Mean Girls, You've Got To Be Kind!

I was at Walmart one day and there was a guy sitting on a bench at the front near the registers. He was very obviously profoundly developmentally disabled, completely in his own world, and just having an absolute blast. I can't remember exactly what he was doing, but he was making a fair bit of noise, maybe listening to music because he was singing and chair dancing right there. 

Then these three teenage girls walked by. They were about 16, really pretty, fashionably dressed, the total cheerleader popular mean girl types. They noticed him and immediately started laughing and pointing, mimicking him and just being incredibly mean about it. 

The Windy City and Me

The roots of Chicago stay with you, no matter how many miles or years pile up. For me, that footprint started when I was eleven years old, living for four unforgettable months on South Kedzie Avenue with my Gramma Mary. Down on the Southwest Side, near Gage Park and Chicago Lawn, the city had a distinct, working-class grit. At eleven, that stretch of Kedzie was my entire universe. It was a world of brick two-flats, corner stores, and the constant, lively hum of the neighborhood. It was an eye-opening introduction to the real heart of the city. 

Years later, I returned to Chicago as an adult, but this time, the city showed us a completely different side of its character. 

Assorted Poetry

This post holds a lot of poems I wrote back in the 80s and 90s, in no particular order. Enjoy!

I Cried

 

July 1 1961 - August 31 1997

As soon as I heard of Princess Diana's death, the chorus of an old song began running through my mind. I think it is apropos to the moment..

Why I Write

Ever since penmanship stopped being a burden and became something that I could do well (around the age of 12, I was a late penmanship bloomer), I have been an avid writer. It did not come easily, though.

I remember suffering over "Creative Writing" exercises in 4th, 5th, and 6th grades. Being told that I was not writing poetry correctly because my poems had neither rhyme nor meter, being told that my choice of subject matter was uninteresting, being told that my stories lacked (pick something)..

The Hands

Early morning memory...

Penny for your thoughts

When I was ten, I made my artist grandmother a cross for her wall by cutting a couple of chopsticks into shorter pieces with a steak knife, using a leather bootlace to bind them together, and then I used Elmer's glue to attach pennies up and down the stake and the crosspiece.

I remember having to prop the pennies so they would stay still and let the glue dry properly.

Gramma Mary hung that cross on her wall in Chicago, and then took it to California when she moved there when I was about 20. It was still hanging on her wall when she passed away, about twenty years after I made it for her.

It was kind of gimpy, but she loved it, and loved that I had spent time and effort making it for her.

I miss you, Gramma.

Easter Egg Hunts SUCK!

When I was seven, my family put on an Easter Egg hunt for all the kids on our street. Most of them were 10 and up. My sister and I didn't get baskets that year, because we were having the hunt instead.

I didn't find a single thing until our housemate showed me where he had hidden one hard boiled egg. I remember feeling miserable and watching all the other kids crowing about their loot. I spent most of the afternoon crying in my room. And my Easter consisted of a hard boiled egg, which I didn't even like back then.

I never ever EVER put on a neighborhood hunt for my kids because I'll be damned if one of my kids would ever feel the way I felt that day. 

We did baskets and inside the house egg hunts, just for our kids, and each kid got one room to search, so they would each get a fair share.

The Weight of Forty Years

Forty plus years ago, I spent one spring and summer where I had no job and couldn't find one. I was stripping one night a week and paid $25 for that, plus any tips customers stuffed in my g-string, which was usually about $10-15 a night. So my income was no more than $40 a week. I had to eat, and I needed cigarettes, which I considered a priority.

Beyond the Lip Service

 

I remember the first time I saw Boy George. It was 1981 or 82, I honestly forget which. I was in a bar with my guy, Scott, having a beer, and they had MTV on. Do You Really Wanna Hurt Me came on, and I saw Boy George and my jaw hit the fucking floor and I started laughing in hysterics.

I was utterly astounded that this queer looking guy had the sheer guts to be on TV dressed like a woman. I was amazed that MTV allowed it on their programming. I was too caught up in staring at him and being half amazed, half grossed out, to notice that that motherfucker could SING. I think back now to how I felt, how I was kind of horrified and freaked out, and I think...

Jumping the Shark: The Fonz’s Funeral and Henry Winkler’s Last Laugh

It's a classic case of a show becoming a victim of its own success. What started as a grounded, nostalgic look at 1950s Milwaukee - centered on the Cunningham family - eventually morphed into the "The Fonzie Show," and that’s where the wheels started to come off.

The Holy Trinity: Why I Keep Buying These Same Three Records

 

Most six-year-olds in 1971 were vibrating to "The Wheels on the Bus" or whatever upbeat nonsense was playing on the radio, but not me. No, I was already deep in the trenches of acoustic melancholy. I was sitting there in my kindergarten class, probably staring at a pile of blocks, while the haunting melodies of Joni Mitchell’s Blue, the earthy warmth of Carole King’s Tapestry, and the gentle drawl of James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James played on a loop in my head. 

I’ve owned these albums on vinyl, 8-track, cassette, CD, and every digital format known to man; at this point, the only thing missing is a reel-to-reel copy, and frankly, my wallet is grateful for that one omission. 

