Category Archives: biographical
Thank you to all of you who have started following my blog since the post “Flying Ford Anglia” was posted. I’m glad you all enjoyed the post and started following, but a fair warning…you may not know what you’ve gotten yourself into.
I like to write, and I like to imagine myself a writer, and sometime I manage to come up with something that is witty or curious or just off the wall enough to make someone laugh. However, this blog isn’t all full of crafted phrases and thought out ideas; it isn’t always something that deserves a thumbs’ up or a LIKE. It is full of angst and swear words; crabby responses that can’t be voiced in front of a real person; minor ponderings of a soul gone astray. It may interest you, it may not; but I wanted to let you know right off that it is ALL over the place.
But primarily, this blog is about my struggle and/or ease finding happiness in a crazy mixed up world. This world is so chaotic now – what with random terrorism being more common place than shocking, and children mowing down their playmates with semi-automatics. I don’t really know how anyone manages to go through this life without an occasional panic-attack, but I’ve been assured by some that they’ve never experienced one.
Not true for me. In fact, lately I’ve been having all kinds of anxiety. My heart pounds in my throat, and I can’t sleep through the night. I’ve developed dark circles under my eyes, and l have a haunted face that I wear around the house. You probably can’t tell this when I’m at work; I try hard to keep a stiff upper lip and carry on. I smile and laugh and offer friendly service. I go out of my way to help or nag, and sometimes complain about people that annoy me. But inside lately is a belly of acidic juices churning to the beat of grumpy music. Inside I’m a bucket of nerves that are like little live wires cut free from the electrical pole, squirming around, sparks a’ flyin. I walk around looking like a normal (albeit odd) adult human being, but inside I’m raw and just a little thing. In fact, I’m scared to death.
I sort of suspect that this is because of the third grade. For those of you new to my scene, I have multiple personality disorder, and I’m struggling with working through that rather large can of worms. Presently the worms are all coming from third grade, I think.
Third grade is an elusive situation. I can’t really remember anything. I have pretty much blocked the whole year out, and know only primary basics; like we lived with my grandmother that year, and my older sister chose to sleep and hang out in the garage, up in a pile of boxes that were stacked on top of each other reaching almost to the top of the garage ceiling. We had moved out of a house we were renting, and whatever we could stuff of our belongings went into my gran’s garage, and my older sister buried herself in there like some kind of little mouse nestled in wood shavings. And I only know this fact because she recently told me about it.
The stuff I know from that year in my life is that I was sleep walking a lot, and the next year I developed an ulcer, chronic headaches, nose bleeds, and asthma. And the fact that pretty much the whole year (minus one or two vague memories) is obliterated from my memory makes me think something was pretty scary at that time in my life.
So all of that to say, right now – with my heightened anxiety over nothing, or little things – I sort of think that third grade personality is wanting to come out, wanting to deal with her stuff.
And it’s freaking me out. I’ve spent my whole life squishing down bad memories and scary monsters. I’ve spent a great many years lying to myself that there are no skeletons in my closet, and bolting it up just to be sure. I am scared to death of the memories of a little nine year old girl making their way into my life, and making a shambles of my existence.
But I guess, to be who I need to be, and to embrace the beauty of the darkest side of my soul, I must.
So hang on if you want, follow if you dare, the ride may be bumpy, I just don’t know…
Thus far, August is proving to be a rather drippy month here in the middle of Michigan. Which reminds me of that old Camp Granada song, and the promise that fun will be had once the weather clears up. And once they find that boy that’s gone missing.
Which is sort of how my experience of summer camp always went. My older sister – who has yet to realize that she has been living a somewhat charmed life – always loved summer camp. Looked forward to it every year. She would come home with these awesome stories about camp life that would send even the most flat-footed city kid into wilderness withdrawal. To hear her describe it, the summer camp she went to was about two yards away from the kingdom of heaven, and since they sold frosty cans of Mountain Dew in the snack shop she wasn’t that far off.
