18 April 2000 ~ "...And forget about everything..."

Some things I remember:

I remember my mom yelling at me one day because I used the word "ain't." She said it made me sound stupid and where did I hear a word like that? I said Colin had said it on the bus home from kindergarten. Colin was scary. And big. He yelled at me a lot and picked on me, for what reason I can only imagine. My mom told me never to say "ain't" again, because it wasn't a bad word, but she didn't want people to think I was stupid.

I remember watching "Planet of the Apes" with my dad on TBS or TNT on Sunday afternoons. He made eggs and bacon or sausages and I curled up next to Puffy, our dog, and watched with him. Sometimes, the TNT/TBS movies scared me. There was this one in black and white where this lady wore all white -- I think she was a ghost -- and she was chasing after these two guys who had killed her. I remember her in her wedding dress creeping down the stairs after these two guys -- they were throwing her coffin into the ocean or something, at that very moment. I was too scared to watch anymore, after seeing her creeping down the stairs. I hid under the laundry basket and ate my eggs in the dark. Everybody else had scrambled eggs, and my dad put peppers and onions in his, but MY eggs were Pink Eggs: unbroken and fried in butter and then steamed so that the yolks turn pink. My dad taught me how to make Pink Eggs.

Once, my mom forgot to wash the soap out of her contact and she started screaming and freaking out and crying, and she told me to go away. I sat in my room and hugged my pillow.

I cried the night before school pictures because I was ugly. My dad told me that someday I'd grow up and look just like my mom, and my mom was a beautiful lady. My mom just said, "you're not ugly, honey," and hugged me. My picture was terrible.

We went on a lot of Boonie Roads. A Boonie Road was when Joseph and I got into the car and our dad drove us out into the middle of nowhere. It was an adventure. It's funny -- Aaron likes to do the same thing sometimes, and he's found a few of the same roads my dad used to take us on. But there were a few we always took: the beaver-pond road, where there was an actual pond with an actual beaver in it... We saw the beaver once. There was the pink-house road, which was this road that went by a couple of horse pastures and this pink house in the middle of a huge field. In that field there were always deer. Joseph and I counted them and wrote down how many we'd seen on a calendar. Once, we took my mom's car on a Boonie Road and we ended up in the back hills of Northern Pennsylvania (we were probably only about ten miles from home, ironically), on this tiny little narrow road with tons of rocks and puddles. It was probably a hiking trail or something. My dad was scared we'd never got off that road. He swore a lot that night. When we found a main road, he was still lost and said, "I'll give you a dollar to whoever finds the sun." It was about 9 at night and the sun had been down for hours. Joseph and I thought that was hilarious.

We went to Tennesee when I was really young. My mom wanted to see the Smoky Mountains. We rented a camper and I laid awake all night because Joseph made stupid snoring sounds and I wanted to stay up and hear what my parents were saying. I think they were talking about a bear. I couldn't really hear, though. Joseph and my mom got diarrhea from the water in Tennesee. My dad took me to a playground and pushed me on a tire swing. He pointed up to the mountains around us and said, "isn't that magnificent?" I didn't see anything magnificent. He said the fog was beautiful. I didn't see any fog. I think maybe I needed glasses even then. I guess I was about four.

My mom used to sell cosmetics for Jafra. It's a lot like Avon, only you don't do it door-to-door or anything. She used to give classes to ladies who wanted to learn how to put make-up on. Or something like that. That's what I thought she did. She had a class almost every night, it seemed like. She spent an hour or two in the bathroom getting ready every night, and she wore blue eyeshadow with eyeliner and everything. It looked like a pain in the ass to me, so I never wanted to wear make-up. Well, sometimes I did. But it was something for Big Ladies, and I knew that. I didn't want to be a Big Lady yet. They seemed so stupid.

My parents' room was really dark. It was painted blue and the sun hardly ever came in. My mom used to go in there sometimes and close the door. I think she was crying. Sometimes my dad would go in there too.

Once, my parents had a really big fight. My mom had really bad PMS all day and she'd been yelling at me and Joseph. Then she yelled at my dad. Then she screamed at my dad. She started crying and stuff, and they were both yelling, so I took Joseph and we hid under the couch. Actually, I hid under the couch and he hid under the old victrola. The victrola didn't really work, but there was a good foot of space underneath it, so I stuck Joseph under there and then hid.