And now, the albums.

The Voice I Thought I Lost

 

Me, 17 years old

All my childhood and teens I sang, sang all the time. Played guitar. Music was the thing that brought me to life, and I wanted nothing more than to buy a PA system and join a band. The singers I listened to shaped my style. Grace Slick, Tina Turner, Ann Wilson, Janis Joplin, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell.

My dad always encouraged me in my music, always asked me to play and sing for him, always got happy when I learned a new song or wrote one. He especially loved that. He gifted me my Harmony Sovereign for Christmas when I was twelve and paid for guitar lessons twice a week for several years. He was my biggest fan.

When I was fourteen I won a school wide talent show singing the 59th Street Bridge Song by Simon and Garfunkel and accompanying myself on my Harmony Sovereign guitar. That was the kind of kid I was. Music was where I lived...

Chicago: Where the Music Took Hold - TWICE

I am willing to bet good money that the first music I ever heard was my mother singing to me in Chicago, the city where I was born and where I lived for the first three months of my life before we moved to Boston. 

The year I was eleven, life went pretty cattywumpus. I'd been living with my mother for the previous year, and that pretty much imploded due to my special needs as an undiagnosed bipolar person. I returned to my father's home, and since he was in the middle of relocating across town and setting up housekeeping, he asked his mom, my Gramma Mary, if I could come to Chicago and stay with her for a month or two. Gramma said yes...

Clickety Clackety!

I have never been good at saving up my money for purchases. But there was one time, when I was about six years old...

Back in the late 60s or early 70s, I collected returnable bottles and turned them in for the 5 cent bounty, and saved my 25 cent a week allowance. I busted tail to buy a pair of clackers, and after several weeks of hard work and no penny candy from Max's Smoke Shop, I had the $1.49 I needed to buy my clackers. I knew which pair I wanted, too, gorgeous royal blue with gold glitter inside the balls.

So I trotted off to Woolworth's to buy my clackers.

And the shelf was filled with Nerf balls.

I asked the clerk where the clackers were, and was told that they had all been recalled, because they would shatter and glass would fly and hurt people.

Man, was I PISSED.

Ever since then, I have wanted a pair of clackers.

Looks like they're back, but with an acrylic ball instead of glass. So I ordered some.

Because the inner child MUST be placated.

Adolescent Adoration and Adult Music Taste

Eric Faulkner of the Bay City Rollers was such a handsome man in the 70s, and still is, really. 

Even when I was ten and had just discovered boys, I leaned toward older boys who had a more MAN look to them than that pretty adolescent boy stage where they could just as easily be a girl. For instance, all my friends wanted to marry Luke Skywalker. I wanted me some Han Solo. Han looks like a MAN, not a teenage girl.

Arachnophobia

I am a major arachnophobe. Show me a spider, I show you a woman having a panic attack, whimpering and staying in the center of the bed for safety from spider fangs. I am particularly terrified of tarantulas, the big hairy bastards.

Here in north Texas out in the boonies, we get one sneaking in the house occasionally. I generally freak out until my husband catches it and removes it from my house. But they're NOTHING compared to the opossum who somehow got in and spread our full trashcan all over the place. But the worst was that fucking giant white and yellow snake, about four feet long and rather girthy that it took two healthy teenage boys to lift from the top shelf of my pantry, and then carry out of the house.

I do not like living in a place where the wildlife just feels like it can come in and set up housekeeping. I fully expect to wake up one day and see a damn coyote curled up on the big dog bed. Or maybe a bobcat snoring on the couch.

Well, at least its not giant flying cockroaches, like in San Antonio.

My Fucking Sister Is A Piece Of Shit

When you plan to give somebody a simple gift of a book that you know they would love, and they spit in your face and say "Keep it, I'm trying to get rid of stuff." Like a fucking BOOK takes up a ton of space. 

Guaranteed she's buying some damn ugly piece of 1950s furniture this week, or some tacky green opaque glassware to fill her cabinets with and feel like she's so fucking bougie.

Fuck her and her pretentious, phony, all about appearances, bullshit self.

(Note: A LOT of anger inside, proceed at your own risk.)

Question on Quora: What’s one small habit that helped you become better with money?

Question on Quora: What’s one small habit that helped you become better with money?

It is time to shout out the truth.

 

Thank you, Deb Colburn, owner of Nomad, Cambridge and pretentiousl;y fake 79 year old hipster with the screaming fire engine red hair, the stupid glasses, and the designer dogs, for showing me a complete tour of your naked vagina, clitoris included, when I was five and you were 21, and encouraging me to hold and rub your boyfriend's penis and testicles when I was seven and you were 23 or 24. For breaking wooden spoons on my ass. For telling everybody I was a crazy liar so that they didn't believe me when I told them what you were doing to me.

For driving a wedge between me and my sister, and my father. For driving my mother away, then abandoning us when you had your own kid.

I hope you die bleeding painfully from your asshole.

I think I'll send this letter to the Cambridge Chronicle, Boston Globe, and WBZ news.

Bet you voted for Trump, too. Cunt.

Shit is going to get real, Deb. I won't hurt you or encourage people to. I'll just drive you batshit crazy.