In the spring of 2005, I bought my first car. I had cars before, but they were paid for my parents or just hand-me-downs by my parents, but after moving back from Philly in '05 and literally destroying the '97 Toyota Camry my mom gave me...(in my defense, there was salt from Pennsylvania snow trucks, someone stole my rearview mirror, and in a separate instance, hit me while I was parked)....the car did its best...and then after only about 3 months in Mississippi, poof, died. I sold it for parts for about $400.
So, I set about buying a new car. Keep in mind, I had terrible credit due to college credit cards and a job that paid well worth below what it should've....thank you, Columbus-inherited wealth. I bought, in '05, a '04 Chevrolet Aveo, with 13,000 miles at about $13,500, so I could have car payments at around $240. My interest rate, because of my terrible credit, was like 25%, which I had no idea was a bad interest rate, until I told Smitty, and this little thing in his head popped out, and we re-financed.
The car gets excellent gas mileage, like 36 miles per gallon, and I haven't had a lot of issues out of it...until the last few months. You could probably refer to a recent blog, I don't do the hyperlink thing, you either read it or you don't, where the radiator had issues, and I endured a commute with smoke billowing out of the hood. We had all that stuff replaced, plus a timing belt, all is well in Aveo land....until today.
I'm leaving work at 4 p.m., and the car made this weird noise like I ran over something. I clearly did not, so I kept driving. It wouldn't accelerate, and when it did, it make a clicking noise. Okay, Smitty is out of town, I just want to get home, so I say a prayer to make that happen. No, no, that is not to happen. The car completely died at the beginning of the on-ramp for St. Vincent's, which if you live in Birmingham, you know, is the worst place to have an incapacitated car. Did I mention Smitty was out of town?
So, 45 minutes after calling tow truck, tow truck man shows up, and immediately tells me to leave the keys in the car and get in the tow truck, because of the precarious location of the car. He ended up throwing a glove at a passenger bus because they wouldn't move over...Hell, yeah! He also gave me a ride home, which they're not supposed to do, but I think I was sufficiently pitiful and called the recent radiator hose replacement, the "radiator tube-y thing."
He also asked me some vaguely inappropriate questions about my length of marriage, his disdain for his own wife, pride that he had 5 kids, and a hope to find someone to carry more, to which I replied, "I only want ONE child, period, I think that's all I can handle." He said something about kids making the world go around, and I'm sure they do, if you get paid $105 for every person you tow. I literally have no idea if this was a hitting on me thing, as I NEVER know this sort of thing, but whatever...thank you for the ride home, and at least you weren't visibly scary. I don't like to play the Blanche Dubois card, but, oh, how I will, if I need to. Funnily enough, the people at the servicing place, who will eventually be footing this entire bill, since they used a faulty timing belt, also offered me a ride home. Apparently, the gal's still got it.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Losing sight of the fun in dysfunctional
I've been told a few times by different people that they can't believe that I write such personal things on my blog, and if they were me, "they wouldn't tell anybody 'that.'" Well, it's my blog, which to my understanding, means I can write about whatever the hell I please. Also, when I do write my fortune-making novels, they will be thinly-veiled stories of my life experiences, so I tend to think holding things back in writing makes for boring and way less cathartic writing. Also, I can do what I want.
I find it interesting that you have to take a test to get a driver's license or a gun safety certification or to become a U.S citizen, but any crazy fool can have children and screw them up to the best of their ability. I'm am not a self-pitying person, really, I'm not. It bugs me when people blame their parents for their lack of station in life, or their substance abuse, or whatever, unless they're the child that New Hampshire teacher had with her student or Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love's daughter. In those cases, I'd say they were a little down in the parent lottery from the beginning. However, I think people make their own lots in life, and even those who come from horrible beginnings can end up perfectly fine, or functional, despite what hands they were dealt.
