Each Head Is A World

MY SINVERGüENZA

2011-10-18T12:54:00.024-04:00

Back in the day!

Every girl needs a sinvergüenza in her life. I have one, and he’s fabulous. My sinvergüenza is a five-foot-five dynamo of a man, who stands six-feet-tall by attitude alone. On the dance floor, he can twirl a chica like me, who stands five-feet-eleven in heels, without missing a step.

I met my sinvergüenza years ago through mutual friends. I was single, and he was married. But a little thing like marriage could never hold him down. My sinvergüenza hit the clubs every weekend, strutting his stuff like a prize rooster. He treated me like his number one hen, even though our relationship always was, and still is, strictly platonic. In fact, we became such close friends that some people wrongly suspected I was his mistress. He often scared off single men who may have been interested in me. However, since finding future partners in nightclubs is not highly recommended, I’m not sure this was an entirely bad thing.

     We did have a good time, my sinvergüenza and I. One time in particular comes to mind. Our group was partying at a club called “The Juke Box.” Somewhere, around midnight, the DJ called for a male and a female volunteer to participate in some late night shenanigans. My sinvergüenza’s hand shot up. The next thing I knew, he was pulling me toward the DJ booth. The DJ instructed me to climb atop the bar in front of his cage. After a few pushes, I was standing well above the crowd in a miniskirt. After the cheers had waned, the DJ instructed my sinvergüeza to lie horizontal on the bar stomach up. Then he instructed me to lie on top of him. The crowd went wild. “Do it! Do it! Do it!” they chanted.

   Fueled by the cheers, and because I didn’t know what else I could do at that point, I propped myself above my sinvergüenza, in a male push-up position. The crowd cheered louder. With my heart pumping wildly in my chest, I slowly lowered my body closer and closer to my sinvergüenza. I don’t know if it was the adrenaline pumping though my veins, or the idea that I was about to mount my sinvergüenza in front of five-hunderd people, but just before my chest reached his chest, I pushed myself back up. Then I proceeded to do ten perfect male push-ups over top of him, while the crowd counted.

   Fortunately, the DJ interrupted the show before my arms gave out. I returned to vertical and curtsied. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause. The DJ shook our hands and gave each of us thirty-five dollars each for our impromptu performance.

   Later that night my sinvergüenza and I stopped for an early morning breakfast at Waffle House to celebrate. After an omelet and a few laughs, we parted ways. I went home alone as usual.

Eventually time moved forward, I married, and my sinvergüenza divorced and moved overseas. Though, we had kept up through a social web site, we had not seen each other in person for fourteen years. That was until last week, when we met for lunch.

We laughed and joked about old times. He amused me with the story of how he met his current wife. He was at a dance with his live-in girlfriend, when from across the room, he spotted a beautiful stranger dancing like an angel. He excused himself, telling his girlfriend that he was going to chat with an old friend. He bee-lined it across the floor and asked the beautiful stranger to dance. Five dances later, he returned to his girlfriend, with the phone number of the beautiful stranger in his pocket. To make a long story short, he dumped the girlfriend soon afterwards and took up with his soon to be wife.

Through his brutal honesty, my sinvergüenza has opened my eyes to the ways of brazen men. Nonetheless, I am happy to have him in my life. Not many men have the savoir faire to pull off the kind of stunts my sinvergüenza does and still be endearing. Yes, men like him are few and far between. And though at present he is happily married, I take still take caution when I lean in to give him our customary kiss on the cheek goodbye. If I let my guard down, he is likely to plant a big one smack on my lips.

Oh, you are still not sure what is the meaning of the word sinvergüenza. For the purpose of my story, cheeky devil about sums it up.

MY FRIEND

2011-08-15T18:14:00.027-04:00

The Twins

Her given name was Belinda, which means beautiful, and anyone who was fortunate enough to have crossed her path, knows that she lived up to that name. She had an hourglass figure, hair like Gloria Estefan, and large, mahogany eyes that lit up like moonbeams when she was happy. But “Linda’s” beauty was not only on the surface, it seeped into her pores and wound itself tightly around her inner core. She was a kind, loyal, devoted, and generous friend, who came into my life, and left me with a plethora of marvelous memories that I will always cherish.

Me as Linda on Halloween

Initially, Linda and I connected over our love of dance. We met on a Country Line Dance Team in the mid ‘90’s. While strutting our stuff to the tunes of the hot new country music star Alan Jackson, et al, we branched off on our own, and with two other friends created “The Mambo Girls”—a Latin dance team. When we weren’t on stage, we could be found in the center of the dance floor at one our favorite clubs. We became BFF’s, almost inseparable. Many a night Linda and I suited up in matching dresses, sometimes in different colors, and we would dance into the wee hours. Our propensity to dress alike earned us the nickname “The Twins,” in some circles, which was ironic since appearance wise, we were opposites, with my eyes and hair as light as hers were dark.

Over the next few years, Linda became more than a friend, she was like a sister to me. We vacationed together with our kids, and celebrated our birthdays together—we were both born in August—we shared hopes and dreams, and even a few tears. Unfortunately, life got in the way, and we drifted apart. I married. Linda did the same, moving three states away.

Three of The Mambo Girls reunite Me, Linda, and Elsa

For almost ten years, we never spoke, though, I'd heard tidbits about her life through mutual friends. Then, in summer of 2009, both older and wiser, we reunited, and for the remainder of the year, we worked on rebuilding what we had so recklessly tossed away. We vowed to get together from there on out every summer, for no less than a week. Linda was back in my life, and life was good.

I wish I could write the end of this story differently, but today I am not writing fiction. The reunion of our second summer was never to be. Linda passed away just over a year ago. Many of us were unaware she was sick, but that was Linda style. She was a proud, strong, Puertorriquena, and she dealt with her problems head on and in a private manner. Linda would not have wanted her friends to pity her. And I do not pity her, but I do miss her. I only hope, that while she was here, I touched her life as much as she has touched mine.

Happy Birthday Linda! I will look for you tonight dancing amongst the stars.

Your friend Sue.

Linda's pride and joy. She inherited her
mom's eyes and her smile.

POSSESSED BY THE DARE DEVIL has won Honorable mention!

2011-06-21T20:25:00.003-04:00

CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW

http://blastfromthepast.blogspot.com/2011/04/possessed-by-daredevil.html

MY HUSBAND HAS TAKEN UP TREE PLANTING Won honorable Mention at HumorPress.com

2011-06-21T20:13:00.001-04:00

Click on the link below to view!

http://blastfromthepast.blogspot.com/2011/03/my-husband-has-taken-up-tree-planting.html?showComment=1301888807286#c2133871005035590855

I Hate My Husband's Chewed Gum!

2011-04-21T19:53:00.000-04:00

I won honorable mention in a humor writing contest for my piece I HATE MY HUSBAND'S CHEWED GUM!http://humorpress.com/Results/Essays-2011_02-03/c-HonMens/Essay-2011_02-03-HonorableMentions.htm#2

Possessed by the Daredevil

2011-04-19T12:41:00.039-04:00

The Kid learned to ride a two-wheeler, and in the first week of practicing his new skill, he rode out in front of a car. Twice!

I need to confess something. I am not a young mom. I did the Hollywood starlet thing. I gave birth to The Kid when I was in my “new twenties.” And while the mental image that I have of myself may be new, my nerves are not. My poor old nerves are frazzled from four-plus decades of experience. And, two days ago, after The Kid's second near miss with a minivan, they reared their ugly neurons.

My body ran down the street, hands in the air, screaming like a banshee while all the neighbors stood gape mouthed in their front yards. I yanked The Kid off his bike, and then dragged them both home.

My first instinct was to throw the damn bike in the trash, but I realized that would be selfishly witchy of me, so I took a different approach, a more sensible one. Bound and determined to teach The Kid the rules of the road by example, I pulled my rusty ten-speed out of the garage.

“Follow me,” I said.

Surprisingly, The Kid listened for once, and the ride went quite well. We were on the way home, when from a peripheral glace, I spied the dirt trails near the power lines.

“Come on Kid, we’re going on four-wheeling.” I called out.

The Kid and I had a blast! In fact, The Kid had such a jolly time, the next day, he begged me to take him on another “fun” bike ride.

Recently, a dear old friend reminded me, that, as a child, I was the neighborhood purveyor of fun. And now--sniff--my eight-year-old kid wanted to go biking with me. The idea of being a "fun mom," a "cool mom," swam in my head, and my chest swelled with pride. I wiped a happy tear from my cheek, ran to the garage, grabbed my bike, and yelled, “Come on Kid!”

The two of us happily rode off toward the four-wheeler trails.

We chose the exact route as the day before, but towards the end of the trail, rather than turn right, The Kid requested to go straight. Being in an adventurous frame of mind, I agreed. But what awaited us at was more challenging than anything else we had encountered. At the end of the trail was a six-foot by six-foot ditch. It looked steep, but not impossible to navigate by bike. My inner daredevil possessed me, and I said, “Kid...let’s do it!”

6ft deep.

The Kid went first. I plunged in after him, but something went terribly wrong. On the way up, The Kid tipped over. I hit the hand brakes, and the next thing I knew I on the ground lying on top of the handlebars, the rear wheel of my bike up in the air.

After I realized what had happened, I pushed my bike off me, and then hopped up to make sure The Kid wasn't hurt. He wasn't. In fact, he was laughing at me. Next, I looked around to make sure no one saw what happened. When you are my age and fall down, people become overly concerned, making such incidents even more embarrassing. Fortunately, this time, The Kid and I were alone. I quickly pulled The Kid’s bike from the ditch, hopped back on mine, and the two of us rode off into the sunset.

(Today, I have a slight limp, two black and blue goose eggs on my thighs, and a pedal-bruise on my shin. Thankfully, I don’t have to bend my wrist to type.)

But even if I could have a “do over” of yesterday, I wouldn’t.

My Kid learned to navigate over small hills, wheel through tire tracks, and jump mud puddles. The twinkle in his eyes and ear-to-ear grin after each new accomplishment was worth a few minor injuries any day.

I also learned something about myself that I deem to be important. This old, gray nag maybe ain't what she used to be, but she still has guts.

MY HUSBAND HAS TAKEN UP TREE PLANTING

2011-03-17T11:53:00.034-04:00

I didn't intended to write again until next month as I am crushed under the massive weight of my many different projects; however, my husband/nemesis has struck again, and I can't help myself.

My dilemma began last Monday afternoon when my husband returned home from Lowes with three or four fruit trees in the back of his truck. For the last few evenings he has been hard at work in the backyard digging holes. Now, I am not complaining about this, because trees are good, and I'm delighted that he has been occupied and out of my hair. But last night--given his track record--when my husband grabbed a shovel and said, “one more to plant,” I should have known my delight was about to come to a screeching halt.

After about an hour of absence he stuck his head in the door and called out for a glass of water, which I promptly readied, ice and all, good spouse that I am, and then I went outside to hand deliver his drink. I don’t know what possessed me to go out the front door, when I presumed him to be planting in the back, maybe it was some kind of six-sense, or maybe it was some strange kind of foreboding, but no sooner had I crossed the threshold and I saw my husband's head bobbing up and down on the other side of my car. I scurried across the lawn, hand over my mouth, and there, four feet from the driveway, was a hole.

“What are you doing?” I asked in my not so nice wife voice.

A FULL SIZED APPLE TREE

“I’m planting an apple tree,” he responded. His glance never veered from the hole.

