Unpacking

Growing up, we moved a lot — from North Dakota to California to Iowa — and always for my parents’ jobs. One time for a construction gig in San Diego and another time to buy a fast-food joint in the heartland. And each time we kids got notice of an impending move, I’d watch my older sister sob uncontrollably and wonder what the big deal was. 

I liked the idea of an adventure and starting over as someone new, someone better. When we made the trek from Bismarck to San Diego, I was nine and thought I was going to live out the Beach Boys song, “California Girls,” in real time.

I didn’t.

But I did make two friends and then lost them. I don’t remember what happened, but know things rarely work out in threes. Pairs, yes. But, in threes, someone always seems to feel or get left out. Either way, I made friends (I think) with Hiroko. She had just moved to California from Japan. Hiroko had jet black, stick-straight, shoulder-length hair and bangs. And she always wore a navy blue pleated skirt, white blouse and frilly socks. More importantly, she spoke little English. And I spoke no Japanese. So we had little to talk or argue about. But she was someone to eat lunch with.

On the upside, during that same time, I became friendly with a cute boy named Chris King. He was popular, nice and played soccer. We shared our first kiss behind the row of portable classrooms. And then my parents told me we were moving.

When we left California — a year later — for Iowa, I was relieved. This obviously sheds more light on my social state considering no one should be excited to leave The Golden State for flat fields of corn and humidity. But I was excited to get another opportunity to make friends and be cool.

Being the new girl from California wasn’t enough to impress sixth graders. So I tried in other ways. I called a boy a bitch. She cusses! She’s tough! She’s cool! they’d think. Instead, someone shouted, “Boys can’t be bitches, Meghan,” with an eye roll.

How was I supposed to know? Aside from moving a lot, my parents were busy and heavily involved in their own shit, so everything I learned about making and maintaining friends was from Sweet Valley Twins, Laverne & Shirley, Nancy Drew, The Munsters and The Brady Bunch.

And, because I was surrounded by so much chaos at home, I shrouded myself in a world of fantasy in an effort to escape, in an effort to belong, to be accepted. Nick-at-Nite accepted me. Books accepted me. Twinkies and Capri-Sun accepted me.

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t bullied or anything. I was just a loner — oftentimes with my head in the clouds or buried in a book. Eventually, I graduated high school early and trekked off to Tennessee and then Arizona. Taking off was easy. I wasn’t committed to anything or anyone.

Having a kid changes that. Gone are the times when I could just say: Fuck it. This isn’t working. I’m out. I have someone to take care of. Someone who depends on me. Someone who looks up at me and says, “Mama, hold me,” and wraps his 2-year-old chubby arms around my neck as he coos, “I love you, Mama.” Someone who tells me he’ll miss me when I leave for work. Someone who I love wildly. Someone whose photos I scroll through in my phone while I’m at work because I miss him, too. That said, I sometimes flirt with the idea of not going home. Just skipping my exit and letting the freeway be my guide. But those thoughts are few and short-lived.

But on bad days, I take the long way home or drive around the block a couple of times — in an attempt to prolong the inevitable chaos that awaits me behind the front door. And then I remember how lonely I once was, and how grateful I am to get to make dinners, give baths, read stories, have dance parties, clean up poop and trip on toys, so I smile and pull in the driveway.   

Losing My Family, Keeping My Home

I’m not going anywhere. Unless you push me.

Growing up, I didn’t have the best dad. And, by saying that, I mean he just wasn’t really around, and when he was there I walked on eggshells. His presence was large and frightening, so I tried my best to stay out of his way. I spent a lot of time in my room reading Francine Pascal, V.C. Andrews, Judy Blume and R.L. Stine, writing wistful poetry, listening to depressing music, watching Nick-at-Nite and eating Doritos and Pop-Tarts. Anything to self-soothe.

My parents never had a stable marriage. It was riddled with addictions, domestic violence, cheating, and well, all the awful stuff you see on Lifetime and Dateline. When I was nine, I vowed to never be in a relationship like theirs. And, we all know how promises like that turn out. I attracted every man who drank too much, shot himself up with steroids, punched me in the face, was married or lied just for the hell of it. And maybe, I even sought them out.

