How the Unemployed Celebrate Birthdays.

With manually blown up balloons, streamers taped to various household objects, and homemade birthday cake. On Wade's birthday, being unemployed, I spent some time around the house decorating. I say "some time" and really mean four hours.

I also made him the worst of his three birthday cakes. The first cake was from my mom-- yellow with chocolate frosting and lots of sprinkles. (No this wasn't her gross chocolate frosting that is room temperature butter, sugar, and cocoa powder, but a canned frosting). The third cake was from Wade's mom-- a Butterfinger cake which consisted of a dense chocolate cake with holes poked in it so it can be filled with something delicious, and topped with whipped cream and plenty of crushed Butterfingers. God it was good. It was so good that I ate it for breakfast for the next two days. "Happy Birthday to Wade," I thought while I was chocolate wasted. Then there was my cake which began with the best of intentions-- a chocolate bundt cake loaded with chocolate chips, drizzled with a glaze, and topped with tall birthday candles. Here is the glaze:

Impatient as I am, I thought it would be okay to drizzle the glaze on the cake right when it came out of the oven. Worse, I thought it would be okay to go ahead and insert the extra long candles I bought. The result:

After confirming the candles contained no lead, I told Wade that his cake may have a little surprise in it. Kind of like finding the baby in a king cake. He presumed the cake was going to be thrown away, "We're still gonna eat it?!" he said when he saw me cutting it. I employed my dad's favorite fear tactic that he uses on birthdays. "We have to! It's bad luck if everyone (Just Wade and me) doesn't have a bite of your birthday cake. We did eat one piece, avoiding or spitting out the wax, and I now come to the purpose of this blog post:

1. The glaze didn't taste that good and I don't recommend it for purchase.
2. Don't put candles in a warm cake.
3. I am awesome at decorating for birthdays.

The Berenstain Bears and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

No, that's not the title of the latest Berenstain Bears book. Although, I'm not so sure that wouldn't be a bad idea. "The Berenstain Bears and Attention Deficit Disorder;" "The Berenstain Bears and Mommy is Depressed;" "The Berenstain Bears and Having Panic Attacks;" "The Berenstein Bears and Eating Disorders." Not to make light of a sad situation, but what really spawned this post is that I learned that the last living creator of the children's book series, "The Berenstain Bears" has died and I am reminded of how much I loved these books. Why?, you ask? BECAUSE THEY DEALT WITH THE ISSUES OF THE TIME MAN! Issues that pressed on the minds of children- especially me. For example:

Having "the Gimmies" (The Berenstain Bears Get the Gimmies). The moral of this was to not throw a fit because you can't get a toy every time your mom takes you to the grocery store. However, if memory serves me, this was resolved with Brother Bear and Sister Bear each having a small amount of money doled out to them with each trip in which they could buy something they wanted but nothing more. Sister Bear bought some Jacks. Brother Bear bought some candy. I tried proposing this to my mother and she rejected it. I'm not complaining because I did get a candy bar and a beverage of my choice EVERY time she went to the gas station.

Having bad dreams (The Bad Dream)I suffered from those... just like Sister Bear.

Girls not being included in things (No Girls Allowed). Brother Bear was such a dick.

Eating too much junk food (The Berenstain Bears and Too Much Junk Food)I didn't take their advice on this. I just loved this book for all of the illustrations of the junk food.

And, my favorite of all time, tackling a messy room (The Messy Room)

This last page of "The Messy Room" has stuck with me from the moment I first laid my eyes on it. Like the discovery of some precious treasure, "One ring to rule them all," I looked at this and thought, "A place for everything, and everything in it's place." My house was chaotic, you see. My mom is fastidious with her housekeeping now, but when she worked it was the last thing she thought of. She didn't get any help from my dad either. My dad grew up being the favorite son in a family of all girls and was raised to think that he, a man, was something special. My mom adhered to this lifestyle and therefore, in our house, dad reigned supreme. I say all of this to explain that he didn't help with housework in my mom's negligence. To help, I developed a routine, one which I have maintained until this day-- fluff the sofa pillows, straighten the items on the coffee table, clean off counter tops, make bed, put away dirty or clean clothes, and unload dishwasher. But, these surface measures didn't account for the real problem in our house-- the lack of organization.

