My mom has become involved in competing in marathons for everything from cancer to amoebic dysentery. She trains by going sometimes 8-12 miles a day. It's a pretty grueling distance to travel. Her poor feet are mangled and blistered, but she is inspired and keeps her focus on all the sick people she is helping. A steadfast philanthropist.
Every morning, no matter how hard she partied the night before, she gets up, slips into her crocks and begins her training. A bona-fide modern-day Prefontaine. She begins her warm up with Richard Simmon's Sweating to the Oldies (she rotates through volumes 1, 2 and 3 throughout the week). She turns on Regis and Kelly and hops on her manual powered POS treadmill she overpaid for from some tweaker on craig's list. She has it perfectly timed so she knows that when Regis and Kelly is over, she has walked a whopping 1.5 miles. She puts on her pedometer and continues her errands the rest of the day. She'll walk to the library to check her facebook, walk to the grocery store, etc.
I overheard her telling her friends and family over the phone about her training schedule. If I didn't know better, I would think she were an honest injun, iron-woman. She tells them of her blisters and pulled muscles, but leaves out the details that--oh, yeah, by the way, these are WALKING half-marathons, she's "competing" in.
Her Aunt finally got sick of my mother bragging about how hard she is training and her subsequent complaining about aching feet and legs. So her Aunt suggested to her, "How about getting some real athletic shoes, instead of those crocs?" My mother immediately defended her cherished crocs and argued they could not possibly be the reason for her blisters. And her logic is, if pain is beauty, this must mean she is a supermodel! Yet, my mother really values her Aunt and her expertise so she decided to invest in some more tactical foot attire.
My mom cannot bear spending more than $15 for a pair of shoes, so her first stop, and only stop, of course, is the thrift shop. She prefers the fact that the gym shoes she's trying on have already been broken in for her, so she doesn't have to do it herself. Finally she unearthed a pair from the giant rancid heap and a dove descended down upon her and she knew these were the ones. Never mind that they were a size and a half too small (and never mind that the dove was actually a pigeon which had migrated it's way into the store). My mother was just going to have to go sockless to make the fit. And for cryin' out loud, if these people she was helping had to live with some insufferable disease every day, she would suffer with them. True empathy.
So next time you're at the gym working out "just to look good," keep up with the Kardashians or Ronnie from Jersey Shore, think of the people who may be disabled and can't. (And next time you're shooting up those steroids to grow muscles and shrink your testes because you think they look too saggy, think of those who have to take steroids daily to keep their illness at bay.) Think of the diligent, selfless people out there exercising for a cause in crocs and used tennies, and at least get a Chinese or tribal symbol tattoo to raise awareness.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Rapunzel
Sorry for the break in writing. Thus continues the saga of my mother.
I made a visit to my mother's house around the holidays and couldn't help but notice her obscene display of Rapunzel, the main character for the cartoon Tangled. Upon walking in through the front door, her visitors are greeted, or perhaps bombarded, with her shrine. High on the top shelf, she has the Rapunzel doll, still in the original packaging, in all its glory. She had been thinking about using it as the "angel" on top of her Christmas tree. I suggested to her that maybe she keep it stored away in a very special place, just in case thieves came in for the loot. (And I have to admit my intentions were not solely altruistic for her or her doll's safety. What if I dared to bring a male visitor over, while my mom was out running errands of course. I didn't want to have to explain the insanity. Unless if I got him boozed up first, then I could convince him he was hallucinating and the bartender must have "slipped something in his drink." It could work, but I didn't want to risk it.)
As I reached up to grab the doll off the shelf, my mother shrieked at the top of her lungs, "We're all gonna die!!!" I stopped cold in my tracks and only moved my eyeballs to glance at her out of the corner of my peripheral vision. She stated that she had indeed booby-trapped it to set off a small IED which would shoot shrapnel everywhere. And she had 24hr video surveillance of the room. She said if she saw a burglar on surveillance in the middle of the night, she had a panic room she could slip into that was shrapnel proof and sound proof. I wanted to ask her if it had a lock on the outside and padded walls.
Later that evening I meandered through her condo searching for a place to rest my weary, travel-laden head. I had one of two choices...the Green Bay Packer's room, which still has Barbie and Ken in it having a picnic (their food has gotten slightly stale over the years), or the Rapunzel room. In the Rapunzel room, there is a large "Rapunzel" quilt laid out neatly on top of the bed. My mother informed me she made it herself.
When I finally could no longer keep my tongue from committing verbal suicide, I asked my mom about her fascination with this character. She replied, "Well you know, I am Rapunzel. I mean, really, we were both taken away from our families when we were young and forced to live in a lonely tower. Only to be visited and rescued by a prince on his white horse."
Again, I had a small panic attack. Was my mother completely losing it? No. I had to remind myself of her history. And she did have a point, there is an uncanny resemblance between her and this cartoon character....long blonde hair....green eyes. Hmm...she was beginning to make a believer out of me.
But there was one problem...who was this man on a white horse? My father never rode horses. I snapped back into reality.
Then she asked me if I would like to see her quote en quote "tramp stamp" tattoo of the name "Rapunzel" in Old English Calligraphy.
I made a visit to my mother's house around the holidays and couldn't help but notice her obscene display of Rapunzel, the main character for the cartoon Tangled. Upon walking in through the front door, her visitors are greeted, or perhaps bombarded, with her shrine. High on the top shelf, she has the Rapunzel doll, still in the original packaging, in all its glory. She had been thinking about using it as the "angel" on top of her Christmas tree. I suggested to her that maybe she keep it stored away in a very special place, just in case thieves came in for the loot. (And I have to admit my intentions were not solely altruistic for her or her doll's safety. What if I dared to bring a male visitor over, while my mom was out running errands of course. I didn't want to have to explain the insanity. Unless if I got him boozed up first, then I could convince him he was hallucinating and the bartender must have "slipped something in his drink." It could work, but I didn't want to risk it.)
