On the Mom Side of the Tracks

We all have that one person in our lives we think we’d be lost without. Like, in the event you ever stupidly got a DUI when you were 21, you would call this person because they’d know how insanely claustrophobic you are. They would offer explicit instructions on how to keister sleeping pills into jail and offer to help – physically, if needed. You’d also call this person if you ever pooped your pants at work. You’d obviously be so close to this person that the two of you would work at the same place. They’d come to your office where they’d cut you out of your soiled panties and dispose of them – in a sanitary fashion. More importantly though, this person would not act disgusted whatsoever; in fact, they’d laugh with you. And, they’re the same person you’d call if you ever got your heart shattered by the only man you ever loved – because their words would act like superglue. Of course, you’d also call this person when you were bored as hell, or lonely as hell, and had absolutely nothing to say, but just needed comfort. This person would instantly know this and just listen to you breathe through the phone.

My person was my mom. Mom and I were tight. Think fitted sheet tight. Think Spanx tight. Think Joan Rivers’ face tight. A little Thelma and Louise, a little Laverne & Shirley, a little Sharon and Kelly Osborn; that was Mom and me.  She had my back and I had hers. She was my compass, and with her I felt safe. Why wouldn’t I? The woman protected me while I was hanging out in her womb. And, she did such an amazing job that there have been many times – since I was violently thrust out 34 years ago – that I’ve wanted to crawl right back in there.

Especially the time right before I lost her, about 10 years ago. I just wanted to hold on to her so tightly, because I could feel her slipping away so quickly. It was like trying to hold onto ice cream. She was gone and there was nothing I could do about it. Divorce is like that. It changes people. Divorce takes people by the mom jeans, gray-speckled black hair, untarnished lungs, sober liver and it frosts their tips blonde, dusts their duds in sequins, pours them a fifth of Captain Morgan, tosses a pack of Marlboro Reds their way, and calls it a day. And when Divorce is through, it leaves you with a Pimp My Ride version of your person.

Divorce is a bitch.

With the mom I knew gone, I felt lost.  Who was I supposed to call when I had an excruciating migraine, but didn’t know if it warranted a doctor’s visit? Who was I supposed to call when my period was late? Who was I supposed to call to help me decide if I should be mad at my best friend for not taking me to the airport? And, who was I supposed to call to find out if I could substitute dark corn syrup for molasses in a cookie recipe? Most people use Google to get these answers, but I used my mom.

The woman who once had all the answers was off doing her own thing now. She was living the life she never got too all those years ago. Well, at least, that’s what she said. Besides, didn’t she deserve that? And, really wasn’t I old enough to figure out my own dilemmas by now? Mama didn’t raise no fool. It was time to woman up – or find a new mom.

I wasn’t sure which task was more daunting.

I considered adult adoption, but that seemed a little extreme. I mean, there didn’t seem to be any shortage of little kids to adopt – domestic or international. We’ve all seen the Jolie-Pitt clan, which gave me the brilliant idea to try a kid on for myself. I became a Big Sister to 9-year-old C. Our relationship lasted as long as any one of Taylor Swifts – not by my choice, however. As our relationship began to flourish, C’s dad was released from prison and kicked me out of her life. I’ve seen enough Dateline to know it’s best to respect an ex-felon’s wishes. So again, I was left teetering on the fickle line of womanhood and substitutions.

I called in some of the greatest – and some of the not so great – to try on my mom’s mom jeans. There was my older sister, who has the emotional sensitivity of a chair, tell me to, “Suck it up, you pussy.” I’ve always thought of myself as a delicate flower, like a cherry blossom, lily, or orchid, but pussy willow never crossed my mind. There was my aunt, who opened her home and fed me meals beautiful enough to grace the cover of Food & Wine. Nourishing my body with such beauty made me feel like I could spew it back out there. There was the entrepreneur, 17 years my senior, who fed me espresso martinis until the wee hours of the morning, until one morning involved a hangover and a morning after pill. And, there was my cousin, who’s saturated with motherly instinct and made certain I was never alone on holidays – including romantic ones like Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve – and smothered me with chocolate hearts and midnight kisses. Now, who says being single isn’t sweet?

