Marie's Favorite Stories

My mother has been living with me since March 2017. I know she is probably unhappy about this, but she can't live by herself and I'm the only game in town. So when she was released from the hospital I brought her straight to my house.

As you can imagine, it's been quite an adjustment for everyone. We have never had much of a relationship, so this makes it a little...challenging at times. Old wounds are reopened, "convenient memory" kicks in on occasion and I know she'd rather be anywhere but here having me take care of her. And trust me: it's work!

But every so often we have good moments, and usually at my expense. And I let her. Brie and Kitty love when she reminisces about me when I was a kid because I was odd with a capital O. Marie talks and the girls laugh and laugh. I just roll my eyes and ignore them until my mother ultimately says, "Why did you do that?" That's when I side eye her and threaten to tell stories about stuff she did when SHE was younger.

At the risk of incriminating myself, I'm going to briefly tell you a couple of things that Marie loves to tell my girls. She likes to tell them that I was afraid of water and every time she washed my hair I thought she was trying to drown me. She enjoys telling them I was afraid of dogs, and how Keith and Carl would tell their puppy to "sic me" and I would run screaming and crying from a puppy that was too small to run and was just hopping after me. And Marie likes to tell them about the weird things I would eat: baking soda, flour, toothpaste and lotion.

But Marie's all-time favorite story that my girls love the most is this. Back when it was just Keith, Carl and me, my parents both smoked. In those days they smoked in the house like it was okay. Anyhoo, eventually both of my parents quit smoking cold turkey. And would you like to know the reason why??? Because apparently Keith and Carl liked to blow the ashes out of the ashtrays, and then I would eat the cigarette butts! Marie swears this is a true story and the girls think it's the funniest story ever. Seriously.

So every couple of months or so my mother will find a reason to bring this up so Brie and Kitty can chortle in mirth. And I let her and don't get mad. I mean it isn't like I do it now. And it brings a little joy to Marie. So I guess it's worth it.

But one day I'm going to tell a few stories about her. After all: isn't turnabout fair play???

Shoe-icide

Approximately 9 years ago I had a killer pair of shoes. They were black with a one-inch kitten heel, a pretty design on the toes and were so sharp looking. I wore them out dancing, to work and to church and these dress shoes were so comfortable. I just loved them. Yep: I loved them right up to the day I came home from work and Pumpkin, who was a puppy, decided to chew the toes off of both shoes. I was so mad at her! You know, for like 5 minutes because she was so cute and I shouldn't have left the shoes where she could get to them while she was teething.

So I have been looking for a pair of shoes like that for years. Just wanted a dress pump with a kitten heel. But you would think that I wanted shoes with actual kittens as heels because they were no where to be found: at least not affordable. So imagine how thrilled I was when I walked into Payless a few months ago and found: a dress pump with a kitten heel! My heart sang! Black, pointy-toed, strap around the back and they were affordable Christian Sorianos. No one in town was happier than I was.

Yep: happy right up until the day I actually went to wear them. Now I had tried them on in the store but walking around in front of the mirror is different than walking around all day in them. I have a bone at the base of my right big toe that protrudes a little bit; and the right shoe rubs against that bone. So sadly I didn't wear them.

Until I found myself back in the job market. So these became my interview pumps. I could wear them for the duration of an interview. That is, until I had a very important interview the beginning of August and I really needed to impress.

I got all dressed up and put on my flip flops to drive to the interview. There were several buildings so I went into the closest one to inquire as to where HR was. The receptionist said it was 2 buildings over. I debated wearing the flip flops until I got to the building and then changing into the Christian Sorianos. But heck: it was only 2 buildings over. So I went back to my car and put on the pumps.

I gingerly made my way to HR and whew: I made it. My foot was already starting to hurt but I had reached my destination. I was told that I would meet with the interviewer in 6 minutes and to have a seat.. Then she said, "I really love those shoes!" I wanted to tell her she could have the shoes, but fought down that urge as my foot started to throb a little. However, true to her word, in 6 minutes she said to me, "Okay, let's head over." Something didn't sound quite right with that sentence but I got up and followed her out the door. And out of the building. And on a short tour, since the interview was 3 BUILDINGS OVER! My right foot was like, "What are you doing????" But I managed to mince on over, like a geisha, to where the interview was taking place.

When I sat down for the interview I immediately slipped my feet out of the devil shoes and thankfully no one noticed. It was a wonderful interview and I felt like I'd be coming home if I was offered the job. At the end I surreptitiously slipped my feet back into the instruments of torture, shook hands all around and one of the ladies was going to show me how to get to my car. But FIRST she had to take me on another mini tour! The way my feet were feeling: if she had been a bigger woman I probably would have jumped on her back for a piggy-back ride! But finally I was pointed in the right direction to get to my car.

I was doing a slow hobble and seriously thinking about just taking off my shoes: even though I am NEVER barefoot. I knew my feet were slowly committing "shoe-icide" and it was my own fault that they were trying to kill themselves. But I figured I was almost at the parking lot until instead of taking a turn, I went straight. And that was the wrong way.I realized this when I saw the parking lot on a small hill, but there was no way to get to it. I seriously wanted to just drop to the sidewalk in defeat. Luckily a student saw me and asked if I needed help. I told her my situation and she said, "You're so close! Just go into this door at the back of the Student Center, go up the stairs, through the center and out the door. You'll be able to see your car from there."  Up stairs?? Oy vey! But I thanked her and limped away.

