Privileged is a new show on basic cable about a quirky redhead named Megan. She's a writer who moves in with the rich to tutor two girls.
Seriously.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Writing Workshop (...with wine!)
I truly meant to make the six copies of my short story during the weekend. I had every intention of being prepared two days in advance. Regardless, my efforts began shortly before 5:30pm leaving me ninety minutes before the workshop begins with or without me. I scrambled to find my old flash drive, loaded it with the essential, hopped on my bike, and darted for Staples. Two blocks later, I crossed a busy avenue during rush hour and it seems sensible to travel via sidewalk. Unfortunately, an older woman with two bag fulls of groceries got in my way. Damn pedestrians and their sidewalks. Didn't their mommas teach them to share? And what about watching for traffic? I distinctly remember screaming WATCH OUT before running over her with my 10-speed. Consequentially, I flew over my handlebars. The momentum sent me to the pavement and two somersaults later, I'm lying there worried about a skinned elbow - moaning and groaning like the big baby that I am. I heard the woman scramble to my side and ask if I was alright. Considering I have just busted every single one of her fresh eggs, I'm thinking she's a saint for even showing me the slightest bit of concern. Damn pedestiran . . . Now she's gone and made me feel guilty. I leapt to my feet and apologized sincerely three times, maybe four, lunged for the over-turned sack of groceries, and returned the question. "Are you ok?!" Damn pedestrian . . . She hugged me.
With a mild burning sensation coming from my left knee, I stood in line at Staples. Two heads in front of me, a heavy Brooklyn accent scolded the clerk I so desperately needed to see and with the large clock on the wall, I was all too aware of time. 5:47! Sure, the subway directory webiste said it would only take thirty-six minutes to get there, but that doesn't include the time it will take me to recover from getting lost! And I still haven't even made the copies of my story, thanks to the lady in large gold hoop earrings and her loud accent.
At 5:57, I shoved the stapled manuscripts into an unagreeable heap at the bottom of my purse, hopped back on the barely-functioning bicycle, and pedaled hard for the train station.
Having never been to Cobble Hill before, I knew it would happen. As I wound in and out of neighborhoods, I patted myself on the back for leaving extra early. I was lost, as anticipated. Nevertheless, I was the first to arrive - fifteen minutes early. The conductor, Rachel, sat near the front window amoung five empty chairs and greeted me as I came in. I found her to be surprisingly young and attractive, which may have been a contributing factor to our quick ability to get lost in conversation. As a twenty-something young female, she was relatable, which was easy to appreciate.
Three more females showed up - all in their twenties. But don't worry. The lack of diversity turned out to be a good thing as we found ourselves very comfortable with each other in no time at all. At the end, after two glasses of wine each, one of the writers suggested continuing the night with a slumber party, which sent us all into giggles.
Rachel had us do two writing exercises. The first exercise was to spend 20 minutes writing about two every-day people (any people) sharing a meal together (a life changing meal). Where are they? What's the discussion? What are they eating? And what's the risk? All questions needed to be answered.
This is what poured out of me:
The two-top seemed an unlikely setting for Thurston to meet his father. It was placed on a small patio along a barron city sidewalk with nothing more than a ketchup bottle and one salt shaker to offer the guests. No pepper. Perhaps the beads of sweat on his furrowed brow would have been less noticable if there were more pedestrians crowding the atmosphere, customers dining at dusk, or pesky servers pushing for an order in hopes of moving their mundane workshift along. Alas, ("Alas"??? I'm not sure what I was thinking with that word) the burger joint was slow causing Thurstron's resentment to boil. How could he be late? How can a man go through such great lengths to contact his son, a son left to the wolves as a defensless infant, only to leave him high and dry yet again?
A drop of water fell from the awning where rain had gathered only hours before and landed on Thurston's fidgetting hand. A voice reeking of emphazima growled from behind the young man, "Hello." Thurston turned to face the surprisingly short man.
"Hi. I almost ordered for you," Thurston quickly began, "but the waiter hasn't been around. They've got good burgers here. I figure everyone likes a good burger, yeah? They've got one with feta cheese that's alright, if you like feta."
Thurston's obvious nervous babble placed a warm smile on his estranged father's face, "I'm not all that hungry." He lit a cigarette, took a seat in front of Thurston, and continued to smile as he looked into his child's eyes for the first time in twenty-six years.
"So how come you wanna do this? Why now?"
"Good. I'm not looking to shoot the shit either, small-talk and all that... I'll go ahead and spell it out for you, my boy--"
"My boy?"
"My name, as you know, is Lou. It sure is nice to finally meet you. You see, I'm not looking for money, but I'm not no dying rich man looking to send an inheritance your way either. I'm not looking to say I'm sorry. I don't really feel all that guilty. If you wanna hate someone, hate your momma. I'm not looking for a young buddy, to feed off your youth... See now, I'm just a big fan! And I hear you and your Sonic Youth buddies are looking for a drummer. And it just so happens I've got a kit back home in the garage."
One girl wrote about a woman leaving her husband after twenty-some-odd years of marriage, another wrote about a clingy mother and her sympathtic boy, and the third wrote about a woman and her teenaged daughter at the clinic awaiting the results from a pregnancy test. The last line revealed the mother's name was Sarah Palin. We all rolled with laughter.
Our next exercise was to express an emotion using one of the characters from the previous exercise using a beach as the setting. The catch was... we weren't allowed to use the word or any of its synonyms. We were each handed a word in private and after reading our paragraphs allowed, the others would try to guess the emotion we attempted to express.
I wrote:
Lou stabbed one bare ingrown toe into the loose sand and crossed his meaty arms. His basset hound cheeks were sagging even more than usual following the underturned corners of his mouth. As his beer belly grew tense from the fit of nerves inside, a bit of flatulence escaped from the sagging Levi's and floated up to his slumped shoulders. The Budweiser mixed with his churning gut created a moist scent even he turned his nose up at, but the ocean breeze quickly swept it away, leaving Lou alone with the bitter taste of rejection between his grinding teeth.
(I'll tell you the word I was given at the end of this post.)
