Showing posts with label family stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family stories. Show all posts

Sunday, October 30, 2022

YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE!

I just looked back over the things I've posted since I started blogging years ago and smiled when I realized how disjointed my posts are.  Perhaps I need to go back to the beginning and put my life's story into chronological order so it makes more sense.  Being scattered is indicative of what lurks just below the surface.  It's like a game of dodgeball.  Being scattered makes the reading more difficult and the reliving it even more difficult.  I tell one story, but I skip over the before and after...those parts are most likely more important than the story I selected to tell.  Those parts were the true catalyst for what drove me, so here's my second attempt to right a
wrong by starting my story in a better spot.  

I was born into a family with a mother who was a seamstress, a father who was a fireman and three older brothers who were jocks by the time they reached high school.  That sentence depicts a rather normal family, but the period after the word "jocks" is where the normalcy ends.  I look at photos of myself from my childhood and I never see what I would call a happy child.  I never smiled except during school photos and then it was forced.  I felt ugly and awkward growing up.  I was always the tallest in my class.  During that era it wasn't fashionable for a woman to be tall, so when I started wearing jeans I had to buy boy's jeans to get the inseam long enough.  I bought Levi's at Freese's Department Store on Main Street for $4.95 a pair. I can remember licking and sticking green stamps in books so I could buy blue jeans that fit my curveless physique.  I was so relieved when tall super models hit the scene and changed perceptions of what beautiful looked like.  Thank you Twiggy!

I don't ever remember being teased about be tall or for wearing glasses except from my brothers.  They would tell me I was going to be 6 feet tall when I finished growing.  I would cry and feel like a freak.  They made it seems like I'd never be called beautiful or looked at by a boy.  In fact, they made me feel that I looked like a boy.  I was doomed to be an old maid!  Perhaps that's a brother's job to keep their sister from getting too full of herself.  If so, mine were excellent at that job.  I do have to reveal that their prediction about my height was wrong.  At my tallest I was 5'10 and now, I've begun to shrink.  The last time I was measured I was 5'7".   By the time I'm a very old woman, I might be considered of average height.  Hooray for the golden years, but BOO for having  so many problems with my back!

In hindsight, I don't know why my mother didn't take me under her wing and show me what girls are supposed to do.  She dressed nicely and wore make-up, but by the time I reached my teenage years I wasn't interested in learning to be prissy.  I always hated make up and rarely wore any.  I hated the way it felt on my skin. My closet was full of nice clothes my mother had made, but I wasn't interested in dressing in of them.  A pair of holey jeans and a T-shirt seemed to suffice.  When mini dresses were in style I wore them, but I was never comfortable with showing off my long legs.  I never felt like I had any redeeming physical qualities because no one ever told me I did.  I just assumed when you look like me people say nothing to be polite. When you look like me, you have no reason to primp or smile.  You just learn to keep it all in and suffer in silence.  When you look like me, every other female in the world is prettier.  You envy your female friends and feel horrible because you can't hide the ugly you were given. I mentioned Twiggy earlier...well, I can't really thank her because I truly hated her because my mother had me get my hair cut short like hers. If you cut a girl's hair like that who has a shapeless body you doom her to look like a boy. You talk about having a complex! 

The same went for all my other qualities and potential talents.  I never realized I was smart and that not everyone was capable of getting A's.  I just assumed because I got A's, everyone else did too, but by the time I reached 7th grade I knew I'd never finish high school.  It was like a dark cloud hovering over me preventing me from seeing the good inside myself.  I longed for recognition, but I wasn't good at doing anything.  I was never patted on the back and told "hey kiddo, I think you have something there.  Maybe you should pursue that."  When the dark side took over completely, I discovered I was excellent at hate, discontent and sorrow.  I had a gift for getting into trouble and being outrageous.  Ah! Finally recognition!

From a very early age I loved to write and often times sat in my room writing little stories and drawing pictures.  Paper was in abundance at our house because my grandfather worked at the Eastern Papermill in Brewer and one of the perks was free paper. As I wrote and drew, I always felt as though I was just wasting paper and that it was awful being so wasteful. I tried to hide how much paper I used by stashing away everything I created under the bed, in the closet and in my drawers.  Surfacely, my room looked presentable, but like my life it was actually cluttered and disorganized. As I wrote and drew, I assumed everyone could do the same.  It wasn't until much later in life that I made a startling discovery and at that moment, I was filled with so many emotions I thought I was going to lose my mind.  I was angry because I didn't receive any encouragement when I was growing up and I was sad because I had wasted so much time living behind a wall. I made myself remember how my creations were never showcased, but thrown away each time my mother decided my room needed a thorough cleaning.  Our refrigerator door was bare except for the occasional newspaper cartoon that was taped there.  The void I grew up in wasn't loud and maddening.  It was dark and cold.  There was no praise and encouragement.  There was only waves of pain and disappointment.

