Kid Names

So, my coworkers and I were having a discussion about people's names and the trauma they can cause. Most of us survived our childhoods and have chosen an adult name, be it the childhood nickname, or the full spelling. I have always gone by Kristin, so call me that. Except please spell it with TWO Is!!! It's KrisTIN, not KrisTEN. It's also not, Kirsten, Kristina, Christine, or Chrysanthemum.

I went by Krissy when I was younger. Now ONLY my family can get away with that one. It's a term of endearment. My cousin Michael is now Mike, but Mikey to the fam-damily.

So it goes. But I must say - I truly THANK my parents for my name. Because despite the silly mispronunciations and misspellings, there was really barely anything to rhyme Kristin with that would hurt my feelings. Piston... yeah, that's a truck part. I'm not gonna cry over that one. A friend tried to set me up with a Tristan, but I could just imagine the jokes, and I never did go out with him.

My brother Rob, known as Robby to family and to friends when he was little, was cursed with Slobby Robby. I was guilty of calling him that, because I knew it totally pissed him off! My other brother, John... I'm sure a lot of things rhyme with it, but the name connotes the bathroom. That is why Rob and I found it VERY FUNNY INDEED when my parents (after the birdies flew the coop), renovated their house and made John's room into a... you guessed it... JOHN! It was quite lovely, but John was none too pleased.

Parents can be so cruel (or just damn stupid) when they name their kids. I went to high school with a girl named Ophelia Rass. Say the name quickly together. Now cringe. Poor girl!!! And I went to grad school with a guy name Peter Seaman. Think about it... yeah. Wow!

My friend Melinda went by Mindy until she'd gotten one too many "Mork and Mindy" jokes and decided to use her full name. I got teased when I went by Krissy because of Chrissy on "Three's Company" - such a ditz. I'm totally dating us here, but whatever! Krissy did lead to some teasing... Pissy Krissy, Kissy Krissy, Sissy Krissy (and the list goes on and on). So I started going by Kristin fairly early in school.

My niece's middle name is Quinn. We had a ball one night coming up with nicknames for her (she was a newborn). She is the Quinn of the world! She's such a drama Quinn! Hopefully her first name won't lead to too much trouble. It's pretty safe. And we won't torment her with her Quinnly middle name.

I just don't understand why, when parents are choosing names, they don't THINK AHEAD! I mean, I guess some of them choose the name on purpose (Hello Peter Seaman), but why would you name your kid something that will undoubtedly lead to teasing and torment. Everyone will get it sometimes, but why encourage it with a terrible name?

I dunno. It's a thinker. Just call me Kristin. Thanks!

Rapture

So, it seems the wackos are predicting the end of days for tomorrow, Saturday, May 21st at 6pm. TOTAL BUMMER! I have a friend visiting from NYC this weekend. It would be scary for her to completely disappear on me. I say she'd disappear on ME, because I know full well, I am not going to be taken. I shall be left behind. I mean, if the rapture is as strict as the foaming-at-their-mouths crazy people say it will be, I'm screwed!

I, for one, have not lead a perfect life. I've lied a few times. I stole red, wax lips from my pediatrician's office when I was three. I've definitely not honored mineth father and mother quite a few times over the years. I haven't killed anybody, but I didn't take care of my hamsters as well as I could have. They probably had shortened lifespans as a result. I've killed fish. I've eaten meat. Does that count? I have most assuredly coveted my neighbors' husbands and boyfriends. I didn't DO anything about it, but I coveted. Oh, and I had sex before marriage, which if I hadn't, would make me a 41-year-old virgin. And that would be just SAD! Yeah, I'm screwed!

I grew up very, VERY Catholic. Catholics don't believe in the Rapture, per se, but, you know... it's a religion. After a rather nasty encounter with my priest (NOT what you're thinking you freakwads!), for which he apologized 12 years later... I left the church and never looked back. I enjoy my Sunday mornings to myself. And while my spiritual beliefs allow me to think I can talk to God any time, anywhere, about anything... there are those who would have you believe you HAVE to be "saved" and go to church and tithe and shit. I give of my time and energy to charities I believe in, but I don't have the moolah to tithe 10%. So, I guess... I'm screwed!

Me thinkest that on Sunday, there will be some very shocked and unhappy extremists wandering around. The best line I've read all day is from a friend who suggested leaving random piles of clothes all over town. Bwah hah haaaaah!!! Classic! But if I'm wrong, of course, I'm screwed.

Honestly, I don't think many of my friends and family members will be saved either. They are all way too much fun. Perhaps a couple of Facebook friends will disappear, and yeah, I'll miss them. But for the most part, I think my circle of support and love will stay intact. We're all sinners, every last one of us, so... we're ALL screwed.