I remember listening to the radio in the car sometimes. We always listened to 105.7, which in those days was the easy-listening station: More Variety on WMRV or something. I remember a lot of stupid Chicago songs and a lot of James Taylor. And Stevie Winwood. I hated James Taylor. I remember Gerry Rafferty singing "Baker Street." My mom really liked that one. My mom was so beautiful. She got really fat when she was pregnant with John, but she was beautiful anyway.

I remember overhearing a phone call between my dad and Somebody. He talked about my mom like she was really crazy or something. He talked about some other ladies he knew like he was in love with them, about how pretty they were and things. So I found a picture of my parents and wrote on the back, with my special purple pen, "May 29, 1976." That was their anniversary; I never forgot it because it was the day after my birthday, minus four years. I wrote my parents' names on the back and slipped it into this cheap rusting frame that said "Barker's, $.99" on the back. Barker's was the store my mom worked in before I was born. Maybe my dad worked there too. I can't remember. I just knew that I didn't want my parents to get a divorce, and that's what people do who don't love each other. It sounded like my dad din't love my mom. As a matter of fact, I don't thik he did love my mom. I think he liked to think he was taking care of her, but I don't think he really loved her.

My dad went out on Friday nights to play cards. Sometimes he won a lot of money and he'd tell us about it, and sometimes he lost a lot of money and he didn't say anything. I thought he was a really good card player. I thought my dad was rich. In truth, he probably lost a LOT more than he won, and I suspect he did some not-great things to get the money to gamble with: like borrowing from my mom, draining her savings account, etc. My grandparents told me my dad always used to pretend he was rich and everything, but my mom pretty much supported his every move.

My mom watched Dallas on TV, or Miami Vice, or Twin Peaks, or one of those shows at night when my dad was playing cards. She had every episode of Twin Peaks taped. I wasn't allowed to watch those shows. I watched the Nightly Business Report on Channel 7 with my dad. It was hosted by a lady named Cathy something and a guy named Paul Kangas. I though Paul Kangas was really named Paul Kangaroo. When I said "Paul Kangaroo," it seriously pissed off my dad. After the Nightly Business Report, during which my dad would tell me about stocks, which bored me to fucking death, I'd watch M*A*S*H. I liked that show a lot.

I remember yelling, "one-two-three! good luck mama!" every time she had a Jafra class to teach and went out at night. I remember yelling, "one-two-three good luck daddy!" when my dad went to play cards. My dad always left quarters for me and Joseph taped to the refrigerator with a note whenever he went out of town. That way, we knew he loved us. We carried the quarters until he came home and then we put them in our banks. Mine was shaped like a unicorn. Joseph's was shaped like a pig. I liked unicorns. Then my mom told me that unicorns mean you're gay, so I didn't like unicorns for a really long time, even though I didn't know what gay meant.

I remember when we got my dog Heidi, we had to rename her, because her first owners had called her Buttercup and that was just stupid. We went through the book of baby-names (John was either just-born or almost-born, so the baby-name book was still pretty close at hand...) looking for something suitable. We couldn't find anything, but since my mom was reading us "Heidi" at the time, we thought we'd call our dog that. She was a bright, happy dog. She was always happy over everything. Once, she ate a whole chocolate cake. Once, she climbed up on a chair and ate change out of my dad's desk drawer. She threw up twenty-one cents on the kitchen floor. My mom washed off the twenty-one cents and put it back in the desk. Once, Heidi even ate John's favorite toy, a My Little Pony hat that you tied onto the little plastic My Little Pony with a ribbon. He called it his Ribbon-Hat. He carried it with him everywhere and sucked on it. Heidi ate that Ribbon-Hat. She threw that up, too, and my mom had to wash it out and give it back to John. Heidi never threw up the chocolate cake. To this day, I am impressed by that.

My mom used to take my to the Johnson City library. We'd go down the stairs sometimes to where the Big Lady books were. My mom would pick out scary books like "It," and "Pet Sematary," and, like, Nancy Friday stuff (well, it scared me the first time *I* read one of those books...), and she'd sent me into the room across the hall, where a nice lady would sing songs with all the little kids who were waiting for their mothers to pick out Big Lady books. For years, until I was almost fifteen, I could only tell my right from my left by picturing that staircase in the J.C. library, and my mom saying, "okay, LEFT is for the LI-brary..." My mom always went Left into the Library and sent me to learn songs on the right. I learned this song there about ten little monkeys in bed or something. I liked the theme from "American Tale" better. Once, I was going to give a concert at my house; me and Joseph were going to sing that song, and "Over the Rainbow" off the porch to our parents and grandparents who would be sitting in the yard below.