As I reached up to grab the doll off the shelf, my mother shrieked at the top of her lungs, "We're all gonna die!!!" I stopped cold in my tracks and only moved my eyeballs to glance at her out of the corner of my peripheral vision. She stated that she had indeed booby-trapped it to set off a small IED which would shoot shrapnel everywhere. And she had 24hr video surveillance of the room. She said if she saw a burglar on surveillance in the middle of the night, she had a panic room she could slip into that was shrapnel proof and sound proof. I wanted to ask her if it had a lock on the outside and padded walls.
Later that evening I meandered through her condo searching for a place to rest my weary, travel-laden head. I had one of two choices...the Green Bay Packer's room, which still has Barbie and Ken in it having a picnic (their food has gotten slightly stale over the years), or the Rapunzel room. In the Rapunzel room, there is a large "Rapunzel" quilt laid out neatly on top of the bed. My mother informed me she made it herself.
When I finally could no longer keep my tongue from committing verbal suicide, I asked my mom about her fascination with this character. She replied, "Well you know, I am Rapunzel. I mean, really, we were both taken away from our families when we were young and forced to live in a lonely tower. Only to be visited and rescued by a prince on his white horse."
Again, I had a small panic attack. Was my mother completely losing it? No. I had to remind myself of her history. And she did have a point, there is an uncanny resemblance between her and this cartoon character....long blonde hair....green eyes. Hmm...she was beginning to make a believer out of me.
But there was one problem...who was this man on a white horse? My father never rode horses. I snapped back into reality.
Then she asked me if I would like to see her quote en quote "tramp stamp" tattoo of the name "Rapunzel" in Old English Calligraphy.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Doggy Dayze
For some strange reason, my mom loves bulldogs. She manages to get her hands on a new one every time she smothers one to death. I suppose it makes sense because bulldogs have a face only a mother could love. They were beaten with the cat o'nine tail centuries ago and the "flogged in the face" look remained a trait in their genes. Also due to generations of inbreeding, they are inherently the down syndrome breed of dogs. There are several other reasons why these dogs are abominable. They snort instead of snore in their sleep, have sleep apnea, throw up when they get excited, blow bubbles out of all orifices, and the list goes on and on. Secretly, I think my mom chose a bulldog as her buddy because it was the only thing so ugly it couldn't compete with her for men.
But my mom tried to boost the ugly dog's confidence. Much like a girl tries to boost the confidence of her big fat best friend (aka 'BFBF') and tell her, "It's the beauty on the inside that counts." My mom even named her "Beauty."
She dressed her up in all kinds of fashions and costumes. Wigs, formal gowns, Green Bay Packers cheerleading outfits, you name it! My mom would go to the thrift stores and buy toddler and children's clothing and alter it to fit her pooch. She also joined a bulldog club, where her friends and her would have a sanctioned event to bring their costumed dogs to. The parties always had themes. Of course Halloween was always an extravaganza. One year my mom dressed up as Cinderella, and her dog went as her fairy godmother, coned dunce hat with ribbon streamers and all. Another year her dog was too sick to attend, but my mother dressed her up and drug her along anyway. It was like us kids being dressed us up like dolls and drug to church in sickness and in health, rain or shine, even if on our death bed, all over again.
Other common celebrations are gala birthday parties for their dog's sweet sixteen. For this, the dog owners, or parents, as they preferred to be called, even post their dog's professional glamor shots, larger than life sized, all over the walls. There's cake, pin the tail on the donkey, awards, carnivals; it's like the circus has come to town. It's all about keeping up with the Jones's where one parent is constantly trying to outdo the last.
One day I was on the phone with my mom, and I couldn't help but pull my ear away from the speaker as she was scolding her dog. My mom said to me, "She's throwing a fit. She wants to wear the dress I just bought her, but I told her she had to wait because I need to alter it. I told her it's a child's dress, but she wants to wear it now."
At that point, I could no longer bite my tongue at my mother's ludicrousness and flapdoodle and I uttered out, "Mom, you can put lipstick on a pig and call it whatever you want. But it's still a pig....and it has lipstick on it." Then I regretted those very words because she followed it up by exclaiming, "Oh, how clever! I never thought about putting lipstick on Beauty!"
A couple months later, my mom couldn't find a babysitter for Beauty, so she schlepped the dog along for a ride across the state. When my mom arrived to her destination, she informed the dog, and notified it to get out, stretch her stumps and use the potty. The dog wouldn't listen, so my mother began scolding it. My mom became vexed at the dog's disobedience. Then she noticed a bubble coming out of Beauty's nose, and it seemed as if the dog was passing gas.
"This is not the time to be farting around, Beauty." My mom asserted.
Then my mother realized the dog was not responding. She was out cold, not breathing. My mom attempted CPR, but couldn't remember what the ABC's and the CPR's stood for. She also didn't have a one-way valve/non-rebreather. She rushed Beauty to the vet, where she was pronounced dead of a broken heart, or something like that. At least that's what my mother told me.
Beauty had a nice burial and ceremony. Unfortunately, most of her doggy friends could not attend across the state on such short notice. But when my mom got home, they threw a formal event in Beauty's honor. However, my mother insisted that no one wear black, because that's not what Beauty would've wanted.
