But seriously folks...
I really WAS born.
In St. Louis, Missourri. On August 6, 1963. The sun was shining the birds were singing, my mother was screaming(up until she passed out and they dragged me out with "The Malstrom"). What a beautiful day! It WAS the anniversary of Hiroshima, but, what the heck, not every one can be born on the fourth of July or Valentine's day, right?
My mother was 31 when she had me. She didn't think she could have children(she HAD been trying for four marriages now).
My father was 32. He thought HE was sterile too. He even denied I was his....for a while. At first sight, he swore I was the ugliest thing he had ever seen. He claimed me eventually though, when he saw what a great kid I turned out to be.
My mom played the role of housewife. My dad played the role of emotionally & socially unstable piano tuner. He was rarely home(he now takes full credit for my turning out so well adjusted).
Actually BOTH my parents were a little "out there. After all it WAS the sixties. Neither of them could seem to stay in one town for very long, so, for one reason or another we moved from town, to town, to town. We rarely stayed in one place for more than a year. We traveled all over the United States, and also made a couple appearances in Mexico (Baja), and British Columbia. I think I started school in Missourri somewhere, but we didn't stay there. We would stay in a town until my parents did one of several things. They would get involved with the town folk, totally piss them off & have to run for it. They would get into debt & take off. My Dad would run out of victims (candidates for a piano overhaul), and we would book. Or my Mom would get sick of my Dad, she would attempt to escape from him, and he would chase her down (actually sometimes she **would** escape, but lack of money would drive her back to him).
Traveling was interesting though, I saw many sights and learned many things I would never have learned in a classroom. Met many strange people. I missed forming long lasting relationships though, which has become a bit of a handicap. When I am in a relationship for, say, 3-4 years, I find myself subconsciously sabotaging it. This has not worked with my husband, he is true, blue, head over heels in love with me. Anyone else would have ditched me by now for sure.
Since we are on the subject, I'll tell you about my husband. I met him reluctantly, one night in November in 1993, at a local bar/dance spot. I hadn't wanted to go out with my Mom, though I had promised her, but I had had a bad day at work, and had just broken up with my steady boyfriend. But she talked me into it. Angelo asked me to dance despite my looking very unhappy to be there that night. I asked him home with me after the bar closed, because I enjoyed his company and I didn't want to be alone. He thought he was gonna get lucky that night! He had another thing coming, so, when he wouldn't/couldn't keep his Italian hands off me, I threw him out! I didn't think I would see him again. He HAD asked for my number, but he was drunk, so I fugured he would forget. He didn't. I was impressed, if he had forgotten it, he would never have found me. Although my number WAS in the book, my name was sooo difficult to remember for most people, and ever more impossible to spell. We began to see each other pretty much exclusively after that. It wasn't long before wedding bells began to ring.
