Memory Bank (continued part 5)

I was sixteen years old the last summer we went to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I didn’t know it then, but it would be the last official family vacation we would ever take together. I had started going there when I was twelve. I knew nothing of the ocean back then. My father announced we would be traveling to the Carolinas, South to visit friends and then on to North Carolina to the beach where we would spend the remainder of that vacation. At our friends house I was shy, awkward and I thought they talked funny, these people who I had grown up with in my hometown in Ohio. A middle son, Wesley pronounced naked as necked, separating the last syllable out as “ed”. I asked him to repeat it several times, when his older brother who had kept some of his fluent Ohioan language skills explained it for me. “Ooooh,” I said back finally understanding this foreign tongued boy. He might as well have been speaking French for all the information I was able to gather through his thick drawl. By the time we were scheduled to leave I had made friends with them again after having been apart for many years. I was not anxious to go to the beach where I feared sharks and jelly fish would certainly attack me the minute I hit the water. We drove well into the night when we finally arrived at the desolate place. My immediate reaction was to sob. I couldn’t see anything that even remotely resembled the lovely place my dad had described from an earlier visit he and my mom had taken. For him it was a sanctuary, for my twelve year old mind it was hell. It was pitch black as he had to maneuver a smaller camper onto the cement pad. There were no trees, no woods as I had always been surrounded by when we went camping. There was nothingness. I could hear the crashing waves just beyond the sand dunes and a storm was brewing off the coast. I was scared; terrified of what I could not see and things I could only hear that made my imagination go wild. I cried myself to sleep that night, only to wake up and discover we landed in Oz.
Swollen eyed and still very upset to be brought to what I was sure was some God forsaken place, I rubbed my eyes and slowly climbed down from the bunk with the small air space. Get up too quickly and I would have knocked myself unconscious. My parents had a pull out couch they made up and slept on, which the moment they got up they had to promptly put back together so we all had some place to sit. The smell of breakfast, fried eggs and bacon hung heavy in the salty sea air. The breeze blew the curtains back and forth through the windows and the sun was shining high in the sky, lighting the new world we had landed in. I walked outside and saw my dad, sitting fiddling with fishing tackle and poles. “Good morning, Weepy.” My father grinned at me, waiting for my full reaction of the place he couldn’t wait to take us to. I felt my stubbornness creep into my face, as I tried not to look as excited as I was. My instinct was to run at break neck speed toward the ocean to see it, smell it, squish the sand between my toes. Moping, I went over to a camp stool opposite my dad instead, making sure I was continuing to wear my scowl, so as not to reveal any indication that he had been right bringing me to the apocalypse. “You know,” Dad started out saying, “I know you are not nearly as unhappy now about being here as you were last night.” I squinted my eyes hard back at him trying to prove once again how wrong he was. Dad grinned ear to ear at me. “Give it up, kid. I am on to you. I know you can’t wait to go to the beach.” He was right, I was dying to give up my bratty facade and go to the beach, but I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure I was thrilled to be here, though if I had had to make an educated guess, I was fairly certain he was right. I continued to pout and went back into the camper to see my mom and avoid Dad’s gloating. After breakfast we all went to the beach with chairs, sun screen, cans of pop, a book for mom, fishing equipment for Dad and inflatable rafts for Kim and me. Dad went over all the new rules for swimming in the ocean. “This is different, it is salt water so don’t swallow it. Stay close to shore and if you get caught in a rip tide, swim with the current. Do you understand me?” We both nodded in agreement that we understood everything he had just laid out, but for me, I was so distracted by the water, the waves as they crashed into shore, the sea gulls flying over head scouring the beach for anyone foolish enough to feed them and the boys who were on surf boards, just beyond the second break. I would have agreed to almost anything at that point in order to get cut loose from my father’s current lecture hold.