This tragic event brought transcendence to my mom. She realized she could not bare the pain of losing another dog again. So she put her "doggy dayze" to rest. And may they R.I.P.
But my mom tried to boost the ugly dog's confidence. Much like a girl tries to boost the confidence of her big fat best friend (aka 'BFBF') and tell her, "It's the beauty on the inside that counts." My mom even named her "Beauty."
She dressed her up in all kinds of fashions and costumes. Wigs, formal gowns, Green Bay Packers cheerleading outfits, you name it! My mom would go to the thrift stores and buy toddler and children's clothing and alter it to fit her pooch. She also joined a bulldog club, where her friends and her would have a sanctioned event to bring their costumed dogs to. The parties always had themes. Of course Halloween was always an extravaganza. One year my mom dressed up as Cinderella, and her dog went as her fairy godmother, coned dunce hat with ribbon streamers and all. Another year her dog was too sick to attend, but my mother dressed her up and drug her along anyway. It was like us kids being dressed us up like dolls and drug to church in sickness and in health, rain or shine, even if on our death bed, all over again.
Other common celebrations are gala birthday parties for their dog's sweet sixteen. For this, the dog owners, or parents, as they preferred to be called, even post their dog's professional glamor shots, larger than life sized, all over the walls. There's cake, pin the tail on the donkey, awards, carnivals; it's like the circus has come to town. It's all about keeping up with the Jones's where one parent is constantly trying to outdo the last.
One day I was on the phone with my mom, and I couldn't help but pull my ear away from the speaker as she was scolding her dog. My mom said to me, "She's throwing a fit. She wants to wear the dress I just bought her, but I told her she had to wait because I need to alter it. I told her it's a child's dress, but she wants to wear it now."
At that point, I could no longer bite my tongue at my mother's ludicrousness and flapdoodle and I uttered out, "Mom, you can put lipstick on a pig and call it whatever you want. But it's still a pig....and it has lipstick on it." Then I regretted those very words because she followed it up by exclaiming, "Oh, how clever! I never thought about putting lipstick on Beauty!"
A couple months later, my mom couldn't find a babysitter for Beauty, so she schlepped the dog along for a ride across the state. When my mom arrived to her destination, she informed the dog, and notified it to get out, stretch her stumps and use the potty. The dog wouldn't listen, so my mother began scolding it. My mom became vexed at the dog's disobedience. Then she noticed a bubble coming out of Beauty's nose, and it seemed as if the dog was passing gas.
"This is not the time to be farting around, Beauty." My mom asserted.
Then my mother realized the dog was not responding. She was out cold, not breathing. My mom attempted CPR, but couldn't remember what the ABC's and the CPR's stood for. She also didn't have a one-way valve/non-rebreather. She rushed Beauty to the vet, where she was pronounced dead of a broken heart, or something like that. At least that's what my mother told me.
Beauty had a nice burial and ceremony. Unfortunately, most of her doggy friends could not attend across the state on such short notice. But when my mom got home, they threw a formal event in Beauty's honor. However, my mother insisted that no one wear black, because that's not what Beauty would've wanted.
This tragic event brought transcendence to my mom. She realized she could not bare the pain of losing another dog again. So she put her "doggy dayze" to rest. And may they R.I.P.
Friday, March 4, 2011
"And it only cost $60!!!!!!"
My mother had inevitably figured out which hairstyle to wear, and began her packing for the big reunion.
She is always one for a party or ball, so she packed 5 of her favorite formal dresses she bought from the second hand store for $1 each. Never mind that her reunion was a BBQ in the park, my mother was going to look like a damn royal princess. I am sure she also envisioned arriving on a flower covered float, standing and waving in the fashion of, "elbow-elbow, wrist-wrist, wipe a tear and blow a kiss." Either that or a convertible, so she could be chauffeured while sitting on the back with her hair blowing in the wind. People would stop whatever they were doing, jaws would drop, and everyone would start chanting her name and saying how beautiful she was. My mother would then get on her megaphone (not that she needed one) and tell them, "You may all go back to eating your cake and appetizers on toothpicks. As you were."
But there was still one fundamental particle missing to her scheme. She still did not have a way to get to this reunion several states away.
My mother rummaged the Craigslist ads, leaving no stone unturned for a rideshare across the country. She saw an ad by a mother traveling with her daughter for a toddler pageant, one with someone moving down South in a Uhaul, and one with a couple of Hispanic male criminals. She was naturally attracted to the ad by the Hispanic criminals and wanted to ensure equal opportunity by choosing the minorities, but she figured she'd call all of them first to make sure they were legit.
The mother-daughter pageant goers sounded like a fun trip, so my mom met up with them in person. However, sitting across the table from them at the park, she was dry heaving and choking on the gallons of "Unbreakable" by Khloe and Lamar the woman had bathed herself in like a French whore. There was no way my mother could endure a trip in enclosed chambers across the country when she was this deathly allergic to the woman's cologne. Not to mention the Virginia Slims the woman couldn't put down.
So my mom called the movers who were offering a ride. Turns out she would've had to ride in the back of the truck with the cargo. She told them she would consider it, but she thought she'd call the Hispanics to see what they had to offer.
She called the Hispanics and decided to meet up with them, to do her own sort of interview. As she watched the two Hispanic males climb out of their car and walk over to her, reality dove into slow motion and the theme song to Miami Vice began to play. She saw their ripped jeans, scruffy bodies, piercings and tattoos and immediately knew it was fate for her to ride with these men. Then they gave her a price she could not refuse. She left me a voicemail with a description of the vehicle and the men just in case I didn't hear from her again. She didn't know their names, but she was pretty sure at least one of them was named Jose.