I took a deep breath, and calmly said, “You can’t plant an apple tree there. Apple trees grow huge. We’ll have rotting apples dropping all over the neighbors yard, our driveway, and my car.”

I was sure my logic would persuade him to move it because even a squirrel brain could figure that a tree that grows between 12 and 20 feet high and bears fruit does not belong next to the driveway, but my husband kept digging and said, “Don’t worry about it. When the tree gets that big, and if it produces apples, then will talk.”

   I couldn’t believe my ears. “Stop. That tree will have to come down in a few years. We have a large backyard. Plant it there."
   My husband kept digging.
   "I know you're not stupid. (Wink, wink.) Don't plant the tree there!” I screamed. Loudly!

“The tree stays,” he growled in his deep alpha voice, and I knew he meant it. Then he looked up from the ground and said, “Go back in the house. I can deal with your mental illness inside, but not outside in front of all neighbors.”

Why I thought I could reason with someone whose frontal lobe is obviously broken is beyond me. I had to think of another way, a more clever way to get though to him. Although extremely appealing, removing my husband, over a tree, would prove too costly, and possibly time consuming. And a bout of fisticuffs with a 230-pound gorilla would most likely prove deadly--to me. So, with "my mental illness" in full swing, I marched back into the house and Googled, “what kind of soil will kill an apple tree?”

I feel bad for the little tree, really I do, but it's either my car and my sanity, or it. And today, I'm headed to Lowes to buy some lime, hide it under the top layer of soil, and pray for root rot. It's going to be a slow process, so it's not too late to stop me if you have any other suggestions.

© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved

MY BRIGHT IDEA (GAYLE AND THE NOOSE)

2011-03-14T11:48:00.042-04:00

KER-KNOCKERS

I’m going to take you back to a time when kids were kids. There were no cable channels, VCR’s, or in-home video games available, so we had to find other means of entertainment.We played with Ker-knockers—two heavy acrylic, golf ball sized balls on string with a ring in the middle. The object was to use momentum to get them to clack together—not only were they obnoxiously loud, but oh, the bruises we sported on our arms, not to mention, foreheads. And bike riding, no one ever thought of wearing a helmet back then. We’d play fun games on our bikes, like: “Who Can Ride Down The Hill The Fastest and Stop the Closest to the Garage Door Without Hitting It?” And, you know what, the large majority of us lived. That being said; let me get on with my story.

It was summer of 1970, and I was almost eleven. One Saturday afternoon, I talked my parents into allowing me to stay home while they went furniture shopping. It was my first time home alone without a sitter, so it took some convincing, but eventually they agreed under the following conditions: I was not to go outside, and no one was allowed in.

“Remember Susan,” my mother threatened. “No one had better come through the front, or the back door, while we are away. And, under no circumstances are you to open either door for anyone. Do you understand?”

I swung my head up and down, and then happily waved goodbye to my family as they drove off.

Proud of myself, and feeling quite mature, I went inside as promised, and locked the door. I fixed myself a glass of Coke and went upstairs to watch an episode of The Flintstones on the portable TV in the den. I was behaving quite well until the doorbell rang, and tossed a large fly into the ointment. Remembering I was not supposed to open the door, I ran to my room, which opened directly onto our wrought iron balcony, and I hung my head over the railing.

Gayle and me. (I'm the one with the red shoes)

“Who’s there,” I yelled.

My best friend Gayle hopped down off the porch and hollered, “It’s me! Can you come out and play?”

“Sorry. My parents are gone, and I’m not allowed to go out and no one is allowed come in," I informed her.

Her face fell, and then her chin drooped to her chest. She looked so gosh darn sad it tore at my heartstrings. I just had to find a way for her to come in and play. I just had to. (Now, what my mother failed to realize was that because she specified which thresholds were not to be crossed, her edict was left open to interpretation by my inventive, preteen mind.) The gears of logic began to turn in my brain.

“Wait right there a minute. I’ve got an idea,” I said.

I flew through the balcony door back into my bedroom, wheeled down the first flight stairs, rounded the corner in to the kitchen and then down the second flight of stairs into the basement. I ran straight towards my dad’s workbench and grabbed a thick rope that was hanging on the wall nearby. This was my dad’s special rope. It was a three-strand fiber braided rope, about one-half inch thick and incredibly strong. I stuck my arm though the middle and hung it over my shoulder, and then galloped up to the first floor, and then on to the second and back out onto the balcony.

“I've got good news. My mom said no one could come in the front door or the back door, but she didn’t say anything about the balcony doors.”

Then, I ran back into my room on the South side of the house and looped the rope around my bedpost and then fed the rope over the side of the balcony on the North side of the house. Since my friend Gayle was never one to pass up a brilliant idea, I didn’t have to ask her twice to tie the rope first around her left leg, then around her right leg, then under her butt, and around her waist, and finally to back on to the hanging rope to form a harness/noose.

Click on the picture for a clearer view of the red diagram

Once she was secure, I started my laborious walk towards her. At first, her weight proved too cumbersome, and my bed slid across the room. But once it crashed into the wall, it made a great anchor. Then I huffed and I puffed and I pulled and I tugged until Gayle’s feet began to leave the ground.

The following three lines of dialog are though my sister's eyes as she remembers it.

“I will never forget that day. We pulled up to the driveway and saw Gayle about four feet off the ground, dangling from a rope.”

“Oh, my God!” Mom screamed.

“Great Caesars Ghost! What in the hell is Susan up to now?” Dad screamed.

I froze as I saw my parent's car pull into the driveway. Dad slammed on the brakes and Mom flew out the car and grabbed onto Gayle. “Let her down right this instant! What in the world were you thinking?” she scolded.

I held my head over the balcony sideways and then threw her words back at her. “But Mom, you only said that no one could come in though the front and back doors. You never said anything about the balcony doors.”

Mom was too flabbergasted to speak.

   Once Gayle was safely on the ground, Mom ordered me to come down from the balcony. I crawled over my bed that was butted up against the balcony doorway, crept out of the house onto the front porch with my shoulders slumped and my head down and then slowly, I began the funeral march toward my mother. I stopped in front of her just outside of spanking distance and looked her in the eye. She glared at me and opened her mouth to speak.
   I cringed.
   Gayle turned white as chalk.
   But instead of bawling us out, her mouth twisted into a wry grin and she said,“Why don’t you and Gayle go to her house and play for a while?”

HumorPress.com

2011-02-22T11:35:00.005-05:00

http://www.humorpress.com/Results/HumorShowcase-Index.htm

I am honored to report that my story HAVE YOU EVER EATEN GOAT? won honorable mention at HumorPress.com

I Hate My Husband's Chewed Gum!

2011-02-10T10:09:00.013-05:00

I need to vent. Since I married my husband and part-time nemesis twelve long years ago, I have frequently found his chewed gum stuck in various places around the house; for example: on the bottom of my dinner plates, on the margarine container lid, on the bathroom sink, on the napkin holder, on magazines in the living room, and on the kitchen counter atop a carefully laid out paper towel, which for some reason, it remained all night. Not only am I grossed out by this unsanitary behavior, I am totally baffled and as to why a grown man feels the need to save his chewed gum especially since he never seems to re-chew it anyway.

In downtown Charleston, we have a wooden telephone pole where everyone, tourists included, stick their used gum—some kind of pop culture art that personally makes me gag—but my husband would never think to stick his gum there, he walks by the pole as if its invisible, and then he sticks his chewed gum to a spoon on the dinner table.
I realize he grew up under Communist rule, and luxuries such as gum may have been scarce, but I refuse to give him a pass. He has been in America for over ten years now, and gum is abundant—and cheap. You can buy it in almost every store and gas station. There is no gum shortage here.

Well, what happened last week, at my son’s basketball practice was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
My husband called me on the phone sounding frantic “I’m out of peanuts. You must go to the store and buy some peanuts. I will pick up our son from daycare, but I have to have peanuts so I can give him a snack before practice, he won’t eat bread in the car.” he said. (My husband is big on nutrition. He believes all you need to survive is peanuts and bread.) Anyway, I met my husband outside the gym and gave him the bottle of peanuts. The two of them sat in his trunk and munched away while I waited outside. A few minutes later, my husband passed me the half-full bottle, and the lid and said, “Here hold on to this we are going in to play basketball.”

When I went to put the lid on the jar, much to my dismay, I saw his chewed gum, folded over the threads. I stared in disbelief, and disgust, unable to fathom what in the hell possessed him to do such a thing. I glared at him and said, “Why on earth would you do something so gross?”

He ignored me and walked away like I was being stupid.

Swearing under my breath, I placed the gum in a piece of scrap paper, and used a toothpick I had in my purse to remove the remains from the threads at the top of the jar, and then I saved the gum in the ashtray. After we got home, still grossed out, and determined to teach him a lesson, I found a more appropriate place to save his gum, on the inside of the crotch of a pair of his tightie-whites. Let him chew on that for a while! Bon Appétit!

© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved

Reliving Latin with Zumba

2011-01-24T11:37:00.009-05:00

I took my first Zumba class yesterday, and I'm already hooked. Granted, I have been a fan of aerobic exercise for years, but Zumba was exceptionally fun! For those of you who are unfamiliar with it, I’ll give you the run down. It is a series of dance and toning routines done in four to five minute increments, one right after the other. Steps from la Cumbia, la Merigue, La Salsa, and Latin hip-hop are incorporated into the workout routine. The music is inspiring. In my opinion, no other music urges one to shake one’s bootie more than Latin Music. I‘ve been listening to it for years.

So anyway, I got out there, not knowing what to expect. Once the music started, I danced my heart out. The time just flew by. I sweat like a pig, but left invigorated.

I was surprised how quickly Latin dance came back to me.

Did I mention that before I married my Bulgarian ball and chain, I dated a guy from Cuba? Oh, yeah, and one from Puerto Rico, and one from Columbia, and I had a semi-long term relationship with a Peruvian-born marine. (A year was long term in my single days.) So you see, Zumba was easy for me because I had a lot of prior experience with Latin dancing.

Anyway, for one and a half glorious hours, I danced, toned, burned 1200 calories, and most importantly, had a blast. Viva Zumba! See you later. I gotta go scour the internet for my next fix.

HAVE YOU EVER MADE-OUT WITH A DONKEY? (It wasn't on purpose)

2011-01-20T15:25:00.044-05:00

Noreen, Me, and Julie in Morgantown.

The year was 1975. The draft had ended a few years earlier. The hippie movement still existed, but was on its way out. It was a different world than we live in today. The legal drinking age was 18, high school students had in-school smoking privileges, and overall, teenagers were treated more like adults than the teens of this era.

Julie and I were in our sophomore year of high school, well on our way to becoming adults. We thought. Her father willingly, and my parents reluctantly, (I made myself sick, refusing to get out of bed or go to school until they allowed me to go) let us hop a bus from New Jersey to West Virginia to visit Julie’s brother Roger who was attending the university there. We arrived on a Friday. Roger and his wife Noreen decided it would be great entertainment for us to spend the weekend on a farm owned by a couple of their friends.

We all hopped into Roger’s 67’ Volvo 122, and drove for an hour or so on windy roads until we came upon a beautiful two-story farmhouse. It looked just like a Norman Rockwell picture. The house was the color of corn silk. A large white porch circled it. In the center of the porch was a picture window, with two rocking chairs strategically placed on either side. Directly across from the house was a dirt road. Roger turned there. I was excited as we drove down the hand-cleared road surrounded by an unlimited supply of trees. I couldn’t wait to see the house where we would be staying. After about a quarter mile we came to a clearing surrounded by mountainous terrain, in the center, was a tiny shack. Julie punched me in the thigh, and we shared an astonished glance.