I say I'm scared to have kids for the weird physical things people post online that kids can get or eat or do, or the fact that I'm scared I'm going to dent that cushion-y part in their head before it solidifies, and those things are completely true, but I'm also terrified that I'm going to inadvertently, or just outright, screw up my genetic material. I'm talking Lizzie Borden or a new chapter to the Manson Family, just because I'll be honest, I don't have a truly functional reference guide.
If you look up co-dependency and narcissistic personality disorder, those are just a few of the things to which I refer, and I won't even name names at this point.
Co-dependency: Codependency describes behaviors, thoughts and feelings that go beyond normal kinds of self-sacrifice or caretaking. For example, parenting is a role that requires a certain amount of self-sacrifice and giving a child's needs a high priority, although a parent could nevertheless still be codependent towards their own children if the caretaking or parental sacrifice reached unhealthy or destructive levels. ( Pay super close attention to that last sentence, just my personal recommendation)
I will say this: there are certain things I will never say to my child, including, but not limited to, the following:
1. "You should be more like your (sibling, cousin, neighbor, etc...). It is not productive to make comparisons between your child and anyone. I plan to be my offspring's biggest cheerleader..not literally of course, I would look ridiculous with those little skirts, but whatever my child chooses to be or do or look like, that is their choice.
2. "You can't ________." Phooey. They can do anything they want, and even if they can't, I won't tell them. They'll figure it out, because I won't have dumb kids..um, kid, unless two shoot out of there at the same time. Seriously, don't put limitations on your children; they'll face that enough from the rest of the world.
3. This is not a specific thing I won't say, but if my child is ever in the hospital, sick, hurt, or what have you, I will not project my misplaced selfish drama on them. I've been scolded by a family member in the last 5 years while an IV was in my arm, and I was about 1/2 an hour away from surgery. As I gain more perspective, I don't really know why I care about this person's feelings, as they clearly do not care about mine.
Before I devolve into a Joan Crawford movie, I think I'll stop. I needed to get some of this out, this is what I do to keep from having the white coats take me away, and if you judge me for it, fine. Knock yourself out...literally. I will not, even more so now, apologize for being myself and making myself happy. If you're not happy, what's the point, and why invest so much time in such toxic relationships? I console myself with the knowledge that no truly successful writer came from a functional family unit...they also mostly died of alcoholism, but we'll just focus on the first part for now.
"Friends are God's apology for relations."
I find it interesting that you have to take a test to get a driver's license or a gun safety certification or to become a U.S citizen, but any crazy fool can have children and screw them up to the best of their ability. I'm am not a self-pitying person, really, I'm not. It bugs me when people blame their parents for their lack of station in life, or their substance abuse, or whatever, unless they're the child that New Hampshire teacher had with her student or Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love's daughter. In those cases, I'd say they were a little down in the parent lottery from the beginning. However, I think people make their own lots in life, and even those who come from horrible beginnings can end up perfectly fine, or functional, despite what hands they were dealt.
I say I'm scared to have kids for the weird physical things people post online that kids can get or eat or do, or the fact that I'm scared I'm going to dent that cushion-y part in their head before it solidifies, and those things are completely true, but I'm also terrified that I'm going to inadvertently, or just outright, screw up my genetic material. I'm talking Lizzie Borden or a new chapter to the Manson Family, just because I'll be honest, I don't have a truly functional reference guide.
If you look up co-dependency and narcissistic personality disorder, those are just a few of the things to which I refer, and I won't even name names at this point.
Co-dependency: Codependency describes behaviors, thoughts and feelings that go beyond normal kinds of self-sacrifice or caretaking. For example, parenting is a role that requires a certain amount of self-sacrifice and giving a child's needs a high priority, although a parent could nevertheless still be codependent towards their own children if the caretaking or parental sacrifice reached unhealthy or destructive levels. ( Pay super close attention to that last sentence, just my personal recommendation)
I will say this: there are certain things I will never say to my child, including, but not limited to, the following:
1. "You should be more like your (sibling, cousin, neighbor, etc...). It is not productive to make comparisons between your child and anyone. I plan to be my offspring's biggest cheerleader..not literally of course, I would look ridiculous with those little skirts, but whatever my child chooses to be or do or look like, that is their choice.
