Present
As of New Year’s Eve of this year, I will be out of a job. My company got bought out by another company and they decided that two corporate offices were one too many. They’re moving all operations to their current corporate office in another state. That’s okay, I’m actually pretty happy about the whole thing. I get a nice fat severance package and a chance to work at a new company that isn’t infested with cranky old women.
Past
My brothers were always a bit rough on me growing up. I could swear that my oldest brother thought the purpose of my birth was to provide him with a personal punching bag. Considering that I was the youngest and only girl, everyone always assumed that my two older brothers would be my loving protectors. LOL, yeah, that very rarely happened.
I actually have quite a few facial scars that I can contribute to my brothers. The scar between my brows was caused by my oldest brother pushing my face into the corner of my grandparents’ old record player. We were playing blind man’s bluff and I was the blind man. I got within an inch of tagging him and he decided that losing to his younger sister was not an option. He smashed my face into the massive 60’s made stereo, which was the size of a couch, then claimed it was my fault for bumping into him too hard. He always had some lame excuse up his sleeve. I have another scar on the top of my right brow from when he smashed my face into a wall. Not sure the reason for that incident. Many times during my childhood I suffered fat lips at his hands. One time he pushed my face into the wooden arm rest of my grandfather’s recliner, got a fat lip and a loose tooth that time. Thank goodness I still had all my baby teeth or his ass would’ve been grass. I eventually got my oldest brother back. I locked all the doors to my grandparents’ house one day and wouldn’t let him in. He got so pissed that he put his fist through a glass pane in the kitchen screen door. I laughed in his face as the blood dripped down from the massive open gash in his arm.
My other brother wasn’t quite as brutal. However, his one major assault did land me in the emergency room. I had a hold of my brother’s keychain and wouldn’t give it up. He chased me throughout the house screaming for me to give it back. When he finally caught up to me, he smashed my head against a door frame. I felt pressure against my head and a ringing sound but I managed to right myself and give him a big smile as if to say, “fuck you, you ain’t getting the best of me.” It was then that I saw the terror in my brother’s face. I suddenly felt a wet, tingling sensation from the top of my head and realized that blood was pouring down my face. Since my grandmother couldn’t drive, she called my mother at work to pick me up and take me to the hospital. It took my mother all of 10 minutes to haul ass across the river from the bar in Harrisburg. She came into the house, took one look at my brother and said, “I’ll deal with you when I get back,” then grabbed my ass and threw me in the back of her green Ford Pinto station wagon and took off. I was fine in the end, just a few stitches and a permanent dent on the top of my head that my husband is completely fascinated with. He rubs my dent from time to time and claims he can feel my brain. He’s so full of shit.
There’s one scar that I’m not sure about. It’s a small one, about ¾ of an inch long on my scalp line near my left temple. I can feel a crack in my skull right were the scar is at. Sometimes it hurts when there’s a bad rainstorm. I think my brothers figured that if I couldn’t remember how it happened, there’s no reason to tell me.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Entry Eight
Present
Friday after work, some young guy (early 20’s) tried to chat me up on the bus ride home. I had my headphones on and reading Hot Water Music, usually that’s a good indication to anyone that I don’t want to be fucking bothered. This guy just didn’t get the hint. He asked me what I reading, I told him it was Bukowski. He gave me a “who the fuck is Bukowski?” look and asked if I was reading for pleasure or for school. LOL, I almost laughed in his face. I wanted to tell him that I was 37 and the last time I was in school was when I graduated from college in 97. I just told him it was for pleasure and ignored him from there. I’m such a bitch sometimes.
Past
When I was 24 I moved into my first apartment located just south of downtown Denver. Prior to that I had lived with my best friend and her husband for about 6 months, then for a few months with a man I was seeing at the time. The independence I felt with having my own apartment and living by myself for the first time in my life was amazing. I know that 24 is an advanced age for someone achieving autonomy. Keep in mind, my mother had forced me into a life of servitude at a very young age, so breaking free from her grasp and getting out on my own was a huge task for me.
I didn’t have much when I moved in. Just two suitcases full of clothes, a couple of CD’s, a CD player, a towel, some toiletries, a blanket my friend gave me and an inflatable mattress which later ended up with a huge hole in it after a long night of aggressive sex. I had no groceries, no furniture, no TV, no phone…just an empty apartment. But I didn’t give a shit. There could have been a crack dealer living next door and I would have cared less. Which by the way, ended up happening about a year later.
The night I moved in I decided to celebrate by going down the street to 7-11 for a diet coke and a magazine. It was a Sunday so no liquor stores were open, otherwise I would have been drunk already. As I was walking past a car wash I noticed an old man in a wheelchair pushing himself backwards with one foot. As I got closer, I noticed the old man was probably in his 70’s, both of his arms and hands were curled up to his chest and it was obvious that his other leg was nonfunctional. His presence definitely threw me. I knew I was living in a bad neighborhood to begin with, so seeing druggies and homeless folks were no big deal. But to see an old cripple pushing himself down the street late on a Sunday night just seemed so bizarre and out of place. I immediately came up to him and asked if he needed help. I asked where he lived and offered to push his wheelchair home. His reaction to my hospitality didn’t seem to go over well. His body began to jerk and twist and I heard him mumble something along the lines of “fuck off”. At that point I decided to leave him be and watched him push himself across the street towards a run down apartment complex just up the street from my own apartment.