As I got older and could no longer avoid making certain realizations, I felt worse the more potential I discovered I had.  You would think a healthy person making those types of discoveries would feel elated.  They would open their wings and soar amongst the clouds.  Not I!  I stopped writing and drawing about the same time I stopped doing drugs around age 30 and didn't start again for almost 15 years. I had this overwhelming need to punish myself, to stifle myself and to deny myself any recognition for a job well done.  I called myself stupid for not seeing obvious things and for allowing my inner demons to run amok.  I hated being weak and I hated me!  I still struggle with those demons, but I'm able to comfort that little girl inside myself and tell her that she's the bright spot in my life.  Mildred, you are my sunshine!

*reposted from 10/26/2019

Tuesday, January 28, 2020

AND NOW FOR THE REST OF THE STORY

Ha! Wasn't that what Paul Harvey would famously say as he would put his unique twist on a story? My unique twist goes something like this...

So you read about my middle name debacle. No big deal, right? It could be worse. They could have named me after my paternal grandmother, Asenath Hedeen. How's that for a name? My maternal grandmother was Marjorie Avis. A little better, but I guess in the grand scheme of things Karen isn't too bad. I'll keep it even though every Karen I know seems to belong to a very special group of damaged individuals. We rock! If we ever rise up and unite, you better watch out! And now the name Karen has a huge stigma attached to it. We're all are depicted as obnoxious, angry, entitled, and often racist white women who uses our privilege to get our way.  Another suggestion is that it comes from a 2005 bit by Dane Cook called “The Friend Nobody Likes.”

Fast forward 25 or so years: I've always heard paybacks are hell and revenge is always sweeter when served cold, so how much colder can it be to name my dog after my mother. Oh yes I did! What makes it a beautiful thing is that I was an adult and she couldn't torture me. Hooray! lol My mother hates her middle name. You see, her mother (my sweet, sweet Nana) stuck her with her mother's first name as a middle name. God, I love it! She just about cringes whenever she has to give her middle name to anyone. Personally, I don't think it's that bad, but who am I to judge middle names? Remember I don't have one!

When my daughter was just a little girl we got a lovely German Shepherd and we named her Montie.  I think my mother's hair actually used to stand on end whenever I would go to visit and when it came time to call for Montie to come inside from the fenced-in backyard. I'd take great pleasure hollering out that glorious name. Say it loud and say it proud! Mother, are you listening?

Come on, M-O-N-T-I-E. It's time to go home. Montie's such a good girl. Here's a treat from Grandma.


 

Monday, January 27, 2020

Meet Queen Ovaltine

When my mother was pregnant with me she did something quite stupid.  She let my brothers pick out my name.  Since my brothers didn't want any stinking baby girls in their house, they only picked out one name for their new baby brother.  The consensus was that the newest member to their band of brothers would take HIS rightful place amongst them with the name of Jimmy.  When I arrived that Labor Day many moons ago, much to their surprise and major disappointment, I was that stinking baby girl they didn't want!  This created quite the dilemma of coming up with a name to put on my birth certificate. No, "Shithead" wasn't in the book of baby names that year or else I'm sure that would have been my name. 

Why my mother didn't have my brothers pick out two names (just in case) really baffles me. Why she didn't encourage them to be more receptive to the possibility of having a sister is ludicrous. Why she didn't just name me Jimmy anyways or maybe something close to Jimmy like Jamie to ease the sting my brothers felt has always puzzled me.  It was almost like they were set up to resent me right from the start. My mother even bought into the whole idea of me being a boy by not having a secret back-up name picked out for me if I was a girl.  WTF?  Welcome to the family, you stinking baby girl with no name! You little unwelcome shithead!

When my mother started having children, she claimed if she ever had the little girl she claimed she wanted so much she would name her Debbie.  Is my name Debbie? NO!  The reason I wasn't given that name is because my aunt had a girl a year or so before I arrived and named her Debbie.  Since the RULEBOOK clearly states that there can only be one Debbie per family, it was back to the drawing board when it came time to name me.  I guess that RULEBOOK didn't include chapters covering things like choosing a back-up name or selecting a middle name either.  I hope those chapters are included now so little shitheads like me aren't stuck with lame names (Moon Unit comes to mind) and no middle names.