By the time I got to the car I wanted to take not only my shoes off: but my FEET off! I prayed and told God to please let me have the job so I would never have to wear those beautiful shoes again. God was listening and I started my new career August 15th. Hallelujah!

And I haven't worn those shoes since because I couldn't walk on my right foot for 2 days as it was so sore. I mean I was using a cane and cursing those shoes. However, they are still the cutest things going so I'm going to keep them as a reminder to love this job until retirement!

My Truth

Anyone who knows me knows that I do keep a lot of myself private. But I do have something I want to share about a very divisive issue.

Many people are thinking and asking why people only bring up sexual assault charges 30+ years later. They want to know why “all of a sudden” people remember certain facts of alleged incidents. Even I have thought about these questions when it comes to the scores of people that are now coming forward with their truths. Well I can’t speak for them, but I can certainly speak for myself.

When I was in elementary school, for one week in the summer I took swimming lessons at the local YMCA. I was not a water nymph and hated the water, but my parents thought it would be a good skill to have in case I was a passenger on the Titanic someday. I believe I was around 8 at the time. My father would take me to the Y, give me a dime to buy a soda after the lesson, and wait for me in the car. (Yeah I know: a dime for a soda? Was it the roaring ‘20s?)

Anyhoo, it was Thursday of that week. I had my usual not-good swimming lesson, changed into my favorite dress and headed up the stairs to get my soda. As I was going up the stairs, I noticed a man standing at the top. My steps slowed, but I really wanted that soda. I got to the top and headed for the soda machine. The man said, “I was wondering if you could help me. My quarter is on the top of the door frame. If I picked you up, could you just get it for me?”

Being only a child of 8, I figured since he was an adult I should be helpful. And also being a child, I didn’t ask how his quarter got up there. So I said okay; and he proceeded to lift me up in a manner that put his hand under my dress. Warning bells went off but I got the quarter and gave it to him. Then he touched my dress and said, “This is a nice dress. What kind of material is it?” “Cotton,” I answered. Then he reached under my dress to touch my underwear. “This is nice. What kind of material is it?” “Cotton,” I answered again, and began to back away from him. He said, “You don’t have to be afraid. I’ll give you the quarter if you stay and talk to me.” With that I turned and ran. He called after me, “Wait! Don’t you want your soda?” but I was out of there.

When I got to the car my father asked, “Where’s your soda?” I answered, “I didn’t want one today” and then we drove home. And I never wore my favorite dress again.

Thankfully I was smart enough to know something wasn’t right and I got out of there. I wish I had been more prudent and turned around when I saw him standing there. But again: I was only 8. And that experience is probably why to this day I avoid swimming pools, etc. like the plague.

However, the story doesn’t end here. I have remembered every part of that incident for decades, but never disclosed any details to the very few people I shared that with. Fast forward thirty years. I stopped at the store on my way home from work to pick up a few things for my parents.  When I pulled in, I noticed an unfamiliar car in the driveway but thought nothing of it. I opened my parents’ door and my father said, “Look who’s here!” I looked, and then dropped everything I was carrying. It was the man from the Y. And he was the husband of one of my mother’s best friends. She met her probably 4 or 5 years after the incident. So I had met him, and had been seeing him for years, yet never realized it was him until that day. I picked up the groceries, put them in the kitchen and walked out without saying a word. When he died a few years later, that’s when I told my mother. Thankfully she believed every word and was horrified. If there had been any other reaction, I would have cut her out of my life.

By that time the friend had already divorced him. She did that because when I was 16, she had her niece stay with them for the summer to babysit their kids. Late one night the niece showed up at my door (my parents were out) and asked if she could stay with me until her aunt came home from work. I said sure and asked if something was wrong, and she told me the man had tried to rape her. I did not doubt her. He showed up a few minutes later looking for her, but I said she wasn’t there. I also kept the screen door locked so he couldn’t get in. He said, “She doesn’t know anyone else to come to.” I said, “Why did she leave your house?” Of course he had no answer for that and left. But 15 minutes later he was knocking on the door again. I told him she wasn’t there, and if he came back I was calling the police. He left for good; and the niece called her aunt at work and asked her to pick her up at my house. She did; and then the next day the niece was on a plane back home. So I took that to mean she believed her. Then eventually: the divorce happened.

I’m telling this story to show that you can remember things clear as day: but your brain can prevent you from what is most traumatic. For me that was the man’s identity. He was in the Navy and was wearing white and sunglasses at the Y. When he showed up 30 years later at my parents’ house: he was wearing a white uniform and sunglasses. That was my trigger because when our families interacted he was never in uniform.

It took me a while, but I started wondering how he knew about the soda. He had probably been hanging out there, hoping for a chance to do something. Thankfully, God gave that 8-year-old the “smarts” to know to get out of that situation. I just wish I had told my father, or somebody, so that man could have been caught. I am positive that wasn’t his first time; and I know it wasn’t his last.

With that being said, maybe people can stop criticizing and judging: and just try to understand. Trauma is a tricky thing; and that is my truth. ‘Nuff said.