Hairy Scary

Only a few privileged (or extremely unlucky – depending on how they see it) people know a huge secret I’ve been hiding most of my adult life. Even fewer of those few have ever even seen my whopping secret in person. However, only the fewest of the fewer of the few have lived to tell about it. It is such a burden to bear that I must come clean…I have freakishly naturally curly hair. We’re not talking a few nice little ringlets here either. It’s more like a Brillo pad gone bad – to put it nicely.

As a child, I never wanted for hair. I came bellowing out of the womb with enough on my ginormous head (see first blog post) to make all of the wigs for Elton John’s concerts. It grew and grew and was always very lush and plush. Extraordinarily thick, bodacious, and wavy it was – but never kinky or curly. I was the envy of most of my friends who had greasy, stringy, can’t-do-a-thing-with, limp hair. They would all go and spend big bucks on the ever-popular ‘80’s perms, only to have their hair be flat as a pancake by the following week. They had to wash their hair every single day lest they go around looking like they just fell into an oil slick. All the while, I only had to wash my hair every second or third day. Hair stylists told me to wash less frequently so as not to dry my hair out too much and I was more than happy to oblige. Especially since it took three flippin’ hours (give or take a few minutes) to blow dry my copious coif.

Not only is my hair bizarrely thick, but each hair strand itself is very robust (seriously – under a microscope, the strands each look like a tree trunk from the Redwood Forest). To make matters worse, somewhere around the age of 25, I awoke a curly-corkscrewed-frizzy-funky mess. Believe me, I thought I was being punked in that maybe somebody slipped into my bedroom in the middle of the night, rolled 1000 tiny rollers (for my mop it would’ve taken that many easily), left them on for a couple hours, then took them out right before I woke. At least that’s how it seemed in my fantastical mind anyhow. All kidding aside, my hair on a good day (which happened maybe twice) looked like Little Orphan Annie. On a bad day (most days), I looked like the Bride of Frankenstein stuck her whole body into a light socket, then got struck by lightening, then sat smack dab in the center of the tornado that blew through during the storm. All I know, is that somehow, some way my hair was a hot mess (minus the hot) and I set out to do something about it (and no, I did not shave it all off like I did my eyebrows – see old blogs).

I was much older and wiser (shut up), and having learned from the shaved eyebrows of 1984, I knew I could not react on impulse. Which, unfortunately, is in my nature and a damn hard habit to break (and when I don’t get a friggin’ trophy or prize for making non-impulsive decisions – makes it virtually impossible). Firstly, I went to the salon and spent a week’s pay to have it flatteringly cut (the stylist had to use garden shears) and professionally straightened. All for shit I tell you! Barely a week later, my mane was back to its frenetic ways. I could be wrong (often, but rarely – I’m not sure) but it’s quite possible that it had gotten worse (probably rebelling against trying to be tamed – I know someone like that). I went out and spent more money than I had (or care to remember) on lotions, potions, gels and creams (for my hair, sicko) to try to get a grip on my unruled mop. Every elixir promised to be the one and none delivered (not even close). I even did something I almost never do – I read the directions – thinking maybe I was doing something wrong (rare occurrence) on the lying-luxurious-hair-false-hope bottles of bunk. I was only left with half-used bottles of shit-is-worth-more shit and more-than-ever morbidly fucked-up hair (and people wonder why I have trust issues)!

Over the years and the many trials and tribulations my hair and I have endured, we have reached a mutual agreement. I have to give it the proper attention it deserves by washing, rinsing, repeating, conditioning, and deep conditioning. No rough towel drying (splits the ends), my hair must be delicately swaddled into a turban for approximately 20 minutes before the next crucial steps. Those steps call for brushing it ever so lovingly (with Michael Buble songs playing softly in the background), while pulling ever so gently, while blow drying it ever so slowly (painstaking, but so worth it).

After that production (believe me – it is), I pull out the big gun – one I cannot live without (lets just say if I was stranded on a deserted island – this would be the one thing I would take). My straightening iron is my tool of self-confidence, the one that keeps me from looking like Medusa (at least the hair part). This is not just any iron either – it is salon quality. It reaches a skin-scarring (ask me to show you my scars – I’ll show you) 500 degrees. It scorches everything in its path, but a few (hundred) barely noticeable (thanks to the skin grafts) burns are so worth all that bad boy has given me. It gives me the non-frizzy, non-curly, non-fucked-up hair I so desire (and deserve, dammit).

The only things I have to be careful of are swimming and getting caught in rain storms. I love to swim, but I must be able to afford the couple hours afterwards required to wrangle my coif back into a civilized state. Also, God forbid I get caught in a rainstorm and cannot access the proper tools, then almost immediately my hair (on my head) starts to air dry into pubic hair gone wild. I have been the butt (stop snorting) of many jokes due to this, so I try to plan accordingly (like never leaving the house if there is any chance of rain).

They say your hair is an extension of who you are, so I guess it is only fitting that my true hair identity is unruly, rebellious, untamed, and fucked-up. If that’s the case, then I’m happy. After all, at least I’m not bald…because then I’d be nothing…

Grandpa Got Run Over By a Bum Steer

If you have read any of my past blogs, you know I like to mix oldies (but goodies) in with new shit (to keep it fresh). Truth be told, I have enough oldies to fill a library (well, at least with the way I tell stories). As I have said before, as farfetched as some of these events may sound, I can assure you that they have all taken place to me, with me, around me and in my presence (and I was on my meds at all times said situations took place, thank you very much). As with all great creative minds, there may be some ever-so-slight enhancements made for the sake of the story, however. Seriously though, one cannot simply make this shit up (I mean, I’m good – but nobody’s that good).


I’m taken back to a day in 1984. It was a warm, sunny summer day and my sister Dara (Slinky sis) and I were visiting grandma and grandpa in Ohio. My grandpa was still recovering from open heart surgery two months earlier and my grandmother didn’t think it would be too much bother if just Dara and I came since we were the two oldest grandkids (I was 12 at the time and sis was 9). Boy, she must have had the beginnings of senility and forgotten what little hellions we really were. Seriously, in years past, we single-handedly were responsible for giving all of her highly valuable Madame Alexander collection dolls buzz cuts (not to mention mini skirts); we played bartender with the neighborhood kids (seriously) in the basement’s tricked-out bar (hey, we charged them – we weren’t stupid); and put a car-long gouge in the side of grandpa’s shiny new Cadillac (just to name a few). I guess grandparents can turn a blind eye to those sort of things (either that or the memories are just so horrid, they’ve blocked them out).

Anyhow, after dinner that evening, grandpa asked if Dara and I would like to accompany him on his nightly walk. After all, the doctors had told him he should keep exercising as part of his recovery. Since sis and I were too lazy to walk, we decided to take grandma’s adult tricycle and ride along next to him. I’m sure you’ve seen them before: they are just oversized tricycles and they have a huge basket in the back (that is most likely meant for groceries and packages of the like – but we always piled other kids in there). Now, Dara and I were totally enamored with this ludicrous monstrosity and we always fought (loving sibs, we were not) who would get to drive and who would be the passenger. I argued that since I was bigger, I should drive; especially since their quiet, serene (at least when we weren’t visiting), upper-crust neighborhood was extremely hilly and valleyish and there were no sidewalks. Lo and behold though, it never failed, Dara’s cries and death threats (I don’t know where she learned to be such a drama queen) would always win her the driver’s spot for at least part of the ride.