For the next couple of years, I would catch the old man here and there around the neighborhood. He spent most of his time at the car wash bumming cigs from the Mexican attendants. I also saw him at the Walgreens down the street one day, cashing in his monthly disability check. A friend of his was there to assist with the transaction. I stood in line behind them, watching the piss slosh around in the portable urinal hanging off the back of his wheelchair. All I could think was how much of a fucked up life this poor bastard must have had.
Two years later, I got married and moved into a new apartment north of Denver. One night my husband and I were watching a documentary on HBO called Without Pity: A Film About Abilities narrated by Christopher Reeves. The old man was one of the people featured on the doc. I couldn’t believe it. The old, crippled man was now a celebrity of sorts. I watched the documentary, listened to his story and learned his name for the first time. His name was Frank McColm Jr and he was born with cerebral palsy. At the age of 13, Frank’s father institutionalized him in the State Home and Training Center in Wheat Ridge, CO. Frank lived in that facility for over 40 years and was subject to physical and mental abuse throughout that time. Through the assistance of a disability advocacy group, he was able to move out of the facility and into his own apartment. He was always terrified that someone would send him back to the institution and he constantly feared social workers that came to visit. He lived on his own until his death at the age of 84 back in January of 2007.
Friday after work, some young guy (early 20’s) tried to chat me up on the bus ride home. I had my headphones on and reading Hot Water Music, usually that’s a good indication to anyone that I don’t want to be fucking bothered. This guy just didn’t get the hint. He asked me what I reading, I told him it was Bukowski. He gave me a “who the fuck is Bukowski?” look and asked if I was reading for pleasure or for school. LOL, I almost laughed in his face. I wanted to tell him that I was 37 and the last time I was in school was when I graduated from college in 97. I just told him it was for pleasure and ignored him from there. I’m such a bitch sometimes.
Past
When I was 24 I moved into my first apartment located just south of downtown Denver. Prior to that I had lived with my best friend and her husband for about 6 months, then for a few months with a man I was seeing at the time. The independence I felt with having my own apartment and living by myself for the first time in my life was amazing. I know that 24 is an advanced age for someone achieving autonomy. Keep in mind, my mother had forced me into a life of servitude at a very young age, so breaking free from her grasp and getting out on my own was a huge task for me.
I didn’t have much when I moved in. Just two suitcases full of clothes, a couple of CD’s, a CD player, a towel, some toiletries, a blanket my friend gave me and an inflatable mattress which later ended up with a huge hole in it after a long night of aggressive sex. I had no groceries, no furniture, no TV, no phone…just an empty apartment. But I didn’t give a shit. There could have been a crack dealer living next door and I would have cared less. Which by the way, ended up happening about a year later.
The night I moved in I decided to celebrate by going down the street to 7-11 for a diet coke and a magazine. It was a Sunday so no liquor stores were open, otherwise I would have been drunk already. As I was walking past a car wash I noticed an old man in a wheelchair pushing himself backwards with one foot. As I got closer, I noticed the old man was probably in his 70’s, both of his arms and hands were curled up to his chest and it was obvious that his other leg was nonfunctional. His presence definitely threw me. I knew I was living in a bad neighborhood to begin with, so seeing druggies and homeless folks were no big deal. But to see an old cripple pushing himself down the street late on a Sunday night just seemed so bizarre and out of place. I immediately came up to him and asked if he needed help. I asked where he lived and offered to push his wheelchair home. His reaction to my hospitality didn’t seem to go over well. His body began to jerk and twist and I heard him mumble something along the lines of “fuck off”. At that point I decided to leave him be and watched him push himself across the street towards a run down apartment complex just up the street from my own apartment.
For the next couple of years, I would catch the old man here and there around the neighborhood. He spent most of his time at the car wash bumming cigs from the Mexican attendants. I also saw him at the Walgreens down the street one day, cashing in his monthly disability check. A friend of his was there to assist with the transaction. I stood in line behind them, watching the piss slosh around in the portable urinal hanging off the back of his wheelchair. All I could think was how much of a fucked up life this poor bastard must have had.
