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Thursday, September 29, 2011

THE GHOST OF BIRTHDAYS PAST

My dear friend Margaret, returned to celebrate my birthday. I appreciated her thoughtful, considerate gesture. This would be my 1st one the wrong side of 50.

As a small child, my birthdays were never acknowledged. This often led to confusion where my age was concerned. I don't remember ever being 5 yrs old. I went directly from age 4 to 6.

Once when asked my age, I give the wrong answer. "6" I said.

"You are 7," my mother corrected, "you had a birthday three months ago." -- Well that was news to me!

Always I was envious of kids who had lavish birthday parties. I wanted one, too. I never really understood why I couldn't have one. Often, I complained to my mother.

"We celebrate your birthday with Christmas," she lied. -- That was more acid eyewash! My birthday was never mentioned during the holidays.

Every year my birthday falls 2 weeks to the day after Christmas and 1 week to the day after New Years. For that reason; family, friends, and relatives have always told me my birthday is easy to forget. To my mind, that should make it easier to remember.

Aunt Kiki even suggested I have my birthday legally changed to the end of January.

Why should I?  Just write it down on the calendar, for crying out loud!

I think the very least my parents could have done was buy me a cake. Or my mother could have baked one! -- She baked them all the time! A pretty cake with roses and your name written in frosting is a big, honking deal to a small child.

Of course my parents weren't the type to make a big hoopla out of birthdays anyway. My brother was 11yrs older, and I never recall his birthday being acknowledged either. I wonder what excuse they gave him? -- They celebrated it at Easter!

But I know for fact he received at least 1 lavish party with all the fancy trimmings. -- I saw the evidence in our family photo album! There were hats, balloons, a big cake, and lots of gift-giving guests. Geez, I never once received so much as a verbal "Happy Birthday!"

However, my parents only got away with this for so long. Eventually I became old enough to follow a calendar. This occurred at age 9. I began demanding a cake! I was relentless! They were resentful. They couldn't cut off my head, so they bought me a cake to shut me up. Also I guilted my relatives (up north) into sending me cards, sometimes a check. At last my birthday was acknowledged!

I didn't get my lavish party until age 40. And I had to fight my stepmother Avis fang & claw to get one!  She insisted I was too old for a birthday party. It just looked like a cheap ploy for gifts and the whole idea embarrassed her.

I informed her that 40 was the perfect age. I was determined to have a least 1 birthday party in my life. I wanted to always remember it.

She refused to help. Even threatened to leave and spend that day in another city. I told her, "Just go!" -- I would have had a better time without her around!  But my father insisted she stay. Because her sister & brother-in-law would be attending and her absence would look awkward.

Everything about that party was stressful. But I enjoyed it anyway. Although I never wanted another. I got it out of my system.

For the big 5 ouch, I wanted to plan something extraordinary. Unfortunately, my father was terminally ill and had little time remaining. So it came and went without fanfare.

During my early 50's it wasn't unusual for me to spend 3 or 4 days celebrating my birthday. Making up for lost time, I told myself. I'd treat myself to expensive lunches, go to movies, have massages & pedicures. Around my mid 50's, I lost a staggering amount of money in investments. I had to limit my birthday fun. However, I still had friends who treated me to gifts and lunches.

For the big 6 oh-my-God, things had changed. Margaret was gone now, as were all of my other friends. They had either died, moved, or gone loopy with dementia and had to be institutionalized.

I wanted to do something unusual, but I didn't know what. I thought about sky-diving. But since I can't afford Health Insurance, that wasn't a good idea. Also I doubt sky-diving is an inexpensive endeavor. For that same amount, I'd rather buy myself snazzy shoes and an outfit with pizazz. That would make me happier than jumping from a plane!

Well, I did none of the above. Mostly, it was DVR Saturday in my nightgown as usual. I just stayed home and prepared myself a holiday style meal with all my favorite food. Also I had a birthday cake! I must admit, it was an enjoyable day.

Also, I finally put away my Christmas cards. The month before, I received a big glittery one from my brother. Inside, under Merry Christmas, he had written, AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TOO!

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

MY HAIR OF MANY COLORS

Since moving to Vero Beach, I've been more hair colors (and styles) than Cher, Madonna, and Brittany Spears combined. My therapist joked that neighbors probably wondered about all these strange women shacking-up with with my father.