By the end of our stay I was crying because we had to leave. The place that once seemed desolate, barren and isolated, as if it were cut directly from a science fiction movie was now someplace I wanted to move to and live forever. I swam in the ocean every day, my hair turning a white blonde as my skin darkened by the day from the sun. I sat on the edge of the water digging for tiny clams, so I could race them with the new friend I had met, Nancy. I kept one clam in a bucket while we were there, naming it Clamintine. She/he was my best racer. I would put in fresh sea water and kelp every day in her bucket, so she would stay alive long enough to race that afternoon. I would dig her up from the bucket’s bottom and throw her into the pool we had dug, by hand for our races. She continued her winning streak until the day we had to pack up and head out on the road. My last day, I took Miss Clamintine, the best clam in the world, and set her free in the shallow edge of the crashing waves. Come to think of it, I shed a tear over that too. Thinking back I realize now, I was kind of cry baby. Scary things made me cry, sad things made me cry, happy things made cry, sentimental things made me cry. Dad really shouldn’t have been so worried about me taking salt water. It turns out I had already gulped in my fair share.

Memory Bank (continued part 4)

My favorite times when traveling with my dad during our longer trips to the Outer Banks were when we would arrive at the campground. There were strict rules of propriety for those of us not in the driver’s seat; no one was allowed to leave the campsite until the trailer was firmly propped into place on the cement slab. My dad had to back up our comically long trailer onto a thin strip of cement surrounded by nothing but sand. The scruffy dune covered landscape offered little to those who dared bring a trailer nearly the length of the slab. One false move in either direction would lead us to a catastrophic place of being stuck in the sand. My sister, Mom, Grandma and me would get out of the car as my dad carefully used two large mirrors bolted on the side of our station wagon to maneuver his way onto the slab. He literally had to inch the trailer in sharp right angles backing up our parade float until he reached the very edge of the slab. As he made several attempts to get the trailer into position we could hear a string of swear words coming from inside the driver’s seat from my dad. Most was garbled by wind and distance but faint grumblings of the most offensive language made its way to our ears as Grandma winced at her son’s verbiage. Kim and I laughed, hiding our faces from Mom and Dad’s view, knowing we would be chastised with a deathly look if caught. It was such stereo typical family moment for us as we heard our dad yell obscenities as my mom desperately tried to direct him onto our new home for the next couple of weeks. Entire comic movies are made by such events, and I knew why even as a kid. Once the trailer was put into place, jacks had to be set up, leveling had to be acquired and the car had to be detached along with the giant side mirrors bolted to our station wagons sides, he used for driving. The check list of what we had to accomplish was long and involved and there was o leaving until all the work was done. We each had a set of jobs and we set about the work of setting up camp. The last thing that needed to be done before we could shower off the long car ride was to lower and brace the canopy over the patio area of our campsite. Once that was accomplished the unpacking portion of the trip began as chairs were moved outside in order for us to get to our bunks. Mom would head to the kitchen area and start setting up her organized station where she would have to produce meals from a miniature model of what we had at home.
My dad to his credit took our last trip there when I was 16 and my sister was 18. He was surrounded by his mother, his wife and his teenage daughters. The amount of estrogen in that small place was palpable. The only other male was the dog, who stuck to my dad, I think of fearful of all the females in close proximity. As my sister and I had grown into young women our packing became a greater ordeal than the trip itself. As small children we had been limited to beer boxes my dad had gotten from a store. These boxes had flip tops and we were told to pack only what fit into these boxes that would allow the lids to be closed tight. I didn’t need much when I was little so packing light was fine by me, but as a young woman, I had a blow drier, curling iron, make-up, hair products, multiple bathing suits and enough clothes to change outfits at least three times a day. The skill set my sister I had to acquire was to squeeze as many outfits into these small boxes as possible. I could fold clothes into tiny little packages no bigger than a can of spam. Shoes were bent and tightly shoved into the sides and I insisted on extra bags or containers for make-up and accessories. At first Dad balked at the idea of more stuff going into the already cramped quarters, but eventually he caved like a house of cards knowing the trip would be miserable if he forced us to leave all of our accoutrement at home. Nothing made my dad more miserable than having to listen to the incessant bickering, bitching and whining of teenage girls. While we had learned which buttons to push in order to maintain our femininity, my dad learned which rules to fully enforce in order to maintain his personal peace and quiet. My father having worked for an entire year just to get these two weeks off in the summer was not about to throw away his sanity on a blow drier.