During the walk, grandpa was chugging along at a pretty good clip, and we were keeping up right next to him and sometimes even ahead. Every so often, sis and I would stop to change drivers and grandpa would keep power walking. At one point, when Dara and I went to switch to me riding in the back basket, we were stopped at the top of a hill. As I got in, I had a bit of trepidation because sis was not a very good driver and this was quite a steep hill. I begged her to let me just drive it down the hill and she ratted down to grandpa (who was almost halfway down at this point) and he yelled that if we didn’t take turns civilly then he was going to lock the damn bike up for good. Now, we couldn’t have that! Especially since we’d already butchered the dolls and dried up the bar (what would we have left?). So I hop in the basket, and sis starts going down the hill. Of course, we start gradually, but rather quickly the trike picked up some serious speed (I’m sure the 100+ pounds in the basket helped it along). Naturally, this sounds like it is going to end really badly (and it does), but I sucked at split decisions (and still do). Seriously, I would have bailed, but that trike was a truckin’ and there was concrete on either side of me, so I figured I’d ride it out. Bad choice, not for me – but for poor, frail grandpa. At the last minute for whatever reason ( probably residual brain damage from the slinky incident), before narrowly missing grandpa, Dara decided to turn the handlebars ever-so-slightly to the left (maybe it was my shrill scream), which, in turn caused her to plow right into AND over unsuspecting grandpa.

There was an incredulous moment of WTF-filled silence as the trike finally came to rest at the foot of the hill. We looked back at grandpa all splayed out in the street like some oversized road kill and instead of running immediately to his aid, we played the blame game. We bickered back and forth about whose fault it was and who was going to go to jail for killing grandpa. I pretty much decided, even though I wasn’t the driver, that because I was the oldest that it would probably be me going to the big house or at least juvey (being the oldest sucked for that very reason – I should always have known better).

In the middle of our favorite game, I saw a twinge of movement from grandpa – he wasn’t dead! There was still hope! I ran over to help but I was quite taken aback when I heard my grandpa utter some choice words that I was used to, but had never heard him say (maybe that’s where I get it?). I helped grandpa into the bike basket and rode him home. Grandma immediately drove him to the emergency room, where aside from some broken glasses, skyrocketing blood pressure, a three-inch gaping head wound (nothing 10 stitches couldn’t fix) , and a broken rib, grandpa was totally fine. Not so shocking though, the doctors wanted to keep grandpa overnight for observation (and probably peace and quiet). That, in the meantime, gave grandma time to get us back to our rightful owners.

Over the ensuing years, the incident was never spoken of again. It was forgotten just as all of the other wayward crimes we had committed. I hope that someday I can find a way to forgive and forget all the shit that is bound to come back at me (karma’s a bitch). One thing is for damn sure though; if I ever take a walk with my grandkids, they’re going to be in front of me where I can see them at all times…

Phobia Faux Pas

Who doesn’t have at least one irrational fear or phobia? If everybody were completely forthcoming, I’m sure they could think of at least one. However, while most of us can claim at least one irrational fear, several can prattle off more than one, if not several ridiculous phobias. I’m not talking about your normal, everyday fears of things like spiders (check), lightning (check), or a plane falling out of the sky and landing smack dab on top of your house squashing you and all of your family (check). Hell no, I’m talking about completely senseless, random fears that only my fantastical (nice way to say crazy) mind could possibly create.


Take, for instance, my fear of mimes (not clowns – they’re hilarious – mimes). Those guys really creep me out. I can ramble off a list of perfectly plausible reasons why those mum morons don’t get within a trapeze swing distance of me. For starters, they don’t utter a word, ever – at all. You know anybody that never speaks, out of sheer will, is up to no fucking good. Seriously, I would last all of two minutes before I’d be ready to blow. Furthermore, they paint their face glow-in-the-dark white (I’m pretty pasty myself, but not by choice) just to intimidate others into submission and clandestine adventures. However, I think it’s their herky jerky movements that petrify me the most. You just never know when one of those mute masochists is going to duck right or bob to the left suddenly while throwing their hands up in your face stopping just short of your nose like there is an imaginary piece of 1/16 inch thick glass separating the two of you. I’m just talking from experience and let me tell you - that mime had it coming!

A popular childhood fear is that there is a macabre monster hiding under your bed. Usually, somewhere between age six and college-age, that fear falls to the wayside, only to never be thought of again. Hell no, not with me. If anything, it is more prevalent now more than ever (schizophrenia?). Naturally, with the fifty gallons or so of water I drink each day, I have to awaken at least once (sometimes 2 or 3 times) during the night to relieve myself (sorry, but this is extremely relevant to the story). That being said, it’s always a challenge for me getting in and out of bed in the pitch dark room without severely crippling myself. I poise myself onto the edge of the bed and jump off far enough away so that the hobgoblin lurking under my bed has no chance in hell at grabbing my ankles and pulling me into the abyss. Now the journey back into bed is a little trickier, because sometimes, unbeknownst to me, my husband will shift positions in the minute or two while I’m gone. Therefore, unfortunately for him, he has been ever-so-rudely awakened by an unprepared for body slam when I hurl myself back into bed (at least I haven’t ruptured his spleen anymore since I’ve lost weight).

However, one of my most asinine fears is revolving doors. Are you coming or going, going or coming, or just going on some sick, free ride (see aforementioned Tilt-A-Hurl story)? I mean, really are these sadistic things even necessary? I think their sole purpose is to inflict bodily harm. I’m convinced they were invented by some bonkers bulimic who got tired of sticking their fingers down their throat to induce vomiting. Seriously, I’d love to see statistics on how many people throughout the years have gotten injured or even killed by those things. I’ve almost lost arms, legs, my head and a ridiculously cute Coach purse to those doors from hell (I was most upset about the purse, mind you). Not to mention the time that my skirt got stuck in the revolving door as I was leaving a show down on Playhouse Square years ago. That fucker ripped all the way up to my crotch and I had to walk the whole 6 blocks to the car (too cheap for valet) looking like Pretty Woman (minus the pretty). It was either that or wait on the corner for my date to go get the car (although, I could have used the extra money). I recommend if those demon doors are allowed to still be in use, they should at least post speed limits for them. Like no more than two rotations per minute or something. Maybe I should petition Congress about the downsides of these derelict doors? Better yet, start a Facebook group (would reach more people) rallying for their demise.

You see, I am not afraid to admit my fears, as absurd as they may be. I actually have many more but since this is a blog, not a book – I shouldn’t expound too much. Truth is, I’m not frightened by stuff I probably should be like fire, deadly diseases, jumping from tall structures, or what people think of me (this includes you). So judge away…I’m not afraid…

Clothes Call

Precarious predicament [pri-kair-ee-uh s pri-dik-uh-muh nt]: when a seemingly innocent and ordinary situation unwittingly and quite suddenly turns into a troublesome and extraordinary event (or, as often with me, a full-fledged WTF happened shitfest). Oh yes, these are almost a daily occurrence with me. As a matter of fact, I consider a day without a precarious predicament to be quite boring (you may be right – I may be crazy, but it just might be a lunatic you’re looking for).

