The Pizza Place, The Electricain, and The Very Bad Ports O’ Call Ring

Growing up, one of my three cousins from the Midwest would fly out to California every summer to stay with us to spend time with their “Aunt Re-Re.” My mom was extremely close to her sister (who I will refer to only as “J” for reasons) throughout her teens, going so far as to live with her and her family at a certain point and act as a nanny to her children, whom she loved and adored without question. J was almost two decades older than my mom, so Aunt Re-Re was closer in age to J’s kids than she was to her sister. I’ve mentioned before that I come from an enormous Irish-Catholic family, and have lots and lots of cousins, many of whom I am lucky enough to just be getting to know now! Both of my parents were the youngest of their families; my dad by 15 and 13 years, and my mom, who had seven siblings, by 10 years. Most of my cousins were already adults with their own grown up lives by the time my brother and I came around, and the majority lived on the East Coast while we lived on the West.

These three cousins, however, I had known my whole life because of the, well, I could say tight bond, but I prefer to say toxic bond my mother and J shared. One cousin was terribly attractive and always drew a crowd whenever he came to town, one was a lovely gal who once had a boyfriend send her a fancy basket to our house that she kept in my room (where she was staying) that had these incredible candies I continued to tactfully consume (then rearrange to make it look like I hadn’t), and one was super sweet but a bit socially awkward, always smelled like Prell, and who once tried to push me off the Log Ride at Knott’s Berry Farm thinking it was a funny joke, and I became forever terrified of him until he passed away at too early an age. In today’s mental health-conscious society, which I fully support, advocate for, and champion, I find certain “therapy speak” terms are often misused or misunderstood. A trauma bond is not connecting over similar traumatic experiences, or a difficult relationship that includes a lot of drama.

A true trauma bond is one that involves intense loyalty to one’s abuser, despite any mistreatment, based on an unhealthy emotional attachment driven by the cycle of abuse that includes fear, manipulation, and sparse moments of love and kindness that convinces the victim that this time, things will be different. People get this wrong all the time, and I get it. I just wish those who do misunderstand the term know I wouldn’t wish a trauma bond on my worst enemy.

This is the bond I had with my mother, and the bond she had with her sister who, upon news of my first pregnancy, said to my mom OUT LOUD, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if she just died? Her AND the baby? Like during labor or something?” Why my mother would have ever chosen to share this with me, then insist I travel to J’s home for Thanksgiving (so she could see what an amazing grandmother my mom was – who couldn’t be bothered to attend my daughter’s birth), I’ll never know. Well, except that she felt betrayed by my decision to become a mother in the first place. She wasn’t fond of my partner at the time (and don’t worry, he was well aware. We’re no longer together, but share two amazing daughters whom we couldn’t love or be more grateful for). Oh, and this particular Thanksgiving, my boyfriend had just suffered a compound fracture to his leg, his truck had a manual transmission so he couldn’t go anywhere, and he spent Thanksgiving alone eating a Hungry Man dinner in a lonely apartment. I still have guilt over this, but my mother made big, big threats if I didn’t obey, and I believed every one of them.

Months before I had even gotten pregnant, my parents and brother had already moved across the country. My mom was impetuous and impatient. She often said, “Why should I have to wait? I want what I want and I want it WHEN I want it.” This explains why we were never in a house for longer than 6 years. She always wanted more. She was also fond of telling me I was so spoiled, I smelled, so do with that what you will. The reason they moved was because she had decided she wanted to pursue her PhD at one of the country’s best universities. And she did. She didn’t consult any of us, she just decided that’s what we were doing. I was old enough by this point not to follow, but man, did I pay for that decision. I wasn’t ready to leave California at the time, and there were things I wanted to do and accomplish that I wasn’t allowed to pursue while living at home. But she was the boss. And we all knew it.

By the time they moved, I was living with my boyfriend, and we had gotten used to the multiple threatening voicemail messages, as well as the roughly 20-30 calls a day to talk to me (both at work and at home. I would get spoken to at work about it, but that would simply amp her up, and I resigned from many jobs because of this – I was never fired, though it was often implied I would be. She knew this, and was seemingly delighted by it. If I didn’t resign, she would have some type of emergency that I was somehow responsible for in taking care of her recovery: a concussion, a broken arm, a slip and fall fracture – you name it, she made sure it happened. If you had the flu, she had malaria. If you had a cough, she had pneumonia. It was neverending.) I lived in a constant state of fight or flight, even with her being 2,000 miles away at the time. Who needs roller coasters or to jump out of a plane when you have a constant flow of excessive adrenaline coursing through your veins, amirite?

One particular weekend, while I was still in California, we were home making brunch and had a few friends over to watch whatever game was on that day. I had made no mention of wanting to have a baby, had no plans to get pregnant, and in fact, it was the furthest thing from my mind. I knew I wanted kids, I just didn’t know when and it just wasn’t on my radar yet. I knew a call was coming, but I had guests, so I made the decision to screen so I could enjoy myself. Right on cue, she called and the machine picked up. What followed was the most hurtful diatribe letting me know if I were to ever THINK about “getting pregnant by THAT man” I would be “motherless. An orphan. I would no longer have a family, and she would never acknowledge my bastard child.” This from my mother who described herself as a bleeding-heart liberal, and spent her life and career serving the underserved, which I always looked up to (and still do). My boyfriend and I were not married – we were engaged for a while, but never actually tied the knot. He was a bit older than me at a time that really mattered in my cognitive development, and as you grow and change and begin to mature, you start to realize just how important your fundamental ideals and morals truly are. And ours just weren’t the same. Which is okay!

After hearing the message, I was inconsolable and when I called her back to try and find out where this was coming from, she stated she had spoken to J, and they knew I was manipulative enough to plan something like this and she hated me for it. This was nothing new either, as my mom used to love to tell me how I’d been manipulating her since birth, which isn’t even possible, but I didn’t know that all the times I heard it growing up. I don’t think it comes as any surprise that a mere few months later, I was pregnant with my first daughter. And I didn’t tell her, because why would I? She told me I’d be a motherless orphan with no family support. I had his family, and there are not enough words I can say to describe how wonderful, kind, loving, and helpful his mom was from start to finish. She was the mom I deserved.

I confided in my brother and he didn’t know what to do. He agreed it probably wasn’t the best time to tell her yet, but that I should at some point. That point came a little sooner than I had anticipated. Being a wonderful soon-to-be-grandma, his mom had set up a surprise baby shower with all of our friends and his side of the family, and she’d had this lovely idea to have my mom on the phone when I walked in the door, so it coud be like she was there.

It didn’t go well.

His mom didn’t know I hadn’t told mine, because I was well trained not to speak ill of my mother. She had very strict rules about that and a look that would pierce your soul if you ever questioned her. She was also big on making others not as educated as her feel small, and she was very, very good at it. My mother was extraordinarily smart – she skipped kindergarten and first grade, and began her elementary career in second grade. She graduated high school at 16, and was in college soon after. I always admired her brilliance, and she was also funny as Hell. She knew how to charm a crowd like no other, had the best laugh ever, and I was part of that audience so desperate for her acknowledgment and approval.