And then, when I was 24, I discovered my dad’s affair. Torn, but my mom being my best friend, I ratted him out. And, she torn as well – I’m sure – kicked him out, and then took him back. Dad was never mad at me, but I couldn’t handle it. I had interfered in my parents’ marriage. I had called my dad’s girlfriend. Maybe even threatened her, who can remember? And, I had broken my mom’s heart. Oh, and I had gone against my brother and sister’s wishes: they wanted me to keep the secret. I had caused major distress in our family.

So, I ran away.

Phoenix seemed like a plausible choice. I had family here: Uncle G, Aunt J and two cousins, S and B – both around my age. They would take me in and help me start a new life. Also, they weren’t fucked up, like my family. I could learn important life skills from them. Things I missed out on amidst the chaos.

And, I did. I learned how to host dinner parties, make small talk, carry myself like a lady, treat a man right, color block and accessorize, order a vodka soda and swill wine. But most importantly, as a lady, I learned how I should be treated.

After 45 years of marriage, G heavily doted on J. He would toss his arm around her shoulders, drop her off at the door when it was raining, buy her jewelry, lavish her with compliments and just overall spoil her. He was visibly and excessively in love with her. I loved watching it – mostly because it was so novel to me.

Over the years we all became very close. They treated me as their own. They were my people. I was over at G and J’s every weekend for family dinners and I spent holidays, birthdays and vacations with them. I was in on family jokes, family gossip, family secrets and family fights.

I felt particularly close to and was very fond of G. I slipped and called him ‘Dad.’

G was a real man. He co-founded a bank when he was young and became insanely successful and admired. G had a soft spot for dogs and horses and wept during sappy movies and sad stories. He wore an apron in the kitchen and the finest suits to work. He played golf at Firerock Country Club and had a voice that rivaled Tony Bennett. He had impeccable taste and loved taking us to places like Nobu, Binkley’s and The Italian Restaurant; yet knew how to enjoy a brat at a Diamondbacks game. He got manicures, wore a mustache and threw a more spectacular temper tantrum than a two-year-old getting his Legos taken away.

The Grand Canyon couldn’t contain G’s personality – or his generosity. The moment I’d walk through the front door, I’d get a whiff of his cologne. It made me smile, but his smile, when I’d tell him how good he smelled, made me smile more. There would always be a drink waiting for me and Norah Jones playing – he knew she was one of my favorites. But, before I’d even drive over to G and J’s house on Lakeview, I’d study the news because I’d want to have something topical in my arsenal, so we could banter. G was intimidatingly brilliant and had no qualms in showing off.

Last year, unexpectedly, G got very ill.

It was bizarre seeing him so weak, because he’d been such a force his whole life. G was in ICU for a few days before he passed away. He died a week before his 66th birthday. The devastation of his death was collective and overwhelming. G’s employees and friends were overcome with grief. And his family, his family was shattered and shocked. G was the patriarch of the family and without him, they felt lost.

Death does weird things to people. It causes them to act out in strange ways. This situation is not out of the ordinary. After the funeral, my aunt and cousins distanced themselves from me. I was excluded from things, from events, from grieving together. Not only had I lost G that month, but I lost the rest of my family, too. I was alone in the desert.

I wanted to run away, again. It would be the easy and natural thing to do. The emptiness was consuming and the aching relentless. So, I prepared to go to the only place I knew bigger than my heartache: Texas. My brother was there and I could purge my pain into the Rio Grande or maybe just coat it in queso.

I sold my condo in Old Town and rented an apartment in Midtown. My job was a contract position, so essentially I had no commitments. Nothing was tying me to Phoenix. But as much as I’ve snubbed commitment in the past, I quickly discovered how deeply I was committed to The Valley.

I didn’t want to move.

Arizona was home. I worked hard to create a life here and didn’t want to abandon it. I thought about everything keeping me here: my friends – whom I love greatly, the mountains I hike weekly, the kids at Chrysalis where I volunteer and the arts community I’m involved in. Even the monsoons, haboobs and driving in traffic when it’s raining hold a special place in my heart. And, I met someone. Someone eerily reminiscent of G. So a piece of me stayed for the unknown.