Take, for instance, yesterday started out as a pleasant afternoon of shopping for an Easter outfit. A bright sunshiny day, the kids were in school, and I had nothing but a couple of hours to myself to enjoy mindless (is there any other way?) perusing of the pastelly, pretty in pink, purple and robin’s egg blue spring fashions. Although, I knew it was out there, somewhere just waiting to pounce – my precarious predicament was lurking like Tom just waiting to make his move on Jerry. Some Freudian types may call this the power of negative thinking, psychological conditioning, or the ever-popular self-fulfilling prophecy.  I simply call it foresight (others just call it Karma). Mind you, I really try not to think about it too much because, if I did, I would most assuredly become an agoraphobe and never want to leave the house (sorry, world). Instead, I try to take it all in stride and I figure it’ll just be another adventure to add to my list of perilous shitfests (who says shitfests can’t be fun? – I love saying shitfest, BTW).

Anyhow, at the store, I found a few potential swank (just this side of skank – my husband has to approve because of the church factor) ensembles and headed for the fitting room. Now, because of my recent large weight loss, I have bypassed many sizes and have settled into single-digit sizes (and that is where I will stay, dammit, if it kills me). Therefore, all of the garments I took in with me reflected these sizes. However, all women know that one size can vary greatly across different brands and labels. One size 8 may fit like a 6 or one size 6 may fit like an 8 – that’s why we always have to try things on in like a zillion sizes (not much exaggeration on that). Also, anybody that knows me knows that I like to wear my clothes form-fitting (AKA slutty, but with class) because now that I have curves (not lumps, humps, and bumps), I like to showcase them instead of hiding them (nothing wrong with that – it’s not like I’m walking the streets in my stilettos and fishnets). I read in Cosmo (a completely reliable source of highly pertinent information, I might add), that women who wear form-fitting clothing exude more confidence and accentuate their figure more, whereas women who wear baggy, loose-fitting clothing appear more matronly and fuller-figured.

I slipped the first springy, flowy dress over my head easily enough and take a spin to see how it looks. It looked too flowy, didn’t show enough cleavage and had too many freakin’ flowers with so much pink tulle that I looked like a cotton candy fluff. Next! 

The next selection also went on like a dream, but this one fit like a glove.  It hugged in all the right places and showed just enough of my breasts to look hot without appearing overly trampy (key word - overly).  Unfortunately, the leopard print pattern didn't quite look Eastery enough, so I had to toss that quality piece to the castoff rack.  Easier said than done, however, when I went to slip the dress over my head, every woman's worst dressing room fear occurred (besides bathing suit fittings) - it got stuck.  Not just for a second, or even for a minute, but forever it seemed. 

After several minutes of panic-filled floundering (which only made the dress more of a twisted, contorted pretzel) and on the verge of a hyperventilation attack (where is a paper bag when you need one? or a pair of flippin' scissors?).  As a woman, I know that there is safety in numbers.  Meaning that this was a prime example of why you should never clothing shop alone.  If I would have had a friend, my daughter, or had managed to drag my husband out shopping with me (which is more torture for me than him) - this whole fire (pyromaniacs anonymous, here I come) would have been extinguished in record time.  Silly me for thinking that I could actually finagle trying on a few outfits all by my incapable self.  Oh hell no,  instead, I managed to completely mummify myself to the point that I thought the jaws of life were going to be needed to be called in.

After several minutes of writhing, panting, and trying my best to extricate my body from this cannibalistic dress, I made the decision to further humiliate myself ( a daily decision - welcome to my world) and seek the help of a lady comrade.  I bent over enough so that I could crack the door slightliy ajar and then positioned myself so that I could scope (through the plunging neckline that was now eye-level) for my unsuspecting altruistic (I was/am a charity case, after all) victim.

The first through the fitting room door was a tiny goth gal.  I immediately decided she would not suffice since my left thigh probably weighed more than her whole body.  There was no way she'd be able to muster the strength to pry that sucker off of my convoluted body.  Besides, my heavy breathing most likely would have blown her right out of the fitting room (and, frankly, I couldn't handle any more drama at that point). 

The next gal through the door was hot and heated while she was screaming into her cell phone.  Apparently, she was talking (screaming) to the girl that her boyfriend had fucked the night before.  While she looked strong enough to pull it off, she also looked strong enough to take me out (especially with all that extra adrenaline she had pumping through her) and I wasn't willing to risk death by dress strangulation (although it was almost to that point anyhow) or cell phone to the cerebrum.  She surely had some anger displacement issues and I wanted NO part in that ( I have enough of those myself, thank you very much).

Then she glided in: my savior.  She had a special golden glow about her and I could tell immediately she had the strength to endure the rigors involved.  I spewed out into the hallway, right into her path.  She wasted no hesistation at springing to my aid as she strapped herself in for the bumpy ride.  My devious plan had worked.  As we were struggling in the fitting room hallway, the commotion we caused created quite a scene.  Never mind the fact that I was in only my bra and underwear (at least they matched) with a dress stuck around my head.  As this angel-clothes-wrestling woman was doing her damnedest to assist me and I was thrashing around like a caged animal (leopard), we quickly drew the attention of little twig girl and angry, my-boyfriend-just-cheated-on-me, displaced-anger girl.  Twig girl ran out to help, but I insisted she stay back, lest she get seriously maimed.  Bitchy, I-totally-see-why-he-would-cheat-on-you girl didn't offer any help, but rather she quickly dialed a friend and yapped that she would totally not believe what was happeing in the fitting room right now.  So glad I could help you forget about your boyfriend's indescretions (bitch didn't even thank me).

What seemed like hours lasted probably only a couple of minutes.  I was ever-grateful for angel-dress-wrestling woman and put her number on my cell's speed dial to which I promised I'd call her if I ever got into a bind again.  She joked that this wasn't the first time she's had to help and sure it wouldn't be the last.  I told her she should shop ladies stores for new positions as a lady-clothes wrangler because she was so good at it.  Moral of this predicament: make sure you are wearing clean, matching, (and cute) undergarments when clothes shopping alone.  You just never know who is going to end up seeing them...

Patience...Who Has Time For That?

I’m convinced that when God was passing out patience, I ducked out of line for a snack and never got back in, because, I no doubt, found something better to do (skeet shooting anyone?). Through the years, I have really tried hard at working on this virtue that I so obviously lack, but since it doesn’t come overnight, I move on to something that gives me instant gratification (that’s all you’re going to get, sicko). How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Easy – for me, three, because that’s all the licks I’m good for until I can’t take it any longer, lose all control and chomp down on the sucker (I simply MUST have the chocolaty chewy goodness that that lurks beneath)!

For this is the reason I have never taken up chess. Believe me, it is all for the well and good of whoever would be chessing with me. That game requires waaaayyyyy too much concentration and strategy (which is only fun in mind games). Most assuredly, by my second turn, I would be ready to rook somebody’s eye out or queen the other player in the ass, so don’t ever ask me to play (unless you’re into that kinky sort of thing). Just don’t complain that you weren’t amply warned.

I also despise, whole-heartedly, reading directions. I put together anything in our house that needs assembly because I don’t like waiting for it to get done. However, I don’t read the how-to directions, so I just slap it together the way I think it should go. Big tinkle if the chairs are lopsided or if the swing falls off the first time a kid gets some good air (that’s why the swing set is on the grass and not concrete). My kids have learned quickly that life is full of surprises and I am proud that I have thoroughly prepared them for life’s little ups and downs. The unknown lies in wait for them around every corner. They never know if a doorknob is going to pop off in their hand or if their dinner will contain tree bark (good source of fiber and roughage).