Two years later, I got married and moved into a new apartment north of Denver. One night my husband and I were watching a documentary on HBO called Without Pity: A Film About Abilities narrated by Christopher Reeves. The old man was one of the people featured on the doc. I couldn’t believe it. The old, crippled man was now a celebrity of sorts. I watched the documentary, listened to his story and learned his name for the first time. His name was Frank McColm Jr and he was born with cerebral palsy. At the age of 13, Frank’s father institutionalized him in the State Home and Training Center in Wheat Ridge, CO. Frank lived in that facility for over 40 years and was subject to physical and mental abuse throughout that time. Through the assistance of a disability advocacy group, he was able to move out of the facility and into his own apartment. He was always terrified that someone would send him back to the institution and he constantly feared social workers that came to visit. He lived on his own until his death at the age of 84 back in January of 2007.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Entry Seven
Present
I re-read all my previous entries last night and I’m totaling appalled as to how bad of a writer I really am. Everything is so monotone, sterile and a bit depressing at times. My writing definitely lacks soul and my grammatical skills are shite. Oh well, I knew I wasn’t going to write a classical piece of literature going into this project.
On a brighter note, today’s Friday.
On a shitty note, DNC comes to town on Monday. It’s going to be hell getting in and out of the city all week. Fucking Democrats… Oh yeah, I am a Democrat. Lucky me.
Past
His name is George Emil Banks. He worked as a prison guard at a prison in Camp Hill and came into my mother’s bar from time to time after work for a few drinks and to chat. I think my mother may have actually first met him at the prison he worked at but I can’t say for sure. I saw him in the bar a few times but I never interacted with him like my mother’s other regulars. One night, after work, my mother was giving a girlfriend a ride home with me sitting in the back seat. My mother spotted George walking alone in the dark and she pulled over to see if he needed a ride. She chatted with him a bit but he ended up declining her offer for a ride and went on his way. As soon as my mother started driving away I heard her tell her girlfriend how she never really trusted George and thought he was a bit crazy. She told her friend that he had about a half dozen kids with a half dozen women and how some of them actually lived together. She also mentioned the fact that he always seemed very strict and sexist towards women in general.
Several years later, after we moved to Charleston, SC, my mother’s girlfriend called her one day to say that George went psycho up in Wilkes-Barre and shot up a bunch of people. Turned out, George snapped after mixing some pills with alcohol (not to mention the fact that he was a bit mentally unstable to begin with) and decided one day to just shoot the fuck out of everyone. He killed a total of 13 people, including most of his girlfriends and children. He was convicted and ended up on death row. A couple of months after the conviction, he called my mother collect from prison. I’m not sure if she accepted the charges.
I re-read all my previous entries last night and I’m totaling appalled as to how bad of a writer I really am. Everything is so monotone, sterile and a bit depressing at times. My writing definitely lacks soul and my grammatical skills are shite. Oh well, I knew I wasn’t going to write a classical piece of literature going into this project.
On a brighter note, today’s Friday.
On a shitty note, DNC comes to town on Monday. It’s going to be hell getting in and out of the city all week. Fucking Democrats… Oh yeah, I am a Democrat. Lucky me.
Past
His name is George Emil Banks. He worked as a prison guard at a prison in Camp Hill and came into my mother’s bar from time to time after work for a few drinks and to chat. I think my mother may have actually first met him at the prison he worked at but I can’t say for sure. I saw him in the bar a few times but I never interacted with him like my mother’s other regulars. One night, after work, my mother was giving a girlfriend a ride home with me sitting in the back seat. My mother spotted George walking alone in the dark and she pulled over to see if he needed a ride. She chatted with him a bit but he ended up declining her offer for a ride and went on his way. As soon as my mother started driving away I heard her tell her girlfriend how she never really trusted George and thought he was a bit crazy. She told her friend that he had about a half dozen kids with a half dozen women and how some of them actually lived together. She also mentioned the fact that he always seemed very strict and sexist towards women in general.
Several years later, after we moved to Charleston, SC, my mother’s girlfriend called her one day to say that George went psycho up in Wilkes-Barre and shot up a bunch of people. Turned out, George snapped after mixing some pills with alcohol (not to mention the fact that he was a bit mentally unstable to begin with) and decided one day to just shoot the fuck out of everyone. He killed a total of 13 people, including most of his girlfriends and children. He was convicted and ended up on death row. A couple of months after the conviction, he called my mother collect from prison. I’m not sure if she accepted the charges.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Entry Six
Present
I started reading Bukowski again. I haven’t read him in over a year, right before I stopped drinking. I think I’ve avoided his books for a while because of the intense urge to get drunk while reading them, and that’s something I don’t want to get into again.
I was actually looking for Max Brooke’s Zombie Survival Guide at the bookstore (which they didn’t have) when my eyes caught the Bukowski section on the next bookshelf. I was immediately drawn to Hot Water Music. I knew I was missing a couple of his books of short stories; this was definitely one of them. It feels good to read him again, calms my soul a bit. I have two more books of his on my self that I haven’t read yet, Factotum and The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (another book of short stories, read a few of them but not all). I’ll have to get started on those when I’m done with this one.
