Last one
I'm out of the running for Blogmadness. Voting is on hiatus, due to something completely unrelated to the competition between myself and Ipse Dixit. I think we both played fair. I really enjoyed the competition, and I will continue voting for the survivors when Blogmadness continues. Thank you to everyone who participated. I encourage you to continue.
Welcome to anyone who found this blog through Blogmadness. I hope you stay a while and enjoy yourself. If you've added me to your blogroll, please let me know, so I can reciprocally link you.
And now... on with my past!
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Blogmadness Update
I'm in round 6, and I'm up against the very fine entry "I Am A Sexist Pig: I Open Doors For Women" by Ipse Dixit. I know it's a fine entry because I've voted for it in every round. This time, of course, I'll be voting for myself.
If you click the link above, you'll see two pink boxes. Each box holds 2 entries, beneath which it says Vote!. If you click Vote! You'll see both entries in the left hand side, and the rules in a frame. From there you click the title of each entry. The rules will be replaced with the story. Read the story, then click the other entry and read that story. From there you just click the little dot for the story you liked better, and click the Vote! box. That's all there is to it. No registering, no nosy requests for info about you. So please, go and read. Pick one or the other, I don't care which. Participating is fun!
Links to the other regions are here:
Work Region round 6
Sports Region round 6
Bills Region round 6
Thanks
I'm in round 6, and I'm up against the very fine entry "I Am A Sexist Pig: I Open Doors For Women" by Ipse Dixit. I know it's a fine entry because I've voted for it in every round. This time, of course, I'll be voting for myself.
If you click the link above, you'll see two pink boxes. Each box holds 2 entries, beneath which it says Vote!. If you click Vote! You'll see both entries in the left hand side, and the rules in a frame. From there you click the title of each entry. The rules will be replaced with the story. Read the story, then click the other entry and read that story. From there you just click the little dot for the story you liked better, and click the Vote! box. That's all there is to it. No registering, no nosy requests for info about you. So please, go and read. Pick one or the other, I don't care which. Participating is fun!
Links to the other regions are here:
Work Region round 6
Sports Region round 6
Bills Region round 6
Thanks
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Tru-Buy
Big nods to Vanessa's Blog for the inspiration to write about the "grocery store" we used to shop at. I would never have thought of it, if she had not entered "Lidl" in BlogMadness. Thank you, Vanessa!
Tru-Buy was the biggest grocery store in the neighborhood. There were others. There was the confectionary 3 blocks west of my home, and there was the place a half-mile away where you could cash your paycheck for a 12% fee. But Tru-Buy had the best prices. There were shelves lining the walls, a freezer and two coolers; the kind that hold meat in modern grocery stores. The rest of the aisles were marked out with masking tape on the floor; an assortment of boxes and tables sat within the designated lines. The coolers never worked right. Everything was either frozen, or just barely cool. I actually thought raw beef was supposed to be brown, because that was the color of the frozen/thawed/frozen again hamburger we always bought.
We visited Tru-Buy on Saturdays and Wednesdays. We always bought the same things: a head of lettuce, a stalk of celery, a pound of hamburger, a pound of chicken, a loaf of bread, 2 packages of garlic bologna, a dozen eggs, a gallon of milk, a can of tuna, margarine, ramen noodles or tomato soup, Rice-A-Roni, Hamburger Helper Chili-Mac, and a box of macaroni and cheese. When we weren't buying condiments, toilitries or dish soap; we had money for "extras".
I always loved the weeks we could buy extras. Bonus money bought whatever fruit was in season, banannas, cheese, and sometimes even cookies. The total price tag was around $20.
On rare occasions, we took a bus to Soulard Market, instead of shopping at Tru-Buy. Those were the best trips, ever.
Soulard was always crowded. The prices were hand printed on an assortment of cardboard, paper bags and poster board. It was wonderfully chaotic; with vendors calling out, "Hey pretty lady! Buy my plums! Best in the market!" or "Grapes! You need my grapes!" Several of the neighborhood families had stalls at Soulard Market. We always bought from them before shopping elsewhere. Mom would buy 5 lbs of apples; tossing them up to the vendor, who would catch and weigh them. My sister and I would be jumping up and down, asking, "Can we eat them now? Can we?" The vendor would bag the apples, then wink at us and toss in 3 more. He was either really nice, or really smart; because we would tear into those apples right there at his stall. People would see us and say to the vendor, "And I'll take some of those apples too."
There is nothing like shopping at Soulard.
Big nods to Vanessa's Blog for the inspiration to write about the "grocery store" we used to shop at. I would never have thought of it, if she had not entered "Lidl" in BlogMadness. Thank you, Vanessa!
Tru-Buy was the biggest grocery store in the neighborhood. There were others. There was the confectionary 3 blocks west of my home, and there was the place a half-mile away where you could cash your paycheck for a 12% fee. But Tru-Buy had the best prices. There were shelves lining the walls, a freezer and two coolers; the kind that hold meat in modern grocery stores. The rest of the aisles were marked out with masking tape on the floor; an assortment of boxes and tables sat within the designated lines. The coolers never worked right. Everything was either frozen, or just barely cool. I actually thought raw beef was supposed to be brown, because that was the color of the frozen/thawed/frozen again hamburger we always bought.