We handed each other the copies of our short stories, the stories we all hope will evolve into published pieces shortly after the conclusion of this workshop. Over the next week, we'll read each story and include our thoughts in red ink along the way. Next week, we'll share. We finished our last sips of wine and walked with each other to the train. Upon saying our goodbyes, I hustled home to relieve my employers for a date night while thinking fondly of my first experience with a New York writing workshop. However, I watched closely for the little old ladies.
(My word: distraught)
With a mild burning sensation coming from my left knee, I stood in line at Staples. Two heads in front of me, a heavy Brooklyn accent scolded the clerk I so desperately needed to see and with the large clock on the wall, I was all too aware of time. 5:47! Sure, the subway directory webiste said it would only take thirty-six minutes to get there, but that doesn't include the time it will take me to recover from getting lost! And I still haven't even made the copies of my story, thanks to the lady in large gold hoop earrings and her loud accent.
At 5:57, I shoved the stapled manuscripts into an unagreeable heap at the bottom of my purse, hopped back on the barely-functioning bicycle, and pedaled hard for the train station.
Having never been to Cobble Hill before, I knew it would happen. As I wound in and out of neighborhoods, I patted myself on the back for leaving extra early. I was lost, as anticipated. Nevertheless, I was the first to arrive - fifteen minutes early. The conductor, Rachel, sat near the front window amoung five empty chairs and greeted me as I came in. I found her to be surprisingly young and attractive, which may have been a contributing factor to our quick ability to get lost in conversation. As a twenty-something young female, she was relatable, which was easy to appreciate.
Three more females showed up - all in their twenties. But don't worry. The lack of diversity turned out to be a good thing as we found ourselves very comfortable with each other in no time at all. At the end, after two glasses of wine each, one of the writers suggested continuing the night with a slumber party, which sent us all into giggles.
Rachel had us do two writing exercises. The first exercise was to spend 20 minutes writing about two every-day people (any people) sharing a meal together (a life changing meal). Where are they? What's the discussion? What are they eating? And what's the risk? All questions needed to be answered.
This is what poured out of me:
The two-top seemed an unlikely setting for Thurston to meet his father. It was placed on a small patio along a barron city sidewalk with nothing more than a ketchup bottle and one salt shaker to offer the guests. No pepper. Perhaps the beads of sweat on his furrowed brow would have been less noticable if there were more pedestrians crowding the atmosphere, customers dining at dusk, or pesky servers pushing for an order in hopes of moving their mundane workshift along. Alas, ("Alas"??? I'm not sure what I was thinking with that word) the burger joint was slow causing Thurstron's resentment to boil. How could he be late? How can a man go through such great lengths to contact his son, a son left to the wolves as a defensless infant, only to leave him high and dry yet again?
A drop of water fell from the awning where rain had gathered only hours before and landed on Thurston's fidgetting hand. A voice reeking of emphazima growled from behind the young man, "Hello." Thurston turned to face the surprisingly short man.
"Hi. I almost ordered for you," Thurston quickly began, "but the waiter hasn't been around. They've got good burgers here. I figure everyone likes a good burger, yeah? They've got one with feta cheese that's alright, if you like feta."
Thurston's obvious nervous babble placed a warm smile on his estranged father's face, "I'm not all that hungry." He lit a cigarette, took a seat in front of Thurston, and continued to smile as he looked into his child's eyes for the first time in twenty-six years.
"So how come you wanna do this? Why now?"
"Good. I'm not looking to shoot the shit either, small-talk and all that... I'll go ahead and spell it out for you, my boy--"
"My boy?"
"My name, as you know, is Lou. It sure is nice to finally meet you. You see, I'm not looking for money, but I'm not no dying rich man looking to send an inheritance your way either. I'm not looking to say I'm sorry. I don't really feel all that guilty. If you wanna hate someone, hate your momma. I'm not looking for a young buddy, to feed off your youth... See now, I'm just a big fan! And I hear you and your Sonic Youth buddies are looking for a drummer. And it just so happens I've got a kit back home in the garage."
One girl wrote about a woman leaving her husband after twenty-some-odd years of marriage, another wrote about a clingy mother and her sympathtic boy, and the third wrote about a woman and her teenaged daughter at the clinic awaiting the results from a pregnancy test. The last line revealed the mother's name was Sarah Palin. We all rolled with laughter.
Our next exercise was to express an emotion using one of the characters from the previous exercise using a beach as the setting. The catch was... we weren't allowed to use the word or any of its synonyms. We were each handed a word in private and after reading our paragraphs allowed, the others would try to guess the emotion we attempted to express.
I wrote:
Lou stabbed one bare ingrown toe into the loose sand and crossed his meaty arms. His basset hound cheeks were sagging even more than usual following the underturned corners of his mouth. As his beer belly grew tense from the fit of nerves inside, a bit of flatulence escaped from the sagging Levi's and floated up to his slumped shoulders. The Budweiser mixed with his churning gut created a moist scent even he turned his nose up at, but the ocean breeze quickly swept it away, leaving Lou alone with the bitter taste of rejection between his grinding teeth.
(I'll tell you the word I was given at the end of this post.)
We handed each other the copies of our short stories, the stories we all hope will evolve into published pieces shortly after the conclusion of this workshop. Over the next week, we'll read each story and include our thoughts in red ink along the way. Next week, we'll share. We finished our last sips of wine and walked with each other to the train. Upon saying our goodbyes, I hustled home to relieve my employers for a date night while thinking fondly of my first experience with a New York writing workshop. However, I watched closely for the little old ladies.
(My word: distraught)
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Life As I Know It
With school now in full swing, my routine has changed a bit. My employers and I take turns with the morning shift (getting the girls fed, dressed, packed, and walked to school). In which case, two or three mornings out of the week, I'm permitted to sleep in until 10:45! Once I scoop up the little one from pre-school, we have four hours just for the two of us. Sometimes we go to the park until she's ready for lunch and then we head back for the house. After she's had her fill of chicken noodle soup, she embarks on an imaginative adventure in her bedroom while I lie around in my room, occasionally eavesdropping. By three o'clock, it's time to pick up the big sister. We stop for icecream on the way home, settle in for homework, and then watch a little TV or play seriously thought out games of make-believe. (I'm often playing the part of a wicked witch or a michevious classmate.) Before I know it, my "work" day has come to an end. Suddenly, five o'clock rolls around and everyone is home, chatting about our day and sharing the interesting details that made it special. It's a rare occasion when I don't join the clan for dinner, but soon after, I'm typically getting ready for a night out with Morgan (my closest gal-pal in Brooklyn), or hopping in my PJs for movie night (which often includes having a beer or two with the adults).