Past
During the ages of 4 through 6, my father was stationed overseas in Italy. During that time we lived with my paternal grandparents in Camp Hill, PA, while my mother lived across the river in an apartment in Harrisburg. We usually only saw her on the weekends and most of that time was spent hanging out at the bar she worked. My mother worked as a barmaid and bookkeeper for crazy fucking Greek named Frank. Frank was definitely a character. He spent most of his days cursing at my mother in Greek (I still know a few of the words to this day) and throwing insults at her…usually about her weight. I can’t tell you how many times I heard my mother threaten to quit, only to have Frank apologize and beg her to stay. They usually ended their arguments with a shot of Ouzo. My mother met quite a few interesting people while working at the bar: drug dealers, addicts, trannies, hookers, barflies, etc. She even knew a man who became a famous mass murderer, but I’ll get into that story at a later time.
One particular acquaintance was a black drug addict and thief by the name of Teddy (another “Uncle”). My mother met Teddy after he saved her life from an attempted robbery. A man came into the bar one night and told my mother to give him all the money in her register. She told him to fuck off and he made a jab at her with a knife. Teddy blocked the knife, allowing the blade to go right through his hand. The robber took off and Teddy told my mother he couldn’t wait around for the cops because he was on parole. Getting caught drinking in a bar was definitely a parole violation and he didn’t want to go back to jail. Instead of calling the cops, she closed the bar early and drove him to the hospital. That was the beginning of a very long friendship.
At one point Teddy got arrested for snatching purses and was sent to a minimum security prison somewhere North of Harrisburg. My mother always took my brothers and me with her during visits with him. The rules at the prison were fairly relaxed and we were allowed to bring in food and other personal items during the visits. However, we were still required to go through a security check point. The visiting area was a huge open room filled with several couches, chairs and tables. My mother always brought along tons of food like fried chicken, macaroni salad and biscuits. She also brought a blanket for her and Teddy to warm up under. Of course, “getting warm” just meant she was giving him a hand job under the blanket while us kids hung out in the playground outside (yes, the prison even had a playground). She would always give us a quarter to buy an ice cream sandwich at the prisoner run store and told us to eat it outside while her and Uncle Teddy spent some time together. I’d watch them from the window outside. Even at the age of six, I knew what they were doing.
In addition to the hand jobs, my mother was also nice enough to sneak in drugs for Teddy. The drugs were usually heroin or pot, whatever she could get a hold of. My mother would carefully wrap the stuff up in saran wrap, then tuck it into small red balloons tied at the end. She even showed me the process once, as if it were some kind of skill I could benefit from later in life. My mother would hide the drug filled balloons in her bra before getting to the prison. After jerking him off, she would pull the blanket up high over her cleavage, dig the balloons out and discreetly hand them off to Teddy. Afterwards, he would head off to the visitor center bathroom to swallow them for later retrieval. Before leaving, my mother would always pay the prison photographer a buck for a Polaroid to commemorate the event.
I started reading Bukowski again. I haven’t read him in over a year, right before I stopped drinking. I think I’ve avoided his books for a while because of the intense urge to get drunk while reading them, and that’s something I don’t want to get into again.
I was actually looking for Max Brooke’s Zombie Survival Guide at the bookstore (which they didn’t have) when my eyes caught the Bukowski section on the next bookshelf. I was immediately drawn to Hot Water Music. I knew I was missing a couple of his books of short stories; this was definitely one of them. It feels good to read him again, calms my soul a bit. I have two more books of his on my self that I haven’t read yet, Factotum and The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (another book of short stories, read a few of them but not all). I’ll have to get started on those when I’m done with this one.
Past
During the ages of 4 through 6, my father was stationed overseas in Italy. During that time we lived with my paternal grandparents in Camp Hill, PA, while my mother lived across the river in an apartment in Harrisburg. We usually only saw her on the weekends and most of that time was spent hanging out at the bar she worked. My mother worked as a barmaid and bookkeeper for crazy fucking Greek named Frank. Frank was definitely a character. He spent most of his days cursing at my mother in Greek (I still know a few of the words to this day) and throwing insults at her…usually about her weight. I can’t tell you how many times I heard my mother threaten to quit, only to have Frank apologize and beg her to stay. They usually ended their arguments with a shot of Ouzo. My mother met quite a few interesting people while working at the bar: drug dealers, addicts, trannies, hookers, barflies, etc. She even knew a man who became a famous mass murderer, but I’ll get into that story at a later time.
One particular acquaintance was a black drug addict and thief by the name of Teddy (another “Uncle”). My mother met Teddy after he saved her life from an attempted robbery. A man came into the bar one night and told my mother to give him all the money in her register. She told him to fuck off and he made a jab at her with a knife. Teddy blocked the knife, allowing the blade to go right through his hand. The robber took off and Teddy told my mother he couldn’t wait around for the cops because he was on parole. Getting caught drinking in a bar was definitely a parole violation and he didn’t want to go back to jail. Instead of calling the cops, she closed the bar early and drove him to the hospital. That was the beginning of a very long friendship.
