neuroticfitchmom's Xanga

Red Headed Super Hero

Wed, 07 May 2008 09:25:12 GMT

I love that when I sent this picture to Mel and Willie they both commented on the sweaters and the bangs and the glasses.

William Riggle, my first boyfriend in the 8th grade, who I will forever relate to granny panties, vast quantities of Polo cologne and finding out kissing could involve tongue (I was duly horrified). But in my family, he’s remembered a bit differently. He’s William Riggle, Super Hero, whose tale of greatness my mom loves to recount to my children.

“Your Mama’s first boyfriend, William Riggle, saved her life,” she tells them.

Our first date (the one involving the previously mentioned Polo and tongue), a jovial trip to Holiday in the Park at 6 Flags with my best friend, Melanie, and her boyfriend, Tim. Her dad, David, our ride home at the end of the evening. Melanie and Tim squished together in the front passenger seat, Willie and I in the back seat. Traveling on the back roads to Irving to deliver Tim home.

It’s one of those frustrating moments for a writer, for me. A completely unclear vision of events that I’m not sure I remember but have heard so many times, it feels like I do.

A sharp curve

Gravel on the road

The feel of the car sliding

And not catching

William pressing his body over mine right as the car

Tumbled

Over and over again

I remember the radio station changing like some ghostly hand was upon it.

Coming to with his blood, all over me, the seats above our heads.

Scared to call out and get no answer... So unbelievably relieved when everyone did respond.

People calling to us, coming out of the mobile home we had landed in front of. Prying the car door open.

Shaking like I would never stop as I crawled out and stood.

And William, who smiled, despite the fact that you could see his teeth through his closed lips (lips I kissed before and after).

“Your Mama would have gone right through that windshield,” my Mom tells my kiddos, “if not for William.”

Whether I would have or wouldn’t have is something I’m glad not to know. But whatever the case, Willie, if you’re out there, Nicholas says Thanks. :)

All of us about two years later. The bangs have gotten smaller but we still have those heinous glasses (and they aren't the same ones from 8th grade, they just look identical)

Mama Plays Pretend

Thu, 01 May 2008 14:41:14 GMT

Pretending to be Scarlett O’Hara in 95-degree high humidity heat with four children along, is never a good plan. But good plans are not my strong suit and I’d just finished reading Gone With the Wind. So, the idea of Civil War Reenactments complete with period costuming and real cannon firing, on a REAL LIVE Civil War Battlefield, was too much to resist.

I packed enough lunch to feed the little troops, because surely a picnic would be great fun as well (and yes I had completely lost my mind). Then loaded the very excited (maybe they’ll blow someone’s arm off) “troops” into the car and drove the 45 miles to Vicksburg.

Upon arriving, I had to admit to myself that it was not exactly my vision of Tara, the one including hoop skirts and chivalrous, slightly scandalous gentlemen with the faint sound of cannons firing somewhere way off in the distance. Instead, my armpits were sweating (this activity is only OK if one is on the beach, under a pretty umbrella, drinking strawberry daiquiris). Plus, whatever they were cooking on the “this here is authentic folks” cook stove was giving off enough toxic fumes to make my eyes water. And we were uncomfortably close to the real live cannons, which were set to go off in five minutes and counting.

But it took the re-enactors stuffing en masse big wax plugs in their ears and warning the crowd to place their hands over their own ears, for the reality of the situation to dawn on me.

“Make sure and cover those ears now. We wouldn’t wanna deafen y’all,” one of them yelled with a chuckle.

I didn’t find it funny, nor did Nicholas, who is inclined to lodge complaints about the noise level of the vacuum cleaner.

“Mama, I really don’t like loud noises,” he said.

“It won’t be so loud,” I reassured him while attempting to wrangle the younger two further away from the cannons. God forbid they wind up deaf and I have to confess to people that I fancied myself Scarlett O’Hara and was traipsing around Civil War Reenactments with four children.

“Mama, I really, really hate loud noises,” he said again, poking me several times in the arm to get my attention.

I weighed my options and directed him to the car. “It’s unlocked and I can see it from here. They,” I said, pointing to the two heathens who were just then doing the limbo under the rope some ingenious chap, who obviously never had children, had set up to keep all gawkers safe, “are never going to leave.”