My mother called me when she arrived to her destination, told me the details and with glee announced, "And it only cost $60!!!!" Never mind it could have cost her her life, my mother would never turn down such an opportune deal.
She is always one for a party or ball, so she packed 5 of her favorite formal dresses she bought from the second hand store for $1 each. Never mind that her reunion was a BBQ in the park, my mother was going to look like a damn royal princess. I am sure she also envisioned arriving on a flower covered float, standing and waving in the fashion of, "elbow-elbow, wrist-wrist, wipe a tear and blow a kiss." Either that or a convertible, so she could be chauffeured while sitting on the back with her hair blowing in the wind. People would stop whatever they were doing, jaws would drop, and everyone would start chanting her name and saying how beautiful she was. My mother would then get on her megaphone (not that she needed one) and tell them, "You may all go back to eating your cake and appetizers on toothpicks. As you were."
But there was still one fundamental particle missing to her scheme. She still did not have a way to get to this reunion several states away.
My mother rummaged the Craigslist ads, leaving no stone unturned for a rideshare across the country. She saw an ad by a mother traveling with her daughter for a toddler pageant, one with someone moving down South in a Uhaul, and one with a couple of Hispanic male criminals. She was naturally attracted to the ad by the Hispanic criminals and wanted to ensure equal opportunity by choosing the minorities, but she figured she'd call all of them first to make sure they were legit.
The mother-daughter pageant goers sounded like a fun trip, so my mom met up with them in person. However, sitting across the table from them at the park, she was dry heaving and choking on the gallons of "Unbreakable" by Khloe and Lamar the woman had bathed herself in like a French whore. There was no way my mother could endure a trip in enclosed chambers across the country when she was this deathly allergic to the woman's cologne. Not to mention the Virginia Slims the woman couldn't put down.
So my mom called the movers who were offering a ride. Turns out she would've had to ride in the back of the truck with the cargo. She told them she would consider it, but she thought she'd call the Hispanics to see what they had to offer.
She called the Hispanics and decided to meet up with them, to do her own sort of interview. As she watched the two Hispanic males climb out of their car and walk over to her, reality dove into slow motion and the theme song to Miami Vice began to play. She saw their ripped jeans, scruffy bodies, piercings and tattoos and immediately knew it was fate for her to ride with these men. Then they gave her a price she could not refuse. She left me a voicemail with a description of the vehicle and the men just in case I didn't hear from her again. She didn't know their names, but she was pretty sure at least one of them was named Jose.
My mother called me when she arrived to her destination, told me the details and with glee announced, "And it only cost $60!!!!" Never mind it could have cost her her life, my mother would never turn down such an opportune deal.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
On Obsessions and Addictions...
My mother has a variety of hair-brained obsessions and addictions, some of which I have previously exploited. Most recently is her obsession with Facebook.
My mother owns a computer, which she uses to card catalog all the children's books she collects and her many copies of Tom Cruise's "Cocktail." (She has a check out sheet just in case you might want to borrow it from her library.) She saves this precious data on floppy disk. Due to the existence of the floppy drive, you may have guessed that this prehistoric apparatus does not have internet capabilities. So she goes to the public library for her Facebooking needs.
She has been thrilled to reconnect with old childhood friends from grammar school and finds ecstasy in commenting on everything anyone and everyone says. The addiction has had a dominant influence on her life, giving her a high like no other narcotic, opiate, sedative, pill or potion could. Ironically, it also helped boost her self-esteem a little, giving her something 'important' to do that helped her realize her purpose in life.
Although I accepted her friend request, of course I blocked her from seeing my posts, like most good "kids" do. For heaven's sake, I'm not an enabler.
Through Facebook she received an invitation to attend a few school reunions. One, a 20 year high school reunion, and the other a grammar school reunion.
My mom has never been one to wear much make-up and has never been savvy about hairstyles, thus the wig fetish. But this time she was going to venture out into a whole other realm and get downright experimental for her reunions. By now her hair had grown back--and then some--and she vowed never to cut it again. She prided herself in her new found identity as Rapunzel.
On this particular day in which she was "experimenting" with "hairstyles" she had put all of her waist-length hair up in approximately 65 curlers. She decided to try on some make-up while she was waiting for her hair to set. In her pink and green Caboodles box she had a rainbow of colors. Green, blue, purple and magenta eye shadows, hot pink lipstick and several different shades of blush. So she began artfully painting her canvas of a face as beautifully as a Monet painting. Brown eye pencil, blue eye shadow, and hot pink lipstick. And a true Monet it was. I mean, she could have been Tammy Faye Baker's sister.
("When she is done with her masterpiece, she looketh at her reflection into the heavens and calls her creation good.")
My mother called me on the phone shortly after her prodigious rebirth and told me she was amazed at her make-up, but still waiting for her hair to set. She explained to me the story of being invited to her school reunion and trying different hairstyles. But now that she had her hair in curlers, she was bored and going through withdrawls. She couldn't wait to update her status on Facebook to let everyone know she was working on a physical metamorphosis for the get together.
She began to ramble on the phone to me and said, "I know I have curlers in my hair, but I really have to get to the library to check my Facebook. You see, I've been saving this wig for a special occasion, and I think with this new look, I have just the guts to wear this wig out in public. I could put it on over my curlers and go to the library, and no one would ever notice."
I suggested to my mother that she just wait until her hair was done, but she was adamant and defiant, so I suggested she put a plastic shopping bag over her head (and breath deeply). At least it would keep her hair dry in the drizzling rain. Yet again, she was too stubborn to take heed.