We visited Tru-Buy on Saturdays and Wednesdays. We always bought the same things: a head of lettuce, a stalk of celery, a pound of hamburger, a pound of chicken, a loaf of bread, 2 packages of garlic bologna, a dozen eggs, a gallon of milk, a can of tuna, margarine, ramen noodles or tomato soup, Rice-A-Roni, Hamburger Helper Chili-Mac, and a box of macaroni and cheese. When we weren't buying condiments, toilitries or dish soap; we had money for "extras".
I always loved the weeks we could buy extras. Bonus money bought whatever fruit was in season, banannas, cheese, and sometimes even cookies. The total price tag was around $20.
On rare occasions, we took a bus to Soulard Market, instead of shopping at Tru-Buy. Those were the best trips, ever.
Soulard was always crowded. The prices were hand printed on an assortment of cardboard, paper bags and poster board. It was wonderfully chaotic; with vendors calling out, "Hey pretty lady! Buy my plums! Best in the market!" or "Grapes! You need my grapes!" Several of the neighborhood families had stalls at Soulard Market. We always bought from them before shopping elsewhere. Mom would buy 5 lbs of apples; tossing them up to the vendor, who would catch and weigh them. My sister and I would be jumping up and down, asking, "Can we eat them now? Can we?" The vendor would bag the apples, then wink at us and toss in 3 more. He was either really nice, or really smart; because we would tear into those apples right there at his stall. People would see us and say to the vendor, "And I'll take some of those apples too."
There is nothing like shopping at Soulard.
Elimination Round, Here I Come!
You Don't Know Jackson won his competition against me, so I've been bumped to the Elimination rounds. I never hoped to get as far as I have. I mean, I think my writing is good. You think my writing is good. (Thank you!) The question was -do average people think my writing is good? Because, of course; you all are way above average. :)
In answer to that question, I've made it to the top 25%. I think that's saying something.
You Don't Know Jackson won his competition against me, so I've been bumped to the Elimination rounds. I never hoped to get as far as I have. I mean, I think my writing is good. You think my writing is good. (Thank you!) The question was -do average people think my writing is good? Because, of course; you all are way above average. :)
In answer to that question, I've made it to the top 25%. I think that's saying something.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Blogmadness Semifinals are underway
This time around, it's "The Race War That Wasn't" vs. "Scenes From The Other Side Of The Tracks" Both entries are great, read 'em and choose! Remember: There's no registration requirements, voting is anonymous, and there's only one vote per family.
Don't forget to read the other fine entries in the Winner's round 4 and the Elimination Round 5. All 32 are pretty darn good.
This time around, it's "The Race War That Wasn't" vs. "Scenes From The Other Side Of The Tracks" Both entries are great, read 'em and choose! Remember: There's no registration requirements, voting is anonymous, and there's only one vote per family.
Don't forget to read the other fine entries in the Winner's round 4 and the Elimination Round 5. All 32 are pretty darn good.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
Pregnancy
"If you don't want your baby, we'll try to find a home for it." Said the woman on the phone.
That was the point where I lost control. Looking for adoption agencies in the phone was hard. Actually talking to the agencies was even harder. For days, the phone book had sat open on the kitchen table, right underneath the avocado colored phone we had picked up at a thrift store. Every time mom went into the kitchen she said, "Just call Catholic Charities. They'll give him a good Catholic home."
After a week or so, it became an incessant nagging from her. "Did you call yet?" "Just call!" "Pick up the phone and dial, it's not hard!"
She had no idea. This wasn't like going to the St. Vincent De Paul Society for a little extra food. This was asking for the biggest handout in the world. This was asking someone to love my child for the rest of their lives, to provide for him, teach him right from wrong, and give him a better life. Mom had no idea how hard it was for me to just pick up the phone.
I had gotten pregnant on the 4th of July, having sex on the floor, surrounded by moving boxes. We were moving from the old neighborhood to a new one. I was looking toward a new direction in my life. I had a job, a car, and a guy I was going to marry someday. I was just waiting on the engagement ring. And while I was waiting, we had a lot of sex.
When August rolled around, and I hadn't gotten my period, I began to worry that something was wrong. I thought I might have cancer or something. My friends all said, "You're pregnant." but I thought, "No, it's cancer. I can't be pregnant. I'd know if I were pregnant."
When I realized my boyfriend was an overcontrolling jerk who belittled everything I said, and dumped him; I thought, "See. It's cancer. I'm removing the dead weight from my life before I get treatment."
When my belly started to swell, I thought, "The cancer is growing, I should really go to the doctor."
When 3 months had passed without a period, I decided to visit Planned Parenthood. Just to rule out pregnancy, before I paid a real doctor to treat the cancer I was so sure I had.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the waiting room, that I allowed myself to see that I was pregnant. When the test came back positive, I was overjoyed. I was having a baby! I had wanted to be a mom for as long as I could remember, and now it was happening! Sure, I'd only get one semester of college before his birth. Ok, I'd have to go on welfare for a little while, until I could work again. Yeah, it might be 5 or more years before I could go back to school; and I wouldn't be moving out of mom's house for a while yet. But all of that was bearable, because I was going to be a mom!
For the next two months, I planned every little bit of my child's life. I put money away for the birth. I priced toys and clothes, and figured out exactly how much I would need to earn to care for my son. The impending welfare stint sucked, but it was the only way to truly provide for him and still get my college education. And then I had a dream.