When the weekend rolls around, there seem to be endless opporunities, despite my social cirlce being so small. I've decided to keep an open mind and try whatever comes my way. For instance, last Friday night, a friend called to say, "Hey! It's Fashion Week. There's a party on the lower east side."
"Does this mean I have to take extra care in what I wear?"
He could hear the apprehension in my voice, "Just be yourself."
"Is this the kind of club where they turn girls away at the door if they don't look the part?"
"Well, yes. But don't worry, you're with me," says the socialite.
"I suppose this is going to be an experience. . ."
Six hours later I'm walking slowly through the pouring rain, searching for an entrance to the F train, and pining for my cozy bed. I'm thinking, 'At least I wore boots.'
. . . It was not much of an experience after all.
Nevertheless, I'm game for just about anything. The weather has been incredible and its imperative that I spend as much time outside as possible.
Sunday rolls around and I fight the urge to lie around. Laundry must get done.
Am I getting any writing done? NO - I'm not. As soon as I submitted my payment and registration form for this damn workshop, I lost all drive to think productively. However, my finances are ship-shape. Go figure, eh? Who moves to New York City and manages to pay off old bills? (I have my over-accomodating employers to thank for this.) I had four maxed-out credit cards when I got here. Two have been paid off since then and a third will be paid off at the end of this month.
(Making Momma proud.)
I'm happy and things are good. I have no complaints. However, I can't held but feel an itchy sensation on the soles of my feet. I'm getting anxious, dreaming about the Pacific Northwest, finding myself jealous of friends in Europe, and wishing I had my camping equipment on-hand. Exactly what would I do with it here in New York? Not sure... But the urge is there.
I'm mad about this family and its clear they want me here for a considerate amount of time, but I'm feeling rushed to see the world. I'm not quite sure what the pressure is all about. I keep reminding myself I'm only twenty-three, but I often feel as if everyone else is passing me up. I want to see it all and I want to see it all RIGHT NOW!
My boss just came in to share a cigarette and a night cap with me on my fire escape. . .
You see, we had company this weekend. Aunt, Uncle, and their two boys. The aunt mentioned an old friend here in NY that she'd like to catch up with and my boss, being the considerate hostess that she is, suggested throwing a dinner party. A couple in their early thirties joined us for pasta tonight and as soon as dinner was over, I quickly did my part with clean-up and excused myself for some alone time. Now with everyone gone, the misses and I catch up on the tidbits I missed out on while hiding out in my room. Apparently, the devil was in my living room tonight. One of our guests announced proudly that she is a news writer for none other than FOX News!
I love that she and I can get giggles together over things like that.
Ugh - SEE? Do you see my delimma? I'm attatched. I love these people! How can I ever leave them after they've been so good to me? Obviously I can't stay forever, but even another nine months seems like an eternity when I could be galavanting around the world.
This post is all over the place. My applogies for the lack of structure, but I feel like that's where my mind is at right now, despite my comfortable routine.
Advice?
When the weekend rolls around, there seem to be endless opporunities, despite my social cirlce being so small. I've decided to keep an open mind and try whatever comes my way. For instance, last Friday night, a friend called to say, "Hey! It's Fashion Week. There's a party on the lower east side."
"Does this mean I have to take extra care in what I wear?"
He could hear the apprehension in my voice, "Just be yourself."
"Is this the kind of club where they turn girls away at the door if they don't look the part?"
"Well, yes. But don't worry, you're with me," says the socialite.
"I suppose this is going to be an experience. . ."
Six hours later I'm walking slowly through the pouring rain, searching for an entrance to the F train, and pining for my cozy bed. I'm thinking, 'At least I wore boots.'
. . . It was not much of an experience after all.
Nevertheless, I'm game for just about anything. The weather has been incredible and its imperative that I spend as much time outside as possible.
Sunday rolls around and I fight the urge to lie around. Laundry must get done.
Am I getting any writing done? NO - I'm not. As soon as I submitted my payment and registration form for this damn workshop, I lost all drive to think productively. However, my finances are ship-shape. Go figure, eh? Who moves to New York City and manages to pay off old bills? (I have my over-accomodating employers to thank for this.) I had four maxed-out credit cards when I got here. Two have been paid off since then and a third will be paid off at the end of this month.
(Making Momma proud.)
I'm happy and things are good. I have no complaints. However, I can't held but feel an itchy sensation on the soles of my feet. I'm getting anxious, dreaming about the Pacific Northwest, finding myself jealous of friends in Europe, and wishing I had my camping equipment on-hand. Exactly what would I do with it here in New York? Not sure... But the urge is there.
I'm mad about this family and its clear they want me here for a considerate amount of time, but I'm feeling rushed to see the world. I'm not quite sure what the pressure is all about. I keep reminding myself I'm only twenty-three, but I often feel as if everyone else is passing me up. I want to see it all and I want to see it all RIGHT NOW!
My boss just came in to share a cigarette and a night cap with me on my fire escape. . .
You see, we had company this weekend. Aunt, Uncle, and their two boys. The aunt mentioned an old friend here in NY that she'd like to catch up with and my boss, being the considerate hostess that she is, suggested throwing a dinner party. A couple in their early thirties joined us for pasta tonight and as soon as dinner was over, I quickly did my part with clean-up and excused myself for some alone time. Now with everyone gone, the misses and I catch up on the tidbits I missed out on while hiding out in my room. Apparently, the devil was in my living room tonight. One of our guests announced proudly that she is a news writer for none other than FOX News!
I love that she and I can get giggles together over things like that.
Ugh - SEE? Do you see my delimma? I'm attatched. I love these people! How can I ever leave them after they've been so good to me? Obviously I can't stay forever, but even another nine months seems like an eternity when I could be galavanting around the world.
This post is all over the place. My applogies for the lack of structure, but I feel like that's where my mind is at right now, despite my comfortable routine.
Advice?
