Things your parents (probably) never told you, but mine will.
In case you haven’t noticed, I have an abnormal family. In fact, we call ourselves abi-something. On my last visit home, I came to the conclusion that my parents really, really need to have a blog, or a book, or something. A way to pass on their useful knowledge to the next generation. And trust me, they have a lot of useful knowledge, and they have no problem sharing it. They just don’t share it in a way that could reach the unwashed masses who are in need of it.
Both of my parents are smokers, a little less than chain smokers. And they both smoke outside, I am not sure why, everyone that lives in their house smokes, but it has been a rule for as long as I can remember to only smoke outside, so that’s where they go. Into the garage, that’s furnished with a small table, a few camp chairs, a few upside down buckets as make shift chairs and a space heater. On nights this is where my parents spend most of their time. Drinking beer and dispensing wisdom over cigarettes to passing teens and adults. You see, to get into the house you have to either risk the scary wooden steps which are creaky, and smell faintly of mildew or walk through the garage, and since the steps are very rarely lit, and the door more often locked, and the sisters (who visitors are most likely going to see) live in the basement, the garage is the common choice.
It’s a bit of a rite of passage, to walk through the cloud of cigarette smoke, say hello to the un-adult like adults, and pass into the basement. And since most of the kids smoke anyway they eventually find their way into the garage. And my parents make small talk. Small talk typically resolves into life lessons. Lessons these kids probably wouldn’t learn anywhere else. Lessons on things like, what you should say to the police, when you get pulled over and have illegal substances in the car and don’t want to get arrested, after lamenting a recent arrest.
From a young age, I learned the safe conversations to have with a police officer when trying to avoid arrest. First off you always address them properly. “Yes Sir,” or “Yes maim” goes along way. Never offer more information than is requested. Second, focus the conversations on the innocuous, like a “how bout them dawgs”, or “I really wish it would rain” especially in Georgia. Or you could always threaten the officer to arrest you.
When I was around six years old my mom took me and my sister and a few other kids to hear Bill Clinton speak, after the rally/speech/whatever she had planned to take us across the street, into the park, to have a picnic lunch. When trying to cross the street we were stopped by a police officer who told us that the park was closed. My mom argued with him, pointing out that the president had already left so there was no reason not to let us into the park. Finally frustrated she said, "Listen, we are going into the park. If you want to arrest me I will be right over there" we went into the park, my mom did not get arrested. She is quite fond of telling this story to kids, who are lamenting a recent arrest, especially if they felt like they were unjustly arrested, and let’s be honest. Very few people are arrested, thinking that they will be caught.
Some other life lessons I learned in my parent’s garage are:
Always pretend like you know the person who knows you.
If you say something with enough conviction odds are you can get people to believe you even if you have no idea what your talking about.
Just because someone keeps everything out in the open doesn’t mean they don’t have anything to hide.
Always say please and thank you, especially if you decrepitly want to be rude to who you are interacting with.
Friends come, and friends go, but enemies last forever.
What did your parents teach you?
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Happy Tryptophan Poisoning Day!
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It might have something to do with the awesome food, or the ability to seriously overeat and not face much judgment (which is important for a fat chick), or the fact that its always close to my birthday. It could also be that we don’t celebrate Christmas. But the real reason is my family.
I know I talk a lot about how crazy they (we) are, even on occasion how potentially fucked up I am because of my family. I’ve told stories about my sister getting pulled over after buying drugs, or how if you get my mom drunk enough she will explain why incest is okay in Memoirs of a Meth Family. Or about how my mom lit my neck on fire in Storytime: Medications of the Abi Somethings. I’ve written a short story about the youngest sister running away. Or about my mom hiding my sister’s drug stash to bribe her to clean the house, and delay her so that she gets free lunch.
I’ve told people stories about my mom hitting people with a rolled up newspaper for making the dog bark, I’ve held my tongue in polite company while people tell me about how wild their younger brother is for smoking pot. And the truth is we are crazy, every single one of us. We are Abi something (a joke from one of my favorite movies as a kid, young Frankenstein, and a play on my last name).
I’ve done things with normal (if there is such a thing) families, where there is awkwardness, and angst and stuff. But I wouldn’t trade all the pain and other crazy stuff that happened to me as a kid for that, ever.
My family might be functionally dysfunctional; we might drink too much, do to many drugs, or be loud, or different, or completely off the rocker. But at least we are interesting. And they give me great writing material. So I love Thanksgiving, because it is a great excuse to get together with my family, and just hang out. I am thankful for them, and all of their crap. I am thankful for the baggage they have given me, and for making me who I am as a person.