But either way, both you and I know, substitutions are just that: substitutions. I mean, there aren’t replacements for cheese, falling in love for the very first time, bear hugs, or moms. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying substitutions aren’t working for me – they are. It’s just that it’s time I stand on my own.

I’ve been with myself long enough to know myself better than anyone – even my mom.  I can make my own decisions. And, in a way I’ve been semi-independent all along.  The shoes on my feet? I bought ‘em. The clothes I’m wearing? I bought ‘em. The watch I’m wearing? I bought it. The house I live in? I bought it. The car I’m driving in? I bought it. Destiny’s Child isn’t the only one who can get down like that.

So yeah, I’ve got a handle on part of the whole adulthood thing. The emotional part just needs a little fine tuning. But, come on, is that part ever really done? I argue it’s not. And, you know what, I’m okay with that because everyone needs support. Just like Dolly Parton’s breasts.

Lady Acts Like a Dude

So, is that a no?

Growing up, femininity was sparse around my house. My mom was way too busy running a household and a business to have time to teach me how to cross my legs and paint my toenails. So, I’ve just kind of always been more like a dude. Not in the way that I put my hands down my pants when I’m watching TV, or pee in the shower, or even try giving myself oral. But, more in the way that I prefer a Miller Lite to a Cosmo, brag about the scars I get from crashing my mountain bike, and dust around the books on my bookshelf. Oh, and there was that one time I proposed.

I was 21 and had been dating L for about seven months. I was wildly in love. I had never felt that way about anyone before. I couldn’t have been happier. I had to fuck it up. That was my M.O.: self-sabotage. Along with femininity, the ‘L-word’ was hard to come by around my house. We used it sparingly; like Tabasco. It’s not that my family didn’t love each other. We did, deeply. It’s just that expressing it was far too awkward. Either way, I knew I was loved by my dad’s relentless teasing, my sister’s constant blows to my arm, and my mom’s overflowing pans of Rice Krispie bars. Mostly, by the pans of Rice Krispie bars. But, at the same time, for whatever reason, I felt a gnawing uncertainty, a need to prove myself, a deep-seated fear of rejection.  And so, when I was 13, I made a pact with myself that I would never be rejected. I would be in control of my hurt.

This way of life worked for me – hurting people before they could hurt me – until L came along. He was different. After two months, I wasn’t sick of him. Actually, it was quite the opposite; I wanted him near me, around me, in me – all the time. The most mind-blowing part was: he felt the same.

L was hot. He looked like Adrian Grenier, except with brown eyes and prominent ears. He ran a funeral home, and made me laugh until I snorted, like all of the time. Most of the time, my fingers were wrapped around L’s dark, curly locks. And, his were wrapped around a can of Bud Light. And, most of our nights ended with an empty 18-pack, half-eaten burned Totino’s pizza, and a tipped over La-Z-Boy. But, in the mornings we somehow found ourselves twisted up in L’s crisp, white sheets; my head nestled in between L’s broad shoulders, his chin resting on top of my head.

Around the same time I started dating L, another guy was interested in me. It doesn’t even matter who it was. It could have been Pee-wee Herman or Ron Jeremy, for that matter. It was the attention I was after. Because if I focused my attention on other men, it wouldn’t hurt so badly when L broke up with me. Because he would break up with me. Sooner or later L would see how unlovable I was and reject me. So, I had to reject him first.

Eventually I cheated on L with that other guy. L found out and broke up with me. But, not in the regular break up kind of way. He cried. He wrote me a gut-wrenching letter, he told me that because of me he had to read the book, “Never Be Lied to Again”, he said he thought I was ‘The One’, so how could I do this to him? He told me the only way I could fix this mess was with a time machine.

So, I made a time machine.

