suitably*woundedI Just WISH My Mother Was An Alien....
November 14th 2006 02:25
Instead, she's more of a cross between Carrie''s
mom, G.W. Bush Jr. and Anita Bryant with her tinfoil hat. In more modern day terms, she'd be Roseanne's evil twin.
Why am I telling you all this?
Well, maybe we can prove whether it's nature or nurture. Boxers or briefs. Creamy or smooth. How many licks to the middle of a Tootsie Roll Pop? We'll start with the early years, when I was just knee-high to an ameba.
Illustration I
I've always hated all beans (and that includes peas of every variety), black, red, lima, refried
and any of the other nasty types that I'm sure I'm forgetting. Yuck. So, of course, when I was but a wee lass, my mother decided I'd eat the damn things anyway. No big deal, right? Right. Which meant I shortly followed that meal by gagging and then projectile vomiting just like Regan. Ok, not really. However, I did puke. Now at this point, I'm assuming many parents would serve up another bowl. Since I have no kids and I don't usually discuss this with anyone but my shrink, I don't really know that for a fact, it's just a hunch I have. Mom did present me once more with these reprehensible boil from Og's butt, although it's wasn't a new dish. It was FRESH though and had all sorts of pretty colors in it, like yellow from the previous mouthful of corn. Probably a bit of white from the milk too.
Illustration II
I was around 11 or so when my mother decided to buy some tacky-ass living room furniture. I'm not sure anyone would want to drudge up the memory, but the couch and chairs were like crushed velvet and had pastoral scenes on them (predominantly beige/brown with a water mill), with varnished, chunky wood arms. The end and coffee tables matched that and had those really hip, nifty rounded arms like you were eating at an upscale chuck wagon. To compliment all this, we got 2 giant lamps made of green glass and they sported shades you could fit a clown car in.
After our chic purchases, home they go (although I'm hazy on this part -- I know we didn't have a truck, nor did anyone we knew -- did we put this shit on the roof of a Volkswagon?!) and then that's where the problems arose. First it started to sprinkle. Second, I had my bestfriend along to witness the upcoming carnage. Third, dad had only been married to her for a couple of years and didn't quite grasp the urgency of the situation. Which was getting the sofa through the too small door before it got irreparably rained on. Poor fellow, he took at that frame with a screw diver and a hammer, meticulously trying to pry it off intact so that he could return it after we were done. Nope. Not even remotely good enough....
Mom pushed him out of the way and grabbed the tools. Peggy and I gaped while getting wet. One half-hearted attempt later and she through those useless instruments of satan out into the yard. Dad still stood there, probably in shock. The next thing we all knew, was that she jerked the freakin' thing completely loose (hell, I have no idea how, but the woman is about as stout as a college linebacker) and in turn, it hit the porch light. Guess where the shattering globe went? Unsuspecting father. As the admittedly small blood flowed, he was instructed to go sit in the middle of the den and wait there until he was told to move. Unfortunately, I have no further recollection of how we finished the 'job.' But I do know that one of those hideous lamps got partially broke and that didn't help matters either.
I think after that, Peggy preferred her beatings at home. At least they were predictable.
My friends, that's all I have the stomach for this evening. Shoot, I may not be able to revisit the scene of the crime but in small doses, perhaps months apart. However, seeing as how a large part of my therapy centers around Freud's ideas (minus the patriarch hatred), I undoubtedly will humble myself to this madness again. Right at the moment though, I need some Alka-Seltzer. And I don't like that crap. I wonder why?
Peaces,
~Kemi
*courtesy www.impawards.com*
Why am I telling you all this?
Well, maybe we can prove whether it's nature or nurture. Boxers or briefs. Creamy or smooth. How many licks to the middle of a Tootsie Roll Pop? We'll start with the early years, when I was just knee-high to an ameba.
Illustration I
I've always hated all beans (and that includes peas of every variety), black, red, lima, refried
and any of the other nasty types that I'm sure I'm forgetting. Yuck. So, of course, when I was but a wee lass, my mother decided I'd eat the damn things anyway. No big deal, right? Right. Which meant I shortly followed that meal by gagging and then projectile vomiting just like Regan. Ok, not really. However, I did puke. Now at this point, I'm assuming many parents would serve up another bowl. Since I have no kids and I don't usually discuss this with anyone but my shrink, I don't really know that for a fact, it's just a hunch I have. Mom did present me once more with these reprehensible boil from Og's butt, although it's wasn't a new dish. It was FRESH though and had all sorts of pretty colors in it, like yellow from the previous mouthful of corn. Probably a bit of white from the milk too.
Illustration II
I was around 11 or so when my mother decided to buy some tacky-ass living room furniture. I'm not sure anyone would want to drudge up the memory, but the couch and chairs were like crushed velvet and had pastoral scenes on them (predominantly beige/brown with a water mill), with varnished, chunky wood arms. The end and coffee tables matched that and had those really hip, nifty rounded arms like you were eating at an upscale chuck wagon. To compliment all this, we got 2 giant lamps made of green glass and they sported shades you could fit a clown car in.
After our chic purchases, home they go (although I'm hazy on this part -- I know we didn't have a truck, nor did anyone we knew -- did we put this shit on the roof of a Volkswagon?!) and then that's where the problems arose. First it started to sprinkle. Second, I had my bestfriend along to witness the upcoming carnage. Third, dad had only been married to her for a couple of years and didn't quite grasp the urgency of the situation. Which was getting the sofa through the too small door before it got irreparably rained on. Poor fellow, he took at that frame with a screw diver and a hammer, meticulously trying to pry it off intact so that he could return it after we were done. Nope. Not even remotely good enough....
Mom pushed him out of the way and grabbed the tools. Peggy and I gaped while getting wet. One half-hearted attempt later and she through those useless instruments of satan out into the yard. Dad still stood there, probably in shock. The next thing we all knew, was that she jerked the freakin' thing completely loose (hell, I have no idea how, but the woman is about as stout as a college linebacker) and in turn, it hit the porch light. Guess where the shattering globe went? Unsuspecting father. As the admittedly small blood flowed, he was instructed to go sit in the middle of the den and wait there until he was told to move. Unfortunately, I have no further recollection of how we finished the 'job.' But I do know that one of those hideous lamps got partially broke and that didn't help matters either.
I think after that, Peggy preferred her beatings at home. At least they were predictable.
My friends, that's all I have the stomach for this evening. Shoot, I may not be able to revisit the scene of the crime but in small doses, perhaps months apart. However, seeing as how a large part of my therapy centers around Freud's ideas (minus the patriarch hatred), I undoubtedly will humble myself to this madness again. Right at the moment though, I need some Alka-Seltzer. And I don't like that crap. I wonder why?
Peaces,
~Kemi
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