The ramshackle house where we would be staying was no bigger than a cracker box, had wooden crates for steps, a crooked porch, and one window in the front. Two donkeys, a couple of chickens, a goat, and a dog ran freely around the yard. I guess you could say the place bore a hint of hillbilly-like charm. Sort of.

Noreen and Julie standing on the porch

After an hour or so, Julie and I finally got over the fact that there was no running water, or electricity, and, that the only bathroom on the premises was an outhouse, and we forgave Noreen and Roger, and started to have fun.

That evening, our hosts, a couple of hippies who were extrememly into living off the land, brought us to the neighbor’s house to party. (The beautiful farmhouse I noticed on the way in) And party we did. We didn’t stop until the cows came home. Literally. We had so much fun that by the time we stumbled back to our ramshackle quarters Julie and I were singing, “Outhouse-schmouthouse who cares.”

Our hippie hostess lit a candle, and we all crammed ourselves inside the cracker box house. Everyone was dead tired, but we had a big problem. There wasn’t enough room for all four guests to roll out a sleeping bag, so Julie and I being the youngest, were elected to camp outside. I grabbed my leopard print sleeping bag with the orange flowers and spread it out on the ground about twenty feet from the house. Julie laid her real camping style hunter green sleeping bag next to mine. Enveloped by nature, we camped out under the stars, watching them twinkle brightly in the clear night sky.

I inhaled a gulp of fresh mountain air. “Almost heaven.” I whispered, before I passed out.

I awoke some time later shivering uncontrollably. I glanced over at Julie. She didn’t look cold. She was resting peacefully, snug in her real sleeping bag meant for outdoors. I inched my body closer to her until my back touched hers hoping to steal some of her body heat. But it didn’t work. Every five minutes or so, I was awoken by the sound of my chattering teeth. Finally, after what seemed like hours of torture, dawn arrived. The sun crept up in the sky, blessing me with its warming rays. My body relaxed; I fell into an oneiric state, until I slipped off into unconsciousness, again.

I was having this dream that I couldn’t breathe. A warm, wet, slobbery, mound of goo was covering my mouth. Terrified, I startled awake my heart pounding in my chest. I blinked my eyes until they came into focus. That’s when I realized I wasn’t dreaming. But before I had time to react, a huge, grey, tongue rolled out like a carpet and spread itself all over my face. It was horrible. Whiskers were tickling my cheeks; hot, grassy, smelling breath was puffing on my face as the slobbery mouth expanded its exploration to include my eyeballs. I tried with all my strength to wrestle the donkey head away, but it resisted my force and continued to tongue-kiss me against my will.

“No! Stop it!” I heard Julie scream in the background. The two beasts must have timed their attack perfectly because from a peripheral glance, I saw Julie turtle her head in her sleeping bag. But that didn't stop the donkey. Ooooh, no. He relentlessly nudged at the opening, chewing on the few stray tendrils of her hair that remained exposed.

Copying Julie, I quit trying to fight off my attacker, and pulled my sleeping bag over my head. But my nemesis wouldn’t quit either. He copied his donkey friend and kept nudging, attempting to stick his snotty nose in my man-made cocoon.

Instantaneously, Julie leapt to her feet, and crouched into a kung fu like stance. If she was that brave, I could be too. I wriggled out of my sleeping bag and stood up to face my attacker eye to eye.

“Get out of here!” I screamed at the donkey clapping my hands trying to scare him away. But the donkey just looked at me and took a step forward in my direction. Now, both Julie and I had done a lot of horseback riding, so we had experience with four-legged equidae, but these animals had a mind-set that was all their own. It became an intriguing battle of the wills—and what my foe didn’t know, was I was stubborn as a mule too. I stretched my body as tall as I could so I would look big.

“Get out of here!” I snarled slapping my hands together again. The donkey took another step forward—I took a step back in retaliation.

Right next to me, Julie screamed, “Hi yah! Hi yah!” and karate chopped the air, but her donkey didn’t budge—he just looked at her as if she were crazy. Now, I don’t think the donkey’s thoughts were too far off because in the next instance, she turned and did a ninja leap onto his back.

Her donkey bolted forward, Julie slid from side to side on his saddle-less back. She managed to regain her balance by grabbing tightly to the mane of her beast that was timorously trotting toward the mountains. The offensive play worked!

Julie conquering her beast

So, now it was my turn. I looked my donkey straight in the eyes and snarled; then I pounced on his back. He proved to be a worthy opponent, darting directly under a low branch. It was either dismount or be decapitated—I chose the former. “Be gone fowl beast.” I gloated as he forged briskly toward the mountains in the direction of his crony—securing his escape. Julie dismounted mid way up the hill lest she be carried off to who knows where by her impish foe.

We must have caused quite a commotion because when I looked at the brown shack of a house, Noreen, Roger, and the hippie couple were standing on the porch clapping and cheering. First, Julie and I took a few bows, and then we went to the stream out back to wash the taste of donkey out of our mouths.

Breaking Dawn (A time when love was real)

2011-01-15T05:29:00.002-05:00

Summit Entertainment released this picture from the set of Breaking Dawn due to be released in November. I may be the oldest Twitarded fan in the world, but all I have to say about that is "Bring it on Summit. Mama's waiting!"

Mr. ASS-gar And The Mulberry Tree Hide Out

2011-01-08T16:39:00.011-05:00

front row 3rd from rt. Sara,
Gayle, and then me. Back row 4th from rt. Claudia, then Paula

In the late 1960’s, my family moved into a brand new development in Omaha, Nebraska. Houses were springing up to the left and right of us everyday, and the new construction sites were fun places to play. A kid could always find something to do there.

Occasionally we would get into mischief. For example, one summer, angry they were clearing a lot right middle of our yearly winter sled run, a teenager gave us the idea to stuff toilet paper in the exhaust pipe of the shiny yellow digger. He felt sure that would stop the construction crew from building the house. So, about ten of us went home and swiped a roll. We used a large stick to make sure the pipe was packed tight and none was sticking out the top. The builder, Mr. Asgar, or as we kids called him ASS-gar, didn’t like it too much when his tractor wouldn’t start, and he liked it even less when he found out why. He marched around from house to house, talking the neighborhood parents. There were many kids involved, but nobody squealed, and everyone pled innocent, so no one got in trouble.

And then there was the time, four of my friends and I lay on our stomachs on top of a dirt mound, spying on an unsuspecting cement finishing man. When he quit for the day, he left behind a large patio of uncured cement. Like little commandos, we slid down the other side of the mound, and crept up to the patio. We placed our hands in the fresh cement and signed our names, pretending it was Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. By the time the builder came back the next morning, the cement had hardened, with our names and paw prints included. We left a little too much evidence that time. Mr. ASS-gar went straight to our parents. But miraculously, all five of us came up with the same story—we were good. We all told our parents, “I didn’t do it. Someone else must have signed my name.”

Because we stood united, and there was a plethora of children in the neighborhood with small hands, no one could prove anything for sure so; we got off with merely a warning.

Apart from those two mildly, vandalous, incidents, we never did much more at the sites than have dirt clod wars, or remove discarded wood and nails from the junk pile to make our forts. Well, maybe a little more.

Our forts, the monstrosities made with different sized scrap boards hammered together with an endless supply of nails. Our parents took turns housing them in the backyard a month at a time. Dilapidated sheds would have been a better word to describe them, which is what led to big trouble when it was my turn to supply the yard.

It took almost a week of begging and pleading, before my parents finally caved in and said we could build the fort. But they attached a stipulation—a big one—my mom had to pre-approve the building plan. The fort had to be neat, or we would have to tear it down immediately. Now that was not an easy thing to accomplish when the wood came from a junk pile, and the experienced builders were between the ages of 7 and 12.

Nonetheless, Saturday morning, elated to be back in the fort business even with stiff code regulations, my friends Claudia, Paula, Gayle, and Sara, and my kid sister and I went to scavenge wood. Much to our dismay, all we found on the various junk piles were a few small pieces, most of which had been charred from fires the workers had set the night before.

I shook my head. “My mom will never allow us to start building with this junk.” I said to my friends. Their faces fell. Everyone looked so saddened by my words I figured I needed to come up with another plan. I kicked a rusty nail on the ground and then, eyed the empty, half built, house up and down. “I got it! Let’s go inside. Maybe we’ll find some better scraps in there. “

“But, Mom said to only use wood from the scrap pile outside.” My sister reminded me.

I patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll only take the junk.”

Immediately we started checking all doors and windows, in search of a way in. Fortunately, for us, Mr. ASS-gar conveniently left the back door to the kitchen unlocked. The six of us entered and began our hunt. We didn’t have to go far, because right before our eyes, just beyond the threshold, was a pile of perfectly cut blond 4’x6’s. They were about ½ inch thick, with feathery grain, and smooth as a baby’s butt. There had to be about twenty of them, so I was sure Mr. Asgar would’t miss a mere four. This had to be our lucky day because we also found a matching 4’x4’ that would seal the rear of the fort perfectly. I gave the small piece to my kid sister, and then my friends and I divvied up the remaining four boards, and dragged them up the hill to my backyard.

We dumped the pilfered wood in the yard, and I pounded on the back door. “Mom, come quick! We got the wood!”Mom came out to observe our bounty.

“Look, Mom. We are going to nail these pieces together and it will make a perfect rectangle. Our fort will be neat, just like you wanted.” I said eyeing her anxiously.

My Mom looked surprised “My…Susan,” she said. “That looks like awfully good wood. Are you sure you got it off the junk pile?”

“Of course. They were getting ready to burn it. Weren’t they you guys?” I asked my friends. They all swung their heads up and down.

Now, my mom, being a girly, girl, did not know much about wood grains, or building supplies. Or maybe she just thought her daughter could tell no lies, but the important thing was, she gave us the go ahead to build. Everyone cheered.

"Don’t worry Mom. You won’t be disappointed.” I assured her.

With her back to us, she waved her hand in the air and hurried into house. My friends ran home to get their hammers. I went in the garage, grabbed a bucket of nails I’d collected earlier, and a can of army green paint that had been sitting around in the garage unused for years.

We all met up in the back yard. First, we painted all the wood and let it sit in the sun for an hour or so. We did not mind the few pieces of grass that stuck in the paint. It was a fort, you know. Then we took one side, my sister and Gayle held it secure against the bottom piece while the rest of us tacked in a few nails. We did the same to the opposite side, the top, the back, and before we knew it, we had a perfect rectangle.

“Okay, guys. Get busy hammering, ” I ordered, “We need this baby to be strong.”

And they got busy. They pounded in nail after nail, about an inch apart. If a nail did not go all the way in straight, they pounded it sideways into the board, and used another one. In the mean time, I took my dad’s manual drill and cut air holes. When I thought I had created enough holes to be able to breathe easily, I circled around examining our creation with pride. This was gonna be the best fort ever.

But, when I saw the opening in the front, it just didn’t look right. It was too large for a door. It wouldn’t allow any privacy, so I headed back to the empty house to find one more board.