Memory Bank (continued part 3)

The drive itself took nearly 14 hours depending on the weather and the whininess of yours truly and of course the dog. The dog, when we had one to take, became the biggest issue. While my dad showed little compassion for the humans in the car, if the dog needed water, a bathroom break or some fresh air we would stop on a dime. I had to hand it to my dad, he did have a heart as big as all outdoors, you just needed to wag your tail and have kibble for dinner in order to truly see it at all times. The car rides for me were pure torture. I was a nervous, no strike that I am a nervous person, or at least that is what some people call it. I have been called anxious, energetic, boisterous, hyper, and on a very diplomatic day enthusiastic. I am all of those things, so sitting for hours doing anything for me is a real chore. The writing is different because I don’t usually have to watch the clock. I sit down and start writing and before I know it the clock shows that hours have passed. Since getting older, I only truly notice the passage of time when I go to get up and proceed to fall flat on my face because my legs have fallen asleep. I am not writing this as comedic effect, it has happened, where I have been so engrossed in the work of writing, I haven’t seen the day turn into night, and my body has decided to sleep without me. When I work at the bar, getting off the bar stool gets really interesting. Either one can hear cracking, popping and groans or a devastating “kersplat!” Which means I am lying face down on the floor as the dogs, who originally came to investigate now see this an opportune time to lick my face and sit on my back. So, yeah, sitting for me is as painful now as when I was a kid/teen person, but for different reasons.
Back in the car, I fidgeted until I heard my dad threaten to leave me at the next available stop. I popped my gum, played little games by myself, read, drew and eventually asked one hundred thousand questions of my parents about everything under the sun. “Where did you go to elementary school? Did you have more than ten friends in school? Did you go to your Grandma’s house on weekends like we do? Did you always know you wanted kids? Do you like cats? What would you do if a million cats showed up at our house and they were all starving?” I asked a lot of questions. I asked enough questions of my travel weary parents that it made them want to change their answer about always wanting kids. I made my terrible situation everybody’s terrible situation. The only defense I have is I like to share. The only time I would calm down and relax for a minute was when we would pass the most spectacular scenery. I got to view mountains, tunnels that dove under the water and went on for miles, bridges that I could not see the end of in the beginning, pastures of green grasses and fields full of corn and other vegetables. I saw hundred year old barns, massive hotels, brand new construction, and small towns that were only notable by the one blinking yellow light in the center of town. Gas stations still had soda machines with real glass bottles, diners made every meal from scratch and candy counters had candy that cost under a quarter. The further south we went, it seemed the further we were from things that had progressed into pollutants. In the south there were still so much of a time gone by. For me it was the best part of the trip, seeing how different we all are, though we live in the same country where others view as one. Accents shifted from flat under-toned inflection to a more rolling lilt, a southern twang to a full on drawl. In mere hours we would be transcended from one culture into another, all while rolling along in our station wagon with the long trailer tied behind us. The people were the most interesting thing in the world to me, how they dressed, what they said, why they said it, where they lived, if they liked where they lived. I may not have had the nerve to ask them all those questions, but I certainly had them in my head, rolling around, just waiting to see if they were answered by actions or words without being asked. There have been times when I wondered what people saw in me? You know how someone will meet you for the first time and get the entire first impression of you wrong, just by a look or word? Did people think my direct gaze was judgmental or did they see the one hundred thousand questions in my eyes? I have always wanted to ask someone who remembered meeting me for the first time, someone not from my hometown, where my reputation as a complete dork hadn’t proceeded me. I was riveted by clothing that hung in stores. Different parts of the country wore different things. It’s not to say there weren’t places where we could generic things, but there were times when clothing was geographically specific. We don’t have that now, thanks in part to the superstores that are now everywhere and the internet. But once upon a time, we were different people living in one country who liked the fact that we were different. There was a time when everything wasn’t homogenized to death diluting cultures into watery puddles to be stepped through as we make our way into the future. I have gotten disheartened over the years as we become a single type of people, mostly because cultural stories are the most interesting, the most educational, the most emotional, and the most diverse. I am not one who believes that evolution is the same as dilution. Growing smarter yes, but I like the history that hangs around our necks as an adornment of who we are becoming.
