As I mentioned in an earlier post, when it comes to girlfriends, I have what I consider to be the three greatest loves of my life; Tami, Traci, and Trisha. It's important that I introduce you to all three, because they come up in my stories a lot. This post is about Trisha.
The first time I saw Trisha was outside of the entry way to our high school. There was this huge building maintenance mechanical metal thing, which to this day I have no idea what the hell it was, but it sat in our presence, on a huge block of cement, watching over us like a griffin. Trisha was sitting there by herself, one leg crossed over the other, observing the chaos around her.
I can still see her like it was yesterday; she was wearing a light blue t-shirt with little cap sleeves, bell bottom jeans that were a little on the long side, and brown suede shoes. She had long curly hair, which she kept in a tight ponytail behind her ears, in an attempt to tame what was one of her greatest assets. Trisha is unusually beautiful, and when she was young, she worked at downplaying that beauty. Her eyes were always so blue, sometimes I thought they were violet, and it was the depth of her soul that created that illusion.
Trisha is the oldest of three children, and always had a ton of responsibility. Her mother raised them by herself, and worked really hard. A lot of the day-to-day stuff, like driving kids to school, making sure everybody was accounted for after school, grocery shopping, etc., fell to Trisha. She never complained not once, to this day. But I noticed, and it made her very serious at a very young age.
Have I mentioned how brilliant Trisha is? I'm talking card carrying Mensa member. She always tried to get me to take the Mensa test because she always assumed I was as smart as her. This is not the case. It was another shining part of Trisha that got downplayed. To this day, I would bet their are people who know her well that have no idea that she was the Valedictorian of her graduating class.
Someone who did recognize her brilliance was our school principle. He always had all these Trisha schemes, and I was always first in line behind her because I was her number one believer. This school principle, who is an entire post all in himself, had Trisha spear-heading all kinds of political endeavors.
One scheme involved Trisha's leadership in protesting the discrimination of students in Clifton because store owners wouldn't let us in more than two at a time. Off the class went, to testify at a full city council meeting, media and all. Jerry Springer was the mayor of Cincinnati at the time, and the whole thing was very official. The entire class freaked at the last moment, and no one would get up to testify. So there I was, not even part of the class, just there hanging out with Trish, and she volunteers me. Considering that I would jump off a cliff if Trish asked me (mostly because I know she never would, unless there was a crazed mob behind us) this seemed like a reasonable request. So, I walk up to the podium with all my 15 years of life experience behind me, nod my head in greeting to all the officials and say "Congressman". The whole room starts laughing and Jerry says "Yeah, we wish".
My second favorite is when the school principal convinced Trisha to run for the Cincinnati Public School Board, thereby making her the first actual student to ever sit on the board. In theory, a great concept. She went to be interviewed at the Enquirer newspaper, had a photo taken, I know this because, as usual, I was hanging around. It really was a big deal. Unfortunately, the school principal, after the initial hoopla, kinda disappeared and didn't help like he should have. The worst part of running for office is the damn signatures, you have to have a gazillion of them to even get on the ballet. We spent hours and hours collecting signatures at grocery stores and in the end, it was just too much. We just didn't have the grown up support. Trisha always blamed herself, while I always blamed the school principle, whom I've disliked ever since.
That was always an ongoing theme with Trisha: getting grownup responsibilities dumped on her when she just should of got to be a kid. I knew she was really sad because her compassion and intellect were so overwhelming. Maybe I was the only one who knew it. I always wanted to be the doberman to her angel, and support and protect her, because she deserved me.
Trisha and I have had many adventures together, and will remain close forever. Her sense of what is right and her generosity have much to do with the person I am today. Today, she is living out west, and married to a wonderful man, and so deserves every ounce of happiness that ever comes her way. I know she still worries deeply about the state of humanity, and hope she never let's it take away from what she has in the moment.