At one point Teddy got arrested for snatching purses and was sent to a minimum security prison somewhere North of Harrisburg. My mother always took my brothers and me with her during visits with him. The rules at the prison were fairly relaxed and we were allowed to bring in food and other personal items during the visits. However, we were still required to go through a security check point. The visiting area was a huge open room filled with several couches, chairs and tables. My mother always brought along tons of food like fried chicken, macaroni salad and biscuits. She also brought a blanket for her and Teddy to warm up under. Of course, “getting warm” just meant she was giving him a hand job under the blanket while us kids hung out in the playground outside (yes, the prison even had a playground). She would always give us a quarter to buy an ice cream sandwich at the prisoner run store and told us to eat it outside while her and Uncle Teddy spent some time together. I’d watch them from the window outside. Even at the age of six, I knew what they were doing.
In addition to the hand jobs, my mother was also nice enough to sneak in drugs for Teddy. The drugs were usually heroin or pot, whatever she could get a hold of. My mother would carefully wrap the stuff up in saran wrap, then tuck it into small red balloons tied at the end. She even showed me the process once, as if it were some kind of skill I could benefit from later in life. My mother would hide the drug filled balloons in her bra before getting to the prison. After jerking him off, she would pull the blanket up high over her cleavage, dig the balloons out and discreetly hand them off to Teddy. Afterwards, he would head off to the visitor center bathroom to swallow them for later retrieval. Before leaving, my mother would always pay the prison photographer a buck for a Polaroid to commemorate the event.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Entry Five
Present
I hate working in an office. If it weren’t for my music, I know I would go bat shit crazy at some point. My Ipod is a Godsend. It keeps me sane and secure 8.5 hours a day, 5 days a week, in a cubicle that measures 5 by 10.
I feel burnt out and tired today. I’ve resorted to looking for cute kitten pics on Flickr just to keep my mind off how tedious and boring my job can be. Plus it’s fucking freezing in here.
Past
For those who happen to come across my blog and actually find some interest in reading it, I have to warn you that my “Past” entries are not in chronological order. Here’s a list of where I lived and at what age to help you work through the jumble:
Age 1 – Portsmouth, Virginia
Ages 1 thru 3 (maybe 4) – Long Beach, California
Ages 3 (maybe 4) thru 7 – CampHill/Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
Age 7 – White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico
Age 8 – Middletown, Pennsylvania
Ages 9 thru 23 – Charleston, South Carolina
Ages 23 thru 30 – Denver, Colorado
Ages 30 thru 34 – Madison, Wisconsin
Ages 34 to present – Denver, Colorado
I hate working in an office. If it weren’t for my music, I know I would go bat shit crazy at some point. My Ipod is a Godsend. It keeps me sane and secure 8.5 hours a day, 5 days a week, in a cubicle that measures 5 by 10.
I feel burnt out and tired today. I’ve resorted to looking for cute kitten pics on Flickr just to keep my mind off how tedious and boring my job can be. Plus it’s fucking freezing in here.
Past
For those who happen to come across my blog and actually find some interest in reading it, I have to warn you that my “Past” entries are not in chronological order. Here’s a list of where I lived and at what age to help you work through the jumble:
Age 1 – Portsmouth, Virginia
Ages 1 thru 3 (maybe 4) – Long Beach, California
Ages 3 (maybe 4) thru 7 – CampHill/Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
Age 7 – White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico
Age 8 – Middletown, Pennsylvania
Ages 9 thru 23 – Charleston, South Carolina
Ages 23 thru 30 – Denver, Colorado
Ages 30 thru 34 – Madison, Wisconsin
Ages 34 to present – Denver, Colorado
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Entry Four
Present
Our camping trip was cut short due rain and cold weather. Our new “waterproof” tent wasn’t waterproof after all. The seal on one of the side windows leaked, plus there was a lot of condensation dripping down from the roof of the tent. We woke up soaked to the bone and cold as hell. In fact, he woke at about 4 in the morning to make some coffee and try to warm up a bit. We didn’t even bother to officially pack up, just threw everything in the back of the car and took off. We spent all of Saturday, in our apartment, washing, drying and packing up all the camping gear for next year. At least we got in one last campfire on Friday night.
He gave me a necklace for our anniversary when we came back Saturday. A carved rose pendant made of wood on a chain of turquoise and amber colored stone beads. He saw me covet it at a fiber art school & gallery we visited on Washington Island during our vacation. I married a very good man.
Past
My mother met Lorenzo, Uncle Lo to us kids, at the NCO club one night when we were still living on the military base in New Mexico. They hit it off right away and quickly became best friends. My mother told everyone that Uncle Lo was the brother she never had.
