Childhood Memories · Colorful Personalities · Personal Anectdotes

The Ear Piercing Fiasco that Marred All Living Memory of It

dinoearringsWhen I was growing up in small town New England I was one of only two girls in my school who did not have pierced ears. It was tradition in these parts to bring your girls out when they were seven or so to give them their first ear piercing. This was a right of passage most little girls lived for – a mommy daughter moment that made them look tough and older. I never saw the point. I was like that – constantly questioning, constantly wrinkling my nose at the status quo. My mother told people it was because I was afraid of the pain. This was absolute horse shit. Pain was never something that bothered me. I loved to get vaccinated with the other children. I’d laugh when the little boys would cry and gloat over them when I didn’t. No, this wasn’t a pain thing, but it may have had a little to do with a story I kept hearing get told over and over again…. that of my mother’s ear piercing.

threadShe lived in a more conservative time. Children did not have their ears pierced but that didn’t stop them from wanting it. So when my mother was a teenager she let her sister pierce her ears with a sewing needle. Her sister was not trained in this but that didn’t stop either one of them as they pulled some ice cubes out of the freezer and began to numb her ear lobes the best they could. The first ear went well. She grabbed a hold her sister’s lobe, pointed the sewing needle (sterilized with alcohol) at the approximate spot it should go and started to push it through with great strength. You see that’s the thing about ear lobes, they’re spongy, rubbery, and thick. They are not easy to manually push a needle through! But sure enough with a nice gush of blood and an audible pop the first ear was pierced!

A beautiful casual female touching her earIt was the second ear that was the problem… Now my aunt was under great pressure to get it done and get it done quick because their mother had shown up and was pounding on the locked door demanding to know what mischievous thing her daughters were up to. With very little numbing she lined the needle up and pushed it diagonally through the ear while hollering, “NOTHING! WE’RE NOT DOING NOTHING! GIVE ME A SECOND!!!” The chaos was palpable, the consequences permanent. My mother’s diagonally pierced ear never healed up so she was never able to redo the piercing better. Worse still it was open to infection now and she was without the supervision of someone who knew what they were doing. An abscess formed, puss built up in the ear lobe, and her solution to fixing it involved soaking a cotton thread in salt water and flossing it through the new hole. This did work in the end but just the idea of it makes me gag thinking about it. No thank you. I had no desire to go through this just so I could have some stupid sparkly thing jutting out of my head. I found it bizarre society seemed to demand this of women. Ah well, I always was a failure as a girl and then a woman. I’m content with that.

 

Advertisements
Colorful Personalities · Personal Anectdotes · Uncategorized

How to Fend off Feral Christian Children

fullarkOnce upon a time I had the great misfortune of having a roving eight year old Christian child show up uninvited into my living space and refuse to get the hint to leave. This would happen every weekend because apparently allowing an eight year old to wander like a stray dog and  bug random neighbors for food is A OK to certain families.

Sadly this isn’t the first time I have had the issue of waking up with children that weren’t mine. Being a great believer in science I was always of the opinion that, “kids just happen” was one of the stupidest statements on the planet. I mean I don’t know of any woman who just woke up one day with a baby budding out of her arm, screaming, “I have NO IDEA what happened! This clone of me just appeared out of nowhere!” I’m not saying it can’t happen because you never know, add the appropriate comic book styled nuclear meltdown and anything could happen, but I think for the most part children are the result of fucking. I’m not alone in this observation… and maybe it’s because of my insistence to believe in that I kept getting other people’s kids dumped on me, for years. It was like there was a big blinking sign over my head reading, “Knows how to use birth control, please punish me for my worldlyness.” I’ve already written about this already in this blog when recounting the ten year old that stole the car.  Believe it or not this was a different child from a different family and was so much worse.