I was born a blonde. But my hair darkened to the color of dead leaves by the time I reached mid-teens. It didn't suit me. After I graduating High School, I bleached my hair and entered Junior College as a brassy blonde.

Through the years I experimented with toners and rinses, and have been every shade of blonde imaginable.

Once, I put a red rinse in my pale blonde hair and it came out pinkish-purple. Fortunately, it was Halloween week and I was still young enough to pull off the punk look. But to my horror, it wouldn't wash out! I made an emergency call to the Clairol Hot Line and followed their instructions. I came out a strawberry blonde. The color slowly faded with each subsequent washing.

1998 I was 47 yrs old, my hair was almost platinum and fell to mid-waist. I decided I was getting too old for that look. We were preparing to put our house on the market and move to another town. The time was perfect for a change.

I've always hated short hair. So I decided to find a more natural-looking color.

Long hair is ultra feminine and extremely versatile. Women sporting short styles always appear like they're wearing a stupid-looking helmet. Also I was never allowed lengthy locks as a child. Though I longed for them.

My mother refused to have a daughter who looked like a beatnik. As soon as my hair reached mid-neck she'd whip out the scissors! I'd cry and fuss. She'd yell and start hitting me with the hair brush. Always there was a scene! "You can have long hair when you're 21!" She'd scream.

A burly, neighbor named George was sympathetic. "You'll have long hair by the time you're 16," he told me. "A parent doesn't have the same control over a teenager as they do over an 11 yr old."

The man was a prophet!  At age 16, I had waist-length hair just like a hippie!  However, that look wasn't right for me at age 47.

I've always been a do-it-yourself gal when it comes to cutting & coloring my hair. I trust beauticians about as much as I trust my mother, for valid reasons.

Shortly after I turned 26, I went to a Beauty Parlor to have my hair styled. The 1st thing I told the woman was NOT to cut my hair short. I pulled out a pad & pencil to show her exactly what I wanted, just a little off the top and sides. Then I asked if she understood. She nodded.

Red flares and warning sirens should have been rattling my head as she swung my chair away from the mirror. A few minutes later, I looked down and saw most of my long hair on the floor! Quickly, I turned to face the mirror and almost shrieked! She was cutting behind my ear and only the very back remained long.

"What are you doing!?" I hollered. "I specifically told you NO short hair!!!"

She paused and gave me the sweetest smile. "But I have to dear," she replied, "otherwise you won't have any style."

"Well don't cut off any more!" I snapped.

Actually long hair was in style that year! I don't know what she was thinking. -- My parents figured jealousy and sabotage.

I ended up with a style similar to a gypsy shag. I didn't like the ridiculous way she teased and sprayed the short hair to frame my face like spider legs. I looked like a 60's gospel singer at the Grand Ole Opry. People gasped as I showed up for work the next day. After I washed it out and styled it softer, it looked much better.

But after doing my own hair for decades, I decided to let the hairdressers take over. -- I should have trusted my experience, instead. Remember what I told you about Realtors, politicians, used car salesmen, and lawyers in a previous blog? Well you can shove hairdressers in that same bag and shake it! I found most of them equally deceitful.

One was even insulting. He was gushing to another stylist about a woman who gave him a $50 tip. "Oh her hair was the color of camel suede," he enthused, She had the thickest, most beautiful hair I have ever seen! About 10 times as thick as this!" -- He grabs a handful of MY hair. My jaw dropped! Just because I had chemicals in my hair didn't mean I'd gone deaf.

After that remark, I never returned. And he was the best one! Although once, when he tin foiled my entire head, (I looked like the Naboo Queen from Star Wars.) he jerked the strips out so fast, I yelped and jumped in my chair!  Later, I found a bald spot the size of a dime on my front left side. Fortunately, it grew back.

At one point I had been forced to cut my hair short and return to my natural hue. A color I never wanted to see again!!!  I was told it was necessary to eventually get the look I wanted. I was shocked to see more than a few strands of gray. To make it more flattering, I put in a black rinse while it was growing out.

Also I had several dark-brunette and blonde synthetic wigs of short to medium length. Aunt Kiki sent them to Mom while she was enduring chemotherapy. Now they were mine.