2. "You can't ________." Phooey. They can do anything they want, and even if they can't, I won't tell them. They'll figure it out, because I won't have dumb kids..um, kid, unless two shoot out of there at the same time. Seriously, don't put limitations on your children; they'll face that enough from the rest of the world.
3. This is not a specific thing I won't say, but if my child is ever in the hospital, sick, hurt, or what have you, I will not project my misplaced selfish drama on them. I've been scolded by a family member in the last 5 years while an IV was in my arm, and I was about 1/2 an hour away from surgery. As I gain more perspective, I don't really know why I care about this person's feelings, as they clearly do not care about mine.
Before I devolve into a Joan Crawford movie, I think I'll stop. I needed to get some of this out, this is what I do to keep from having the white coats take me away, and if you judge me for it, fine. Knock yourself out...literally. I will not, even more so now, apologize for being myself and making myself happy. If you're not happy, what's the point, and why invest so much time in such toxic relationships? I console myself with the knowledge that no truly successful writer came from a functional family unit...they also mostly died of alcoholism, but we'll just focus on the first part for now.
Hugh Kingsmill
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tra la la
I'm not a negative person; I'm a sarcastic person, and there is a huge difference, in my opinion. However, I think I do get bogged down in the ennui of day to day life and the fact that we don't have a mansion with a pool and monkey butlers, and I get surly. That shouldn't happen as often as it does. On that note, these are things that make me happy:
1. Laughing until it hurts. Think about it; how often are you overcome with that body-shaking kind of laughter that makes snorts and tears emit from your person? Not often enough. There's something cleansing and almost healthy about letting out a guffaw until your sides ache. This can be achieved for me through: animals wearing people clothes, funny voices, and "Bob's Burgers."
2. Singing at the top of my lungs. I do it every day. In fact, I didn't realize that I passed by a certain place every day until Smitty pointed it out because, frankly, during my commute, I'm too busy doing my Carrie Underwood impression to pay attention to silly things like landmarks..I love it when I'm really belting out something and am completely oblivious to the person in the car next to me, until I glance over, and they're laughing..I like to think perhaps I made their day a little better, too..
3. Cooking. I never, in 5 million years, thought I would say that, but there is genuinely something cathartic about putting together a meal for those you love. You get to become a little scientist with ingredients and measurements and even improvise (I'm getting better) and produce this tasty meal and say, "Yeah, I made that. I freaking rock." Plus, the stress of the day just rolls off while you have your mind focused on not burning stuff..or that could just be me.
4. My dogs. Norton, who is 11, and Zoe, who is about 1 1/2, are the funniest two animals I've ever seen. Norton barks at imaginary squirrels to make us think he's super protective, and Zoe will forgo a steak bone if you'll just let her lick you..which, I don't. I wish she'd stop that, in fact. It took them a little while to get along, but now, they're like a little crime duo...with fur.
5. Smitty. Duh...the boy makes me happy. We've been married now nearly 4 1/2 years, and the good times keep coming. We've been through a bit with the usual things that marrieds go through, but there is no one I'd rather have by my side. I can be in the worst mood, and he can give me a look or do a funny voice, and that's it, tension dissolved. I could not be luckier than if I had designed my own husband, "Weird Science"-style with a computer. I keep thinking my mom paid him to "get me off her hands." I hope everyone is lucky enough to find someone who makes them this happy. It's rare to find a best friend that you want to see naked...I think...
1. Laughing until it hurts. Think about it; how often are you overcome with that body-shaking kind of laughter that makes snorts and tears emit from your person? Not often enough. There's something cleansing and almost healthy about letting out a guffaw until your sides ache. This can be achieved for me through: animals wearing people clothes, funny voices, and "Bob's Burgers."