God bless my Trisha, keep her well, keep her happy, and, most of all, let her feel the optimism that should accompany a life so well lived. When I grow up, I want to be just like her.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
That Asshole Down the Street
Our house is an old Victorian that was built in 1884, and has bay windows, a large porch, three fire places, two stair cases, and stained glass windows. We love our house and consider it to be a member of the family. When I got divorced, it was the only thing I really fought for and I ended up paying Ken a shit ton of money for the privilege of keeping it. Before the ink was even dry on the new mortgage, I painted her pink, knowing that no man would ever want to live here again unless he truly loved me.
The only reason I can afford such a house on my salary is because the neighborhood isn't the greatest. Don't get me wrong, we chose this neighborhood because of its ethnic, economic, and social diversity. House's range anywhere from 20,000 to 200,000 dollars, mine being somewhere in the middle.
Unfortunately, it's not the kind of neighborhood where you would ever leave your door unlocked or windows open at night. So, there I am, a single mother with two young children living in a pink house two blocks down from crack alley. I may as well hang a neon sign on the porch that says "rob me". So I need me some junk yard dogs.
The junkyard dogs are a black lab named Samson, who is the size of a farm animal, and a beagle named Gracie, who will bark at just about anything including the wind. We affectionately refer to Gracie as "that damn Kentucky beagle" because she comes from a long line of Kentucky hunting dogs.
Anywoofwoof, the ruckus they create is part of the deterrent. We want the errant crack head walking by to know they'll get eaten, which they hate because it's such a buzz kill, and crack heads hate a buzz kill.
There is some collateral damage though, such as this guy that lives about five houses down from me. Since I don't know his name, I always refer to him as "that asshole down the street". Man, this guy hates our guts, and we've learned to hate him back.
One day, I'm looking out the window to see what Samson is barking at and there's the asshole from down the street throwing rocks at him. I go out on the porch, followed by my 11 year old son, and I say to this dude "Hey, don't throw rocks at my dog, he's just doing his job, he barks for a living. How would you feel if someone threw rocks at you while you were doing your job?" and he screams back "Fuck off bitch". I had no idea he could be so witty. After yelling "Fuck off bitch" a second time, he informs me that he should call the police on me because of my dogs. Right about now, you're probably wondering if I called the police, and, no, I didn't. I should have, wish I had, but at the time calling the police on my neighbor just didn't seem, well, neighborly.
Flash forward a couple of weeks. It's Friday night and me and the aforementioned 11 year old are watching Ghost Whisperer (we love dead people and overlook bad acting in order to see them). Samson starts barking, just going nuts, so I ask the 11 year old to see what in the hell fire he's barking at. He asks if he can wait till the next commercial, which is something I totally get because Ghost Whisperer has a cliff hanger before every commercial, so I stupidly say OK.
All of three minutes later, he goes to look out the window at Samson, and says "Um, mom, the police are here." Well, that can't be good. I go downstairs, out onto the porch, and there's two police cruisers. Two cruisers for a dog barking? What the fuck? In our neighborhood you're lucky to get even one cruiser for a triple homicide.
As I step out on the porch, one of the officers, a woman, with her hand on her gun, starts yelling "MOVE AWAY FROM THE HOUSE!! MOVE AWAY FROM THE HOUSE!!", and believe me, I moved away from the house. This was a bummer for me, because I had come out of the house barefoot and there was four inches of snow on the ground. As always, the 11 year old is right behind me, with the 13 year old right behind him.
Besides the lady officer, who was about to shoot me, there was a second officer. He was like twelve years old and his hat was too big and practically rested on his nose. He did not utter a single word the entire half hour they were there. He didn't have to, because Officer Polly Po-Po was doing all the talking.
First she told me they had been out there for 5 minutes trying to get us to come out of the house. Then she told me that a neighbor had called about my dog barking, and that the dog had been barking non stop. What she failed to notice was the asshole from down the street standing by my yard taunting the dog which is what he was barking at. She said "Mame, I'm trying to talk to you" in that condescending you're hysterical and I have to arrest you cop voice that always annoys me when I tried to explain this to her. Once she started talking to me that way, I saw this was only going to go somewhere bad, and boy did it ever.
