Drop Kick that Bird...one more time

One thing I realized as an adult is that every family lives at one level or another of dysfunction. Our level was the Grand Dysfunctional level ...and therefore the stuff of legend...I always thought we should be issued a plaque or something.

As a teenager in the 70's, I was part of the Baby boomer youth generation and it's big rebellion with our parents, the Greatest Generation. They were in a complete quandry as to just what the hell the kids were rebelling against . The clash mostly came to a head on holidays...our house was no exception...

One Thanksgiving in particular, is the stuff of legends...and so it goes.

My mother was a partial cook,mainly weekends and holidays...and it would take at least three Brandy Alexanders for her to get through the night...Thanksgiving was a challenge for her this year, because her husband Bill , our stepfather, had invited his cranky 90 year old last-survivor-of-the-Johnstown-flood-when-will- this-woman-ever-die-mother over for Thanksgiving....her name was Daisy (good God I named my dog that, is that some weird Jungian thing?) and Daisy didn't like my mom or the fact that her son had packed her off to the the Lutheran Home to spend her final days among the quilt makers.

Daisy was parked strategically in the sunporch and and barking unrecognizable orders into the air as Bill crept into the vodka...my mom in the kitchen, was announcing to no one in general that the cooking would begin and was intermittently rousting my sister and me out of bed with the mantra.."This is not the Hilton, you girls better get up and help with dinner".

I dragged my teenager self down to the kitchen to find my mother deep into Brandy ALexander Uno and her arm up to her elbow into the cavity of the turkey...I presume it had to do with the filling... God I hope so...I must of had a strange look on my face..so mother in her most grand and almost slurred way said "You know I could've been a surgeon."...well there's your explanation, pardner.

The turkey stuffed and silenced was carried and placed in the double oven on the wall.

I could hear Daisy's raspy voice yelling something from the sunporch which sent my stepfather, Bill straight out of the room and back to the liquour cabinet....
as teenager's we can never know the stress adults are under, until we become adults..all we know is that something is brewing and we want to be around to catch any loose change that falls on the ground when it's all over.

Hours later, my sister sauntered on down and another discussion about the Hilton began..apparently we are not princesses and my mother is not our maid and yada yada yada...oops I think I just rolled my eyes ...the requisite snotty teenage girl reaction to a lecture...oh and another thing if you think I was put on this earth just to clean up after you two, you are GREATLY mistaken...

Daisy barks again from the sunporch, you know the woman could've caught fire and no one would ever bother to go check...Bill heads to the vodka...my mom is now melting down over the fact that nobody helped peel the potatoes and this is ..say together... NOT THE HILTON (of course I'm wondering if we ever did stay in a Hilton and I could use a frame of reference here). The eye rolling begins and oh we are caught mid roll as my mom downs another Brandy Alexander...and the pitch is going up and up and....who is going to help me make this meal..how late did you girls stay out last night..this doesn't all happen by magic you know..I am not the maid....no one helps me around here...

and out of the corner of my eye....

I see Bill...

did he just open the oven door?

wait a minute...does he have the turkey...

where is he going....

I yelled something like "hey"...

my mother and my sister and I stop dead mid-yell....

we can hear the front door open...

we all start making our way through the hall to the door...

just in time to hear Bill saying " You want help with the turkey, here's your damn turkey"...

and then a large muffled thud.

He had dropped kicked the turkey into the yard...

the three of us stood stunned in the door way...

Bill walked right past us back into the house,wiping his hands....

a suburban Pontius Pilate.

My mother didn't skip a beat, she looked at the brutalized Butter Ball in the yard and said. "I am NOT cleaning that up."

Of course not...this is ..not the Hilton...and you aren't ...the maid.

..........
Years later we wrote a song called "Drop Kick that Bird" It was played in rotation on WXXX...my mom called everyone she knew to tell them to request it.

It became our Thanksgiving story...no pilgrims, no Indians no maize...no, just remember when Bill drop kicked that bird....