I returned to doing my own hair, and happily so.  Beauticians work on the same principle as doctors. They can be servicing 3 other clients along with you. It's too time consuming. I'm faster!  Plus I can cut & color for less than the price of their tip.

However, I can also mess-up! Same as they do! I found I have no talent for working with tin foil. It was a disaster!  I came out looking like a mutant leopard.  Again, it was my surrogate mother, Miss Clairol to the rescue! I phoned their Hot Line.

"How do you feel about RED?" the technician asked.

I had never been a redhead. But I was willing to give it a try. After following their instructions, my hair came out auburn. It looked rather pretty with my teal eyes and porcelain skin. Intrigued, I wanted to go redder.

Unfortunately, my father hated red hair. Also that was the summer he discontinued chemotherapy. As my color grew out, I went back to using the dark rinse. I also cut it short due to damage from colorings and the elements.

After my father's death, and one week before his memorial service, I became a flaming, copper redhead. I still am, and I love it!  This is an exotic look to me. Because there are no redheads in my family tree.

When I was 36, a psychic told me that in later years my life would completely change. Also that a red-haired person would be someone important to me. I always thought that person would be someone else.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

A SHADED FAMILY SECRET

Dark secrets can in fact be quite illuminating. This one, I had long suspected. However, it turned out to be deeper and more baneful than I had ever imagined.

Aunt "Kiki" was the beauty of her family. In her younger years, she had modeled. She married a man from a prominent family who adored her and gave her everything she wanted. Unfortunately, she wanted other men and was a habitual cheater.

One of her proudest conquests was an official at the French Embassy. I've always thought she was capable of better. During her 20's and 30's she looked like movie star. She had a figure better than Betty Grable's and a face more beautiful than Lana Turner. My favorite photo is the 1 of her kneeling toward the camera in a tight swimsuit in front of a French flag.

Kiki was in her 80's as we entered the new millennium. Almost broke and often bitter, she now lived in a Nursing Home up north. I had not seen her since age 12, but we had been pen-pals for many decades.

Though an unfaithful wife, she was a wonderful mother to her only son. Often, she reminded him, it didn't matter if someone was richer, better looking, or even more talented. HE WAS STILL THEIR EQUAL and to never forget it! -- I received the opposite from my parents. For this reason, as well as her beauty, I admired her.

Due to age, Kiki began to phone more and write less. She was eager to boast of her new, much younger lover. "He's 40 yrs old," she told me," and married. But he and his wife have grown apart."

"How did you meet?" I was curious to know.

"His son works as an orderly here. He introduced us. The kid would be shocked if he knew his dad was taking me out afternoons to check into a motel!" She giggled. "Joe prefers older women," she added, "He has a teeny little weeny, but he sure knows how to use it!"

"Mom always said you were promiscuous," I scolded. "You should be ashamed."

"Dianne, don't you know that your parents HAD to get married!" She sniffed.

Not until that moment, I didn't. But I've always suspected. My parents seemed an odd match. The only common factor was they were both highly negative individuals. I've been called that, too. But compared to them I'm a cock-eyed optimist! They were the type that not only saw the glass half full, but also cracked and teaming with germs.

"So perhaps that explains why Dad and my brother were never close," I wondered aloud.

"You're wrong!" she stated. "Your mother aborted that baby right after the marriage."

"What!?" This truly was a revelation.

"I was with her," Kiki continued, "We went to this strange woman in a rundown house. She didn't seem all there. I had a bad feeling. Afterward your mother began hemorrhaging. There was blood everywhere! I called our family doctor and we swore him to secrecy."

"But why? Wasn't she married, then? Why an abortion?" I wanted to know.

"She didn't want our parents, and everyone else knowing she'd had sex before marriage. Remember how religious your grandmother was, she wouldn't allow a Christmas tree in the house because she considered it pagan."

"Yes, she was pill."

"And our father was strict, too!"

"But there was nothing they could do to her," I said. "She didn't live under their roof. She had a husband!"

"She couldn't exist under that kind of shame," Kiki replied.

I shook my head in disgust. Yes, I support abortion. But in this case, there was no reason! Other than my mother, maintaining her phony facade. It was so typical of her! Certain behavior suddenly became less inexplicable.