Meanwhile, the asshole from down the street is standing by the cruiser with a smug look on his face because he thinks he finally got me. In my best mediator voice, I tell Polly Po-Po that I need to be able to communicate with her and tell her my side of the story. I explain "look, I'm a single mother with two young children living in a pink house two blocks away from crack alley. I have to have these dogs or I wouldn't be able to sleep at night".
She replies that she doesn't want to hear it because she knows the police have been to my house before.
What the fuck?
I tell her the police have never been to my house. She says I'm lying because she knows for a fact that they were just there last week because I was "having a domestic dispute with my boyfriend and there was a gun involved" and that's why they called for back up because for all they knew I was laying dead in the house.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Didn't I just explain to her why I needed the junkyard dogs? Remember, single girl, living alone with two young children? In a pink house?
This was so disturbing, I couldn't let it go. I demanded to know where she had heard that because it never happened. Meanwhile, my other neighbors, who love me and I love them, are out on their porches. When one started to come over, the asshole from down the street tells her not to come over because "it's a domestic dispute".
Turns out, she got her information from the asshole down the street and never bothered to question it.
Finally, after standing barefoot in the snow for 30 minutes (did I mention that I had broken both my feet a few months before and had just gotten the casts off?), the police started to see the light. I'll never forget my kids walking with their arms around me back to the house, as I just cried and cried. It makes me sad because I know they feel responsible and protective of me, but they're so young that I don't want to burden them with such grown up emotions.
Now, the whole neighborhood is watching that asshole down the street. He's moved on to harassing the dogs up the street as well, which gives me a sense of morbid comfort because it's not just me anymore. He needs a burning bag of dog shit left on his porch. Not that I would ever do that.
If there were a man living here with us, I know that asshole down the street wouldn't treat us the way he does. In my world, there is no less a man than the one that takes advantage of those he sees as vulnerable. Damn, I feel sorry for his wife. So there you have it.
The only reason I can afford such a house on my salary is because the neighborhood isn't the greatest. Don't get me wrong, we chose this neighborhood because of its ethnic, economic, and social diversity. House's range anywhere from 20,000 to 200,000 dollars, mine being somewhere in the middle.
Unfortunately, it's not the kind of neighborhood where you would ever leave your door unlocked or windows open at night. So, there I am, a single mother with two young children living in a pink house two blocks down from crack alley. I may as well hang a neon sign on the porch that says "rob me". So I need me some junk yard dogs.
The junkyard dogs are a black lab named Samson, who is the size of a farm animal, and a beagle named Gracie, who will bark at just about anything including the wind. We affectionately refer to Gracie as "that damn Kentucky beagle" because she comes from a long line of Kentucky hunting dogs.
Anywoofwoof, the ruckus they create is part of the deterrent. We want the errant crack head walking by to know they'll get eaten, which they hate because it's such a buzz kill, and crack heads hate a buzz kill.
There is some collateral damage though, such as this guy that lives about five houses down from me. Since I don't know his name, I always refer to him as "that asshole down the street". Man, this guy hates our guts, and we've learned to hate him back.
One day, I'm looking out the window to see what Samson is barking at and there's the asshole from down the street throwing rocks at him. I go out on the porch, followed by my 11 year old son, and I say to this dude "Hey, don't throw rocks at my dog, he's just doing his job, he barks for a living. How would you feel if someone threw rocks at you while you were doing your job?" and he screams back "Fuck off bitch". I had no idea he could be so witty. After yelling "Fuck off bitch" a second time, he informs me that he should call the police on me because of my dogs. Right about now, you're probably wondering if I called the police, and, no, I didn't. I should have, wish I had, but at the time calling the police on my neighbor just didn't seem, well, neighborly.