So, if you, my friends, are raptured... Goodbye! Safe travels! Don't forget about me! And for those of you stuck on earth with me, we screwed ones will just have to make the best of it. PARTY ON DUDES!!!!

How I Found Out

 

If you’re reading this out loud and you have a small child in the room, well… stop. Although WHY you would be reading this out loud with a small child in the room is beyond me. So unless you want me to blow some big secrets to small children everywhere ('cause that's just how widely-read this blog is people!), don’t read this out loud in front of them. Okay, having done my duty by small children world-wide...

This is how I found out...

There is this hysterical commercial on these days where kids talk about where babies come from. They have all the cute answers you would expect, but the funniest part for me is where one little girl is whispering in another little girl's ear. And the second little girl reacts, stunned and says, totally grossed out, "Are you kidding?" Obviously, her friend just told her the truth. Bwah hah haaaah! That is exactly how I found out.

See, I had this friend, L, who was a year older than me. She lived across the street for most of my younger years and as a result, I found out some stuff about a year earlier than I normally would have because L kept me informed as she learned the important facts of life.

This came in very handy in school because when we played "School," L was always the teacher and I was always the student. And in L's version, I actually had to, uhhh, LEARN stuff. So she would naturally teach me what she'd learned in school that week and thus, I was about a year ahead of my poor, L-less counterparts. I definitely had an edge in spelling and multiplication! L actually graded me in our play-schoolhouse. She took it very seriously.

And when we played house, L was always the mom and I was always the kid. We often stole my littlest brother, J, because he was a cute baby, and he got the play... the baby. But L was always in charge and honestly, that was just the way she liked it. Hmmm - come to think of it, that's just the way L likes things now too! *snicker*

Anyhooo! L's family and my family were super close. We often had dinner at each others' houses - big family dinners. L had a brother, M, who was my brother, R's best friend. And since they lived right across the street, our parents often dumped the kids off in each others' homes.

On one of these evenings, and I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday, L's family was at our house, having tacos for dinner. My dad had recently shot some film footage of us all running around, acting like lunatics, and he was setting up the screen and projector (no, not the TV. This was before VCRs and camcorders and DVDs - you know... prairie times!). Movie night was always a really big deal in our house - and for some reason, it always coincided with taco night. But I digress. While dad was painstakingly setting up the projector, L leaned over and whispered in my ear.

WHY she decided to share this information with me, I don't know.

WHY she shared it the way she did, I cannot explain.

WHY she shared it and did not preface it in any way, shape or form, I can only shrug.

WHY L did many things have no explanation, but this was a doozie!

This is what my best friend whispered into my innocent, virginal ear, "Men put their penises into womens' vaginas."

I promptly told her to shut up and stop lying. But she very calmly told me it was totally and completely true. And then she DARED me to ask my dad. L was evil. Have I mentioned this before? L had an evil streak.

Knowing that L was evil and was obviously LYING, I stomped directly over to my father, who had absolutely no idea what was about to hit him. I threw an, "I am going to get you in sooooo much trouble" look over my shoulder at L and tugged my father's shirt.

"Daddy?"

"Hrmphrhm?" He was really deeply engrossed in setting up the projector. Dad's extremely intelligent, like MENSA, crazy-smart. But he can really only focus on one thing at a time. And a child tugging on him while he is trying to set up a complicated machine like a projector does not foster a good, calm mood with Daddio.

"Daaaaa-ddy!?"

"MMRHPHPHRM!!!" I shot a worried look back at L, who was looking supremely confident and a little arrogant. Normally the grumpy "hrumph" from my dad would have sent me skittering away, but that snotty look of superiority sent me over the edge.

"DAD!"

"WHAT?!??!?!!!!!" He slammed some projector part down on the dining room table and turned to stare down at me.

My angelic little face with my big, blue, innocent eyes looking up at him softened him and he leaned down. "Sorry, what is it?"

"I have a question," I squeaked out, now realizing I was going to have to say those body part words to my dad. Oh God!

"Ok," he said. I waited. I waited and fidgeted and stalled. My dad started to get angry. "Kristin Jean! Either ask me your question or sit down!"

"Yup! Ummmm," I managed to say, "Laura told me something that isn't true. And I told her it wasn't true, but she said I had to come ask you anyway." I rolled my eyes for dramatic effect.

"Yessssss?" Dad said, trying his best not to wring my neck and send my back to my tacos.

"Can I whisper it to you?" I asked, suddenly too shy to even speak out loud.

"Sure," Dad said and leaned down.

The stalling was over. I had to spit it out. I had to just ask him, so I could go back to L and call her the big, fat liar she was. So I whispered, "L said that men put their penises in womens' vaginas. But that isn't true, right?"