I reentered into the kitchen and found what looked like a pantry door, not yet attached. It was a little too tall, but I figured I could saw it off when I got home. Then it would fit perfectly, leaving a small open space for us to crawl in. I set off for home, holding onto one end of the board, and dragging the other end on the road behind me. I was about half way home when a car pulled up beside me and stopped. I gasped. It was Mr. Ass-gar and he looked pissed. He slammed on the breaks and jumped out of the car. I dropped the board and took off like a racehorse.

“Hey you!” I heard him scream after me. And then I heard a car door slam. I kept running as fast as I could. But, he was closing in one me. Barefoot, I cursed myself for not wearing my PF Flyers. I dashed into my back yard to warn my friends.

“Ruuuuun!” I screamed as I passed by. I ran, and I ran, for a few blocks. I didn’t stop until I got into the park. Once there, I shimmied to the top of a large Mulberry tree, and hid out.

My friends, who were found at the scene of the crime—so to speak, told the next part to me.

Mr. ASS-gar ran behind me into the yard. He rounded the corner behind the house, slid to an abrupt stop, threw his hands in the air, and screamed, “My wood!”

Claudia froze in place; hammer in air. Sara, Paula, Gayle, and my kid sister ducked down on the opposite side, and continued hammering away.

Mr. ASS-gar had a look of shock on his face that quickly morphed into anger. “You stole my wood. You little brats.” He spat. “You’ve totally ruined it.”

At this very moment, my little sister popped her head up from the back of the fort and said in a nasally voice, “Who’s he?”

Mr. ASS-gar turned purple. He marched around to the side of the fort and saw the other three with their hammers still pounding on the wood.

“Stop that!” He screamed. “What makes you think you can just waltz into my house and steal my wood and hammer it to bits?”

“Susan said we could.” Claudia told him. Everyone else agreed with her.

He shook his finger at them. “Well, you go get Susan, and you tell her I want this fort torn down, and I want my wood back! Now! Do you understand me? Now! You tell her I’ll be waiting for her at the house.”

And then, he stormed off.

I had hidden in this same tree before, so my friends knew exactly where to find me. Frankly, I was a little relieved, if they hadn’t come, I would have probably stayed up there all night, I was that scared.

“Susan, come on down.” My friends yelled in unison. “Mr. ASS-gar said we have to bring back the wood.”

“No, he’s going to kill me.” I yelled back. I trying to guilt them into handling the return, but they refused to leave without me.

“We told him it was your idea. He wants you to help bring it back. Don’t make us come up and get you,” Sara yelled.

Knowing I had no other choice, I climbed down, and went to face my punishment. The six of us tore our neat fort into pieces and dragged the green wood back to the empty house. Mr. ASS-gar stood on lot with his arms folded across his chest, scowling at us.

“Where do you want it?” I asked sheepishly.

“Over there,” he said pointing to the junk pile. “And don’t ever let me catch you around any of my houses again.” We all nodded and tossed the wood in a heap. And then, he made us stand there as he set our former fort on fire. It was painful to watch.

“Can we go now?” I squeaked after most of the wood had burned. ASS-gar gave us one last disgusted nod, and we all scrambled away in different directions. I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face when she explained her part in it to Mr. ASS-gar, “She told me it was from the scrap pile.”

It was great to be a kid growing up in Nebraska.

Happy New Year

2010-12-31T14:25:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year, Feliz año Nuevo, Щастлива Нова година!

Felice Anno Nuovo, Heureuse Nouvelle Année,

Glückliches Neues Jahr, 明けましておめでとうございます,

Szczęśliwego Nowego Roku, שנה טובה ומבורכת,

ευτυχισμένο το νέο έτος, с Новым годом, godt nytår,

and Happy New Year to anyone I may have missed!

Omaha Christmas 1969-1973

2010-12-21T17:05:00.000-05:00

I'm at it again!

The Greatest Christmas Gift Of The Year!

2010-12-19T21:41:00.005-05:00

Merry Christmas

I was officially orphaned in 1999. Since then, my Christmas spirit has been spiked with the bittersweet taste of melancholy. While I celebrate the season with fervor, I can’t seem to quell the emptiness I feel in the pit of my stomach. I believe it to be caused by “the sense of family” that seems to have lessened since my parents have moved on to a better place.

My sister and I

My sister and I both admit we don’t cut the mustard in the family unity department. We barely graduated from the kid’s table before we were thrust into the position of patriarchs. In our defense, we are geographically challenged. We have sisters, brothers, daughters, granddaughters, and cousins living all the way from Baltimore, Maryland to San Diego, California. And this year, none of us can be together. For one reason or another, we all are staying home.

Mom and Dad with my daughters Kirby and Dustan

I miss my parents, the glue that held the family together. Every Christmas, my thoughts always drift back Omaha, Nebraska, a time when all seemed right in my world. (Mom and Dad always bragged they made life-long friends in Nebraska. And my mother, father, sister, and I all agreed that was the place we were happiest as a family.) My lips curl up at the edges and my heart pangs with a combination of angst and joy when I think of the Christmas mornings of yore spent in our happy Nebraskan home.

Every year, Dad made my sister and I wait impatiently at the top of the stairs holding back the dog while he set up his Super 8 camera. (Thank you Dad, we still have the movies.) When he finally gave the word, we would run down stairs, tear open our bounty of gifts, and then hit the streets to compare toys with our many friends.

This year, feeling nostalgic as usual, and longing to open a window into the past when my family was intact, and Christmases were magical and my dreams were boundless, I hit the internet in search of one Nebraskan family that held a special place in my heart.

The twins and Nanny

The T’s lived directly across the street. Mr. and Mrs. T had three children. I was 8-years-old when the twins, two adorable towheaded girls with ice blue eyes, were born, and 9-years-old when their equally adorable, sandy brown, haired sister Nanny came along. I loved them all as if they were my own. I patiently waited for them to walk, and then dressed them in ballet costumes and taught them to dance. I took them trick-or-treating every Halloween. I snapped many photos, for which they eagerly posed. I starred them in my Super 8 movies and many, many theatrical basement plays. They were smart little girls, willing actors, and always adorable. (I still have the movies and the pictures.) I enjoyed the twins and Nanny’s company as much as they enjoyed mine. When I was twelve, I talked their mother into allowing me to babysit while she ran errands. And by the time I was 13, I was the T’s regular babysitter. Though, I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. T were comforted knowing Mom was right across the street.

The last time I saw the T girls, as I called them, the twins were 7 and Nanny was 6. I remember that cold day in November of 1974 as if it were yesterday. The early morning sun glistened off the dusting of the new fallen snow. I stood in my front yard knee deep, with a smile on my face and a lump in my throat, staring at the house I had loved for six years, a lifetime in my young eyes. I felt emotions ranging from excitement to remorse as the moving men loaded the last box on the truck. I crossed the street to say goodbye one last time to the little girls I wished were my own. I still remember their smiling faces as they waved good-bye, them too young and me to naive to understand the finality of our words. And then, my family drove off, in our blue Chevrolet station wagon with wood grain paneling, never to return.

My parents kept in touch with the T’s over the years. I believe I wrote a letter or two, but boys and teenage things got in the way and I moved on with my life. We all did. Although the three little girls, that I once wished were mine, always remained in the back of my mind.

I began my Christmas Google soul-searches about two years ago, locating one friend after another, but the T family remained a mystery. I almost gave up, until two days ago, when, like a Christmas miracle, two of the names of the little girls I once wished were my own, popped up on Facebook.

I consulted my sister, prior to pushing that friend request button.

She said, “You should definitely try, but don’t be upset if they don’t respond. You were older and you really loved them, but they were so young when we left they may not remember you.”

With butterflies in my stomach, I left a little note, enclosed a vintage picture, and sent out two friendship requests. Within a day, my requests had been accepted, and I received a message of acknowledgement from both.

And now, not only do I have the peace of knowing their family is well and intact, but to paraphrase Nancy, I also have this: “I remember you dressing me like a mouse for a Christmas movie. You had the moms come to see it and you made cookie cutter sandwiches. I did that for my kids because of that memory.”

After reading Nancy's words, just like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes. My mouth bowed into a smile, and something warm rolled down my cheek. I had forgotten about my basement production of “Santa Mouse” starring Nanny, and the cookie cutter sandwiches Mom taught me how to make. Nancy's memory will be my greatest Christmas gift this year.

I am elated I have rekindled our friendship, but there is one thing I am finding hard to fathom. The precious little girls that I once wished were mine, who have been frozen in time for thirty-six years, are now beautiful adults with children of their own. I am slowly, but surely, getting used to the idea.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanza, and peace and love to all!

© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserve

Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band - Born To Run (PROSHOT)

2010-12-15T19:55:00.000-05:00

Another influence back in the day.

loggins & messina - danny's song - Sittin' In

2010-12-15T19:03:00.000-05:00

A big influence back in the day.

My House Smells Like Garbage! Part Two.

2010-11-28T11:21:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned earlier, my husband stunk up the house a week ago attempting to manufacture sauerkraut in our garage. After I convinced him to store the stuff out in the back yard, I figured that would be the end of it. Humph.

Well, yesterday, he snuck a couple heads of cabbage into the house while I was outside hanging Christmas lights with my kid. When I opened the front door, it only took a second for me to smell what he was up to. I ran to the kitchen, and sure enough, he was chopping away. I stared at the uncut half of the cabbage. The outer leaves were a combo of black and hunter green, the middle was salmon pink, and the whole downstairs reeked of methanethiol. (The gas that causes farts to smell.)

When he saw me, he smiled brightly and said, “I am making a few jars of sauerkraut. I am going to give them to my friends as gifts.”

My jaw dropped so far the bone popped. “As gifts?" I said slowly, with my voice rising on the word gifts. "If you let your friends eat that, the only thing you’ll give them is food poisoning."

His face twisted, he chopped a few more slow deliberate chops, and then froze; he seemed to be deep in thought. “You know, the cabbage here is not like the cabbage in Bulgaria. There is something wrong with it. It’s been sitting in the brine for almost a month, and the outside is soft like it’s suppose to be, but the inside is still hard. If this were Bulgarian cabbage the whole thing would be soft by now. You just can’t get good vegetables in America like you can in Europe.

   "Uh, huh. Well, whatever, but that cabbage is rotten," I smirked.

   My husband's eye narrowed. "Or maybe it didn't work cause you made me put my cabbage outside,” he accused. (Refer to earlier blog)

   Not up for another fight, I left, leaving the front door wide open. A couple of minutes later, I heard the disposal running, and my husband flew by with a bag of garbage. I flipped him the bird, but he didn't see me.

   Curious, I peeked around the corner and saw the cabbage was no where in sight. I had to giggle. With my husband’s intense aversion to wasting money, throwing out that cabbage must have killed him. (Can you picture me snickering behind my hand?)

P.S. My son and I were headed to the Walmart and my husband called down the stairs, "While you're out, could you pick up a couple of jars of sauerkraut, please. I did so, gladly.

The Fort

2010-11-23T14:53:00.001-05:00

When my mother took me off the meds the doctor prescribed for me because I had an attention span of about an inch long, my school worked suffered, but my imagination tripled. Being a child with an ADD afflicted mind can be a disability, and a wonderful thing. Millions of adventures were at my fingertips because of my ever-churning brain and massive imagination. My world was an intriguing conundrum of colors, movements, and ideas, many of which I interpreted differently than the majority of neurotypical brains around me. Something so simple as a spare mattress mounted on the ceiling could become a magical fort that carried me into a world of fantasy. And consequences were eye-opening experiences that I realized only after the fact.

