The things that my mother and I discuss are all about what's new in entertainment, political scandal, and whatever is the popular culture of the day. We both adore magazines, especially The National Enquirer, which we refer to as the "rag magazine". We like to chill and order pizza. We like almost all the same stuff.
Straying from these topics is never good. Occasionally, one of us will make the mistake of bringing up some personal topic that is actually based in reality, or as we like to call it, "the past". Never-ever a good idea, but it does happen. When this happens, the conversations become surreal and yet to us, perfectly reasonable.
Last week, I received the following voice mail:
"Paula? This is your mother. How are you feeling? I know you've been angry with me, and I'm sorry. Why can't we remember the good things. Like when you were in the hospital and you wanted me to come be with you, and I brought Hershey bars and magazines and stayed with you all night. Those were wonderful times we had together."
She filtered out the part where I wanted her there in case I died. Only my mother would remember that night as a slumber party. Well, compared to the Holocaust, ("well, at least we're not in a concentration camp!"), I guess those were some great family times.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Dreaming, Drinking, and Driving
One night, when I was fifteen, I had the most vivid dream about riding in a car. Most of my friends started driving before I did, so it wasn't unusual for me to dream about riding in their cars.
The odd thing about this particular dream was that instead of sitting in the front passengers seat, I was sitting in the back set behind the driver. Trisha was driving, and I could see she was going to hit a telephone pole. So I put my knee's against the back of the front seat, wedged my back against the back seat, and covered my face with my hands.
From that night on, I couldn't get this stupid dream off my mind. For months after, I became absolutely phobic about riding in cars. Whenever I was forced to ride in a car, I would torture myself with flashes of violet car crashes.
One night, I went with three girl friends to the drive-in movie. Trisha was not one of them. Mary, the driver, was drinking Bacardi and Coke that night.
The odd thing about this particular dream was that instead of sitting in the front passengers seat, I was sitting in the back set behind the driver. Trisha was driving, and I could see she was going to hit a telephone pole. So I put my knee's against the back of the front seat, wedged my back against the back seat, and covered my face with my hands.
From that night on, I couldn't get this stupid dream off my mind. For months after, I became absolutely phobic about riding in cars. Whenever I was forced to ride in a car, I would torture myself with flashes of violet car crashes.
One night, I went with three girl friends to the drive-in movie. Trisha was not one of them. Mary, the driver, was drinking Bacardi and Coke that night.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Club Robinson and Why Rich People Aren't Very Funny
As I steadily approach the lower middle class, it is the simple quirkiness of being dirt poor that I remember most fondly. Being poor is not necessarily a bad thing, it just makes you richer in other ways, kinda like how blind people have a stronger sense of smell.
For instance, poor people are way funnier than rich people. Rich people don't have to be funny, they get their high from being rich and never develop their sense's of humor. Rich people are mostly not funny because you have to suffer to be really funny. Who would you rather listen to, Richard Pryor or Chevy Chase? I rest my case.
When I lived at 34 East McMillan, in my third floor walk up, across the hall from a very young Cindy Robinson, I paid 175 dollars a month for rent. Once that was paid, the money would run out and we became very clever at amusing ourselves.
One particularly humid and disgusting summer, we decided we would create our own country (city) club on the roof of the house. There was a hatch on Cindy's kitchen ceiling that opened out to it. We would set up our ladder, hike up a plastic baby pool, a radio blaster, glasses of ice tea, lawn chairs and then, finally, hand up buckets of water to fill the baby pool.
Unfortunately, that was the summer of the 17 year cicada, and they were everywhere. They were like Japanese suicide bombers. They were some belligerent mother fuckers in their crunchy hard armor. Looking back on it, I'm impressed by how unfazed we were by them, it was just another thing to accept. You know, acceptance is the key to life.
As we sat in our lawn chairs, on that sweltering blacktop roof, listening to loud music that was considered the "oldies" even back then, dodging cicadas the size of mice in every direction, smoking, and drinking sweet ice tea, we named our oasis "Club Robinson".
We thought we were the luckiest people on the planet. That was one of the most amazing summers of my life, up there on Club Robinson, laying out, trying to turn ourselves into leather hand bags.
We loved our house, we loved our private club, we loved our lives, and we all loved each other. All that with no money, go figure. Often I think of those times, and wish I could go back. So simple and satisfying, so easy.
For instance, poor people are way funnier than rich people. Rich people don't have to be funny, they get their high from being rich and never develop their sense's of humor. Rich people are mostly not funny because you have to suffer to be really funny. Who would you rather listen to, Richard Pryor or Chevy Chase? I rest my case.
When I lived at 34 East McMillan, in my third floor walk up, across the hall from a very young Cindy Robinson, I paid 175 dollars a month for rent. Once that was paid, the money would run out and we became very clever at amusing ourselves.
One particularly humid and disgusting summer, we decided we would create our own country (city) club on the roof of the house. There was a hatch on Cindy's kitchen ceiling that opened out to it. We would set up our ladder, hike up a plastic baby pool, a radio blaster, glasses of ice tea, lawn chairs and then, finally, hand up buckets of water to fill the baby pool.
Unfortunately, that was the summer of the 17 year cicada, and they were everywhere. They were like Japanese suicide bombers. They were some belligerent mother fuckers in their crunchy hard armor. Looking back on it, I'm impressed by how unfazed we were by them, it was just another thing to accept. You know, acceptance is the key to life.
As we sat in our lawn chairs, on that sweltering blacktop roof, listening to loud music that was considered the "oldies" even back then, dodging cicadas the size of mice in every direction, smoking, and drinking sweet ice tea, we named our oasis "Club Robinson".
We thought we were the luckiest people on the planet. That was one of the most amazing summers of my life, up there on Club Robinson, laying out, trying to turn ourselves into leather hand bags.
We loved our house, we loved our private club, we loved our lives, and we all loved each other. All that with no money, go figure. Often I think of those times, and wish I could go back. So simple and satisfying, so easy.
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