I went to the dump and got an old cardboard refrigerator box; spray painted it silver, decorated it with a black sharpie, and carved a door in the front. You know, so L could carry me over the threshold and we could travel back in time before I screwed things up.

The next morning, I dropped the machine off in his front yard, went to work, and waited. And, waited. Finally by three o’clock, I couldn’t take it anymore and called him, “So, did you see the time machine?”

“Meghan, it doesn’t work.” L told me, matter-of-factly.

No fucking shit. Of course it didn’t work. It’s not like I thought I was Samantha from Bewitched or I Dream of Jeannie. L’s response crushed me a little bit, but it also encouraged me. Maybe he just wanted me to try harder. Like, prove my love more – by doing more. You know, like a marriage proposal.

Because when someone continually rejects you, proposing to them is clearly the best way to illustrate your remorse, commitment, and love, right? So, I went to Kay Jewelers where I settled on a thick platinum band sprinkled with five diamonds. It screamed L: sophisticated and masculine.

I needed to propose in a grand way, so when I got home, I plucked a whole chicken from the freezer, defrosted it, and carefully dug out the wishbone. After cleaning it, I attached it to the ring with a piece of thread, and on a small piece of pink construction paper, I printed: I wish you’d marry me, and placed my proposal in the ring box. Then I drove over to L’s, my hopes high.

L was sitting in his La-Z-Boy, drinking a Bud Light when I got there. The lights were low and The Dixie Chicks wer softly humming from the stereo. The mood was set. Just like old times, we found ourselves twisted up in L’s white, crisp sheets. While still wrapped in his arms, I fished the ring box from my pile of clothes on the floor. I placed it on his chest and he looked at it like I just put a UFO on him. Then he asked, “What’s this?” with an expression that made it clear he knew exactly what it was. He did the polite thing, opened it, and tried putting the ring on his finger. It was like the OJ/glove courtroom scene and L bluntly explained, “Meghan, it doesn’t fit.”

It was at that moment, I knew he meant I didn’t fit. I swept my proposal from his chest and what was left of my dignity and got dressed as if the house was on fire. Really, it felt like my insides were on fire. I drove to my mom’s – where I always go when I’m feeling broken.

For the next several weeks I embedded myself into my mom’s recliner and pretty much went into a comatose state. Really, I’m surprised I didn’t get bedsores. I remember very little, except subjecting myself to depressing country music, drinking rum (side note: I hate rum) and sobbing. Finally, my mom yelled at me and told me to get the hell out of the house. She actually physically jerked me out of the chair, telling me I’d punished myself enough. Next to the Rice Krispie Bars, that was the kindest thing she’s ever done for me.

It’s been thirteen years and I’m over L. Some things just aren’t meant to be. And, some things you’re meant to experience in order to learn from. If L would have taken me back, I may have never learned the value of fidelity. If L would have taken me back, I may have married an alcoholic. If L would have taken me back, I may have never learned engagement rings must be returned within three months of purchase in order to get a full refund. If L would have taken me back, I may have never started crossing my legs and painting my toenails.

The Extreme Violations of Elmo, Earrings, and Cigars

Buying gifts for people is hard – no matter the occasion – especially as people age, grow apart, and move away. Maybe that’s why gift cards are becoming increasingly popular. But, come on, what fun are they? They completely suck the fun out of the whole shopping experience. Regardless, every birthday and Christmas, my sister asks for one and every time, I put my foot down. And then, I slowly bring it back up. Because even though gift cards are thoughtless and boring, they’re easier and cheaper than shipping her a quilt, lamp, wall decor or whatever else she’ll buy with a Hobby Lobby gift card.

I, on the other hand, have never been a gift card kind of gal. I like unwrapping presents and finding something completely unexpected, that I’d never buy for myself. It’s a treat to unwrap the espresso machine I’d been drooling over for months or the vintage fur coat I thought I didn’t deserve. Anyway, I know me. If I was to receive a gift card, I’d blow it on something practical like groceries, toilet paper, or socks. And, that would be unfortunate because on holidays everyone deserves a little frivolity.