Uncle Lo was a tough, black Army Sergeant with a love for getting high/drunk and young, white women. The man also had a horrible knack for getting into trouble. One night, while driving home from work, he crashed his van on one of the side roads near the base. Uncle Lo later admitted to losing control and flipping the van after attempting to eat a McDonald’s cheeseburger while listening to the Queen song, Another One Bites the Dust. The MP’s found the van but Lorenzo was no where in sight. The MP’s figured he may have been severely injured and somehow managed to crawl out into the desert. They immediately began to search the desert for his body. They were nice enough to call my mother to let her know what was going on. My mother became frantic and hysterical and had my father drive around the base for hours looking for any sign of Lo. My father eventually found Lorenzo at his girlfriend's house, watching TV and getting high. Lorenzo made it out of the crash relatively unscathed, just a few cuts and bruises. He somehow didn’t think anyone would make such a big deal out of him leaving his crashed van in the middle of the desert without a note or any indication as to where he was.
Another memorable incident involved him getting shot in the shoulder by one of this Army buddies while arguing over a football game. I don’t believe he ever told the MP’s who shot him and gave his buddy a good head start before calling an ambulance. I still have photos of him while he was in the hospital in Las Cruses (or was it El Paso?).
It was Uncle Lo who gave me my first shot of hard liquor at the tender age of seven. It was vodka and I still remember how good it felt going down my throat. How the warmth filled my body. I knew right then and there that I would have a close relationship to this drink when I got older. The look on Uncle Lo’s face when I chugged that shot down then asked for another (which I didn’t get), that was truly priceless.
Our camping trip was cut short due rain and cold weather. Our new “waterproof” tent wasn’t waterproof after all. The seal on one of the side windows leaked, plus there was a lot of condensation dripping down from the roof of the tent. We woke up soaked to the bone and cold as hell. In fact, he woke at about 4 in the morning to make some coffee and try to warm up a bit. We didn’t even bother to officially pack up, just threw everything in the back of the car and took off. We spent all of Saturday, in our apartment, washing, drying and packing up all the camping gear for next year. At least we got in one last campfire on Friday night.
He gave me a necklace for our anniversary when we came back Saturday. A carved rose pendant made of wood on a chain of turquoise and amber colored stone beads. He saw me covet it at a fiber art school & gallery we visited on Washington Island during our vacation. I married a very good man.
Past
My mother met Lorenzo, Uncle Lo to us kids, at the NCO club one night when we were still living on the military base in New Mexico. They hit it off right away and quickly became best friends. My mother told everyone that Uncle Lo was the brother she never had.
Uncle Lo was a tough, black Army Sergeant with a love for getting high/drunk and young, white women. The man also had a horrible knack for getting into trouble. One night, while driving home from work, he crashed his van on one of the side roads near the base. Uncle Lo later admitted to losing control and flipping the van after attempting to eat a McDonald’s cheeseburger while listening to the Queen song, Another One Bites the Dust. The MP’s found the van but Lorenzo was no where in sight. The MP’s figured he may have been severely injured and somehow managed to crawl out into the desert. They immediately began to search the desert for his body. They were nice enough to call my mother to let her know what was going on. My mother became frantic and hysterical and had my father drive around the base for hours looking for any sign of Lo. My father eventually found Lorenzo at his girlfriend's house, watching TV and getting high. Lorenzo made it out of the crash relatively unscathed, just a few cuts and bruises. He somehow didn’t think anyone would make such a big deal out of him leaving his crashed van in the middle of the desert without a note or any indication as to where he was.
Another memorable incident involved him getting shot in the shoulder by one of this Army buddies while arguing over a football game. I don’t believe he ever told the MP’s who shot him and gave his buddy a good head start before calling an ambulance. I still have photos of him while he was in the hospital in Las Cruses (or was it El Paso?).
It was Uncle Lo who gave me my first shot of hard liquor at the tender age of seven. It was vodka and I still remember how good it felt going down my throat. How the warmth filled my body. I knew right then and there that I would have a close relationship to this drink when I got older. The look on Uncle Lo’s face when I chugged that shot down then asked for another (which I didn’t get), that was truly priceless.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Entry Three
Present
It’s Friday and the nasty weather is causing my knee to ache. I really need to work on those exercises my physical therapist taught me. The rain outside is pouring and the bitter old women in my office are still bitter. We’re heading to the mountains this weekend for the last camping trip of the season. It might snow. Maybe a little bit of snow in summer is a good thing? I’m going to take heavy sweaters and long jeans just in case. Might not be able to go on a long hike this time, but as long as I can still have my evening camp fire I’ll be happy.
Past
New Mexico was probably the most beautiful state I ever lived in. I was seven and my father was stationed on a military base in the middle of the desert called White Sands Missile Range. The base was a lush island surrounded by sand, cacti, sagebrush and shadowed by small mountains to the West. My brothers and I spent our days riding bikes in the desert sand, collecting horny toads, lizards, geodes, tumbleweeds and shed rattlesnake skins. During the summer we would swim in a gigantic Olympic sized pool built in the 50’s. Afterwards, we’d hang out at the base movie theatre and pay a 50 cent matinee admission to see some old Disney film made about 10 or 20 years ago. Life was good back then. It was probably the only time I enjoyed living with my Mother.