She had a lot of words for his mom, who felt devastated and from that day forward, wanted to avoid my mom at all costs. Who could blame her? She had even more for me a few days later. Something she was also very good at was to shun you for days, no communication, no sign of life, no nothing, all to let you know you had made a BIG mistake in what she viewed as “an absolute affront.” I never knew which was worse, the silent treatment or the screams and insults about what a fraud, waste of space, failure, and embarrassment I was and how I’d never be as smart or successful as her. Another favorite line of hers was, “You better hope I live forever, because you will never make it in this life without me.” This was all a manipulation on her part, of course, because she had a death grip on control over me that she was unwilling to relinquish. She needed me to need her, and the moment I sought any type of independence or individuality, she took it as a slight against her. She maintained complete control over who I could be friends with, where I could hang out, and especially what I could wear. I don’t even want to tell you what life was like during puberty!

I’ll just stop for a moment here to give huge props to therapy! It took a long time to connect with the right therapist, but I wasn’t willing to give up on myself, and once I did and was willing to do the introspective (and often difficult) work, my healing began and it has since been wonderful and so, so freeing! I have a very lovely life, and so do my children. Though the three of them are grown, we still love to hang out, laugh our asses off, and be together as the family I always hoped for. My husband makes me laugh every single day, and takes such good care of my heart, which I do for his in return. I am very, very lucky and I acknowledge that fact daily. I am incredibly grateful resources like therapy and SSRI’s and myriad mental health services like these exist, and believe they should be available (and affordable) to everyone at any time for any reason. *Steps off soap box*

This time, after she learned I withheld the baby information from her, it was, “I can’t believe you would do this to me. I guess I’m just so horrible that I should go kill myself. You have taken something away from ME and you’re just going to let HER (his mom) throw you a party you don’t even deserve? I hope you get NOTHING, and don’t think I’m buying you ONE THING. You’re the fool who got knocked up, so YOU can figure it out.” I was about eight months pregnant at the time, and it cut like a knife.

While my boyfriend’s mom walked the halls with me and rubbed my back and fed me ice chips and told me how strong I was and how proud she was of me throughout my 37-hour (and insanely difficult) labor, my mom refused to travel to California for her first grandchild’s birth, and didn’t want any updates or to hear anything about it. And yet, she demanded I fly, alone and still postpartum, across the country to bring the baby to her, whom she then acted like was hers and that she’d had some kind of hand in her being born.

I didn’t even tell her about my second daughter’s birth until after the fact.

This all may seem irrelevant to the story about Ports O’ Call, but it does help establish how little I could count on my mom, especially in times of extreme need and fear.

My brother’s Little League team had just won a championship, and as an end-of-the-season treat, the players and their families went to Round Table Pizza to celebrate. My mom was THEE baseball mom. She kept score, she talked trash, she had all the necessary accoutrements to attend the games (including her visor, her folding chair, and her often-loud mouth). My dad was usually on the sidelines as an assistant coach, and I was just hanging out at the snack stand trying to get real with some ball park nachos and a Whatchamacallit. I don’t know if anyone knows this, but baseball games are long! I had very little patience to begin with, but this was a whole other level of boredom!

This was during the summer, so one of my cousins was staying with us, and prior to a whale watching excursion (which were quite popular back in the day), we had made a stop at Ports O’ Call, which was located in San Pedro, California, and very close to the dock where the whale boats would depart. It was a hop, skip, and a jump from Long Beach, and was this fabulous outdoor shopping center. There were gift shops, restaurants, fish markets; all of the touristy locales those from out of state love to visit.

Every time we frequented this splendid spot, my brother and I were allowed to get one souvenir. I’ve always been into jewelry (no lie, a dashing five-year-old named Darrin once presented me with a gorgeous set of pearls for my third birthday that his mom said he’d “paid for with his own money.” I know now this is likely untrue, because what five-year-old has that kind of cash…even if they were the $3.50 set from Toy ‘R’ Us, but what did I care? They looked glamorous and I was hooked!)

My cousin was holding me and taking me around the different vendors when I saw this great little jewelry stand and insisted that we stop. We took a look at all of the wares, when my eyes landed on a gold and aquamarine ring. It clearly wasn’t fine jewelry because it had an adjustable, bendy band, but the blue stone looked so pretty and I wanted it. I wanted it bad! My cousin called my parents over and she told them how enchanted I was with it. The vendor had let me try it on, and considering it was my birthstone, I didn’t know how could they object! What was probably no more than a $5 ring made me feel like royalty, darling,

I had every plan to wear this to the fancy (in my mind) pizza banquet, but had trouble keeping it from falling off my scrawny little finger. So instead of using my thumb and pointer to tighten the ring (which for some reason scared me), I instead used my teeth to “bite it into place.” We can analyze why biting it made me feel safer than tightening it the way it was intended, but I’m not there yet in therapy, so we’ll agree to put a pin in it, table it, and revisit it another time, yes?

Usually, it worked just fine and would form to my finger perfectly. But this was the first time I’d ever worn it out and about and it took some getting used to; I liked to manipulate the feel of it so I could tell where it was on my finger and how easy it would still be to take off. My brother and his team were enjoying the ruckus of the pizza place, and I was just happy to be included. The players were always so nice to the littler siblings, and it felt so special to be accepted. But I also experienced social anxiety, and would begin to feel overwhelmed if the energy was too high (which also explains my nervous barfing. Sigh. But that’s just how my social battery works, and I’ve accepted it, finally, without judgment.)

My whole life I can think of the tricks and tips I used to convince my brain I wasn’t having a panic attack (which I didn’t know the term for until my late 20s). I had self-soothing methods I would employ (that I didn’t know were legitimate techniques at the time!) I would repeat mantras in my head, use sensory methods such as Play-Doh, repeat a click on my lips, and laser focus on the things I could see in my room and name them. It typically worked, and I was usually able to calm myself successfully. One of the lesser appropriate methods was to bite on my ring a few times until I felt calmer. And this is where it all went wrong!

I got a bit overwhelmed with so much liveliness in the reserved pizza room and began biting on my ring to feel better. Except this time, I bit too hard. Instead of my usual biting on the top or bottom, I bit from the side. And instead of readjusting to a normal size, the ring dug right into the fatty part of my finger and stayed. *Disclaimer: this is not my finger, but definelty resembles what it looked like!* No amount of teeth manipulation could get it unstuck, and the harder I tried, the tighter it got, to the point it started to swell and turn purple. Soon enough, you could barely see the ring through the flesh that continued to puff and swell. And this was all while my family was celebrating my brother and I didn’t want to make noise.

But then it began to hurt. Bad. The pain was intense and I knew I had to say something. To someone. Anyone! When you’re six-years-old, you want your mommy. And I did. So, I ran to her, crying, and holding my swollen, purple, almost black finger up to her. I was panicked and I didn’t know what to do.

I could have known she’d make it about her, but I think I was still too young at the time. I just remember getting yelled at and her crying about how she “couldn’t handle ANY of this!” She really didn’t like when I stole the spotlight from her in any way OR discussed certain things that had happened in my life that resembled anything that may have happened in hers, and I had no right to have trauma about any same thing, so I buried those memories deep instead and never spoke of them again. In this moment, my mother handed me off to her friend, who held and comforted me as I frantically searched for my mom. To my heartbreak at the time, my mom had fled to the bathroom, and locked herself in a stall until it was over (while crying her eyes out as if it was something being done TO HER, on purpose, and on my part).

The Fire Department was called to come help remove the ring, but let us know it might take a while, as there were other, more pressing calls at the moment. In the meantime, an electrician who just so happened to be enjoying an everything pizza after his workday, kindly approached my mom’s friend, and let us know he had some wire cutters in his truck, and he’d be happy to try to cut the ring off while we waited for the FD. She said yes. I guess I remember my dad coming around, too, but he wasn’t very good about injuries (as evidenced by him yelling at me when I fell out of the loft), and probably assumed my mom had it covered.