Taking the keys from my hand, he hurried off and I focused on demonstrating proper ear protection techniques to the other children. Soon after, the cannons fired. I had not listened well to my own instructions because I couldn’t hear one thing and had to resort to lip reading (definitely an acquired skill). And decided perhaps this was God’s divine wrath for my fantasizing over mint juleps and oversized verandas.

And where was Nicholas? Nicholas, who was not in, under or around the car. Nicholas, who was not among the deafened and shell-shocked crowd. Nicholas, who was not in the gift shop, or the restroom, or watching the movie they play on the hour and half-hour.

“Nicholas,” I said, quietly at first, looking in the obvious places for a second time, getting what I think was louder as I go.

Until I was in tears and confessing all to the park ranger.

“I read Gone with the Wind and went a wee bit crazy, then read about the cannons and now my child is lost and I’m deaf,” I wailed.

Of course, the moment this spilled from my mouth and the park ranger was looking at me like I’d grown a horn from the center of my forehead, I heard the children screeching happily from the one ear that was now working. I turned to see Nicholas ambling up the walk from the park entrance. He looked like he was whistling.

“Is that him, M’aam?” The ranger asked and I shook my head yes and ran for him.

I wasn’t sure whether to hug him or scold him, so I did both.

“Why didn’t you answer when I called?” I asked, hugging him so tight he was squirming away.

“I was answering, Mama. I was hollering!”

I felt more than a bit ashamed that I was half-deaf and could not hear my own lost child calling out to me. Not to mention the sideways glances the park ranger (who was decidedly not deaf, and probably trying to determine if I needed to be committed) was giving me. But I pushed them aside in favor of hugging my boy.

“Fiddle dee dee...I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

Blatant Bragging and Random Reading

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 14:23:03 GMT

I thought How to Fit a Car Seat on a Camel was coming out May 1, but apparently it is already available. I got my copy this week.

I'm story number one, on page one. I was a bit excited (that's putting it mildly).

I also wrote for the Free Press this week. Go read, go read :)

In book news, I had a bit of a reading spree this weekend.

I started with Andrew Morton's Unauthorized Tom Cruise Bio. Fascinating stuff, especially the Scientology bit which comprises a huge portion of the book. I would comment further but after reading this book it makes me more than a little paranoid to even mention it. ;)

I followed this up with Bonk which made me howl with laughter (literally), in turn prompting people in my general vicinity to question what was so humorous. Confessing that porcupine sex (I'll spare you the details and just in case you were wondering, was written about to showcase how scientists studied sex back in the day) was making me snort, was not the most pleasant of circumstances to find myself. So have a plausible or at least more socially correct answer handy.

And finally, The World Without Us, which I've been reading in spurts for like two months (possibly more). It isn't really a bad book, I like the author's style and it's very interesting. I love end of the world scenarios, and this is essentially about how the earth would pull itself back together if all of the humans were gone. If you aren't green or partially green or figuring out how to be green, you will be after reading this book.

In Which Guitar Hero Brings Me To My Senses

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 11:42:10 GMT

For Autism Awareness Month and because I'm so proud of my boy. 1 in 150 individuals are diagnosed with some form of Autism. That's a huge number.

There was a time when I remember thinking no one would ever understand him enough to see past his idiosyncrasies and love him the way I loved him. And what a relief it was when someone did, an amazing relief.

But, there are still days, brightly colored with guilt days, where I wish for a quick fix or a cure. The days I allow myself to consider for even a moment how harsh and mean and downright evil the world and people can be when you are "normal", must less different. The days I spend too much time trying to teach him how going on and on about his favorite topic (which happens to be in-depth scientific analysis of Saturn’s rings) might bore someone and how it's polite to stop and listen sometimes (although if this an Aspie makes, I could name at least 20 off the top of my head). Until he's confused and I've confused myself and we’re both frustrated.

I forget to have faith in him as he is. Like his birthday this year, he tells me he's invited 12 people. I try to convince him to do something small with his best friends; the ones I know will come. He won't give. "I've already told them, Mama. We're gonna have Guitar Hero battles and eat until we vomit. I think it's going to be the best party ever. You worry too much about everything, Mama." I'm sure he's right, at least about that.