It's bad enough going out in curlers, but trying to conceal this faux pas was like robbing Peter to pay Paul.
So she covered all 65 curlers under her wig. I can only imagine the gawking and snickering now. "Hey Johnny! Get a load of this!!!" Nothing short of a freak show, people must have been baffled at how a person with hydrocephalus had survived this long. I'm telling you, people would have paid good money to see this. I should have set up a booth, keeping my mother hidden behind a curtain and charging $1 per person to see the woman with the world's largest head!
She was the epitome of a caricature drawn by Monet, "And it only cost twenty francs!!!!"
Eventually my mom figured out how she was going to style her hair, now she just needed to make arrangements to get to her reunion across the country.
My mother owns a computer, which she uses to card catalog all the children's books she collects and her many copies of Tom Cruise's "Cocktail." (She has a check out sheet just in case you might want to borrow it from her library.) She saves this precious data on floppy disk. Due to the existence of the floppy drive, you may have guessed that this prehistoric apparatus does not have internet capabilities. So she goes to the public library for her Facebooking needs.
She has been thrilled to reconnect with old childhood friends from grammar school and finds ecstasy in commenting on everything anyone and everyone says. The addiction has had a dominant influence on her life, giving her a high like no other narcotic, opiate, sedative, pill or potion could. Ironically, it also helped boost her self-esteem a little, giving her something 'important' to do that helped her realize her purpose in life.
Although I accepted her friend request, of course I blocked her from seeing my posts, like most good "kids" do. For heaven's sake, I'm not an enabler.
Through Facebook she received an invitation to attend a few school reunions. One, a 20 year high school reunion, and the other a grammar school reunion.
My mom has never been one to wear much make-up and has never been savvy about hairstyles, thus the wig fetish. But this time she was going to venture out into a whole other realm and get downright experimental for her reunions. By now her hair had grown back--and then some--and she vowed never to cut it again. She prided herself in her new found identity as Rapunzel.
On this particular day in which she was "experimenting" with "hairstyles" she had put all of her waist-length hair up in approximately 65 curlers. She decided to try on some make-up while she was waiting for her hair to set. In her pink and green Caboodles box she had a rainbow of colors. Green, blue, purple and magenta eye shadows, hot pink lipstick and several different shades of blush. So she began artfully painting her canvas of a face as beautifully as a Monet painting. Brown eye pencil, blue eye shadow, and hot pink lipstick. And a true Monet it was. I mean, she could have been Tammy Faye Baker's sister.
("When she is done with her masterpiece, she looketh at her reflection into the heavens and calls her creation good.")
My mother called me on the phone shortly after her prodigious rebirth and told me she was amazed at her make-up, but still waiting for her hair to set. She explained to me the story of being invited to her school reunion and trying different hairstyles. But now that she had her hair in curlers, she was bored and going through withdrawls. She couldn't wait to update her status on Facebook to let everyone know she was working on a physical metamorphosis for the get together.
She began to ramble on the phone to me and said, "I know I have curlers in my hair, but I really have to get to the library to check my Facebook. You see, I've been saving this wig for a special occasion, and I think with this new look, I have just the guts to wear this wig out in public. I could put it on over my curlers and go to the library, and no one would ever notice."
I suggested to my mother that she just wait until her hair was done, but she was adamant and defiant, so I suggested she put a plastic shopping bag over her head (and breath deeply). At least it would keep her hair dry in the drizzling rain. Yet again, she was too stubborn to take heed.
It's bad enough going out in curlers, but trying to conceal this faux pas was like robbing Peter to pay Paul.
So she covered all 65 curlers under her wig. I can only imagine the gawking and snickering now. "Hey Johnny! Get a load of this!!!" Nothing short of a freak show, people must have been baffled at how a person with hydrocephalus had survived this long. I'm telling you, people would have paid good money to see this. I should have set up a booth, keeping my mother hidden behind a curtain and charging $1 per person to see the woman with the world's largest head!
She was the epitome of a caricature drawn by Monet, "And it only cost twenty francs!!!!"
Eventually my mom figured out how she was going to style her hair, now she just needed to make arrangements to get to her reunion across the country.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Strong Aftershave
Now that my mother was bald she was experiencing liberation like never before. I think of it like getting your driver's license and a new car on your 16th birthday, but my mother had managed to wreck every car she wrapped her hands around the steering wheel of, so she began biking everywhere.
It was a healthy addiction and I have to say she was in the best shape of her life. She'd bike to the grocery store, church and to work and insisted on wearing dresses and high heels on these excursions. The only thing that could have made her voyages more transcendent was if she still had her hair. She grew heartsick over her lack of hair blowing in the wind, not to mention the noticeably crisp air gave her head quite a chill. So my mother invested in an assortment of hats and wigs, most of which she found while rummaging through bins at second hand stores. Since she had head lice as a child and no longer had hair, she believed she was immune to it and was not intimidated by those pesky fleas. (She is also not intimidated by athlete's foot apparently--again, another story for another time.)
She had a hat or wig in nearly every color and for nearly every occasion. She literally became obsessed with hats and wigs. She has a lot of weird obsessions, one of which being the Green Bay Packers, which I don't understand since she is not from Wisconsin, and has hardly ever been there and doesn't know a thing about football. Yet, she had to buy herself a cheese head hat as well, but at least it was freshly sealed in it's original packaging. She actually wanted to make her own cheese head out of old expired cheese she had laying around. She said she could just scrape the mold off. I had to explain to her that the hats were not "real" cheese and the poor woman burst into tears.