It was how different the boy looked, the easy way he smiled, how comfortable he seemed in his own skin, that caught my eye at first meeting. When he spoke I was tuned in completely. His wicked smart sarcasm had me riveted. Then he laughed, out loud bearing his brilliant smile and I melted like a fudgesicle on a hot day.

Memory Bank (continued part 2)

The boy I wrote about earlier…the boy, the boy, not quite man, not really a boy, the artist, he was the first male person to love me. I was on vacation with my parents, a teenager, a blond skinny, sinewy youth, full of piss and vinegar. I was innocent, the kind of innocence that allowed a genuine sweetness of character, a youthful, naive belief that most people were wonderful. I hadn’t yet been completely convinced of the evil that can lurk in dark corners. I had not experienced all the shocking horrors of adulthood. I still believed in love back then. I had seen things, sinister things that taught me to be careful when things became obvious, but I had not yet seen the ones who smile as they stabbed me in the heart. I still had the watery impressions of real love being the kind where couples walked along the beach holding hands, laughing at nothing but each other, telling secrets, kissing in the moonlight. The boy, the incredible dark haired boy, who had a smile that lit up an entire sky, he proved all my childish ideas to be true. Not once did he shatter my illusion. He created for me a dream state that would carry me through some of my darkest hours. He gave me the most priceless gift, the most precious part of himself, he gave me his whole heart first and then he gave me hope.
Being a teenager, a girl no less, I was allowed about 50 feet from my parents when we were at the beach. I was allowed as far away from my father as his whistle. The moment I couldn’t hear and respond immediately to his high pitched whistle, I was going to be in the kind of trouble that epic novels are based on. My father was serious. For my dad to have to wait a minute longer than he had to meant a lack of respect for him, it meant I was disrespecting his place in our family, and that was a no-no. I had done that, pushing those buttons until the veins in my father’s forehead stood out at attention, throbbing visibly in front of me. I had seen his eyes squint hard as he fought the temptation to throw me in the direction of where he wanted me to be, so there were no great excursions, or going “out”. There was only going up to the store at the front of the camp ground. Even the campground itself was far removed from any town or gathering places. It was Rodanthe, North Carolina, near Cape Hatteras. Our family had gone there every year for vacation for years. We left right after school was out in June, to bask in the sun, walk the white sand, fish off the pier, and surf in the waves and for me, scout the new talent every year in the form of teenage boys. The boys at eh beach with their tanned skin, no shirts, athletic builds, carrying surf boards, laughing, showing off for the bikini clad girls on towels who were quite literally laying in wait. Summers on the beach were the best. In the evening we would walk the beach, the moon so bright no other light was needed. Stars reflected off the waves created a double vision of sorts; everywhere you looked whether up or down you could see heaven.
We lived in a camper for the two weeks we were there. Our trailer was big, sleeping 6 with a bathroom, kitchen table and a sofa. It was a large cumbersome sheet metal house on wheels that my dad had to drag behind our station wagon through the mountains of West Virginia, down the hills of Virginia over the bridges, past the sand dunes to our vacation spot at the KOA in Rodanthe. My grandmother, the operatic genius of her time, rode in the back seat with my sister and me. Grandma was not a good singer, but she could hit high notes, when she thought my dad was driving too close to the car in front of us, that made the dog cover his ears. I would say it was comical watching all of us pile into the station wagon with the long trailer hitched to the back, but trust me, no one in that car was laughing. My mom would read from travel books she had collected over the prior decade as we passed “significant” places. My father wouldn’t stop to let us use the restroom, so stopping to sight see was absolutely out of the question. Every year my poor mom would gather her travel books, dog-earing the places she most wanted to visit. Every year she would ask my dad if he would stop just his once to allow her to see the place she had read about, and every year he said the same thing, “We’ll see…” Which of course meant no, but Mom remained hopeful right up until we hit the bridge to go over to the beach. She would be at the ready reading aloud how fascinating the world’s largest ball of string, or battle ground for under achievers was. She read about historical homes built in hopes of having a visiting president that actually showed up, or towns full of rubble of historical sites no longer in existence. Mom had legitimate tourist sites but having her read the obscure stuff, the really obtuse out of the way stuff that no one else knew of, not even the town’s people, well, that was our entertainment for the trip. “Did you know the first officer killed in the civil war had a servant that had aspired to live in this town?” Mom would ask sincere in her endeavor to educate us. We would all shake our heads in answer, as she dove, bifocals first, back into her reading material to pull out another gem. “Did you know the first glass factory used sand that came from a beach just 45 miles from here?” “Did you know that when Virginia became a state…” poor Mom would continue her reading with a question and answer period long after the rest of had fallen asleep, except for Dad who listened to the road and Mom.