2. Singing at the top of my lungs. I do it every day. In fact, I didn't realize that I passed by a certain place every day until Smitty pointed it out because, frankly, during my commute, I'm too busy doing my Carrie Underwood impression to pay attention to silly things like landmarks..I love it when I'm really belting out something and am completely oblivious to the person in the car next to me, until I glance over, and they're laughing..I like to think perhaps I made their day a little better, too..
3. Cooking. I never, in 5 million years, thought I would say that, but there is genuinely something cathartic about putting together a meal for those you love. You get to become a little scientist with ingredients and measurements and even improvise (I'm getting better) and produce this tasty meal and say, "Yeah, I made that. I freaking rock." Plus, the stress of the day just rolls off while you have your mind focused on not burning stuff..or that could just be me.
4. My dogs. Norton, who is 11, and Zoe, who is about 1 1/2, are the funniest two animals I've ever seen. Norton barks at imaginary squirrels to make us think he's super protective, and Zoe will forgo a steak bone if you'll just let her lick you..which, I don't. I wish she'd stop that, in fact. It took them a little while to get along, but now, they're like a little crime duo...with fur.
5. Smitty. Duh...the boy makes me happy. We've been married now nearly 4 1/2 years, and the good times keep coming. We've been through a bit with the usual things that marrieds go through, but there is no one I'd rather have by my side. I can be in the worst mood, and he can give me a look or do a funny voice, and that's it, tension dissolved. I could not be luckier than if I had designed my own husband, "Weird Science"-style with a computer. I keep thinking my mom paid him to "get me off her hands." I hope everyone is lucky enough to find someone who makes them this happy. It's rare to find a best friend that you want to see naked...I think...
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A full-blown phobia, it seems
I thought I would write a sentimental or maudlin post yesterday on the 1-year anniversary of my dad's death. It turns out, I wasn't feeling maudlin, and I was enjoying shrimp and a re-make of an old movie in his honor, so I didn't feel like writing about him. That's how I roll. I can write about him at any given time I choose, or I can remember him and connect with him in the way we would have, were he alive. I can do whatever I want. Boo.
In the meantime, my fear of bugs has grown to an alarming level. At 4:15 a.m., I woke up with a start. As I am nowhere near a morning person or an early rising person, I thought, "What the hell? Why am I awake?" Approximately, 4 times in a 10-minute period, it felt like a needle had stabbed me, in the left ankle, the right ankle, the left and right elbows, until I thought, "While originally, I thought I may've established the first case of restless foot syndrome, this really hurts." I got up, went to the bathroom to confirm 5-6 bites that looked like I had just gotten shots and were very itchy. I then went into the bedroom, turned on my night table lamp, and threw back the covers.
There, staring at me with a defiant look was Monty the Ant. I have seriously never seen an ant this big. I don't do bugs, and the only ants I recall are fire ants and wood ants. This little hooligan was as big as my pinky fingernail with a little actual hair. He looked at me as if to challenge my authority, and I scooped him up in toilet paper, but left the sample on the counter so I could show Smitty, since he did NOT wake up, so he could I identify if I were going to die from some rare Alabama ant disease.
This morning before I got into the shower, I unfolded my little friend, and there he was, all squished up, presumably dead. After I got out of the shower, I checked the Kleenex so I could show Smitty, and he had vanished. I looked all over the bathroom, as this was an injured ant with what I presume to be very little pep and vigor...no where to be found. Great. Smitty informs me had I crushed his thorax, he would have died and never made a break for it. I called him a nerd and told him to shut up.
So, for the day, I've been feeling twitchy hairs escaping from my hair, which is way overdue for a haircut and twinges and twitches from nothing at all, although I imagined Monty having curled up in my hairbrush and waiting for his time to shine. Logically, I'm sure he went down the drain or something rational to find water, but I am literally afraid to go to bed, because I feel, even though insects have tiny little brains, if you try to kill them, or they have previously attacked you, they will come back....like the bad guys in a Steven Seagal movie. And Smitty is out of town, which is perfect, because the damn ant didn't bother him....and now they can feast on their real target...