I had two favorite wigs though. The Milli Vanilli with coordinating fake nose ring and the beaded Cleo. She called them something else though, as she named every single one of her wigs. Most of them were named after books of the Bible. She would try on all of her hats and wigs and take thousands of pictures of herself with these different looks. She wanted to figure out which ones she thought were most flattering and to experiment with different outfits to go with each.
Her closet was overflowing with eccentricity. She paired her beaded Cleo with a leopard spandex unitard (a leotard with full leggings--I'm not kidding here folks). I cried myself to sleep that night, but snuck into her bedroom while she was sleeping, stole the cat suit and burned it. She honestly should have been arrested for owning such an outfit.
As her hair started growing back, she donated most of her wigs to cancer patients (whom I'm assuming raised money by burning these wigs). My mom vowed never to cut her hair again, but still couldn't kick the obsession with wigs from second hand stores.
It was a healthy addiction and I have to say she was in the best shape of her life. She'd bike to the grocery store, church and to work and insisted on wearing dresses and high heels on these excursions. The only thing that could have made her voyages more transcendent was if she still had her hair. She grew heartsick over her lack of hair blowing in the wind, not to mention the noticeably crisp air gave her head quite a chill. So my mother invested in an assortment of hats and wigs, most of which she found while rummaging through bins at second hand stores. Since she had head lice as a child and no longer had hair, she believed she was immune to it and was not intimidated by those pesky fleas. (She is also not intimidated by athlete's foot apparently--again, another story for another time.)
She had a hat or wig in nearly every color and for nearly every occasion. She literally became obsessed with hats and wigs. She has a lot of weird obsessions, one of which being the Green Bay Packers, which I don't understand since she is not from Wisconsin, and has hardly ever been there and doesn't know a thing about football. Yet, she had to buy herself a cheese head hat as well, but at least it was freshly sealed in it's original packaging. She actually wanted to make her own cheese head out of old expired cheese she had laying around. She said she could just scrape the mold off. I had to explain to her that the hats were not "real" cheese and the poor woman burst into tears.
I had two favorite wigs though. The Milli Vanilli with coordinating fake nose ring and the beaded Cleo. She called them something else though, as she named every single one of her wigs. Most of them were named after books of the Bible. She would try on all of her hats and wigs and take thousands of pictures of herself with these different looks. She wanted to figure out which ones she thought were most flattering and to experiment with different outfits to go with each.
Her closet was overflowing with eccentricity. She paired her beaded Cleo with a leopard spandex unitard (a leotard with full leggings--I'm not kidding here folks). I cried myself to sleep that night, but snuck into her bedroom while she was sleeping, stole the cat suit and burned it. She honestly should have been arrested for owning such an outfit.
As her hair started growing back, she donated most of her wigs to cancer patients (whom I'm assuming raised money by burning these wigs). My mom vowed never to cut her hair again, but still couldn't kick the obsession with wigs from second hand stores.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Awkward stages...growing up part 2
As I approached those awkward stages, the humiliation reached new heights.
My mother had recently separated from my father and was going through some kind of hiatus from reality. My mother has always been a good Christian woman, so I'm sure drugs weren't involved, but it does beg the question.
She had always had long beautiful hair and whole heatedly believed she was twins with Rapunzel, and separated at birth. (That's another story for another time). She was like Marcia Brady when it came to brushing her hair, carefully counting every stroke. But something unclicked in her brain and her hair no longer mattered to her, she was going to the Pink Floyd concert come hell or high water.
My mother believes in radio contests, television game shows and contests like her faith in her religion. She is always entering Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes waiting for Ed McMahon to show up on her doorstep with a video camera and an over sized check. She knows it's her fate. Well, fate had it that she won some radio contest to be entered to win tickets to see Pink Floyd in concert. The hosts would put in all the names of the first round winners into a pot and draw names for the tickets. So the story goes, according to my mother, that if they drew your name, you had to go up on stage in front of hundreds of people and shave your head. The shaving was supposed to be a nod to "The Wall" when Bob Geldof shaved his entire body. So in front of hundreds of spectators, my mother shaved her head. But she left the bangs so her gang, that she worked so hard to get jumped into, would not excommunicate her.
You could imagine my astonishment when I saw my mother with her shaved head, not to support cancer patients, but for PINK FLOYD. I was 11 at the time and so mortified, I didn't think I could ever show my face in public again, especially with her. I applied to be in the witness protection program, and when they denied me, I legally changed my name to "Barb E. Dahl."
After her Pink Floyd tangent, she also became obsessed with Grateful Dead. I always told her I'd be grateful when they were dead. (About a year or two later, Jerry Garcia passed away, may he rest in peace.)
For young women, going through puberty can really put a damper on things, not to mention getting your first period. For my hippie mother, it was like some gigantic celebration of life. For me it was a like a scene in a movie when there's a party going on with music, everyone dancing the Macarena, foot loose and fancy free. Then you walk in and Lionel Richie's "All Night Long" comes to a screeching halt and everyone stares at you like you literally just walked in holding a freshly skinned beaver. (No pun intended). I don't know if you ever have seen a freshly skinned beaver, but it it not a pretty sight or smell.