The neighborhood dogs were thankful for the free meal in the grass and I was amazed at the quickness of their removal of a carcass.

Bill was thankful it shut Daisy up for awhile.

My mother was thankful she actually didn't have to cook the rest of the meal.

My sister was thankful for the distraction from her breaking curfew.

My uncle Denny was thankful that we stopped by , although unannounced ,and ate turkey at his house.

And ...I was thankful that the word Hilton wasn't used the rest of the night.



Happy Thanksgiving, from one Grand Dysfunctional family to another...all we can do is live in victory and don't stress over getting it all right...leave the perfection to God.

....

The Chances we Get

I am writing this through tear clouded eyes. I admit it, I am a weeper, even commercials get to me, but today, today was one of those days only a morphan (middle aged orphan) can understand. An event at the grocery store triggered such a moment of mourning for my mom and a grateful feeling for the chances we get.

I am also wondering why in heaven's name do I always have these moments at the grocery store?

Really.

Today I was doing a little weekly shopping and preliminary stock up for Thanksgiving, it was crowded, lots of senior citizens...social security check day no doubt. The aisles were crowded and moving slow and cranky babies were cranking in the usual cranky way. These are the days that I put my stereo headphones on, pump up the iTunes and proceed to hunter/gather in my own little world of lush harmonies and guitars and oh my, are those free cheese samples?

I found my things without event , even had the guy at the seafood counter do me a solid on some scallops for dinner, yeah scallops, I now like them...and I slid up into line and removed my headphones to join the real world ...I was reading the tabloid headlines about Will and Kate when I heard someone yell "Help her , help her , she's falling".

I look back down onto the aisle to see and elderly woman whose legs had failed her and given out , she was hanging onto her cart for dear life, terrified that she might fall to the floor and hurt her head...I was four deep in line at the register and was quickly trying to figure how to snake out and grab her, when a another woman came up from behind her and held her, voices were yelling "Get her a chair, someone help!"

This woman was so small and frail , her hair a mass of white, she was barely taller than the shopping cart, which was filled so high it must have been a monumental labor to push.

The look on her face was one of complete fright. She was so scared and alone.

Within seconds there was a wheel chair, she was whisked into it and someone was calling 911.

I became a bowl of jello.

Tears were streaming down my face all the way to the car.

It took me back to a year before my mother came to live in Pittsburgh in assisted living and how she told me she had experienced low blood sugar and her knees gave out on her in the grocery store. She recounted how the clerks helped her and sat her on the bench and gave her some orange juice to drink...it was so disturbing to hear this. They asked her if there was anyone she could call to pick her up, she couldn't come up with a name, her husband was dead, and her daughters lived too far away....okay you can kill me right now.

These kind strangers where doing my job.

That moment marked the beginning of the move here. She needed help to shop, to bath, to even walk. It was time to say goodbye to the behemoth of the house and head to the burgh.

For 4 years I shopped every week for her...she hated the food where she was staying, and it becomes an obsession, not much else to focus on ya know...so in the midst of a full time job and taking care of a family, I became Delivery Girl...there should have been a hat involved, I'm sure of that.

Mom would call me several times a week to add things to the list, Equal was on it several times. Packets of Equal are like crack in nursing homes, they hoard it and use it to curry favors.

I pushed carts full of strange items only seniors need and I made sure I proclaimed at check out , those diapers aren't for me ...sometimes I cranked about it, sometimes she cranked about it , but it was a connection for us as I delivered and stocked the groceries in her fridge...and I would cook her favorite foods and bring those over too.

She was diabetic and wanted all the wrong foods, but here's a tip for those out there caring for an elderly parent at the end of their years...lighten up...let them have the damn cookies...you're not going to reverse the diabetes and what are we talking here, a few years left? Better yet, sit and eat the cookies with them.