Furthermore, when the unthinkable happens; I actually have to read directions because I can’t figure it out (rare occurrence) on my own, I only skim them quickly enough to get the gist. Seriously, who really has to know that Oxycontin has a daily dosage limitation? Doesn’t ones body know when it feels good enough to stop taking it on its own? I don’t need instructions to tell me that. However, my doc only seems to prescribe me enough for one day at a time. WTF??? Doesn’t he know that I don’t have the time (or patience) to be running to the pharmacy every day for my 40 count bottle?

Let it be known too, that when you put shit together, those manufacturers always put tons of extra screws, nuts and bolts in those bags that come with the goods. I have found that you usually only need a couple of those incidentals to assemble a decent bicycle, ladder, or piece of exercise equipment. Besides, if I wanted a bike that didn’t go sideways (I like a challenge), I would’ve married Lance Freakin’ Armstrong. Therefore, when I say that I am extra nuts and have more than a few loose screws, I am speaking both literally and figuratively.

All things considered though, my lack of patience really rears its ugly head when I have to wait for stupid people. I'm sorry, but I don’t really give a flip if you didn’t have time to put stamps on your 500 thank you letters at home, but don’t waste 20 minutes of my life while you park smack dab in front of the bank of the drive-up mailboxes while you lick and stick each one (news flash moron mailbox blocker – they make self-stick now). At the very least, don’t give me the hairy eyeball when I blast my horn 1,273 times until you finally move your Prius hybrid. After all, it is my right since I am patience-handicapped (ooohhh - do they make a placard for that?)

I also have every right to cut in front of you in line at Baskin Robbins because you think it’s so adorable that little Johnny can read each and every 31 flavors to the ice cream scoop artist (politically correct?). My kids can do that too (so what if your child is only 3 and can read Harry Potter) and I don’t prance them around with a little tip cup shamelessly trying to start a college fund (I’m just jealous I didn’t think of that when they were younger and adorable).

Although I realize my lack of capacity to endure waiting may sometimes create havoc, thus taking valuable minutes, hours, days, weeks, months or years off of my life, I prefer to live on the edge and take chances. Life is just too short for me to have to read directions, follow rules, and wait for stupid people.

Fixations and Fetishes

Many people do not know this about me, but I have a highly addictive personality. However, me being me, I can never become addicted to normal shit like alcohol, drugs or cigarettes. No, I can only become hooked on the most ridiculous random crap. Take, for instance, Pepperidge Farm goldfish crackers (it's the snack that smiles back, dammit - and BTW the flavor blasted rocks!). I could down a bag of those in record time (3 minutes, 42 seconds to be exact). If the stores would just stop having those damn bags on sale for $1.00 each, I just might be able to fight the urge to buy twenty freakin’ bags at a time (I will NOT accept responsibility for my nonwillpower).

Naturally, my fixation for funky fetishes started in childhood. Perhaps it can be traced back to certain not-so-significant-at-the-time moments such as the time I was three and disappeared into a dresser in the furniture department at JC Penney. My poor mother was frantic with worry and had every associate in the joint searching for me. They blasted my name umpteen times over the loudspeakers and the whole time I thought it was just the best game of hide and seek I’d ever played (either I was really good at it or they really sucked). I sat giggling to myself safely inside the bureau the whole time. The final straw was when the cops showed up and started canvassing the place. Officer Rat Out found me and my gig was up. Immediately, he got on his walkie talkie and shouted some code (probably cop code for crazy, bratty kid has been found) and snatched me from my awesome hideout (thank God Supernanny wasn't around back in my day). My mother was crying hysterically as she came running to me. After she gave me the biggest hug ever, she turned all dark side on me and beat my ass (apparently I shaved 5 years off of her life just from that episode alone, she says). I begged the cops to let me go with them but they didn’t want me, so I was stuck with a ranting, near-nervous-breakdown mom that had a screaming newborn strapped to her chest. Hence, my obsession with marshmallow peeps was born.

Another addiction-in-the-making moment was when I was about the same age and I found a book of matches. You may be asking, where the hell were my parents all these times? (better question is, who were my parents?) Now, tell me how does a three-year-old even know how to strike a match? Well, this one sure did, and it almost turned me into a well-done, charbroiled Rhonda roast. Who knew that hair was so damn flammable and that when you run it burns even faster? Sure as hell not this three-year-old (but I do now)! From that episode, I came away with my delirious Doritos fetish (I’m sensing a pattern here).

When I was six, I tried to walk the five miles home from school alone, across several busy intersections in a blizzard in the bad section of Detroit. This was all because I missed the bus and I refused to go into the school office and call my mom because I thought she might get angry (by that age, I knew better). Of course, I was supposed to be on the bus, so I didn’t have any gloves, hat, or scarf on. Not to mention, I had never walked home before, so I had no clue where the hell I was going. I just started wandering aimlessly (still doing it) foolishly thinking that sooner or later I would end up home. Let me tell you, when it got dark and I still wasn’t home (or didn’t even know where the hell I was) I knew I was up shit’s creek with no paddle in sight. At some point that evening, a police officer pulled up alongside me and put me in the car (they kind of knew me by then) and took me to the station. Once again, they released me to my raving mother (she really needed to relax) when all I really wanted was to stay there all night and have more cheetos, jelly donuts and Hawaiian punch. That police station is where my whole making-copies-of-body-parts-on-the-photocopier fetish all started (I think I still have those somewhere - though hoarder, I am not).

So, you see, most addictions are not born, they are created by a combination of life experiences, individual personalities and personal choices. It just so happens that I have had some fucked up, quirky, insane, unbelievable, laughable (looking back), and awesome experiences in my life. So, I guess that I’m entitled to some idiosyncratic obsessions/fetishes/addictions now aren’t I? They keep me just this side of complete crazy…;)

A Slinky For A Twinkie

Oh, the joys of being the oldest child…I could pick on my younger siblings (old school), boss them around (“Go ask mom for a cookie, but don’t tell her it’s for me”), and just plain torture them (I’m real good at that). My four younger sisters absolutely idolized me (I got all the brains) and respected me (they grew out of that). However, along with all the joys, came many hardships as well. I was under constant pressure to be a “good influence” and being perfect all the time comes with a price. At times, my little-child brain (not much has changed) would just say, “Fuck it, Rhonda. You’ve been an angel all week, now just show these little brats how to have some fun.” Yes, only I could wreak havoc with just an innocent little slinky…

Let me preface this by exclaiming, I was only four-years-old when the “Great Slinky Dive of ’75” took place (not quite old enough to be a demon – but quite an imp, I was). I also wasn’t quite old enough to know better, but I knew better (remember – I’m worldly).