Ultimately, I’m home. Savoring old memories and creating new ones.

In My Day, We Were Defriended by Taking Back BFF Necklaces

Will you wear it? Will you wear it forever?

When I was 10, my dad yanked out my tooth. It was loose, but was one of those stubborn ones that just wouldn’t come out, no matter how much I wiggled it. He had me lie on the living room floor, facing my open bedroom door, while he tied one end of a string around my tooth and the other around the doorknob. Then he slammed the door shut as hard as he could. My tooth ripped from its roots and flew out of my mouth, hitting a wall, never to be seen again.

We assumed it fell behind the sofa, but could never find it. Even after inching it away from the wall and peeking behind, picking it up and scooting it across the room, and finally selling it moving out of the house. Dad was proud. I was traumatized.

He was obsessed with teeth and had serious regrets about not being a dentist. He would make toothpaste out of baking soda and hydrogen peroxide, claiming it would whiten, brighten and clean better than Crest. And, he’d stand in front of his bathroom mirror – wearing nothing but pajama bottoms – flossing his teeth, every morning and night, until he’d flung out every piece of debris that may have potentially rotted his teeth. He even went as far as to buy actual dental instruments.

I’m not sure where along the way he manifested this obsession. Dad always had nice, straight teeth. But, maybe this happens a lot. Along with so-called perfect things we’re given, comes a fear of losing them. So we latch on tightly and nurture them, and in some instances, fixate on them.

My tooth is the first thing I remember losing in life; maybe because it was both a little traumatic and a little funny. Some might argue it was taken from me, but whatever, either way it’s gone. I never did develop a tooth obsession like my dad, but I did pick up a few of my own.

Three years later, after the tooth incident, I was really into those Best Friend Forever necklaces that Claire’s sold. Two or three necklaces came in a package, letters divvied up on each pendant, spelling out the words, “Best Friends” when pieced together, like a puzzle. That particular year, I had two best friends, so we bought the necklaces made for three.

You never really hear about good things coming in threes. Conversely, there’s that saying that terrible things happen in threes. You know, you sprain your ankle, your dog runs away and then you…wait. Because there has to be one more horrendous event coming your way. So, you wait to get fired from your job. You wait to get served divorce papers. You wait to get a call from your doctor, diagnosing you with an incurable disease. You wait to get mugged in the parking lot of Target. And, when you get tired of waiting, you create something.

Now pairs on the other hand. Amazing things happen in pairs. Like, peanut butter and chocolate, a hammer and nail, cookies and milk, shoes and socks, wine and cheese and so on. But, it seems the only thing that happens in threes, is trouble. (Exception to the rule: Three’s Company.) And, that’s what happened with H, K and me. Someone always ended up feeling left out. And by someone, I mean me.

My parents were busy and heavily involved in their own shit, teeth and otherwise, so I didn’t know the first thing about making and maintaining friends. Everything I learned, I learned from Sweet Valley Twins, Laverne & Shirley, Nancy Drew, The Munsters and The Brady Bunch.

And, because I was surrounded by so much chaos and commotion at home, I shrouded myself in a world of fantasy in an effort to escape, in an effort to belong – to something, somewhere. I wanted to be a part of something more than just a Nick-at-Nite marathon of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. I wanted to belong to something more tangible than The V.C. Andrews Fan Club. I wanted to open myself up to more than a box of Twinkies and Capri-Sun.

I wanted to be loved and admired and one way to get that, I thought, was to run my own little “Unicorn Club,” just like Jessica Wakefield. So I maneuvered it so the BFF pendant with the letters “es ie” dangled around my neck, making me the middle piece of our friendship, the glue holding the three of us together. Without me, there would be no “us.”

If K and H did something without me, it felt like cheating, so I rarely allowed it. One Saturday morning, while I was at Hy-Vee getting groceries with my mom, I ran into H. While we were chatting, she let it slip that she and K were going rollerblading later that afternoon. I panicked. Why wasn’t I invited? Would they talk about me behind my back? Was this some sort of a ploy to kick me out of the group? So naturally I replied, “Oh yeah, sure I can make it,” as if I’d just been invited, and then hurried away before I could be ‘uninvited.’