So, I buy the invitations (two packs) and watch him fill out each one, using his best writing. I count on 4, maybe 5 guests but he insists every single one will come. I pray he's right, just this once, I can't stand watching the disappointment on his face and knowing I can't fix it.

"I'll need drinks. Rootbeer, Dr.Pepper and Sprite." He tells me, the weekend before the big soiree. "And those hot Cheetos, some Lays, maybe some Doritos. Pizza, lots of pizza, kids love pizza, Mama. And a Guitar Hero cake."

I get stuck on the cake. Calling every place in town. He rarely asks for anything and I'm determined to make this happen and make it perfect. But all they have are the square ones. They inform me they can draw on a guitar with icing and write Guitar Hero across the top but I want a guitar shaped cake. I know that's what he has in his head too.

So, I search online for some creative baker to copy and head to the store for supplies, vowing to make one myself. And I do and it turns out better than I ever dreamed and I become the best Mama EVER, at least in that moment...five minutes before official party time and no guests yet present.

And then it happens, they start trickling in and the house is full of preteens (every single invitee plus one).

The Guitar Hero up so loud (in surround sound) the house is dancing from the outside. They are eating themselves sick like happy, little locusts and appear to be having fun. I forget myself in the joyful relief of it and find myself dancing and singing to Hit Me With Your Best Shot, much to my child's utter and complete humiliation.

"Your mom's cool," I hear one of them tell him.

"Uh huh," he mutters back, apparently forgetting just how amazing I am. And he's pushing my dancing, singing and joyful self out of the living room. Easy enough considering he's only one-inch and ten pounds smaller.

Looking at him from the kitchen, he hasn't changed much. Maybe it's just how things worked out, meeting these kids who just accept him for who he is. The girl who hangs on his every word and laughs at his jokes that I don't get. The one who should be named Ms. Calls Every Two Seconds. Or the girl on our computer who has been batting her eyelashes at him all afternoon and is trying to change his screensaver to something proclaiming his undying love for her.

I whisper to him later that he has another admirer and he looks at me like I’m the most clueless parent in the world. “You think, Mama?” And I have to laugh at how suave and worldly he seems to consider himself, despite my silly worries.

He’s kind and sweet beyond words and his friends don’t seem to care if he rambles on about the amazing properties of Saturn’s rings for hours on end while they attempt to conquer Through the Fire and Flames on Expert for the 900th time in a row.

He’s managed to find himself a little nook where he fits in just fine. He may never be the coolest, the most athletic but he’s all these other amazing things that I appreciate and love so much more. And he’s happy, that’s all that really matters...isn’t it?

And on a side note, he got the lead role in his school play last week. :)

Confessions in a Grocery Store Checkout

Thu, 27 Mar 2008 10:01:01 GMT

"Whose cologne smells so wonderful?" An elderly woman in line behind me at the supermarket says to no one in particular.

I cringe for a moment, thinking she might mean me but she'd said cologne after all and I was officially wearing perfume.

"Is it you?" She asks when I turn to shrug at her.

"I put a squirt of something on before I left the house," I reply. "But I really doubt it."

"It smells so wonderful!" She cries, leaning in for a sniff. "I really think it is you."

I scoot back from her, hoping I'm not knocking over gum and candy with my rear, and wishing fervently that I'd picked another line.

"What's the name of it?" She asks.

"I'm not even sure which one I put on," I say, looking towards the woman in front of me for help or moral support.

She's clueless and confirms with a nod that it does indeed smell good.

I feel like growling at her but refrain, willing the cashier to hurry the hell up instead.

"Smell it, I'm sure you'll remember the name with a whiff of it." The elderly perfume detective encourages me.

I'm horrified but a perfectly terrible liar, so I just stare at her.

"Go on," she urges nudging my arm.

I comply, wondering for a moment if my mom has orchestrated some elaborate practical joke considering our recent discussions on the horror of admitting the name of our new favorite perfume. I lift my shirt up a bit, leaning my nose down to sniff even though I know perfectly well what perfume I'm wearing.