If I set Lysol around the bed, like a shrine, will that do anything? Or do ants get confused when you touch their little path, what if I literally draw a finger line around the bed? Seriously, bugs are my worst fear, and due to my lovely allergies, I'm itchy anyway so it's hard to distinguish the pyscho-somatic itching and the real thing. Do ants carry any lethal diseases??
In the meantime, my fear of bugs has grown to an alarming level. At 4:15 a.m., I woke up with a start. As I am nowhere near a morning person or an early rising person, I thought, "What the hell? Why am I awake?" Approximately, 4 times in a 10-minute period, it felt like a needle had stabbed me, in the left ankle, the right ankle, the left and right elbows, until I thought, "While originally, I thought I may've established the first case of restless foot syndrome, this really hurts." I got up, went to the bathroom to confirm 5-6 bites that looked like I had just gotten shots and were very itchy. I then went into the bedroom, turned on my night table lamp, and threw back the covers.
There, staring at me with a defiant look was Monty the Ant. I have seriously never seen an ant this big. I don't do bugs, and the only ants I recall are fire ants and wood ants. This little hooligan was as big as my pinky fingernail with a little actual hair. He looked at me as if to challenge my authority, and I scooped him up in toilet paper, but left the sample on the counter so I could show Smitty, since he did NOT wake up, so he could I identify if I were going to die from some rare Alabama ant disease.
This morning before I got into the shower, I unfolded my little friend, and there he was, all squished up, presumably dead. After I got out of the shower, I checked the Kleenex so I could show Smitty, and he had vanished. I looked all over the bathroom, as this was an injured ant with what I presume to be very little pep and vigor...no where to be found. Great. Smitty informs me had I crushed his thorax, he would have died and never made a break for it. I called him a nerd and told him to shut up.
So, for the day, I've been feeling twitchy hairs escaping from my hair, which is way overdue for a haircut and twinges and twitches from nothing at all, although I imagined Monty having curled up in my hairbrush and waiting for his time to shine. Logically, I'm sure he went down the drain or something rational to find water, but I am literally afraid to go to bed, because I feel, even though insects have tiny little brains, if you try to kill them, or they have previously attacked you, they will come back....like the bad guys in a Steven Seagal movie. And Smitty is out of town, which is perfect, because the damn ant didn't bother him....and now they can feast on their real target...
If I set Lysol around the bed, like a shrine, will that do anything? Or do ants get confused when you touch their little path, what if I literally draw a finger line around the bed? Seriously, bugs are my worst fear, and due to my lovely allergies, I'm itchy anyway so it's hard to distinguish the pyscho-somatic itching and the real thing. Do ants carry any lethal diseases??
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The thoughts that knock about...
Tomorrow will be the 1-year anniversary of my father's death. Damn. One whole year. In some respects, it seems like yesterday, and in others, it seems like 10 years ago. It affected me; in more ways than I admit, other than Smitty dragging unpleasant feelings out of me, it still affects me. This is part 1 of my Adrian Perry Gaither III tribute blog...(and frankly, I can do as many as I want...it's my damn blog)
I want to call my dad every day to tell him things like they're showing Elizabeth Taylor movies on AMC and discuss her life and tell him that I'm reading Marilyn Monroe's biography, and wow, what a trollop she was....and that I broke into hives on my arm, did he ever do that, since we share odd physical traits?
Do you know that he taught me the joys of riding in an un-air-conditioned truck in the dead freaking heat of Mississippi in a pick-up truck, with the windows almost completely rolled down, listening to Paul Harvey? And the fun of that were those were the days he took me to work with him at EMCC to show me off and take me to Brigg's, who made the best homemade French fries I've ever had, to this day. I was like 8, and met his friend Larry Salter, who taught psychology, and I said, "Psychology, huh? The ego, the id, it reads like stereo instructions, don't you think? It's tiring." First of all, I was EIGHT; second of all, I made a new friend for life.