The electrician was so kind, so gentle, and really, really patient, because I was so scared to hand my black, purple, ballooned finger over to him. He was able to find just the right spot to cut, talked me through it, then the next thing I knew, my finger was free, the blood returned, and the swelling disappeared. And all of a sudden, my mother reappeared. She took me from her friend’s arms and talked about how traumatizing the whole event was. For her.

I was later reprimanded by her for two things: taking attention away from my brother, which she was sure I had done on purpose (at six years old), and for making her as scared as I did. She reminded me she didn’t deserve to feel that scared. She never once acknowledged the fear, terror, or worry I felt during the ordeal, especially after hearing I could lose my finger if the ring wasn’t removed, and SOON. I’d known for a long time before, but this was my first real taste of understanding that I existed FOR my mother, not alongside. My identity was making my mother not look foolish or incompetent. It was not to be myself, be independent, or be individual. It was to make her look like a good mother. And any slips or missteps would not be tolerated.

It’s taken a long, long time to find Susanna (and maybe a little longer than I’d expected after my mother died), but I’m sure glad I did! Because y’all…this gal’s alright.

Screenshot

And, as anyone who knows me, I still (and forever will) love me a nice, dainty, FABULOUS piece of jewelry!

The Old Lady Under The Bed

There are certain things from our childhoods that stick with us forever; something so vivid that it feels like it just happened any time it makes its way to our frontal lobe. Obviously, as we get older, our minds start to soften more, and the superfluous tends to see its way out. But those core memories remain, and can transport us back to a different place and time in an instant.

As a child, my Grammy lived in downtown LA, a stone’s throw away from the Los Angeles International Airport, aka, LAX. From her little house, you could watch the planes take off and land, which never did anything to quell my fear of flying. My parents, aunts, uncles, Grammy, would all say, “Just look at how many planes take off and land in the time you’re here! That tells you how safe flying really is!” Well, sorry to tell you, Uncle Jim, but I was born and raised on the GROUND. Where I can feel it beneath me. And there’s no (or very little?) possibility I’m going to drop hundreds of thousands of feet at random to my impending doom while my tootsies are planted firmly on the silky, luscious, plush green grass. So, as much as I appreciated these pep talks, curbing my anxiety over flying was never going to happen.

It didn’t help that the first time I did fly, at eight years old, we were on our way to Mexico City and the airline used real glasses instead of plastic. For some reason, said glasses were left on the counter during the steepest takeoff ever (and I mean STEEP! It was like we were on a rocket ship headed for the stars), and they came crashing down in a blaze of glory, creating a cacophony of sound that would make Beethoven wince, only to be told by my darling brother, “That was the engine. WE’RE GOING DOWN!”

I almost took my dad’s finger off from squeezing it so hard. I remember looking down and his thumb being purple, then gazing up at him to ensure we were safe and him sporting a very convincing, though obviously superficial, smile that said, “This is fine, everything is fine.” We also all got Montezuma’s Revenge on that trip and ended up going home early. But not before my mother left our passports and birth certificates on the breakfast table of the hotel, as the customs officers offered a deal of leaving me behind with them while they looked the other way for the rest of my family to get on the flight home. I don’t know how they got out of that one, but I’m very glad they did. I’m also very glad my parents chose not to sell my hair. Because there were lots and lots of offers for that, too. Geez.

Back to Grammy’s. I can still smell her kitchen; it always smelled like something fabulous was cooking, even though I don’t think I ever saw her cook anything. I can taste the frozen chocolate chips in the cookies she kept in the freezer for my brother and me, and the tart taste of the Diet Cherry 7-Up she kept in her Frigidaire that we were only allowed to have if we agreed not to fight with each other. I will never forget the feel of the bulky and brilliant Sears catalog always set atop her fancy coffee table, where I would pick out my “grown up” outfits for my future as a “successful woman” (at what, I wasn’t sure, but I knew I’d be dressed to the nines for it), while silently screaming for her to unmute the TV after the commercials were over and Jeopardy was back on. I can feel the softness of that weird, crocheted doll that held the toilet paper on the back of her pink toilet, surrounded by dishes of potpourri and tubes of Ben-Gay.

My mother used to say that her mother was the worst, but I didn’t see it. Sure, she was blunt (she once asked why I was dolled up in stage makeup when I was 13 and we were in a public setting. I wasn’t, I was just experimenting with using makeup at the time. She told me I looked like a hooker and to do it better if I didn’t want to be taken for a floosy. I ditched the blue eye shadow right then and there). She was also quite fond of my brother and me. We were the youngest set of grandkids (in a very big, Irish-Catholic family – honestly, if someone came up to me on the street today and said they were my cousin, I’d likely believe them because our extended family is massive, and it tracks), and by the time we came along, she had very few effs left to give. We made her happy, and she made us…aware of her quirks.

When I was 12, I contracted mononucleosis (and no, NOT from kissing!) Someone in our grade had it, spread it, and I got it. It was brutal. One minute, I felt fine, the next, I felt so tired, I could barely get from my bed to the couch. I wasn’t mad about the time off from school, but I was mad about being sidelined for so long. I’m not good at being sick. I’m too squirrely to sit or lay down for more than twenty minutes at a time (unless I’m sleeping), and to be forced to rest is just not my scene.

For some reason, I decided I wanted my Grammy to come stay with me while I was convalescing. Both of my parents worked full time and my brother couldn’t have been less interested in me being ill (he had various other reasons for ditching school, none of which included caring for his sick little sister. There were malls, and skate ramps, and waves to be explored! I couldn’t blame him).

My mother was the youngest of eight children. The next youngest to her was ten years older than she was. My Grammy was 44 years old when she had my mom, and in the 1940’s man, that was wild. I don’t ever remember my Grammy looking like NOT a Grammy. She had wrinkles like a Shar Pei, and an attitude that commanded respect. She was not to be messed with, and we never did. My mother had a commissioned piece of art next to their phone box in the dining room of a dragon breathing fire to remind her that, when her mother called, dragons weren’t real and she’d get through it.

So, when Grammy came to stay, she made her presence known. She taught me how to play bridge and hearts, she made me egg salad sandwiches, and she let me watch her game shows during the day. It was the best! Grammy didn’t have any patience (a virtue I was also born without!) and she didn’t like that I didn’t feel good. She stayed a whole week and I felt like I was on top of the world! Los Angeles to Lakewood doesn’t seem far, but in actuality (and with traffic), it is, and I’m sure she missed her chair and her TV, and her lovely little kitchen. I know my cousins probably had much more time with her than my brother and I did, but that week was (and still remains) so special to me. She was old! And she still agreed to be my babysitter simply because I wanted some “Grammy time.”

Around the time I was 18 years old, Grammy started to decline in health. She was in her late 80’s and was struggling to remember faces and places. During that time, the family decided to place her in a nursing home; it was one of the best in California, even though it was a two-hour drive away. I had agreed to support my mom through navigating this new chapter in her life, and went with her every weekend to visit (despite the hit to my social life as a result). Sometimes, she was lucid as could be and would ask me about school, boys, theater, whatever. Other times, not so much, and she would talk to me about “Mary” and “Joseph” and doing right by “Marie” (my mom’s name); one day telling me she wasn’t afraid to die, the next, that she wasn’t ready to go. It was a mindfuck for me, and I wasn’t sure if my being there was any help. But I still went, and I still ate pudding with her, and I still told her about the goings-on of her late-teenaged granddaughter, and I still held her hand when she felt scared. It meant a lot to me, and I’m glad I had that time with her before she passed.