My sister has always been a popular and persuasive girl. While I was sort of an offbeat, spastic loner, Angie was all smiles, giggles, and unprecedented social savvy. She could befriend anyone immediately, despite the ginormous owl glasses she wore. And that shouldn’t be held against her, because giant, hubcap sized glasses were all the rage when we were junior high types. So despite her legally blind status, she had all the right pieces to play with: cool magnifying eyeballs, Farrah Fawcett feathered hair, and boobs the size of Texas. So she was POPular.
One year while she was enjoying the gloriousness of camp life, my sister and her BFF got a care package in the mail. Since kids were there for a whole week, and most parents rejoiced in the send off but missed their offspring just the same, there was a big “mail room” time every day. Kids sat around Indian style while a camp person shouted out names read from envelopes with hearts and stickers all over them. These letters came from moms and dads, grannies and aunties, and also girlfriends back home who wanted to make sure you weren’t making out with NEW girlfriends. Lots of kids got care packages as well, full of candy bars, snack foods, clean socks maybe. This particular year Angie and her friend got a package that had both of their names on the front. Sort of.
This package was labeled “Squeakers and Peekers”, and addressed to the camp site. The ’emcee’ had a good time with this, I’m sure, however I wasn’t there so can only imagine him calling out these names in a quizzical and humored type of voice. And giggling ensued, I’m sure. Angie and her friend went to retrieve the package, and the emcee asked about these nicknames. Well of course, my sister was Peekers, because of her giant plastic glasses. And once the emcee picked on the two girls for a bit, “Squeakers” started laughing, and the teeny tiny high-pitched giggle answered that question as well. So the rest of the week all the campers – and counselors as well – called out to them as they walked around, “Hey Squeakers! Hey Peekers!”. Instant fame and popularity, just from a package in the mail. Of course, the fact that they were both cute as hell and silly as loons didn’t hurt either.
Her other stories were just as charming and exciting; tales of stringing their counselor’s bra to the top of the flag pole, swimming for hours in little bikinis by the pool, and night time singing sessions by the big fire. Camp sounded so amazing when she talked about it. I was confused about how she always managed to get to camp, since we always checked the “poor as church mice” section of the Census. In fact, our official family motto was, “Money doesn’t grow on trees; that’s why we have this here metal detector”.
Luckily for us the church we were mouses at had nifty things like a used clothing box, and apparently a summer camp tuition account. Or maybe that’s just what my sister told me. Of course she lied to me all the time, but I actually went to summer camp a couple of times myself, so I tended to trust her on this one. Which was my big mistake.
Summer camp was in the mountains of California, which is where I grew up. I can only imagine you thinking I’ve lived in Michigan all my life, and claim to have been poor while I flew to sunny California every year for summer camp. Not so. I grew up in Southern California, in the funky part of Long Beach, and by funky I mean run down, bars on your windows, take you garden hose in at night or it will disappear kind of funky. We didn’t have a college fund set aside for anyone, or a retirement plan in the making. We were more of a “pork and beans three days a week” kind of family. But since the powers that be had smiled on us, summer camp became a reality for me as well.
And it all started off well. I experienced the fun story telling, song singing experience in the bus that Angie told me about. I spent hours riding along other stinky junior high kids, playing 21 questions, or slug bug, or whatever other travel games you play on the road. And I experienced the majestic and magical McDonald’s stop before we hit camp. Living in Long Beach in the seventies and eighties, I had no idea there were these things called MOUNTAINS close by. At that time Long Beach was under a constant layer of smog, which I innocently thought was nice beach side cloud cover. Once we were far enough along in our travels, we hit the famed McDonald’s stop and I knew what Angie was talking about. All the hype was real! Beautiful mountains on the horizon, that I could actually see with my eyeballs! French fries made of magical ingredients. Rowdy kids running loose in a confined environment. I couldn’t wait to get to camp!!