I'm glad I had the chance to shop and care for my mom, and yes, caring for her turned some things upside down for awhile...but hey, I imagine I rocked her boat pretty much straight through the 70's and well, you know the saying about paybacks ...the routine became so ingrained that after my mom passed, I couldn't bring myself to go into a grocery store for quite awhile, because I was falling into tears at the check out each time.

But if I hadn't taken the chance to take care of her, what would I be thinking about when I saw that woman today?

Even though the sight of her little hands hanging on so tight to the cart reduced me to my usual quivering crying self , a voice inside me kept reminding me that for the last four years of my mom's life, she never had to rely on the kindness of strangers in a grocery store ever again because someone was there for her, taking the chance.

...

An open letter to Jeff Bezos of Amazon

Dear Mr.Bezos,

I'm sure the heading of this email is all you need to know of the correspondence ahead.

Of course I am shocked at your inclusion of a how to manual for pedophiles,The Pedophile's Guide to Love and Pleasure, and in turn, disturbed that you stand behind Freedom of Speech to sell it, but what really shocks me is your need to do so.

Because of your inability to understand the larger ramifications of your commercial rationalization of this indefensible subject, I can only conclude that somewhere down the road, you lost not only your spine but your soul.

You had the luxury of the decision as to whether or not selling this book was something you really needed to do.

Apparently it is.

Therefore our family will make a similar decision that we no longer need to order from Amazon, that would be covered under my Freedom from Creeps.

In truth,

Invisi-gal

1963 and Jackie the Tomboy Runaway

In 1963 we lived in Glen Ellyn , a suburb on the outskirts of Chicago...the suburbs were exploding with WWII vets and their families carving out the American dream.

We had two car garages and enough room for a neighborhood par three in the adjoining back yards. We had neighborhood barbecues and gangs of kids on Schwinn bikes and swing sets dotted the property lines.

Most of all, we had freedom. We kids roamed our neighborhoods as if we would inherit every house, every tree, and every stone on the ground. On summer days, we would jump on our bikes in the morning and disappear until lunch...grilled cheese, hot dogs, Campbell soup and a bowl of grapes...the meal of explorers.

I knew every good climbing tree, every stream and where to cross it and whose back yard you could cut through. I knew the yards with friendly dogs ( I always carried a treat for them) and which dogs you stayed away from (no treat for you!).

I was 6 years old then, and still convinced I could fly...I used to jump off a big boulder near our house wishing it so.

This is the year I mastered the two-wheeler NO TRAINING WHEELS THANK YOU VERY MUCH...

it was the year I remember seeing my mother weeping at the dining room table over the newspaper which held the details of President Kennedy's assassination,

it was the year I cut myself grabbing a broken Noxema jar out of the stream near Mahoney's yard , leaving the first scar I ever had.

It was the year my sister and I met Jackie the Tomboy Runaway.

At the top of Hackberry Lane, a new house was being built, otherwise known as an attractive nuisance by my mom...we loved to explore in new houses, wondering who would move in, would there be kids our age, would they have cool bikes, would their dog be nice? We always found things left by the workers, coke bottles, cigarette butts, and pieces of wood I just knew we could use in our fort in the woods...but we never expected we would find a person.

One afternoon while sneaking into the new house, we were surprised by the presence of a girl, about 15 years old, dressed in jeans and a dark jacket, she had a bandana on (the first I'd ever seen NOT on a cowboy)…she had a chain on her wallet and short black hair and Beatle boots.

We were startled at first when we saw her, but she had an easy smile and in the most disarming way said "Hi" as if she was supposed to be in this house...

I looked at my sister Ellen (at three years older she was the boss of me), and took her lead that this was okay and we started up a conversation.

Jackie was a runaway, she didn't say from what.

She was living on the road and a bit hungry. She was going to stay for only a few days then be on her "Jackie Kerouac" way.

Ellen and I, eager to be a part of this adventure, immediately rattled off the contents of our refrigerator at home and how we could sneak food to her NO PROBLEM. We are pros at this stuff, we think.

Jackie smiled.