What are you thankful for?
Happy thanksgiving, and hopefully I will have some awesome stories to bring back after the holiday.
I know I talk a lot about how crazy they (we) are, even on occasion how potentially fucked up I am because of my family. I’ve told stories about my sister getting pulled over after buying drugs, or how if you get my mom drunk enough she will explain why incest is okay in Memoirs of a Meth Family. Or about how my mom lit my neck on fire in Storytime: Medications of the Abi Somethings. I’ve written a short story about the youngest sister running away. Or about my mom hiding my sister’s drug stash to bribe her to clean the house, and delay her so that she gets free lunch.
I’ve told people stories about my mom hitting people with a rolled up newspaper for making the dog bark, I’ve held my tongue in polite company while people tell me about how wild their younger brother is for smoking pot. And the truth is we are crazy, every single one of us. We are Abi something (a joke from one of my favorite movies as a kid, young Frankenstein, and a play on my last name).
I’ve done things with normal (if there is such a thing) families, where there is awkwardness, and angst and stuff. But I wouldn’t trade all the pain and other crazy stuff that happened to me as a kid for that, ever.
My family might be functionally dysfunctional; we might drink too much, do to many drugs, or be loud, or different, or completely off the rocker. But at least we are interesting. And they give me great writing material. So I love Thanksgiving, because it is a great excuse to get together with my family, and just hang out. I am thankful for them, and all of their crap. I am thankful for the baggage they have given me, and for making me who I am as a person.
What are you thankful for?
Happy thanksgiving, and hopefully I will have some awesome stories to bring back after the holiday.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Smart Mouth
I have a smart mouth. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say I have a very stupid mouth, and a smart brain, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say I have an average mouth, an average brain and a very stupid filter that connects the two.
I have a true skill at talking myself into trouble. In fact, most of the lessons that I learn, and promptly forget have to do with talking to people. Things like, don’t talk to strangers, because talking to strangers leads to them following you, and misinterpreting being friendly with flirting. And stalking you, and breaking into your house, and murdering you in your sleep. But that might just have more to do with being friendly, and growing up in the south where it is perfectly acceptable to be nice to strangers, and waving at people (like cops). Did you know if you are in a city and you wave at a police officer they think you need help? I sure didn’t not when I moved here at least.
Living in DC can be challenging sometimes, and not just because of the city thing, and the talking to strangers thing. But for its own special thing. DC is full of people that think they are important, and people that are actually important, like the President. The President comes with secret service, and they come with road closings and general obstruction of people trying to get from point A to point B, especially when the President departs from his normal routine to do the unthinkable, go out to dinner. Imagine three city blocks in your neighborhood getting shut down, one of these being the street you take every day home from work, because someone wants to eat at a restaurant. This happened the other day as I was on my way to dance class. Luckily I was on foot; un-luckily I was letting my smart mouth have fun.
The roads in the DC/Arlington area do not make sense, to walk from the metro to the dance studio I have to cross what I like to call the scary intersection. Its where five roads intersect, normally this would be a perfect place for a traffic circle, except their isn’t one (see previous comment about roads). One of these roads had been blocked off by the DC/Arlington/METRO/Secret Service police people. They had also roped off the sidewalk on this street, but this street runs alongside a park, which was not blocked off. So I cut through the park on the way to class, even though I don’t have too, but I am curious as to what was going on (I learned later it was because the president). So when I get to the crosswalk to leave the park, and cross the street, away from the blocked off area, I am met by a police officer. The exchange went as follows:
Police Officer: “You are not allowed to be here. You have to cross the street now.”
Me: looking into oncoming traffic, “Can I at least wait until the cars stop coming.”
Police Officer: “You have to cross the street as soon as it is safe to do so. You are not allowed to be here.”
Me: “You know, this side walk isn’t blocked off.”
Police Officer: “It will be blocked off as soon as you cross the street.”
Me: “What is going on?”
Police Officer: “You must cross the street here.” (The light still hadn’t changed)
Me: “Really? I had planned to cross over there,” I reply pointing into the middle of the intersection. (there is no other place to get out of the park, without walking straight into the intersection of death).
Police Officer: (not detecting my obvious sarcasm) “You have to cross the street here. Perhaps if you told me where you are trying to go, I could give you directions.”
Me: “Look, I am just trying to get to my KKK meeting at the coffee shop over there.”
