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?

Dinosaur Tooth

During my more formative years, I lived in a small town in Indiana known for basketball (aka Bobby Knight), bicycling (aka "Breaking Away"), and my hometown university, Indiana University (Go Hoosiers!). Bloomington.

My hometown's other big claim to fame is its limestone. Empire State Building? Yeah... we made that. United States Capital Building? Yeah... we made that. Lots of limestone all over the country building all sorts of beautiful buildings (including most buildings in Bloomington). And the guys that dug all of that limestone were called Cutters, thus the moniker of the bicycle dudes in the movie. And they left great (albeit illegal) swimming holes for townie kids like me - THANKS GUYS!

And also... when I was little, before houses took up the entire neighborhood (you know, in prairie times), there were these great fields where we could search for fossils for hours. I mean, from dawn to dusk, in the days when parents could let their children out of their sight and, in fact, encouraged it, we would search. We'd come home with pail-fulls of little toothlike fossils (very common), little round, disc-like fossils (common), and these delicate little balls that would crack if you pushed too hard (rare).

Anyway, that was all just to lay the foundation (pardon the pun) that there is a damn lot of limestone and there are a damn lot of fossils in my hometown.

When I was around 12, my friend G and I were playing in the creek in the woods behind my house. This creek was a refuge of mine and will most likely come up in future childhood stories, as I spent a great deal of my childhood down there.

It was spring and we were splashing around, getting our clothes soaked, just as my mom had told us not to do (HA! Defiant little 12-year-olds). We'd found this awesomelyterrifictotallygross little patch of (guess) limestone that was smooth and covered in, well, let's be honest... slime. And as the gurgling brook ran over it, it made a little slide. So we were using it as a natural "Slip 'n Slide" and having a ball until G slipped a little too far and BAM! She ran into something.

It was hard. It was really hard. It was also really, really big. And it was sticking straight up out of the bed of the creek. G looked at me. I looked at G. We stared in wonder. What could it be? It was shaped like a cone, with the pointed end sticking up. Kind of like a stalagmite, but not in a cave.

We tried to knock it over, but it didn't budge. It was then that my fossil-hunting brain went DING! This was obviously a fossil stuck in the bed of the creek! I mentioned this to G and her eyes lit up. Of course it was! We looked at it again and at the same time, turned to each other and shrieked, "It's a TOOTH!"

The excitement level in the creek was mounting with every second. Now we needed to get the tooth OUT of the ground. And I knew exactly what to do with it. My father's good friend was a geologist at the university. We could take it to him!

We struggled, we sweated, we slipped and fell. We were battered and bruised, but you got it baby! We ripped that dino tooth out of the bedrock of the earth. Triumphant, we started back to my house to ask for a ride to Dr. K's office. But G stopped me.

"What if your mom laughs at us?" Oh dear God. She would. She would think we were completely bonkers. She was also way too busy to drive us to campus.

"Yeah," I said thoughtfully, trying not to throw my mom under the bus, but... I was 12 after all. "She totally will."

"How will we get to campus?" moaned G, lugging her end of the giant, heavy tooth.

I really wasn't sure. This thing was H-E-A-V-Y. And we certainly couldn't ride our bikes with it. "The bus!" I screamed. "We can take the bus!"

Neither one of us were "public bus" kids. We took the school bus. But our parents pretty much shuttled us from place to place. Or we rode our bikes (within the boundaries set forth by our parents... or so they thought). So we had never actually taken the public transit system. But there was a first time for everything, and we were almost grown-ups, AND, this was an emergency.

So I crept into my house, snuck into my parents' room and grabbed a handful of quarters from my dad's change can (sorry Dad!!!). We went quietly down the block and to the nearest bus stop I knew of, which was out of my neighborhood - well out of the boundaries I was allowed to romp within.

On the bus, G and I practically crackled with excitement. We didn't talk about our great discovery, since we didn't want to get robbed of our treasure by the strange bus people. But both of our minds were reeling with the enormity of our find. I kept thinking of how RICH we were gonna be. I could buy all the Calvin Kleins and Izods I wanted (I'm dating myself), and I would put an addition on the house, and I'd buy myself a car even though I wouldn't be able to drive it until I was 16. Who cares! My mind just sped ahead to the television appearances and the magazine covers. I was stoked. I'd be POPULAR!