Memory Bank

No one likes being a complete dork all the time and I am no exception. I have these moments in my life when I have, in my naivety, been a complete an utter dork, in ways that remain visceral in my memory bank. I will tell you the harder I try not to be a big dork, the more glaringly apparent it is that I will always be a big dork. You would think I would be immune to the embarrassment I cause myself. But alas it is not to be. And to add further insult to injury, I am incapable of hiding a single emotion. My face can turn approximately twelve shades of red, depending on the severity of my ignorance. I say ignorance, because with me there is never any malicious intent. My ineptitude has reached epic levels of success that others merely dream of achieving. My mother always said, “If you are going to do something, do it well.” I am not sure how proud she would be of me about this, but at least she can console herself with the fact that I took her wise words to heart.
I didn’t know squat about art, the etiquette reserved for the art world or what it all meant. I knew an artist at the time of this story. He was a lovely creature with a big heart and sharp wit. Art was his world, not mine. He did sculpture. He had tried to explain to my young and empty head the intricacies of his work, but in truth, I usually just stared off into space like a deer caught in headlights. More on him later in the chapter.
Sometime after he and I had lost contact with each other, I found myself drifting into a college art gallery. I was killing time, more than I had an innate curiosity about what the gallery contained. It was cold outside and I was waiting for a friend to come and meet me. It was dark, early evening, when I saw a glow of lights coming from a windowed building. To be honest, I really don’t remember which friend or even where I was, which college I was at. My friends were scattered all over the state, so I drove to see them whenever I could.
So there I was dressed very casually in raggedy jeans with large holes in them, a t-shirt and a jean jacket, surrounded by people who wore dress clothes, suits with ties, cocktail dresses and name tags. Evidently the show was of some importance to the artists who were exhibiting their work. Most of what was on the walls and in the gallery were abstract pieces. Not knowing anything of their world, I had little appreciation for their efforts, or the deep meaning of the pieces they had spent a considerable time creating. I walked slowly in front of each piece, some paintings, some sculptures, and distractedly gazing, wishing time would pass and my friend would hurry and come get me. In the center of the room there was a metal sculpture, a large leaning piece of metal with a patina, lacquered finish shining perfectly smooth. It caught my eye, so I went in closer to have a better look. I had never before seen a metal sculpture that wasn’t outdoors. This was the first time I had witnessed a piece of such weight and magnitude, indoors on display. It appeared warm to me, as if glowing from its own heat source. I stood before this hunk of metal that had been welded, chemically altered, shined to a perfect finish mesmerized by the scale and curve of it. It had a feminine quality to it. It had great sweeping curves, a large rounded piece at the top, almost like a head. At first, it looked reminiscent of a praying mantis. As I stood there my mind wandered to the friend who I knew did metal work also. I pictured him making something like this extraordinary thing of beauty that hovered over me. The distant hum of low toned conversation could be heard as a white noise somewhere behind me, but I was transfixed as I stood grounded to my place next this thing, this weighted, glistening thing, I could not take my eyes off of. I was completely absorbed, unaware of my surroundings as I continued to stare. Time seemed to utterly stand still for me. Without thinking, without even knowing why, I reached my hand out and touched the sculpture. As I stood with my hand gently placed on the largest curve of the melted female, I suddenly saw out of the corner of my eye some guy, some very infuriated guy storm over in my direction. As if glued to my position, I didn’t move and I didn’t remove my stray hand; I stood cemented right where I was.