I am going to take you back to the summer of 1968 in Omaha Nebraska. Lyndon B. Johnson was president, Richard Nixon was waiting in the wings, and the protests against the Vietnam War were escalating. I was just shy of nine-years old and not much interested in the news. My world consisted of playmates, mulberry trees, and mischief.

My best friend Gayle lived directly across the street. She was a grade below me, but her birthday was early, and mine as late, so we were the same age most of the year. Gayle was the third born child out of four.

My sister Donna, my dog Sam, and Gayle, standing Mary

Although I was welcome in Gayle’s house, her mother never smiled at me as broadly as she smiled the other kids who came over to play. This bothered me. Mrs. H. was “a cool mom” and I vowed to figure out why, but on this particular day, I had more important things on my mind.

After an hour or so outside, Gayle, Stevie, (her five-year-old brother) and I came inside to play. Mrs. H. promptly escorted us down to a finished room in the basement and told us to behave ourselves and not make a mess. The room was 60’s mod! It had a poster of Jim Morrison on the wall, a record player, and indoor/outdoor carpeting on the floor. It was cool enough, but to my right was a door that remained shut, making it an all consuming point of interest to me.

“What’s behind the door?” I asked.

“That’s my dad’s workshop.” Gayle answered.

“Wow! Can I see it?”

“We’re not supposed to play in there.” Gayle shook her head warily. Stevie mimicked her.

“Okay, we won’t play, but it couldn’t hurt to just take a look around. Could it?” I persisted.

Gayle shrugged.

Now, Gayle and I got along really well, I came up with lots great ideas, and she was always a willing accomplice. Without giving it another thought, she opened the door and the three of us entered one of the most fantastic rooms I had ever seen in my life. There was a workbench with a slew of power tools. Along the wall, was a metal shelving unit with hundreds of little glass jars with all different sized nails, screws, and small metal hardware Gayle’s dad had meticulously labeled and organized.

My eyes followed the line of the shelf past the jars, and all the way up. That’s when I saw it, our next fort. Mounted to the ceiling with two-by-fours was a spare mattress. At one time, the bracket must have contained two mattresses because there was a space of about two feet between the hanging mattress and the ceiling.

“Look you guys!” I said. “We need to climb up there. That could be the neatest fort in the world. We could bring food and clothes, we could stay up there all week and our parents would never find us.”

Gayle and Stevie thought it was a great idea too. The three of us were always concocting ways to live parent-free.

I put my brain to work. “Before we get all our stuff, lets climb up and check it out so we know how much we can bring. Once we reach the top of the shelf, we can get on the mattress with no problem. It’s your house, so you go first Gayle.”

Gayle began her ascent. Stevie and I stood directly below her to catch her, incase she fell. She made it all the way to the top in a minute or so, and slowly tried to maneuver her body onto the mattress. At that moment, something went terribly wrong. The metal shelving unit began to quake. Loosing her balance, Gayle latched on to the outer rail of the shelving, wrapping her leg and arms around it as if she were a bear hugging a tree. The shelving unit rocked forward. Stevie and I tried to hold it in place, but Gayle’s weight on the outer rail was more than we could handle. The unit began to tip over.

The glass jars, that Gayle’s dad had so meticulously organized, began fall off the shelf one by one and then six by six. Glass was breaking all around us, sounding like an out-of-tune version of Tubular Bells (The theme song from The Exorcist) Hundreds of jars crashed to the floor, sending shards of glass and a millions tiny screws, nails, nuts and bolts sliding across the floor in different directions. Stevie and I were quickly losing our battle with the shelving unit, as Gayle watched from above with a look of terror on her face.

“What the heck is going on in here?” Mrs. H. screamed as she flew down the stairs.

Her eyes popped and she gasped when she saw Stevie and I with panic stricken faces about to be crushed by the shelves, while her second born daughter dangled from above.

She sprang into action and rescued Gayle first, and then she helped Stevie and I push the shelving unit back into place.

“Steven! Gayle! To your rooms,” she growled. They ran.

I was alone with Mrs. H. whose face was red as a beet. She looked around at the glass and metal all over the floor and then her eyes shot flames directly at me. I got the uncomfortable feeling that she knew I was the instigator of the disaster.

In an attempt to calm her down, I asked, “Do you want me to help you clean up?”

“Susan, the only way you can help me is to go HOME!”

I crunched though the broken glass and quickly fled out the back door, leaving Mrs. H with a broom and dustpan in her hands.

This was not my last visit to Gayle’s home. After a couple of weeks, I was allowed back in, but it was quite a few years before I got any kind of smile out of Mrs. H. again.

My House Smells Like Garbage!

2010-11-18T12:01:00.002-05:00

My husband only allows a 1-gallon trashcan in the kitchen, and I had to fight like a tiger for that. He insists the regular size trashcan must be placed in the garage. It’s not a terrible idea, but it is a considerable inconvenience. I’m not sure if this is a Bulgarian thing, or a him thing, but he thought hanging a plastic grocery bag full of trash on the knob of the faux-cabinet drawer in front of the sink was a better idea.

Pissed off by the continual eyesore, and my husband’s stubbornness, I refused to haul the rogue bag out to the garage when it became full. I just hung more bags. Everywhere. After a few days, there were Food Lion bags full of trash hanging off all the cabinet doorknobs in the kitchen. He finally caved in.

Because my husband also complains when I use the garbage disposal, (The majority of people in Bulgaria don’t even have a disposal.) I keep him shut up, by tossing vegetable peelings into trash.

Three days ago, when I entered the garage the smell of rotting vegetables about knocked me out. I quickly hauled the hefty bag outside to the large trash receptacle in the backyard. But for some reason the smell did not go away. In fact, every time I walked into the garage, it seemed to get worse.

“Man, I took the trash out, but it still smells awful. It almost smells as if something died out there. Did you leave the garage door open again?” I asked my husband, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m making homemade sauerkraut. It always smells like that.” He responded with a smile.

One of my eyelids drooped shut involuntarily. I took a deep breath, and bit my tongue until it almost bled. I counted to ten in my head, reassuring myself everything would be okay in a couple of days once he jarred the stuff. (No need to start World War Two million and thirty-three, right?) And yesterday, just as I had hoped, I watched my husband fill four jars with homemade sauerkraut. I figured the stinky garage problem was a thing in the past.

Well, when I returned home today, and walked into the house, after breathing fresh air, my gag reflex was triggered. The entire house, upstairs and downstairs, smelled like rotten garbage. Swearing under my breath, I went out to the garage, and removed the four jars of sauerkraut he made the night before. I put them on the porch until I could figure out what to do with them. Then, I promptly put on a jacket and opened up the windows and the garage door to air out the house.

Brushing my hands together I muttered, “That’ll take care of that!”

Knowing my husband would be distraught if he found his jars of sauerkraut on the porch, I set about finding a container to stifle the smell. Luckily, I had a plastic thirty-gallon container in the garage that I purchased for storage. I figured that would be a good of a place as any to put the jars until my husband could gobble up his odorous creation. When I removed the lid the container, I was smacked in the face with a scent so awful, it burned my nostrils and caused tears to pool in my eyes.

The idiot had to have robbed Mr. McGregor’s garden! Inside the container was a plethora of rotten cabbage heads bobbing up in down in water, looking, and smelling like victims of the mob. I dragged that container out of the garage quicker than you could think Tony Soprano.

When my husband returned home he greeted me with a scowl. “Why did you put my cabbage outside on the driveway. Someone is going to steal it!”

“Steal it?” I choked, trying to erase the smirk off my face. “You don’t have to worry about that. No one will go near that container; it smells like there is a dead body inside.”

My husband’s forehead scrunched together until it formed a unibrow. “I have to work hard to make that sauerkraut. I have to remove the lid everyday and blow bubbles into the water with a straw. I know it stinks, but you try to control everything. Removing that container from the garage was a violation of my rights,” he spat.

Now, my husband told me that he attended four years of college in Bulgaria, but I have my doubts. I smacked myself on the side of the head, and I tried to find another way to reason with him. “If I had taken the stuff and thrown it in the garbage where it belongs, that may have been a violation of your rights. But I want you to listen carefully; I had to leave the windows open for over two hours while the heat was on just to get the smell out of the house.”

My husband gasped. And I knew I had him.

(If there is one thing my husband hates more than losing an argument, it is wasting money.) So,reluctantly he agreed to leave the rotting cabbage outside, and I willingly helped him carry the container to a safe place in the backyard.But I still have a problem.

Even though I won the battle, I am not sure I won the war. Unfortunately, sauerkraut is a gift that keeps on giving. The thought of the smell I am going to have to deal with after my husband ingests a year's worth of the crap is even more troublesome.

The Rebel Trait

2010-11-15T12:31:00.020-05:00

(A family story)

   My adventurous, offbeat, and sometime stupid behavior in regards to marriage isn’t my fault! I inherited a rebel trait. And the mutant gene my family slipped me is a doozy. It decodes something like this: If there isn’t some big ass controversy surrounding the guy, the guy ain’t worth marrying. For me, the something big and exciting has got to be almost out of this world to make me want to get married, and I’m not talking a gargantuan diamond ring. (Evidently, I'm not that smart.)
   My first husband and I ran off and eloped when I was just seventeen. I strong-armed my parents into signing the consent form by getting pregnant. Boy, did I teach them a lesson. The things I could tell Bella about controlling men.

My rebound number two was just a blip in my life who turned out to have a multiple personality disorder. Yikes! Shudder. Restraining order. That’s all I have to say about that.

My current hubby is the prize I won after duking it out with the Immigration and Naturalization Service for a year and a half. (I'd had enough of American men.) I won the battle, but they got the last laugh. (Refer to my earlier blogs for clarification).

So where does this mutant gene come from?

After many happy years.

Let me start with my paternal grandparents. Now, I’d heard the family lore, as told from my dad's perspective, but, over the years, it had become so sugar-coated, it was way too sweet to swallow. So, at my therapists advise, I interviewed older family members one by one, pieced all the different stories together, and came to a feasible conclusion by myself.

My grandmother—from whom I inherited the blue eyes and blond hair—was the child of Catholic Czechoslovakian immigrants who lived in Baltimore. Both her parents died when she was twelve or thirteen. Another Czech family who lived nearby took her in and raised her to adulthood. Her life was riddled with sadness, and she was educated sporadically, but she was a beauty—which was certainly an indispensable asset in the days before the Woman’s Suffrage victory.

My grandfather was the boy next door, and the son of German immigrants. He was studying voraciously to be a Methodist minister. But the stars crossed, and Grandma and Grandpa fell in love. When they expressed their desire to get wed, both were directly excommunicated from their churches due to their relationship outside their respective religions. To make matters worse, both their families disowned them for a time, as well.

This did not stop their love, a true love that was so strong, they fled to Kingston, New York to “escape religious persecution.” They said. Several months later their first child was born. She was named Juanita May after a woman who had helped them out while they were in Kingston. (Does anyone see the synchronicity here?)
My grandmother must have discarded any information related to the exact date of her wedding day, with the same fervor she cut the size tags out of her clothing. I couldn’t find any supporting documentation, but I strongly suspect that it was after Juanita’s conception—just as I strongly suspected she was no longer a size 14 as she had claimed in her later years. This theory would explain the families’ temporary rejection and the sudden flight to New York.

My grandparents eventually resumed residence in Baltimore where my educated and verbose grandfather became a milkman to support his new family. They raised five children, my father being the youngest born after his mother thirty-ninth birthday, eighteen years after the birth of Juanita May.