My father stood up stick straight with a sudden whooosh that scared me. I jumped back. I stared at him. He stared at me. Then he looked at L. Then he looked at L's father, who had no idea what was going on and shrugged at my dad.

I said, "Daddy? They don't do that, right?"

And to my horror he said, "Yes, they do. We'll talk about it later."

I was stunned. I was horrified. I was completely deflated. I was grossed out!!!!!

"But... why?????"

Dad's face was a deep shade of red, "Babies, "he hissed at me. "Go back and sit with L!"

I slunk away towards my seat next to a trimuphant L. Bitch. I couldn't even look at her. BABIES??? What did babies have to do with anything?

My mother caught my eye. I gave her a completely confused look. She looked at my father, who looked like he was about to burst into tears. She came over to me and took me into her bedroom where I asked her the same question, hoping desperately for a different answer.

No luck.

Then she pulled out a book. She said, "I was kind of hoping I wouldn't have to read this to you for a couple of years, but once again, L has beat me to the punch." And she took out this book called, Where Did I Come From? Anyone who read this book in the 70s and 80s can relate. This book was absolutely wonderful.

The illustrations were great and it explained things in a down-to-earth way that was true and witty. I was still completely and totally wigged out. And Mom was totally confused as to why L just blurted out the FACT and not the REASON. Except, as I said before, L did things for her own reasons and on her own schedule, so who knows?

The book explained about the basics, like sperm and eggs. I loved, loved, LOVED the picture of the sperm going about their business. I mean come on! How cool do these sperm look??? Especially the "winner" sperm! HAHAHA!!!

What I remember the most, even 35 years later, are the illustrations and my poor father's face. And I remember that the book talked about a man and a woman loving each other very much and getting very, very close. It never used any of the words L had used. But since L had been so blunt, poor Mommy had to fill that part in for me. I was disgusted. I just could never look at her the same way... ever again!

There was one part of the book that flipped me out a little. It was a picture of the man and the woman fooling around in the bathtub. Seriously. I guess it was the 70s, afterall. But after that, every time I heard my mom or dad hit the shower, I scrambled around to make sure the other one wasn't in there too. I wasn't ready for another brother. I didn't want them doing anything hinky in there! Sickos!

I mean really! Look at the picture. They have a toy boat in there with them. What kind of perverts are they??? LOL

All in all, it was probably a good thing L spilled the beans. I was the oldest. And while my parents had dutifully prepared by buying the nifty "Birds-N-Bees" book, I think it was probably easier on them that I was the one that broke the ice. Granted, it was with a terribly sharp ice pick. But they still blame L for that.

They also blame L for my extremely early discovery about Santa Claus. I think that may have disturbed my parents even more than the sex revelation!!! Poor, poor parents!

Ashlie, an Inspiration

Most of my stories on this blog will hopefully be funny or amusing. If they bring a tear to your eye, hopefully it will be one of laughter. Today's blog is a little different. Today, I'd like to share a story about a really inspirational young lady. Her name is Ashlie.

Three weeks ago, Ashlie was a normal, happy, 22-year-old mother of a one-year-old son, Blake. Originally from my hometown in Indiana, they were living on an Army base in Kansas. Ashlie worked, took care of Blake and helped her mom, Lesamarie, who is struggling to regain her health after surviving surgery for Stage IV Breast Cancer. She's still not out of the woods. So Ashlie has been a huge help to her mom.

On March 11, Ashlie's sister came running downstairs to tell their mother that Ashlie suddenly couldn't feel her hands or her feet. Lesamarie, being a nurse, decided that a trip to the ER was in order. So they went. Once there, the doctors only wanted to do a CT Scan and an X-ray, which didn't show much of anything. Lesamarie had to fight, as a mom and a nurse, to get an MRI done on her daughter. By the time they decided to do the MRI, Ashlie could no longer feel her arms and the numbness was moving up her shins.

A few hours later, a team of ashen-faced doctors entered Ashlie's ER room. Lesamarie saw their faces and slumped in her chair. She knew something was very, very wrong. She was right.

Ashlie had a three-inch tumor growing out of her spine and wrapping around it in a very dangerous way. They decided to medi-vac her to a major hospital, Stormont-Vail, in Topeka, where they might be able to help her. Lesamarie tried to stay calm for her child, but as a mama and as a nurse, she was terrified. This was her baby! And they were truly headed into the unknown.

At Stormont-Vail, they met Dr. W, a top-notch neurosurgeon who took one look at Ashlie's MRI and got very serious with the family. Dr. W, said Lesamarie, was an amazing doctor, brusk and direct, but she wouldn't have had it any other way. He told the truth and he didn't sugar coat it. If a neurosurgeon ever saw one of these in his career, it was the only one. This tumor was extremely rare and dangerous and the surgery to remove it was the same. He'd never performed it, but neither had most neurosurgeons in the world!