Unless it’s Elmo. Then by all means, keep your frivolity to yourself. On Christmas Eve when I was 24, I opened a gift from my mom. Inside was a white sweatshirt splashed with Elmo’s face. Yes, the Elmo from Sesame Street. His red, furry monster face was all smiles – on the front of my sweatshirt. While I was recounting this story to my mom the other day, she tried telling me I was 16 when this happened, and then maybe 14, no surely I was 12. So, you be the judge of who’s the better historian. Either way, I initially thought it was a joke, so I laughed. Sadly, I was mistaken.  My sister and brother were laughing, too. The only person not laughing: My mom.

She was confused. Why wouldn’t I like an Elmo sweatshirt? The saleslady at Sears told her I would absolutely adore it. Um, of course she did Mom; the bitch was trying to make a sale. Clearly, she worked on commission. After delicately explaining to my mom that Elmo was only appropriate for children ages one to three, she shared my anger and handed over the gift receipt.

The saleslady doesn’t deserve full blame; however. Whoever’s idea it was to make an Elmo sweatshirt in an adult size really deserves three-quarters of the blame. I mean, the saleswoman was just doing her job, and a damn good one at that. The person who thought a grown ass woman would look good strutting around with Elmo on her chest, is either cruel or stupid and should be suffocated with a stack of Elmo sweatshirts.

I returned the sweatshirt and never thought of Elmo again, well, until his puppeteer made the news recently for some alleged terribleness. Hopefully it’s untrue, but with four accusers and a resignation, things aren’t looking good. Actually, they’re looking way worse than my old sweatshirt. But, that’s not the point. The point is giving is hard.

Even for kids. On Christmas Eve when I was 7, I wanted so badly to give my mom a gift, but no one took me to get her anything. So, I was left empty-handed, which made me feel horrible. And, everyone knows people resort to horrible things when they feel horrible. Just look at Heidi Montag or Charlie Sheen. Anyway, the house was in complete chaos as my parents prepped for my extended family to arrive. Dad was putting the finishing touches on the oyster stew, while mom was sopping up melted snow on the floor with one hand and tossing stray presents under the tree with the other. I saw this as a golden opportunity to sneak off to their bedroom –and do some Christmas shopping.

On top of my mom’s dresser was her jewelry box, which was the first thing I noticed, probably because it was right next to the light switch. I peeked inside and found a pair of ivory colored clip on earrings, in the shape of silver dollars. My mom’s ears, like her feelings, are super sensitive so she couldn’t wear pierced earrings. I thought back and couldn’t remember ever seeing them on her ears, but I was sure she’d love them as a gift. After all, they were in her jewelry box. So, I snatched them and stuffed them in the front pocket of my pink corduroy pants. Then, I wadded them up in a chunk of blue snowflake wrapping paper and placed her gift under the tree.

It wasn’t ten minutes later that I heard my mom hollering from her bedroom, “Where are my earrings?! Who’s seen my earrings?!” Uh-oh. I crept back to her room, just to make sure she was talking about the same earrings I took. But, I already knew the answer. After a short internal battle with myself, I retrieved the gift from under the tree and unwrapped my mom’s present for her. To say she was unimpressed would be a fair statement. But, my mom and I aren’t the only ones in the family who are gift challenged.

Several years ago, my thirty-something year-old aunt gave my grandpa cigars for Christmas. This would be a perfectly normal, perfectly acceptable gift – for someone who smokes cigars. The only thing my grandpa had ever smoked in his life was a turkey. But, he was a classy guy and kept a poker face; in fact he was quite gracious. The rest of us, on the other hand, filled the room with laughter more obnoxious than what you’d hear come out of the mouths of Fran Drescher and Maria Menudos. While we continued on with our fits of hysteria, my grandpa quietly picked up his cigars, found a lighter, and walked outside where for the first time in his 72 years, he lit up.