And then, one day, I did get invited – to H’s house. This was over 20 years ago, so I don’t remember our exact conversation. But, I do remember that she didn’t exactly invite me into her house. H’s slight body blocked the doorway, hands on hips. So, I got into a defensive stance as well, folding my arms across my chest. This pissed H off because, she said, I had no right to be mad. She was mad first and, you know how teenage girls are; only one can be mad at a time. In short, I was kicked out of my first and only threesome.

Then, the door slammed in my face. And, even though there was no piece of string tied to the end of it, it felt like I’d just had another tooth ripped from my mouth. Only this time it wasn’t the least bit funny. This time it really, really hurt.

 

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.

If Sharing is Caring, I Am Not a Hoarder

Please, take it all. Really.

I feel like a “John.” Not in the sense that I have to pay men to sleep with me, but more like to just be around me.  I’m not even referring to dating, but that’s only because I can’t really remember my last one. This reminds me; a few days ago, one of my patients was telling me he was severely depressed because, well, he hasn’t been laid in eight months. If he was expecting sympathy from me, he sure as hell didn’t get it. And, if it were professional, I would have tossed a big, fat, “So what?” in his general direction. But, instead I silently cursed him and wondered how I could cure my own newfound depression.

 

And, I did – briefly. I flew my nephew, R, out here for a week-long visit. A big dose of his sweet face could have cured even Sylvia Plath’s depression. But, alas, R is back in Iowa where he belongs and I am back to spooning a glass of Pinot and my laptop, neither of which are very compassionate. Like a hooker, Pinot makes me feel amazing throughout the evening, but leaves me feeling dirty and shameful the next morning. And, my Asus, well it’s colder and stiffer than the corpse Erin Moriarty is talking about, during any given episode of 48 Hours.

 

Yes, that has become my typical Friday night: a glass (sometimes bottle) of wine, some writing, and a much anticipated viewing of the latest crime to shake the nation. The episode always ends with me thinking: crime shmime. The real crime here is that I’m alone.  But, I have been thinking of a way to solve this atrocity. My sister, N, has three kids. Me? Well, I have none. So, that’s N: 3, M: 0. Doesn’t seem fair, does it. I’m just saying, Mom always taught us to share…

 

It’s true. Back in the day, if N or I hoarded Barbies or Cabbage Patch Kids, Mom plopped both of us into the oversized, velvety brown chair in the living room – together – where we were forced to hold hands and delight in each other’s company. Maybe that’s why I’m very sensitive to the feel of materials, in particular velvet, nylon, and human touch. Either way, N and I did not appreciate each other’s company, tightly squeezing the other’s hand, and looking in opposite directions. I do get my mom’s point though: sharing is caring.

 

Of course, I’m joking about my sister sharing one of her kids with me. I’m selfish enough to want my own, with no other moms before me. Plus, I know what it’s like to have something ripped, so cruelly, away from you. I’ve had a lot of things taken from me: my virginity, my fake ID, and my once tight ass. So, I feel equipped in identifying with those women who adopt babies, only to have them stolen by a righteous biological mother. I know, because a man who has played a critical role in my life is being whisked away – by his girlfriend.

 

My bestie, B, is moving to Boston to live with his sweet girlfriend. Really, I’m very happy for them – when I’m not feeling sorry for myself. You see, B has been more than a friend to me. He’s been a mentor, a big brother (and sometimes, sister) and an inspiration. We met at a writing group and immediately hit it off through our intense hatred for the group leader.  B and I quickly ditched the group and formed our own. That was seven years ago. We’ve been writing together ever since. Some people might ask how exactly people write “together”. Well, first, we gossip over skinny lattes and freshly baked blueberry scones, and then we sit next to each other, staring at the screens of our laptops, typing feverishly. Occasionally, I lean over and pick B’s mind, because it’s one of the few things in life that fascinates me. Aside from Kim Kardashian’s ass, of course.