He told them the awful truth. If Ashlie even survived the surgery, if Ashlie could breath on her own after the surgery, those would be miracles. If Ashlie got movement back after the surgery, it would be another miracle. Images of Christopher Reeve entered all of our minds.

A very faithful family with many faithful friends, prayers began in earnest and Ashlie headed into a ten-hour surgery on St. Patrick's Day. As I texted back and forth with her mother during the surgery, I felt so helpless. We all did. What could I do other than send texts and wall posts on Facebook telling her that I loved her and I believed her daughter would survive this thing?!

After talking to some wonderful friends, who were following Ashlie's story on my Facebook wall, I started a "Helping Hands" community called Ashlie's Angles (roll over for the link). This allowed friends (and even friends of friends) to join a community and try to figure out how to help this amazing family. They need meals, gas money, help moving, financial assistance, a new wheelchair accessible van - they need a lot of help!

Ashlie survived the surgery and was breathing on her own. And we are all so very thankful. But even two weeks later, she has no feeling or movement below her neck. Three weeks ago, she was running around, tossing her son in the air, completely unaware of the tumor growing on her spine.

Now, she is a quadriplegic, learning how to live in a wheelchair. There is still hope of feeling and movement returning. There will always be hope!!! But Ashlie's at a wonderful rehabilitation center, Madonna, in Lincoln, Nebraska. And her doctors, nurses and specialists are helping her figure out her new way of life. Her doctor is in a wheelchair too - a great source of motivation for Ashlie.

What is so amazing and special about Ashlie is her attitude and sense of humor. She smiles and laughs with her mother and sister, and especially her son. She has a new application that allows voice to text, so she's back to texting everyone and posting updates on Facebook.

She even called me to thank me for a gift I sent that sort of backfired. But her sense of humor saved the day. I got this adorable gift of inspirational "sticks" that you can pull out each day. Out of 350 sticks, the very first one her mother pulled out for her said, "You have two hands - one to help yourself and one to help others." Are you kidding me?!?!??!?!

Ashlie and her mom just looked at each other, looked at Ashlie's hands and burst into hysterical laughter. As Ashlie said to me on the phone, between fits of giggles, "I mean, what am I supposed to do? I have to laugh!! It's just too freakin' funny! It's either laugh or cry, and I ain't cryin'!" And THAT has been the theme here. Laugh, laugh, laugh. Ashlie's spirits are amazing. And she is a true inspiration.

Yes, Ashlie has her down moments. Of course she does. There was the Facebook status that said she was tired of feeling like cement. And today's status let us all know that being a quadriplegic is a lot more complicated than she ever expected. And yet, we get photos and updates that let us know that Ashlie's spirit of determinism and optimism are alive and well.

Her mom and her son are with her in Nebraska as she explores her new way of life. Blake is her little sunshine and Lesamarie is an amazing example of courage and power through hardship and health crises.

Her friends have now established a PayPal Account (roll over for the link) for donations. Yes, it does require you to get a PayPal account, but they are really hurting right now. Ashlie and Lesamarie are both Army wives (although LM is now single - yay and Ashlie's husband just returned from active duty). This is WAY more than they ever expected or planned for, emotionally AND financially. If you would like to donate, even just $5 would make a difference right now, and it would be so appreciated. I wanted to start an actual non-profit but was horrified and surprised at how expensive that is! So I'm going to donate the intial money I was going to use to start the non-profit to the PayPal account instead.

Ashlie will be at Madonna Rehabilitation for about eight weeks. After that? We shall see. As you can see, she's got lots of help. Her new wheelchair moves when she blows into a hose. (Blake is helping her here). She's got a lot to learn. And there is a lot of adjustment ahead for everyone. Little Blake is confused and Ashlie aches to hold him.

Ashlie has taught me about grace. She has handled this trauma, something that would send a lot of people to the depths of depression, with dignity, charm, and bravery. This has also taught me perspective. When I have run into little troubles in the past few weeks, believe me, they haven't even phased me. I just think of Ashlie and her amazing attitude!

And if this brought a tear to your eye, as it does mine nearly every day, do something nice for someone in need. Do something nice for Ashlie and donate a little bit, if you can. Help her mom bring her breakfast that isn't hospital food!! That will definitely make her smile and brighten her day! And if you can make a larger donation, well that would be appreciated too. Every bit helps!

Keep rockin' Ashlie! I think you are an amazing woman, an inspiration, and a reminder to us all about how to handle ourselves in times of trouble.