I never would've known about the Smothers Brothers and the Yo-Yo Man or the complete odyssey of Elvis Presley, and I had the joy of having him teach me speech and English Lit, although, damn, he was a hard-ass. He critiqued my speeches ruthlessly, saying I "played with my hair too much," and he actually counted the times I said "like" and "um," damn smartass. He still gave me As, but I assure you, I had to work for them.
My mom asked me tonight if I realized tomorrow was the anniversary...it's funny, I'm terrible with dates, honestly, I'm horrible. Outside family, if I remember your birthday, you are gold to me. Otherwise, I'm useless with dates. Honestly, I'd forget our anniversary before Smitty would, but luckily, 11/25 is an easily date for me to remember. But, my dad's death, I will remember. I will do something tomorrow to commemorate, just for myself, if nothing else. I want to pick up the phone and call his snarky ass, and this is why I find death unfair.
Maybe I'm a woman child, I dunno, I don't think that I will ever be "over" losing him. We had too many memories and commonalities. He loved the ocean when we were little. I loved the ocean when I was super little, although one fateful summer day when were at Gulf Shores, it was raining, and we watched TV inside...Jaws 3...I have literally set foot past my ankles three times in 20 years as a result of that movie.
Further, the next day, the sun came out, and he was all about the ocean again. I refused...and he wanted a picture with me and my sister on our rafts. I had recently been given a kidnapping lesson at school, so when he tried to literally force me on the raft, I screamed, "He is NOT my father! I want to go home!" and those damn tourists completely ignored me, and there is a picture of me, forced on a raft, crying, but where it could be interpreted as really awkward smile. I made him regret that later.
We had a dog, Clyde, a black cocker spaniel, that my brother "gave us" when I was about 7. He was the sweetest dog on the planet. He was the best possible dog for kids, all he wanted was to be petted and loved, and we actually had him the longest we had a dog (prior to Mr. Norton, of course), and he got flattened in front of me and my mom one summer day by a grain truck, that not only saw that he killed the dog, but saw us reacting to him killing our dog, and he kept right on driving.
I saw my dad cry one of the maybe 3 times in my whole life when he collected Clyde and buried him in our backyard under a Christmas tree-esque tree in our backyard. He loved dogs and detested cats as much as I do, and it's funny, I feel like a part of his spirit of his stays alive in Norton, because of how much he loved him. They went to the post office every day, they attempted fetch, but Norton doesn't do fetch, and he genuinely kept my dad company.
I will leave you with a funny story, as tomorrow might be a dark, suicidal post..(nah, not really) I was really good friends in high school with a black guy named Romero. He and my boyfriend John were going to drive to pick me up for a movie. Not that my dad was ever a racist, but he never made things easy for anyone ever picking me up. So, John and Romero arrived, and I leapt to the door, "We're ready, I'm leaving, see you later," but he had to meet everyone. He had met my boyfriend John before, but he met my friend Romero, shook his hand, and said to him, "If you're cool with Emily, you're cool with me..." I wanted to die, while Romero and John were hyperventilating from laughter, and then he yelled, "She turns into a pumpkin at midnight!!" If I had could've crawled under the seat, I would've.
I want to call my dad every day to tell him things like they're showing Elizabeth Taylor movies on AMC and discuss her life and tell him that I'm reading Marilyn Monroe's biography, and wow, what a trollop she was....and that I broke into hives on my arm, did he ever do that, since we share odd physical traits?
Do you know that he taught me the joys of riding in an un-air-conditioned truck in the dead freaking heat of Mississippi in a pick-up truck, with the windows almost completely rolled down, listening to Paul Harvey? And the fun of that were those were the days he took me to work with him at EMCC to show me off and take me to Brigg's, who made the best homemade French fries I've ever had, to this day. I was like 8, and met his friend Larry Salter, who taught psychology, and I said, "Psychology, huh? The ego, the id, it reads like stereo instructions, don't you think? It's tiring." First of all, I was EIGHT; second of all, I made a new friend for life.