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Palin's Speech
Election years are too much fun! ...I'll be the first to admit that, when Bush was first elected, I was more concerned with convincing my mom to buy me a pair of Doc Martin boots and whether or not Dawson would finally tell Joey he loved her on the next episode of Dawson's Creek. But by the time '04 came around, I was all ears. I had been running with a new crowd, with folks that wore campaign t-shirts and spit out political banter over a Friday night BBQ. Considering I was lucky enough to have parents with a similar take on the whole shebang, I was able to regurgitate my mother's ventings during these intellectually driven conversations. Thanks to Mom, I was able to hold my own among the eclectic college co-ed party scene.
Now, however, it's a whole different ballgame! I can't tear my eyes away. I nolonger need Mom's opinions to front my phoney contributions. I'm actaully captivated. Why anyone wouldn't want to cash in on this entertainment value is beyond me. We've got the black man running for prez on the left and the potential female VP on the right. Either way, this is it! This is history in the making! So of course I watched as Palin introduced herself to the country today as McCain's choice VP. I found it especially hard to avoid CNN tonight considering the controversy that seems to follow this Palin chick. I couldn't wait to see if she would address the home-grown drama or not.
Here's my opinion:
I kinda like the broad! I mean, here's a woman that can bust out with a zinger or two! (Grandma, this "zinger" I speak of is new slang for a clever punch-in-the-gut insult.) (And yes, the credit should really be given to whoever wrote the speech, but nevertheless, I was impressed with her ability to deliver it so well.) And she's got this down-to-earth appeal. I love how she brushed off the controversial focus the media has had on her family and a moment later, the camera spots her little girl cradling that baby boy, slapping spit on the palm of her hand and adjusting the baby boy's disheveled hair. Sure, she didn't say anything very substantial. The few things that stood out (i.e. how she got rid of the Governor's private jet to save $ and the story about McCain's torturous experience while serving with a thumbs up... I'd like to know how much of that was actually true.) Aside from that, she failed to cover the question we've all been dying to get answered in regard to her foreign affairs experience. Still, she had me smiling. I gotta give it to her. She's got charisma!
This election has me bright eye'd and bushy-tailed. Unfortunately, if I want to continue collecting my unemployment checks, I can't register to vote in NY. So, as I said before, this can be nothing more to me than entertainment value - and what a lovely source of entertainment it is!
Thanks America!
Now, however, it's a whole different ballgame! I can't tear my eyes away. I nolonger need Mom's opinions to front my phoney contributions. I'm actaully captivated. Why anyone wouldn't want to cash in on this entertainment value is beyond me. We've got the black man running for prez on the left and the potential female VP on the right. Either way, this is it! This is history in the making! So of course I watched as Palin introduced herself to the country today as McCain's choice VP. I found it especially hard to avoid CNN tonight considering the controversy that seems to follow this Palin chick. I couldn't wait to see if she would address the home-grown drama or not.
Here's my opinion:
I kinda like the broad! I mean, here's a woman that can bust out with a zinger or two! (Grandma, this "zinger" I speak of is new slang for a clever punch-in-the-gut insult.) (And yes, the credit should really be given to whoever wrote the speech, but nevertheless, I was impressed with her ability to deliver it so well.) And she's got this down-to-earth appeal. I love how she brushed off the controversial focus the media has had on her family and a moment later, the camera spots her little girl cradling that baby boy, slapping spit on the palm of her hand and adjusting the baby boy's disheveled hair. Sure, she didn't say anything very substantial. The few things that stood out (i.e. how she got rid of the Governor's private jet to save $ and the story about McCain's torturous experience while serving with a thumbs up... I'd like to know how much of that was actually true.) Aside from that, she failed to cover the question we've all been dying to get answered in regard to her foreign affairs experience. Still, she had me smiling. I gotta give it to her. She's got charisma!
This election has me bright eye'd and bushy-tailed. Unfortunately, if I want to continue collecting my unemployment checks, I can't register to vote in NY. So, as I said before, this can be nothing more to me than entertainment value - and what a lovely source of entertainment it is!
Thanks America!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Making Progress
I've decided to join a writer's workshop here in Brooklyn. I'll sit in a cozy bookshop for two hours a week with five other aspiring hopefuls and two published authors. For $210, I'll get eight weeks of steady attention and help on my structure, which I feel is beyond necessary. The wine is part of the package deal... :) At the end, there's something called a "publishing party" where we'll each be match with literary journals and magazine that best fit our genre and style. We'll spend all night prepping several submissions with the two experienced writers, and then we'll all cross our fingers.
I'm hopeful!
I'm hopeful!
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The Holy Ghost
This story has been deleted, but only for a little while! I submitted it to a literary journal that does not allow their work to be posted on personal blogs. So, if they reject me... the story will return.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Project Humiliation
San Antonio held me back. I had an inconveniently large network of friends that kept me from my writing a little too often. However, here I am, Ms. Annonymous, a suddenly-shy-for-the-first-time-in-her-life young girl in New York City. It can be a lonely place, but at least I'm able to get into my writing again. And since I don't have much to report, I thought I'd post one of the short stories. Now, be warned that my style has evolved into a brutal, sarcastic, often overdramatic smorgasbord of words. It can be a bit dark for those of you who remember me and my life as a pre-teen... Just keep in mind the ending is fiction!
Project Humiliation – A Memoire
Looking back on the little-me, circa mid-90s, I’m a three-foot-nothing redhead with freckles, dirt under my fingernails, and a consistent skip in my step. When the teacher has the class read aloud, I’m always the most articulate. I can comprehend poetry from the likes of Alfred Noyes. I can use words like inconceivable and atrocious… Little-me is headstrong and confident. A wad of sticky bubble gum in my stringy hair is nothing to fret over, and while the other girls are gushing over boys and their mother’s mascara, I hardly seem to notice the mirror. In order to bring this little lady’s spirits down, it's going to take a lot more than snotty girls on the verge of puberty, girls feeling the heat of competition. It's going to take a lot more than a nasty side-tackle on the soccer field. None of this will do the trick. We'll need something absolutely humiliating. We'll need something she'll never forget. In order to really get through to this little squirt, to really make little-me feel the burn, we'll need a neon poster board and a yard stick; all Teresa's idea, of course.