The Stinky, Skinny, Sticky, Teensy-Weensy Kitty Cat

I know I've written before about my friend and roommate, Daisy Serendipity and how much I love her (and I've counted the ways for you). HOW she came into my life is an interesting story unto itself.

Today is her birthday, her eighth birthday, so I thought I'd tell you the tale of the Stinky, Skinny, Sticky, Teensy-Weensy Kitty Cat and how she came to stay with me. It is quite the tale to tell and I wish I knew everything that happened to her before I came into the picture, but I can only imagine. So, to borrow a word from one of my favorite blogs, and also one of my favorite high school Enlgish teachers, who prepared us for the SATs, hyperbole shall be used a bit here.

It was 2003. I was living in an apartment complex that didn't allow dogs. I grew up with the most wonderful white Lhasa Apso name Princess Darcy of Montegue, or just... Darcy to those of us in her royal court. Darcy was a fabulous dog. I miss her terribly. In fact, I dreamt about her last night for the first time since she passed away in 1995. I think dreams about people and animals we love are their way of visiting us. So this was really lovely!!!

I would have loved to have found a puppy in the pound and brought it home, but since I couldn't, I figured I would venture into the new and unexplored world of cats. My best friend had two cats and while one of them couldn't be bothered with the human race, the other one was just adorable, a total cuddle bug and I hoped I would find one with a similar personality.

I mentioned casually to a friend, N, that I was thinking of going to the shelter to look for a kitten. I wanted a black one, a grey one, or an orange and white "creamsicle" one. I was planning on going to the shelter in the next month or so. I wasn't in a big hurry. I figured my kitten would choose me. Well, she did!!!

That very night, N was visiting her in-laws in a town about two hours north of Indianapolis, where I was living. She called and was talking so quickly I could barely understand her. What I gathered was that there was a very sick, almost dead kitten on her in-laws' patio. It was black. Did I want it? Gee, sounded perfect.

But I did feel for the critter. I could hear it crying in the background. They were trying to get it to drink some water. It was so sick, it was trying, but apparently it was basically a bag of bones, all head, hardly any body, just tiny, and it was having a hard time. And they couldn't bring it inside because they had a tomcat who would eat it for dinner.

So they put it in a box and brought it to the all-night emergency vet. They called me from the vet's office and told me that it was probably going to make it and they would pay for the vet visit (wow!). I said if the kitten survived, I would, of course, give it a home.

The kitten survived. It was a girl! The vet said this little animal had a serious will to live. She had absolutely no reason to be alive and if N's in-laws hadn't brought her in for IV fluids and nutrients, she would have been dead within 24 hours. Poor little baby. The vet thought by her size that she was about two months old, but then he looked in her mouth and was shocked to see her six-month kitten teeth had come in. So she was a lot older than her malnurished little body portrayed! She stayed with the vet for a few days, then I got the okay to go pick up my new friend.

(Counting back from October, I chose April 1st as her birthday - it seemed like a good choice for such a lucky little black cat)

I asked N to drive up to Muncie with me, since I wasn't familiar with the area. Plus, she had a vested interest in the little feline. So we stopped by a pet store and picked up a cat carrier and hit the road.

We were a little early, so we decided to pull off for some dinner. N was about seven months pregnant at the time, so she was a "little" hungry. We went to Steak-n-Shake. Those of you from the midwest are familiar, I'm sure, with this 50's style hamburger and milkshake joint. But for others, it's really awesome - the burgers are super-thin and the shakes are super-thick. The fries are nothing to laugh at either, especially the cheese fries. We took our shakes for the road and headed out to my car.

It was an October evening, around 6:00pm. Dusky and rainy. The light above my parking space wasn't working and the parking lot was lightly flooded with muddy rain. As I stepped toward my door, my right foot went into a large, deep, tain-filled pothole and **crrrrrackkkk!** my ankle snapped. Before the message of pain and panic hit my brain, my left foot followed and **crrrrrackkkk!** my other ankle snapped as well.

I was down and my milkshake flew up, over the top, and all over my car. For the brief instant before the pain registered and I began to scream, I heard N laugh. I mean, it had to look pretty funny... until reality hit.

I started to scream in agony and N ran around the car, tossing her shake into the parking lot. My ankles were already swelling over my sneakers and N began to panic a little. She got up and ran inside the restaurant, leaving me screaming in the rain. The manager ran out in front of N with a phone. Seeing the state of my ankles, he dialed 911 and sent N back inside for some ice. A waiter came outside with bags of crushed ice and the manager untied my shoes, causing a new pitch of screams I didn't know I had in me.