Speaking of lighting up, isn’t that all we’re really after when we give a gift? I mean, we just want to see the other person light up. It’s all about pleasing them and maybe in some small way, gaining their approval. So, yeah, it’s not an entirely altruistic act, but we already knew that. So, why then, do we put so much pressure on ourselves and act like crazy people?  Maybe gift cards aren’t such a bad idea after all? Nah, I’m still holding out for Cookie Monster panties.

Very Inspiring Blogger Award!

My whole goal in writing is to reach people in hopes of touching them in some way. I simply want to provoke an emotion in whomever reads my writing – whatever that emotion may be. So, I’m honored to be awarded the “Very Inspiring Blogger Award”. Thank you Elizabeth! Please check out her blog at www.theartofpsychology.wordpress.com. It’s highly entertaining and extremely educational.

Here are the rules for accepting the Award:

• Display the award logo.
• Thank the person that nominated you and link back to them in your post.
• State 7 interesting things about yourself.
• Nominate 15 other bloggers for this award and link to them.
• Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know they have been nominated.

7 interesting things about me:

1. I work for an adult-themed store, but am the most vanilla person walking the streets.

2. I hate baked cookies, but will whip up a batch of raw cookie dough and go to town.

3. Even at 34, I want my mommy more than a toddler.

4. I cry about once a week.

5. I live my life according to Astrology; I judge people by their astrological signs, read my monthly horoscope and have “my” psychic.

6. My left foot is 1/2 size larger than my right, creating extreme problems in my life.

7. Growing up, I pretty much only watched: “I Dream of Jeannie”, “Murder She Wrote”, “Laverne & Shirley”, “Alfred Hitchcock Presents”, and “I Love Lucy”.

My 15 nominees for the “Very Inspiring Blogger Award” (in no particular order):

1. http://theartofpsychology.wordpress.com/

2. http://shutupdad.wordpress.com/

3. http://theothercourtney.wordpress.com/2012/12/10/blog-award/

4. http://www.bentobreak.com/

5. http://ruthrutherford.wordpress.com/

6. http://creativeliar.com/

7. http://deliberatedonkey.wordpress.com/

8. http://successsearch.wordpress.com/

9. http://combatbabe.com/

10. http://ineedanewman.wordpress.com/

11. http://windupmyskirt.com/

12. http://aunicornwithcancer.wordpress.com/

13. http://andreabadgley.com/

14. http://darlenecraviotto.com/

15. http://sweetthesound.wordpress.com/

Twinkie, Twinkie, Big Fat Star

You’ll always be a part of me.

Much ado has been made about the downfall of the Twinkie. Believe me, I’m devastated too because growing up, Twinkies were a staple around my house. Sweets were easier to come by than toilet paper. It wasn’t unusual for us to eat a bowl of cherry chip cake batter for dinner, have homemade caramel rolls because it was Tuesday, or devour a plate of Twinkies for an after school snack. That’s just how we rolled. And, I was cool with that.

Don’t get the wrong idea, though – it wasn’t all sugar highs and diabetic comas at my house. There was a sprinkling of fruit cups, yogurt, vegetable soup, sautéed cabbage, meatballs, and the desperate, but very creative, bologna tacos. So, we managed to meet recommended dietary guidelines of the USDA, albeit marginally.

Food was like another family member to me – at times I loved it and other times I loathed it. I remember it most fondly in my early years. Mostly because cake was involved, and what’s not to love about cake? Particularly wedding cake. My mom is quite creative (remember those bologna tacos?) and baked wedding cakes for a short time during my childhood. And, when I was about nine, I’d go with her to whichever church the wedding was to go down, and help.

Okay, so I did more frosting-licking than baking. The point is, I was there. At the time, I didn’t know enough to appreciate the masterpieces my mom was creating. I didn’t know baking a six-tiered white cake, covering it with a smooth, dense fondant, and then piping delicate buttercream roses all over it took more skill than un-wrapping a Twinkie. My mom made cake decorating look as effortless as Gabby Douglas does circling the uneven bars.