In an instant he slapped my hand away, off his work and began screaming at me. “Are you some kind of idiot?” He was yelling at the top of his voice. I felt the blood fill my face. My eyes wide as tears began to build up, I stammered and stumbled backward. “Don’t you ever touch my work again!” He spat at me. I watched, horrified, mostly at my own stupidity, as the tiniest string of spittle connected both sides of his mouth. He then proceeded to pace around his piece mumbling to those around him what “fucking moron” I was. I had bumbled my way several feet from the incident when an older gentleman came over to me as I stared at the floor, realizing I no longer knew where the exit was. Once I again I was glued to my spot, but for reasons remarkably different than before. “I have been watching you” the man said. I looked just high enough at him avoiding his face but seeing his name tag that said “Dr.” something or another. Immediately my mind knew he was a professor, a faculty member of this world I was such a foreigner to. “Everybody is watching me, sir” I said directly to the ceramic floor. Not looking up, I had no idea of what his reaction was on his face or where this conversation was about to go. I envisioned myself being dragged away to art jail, for committing unspeakable crimes. I pictured myself standing before a beret wearing judge who sentences me to life, cleaning paint brushes, barring me from ever entering another gallery as long as I live. The well dressed professor, in a warm tone, then said the most amazing thing. “In view of the fact that you now know not to touch the art, your response is quite a compliment for the dickhead that created it.” Relieved and grateful for not having been arrested, I stood still for a moment as the professor took his leave. I wanted to giggle, but my fear superseded my humor. The angry dickhead came over to me again, only this time he asked leaning in, “What did he say to you? Did he mention my work? Did he say if he liked it?” Motionless, I said nothing. I found myself smiling as I made my way out, quite literally backing out of the gallery, making my exit back out into the cold. I stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the cold, trying to get my heart to stop racing. A few moments later my friend showed up. “Have you been waiting long?” “No”, I said, as the blood had finally started draining from my face. We exchanged hugs, as he said, “You know if you were cold there is a gallery right there you could have gone in. I hear there is a show tonight. A friend of mine is showing their senior work there.” We were walking away from the scene of my crime when I turned to him and asked,”What kind of art does your friend do?” I silently prayed that this anonymous friend wasn’t the dickhead sculptor. As I pleaded in my head, “Please,please,please…” I heard my friend say,”He’s a painter, oils, I think. I am not sure. I don’t know much about that stuff.” As we continued to make our way downtown, I thanked God or anyone else willing to listen that I hadn’t just embarrassed and humiliated myself, but inadvertently taken my friend with me down Alice’s rabbit hole.
Since that time, I have never and I do mean never touched another piece of art, regardless of how engrossed I became. Alert the museums, sound the alarms at the galleries, all art work is safe from the infamous art toucher.
Did you hear that? I swear it sounded like a collective sigh coming from the museum district.

The Worst Advice I Ever Got

I love my mom so much because of who she is and how she thinks. I actually, think she is brilliant, most days. There have been a few misses in her words of wisdom to me over the years. Those moments when she says something I am sure she will regret down the line, I have to tell you, are some of my favorite moments with my mom. Maybe it's my love of insanity, when completely normal, moral, thoughtful people lose their crap momentarily and say something horrendous at the exact precise moment that requires the complete opposite. I am not talking about hate speak, my mom does not have a single hateful thing about her. I am talking about word salad that makes its way into a conversation, when things are so screwed up the other person is nearly speechless, but comes up with some innocuous doozie that makes me laugh.
The doodle, a self portrait, by yours truly came from a time while I was going through my divorce living in an apartment with my kids, and my whole world was falling to pieces. I was working overtime, absolutely sleep deprived from working night shift, and finding myself embroiled in a do or die battle in the divorce proceedings. I was deep in the heart of Murphy, living his law to perfection. I was calling my mom a lot in those days, and nothing, absolutely nothing I said was hopeful, or happy or even completely sane. I would be crying one minute, angry the next, depressed five seconds later, all while my mom searched her brain for something she could say that would mean anything to me. Bless my mom's heart, with all she had heard, with everything she knew about my desperate situation, this is what came out of my loving mother's mouth,"Look, I know you are unhappy, but put a little lipstick on, fix your hair it will all be fine." Mouth agape, I hung up the phone and proceeded to laugh so hard I peed, just a little. O.K., so Ghandi she ain't, but I knew in that moment my life had gotten to be too much for mom too. She worried about what would happen to me, too. My expectations were to talk things out to her and for her to come up with some brilliant insight, which she was able to do at times, but she was also very connected to me and scared to death about what I was facing. I hadn't considered how my life falling apart was affecting her, even for a single second it had not occurred to me what it was like for her to watch the pain her child was in. Her horrible advice, which she laughs at now, was the time when I saw how ridiculous my expectations were, and the burden I put on my mom to try and stay objective. There was nothing objective about my life for my mom. Having kids who are now adults, I see exactly what she was going through. This delicious moment in time still makes me laugh. I relish these crazy idiosyncratic snippets of our relationship.