We had things, but they disappeared, and over time, no one thought to replace them. Things that most homes have without thought.

scissors
tape
paper
pens
a hammer
tacks
bobby pins
needle and thread
permanent marker
ziploc bags
gift wrap

Worse, if we did own some of these items, no one knew where they existed. This was a CONSTANT source of frustration for me. Not only that, through my own fault, my Barbies, games, play sets, etc, were all ruined or misplaced because there was never a clear place for them to reside. That is why this page of the Berenstain Bears made my heart sing. Having a container and a home for every conceivable item that exists within a home (outside of furniture, appliances, etc.) is key to reaching Nirvana. I am working on doing just that except that in the process I keep moving things as I find better, more efficient uses of space. Wade then becomes frustrated that he can never find anything.

3K- The Earliest Mems... The Ides of March

In the interest of continuing this self-praise of the wonders of my memory, I want it to be known that I have more memories, but none after this one worth sharing. This final one I will share because it has some relevance to my current life. On one of Wade and my weekends with Cooper, his three-year old son, Cooper said something that solved a mystery that had been haunting me for 24 years now. Do three year olds really believe that people eat one another? Wade, Cooper, and I were playing Cooper's favorite game of hide and seek where he tells everyone where to hide and where to seek. Sometimes we all hide. Sometimes someone is designated to seek. This particular time we were all hiding from an imaginary monster. Cooper volunteered that if we didn't hide well enough, the monster was going to "eat us."

This was significant because for several weeks as a three-year old I was tortuously chased on the playground, yes the same mecca where I would simulate drunkenness by spinning myself silly on the merry-go-round. I was blocked from using the merry-go-round by a trio of fellow preschool girls. "Mean Girls" if you will. One was in my class and the other two girls were in 4k. It was like the Ides of March as the one from my class was my 3k girl-crush, Abby, the girl with the spiderweb shoes. She had turned on me in favor of older and more sophisticated company. In fact, we never really became friends and I don't recall talking to her after she wore Rainbow Brite shoes on the day of my big debut of my spiderweb shoes. This trio would chase me around like dogs guarding the playground. I was miserable. At one point, I remember distinctly facing the three girls. They had backed me against a fence and I was reasoning with them as all do right before they are murdered. I showed off my spiderweb clad foot to Abby and tried to pry her away from the posse by saying, "But Abby, I have the same shoes as you." She remained unswayed. I then moved to the next stage of survival and I asked the most basic question-- "What are you going to do with me if you catch me?" The leader of them was in the middle, flanked on both sides by her followers. She wore a poodle skirt and black and white saddle shoes. No I am not sixty years old. I promise that 50's clothes made a brief comeback in children's attire during the 80's. If you think that too ridiculous to comprehend, take a look at most 3-4 year old girls now. They wear tu-tu's...to school... for fun. I don't think that I ever even wore a tu-tu when I was doing actual ballet. The tu-tu is just a costume for school. I say that shaking my head but I have a faux fur coat that I wear every chance I have, including around the house, typing on the computer, setting the table, getting the mail, going to CVS, and laying on the couch watching tv. I would cook in it but the sleeves are too long. It inexplicably makes me feel better to wear it, although Wade says that when I wear it I look like the saddest little rich girl in the world. (If only). Instead the tu-tus (and my coat, I guess) are like the invisible crowns that girls are taught to wear so they will always act dignified and lady-like. Instead, however, I think it leads to "princess syndrome." Not for me of course, ha.ha.ha.