 

Seriously, the man is genius. And, I’m not just saying that because my IQ is probably the product of my age squared, or in other words, the “dull” range. I’m saying it because it’s true. The man has schooled me on everything from the Bible to science fiction to gay culture to politics to art history to whisky to computer technology. Sure, we’ve argued over our tastes in movies, tattoos, and artificial sweetener, but always found our way back to common ground through our shared love of fucked-up artists, big mugs of joe, and Saturday morning farmer’s markets.

 

Now, B has found a universally coveted love – in L. And, just like our shared love of the aforementioned, I too, love L. Not in the lesbian-ish or threesome-ish kind of way or anything. I love L because of what she’s done for, and to B. It’s times like these that you really get to see how love changes a person. B is happier, sweeter, and just better overall since L came into his life.

 

And, for those reasons, I’m gladly letting Boston take B from me. I prefer to think of it as me giving Boston, B because after all, love isn’t selfish. Anyway, I plan to sit here, with a smile on my face, in the company of a glass of wine and 48 Hours. Oh, and my laptop – which I will be using to book a flight to the Northeast.

 

We Are Family: I Got All My Friends With Me

If you wear this, it means you'll kill for me, right?

I’m an observer. Human behavior fascinates the shit out of me, so it makes sense that I’m in the psychology field. It also makes sense that I love to hang out at the malls and coffee shops and stare at people until they shoot me a glare screaming, “Take a picture. It will last longer, bitch.”  We all share an awkward moment and then move on our merry way.

When I was in junior high, I remember noticing all the kids who didn’t come from tight families. I didn’t have to do a lot of research to figure out their family was about as close as Alaska and Hawaii. The grubby fingernails, ripped jeans, school lunch card, unfinished homework, and “I don’t give a fuck” attitude totally gave it away. Oh that, and their deep friendships.

I was jealous. Not of eating the school’s crappy hot lunch every day, but of not having such loyal friends. Sure I had friends. Ask anyone. I even have pictures announcing to the world how much my friendships meant to me – with a $7 Best Friends Forever necklace from Claire’s and a new best friend each semester. So what if my bestie and I traded necklaces like a polygamist trades nights in bed with his wives. At least someone was willing to wear the other half of my necklace, right?

Wrong.

None of these friends were willing to go to detention for me, forge my mom’s signature on a doctor’s note, or assist me in covering up a murder (not that I ever asked, but looking back, I’m fairly certain of it.) What I had were quasi-friends. The kind that shared their Doritos when my mom forgot to pack mine, filled me in on all the humiliating details about Mandi getting her period in gym class, volunteered to be my lab partner in Biology, and passed notes to me in Economics begging me not to not miss the fresh Norplant outline in Diane’s arm.

Together, my BFF necklace and I were a walking false advertisement. Yeah, I had a cheap half of a heart strung around my neck, but these other kids had something much richer. I totally got that their hugely loyal friendships were a substitute for the lack of family life they were missing out on didn’t have and I wanted to be a part of it.  I used to wish my parents weren’t all up in my business, caring about the daily happenings in my life. I wished I didn’t have a curfew, could make my own decisions about what I was eating for dinner, and not get grilled about brushing my teeth before going to bed.  I guess my adolescent-self wanted to be an adult. But, then again, whose didn’t?

Well, I am legally considered an adult now. I drink tea, eat my veggies, and go to bed before 11. The whole shebang. And, besides this whole adult thing being highly overrated, well, it’s just highly overrated. As an adult, you learn a lot. Probably, a lot of things you didn’t want to learn and mostly a lot of things you’d be better off not knowing. And often times, the dynamics of your family change. Over the last several years my family has changed liked Heidi Montag’s face. Way too suddenly and quite outrageously. For the most part, I’ve taken it in stride. And for the other part, well, I fell apart.

I looked at myself in the mirror and saw one of those “troubled” junior high kids with an un-tucked shirt, middle fingers in the air, and a family disintegrating around me. And then I looked a little closer – you know, in one of those magnifying mirrors – and saw the extraordinary friends behind me; the ones I once so badly coveted. They were picking up the crumbled pieces, or Kleenex, or whatever and offering up shoulders and jokes when called for. They were carting me to surgeries and waiting for me in post-op. They were who I was planning vacations and spending holidays with. They are my family. I still don’t think they’d help me cover up a murder though.