I confess, I didn't do what my mom said to do, for fear that my scribbling all over my face from pure frustration would alert some to consider having me put away, however, she wasn't all wrong. Over a period of time, I really did start taking better care of myself. I did start wearing make-up again, my crying had ebbed to a slow stream, versus the rushing rivers I had when I first separated from Danny. I really did get my hair done. Mind you it was at the salon school for half price, but I did make an effort to try and act like a normal person, once again.
Nothing happened in the immediate to change my doomed perspective on what my life had become. What I learned from my mom from the worst advice I ever got was, things did get better. I eventually became happy again. Time, although it didn't heal everything, had done a lovely job of closing my open wounds. So should you just put a little lipstick on and try to feel better? Yeah, I guess it couldn't hurt, but stay away from shaving your legs for awhile. Sharp objects for those who are going through a bad time in their life is definitely not a good idea.

Inappropriate Garnish

My mother and I were sitting outside of her house in Ohio talking when she was telling me about how a friend of hers served up a potato casserole no one would try because she had used pimento on the top of it as a garnish.
“You would eat it, wouldn’t you?” my mother asked as if it were a ridiculous notion for me not to. “No I wouldn’t,” I said defiantly, “The pimento would stop me in my tracks.”
“What are you talking about it? That’s ridiculous, you just scrape it off, the rest is fine,” my mom admonished my lack of bravery at trying pimento covered potatoes.
I gave up that argument with my mother as I so often did when I was certain she would have no appreciation for my having my own opinion. The truth is I would avoid those potatoes like the plague. I would take one look at the casserole and desperately wish the cook had not covered it in red squishy things to try and make it look like it was something other than just a potato casserole. Maybe her friend thought plain old potatoes were too boring to serve at the function. Was it a formal function that required a more distinguished dress for the food? Did the casserole complain of being cold so she felt obligated to cover them up? Whatever the circumstances that I was not made aware of, I am certain I would not have partaken of the dish due to its inappropriate garnish.
My grandmother was famous for shoving inappropriate things into Jello. Every family event Grandma would whip up some jello that outwardly looked delicious and refreshing until you took in a mouthful and found yourself chewing some sort of shredded vegetable that she had shoved into the center. It was shocking to my system every time she did it and she did it every time. You would think I would learn to avoid the Jello surprise after several attempts, only to find myself gagging and choking on roughage that had been encased by the jiggling mass. But alas it was not to be. My hopeful childlike nature refused to believe she would ruin every Jello dish with more horrifying and grossly unappetizing vegetable scraps. My feeling is simplicity is often the best garnish for any occasion. Better to serve something recognizable, than to expect one’s guest to scrape something off, or worse still, spit it out in a napkin.
I know why my mom thinks I would try things regardless of the inappropriate garnish that is used to disguise the obvious. She raised me to be polite and sneaky. She would deny the sneaky part and say it is heresy to say I was raised that way, but it is true. I was raised to take “no thank you helpings”, of food that I would never in my right mind eat even in the event of starvation. I was raised that it is better to choke something down than let the hostess know that I am deathly allergic to the main course. All my mother cares about when it comes to food, is good manners. One ambulance ride to the emergency room does not provide a reason to refuse good food that someone else has slaved over. I have had more arguments with my mother about people sticking weird things in food than I care to recount. “Why did they have to put dried mangos and pepperonis in the same salad?” I would look desperately at my mom for any kind of reasonable explanation. “Because it makes it look enticing. Now be quiet and grab a small spoonful so the hostess doesn’t feel bad.” My mom begins to put a tablespoonful on her own plate.