Moving on to the poodle skirt clad leader's response to my question. After a moment's thought, she said, "Because we want to eat you," very matter-of-factly. WHAT? I remember thinking. EAT ME? How bizarre! How strange! I can't remember how that exchange ended because I really wasn't prepared for such an illogical response; I believed them though. Out of pride I didn't tell on them to my mom or to my teacher. Not that I was opposed to adult intervention. I just wanted the teachers (mainly the 4 year old girls teacher) to do her job and notice their torture of me.

For some reason, my solution to this bullying was for me to get my mom to buy me a pair of saddle shoes. I know that you are seeing a trend here. Knowing that my shoe purchase had not swayed Abby, I either really liked those shoes, or I was going to appeal to the leader and show her that I was too fashionable to eat. I remember sitting in my mom's Buick Regal with the plush burgundy interior on my way home from preschool and trying to describe the saddle shoes to her. She understood immediately. We were off to Stride Rite and then to Parisians where I found them. I had no interest in the poodle skirt. Too over the top I determined. With my new shoes on my little narrow feet, I felt prepared next time I was on the playground.

I was wrong. The next time the chasing occurred, we were on a different playground, one that we were rarely permitted to play on as it was an interior courtyard and it would disturb the surrounding classes. I don't think I was even given a chance to model my saddle shoes or if I was, it was unmemorable. I do remember telling them that it was weird that they wanted to eat me but they wouldn't give up. I caved. I went to the 4k teacher, who had short hair styled in the 80's fashion of lots of body on top and little to nothing on the sides (my mom still sports a version), and blond hair. I remember her long navy blue floor length or ankle length dress and white hose. Her legs were crossed and swinging as I timidly approached her. She and I had never spoken and I told her, while she was in conversation with another teacher (not my own), that the girls, her students, (names fail me)were chasing me. I felt that should have been enough. I didn't cry. I didn't complain. I just stated the facts and I thought that was egregious enough to warrant intervention. It was not. She barely turned her head, and she said "Okay. Go play now." Defeated, I moved to the middle of the courtyard, gave up and sat in the grass. They could have me if they wanted. They didn't. They left me alone and I was left only with a styling pair of shoes and a lifelong distrust of teachers.

Cooper's mention of monsters eating us made me realize that those girls were not cannibals and it shed some light on a situation that since its occurence, has made me wrinkle my brow and shake my head every time the memory came to mind. "Eat me?" I would think. "Was something wrong with those girls?" I used to wonder. No. They were just being kids and using their imagination. I was the unimaginative one who couldn't get it.

3k- the earliest mems: the brown table

Three-year old kindergarten, I remember was on the first floor of my preschool, right behind the snack machines. We were oftentimes given a snack of Kool-Aid and butter cookies. I suppress my gagging reflex when I think of the smell of the Kool-Aid (too watered down, made with luke-warm water, and always, it seemed, ALWAYS grape flavored), and the cookies (bought in an economy sized package, and having no discernible taste besides for sugar and hardened dough). My classmates and I sat at 4 tables, everyone assigned to a seat and each table identified with a piece of construction paper taped to the center. There was the blue table, the red table, the green table, and the yellow table. That way our teacher could say, "blue table, it is your turn to use the water fountain," or something like that. I sat at the yellow table. I won't make this dull story and longer than need be. I spilled my nasty Kool-Aid on our table, causing everyone to jump up and worse-- spilling all over the yellow construction paper which was our table's bannerman. I sat in my chair mortified and silent as Mrs. Forsythe cleaned the mess and told me that "don't worry, now we'll just have the brown table." Brown instead of yellow because my Kool-Aid ruined it's color. I was stunned that she did not just retrieve a new sheet of construction paper to replace the soiled one. Brown is probably the ugliest color to children. It is the color of dirt, poo, un-stylish furniture, and dog food. My parents love to tell the story of how I, sitting on my high chair, slid my hand across a plate of cut up meat, causing it to crash on the floor. "DOG!" I had said to explain my distaste for the color of the food. "Dog" is how I felt about the color of our table. I couldn't meet my fellow students in the eye. I didn't even share this tale with my mom for fear that I would cry as soon as I opened my mouth. Overly dramatic as I may be, the words, "Don't worry, now we'll just have the brown table" have remained with me.

