Holiday Travel is a pain in my ASS

I need to plan my route to work tomorrow since every damn exit is closed. I can already envision my ride to work tomorrow; its gonna start nice, I'm gonna crank up the heater in the car, makin it toasty, then I'm gonna turn on sum holiday music (103.1), then I'm gonna stop by starbucks and get my coffee, then I'm gonna hit a line of traffic and sit in it for two hours, honking and screaming and riding people's asses all the way to work! By the time I walk in to work, I'm gonna be such a bitch!

"It was an accident!"

Ahh, youth! Mikey's excuse for everything is, "It was an accident!"

I watched him rip up a picture his sister had drawn for him, silently set it down, walk over to me, point to the artistic remnants, and say, "It was an accident, Mom!"

If only that excuse worked for adults: I'm sorry I scheduled you for a bikini wax instead of a massage, sir, it was an accident!, or, I'm sorry I spent all of our money on Happy Hour drinks and lap dances Dear, it was an accident!

Later, he jumped on the dog and pretended to ride her to Nani's house, when I yelled at him and explained the probability of some sort of PETA-related vengeance, he replied that too was an accident. Ahh, the accidents of youth, soooo many more to go!

Yer kid is "different"

I wanted to cry in front of a woman I didn't even know.

As soon as I sat down for the Parent-Teacher conference with Vivian's Language Arts teacher, the first thing out of her mouth was, "Your daughter is . . .she's . . . (at this point I thought the teacher couldn't find the right word because she could barely speak English, but that wasn't the case) Vivian is different."

Now, anyone who has kids knows for a fact, that they do not want their kid to be different. We want normal, happy, normal kids. When I think different, I think back to 1st grade and Brandon B. who sat in the back because he ate paste and wrote with markers all over his scalp, when I think different I think of that anti-social girl whose name I can't remember because I was scared of her, who sat in the back of the room all by herself in Mrs. Monti's 3rd grade class....shit, when I think different, I think Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, and Al Gore - I definitely don't want my kid among those different folk!

So, I ran home and told Jared that our sweet little Vivian was dubbed different. Ok, Ok, I was hysterical - on the way home I had started going over any medications I could think of in the hopes of making her normal, average, anything but different.

And you know what Jared said? He said that he and I weren't normal....that we were very different ourselves.....the asshole! Because I had already made a list of all the different, crazy-ass motherfuckers in his family whose "Crazy" genes he had leaked into our perfectly normal kids' gene pool!

And he was so goddamn right! Vivian is just like me and Jared - except she doesn't care if her differentness is visible on the outside. I had forgotten that Vivian was always different and that her differentness is what everyone really loves about her. I think I just wanted her to mold herself into that cute, smiley, normal preteen like I did at her age. The teacher said Vivian was different because she didn't interact with the other kids and didn't care about making friends. Vivian's response was, "Mom, the kids at school are A-holes, they always say I'm emo, and everyone has Bieber Fever." Ok, so I wouldn't wanna be friends with the little jerkoffs either! However, Vivian does wear her bangs swooped to the side in a pretty much semi-emo/goth/hide an eye/ kinda way, she does wear alot of black and dark colors, and yeah - she's into Japanese anime....so I guess she is pretty different.

I've always seen Vivian as a cool kid. One of my favorite things about Vivian is her self-confidence. Because, while Jared and I both had issues with that, we were able to somehow cultivate a strong sense of Self into our very different children. Even Vivian's teacher said Vivian wasn't at all bothered by the fact that everyone at school thinks shes different. So, I guess while other 11 year-old girls are reading Teen Beat (or whatever the hell girls are reading) its ok that Vivian hauls around The Poe Reader: A Complete Collection of Tales by Edgar Allen Poe (it was my favorite when I was a kid, that and The Shining) and her new fav "The Dictionary of The Undead" because its what she likes.....as long as she doesn't start animal sacrifices or run home from school drenched in pig's blood and vowing revenge - everythings OK. Right? I love that she's different - she's funny as hell, smart, quick witted, and beautiful.....I'm proud of her. You know what her P.E. clothes say on them? Each kid has to write their name on their P.E. clothes and when I washed her outfit, I read the shirt and yeah, her name was written in big bold letters right across the front of her shirt: Vivian "Awesome Pants" Marchant.

I don't think I'm all that worried about having a different kid if it means she's Vivian "Awesome Pants" Marchant!

Samantha

Conclusion

            My Nana had been in ICU for the last week of her life so when she asked to see Samantha, I couldn’t say no. I drove home and got her, packing her gently into a big yellow purse I had. I remember it was October, right before Halloween, and the kids were still at school. The house was empty but the kitchen window had been left open, and so there was a whistle that echoed throughout the rooms and a chill greeting you at the door. I now know that chill was me; my own awareness of what would soon be happening – Nana’s impending death.

