Wrap It Up

This is a piece I wrote as an entry into a writing competition that I did not win. Needless to say, I spent a few days contemplating my asinine writing aspirations before realizing that I can't win everything. That's a tough lesson at 34. 

My first introduction to sex was the traumatizing experience of walking in on my parents having intercourse. I was 7.  Our suburban rambler wasn’t equipped with locks on any of the doors, including the bathrooms, and there was never really a need. My dad bathed with the door open in order to shout requests for a new bath bar or a clean towel, all of which he somehow never planned to use until he was submerged in water. While we understood the sanctity of one another’s privacy, there was little need to lock someone out of any particular room. As kids, we understood that if our parent’s door was closed, it meant nap time. My mom never napped, but my dad was an avid believer in sleeping at least 15 hours a day.

The day of the incident, all three of us kids were wandering around the house screaming for mom. Our parents bedroom door was closed, but we were bound to find mom hanging clothes on the clothesline outside or sewing in the dining room. We trekked through the entire house, all of us searching different areas until it was clear that she had gone missing. I made it to the end of the hall and in front of their bedroom door with the intention of informing my dad that mom had been kidnapped. I swung open the door and procured an image that continues to be burned into my soul. I have no memory of the day I learned to ride a bike, what my kindergarten teacher looked like or what I got for Christmas when I turned 12, but this is an image that keeps on giving. With no blankets in sight, I witnessed my dad jump up completely nude, revealing my mother’s petite frame underneath. His penis swung from side to side as he ran towards their bathroom. They were both yelling for me to close the door, but I was stunned into paralysis. After a 20 second span that felt like decade, I jumped back and slammed the door behind me. I needed to know what was happening in there. It was also imperative that I let my siblings know that something more treacherous than a kidnapping had occurred to our mother.

“I found mom.” I screamed.

They both came running towards me and I shuffled everyone across the hall to the bedroom my sister and I shared. Being the oldest put the responsibility on my shoulders to clear up the confusion, but I was too shocked to do anything except lie.

“They are taking a nap, so we need to be really quiet and stay in here.” I informed them.

I think it was clear to everyone involved that the napping story wasn't true, but until I got the gory details of what was really happening, I had nothing.

The next day as I was helping my mom do laundry, I asked her what they  were doing on top of each other with no clothes on. Naked wrestling? It was the first of many sex talks that I would subject my mother to. I was completely enthralled with the details of genitalia and naked bodies. I asked too many questions and felt that conversations needed to continue for an absurd amount of time. Every sexualized moment I saw on TV  was another opportunity for dialogue that my mother could have lived her entire life without having. I needed to know everything.

When I had children of my own, I wasn't thinking about how to talk to them about sex. I was worrying about whether or not they would latch on to my nipple and if I could handle another shitty diaper without hiding in a closet with Mr. Vodka. As my daughter got older I realized that we were similar in many ways except one. Sex talk, intimacy on TV and kissing between her parents embarrassed her to no end. She got angry and attempting a conversation about any of it was impossible. She hit fifth grade and was eligible for maturation class, which consisted of a film roll tutorial circa 1954 about abstinence until marriage. While we can all agree that abstinence is a noble idea, I wasn’t going to bet my daughter’s adulthood on someone else’s sexual ideals. When I was her age, I was barraging my mom with questions about blow jobs and birth control. One year I  used my birthday money to purchase Love and Sensuality, which I read cover to cover numerous times. Sex didn’t embarrass me, it intrigued me. I was concerned that she wouldn't get enough information until it was too late to really need it.

I found my opening one evening sitting on the end of her bed wishing she was still toddling around in poopy diapers. I told her that we needed to talk about sex and that I was sorry if it made her uncomfortable. She began fidgeting and I gave abstinence-only a second thought. Perhaps she could weather the storm of adolescence without her mom’s birds and bees talk. There is no guidebook that details the perfect age to explain sperm or when you should talk to your kids about masturbation. My mom was thrown into it by a strange child who was born with an unnatural interest in sex. I wasn’t going to have it that easy. We got through the penis into vagina spill and she finally asked a question. This was the moment I had been waiting for.

“So if boys don’t want to have babies, how do they do that?”

