One of my characters gets her period.
I find it fascinating how writing a couple pages dedicated to blood shed is easy peasy for me but remembering to turn the faucet all the way off is utter brain surgery. I think my husband is convinced I’m an idiot savant, and if I don’t have a lap top strapped to my paws then I’m going to stumble down a man hole and you’ll hear me scream “It’s dark and wet down here! And there’s not even an internet connection!”
But it gets worse than the faucet. For example, when I go to the doctor, I get stage fright. He asks me who in my family has ever had heart disease, and I start making up some bull shit story about an Uncle Ted who dropped dead from a heart attack in the Denver airport right before his Cinnabon order was ready. It took me seven years to accurately remember my social security number and hell if I know who in my family line has suffered from an aggressive bout of tooth rot (and wouldn’t that be a horrible way to go? I don’t even eat Cinnabon anymore but I would not wish that kind of death on anyone. And I guess tooth rot is no paradise either).
So I started to get to thinking why it is that I can’t remember to do the little things and why I have such a hard time finishing the most brainless tasks. And then it hit me. It’s all Maria’s fault.
If you don’t remember Maria from my first blog, Alabaster Cow, then let’s do a little recon, shall we? Maria is my mother, known hoarder of bad news fridges, Yankee candles and Coach purses. She’s also been my personal assistant since the day I was born.
Maria can’t help it. She’s a good soul and would do anything for anyone. Especially me. She dutifully posted newspaper clippings of local rapes, murders and excessive rough housing on our refrigerator growing up to make sure I never forgot the world was populated with lunatics (which, unbeknownst to Maria, was also made clear by her insistence on keeping a “Bad News Fridge”).
But it doesn’t end with the fridge. In fact, if it ended with the fridge my therapist wouldn’t have just purchased his half a million dollar vacation home with the infinity pool (you’re welcome Dr. Klinefelter). It goes on to include the time she forced me to wear a helmet while riding my bike in our cul-de-sac while her voice piped hard through a walkie talkie she also forced me to take along. I was sixteen. And then there was also the time she forced me and my best friend to carry a rather large stick when we went walking down our street. That may not sound too out there but beforehand she made us practice our “You’re not my mommy! You’re not my daddy!’s” until we both went hoarse. Again, sixteen.
So sure, Maria was a little over protective but she had reason to be. I was an only child, a young girl who needed to be taught that the world wasn’t an easy place to live in. Unless, of course, you had a mother who cleaned your room, made your bed and went with you to the doctor’s until you were in college just so you wouldn’t have to remember your pesky family history.
I wonder if Dr. Klinefelter offers family counseling?
But the coolest thing about Maria? She’ll read this and laugh. Or she’ll dump me on a corner two blocks from my house and leave me to find my way home.
It’s been nice knowing ya.