Where my mother came up with the name Karen has always been a mystery to me. She doesn't even know. Was it one of the "hot" females names that year? Nope! Was it a family name? Nope! Was I named after a family friend? Nope! I guess they just tossed some names in a hat and picked one and forgot to pick a second one for a middle name. I guess picking the name Karen was such a grueling task that no one could come up with or even suggest a possible middle name to go with it.  I can almost picture how the whole thing happened. Throughout my life I have gone through the list of female names many times and have found a handful of names that would have fit nicely with Karen.  Each time I find one that "fits," it makes that old nagging feeling of being unimportant rear its ugly head and makes me wonder why my own family couldn't have picked a sweet little name for their new bundle of joy new little shithead. 

One of the many reasons I grew up feeling like a such a freak was due to my lack of having a middle name.  I guess it may seem trivial to most people, but most people have a middle name.  Most people are designed to fit in right from the get go and were not given an instant
conversation piece.  Whenever asked what my middle name is, I always get that "Yeah, right!" look when I tell people I don't have one.  Most people immediately think I'm lying to cover up the fact that I got stuck with some horrendous name like Gertrude or Bertha (my apologies to all the Gertrude's and Bertha's in the world, but your name sucks in my humble opinion).  Maybe I'm just jealous because I don't have a middle name. When left to my own devices (which is a dangerous thing to do), I gave myself my own unique middle name.  My story of having a mother who craved Ovaltine while she was pregnant with me is a much nicer one to tell people than describing how braindead my family can be at times.  So there you have it...I named myself.  Bing! Bang! Boom!


Now to add insult to injury, I always thought it sucked being born on September 5th. The year I was born (the wheel still hadn't been invented), September 5th fell on Labor Day (the first Monday of September). The main reason I felt as I did about my birthday was because many times my birthday fell on the first day of school.  For a child, that seemed like a fate worse than death. After becoming a parent, the first day of school seemed like a blessing! During those years when my birthday fell on the first day of school, I always felt like my birthday was the secondary event of the day almost like an afterthought.  I guess that was due to all the chaos the first day of school brings to any household.  My parents had 4 children to get ready for school and send on our way out the door and into the caring tutelage of our new brain bruisers, the teachers.


Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.
-AUTHOR UNKNOWN-
LAST BORN TRAITS:
Risk takers
Idealists
Good sense of humor
Hard working
Attention seeking
Secretive
Sensitive

MISCELLANEOUS FACTS:
Famous last born children: Howard Stern, Jay Leno, Ralph Nadar, Bill Gates and Danny DeVito
Tend to go against the norm
Make the biggest stirs in life
Know no boundaries

QUEEN OVALTINE aka MILDRED RATCHED/RED KITTEN FACTS:
My youngest son was born on Labor Day also and the doctor who delivered him was born on Labor Day. We were all 25 years apart.

My great grandfather and I shared the same birthday and I grew up to share the same profession. My grandmother died on my 9th birthday.

Recently I looked up what famous people were also born on my birthday or I on theirs:
Freddie Mercury, Jack Daniel, Jesse James and Raquel Welsh. 

Wednesday, December 18, 2019

MIXED FEELINGS

Check out the mullet!
Last night my daughter, Christina sent me a text message telling me that my ex-husband, Jim wasn't doing well and probably wouldn't live much longer. Her ex step-brother, Josh had texted her to let her know the news and asked her to pass along the information to me with a copy of a short note I had written him years earlier back in the early 1990's. I wasn't too surprised about the news about Jim because he has never taken care of his health even when he was younger.  Of course, I have mixed feelings about the news and will deal with those feelings over time. Ho! Ho! Ho! 'Tis the season...

I have to admit that I was more surprised that Josh had kept that note than I was about the news about his father. When I read the note, I did so with a "red pen" in hand looking for errors. Of course, I found a few. Go figure!  What stuck out most to me was the part I wrote about God. You see, I am NOT a believer, but Josh is so I must have written that part for his benefit. Mildred has a heart after all! Shhhh! Let that be our little secret because I have a reputation to uphold. What brought a smile to my face were the personal touches that only he and I would know what they meant.  I have to admit the note brought a tear or two to my rather dry eyes.

I vaguely remember writing the note, but the circumstances aren't crystal clear. Old age is a bitch! Obviously, it must have been one of the times when Jim and I parted ways. Josh had finished high school and had started college.  I do feel proud of him because he went on to finish college and he became a doctor. His brother, Jason is also a doctor and his sister, Jamie works in the medical field as well.  I never had a close relationship with Jason and Jamie because they lived in another state with their mother and we only saw them periodically. Josh lived with us. And for the record...Josh was a handful and then some! I always thought he just needed someone to believe in him no matter what and I always tried to be that person.

When he finished college, he came and found me to let me know he had graduated and had been accepted into medical school and would be starting soon. The rest is history...

It's been a long time since I've heard from him and I know the circumstances suck, but I'm glad to know I still am in his thoughts occasionally.