How do you describe a condom to a 10 year old? I hadn't gotten the memo on that either, so like most things in child rearing, I winged it.

“Well, there are these things that cover up a boy’s penis called condoms. They are like Saran wrap for your privates.”

When it came out of my mouth I felt like a genius and a moron all in the same moment. The genius part because it seemed pretty accurate and a moron because I immediately imagined her substituting a roll of Saran wrap for a box of condoms. Her face scrunched up and her eyes looked like they were liable to pop out of the holes in her skull.

“That is gross, Mom.”

“Well, it’s not really Saran wrap. I am just trying to give you an idea of what it looks like and how it works.”

She then informed me that she knew all she ever needed to know about sex and that I was welcome to leave her room at any time. The sooner the better. In my attempt to keep my daughter from being a teen mom, I had traumatized her in the same way I had felt traumatized by seeing my parents boning. My hope is that at the very least  it opened a dialogue between us so that she can get the real deal on premarital sex and not a heap of bullshit from her uninformed pals at school. Thankfully, the lock on our bedroom door will keep her from living with a visual of naked, aging parents for the rest of her life. I still don’t understand where those blankets were.

Fruit Pizza And My Food OCD

Lucky Day!!! I'm sharing with you a recipe for one of my favorite desserts for summer, Fruit Pizza. My mom made this a lot while we were growing up and she updated it this week when she made single serving cookies with the same yummy goodies on top. Whichever way you choose to prepare it, this makes for a delicious, light dessert when the weather is blistery.

Fruit Pizza

1 roll of sugar cookie dough
1 container of Cool Whip (thawed)
1 8 oz. package of cream cheese (softened)
A variety of your favorite fruits (Strawberries, blueberries, kiwi and oranges are fan faves at our house)

Use a cookie sheet and flatten out the roll of cookie dough to make the crust for your pizza. Bake according to package directions. I have found that the crust is better when it is under cooked, so I take it out when the edges are toasty looking. That will create a soft and delicious crust.
While that's baking, mix the Cool Whip and cream cheese until smooth and cut up your fruit. When you crust is baked let it cool, I get impatient and place it in the freezer for 10-15 minutes. Now you are ready to put it all together!! Spread your sauce evenly over your crust and start layering your fruit. I like to put mine in rows but feel free to throw it on willy nilly. You can eat it now or refrigerate for a couple hours, personally I can't wait so half of it is gone by now. Enjoy!!

Why I Don't Eat Your Food

While people I love make some delicious treats, I have a strange affliction to eating crap from other people's house. There is a short list of homes that I eat food from and a longer list of homes that will never make the cut. Christmas is an especially challenging time of year for enhancing the relationships I have with my neighbors. I throw a lot of strange looking, odd smelling, and questionable food items in my trash can. My problem lies in not knowing how these items have been prepared and how clean any particular kitchen is. I have issues and while I am making food, I wash my hands approximately 5,000 times and wipe off my counters between each step. Thankfully, I have never worked in a restaurant or I would probably give up eating all together.

I grew up with grandparents who believed in hand washing above all else. If you washed before dinner and happened to shove your brother into a wall on your way to the dinner table, you best believe you are washing again.  My grandfather refused to eat food made by anyone other than my grandma and I thought it was bizarre that they rarely ate at restaurants. After finding hair and crusty remnants of food delivered to me by wait staff, I can now understand his hesitation. Some people don't take the care necessary in food preparation and the older I get, the queasier it makes me. I have an uncle who eats his sandwiches with his hand carefully wrapped in the sandwich baggie, as not to have his own hand touch the sandwich. Weird? I say no. Hands are nasty little buggers that have a tendency to pick up all the germs, sneeze particles and feces that strangers have chosen to leave on door handles. I have contemplated rubber gloves during many food excursions.