I knew since an early age that my mother was insecure in her marriage. She seemed like a small child always seeking approval from my dad. As if she was trying to say, " See I really am a good wife. You didn't make a mistake!" She used to gush to her friends that she worshiped the ground my father walked on. At the same time I was treated like a rival. Because I had a closeness with Dad she was never able to attain. We had a bond.

My father was loving and supportive to me when I was a child. But years of disappointment, failed businesses, and uncertainty; slowly but drastically changed him. He struck out at those closest to him.

This revelation also explained the tense friction between my mother and paternal grandfather. Often she told me that Poppy never thought she was good enough for Dad. What she failed to mention was that he had a valid reason to feel that way! -- I would not put it past her to have gotten pregnant just to entrap my father. She was the type that would.

My grandfather Poppy, who lived with us until his death, didn't fit the storybook stereotype. He was crusty and could often be verbally cruel. At age 4, when I awoke crying from a nightmare, he ordered me to shut up and go back to sleep or he'd make me spend the night outside! -- But he never hit me! Though he sometimes threatened to.

Poppy cherished my brother who is 11ys older. But I never received that type of adoration from him. My father used to say that by the time I came along, Poppy was too old to enjoy a grandchild. All I seemed to do was get on his nerves.

But never having raised a daughter, I think on some level he viewed me as an extension of my mother, whom he despised. He also thought she was peculiar.

Before her marriage, she had never been inside a restaurant. She was afraid to enter one. (A phobia I sure didn't inherit! ) Her family never patronized them. It was scary, unfamiliar territory to her.

Frequently, she blackmailed her rebellious, younger sister Kiki. Mom was quite skillful at manipulation. I can tell you that from my own experience. Plus her reasoning was distorted.

But an abortion, I was still shaking my head. I wanted to know more.

The next A.M. during breakfast, I confronted my father. I demanded an honest answer. I asked if Mom ever had an abortion. After a long, stunned pause, he said, "Yes." I told him I wanted details. He replied, "It should stay in the past." He abruptly arose and left the kitchen without finishing breakfast. He visibly upset.

My brother was still in a half-way house out west. He was jarred by the information, but not surprised. He always suspected that Mom & Dad had to get married and HE was the cause. (Although I assured him this was not the case.) But I understood his feelings. I received affection from our father that was denied him. A wide gulf always existed between them. As with our mother, he didn't share our karmic bond.

Less than a month later, my father suffered his stroke. I've often wondered whether this revelation was a contributing factor. Because this was knowledge nether I, nor my brother were ever meant to learn. So many dark, mystifying areas have been shattered open as a result. I'm glad it came to light.
 

Thursday, September 1, 2011

DRIVING ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD

I have never felt comfortable behind the wheel of a car. Had I been able to go my entire life without driving, I would have! My mother and 2 of her 3 sisters also suffered anxiety so severe it rendered them unable to drive. My brother used to say, "It just ran in the family." -- So did insanity!

Unfortunately, I no longer had the option not to drive. My father's failing health had been the major factor. I had to get a license as quickly as possible after moving to Vero Beach. For this, I needed to go back into therapy. I had been out for a year now.

Also I wanted professional lessons. Previously, I had taken Driver's Education my Senior year in High School. -- That convinced me beyond doubt I didn't belong in the driver's seat! When instructed to step on the accelerator, I put my foot down so hard, we almost went flying! Everyone in the vehicle was gasping and screaming! I made MORE mistakes than anyone else. The Instructor, (a school coach) was constantly shrieking insults at me. -- Today I could have sued him for aggravating a pre-existing condition!

My therapist explained that every other person in the class had probably driven before. Where as this was my only experience behind the wheel. She also told me I was stressed out because I was breathing wrong. I needed to stop breathing through my nose and start breathing through the mouth to get more oxygen to my brain. -- As a child, my mother used to holler at me for breathing like that. -- She didn't want any Mouth Breathers in the family! As it turns out that is the healthiest, most relaxing way to breathe.

Also I was prescribed psychiatric medication to block my anxiety. Paxil the wonder drug! -- Actually it was more of a drug-induced nightmare! I had been warned to expect side effects. But was assured they would taper off. -- They didn't! In fact, they worsened.