Then N started crying. I tried to calm down a little for N. I didn't want to throw her into labor. TOO LATE!!!! That's why she was crying. I wondered! N was one of the most level-headed people I knew. I wouldn't have expected her to cry because I was freaking out. This is one time I would expect N to go into managerial mode. But the anxiety of the incident had set off contractions, which made me feel just horrible.

So I tried, I really tried. But the pain was absolutely horrific. I've had kidney stones, a lot of kidney stones. And this pain ranked right up there. If a kidney stone is a 9 on that ridiculous pain scale, this was an 8.5. BOTH ankles! BOTH of them!!! They were looking like huge, purple and black, deformed footballs. They were huge.

The manager dialed 911 again and ordered, you got it, a second ambulance. This was turning into a circus. In fact, we had gathered a little bit of an audience. I was screaming, N was crying, restaurant patrons were soothing, the manager was icing, sirens were blaring in the backround and my kitten was waiting for me an hour away. And wait she would.

We got to the ER and N and I were whisked in seperate directions. I was doused with pain meds and as soon as they kicked in, I got very worried for N and the baby. The nurses were so kind. Even in a fog of morphine, I remember them coming in and updating me on N's condition. They were able to stop the contractions and we ended up being discharged around the same time.

N was fine, supposed to stay in bed and calm for a few days. I however, had two broken ankles and got to stay home from work (thank you to my company for being so lenient about FMLA at the time!!!) for three months. UGH! I was a prisoner of my apartment and on my couch and literally crawled everywhere in my apartment for the first month. It was rather pathetic.

N's in-laws felt bad for me and didn't want my kitten to wait any longer, so these amazingly generous people not only paid the (large) vet bill they'd promised, but paid to get the kitten fixed too. Then they drove her the two hours down to me so I had a playmate for the three months I was stuck at home!!!

Oh my GOD! She was cute!!!! She was this tiny ball of black fuzz with two luminous green eyes. She was a little overwhelmed at being inside. She'd been Little Miss Independence her whole long life so far. She'd made her way out in the wilderness of the farmlands of Indiana all alone. She'd had some close calls and been abused because the way she reacted sometimes to me indicated she'd been hit... a lot. But she stuck her tiny, skinny tail in the air and made like she was very confident and pranced around her new digs.

Since I was pretty much stuck in once place, I wasn't too scary to her, so she had ample time to make her peace with me... the lump on the couch. And I had ample time to figure out her personality and come up with a name that suited her.

Her favorite place, it turned out, was wrapped around my neck like a tiny little scarf. This was absolutely adorable. There was one little problem. She stunk!!!!! I mean, for an adorable little ball of fluff, she smelled like shit! And she was totally sticky, like she was covered in maple syrup. But then she would have smelled nice. The first place I drove, when I could drive was a groomer, who told me she'd been skunked and had gotten into tree sap. She turned out beautifully and has smelled like cinnamon ever since... I swear! Cinnamon!

But she was a sweet little thing and I kept telling her so and that she smelled like a daisy (not). So that's why I named her Daisy. And the way she came to me felt rather serendipitous. I'd said I wanted a black cat and she appeared. Thus her name became Daisy Serendipity. But I still call her my Stinky, Skinny, Sticky, Teensy-Weensy Kitty Cat. It's a term of endearment.

Holy Kiss

I went boy crazy in kindergarten. A little early you say? Perhaps. But I made a wise choice. This guy was a total geek. Big brain, glasses and everything. Grew up to be one of the biggest geeks in high school. D is now a big shot political think tank geek getting paid the big geek bucks. But I blew my chance with him when we were five, fighting off any other kid that might want to nap next to D. D was my main man. I drove D crazy. He was so not interested. *sigh*

 

Then I got shipped off to Catholic school and D, being Jewish and all, stayed in public school, where I had gone to kindergarten. And although we remained friends (we lived in the same neighborhood) and I continued to chase him down wherever I could, it was never the same as sleeping next to him on a mat. Oh, D! You're not even on Facebook! I'm still trying to chase the guy down!

But forced away from my beloved D, I gave up boys entirely. Well, I was kind of forced to give up boys, since I was being watched by hawk-like nuns at St. Chuck's. The nuns tried very hard to keep the boys and girls separated. It didn't work very well, because since we were all of six and seven, we didn't really understand their warped reasons why we needed to be separate.

By second grade, I had all but forgotten my love and desire for D, and I was completely over boys for the time being. They had grown rather stupid and boring and totally immature for my seven years. They played stupid tricks in class and were loud and noisy and very, very dumb. Even the boys that were my friends were ranked beneath my girlfriends. Girls were just more fun.

But I was good friends with one boy, S. He was an Irish lad. His dad had the coolest house, with all kinds of antiques and things in the yard and a storage shed. And now S owns the best Irish pub in Btown. So, I still had good taste, even though we were just friends and there were no naps involved.