She sits across the kitchen table from me, giving me the look. I’m awaiting punishment. Her long dark hair is pulled back from her face so that every wince and grimace is out in the open. The furrow in her brow is exposed. There isn't a single strand of loose hair to soften the deceptively sympathetic, yet disapproving expression on her face. It tells the eleven year old in front of her, 'I feel sorry for you. You're a mess. Your mother has ruined you, and now you'll forever be a burden.' Her thin lips press tightly as she nibbles off the skin of her bottom lip. Her elbows are resting on the mosaic dinner table. Her precious, eldest son enhanced the old table with scraps of tile left behind from the kitchen renovations. The look on her face, her posture, her positioning at the head of the table, they way she forms a triangular shape by pressing the tips of her fingers together; it's all a reminder that this is her table - her kingdom. This much I knew from day one. Even before I became aware of the cliché, I knew what it meant to be a redheaded stepchild from first hand experience.
I talked too much in class and a letter has been sent home. It has to be signed and returned the following day. No big deal. I'm just a kid who has a lot to contribute. I have an imagination. I have ideas. I get excited. That's all. There’s no need for theatrics here. A quick signature on the dotted line will suffice, thank you. And fine, maybe a lecture, but make it snappy. There’s a basketball tournament going on in the alley and I’m missing out on all the action. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take much longer for me to realize Teresa means business this time. She’s whipped up a brilliant device, a sure-fire method to shape me up. After laying out a poster board and loading it with black magic-marker ammunition, I read the bold script in horror: I WAS DISRUPTIVE IN CLASS. Both sides. I’m ordered to carry the sign around at recess on the following day as Teresa will watch with satisfaction. Project Humiliation: Accomplished.
One long march around the playground later, I’ve been cured of my know-it-all stink. Little-Me no longer has the confidence to raise her hand in class, but don't worry. Teresa's campaign for Mom of the Year won't stop there. This is merely the beginning. Like when I’ll ask her if Lana Devine can spend the night and Teresa-Darling says, "Lana Devine? Why would she want to spend the night with you? Isn't she popular?"
She's a real gem, this woman.
Within the same vicinity of time, I get my first period. I’m lucky enough to be in the comfort of my own bathroom when I get the surprise, and I know just what to do. I throw out the underwear, shower, roll up toilet paper and go quietly back to my bedroom. There's no way in hell I’m going to tell anyone about this until she can call my loving Momma who lives a quick fifteen minutes away. I'll whisper the news in private after making sure all other phone lines in the house are unplugged and then Momma will come to my rescue with a gift bag full of all the proper remedies; Midol, a Payday candy bar, Teen Magazine, tampons, pads, etc.
After five long days of going out of my way to walk behind everyone, the first crimson wave seems to be over. It comes and goes without doing any apparent damage and I feel well acquainted with the idea of becoming a woman just in time to test the waters of my newfound femininity. I’ve just discovered an unfamiliar voice coming from downstairs. My eldest stepbrother has a handsome friend over and I can't help myself from lingering a bit more than I’m welcome to. He’s a mature man of nineteen, and if anyone can pick up on the presence of a young woman on the rise, it'll be him. He'll be sure to notice! Right? . . . After half an hour of hovering, my brother kicks me out of the room. My chance to spot a twinkle in the handsome friend's eye is gone. But the following day brings hope! Big Bro asks Little-me if I'll join him on a ride to town. So, it's official. I'm one of the adults now. I imagine his handsome friend has asked about me. He must have demanded my presence at an afternoon social function. I imagine a fast food joint full of teenagers. I imagine big hair and real boobs (not the toilet-paper kind), "Holy" jeans and hair gel, loud music and laughter. Now Big Bro will have to accept the fact that his friend is madly in love with me and I'll be part of his crowd. I'll be four years older within one night! And soccer suddenly seemed like such a waste of energy.
I tell Big Bro I'll be ready in five and run to my room for a quick primp. Fifteen minutes later, we're riding in silence with the windows up and the radio turned off. Considering his windows are never rolled up and his speakers are always blaring Guns N' Roses, this isn't quite what I had in mind. Eventually we're in front of the post office. He commands me to wait in the truck, says he'll be right back. Twenty-five minutes after the enthusiastic primping, my bubble gets busted.
After getting back in the truck and getting us back on the road to home, he confesses that this isn't just a quick ride to town. He says his mother has sent him to have a talk with me. I look at him. He's nervous. His usual air of nonchalance is gone. His Elvis-like smirk is replaced with his mother's pseudo-sympathetic/disapproving expression. Both hands grip the wheel and he releases an exaggerated sigh to let me know I've gone and fucked up, yet again.
"Why did my Mom find blood on your underwear?"
Instantly, I’m shrinking behind the confinement of my safety belt and my head begins to spin. Or maybe the truck is spinning out of control. It's hard to be sure. I mumble something along the lines of, "I dunno" and the suspense music in the background starts to play. Can you feel the blood and thunder rising from my veins? How could he? And with such an accusing tone! What's the big deal? I got my period. I'm thirteen. What else do you expect? And what's with all the theatrics? …Here's a guy who barely acknowledges his pre-teen stepsister. Fair enough, perhaps. Considering I didn't meet the guy until he was nearly a grown man, considering the age gap, we aren't especially close. In fact, he intimidates me. So, why would Teresa send him out on a mission to get an explanation out of me when she already knows the truth? Why him? If she just wants to hear me fess up to the obviously inevitable, fine! But…
And then it occurs to me; What if they think its something else? What if they're actually deranged enough to believe I did this to myself? I'd seen a Lifetime movie where a girl had been cutting herself and then hiding the marks with the elastic line of her underwear. Maybe they think I'm one of those depressed chicks that can't handle pre-teen hormones. Or… Or what if they think… Oh for Christ's sake!