Of course, my sister’s life was vastly different than my own, and I didn’t take that into account. While her experience was all summer fun, popularity and joyful singing to the Lord, mine was more like, I don’t know, a bad episode of the Three Stooges. My “best friend” didn’t run around and giggle with me, like Peekers and Squeakers did. She actually abandoned me right about an hour after we got there and went to find herself a new boyfriend and some “cool” people to hang out with. But that’s OK, because I liked solitude. And all the time alone gave me a chance to reflect on nature. Except that I was allergic to all this nature, and spent the better part of the night hours trying to find a way to breathe that didn’t involve my runny nose. But since I had asthma as well, and the trees were agitating my asthma, breathing was just right out.
And the next day, when we all were “supposed” to play kickball, they didn’t seem to want to let me off because of my asthma. It’s like the counselors I had were the Fun Police, and no kid was allowed to avoid fun for any reason. Even asthma. So I told them I was pigeon toed, and tried to explain the logic of NOT playing kick ball when you have this malady. Soon I was running the bases eating lots of dirt and wondering how Angie had so many great stories. But she had good stories about the pool, so I could always try that.
And I did. Only to see some guy hyperventilating after a swimming competition, and I didn’t have anything as fancy or expensive as an asthma inhaler, so swimming suddenly seemed less fun and more stressful. Maybe I could try the hiking part of the fun. Or did that involve twisting your ankles? Because no matter how short or long the distance, I would twist my ankles. I loved to run, but had these inexplicably weak and wobbly ankles that made me a no-go for soccer, track or – look at that – hiking! And running someone’s bra up the flag pole didn’t happen in my cabin, though I thought about giving it a try. When I thought of the bras in the area, it made me look in my own suitcase which, to my dismay, was packed with way fewer panties than I had thought. Which made me think of taking a shower, except that someone had barfed in the shower the other day, and since the plumbing was pretty slow and horrible, the barf just lay on top of the five inches of water climbing closer toward your knee caps, so wearing dirty underwear seemed somehow justifiable.
I went through the list of awesome stories my sister had told me about camp, wracking my brain for an activity that might work for me. And finally, by the end of the week, I had found my thing. Foosball! in the rec room of the snack shop. Here I could consume sugary, carbonated beverages, bump up next to other un-showered children, and play air hockey, table tennis, or the wondrous game of non-ankle-twisting soccer-with-plastic-people all day long if I wanted. And I wanted. Because I needed to have something about summer camp that was my own fun memory, even if it involved air conditioning, junk food and indoor allergens.
Ahhh…nothing quite like summer.
i push through the door with my hand flat. only it isn’t the door, it’s the window, and my arm goes right through it and immediately starts to bleed. i’m thirteen, and full of energy, but in a repressed sort of way. misdirected energy – like every other thirteen year old – and loads of angst. i live in a dumpy house with a poor family and a father who drinks too much. the days are warm but full of dense, smoggy air that makes it hard to enjoy perpetual sunshine.
my sister is busy teasing me. she doesn’t need a reason; do they ever? this time she is teasing me because i sort of have a boyfriend, and he called to talk nervously on the phone with me. he’s cute, and shy, but i don’t know why he’s my boyfriend. we don’t know each other except from one class in junior high. why did he even get a crush on me? my confusion makes me curious to understand the situation, so i tell him yes i’ll ‘go with him’.
but not now. i already said yes a week ago, and this is just a phone call that my sister interrupts to pick on me and call my boyfriend ‘Snookums’. (his last name is Snook) (but this is way before Snookie came around, so don’t get that confused)
i’m a bit embarrassed on the phone.
a. i don’t want him to know that i kind of like him, and i also don’t want him to know that i’m very apathetic about the whole thing at the same time. i actually have more of a crush on his best friend than i do on him; the other one just took too long.
b. i don’t usually have boys call me up. my sister is the one who has all the experience with the other sex. she has make out sessions all the time, and i’m just a goofy, crooked toothed tomboy. i’m surprised by the attention but don’t want to come off like an idiot.