Flash forward a couple of weeks. It's Friday night and me and the aforementioned 11 year old are watching Ghost Whisperer (we love dead people and overlook bad acting in order to see them). Samson starts barking, just going nuts, so I ask the 11 year old to see what in the hell fire he's barking at. He asks if he can wait till the next commercial, which is something I totally get because Ghost Whisperer has a cliff hanger before every commercial, so I stupidly say OK.
All of three minutes later, he goes to look out the window at Samson, and says "Um, mom, the police are here." Well, that can't be good. I go downstairs, out onto the porch, and there's two police cruisers. Two cruisers for a dog barking? What the fuck? In our neighborhood you're lucky to get even one cruiser for a triple homicide.
As I step out on the porch, one of the officers, a woman, with her hand on her gun, starts yelling "MOVE AWAY FROM THE HOUSE!! MOVE AWAY FROM THE HOUSE!!", and believe me, I moved away from the house. This was a bummer for me, because I had come out of the house barefoot and there was four inches of snow on the ground. As always, the 11 year old is right behind me, with the 13 year old right behind him.
Besides the lady officer, who was about to shoot me, there was a second officer. He was like twelve years old and his hat was too big and practically rested on his nose. He did not utter a single word the entire half hour they were there. He didn't have to, because Officer Polly Po-Po was doing all the talking.
First she told me they had been out there for 5 minutes trying to get us to come out of the house. Then she told me that a neighbor had called about my dog barking, and that the dog had been barking non stop. What she failed to notice was the asshole from down the street standing by my yard taunting the dog which is what he was barking at. She said "Mame, I'm trying to talk to you" in that condescending you're hysterical and I have to arrest you cop voice that always annoys me when I tried to explain this to her. Once she started talking to me that way, I saw this was only going to go somewhere bad, and boy did it ever.
Meanwhile, the asshole from down the street is standing by the cruiser with a smug look on his face because he thinks he finally got me. In my best mediator voice, I tell Polly Po-Po that I need to be able to communicate with her and tell her my side of the story. I explain "look, I'm a single mother with two young children living in a pink house two blocks away from crack alley. I have to have these dogs or I wouldn't be able to sleep at night".
She replies that she doesn't want to hear it because she knows the police have been to my house before.
What the fuck?
I tell her the police have never been to my house. She says I'm lying because she knows for a fact that they were just there last week because I was "having a domestic dispute with my boyfriend and there was a gun involved" and that's why they called for back up because for all they knew I was laying dead in the house.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Didn't I just explain to her why I needed the junkyard dogs? Remember, single girl, living alone with two young children? In a pink house?
This was so disturbing, I couldn't let it go. I demanded to know where she had heard that because it never happened. Meanwhile, my other neighbors, who love me and I love them, are out on their porches. When one started to come over, the asshole from down the street tells her not to come over because "it's a domestic dispute".
Turns out, she got her information from the asshole down the street and never bothered to question it.
Finally, after standing barefoot in the snow for 30 minutes (did I mention that I had broken both my feet a few months before and had just gotten the casts off?), the police started to see the light. I'll never forget my kids walking with their arms around me back to the house, as I just cried and cried. It makes me sad because I know they feel responsible and protective of me, but they're so young that I don't want to burden them with such grown up emotions.
Now, the whole neighborhood is watching that asshole down the street. He's moved on to harassing the dogs up the street as well, which gives me a sense of morbid comfort because it's not just me anymore. He needs a burning bag of dog shit left on his porch. Not that I would ever do that.
If there were a man living here with us, I know that asshole down the street wouldn't treat us the way he does. In my world, there is no less a man than the one that takes advantage of those he sees as vulnerable. Damn, I feel sorry for his wife. So there you have it.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Folding Newspapers
The last time I was at my mother's, I opened a closet door, and an avalanche of old newspapers almost came down on my head. When I asked my mother how long it had been since she had done the recycling, she said "last month". If you were the average person, it would probably take you a year or two to accumulate that many old newspapers.
My mother has read two to three newspapers a day ever since I can remember. It's actually kind of ironic, because my mother is not necessarily a fan of reality. While she may have been oblivious to the importance of paying the bills, she always knew what was going on in Washington.