But, I didn’t know a lot of things back then. I didn’t know my hair needed to be cut and brushed. I didn’t know my purple K-Mart brand tennis shoes looked silly with the alligator shoe laces I laced them with. I didn’t know I was supposed to wear underwear. I didn’t know we were as poor as the day was long. But, I didn’t need to know that stuff. Well, except for the underwear thing. Really, someone should have let me in on that one. Knowing the necessity of underwear could have saved me the embarrassment of flashing my prepubescent lady parts mid-cartwheel at a family reunion, when I was nine. Regardless, when you’re loved, that shit doesn’t matter. And, I was loved and happy.

And, when you’re loved and happy, you’re usually fat. I was no exception. As I mentioned, food was a central theme in my house. Let me give you some one-sided conversations from either parent:

Oh, you’ve got a headache? Let me make you some buttered toast.

What’s that? You’re tired? You should eat some Spanish rice.

Really, you’re happy today? Well, let’s celebrate with a tub of rocky road!

I know, your boyfriend is a jackass. I’ll grab the licorice, you turn on Lifetime.

Ooooh, you’re bringing your new man over! This calls for some homemade fried chicken!

No, you just think you’re not hungry. Try this stir-fry I made and you’ll change your mind.

And, so it went. Food was always fucking there.

Things only escalated when my parents bought The Burger Boy: A fast-food restaurant. It was an old A&W style place, with the drive ups and car hops. And, trust me, just like heroin, it only sounds glamorous. It was really just greasy, monotonous, underappreciated work. My parents worked all the time. Well, my mom did. It was a far cry from her wedding cake days because this this shit did look hard.  My dad was in other states during the week, doing construction and came home on the weekends to flip burgers.

Me? An apron was wrapped around my 10-year-old body immediately. It was the kind that held change. You know, so when we delivered food to the drive ups, we could count change back. Or, rather, we were supposed to be able to count change back. The first time I delivered root beers and hot dogs to a couple’s car, I ran away in tears. Listen, I’ve never been a numbers person, plus I have terrible anxiety. So, combine the two and you get waterworks. Well, maybe I can do a little math. Either way, it took me a few practice sessions at home, with my mom, before I felt comfortable going at it alone again.

But, what I felt comfortable with right way was the food. Quarter pounder on Texas toast? Yes, please. Onion rings with a side of ranch dressing? Don’t mind if I do. Chili cheese dog? I don’t see why not.  Root beer float? You only live once. When you’re a kid, self-control, isn’t in your vocabulary. And, when your parents are working all of the time, you’re kind of left to your own devices.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming my parents for me looking like Honey Boo Boo. They were working their asses off to put food on the table. I mean, to support us so we could have a better life and I wouldn’t have to wear alligator laced Kmart shoes anymore. And, of course, things could have been worse. We could have owned Dunkin’ Donuts.

And, as life goes, things change. I moved away, cut fast food out of my diet, dropped a few lb’s and my parents eventually sold The Burger Boy. Oh, and I’m wearing underwear now.

A Whole Jugga Woman

That reminds me, I need tampons.

Nicknames are like big hugs. Everyone deserves one. Everyone. When you get crowned with a nickname, it means you’re in. Like, people really, really like you. You know this – and everyone else knows this – because time was devoted for the specific purpose of creating a clever moniker, just for you.

Bono is a perfect example. His given name is Paul, but in high school his buds dubbed him ‘Bono Vox’ for obvious reasons: it means ‘good voice’ in Latin. And, Miley Cyrus’ birth certificate actually reads ‘Destiny Hope’, but because the pop star was such a smiley little thing, people called her ‘Smiley’. And, because that’s super long and cumbersome to say, it was quickly shortened to ‘Miley’.

Of course, not everyone is the creative type, which is why we have generic nicknames. They’re based off a person’s attribute or characteristic and tossed around like glitter at gay pride. I’m sure you all know an ‘Einstein’, ‘Moneybags’, ‘Ginger’ or ‘Brown Eyes’. And, then there are those Sad Sacks who give themselves a nickname. Pathetic, isn’t it? You’re not supposed to give yourself a nickname. It’s like giving yourself a massage, pat on the back, or blowjob. It just doesn’t feel as good as when someone else does it.