i could punch my sister right now for making me nervous and awkward on the phone, but i kind of want to hug her. she never really pays any attention to me. she is cool and i’m just the little sister. a nobody. too shy to make any real friends, too hyper for most standard people that actually walk with their feet touching the ground, and too crazy for people outside of the drama club. i’m almost a full blown embarrassment for her i’m sure. but today she is bothering to talk to me, as though i might have something to offer in exchange.
so i’m happy, as i set the phone down and chase my sister outside. she tries to slam the door on me, but i’m quicker than she remembers, and catch the window with my palm.
which of course shatters the window and sends shards of glass in every direction. now that i’m breathing hard and giggling, i will have to concentrate on avoiding the glass all over everywhere, since i’m barefoot as usual. it IS California, shoes are not required. my father will make us pay for the window with our allowance, but it’s a good investment. no window would mean burglars coming in to steal my important Hello Kitty sticker collection, so i gladly shell over the funds. my sister probably talks her way out of her half of the window. she’s like that. and she can’t possibly know she will leave me with a small scar on my hand to remind me of this precious sibling interaction; where as usual, i come away bloody or broken and she comes out of the whole thing unscathed. that’s to be expected.
and while my boyfriend is completely confused about the whole situation, he is still on the phone. too bad for him i enjoyed the chase with my sister more than his conversation.
tonight my soul has been pricked.
for years i have avoided the whole “writing business” business. i’ve written loads of poetry, several kid’s books, and started a great many other works that i have not yet finished. but the process of trying to pitch myself is somewhat overwhelming, and i give up before i begin.
i think it’s the daunting pressure of greatness hovering over my ego that does me in. i worry that i won’t be taken seriously. that my work will not be good enough. i worry that i am not great.
not everyone is going to be great. i know that is not the whole of the writing world. but i feel i have a story for someone, somewhere, that will move them to tears, or quicken them to action, or spur them into a new way of being. i feel i have something magical for someone, some magic boost of energy or hidden weapon they need, and i worry that i will fail to shine the light in the right direction. my world – inside my mind – is full of mystery, magic, shimmering life, and impossible realities, and i worry that there is no way i can possibly translate what my experience is to another through a measly work of fiction. words fail me, and i cannot always paint the picture i wish to share.
but then i remember. not everyone is great. not every writer is brilliant. but the STORY may still be brilliant. with all my short comings, insecurities and procrastinating tendencies, i am just a tool the story uses to make itself known to the world. and so i tell myself:
less ego…more writing.
I love chili.
My mom was never a big fan of cooking. I’m not sure if it just didn’t interest her, because it was no fun cooking in a hot, sweaty kitchen? I mean, she HATES having her hair messed up, and she paints her nails every day, so I can see that cooking would be unappealing because it might involve flour getting on her or a chipped nail if she forgot how the knives worked. But it was probably more that she would rather be watching Richard Chamberlain in the Thorn Birds than making dinner. So I grew up on macaroni and cheese, Chef Boyardee pizzas and greasy homemade tacos, like a lot of other people my age. My mom was skilled with the hamburger helper as well. One of the few meals she actually made herself was chili, and this one isn’t a terribly hard recipe. Couple cans of beans, hamburg, canned tomatoes and chili seasoning, that was about it. She doesn’t like onions. Or peppers. But since the concoction she made when I was growing up was pretty darned good, I’m a big fan of the stuff now. So this year, for the first time, I went to the Chili Cook-off in my town.
Every year my city hosts a Chili Cook-off, but since they hold it in June and it’s always hot as hell, I’ve never gone. Who wants to eat piping hot chili full of spices that blow your taste buds off and make your eyes water when it’s ninety degrees outside? Why they couldn’t have planned this annual festival in, say, September I don’t really understand. But hey, this year I figured I’d give it a try.