Buddy_christThis child was born into an intensely Christian family by two suitably teenage parents. By the time she was bugging me her mother had ran the fuck away and her freakishly misogynistic grandmother was taking care of her on the weekends. She was a child starved for attention, something she best illustrated with her shreiking 500 decibel voice which she’d marinade me with non-stop whenever she could find me. She had no inside voice and as much as I felt bad for her there was only so much Christmas songs (in fucking July) and evangelical propaganda I can handle coming out of the mouths of babes. The way she spoke of Jesus made him sound like some flesh and blood creepy dude that escorted her wherever she went. It freaked me out.

And so I would try to gently discourage her from bothering me. I’d pretend I’d fallen into a coma every weekend, I’d make a note not to be home, I’d send her home with things no eight year should have – like thirty pounds of sticky candy and an orchestra of noise makers. Nothing seemed to work so eventually I decided to work on her grandmother’s deep seated belief in all that is holy… and chaste. This woman had a Madonna Whore complex that could have made the Madonna cry. She had spent years telling me how to slut it up (wear make-up, tight jeans, SMILE!) and when she realized I had a man she started to spew bile. She was the most anti-sex person I have ever met and took out all her hostility and rage on other women. She was also homeschooling this poor child… so I figured I’d just blare sexually explicit or otherwise wildly inappropriate music hoping she’d take a tune or so home and sing her new vocabulary cheerfully to her grandmother who might get the hint to keep her away.

I started simply with the old music I grew up with. Hair’s score Sodomy seemed a great place to start. With an upbeat musical styling that might appeal to a child it espoused a whole string of age inappropriate words. And the title was absolutely Biblical so I took this as a sign from God. Plus being so short the message was super simple..

“Sodomy

Fellatio
Cunnilingus
Pederasty
Father, why do these words sound so nasty?
Masturbation
Can be fun
Join the holy orgy
Kama Sutra
Everyone!”

 

This didn’t work. It just wasn’t catchy enough. I needed something with carnival flare. I found it in Formidable Marinade. This song was just a joy, insanely upbeat, deliriously sarcastic, and all about good old fashioned sister-fucking. I couldn’t ask for more! Plus this was one is great fun to sing along to – as enthusiastically as possible until the men in white coats drag you away. Just look at the chorus:

“Sodomy is not just for animals
Human flesh is not just for cannibals
I’ll feast on your body if you’ll feast on mine
Blood is thicker and redder than wine!!”

 

I don’t know if the lyrics ever caught on to who it was intended but by now the neighbors could hear me blaring this every weekend and I figured in for a penny, in for a pound! I moved on to another incestuous ditty… one that starts off with the line, “Little sister, I don’t know if you should look at me that way…” Seems like a good start to a story, no?

 

 

I got the occasional dirty look but this did not seem to be working. Maybe because the Bible says surprisingly little against sister-fucking… if anything it seemed to endorse it. Adam and Eve’s children populated the whole earth…. with who? *inaudible mumbling*

Maybe I could take a little break from the sexual taboos and just focus on how great drugs are. One Toke Over the Line seemed cheerful enough! And the version from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas had a delightful Hunter S Thomson quotation at the beginning… which is super child friendly.

 

I played a plentiful assortment of joyful drugged out tunes but to no avail, the kid kept coming over. Maybe I should go back to the sex thing… I found a song that was shinier than anything I had ever heard – She’s Got a Girlfriend Now. This song wasn’t just bubbly it was about a guy whose girlfriend leaves him… to be with another chick. Peeeerfect. If incest can’t rock the boat than maybe a bit of joyful lesbianism can.

 

Still…. nothing. So I  had to call in the big guns – Jesus himself. If sex and drugs couldn’t offend the old coot surely blasphemy was the answer. Imagine my unbridled joy when I found out the soundtrack to Hedwig and the Angry Inch had something I lovingly ended up nicknaming the Nail Me Jesus Song. This song had everything! Sexual tension, homo-eroticism, and Jesus!

 

Maybe the above Jesus ditty was a little too enthusiastic. Maybe this kid would do better with slow, quiet, and fucking creepy. So I found the perfect tune… recited in a sort of growling whisper by what sounds to be a total psychopath….