            I remember thinking at the hospital, as family came in and out saying their last good-byes, that all I wanted was to just get away, get some fresh air, and by getting that fresh air I was getting a new life, I was getting a healthy Nana.

            I have many times felt tremendous guilt over wanting my Nana to hurry up and die – or as society says, “Find Peace.” Watching someone die is a slow process and hard to watch. And in an extremely selfish way, all you want is for their suffering to end – because it means yours can begin to end as well. The process of dying was a terrible limbo for Nana to be trapped in. She was not quite alive enough, but not yet dead. Dying puts the mourning on hold, like the lump in your throat that exists right before you begin to cry and while you’re struggling to hold back tears.

            Nana waited for death like she waited in line at the grocery store – impatiently. She made enemies of her nurses by making numerous daily complaints about their attitudes (claiming it was because she was Mexican and they were white) and when I told her she needed to make friends with them she said, “No I don’t. I’m the one dying. They should make friends with me.” When Nana said this, I half expected her to sternly point her thumb at herself as she said “me” while scowling.

            I smuggled Samantha into the ICU, and typical of her breed, she nestled up against Nana as if she were the one in pain. My Nana soothed Samantha, “Were they being mean to you, baby?” Nana asked, they, meaning me.

            “No, Nana. No one’s been mean to your damn dog.” Tears are a sign of weakness in Nana’s family; attitude is strength.

            “Are the dogs scaring her?”  Nana’s scowl was an interrogation.

            My husband and I had big, tough, guard dogs, and Nana believed Samantha was abused by every living creature. In reality, Samantha growls at every other living creature, tries to bite children, steals cookies away from babies, attacks puppies, and shits anywhere she smells another dog.

            “No, Nana. She’s fine.”

            Samantha begins to whimper and cry. She sounds like a cat in heat - long meowing cries, almost inhuman. Nana pets her and kisses her. Nana’s mouth is decaying and Samantha’s breath always smells like she plugs her nose in her asshole at night for warmth. Nana kisses Samantha and Samantha licks Nana’s mouth. Both friends seem not to notice the other’s odor. I have to turn away. Tears are a sign of weakness.

            “Keep Samantha in the house and keep your dogs outside,” Nana orders. The IVs move in rhythm with Nana’s arms, as if they were extensions I never noticed before.

            “Ok, Nana.” No way in hell am I letting the dogs freeze just so Samantha can sleep comfortably with her nose in her own ass.

            My mom had given me a head’s up, but, in the midst of everything that had to be done, I had forgotten to stay on my toes about what Nana had been planning.

            “Samantha wants to live with you. Your Tata will step on her in the middle of the night on his way into the kitchen.”

            Immediately, I envisioned my big, fat, clumsy Tata, addicted to food, stumbling around in the middle of night probably half asleep, and suddenly tripping and nearly falling over something, which, in the light of day, would turn out to be a little black lump of road kill, with a nose that smelled slightly of its own asshole, and wearing some sort of small blue dress.

            I couldn’t say no. This was what made Nana’s last year her favorite. She got whatever she wanted – more than usual. I knew I would say yes.

            “Why does Samantha wanna live with me? She doesn’t even like me.” Now Nana had me believing that Samantha could communicate with her. My Nana had me convinced that she was Dr. Doolittle.

            “Oh, she loves you,” as if on cue, Samantha’s big googley eyes pop out from under the thin hospital blankets. Samantha begins to cry as if to say, don’t let the big fat man trample me in a hunger induced stampede!

            “Please take her,” Nana looks into my face, searching for weakness, and is pleased that I am strong. Like she is. The word “please” seems to hang in the air. No one thinks about just how genuine that word is, and it is the only time I can remember ever hearing Nana say it. Please. Please don’t die. Please.

            “Fine. I’ll take the little shit-breath. You better hope the dogs don’t eat her! They might mistake her for a rat.” I am not weak. Attitude is strength. Give me strength.

            I looked at Nana, one good last time. I didn’t want to stare, because I knew she was self-conscious about what the illness had done to her appearance. She had my aunt

constantly attending to her hair. She tried, desperately, to avoid possessing a “flat spot” even though she was bed ridden. Nana looked old, and dark, and wrinkled, and frail. Suddenly, more than anything else in the world, I wanted to be five years old again. I wanted to go back in time and start life all over again. I wanted my Nana. The night my Nana died I cradled Samantha and sobbed into her fat little body all night long.