The look on his face reveals his perception of me, a result of his mothers influence. He's broken-hearted because he believes I'm a hopeless fuck-up. He believes – they all believe – I come from a woman who is also a hopeless fuck-up, a con-artist, a whore. Therefore, I will never be seen as anything more. I'm not even sure the wretched stepmother can see a child in me, not even back when I wore pigtails and a fudge-pop mustache. Instead, she sees my mother, or if I'm lucky enough to catch her on a good day, she'll see the bastard child of a woman who once slept with her husband. It doesn't matter that I came from a pre-Teresa affair. That's irrelevant. I'm evidence of another woman in her husband's past. I'm guilty by association without mercy, and now, within a quick glance at Big Bro, I can spot that all-too-familiar look. He's disgusted and condescendingly sympathetic. I can't be sure if he'll throw up, scream, or cry. I can see sweat on his brow and his tan skin has gone green. He's clenching his teeth and his nostrils are flexed.
He opts for a good shout, straight from the gut, "Tell me the fucking truth! Did you have sex?!"
Looking back, it's hard to remember if I cried a little or a lot in Big Bro's truck that day. I continued to mumble things like "no" and "I dunno" between sobs until we got back home, at which point, I ran and hid. I sat alone under the stairs and tried to muffle my sobs so that I couldn't be found. I cried long into the night and when I crept out, the house was still and it seemed everyone was sleeping. As I fought my thoughts that night, as well as the urge to toss and turn, too scared to make even the slightest sound, I feared the morning to come. I couldn't prepare myself with a rehearsed conversation inside the privacy of my own imagination. Probable dialogue was inconceivable and my expectations were endless one minute, void the next.
I found myself thinking about Carson Malloy…
She had her first period during class a few weeks back. She was wearing white pants with a bloody stain for all to see and I remember feeling triumphant, having just survived my first personal experience with the red tide. I'm relieved to have escaped public observation, unlike so many of my fellow classmates. I'm proud for not turning out like her, with a big red stain on my new white denim. I figure, 'I'm too smart to let something like that happen to me' and up until yesterday, I'm confident my discretion had gotten me through. I conclude that the worst is over. Yet, one restless night later, I find myself waking up drowsily to the smell of breakfast. The aroma of bacon and biscuits fill the room. For many, this is a pleasant way to rise and shine, but for me, the smell consistently sends me into a panic. I must've slept in! I'll be getting another lecture, and if I'm not at Teresa's precious table by the time the eggs are salted and spooned onto all six plates, I'll be sentenced to an earlier bedtime. Of course, my concerns with a tardy appearance at the breakfast table are quickly replaced by the memory of all that happened the day before. Suddenly, I don't care if I make it to breakfast on time. Fuck breakfast.
Eventually, I trudge my way up the stairs and keep my head down while taking my place at the table. I listen as happy voices fill the room. The middle brother has just gotten an early phone call from his girlfriend, a member of the yearbook staff. Apparently, he's been nominated "Most Comedic" for the Who's Who list. My tardiness has gone unnoticed; perhaps even my existence, at least for the time being. Everyone seems distracted from their suspicions of the alleged sexual escapades by a popularity contest. One of her boys had made Momma proud and nothing will spoil the moment.
School was a sweet escape that day, but returning to hell was unavoidable…
She'll remember her redheaded stepchild. She'll remember the spot of blood on the size too-young-for-sexual-accusations underpants and she'll remember Big Bro's reports from the night before. I'm sure he's informed her of my lies and she'll be waiting for me at the dinner table, cleared of food with nothing more than her pointy elbows and ringing hands between us. Judgments will be made, accusations will fly, and I'll be sentenced unlike never before.
Then again…
Upon returning, I'm surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the hustle and bustle throughout the house isn't all that different from an average night in Teresa's lair. The only reminder of my doom is a bad case of the stomach knots and my inability to smile, even for the sake of faking it as per usual. The house is loud with action as Big Bro jams on his electric guitar and the little one trots about with his cape flying behind him. Mr. Popularity is gabbing with a girl on the phone while watching MTV and Teresa is preoccupied with finding a lost photo album. Aside from being told to lay off the T.V. and go play outside, I seem invisible. That is, until my father stops me just before I make my way to bed. I take a few steps down the stairs before I hear him call my name. He stands up from his throne, where he sits watching CNN and he walks to the railing. He stands over me and asks me if I've ever had sex before. As I begin to shrink again, as I watch him grow six feet taller with intensity, I manage to give him an honest answer – "NO!"
I think I sneered a bit, or maybe I hated them all so much that I maintained a permanent sneer back in those days. I'd like to think I was sneering… though the look on my face probably looked more like that of a pitiful puppy. Either way, I suppose he felt disrespected. His face got all twisted and he actually raised his voice, "If a boy's penis gets close enough, the sperm can jump on your knee and run its way up until it impregnates you! Do you understand?" It was a far cry from the usual melancholy attention I was used to on his behalf.
"Yes sir."
"OK then."
"OK."
I realize at that moment that I'm more jealous of Carson Malloy and her blood-stained white pants than I'll ever be jealous of anyone ever again. If only I had bled through, creating an obvious display for the whole world to observe, this wouldn't be happening. I'd call home and Teresa would be forced to pick me up and let me spend the rest of the day at home. Perhaps she would have been sincerely sympathetic and maybe she would have made an attempt at being nice to me. At school, I'd be called a few names, but it would only last two weeks and then everyone would forget. Two months later, chances are I would forget. If only I had been so lucky. If only! Instead, I’m forever scarred with this memory-in-detail. But with said memory nearly thirteen years behind me now, I can be found in Time Square. I’m easy to spot if you’re a tourist, easy to overlook if you’re a local. My red hair, still stringy, harbors a wad of sticky gum near my chin and the stench coming from my crotch is a hard to dismiss. But don’t mistake this conclusion for a pity-party. It’s actually a very touching outcome. You see, I’m out there sticking it to ‘ol Teresa. As I carry a neon sign high over my head throughout the city crowd, reading I’M LIKE OBAMA - I WANT CHANGE, I smile with pride. Not a hint of humiliation.