My grandparents never went back to church, but they didn’t give up on religion all together. Even though, they had both been excommunicated, they were Christians and didn’t want their children to go without, so they sent the kids to the Lutheran church down the street because it was closest to the house.

Now, the rebel gene is a strong one and recurs quite often in my family—it has yet to skip a generation. The next in line was my Grandma’s youngest daughter Maynard.

Before Uncle Joe

Always a feisty, adventurous child, Maynard grew up tall and beautiful. She became a fashion model and was the pride of the family until she brought home Uncle Joe Shapiro. Don’t get me wrong, Uncle Joe was a well-to-do business owner and devilishly debonair. There was just one little problem in Grandma’s eyes, he was Jewish.

I need to back up a moment because this is the clincher. I don’t see where Grandma's head was at, because she had first-hand experience with religious persecution in her early life, and one might have thought she would have understood. But history repeated itself, and Grandma threatened to disown her own daughter if she defied her and married a Jew.

Maynard’s rebel gene kicked in and instead, she disowned her mother, converted to Judaism, and ran off and married Uncle Joe anyway. Grandma stomped her foot and temporarily disowned her back, but the feud didn’t last long. Uncle Joe, the peacemaker, sent Grandma a round-trip ticket for a visit to their humble home in Beverly Hills.
While she was there, Grandma met her idol Zsa Zsa Gabor, and Uncle Joe and Aunt Maynard’s next door neighbor Frank Sinatra—they all shared a maid. I guess that must have evened the score, because Grandma accepted Maynard and her Jewish husband back into the family with open arms. Aunt Maynard got the guy and the ring. (Don’t believe me? Google Bomber Shapiro, Nancy Sinatra writes about him in her memoir. Bomber was Uncle Joe and Aunt Maynard’s first child. His real name was Douglas after the WWII bomber. )

Anyway, the rebel gene that resided in my grandparents and then my aunt in generations wound far more tightly than mine, was the family jewel that was genetically passed on to me to carry to our future clan. I think that it is essential to mention that though I was not the first child to make my grandmother grand, my father always told me that I was innately always her favorite.

I have one more thing to say before I sign off. There was a slight mutation in the gene before it was passed on to me. The part about happily ever after was lopped off. However, that may have come from my mother’s side, but I am not sure. I don’t know Mom’s history since my biological maternal Grandmother gave Mom up for adoption. I heard she never married. Ever. Hmm…..

© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved

Artwork is Subjective!

2010-11-04T21:37:00.000-04:00

My mother always told me that ones taste in art was subjective, and she was right. I am not a huge art collector, although I would be if I had the money. Who wouldn’t love an original Picasso? But because I can’t afford real artwork, and the majority of the furnishings in my home are collectible pieces with a Mid Century Modern theme, I hunt for moderate priced Carlo of Hollywood, Ran Su and other rare finds from the Eames era.

Why the hell does my husband keep messing with the walls?

Unfortunately for me, I married the Neanderthal of the world of art and design. Until we tied the knot, my husband pretended to like my style. I should have known our tastes would clash when I saw the bad print of the Mona Lisa mounted in a plastic frame on his parent’s living room wall. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. (Wink, wink.)

I’m not a complete snob. Having cheap artwork hang on the wall of ones own home does not make one a bad person, but if one wants to hang the cheap shit on my wall, it does.

The big problem here is that every time my husband returns from a trip Bulgaria, he brings home some fake gold framed piece of junk he tries to pass off as artwork. And then, he insists we have to hang it on our walls somewhere. I gave him two rooms plus the garage where he can have all the bad taste he wants to, but that is not good enough. Now, he wants to hang the latest junk in the rooms that other people see.

I know that there are wonderful artists in Bulgaria who paint pictures that would match the colors and the themes of our rooms. It’s just that my husband never seems to find them. He would rather spend his nickels buying cheap oil paintings or mass-produced prints of famous Roman Ruins sold in the tourist shops of every city.

The latest piece of trash he brought home and called art, was a painting by a famous artist stamped on a two-dollar post card. He mounted it in a plastic frame from Staples and placed it on my dining room buffet for all to see. When I asked him why on earth he thought a cheap framed postcard was worthy of a place in our dining room, he said, “It may be two dollars in Bulgaria, but in the US it is worth a fortune. Americans will be impressed by this picture.”

Let me see, I am not sure of the daily exchange rates today, but the last time I checked, 1.5 Bulgarian Lev equaled one dollar, so that makes his piece of artwork worth whole three dollars including the frame he bought at Staples. You get the gist.

Somebody hand me a big gun! I want to blow the brains out of that postcard. Did I say the postcard?

My daughter warned me that because I choose to stay with my husband it is just something I will have to put up with. And I will, over my dead body, which may be the case since my husband out weights me by sixty pounds. But, what if we have an earthquake and all his crappy art work accidently falls of the wall and breaks? Whose fault would it be?

We Are Over One Hundred Strong!

2010-10-25T11:26:00.000-04:00

I belong to a special group within the Writer’s Digest Community website created by Nathalie Bleach. We have recently become over 100 strong. Inside our group, you will find an eclectic mix of writers who share at least one thing in common, the stories we tell fall under the umbrella of the genre Young Adult/Crossover.

Our members are extremely supportive, and most always offer constructive criticism when asked. We are all at different stages in our writing careers, varying from just dipping our toes in the water to professional writers; everyone is welcome. I have made quite a few friends within the group and have received encouragement, and advise when I needed help.

As our numbers show, we are growing in popularity, and I am proud to be a one of the bunch. If you are interested in checking us out, click on the badge below and visit our discussion page.

He Did WHAT On My Couch?

2010-10-22T16:04:00.006-04:00

My love affair with my couch began in the year 2000 when I trotted out to a well-known furniture store in the area. I painstakingly looked though tome after tome of furniture pieces in search of the perfect couch for a cozy room in my house. After I found the frame, I spent two days going through fabric swatches with the hopes of bringing some color into the room, and perfectly matching my two scalloped ecru chairs. I found a multi-colored fabric I loved in a high-grade material, which I didn’t mind, it would last, right? I handed over my hard-earned dollars, (a lot of them) and waited for my couch to be born.

From the moment it arrived on my doorstep, I was absolutely in love with my couch. When we moved into a larger house several years later, I vowed to make it work. No, seven year itch for me, I was still madly in love with my couch. And, I made it fit in my new home, arranging and rearranging my whole living room around it.

One day sometime later, I arrived home from work and my husband said, “A good friend of mine, “John” from Bulgaria, is driving a truck through Charleston tonight. I’ve invited him over.”

“How do you know him?” I asked. I'd never heard him mention “John” before.

My husbands eyes lit up like a little child, “He lived in my neighborhood when I was a kid. He used to be a football player (Soccer in American.) on a professional team.”

(Being European, my husband gets goo-goo eyed over football players and views all of them with much too much admiration and esteem.)

I thought it was odd that a successful professional soccer player would be driving a truck in America, but I shrugged it off reminding myself that stranger things had happened.

So anyway, my husband picked up “John” at the truck stop, and brought him to our home. He was a short stocky guy with long curly grey/blond hair, I guessed him to be near fifty. I remember he had an annoying looking mole on his nose that looked like it belonged to a wicked witch, but he couldn’t help that. (I'm just being picky)

I didn’t speak to "John" much as it was getting late and I had no intention of entertaining on a week night, but I did ask him if he was married or had any kids and he told me, “No, I just haven’t met the right woman yet."

This should have been clue number two. I should have caught on that something was just not quite right, because it is extremely unusual to find a heterosexual man approaching fifty to have never found the right woman or procreated at least once. But, again, I shrugged it off, grabbed my five-year-old son, and headed off to bed, leaving my husband and his friend to have a few drinks and catch up.

The next morning at around six AM my husband jostled me awake. (His alarm goes off first.) He told me to hurry downstairs because our son was down there alone with "John".

“Why didn’t you let John sleep in the guest room? And, what are you so worried about?” I asked perplexed by his panic stricken voice.

“Just hurry up and go down stairs so I can get dressed.”

I threw on some sweatpants and a tee shirt and scooted downstairs in pursuit of my son.

"John" was lying on my couch, covered from head to toe by a large blue quilt. He didn’t wake up even though my son was standing two feet from him. I quietly herded my son into the kitchen, feeling uncomfortable in my own home, around this sleeping stranger.

In the mean time, my husband gathered his work gear and rushed to get “John” up and out the door.

“After a few shoulder shakes, “John” woke up and stumbled groggily to his feet, leaving the quilt on the floor as my husband hustled him out of the house.

When the two of them were gone, I went to pick up the quilt and throw it in the wash. That was when I saw it. My couch, which I had created and loved for seven years, was desecrated with big round pee stain that had to have been eighteen inches in diameter.

Blood shot to my head and pressed against my skull so hard, I felt like my brains would blow out the top. “Noooooo!" I screamed.

My young son ran into the room to see what was wrong and then darted straight for the pee-soaked couch. Acting like a cross between a protective mother and The Incredible Hulk, I dove behind the couch and flipped it over before my son could sit in the pee. Instantaneously, I felt moisture seep into the material of my socks. Realizing I was standing in “John’s” nasty urine, a wail that sounded like a wounded animal rose from my gut and bled out of my mouth.

“What’s the matter Mommy?” My son asked.

I want to vent for a moment. I want you to know that I partied straight through the seventies and most of the eighties like it was 1969. (Any of you who were there by my side, raise your hand in a show of solidarity) Many, many, many people crashed at my house for one reason or another. Never once, did I ever have anyone, not one single person, pee on my couch. (The person who puked on my carpet after a trash can party will remain nameless) And, now that I am older, in a nicer home, and only a smidgen of the partier I once was, I'm suppose to be okay with some idiot who thinks it's acceptable to pass out and pee on my couch?

My husband, and part-time nemesis, returned home and was greeted by possessed woman who had been pacing back and forth in front of the door like a caged animal. (Me.) I admit I lost it like I never had before. I was livid, to put it mildly.

“What in the hell did you put him on the couch for?” I squealed. Then my voice dropped and octave in tone, not decibel, “That jerk peed on my couch!”

My husband jumped like he’d been tazered and held his hands protectively in front of his face. "He wouldn’t quit drinking. He kept drinking and drinking until the entire bottle of whiskey was gone. I only had two glasses. When he passed out in the lawn chair, I carried him in and put him on your couch,” he stammered.

A blood vessel burst in my eye. “Why, didn’t you put him in the guest room, I have a mattress protector on the bed? Why the hell did you put him on my couch?”

After this question, the truth came out.

“I didn’t want him upstairs. I barely know him. He lived in my neighborhood in Bulgaria, but he was a lot older than me. I barely know the guy, honest.” My husband explained.

Why my husband thought the fact that he barely knew the guy would make the situation better is beyond me. I spoke to him slowly, like he was mentally handicapped. “You brought a person you barely know into your home to spend the night with your wife and child?” My voice shot back up an octave on the word child.

“But, he was a football player from Bulgaria.”

This is when I really lost it. I was insane with rage....

“At one time the guy may have been a B rate soccer player, though I seriously doubt he was that good, but now he is a drunk. Just because someone comes from Bulgaria and plays soccer does not make them a good person. I want you to take that peed-on couch outside and put it by the curb, and then have the carpet cleaned." I poked my six-foot tall two-hundred and ten pound husband in the chest. "You owe me a couch, asshole.”