For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain. I've always had prophetic dreams. Not very often, but frequently enough that I've learned to pay attention. That night I dreamed I was searching for my son's real parents. When I woke up in the morning, I told my mom, "I'm giving him up for adoption."
I was happy. I was at peace, and I was so full of love that morning. I knew his parents were out there, and it was my job to find them. Mom was incredibly supportive. She was looking forward to having a grandson, and she understood that it was my choice. So she did what any loving mom would do. She stood by me, and supported me, and never said a word about the loss she would feel. She was there when I awoke, crying in the middle of the night, because I missed my baby. She was there when my friends didn't know how to look at me anymore. And she was there when the telemarketers would call with their offers of free baby pictures and coupons for formula.
I stopped answering the phone when mom was home. She would pick up for me, and I'd hear her side of the conversation. "Hello?"..."No, this is her mother"..."The baby died. Please don't call here again."
I always wanted to cry out, "He's not dead! I gave him up for adoption and I'M PROUD OF IT!" Yet I knew mom was right. That little white lie was easier than dealing with their curiosity. Before I quit answering the phone, one telemarketer had actually tried to enroll me in a conversation about it. "Really?" she said, "Was it hard?"
I'm not a fragile person, but those first few months, I broke down all the time. I cried on my family, I cried when strangers looked at my recovering belly and asked, "Oh! Are you pregnant?" and I cried when I was alone. Hell, I'm crying right now, just writing about it. Sometimes it still hurts, but it's a strange kind of hurt. When I think of my son, I feel complete; whole. I had 6 months to love him as he grew in my womb. I had 2 days to hold him in the hospital. I have the rest of my life to know he is loved by the best people in the world. The people who are his real family.
How can I be sad about that?
I can't.
"If you don't want your baby, we'll try to find a home for it." Said the woman on the phone.
That was the point where I lost control. Looking for adoption agencies in the phone was hard. Actually talking to the agencies was even harder. For days, the phone book had sat open on the kitchen table, right underneath the avocado colored phone we had picked up at a thrift store. Every time mom went into the kitchen she said, "Just call Catholic Charities. They'll give him a good Catholic home."
After a week or so, it became an incessant nagging from her. "Did you call yet?" "Just call!" "Pick up the phone and dial, it's not hard!"
She had no idea. This wasn't like going to the St. Vincent De Paul Society for a little extra food. This was asking for the biggest handout in the world. This was asking someone to love my child for the rest of their lives, to provide for him, teach him right from wrong, and give him a better life. Mom had no idea how hard it was for me to just pick up the phone.
I had gotten pregnant on the 4th of July, having sex on the floor, surrounded by moving boxes. We were moving from the old neighborhood to a new one. I was looking toward a new direction in my life. I had a job, a car, and a guy I was going to marry someday. I was just waiting on the engagement ring. And while I was waiting, we had a lot of sex.
When August rolled around, and I hadn't gotten my period, I began to worry that something was wrong. I thought I might have cancer or something. My friends all said, "You're pregnant." but I thought, "No, it's cancer. I can't be pregnant. I'd know if I were pregnant."
When I realized my boyfriend was an overcontrolling jerk who belittled everything I said, and dumped him; I thought, "See. It's cancer. I'm removing the dead weight from my life before I get treatment."
When my belly started to swell, I thought, "The cancer is growing, I should really go to the doctor."
When 3 months had passed without a period, I decided to visit Planned Parenthood. Just to rule out pregnancy, before I paid a real doctor to treat the cancer I was so sure I had.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the waiting room, that I allowed myself to see that I was pregnant. When the test came back positive, I was overjoyed. I was having a baby! I had wanted to be a mom for as long as I could remember, and now it was happening! Sure, I'd only get one semester of college before his birth. Ok, I'd have to go on welfare for a little while, until I could work again. Yeah, it might be 5 or more years before I could go back to school; and I wouldn't be moving out of mom's house for a while yet. But all of that was bearable, because I was going to be a mom!
For the next two months, I planned every little bit of my child's life. I put money away for the birth. I priced toys and clothes, and figured out exactly how much I would need to earn to care for my son. The impending welfare stint sucked, but it was the only way to truly provide for him and still get my college education. And then I had a dream.
For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain. I've always had prophetic dreams. Not very often, but frequently enough that I've learned to pay attention. That night I dreamed I was searching for my son's real parents. When I woke up in the morning, I told my mom, "I'm giving him up for adoption."
I was happy. I was at peace, and I was so full of love that morning. I knew his parents were out there, and it was my job to find them. Mom was incredibly supportive. She was looking forward to having a grandson, and she understood that it was my choice. So she did what any loving mom would do. She stood by me, and supported me, and never said a word about the loss she would feel. She was there when I awoke, crying in the middle of the night, because I missed my baby. She was there when my friends didn't know how to look at me anymore. And she was there when the telemarketers would call with their offers of free baby pictures and coupons for formula.
I stopped answering the phone when mom was home. She would pick up for me, and I'd hear her side of the conversation. "Hello?"..."No, this is her mother"..."The baby died. Please don't call here again."