Anyway, as Catholic school kids, we had a church right there at school. It was very handy for things like, well... going to Mass every other damn day. (By the time I reached my early 20s, I figured I had gone to Mass enough times to cover me until I was in my 50s, so I just asserted my adult right to NOT go anymore!) It was also very handy in a daring game of hide-n-seek. You were taking your life in your own hands if a nun found you in there. The parish priest was a little easier going, but he wouldn't be too happy to find tou there either.

On this particular day, S and I were having a deep, thoughful conversation. I don't remember what it was about, but we ended up walking over to church to get some space. And I don't know why, but instead of sitting in the pews, which would have been plenty private, we decided to sneak back into the sacristy.

For those of you who don't know, the sacristy is the place behind the alter, where the priest gets ready for Mass. We were both familiar with it being an alter-boy and alter-girl. And there was this very cool "secret" hallway behind the alter that everyone loved. So we were back there talking and giggling.

Then S told me he needed to tell me a secret. So I leaned in. And S leaned in. And I turned my ear to him. And he put his hand up to tell me his big secret.

And he KISSED my ear!!!!

And my ear and the rest of my face went completely red. And I started to giggle. And then I started to laugh, kinda loud. I mean, he kissed me!

And S looked a little embarassed, but he didn't laugh. And then he looked very serious. But I couldn't stop giggling. I mean, he'd kissed me in church!!!!! For God's sake! He'd kissed me in CHURCH! I kept giggling until S shook his head and pointed behind me.

I slowed my giggle as much as I could, but fits and starts kept bursting forth in nervous guffaws. But as I turned around, I saw the face of Jesus.

Well, it wasn't actually Jesus. It was Father C, who looked a lot like Jesus. But Jesus looked very, very angry. Have you ever seen Jesus look angry? It is NOT a pretty sight, let me tell you.

He grabbed us both up by our shirt collars and I thought to myself, "I wonder how much he saw?" I mean, you know - did he see the kiss? Or was he mad because we were in the secret hallway behind the sacristy? Or was he just in a really bad mood? What was the level of anger here?

He hauled us across the parking lot to school where Sister M was monitoring a vicious game of kickball. He talked to her in a low whisper. I strained to hear, as did S, but we couldn't figure out how much he'd seen. But Sr. M turned violet and grabbed our collars from Fr. C and marched us inside.

Yeah, he'd seen everything. Oh yeah. We were in BIG trouble. God was extremely disappointed in both of us. I was a little confused as to why God was upset with me for the kissing part. I'd been taken totally by surprise. This made me angry at S. God should be extra angry at S. But apparently, God was evenly distrubuting his anger at both of us.

We were banished from recess for the rest of the week. And it was a Monday, as I recall, so that was a lot of recess. We sat inside the rest of the week and I glared at S. And S grinned his cute little Irish grin at me until I grinned back... at the end of recess on Friday. All was forgiven. I was a good Catholic girl, after all. *giggle*

The Birth of a Brother

I was the lucky big sister of two younger brothers. Okay, I'll be completely honest and it won't come as a shock to my youngest brother. By the time Mom was preggers with Bro-Part-Deux, I was kind of over the brother thing and I desperately wanted a sister.

Life before brothers... Ahhh. Now don't get me wrong. I LOVE MY BROTHERS! I would do anything for them, anything. But there's a running joke about a photo in my parents' house with just Mom, Dad, and little me. I've always called it, "The real family." Nice, huh? he he he. I enjoyed being an only child. I ate it up. I was really, really GOOD at it. I didn't know what I had until... it was gone. And those little brothers were here to stay.

Now brother #1 was exciting. I was three and didn't totally get it. But friends had little brothers and sisters and I understood this was what was about to happen to me. Now before you roll your eyes and say, "She can't remember that!" Let me just tell you, I have vivid memories going all the way back to when I was two. My parents will back me up on that one. I forget nothing. NOTHING!

So this blog should be pretty entertaining. Anyway, back to my story...

When R was born, they wouldn't let older siblings into the clean, clean hospital to see the perfectly aseptic new baby. They might get germs and snot and slime on the baby, so I had to wait at home to get germs and snot and slime on my brother. I got a new dress, my "Big Sister" dress. It was pink and white stripes with a white pinafore. I was absolutely PRECIOUS!

I was an excellent big sister. I was too little to be of any actual help to my frazzled, tired mother. But I did enjoy that baby quite a bit… except when he cried, which was, of course, a lot - him being a baby and all. But I loved the heck out of Baby Brother R.