Mom had to hop into the shower and she asked me to keep an eye on my baby sister who had just turned one. Seriously, who asks a 4-year-old to watch a one-year-old? Anyhow, she wasn’t gone even a minute when I got bored playing with my antique (yes, it was even old then) erector set (sharp metal pieces that I still have scars from), and decided to show baby sis my new slinky. I had her crawl up the flight of rickety wood steps up to the landing and told her to watch the slinky go down. She laughed, clapped and bounced with such joy, I thought, “What am I going to possibly do to top that?” The idea came to me in an instant (I was smart even back then). I would become the slinky and go down the steps the same way! Keep in mind, these were steep, all wood steps – no carpet whatsoever. By the grace of God, I made it down in one piece and little sis was hysterical with laughter. All would have been fine if I would’ve just ended things right there (or if my mom hadn’t taken such a long friggin’ shower), but no, I always have to push the envelope. I told my sister she should try going down like the slinky since it was so much fun. Not that a one-year-old needs a lot of coaxing, but she took the bait (hook, line and slinky). Of course, anybody with any foresight knows this is going to end badly (and it does). Baby sis bent over the top step on the landing and the rest is kind of a blur (at least for her). She tumbled (and not so gracefully) head over heels down that flight of hardwood stairs. She came down so fast, she even beat the damn slinky down. Actually, hell yes, she beat the slinky down, because that cheap little coil of metal was crushed by her pudgy baby fat as she toppled over it (never did get a new one - and yes, I’m still carrying that grudge). She came to rest at the bottom and lay somewhat lifeless on our puke-green (with orange flecks) linoleum kitchen floor. I stood there for a moment and realized that her not moving, crying, or screaming was probably not a good thing (brilliant, I know), so I ran and got my mom. Needless to say, mom was NOT happy that I interrupted her never-ending shower. Nor did she believe me when I told her in my screechy, panicked voice about what had happened (hard to believe, but I tended to cry wolf a lot). I guess she finally decided to believe me when she heard the inhuman wail coming from the kitchen (sis had rudely awaken, apparently).

Before I knew it, we were in the backseat of the old Chevy Vega (no carseats or even seatbelts back then), bouncing around like ping pong balls as mom sped to the nearest emergency room. Speaking of ping pong balls, the knot on my sisters head was easily that big. Come to think of it, the bump on her head was so big, it was like she had another head attached to her head. I was so mesmerized by it, that I kept stinking finger into it (it was kind of squishy), which, in turn caused sis to scream even louder, which, in turn caused mom to scream louder too (at me) and drive even faster and run more lights. En route, because of her erratic driving (and me beating frantically on the rear window), she got pulled over by a Detroit (Michigan) cop. It worked in her favor though (still waiting for my thank you on that), because we got a police escort the rest of the way to the hospital. The policeman even ran into the emergency room with us to get us a room right away.  It probably helped us get better service in that in her haste, my mother forgot to button her blouse (maybe that's where I get it?!?!) AND she was sans bra (child services showed up before my father did).

Somewhere, amidst all of the hubbub, somebody located my father at his favorite (one of many) watering hole and he joined my mom, sister and I at the hospital. It was kind of nice to have some father daughter bonding time since I hardly ever saw him (sober, at least). While my mom was in with my sister, we had a grand old time in the waiting room. We played wheelchair races (his idea – maybe that’s where I get it?!?!),and poked our names with syringes (they weren’t as careful with disposal back then) into the vinyl waiting room chairs (again – his idea -I wonder if they’re still there?).  Besides have wayyyyy too much pop from the vending machine (Fanta makes too many irrestible flavors damnit!) that day, perhaps the most memorable fun I had that day was eating my first twinkie (and second, and third).  It was love at first bite with that golden sponge of creamy deliciousness.

I was about to guilt a fourth twinkie out of my absentee father, when my mom emerged with my sister in tow.  Little sister didn't have a broken head (hard heads run in our family) and the doctors had drained some of the fluid out of her squishy-extra-attached head. All in all, she ended up being fine - at least they thought so then, but time has told a different story.  The way I see it, she still owes me a new slinky and another twinkie...

Experimentation

I consider myself to be many things (multiple personalities?). Some of the things I consider myself to be include (but are not limited to): a scientist (mad), a doctor (witch), and a psychologist (licensed by Freud McFraud Online College of NothinBetterToDo). Psychologist (fully discredited) that I am, I conduct experiments and research projects almost daily. Interestingly, I am usually the subject, or at the very least, a participant, in my little studies.

One of my more ongoing, yet intriguing studies, is my unofficial kleptomania-while-under-the-influence study. Through the years I have observed (and partaken in) this mystifying enigma of human behavior. Why do people, such as me, for instance, suddenly get the urge to take things that don’t belong to them when they have had a drink or two (or three or four)? Honestly, I don’t even take an extra salt packet at restaurants or lollipops at the bank when I’m sober (unless they are grape – LOVE the grape), but give me a couple cocktails and I’ll be trying to pillage the plumbing or even ransack the rafters. Seriously, the next day I’ll wake up with all kinds of crap that makes me wonder, “WTF was I thinking when I lifted this?!?!”

The other night is a perfect example. Hubby and I went to a few bars with another couple. The guys were all into their silly basketball game (some NCAA foolishness), so my friend and I were instigating (more her than me, for once) trouble. She was so enamored by the British menu books that she flipped one right into her purse (I mean suitcase – that sucker needs wheels, it’s so big). Of course, I got jealous because I wanted to have a British menu book with the Brit Lit lingo and jolly good pictures too, so I shoved one in her suitcase for me (I didn’t want to get busted with the goods). I would have NEVER had done that had I not just had “Sex On The Beach” or “Twist and Shout” (cocktails, sicko).

In another example of human peculiarities (those, I have a bazillion), last fall the hubs and I attended a friend’s wedding (open bar = kleptomania). It was a very fun night followed by the usual WTF morning. Hubby and I assessed our newly accrued klepto cache and we had the usual matchbooks, silverware, candlesticks, etc. However, we also had somehow acquired hairspray, deodorant (Speed Stick for men), a tablecloth and a yamucka (double WTF since this was NOT even a Jewish wedding). Of course, we felt terrible about the heist and set about to return the deodorant (not like WE wanted it) to its rightful owner ASAP.

Despite having been part of this shameful (albeit, hilarious) activity, my friends, through the years have been WAY worse. I mean, really, do you know of any spectacular uses for a broken hubcap or somebody else’s retainer (ewwwww)??? I can think of none. In fact, a cabbie’s photo ID badge (unless you could be twins) and a urinal cake (double, triple and QUADRUPLE EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW) are pretty friggin’ useless in my book, as well. I need to either get smarter friends or give them some lessons on how to acquire some useful shit (like coasters, salt and pepper shakers, and stirrers) while under the influence.

My hypothesis is consistantly being proven in that you can give anyone (of loose morals) a few drinks and place some irresistible crap nearby, and it will inevitably make its way home with them. I love it when I’m right...

Party Pooper

I had a very hard time focusing at church last weekend (shocking, I know). It was our priest’s 70th birthday celebration and there was a huge party scheduled after mass in honor of him. During mass, there were several visiting priests up on the altar with Father and, I kid you not, not one of them was under 90 years of age. So, as if having four nonagenarian priests wasn’t distracting enough, add to that the fact that my mind was already envisioning the cascading dessert table over in the church hall (love, love, LOVE those kolaches) causing me to drool like a young boy lusting over a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Really, who can blame my mind for wandering? As soon as the priest mentions that we all going to go to hell (I already have a one-way ticket, so I don’t need a friggin' TripTik, thank you very much) if we don’t repent our sins, I do my classic eye roll/mini-sigh combo and settle in for some real thinking (or a nap, if I can’t think of anything constructive to ponder).


First, I thought “Holy Crap!” (it IS church after all).“I forgot to put on mascara!” (then excuse myself to go to the ladies room after faking a bathroom emergency). After I dealt with that little tragedy, I got back to more critical contemplating.

However, just as I was getting ready to conjure up some awesome 1987 fiascos, the unthinkable happened: I actually heard something the priest said! He was introducing the priests one at a time and after he said each name they each gave a little wave. That is, of course, until he got to Father Ritz (who looked like he was easily the big 1-0-0). When he mentioned his name, Father Ritz sat motionless with his head down on his chest. No blink, no nod, no finger flip. Nothing. I panicked and frantically looked around because surely, others in the packed church had to be thinking what I was thinking: He was dead. Up on the altar. For all to see. Nobody even batted an eye. I guess I was the only one concerned for this poor man of the cloth (caring person that I am).

