RIP Survivor

The Field Mouse Named Survivor

Jacob’s cat, Licorice, brought home her first field mouse today. She promptly placed it in his palm, looking up at him, as if to say “Look at what I brought you, Dad!” I will never forget his response. “Noooo! Lickey! That’s mean!” He cried it out as he wrestled the half-mangled mouse from her jaw. She looked at him, with a cross between irritation and confusion. He swatted her away and he ran toward me, holding up the mouse, and telling me it was still alive.

“We can save it, Mom! I know we can!”

I didn’t know whether to jump out of my skin or hide behind the couch. One thing I have always feared is mice. And seeing it in his palms, with tears rolling down his eight year old cheeks, didn’t totally make the fear dissipate. There was, after all, a wild mouse about three feet from my kitchen island.

It wasn’t long that Jacob’s baby brown eyes had me convinced it was time to get over my fear of rodents and help him to save this little creature. I quickly salvaged an plastic cake box from the garbage can and began poking breathing holes in its top. He ran down to his room, grabbing one of his favorite stuffed animals in one hand and still clutching the field mouse in his other hand. He emerged with scissors and cut the head right off that stuffed animal. He made bedding and packed that cake box about as cozy as any outside mouse could ever hope to have. I don’t think he noticed it was twitching.

Tonight, he’s sleeping upstairs. He’s locked his cat in his brother’s room and is laying vigilant by the mouse he’s determined to name Survivor. I’m quite sure Survivor is missing one eye. I’m more than sure the cat managed to break one of his legs. But he’s breathing. And sleeping.

Part of me is tempted to kill survivor while Jacob is sleeping, to put the mouse out of its misery. But another part of me wants to believe just what he does – that the little bugger – who is actually starting to look sort of cute in a scary sort of way – will actually be ok.

I’ve promised Jacob that if the mouse makes it the night and appears that he will live, we will make a trip to Pet Co to buy him a little cage and food and other treats. I don’t know if I will have to make good on that promise. I hope so. For Jacob’s sake. And for Survivors.

He went to sleep tonight saying, “He’s going to be ok, Mom. I know he is!”

I told him how proud I was of him for trying to save the mouse. He looked at me, rolled his eyes, and gave me his bravest, most grown-up smile. “Mom! If I’m really going to be a veterinarian, I have to be able to deal with things like little dying mice!” Could someone tell me when God decided that if I was going to be a Mom, that I’d have to too?

Goodnight, Jacob. Goodnight, Survivor. …Fingers crossed.

Plum Blood

Plum Blood
By Erin L. George

I am an angel
but my blood races
black
and red.

I’ll steal
cloudy covers
from your cloudy
perceptions
of my ashen wings
head ring of gold
running
eternally round
your misplaced kisses.

Lock down
your harp
for I’ll seduce you
with mocking charm
between Jupiter
and the man on the moon
dancing
frenzied past
your trusty cries.

I am a demon
Blood-melted snow
white
and turquoise.

Hand me
your Stratus
(make it Cumulus)
to cover
my bare breasts
in a starry sheath
soaring
curiously past
your hardened lips.


Give me
your violin
for I’ve written a song
sweetened
in sugar swiped
from my heart
after Sunday mass
in the courtyard.

I am a cherub
muffled peccadillo -
blood running
purple gray.

Kissing Tony

Krazy, koo-koo goes my mind, as I spin on the taste of his tongue -
Intercoursed with the call of a chick-o-dee (minus Springtime dew and daffidols)
Someone, stop this madness! I’d be remiss to know the comings and goings -
So irrelevant to the krazy, koo-koo clucking that sprays my senses blind.
I close my eyes. Caramel! La! I bite at my tongue, frustrated that his is not
Near for more intercoursing. For a sword fight built on lust, drive
Greed. Swollen on koo-koo callings (I hear them now and close my ears).

Tony likes his nibbled on. I could purr to him in night dreams -
Or, stay awake, and fuck him with my mind. Undressing him; one by one
No! Two by two! (that’s better!) My scrambled mind runs blissful -
You’ve made me krazy koo-koo! “Kiss me, you fool!”