My parent’s rec time was spent at the NCO club getting drunk with their friends then going back to the house (or someone else’s) to get high and party. In fact, my mother would give our babysitter joints as payment for her services. I remember my brothers and I would harass the babysitter while she was locked in bathroom getting stoned. We’d push the towel out from under the door and slide through pieces of paper with strange drawings and notes just to antagonize her.
Life on the base always seemed relaxed and carefree. I’m sure the drugs had a lot to do with that. In fact, my mother's friend who lived down the street grew weed in her carport. The woman had a few contacts in the MP office that would call her with news of upcoming raids. Once my mother yelled at my father to run his ass down the street to help her friend move the plants to the roof of her house because the MP’s were on their way. She had two very sweet daughters who were a few years younger than me. The youngest had hydrocephalus and the drainage tube was visible under her skin. I used to give her helicopter rides, grab both of her wrists and swing her around and around. I adored her smile.
It’s Friday and the nasty weather is causing my knee to ache. I really need to work on those exercises my physical therapist taught me. The rain outside is pouring and the bitter old women in my office are still bitter. We’re heading to the mountains this weekend for the last camping trip of the season. It might snow. Maybe a little bit of snow in summer is a good thing? I’m going to take heavy sweaters and long jeans just in case. Might not be able to go on a long hike this time, but as long as I can still have my evening camp fire I’ll be happy.
Past
New Mexico was probably the most beautiful state I ever lived in. I was seven and my father was stationed on a military base in the middle of the desert called White Sands Missile Range. The base was a lush island surrounded by sand, cacti, sagebrush and shadowed by small mountains to the West. My brothers and I spent our days riding bikes in the desert sand, collecting horny toads, lizards, geodes, tumbleweeds and shed rattlesnake skins. During the summer we would swim in a gigantic Olympic sized pool built in the 50’s. Afterwards, we’d hang out at the base movie theatre and pay a 50 cent matinee admission to see some old Disney film made about 10 or 20 years ago. Life was good back then. It was probably the only time I enjoyed living with my Mother.
My parent’s rec time was spent at the NCO club getting drunk with their friends then going back to the house (or someone else’s) to get high and party. In fact, my mother would give our babysitter joints as payment for her services. I remember my brothers and I would harass the babysitter while she was locked in bathroom getting stoned. We’d push the towel out from under the door and slide through pieces of paper with strange drawings and notes just to antagonize her.
Life on the base always seemed relaxed and carefree. I’m sure the drugs had a lot to do with that. In fact, my mother's friend who lived down the street grew weed in her carport. The woman had a few contacts in the MP office that would call her with news of upcoming raids. Once my mother yelled at my father to run his ass down the street to help her friend move the plants to the roof of her house because the MP’s were on their way. She had two very sweet daughters who were a few years younger than me. The youngest had hydrocephalus and the drainage tube was visible under her skin. I used to give her helicopter rides, grab both of her wrists and swing her around and around. I adored her smile.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Entry Two
Present
Monday, while driving to the gym, my husband confessed his intention to commit suicide right after moving back to Colorado 3 years ago. He wanted to wait until after the move so that I was near my best friend when it happened. That way I would have had someone there to help me go through the grieving process. Thankfully he changed his mind but his confession still struck me in an extremely painful way. The thought of losing him was very traumatic for me. Needless to say, I had a panic attack the next day at work.
Past
“Uncle” Rick was an ex-Vietnam Vet heroin addict my mother was good friends with during the 70’s. She would let him come over to our Harrisburg apartment to shoot up heroin in the bathroom. She figured it would be safer for him to do it in our apartment instead of on the streets, not thinking of the three children all under the age of 8 who lived in the apartment. However, she would proudly boast to her friends that she would never allow him to shoot up in front of us. What a responsible mother…
Uncle Rick would go through these bizarre manic phases in which he would chase us around the apartment with his eyelids turned inside out. Afterwards he would give us pony rides until he tired out and had to have a fix. One day he tried to strangle my mother to death. There were no more pony rides after that.
Monday, while driving to the gym, my husband confessed his intention to commit suicide right after moving back to Colorado 3 years ago. He wanted to wait until after the move so that I was near my best friend when it happened. That way I would have had someone there to help me go through the grieving process. Thankfully he changed his mind but his confession still struck me in an extremely painful way. The thought of losing him was very traumatic for me. Needless to say, I had a panic attack the next day at work.
Past
“Uncle” Rick was an ex-Vietnam Vet heroin addict my mother was good friends with during the 70’s. She would let him come over to our Harrisburg apartment to shoot up heroin in the bathroom. She figured it would be safer for him to do it in our apartment instead of on the streets, not thinking of the three children all under the age of 8 who lived in the apartment. However, she would proudly boast to her friends that she would never allow him to shoot up in front of us. What a responsible mother…
Uncle Rick would go through these bizarre manic phases in which he would chase us around the apartment with his eyelids turned inside out. Afterwards he would give us pony rides until he tired out and had to have a fix. One day he tried to strangle my mother to death. There were no more pony rides after that.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Entry One
Present
There's a guy in my office that jiggles and plays with the change in his pocket all day long. I find his habit to be extremely irritating and infuriating. There are days when I just want to rip the loose change from his pocket and shove it down his throat. I just don't understand how some people can be so oblivious to their own annoying behaviors.