I am also known to have massive panic attacks when having people over for meals because I have nightmares about someone contracting a food borne illness from my macaroni salad or chicken wings. I wash, cook, and refrigerate like a Nazi and require hand washing to anyone entering the kitchen. Need a glass of water? Wash your fucking hands. Want to grab a fork? Wash that shit, now. I assume most people don't have issues like this, which is why I can't eat that loaf of banana bread you so lovingly made and sent over with your adorable 5 year old. The sweaty film from the plastic wrap is as concerning to me as wondering when you last washed the KitchenAid you used to mix it. Did you leave the eggs out too long? Were your hands clean when you opened the butter to drop it in the bowl? Was your cat milling around the utensil container before you grabbed a spoon? These are the questions I don't know the answer to and while I appreciate the gesture, I will not be consuming that questionable batch of flat cookies. Lucky for you, my kids and husband don't possess my neurotic tendencies so your gift won't go to waste. Unless it tastes like shit, then you should consider gifting us a bar of soap during the holidays. I promise it won't go to waste.

Cookie Cutter Nothing

I find joy in the most ridiculous things. Taking pictures of cookie cutters for a post I haven't even written, makes me giddy. Last week, I carefully arranged sticky notes and took more than one photo of them, as well. My mind is a cluster fuck of ideas that could only be labeled artistic by a mental patient. It's a running theme in my life.

When I was a kid, I never felt like I fit in with my peers. I have never had a sense of style, a clear grasp on the male species or a nuclear family. While everyone else was watching Star Wars and playing on this new contraption called Nintendo, I was playing baby dolls and mastering the art of the board game. As I got older, I continued to dress in thrift store clothes and could never put a definitive label on my musical taste. It was an absurd mix of Neil Diamond and Rage Against The Machine. In short, I've never been cookie cutter anything. I longingly watched 'normal' kids start dating and make a skirt/boot combo look runway worthy and I wondered "If I had that outfit, would it change my life?" or "After my nose job, can I look forward to the opposite sex noticing I am alive?" My hope was that one day I would fit into some mold that made me appealing to someone in any way possible. I was weird and unwillingly to see it as a positive.

After high school, I left my small town life behind for the bright lights of the city and a desire to be a new me. I still couldn't dress myself and my obsession with gay men kept me in the dark about how homely I really was. While I had great friendships with women, I was super awkward on the dating scene. Take for example the time I was on break from class, sitting outside on my giant cell phone and talking with a young man I was spending time with. I never had a firm grasp on what our relationship was, but I got to end the conversation and proclaimed my love for him. Dead silence. I quickly hung up my brick phone and accepted the fact that I was a fucking weirdo who would never have a normal relationship. I have always done things in the wrong order, with the wrong people while donning an eclectic mishmash of clothing.

When I met my husband, I attempted to freak him out by pretending to be a super slut. It didn't work. His fashion sense was worse than mine and he saw something in me that I had yet to see in myself. He thought I was pretty and wanted to have full conversations with me. And he was straight. It didn't make sense. In true fashion, I was engaged to him within a month and struggling with how I, off all people, could be a wife. What kind of girl was I? I farted, burped, ate full meals and smoked on the patio while my fiance studied for exams. Any man in his right mind knew I wasn't marriage material. I anticipated the day he would finally realize what a mess I was and make a beeline for the Witness Protection Program. He never did.

Nothing has changed. I am a mother. A mother who lets her kids eat sugar packets at restaurants and pick out their own clothes. I am a runner. A runner who smokes and will never pound the pavement for longer than 30 minutes. I am a wife. A wife who doesn't make the bed and has no problem farting before/during or after intercourse. I am a friend. A friend who adores you and will never remember your birthday. I am a music lover. A music lover who rocks out to Flor Rida alone in my kitchen and then proceeds to scream the lyrics of Nine Inch Nails while picking up my kids from school. It makes no logical sense. It used to bother me that I didn't fit some cookie cutter profile, but the older I get the less I care. I will admit to wishing I could wear bright lipstick and put an outfit together, but some things just aren't meant to be.

Starting Over

                       I appear to be happily on an episode of Locked Up Abroad.

This picture has nothing to do with what I am writing about because that would be way too predictable. It's me in a jail cell at Alcatraz. I love vacation photos and I hope you have been enjoying them as well. If you haven't, then I will stop posting them. Ha!!! No I won't....I do what I want.