3K- the Earliest Mems, The Girl With the Spiderweb Shoes

Continuing on my self-indulgent series of memories from being three years old, is the story in which I engaged in a love hate relationship with a fellow class mate named Abby. Abby and I were both in Mrs. Forsythe's three year old kindergarten class and I really liked the way she dressed. She wore her hair in a fashionable side ponytail which prompted me to demand the same hairstyle from my stylist, Phyllis. "No. I want it [my banded hair] moved over," I said. "Moved over? What, like this?" my mom said as she forced the ponytail to the side of my skull. I nodded. "Oh. A side ponytail," she said, already familiar with the style. It was done. I had my side ponytail like Abby. As opinionated as I am now, my mom still relishes when I give her any tid-bit, any detail, of my tastes or preferences in fashion. For some reason, I find those choices to be very personal and I don't like coming out and declaring that I am fond of [blank] latest fashion and I want to emulate it as soon as possible. I think it is out of fear of being made to look like a fashion victim. You know, quickly investing in some "fashionable" pieces which soon become laughable the next season. What makes this strange is that I am afraid of looking like a fashion victim in front of my least critical fan-- Phyllis-- who loves everything I wear. I say all of this to set the stage for my mom's dedication to finding me the clothes, shoes, jewelry, etc. that I desired for the mere fact that I told her I desired them. Instead of having to guess, when I told her liked something, she would quickly accommodate because those instances were, and still are, so rare. Therefore, when I next told her that I wanted Abby's spiderweb shoes, she was quick to oblige. However, finding the spiderweb shoes, based on my description, was not easy. The had a white base. There was then a sparse design, not too overdone, tasteful, you see, of thin black webbing across the side, and a splash of purple. A spider was on there somewhere. She usually bought all of my shoes from Stride Rite because I had an exceptionally narrow foot. Stride Rite had never heard of such distasteful shoes and she reported back to me that since Stride Rite didn't carry them, I couldn't wear them because of the needs of my slim little foot. I had a Veruca Salt moment and cried. Yes, I cried because I could not have shoes like Abby. My mom caved and she continued her search at all of the local department stores everyday as she dropped me off at three year old kindergarten. Everyday when she picked me up, I was sad to learn she had yet to find shoes like Abby's. My sadness served as fuel for her to continue her search. She then asked me a most practical question, "Why don't you ask Abby where she got her shoes?" GASP-- I hadn't actually ever spoken to Abby, and I was not about to let her know that I was trying to find shoes to match hers. The shoes were going to be my icebreaker. Not able to communicate this to my mom, I just shook my head vigorously. "Sigh." Phyllis eventually took to the phonebook, grabbed a telephone, and called every shoe store in Birmingham. No one had them. She then continued her search into the greater Birmingham vicinity, 50 miles or so outside of Birmingham, and she made her discovery. It was such a drive that I had to accompany her. She didn't even bother making me try them on because she knew I would want them regardless of the fit. She found the shoes, shiny and new, and she still talks about how far she had to drive to find them. I can't remember what city it was because I was a child and all of that seemed entirely indifferent to me. What I am now realizing though, as I write this post, that when we picked up the spiderweb shoes, I was sitting in the front seat, and I was not in a car seat. I wonder if that was normal for those times? My mom laughed and said these were "the cheapest little shoes" but "if that's what you want..." I didn't care what Phyllis considered cheap. I wanted these shoes as I was quite concerned with my appearance and I had found someone's style I wanted to mimic. The next day I couldn't contain my pleasure at having the spiderweb shoes and I ran to Abby to show her. "Look I have spiderweb shoes... like you!" I said. "Huh?" Abby said. How could she not know what I was talking about! I looked down at her feet and she walked away distracted by someone else. That day when my mom picked me up, she could hardly wait until I was in the car before she asked if I had showed Abby my spiderweb shoes. It was then that I told her the awful news: Abby, for the first time since she took my notice, wasn't wearing her spiderweb shoes. She was wearing Rainbow Brite shoes. Having a good attitude about the affair, my mom just sighed and said, "Ugh." I reassured her that I had no interest in Rainbow Brite shoes.