I look back up at her expectant face and find I can't lie. Mainly because the only other perfume I can come up with is Paris Hilton's Heiress which might be just as humiliating to say outloud. "Believe," I squeak out.

"What was that, honey?" I can't believe she's forcing me to say it again, as if the first time wasn't horrific enough.

"Believe," I say, a bit louder but hopefully only loud enough for her to hear.

"Who makes that, sugar?" She asks.

"Britney Spears," I whisper feeling the blush spread down to the tips of my toes. The cashier and the patrons silence at this revelation and I wonder if they think I'm going to shuck my panties and flash them or shave my head bald right there in the grocery store.

"She's been getting better press lately," says the lady in front of me, who is still (someone just kill me) not finished checking out. I think she's trying to lessen my shame. "She's going to be on some tv show this week. I saw the commercial, it looked pretty good."

"Mmmmhmm," I mutter, feeling the blush spread.

"Believe...Believe...Believe..." The perfume detective murmurs behind me and I consider suggesting she write it down but the stress has made my vocal cords give out. "That sure does smell good."

After what seems like a million years and a complete summary of Britney's tragic downfall and apparent road to recovery, the lady in front of me is finally done. I check out and scurry from the store.

Looking back, I'm not sure which is worse, the idea of a lady the age of my grandma wearing Britney Spears or me admitting I was.

63 Cents

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 12:51:22 GMT

"63 cents," he says more to himself than me, eyes scanning the prices below the milk.

"63 cents," I ask, curious, knowing it isn't the price of the milk lined up in pretty white rows before me, four dollars and 63 cents maybe.

"Milk was 63 cents a gallon when I was 8."

I wonder how he remembers but he seems disinclined to sharing and I don't press.

Later after dinner, he starts talking out of the blue.

"The summer I was 8, I'm pretty sure it was summer, I was wearing shorts. Mama sent me to the store for milk."

I nod my head so he knows I'm with him, not wanting to interrupt.

"We only had 63 cents. We'd dug it out from between the couch cushions and down in the lining of Mama's purse."

I can imagine it perfectly, 30 long years ago, his little boy with a lopsided haircut self and his skinny scarecrow of a Mama, digging for coins to buy some milk.

"Most were just pennies so she put them in a little purse and told me not to lose them or we wouldn't have milk."

A lot of responsibility for a little guy, I think but don't say, I'm sure he knows.

"I headed out on my bike, so proud she had faith in me.”

Little boy smiling...flying down the windy, country roads, kicking gravel back off his tires.

“I had one of those messenger bags on the front. I used to go everywhere on that bike. Leave at 7 in the morning and not get home until the sun was going down. Won it selling Boy Scout Scout-A-Rama tickets."

I wish he'd hurry, just spit it out, not expecting a happy ending.

“There was a big mud puddle in front of the doors of the Tom Thumb. I couldn't resist it, had mud halfway up my shins. Grabbed the milk, and counted out the coins myself, praying to God the whole time I hadn't lost one. I hadn't.”

“That's good,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief, thinking he's just reminiscing. But he continues.

“Back outside, through the mud puddle. Splashed mud all the way up to the carton in my arms. I didn't much care, I had it and that was all that mattered. Thought I'd find someone's hose on the way home and rinse it off. But that mud puddle was too damn tempting.”

“Of course, you were 8,” I reply.

He tells me of securing the milk in the messenger bag, riding over to the puddle, around the puddle, through it slowly one time. Not noticing his bag inching open, milk exposed as he rode a fair distance back to get a running start for his grand hoorah straight through it. Until it was too late, puddle deeper than he thought, jolting the bike, the milk thrown out of the bag, white rivers running through the puddle of mud.

I can feel the misery of this moment without a word from him, it radiates out towards me. The scared little boy with the grown up fears peeking out as he looks over at me. It's written all over his face.

“63 Cents,” he says, holding out a handful of coins to me. “63 cents.”

Go Read

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 18:47:10 GMT

Blogging at MNABC today. Go read and comment cause you love me. :)

Billy the Kid meets Leatherface

Fri, 01 Feb 2008 08:33:38 GMT

There are pictures to go with this here but don't look until you read. :) And for the record, I am not one bit exaggerating.