I always wanted to cry out, "He's not dead! I gave him up for adoption and I'M PROUD OF IT!" Yet I knew mom was right. That little white lie was easier than dealing with their curiosity. Before I quit answering the phone, one telemarketer had actually tried to enroll me in a conversation about it. "Really?" she said, "Was it hard?"
I'm not a fragile person, but those first few months, I broke down all the time. I cried on my family, I cried when strangers looked at my recovering belly and asked, "Oh! Are you pregnant?" and I cried when I was alone. Hell, I'm crying right now, just writing about it. Sometimes it still hurts, but it's a strange kind of hurt. When I think of my son, I feel complete; whole. I had 6 months to love him as he grew in my womb. I had 2 days to hold him in the hospital. I have the rest of my life to know he is loved by the best people in the world. The people who are his real family.
How can I be sad about that?
I can't.
The other half of the story
Catholic Charities was extremely rude. They treated me like I was garbage. I am not garbage, and I've never had a problem pointing that out to people. So when the woman on the phone spoke to me like I was less than the dirt beneath her fingernails, I let her know a few things.
I am white.
I am intelligent.
I am drug-free.
I do want my child. I also want my child to have a better life.
And they will never get their hands on my son.
I wasn't done yet, either. I kept her on the phone, letting her know my opinion of her assumptions about me. I asked if she understood how hard it was for me to even make an inquiry. I expressed disbelief in them ever handling an adoption, if this was the way they treated birth parents. I pointed out that my son was a gift, not a burden. And when she grudgingly apoligized, I stated the obvious. I said, "You are the sorriest representative of a company I've ever had to deal with." Then I hung up on her.
That's what happens when a redhead loses her temper.
Catholic Charities was extremely rude. They treated me like I was garbage. I am not garbage, and I've never had a problem pointing that out to people. So when the woman on the phone spoke to me like I was less than the dirt beneath her fingernails, I let her know a few things.
I am white.
I am intelligent.
I am drug-free.
I do want my child. I also want my child to have a better life.
And they will never get their hands on my son.
I wasn't done yet, either. I kept her on the phone, letting her know my opinion of her assumptions about me. I asked if she understood how hard it was for me to even make an inquiry. I expressed disbelief in them ever handling an adoption, if this was the way they treated birth parents. I pointed out that my son was a gift, not a burden. And when she grudgingly apoligized, I stated the obvious. I said, "You are the sorriest representative of a company I've ever had to deal with." Then I hung up on her.
That's what happens when a redhead loses her temper.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Comments are down. (sigh)
In reference to the previous post:
Oops, my bad. Pete and Manny created BlogMadness as a non-popularity based contest, where you take your best post from 2003 and pit it against the best post from other blogs. They got 116 entries. Mine is in the "Love" region. At the moment, it's in the "Winners Round 3" part. Go read them! I've found some really good blogs to add to my side bar, you might too. Sorry you can't comment right now. If you'd like to say something you can reach me at randomred (that symbol over the number 2) bitparts (dot) org.
In reference to the previous post:
Oops, my bad. Pete and Manny created BlogMadness as a non-popularity based contest, where you take your best post from 2003 and pit it against the best post from other blogs. They got 116 entries. Mine is in the "Love" region. At the moment, it's in the "Winners Round 3" part. Go read them! I've found some really good blogs to add to my side bar, you might too. Sorry you can't comment right now. If you'd like to say something you can reach me at randomred (that symbol over the number 2) bitparts (dot) org.
It's been a while
First off, THANK YOU to everyone who has and/or will vote for "The Race War That Wasn't" in BlogMadness. It's gone up against some pretty well known authors, and it's still in the running! Thank you for voting in the spirit of the competition, for voting for the entry you deem best; whether it's mine or someone else's.
Secondly, I apologize for not writing anything recently. I've written all the easy stories; the ones that I've relived often enough in my dreams. Now I'm working on the harder stuff. The tale of the 9 year old prostitute, the times the pervs grabbed me or someone else, the drug dealers, and the ever present violence. Sometimes I wonder why I began this project. Then I remember my friend A, laughing over "And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!" and saying in all seriousness, "You should write a book."
Yeah, that's why. To tell the stories that never get told.
First off, THANK YOU to everyone who has and/or will vote for "The Race War That Wasn't" in BlogMadness. It's gone up against some pretty well known authors, and it's still in the running! Thank you for voting in the spirit of the competition, for voting for the entry you deem best; whether it's mine or someone else's.
Secondly, I apologize for not writing anything recently. I've written all the easy stories; the ones that I've relived often enough in my dreams. Now I'm working on the harder stuff. The tale of the 9 year old prostitute, the times the pervs grabbed me or someone else, the drug dealers, and the ever present violence. Sometimes I wonder why I began this project. Then I remember my friend A, laughing over "And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!" and saying in all seriousness, "You should write a book."
Yeah, that's why. To tell the stories that never get told.
Sunday, January 18, 2004
Saturday Morning Cartoons
Mom bought a TV Guide from the grocery store every week. Why she did this is beyond me. We got a total of 6 channels; ABC, NBC, CBS, PBS, channel 11 and channel 30, which was usually full of static. Channel 11 was, without a doubt, my favorite channel. They showed horror movies late at night, and mom would let us stay up on Fridays to watch. Now that I'm a mother myself, I understand this tactic. If we stay up late on Friday, we should sleep late on Saturday. If we sleep late on Saturday, she won't be awakened at 6 am by the TV. Riiiiight. We were children, filled with boundless energy. We didn't need sleep!