She died there. And it was sad, but it was also expected. I remember when she passed, I felt a relief for my mom, even though she didn’t seem to feel the same. I sang at her funeral, and didn’t feel blue because sheesh! She’d lived a really long life! I remember some of my cousins being so sad at the funeral, and I wanted to comfort them, but just didn’t know how. My brother and I were so much younger than all of them, and decided it was better to speak softly, and carry a big stick.

I still miss her sharp tongue that only a Grammy could get away with.

Now, my mother had a way of waking dramatically, and I mean EXTREMELY dramatically, when awoken by another. Despite this, she would insist my brother and I wake her upon returning home from a night out, in order to ensure we’d made it home by curfew. When we would walk in, whether together or separately, we would have to wait at least three times before she awoke, and when she did, it was always jarring. We’d first whisper, “Mom. Mom. Maaaaaaahm!” Then we’d have to turn up the volume to a full blown “MOOOOOM!” And she’d thrash, throw her covers, fling herself up and say, “UGH! Don’t DO that!” We had gotten so used to it, that we knew if we were coming home that night, mom was going to have a nighttime fit of epic proportions before we could retire to our rooms and go to sleep.

The night after my Grammy died (and before the funeral), I went out with some friends to lament and blow off some steam. It had been a really long week, and I was spent. I just needed some girl time and a round of karaoke to put myself back together. I hated seeing my mom sad, I hated the idea of death in general, and I hated how sad I felt about the whole thing.

My mother, still insistent on us letting her know when we were home, was sound asleep. I probably got in around midnight, maybe a tad later. Per usual, I went to her and my dad’s room to let her know I was home safe, and within curfew limits.

A vector illustration of a woman’s worrying.

At this time, I had a cream-colored, brass daybed, which contained a trundle bed underneath for my guests. My mom was very big on this, as well as having full designer control over my room in general. She insisted on a chair rail, floral wallpaper above it, and a solid “Disney blue” paint color below it, despite the fact I was almost 19. I managed to hang my James Dean posters and pictures on my closet walls, but the rest was out of my control. Any time we moved (which, tended to be a lot. My mother was never satisfied with where we were. She always wanted to go bigger, better, and more. And the first thing she always did when buying a new house was decorate my bedroom. It never mattered if it was my style or not, because it was her style for me. And what she said, went). But, on this night, the underbed mattress and pop-up box spring was not there. I’m pretty sure my mom had loaned it out, which again, I had no say in, so it didn’t really affect me.

With the absence of the underbed, though, meant a huge, wide-open space under my bed that I wasn’t used to. There was nothing stored under there, because it typically held a bed. Without it, it was just a whole lot of nothing. Had I had this bed during the Night Stalker’s presence, I would have been ecstatic. Lots of room to hide. But at this point, I couldn’t have cared less; I just wanted to go to sleep.

So, I get home, hang my purse, quickly splash my face with water, and prepare to wake my mother. I hadn’t even changed into my pajamas yet, because I didn’t want a lecture about being two minutes late. It was always better to let her know we were home first, before we did anything else, because she would definitely count the minutes to use against us. I stood in their doorway, ready for the flailing, deep sighs, and protestations to not do that to her after the third or fourth time I loudly said, “MOM!” Except, she didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, the first time I whispered to her, she silently sat straight up in her bed, as if she was being operated by a remote control, looked me dead in the eyes, raised her arm and pointed directly at me. She squinted her eyes and scrunched her nose (which was not typical, since she required bifocals and could otherwise not see two feet in front of her), and very calmy said, “I see the old lady. She’s peering at you from under your bed.” She then slowly laid back down, curled her blanket over herself, and went back to sleep.

I.Was.Stunned.

WHAT? What old lady? Was it Grammy? Was Grammy under my bed? And why was she peering at me? What was actually going on, and why was I involved? I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to make my Grammy mad (other than beat her at Jeopardy, which I did. And she wasn’t happy about it.) But in the afterlife, was Grammy still pissed I knew the calendar date that began the 20^th century?

Here I had all this new space under my bed, and now I have to think about my dead Grammy not only being under it, but peering at me as well? I stood in my parent’s doorway for what felt like a decade before heading to my room. When I opened my door, I immediately turned my light on and tried to see under my bed from across the room. It was dark under there, and I couldn’t see shit. Even with the light on. So…with my best Mary Lou Retton impression, I bounced from my doorway to my bed in one fell swoop. I don’t think my two feet even touched the ground before I was safely in the middle of my bed, curled into the fetal position, with the remote control to my TV in hand. Luckily, I had my own television, equipped with cable, in my bedroom. Sitting in the bright lights (which included my ceiling light, and a vanity light set next to my bed), I had also turned the TV on to soothe my wary soul.

Eyes wide open and constantly surveying, I watched MTV for the entire night, staying awake until the sun came up. My dad always woke early, and I knew once he was awake, I was likely safe. Still, I wasn’t ready to exit my bed, just in case Grammy was still there. When my mom woke up and saw my door open and my lights on, she asked me what I was doing (as I was still in the fetal position in the exact same spot I’d been for the last 8 hours). I told her I still hadn’t recovered from the night’s events before. She asked, “What events? What happened?’

I was aghast! How did she not remember what she said to me?

She had zero recollection and couldn’t believe the story I told her. She managed a “My goodness! That must have been scary.” YA THINK? YES, it was scary! It was terrifying! And then she said, “well…it certainly sounds like something my mother would do. Be sure to watch your step.”

This did not help! Be sure to watch my step? I needed to know if Grammy was coming for me, and if so, why? Then I thought, hmm…maybe it’s just Grammy having my back. Like I said, she was always really fond of my brother and me; maybe this was just her way of letting me know I wasn’t somebody to be messed with and she’d be under my bed if I ever needed her. That thought somehow gave me peace.

From then on, any time I made egg salad, or smelled potpourri, or saw an airplane in the sky, I thought of Grammy. I still do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t currently FULLY use the space under my bed for storage, negating any space for dead old ladies to reside.

I’m sure Grammy would approve.

Fear and Loathing in Long Beach

Anyone who lived in Southern California and/or the greater Los Angeles area during the months of June 1984, through August 1985, will immediately freeze, hunch, and have a story to tell if you mention the words “Night Stalker.” Who we originally referred to as “The Walk-In Killer,” The Night Stalker became a terrifying part of our lives for over a year, leaving us sleep-deprived, fearful, anxious prisoners to a reign of terror not seen in California since the Manson Family murders. It began during the summer of my transition from fifth grade to sixth. And it was tortuous.

For those who don’t know (though I find it hard to believe anyone could be unaware of one of the most notorious serial killers in recent history), Richard Ramirez was convicted of murdering 13 people, as well as 14 burglaries, 11 sexual assaults, and 5 attempted murders. I don’t like to refer to these types of people as monsters, because it gives them some element of fantasy instead of the cold, hard reality that awful people exist. This was a human man so filled with hate; he took it out on others who didn’t deserve it. Some people are just…bad. Without a conscience, without a heart, without a second thought for others and their humanity. He was a selfish waste of space. Monsters aren’t real; HE was real.

I can remember my classmates and I coming to school with black circles under our eyes because we couldn’t sleep the night before. There was so much lore surrounding him, such as: he looked for yellow houses off the freeway; he never went after kids, only their parents; he left a Satanic symbol at every kill site in the hopes of cursing any survivors (that one was actually true). He would kill in San Francisco one night, then Los Angeles the next (a 10-hour drive one way). We never knew where he was going to be, and the amount of anxiety it caused was unbearable.