“I met someone like Jesus in the spring of ’98
He was so full of love and I was so full of hate
So I nailed him on a cross where he belonged
Told myself it’s what he would have wanted all along” (It actually gets worse as it goes…)

 

This seemed to work… not because she learned how to sing it but I think more because the general sound of it freaked her out at some primal level. She wouldn’t be the only one. This is a well known band but there’s only five comments on this particular song, probably because even die hard fans are backing away slowly. “He’s finally snapped. Move real slow!” Anyway my little annoyance disappeared… for a while… which is more than I could have hoped for… So I will end this article here with some bonus bubbly blasphemy to wash the creepiness out of your ears from the last one… Come on everyone! BOUNCE!

Colorful Personalities · Colorful Retellings of History · Personal Anectdotes

Toronto is for Lovers – A Letter to a Pervy Friend

thingI was going through a pile of papers recently, you know the kind of pile that gets shuffled from one corner of the house to the other, somehow breeding more papers like bunnies, a heady mix of seed catalogues, travel pamphlets, and in this case one lonely unsent letter. It was too funny not to share, especially since I don’t remember anything in it…

 

May 5, 2014

Dear Betty,

How’s it going? I’m in Montreal at the moment, scribbling on a hotel pad because that’s how much I cared about getting proper stationary. Well, not really, it’s just who has time to shop for stationary when carousing through Toronto and then onto Montreal? No one, that’s who.

This has been a very betty-friendly trip. Toronto had a condom store wedged between a record shop and a pot shop. If that wasn’t bad enough a shop down the street had a skeleton with wings and an impressive spring-loaded cock hanging from their ceiling. I trust I have sent a photo.

Now that I am in Montreal I have found it to be mostly sex shops, weird graffiti, and strip clubs. Some of these combined to make even more uncomfortable establishments. Had to stop and gawk at one such window where a lovely display of dildos were being tended to by two rubber hands. It’s such a shame that hand from the Adam’s Family had to resort to prostitution. That’s fucked up.

I’m staying here! *arrow points to hotel’s signature at the bottom of the pad* It looks nice – has a shoe buffer and a trouser press from the 1970’s in the room. And they do not talk to the garage they use for customers. AWKWARD!

In Toronto I was approached by three teenagers dressed for the apocalypse. They asked for spare change, saying their family had been kidnapped by Ninjas and they needed karate classes to get them back. Their humor was rewarded with a dollar. I am unsure if beggars in Montreal are as….interesting… as they don’t speak English. This little language barrier has been a source of much frustration, but I suppose!

I spent a great deal of time shoe shopping because the $5 canvas shoes I was wearing were covered in chicken shit and apparently not appropriate for public usage. The shoes in Toronto were outrageously priced – $100-200 a pair, threads already dangling off them, subpar rubber making up their heals. I found a pair of half-ass hot pink galoshes for $160! I’m like, “Dude, I can get rubber boots at Tractor Supply that will last more than one outing and spray paint them pink for less than twenty bucks…” After MANY shoe stores (including Canada’s largest with a whopping fifty pair) I finally found a Pay Less and bought a nice simple pair of dress shoes on sale, with a coupon, for less than $10. Win. Granted $10 is the opposite extreme.

I’m on the 24th floor of the hotel. Under the window is a park. Oh, how disturbed I was to see thirty people sprawled out on the ground like they’d been stepped on by Godzilla. Turns out they were sunbathing. Silly Canadians.

Hope all is well!