As far as media goes, the newspaper is going obsolete. Everyday, you can read about another newspaper going out of business or down-sizing. Most major cities in America have always had two newspapers, kind of a point-counter point approach to news. Today, the major cities only have one local paper, and the death watch has begun to see which will be the first to have none at all.
Actually, I've never liked reading the newspaper. The ink rubs off on your hands, and if you are holding the center page open, the only way to refold it is with a head butt to the middle because your hands are full. My biggest use for it has always been the dog's cage, and I've always been thankful for it's absorbency.
Having said that, I find the folding of newspapers both sad and alarming. Sad, because it will be the end of a great American era. Some of these newspapers have been published twice a day for 140 years. One of the backbones of democracy is having the freedom and ability to spread news, and newspapers have always been the way we did it.
Everything is going digital, causing the demise of paper media and that includes photographs. Sure, the spontaneous joy of seeing my pictures as soon as I take them is great, but it doesn't exactly motivate me to get them printed.
At work, we no longer give out paper documentation, everything is online, including my pay check. We don't write checks, we use debit cards. The art of writing love letters is almost dead. If there's no more paper media, what the hell am I supposed to read in the bathroom while I'm taking a poop? Not reading while I poop can cause a disturbance in what is the delicate balance of my inner eco-system. What's next, digital toilet paper? Would digital toilet paper be the same thing as a bidet? Just asking.
When Alice went through the looking glass, everything was out of balance and surreal. Could viewing the world through the looking glass of a computer monitor do the same thing to our sense of balance and reality? If it does, will it have the same affect on us that the drink me bottle had on Alice? Actually, I would probably enjoy that, but that's not the point.
Just when we finally got good at recycling paper we don't need it anymore. Figures. Does that mean that we no longer need to "save a tree"? Well, good for us, now we can move on to saving ourselves. So there you have it.
My mother has read two to three newspapers a day ever since I can remember. It's actually kind of ironic, because my mother is not necessarily a fan of reality. While she may have been oblivious to the importance of paying the bills, she always knew what was going on in Washington.
As far as media goes, the newspaper is going obsolete. Everyday, you can read about another newspaper going out of business or down-sizing. Most major cities in America have always had two newspapers, kind of a point-counter point approach to news. Today, the major cities only have one local paper, and the death watch has begun to see which will be the first to have none at all.
Actually, I've never liked reading the newspaper. The ink rubs off on your hands, and if you are holding the center page open, the only way to refold it is with a head butt to the middle because your hands are full. My biggest use for it has always been the dog's cage, and I've always been thankful for it's absorbency.
Having said that, I find the folding of newspapers both sad and alarming. Sad, because it will be the end of a great American era. Some of these newspapers have been published twice a day for 140 years. One of the backbones of democracy is having the freedom and ability to spread news, and newspapers have always been the way we did it.
Everything is going digital, causing the demise of paper media and that includes photographs. Sure, the spontaneous joy of seeing my pictures as soon as I take them is great, but it doesn't exactly motivate me to get them printed.
At work, we no longer give out paper documentation, everything is online, including my pay check. We don't write checks, we use debit cards. The art of writing love letters is almost dead. If there's no more paper media, what the hell am I supposed to read in the bathroom while I'm taking a poop? Not reading while I poop can cause a disturbance in what is the delicate balance of my inner eco-system. What's next, digital toilet paper? Would digital toilet paper be the same thing as a bidet? Just asking.
When Alice went through the looking glass, everything was out of balance and surreal. Could viewing the world through the looking glass of a computer monitor do the same thing to our sense of balance and reality? If it does, will it have the same affect on us that the drink me bottle had on Alice? Actually, I would probably enjoy that, but that's not the point.
Just when we finally got good at recycling paper we don't need it anymore. Figures. Does that mean that we no longer need to "save a tree"? Well, good for us, now we can move on to saving ourselves. So there you have it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)