As he got a little older, I found out I had a built-in playmate. AND I had someone to blame things on. Coooool. I worked this system well for years. I still have a playmate! R is one of the most intelligent, well-spoken, humorous, most interesting adults I know.

So, imagine a future outspoken political scientist with a passion for human rights in baby form was probably a handful. I’m being nice… He was a lot of kid to handle. And he’ll admit it. But he had this angelic face that made you forgive him for the things he did (aka, the turtle – but that’s a story for another day). He was my favorite thing in the world. And he can commisserate with me on being dressed in the stripes/rainbows/plaids and for him, leisure suits, of the 70s. Wow. What a decade.

    

Then three years later, mom announced to R and me that she was going to have another baby. Now, as much as I adored my little brother, I was over the brother thing. I was ready for a sister. One of my best friends, G (of the dino-tooth fame), had a sister one year older than her, J. They were besties and I really wanted that too.

This was 1976 and, like in the days of Laura Ingalls, we couldn't find out the sex of the baby before it was born. This probably would have saved my mother a lot of axiety-ridden moments with me, since I was convinced it was a girl and wouldn't even SPEAK of another boy. God just wouldn't do that to me. Of course, had she known ahead of time, she would have probably dealt with a sulky, sullen, depressed six-year-old for nine months, so either way, she was f%*ked.

I was in school one day when Dad came in to get me out of class. I had been an especially tough birth (sorry Mom!!) and a cesarean, and in those days (you know, prairie times), once you had one c-section, the next kids were all c-sections. So this had been scheduled and I knew my baby sister was being born that day. I’d been completely unmanageable in class, but my teacher was aware of the big happenings at home, so she’d been kind.

So Dad brought me out into the hallway and I can still see him leaning down to speak to me. Quietly. Caaaaarefully. Ready for whatever reaction may come. “Your mommy had the baby,” he said with a giant, suspiciously giant smile.

“Aaaaaaaaannnnnnd?!?!?!” I said with all the sarcastic impatience I could muster.

“And it’s a…”

I waited. I leaned forward. I listened even more carefully. What in the hell was he doing to me? He was making me insane here!!!

I blinked impatiently. Poor man. He just didn’t want to tell me.

“It’s a beautiful baby brother!” He exclaimed, suddenly forgetting that I didn’t want a brother. I hadn’t asked for a brother. I hadn’t prayed for a brother.

If I had been older and more experienced in life and disappointment, I may have taken this news in stride. I did not.

I threw myself on the dirty tile of that elementary school and had a fit. I mean, I had a fit on the level of a two-year-old who isn’t getting the toy she wants. I screamed. I cried. I kicked my father in the shins. People started popping their heads out of their schoolrooms.

My father asked if I wanted to go back to class. I stopped short and looked at him like the traitor he was. How could he ask such a thing? How could he be so mean? So cruel? Didn’t he understand? Obviously not.

I picked myself up, brushed myself off and said in a deadly whisper, “No, I do not want to go back to class.” I sniffed, turned around and started walking out of school. My harried father came running out behind me.

Once again, grubby kids weren’t allowed in the super spanky clean hospital, so I waited for my… brother, J, to come home.

I had to admit, the kid was cute. I begrudgingly held him and the minute I did, I fell madly in love. R wasn’t as intrigued. The next morning, R came out to the dining room with a big smile on his face. Mom said, “Why R! You’re awfully happy this morning!”

R replied, “Yes I am!” and smiled even larger – that Cheshire cat kind of smile. I looked carefully at my mom. She looked carefully at my dad. Dad looked carefully at R.

“Rrrrrrr???? Why are you so happy this morning?” She asked, knowing the things this angelic-looking child could pull off.

“’Cause the garbage man came this morning and he Took. That. Baby. Away,” R announced with a rather disturbing look of pride.

Mom and Dad looked at each other and ran into the nursery, expecting to find no J, but there he was, all asleep and cute in his crib.

R looked so disappointed when they told him the baby was staying. He was permanent. But I decided to make the best of it. I was six now and baby dolls were a favorite plaything. Now I had the perfect baby doll. And he was real!

So my friends and I dressed him up (as much like a girl as we could – we even used some of my old baby things), we pushed him around the yard in the carriage. We played house to our hearts’ content. I’m sure Mom was happy to have a little helper.

In later years, when J was three or four, my friends and I were still dressing him up – mostly in our dance costumes. My favorite photo of J is of him in my pink tutu. I cannot share that because blood or not, he would probably sue my ass for posting that one.

As the years went by, of course, the three of us found our balance. I beat them up until they got bigger than me and then they beat me up for the rest of my life. They are my best friends and I wish they lived closer, but I am glad… after all… that they were boys and they are my brothers. After all, I am the princess. I am Daddy’s only girl. Not a bad gig, eh?