That day, my love affair with my couch (and almost my husband) ended. However, two good things came out of this incident. One, my husband swore on his life that he would not bring anymore friends that I didn’t know home to spend the night, and secondly, I got my newer younger love, paid for from money ( a lot of it) pulled from my husbands personal savings account.

1977 A Reno Wedding (An excerpt) 1st draft.

2010-10-19T13:43:00.002-04:00

We drove for an hour or so before we hit the city of Reno. Robert parked the car in front of a white brick building with a railed porch. The place looked like a church, well sort of. A small steeple with a white cross, stood right directly above a neon sign flashing WEDDINGS. To the right of the door was a stained glass window with the word LOVE etched between two pink hearts; black silhouettes heads of a man and woman facing each other, decorated the next two adjoining windows. But the most noticeable thing about the place was the big red OPEN sign on the door. Realizing what my surprise was, my jaw fell wide open.

“Come on. Let’s do it!” Robert said.

He looked so cute with his usual infectious grin, I could have carried him over the threshold, but I restrained myself. I was happy as a yellow smiley face icon, anticipating my very near future. Once we were married, there would be no way our parents could tear us apart. We would belong to each other forever. My heart thumped as we walked hand and hand toward the Chapel of Love.

Robert propped the storm door open for me. “Brides first.” He bowed slightly, and grandly gestured with his arm.

I skipped across the threshold, taking my first step toward becoming a married woman, only to stumble onto an ox-blood red carpet that covered every inch of visible floor space. My eyes popped. It was the gaudiest place I’d ever seen. My mouth watered in distaste at the clashing muli-mirrored, Pepto-Bismol colored, hearts spattered on the walls and dangling from the ceiling, sparkling, and reflecting rain showers of light around the room. But, that wasn’t all. Just when I thought the place couldn’t be tackier, I eyed a humongous fake gold heart encapsulating a white podium, where I presumed the vows of matrimony took place. For the first time, in a long time, I was rendered speechless.

No sooner, had the door rattled shut behind us, and a short fat man in a navy blue banker’s suit appeared.

He cleared his throat. “Hello, how may I help you?” He asked.

He didn’t look like a minister at all to me. His fat lips puckered outward, squeezed out of position by his chubby cheeks, and he had a funniest looking comb over I’d ever seen. I glanced down at the floor, then at his nose, and then over at the wall, to curb the urge to stare directly at his head and giggle. One big gust of wind and he’d have hair down below his shoulder, at least on one side. By the shocked expression on his face, I was sure we didn’t look like the clients he expected either. Robert’s uneven hair had grown well below his shoulders and his multi-patched, faded, jeans looked ragged. I was in my dirty green down jacket and carpenter pants. I’ll admit we looked terribly out of place in this pristine pink wedding chapel. The fat man’s phony smile didn’t fool me either; I could see the fear in his eyes. He probably thought we were going to rob the joint.

“We want to get married,” Robert said grinning from ear to ear, breaking the momentary silence.

The fat man let out a guarded sigh, his stance relaxed somewhat, as he dabbed at his forehead with a white, silk, handkerchief. “Well son, you are in the right place,” he said.

“How much does it cost?” Robert asked guardedly.

He offered Robert a brochure. “We have different packages. It all depends what you want.”

“We just want the piece of paper, nothing special.”

“Our most economical package, which includes the ceremony, complementary music and the marriage certificate runs only twenty-five dollars.”

Robert’s jaw dropped open. “Twenty-five bucks! That’s expensive.”

“Well, son it is for life. We wouldn’t want you to make a hasty decision.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Robert said shaking his head.

I could see he was still trying to swallow the cost of the whole thing.

“Come on in and have a seat. Miss Swan will get your paperwork ready for you,” the man said, leading us to two chairs in front of a nearby desk. Behind the desk sat a woman with glasses, an up-do, and an air of superiority to match her hair. She eyed us up and down cautiously and then a big fake smile stretched across the thin skin of her face, creating ruts on either side of her mouth. She plopped down a contract in front of us.

“Fill out these forms, and in the meantime, I will need to see your driver’s license.”

“Um. I don’t drive,” I said reflexively.

“Do you have birth certificate or some other form of identification?”

I pulled my birth certificate out of my blue bag. Thankfully, I had been smart enough to pack it when I left.

The woman shook her head and frowned. “I’m sorry. We cannot marry you. You’re not old enough.”

I stared at the woman baffled. “I thought everyone could get married in Reno.”

“Not until you are eighteen. You have to have your parent’s permission,” she informed us in firm tone.

“That’s the problem. Our parents don’t want us to get married. Can’t you help us?” Robert pled.

She inhaled deeply and her nostrils pinched together. “Sorry, the law requires you to be eighteen to marry without parental consent. Have you tried Tennessee or Alabama, some place like that?” She asked.

I didn’t like the sarcasm in her voice, or the suspicious look on her face. I got the distinct feeling she might be one to call the cops.

“Let’s go Robert. I will ask my parents tonight,” I said, attempting to cover our tracks.

Robert looked at me funny for a moment, stiffened, then shifted his eyes toward the door when he caught on to my ruse.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t help you,” the fat man called after us as we fled the pink house of horrors.

Robert and I beat it to the car and not a minute too soon as far as I was concerned. I didn’t want to get married by a fat guy with a comb-over in that ridiculous pink nightmare of a place anyway.

Robert draped his arm over my shoulder. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out, I tried,” he said regretfully. His eyes clouded over and I knew her meant it.

“Don’t worry about it,” I snorted. “That place was so gaudy, I kept waiting for Elvis Presley to come through the door in a white sequined jumpsuit to marry us himself.”

Robert let out a loud belly laugh. “Mary, what an imagination you have,” he said shaking his head. “Elvis. Ha! That’s a good one.”

The Accident (From a childhood memory)

2010-10-18T10:15:00.000-04:00

I hated the hair, but like Shiloh Pitt, I loved dressing in boy clothes.

   I am going to take you back to the year 1966, when large, steel, American muscle cars were parked in almost everyones driveway, and kids could sit in the front seat, and the only seatbelt required was your mom's arm slapped across your chest when she slammed on the breaks. (Are you there yet? If you're too young to remember you will just have to take my word for it.)

   Anyway, my three year old sister and I were driving with Mom in our chocolate brown Chevy Malibu. Being the oldest, and the fact that Mom believed in the concept of pecking order, I got to sit in the front seat. Something along the way caught my fancy, and I started cutting up and jumping around with unbridled exuberance. (I'm sure any of you who know me personally can mentally picture this.)

   "Susan, stop it, please. I can't concentrate." my mom begged.

   (Did I listen to her? I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count. If you said, Hell no! Your right.)

     Encouraged by my mother's angst, I continued laughing and pointing at the contorted angry faces she was shooting at me. You see, I had a "nice Mom" it took a lot to piss her off. And, the large coils in the seats way back then made such terrific spring boards, I could almost bounce up and hit my head on the roof. In fact, I was so caught up in my self-induced hysteria that I didn't pay any attention to Mom's continual reprimands, or much else for that matter, but I do remember the light changing to red.

   There was a horrible screeching noise, as the wheels of the car locked up and slid across the pavement. Simultaneously, an arm shot across my chest. My head flew back against the seat as the car came to an abrupt stop just before the intersection. The smell of burning rubber permeated the cab of the car, and the view from my window was a blurry haze of smoke and dust from the road.

   Flames shot out of my "nice Mom's" eyes. Her mouth trembled with anger, and then she screamed at a deafening level, louder than the screeching wheels, "DAMN IT, SUSAN! QUIT HORSING AROUND OR YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME HAVE AN ACCIDENT!" Her words spewed out one at a time, with a demonic inflection, that gave them even more impact.

   After Mom's head quit spinning around, the car became stingingly silent. I stiffened and sat wide eyed, afraid to make a wrong move. And then, my brave little sister popped her head up from behind. She rested her chin on on the the seat by Mom's ear and said, "Don't worry Mommy, if you have an accident, you can wipe it up."

When In The Hell Did I Morph From A Babe To A Ma'am?

2010-10-17T11:47:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago, I was waiting in line at the ATM machine outside the bank. A good-looking man, about thirty-five with long blond hair, was heading toward me on the sidewalk. He looked me dead in the eye, smiled, and said, “Excuse me ma’am,” as he passed in front of me.

For a minute, I was perplexed. I even turned around to see if there was an older lady standing behind me, but all too soon, I realized he was talking to me. It seemed like only yesterday I was dating men his age and younger, and now they were addressing me with a matronly title of respect. ‘When in the hell did I morph from a babe to a ma’am?’

Shaken up, I pushed the incident into the back of my mind and tried not to think about it. But, unfortunately, it happened again all too soon.

The day started like any other day. I was minding my own business, buying a lottery ticket when an overly kind, young convenience store clerk told me “You know ma’am, you look like…um what’s her name? Oh, yeah, Edie on the show Desperate Housewives.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, in hindsight I realized it was a huge complement. Who wouldn’t want to look like Nicolette Sheridan? But, at the moment, I was too busy trying to stop the word “ma’am” from reverberating between my brain and my skull. I took a deep calming breath and it worked, at least momentarily, until a proverbial bell went off in my head and I was stung by the realization that I was no longer like the “Sex in the City” single chicks that I totally related to a few years back. I was now a desperate housewife. I was my mom’s age. Yikes!

So tell me, when in the hell did I morph from a babe to a ma’am? Was it when I became older that more than half the people on the planet? Exactly what time, did this occur? Was it at thirty-eight, forty, or forty-five? (I’ll stop here before I divulge my actual age; it’s hard to swallow.)

I’ll admit, I’m having a tough time accepting myself in this strange new category. Like a lizard, I have shed my skin many times, but this time the skin underneath is not new. It’s loose in some places, and lined in some from too many years of happiness, tears, heartbreak, and love.

Sometimes I long to go back, flog myself, and redo the past, now that I am old enough to realize that I wasted too much time on stupid stuff. For example, in high school I spent so much time trying to grow up I didn’t realize how cool it was to be there. In my twenties I was raising two kids ( because of my choice to grow up fast) and dreading becoming thirty. A few years into the big 3,0, I realized thirty wasn't old at all. In fact, my thirties ended up being period of rebirth for me. By the end of the decade, I was comfortable in my own skin for the first time. And, forty wasn’t as bad as everyone made it out to be even though I acquired a few rogue aches and pains. Hell, I had my third child a few years later. But right now I am like a teenager again, unsure of myself and not quite comfortable in my aging skin. I suppose if I am lucky enough to be around twenty years from now, I’ll look back and tell myself what a young fool I was for blogging on this topic in the first place, but until then, I guess I’ll just have to get used to this matronly title of respect thingie.

Jefferson Starship in Central park 1976 an excerpt 1st draft

2010-10-15T18:10:00.000-04:00

A free concert in Central Park. An excerpt from my book.

Just shy of my seventeenth birthday, I thought I was old enough to go, but I lied to my parents about where I’d be spending the day just in case. Lori and I hopped a train to New York City to catch the show. There had to have been at least a gazillion people in the park and everyone was sopping wet. It rained so much I quit caring about staying dry. The show was just getting started, and to our far right, an eighteen-foot fence buckled with the weight of the kids who had climbed it to get a better look at the stage. The dank air reeked of body odor, mixed with the earthy smell of wet dirt; a waif of urine stung my nose as we passed by the Porta-Potties.

I nudged Lori. "Smell that?”

Lori pinched her nose and gagged.