Bad Girls

Bad Girls
(For my girl)
B ad girls sleep with pillows, tucked between their thighs
A ngry with the boys they love, tired of the lies
D on't expect a picket fence, built up in their dreams
G ood girls sleep with husbands, stitching tight the seams
I d rather sleep in downy fur, damp in salty tears
R ather build a six foot fence, shielding of their leers
L eave the blush to nicer girls, sold on better things
S o I can ride with not so nice, peaches, dirty flings.

Animal Poop & Soccer Balls

I asked MJ to give me a list of good times we’ve had together as a family. His first, 12 year old response, was a drab, uninterested one – “I don’t know any.” He didn’t even bother to look up from his computer video game to hand me this. I pressed him. He still didn’t bite. I guess I’ll ask him again when it’s not well past midnight. In the meantime, I can list a few right off of my head – whale watching on Rye Harbor, tonight’s haunted hayride in downtown Troy, soccer tournaments, particularly the 2008 Winchester tournament, playing car trivia, and our visit to the Bronx Zoo together back in 2002.
When I look at what all these events have in common, I realize they all included the four of us being there, together, and focused only on the task or activity at hand. None of these things included cell phones, work, responsibility, or alcohol. We were all very sober and present for these events and each of us genuinely wanted to be there. Another thing that made these events special is that we put our own special twist on each of them.
During our Bronx visit, we made things extra fun by trying to spot animals who were in the midst of taking a shit. While this may sound odd, it was particularly funny at the time, especially with our energies focused on potty training Jacob. When we’d spot an animal – such as a lion – squatting down to defecate, we’d laugh and I’d snap a picture. This game went on for hours and I was able to come away with a full slide show of various animals doing their thing. If you ask the boys about the Bronx Zoo today, the won’t be able to tell about their trip without mentioning animal poop.
We made the whale watching trip our own by spontaneously calling the entire family in for a mental health day. We ditched both school and work and just headed up to Rye one day to do something new and different. Favorite memories from that trip include Matt hanging onto the ceiling beams on the tiny sailboat for dear life – wanting desperately to throw up his Quiznos lunch sub. Eventually, he found his sea legs and we learned he had a great knack for taking pictures of hump back and sperm whales as they were rising to the surface to feed. Hours aboard the boat together were filled with laughs and funny moments, such as MJ pointing out a guy wearing a pot tee shirt with an M like the golden arches. The tee shirt read: Marijuana, over 1 billion stoned instead of McDonalds, over 1 billion served.
The 2008 soccer tournament was another spur of the moment decision. We were able to put together a team of local kids in less than three days and wound up placing second in the tournament. Of course, Matt felt obligated to get all the kids trophies and wound up spending over $100 to do so, but it was definitely worth it. We came in second place at that tournament after a double overtime situation that came down to penalty shots. With one less goal than the other team on penalty shots, we reluctantly walked away runner up champs. But every member of that team felt like a champion that day. Between round robin games the kids were able to jump in leaves, get their faces painted, and pig out on hotdogs and a variety of other foods. The end of the night brought medals and cake and ice cream. I will never forget the way Matt’s face beamed with pride that day. This was his team and they’d done him proud. It was then that Matt finally found something he was passionate about – coaching. What a job it is to find a passion, any passion. It’s something he’s stuck with ever since that tournament.

How would you like your soup? (Or should I just throw it in your face?)