My mind raced with thoughts, “Why, God?” and, “Of all days for this to happen, why now. Why today?”

I know CPR, so I also thought, “Maybe I should run up there and be the hero and breathe life back into this poor man who has dedicated his life to the church.” Then I remembered I had my short sweater on and figured it would ride up my back if I bent over and that wouldn’t be all that appropriate for the congregation to see now would it?

My next thought was, “Well, he’s lived a long, fulfilling life and at least he died doing what he loved to do - nap.”

Then, my most horrible realization: “Are we still going to have this party if he dies, because I need me some kolaches like yesterday!?!?”


As my mind was all aflutter with these dreadful scenarios, it came time for us to stand. When lo and behold, a miracle occurred: Father Ritz rose from the almost-dead. I heard a rousing choir of angels singing “Alleluia” (actually, it was just the church choir with impeccable timing, but they were very angelic). I was so elated that he hadn’t croaked, I did a little shuffle dance and smacked my shin on the back of the pew (God putting me in my place, no doubt), in turn, my husband shot me, “The Look” (which I’m so completely used to, it doesn’t even faze me anymore). I have told him that is not at all very Christian-like and God does not appreciate mockery and rudeness towards others. For whatever reason, he never takes me seriously.


Mass ended a short time later with no more cataclysmic events (unless you call a toddler running up the center aisle yelling, “Poopy in my pants!” an earth-shattering phenomenon). The celebration continued over in the church hall, where I got my much sought-after kolaches (along with some other yummy pastries). The best part about the whole afternoon was that nobody died. Oh, and also that kid with the poopy pants was not at a table near ours during lunch made it pretty great too…

Splendiferous Screw-Ups

Depending on my mood (which changes every second, I think?), I like to refer to bad decisions as Glorified Occasions Of Fantastic Stupidity (GOOFS), Random Unexpected Life Enhancement Sessions (RULES), or just plain old fuckups (no acronym necessary).  Now, I have had a few (thousand) GOOFS, RULES, and plain old fuckups in my life, but a few (hundred) stick out more than the others.

Off the top of my head, the time I COMPLETELY shaved off my eyebrows when I couldn't find the tweezers (don't judge! You try being a teenage girl with bushy eyebrows, no patience, and being called "Chewbacca" one too many times, and see how long your eyebrows last!) was definitely a RULES moment. I learned from that experience that eyebrows do NOT grow back as fast as top-of- the-head hair, and being called "Chewbacca" is better than being called E.T. (at least Chewbacca had shiny highlights).

A Rhonda classic GOOFS moment was the time I got the bright idea (I get those often, I'm finding) to hoist a 50 pound TV set up onto a piddly wall-mount shelf that was being held up with only thumb tacks and duct tape. I no sooner got that monstrosity up there when I bent down to plug the fucker in when I heard the sickening rip and it came crashing down on my head (maybe that's what happened to me!?!?).  My parents came running to my bedroom when they heard the commotion where they found me bleeding profusely and in a confused state (well, that part wasn't out of the ordinary).  Although I was all of fourteen-years-old, I held out my arms because I wanted my mommy to hold me one more time before I bled out in the middle of the Hitachi rubble. But hell no, my parents were much more concerned about the precious black and white, 3-channel-getting, no remote control waste of tubes that was laying in a scattered heap around my broken, bloodied body (maybe that's what happened to me). In their defense, however, they did turn to ask how I was after they yelled at me and once they realized the TV had gone to that big screen in the sky (my head won that battle - besides being strangely large, it is also extremely hard). I came away from that experience with the knowledge that duct tape is not as strong as they advertise it to be, and that my mom (who can't even sew a button onto a shirt) knows how to stitch up head wounds so they don't leave a scar (well, there might be a scar, but thank goodness its under my Chewbacca mop of hair). I also found out just how strong my parents were, since holding me down while sewing my scalp back together with no Novacaine (for them or me) and just a couple of shots of whiskey (for them and me) had to be no easy task. They saved the emergency room co-pay (and surely, a child protective services visit) and only had to endure a couple of black eyes (them) and another wrestling match during stitches removal.

Perhaps one of my more shining plain old fuckup moments, but, by far, not the shiniest (gotta save the really good stuff for the book), was the time I singlehandedly shut down an entire ski slope at Mt. Holly for a couple of hours. It was a cold, crisp January night and I was feeling on top of the world (no, I was not drinking - it was a really big hill). I started to speed down the brightly lit slope, when to my left I spotted the enchanted forest. Seriously, who puts an enchanted forest in the middle of a ski slope anyway? (Probably some perverse person who gets their jollies off of watching impulsive, bad decision-makers like myself turn themselves into a pine tree porcupine). I'd breezed by it several times before and never really paid it any mind, but tonight it looked especially alluring - all dark and ominous and such. I probably should have paid closer attention to the numerous gargantuan skull and crossbones illuminated signs surrounding the trees (I thought they were leftover from halloween), or even the flashing neon signs that read, "Do Not Ski Amongst the Trees or Risk of Serious Injury - Even Death May Occur." Tell me, how is one supposed to read with snow flying in your face and travelling at breakneck (literally) speeds?!?!? Anyhow, as soon as I flew into the enchanted evergreens, my common sense (I DO have a little -at times) kicked in (albeit, a tad late) and told me this was a bad idea. After all, since I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face, how the hell was I supposed to see a friggin' tree (or two, or three)?!?! Needless to say, my body found a nice big tree before my eyes did (not good). The little snowmobile-ambulance came and had to make a HUGE production about getting me out of there in one piece, too. I tried to insist that I could slide down the rest of the slope on my ass on one ski (never did find the other one - miss my K2's), but they refused. It might have been because my head was backwards (I could just turn my eyes straight down and see my ass), or quite possibly because a human arm is not supposed to bend in ten places. Either way, they insisted on strapping me in their little cripple cradle sleigh and parading me (sirens blazing and all) down the hill in a humiliating fashion. The whole incident just screamed, "Look at me!" and I am so not like that (shut up). Thus, from that experience I learned that enchanted forests aren't always a good thing (unless it's daytime and you are NOT on skis), and that ski resort paramedics can be cruel when you interrupt their poker game.

As I have said before, I like to learn from my experiences so that I can grow wiser with each passing day. I think this concept is working since I have never again shaved my eyebrows off, tried to hoist a 50 pound TV onto a piddly shelf, or skied into a dark enchanted forest. Also, now that I am older, if I start to be forgetful, I have moments of aches and pains to remind me of those hairbrained GOOFS, RULES, and plain old fuckups. Like when my ribs hurt, I'm reminded of flailing for my life the time I fell through the ice and that just because there is ice on a Michigan lake in April, does NOT mean that it is safe to walk on it.  Or when my hip flares up, I can't forget how painful it is to jump from a moving rail car (those trains move deceptively fast, and BTW a grassy hill hurts a hell of a lot when you hurtle yourself down it). Own your past. Realize and learn from it and move on with the wisdom you have gained to become a better person. At least look back and laugh (make fun of it), because you can...