We got to campus and had quite a long hike to the geology building. I only knew where it was because it was right next to my dad's psychology building and he'd pointed out where Dr. K worked before. Fortuitous, no?

We hauled our dino tooth into the geology building, found Dr. K's name on the directory and giggled our way up to his office. The shock on his face when we walked is still one of my fondest memories. He recovered quickly. We must have been quite a sight. I don't remember well, but I'm guessing we were caked in mud, sweaty, and carrying a huge, wrapped, mysterious package, giggling like crazy teenagers. Yeah - that's the picture.

So Dr. K invited us in and asked the obvious, "What are you girls doing here?" I politely introduced him to G and began our tale of adventure. His eyes grew bigger and bigger. He twirled his mustache. He pursed his lips (I thought at the time from deep interest. I realize now, he was probably trying really hard not to laugh).

He listened to the entire story and then asked to see our trophy. We gently unwrapped our tooth, now dried and caked in dirt, but an obvious dinosaur relic, nonetheless. Dr. K gently took the tooth and inspected it. He turned it over and over, lifting his glasses every once in awhile to get a different view. G and I held hands, too excited to breathe. Eventually, Dr. K put the tooth on the desk and looked at us very seriously.

This was it. He might even cry. This could be the biggest discovery of his entire career! And he said, "Girls, I know you worked really hard to get this to me." We nodded vigorously.

And he nodded sympathetically. "And I know you're really excited," and our eyes got bigger and bigger. We sat up straighter in our seats. Here it was!

"But this is not a dinosaur tooth." He actually sounded kind of sad. What the hell was he talking about?

"This is limestone."

WHAT?!?!?!? Limestone? Stupid, stupid limestone? "No, Dr. K. This is a fossil," I explained, trying to keep myself calm. "If it's not a tooth, then it's another kind of fossil."

He nodded again, but his nod turned into a shake. "No, I'm sorry girls. This is a really interesting shape for limestone and I'm not really sure how it got where you found it, but it's limestone. It's not a fossil. I'm sorry."

I jumped up. My face was really, really, Irish-really red. It was embarrassment, of course. "It. Is. A. Fossil," I said in a deadly voice. I turned around and left the office. G came tumbling after. Her face was even redder than mine, poor girl was blonde with freckles (absolutely adorable, but a blusher).

Dr. K came out behind us and asked if he could give us a ride home. I gave him the hand (before this was "the hand") and said we got here on our own and we could get home on our own. Of course, by the time we got home, Dr. K had called my mom and she was both worried sick and feeling awful for us and our big letdown.

I didn't want to talk about it. G's mom came to pick her up soon after and I don't think G and I spoke about our great disappointment until we were in our 30s. It was just too much.

I went to my room and thought of all of my dashed hopes. All of those jeans, my Calvins. And the Izods galore! And the addition on the house, with my very own wing (oh yes, I'd built my own wing by the time we met up with Dr. K). I saw my popularity seeping down the drain. Well, I didn't have any, but the imagined popularity. *sniff* 

I snuggled with my dog, Darcy and cried.

Dr. K never brought the story up again. It was only after his funeral in October, that I told his wife and kids the story and we all laughed our heads off. Dr. K was such a joker and teaser, I'm honestly surprised it didn't come up over and over and over again in the remaining 30 years (especially when I was a teenager). But he was a man of great heart. And I will miss him. Thanks Dr. K for treating two junior geologists with kid gloves.

Ode to My Cat

Oh beautiful black cat, in the spring, as it warms,
How I love your black hair... everywhere... everywhere.
In my nose. In my eyes. In my mouth. In my ears.
In my food. In my drink. In my blood. In my tears.