About once a month, we’d get a visit from my father’s parents. Grandpa and Mimi had a very unique relationship. He ignored her. And the more he did, the more she persisted with him, anxious for any – even negative – attention from him. Of course, the more she did this, the more he ignored her.
Before they arrived, Mom would brew up a delicious batch of clam chowder or sausage and peppers. Her soup made the house smell like a friendly pub and I took great joy in spicing it up with salt and pepper as I’d walk by to check on her progress. Frantically, we’d clean, the bitter taste of Windex mixing in the stale air, to make sure things were perfect for the visit. Leaving the kitchen floors for last, Mom would always be sure to cut up cheese and pepperoni or make shrimp cocktail for stow-away snacks for their impending tag-team Canasta games.
When Mimi, with her purple nose, would peak her head in the door, I always smiled and was glad to see her. But when Grandpa followed behind, my throat would get dry and something inside of me would grow very quiet and angry. I knew what Grandpa would do before he did it. He’d order me to get him a bowl of soup and poor him a drink. He would never ask any of my brothers, who may be closer by or not in the middle of something. No, he was insistent, my mother should relax and I, being the only other female hostess in the house, should dedicate the rest of my night to being at his becking call and serving him. I felt like someone should be giving this man a bell and letting me go chew on grass in the backyard while I waited for his next command. I wasn’t so fond of Grandpa.
Fortunately, Dad didn’t inherite all of this sexist thinking and genuinely liked my being his “little girl.” While he often used my mother as a translator to explain hormones or tears out of the blue, he generally tried to take an interest in me and my activities. But when he couldn’t, he found other things we could do together.
One such big project was installing a handmade stone water fountain in the pool area when I was about 12 years old. Being the only one long and skinny enough to scale under the pool to tighten pipes, Dad and I spent days with his strong hands on my ankles as I held my breath and finagled the piping for him. The pride on his face was apparent to a blind person and I was not above squinting to get an even better look. For months, he bragged my brothers about how a girl had done that. How a girl had been the one to fix the plumbing situation in the pool area. I was overjoyed. It was then that I became convinced I could do anything. It was a feeling I took with me into my adulthood. I’ve often wondered if Dad knows how he played a role in developing this part of me – both the negative and positives.
I know Dad is hardly even close to a feminist. He doesn’t have a left wing bone in his body and certainly does not have room for women who’d be suffrages by the likes of Alice Paul. I, however, admire these woman to the core and have made a concerted effort to fill my heart with their stories and histories. I minored in Women’s Studies at Keene State, enthralled by my first Woman’s Studies professor – a lesbian from the University of New Hampshire summer school program. I vowed to have a daughter one day, a strong daughter, and to teach her to have a mind of her own and to never serve soup on command! Likewise, I promised myself that if I ever had sons, I would not allow them to believe it was okay to treat a woman that way. I have found that the promises I seem to keep throughout my life are the ones I’ve made in reference to the boys. And this is a promise I’ve been able to keep quite easily.

Ode to Teachers - Good, Bad & Ugly

Like with most things in life, I had my share of ups and downs when it came to the teacher grab bag. I had some amazing teachers, who inspired me to be more and do more. I also had some unforgettables and teachers who did nothing to help my self esteem or love for learning.
First grade started with Miss. Carol Lavalle. I was in awe of this woman. She was petite and well put together. She was the stereotypical first grade teacher, the kind who wore homemade crocheted sweaters and vests the color of each holiday season. She spoke with a candy-laced voice, always sweet and affirmative in tone. It didn’t matter what a child’s potential, Miss. Lavalle made us feel like we were all special and could someday rise to becoming the president of the United States. x