Booths were sprinkled throughout the lawn area, and hawkers called you to there stand with humor, flirtation, and sometimes just sheer obnoxious volume. Some of the tents had massive lines, and some had no people at all. Now, at first I thought the obvious: the tents with the lines have the tastiest chili. But then I came to my senses and realized that we had come way too late in the game, and half the tents were already out of food two and a half hours before the event was over. The event was advertised as running from “4-9”, but now I know better: you have to come at 4:00 and eat all the chili before everyone else gets there, then you stay around drinking beer and getting good and pickled until 9:00. I’ll know how to work it next year.
Some of the chili was mighty tasty (you know I already love you, Red Robin, but good job on this as well!) And some of it was downright disgusting. But I mean, our palettes are all different, right? I guess some of us eat dirt a lot more than others and borrow from that taste profile. Anyway, it was fairly fun and a good cap off to “Be a Tourist in Your own Town”, which is what we were doing earlier. My sister and I came home, had some booze and sat on the couch and watched movies. Altogether a really nice day, and I was hard pressed to think how it could have been more entertaining.
Silly me. My life can ALWAYS get more entertaining! At 5:00 in the morning I discovered that my neighbor had gone to the Chili Cook-off as well. From across the street blew periodic farts of such catastrophic caliber that I woke up from a dead sleep. Off, on, off, on: toxic ass farts that could potentially damage the earth’s ozone layer even MORE than hairspray! And even when I closed my windows the faintest little hint of dying animals seeped in as I struggled to fall back asleep and contain my laughter.
ahhh, good old chili.
so, if you haven’t figured it out yet, i’m crazy.
but really, i should have known this since forever. ‘cause the signs were there. i mean, i was cutting my hair since about age five.
oh i’m sorry, you didn’t know about that? yeah, two of the sure signs you are crazy:
1. you talk to yourself
2. you cut your own hair
right now my hair is in a kind of “Mia Farrow” thing. which is cute. today. tomorrow i may hate it, but for now it will do. some days it’s more Sharon Stone, some days punk rocker, and some days i do the wet slicked back look. hot. of course, if you catch me in the morning, i’ll have the whole Christopher Walken thing going, but hey, he’s pretty great so that’s ok.
i love my hair. i complain about it all the time, but i’m really lucky to have hair that can be as crazy as i am. i actually dated a guy for a while (boy, i could stop that sentence right there and have people shocked. really? you dated before?) but this guy wanted to ask me out specifically because of my hair. he saw me when i was at work, and he said every day for two weeks i had a different hairdo and that was it; he had to ask me out.
i wonder if that’s how i got my first boyfriend, Alan Frasier. i started cutting my hair back in kindergarten, and i guess i didn’t yet have the finesse with my stubborn cowlick (now i just part creatively) so it’s pretty clear in my class picture who the beautician was. ooops. still, i managed to boyfriend-up the cutest, tallest, smileyest guy in my class, who also had the best hair of the bunch of boys.
so is it the whole birds-of-a-feather thing? not saying you are crazy, Alan, just that, well maybe our mutually awesome heads of hair attracted each other. J
I was very Stormy the other day.
Stormy is one of my alters that I haven’t quite figured out. Well, most of them I haven’t figured out yet.
Stormy seems to be a mix of things; part tomboy, part ska beach girl, part free spirit. She has a littler body than most of us. When Stormy has taken over, I can tell, because my body feels like it’s shorter than normal. I suddenly have a junior high sized body, and a different walk. She’s a little more slouchy than most, and walks like Meg Ryan in Prelude to a Kiss. Or maybe that’s how Meg walks all the time, I don’t know for sure. The tomboy aspect comes out in how she does her hair, what shoes she wears, what clothes she puts on. She is spunky, quirky, and has a definite viewpoint that I haven’t figured out. I’m not sure yet what propels her, but she has a mind of her own and plays by her own set of rules. She is uninhibited, sporty and free, which is not really how I have spent most of my life up ’till now. At least, not in the way she does it.