Typhani

Childhood Memories · Colorful Personalities · Personal Anectdotes

Fond Memories of Killing Off The Hanson Brothers…

HALPersonal expression is one of those things you can swallow and repress for many years to please others but eventually something will come out somehow. My teenage years were a perfect example of this. I was a painfully shy, near mute of a child, hiding a disturbingly dark sense of humor behind sweet innocent-looking eyes. It was something I shared with almost  no one – only a few special friends and family who I thought could handle it, but as with all things it began to slip out a little at a time…

hobbitI was “gifted” and going to public school – this is really just a politically correct way of saying “a child who is chronically bored of your tedious and dumbed-down curriculum.” I spent a lot of hours every day daydreaming… and those daydreams were not always about unicorns and fairies. Actually they more often stared the Kracken eating my peers, or going out to lunch in a new hat, depending on my mood. I was good at  being random, really fucking random, and it wasn’t long before I started my own satirical newspaper long before the Onion or access to the internet. In it I wrote charming little stories with flashy titles like Lassie Falls Down Well; Irony Goes on Strike or Barney Killed in Most Dangerous Game or Last Surviving Hanson Brother Found in Cave Clinging to Can of Catfood. The Hanson Brothers appeared a lot. They were my Kenny before Kenny was a thing. Why was I so mean to them in particular? I don’t know. Must have been that clean Christian image… My bestie at the time confessed to me Marilyn Manson creeped her out. Obviously I used this fact for years to make her vibrantly uncomfortable. “Hey look at that Goth boy over there! He’s fucking adorable!” And she’d cringe and I’d do it again. Oddly, despite being my best friend, she did not have an imagionary subscription to my satirical newspaper, though others did.

This was a wonderful little extracurricular for me but even my schoolwork started to get dark. I made a paper mache mask of Quetzlcoatl the Aztec winged snake god who required human sacrifice. I did reports on George Bernard Shaw to see if anyone was paying attention (they weren’t) and when all that failed to get even one laugh I started blatantly making shit up. I did reports on imagionary sea creatures who existed only in my special mind. I signed my permission slips with the name of famous authors, sometimes even children’s authors which should have been noticed. I mean I know death has never stopped Roald Dahl from inciting humor but still!

trojanBut I guess my fondest memory is of typing class where I left absolute carnage. Instead of typing, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” a billion times over our teacher decided he’d make us into our own publishing house. He gave each student a random sentence and instructed them to write a paragraph about it. After we finished we were to switch computers and write a paragraph for the next person, eventually constructing a story by the end of class. I don’t remember what my sentence was but I do remember the paragraph after it started outlying the beginnings of a massive tele-tubby invasion of Earth. From there on I left a trail of absolute devastation at every screen. I journeyed into Candyland where I killed off people eating the chocolate roads with speeding lollipop trucks, taking my inspiration from Froggo. I got Barney the lovable purple dinosaur embroiled in some NSFW scandals. I gave Tony the Tiger some much needed therapy for his Cereal Killing and then I sat back and watched as students tepidly raised their hands to share their stories at the end of class. The best one was the computer I started on. They really ran with that tele-tubby invasion! Sadly the girl next to me was far less thrilled with my writing style and just bitched to the teacher that it was needlessly violent and she couldn’t write any more if I kept killing off the main characters mid-story. Fair ’nuff. My computer teacher was too numb to understand it was me causing all the havoc. My English teacher actively discouraged my creative writing saying I was too “slangy” and didn’t make any sense but I kept going! And here I am, in my thirties, still  maintaining the inappropriate giggles of my twelve year old self while adding frog pants to The Wild and Crazy History of Condoms. When that wasn’t enough I moved on to A Brief and Delightfully Awkward History of the Codpiece.

feminineprotectionSome of you reading may be aware I sport “tits and a twat” (my favored way of announcing my sex) so I will also include some personal and hilarious  horror stories for the ladies out there. A personal favorite will always be Pop! Goes the Speculum! And if that’s not enough I also have a historically relevant piece on Killer Tampons.

**Footnote – all comics included in this are rare archival finds from my teenage years. They’re Glen the Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar who I breathed life into via MS Paint and lack of sleep.