Each day, Miss. Lavalle would drive in to school with her mother, Jean. I didn’t find this odd at the time, because, after all, first graders always bring their mothers with them wherever they can. Jean served as a sort-of teacher’s aide. From yarn octopuses to pompom magnets, she was always there to help us with extra doses of Elmer’s glue during craft projects or even to tie our shoes. Carol Lavalle never married, it turns out, and lived with her mother in Merrimack for as long as I kept track of them.
Second grade brought Miss. Hubbard. Miss. Hubbard quickly turned Mrs. May after her stomach began to brim with her love child. Mrs. May was a gentle teacher, soft on skin and demeanor. But something about her didn’t fit me as well as the old shoe Miss. Lavalle had felt like to me. Maybe it was the lines of tension that seemed to frame her late twenty-something face that made me nervous.
Because her pregnancy was clearly a surprise, Mrs. May wasn’t able to plan her typical teacher maternity leave beginning in early June. So much of my second grade year was filled by a handful of substitute teachers – none of them very memorable.
Third grade brought with it the most evil witch I had ever known and have ever known since. Mrs. Doupont was a hideous red head. Not the kind of charming and mysterious auburn that some Irish beauties boast of. And her red headedness didn’t come from her sense of adventure or passion for anything other than making the lives of innocent eight year old girls miserable.
From calling Mom to “tattle” on me on a weekly basis for talking too much in class, to claiming I shot her daily “looks to kill,” Mrs. Dupont had it out for me since the day I stepped into her classroom. School started on Sept. 7 that year. My birthday, being Sept. 8th, didn’t leave much time for cupcakes and a planned party – something customary to most of the third graders at Mastricola Elementary school. Instead, my big birthday surprise that year was learning that not only did Mrs. Dupont and I share an instant distaste for one another, but we also shared a birthday. Even now, in my mid thirties, I always think of that evil woman on my birthday and wonder what little girl she has made her target of manipulation and hate now.
Fourth grade brought a happy change with teachers. While I’d have settled for an elephant with horns to be out of Mrs. Dupont’s class, I was happy to land in the chubby, merry, capable and fair hands of Mrs. Dorin. Mrs. Dorin had older daughters, high school daughters. She’d been there, seen it, and wasn’t in the least intimidated for little girls with big mouths and an interest in passing notes in class. Mrs. Dorin had a robust laugh and a special place in her heart for April Fools Day and practical jokes. And it was more than one Whoopie cushion from the Zyla’s discount store that I placed under her chair.
For as “cool” as Mrs. Dorin appeared, I was surprised to learn that she’d requested special placement for me in the fifth grade. It was her intention to separate me from my then-best friend, Debbie McHugh. Apparently, she hadn’t found our jokes and chatter as endearing as I might have thought. So while Debbie was shipped off to one fifth grade class, I found myself in the homeroom of Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton.
Women who hyphenate their names make me instantly nervous. I am never sure whether they are trying to prove something or feel that I’ve somehow sold myself and my gender out by not hyphenating. Or maybe it’s just that women who hyphenate remind me of Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton. An unremarkable, plain teacher, I often wondered what made her get into teaching in the first place. She certainly didn’t seem to have any joy with teaching. Even Mrs. Dupont’s reason for teaching – to watch us squirm – made more sense to me than Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton’s. Her monotone voice ringed so much older than her 20-something years. I never could figure her out. Or, why she insisted I sit next to the class retard – otherwise now known in politically correct circles as “developmentally delayed” – Jason Osburn. And while this placement with the retainer-fiddling, spit-yielding, smelly class outcast may not have seemed like any big deal to Mrs. Plain Jane, it spurred off the beginnings of my social decline. Well, that and my budding pimples and greasy hair. For all that she didn’t impress upon me, Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton certainly left an impression via my peers when it came to the development of my self esteem...Something I wish I could have popped. I wonder, sometimes, how this effects my inner fat, skinny and in between girls...