“If I eat that I will feel bad, how about that? Why is it O.K. for me to feel like crap? Can’t we just say I am a vegetarian?” I continue to plead. “With ribs on your plate?”Mom shakes her head at me as if I were an idiot. “I could say I am saving them for Michael”, I explain.
“He’s twelve hundred miles away in Houston Texas! Really, Kellie, it wouldn’t kill you to try something new.” Mom continues down the buffet line putting small dollops of unwanted food on her plate that she has no intention of actually eating. I watch my polite mother as she makes very obvious faces of disgust at some of the things she is “trying”, and I can’t help but wonder if we are doing the hostess any favors. Others in the same line have no problem snubbing the odd combinations that look unappealing, so why do we have to pretend to eat it? “If it’s that bad,” my mother continues, “just spit it in a napkin.” I look again at my mother and say flatly,”My napkin isn’t big enough. I have a question for you; wouldn’t it be easier and nicer to ignore the unrecognizable, so the hostess doesn’t make that mistake again? It seems kinder to quietly let her know that garbage pot pie is not an appropriate dish for any affair.” My mom looks at me with utter disdain, “Well that is just rude. Be quiet and put the salmon stuffed with pickles on your plate.”
I am a foodie, who has great appreciation for new and exciting cuisine, but I cannot reconcile myself to eat things that are far from interesting combinations and more like found table scraps blended together. My family is famous at reunions for having the best and worst dishes at the same table. One can help themselves to the most delectable treats to the disgusting treachery, all on the same paper plate. I do try and be polite, but I think my mom has gone a bit over board trying to not hurt someone’s feelings. There just has to be a middle ground between devouring the delicious and hacking up the inevitable fur ball due to the unknown. There have been buffet lines where I have literally run out of napkins to spit in. As I dive below the surface of the table, I really don’t think I am fooling anyone, as I repeatedly cough and sputter meat and vegetable shreds into an already soggy and disintegrating single ply napkin. I also think people notice that I have as many napkins on my plate as I go to throw it away as I did original food stuff. My family is smart and knows basic math. It doesn’t take a rhubarb and mozzarella pie chart for them to see I haven’t eaten what was on my plate.
My mom tries again to convince me that it is more about my genetic stubborn streak, from my father, of course, than my want to eat what is appetizing and takes a different tack. “You eat weird things all the time. Your father and I can’t eat half the stuff you make when we visit your house.” “It’s called seasoning, Mom, and it’s not weird. People have been seasoning their food since the beginning of time.” I feign interest in the ongoing bullying to eat the brown gravy covered asparagus she has plopped onto my plate. “What exactly is that?” I ask her desperately trying to understand why as a woman in my forties I still have to eat things that smell like my sons dirt covered socks. My mom looks at me and then breaks into a huge fit of giggles. “I have no idea…maybe it’s something they saw in a magazine.” “’Composting Made Easy’?” I garble out, as I double over, trying not to spill the goo covering my drooping paper plate. Both of us look at each other and lose it. Laughing hysterically, we make our way back to our table and begin the spit fest that has become our ritual of “being polite”. If there was a prize handed out for best manners in an awkward social situation, my mom would win, hands down, every year for the rest of her life. It is pure genius watching her “look” as if she has actually eaten half of what is on her plate. She should give speeches and do seminars on how to avoid bad food while maintaining the deliciousness of it, while practically starving because she hasn’t eaten enough of anything to fill the stomach of a starving child. I do know her Achilles heel, though. My mother hates Lima beans. I am not sure what horrifying event took place in her past, that has her so up in arms about the little green devils, but I know for certain she would rather die of starvation than eat a Lima bean. Sure enough I spot a Lima bean casserole on the table and elbow my mother, as I head point to the crusted edges of the dreaded baked Lima bean gunge. I notice the sprigs of parsley carefully put on top as if to hide the awful beige mess underneath. “You should try that you, know…” My mother’s face twists in horror as she says without remorse,” I will not put that on my plate. That is just wrong.”