At the time, I had a custom-made, wood canopy, single-sleep waterbed (I say custom because they typically did not make single waterbeds – they were a pain in the ass. All waterbeds were!) Because yes, waterbeds were DEFINITELY a thing! My parents had one, my brother had one, and I had one. With a waterbed comes a lot of pumps and gadgets and tubes, etc. These things are typically hidden under the bed, which is then enclosed by a wooden box for aesthetic reasons. All this to say, there is no space under the bed to hide or store things, because the space is taken up by all of these accoutrements. While no child (or even adult!) should have to map out an escape plan from a serial killer, in order to calm my mind, it was essential. I completed a full-scale drawing of my room, including where my bed was located, in order to carve out an escape route during the middle of the night, should he stumble upon our house. I decided that, because I was short and small, I could potentially cut into the side of the wood under my bed and hide myself amongst the waterbed paraphernalia. He would never think to look there, and I would outsmart him.

Ever elusive, he continued to terrorize our state for months on end. We sort of got used to it, because it was simply our reality. But none of us were the same. Always looking over our shoulder, always suspicious, and (to this day), always waking up at the same time every night when he would typically attack, hoping we weren’t next. As the months dragged on, we capitulated and went on about our normal lives.

As I’ve said before, both of my parents worked in education. My mom was a reading specialist who worked with myriad kids to bring literacy to life. At the end of the school year, educators are often given gifts by their students and parents to show their appreciation for the successes gained during those nine months. One year, my mom was gifted a fabulous gold key ring adorned with a whistle. It was old-timey and huge. It almost looked like a jailer’s keychain: it was a big round ring, with a whistle that dangled. It announced its presence with authority! I loved it so much and convinced her to put not only her school keys on it, but also her house and car keys, because if there was one thing my mother ALWAYS misplaced, it was her keys. I figured this thing was so big and so prominent, she’d never lose her keys again! Surprisingly, she agreed, and from then on, this big, gold-ringed keychain was canon.

Like most boys his age, my brother was a faithful Boy Scout, and my dad was one of his Scout leaders. Every year, they would travel to Camp Tahquitz for their annual week-long pilgrimage, with extended family (mom and sister in our case) welcome for the final night. This also meant that mom and sister were home alone for four nights during the week they were away. This was nothing new; they’d been going to Tahquitz for a few years already, and we appreciated the time without the boys in the house, if even just for a few days. I would always sleep with my mom in their glorious, king-sized waterbed, with the caveat that I was doing her a favor, when in actuality, it was one hundred percent for my peace of mind. This was amped ALL the way up when my brother and dad left during the killer crisis of ’85.

My dad was a depression baby. Though my grandparents were well-off for the times, my dad still had that mentality of waste not, want not. Save. Don’t spend what you don’t have, and don’t tax the environment by abusing its resources. He was the quintessential environmentalist, and did not take lightly to the Earth being abused. He was all about nature, and had been recycling and fighting for sustainability long before it was En Vogue. I can remember crushing cans with the “can crusher” since I was six years old. It really mattered to him, and I’m so grateful, because he passed it on to not only my brother and me, but our kids as well. In the same vein, he was vocal and clear about not using electricity when unnecessary. If he thought a light needn’t be on, he turned it off. Air conditioning? Only when temps hit 85 degrees Fahrenheit. Pool heater? NEVER.

Like many parents (and me, now), he’d often say, “We’re not trying to power the whole neighborhood! If you need light, go outside!” We were very much in the practice of having only the lights on in the room we were in, and turning them off when we left said room. Our laundry room was part of the detached garage, and he wouldn’t even let me turn the floodlights on in the back when it was my turn to take the wash out of the dryer, even though I was deathly afraid of the dark! Call me Forrest Gump, because I never moved so fast as when the laundry was done at night and it was my turn to bring it in.

To bring this all together, after a year of exhaustion, still gripped with fear, the upcoming trip to Tahquitz had my mom and me on edge. The boys were leaving us for five whole days and four whole nights while there was a psycho killer on the loose! Qu’est-ce que c’est? My tummy was full set to rumble, and I figured I’d puke at least one of the days they were gone due to my wildly unregulated nerves. And I did. But I had a good reason!

My mom and I devised a plan that the second my dad and brother were out of sight, we would turn on every single light we had, including the garage lights and the backyard floodlights. She said we’d worry about the aftermath later, but we were going to be so lit up that the Walk-In Killer wouldn’t dare approach our house because he’d be seen immediately. We had a very long driveway, with a carport next to the equally long porch to the front door, then a garage at the end of the drive. On the porch, there was your standard porch light, as well as a very bright emergency floodlight that pointed straight at the door, so there would be no trouble finding the doorknob and lock if necessary. We enabled that one, too. We did this during daylight hours, so we didn’t realize just how bright our house appeared until the sun went down. It looked like the house from Christmas Vacation on steroids. I’m surprised none of our neighbors complained!

We were feeling good! I actually breathed a sigh of relief for the first time in what felt like a lifetime and was not afraid to go to sleep for once! I was sure that for the first time in a year, I wouldn’t wake up petrified between the hours of 2am-4am (which is when he would typically strike). Being in the dark was bad, being in the light was good! No throwing up for THIS gal!

We went about our normal day, ran some errands, had dinner, watched TV, all the normal things you do on a boring summer day. When it was time for bed, I assured my mom I’d keep her safe by sleeping in her room with her, and she let me have the win. Hoo boy, when I tell you the true and glorious rest I got that night! I woke up so happy, feeling refreshed, knowing my next sleep would be the same because I felt.so.safe. I made my way into the kitchen for some cereal and was at the dining table when my mom came in and asked if I’d seen her keys. Her giant, gold, jailer’s ring keychain containing her car and house keys. I hadn’t seen them, but I wasn’t surprised. Like I said, she was always misplacing them and frantically looking for them (she usually didn’t realize they were missing until it was time to go, so she was always in a mad panic to find them. Saint Anthony can only do so much!)

We turned the house upside down and inside out and just couldn’t find them. We checked everything twice! They were simply nowhere to be found. Then I had the idea that she may have locked them in the car after we arrived home from our final errand the previous day. It wouldn’t have been the first time (and certainly not the last). We decided to walk out to the carport and check the two-toned Vanagon for signs of the big ol’ keychain. When I opened the front door, I heard a jingle.

My heart dropped and I immediately developed nervous toots. I knew exactly what that jingle was.

There, perfectly situated in the lock to the house, with the brightest floodlight possible shining directly on it, was her keychain. IN THE DOOR! Nothing says, “Welcome! Bienvenue! Come on in! See these lights shining on the locks?The DOOR IS OPEN! And when you’re all set, go ahead and take the Vanagon! It’s yours!” like leaving your eye-catching keyring with the keys to every bit of safety and security you have in your home dangling from the door.

I immediately threw up. And then I started to cry. Shout out to my inherent and ever-present panic and anxiety disorder!

We were both stunned and could do nothing other than look at each other, mouths agape. At the time, I had never been so mad as I was right then. My mom knew it and tried to smooth things over by saying, “well hey…we left him an open invitation and he left us alone! We live in a super safe neighborhood, so it all worked out, amirite?” I couldn’t WAIT for my dad to get home!

We continued with the lights for the next three nights (and I made sure to have eyes on my mother’s keys at every moment), and we made it through. But that security I felt that first night never returned. I was back to waking up between 2am-4am, planning my hiding spot, and sneaking into my brother’s room to sleep on his floor.