To Grandmother's House We Go

Grandma and Papa lived exactly 3.2 hours away in Troy, NY. Each month, need it or not, we’d treck through the foothills of Vermont to visit them. These trips were a source of great contention between my parents. Dad felt greatly put out by having to spend an entire weekend each month sleeping in a dusty old pink room once occupied by my mother and her sister Mary.
At least two thirds of the trip, every trip, would showcase Mom and Dad bickering on the same two topics: Why the Riggionne sisters were “so annnnoying” and how Dad could possibly “be so mean to my sisters!” The constant arguing on this topic became so common place to my brothers and I that we’d allow it to lull us to sleep during the first half of the trip. After all, we already knew how these spats would end – with Dad pissed off and determined to sleep in until past 2 p.m. the next afternoon and Mom resentful that she’d ever moved so far away from her family to be with such an “uncooperative man.” They were both right. They were both wrong. Nothing new there. That was my parents.
The quarter way mark to Grandma’s house was an eccentric but modest home tucked at the base of Mount Monadnock. The home was painted a landmark purple and seemed to wink and wave as we passed by. Just a half hour more until McDonald’s, we’d assure ourselves.
To help us pass the time, and surely as much to help avoid Mom’s disapproving glare, Dad made up trivia games on the long ride. He’d ask us questions on what various street signs and signals meant. The first to answer what a double yellow line meant got a point. The quickest to point out the purpose of a yield sign got two points. The game paid off in dividends years later when I didn’t have to study for my drivers test and managed to get a 100 percent on the written exam.
The monotony of the drive was also broken up by our monthly visits to McDonalds. I’d always order the same thing – chicken nuggets with barbeque sauce, a strawberry shake, and a small fry. But McDonalds didn’t come cheap. We had to earn McDonalds during the first half of the trip to “qualify” for such a treat. Constant fighting between Ron and I made Dad institute a “three strikes” policy early on in our monthly ventures to Grandma’s house. In order to earn McDonalds, a person could not have more than three strikes. Strikes came from behavioral infractions such as trying to poke each other’s eyeballs out, screaming, shrieking, biting, hitting, spitting, and pretty much anything else we could think of to make driving miserable for him.
Somehow, I always managed to earn at least three strikes by the time we hit the edges of the town of Keene, NH. Fortunately, Dad was forgiving (or at least that’s what I credited him for at the time, now, as a parent myself, realizing he had an obligation to feed us dinner!) and allowed me to earn “strike erasers” for prolonged periods of no strikes. As silly as the game seemed, it got us through these long and windy trips. The second half of the trip was always the worst, with McDonalds digested and only more squabbling from the front seat for us to listen to. On the other hand, we now had no reason not to bite and torture each other, so we often turned into mini vampires on part two of the journeys.
Grandma’s house smelled of Hot Dog Charlies – mini cocktail franks in a special barbeque type sauce – that she constantly had on the stove. Sometimes, the smell was mixed with that of fried grease from the Ted’s Fish Fry orders my aunts would place in bulk. Only in Troy, NY could you get a fish fry like these, they’d insist.
Their home, at 8 Cherry Lane, was modest in size, but had been able to house the five children who’d been raised there quite comfortably. The kitchen often felt claustrophobic when stocked with the handfuls of children, children’s spouses, and their offspring that gathered there. To use the word “hectic” to describe visits to Grandma’s house would be an understatement. The building swarmed with people skirmishing to talk over one another, each with a message oh-so-much-more-important to deliver than the others. But somehow, the home was filled with such love. It was a love my father seemed to completely miss. And it was a love that I felt the home I’d grown up in had somehow lacked. Trips to Grandma’s house sucked, but trips to Grandma’s house also gave me a feeling of belonging. That’s what made it worth returning and I suspect it’s what caused my mother to fight so hard for those monthly homecomings.