Today is kid day. I don't even remember what we started calling it when I sold out and named each day's blog, but who the fuck cares now. Here we are. Without slopping through the murky history of my childhood and parental situation, let's agree that I have a bio dad, a step dad, a mom and a few step moms. I grew up with my mom and step dad and had very little contact with my sperm donor. I always called him my sperm donor growing up because it felt a little less formal. I felt like I needed an evening gown and English accent to say "biological father". Neither of which I ever possessed. My lifestyle growing up was completely different from the lifestyle my sperm donor was living. My mom stayed home, my dad was a cop and we lived in a lower middle class neighborhood where everyone drove shitty, used cars. We camped a lot and rarely ate out at restaurants. My sperm donor, on the other hand, was living what looked like from the outside, the good life. He always drove nice cars, had expensive houses and the few times I saw him, was throwing cash around like it was Monopoly money. He knew very little about my life and I couldn't understand his.

Fast forward twenty-five years and we are reconnecting. He came back into my life a sober man who willingly apologized and seems ready to move forward. I've realized an interesting dichotomy to our relationship, not only do we get to know each other as we are today but he doesn't have a clue as to what my upbringing was like. While we were having dinner recently, I was talking about my mom and how talented she is. I was sharing with my half-sister that my mom had sewn most of our clothes growing up. He looked perplexed and asked "Why did she make your clothes?". Part of me wanted to be a dick and tell him that it was because he never paid child support. I chuckled to myself and told him that we never had a lot of money and that it was the cheapest way for us to have new clothes. I wish I had a photo of his expression, it was complete shock. I don't know what he thought my life was like growing up but I gathered that it wasn't at all like he imagined.

It's a strange place to be in, getting to know someone who gave you 50% of their DNA. How could they not know every last detail about you? My husband is one of the most involved fathers I know and I can't imagine him being out of the loop in his own children's lives. He wouldn't stand for it. It doesn't piss me off anymore that my bio wasn't there for my childhood, it makes me sad for him. The smallest and most beautiful details of my life are a mystery to him. My first bike ride, getting my tonsils out, learning how to drive a stick shift and getting my first apartment. I can't imagine the pain of loving someone and not really knowing them at all. It's a life lesson that is best learned through someone else, so you don't have to live in the sorrow of it yourself.

It's All Fun And Games...Until.

                                                               That's me....age three.




We all have stories about how our parents ruined our lives and how they saved our lives. Hopefully there are more of the saving stories for most of us. As I get older I am more able to understand the sacrifice, love and patience that my parents had to put forth everyday in order for me to become an adult. It wasn't perfect and none of us are. I strive to give my kids the best everyday, but the reality of raising kids is that I will fuck up and they will hate things I did as a parent.
The list of what I hated has shrunk the older and, hopefully, wiser I become. They may seem insignificant or enormous depending on your own experiences. I hated that my biological parents couldn't stay married, that we didn't have money for vacations, that my biological dad wasn't in my life, that I wasn't pretty in high school, that I didn't go to prom, that I had to emotionally take care of my brother and sister, that I was held to a different set of rules, that my dad didn't hug me as a teenager, that my mom didn't stand up for herself, and the casseroles. I hated those fucking casseroles. No one advises you before you get pregnant that you will not only have a baby to care for, but a marriage and yourself.  It took the birth of my own children to give my parents the appreciation they deserved all along.
The things I loved about my childhood greatly outweigh the previous hate list. I loved living in the same house for most of my life, having siblings to play with, celebrating holidays, that my mom worked at home, that we were close to my grandparents, that my mom talked to me, that my dad worked very hard, that my parents stayed married, that we were taught a strong work ethic, that we laughed, that we had pets, and that we lived within our means. It's funny to look at both lists and realize that without one we could not have had the other. My mom stayed home to care for us and that meant less money. My parents stayed married because my mom didn't stand up for herself. Those are the tough decisions you have to make as a parent. Will it ruin your kids forever? Probably not. If your intention is pure and you do the best you can, kids are pretty resilient.
I make mistakes. My kids act out. We cry and wonder how we'll get through. I've slept in my kid's beds all night so they would go to sleep. I've served cereal for dinner and forgotten to make lunch. I've raised my voice. I've hid in the bathroom with my phone for a moment of solitude. I've questioned my husband on his handling of punishment. I've thought about leaving. I've turned the TV on for hours so I could get something done. I've held doors closed and locked myself in my room. No one is perfect. I've also done amazing things that I hope my kids will remember for the rest of their lives. I hope they feel loved, cared for, appreciated and heard. I know I do.