3K-- the Earliest Mems: It's Not Cool to Pee in Your Pants

Continuing on with this indulgent memorilaization of my three year old memories, I move on now to telling about the pee pants incident. Actually, it was a pee skirt incident. The year was 1987 and blue jean skirts were the style baby. I don't know what hooker I saw on tv wearing one, but I had a love for blue jean skirts and it became the only thing I would wear. My family couldn't find enough to keep my appetite satisfied and they were even reduced to buying bigger sizes and safety pinning them on me. I didn't care because I didn't feel right not wearing one. Otherwise, I didn't have my three year old mojo. I couldn't sit in class and feel cool without one. So what did I do? I peed in mine to make it even cooler. Except that it wasn't. Don't think that I was some sort of a freakish child who didn't experience normal emotions; I didn't go parading around the room, going person-to-person, pointing at my skirt and saying, "look what I did?" No no no. I was humiliated. We had been at our school playground which was marvelous if only for its two merry-go-rounds. One was big; One was small. Depending on the amount of people I could gather, I would stay on one of those merry-go-rounds all through recess and spin and spin and then try to walk, taking delight in my incapacitated state. A prelude to the future perhaps. This time I merry-go-rounded too much and waited too long before going to the bathroom. As I entered the stall-- yes I made it that far-- I fumbled with the buttons of my blue jean skirt. Why didn't I just lift it up, you ask? Well, there's no answer to that except that that's a mistake I never repeated. The rest you can garner for yourself. I did the only logical thing you can do in that situation, something that I would, even to this day, repeat: I stayed hidden in the stall. I hid, noiselessly, thinking of my options, and my teacher, an elderly lady named Mrs. Forsythe, use her intuition and knew something was amiss. She found me. She discovered what had happened without making me say a word, and she hugged me, she hugged me even though I had peed in my pants. Now, that's a teacher, I say. She let me remain in my stall, my fortress to protect me from social suicide, and she called my mother. There have been several times in my life when seeing the face of my mom induces a love that could not be anymore purer. This was one of those times. She was smiling and she wasn't disappointed with me. She acted like peeing in your pants in public was like getting the chicken pox, like she had been expecting this and was glad to get it over with-- like there's only one time in your life that it could happen. Not all parents are like that. One of my ex-boyfriends broke one of his permanent front teeth skateboarding as a pre-teen. He went to the dentist to get a partial or a veneer or something like that. He thought he would get the tooth replacement that day, but he didn't. Rather than let him have the day off from school and nurse his wounds, his mother made him return to school with a missing front tooth. She didn't work; this wasn't out of necessity and I am still horrified when I think that she had the power to prevent her son from suffering humilation and she chose not to. It wasn't until I learned that she, the daughter of an Italian immigrant, was not allowed to go to school by her chauvinistic father who withheld his two girls from even a primary education, while he sent his only son to school, that I realized she thought school was this mecca of freedom and pleasure and she would not have her son miss one minute of it. Back to me. The purity of that moment was then tainted by my three year old vanity when I saw what outfit she had brought me wear. It was a hunter green sweat shirt with matching hunter green sweat pants. The sweat shirt, to be worn around Christmas and it was not Christmas, had white lace trim that ran down the middle in a V pattern. It was so ugly. I said, "I don't want to wear that... didn't I have any blue jean skirts clean?" She was not sympathetic any longer, "No April, now put this on." I begrudgingly obliged but I told her that I was not going back into class-- not because everyone would know, but because my outfit was so hideous. She said the magic words that I became addicted to hearing throughout my entire education, "You don't have to go back to school. We can go home." Sweet Jesus life was good.