Fat Chick

Genetically speaking, I should not be surprised to find myself fat at the age of 35. Mom and Dad are fat. Ron is fat. Jon will be fat. The only one who may have escaped the fat gene is Matt, but even he has put on some weight as he’s gotten older. But genetics aren’t enough of an excuse to make being fat okay for me. I am fixated on my weight. I am jealous of aneorexic women who have the will to starve themselves. I often think of myself as weak for not being able to mimic these women and push off another meal.
They say that we eat to fill something inside of us that is missing. I can’t say I would argue with that. The more miserable I become in my marriage and family situation, the more I seem to medicate myself with food. Late night snacking, portion control, and picking the wrong foods are the things I am doing wrong. The fact that I hate exercise and get winded easily from smoking and being out of shape don’t help much either. Being on Prednisone more often than not has helped increase my appetite and all pleas I have made to my doctors to put me on weight loss medications have fallen on deaf ears. It is amazing to me that no doctors have ever given me shit about my weight and I’m coming to a point where I’m concerned about heart issues as well as diabetes.
Seeing myself in pictures is the worst. I am beginning to avoid the camera whenever I can and I have developed some techniques for when I have to have my picture taken. I crop my sagging stomach out of pictures now. I strategically place my hands, scarves, or other objects in the way of my triple set of chins when photographing. I make the boys stand in front of my fat body when someone is taking my picture.
When I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize myself these days. I scold myself when I look at old, fifty pound lighter, pictures of me and wonder how I could have felt fat or bad about myself back then. I see this beautiful woman in old pictures now and view my current self as something more of a man best.
The kids and Matt have not helped my self esteem on this matter at all. Matt is so much less sensitive than I am that it doesn’t occur to him how much it hurts me when he calls me names like “Big Girl” and “Oh-so-big!” Jacob doesn’t know how it feels for me when he tells me I’m “chubby” and that “it’s okay because moms are supposed to be fat.” MJ doesn’t know what it does to me when he rubs my stomach and calls it “jiggly and warm.” I know they three of them love me for who I am, but I’m not so sure I do. I don’t see myself as a fat old lady. But when I look in the mirror or at photographs, that’s what I see looking back at me.
As with all bad things in life, there are benefits to being overweight. My tits are huge now and I can’t say they aren’t a welcome blessing in my new life as a fat chick. I don’t’ have issues with my jeans falling down these days and rarely have occasion to need a belt. I can go straight to the plus sized racks at Fashion Bug now because I know there is no way I’m one of those pesky in between sizes any more. I’m being forced to dress my age as nothing in the Juniors section fits me anymore. I am more sympathetic to other plus sized women and find myself judging people less on their looks and more for their inner spirits than I did as an average sized women.
I was in the allergist’s office yesterday and saw a body mass index chart. At 5 foot 9 inches tall and around 215 pounds, I am not officially considered obese. My ideal weight, according to the chart, should be somewhere around 160 pounds. I don’t think I have been that small since before I got pregnant with Jacob in 1998.
Each Tuesday night, the boys and I watch The Biggest Loser on television. This show is about fat people working their asses off to lose weight. They lose over 100 pounds in a very short period, working with trainers and the best nutritionists in the country. While I’m watching this show, I snack on butter popcorn and hot pockets. I stuff my face with nachos and Ruffles chips and dip. By the time the show is over, I’m stuffed and I feel worse than I did when I turned it on.
I recently began a food journal. Each day, I record the things I eat. According to the trainers on The Biggest Loser, this habit forces people to look at all the junk they are putting in their bodies. The idea is that it will gross us fat folk out and make us change our ways. I stared, wide-eyed at today’s list by the end of the day. I hate to admit it, but it was pretty typical for my eating habits as of late: two double cheeseburgers from Burger King, a small fry, a large lemonade, two glasses of fruit punch, a hot dog, two fried bologna sandwiches, six heresy kisses, a Slim Fast bar, a Lean Cuisine chicken alfredo meal, two glasses of tea, and a glass of wine that I feel coming on just looking at this fucking list.
Did I mention that the girlfriends in Lola’s world all eat full blown meals, junk food, and live at fast food joints? They are all just about 20 pounds heavier than her, making her feel better about herself. Uuugh.
No, being the fat chick is no fun. It’s no fun at all. The only thing that’s less fun is doing something productive about it.