Billy The Kid Outlaw Museum $1.00, scared me more than anything else. It sits right off I-20 on the outskirts of Canton, TX which is also home to the fantabulous First Monday Trade Days (if you live in TX, you really must check this out). In our travels back and forth from TX to MS, we'd driven past it hundreds of times.

"Can we stop Mama, can we stop?" The children begged me, each and every single time. They couldn't help but notice it's incredibly fashionable, bright red exterior.

This trip, I'd caved and we were on the lookout for it as we neared Canton.

My own grandmother had taken me traveling across the continental US each summer when I was young. She always stopped,as long as it wasn't too far off our path and cost less than 2 bucks. We saw caged bears outside this dump of a gas station in rural TN, a Prairie Dog Town in Kansas, the Salt Palace in Grand Saline, TX, among other “unique” attractions.

So, I had some curiosity myself, especially once they added "the sign". And who was I to deny my own children a grade A, up close and personal, mini history lesson for the bargain basement price of $1.00?

"There it is!" the munchkins screeched in unison as it came into view.

"As if Billy The Kid and the ever promising 'Go to Hell Bin Laden You and Your Evil Devil Beheaders' sign wasn't enough," I thought as we pulled into the gravel drive of the place, they were also advertising the Kennedy Assassination along with Bonnie and Clyde.

It was silent outside, other than the cars passing on the highway, until the children bounded out of the car. Their squeals of delight, that we were actually going to attend the Billy the Kid Outlaw Museum $1.00, and the sounds of their feet dancing on the gravel in excitement, loud and jolting.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhh!!" I said, looking back at the creepy travel trailer park behind the place. I prayed they hadn't woken up any scary itinerant rapists or murderers.

"Oooh Mama, there's some kind of dummy in this car," Georgie called out from where she was leaning in to take a look.

"Get back from there," I yelled, scanning the general vicinity and wondering if I'd walked into the middle of a bad Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake.

"There's one on the roof too, Mama!" She shouted, pointing to an old, weather worn dummy in a rocker, holding a shotgun. “And one on the porch.”

I stopped for a moment, taking it all in, and fighting the strong desire to run. Adjusting my jacket instead, zipping it up, under my chin, against the chill in the air before shutting the door and setting the alarm. I settled my purse on my shoulder and fully armed with a still hot Starbucks Caramel Macchiato (with extra whipped cream and caramel), we set out.

We hurried towards the door that was propped open by a rickety old chair. Inching past the dummy whose face (the children could not help but point out) was peeling off, further reinforcing my Rampant Chainsaw Wielding Psycho Theory.

Our feet echoed loudly on the tile floor, as we entered.

“Hello,” the children called over and over again, only their voices resounding back through the room which was so cold I could see my own breath.

“I don't think anybody's here, Mama,” Henry informed me.

“Stay,” I told them, walking out to check the hours of operation.

There, attached to the wall, right beside the door, was a box.

“Honor System,” it said in big bold letters. “$1 for adults, 50 cents for children 7-18, FREE to children under 6. We are watching you.”

I could have done without that last bit and prayed another prayer that it wasn't the travel trailer people watching. But since it was even more of a bargain than I thought, I dug out my $2.50, deposited it in the slot and wandered back inside.

“We stay together, o.k.?” I told them, looking each one in the eye. “No wandering off from the group.”

They nodded their assent, looking around the cold and ramshackle “museum” in awe.

“What is this stuff, Mama?” Georgie asked, peering down into the glass cabinet. It housed various relics that did not equate with Billy the Kid or the other advertised attractions, at least as far as I could tell. I was becoming more suspicious by the minute.

The children, however, were over their initial reluctance and scattered throughout the place.

“Come back,” I called fleetingly after them, feeling vaguely reminiscent of poor Rose in the freezing water after the Titanic had sunk, calling for her rescuers.

“More dummies,” Georgie called from around the corner. “And these are dead.”

“Dead,” I echoed back, scurrying towards the sound of her voice.

There in front of her were 4 dummies. One wrapped up all cozy like in a casket, the other three in some eerie tableau that I assumed represented poor Billy's demise.