I know. In 7^th grade, I nicknamed myself ‘Woman’.

It was my first year of junior high and I’d been answering to Meghan or Megs for 13 years. ‘Woman’ came to me, in a bathroom stall, in between science and gym class. Sort of like how the dead just come to the Long Island Medium. I was sitting on the toilet, doing what I always do when I pee: staring down at my panties, like I’m ashamed or something. I just want the experience over as fast as possible. But, really, where else are you supposed to look? Either way, I noticed the daisies on my yellow cotton briefs were no longer white, but crimson.

I got my period! And I was welcoming it, with open legs. Finally, there was nothing setting me apart from my mom and older sister. We were all the same. Well, at least once a month we were. I tore some toilet paper off the roll and carefully placed it over the stained daisies. Then I waddled to the nurse’s office to call my mom. I had to blab the good news to someone; excitement was bubbling all over me. Plus, I needed instructions on what to do next.

Mom didn’t “know what in the hell” I was so excited about, but brought me a couple of maxi pads anyway.  She gave me a short tutorial before saying, “Goodbye Meghan,” which I seized as an opportunity to correct her. “Mom, I’m a woman now. Call me Woman.” Word quickly spread and my family humored me for several months. And when I say humored, I mean made fun of, because come on, that’s just par for the course when someone nicknames themselves.

I’d like to point out that this whole friggin’ mess could have been avoided had my mom slapped me upside the head with Judy Blume’s, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Either way, ‘Woman’ stuck to me about as good as those damn maxi pads. But, not to worry.  One year later I was nicknamed again – by someone else.

Periods and breasts go together like mustaches and weirdos. So, you can guess what happened next: I sprouted a pair. But, not just a couple of bumps like the rest of the girls in my class. My chest was like the blueberry inflation scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Practically overnight, my breasts had developed to a D. For some of you, that may not sound that large. Let me remind you, I was 14 and a smidgen over 5 feet. I was grossly disproportionate. Like almost as disproportionate as a toddler’s head to its body.

My mom hooked me up with a minimizer bra and cocoa butter to slather on the fresh stretch marks that were strewn over my breasts like silly string. Meanwhile my classmate, C, hooked me up with the nickname, ‘Jugs’. Charming, I know.

When C announced my nickname in the crowded hallway of Humboldt Junior High, he wasn’t being malicious. C and I had a good relationship, and even dated at one time. He was a jokester, the class clown, the kid who liked everyone and everyone liked back. C even had his own nickname: ‘Funny Man’. And, things could have been so much worse. C could have decreed me something really vulgar, like ‘Fun Bags’ or ‘Meat Puppets’. So for that, I am grateful.

Either way, ‘Jugs’ deflated shortly thereafter.  But, still, each time I pick up a jug of milk from the cooler in Safeway, I’m reminded to buy tampons.

Sometimes A Punch In The Face Is All It Takes – To Find Out Who’s Your Daddy

My dad has called me a lot of things in my life: Megs, Meghan Beghan Ronald Reagan, and even, on occasion, mama’s baby. But, he never got around to calling me Daddy’s Little Girl, which was the one thing I wanted so desperately. Like, I wanted it more than I wanted a Barbie Dreamhouse. I wanted it more than I wanted Punky Brewster’s style. I wanted it more than I wanted my first kiss with Chris King to be seen by the entire 6^th grade class. I wanted it more than I wanted a driver’s license. I even wanted it more than I wanted my first roommate and I to live a lifestyle similar to that of Laverne & Shirley. Really, I never stopped wanting it.