Police Officer: “Cross the street now” (the light had still not changed, but she walked into the street to block oncoming traffic)
True story. I’m not sure where KKK came from, perhaps it was my brain saying, don’t say Al-Kida(sp?), say anything but Al-Kida, so when thinking of groups as hated and as evil as Al-Kida, not Al-Kida, the KKK jumped to my head. Perhaps it would have been better to not say anything at all, but I couldn’t help it. My response to people not getting sarcasm is just to get more sarcastic. It’s a vicious cycle.
I have a true skill at talking myself into trouble. In fact, most of the lessons that I learn, and promptly forget have to do with talking to people. Things like, don’t talk to strangers, because talking to strangers leads to them following you, and misinterpreting being friendly with flirting. And stalking you, and breaking into your house, and murdering you in your sleep. But that might just have more to do with being friendly, and growing up in the south where it is perfectly acceptable to be nice to strangers, and waving at people (like cops). Did you know if you are in a city and you wave at a police officer they think you need help? I sure didn’t not when I moved here at least.
Living in DC can be challenging sometimes, and not just because of the city thing, and the talking to strangers thing. But for its own special thing. DC is full of people that think they are important, and people that are actually important, like the President. The President comes with secret service, and they come with road closings and general obstruction of people trying to get from point A to point B, especially when the President departs from his normal routine to do the unthinkable, go out to dinner. Imagine three city blocks in your neighborhood getting shut down, one of these being the street you take every day home from work, because someone wants to eat at a restaurant. This happened the other day as I was on my way to dance class. Luckily I was on foot; un-luckily I was letting my smart mouth have fun.
The roads in the DC/Arlington area do not make sense, to walk from the metro to the dance studio I have to cross what I like to call the scary intersection. Its where five roads intersect, normally this would be a perfect place for a traffic circle, except their isn’t one (see previous comment about roads). One of these roads had been blocked off by the DC/Arlington/METRO/Secret Service police people. They had also roped off the sidewalk on this street, but this street runs alongside a park, which was not blocked off. So I cut through the park on the way to class, even though I don’t have too, but I am curious as to what was going on (I learned later it was because the president). So when I get to the crosswalk to leave the park, and cross the street, away from the blocked off area, I am met by a police officer. The exchange went as follows:
Police Officer: “You are not allowed to be here. You have to cross the street now.”
Me: looking into oncoming traffic, “Can I at least wait until the cars stop coming.”
Police Officer: “You have to cross the street as soon as it is safe to do so. You are not allowed to be here.”
Me: “You know, this side walk isn’t blocked off.”
Police Officer: “It will be blocked off as soon as you cross the street.”
Me: “What is going on?”
Police Officer: “You must cross the street here.” (The light still hadn’t changed)
Me: “Really? I had planned to cross over there,” I reply pointing into the middle of the intersection. (there is no other place to get out of the park, without walking straight into the intersection of death).
Police Officer: (not detecting my obvious sarcasm) “You have to cross the street here. Perhaps if you told me where you are trying to go, I could give you directions.”
Me: “Look, I am just trying to get to my KKK meeting at the coffee shop over there.”
Police Officer: “Cross the street now” (the light had still not changed, but she walked into the street to block oncoming traffic)
True story. I’m not sure where KKK came from, perhaps it was my brain saying, don’t say Al-Kida(sp?), say anything but Al-Kida, so when thinking of groups as hated and as evil as Al-Kida, not Al-Kida, the KKK jumped to my head. Perhaps it would have been better to not say anything at all, but I couldn’t help it. My response to people not getting sarcasm is just to get more sarcastic. It’s a vicious cycle.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Story Time: Medication for the Abi somethings
One time, when I was a kid, my mom lit my neck on fire.
I give out drugs, the legal kind, at work. This started because I am responsible for tracking our stock of medicine. Which means I know where everything is. Most of the time I give away my personal medication, and in case you didn't know from "Oh The" I get headaches. My standard solution to what ales you is pain medication + sudafed. I think my obsession with sudafed began with my father. He took it all the time, he gave it to me all the time, and to my sisters. We said our knee hurts, he would give us a pain killer and a sudafed.
I think this started, because everyone in my family has allergies and the allergies manifest in the form of sinus headaches, and if you've ever had a sinus headache you have probably taken sudafed. As of now, I am fairly certain I am on at least one federal watch list, because of my sudefed consumption, and perhaps because of the U turn I made in front of the gates for the CIA headquarters, and then there was the time I tried to play with a bomb dog. Again I am off topic, this is why I should not take a sudafed and drink a red bull, with an Excedrin migraine.