Twice a year, my sister and I would leaf through the TV Guide and decide which Saturday Morning Lineup we would watch for the next 6 months. It was too much trouble to get up off the floor and change channels every half hour, so choosing the right station was crucial. The networks understood this. They would show previews of their new cartoons in the evening during sweeps week. The winter the Smurfs made their debut comes to mind right off. I don't recall how old I was, though the internet agrees it was 1982. We had already explored the new cartoons guide, and couldn't decide which channel to watch that night. Some of the shows looked really good, some looked like garbage in animated form. Whatever we decided on, it was sadly disappointing. We switched channels, found the Smurfs, and were hooked. Yes... That was when cartoons started to really go downhill.
Crappy cartoons notwithstanding, my sister and I got up with the sun every Saturday. We would try to be quiet, but by 9 o'clock mom would be making breakfast for us. Even better than the cartoons was what came on afterward. Wrestling At The Chase. Wrestling rocked! Big strong men in superhero costumes acting out the most delicious dramas. The good guys like Hulk Hogan, sergeant Slaughter and George the Animal Steel, battled stereotypical evil-doers like The Iron Sheik and Nikolai Volkoff. Andre the Giant was neither good nor bad, he was more like a force of nature. Once in a blue moon we'd be lucky enough to see him in a "wrestle royale". That's where 20 men fight to be the last one left in the ring. Andre would toss them out like they weighed nothing. Every wrestler had a signature move, and I loved them all. Von Eric had the Iron Claw, capable of delivering a knock out headache. Rowdy Roddy Piper had the figure 4 leg-lock to go with his signature kilt. Adrian Adonis would pause to have his attendants spritz him with perfume before he finished off his opponents. Randy "Macho Man" Savage portrayed a wife beater, back in the day -before it became politically incorrect. He was the man I loved to hate. I also hated "The Millionaire" Ted Dibiase, because he would throw money around, and buy off his matches.
As cartoon quality dropped off, wrestling got better and better. A big part of my childhood involved wrestling, and then; either I grew up, or wrestling just got weird. The managers began playing bigger roles. The best wrestlers retired, and everyone left started looking like body builders. It was a sad day for wrestling when I decided to play outside, rather than watch Wrestling At The Chase.
Mom bought a TV Guide from the grocery store every week. Why she did this is beyond me. We got a total of 6 channels; ABC, NBC, CBS, PBS, channel 11 and channel 30, which was usually full of static. Channel 11 was, without a doubt, my favorite channel. They showed horror movies late at night, and mom would let us stay up on Fridays to watch. Now that I'm a mother myself, I understand this tactic. If we stay up late on Friday, we should sleep late on Saturday. If we sleep late on Saturday, she won't be awakened at 6 am by the TV. Riiiiight. We were children, filled with boundless energy. We didn't need sleep!
Twice a year, my sister and I would leaf through the TV Guide and decide which Saturday Morning Lineup we would watch for the next 6 months. It was too much trouble to get up off the floor and change channels every half hour, so choosing the right station was crucial. The networks understood this. They would show previews of their new cartoons in the evening during sweeps week. The winter the Smurfs made their debut comes to mind right off. I don't recall how old I was, though the internet agrees it was 1982. We had already explored the new cartoons guide, and couldn't decide which channel to watch that night. Some of the shows looked really good, some looked like garbage in animated form. Whatever we decided on, it was sadly disappointing. We switched channels, found the Smurfs, and were hooked. Yes... That was when cartoons started to really go downhill.
Crappy cartoons notwithstanding, my sister and I got up with the sun every Saturday. We would try to be quiet, but by 9 o'clock mom would be making breakfast for us. Even better than the cartoons was what came on afterward. Wrestling At The Chase. Wrestling rocked! Big strong men in superhero costumes acting out the most delicious dramas. The good guys like Hulk Hogan, sergeant Slaughter and George the Animal Steel, battled stereotypical evil-doers like The Iron Sheik and Nikolai Volkoff. Andre the Giant was neither good nor bad, he was more like a force of nature. Once in a blue moon we'd be lucky enough to see him in a "wrestle royale". That's where 20 men fight to be the last one left in the ring. Andre would toss them out like they weighed nothing. Every wrestler had a signature move, and I loved them all. Von Eric had the Iron Claw, capable of delivering a knock out headache. Rowdy Roddy Piper had the figure 4 leg-lock to go with his signature kilt. Adrian Adonis would pause to have his attendants spritz him with perfume before he finished off his opponents. Randy "Macho Man" Savage portrayed a wife beater, back in the day -before it became politically incorrect. He was the man I loved to hate. I also hated "The Millionaire" Ted Dibiase, because he would throw money around, and buy off his matches.
As cartoon quality dropped off, wrestling got better and better. A big part of my childhood involved wrestling, and then; either I grew up, or wrestling just got weird. The managers began playing bigger roles. The best wrestlers retired, and everyone left started looking like body builders. It was a sad day for wrestling when I decided to play outside, rather than watch Wrestling At The Chase.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Everyone Knows To Stay Away From The Pervs
Mom didn't go to the bar. Mom rarely drank, and she absolutely hated beer. She called it "piss water". She looked down on beer drinkers, viewing them as only one step above winos. This kept us pretty isolated from the rest of the neighborhood. All my friends went to the bar to buy cigarettes for their parents. Mom sent us all the way to the gas station. The gas station was a full block away, and to get there you had to pass abandoned buildings and such. Just because an owner doesn't want a building, doesn't mean it is empty. The homeless slept there or used the buildings as shelter. The homeless weren't a threat. It was the pervs we had to watch out for.