All about Honor - Snippets from Yellow Dollhouse Memoirs

I always secretly felt like I must be adopted. I must be the secret love child of an unknown quirky artist and a black man with albinism. Mother, my “real” mother, was some over-educated hippie freak with really bad eyes and a collection of torn bell bottoms. Father preferred spending his days spitting poetry, painting murals on the sides of youth centers as a volunteer, and pan handling for extra brushes. That’s what I told myself. How else would I be the way I am? Was it really possible for me to be the daughter of Laura Bush, Jr. and Dan Arnold? Who are these people? Was something I asked myself nearly daily as a child. But I loved them anyway. Fiercely. And they loved me back.

My family wasn’t huge on giving grandiose words of advice. In fact, on the night before my wedding, my father and Ron and I were up late in my parents’ living room. Ron asked my father if he had any great wisdom to shed on my upcoming day or new life. I don’t recall exactly how the conversation went, but what I do remember was that his response boiled down to something like, “make sure you give him enough sex.” Conversation went from straight sex to anal sex. I remember him looking me square in the eyes and saying “as long as two married adults consent to it, there’s nothing wrong with it.” I think I went to bed right after that. I wasn’t really up for a huge debate on anal sex and certainly wasn’t about to inform Dad I’d already “been there, done that” on the night before my wedding.
I have to hand it to him, though. Dad stayed up that entire night writing me a letter which I still keep in the hope chest that Matt made me as a wedding gift. In that letter is more love and advice than a girl could ever ask for. He encourages me to remember never to go to bed angry and not to try to change a man. I’ve pulled out that letter over the years, not so much for the advice within it, but for the love that Dad put into writing it. it’s the longest letter I’ve ever seen him write. Handwritten. In blue ink. He even took the time to print little pink hearts along the borders of the computer paper he wrote it on.
While not big on giving advice, my parents were huge on sending messages. They made a few things very clear to us as children. Mom spent every waking moment of our childhoods drilling it in our heads that education is a number one priority. She’d back it up with strict bed times, firm groundings, and more than a few teachers’ conferences – anything to keep us on task at school. I picked right up on her cues and became an honor roll student who would later manage to graduate from college with honors in three years time.
For Dad, it was all about honor. Once, as an alter server for Our Lady of Mercy Roman Catholic Church, I was asked to serve at someone’s wedding. I was more than honored to do this. A romantic by nature, I was excited to be a part of this stranger couple’s special day. At the end of the service the bride’s father handed an envelope to the priest, an envelope to the organ lady, and an envelope to me. I stood on the edge of the ulgy rust alter wide-eyed. I had no idea there was something “in this” for me.
Upon opening my envelope, I discovered 25 dollars. I shrieked on the inside. Twenty-five dollars is a lot of money to a twelve year old! I quickly took off my vespers and walked, robot-on-crack-style to my mother’s car. Both of my parents were there to pick me up and were thrilled to learn of my excitement at the contents of the envelope. That excitement, however, was very short lived.
No sooner had I stepped foot into the backseat of the chocolate brown Honda than I noticed the organ lady chasing me to the car. “She stole money from the church!” she was yelling, frantically trying to get my father’s attention as he began to pull out. Confusion engulfed me. I knew I had not stolen anything and was tempted to look around the parking lot to see if this crazed organ lady had mistaken me for some other alter server who must have had a death wish or something. Nope, she was after me. I was sure of it, as she banged on my father’s driver side window.
Dad rolled down the window and asked the woman what she was talking about. He was out of the car in less than twenty seconds, telling me to do the same. He walked with me, hand in hand, back to the church. My fingers clutched his firm palm as he asked me, once, “Did you steal that money?” I burst into tears at the thought of it. “No!” “Fair enough.”
Dad marched with all the conviction of a drum major in a world class marching band into that church. Right past the bride and groom, still standing on the edges of the church, hoping to get last minute pictures of light reflecting from the stain glass windows onto her snowy dress. He walked passed the alter, past the choir room, past the children’s room – reserved for the less-than-well-behaved parishioners. It wasn’t long before I found myself behind the alter, in the backroom where priests get dressed and swap jokes with deacons. There, he spotted the priest who had performed the ceremony. Ironically enough, he was just finished opening his very own envelope and seemed to be quite pleased at his “take” as well.
“That bitch is accusing MY daughter of stealing money from the church,” he said, slapping my envelope down on the cherry kneeler next to the priest. I don’t who was more shocked – me, or the priest. First off, my father is the most religious person I know. For him to swear in a church, let alone in the back of the church, on the alter, was pretty much about as expected as the sun crashing into the earth full speed at 12:38 on a Tuesday afternoon. It just doesn’t happen. But it was happening, right before my eyes.
“Slow down, Mr. Delude. Who? Who is saying what?”
“That bitch, what’s her name? Janie Blanchard’s mom? Her. She’s saying Erin stole this envelope from the church,” he insisted.
“There must be some confusion.”
“You’re dam right there’s some confusion. My daughter doesn’t steal! My daughter has honor. I taught her to have honor. And I won’t let anyone, especially that horrible woman who can’t even play the organ or sing a note, hurt her honor!”
It was less than 20 minutes before the priest and others, drawn in to solve the mystery of some missing envelope that was apparently intended for a choir member, realized that a missing check was actually stuck to the back of the organ lady’s envelope.
“I told you my daughter has honor. Don’t you ever question her integrity again,” Dad barked. “Come on, hon. Let’s go.”
With that, Dad marched me right back to the car and spent, oh, a week or more, repeating the same story over and over again to me, my mother, my brothers, and pretty much anyone willing to listen. “My daughter has honor and there is no one who is ever going to tarnish that,” he’d say, like a scuffed New Kids on the Block record of the early 90s.
Honor wasn’t just for Dad’s daughter. Honor was for Dad. The best way to piss Dad off and to ensure you’d lose an argument was to give him even the impression that you might think he was lying. I learned this early on and only reserved that button for when I was in the mood for a good fight. As the outgoing executive editor for my college newspaper, I wrote an article about the importance of having honor and all the things my father had taught me about honor.
While I honor his belief in honor, I can’t say I’ve taken that message with me everywhere in my life. In fact, Dad’s daughter doesn’t always have honor. I’ve stolen. I’ve lied. I’ve cheated on tests. I’ve cheated in much bigger ways. Honor? What a novel concept. I’m just not so sure I’m all that great at it.

Introducing Yellow Dollhouse Girl

I've decided to start a blog that will work in conjunction with the memoirs I've recently begun to write. Along with my weight loss blog - which details the adventures of a Fat Bottomed Girl (me) - I am hoping that writing more about my life will help me to see how I got to where I am at in my life in the first place. (If that makes any sense).