Stormy will dance in the middle of the street if she hears a song on someone’s radio she likes. She won’t worry about what the drivers or people around her will think, she’ll just turn to her sister or friend and say “ooo, I LOVE this song!” smile a huge smile and start swinging her hips. Stormy will walk confidently into any room and not even consider what other people are thinking about her, go about her business, and leave. She can tell when a boy thinks she’s cute, and she might smile at them or wink, but she is so involved in the moment that she just LIVES it and doesn’t worry about any of that other stuff.
That’s not been me. A lot of my adult life – or a lot of the life I can remember – has been spent observing people, trying to gauge their reactions to me so that I can change my behavior if I sense danger or disapproval. If I’m too hyper, I can calm down. If I’m too loud, I can alter my voice. I need to be in tune with the situations around me in order to shift myself – either my personality or my characteristics – to stay safe; to blend in. Stormy isn’t like that. She just is what she is.
I reconnected with a friend of mine from my past, and he told me he was madly in love with me when we were young. I thought he had a thing for my sister, but no, it was me he was crazy about. He described a time we were in the back of someone’s truck, driving along on a summer night, and I was singing a song by the Eagles, or Styx. He said I was the most beautiful thing ever. I thought to myself, “Stormy”.
Stormy isn’t afraid of life.
She IS life.
She runs and loves and feels openly.
She embraces trees and people and ideas openly.
She is the essence of vitality, and what people dream of finding at the bottom of the fountain of youth.
And I have her in me…
I just have to figure out how to let her out…
I’m tired today.
My body feels like it’s forgotten to sleep for about forty years, and it’s finally realized this omission.
But my heart feels this way today as well. Like my heart is walking down a lonely, rainy street and spies something, and bends down to pick it up. My heart looks curiously at this newfound thing, but doesn’t seem to know what it is. My heart rolls this thing around in its hand, and it feels uncomfortable. It hurts. It’s sharp and painful. It makes my heart sad. My heart doesn’t know what this is, doesn’t recognize it, but puts this thing in its pocket and continues on its way, until it finds something else that makes it sad, and lonely, and confused.
And with pockets full of unknown sorrows, my heart continues its journey, crying as it goes.
My sister and I love movies and TV. Say what you will about the power of television and its ability to turns brains to mush; we find this form of entertainment magical. Watching a TV show like LOST, Fringe or Survivor often leads us into lengthy, interesting discussions. We get mad and yell at competitors, comment on how cute Jeff Probst is, then sit and analyze the sociological behaviors of the players and wonder how we would fare in the game of Survivor. Would we turn catty and evil, and backstab those we built alliances with? Would we try to fly under the radar, or be so obnoxious that we got booted off the island first? Would we be able to braid our underarm hair by the time we got home?
Movies are good for our brains as well. It doesn’t seem to matter what the genre is or what era the movie is from, we continually discover new information about ourselves and our world, and often find nuggets of spiritual challenge, growth or revelation. Not to mention the fun of movies. The fantasy. The magic.
One day our friend offered to lend us a movie they’d rented. Cool. Who doesn’t love freebies. We just had to be sure to get it back in time, and drop it off at the right rental store. No problem. The movie runs, we are engrossed, time flies. Maybe we forgot what time the place closed. Maybe we started the show too late. Maybe the movie was so amazingly eye-opening that we had a four hour discussion about life, and vowed to advance our spirituality and karmic levels immediately. I don’t recall, but suddenly it was very obvious that we had to get this movie back to its rightful home, and do it NOW.
Pressure situations aren’t always a great time for us. We get tense, snappy, defensive and worried. We don’t always like to be rushed, or pushed, or nudged. We don’t like to be hurried. Hurrying makes us forget things, like bottled water that I will need two minutes after starting the car out of the driveway. Or glossy lip balm, because my lips might feel chapped, or I might find a cute stranger that looks like he has something on his face that needs to be cleaned. With my tongue. So supple lips are important. I hate being rushed. I never want to be ill prepared for a potential spontaneous make-out session. But this day was different. This day our magical television training paid off.