The pervs used the abandoned buildings -and the space between them, in the afternoons and evenings. Mom usually needed a new pack of cigarettes around 7:00 pm. That was prime perv time. The pervs would bring their dirty magazines and whack off in the buildings. Some of them needed a more public place to do their business, so they'd use the gravel and glass parking lot between the buildings.
That really sucked for my sister and I, because the parking lot held a short cut to the gas station. If there was even a chance that someone might be lurking in the lot, or the path beyond that led to a hole in the gas station's fence; we would take the long way. Neither of us wanted to get snatched. Snatchings were common, and never talked about.
If you grew up in a good neighborhood, you might not understand. Admitting that you were snatched and violated would be showing weakness. You might as well paint "victim" across your forehead, and be done with it. Weak people got robbed, beaten and raped. Not once or twice, but often. You never, never, never admit weakness in a neighborhood like mine. I think that's why it bothered mom so much when we got robbed. Somehow, we had appeared as victims. After that, we had to be a lot more vigilant. We had to come across as twice as tough as before. We had to convince the neighborhood that there would be retribution on an apocalyptic scale, or live in fear that next time we might be home, and lose more than just stuff. -I know it sounds melodramatic, but it was simply the way things were-
The pervs were another example of the way things were. I never counted how often I saw some perv masturbating in a semi-private part of the parking lot. The boldest perv I remember was standing in the middle of the lot, holding his pants in one hand and his dick in the other. He was looking down at a magazine. When he saw my sister and I, he walked off to a corner, just beating away. He left the magazine behind. We were lucky, he wasn't one of those guys who prefers children. We didn't have to see him look at us and get even more excited, or worse yet, chase us. That happened a few times, too. Being chased by a perv is no picnic.
We had a series of safe doors to knock on. Any of the bikers would have let us in. Also most of the pot dealers, and Tattoo Annie, the neighborhood prostitute. The pervs never chased us very far, though. We never had to knock on any of the doors. At least not for the neighborhood pervs. There were a few incidents being followed by a car...
They never tried the candy bit. Most of them offered money. "Hey, girl. Ya want some money?" Like that's going to bring me anywhere near a perv in a car! Street snatchings you might walk away from. Cars never brought you home.
How did I know this, when no one ever talked about it? I don't know. I think the real meaning of, "You stay away from those pervs." filters into kids through osmosis or something. We just all knew what would happen if you didn't stay away.
Mom didn't go to the bar. Mom rarely drank, and she absolutely hated beer. She called it "piss water". She looked down on beer drinkers, viewing them as only one step above winos. This kept us pretty isolated from the rest of the neighborhood. All my friends went to the bar to buy cigarettes for their parents. Mom sent us all the way to the gas station. The gas station was a full block away, and to get there you had to pass abandoned buildings and such. Just because an owner doesn't want a building, doesn't mean it is empty. The homeless slept there or used the buildings as shelter. The homeless weren't a threat. It was the pervs we had to watch out for.
The pervs used the abandoned buildings -and the space between them, in the afternoons and evenings. Mom usually needed a new pack of cigarettes around 7:00 pm. That was prime perv time. The pervs would bring their dirty magazines and whack off in the buildings. Some of them needed a more public place to do their business, so they'd use the gravel and glass parking lot between the buildings.
That really sucked for my sister and I, because the parking lot held a short cut to the gas station. If there was even a chance that someone might be lurking in the lot, or the path beyond that led to a hole in the gas station's fence; we would take the long way. Neither of us wanted to get snatched. Snatchings were common, and never talked about.
If you grew up in a good neighborhood, you might not understand. Admitting that you were snatched and violated would be showing weakness. You might as well paint "victim" across your forehead, and be done with it. Weak people got robbed, beaten and raped. Not once or twice, but often. You never, never, never admit weakness in a neighborhood like mine. I think that's why it bothered mom so much when we got robbed. Somehow, we had appeared as victims. After that, we had to be a lot more vigilant. We had to come across as twice as tough as before. We had to convince the neighborhood that there would be retribution on an apocalyptic scale, or live in fear that next time we might be home, and lose more than just stuff. -I know it sounds melodramatic, but it was simply the way things were-
The pervs were another example of the way things were. I never counted how often I saw some perv masturbating in a semi-private part of the parking lot. The boldest perv I remember was standing in the middle of the lot, holding his pants in one hand and his dick in the other. He was looking down at a magazine. When he saw my sister and I, he walked off to a corner, just beating away. He left the magazine behind. We were lucky, he wasn't one of those guys who prefers children. We didn't have to see him look at us and get even more excited, or worse yet, chase us. That happened a few times, too. Being chased by a perv is no picnic.
We had a series of safe doors to knock on. Any of the bikers would have let us in. Also most of the pot dealers, and Tattoo Annie, the neighborhood prostitute. The pervs never chased us very far, though. We never had to knock on any of the doors. At least not for the neighborhood pervs. There were a few incidents being followed by a car...