Here, I will write about my childhood, my adulthood, and everything in between. I've been working on my memoirs: Yellow Dollhouse: Tales of an Ordinary Woman for about six months now. I recently finished it when I participated in the NANOWRIMO Writing Contest for 2009. I was pleased to win this contest and have been focused on editing my memoirs ever since. (That's going to be a long process, folks!)

Here are a few exerpts from my memoirs, just to give you an idea about me, who I am, where I've come from, and where I may - may - be heading. Enjoy!

... The movies and Hollywood, of course, are built on fantasy. It should be no surprise that I often create elaborate fantasies in my Hollywood Diva mind. Ever the drama queen, then tensions hit a high on the home front, I love to escape into my “single woman, never married and kid less” fantasy.
In my single life fantasy, I live in a loft-style apartment in an old mill building overlooking a grand downtown. The city I live in is a small one. It’s artistic and eclectic. On Friday nights, there are Art Gallery Walks and there is always a poetry reading going on somewhere. I live with two cats in this fantasy – Sylvia and Jane. Sylvia is black and dark and Jane is white and Persian. Both have personalities of their own and both are so smart they are almost able to talk to me when I come home with one man drama or another.
Friday nights are Chinese food night. Saturdays are for sushi. Sunday is for sleeping in and not bothering to shower. I write on Sundays and Sylvia and Jane curl up in my lap while I sleep. I don’t go out much on weekends, preferring to mate with a good book – deep in someone else’s love story or drama.
My loft walls are lined with bookshelves of poetry and writing books. I have a hard oak desk facing the busy front window of my apartment, overlooking the street. One wall is made from brick, painted white. I stare out onto the street while I write – the window cracked and my smoke billowing out of it as I sip on red wine. When I am bored or fidgety, I slip on some comfy Ugg boots and walk outside – being treated to the sounds of the city and inspired from the smells coming from coffee houses and local breweries.
This place I describe is similar to Main Street in Brattleboro. But in single and kid less life, the town is a bit bigger than Brattleboro – more bustling and similar to Northhampton, Mass. Perhaps it is a college town, giving it a youthful and quirky spirit. Unusally safe, it’s located somewhere in New England, possibly by the coast. It’s friendly spirit welcomes tourists and the many ma and pa shops on the streets are welcoming to travelers. Book readings, poetry spits, art shows, and theater are big here but not all that’s here. There is a history to this town and the people who live here are fiercely community oriented and protective of its heritage.
In my single and kid less life, I work as an associated press reporter and a freelance magazine writer. Based at home, I set my own schedule and work out of my apartment. I write all night and roll out of bed around noon. An automatic tea maker helps me to get my days started as I call in for stories and assignments. Often, I am able to come up with my own assignments, using the people and character of my place to lead me to interesting tales.
The men I date in this life are attractive and interesting. They are artists and creators. They understand creativity and are interested in things like the theater and photography. They prefer black and white photography – developed old style in a dark room – to digital high tech artwork. They are graphic designers, advertisers and writers. These men think outside the box and are not adverse to going to vegan buffets or trying out the latest juice bar in town. They are cultured and have more audio books than they do music albums on their Ipods. They view tattoos as art and most have full sleeves of ink on their arms. These men are liberal but not so outspoken about it that they are obnoxious. They are able to see two sides to things and don’t view the world as simply black and white.
I am not serious about any of the men in my single and kid less world. Having more than one lover at a time and open relationships suits me. I am a free spirit hippie and the men I date are no different. Occasionally, our open relationships merge into “love puddles” and things get a bit on the kinky side. With each man, I share something different – perhaps a love for art or tea pots with one, antiquing and flea marketing with another, writing with another, and an appreciation for the arts with finally another. There may be women too. These women are like minded and buxom. They are down to earth and gentle spirits who smell of patchouli and are envious of my natural curls. They are curvy and crazy all at the same time. They have names like Lilly and Star. They are not envious or needy and they all smoke far too many cigarettes.
In my single and childless world my nick name is Lola. I don’t know why I am so attracted to this name, perhaps because it's my "skinny chick" name, but I think it suits me. At least it suits me in this fantasy land. Lola is the kind of person who listens to National Public Radio and gets tattooed on a whim. Lola prefers acoustic music and live bands in small bars to rock concerts in atriums. She marches to her own beat and is not afraid to let anyone know it. Lola makes no apologies and has no one to answer to. Of course, this world of mine is not anything like the one in which I really live...