What a Bunch 'O Blarney

My friend J and I decided to brave the insanely sunny day and unseasonally warm Cleveland temperatures by heading downtown to attend the ever-popular St. Patrick's Day parade.  It was my brilliant idea to take the Rapid train downtown since I figured that would be a lot less hassle than trying to find a parking spot in downtown Cleveland.  Just as I was patting myself on the back for being such a rock star, we pull into the station and shitty shamrocks! All we see is a sea...of green.  Now mind you, this train station is one of many on the west side of Cleveland, so if there were this many people at this station, that meant there were at least this many people at the other stations. Nonetheless, we hoofed the mile through the parking lot after scoring one of the last available spaces. 

Passing into the station I noticed an "amnesty barrel" with a sign that read, "No alcoholic beverages beyond this point."  I think I was the only person that saw this barrel, because everybody around us had at least one beer, if not a keg, with them.  When we finally managed to squeeze onto a train, I was soon wishing we had tempted fate and drove instead.  We were armpit to armpit (felt sorry for my friend who is much shorter than I, so she was nose to armpit) with inebriated strangers, and not that that couldn't be a fun time, however, these strangers apparently hadn't bathed yet this week.  Either that, or they had started celebrating last night and had pissed, shit and puked on themselves and hadn't bothered to go home for a fresh "If found, return to the nearest pub" T-shirt.  Not to mention, we were the oldest people on the train (probably by double) and wasted teenagers are annoying.  I wanted to shout at them, "I know your mothers" but I realized we were outnumbered in a very clausterphobic space and the last thing we needed was a revolt by drunken delinquents.  The girl next to us (maybe 18), had to pee really bad and kept announcing it every 2 seconds (not like anybody would have noticed had she just gone on herself).  Maybe if she hadn't drank 3 beers on the 15 minute train ride, she wouldn't be hurtin' so bad now would she?  Somebody grabbed my ass but I couldn't even be fake angry or lay blame because I kind of liked it.  Anything to give a cantankerous old lady a thrill...

The everlasting train ride finally reached its destinantion. When those doors flew open, I pushed my way out faster than Tiger Woods on his way to a brothel.  Along the way, trampling over several beer bottles, an empty bottle of Bushmills, and what could have been green vomit (but I adamantly refused myself a double-take).  After all, I had never held my breath that long and I needed air ASAP.  I didn't want to risk passing out and one of those plastered perverts attempting CPR on on me (I'm not desperate).  We made our way out onto Public Square where the true freak show began.  Everywhere around me there was a story waiting to be told.  On my left, we had a bunch of tanked teens rolling around on the statue ledge screaming "Ole, Ole, OLE, OLE" (I think they forgot this was an Irish-themed kind of day).  On my right, was a transvestite in thigh-high neon-green sequined platform boots (I asked her/him/it where he/she/? got them BTW).  Directly in front of us was the Cleveland Metro SWAT team poised and ready to take action in case some deranged lunatic (don't know ANY of those) decided to start some craziness (not sure, but I kept getting the feeling I was being scoped).  When we finally waded through the crap (literally) and found our parade perch, we descended on it like hippies at Woodstock and set up camp.  I suggested we lay lengthwise across the curb so that we would be assured ample space, but J thought I was overreacting (she acts like she knows me or something) and didn't think that was warranted (novice).  Of course, by the start of the merriment, we were crushed up against the crowd control gates and being rubbed up against by God knows who (or what - again, no protests here).

Another WTF observation: who the hell thought of making a 3 foot long plastic tube, making it green, putting a little flare at the bottom, and said, "Let's sell these fuckers across the nation at all St. Patrick's Day parades so a bunch of sloshed assholes can blow their hot air into them and annoy any (and every) unsuspecting fool within a 1.5 mile radius."??? Seriously? Those things ought to be banned simply because I can't think really much else any more grating than the sound of a dying moose (or at the very least, an extremely sick or seriously maimed one; or maybe a moose having kinky sex - anyway, I digress) for hours on end. Why couldn't those people that bought those kinky-moose-sex noise -makers waste their money on something harmless like a nice Irish flag or green boa? Never mind that I almost poked a few people's eyeballs out while I was vigorously waving my faux flag about (they say kids heal faster than adults and besides, they shouldn't be creeping up behind a crazy person waving a sharp object)!

Needless to say, the whole event was more about people watching than the actual parade itself. Don't get me wrong, it was a good time ( if body surfing with a million strangers is your idea of a funfest), but I don't think I'll be in a big hurry to go back anytime soon. I'm not sure if it was the pot smoking on the train (not me) or the poop-scooping hippies on roller blades along the parade route that sealed the deal for me, but one thing is for sure - I discovered I just don't like people that much in large doses. I would be much happier if I could watch, observe, and make fun of them from afar (perhaps behind a two-way mirror) but unfortunately, that can't be done (at least not legally). So for now, I must get back out into the trenches and find the drama that lurks there, just waiting to be told (somebody's gotta do it).

Murder, She Rote

My sixteen-year-old daughter has amazing rote memory skills. Seriously, she can remember shit that happened years ago - down to the last detail - including the clothes the people involved were wearing (or weren’t). You know, we all have crap in our lives that we would LOVE to forget ever happened. Well, unfortunately I don’t have that luxury (unless it happened before 1994) since my own little Rain Man (girl) (“10 minutes ‘til Wapner”) is always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce. For instance, she will bring up shit that happened on August 8, 1996 at 2:34 PM (she probably knows the seconds, too). God forbid, I’m telling a story to someone (very rarely do I do that) and I get one little detail wrong, she will pop up out the woodwork and set me straight. How in the hell am I supposed to be a good parent with that crap going on?

As parents, we all hope that our kids will overlook and forget our shortcomings and times when we show less than Cleaver-like parenting skills. We want them to adoringly look up to us with the admiration and respect that we deserve (well, some of us). Seriously, I’m just waiting for the day she’ll forget the time I left her on Santa’s lap by herself (screaming her head off BTW) at the mall while I ran down to The Gap to check out the sales rack (hey, it was 90% off- don’t judge). Or, she also LOVES to dredge up the time I “forgot” her at JC Penney when she was 4 years old (she was being a little brat and I got tired of looking for her in all of those damn clothes racks). She needs to get over it and stop playing the victim already. For real, I had way worse stuff happen to me and I turned out extraordinary!

Don’t get me wrong, she is great to have around (when she’s not reminding me of every little, friggin’ detail of the police chase through Little Italy back in ’97 (complete misunderstanding – another story – be patient) most of the time and I really don’t know what I’d do without her. I had her when I was so young, she practically raised me. Plus, I never have to remember anyone’s birthday, which is a complete load off of my mind. I need to keep my mind free for all the useless information that has gathered and nested up there all these years (I’m pretty sure the inside of my brain looks worse than a house on Hoarders on a good day). Whenever I’m at the store with her, I just ask her who has a birthday coming up so I can get the cards and/or gifts (if you tell her once when your birthday is, she’ll remember it until the day she dies, seriously). That being said, she would make the ideal murder witness (which I hope never happens, but if it ever does, she’ll earn the reward money in a heartbeat). Trust me, she would remember how many cavities the perp had (or teeth), how many buttons were on his shirt, and what brand of underwear he was wearing. Just don’t ask her to clean her room because she “forgets” to do that ALL the time…

A Few Things to Set Me Crooked...