 

 

Childhood Memories · Colorful Personalities · Personal Anectdotes

When the Torch is Passed Via an Apple Pie

mile-high-apple-pie-11Lately I have been thinking a lot about my grandmother. She was a wry witty woman who always had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. It was this, her sense of humor, that I miss most about her during these past few years. It was something unique and special that cemented our bond. I’m sure she always had it but I don’t think many people understood it – I did, and according to her, always had.

raw-mile-high-apple-pieHer favorite story to tell about me recalled a Thanksgiving event from many years ago. She said when I was five years old she had me out in the kitchen helping her bake her famous mile high apple pie, something she put together with the attention to detail of a rat in a gourmet kitchen. The recipe was simple, it basically called for a pie crust to be loaded well past the brim with apples that’d been coated with a heaping unmeasured dose of sugar and cinnamon. On this particular day she threw the cinnamon into the bowl and started to stir the chunks of crudely chopped apples until they were all sufficiently covered before piling them unceremoniously into the pie crust. This is when she realized she forgot the sugar which was still sitting there ready and waiting to be poured into the bowl. She turned to me and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me I forgot the sugar?” to which my tiny passive-aggressive five year old self replied, “I thought you knew what you were doing.”

I feel honored to have inherited her wit as well as her unique baking style. I still cream cookie batter by squishing it between my fingers. Who needs blenders or a spoon?! Not us! Love you Gram. I hope wherever you are now you know we still think of you often.

Childhood Memories · Colorful Personalities · Personal Anectdotes

When the Torch is Passed Via an Apple Pie

mile-high-apple-pie-11Lately I have been thinking a lot about my grandmother. She was a wry witty woman who always had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. It was this, her sense of humor, that I miss most about her during these past few years. It was something unique and special that cemented our bond. I’m sure she always had it but I don’t think many people understood it – I did, and according to her, always had.

raw-mile-high-apple-pieHer favorite story to tell about me recalled a Thanksgiving event from many years ago. She said when I was five years old she had me out in the kitchen helping her bake her famous mile high apple pie, something she put together with the attention to detail of a rat in a gourmet kitchen. The recipe was simple, it basically called for a pie crust to be loaded well past the brim with apples that’d been coated with a heaping unmeasured dose of sugar and cinnamon. On this particular day she threw the cinnamon into the bowl and started to stir the chunks of crudely chopped apples until they were all sufficiently covered before piling them unceremoniously into the pie crust. This is when she realized she forgot the sugar which was still sitting there ready and waiting to be poured into the bowl. She turned to me and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me I forgot the sugar?” to which my tiny passive-aggressive five year old self replied, “I thought you knew what you were doing.”

I feel honored to have inherited her wit as well as her unique baking style. I still cream cookie batter by squishing it between my fingers. Who needs blenders or a spoon?! Not us! Love you Gram. I hope wherever you are now you know we still think of you often.

Childhood Memories · Colorful Personalities · Personal Anectdotes

Built Maine Tough – The Women in my Life

whackRecently I recounted a story of a woman taking out a wife beater with a baseball bat. This anecdote was one of random bad-assery. It had everything you could want in a story – a conflict, a villain, a hero, and an oh-so-satisfying ending. It’s one of the many reasons I adore the woman who told it and so many others.

crossroadsI’m at a strange crossroads in my life – both looking forward with excitement and trepidation, and looking into the past to learn everything it has to tell me. As I do this I recognize that all the women surrounding me through out my early years were intense. They were strong, independent, resourceful, and absolutely inspiring on all levels. Most of these women came from a hard background, uneducated, born into poverty, they managed the best they could and did so with so much courage that I am moved to hear each and every tale.

50'sI guess I can start with my grandmother. She was smart, really smart, although she never thought so. Growing up in a culture that demands women be docile and stupid seemed to have left permanent scars on her psyche. Still, she was probably one of the strongest women I have ever had the joy of knowing. She got married to a drunk in the fifties, and was part of a church I can only classify as extreme and Puritanical. Still, even with this going against her she got a divorce. She even managed to get approval from the church which was not a pleasant process and included proving her husband was unfaithful without a shadow of doubt. She did this. For herself. In the fifties. From here she went on to marry another mean nasty drunk who did nothing for the family. Because of this she pretty much single handedly raised five children, including my mother who was born six weeks premature. The doctors seemed to think this was because she was dragging water from the well, up a hill, and to the house, every day, while eight months pregnant. They didn’t have plumbing or electricity. And when all this wasn’t enough she even found work and started to be the breadwinner as well. Tough as nails this woman was. She’d eventually divorce a second time.