So I told my mother and begged her not to tell anyone else. Now, my mother suffers from diarrhea of the mouth and I knew it wouldn't be long until she ran an ad in the paper notifying everyone of this joyful event. As she was going down to the market to pick up some feminine supplies for me, she had to make a stop at the post office to mail in her contest entries for a chance to win a walk-on role on General Hospital. Low and behold, my kindergarten, first and second grade teachers were there and she gleefully told them all that, "Beverly is becoming a woman!!!" And didn't spare them any details. Not long after that, she did put up a message on the church's reader board marquee which read, "Congratulations Beverly!!!" Anyone driving by could read the message, and in this small town, everyone either already knew what the sign meant, or they knew me and had to ask about it. And it was about 3 months until people finally stopped asking me what the salute was for. Needless to say, I had a lot of explanations to give to random people.
I suppose I am grateful to my mother for not letting me go through with the hysterectomy at the age of 8.
Then of course came "the talk" which I don't remember much of, but still have reoccurring nightmares of bits and pieces that I do remember.
AEZ2NT9PD5XG
My mother had recently separated from my father and was going through some kind of hiatus from reality. My mother has always been a good Christian woman, so I'm sure drugs weren't involved, but it does beg the question.
She had always had long beautiful hair and whole heatedly believed she was twins with Rapunzel, and separated at birth. (That's another story for another time). She was like Marcia Brady when it came to brushing her hair, carefully counting every stroke. But something unclicked in her brain and her hair no longer mattered to her, she was going to the Pink Floyd concert come hell or high water.
My mother believes in radio contests, television game shows and contests like her faith in her religion. She is always entering Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes waiting for Ed McMahon to show up on her doorstep with a video camera and an over sized check. She knows it's her fate. Well, fate had it that she won some radio contest to be entered to win tickets to see Pink Floyd in concert. The hosts would put in all the names of the first round winners into a pot and draw names for the tickets. So the story goes, according to my mother, that if they drew your name, you had to go up on stage in front of hundreds of people and shave your head. The shaving was supposed to be a nod to "The Wall" when Bob Geldof shaved his entire body. So in front of hundreds of spectators, my mother shaved her head. But she left the bangs so her gang, that she worked so hard to get jumped into, would not excommunicate her.
You could imagine my astonishment when I saw my mother with her shaved head, not to support cancer patients, but for PINK FLOYD. I was 11 at the time and so mortified, I didn't think I could ever show my face in public again, especially with her. I applied to be in the witness protection program, and when they denied me, I legally changed my name to "Barb E. Dahl."
After her Pink Floyd tangent, she also became obsessed with Grateful Dead. I always told her I'd be grateful when they were dead. (About a year or two later, Jerry Garcia passed away, may he rest in peace.)
For young women, going through puberty can really put a damper on things, not to mention getting your first period. For my hippie mother, it was like some gigantic celebration of life. For me it was a like a scene in a movie when there's a party going on with music, everyone dancing the Macarena, foot loose and fancy free. Then you walk in and Lionel Richie's "All Night Long" comes to a screeching halt and everyone stares at you like you literally just walked in holding a freshly skinned beaver. (No pun intended). I don't know if you ever have seen a freshly skinned beaver, but it it not a pretty sight or smell.
So I told my mother and begged her not to tell anyone else. Now, my mother suffers from diarrhea of the mouth and I knew it wouldn't be long until she ran an ad in the paper notifying everyone of this joyful event. As she was going down to the market to pick up some feminine supplies for me, she had to make a stop at the post office to mail in her contest entries for a chance to win a walk-on role on General Hospital. Low and behold, my kindergarten, first and second grade teachers were there and she gleefully told them all that, "Beverly is becoming a woman!!!" And didn't spare them any details. Not long after that, she did put up a message on the church's reader board marquee which read, "Congratulations Beverly!!!" Anyone driving by could read the message, and in this small town, everyone either already knew what the sign meant, or they knew me and had to ask about it. And it was about 3 months until people finally stopped asking me what the salute was for. Needless to say, I had a lot of explanations to give to random people.
I suppose I am grateful to my mother for not letting me go through with the hysterectomy at the age of 8.
Then of course came "the talk" which I don't remember much of, but still have reoccurring nightmares of bits and pieces that I do remember.
AEZ2NT9PD5XG
Sunday, January 2, 2011
My Mom 101: Intro and tough times growing up
Most of you may have had embarrassing mothers growing up, but I assure you mine takes the cake. So I've decided to put together a little blog highlighting her madness. I hope that whoever is out there reading this will find it pretty damn funny, but parents be advised your discretion is warranted.
It is not easy to understand my mom, so I've stopped trying to make any sense out of anything she does.
I never remember being terribly close to my mother growing up, I always preferred my father. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my mother and she has done a great deal for me. For instance, whenever I was running late for school, she would always make me breakfast to go. I feel like most mothers would send their children off with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but my mother wasn't most mothers. She sent me packing with a peanut butter and butter sandwich. In some cultures, this may be a delicious treat, maybe even considered superior decadence, but have YOU really ever eaten a peanut butter and butter sandwich? So I started out the morning in utter embarrassment by being screamed at by the school bus driver for eating this delicatessen on the bus. This very incident contributed to further years of embarrassment as I am certain it contributed to my childhood obesity.
For lunch, it didn't get much better. While other children's mothers had meticulously packed their lunches and etched at little heart in the Skippy peanut butter as they were spreading it onto the white bread, and cut all the crust off, everyday mine was a surprise. I want to say it was like a box of chocolates, because you never knew what you were going to get, but a box of chocolates sounds a million times more enticing. I was fortunate enough to have some kind of trendy Barbie or My Little Ponies lunch pail, but it was all a colorful facade to distract from the real colorful contents. When I say it was a surprise I mean it was a surprise more like cafeteria mystery meat.