No really. I love my cat. Daisy. She's the sweetest thing ever. I composed this little epic in her honor the other night as she was being super-snuggly. I was in bed and she was on my tummy and she reached up a paw and gently touched my cheek. And I was all... this is like something you see in a cat food commercial. This is so cute! So I told her for the millionth time how much I loved her. And I said, "Let me count the ways!" I started listing off the ways that I loved her and it started getting out of control. So I thought I'd share.

Here goes:

You are so beautiful with your black fur (especially when you shed, like now *cough*) and your beautiful green eyes. And when you look at me like that. You're so sweet. I love you.

You have such a beautiful spirit about you, even though you had such a rough start in life. I love that about you.

You are so cute when you play in the tub under the water. What cat likes water more than you? You're kind of a freak! I love that about you.

That thing you just did with your paw? That was adorable. When you're laying on my tummy and decide to smack me multiple times with both paws so fast I never see it happen? That's not nearly as cute and it scares the crap out of me. I just love that about you.

Hairballs. Let's talk about them. Why do you always hack them up in the middle of the night? You make me feel so sorry for you, but I'm too sleepy to get up and then I forget and I wake up and wham! I step in a pile of... ewwwwwww. Could you stop that please? I really just love that about you.

When I'm half asleep and I feel someone staring at me? I love that about you.

One word. Litter. I love that about you.

You are my own personal alarm clock. This is a good thing on weekdays. When I'm sick and on weekends though, Daisy... darling... I don't need to wake up at 6:30am. I appreciate the effort though. I love that about you.

And the shedding. *Achoooo!* Really Daisy. *sniffle* I brush. I pull tufts. *SNEEZE* You're a shorthair! For crying out loud! *cough* What do people with longhair breeds suffer through?!? *eyes watering* I may shave you this year. Watch yourself girl. I love this about you.

Fire alarms. Daisy, I swear. If there is ever a fire, we are in big trouble. You are the bravest animal ever. Thunder? No problem. Surviving on your own as a baby in the wild? No biggie. Sirens? Car backfires? People yelling? Make me laugh. But the fire alarm in our apartment sends you into the far recesses under my queen-sized bed, where, no matter how far I stretch my arms,  I cannot grab any part of you to drag you out for your own safety. God forbid, there is an actual fire. Girl! I will be going out to buy one of those nets the animal control people use to scoop you out one of these days. Because a real fire will find me lying on the floor next to the bed, dead of a heart attack, trying to get you out. And the fire people will find you sitting on my back going, "What? I didn't do anything!" I LOVE that about you.

I think it's hysterical that you love Romaine lettuce. But I don't think it's as funny that you literally jump INTO the fridge when I open it looking for food. Now what would people think if they saw that? You're too quick for me! I have to body block you these days. I just looooove that about you.

Cats on tv let people hold them. They let people rub their bellies. They lie on people's shoulders. You do a lot of sweet stuff. But you will not let me pick you up for more than two seconds without actually starting to cry. I love that about you.

You are the sweetest cat on the planet, but put another cat in the room and you turn into a monster - a hissing, growling, drooling, green monster. Who ARE you? I... love that about you.

When I have to give you a pill, could you just swallow it? That would be nice. But I wrap you in a towel, like a feline burrito - a little black kitty head sticking out of the top, making this horrible whining sound. I pry open that mouth with all those sharp kitty teeth that would NEVER bite ME! I shove that pill in there - allllll the way back and wham! The mouth goes shut and I have to hold it like a tiny, little muzzle because you'll just spit the pill out. And you look at me pleadingly. And you cry. And you snuff like you can't actually BREATHE through your nose for crying out loud. And we sit there for at least five minutes and I gently let you open your mouth and... PHEW! Out goes the wet pill. Seriously? It must have tasted horrible! And rather than swallow it, you let it sit there and dissolve. Stubborn b... Ok. We're going to do this again. Ten minutes later with me rubbing your throat to make you swallow (no)... PHEW! Out it comes. This time it's half gone. OK. Well, if this is how you want it, I feel bad but you actually need this. So, one more time. Twenty minutes later and you still haven't swallowed once, but you open your mouth and there's no pill. And tomorrow we get to do this all over again. Guess I'll hold you for thirty minutes. Dang, you are one stubborn cat. I love that... nevermind.