Past
I was born the youngest and only daughter of three children. My mother was relatively young when I was born. She gave birth to 3 children within 4 years before the age of 25, not to mention a miscarriage somewhere in between. She was vastly inexperienced at child rearing and with being away from her family, she didn’t have many people to help her out. I’m sure many times she felt alone and abandoned, which may have fostered her anxiety issues later in her life.
One of the earliest memories of my childhood was when I was only about a year old. I remember being on a hot, stuffy bus going from Virginia to California with my mother and two brothers. Even though the memory is a bit vague and blurry, I do remember my mother’s frantic attempts to keep my brothers calm while she changed my diaper. She was frazzled and stressed out and even at the age of one, I felt deep sympathy for her predicament. Probably one of the few times I ever felt that way towards my mother.
My father was in the Navy and the bus ride was a result of him being reassigned to the West Coast. My father was home long enough to help pack and arrange for a moving van, but wasn’t allowed to assist my mother in driving us to California…thus the long, hot bus ride. Even though the inconvenient travel arrangements had not been my father’s fault, I know my mother never forgave him for the hell she went through during that trip.
We lived in California until I was about three, maybe four. Again, several early memories but some are a bit muddled. My first memory of California was of me running in the backyard of our Navy assigned housing unit, trying to catch bees with an empty baby powder container in the shape of a Disney character (Pluto?). Even at the age of 2, I knew the holes were necessary to keep the bees alive. Never caught one nor was a stung. There are many more carefree memories of my childhood in California I could rehash, but I won’t. Not necessary in my opinion. The most significant memories were the parties my parents used to have at their house. Mainly because they involved my first experiences with alcohol. I remember going from person to person, taking a sip of beer or wine, whatever was being offered to me. My parents thought it was so cute and actually encouraged the behavior. Other important memories in my development include my mother’s constant state of stress, anxiety and depression. There were daily fights between my parents, screaming and shouting with me crying in the background.
At some point my mother went to the doctor to see what could be done about her mental state. She needed something to calm her nerves, dull her senses. The doctor gave her the miracle cure, “Mother’s Little Helper”, aka Valium. That was the beginning of an addiction that lasted nearly 25 years. Other serious addictions followed, but I will discuss them at a later time.
There's a guy in my office that jiggles and plays with the change in his pocket all day long. I find his habit to be extremely irritating and infuriating. There are days when I just want to rip the loose change from his pocket and shove it down his throat. I just don't understand how some people can be so oblivious to their own annoying behaviors.
Past
I was born the youngest and only daughter of three children. My mother was relatively young when I was born. She gave birth to 3 children within 4 years before the age of 25, not to mention a miscarriage somewhere in between. She was vastly inexperienced at child rearing and with being away from her family, she didn’t have many people to help her out. I’m sure many times she felt alone and abandoned, which may have fostered her anxiety issues later in her life.
One of the earliest memories of my childhood was when I was only about a year old. I remember being on a hot, stuffy bus going from Virginia to California with my mother and two brothers. Even though the memory is a bit vague and blurry, I do remember my mother’s frantic attempts to keep my brothers calm while she changed my diaper. She was frazzled and stressed out and even at the age of one, I felt deep sympathy for her predicament. Probably one of the few times I ever felt that way towards my mother.
My father was in the Navy and the bus ride was a result of him being reassigned to the West Coast. My father was home long enough to help pack and arrange for a moving van, but wasn’t allowed to assist my mother in driving us to California…thus the long, hot bus ride. Even though the inconvenient travel arrangements had not been my father’s fault, I know my mother never forgave him for the hell she went through during that trip.
We lived in California until I was about three, maybe four. Again, several early memories but some are a bit muddled. My first memory of California was of me running in the backyard of our Navy assigned housing unit, trying to catch bees with an empty baby powder container in the shape of a Disney character (Pluto?). Even at the age of 2, I knew the holes were necessary to keep the bees alive. Never caught one nor was a stung. There are many more carefree memories of my childhood in California I could rehash, but I won’t. Not necessary in my opinion. The most significant memories were the parties my parents used to have at their house. Mainly because they involved my first experiences with alcohol. I remember going from person to person, taking a sip of beer or wine, whatever was being offered to me. My parents thought it was so cute and actually encouraged the behavior. Other important memories in my development include my mother’s constant state of stress, anxiety and depression. There were daily fights between my parents, screaming and shouting with me crying in the background.
At some point my mother went to the doctor to see what could be done about her mental state. She needed something to calm her nerves, dull her senses. The doctor gave her the miracle cure, “Mother’s Little Helper”, aka Valium. That was the beginning of an addiction that lasted nearly 25 years. Other serious addictions followed, but I will discuss them at a later time.
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