All of this came up at work the other day cause we were talking about butter, or burns, or alcohol. I think. Or because someone told me they felt feverish and I offered them a sudafed, which prompted the question, "does sudafed lower fever." and no, it doesn't. Its just a family remedy, like putting butter on burns. Or ways to remove a tick.
Apparently I have this obnoxious habit of beginning stories in ways that catch people off guard. Like, back when my sister was using meth, or my mom is an alcoholic. This isn't normal, or so I've been told. But these odd phrases are typically important background for the story I'm gonna tell. Like, my mom lit my neck on fire, which has everything to do with removing a tick.
It started sensicaly enough, first she tried to pull the tick out without killing it and leaving the head stuck in. That didn't work. They she tried to soak it in vodka, I think your supposed to use rubbing alcohol, but she was drinking vodka so it was what we had on hand...well that didn't work. So the next thing we tried was to hold a dead match at the tick, you know how the rest went.
And if you cant appreciate the humor in the horrifying well then. I dont know what to tell you. The thing is, I am full of stories like this, stories that most people probably find rather horrific. I deal with these situations by laughing at them. Laughing is better than crying, and why cry about something you cannot change. Its a funny story, or at least it would be, if it wasn't so sad.
What are your family remedies?
I give out drugs, the legal kind, at work. This started because I am responsible for tracking our stock of medicine. Which means I know where everything is. Most of the time I give away my personal medication, and in case you didn't know from "Oh The" I get headaches. My standard solution to what ales you is pain medication + sudafed. I think my obsession with sudafed began with my father. He took it all the time, he gave it to me all the time, and to my sisters. We said our knee hurts, he would give us a pain killer and a sudafed.
I think this started, because everyone in my family has allergies and the allergies manifest in the form of sinus headaches, and if you've ever had a sinus headache you have probably taken sudafed. As of now, I am fairly certain I am on at least one federal watch list, because of my sudefed consumption, and perhaps because of the U turn I made in front of the gates for the CIA headquarters, and then there was the time I tried to play with a bomb dog. Again I am off topic, this is why I should not take a sudafed and drink a red bull, with an Excedrin migraine.
All of this came up at work the other day cause we were talking about butter, or burns, or alcohol. I think. Or because someone told me they felt feverish and I offered them a sudafed, which prompted the question, "does sudafed lower fever." and no, it doesn't. Its just a family remedy, like putting butter on burns. Or ways to remove a tick.
Apparently I have this obnoxious habit of beginning stories in ways that catch people off guard. Like, back when my sister was using meth, or my mom is an alcoholic. This isn't normal, or so I've been told. But these odd phrases are typically important background for the story I'm gonna tell. Like, my mom lit my neck on fire, which has everything to do with removing a tick.
It started sensicaly enough, first she tried to pull the tick out without killing it and leaving the head stuck in. That didn't work. They she tried to soak it in vodka, I think your supposed to use rubbing alcohol, but she was drinking vodka so it was what we had on hand...well that didn't work. So the next thing we tried was to hold a dead match at the tick, you know how the rest went.
And if you cant appreciate the humor in the horrifying well then. I dont know what to tell you. The thing is, I am full of stories like this, stories that most people probably find rather horrific. I deal with these situations by laughing at them. Laughing is better than crying, and why cry about something you cannot change. Its a funny story, or at least it would be, if it wasn't so sad.
What are your family remedies?
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Memoirs of a Crack Family.
All good stories involve cops. This is not true. Although it is one of those things that popped into my head, when I opened my laptop to find a word document titled “Random Family shit”, a file I vaguely remember writing, under the influence of gin and my family.
The first excerpt read:
“And I was like no F***ing way,
“And they were like, yes f***ing way, cause he f***ed his way across Europe and into Asia” (my mom, on Charlemagne, Incest, and Midgets)
This is not that funny, till you get to the midget part, which I am still uncertain of its relevance. Although the entire thing came up cause I was giving my mom a hard time for getting so drunk the last time I saw her that she peed herself while trying to explain to me and my sister why incest is sometimes okay, cause everyone is related to Charlemagne (but don’t worry we don’t believe her, we might be from Georgia but even we aren’t that messed up)
Apparently I agreed to write “Memoirs of a Crack Family” on this trip, which I do admit has some potential but I honestly doubt I could ever do it. I fear that we would all be too ashamed. Which brings me to another point.
I often feel guilty of things more rational people tell me I have no business feeling guilty for. For example, I was sexually assaulted when I was 14. I never told anyone (related to me) till I was in my early twenties.