 

                                                        *                                                                                                                         

           

            That Saturday Samantha ran around McMillan Family Funeral Home in her blue outfit. Smelling like she had just feasted on a baby’s dirty diaper. Nana had an open casket, but I didn’t go near it. There was a body inside, it looked like Nana.

            After Nana was buried, everyone had to help with taking care of the house. It was a cold process - removing the remnants of a human being from a house that she brought to life. It was as if the house had died with Nana, as if the cancer had spread and now the house was a shell. Tata couldn’t live there anymore, or else he too, would be infected. In the end, Nana’s death would have a domino effect on everything she had come in contact with; her plants (which covered every inch of the house) had shriveled and died within a week of her own death, making the house look even more ominous, and sad, even more sick and cursed.

            A week later many of Nana’s favorite things were dispersed to a lucky few. My family didn’t have money. It wasn’t like in the movies where wills are read and people are awarded expensive extravagant things like islands, castles, and treasure maps leading to real treasure - in fact Nana didn’t even have a will, there was just a letter she had written to Tata. My mom got Nana’s Frank Sinatra collection. It consisted of Frank’s pajamas, cards her and Tata were given on holidays, pictures of the Sinatras with Nana and Tata, and other items filled with e-bay potential. My husband received Nana’s best cooking appliances, they shared a hatred for each other but a love for cooking. A couple of my cousins got a small piece of jewelry each; another cousin got a dress from the 70’s. Later, Tata revealed to me that Nana said I was her favorite, her most special, we laughed and cried at that and I told him that I already knew that. I told him that I knew I was his favorite too. He also told me that she had wanted me to have whatever I wanted and I told him I had already gotten it. I received Nana’s most prized possession and the thing she loved the most. I had Samantha.

       

         Samantha  

     
  Part 2   

          
          Nana had these family values which, although you were an educated third

generation, you had to succumb to. Boys were better than girls, all pretty girls

were whores, and it was ok to have a favorite child. To disagree with Nana’s

ideals was to be against her, and to be against her was to be against your whole

family. Nana invented the game of Survivor; the whole goal of building alliances,

lying, teaming up, and casting people off into the abyss was originally my Nana’s

idea of how to run a matriarchal lineage. Today’s matriarchal decision: what

Samantha was going to wear to Nana’s funeral.
          
          Nana preferred I be the lucky one to drive her to her appointments at

UCLA. She was diagnosed with fatal cirrhosis of the liver and had been given four

more months to live. If Nana was the head of the herd before, the fatal diagnosis

had granted her permission to be as tyrannical as she wanted. She ruled with an

iron fist. This last year was the most fun she had had in her entire life: she told my

aunt’s husband that he “dressed gay” and that his sons could beat him up; she

told her sister (who she was in constant competition with) that her enchiladas

weren’t very good and she should let someone else make them from now on; she

told my mom that she should leave my dad because he was a “cheating little

asshole”; she told my Uncle Benny that he should have married the 7-11 owner’s

daughter (maybe my Nana could’ve gotten free Bingo scratchers); she told her

sister Cynthia that her husband (my Great Uncle Charlie) had tried to kiss my

Nana 35 years ago when they all went out somewhere together and that he had

secretly been in love with my Nana ever since (she said you could “see it in his

eyes!”); she wrote to Playtex that their tampons would give young girls bladder

infections and that they should pull their line of scented super absorbency

tampons from the shelves before someone died from them; she started the

paperwork to sue the ice cream man who ran over my Uncle Benny 29 years ago

when he was six (Benny was fine and insisted Nana just “Let it go already”). It

was a kamikaze mission to correct every wrong, or at least have fun making

everyone miserable. Yes, this was the best year of her life.



          As the oldest grandkid, I granted her every request, and the long drive to

UCLA was one of many. We listened to Art Labo the whole way there and most of

the way back, every song had a story and there were lots of songs. Sometimes

she was so tired after her appointments that she would fall asleep before we had

even gotten out of the parking garage. Today’s freeway conversation centered on

what Samantha was going to wear to Nana’s funeral. Nana spared no expense

when it came to her needs or desires and Tata (my grandpa) lived to serve. So

when Nana wanted to spend $1,800 on a little Chihuahua, bam! we were blessed

with the addition of Samantha – named after Nana’s favorite character on All My

Children. Nana wanted Samantha to wear a dress she had bought at the swap

meet a few weeks ago, but I had tried to tell her that the funeral home didn’t allow

dogs. 

          “Tell them I put it in my will,” Nana said. She said I, like she was Queen 

Elizabeth.
  