As we headed down the road and started to break the speed limit, I said we should pretend we were driving Wonder Woman’s invisible airplane. No one could see her plane, right? It’s invisible. She can go as fast as she wants, and all anyone will really know is that a woman in a star spangled bathing suit and red go-go boots is flying through space somehow. Whose going to arrest a half-naked woman in sexy foot wear? So we pictured our car as the invisible plane, and we sped like demons through the streets. Zoom past this guy, Pow past that one. We flew down the roads in record time, and our super hero driving got us to the drop box just before the villainous Late Fine was able to make his presence a reality. Being invisible has its advantages. Hmmm, plus I could kiss a lot of strangers that way.
I’d better go purchase some more lip gloss.
I love that men are apparently attracted to me, despite my atrocious eyebrows.
It just goes to show that fashion experts and the makeup industry don’t always count on the sheer force of phermones and the male libido. They’d like us to believe that we have to have the perfect skin, the perfect nose, the slenderest figure and the most fashionable wardrobe. And you should smell intoxicating and also have minty fresh breath. Oh, and also perfect eyebrows, that should go from the inner corner of your eye to the other outer corner, and be perfectly shaped, and arch just so.
Screw you. Mine won’t do that.
Look, I’ve tried; I’ve tweezed, and plucked, and individually yanked out eyebrow hairs for years. Well, the yanking part is usually when I’ve gotten nervous about something, and I’m on the phone and distracted and suddenly feel a “stray” eyebrow hair, so I manically start sending my brows to the nudist colony. But hey, I’m OCD – it comes with the territory sometimes.
I’ve had a perpetual struggle with my eyebrows. At age seventeen, I clocked myself a good one and forever altered the existence of the perfect brow. I had a fabulous loft back then, and climbed a little ladder morning and night to reach my Princess and the Pea type bed. LOVED IT! However, one morning – far too early for a teenager – my alarm went off and startled me awake. I didn’t usually get up THIS early, so my body wasn’t accustomed to the shocking beeps of the annoying alarm I kept on a ledge under my loft. I also didn’t usually leave my closet door open at night (monsters, you know), but I did that night, and when I went to turn off my alarm – WHAM! – right into the top edge of the closet door. That smack woke me up for sure. It also gave me a Rocky Balboa split eye with the blood to match, PLUS a shiner that actually would have matched my cheerleading outfit really well, since our colors were purple and gold. But this was basketball season and we were wearing the dreaded white uniforms (WHITE? on a pasty white chick in the middle of winter? who comes up with these ideas??)
Anyway, since then my right eyebrow has been an arch nemesis. ha ha. The small scar I have in the eyebrow might not be noticeable if it weren’t for the fact that the hairs around the scar all seem to have lost direction. They’ve been drunk for years, all going the wrong way and giving my brow a sort of Einsteinian hairdo. Taming them is impossible, and making them look presentable takes effort, will and sometimes imagination.
And yet, despite my wonky, devil-may-care eyebrows, men still seem to find me attractive and sexy. I suppose the double D’s might help, and the big blue eyes and pouty lips. But I’m just pointing out here, eyebrows are not the answer. Those skinny snakes from the 20’s and 30’s that were penciled in razor thin. The full wild eighties brows, sans tweezers. Straight eyebrows, curved, arched, bent, waxed, trimmed or colored. It doesn’t matter. I’d like to postulate that there are very few women who could entice a man with her eyebrows alone. Mata Hari, maybe. And probably Sophia Loren. Though Loren could certainly lure a man with simply the exotic smell of her belly button lint, if that’s what she chose to use. Vixen, that one. But there is more to sex appeal than the perfect brow. And while I don’t know what the magic answer is to feeling beautiful daily and getting the man you want, I do know that it involves more than a tiny pair of pliers.