I had half a mind to crawl over the rope to make sure they were really dummies and not Leatherface's latest victims, but refrained due to the fact that what looked like a camera, hung over our heads. Not to mention, the Smile You Are on Camera/We are Watching You signs outnumbered the conspiracy theories covering the walls nearby. I wondered what they thought someone would want to steal. The dust coating the items was enough of a deterrent for me, along with the fact that I really had no desire to find out who exactly was watching us.

“We need to go Very Very Very soon,” I whispered to her as she snapped pictures.

“Just a few more, Mama.”

I reluctantly walked away from her in search of the other monkeys. Two of whom I found past the rope and standing with their arms around the dummies of Bonnie and Clyde.

“Get out of there Right Now,” I hissed at them. “They're watching!!”

“Who's watching, Mama?” Henry asked, looking around the room and not moving.

“THEY!” The mysterious they/we/travel trailer/close kin to Leatherface/who I had no desire to meet,and who I was now certain would be bursting in the door at any moment.

I was thinking the whole escapade might rank as my second worst idea ever, when Georgie rounded the corner, in a full tilt run, officially moving it up to first place.

“I hear someone at that door back there, Mama.” She whispered. “They were rattling it.”

“Run,” I managed to croak out, fully determined not to have my face sliced off only to reside on a crumbling dummy in Billy the Kid Outlaw Museum $1.00.

And to my little people's credit, they ran, bolting for the door, with me not far behind. Starbucks coffee (no longer hot) sloshing on my jacket, I pressed the button to de-arm the car. We hopped in, slamming the doors and locking them behind us. Then got the hell out of Dodge, driving 90 down the access road, the kids turned in their seats waving goodbye.

I thought for a second I heard something, a low rumble in the distance, but I didn't turn around to look.

Treasures

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 10:58:22 GMT

"Nicholas," I call out, turning around to look at him. "Nicholas," I say louder when he doesn't so much as blink from battling evil space invaders. Finally hollering across the 5 foot space between us. "Nick!"

He turns, looking at me blankly, pushing his glasses back up on his nose, shaking his head a bit to get the hair out of his eyes.

"Yes Mama," he answers cautiously, eyes going behind me to the plate I have just uncovered.

"What exactly is this?" I ask, pointing to the closet shelf, while being extra cautious not to touch my finger to whatever the hell it is.

I'd gone on a bit of a cleaning jag, taking the three day weekend to rid us of 15 black garbage bags of McDonald's toys, and other random crap. A task I should obviously tackle with much more enthusiasm and regularity.

"That Mama," he replies, getting up and clearing his throat just a bit as if he has the most important proclamation of his lifetime to present to me. "Is a future Guinness World Record."

"It is," I say inching a bit closer to have a better look. "I don't imagine they have a category for that, honey." I inform him, reaching my finger out to poke it.

He then proceeds to tell me that every single piece of gum he has chewed for the last TWO years, now happily reside on this one large WAD of gum, this sculpture if I'm feeling really charitable. Which I assure you, I was not.

"And they do have a record, Mama. They have a category for everything and if they don't, and your idea is cool enough, they'll create a whole new record just for you."

Then, just to prove his point, he's grabbing the book off his bookshelf and leafing frantically through it, in an attempt to save his "creation” in the closet.

"It's ok," I assure him, not because I believe there is a world record for biggest gum wad but because I don't much care. I only care that it is in my house and it has the potential to grow much much bigger. And I have to admit, it kind of creeps me out that it resembles a plucked chicken or even a deformed rooster.

I imagine the gum wad outgrowing the plate and then the shelf, spilling out into the room until it takes it over completely and we can't get it out the door and in order for the record people to come measure it, they have to tear down the wall and then we are homeless.

“Once it outgrows the plate, it goes in the garage, ok?” I tell him but only because it is creative in it's own weird shiny, slimy, spitty, germy and gummy way.

Because I'm easily amused, I'd love for y'all to tell me what you think it looks like.

Due to my overwhelming fear that said gumwad might get stuck in my hair and I'd wind up with a Sinead O'Connor hairdo, I give you a reenactment of my initial reaction with Mr. Voodoo Doll playing me.

My Year of Worth

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 17:14:34 GMT

My year of worth, read about it on Mama Needs a Book Contract. Please please please :)