          “Nana, they don’t care if you put ‘peace on earth, good will to men’ in your

will, they still don’t allow dogs, unless they lead the blind or predict seizures.”

          The thought of Nana putting ‘good will to men’ in her will made me laugh

inside - it would be much more fun to shock people with confessions or secrets.

Nana hated men. It was her version of feminism.



          “Tell them Cynthia has seizures. They’ll take one look at her and know she


needs help, with her hair all flat in the back. She never uses her mirrors right. I

told her, I said, ‘Cynthia, you stand with your back to the mirror and you hold up

the other mirror and you check to make sure you don’t have any flat spots’ but

she doesn’t listen and she uses that cheap hairspray,” Nana went on about

Cynthia’s failure at hairstyling, hair coloring, choosing men, which of Cynthia’s

children should have been aborted, and finally that we had to stop and pick her up

after the appointment because Cynthia was going to color Nana’s hair.



          “I want Samantha to sit in the front row next to your Tata and don’t let

Benny’s kids play rough with her. You know what, don’t let them touch her, she

gets upset when they pull on her. She doesn’t like her clothes getting all messed

up.”

          That dog doesn’t give a damn about its costumes – it likes to roll in shit!



          “Ok, Nana,” I said, even though I wasn’t, in a million years, going to pass off


that little rat as a guide dog. “I’ll get Samantha’s clothes washed too,” I thought if I


added more details that were believable, it would please Nana. What she couldn’t

know wouldn’t hurt her.



          “And she can’t wear a leash. She doesn’t like the leash.” The dog didn’t like


anything; leash, collar, people.



          “I know, I wasn’t gonna put a leash on her.” Because she’s not gonna be there.



                                                                                                    
                                                                                                              (End of Part 2)


*                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *

PART 1 (Written for Lehigh's Fiction Writers Class)

Samantha

         “Your kids are fat,” Nana said. Her mouth curled up at one end, as if an invisible

string was being pulled upward by the hand of God, and her eyebrows gathered tightly

as if falling down a tunnel above the bridge of her nose.

         Instead of saying Good morning, she says, “I couldn’t sleep last night, were you

guys having sex?”

         No. We were having great sex.

         “No! God, C’mon – like we’re gonna have sex with you right next door.” I

started pouring my coffee.

         One of the few pleasures of having an old person (who wakes up early) visiting,

is that they always wake up before you and do all the tedious morning chores you hate

doing: cleaning up, making coffee, letting the dogs out, cooking breakfast, bringing in

the paper, turning on the sprinklers, basically turning your house into a sweatshop for

the elderly. The bad thing – they get to catch you off guard before your eyes are

completely open. It is an unfair advantage these early risers have; you emerge onto the

battlefield unprepared – no armor, weak from hunger (or lack of caffeine), eyes still

glued half shut, dragon breath making you hesitant to open your mouth, and worst of

all, bra-less.

         Nana is ready; comfortable spandex leggings with a long, neon green t-shirt that

reads DAD, and ankle socks underneath her white Air Nikes. Nana’s hair is done -

every strand in place. Nana has her “war-face” on.

         Nana, from head to toe, was prepared for another day of war. Another typical

day of her saying and doing whatever she wanted and, because of her condition,

getting away with it.

         If she was so worried about my kids being fat she wouldn’t have woken up at the

ass-crack of dawn to cook them pancakes, bacon, sausage, chorizo eggs, hash browns,

banana nut bread, tortillas with half a stick of butter wrapped inside, and left over pork

chops from last night! Nana had two full glasses of milk poured and waiting for the

kids.

         At least milk is healthy.

         “My kids aren’t fat, they’re healthy.”

She opened the refrigerator and retrieved the Hershey’s Syrup.

(End of Part 1)

*                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *

Today's "What the fuck?" moment . . .

As if I don't feel fat enough, Mikey demands to come into the bathroom while I'm taking a bath, only to coldly criticize my body with the following remark, "Momma's butt makes Mikey sick."

Oh, my God - I have the sweetest children...of the CORN!

Kids and shit make me crazy!

I wanted to scream, cry, and laugh all at the same time; I had one kid shit the tub, the other kid gush blood from her nose, and the dog choke on a corn dog stick. I feel like a janitor and my home: an insane asylum with only one patient....

Who wants to read blogs?

I have to say, I think keeping a blog is just as expressive as keeping a journal - however, I've chosen to publish mine because there's alot in life that makes me laugh my ass off; mainly my kids, my crazy mother, and my dramatic inner monologue!


Am I the only one who, at the end of the day, lies in bed and thinks, "what the fuck?"


"What the fuck am I doing?"