I usually sat alone at a table far away from everyone else so no one would see what my mother had packed. All the popular children would have things worthy of trading with everyone else. I imagined if I was in prison, it would be similar to all the criminals trading their goodies for clean tube socks, superman underwear and cigarettes (because I knew all bad guys in jail smoked cigarettes). Through this they could all form some sort of camaraderie and form cliques as to who had who's back. But I knew I would have to become somebody's bitch for protection if I dare show my weakness, namely, my inedible lunch. So I just glared at the other students from my isolated corner as if to say, "Don't mess with me," and sometimes pretended to foam from the mouth.
My mother never could cook so usually my lunches were something like this: Green beans stuffed with horseradish, tortilla sandwich with turkey pepperoni slices. mayonnaise, pickles and powdered parmesan cheese, burnt snicker doodles and a frappuccino. She was so thoughtful to always include all of the major four food groups. (Looking back at my lunches that I rarely ever ate, I ponder as to how I became so obese.) The days I did look forward to the "surprises" in my lunch were the days my father packed them: Grilled ham and cheese sandwich, carrots and celery and Oreo cookies and a quarter to buy some milk.
I always was afraid I was the stinky kid in school too. I don't know if I actually was, but my mother had a policy of one bath per week. She believed it was the way to build immunity toward things. Long after I graduated and moved out of the house I went to visit her for the holidays. She wanted to go out bargain hunting at various second hand stores. I'm assuming she wanted to add to her collection of stationary bicycles, treadmills and VHS copies of "Meet Me in St. Louis." I told her I had to go wash my hair before I left the house. She asked me, "Well didn't you just take a shower last night?" To which I responded, "Well, yes, of course, but I didn't wash my hair."
"Well, I don't know how you could ever become immune to anything if you are constantly washing everything." To which I replied, "Well, I don't know how you could ever become immune to MRSA, hepatitis, Meningococcal, tuberculosis, whooping cough, SARS, botulism, head lice, bubonic plague or chlamydia." Not that any of those listed would be phased by a shower at my mother's house because she didn't believe in soap.
It's a miracle that somehow I survived my childhood without contracting head lice, especially since I had really long hair. It would be a shame if I had to shave off all that beautiful, Rapunzel-like hair....
It is not easy to understand my mom, so I've stopped trying to make any sense out of anything she does.
I never remember being terribly close to my mother growing up, I always preferred my father. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my mother and she has done a great deal for me. For instance, whenever I was running late for school, she would always make me breakfast to go. I feel like most mothers would send their children off with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but my mother wasn't most mothers. She sent me packing with a peanut butter and butter sandwich. In some cultures, this may be a delicious treat, maybe even considered superior decadence, but have YOU really ever eaten a peanut butter and butter sandwich? So I started out the morning in utter embarrassment by being screamed at by the school bus driver for eating this delicatessen on the bus. This very incident contributed to further years of embarrassment as I am certain it contributed to my childhood obesity.
For lunch, it didn't get much better. While other children's mothers had meticulously packed their lunches and etched at little heart in the Skippy peanut butter as they were spreading it onto the white bread, and cut all the crust off, everyday mine was a surprise. I want to say it was like a box of chocolates, because you never knew what you were going to get, but a box of chocolates sounds a million times more enticing. I was fortunate enough to have some kind of trendy Barbie or My Little Ponies lunch pail, but it was all a colorful facade to distract from the real colorful contents. When I say it was a surprise I mean it was a surprise more like cafeteria mystery meat.
I usually sat alone at a table far away from everyone else so no one would see what my mother had packed. All the popular children would have things worthy of trading with everyone else. I imagined if I was in prison, it would be similar to all the criminals trading their goodies for clean tube socks, superman underwear and cigarettes (because I knew all bad guys in jail smoked cigarettes). Through this they could all form some sort of camaraderie and form cliques as to who had who's back. But I knew I would have to become somebody's bitch for protection if I dare show my weakness, namely, my inedible lunch. So I just glared at the other students from my isolated corner as if to say, "Don't mess with me," and sometimes pretended to foam from the mouth.
My mother never could cook so usually my lunches were something like this: Green beans stuffed with horseradish, tortilla sandwich with turkey pepperoni slices. mayonnaise, pickles and powdered parmesan cheese, burnt snicker doodles and a frappuccino. She was so thoughtful to always include all of the major four food groups. (Looking back at my lunches that I rarely ever ate, I ponder as to how I became so obese.) The days I did look forward to the "surprises" in my lunch were the days my father packed them: Grilled ham and cheese sandwich, carrots and celery and Oreo cookies and a quarter to buy some milk.
I always was afraid I was the stinky kid in school too. I don't know if I actually was, but my mother had a policy of one bath per week. She believed it was the way to build immunity toward things. Long after I graduated and moved out of the house I went to visit her for the holidays. She wanted to go out bargain hunting at various second hand stores. I'm assuming she wanted to add to her collection of stationary bicycles, treadmills and VHS copies of "Meet Me in St. Louis." I told her I had to go wash my hair before I left the house. She asked me, "Well didn't you just take a shower last night?" To which I responded, "Well, yes, of course, but I didn't wash my hair."
"Well, I don't know how you could ever become immune to anything if you are constantly washing everything." To which I replied, "Well, I don't know how you could ever become immune to MRSA, hepatitis, Meningococcal, tuberculosis, whooping cough, SARS, botulism, head lice, bubonic plague or chlamydia." Not that any of those listed would be phased by a shower at my mother's house because she didn't believe in soap.
It's a miracle that somehow I survived my childhood without contracting head lice, especially since I had really long hair. It would be a shame if I had to shave off all that beautiful, Rapunzel-like hair....
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