The only consolation to not being Daddy’s Little Girl was knowing my older sister wasn’t either.  It was comforting knowing the rejection wasn’t anything personal. My dad just wasn’t the touchy-feely type of guy. Living in small town Iowa, he was a construction worker; one of those big, tough guys, you know? He wore steel-toe boots, ripped jeans and plaid, flannel shirts. And, kept his feelings neatly tucked under a hard hat. During the week, my dad would venture off to places like New York where he’d throw together a skyscraper or Minneapolis and work on the Mega Mall; on the weekend he’d come home to us, a cooler dangling from his sleeve, not his heart.

These boots are made for…kicking some ass.

I can count on my right hand the number of times my dad told me he loved me. Maybe that makes it all the more special when it does happen? Maybe. But, I would argue it makes it all the more awkward. Mostly because my dad is so utterly uncomfortable saying those three little words. And, when he does say them, it sounds like he’s just eaten three tablespoons of peanut butter.  And, the only impulse I have is not to say ‘I love you’ back, but rather to hand the man a glass of milk.

Either way, when I was 22, I found my very own older man to call me his little girl and in certain situations, I could call ‘daddy’ – and moved right on in. The pressure to marry T mounted about 6 months in. I would find jewelry store catalogues lying around the house, the engagement ring section marked with post-its, and random rings circled in red marker. I was confused; wasn’t I supposed to be doing this? Side note: T had been married twice before. I had no intention of being his third ex-wife. Yet, I found myself infected with a platinum, princess-cut engagement ring. I hated it. But, I hated hurting people’s feelings even more.

I didn’t know how to get myself out of the situation, so I stayed away. And, the more I stayed away, the more controlling and aggressive T became.  One night, after enjoying a happy hour with a few co-workers, T met me at our front door.

He was all decked out in a suit. He slurred, “Well, you said you’ve never seen me in one before.” Clearly he’d been in the company of Jim Beam all night. Seeing where this was going, I told him he looked nice and went into the bedroom to get ready for bed.

Apparently, while I was out, T found some graduate school applications I had filled out, without telling him. He was furious. Why hadn’t I told him? Who did I think I was? Was I really planning on moving away and leaving him? Really, my 22-year-old mind hadn’t thought about any of that. I was just trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted to do with my life. Either way, I apologized for keeping him in the dark.

My apology was met with a blow to the nose.

The punch hurled me onto the bed, T hovering above me. Stunned, I leapt up and did a maneuver similar to the limbo underneath his arm. On my way out of the bedroom, I grabbed my cell phone before shielding myself behind the locked bathroom door. As I was desperately calling my brother, M for help, T was punching and kicking holes in the door. I waited for M to come and wondered at what point my life turned into an episode of Cops.

M came to the rescue and took me to our parents, where I stayed for the following three months. My mom helped me move all of my stuff out of T’s house the next day. The only thing I left was his ring, which he eventually gave back – I’m sure out of guilt. My nose was black and blue and it felt like I’d been punched in the face. Because I had.

No one pushed me to defend myself by pressing charges or anything, which I really needed in this situation. Plus, wasn’t my dad supposed to walk out in overalls, wild eyes, and carrying a shotgun? That’s what happens on Lifetime. But, mine just stood idly by, which made me feel like I’d been punched a dozen more times.

It wasn’t until six years later that I found out the truth. M and I were having dinner and drinks at Zipp’s, when he let it slip, “Dad did stick up for you when all that went down, you know. He scared the shit out of T.”

What?! How could I not know this after all these years? I demanded details. M told me that the day after it happened, Dad ordered M to get in his truck. The two of them drove to T’s where Dad barged into the house, grabbed T by the front of his shirt and pinned him against the wall; T’s feet dangling, his face turning as blue as my nose. “Don’t you ever touch my daughter again you piece of shit, you hear me?!” Dad bellowed in T’s face. T whimpered “like a little bitch.”

“It was so awesome! Dad was quite the stud,” M boasted. M went on to tell me that Dad asked him to keep it a secret. Why? I have no idea. Maybe he thought I would get mad. Maybe he was being humble. Or maybe having me know and the emotions involved was far too uncomfortable for him. Really, it doesn’t matter. What matters is I’m my dad’s little girl.