One of my younger sisters was sexually assaulted when she was 14. She never told anyone either, we didn’t find out till she tried to kill herself. I have always felt responsible, not because she was assaulted. I know I have no control over that.
I feel guilty cause I never opened up. My sisters never saw me struggling, and when it happened to her, she felt so alone, and so afraid to share, that she shut down. She tried to kill herself. I never said, you are not alone. I was never an example.
There is this entire, “It Gets Better Campaign” for GLBT kids who get bullied, which is great, its empowering. But what about all the other groups who suffer silently, who slip through the cracks of society. What about the kids with alcoholic parents? What about the kids who are abused, what about the runaways and the vagrants?
I wrote a post on a forum explaining why I don’t think I could ever write a memoir, it would hurt too many people that I actually care about, in spite of, and because of their flaws. And one of the responses was. You should write one, think of all the people you would help. And perhaps this is true. Perhaps I could help people, but at what cost. And is it selfish of me to even ask this question. How much harm is it worth to save one person? Am I responsible to tell these stories?
Second excerpt:
It was 5am
“So I was driving this black guy home that I just bought coke from, but I didnt really know him, back to south side…and I got pulled over, and they asked me if I had been drinking, and I had two beers, so he had me blow, and I blew a .09, 1 point above the legal limit, so the cop said ‘let me tell you what, you leave your car here, have your friends come bring you back tomorrow, and I’ll drive you home.’
So we get in the car and were driving, and the cop asks me “Ma’am have you ever been arrested by Baldwin County Sherif’s department before?”
“Yes sir, a few times”
“Were you ever arrested with a guy who was crying?”
‘Yes sir.”
“I think I arrested you before”
"I think you might have."
Then we pull up to the house, and all of these people are outside, and they scatter like cockroaches into the dark, when they see the cop car, and he tells me to have a good night and be safe.
The first excerpt read:
“And I was like no F***ing way,
“And they were like, yes f***ing way, cause he f***ed his way across Europe and into Asia” (my mom, on Charlemagne, Incest, and Midgets)
This is not that funny, till you get to the midget part, which I am still uncertain of its relevance. Although the entire thing came up cause I was giving my mom a hard time for getting so drunk the last time I saw her that she peed herself while trying to explain to me and my sister why incest is sometimes okay, cause everyone is related to Charlemagne (but don’t worry we don’t believe her, we might be from Georgia but even we aren’t that messed up)
Apparently I agreed to write “Memoirs of a Crack Family” on this trip, which I do admit has some potential but I honestly doubt I could ever do it. I fear that we would all be too ashamed. Which brings me to another point.
I often feel guilty of things more rational people tell me I have no business feeling guilty for. For example, I was sexually assaulted when I was 14. I never told anyone (related to me) till I was in my early twenties.
One of my younger sisters was sexually assaulted when she was 14. She never told anyone either, we didn’t find out till she tried to kill herself. I have always felt responsible, not because she was assaulted. I know I have no control over that.
I feel guilty cause I never opened up. My sisters never saw me struggling, and when it happened to her, she felt so alone, and so afraid to share, that she shut down. She tried to kill herself. I never said, you are not alone. I was never an example.
There is this entire, “It Gets Better Campaign” for GLBT kids who get bullied, which is great, its empowering. But what about all the other groups who suffer silently, who slip through the cracks of society. What about the kids with alcoholic parents? What about the kids who are abused, what about the runaways and the vagrants?
I wrote a post on a forum explaining why I don’t think I could ever write a memoir, it would hurt too many people that I actually care about, in spite of, and because of their flaws. And one of the responses was. You should write one, think of all the people you would help. And perhaps this is true. Perhaps I could help people, but at what cost. And is it selfish of me to even ask this question. How much harm is it worth to save one person? Am I responsible to tell these stories?
Second excerpt:
It was 5am
“So I was driving this black guy home that I just bought coke from, but I didnt really know him, back to south side…and I got pulled over, and they asked me if I had been drinking, and I had two beers, so he had me blow, and I blew a .09, 1 point above the legal limit, so the cop said ‘let me tell you what, you leave your car here, have your friends come bring you back tomorrow, and I’ll drive you home.’
So we get in the car and were driving, and the cop asks me “Ma’am have you ever been arrested by Baldwin County Sherif’s department before?”
“Yes sir, a few times”
“Were you ever arrested with a guy who was crying?”
‘Yes sir.”
“I think I arrested you before”
"I think you might have."
Then we pull up to the house, and all of these people are outside, and they scatter like cockroaches into the dark, when they see the cop car, and he tells me to have a good night and be safe.
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