-whore that I was (am), I was constantly trying to outdo my last feat. It was like I spent my days deliberately trying to concoct my next antic (I was shrewd, after all). These concocting schemes, of course, consumed a lot of my mental energy, therefore rendering me quite useless with other, more mundane tasks such as walking and chewing gum at the same time or even a simple bike ride. Mundane rhymes with insane and I don’t play that game (although I do like other games). I liked (like) to shake things up from time to time.

One time, I coaxed Slinky sis to try climbing the tree with me. She was the next oldest, so she was usually right behind me in everything I did anyhow. Partners in crime, her and I. Anyhow, she was little-miss-accident-prone (started with the Slinky and never stopped), but I never once had fallen out of that tree, so at first, I never thought that she would fall (I should just say I never thought). But then, I had a change of heart: “What if she did fall and break her neck? God, I would be in SO much trouble and probably have to push her around in a wheelchair FOREVER.” I couldn’t have that, so I offered to stay down on the ground while she climbed the tree, and if she fell, I would catch her. Nice plan. Brilliant. My best yet!

Needless to say, she didn’t make it but twenty feet up, before her clumsy ass missed a branch, and she came flying down. I quickly forgot the plan to catch her and watched her very un-gracefully fall and land smack on her back right at my feet. I stood in dumbfounded awe (I was/am good at that). She didn’t move, or even breathe, for a few seconds as she stared blankly up at me, and I back at her. My mind flashed to the wheelchair and how now she was going to get all the freakin’ attention just because of her incompetence (what a witch, right?).

It took a moment, but my right emotion eventually kicked in and I started to feel bad for her and bent to help her, when suddenly, she caught her breath and screamed bloody murder (she learned from the best – I taught her that), and pregnant-again mom came running. Slinky sis still couldn’t move, but she could sure rat, and she shrieked to mom that I dared her to climb up the tree and I taunted her until she would do it (just a little). Of course, I was busted because I was the oldest and should have known better, blah, blah, blah…

I knew the drill well: go sit in the middle of my room until my father got home. Funny thing was, dad was much more lenient than mom, so waiting for him was like a walk in the park compared to dealing with the momster. I actually had a lot of time to come up with some really good, believable stories while I was up there, too. I really should have been a lawyer, because I could (can) debate/argue my way out of just about anything – especially with him. He was putty in my hands.

In the end, Slinky sis ended up not being crippled, or even breaking anything (expect a branch or two on the way down). She was just being overly dramatic (don’t know where she got that), and wanted to be the attention-whore that day (week actually, she really milked it). I let her have it as I knew my turn would come again soon. After all, I’d had plenty of time to plot my next move…