I never would've known about the Smothers Brothers and the Yo-Yo Man or the complete odyssey of Elvis Presley, and I had the joy of having him teach me speech and English Lit, although, damn, he was a hard-ass. He critiqued my speeches ruthlessly, saying I "played with my hair too much," and he actually counted the times I said "like" and "um," damn smartass. He still gave me As, but I assure you, I had to work for them.
My mom asked me tonight if I realized tomorrow was the anniversary...it's funny, I'm terrible with dates, honestly, I'm horrible. Outside family, if I remember your birthday, you are gold to me. Otherwise, I'm useless with dates. Honestly, I'd forget our anniversary before Smitty would, but luckily, 11/25 is an easily date for me to remember. But, my dad's death, I will remember. I will do something tomorrow to commemorate, just for myself, if nothing else. I want to pick up the phone and call his snarky ass, and this is why I find death unfair.
Maybe I'm a woman child, I dunno, I don't think that I will ever be "over" losing him. We had too many memories and commonalities. He loved the ocean when we were little. I loved the ocean when I was super little, although one fateful summer day when were at Gulf Shores, it was raining, and we watched TV inside...Jaws 3...I have literally set foot past my ankles three times in 20 years as a result of that movie.
Further, the next day, the sun came out, and he was all about the ocean again. I refused...and he wanted a picture with me and my sister on our rafts. I had recently been given a kidnapping lesson at school, so when he tried to literally force me on the raft, I screamed, "He is NOT my father! I want to go home!" and those damn tourists completely ignored me, and there is a picture of me, forced on a raft, crying, but where it could be interpreted as really awkward smile. I made him regret that later.
We had a dog, Clyde, a black cocker spaniel, that my brother "gave us" when I was about 7. He was the sweetest dog on the planet. He was the best possible dog for kids, all he wanted was to be petted and loved, and we actually had him the longest we had a dog (prior to Mr. Norton, of course), and he got flattened in front of me and my mom one summer day by a grain truck, that not only saw that he killed the dog, but saw us reacting to him killing our dog, and he kept right on driving.
I saw my dad cry one of the maybe 3 times in my whole life when he collected Clyde and buried him in our backyard under a Christmas tree-esque tree in our backyard. He loved dogs and detested cats as much as I do, and it's funny, I feel like a part of his spirit of his stays alive in Norton, because of how much he loved him. They went to the post office every day, they attempted fetch, but Norton doesn't do fetch, and he genuinely kept my dad company.
I will leave you with a funny story, as tomorrow might be a dark, suicidal post..(nah, not really) I was really good friends in high school with a black guy named Romero. He and my boyfriend John were going to drive to pick me up for a movie. Not that my dad was ever a racist, but he never made things easy for anyone ever picking me up. So, John and Romero arrived, and I leapt to the door, "We're ready, I'm leaving, see you later," but he had to meet everyone. He had met my boyfriend John before, but he met my friend Romero, shook his hand, and said to him, "If you're cool with Emily, you're cool with me..." I wanted to die, while Romero and John were hyperventilating from laughter, and then he yelled, "She turns into a pumpkin at midnight!!" If I had could've crawled under the seat, I would've.
"Dad, your guiding hand on my shoulder will remain with me forever."
Author Unknown
Monday, April 04, 2011
The 80s and me..
I'm currently watching "Karate Kid Part II" and thinking about a. There is NO Karate Kid unless it's Ralph Macchio and b. They just don't make movies like they did in the 80s. There were so many movies with an underdog and "the mean people." It was usually a glaring class sort of a thing; the underdog was poor, be it Daniel LaRusso or any one of Molly Ringwald or Anthony Michael Hall's characters, and the mean guy, who was always William Zabka, was rich.
