A few of you have asked for more reminiscences about Dad. I figured this would be a good time to take you wayyyyyyyy back to my high school years when my angst, impatience and general jadedness were just twinkles in my raccoon-linered eyes.
Alas, I jest. 😉
I was living with Dad and his second wife, A, at the time along with her two young daughters, S & R. Since R and I were closer in age we bunked together while the youngest of us, S, had her own room.
Seriously, parents!? That stanky brat was only 10!
Anyway, things between the lot of us were alright MOST of the time. Other times, it was just the usual bickering between sisters.
– “You’re a selfish BITCH!”
– “Go MARRY her if you love her so much!”
– “GET THE PILLOW OFF HER FACE!!!”
– “I’m TELLING!!!”
– “SHE TOOK MY SHIRT WITHOUT EVEN ASKING!!”
Feel free to credit 3 out of the 5 of those above statements to my dad’s crazy wife. I am not even remotely kidding…
Like many 10-year-olds, S could sometimes be kind of a bitchy, entitled brat. One day, she decided to amp it up to show off in front of my friends at the park.
I can’t recall exactly what was said but it was your basic pissing contest – she said something snotty; I told her to knock it the fuck off; she says “Make me!” and we go back and forth until I ultimately slapped her. Right in the face.
She ran upstairs crying to her mother. Big-A (ha ha! she did have about as much class and grace as that Mob Wife!) comes stomping down to the park with my father in tow. She beckons me over to them. Great. I’m about to be tag-team grounded.
“GET your FUCKING SMART-ASS UPSTAIRS!” she screeched at me.
I stood firm and refused. One of many epic battles ensues…
“Why did you slap her!? SHE’S 10!! YOU THINK YOU’RE HOT SHIT!!??”
So before I can stop myself I say, “BECAUSE SHE’S A MEGA BITCH JUST LIKE HER MOTHER!”. Or something similarly condemning (yet totally true).
So Big-A is cranked up full blast to-the-tune-of Mommy Dearest. She literally sounded JUST. LIKE. THAT! It was uncanny.
*One weekend, after R and I had watched Mommy Dearest for like the twentieth time, R decided to answer one of her mother’s famously barked demands with “Yes, Mommy Dearest!” which, as you might predict, did not go so well for her. I laughed my ASS off at R’s uncharacteristically brave yet entirely accurate statement. The whacks she earned from it? – notsomuch. (Can you say ‘State-Central-Register’ threetimesfast!?)
Dad stepped between us to ref. He grabbed me in an attempt to throw my stubborn, belligerent self over his shoulder to drag me upstairs. I preferred to walk and NOT exit like a lunatic in front of my friends; who were watching the whole scene from the park.
So I spent the next week in my room minus my outdoor after-school privileges. But I still managed to be the life of the party with my tenth-grade crew. We hung out almost every day despite my current incarceration. Well, I literally had to “hang” out of my bedroom window to commiserate, laugh and chat with my buddies and was only able to do so until the rest of the house got home.
During one of the first few days when I was still particularly pissed off, mainly at Big-A, I did something my friends would laugh about for years to come (& they didn’t even get to see the aftermath of it!).
Of what hilarious and forever-memorable act do I speak, you ask…?
Friends knew what a psycho Big-A was. They missed having me around and this made me even madder. Since I’ve always been kind of (let’s just say) “creative” in my quests for revenge here is what I did to conjure up their precious tears of laughter –
I give them the hand signal for ‘hold on a minute’. I leave the window and disappear from their view. I go to parents’ bedroom, removing one pair of Big-A’s polyester spanky-pants from her side table. I go back to my window/stage holding pastel-colored drawers and a pair of my father’s Fiskars scissors. I hold up pastel panties and proceed to make little snip-snips everywhere but the crotch. I put Fiskars down to display newly textured undies – front and back – for my audience. They roar in hysterics with mutterings of “Oohhh SHIIIITT!”. I place alternative “art” project back in her side table at the bottom of her pile of underwear. Result: I. RULE.
Or, so I thought.
The following weekend, all hell is breaking loose in my parents’ bedroom. Big-A is shrieking her no-wire-hangers’ head off. I can’t make out much, but “THAT FUCKING BITCH!!” comes through loud & clear. I laugh, even though I know a tornado is headed my way…
I keep hearing my dad saying “No, no, no!” and “Stop!” and then I hear “But, A, you can clearly see that the dryer caused that! It probably got caught on something while it was spinning…”.
Bless his sacred heart for defending me to that crazy wench. Though it somehow didn’t seem right to let him believe that those *obvious* scissor-cut holes were the result of a freak dryer accident. It also felt somewhat crappy to let him lie for me, if that is indeed what he did. I never came forward with the truth, but he did have an awesome sense of humor so it’s extremely likely he knew exactly what I did there.
Either way, I loved him for sticking up for my bitchy ass. Maybe for all the years I spent being tortured by that jealous, verbally & physically abusive Halidol & Thorazine popping nut-bag I kind of deserved it. What do you guys think? 😉