Project Humiliation – A Memoire
Looking back on the little-me, circa mid-90s, I’m a three-foot-nothing redhead with freckles, dirt under my fingernails, and a consistent skip in my step. When the teacher has the class read aloud, I’m always the most articulate. I can comprehend poetry from the likes of Alfred Noyes. I can use words like inconceivable and atrocious… Little-me is headstrong and confident. A wad of sticky bubble gum in my stringy hair is nothing to fret over, and while the other girls are gushing over boys and their mother’s mascara, I hardly seem to notice the mirror. In order to bring this little lady’s spirits down, it's going to take a lot more than snotty girls on the verge of puberty, girls feeling the heat of competition. It's going to take a lot more than a nasty side-tackle on the soccer field. None of this will do the trick. We'll need something absolutely humiliating. We'll need something she'll never forget. In order to really get through to this little squirt, to really make little-me feel the burn, we'll need a neon poster board and a yard stick; all Teresa's idea, of course.
She sits across the kitchen table from me, giving me the look. I’m awaiting punishment. Her long dark hair is pulled back from her face so that every wince and grimace is out in the open. The furrow in her brow is exposed. There isn't a single strand of loose hair to soften the deceptively sympathetic, yet disapproving expression on her face. It tells the eleven year old in front of her, 'I feel sorry for you. You're a mess. Your mother has ruined you, and now you'll forever be a burden.' Her thin lips press tightly as she nibbles off the skin of her bottom lip. Her elbows are resting on the mosaic dinner table. Her precious, eldest son enhanced the old table with scraps of tile left behind from the kitchen renovations. The look on her face, her posture, her positioning at the head of the table, they way she forms a triangular shape by pressing the tips of her fingers together; it's all a reminder that this is her table - her kingdom. This much I knew from day one. Even before I became aware of the cliché, I knew what it meant to be a redheaded stepchild from first hand experience.
I talked too much in class and a letter has been sent home. It has to be signed and returned the following day. No big deal. I'm just a kid who has a lot to contribute. I have an imagination. I have ideas. I get excited. That's all. There’s no need for theatrics here. A quick signature on the dotted line will suffice, thank you. And fine, maybe a lecture, but make it snappy. There’s a basketball tournament going on in the alley and I’m missing out on all the action. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take much longer for me to realize Teresa means business this time. She’s whipped up a brilliant device, a sure-fire method to shape me up. After laying out a poster board and loading it with black magic-marker ammunition, I read the bold script in horror: I WAS DISRUPTIVE IN CLASS. Both sides. I’m ordered to carry the sign around at recess on the following day as Teresa will watch with satisfaction. Project Humiliation: Accomplished.
One long march around the playground later, I’ve been cured of my know-it-all stink. Little-Me no longer has the confidence to raise her hand in class, but don't worry. Teresa's campaign for Mom of the Year won't stop there. This is merely the beginning. Like when I’ll ask her if Lana Devine can spend the night and Teresa-Darling says, "Lana Devine? Why would she want to spend the night with you? Isn't she popular?"
She's a real gem, this woman.
Within the same vicinity of time, I get my first period. I’m lucky enough to be in the comfort of my own bathroom when I get the surprise, and I know just what to do. I throw out the underwear, shower, roll up toilet paper and go quietly back to my bedroom. There's no way in hell I’m going to tell anyone about this until she can call my loving Momma who lives a quick fifteen minutes away. I'll whisper the news in private after making sure all other phone lines in the house are unplugged and then Momma will come to my rescue with a gift bag full of all the proper remedies; Midol, a Payday candy bar, Teen Magazine, tampons, pads, etc.
After five long days of going out of my way to walk behind everyone, the first crimson wave seems to be over. It comes and goes without doing any apparent damage and I feel well acquainted with the idea of becoming a woman just in time to test the waters of my newfound femininity. I’ve just discovered an unfamiliar voice coming from downstairs. My eldest stepbrother has a handsome friend over and I can't help myself from lingering a bit more than I’m welcome to. He’s a mature man of nineteen, and if anyone can pick up on the presence of a young woman on the rise, it'll be him. He'll be sure to notice! Right? . . . After half an hour of hovering, my brother kicks me out of the room. My chance to spot a twinkle in the handsome friend's eye is gone. But the following day brings hope! Big Bro asks Little-me if I'll join him on a ride to town. So, it's official. I'm one of the adults now. I imagine his handsome friend has asked about me. He must have demanded my presence at an afternoon social function. I imagine a fast food joint full of teenagers. I imagine big hair and real boobs (not the toilet-paper kind), "Holy" jeans and hair gel, loud music and laughter. Now Big Bro will have to accept the fact that his friend is madly in love with me and I'll be part of his crowd. I'll be four years older within one night! And soccer suddenly seemed like such a waste of energy.
I tell Big Bro I'll be ready in five and run to my room for a quick primp. Fifteen minutes later, we're riding in silence with the windows up and the radio turned off. Considering his windows are never rolled up and his speakers are always blaring Guns N' Roses, this isn't quite what I had in mind. Eventually we're in front of the post office. He commands me to wait in the truck, says he'll be right back. Twenty-five minutes after the enthusiastic primping, my bubble gets busted.
After getting back in the truck and getting us back on the road to home, he confesses that this isn't just a quick ride to town. He says his mother has sent him to have a talk with me. I look at him. He's nervous. His usual air of nonchalance is gone. His Elvis-like smirk is replaced with his mother's pseudo-sympathetic/disapproving expression. Both hands grip the wheel and he releases an exaggerated sigh to let me know I've gone and fucked up, yet again.
"Why did my Mom find blood on your underwear?"
Instantly, I’m shrinking behind the confinement of my safety belt and my head begins to spin. Or maybe the truck is spinning out of control. It's hard to be sure. I mumble something along the lines of, "I dunno" and the suspense music in the background starts to play. Can you feel the blood and thunder rising from my veins? How could he? And with such an accusing tone! What's the big deal? I got my period. I'm thirteen. What else do you expect? And what's with all the theatrics? …Here's a guy who barely acknowledges his pre-teen stepsister. Fair enough, perhaps. Considering I didn't meet the guy until he was nearly a grown man, considering the age gap, we aren't especially close. In fact, he intimidates me. So, why would Teresa send him out on a mission to get an explanation out of me when she already knows the truth? Why him? If she just wants to hear me fess up to the obviously inevitable, fine! But…
And then it occurs to me; What if they think its something else? What if they're actually deranged enough to believe I did this to myself? I'd seen a Lifetime movie where a girl had been cutting herself and then hiding the marks with the elastic line of her underwear. Maybe they think I'm one of those depressed chicks that can't handle pre-teen hormones. Or… Or what if they think… Oh for Christ's sake!