Richard Ramirez was arrested on August 31, 1985, in downtown Los Angeles after residents recognized him from the wanted pictures blasted across every media outlet and telephone pole. He had no idea he had been identified as the Night Stalker, and these HERO residents chased him and beat him senseless until the police arrived. He died on June 7, 2013 and every single person I grew up with who understood our shared Hell rejoiced. This sigh of relief was REAL. It was over. Finally.

Still, I will never have an unlocked window, I will always know where my keys are, I’ll never live in a yellow house by the freeway (just in case!) and have accepted the fact that I will instinctively wake between the hours of 2am-4am for the rest of my life.

Student Council

Since I was a child, I’ve been civic-minded and understood the importance of making my voice heard at the polls, thanks in large part to my outspoken, politically active parents. They taught me well, and I always believed them to be on the best side of the often-jagged party fence. Anyone who knows me, knows where I stand…even my handedness aligns. They instilled in my brother and me the importance of community, human rights, giving back, and appreciating and acknowledging the good things you have, no matter what they may be. All this to say, even though we were very comfortable, material things were never as important as service to others was, and to this day, I appreciate those values. While I may never get past my good, old-fashioned, well-earned Irish-Catholic guilt, I’ve got the giving going for me. Which is nice. I hope I’ve instilled the same in my kids (not the guilt part!), because it makes this life a much more enjoyable ride.

We were also taught to treat others the way we would like to be treated, even when others don’t treat you the same in return. Well…have I got a story about that! But first, student council.

The elementary school I attended was split into two sides: the “Big Side” and the “Little Side.” The Little Side consisted of grades 1-3, and the Big Side made up grades 4-6, and the sides were separated by a cage-covered bridge (so, on two separate properties, with a street in between). When we were on the Little Side, we often wondered of the untold magic that was on the ‘Other Side,’ as if the bridge somehow would transport us into some grown-up world of secret knowledge and sophistication. The truth is, given the size of the state and city we lived in, it was simply a necessity to split the two buildings for crowd efficiency.

But it wasn’t until you got to the Big Side that you could run for student council. When I got to fourth grade, I hit the ground running. In fourth grade, you could run for Secretary of Treasury, in fifth grade, Vice President, and sixth grade, President. And, in order to garner votes and get your name out there, the school put on an assembly where the candidates performed skits they wrote for votes. Well…needless to say, this was my WHEELHOUSE! Write? Cast? Direct? PERFORM? Sign me up!

As a candidate, we were able to pick between 4-6 people we wanted to be in our skit. I forever chose my BFF’s, plus two (I had such an amazing group of girlfriends for whom I will always be grateful). I remember feeling like The Godfather, as friends in my class came to me bearing gifts, requests, and reasons why they deserved to be part of my skit. If I haven’t mentioned it before (but will mention forever more until therapy finally releases me from the burden), I was what, at the time, was considered “gifted.”

As young kids, we were subjected to an IQ test (which I took the first time with a 103-degree fever, likely explaining how my goofy ass got in), that determined whether we would be part of the GATE program (Gifted and Talented Education) or the regular, normal, well-adjusted ‘others.’ Needless to say, the ‘others’ (they weren’t. We were.) were not very fond of us, and us ‘gifted’ kids were stuck together for seven years in the same group; same kindergarten class, first grade class, second grade class, etc. etc. etc., until junior high. We KNEW each other because we’d all been together since we were five.

For my skits, it generally ended up being the same six people every time, and every time, WE DELIVERED! (Huge shoutout to Melissa’s dad, Dave, who remains one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. He helped out, wrote hilarious material, and always turned our funny into hilarious.) It was the skits that got you votes.

And I got the votes.

Much as I hate to admit, part of my devotion to said civil service was the fact we got out of class to go to meetings. As good as I was at school, I wasn’t that interested in it. I was bored, tired, and would have rather discussed the theater rehearsal I’d been to the night before. I LOVE to learn, and I continue to pursue it to this day, but the traditional method of it has endlessly frustrated me. I’m that person who loved exam days in college, because it meant I could go in, take the test, then leave. Give me the info, let me take it in, then leave me be.

Now, this is where I’ll mention that I am a natural redhead. When I was born, it looked like someone had dipped a paintbrush in a bucket of red and painted the top of my head with it. It has gotten less intense over the years, but is still very much red and, to brag, I have never had to dye it or seen a gray hair in my 50-some years (look…I’m an otherwise walking recessive gene, so the fact my hair has stayed itself is a major win in my book).

While I’ve heard told of my fellow gingers being taunted and teased over the color of their hair, I never was. I loved (and still do) being a redhead and with my bounty of youthful insecurities, my hair was never one of them. There were times I cursed how thick it was because I couldn’t wear a cute ponytail or side braids like my friends (bless the trend of the messy bun), but the color was what made me…me.

When I say I was never taunted or teased over my hair, I meant before that dreaded day in sixth grade when on my way to perform my job as president of the student council.

Fresh off my win, I was feeling great and ready to replace the water fountains with Coca-Cola and have hour-long recesses implemented like I’d promised during my campaign. Mostly, I just couldn’t wait to get out of class, where my teacher was often exasperated by me, repeatedly telling me, “I don’t know HOW you’re going to make it in junior high.” She also told me girls are bad at math so it didn’t surprise her that I had trouble with my 12s times tables, which stuck with me, so she can get bent.

It’s funny how some things just stay with us. Just a friendly reminder here to not be a dick and be kind to others. It’s not hard!

Giddy to know my meeting was about to start, I dropped my multiplication chart and gathered my things, ready to saunter off to the auditorium. The Big Side was entirely outside. There were no halls, no cafeteria, and every door to every classroom lead to the always sunny outdoors. This meant that when kids from other classes got in trouble, some of the teachers would sit them outside the door against the hot, stucco-adorned wall as punishment. Like a time-out for big kids. I say “other classes” because I can’t recall any of us getting banished to the outside. We probably just got more homework, or a stern, “you’re never going to amount to anything, and it will be your fault” instead.

An angry teacher holding a composition book and pointing a ruler.

Again, the other students were not very fond of us (and very aware of where our lone classrom was), and had no problem making it known. Most of them just ignored us, but every now and then there would be a comment made or a book bag thrown. That never bothered me because I got it. We could barely stand ourselves. But I never went out of my way to make anyone feel bad, and I never would because that’s mean, and I don’t like mean.

Dressed in my super cute blue jumper with a white tee underneath and very big, black rope, Mickey Mouse statement necklace I thought set me apart from the rest, I exited the classroom door, which was at the corner; the first of the following sixth grade classrooms. With a pep in my step, I took in the sunshine with a smile on my face, excited about all the change I was going to make for our school and my peers (which was none. I made none.)

Two doors down, I noticed a boy sitting outside his classroom door and I knew he must have done something to earn his big kid time-out. I wanted to offer solidarity because screw authority, amirite? I didn’t know his crime, but I was sympathetic to his time. As I gleefully approached, I just knew a smile and a nod would help make his already crappy day just a little better. I felt so good about myself for even thinking of this gesture, and was ready for his appreciation of such a kind deed.

I strolled up, nodded, and gave my best close-lipped smile (I didn’t want him to think I was relishing in his punishment with a big ol’ toothy grin. I read the room, and this was the way to go). I was ready for his nod and smile back, but that’s not at all what I got. Instead? I got:

“Hey yo, FUCK YOU, ANNIE!”