“They're probably already overflowing. One of the hazards of free concerts—no place to go." I commented. She laughed.

It took us almost an hour, but he two of us managed to slop through the mud, and push our way through the pack of slimy drowned rats until we were in the forth row in front of the stage.

Grace Slick was dressed in a teal blue halter-top and flared, high-waist jeans. I noticed she had a small role of fat hanging over the top at her waistline, but she wasn’t self-conscious at all, like I would have been. She was joking with the audience, swigging off a bottle of whiskey in between songs, and taking hits off joints passed up to the stage by her fans.

Some redhead dude kept yelling, "Hey Gracie, show me your tits!" right in my ear, and, our favorite song Miracles sounded like shit, but we didn't care. Hell, were a few feet away from one of our favorite bands!

And, the band members sure were troopers. They played even though the electrical equipment was getting wet.

"Hope they don't get fried," said the stout blond hippie dude wedged up directly behind Lori and me. He and his buddy had followed us on our slow trek toward the stage, hitting on us the whole way. Both of them were shirtless, had long scraggly beards and looked at least twenty-eight. (Old men, not our type at all) But, we were packed in too tight to get away from them, and they were nice and all, so we ignored the harmless flirting and accepted the joint they offered us.

"Hey watch it," I said as the kid on my right stomped on my foot. He was a short—about eighteen, with olive skin and shiny black hair, rather Sicilian looking, and he was totally out of it. He was on something, and I didn't know what, but ever it was, it wasn't for babies. And, I wasn't the only one he was stomping on.

The muscular dude, directly in front of him turned around and screamed, "Hey, cut it out man. You're buggin' me."

But, the kid ignored him too, continuing to dance and randomly fist punch the air—and the back of the angry dude's head. The next thing I knew the angry dude turned and socked the kid right in the nose. The kid went down. He was lying unconscious on the ground with blood oozing out one of his nostrils. I felt sorry for him. People were stepping all over him. So, I bent down to see if he was okay. He looked dead, for real.

"Are you all right?" I asked. He didn't respond, so I bend down to his ear and yelled, “Hey kid, are you all right?"

When he didn't respond again, I shook his shoulder.

It was almost a miracle. In a flash he was back on his feet, dancing like nothing had happened. He looked okay again, except for the bloody nose. Not wanting to get blood on my clothes, I attempted to inch away from him, but it didn't do much good since we were packed in like sardines and all. So, I decided the best thing to do was ignore him and listen to the band.

Jefferson Starship cranked out a rendition of "Fast Buck Freddy" which was one of my favorites, but I didn't get to enjoy the song because the bloody-nosed kid liked the song too, and started to do a striptease in honor of it. He removed one article of clothing at a time, twirling it over his head and seductively tossing it into the crowd despite the all protests he was receiving from his immediate neighbors.

"No!" I screamed, when he was down to his tighty-whities. But, it was too late. He flung his underwear into the crowd, and they disappeared into thin air. Now, I had a naked kid with a bloody nose, haphazardly gyrating and swinging his nasty stuff right next to me. But, this wasn’t the worst part.

“Lori we gotta move,” I whined, flicking my eyes at the kid.

She wrinkled her nose and nodded.

We tried to con the old hippies who had been attempting to pick us up into swapping places. They gallantly agreed, but instead swapping places, they moved on either side of us. My protector draped his arm over my shoulder giving me a major case of the creeps. I think this is when I hit rock bottom. I was soaking wet with a dancing naked kid one human body away, and a shirtless old hippie thinking I was his chick—not cool.

"Excuse me a moment," I said slipping out from under his hairy armpit. Abruptly, I pushed my way over to Lori; the crowded rolled in response. I hooked my arm through hers and pulled. We moved in the only direction possible—away from the stage.

"Hey where you going?" The old hippies yelled in unison.
"We gotta get home," I yelled back over the top of the heads of the people I managed to put in between us. Lori and I made our way to the back of the crowd as the show was winding down.

“This concert will probably go down in history. I’m glad we went,” I commented.

“Yeah.” Lori agreed

“I wonder how the naked kid will get home?
Lori shrugged.

* * *

Have You Ever Eaten Goat?

2010-10-15T10:27:00.001-04:00

In 1999, I flew to overseas to meet my in-laws for the first time. I should have known something unthinkable was about to happen when my plane was forced to circle around Yugoslavia, because the USA just happened to be dropping a few bombs at the time. A minor snafu I didn’t think too much about. My one-track mind was zoned in on the hot guy waiting for me in the airport.

I landed safely on Bulgarian soil a few months before Bill Clinton ever thought of being the first American President to make a conciliatory visit with our new allies. (Just for the record, I want it noted that I made nice with a Bulgarian long before President Clinton did.)

Once in my husband's country and company, we stumbled upon an anti-war demonstration in downtown Sofia near the University. While the Bulgarian government was an ally of the USA, the young people were mainly Yugoslavian sympathizers. The Cyrillic lettered graffiti painted over various city walls reading, “Yugoslavia is not Monica, Bill.” was a huge indicator.

Yugoslavia is not Monica, Bill!!!

Americans were rare birds in Bulgaria at the time, and with long blond hair and blue eyes, I stuck out like a sore thumb. With the fear of inciting a riot looming in the back of my mind, I kept my mouth shut for more than an hour for the first time in my life, and ghosted through the protesters, passing myself off as a Fräulein.

After a few discrete days of fun and whoopee, I entered the real war zone, my new in-laws dacha. My husband’s parents spoke no English and I spoke no Bulgarian, though, I think this turned out to be a good thing. After all, I was the bleached blond American chick, who was about to steal their only son away and bring him to America to live a life of decadence.

Once my father-in-law got over his fainting spell, ( I found out later that he suffers from anxiety) I was invited into the kitchen to eat the celebratory meal that my husband’s parents had painstakingly prepared in anticipation of my arrival.

My mother-in-law plopped a huge platter in the center of the table. On it was some sort of mysterious animal carcass. I wasn’t quite sure what it was, mind you, it was missing the legs and the head. My husband licked his lips, and translated to me in English that his father made a special trip to the local goat herder the day before and had the poor critter executed in my honor.

I need to mention that while I eat meat, I am as close to a vegetarian-carnivore as you can get. I only eat a few select meats of which I hunt down bi-weekly at the Piggly Wiggly, justifying to myself that it is okay because they are raised solely for the purpose of consumption.

Tati, my husband’s father licked his fingers after he finished carving the meat, then dropped a huge grey-brown slab in the center of my plate. My stomach turned a cartwheel. In my mind, goat was equal to dog. They were both cute furry little creatures, meant to be kept as pets.

In a panic, I looked around for something else to put on my plate. I figured I could push the goat meat around and no one would notice, but all I saw was a large communal bowl of salad and a pot of goat soup, head included, boiling on the wood burning stove behind me. Being OCD about germs, the salad was definitely out. So, I was stuck with the goat.

And then came the moment of reckoning. Tati and Mamo glared at me, waiting for their new daughter-in-law, the guest of honor, to take the first bite of goat and start the feast. Beads of sweat poured off my forehead as I contemplated my next move. Now, I don’t think my husband's parents put me in this situation on purpose, after all goat was a delicacy in their minds, but I was left with only two choices. Either I could chow down on the goat, or forever insult the people who would be part of my life until death, or divorce, do us part. I chose the former.

I held my breath, picked up my fork, and took a bite. I tried to chew fast, without tasting. And, then I swallowed.

So, what does goat meat taste like, you ask? Why, chicken. I think.

I Have To Get Rid Of My Chunky Highlights. Sigh.

2010-10-14T08:44:00.002-04:00

The after shot, I still have red wine.

I need to find a new day job. And, my gut is telling me that to be successful in my endeavor, I must change my hair--at least until I prove myself.

I am going to miss my Swedish blonde, mahogany, wine red, and copper layered locks. Hair says a lot about a person, and I love mine, but it is screaming, "I am an artist! I love to write! I'm a creative person, with a flare for fashion, but I'm a little bit on the wild side." My hair does not say, "applicant must be extremely organized and able to muli-task," like the description of jobs for which I am currently applying. Shit!

The problem is that I have to pay bills to pay. So today, I am going to my funky hairdresser and tell her to tone it down a couple of notches. Although, I am going to request that she sneak in a couple of wine red tendrils somewhere. I refuse to completely conform. (Can you hear my foot stomp?)

I have a dream. That one day soon, I will find a path in life, where I can have my highlights, and unbridled individually too. It's just around the corner. I can feel it.

My Husband Is Coming Home

2010-10-13T15:20:00.000-04:00

I need to vent. My husband is coming home. He has been gone for five glorious weeks, vacationing in his native country in Eastern Europe. While you may think I should be jumping for joy, I'm not. Marriage has been tough--on both of us.

I was a happy, independent, single girl when we met, and had been for ten years after going through a bad divorce, or two. My husband had never been married and spent much of his life roaming the around the world living the life of Riley. He had just the right amount of machismo to attract a strong woman like myself, but what I didn't know was he had extra ounce or two of hidden in his back pocket. And, while he was initially attracted to my independence, once we married, he tried to put me on a leash. The important word here is "tried." I may have rope burns on my neck, but he is holding onto an empty leash. His mother warned us, in a language that I didn't understand, that our relationship would never work out. "Two lame donkeys can find each other in any part of the world," she huffed, shaking her head as we disagreed with her. All I have to say about that is, "hee-haw." .

My married life has been a never ending power struggle. My husband and I wake up arguing, and end the night the same way. Our fights are about crazy insane stuff. For instance, one time, my husband invited a cousin from his native country to come stay with us--indefinitely. Did I mention that he neglected to inform me of his plans until a few days before the guy arrived on our doorstep even though I pay at least half of all the bills? Hmm...My husband knew how I felt about anyone staying for more than two weeks.

Anyway, the cousin arrived, and on his first night stated to me in broken English that he was just gonna to hang out for six months or so. A job wasn't necessary since he was just visiting and not going to pay for anything. Did I mention he was forty-five years old and intended to bring his wife and two kids two months later after school let out?

Six-weeks, thirty loud, all inclusive, temper tantrums, and 90 nerve pills later, (no, I'm not an addict, and yes, the tantrums were mine.) the cousin finally surrendered, and fled the battle zone and the country. Phew!

So, when my husband informed me of his recent extended vacation plans to visit his country of origin, I stuffed his bags in the car, drove him to the airport, and ignored open-jawed passer-bys as I did a happy dance all the way back to the car in anticipation of my forthcoming alone time. And now, after five peaceful, nerve pill-free weeks on my own, my husband is coming home and I'm suppose to be happy. I need more time!

Ask me why I tolerate the madness? To make a long story short, we have one big important thing in common. We procreated and now we have an eight year old Aspergian son, who loves us both to death. (We fight over which one of us loves him more.) He is is the main reason I choose to remain in this relationship that has overrun its course and its cultural differences. Yes, it is sad, but I mostly stay for my son. I love him too much to make him unhappy

Some say, I should give up the struggle and bow down to my husband's demands and crazy ideas. (Mainly his other foreign friends.) But, I say no way, no how. It's more painful to say yes, when I fervently mean NO.

Anyway, if any of you feel like shedding a tear for me, or him, feel free. I don't want you to, but I won't stop you. If you think I'm a jerk, or not too bright, that's cool too. I have my big girl panties on. I take total responsibility for all my decisions. But, my husband is coming home. I need to vent.

Thanks for listening.