mourningroseHer sister shared in the misery of poverty – where good men are nearly impossible to find. She had five children of her own when her husband came home from church, family in tow ready for Sunday dinner, and shot her and himself killing both in front of several carloads of witnesses. This wouldn’t be my grandmother’s only loss. She persisted, raised her children to adulthood, eventually earned a stable life, but was only broken when two of her adult children died a slow and painful death from an inherited disease. That would have broken anyone.

maxresdefaultMy mother was more stubborn than anything. From her premature birth she struggled to live and survived at a time when premature babies generally didn’t make it. She not only made it but she suffered remarkably few long lasting effects from her early arrival. She grew up with the same backwoods mentality that women do all the work. Maybe this is why she didn’t find having a man was necessary to having a family. She was unmarried when she decided to have kids and she had two of them as a single mother, starting in the 1970’s. When my brother was born the nurse at the hospital took such offense to this abomination she made sure to shame my mother at all opportunities and even started to feed her infant in secret so that she could further humiliate her when the baby refused to eat for its own mother. That was the beginning of a long journey for the both of them and seven years later, when I came onto the scene, I just added to this strange family ahead of their time.

sweatshop_ivyIn those days my mother worked for a sweatshop owned by another women, something absolutely unheard of in a small town in the 1980’s. I have no idea how this happened but I know she did on her own – without the help of a man. The business employed a handful of other women and did well for a while until globalization became a thing and clothes manufacturers realized it was cheaper to send their garments to impoverished third world countries to have children and peasants sew them for a penny an hour… Sadly that’s what broke this woman the rest of the way. The owner of the company fell into a life of alcoholism and died when her liver kicked out a few decades later. An unfortunate end that still doesn’t discount what she managed to accomplish in life.

wt1+k10+rapidfire+log+splitter+electic+new_lRecently I was with a woman in her 60’s who was standing over pieces of a felled tree. She was lamenting how she did have a wood splitter but it was borrowed and needed to be taken back so now she had to resort to taking her chainsaw after the rest to make firewood for winter. She didn’t mean she was hiring some burly dude to do this, she was doing it herself… in her sixties… because she has always done everything herself. Married to a narcissist for more than 30 years, probably closer to 40, she had gotten accustomed to doing everything. She took care of all domestic chores, raised two of her own children and adopted eight more (that’s two other whole families if you’re wondering.) She also had a long career and was a full time breadwinner during all this. So wielding a chainsaw when she should be playing pinochle somewhere… didn’t raise an eyebrow.

22528910_10212711967208383_3851655929800286079_oI’m starting to see why I am so independent. I’m in my thirties now and have found my voice. I’m brash, opinionated, adventurous, and I don’t let anything stop me. I ran a farm for a while, raised my own food, and like my grandmother before me, I can slaughter and process a chicken with the best of them. I also travel alone – to destinations unknown, often wandering into the woods by myself when other women warn me of serial killers and bears. I follow my passions and I create. I do so in honor of all those that came before me that made this life possible. My own struggles are unique and at times petty in comparison. My predecessors were married to cruel men. My biggest relationship challenge is I am too independent and American men are more or less afraid of me – or worse disgusted by such a ostentacious display of gender fuckery. A single woman following her passions and speaking her mind is an incredibly dangerous thing after all… but even though this may mean I don’t find the love of my life or settle and have a family of my own, I have slowly learned to accept a few things. 1) Life is never what you expect it to be and 2) The universe provides you with what you need, not what you want, but if you play the right cards they can become one and the same. 3) I am but one of a long legacy of bad-ass women and that will not stop with me, no matter the condition of my womb.

22519542_10212712003289285_3275204858516634061_n