I guess growing up in the 80s, I was 13 when 1990 came about, the 80s are where most of my cultural upbringing originated. Yesterday, when driving back from my sister's, I listened to Casey Kasem's Top 40 replay from April 1986..wow. It was full of one-hit wonders, Loverboy, and a long-distance dedication featuring Lionel Ritchie. Awesome. I mean, honestly, the movies and music were so cheesy, but you can easily tell from 30 seconds of either, from which decade it came.
My sister and I used to tape the Top 40 every Sunday, well actually, we had to physically listen to the Top 40, have the cassette tape ready to go, and record our favorite songs, including, but not limited to: "Right Here Waiting" -- Richard Marx, "Hard to Say I'm Sorry" -- Chicago, "What Have You Done for Me Lately? -- Janet Jackson, "Hold On" -- Wilson Phillips, and "All I Need" -- Jack Wagner. I kept a large majority of those tapes in a bag in my car until I bought a car that wouldn't play cassette tapes. It was awesome, hearing the broadcast before the actual song, and we would either cut it short or let it run too long. I bet my 9-year-old niece doesn't even know what a cassette tape is...*sigh* I'm turning into my damn dad...even more so...
On a different note, I heard a story today about black members of the NAACP being upset that Hispanics have been appointed as presidents of local chapters. A black minister in Worcester, Mass., said that "the NAACP was set up for black people, that black people have specific issues, and that their agenda would likely be hijacked by non-colored members being appointed to positions of power." He then likened letting Hispanics into the NAACP to the National Organization for Women letting in men. I'm sorry, but that is not the same thing. The NAACP is the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and I think trying to keep Hispanics or Asians or anyone of color from being an integral part of it isn't much different than racist whites interpreting "all men are created equal" to mean all white, free men. It's 2011, and I think everyone's "agenda" should be the same, and discrimination in any form should not be tolerated.
"We all should know that diversity makes for a rich tapestry, and we must understand that all the threads of the tapestry are equal in value, no matter what their color."
-- Maya Angelou
I guess growing up in the 80s, I was 13 when 1990 came about, the 80s are where most of my cultural upbringing originated. Yesterday, when driving back from my sister's, I listened to Casey Kasem's Top 40 replay from April 1986..wow. It was full of one-hit wonders, Loverboy, and a long-distance dedication featuring Lionel Ritchie. Awesome. I mean, honestly, the movies and music were so cheesy, but you can easily tell from 30 seconds of either, from which decade it came.
My sister and I used to tape the Top 40 every Sunday, well actually, we had to physically listen to the Top 40, have the cassette tape ready to go, and record our favorite songs, including, but not limited to: "Right Here Waiting" -- Richard Marx, "Hard to Say I'm Sorry" -- Chicago, "What Have You Done for Me Lately? -- Janet Jackson, "Hold On" -- Wilson Phillips, and "All I Need" -- Jack Wagner. I kept a large majority of those tapes in a bag in my car until I bought a car that wouldn't play cassette tapes. It was awesome, hearing the broadcast before the actual song, and we would either cut it short or let it run too long. I bet my 9-year-old niece doesn't even know what a cassette tape is...*sigh* I'm turning into my damn dad...even more so...
On a different note, I heard a story today about black members of the NAACP being upset that Hispanics have been appointed as presidents of local chapters. A black minister in Worcester, Mass., said that "the NAACP was set up for black people, that black people have specific issues, and that their agenda would likely be hijacked by non-colored members being appointed to positions of power." He then likened letting Hispanics into the NAACP to the National Organization for Women letting in men. I'm sorry, but that is not the same thing. The NAACP is the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and I think trying to keep Hispanics or Asians or anyone of color from being an integral part of it isn't much different than racist whites interpreting "all men are created equal" to mean all white, free men. It's 2011, and I think everyone's "agenda" should be the same, and discrimination in any form should not be tolerated.
"We all should know that diversity makes for a rich tapestry, and we must understand that all the threads of the tapestry are equal in value, no matter what their color."
-- Maya Angelou
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)