Did he….did he just refer to me as Little Orphan Annie? Did he mistake my kindness for gingerness? Did he just insult MY HAIR??? When I tell you how the pep immediately left my step.

What did I do to him? I nodded! I close-lipped smiled! I was on.his.side! And he’s going to come at me with THIS? Needless to say, I wasn’t quite as exuberant the rest of the way. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I did to make him so mad. The only thing I could come up with is that he definitely did the crime and ABSOLUTELY deserved the time!

There was only one other time, at the same elementary school, that someone insulted me over my hair. My best friend and I were sitting on the lawn waiting for my mom to pick us up, and at random, two boys came over to bug us. We weren’t having it and we made it known, so one said to me, “I’d rather be dead, than red on the head” and the other said to my best friend, “Your mom lives in a two-story Doritos bag.” And, well….I can’t stop laughing about it to this day. My brother often reminds me that he, too, would rather be dead than red on the head, and the giggle I get from it immediately puts the pep back in my step.

The Time I Broke My Ass

When I was a kid growing up in Southern California, my family would often take mini-vacations. Both of my parents worked in education, which meant summers off and the same school vacations my brother and I had. When we were kids, this was a blessing (not so much when we were older and wanted our summers to ourselves sans parents, but still).

At the time, I fancied myself a seasoned world traveler, even though our destinations were typically a 2-10-hour drive from our house (except for the time we flew to Mexico City and Guadalajara and my brother and I were *thisclose* to being electrocuted in a pool and we all caught a case of ‘Montezuma’s Revenge.’ But we’ll get to that later. You’re welcome in advance.)

California was cool like that, because you could find yourself in the desert, the mountains, or historical forests that resembled those you read about in fairytales in the time it takes to sit through a crappy movie you wasted too much money on, without the requisite “buttered popcorn” bellyache that always seemed to follow. At least for me anyway (I told you I had a weak stomach). We had a few “regular” places we visited. We would camp at the same grounds in Santa Barbara, stay in the same tiny, off-the-beaten-path, incredibly charming motel where we were on a first name basis with the owners in Palm Desert, and the same rustic chalet in Bass Lake.

Bass Lake, CA, USA, April 11, 2023: Waterscape, beautiful sunset on Bass Lake.

Fun fact about Bass Lake: the classic 80s film ‘The Great Outdoors’ starring the incomparable John Candy and Dan Akroyd (along with one of my earliest 80s crushes, Chris Young) was filmed in the EXACT tiny town we used to stay. One year when we arrived, my brother and I saw flyers posted all over the little village (which looked more like an Old West movie set) alerting townsfolk and visitors that said movie was being filmed there and if anyone wanted to be in it as an extra, they were welcome, without pay. We were beyond excited and I immediately began writing my “Best Extra in a Movie Ever” Academy Award acceptance speech, only to learn filming had wrapped the week before and they had just forgotten to take down the flyers.

As disappointing as this was, I did take some comfort in knowing had I been given the opportunity, I totally would have snagged that Oscar.

As I said, we used to stay in the same chalet every time we went, but this particular time, my parents decided they wanted to shake things up a bit and surprised us with a fancy, technically ‘three-story’ chalet. I felt like royalty…”What did you do on your Spring Break?” they’d ask when I returned to school. “Who me? Oh, my family and I stayed in this darling three-story chalet on the lake for a week. No big deal. It’s just how we do things.”

In actuality, it wasn’t much bigger than the previous chalet we used to stay in but it had stairs and for some reason, I’ve always had a thing for stairs. I love them. I will always love them. Not necessarily in buildings when I have to walk six flights because I’m afraid of elevators and am immediately reminded I desperately need to remove the clothes currently hanging on my treadmill because I’m short of breath after the first five steps, but in houses (or chalets)? Absolutely. I don’t think I’ll ever NOT be excited when I see a staircase. I make no apologies.

Back to my family’s regal chalet…yes, it had three stories. However, those three stories were made up of a main floor, which is where the front door, kitchen, living room, pull-out couch, door to the deck, and TV were (another thing about me…I must be able to locate the TV and the bathroom in any and EVERY place I visit before I do anything else.) It sounds palatial, but all of this was crammed into about 700 square feet of space. Behind the couch was a staircase (YES!) which led to the master (and only) bedroom and bathroom.

The space below was about as big as the main floor, which for a single room and bathroom seemed pretty big to me, plus, I had to use the STAIRS to get to the bathroom. I was enchanted.

“But what about that third story?”

When we first walked into the chalet, we did notice a hand-crafted wooden ladder affixed to the wall as we surveyed our cooking space, whether or not the TV was equipped with a VHS VCR (though my dad preferred Beta-Max…he was always on the cusp of the best technology, and very disappointed that VHS won out), and which one between my brother and me was going to get the couch-bed or the floor. Once we dropped our luggage and settled in a bit, we realized the decorative ladder actually led to a nice-sized loft, equipped with a bed, electrical outlet and window overlooking the lake. My brother called dibs before I could even open my mouth. I cried foul, but my parents rationalized that he was, after all, three years older than me, and my time to climb through the tree-house-like hole into nirvana would come soon enough.

Well, I don’t think an explanation is necessary when I say I was livid. LIVID! Not only did he get stairs in the form of a cool ladder and an entrance that resembled crawling through a secret passageway that led to untold treasures, he won. Just because he was older? No matter how many benefits there are to being the “baby” of the family (and there are many), there were just as many injustices (in my mind).

At the time, I was 13 and my brother was 16. Did my parents not understand how much effort and time went into looking as ridiculous as I did? (I mean, it was the 80s. I had bangs that went on for days thanks to my curling iron and cans upon flame-inducing cans of AquaNet, and a VERY specific makeup routine I would begin hours in advance of anyone else waking up because clearly, the entire world was looking at and/or judging me if it wasn’t on point. I would have sooner become a hermit than drag the trash to the curb without my “face” on at that age. This was serious business.)

Once my brother called it, he wasted no time in setting up camp in “his loft.” Oooh, did that burn. He was rubbing it in my face! (No, he wasn’t.) On a side note, I absolutely believe in karma. However, when it came to my brother when I was 13, that wasn’t necessarily the case. I mean after all, I got the pull-out couch WITH the TV/VCR. I had the power to change the channel or press pause at will. But at the time, I clearly didn’t appreciate the bigger picture. Had I thought about it before acting upon my childish behavior disguised as teen angst, I would have realized I made out WAY better. I HAD THE REMOTE! (That’s another thing about me. While most people have a security blanket or plush stuffed toy, my comfort comes in the form of holding the remote. I know, but it is what it is.)

Apparently, that wasn’t enough for my goofy, newly-teenaged self. No. I had to go and climb that ladder, pop through the passageway and make my way to my brother’s space, solely for the purpose of annoying the shit out of him in a tantrum-filled brat attack.

It didn’t end well.

As my brother tried desperately to ignore me by listening to his “heavy-metal rock music” on his super sweet Sony walkman, I refused to give up the fight. I was on my game that day for sure. I taunted, teased, messed with his stuff, and talked so loudly (which isn’t hard for me to do), I overpowered his music until he finally responded with a resounding, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

What I didn’t realize was that as I was taunting, teasing, messing with his stuff and loudly vocalizing my righteous indignation, I was also moving my body back inch by inch, with no regard for the opening to the loft. Oblivious to my impending doom, I continued to match my laughter with his increasing frustration until suddenly, the world around me came to a slow-motion halt.