Once, my mom had to go deliver some make-up to some lady, and she forgot I was in the car and stayed in the lady's house talking for an hour and a half. When she came back, I was crying. I thought she'd left me.

I remember sometimes listening to the Good radio station, which was 99.1, The Whale. They played my favorite songs: Madonna's "Live to Tell" was my favorite for a REALLY long time, although I had no idea why. "A man can tell a thousand lies; I've learned my lesson well; Hope I live to tell the secrets I have learned; Til then, it will burn inside of me..." My mom and I used to sing that one together. Once, I asked her what the words meant: "what does it mean that a man can tell a thousand lies?" I asked. She said, "well, sometimes men do lie." I asked her if my dad ever lied. She said no. I suspect she herself was lying. I guess I liked Gerry Rafferty a little bit more after that. I had NO idea what he was singing about and no desire to know.

I liked My Little Ponies. I had very single one, until they came out with the new collectible ones: the My Little Donkeys or My Little Colts or My Little Horses with Butterfly Wings or whatever. But I had all of the regular ones. And some Carebears, too. I liked Carebears. My mom liked Hello Kitty and Strawberry Shortcake and Rainbow Bright, but that was her problem. I had a pair of Rainbow Bright boots one winter and a big boy named Chris pulled one off of me and threw it and said, "lookit the little baby with her Rainbow Bright boots!" I told my parents. They wouldn't buy me new boots just because a kid had picked on me. They said they didn't have enough money. I told my grandparents. My grandmother said that the big boy was just jealous because he didn't have any Rainbow Bright boots. I suspect she was either lying or severely out of touch with reality. I'm going to go with the latter for a thousand, Alex.

There are things I don't remember. I don't remember my mom getting high and driving her co-worker home from Barker's. Maybe that was before I was born. I don't remember her splitting up with my dad for awhile after they were married. He'd spent all their money and gotten another girlfriend. She moved out and back in with her parents. I think that was before I was born, too. I don't remember any of the fighting, except the one time Joseph and I hid in the living room. Oh yeah, my mom threw a saucepan at my dad that night. It made a dent in the yellow kitchen wall and scraped some paint off. My dad told Joseph and me that our mom was just having a really bad day and that she was maybe a little crazy, but that he hadn't done anything to deserve it. I asked if he ever hit her and he said no, he would never hit her, and that she didn't mean to hurt him the way she did. Joseph and I were a little scared of our mom after that. I bet that dent is still in the wall.

I heard "Baker Street" yesterday in my store. We were playing some soundtrack that Matt wanted to hear. I listened to the words, maybe for the first time ever. At first it took me back to eating in Burger King with Mike in Santa Fe; they played a lot of mariachi music in there, but also a lot of soft-rock type crap. I'd heard that song there. Then, it took me back to age five, age six... being constantly in awe of my mom, never fully understanding that she was a real human being instead of just a Big Lady. As I listened to the words yesterday, I knew, for the first time ever, just how much I'm like my mom. And just how much of a Big Lady I really am.

Love,
~Helena*

"Baker Street," by Gerry Rafferty

Winding your way down on Baker Street
Light in your head and dead on your feet
Well another crazy day, you’ll drink the night away
And forget about everything.

This city desert makes you feel so cold
It’s got so many people but it’s got no soul
And it’s taken you so long to find out you were wrong
When you thought it held everything.

You used to think that it was so easy,
You used to say that it was so easy
But you’re tryin’, you’re tryin’ now.
Another year and then you’d be happy
Just one more year and then you’d be happy
But you’re cryin’, you’re cryin’ now.

Way down the street there’s a light in his place
He opens the door, he’s got that look on his face
And he asks you where you’ve been, you tell him who you’ve seen
And you talk about anything.

He’s got this dream about buyin’ some land
He’s gonna give up the booze and the one night stands
And then he’ll settle down, it’s a quiet little town
And forget about everything.

But you know he’ll always keep movin’
You know he’s never gonna stop movin’
Cause he’s rollin’, he’s the rollin’ stone.
And when you wake up it’s a new morning
The sun is shining, it’s a new morning
But you’re going, you’re going home.