They never tried the candy bit. Most of them offered money. "Hey, girl. Ya want some money?" Like that's going to bring me anywhere near a perv in a car! Street snatchings you might walk away from. Cars never brought you home.
How did I know this, when no one ever talked about it? I don't know. I think the real meaning of, "You stay away from those pervs." filters into kids through osmosis or something. We just all knew what would happen if you didn't stay away.
Monday, January 12, 2004
Playing With Fire
My sister and I were pretty independent kids. We had to be, since mom came home from work at about 6 o'clock at night. We were intelligent and well behaved. We knew when something was a bad idea. But knowing a thing and heeding your own advice on it are two entirely different things. As a result, my sister and I made some mistakes.
Most were minor, like putting a roast in the oven and then going outside to play. That's how I learned meat shrinks, just like in the cartoons, when you let it cook for too long. Minor disasters included letting the tub overflow, ignoring the dog when she needs to go outside, and hiding crackers in the sofa -so mom wouldn't know you were eating junk. (side note: A box of crackers at Tru-Buy was 44 cents. That's some cheap eats, there. I ate a lot of crackers)
Sometimes, however, my sister and I made some major mistakes. We snuck out of the house and bet on the drunks leaving the bar. We went joyriding with people we barely knew, and once, we set the recliner on fire. It was a complete accident, of course. Neither of us were stupid enough to burn the furniture on purpose.
We were bored. So we invented a game. We had seen a commercial for a game where you remove pieces from a board until the central piece falls. Whoever makes the thing fall, loses. So we got a bowl full of water and covered it with plastic wrap. We put a penny in the center of the plastic wrap, and then we did the stupid thing. We swiped a pack of mom's cigarettes. The idea was to take turns burning holes in the plastic until the penny fell through. The water was insurance, because we were playing with fire. See how smart we were? It worked so well, we invited some friends to play the next day. We played again the day after. By this time, we were confident in our ability to control the cigarettes we were playing with. Puff puff puff on the cigarette until the end glows bright red, flick off the excess ashes and burn a neat hole in the plastic wrap.
It was my fault. I accidentally hit the cigarette on the edge of the bowl and knocked the cherry loose. I pulled my hand back to drop the cigarette in the ashtray, and the cherry flew up over my head and landed on the recliner. I grabbed a pillow and batted at the spot it had hit. Everyone surveyed the char hole, and we prayed that mom wouldn't notice. We were a little shook up at the near miss, but went back to playing the game. The room was full of cigarette smoke, but it was even smokier by the recliner. As a matter of fact, there was a lot of smoke coming from the burned spot that I thought I'd put out. One of the players declared, "The chair is on fire!" I turned to look, and sure enough; there was flame coming from the corner of the recliner. I grabbed the bowl of water and dumped it on the chair, plastic wrap and all. I either missed the spot, or it wasn't enough water. Everybody both ran to the kitchen for cups of water.
We dumped cup after cup of water on that poor old recliner. It seemed to take forever to stop smoldering, but eventually it did.
Our friends decided it was time to go home. The game wasn't fun anymore. We walked them to the stairs and said goodbye, then went to clean up the cigarette game. There was a nasty smell in the living room. We sprayed Lysol all over the chair, and that helped a bit. It was summer time, so the windows were already open; that helped more.
I blotted at the soggy recliner with towels. When I ran out, I used my winter clothes. I cried as I tried to soak up the water. I knew I was in such deep trouble that I couldn't even imagine what mom would say or do. To give her credit, my sister could have stood there telling me how much trouble I was in, but she didn't. She silently helped me clean up the mess.
Once the chair was as dry as we could make it, we covered it with an ugly orange blanket. When mom came home, we told her we had re-decorated, and showed her the new recliner cover. This was the moment of truth. Mom knows everything. Mom would certainly know the chair had been burned. How could she not know? One whole corner was missing. The house reeked of burned fabric and cigarette smoke. She must know. I was just waiting for the axe to fall.
The fates smiled on me that day. Mom must have been exhausted from work, or something. She declared that it was just lovely, told us she was going to take a nap, and asked if we could make dinner.
Months later, when she took the throw off to wash it, she saw the damage and asked what had happened. I fessed up to playing with some matches and accidentally burning the recliner. She said, "Well that was stupid. Thank God you're both ok." And later she commented, "I'm glad I have such smart daughters. You kept your heads, and I'm proud of you."
Go figure.
My sister and I were pretty independent kids. We had to be, since mom came home from work at about 6 o'clock at night. We were intelligent and well behaved. We knew when something was a bad idea. But knowing a thing and heeding your own advice on it are two entirely different things. As a result, my sister and I made some mistakes.
Most were minor, like putting a roast in the oven and then going outside to play. That's how I learned meat shrinks, just like in the cartoons, when you let it cook for too long. Minor disasters included letting the tub overflow, ignoring the dog when she needs to go outside, and hiding crackers in the sofa -so mom wouldn't know you were eating junk. (side note: A box of crackers at Tru-Buy was 44 cents. That's some cheap eats, there. I ate a lot of crackers)
Sometimes, however, my sister and I made some major mistakes. We snuck out of the house and bet on the drunks leaving the bar. We went joyriding with people we barely knew, and once, we set the recliner on fire. It was a complete accident, of course. Neither of us were stupid enough to burn the furniture on purpose.