The look on his face reveals his perception of me, a result of his mothers influence. He's broken-hearted because he believes I'm a hopeless fuck-up. He believes – they all believe – I come from a woman who is also a hopeless fuck-up, a con-artist, a whore. Therefore, I will never be seen as anything more. I'm not even sure the wretched stepmother can see a child in me, not even back when I wore pigtails and a fudge-pop mustache. Instead, she sees my mother, or if I'm lucky enough to catch her on a good day, she'll see the bastard child of a woman who once slept with her husband. It doesn't matter that I came from a pre-Teresa affair. That's irrelevant. I'm evidence of another woman in her husband's past. I'm guilty by association without mercy, and now, within a quick glance at Big Bro, I can spot that all-too-familiar look. He's disgusted and condescendingly sympathetic. I can't be sure if he'll throw up, scream, or cry. I can see sweat on his brow and his tan skin has gone green. He's clenching his teeth and his nostrils are flexed.
He opts for a good shout, straight from the gut, "Tell me the fucking truth! Did you have sex?!"
Looking back, it's hard to remember if I cried a little or a lot in Big Bro's truck that day. I continued to mumble things like "no" and "I dunno" between sobs until we got back home, at which point, I ran and hid. I sat alone under the stairs and tried to muffle my sobs so that I couldn't be found. I cried long into the night and when I crept out, the house was still and it seemed everyone was sleeping. As I fought my thoughts that night, as well as the urge to toss and turn, too scared to make even the slightest sound, I feared the morning to come. I couldn't prepare myself with a rehearsed conversation inside the privacy of my own imagination. Probable dialogue was inconceivable and my expectations were endless one minute, void the next.
I found myself thinking about Carson Malloy…
She had her first period during class a few weeks back. She was wearing white pants with a bloody stain for all to see and I remember feeling triumphant, having just survived my first personal experience with the red tide. I'm relieved to have escaped public observation, unlike so many of my fellow classmates. I'm proud for not turning out like her, with a big red stain on my new white denim. I figure, 'I'm too smart to let something like that happen to me' and up until yesterday, I'm confident my discretion had gotten me through. I conclude that the worst is over. Yet, one restless night later, I find myself waking up drowsily to the smell of breakfast. The aroma of bacon and biscuits fill the room. For many, this is a pleasant way to rise and shine, but for me, the smell consistently sends me into a panic. I must've slept in! I'll be getting another lecture, and if I'm not at Teresa's precious table by the time the eggs are salted and spooned onto all six plates, I'll be sentenced to an earlier bedtime. Of course, my concerns with a tardy appearance at the breakfast table are quickly replaced by the memory of all that happened the day before. Suddenly, I don't care if I make it to breakfast on time. Fuck breakfast.
Eventually, I trudge my way up the stairs and keep my head down while taking my place at the table. I listen as happy voices fill the room. The middle brother has just gotten an early phone call from his girlfriend, a member of the yearbook staff. Apparently, he's been nominated "Most Comedic" for the Who's Who list. My tardiness has gone unnoticed; perhaps even my existence, at least for the time being. Everyone seems distracted from their suspicions of the alleged sexual escapades by a popularity contest. One of her boys had made Momma proud and nothing will spoil the moment.
School was a sweet escape that day, but returning to hell was unavoidable…
She'll remember her redheaded stepchild. She'll remember the spot of blood on the size too-young-for-sexual-accusations underpants and she'll remember Big Bro's reports from the night before. I'm sure he's informed her of my lies and she'll be waiting for me at the dinner table, cleared of food with nothing more than her pointy elbows and ringing hands between us. Judgments will be made, accusations will fly, and I'll be sentenced unlike never before.
Then again…
Upon returning, I'm surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the hustle and bustle throughout the house isn't all that different from an average night in Teresa's lair. The only reminder of my doom is a bad case of the stomach knots and my inability to smile, even for the sake of faking it as per usual. The house is loud with action as Big Bro jams on his electric guitar and the little one trots about with his cape flying behind him. Mr. Popularity is gabbing with a girl on the phone while watching MTV and Teresa is preoccupied with finding a lost photo album. Aside from being told to lay off the T.V. and go play outside, I seem invisible. That is, until my father stops me just before I make my way to bed. I take a few steps down the stairs before I hear him call my name. He stands up from his throne, where he sits watching CNN and he walks to the railing. He stands over me and asks me if I've ever had sex before. As I begin to shrink again, as I watch him grow six feet taller with intensity, I manage to give him an honest answer – "NO!"
I think I sneered a bit, or maybe I hated them all so much that I maintained a permanent sneer back in those days. I'd like to think I was sneering… though the look on my face probably looked more like that of a pitiful puppy. Either way, I suppose he felt disrespected. His face got all twisted and he actually raised his voice, "If a boy's penis gets close enough, the sperm can jump on your knee and run its way up until it impregnates you! Do you understand?" It was a far cry from the usual melancholy attention I was used to on his behalf.
"Yes sir."
"OK then."
"OK."
I realize at that moment that I'm more jealous of Carson Malloy and her blood-stained white pants than I'll ever be jealous of anyone ever again. If only I had bled through, creating an obvious display for the whole world to observe, this wouldn't be happening. I'd call home and Teresa would be forced to pick me up and let me spend the rest of the day at home. Perhaps she would have been sincerely sympathetic and maybe she would have made an attempt at being nice to me. At school, I'd be called a few names, but it would only last two weeks and then everyone would forget. Two months later, chances are I would forget. If only I had been so lucky. If only! Instead, I’m forever scarred with this memory-in-detail. But with said memory nearly thirteen years behind me now, I can be found in Time Square. I’m easy to spot if you’re a tourist, easy to overlook if you’re a local. My red hair, still stringy, harbors a wad of sticky gum near my chin and the stench coming from my crotch is a hard to dismiss. But don’t mistake this conclusion for a pity-party. It’s actually a very touching outcome. You see, I’m out there sticking it to ‘ol Teresa. As I carry a neon sign high over my head throughout the city crowd, reading I’M LIKE OBAMA - I WANT CHANGE, I smile with pride. Not a hint of humiliation.
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