3 K -- the Earliest Mems: The Goldfish Coloring Assignment

Lately, I've been trying to think of my earliest memory. It's kind of a parlor room conversation that gets started and I like to impress everyone by admitting that I remember my third birthday. Recently, I had this same conversation with my parents, with each of us stating how far back he or she can remember into his or her childhood. My dad said he can't remember last month. Before my mom could begin with what would undoubtedly be a sad story from childhood because I didn't want to hear it and because was well-equipped with an answer, "I remember my third birthday." My parents repeated my pronouncement, "You remember your third birthday?" "Yes," I said, annoyed at being questioned. "What exactly do you remember?" they continued. "Well, I remember I got a swing set and I remember I got my first Barbie doll from dad's weird friend Donny," I countered. You would remember getting a Barbie doll from Donny too if it had happened to you. It was such an odd gesture of kindness from a man, in his 40's, divorced or single, gruff, always smelling like either alcohol or gasoline and kind of looking like an ugly version of Gerard Butler. I preferred the smell of the latter. Unrelated but equally disturbing, I used to beg my mom to leave the windows down while she pumped gas so I could breathe in the intoxicating fumes. She knew it was wrong to allow me to do such a destructive thing, especially for a young developing brain, but she couldn't say no to me. Mom put my earliest memory achievement to an end. "Nope. That was your fourth birthday." So now, I confess to everyone that I have been a little liar as to remembering my third birthday. But, I can tell you that I have distinct memories from being three years old. So this is the first in a series called "3 K-- the earliest mems." These my mother cannot dispute. The Goldfish Coloring Assignment I remember sitting in three year old Kindergarten and complying with our assignment of coloring some goldfish on a piece of paper. Teachers economically buy one coloring book and then make photo copies of the unused sheets. The image I was supposed to color was just four or five goldfish, falling into a random pattern, and not even in a fish bowl or an aquarium or native habitat to make it interesting. Because of the name-- goldfish-- and the popularity of the snack cracker, everyone used their orange crayon and colored the goldfish orange. I remember being bored with this assignment. I looked at the other kids at our shared table and they were, gasp, scribbling. I knew how to color in the lines. I had the dexterity. While I sit here and lap up the satisfaction of being a dexterious three year old, you won't find me bragging about my dexterity now. Texting is the bane of my exisitence because of my lack of it. In addition, I sometimes suffer from tremors and find myself finding little ways to avoid anyone see my shaking. Using two hands to drink, for example. Sliding money to a cashier rather than handing it over, is another example. However, I didn't want to take the time to consecutively color four or five goldfish with the same orange crayon. So I scribbled and like Forrest Gump in the movie of his namesake, I said, "DONE DRILL SARGENT." That last part is not true of course. This coloring assignment would have played no role in my life nor found a place in my long term memory had not my father reviewed my day's work that evening. Sitting on the right side of the couch, legs crossed at the knee, smoking a cigarette, he said, "A-prul. Come here." "Yes," I said hesitating once I saw him holding a piece of paper with the scribbled goldfish. "Why did you do this?" He put a emphasis on "why" like a family member asking "why" did you betray the family by making a deal with Hymen Roth. In other words, there was a lot of pain, confusion, and wrath in the question. He continued, "You know how to color inside the lines," he asked. Again, he said this like a pained father, Capulet asking his daughter Juliet why does she take for granted her blessing and disappoint him, "Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest? Unworthy as she is..." I said, "IIIIII don't know..." while twisting my feet on the ground as a distraction. I don't recall what was said after that. I know that there was no hugging or laughing or joviality. He was angry. I was at fault. In order to prevent that from happening again, I needed to always perform to the best of my abilities. A vow was made that day-- to never sink lower than my abilities-- and this vow was kept until I entered into the confusing world of junior high.