I have been called defiant (WTF is that all about-not me), insubordinate (with pleasure), disobedient, disorderly, dissentious, recalcitrant, riotous, uncompliant, rebellious (fun times), undisciplined, ungovernable (nobody puts Rhonda in a corner), audacious, condescending (you probably don't know what that means-dictionary.com it dumb-ass), derisive, disdainful, disrespectful, sardonic, scornful, sneering, snippy, supercilious, temperamental (I’m hot and I’m cold/I’m yes and I’m no), upstaging (isn’t it ALL about me) and a smart-ass (which is better than the alternative, if you ask me). Thank you, hubby, for putting me in my place and setting me on the path of most resistance. Kisses and strangles to you….

Trash Talking

I’m a garbage picker at heart (but really, aren't we all). That, too, started at a very early age. I was about 10 years old when my friend, Pam and I decided to climb into the mammoth dumpster that sat in the parking lot adjacent to her house. Actually, I’m 99.9% sure that it was not only my idea, but that I had to really con Pam into joining me in the thrill of dumpster-diving. For I knew there was some really good crap just waiting to be unearthed in there.

Pam was pretty nauseated by the whole experience but I was finding some awesome loot so she stayed and kept watch. Some of the treasures I found were: old encyclopedias, porn magazines, an old stapler, file folders, a bong; all the stuff a ten-year-old girl needs. I had a pile of the goods next to the dumpster and was still inside trying to gather all of the books into a moldy, damp box when I heard the beeping sound. You know the sounds big trucks make when they back up? I peeked up and out of the dumpster just in time to spot the garbage truck heading right for our dumpster (cue sickening realization). Apparently, he had emptied the dumpster at the other end of the lot, backed up and was headed to empty ours! Pam bailed on me, and surprisingly, for being short and stubby, she sure moved like a running back during the last play of a tied Super Bowl game.

Well, instead of me making the intelligent decision to get the heck out of dodge before I became compacted with yesterday’s coffee grounds, my stubbornness reared its ugly head. I was determined to get those damn books if it killed me, so I crammed the last couple in the box and tried to hoist it up and over the edge at the exact time the truck met the dumpster and put the prongs into it. The driver had seen me peek up, but he had intentions to scare the foolishness (shit) out of me. The driver and I had a stare-down. I was almost daring him to flip the dumpster. It was a stand-off; a dirty, relentless game of chicken. I was afraid of so many ridiculous things, but at that precise moment, in my warped, undeveloped ten-year-old mind, I was only afraid of losing the shit I’d foraged so hard for. Well, the weight of the 30 or so books I had jammed into a wet cardboard box was too much and the box broke loose before I could get it over the edge. At that time, the garbage man decided he was going to fuck with me one step further. He started to raise the dumpster ever so slightly and though I’m about as pigheaded as they come, the thought of being crushed one bone-snap at a time was horrifying enough for me to admit defeat by hopping out and running over to Pam’s house.

Unfortunately, Pam was a little sissy-narc and had already ratted to her mom because just as I got there her mom came out of the house screaming something about what a bad influence (if she only knew just how much) I was on her child and I needed to go home immediately.

By the time I had trudged the five or so houses home, my mother was laying in wait and just like a crime-scene detective, had her scratch pad of interrogation questions ready. I should have known she knew, because like mother-like daughter, Pam’s mom was quite the rat fink. Even at the mere age of ten, I was quite worldly, but at that moment I wasn’t attuned to my mother’s knowing or that Pam’s mom would have called and tipped my mom off. After all, I was still mourning the loss of the fortuitous cache that I had just lost to a cackling, depraved garbage man. As soon as I crossed the threshold, my mom started the questions in a rapid-fire succession.

Mom: “What were you doing at Pam’s?”

Me: “Playing.”

Mom: “Where were you playing?”

Me: “Outside.”

Mom: “What were you playing outside?”

Me: “Looking for treasure.” (No lies yet)

Mom: “Why are you so dirty?”

Me (eye roll): “Because there is dirt outside, mom.”

Mom: “Why are your hands so dirty, especially?”

Me (yelling now because I’m getting so annoyed with all of the questions and I just want to go back to my grieving): “Because mom, I was digging for treasure. Outside. WITH my hands!”

Just as I was feeling pretty good that I had bluffed my way through that whole debacle and turned to go up to my room, mom grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed. IN MY FACE. She blasted that I was a little liar and that she knew everything. She also threw in that I could have died or been eaten by rats and that I had probably caught the bubonic plague or some other equally fatal disease, etc. She then proceeded to drag me upstairs to our only bathroom and run the hottest bath where she then made me strip into a trash bag so that she could throw my clothes directly into the garbage can. As soon as I was thrown in the scalding tub, I thought my skin was going to start peeling away. The water was just shy of boiling. Mom also threw a gallon of bleach and some Borax into the blistering bath for good measure. She wanted to be sure that any open wounds I may have had on my prepubescent body would ignite and make me writhe in such pain that I would begin to wish that the rats had gotten me instead. Mission accomplished…

Waste of a Perfectly Good Funnel Cake

My propensity for motion sickness has been a thorn in my side since I can remember. One of my earliest memories of a particularly messy bout with it was after the Tilt-A-Whirl ride at Boblo Island (woot Boblo) when I was about 12 years old. Let me first share my humble opinion that the guy who thought up this ride is one sick f***. I just remember that ride spinning and spinning and spinning and….well, you get the drift. My friends were laughing and whooping it up during the ride, but I was eerily silent. That, in and of itself was suspect and completely out of character for me. I was usually one of the loudest (refer to aforementioned diva story for history) everywhere we went. My silence quickly got their attention however, at which time they noticed my marshmallow fluff shade of pasty white quickly being overcome by a slight greenish tint (reminiscent, but not limited to, split pea soup). Somehow, I managed to keep down the corn dog and funnel cake until the never-ending ride stopped. At which time, everybody cleared a path for me and I heard one of my friends yell, “She’s gonna blow!” I ran down the ramp and hung my head into the fly-infested, stagnant garbage can and let loose. I must have been in there awhile because when I finally came back into the light, I had quite an audience. I got my bearings, wiped the puke from my mouth and yelled, “Show’s over! Come on, you guys never seen a person blow chunks before?” Then I was off to get another funnel cake…

For this reason, to this day I have never been back on that ride anywhere. When I do walk by it at a park or carnival I shake my head and yell words of warning to the unsuspecting (or perhaps, sadistic) kids in line, “Beware of the Tilt-A-Hurl!”

My Big, Fat Head Started ALL of This...

I have the world’s biggest head. Even as I child my head was inordinately large. My colossal cranium has been a burden my whole life - even going back to before I was born. My mom said she was never the same after she was finally able to expel me from her womb. However, she always put a positive spin on it. She said my younger sisters just kind of fell out onto the floor when they were ripe for the picking. Glad I could help you with that, mom. It is the least I could do since I pretty much ruined your sex life from 1971 on...but surgeons have made tremendous strides in fixing that kind of thing, so I've heard...

However, my first memory of my ginormous noggin causing insurmountable turmoil was my infamous 1974 Ballad of Burger King. You know those paper crowns they give out to kids at Burger King? One size fits all, my ass! I was the only kid in that place without one. Yep, nothing screams freak more than no Burger King crown, you know? That is, until one day my mom got tired of my meltdowns at the counter and wised up and brought her own scotch tape. She asked for an extra crown and taped two together for my elephant-man-sized head. Then I thought I was all that (and a bag of chips) and commanded the attention of the entire restaurant by sticking fries up my nose, standing on a neighboring tabletop and proclaiming I was the walrus king (and I don’t even like The Beatles). I guess being a diva starts at a very young age…