I experienced shocking electrical sensations. During sleep my body would start jerking, waking me up. My vision sometimes blurred. And I suffered extreme fatigue. When I complained to my father, he replied, "I have medicine that makes me lazy, too." Also my nerves seemed more frayed, not less.

I abruptly quit, and had withdrawal symptoms just like a junkie. My body would shake and the electrical sensations didn't cease. Also there were horrendous nightmares. I remember seeing my dead mother sitting in a bedroom chair staring at me. I dreamed a horned, winged demon with fangs was pulling me from bed. My fingernails ripped the mattress as I screamed! It grabbed me by the ankles and flew out my 2nd story window. I recall seeing the bright city lights below in the darkness as it carried me off. It was so vivid!

The psychiatrist was upset because I had abruptly stopped without 1st consulting him. He wanted me to try a different medication. However I insisted upon no more of that psychiatric stuff, just straight therapy.

At that time, there were no Driving Schools in Vero Beach. There was 1 in Stuart that serviced Vero, but my father felt the instructor was an ignoramus. Our only other option was up in Melbourne, which also serviced our area. But 1st, I needed a learner's permit.

I was required to attend a 4 hour Driver Education class. I remember being the oldest person there amidst a group of stinky teens in jeans. The Instructor asked if I was there because of a traffic ticket. Embarrassed, I shook my head.

I studied arduously and did lots of mouth breathing before my test. In spite of this, I found the written test difficult, with unfamiliar questions. I was astounded to learn I had passed. Two different DMV employees inquired as to whether I was getting a license or learner's permit. Both times, I replied, the later.

My Driving Instructor was a woman about 20yrs younger than I am. She asked to see my learner's permit. A surprised look emerged. "This is a Driver's License," she proclaimed. "You don't need me."

"But I don't know how to drive!" I exclaimed.

We scrutinized my permit and compared it to my father's license. Yup! I had the genuine item. A DRIVER'S LICENSE!

As we drove around town, she told me, "You already know how to drive. All you really need is practice." I wasn't that confident. It made my teeth gnash when my father told others (in front of me) that I lacked the judgement to drive. I wish he'd kept those doubts to himself.

More than once, I found myself driving on the wrong side of the road. I recall the look of terror in a woman's eyes as I drove straight at her. An expression that probably mirrored my own! Quickly, I pulled over. -- My father also made the same mistake twice after we moved here. Others I've talked with, confessed to doing the same.

Confusing and dangerous as I found driving to be, soon I would be getting lots of practice, driving solo in the car... Not long after, my father suffered his stroke. Every day I drove to visit him in rehabilitation.

That was the stormiest summer in memory. A traffic light was blown down at an intersection. Plus the rain was so furious I couldn't see through it. And no policeman around, or car in front of me with lights to guide. I searched for other car lights. I took a deep breath and cautiously drove through.

Next time, I waited for the storm to abate before driving home. Deep-looking puddles at both exits confronted me. I chose the smaller one. When I got onto the road, I attempted to turn, but the steering wheel locked. Panic swept over me! I was straight in front of oncoming traffic and darting toward a canal on the opposite side. As I hit the canal bank, I quickly turned off the ignition. -- A mechanic later explained the problem. Water from the puddle splashed onto the car's fan belt. This caused the wheel to lock.

Later that summer, I was almost killed turning into my subdivision! A punk kid with his cap turned backward (like his brain!) shot past me on the left. He was going about 70 mph. Apparently I was turning too slowly for him. Had I been just a tad faster, I wouldn't be alive now. I don't understand what kind of fool would risk my life and theirs for a stunt like that! And for what, to save a few seconds??? Idiot! I received my baptism of fire behind the wheel.

Had I never gotten my license, I would be in a dire predicament. Because I am as alone as a person can get. It was an absolute necessity! But that didn't make it any less stressful. The year following my father's passing, I dreaded going anywhere in the car.

Later, I gained more confidence. Slowly, I've expanded my comfort zone. It's now an integral part of my freedom. I enjoy going to places like the Mall and matinees alone. I can leave when I'm ready and come home when I feel like it. But there remain places I won't drive. And I flatly refuse to drive after dark! -- The road is no place to push your luck.