We were bored. So we invented a game. We had seen a commercial for a game where you remove pieces from a board until the central piece falls. Whoever makes the thing fall, loses. So we got a bowl full of water and covered it with plastic wrap. We put a penny in the center of the plastic wrap, and then we did the stupid thing. We swiped a pack of mom's cigarettes. The idea was to take turns burning holes in the plastic until the penny fell through. The water was insurance, because we were playing with fire. See how smart we were? It worked so well, we invited some friends to play the next day. We played again the day after. By this time, we were confident in our ability to control the cigarettes we were playing with. Puff puff puff on the cigarette until the end glows bright red, flick off the excess ashes and burn a neat hole in the plastic wrap.
It was my fault. I accidentally hit the cigarette on the edge of the bowl and knocked the cherry loose. I pulled my hand back to drop the cigarette in the ashtray, and the cherry flew up over my head and landed on the recliner. I grabbed a pillow and batted at the spot it had hit. Everyone surveyed the char hole, and we prayed that mom wouldn't notice. We were a little shook up at the near miss, but went back to playing the game. The room was full of cigarette smoke, but it was even smokier by the recliner. As a matter of fact, there was a lot of smoke coming from the burned spot that I thought I'd put out. One of the players declared, "The chair is on fire!" I turned to look, and sure enough; there was flame coming from the corner of the recliner. I grabbed the bowl of water and dumped it on the chair, plastic wrap and all. I either missed the spot, or it wasn't enough water. Everybody both ran to the kitchen for cups of water.
We dumped cup after cup of water on that poor old recliner. It seemed to take forever to stop smoldering, but eventually it did.
Our friends decided it was time to go home. The game wasn't fun anymore. We walked them to the stairs and said goodbye, then went to clean up the cigarette game. There was a nasty smell in the living room. We sprayed Lysol all over the chair, and that helped a bit. It was summer time, so the windows were already open; that helped more.
I blotted at the soggy recliner with towels. When I ran out, I used my winter clothes. I cried as I tried to soak up the water. I knew I was in such deep trouble that I couldn't even imagine what mom would say or do. To give her credit, my sister could have stood there telling me how much trouble I was in, but she didn't. She silently helped me clean up the mess.
Once the chair was as dry as we could make it, we covered it with an ugly orange blanket. When mom came home, we told her we had re-decorated, and showed her the new recliner cover. This was the moment of truth. Mom knows everything. Mom would certainly know the chair had been burned. How could she not know? One whole corner was missing. The house reeked of burned fabric and cigarette smoke. She must know. I was just waiting for the axe to fall.
The fates smiled on me that day. Mom must have been exhausted from work, or something. She declared that it was just lovely, told us she was going to take a nap, and asked if we could make dinner.
Months later, when she took the throw off to wash it, she saw the damage and asked what had happened. I fessed up to playing with some matches and accidentally burning the recliner. She said, "Well that was stupid. Thank God you're both ok." And later she commented, "I'm glad I have such smart daughters. You kept your heads, and I'm proud of you."
Go figure.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Getting Out
I suppose every generation in every poor neighborhood dreams up ways to get out. They all believe that they are somehow better than the generations that came before, and they all think they are the first to plan their escape.
The neighborhood eats these people alive.
Every once in a while, I'll run into someone from the old neighborhood, and we'll discuss the people we knew. Denny was going to be a race car driver. He killed a woman while driving drunk. A week and a half later, he died the same way. T had a good job at Anheuser Busch. He supported his mother, sister, aunts and uncle. What little money he had left over paid for classes at the community college. We really thought T would escape. He still lives in the neighborhood, and his family still bleeds him dry. There were boys who carried weights everywhere they went. They were going to be the next Mr. Universe. Their dumbbells were a symbol declaring, "I'm better than this and I'm getting out!"
They all had their symbols. Nunchucks were for the next Bruce Lee. Greasy jeans were for the next mechanic, and a blue work shirt meant you had finally grown up and gotten a job. The girls flocked to these status symbols, offering up their bodies and praying for babies. For them, it was the only way out. If they could get some guy to marry them, and that guy got out, then the guy would take them out too.
I suppose every generation in every poor neighborhood dreams up ways to get out. They all believe that they are somehow better than the generations that came before, and they all think they are the first to plan their escape.
The neighborhood eats these people alive.
Every once in a while, I'll run into someone from the old neighborhood, and we'll discuss the people we knew. Denny was going to be a race car driver. He killed a woman while driving drunk. A week and a half later, he died the same way. T had a good job at Anheuser Busch. He supported his mother, sister, aunts and uncle. What little money he had left over paid for classes at the community college. We really thought T would escape. He still lives in the neighborhood, and his family still bleeds him dry. There were boys who carried weights everywhere they went. They were going to be the next Mr. Universe. Their dumbbells were a symbol declaring, "I'm better than this and I'm getting out!"
They all had their symbols. Nunchucks were for the next Bruce Lee. Greasy jeans were for the next mechanic, and a blue work shirt meant you had finally grown up and gotten a job. The girls flocked to these status symbols, offering up their bodies and praying for babies. For them, it was the only way out. If they could get some guy to marry them, and that guy got out, then the guy would take them out too.
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