Up until this point, I had been positioned on my knees with my arms on the ground for support in a typical snot-nosed, little sister pose. When I felt I had sufficiently irritated him to the point of defeat, I began to move my arms from in front of me to the back in order to sit on my bum and relish in the ruin I had created. Except that while my bum was searching for a safe place to land, it very painfully learned there wasn’t one. Instead, there was only the open space leading to the handcrafted ladder below the opening to the loft.

In what I remember as taking hours because I watched the entire incident in a my-entire-life-flashing-before-my-eyes montage, I fell through that hole, ass first, onto the cold, cheapest-carpet-ever covered cement floor.

Illustration of woman falling from the sky, surreal abstract concept

Oh, and I managed to kick my dad square in the face on my way down.

My dad had a habit of getting mad when he was scared. Whenever my brother or I got hurt, his first response was to yell, because he was afraid. What’s funny is, he never yelled at either one of us when he was actually mad. Instead, he would raise his hand in the air and silently begin counting on his fingers – one….two….thr-…I don’t think he ever actually got to three because my brother and I would get to our rooms as fast as possible because we knew we were in trouble.

My parents didn’t believe in spanking (phew!) but it was customary for my dad to “ground” us to our room for five minutes. FIVE MINUTES! As kids, this seemed like an eternity and we couldn’t believe what a meanie our dad could be. I remember asking my dad when I was older what he would’ve done had he actually gotten to five on his fingers, and my brother and I didn’t move? He deadpanned, “Counted to six.”

With arms akimbo and a generous amount of flailing, I managed to land with a perfect thud right on my coccyx, effectively cracking the bone upon my (dis)graceful dismount. Usually when people say they “busted their ass” while doing something, it’s considered admirable. They worked hard, put in countless hours, sacrificed their time and energy in an effort to deliver successful, high-quality results. However, in my case, I literally busted my ass. I suppose I did work hard doing it – taunting your older brother can take a lot out of a gal.

I don’t know if people regularly consider how often they use their butts (although, what people do on their own time with their butts is none of my business), but in terms of effective body functionality, it’s a lot. Most of us sit down for a good portion of the day, whether at school, work, or home on the couch binge-watching the latest, greatest show on Bravo. At the time, I was in seventh grade. What is now referred to as middle school was known as junior high back in those days, and it’s quite possibly THE WORST TIME in an adolescent’s young life, largely due to a little thing called puberty.

Everything matters during these formative years. On top of the rollercoaster of emotions that shift on a dime, your body is constantly changing, not necessarily in unison, your skin can’t decide if it wants to be dry, oily, clear or broken out, and others’ opinions of you matter more than anyone is ever willing to admit. Sure, it would be great to say I was 100% comfortable in my own skin at 13 and whether or not people liked me for me was irrelevant because I liked myself so much. As lovely as that sounds, it just wasn’t the case. Image. Was. Everything. and I had no intention of singling myself out just because I broke my ass.

Given we were in such an isolated vacation spot when it happened, there wasn’t a hospital nearby and my parents figured it was probably just a bad bruise that a little ice and some time on the couch could effectively fix. My mom would have been the first to tell you I was the type of kid who would complain about a hangnail for a month, but when it came to a broken bone or other such injury, I kept fairly quiet, only mentioning in passing that it still “felt a little sore.” When I was 11, I fractured my left wrist (which happens to be the hand I write with) and didn’t see a doctor for a week because I made such a small deal about it. And really, after the initial incident, it didn’t hurt all that much. It just kind of ached. When we found out it was, in fact, fractured, my mom went ahead and filled out the forms for Mother of the Year herself. Pretty sure I got a new Culture Club tape and a couple boxes of sugar cereal (an absolute no-no in our granola/carob chip/healthy food only household) out of the ordeal, because she felt so bad. Who was I to look a Count Chocula in the mouth?

As I lay on the couch in the chalet, I was in so much pain I couldn’t even speak, but I had ‘The Goonies’ (and my new crush Sean Astin…Chris Young, who??) to distract me as my family went about enjoying our vacation in the great outdoors, checking on me in between activities. It wasn’t until we arrived home that I went to see the doctor because I was having trouble even standing upright. No amount of ibuprofen or Tylenol was helping with the pain and the mere thought of sitting down brought insta-tears to my eyes and a tsunami-sized wave of nausea. I’m fairly certain I threw up a couple of times, but it could have been for totally unrelated reasons because that was just how I rolled back in the day. Thankfully, my dad had a very strong stomach and never uttered a complaint when I puked (I very rarely made it to an actual bucket or toilet, which meant my dad was usually saddled with cleaning up the aftermath.) The only thing he couldn’t handle was when we were sticky, which for some reason, cracks me up. He’d had students vomit all over his desk, into his trash cans, and on his boat, (not to mention his own daughter tossing her groceries anywhere and everywhere like it was her job) but the second we had sticky fingers, he passed us off to mom. My mom didn’t mind the sticky, but had a hard time with puke, so you know…quid pro quo.

Upon examination, the doctor confirmed that I had, indeed, fractured my coccyx. The only problem was, you can’t really put a cast on an ass, and you can’t avoid putting pressure on it because even when you’re lying down, your bum is still in use. I knew I would get at least a few days off from school until I was able to at least stand up without wincing, but I would eventually have to return to those dreaded, grooved, saddleback wooden chairs attached to each desk in every classroom. I wondered how this was going to happen because like I said, you can’t cast an ass (although if they could have, I would have dropped out of school then and there and never looked back). I asked the doctor if sitting in school would delay the healing process and he seemed to get really excited.

Huh? Why was he excited about this? Was he taking some kind of sick pleasure in my broken butt? With a great big smile and a look that suggested he had a wonderful surprise in store for me, he said, “It would affect the healing process if you sat directly on the wooden chair, but lucky for you…you get to use THIS!” I still shudder when I recall what he presented me, all as he seemed to believe I would be just thrilled.

It was an inflatable donut that I was supposed to carry around with me and set on my chair during each class. It wasn’t just any inflatable donut (which was already horrifying enough). No. It was an inflatable donut with images of Donald Duck all over it. DONALD.FLIPPIN.DUCK! I sat there, mouth agape, eyebrows raised, staring at this reputation-ruining ass-pad; the doctor seemed to mistake my expression as one of delight. He exclaimed, “I know! Isn’t it fun? You’ll be the coolest kid in school! Who doesn’t love Donald Duck?” I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Me. I don’t love Donald Duck.”

Look, I don’t have anything against him and sure, I enjoyed him very much as a little kid, with a very strong emphasis on little. (We’ll get to that later. As I said, karma is a crafty mistress.) I just didn’t love him in the form of a rubber accessory to go with my meticulously crafted hair/makeup/clothing ensemble. In what warped, twisted universe did this guy think I would be the coolest kid in school walking around with a Donald Duck donut tucked under my arm? Like I wouldn’t then have to explain WHY I had the damn thing in the first place, which would have been humiliating enough. Falling out of a loft while taunting your older brother resulting in a fractured ass bone is not necessarily the kind of thing that wins popularity points, if you get where I’m going with this.

Needless to say, I didn’t use the donut. Instead, I spent the rest of the school year pretending to pay attention in class while acting like I wasn’t in excruciating pain, and that the only reason I moved so much was to show off the Guess label affixed to the pocket of my ultra-trendy acid washed jeans that matched one of my Forenza tees. In hindsight, I understand I should have just sucked it up, sat on the damn thing, and spun that shit to my advantage, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this entire experience, it’s that my ass has never been the same. Well, that…and the fact I’m still, and forever, infatuated with Sean Astin.