We ran home and assembled PB&J sandwiches, bananas, apples, cheese... your typical rebel food...and on the walk back I asked my sister why Jackie dressed like a boy..."Because she's Tomboy, that's why" ...it was the first time I ever heard that term...Tomboy...wow, new word, new friend, this is what being 6 is all about.

We got back to the Tomboy runaway hiding place and proudly displayed our "get" for Jackie, all the while bragging about our stealth operation and how we told our mom we were eating lunch al fresco, translation: in the woods at our fort.

We watched her wolf down her food and then she pulled out her jackknife to cut her apple…ANOTHER first...a jackknife! This Tomboy Runaway was getting cooler by the second; free of her parents and rules, out on the open road, cool bandana, owner of a jackknife...I bet she knew one of the Beatles, she wore their boots, you know.

We walked home in inspired silence...this was more fun than any Pipi Longstocking book...this girl smoked that Eloise at the Plaza...

I couldn't wait to get back to the construction site the next morning...I had more stolen food and Bazooka bubblegum to give her. I couldn't wait to tell her what she missed on The Ed Sullivan show the night before and that we were trying to sneak a pillow and blanket out to her...

but the house was empty, no one answered when I did the secret knock...one two, one two.

Jackie was gone.

No note, no nothing, just gone.

I backed out to the dirt filled front yard, and stared at the unfinished house so like Jackie, a work in progress, yet to be defined.

The walk home was a long thoughtful one, heavy footsteps full of letdown.

I think I checked back one or two times later that week, but Jackie the Tomboy runaway was gone. She became a staple in my prayers, Dear God please bless so and so and sorry for not cleaning my room and help Jackie find her way home.

Pretty soon Jackie the Tomboy Runaway just became a story we would tell the other neighbor kids, and then something my sister and I would reminisce about as adults...we still can't pinpoint why we never alerted our parents about her.

Jackie would be close to maybe 65 years old today, that's if and it's a big if, she survived her life on the road. Or maybe Jackie the Tomboy Runaway was just a kid from a nearby neighborhood who wanted to scare her parents, to finally get them to stop forcing her to wear dresses and corsages and grow her hair long like the Lennon sisters. At least that's how my 6 year old mind defined the terms of hurt ... as an adult, I imagine there may have been a more sorrowful story behind Jackie.

Who knows.

All I know is that she felt alone enough to run from the place where you should feel safe and above all, loved. She felt compelled to risk whatever unknowns just so she could be, or find out, who she was.

God already knew who she was, he already counted every short black hair on her head, she just didn't know that.

And I knew who she was, she was Jackie the Tomboy Runaway, the most exciting thing to happen on Hackberry Lane, and maybe , just maybe, in our simple act of bringing food to her and listening to her with such awe, she felt special enough to stop the running.

An Open Letter to NBC News with Brian Williams

Dear Sirs or Madams,

Did I hear Brian Williams correctly tonight...did he use the word "insurgent" when referring to the mostly Tea Party candidates in his report tonight?

What incendiary biased influence peddling was that?

While the word "insurgent" may be somewhat of a word search moment, he most obviously knew that those watching would key in to the word as one used to

describe hostile combatants of US Troops in Afghanistan or Iraq.

Insurgent is also akin to the word terrorist in our modern newspeak.

Mr.Williams has lost all credibility as a newsman to go as far to tag Americans who are exercising their rights as "insurgents".

He has certainly flown his preference flag and has lost the honor to wear the mantle of the neutral newsman.

His bias cheapens the broadcast.

You have lost a family of viewers, respect, and credibility on this one.

You are not above reproach...you have insulted many Americans with this elitist eyebrow lift and boorish vocabulary call.

Yours truly,

Invisi-Gal

.

The falsehood of audacity and the time bomb that is Iran...

In a not surprising speech this week, Iran's president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad called for U.S. leaders to be "buried" in response to what he says are American threats of military attacks against Tehran's nuclear program. His particular words of insult were specific death threats in his native tongue.

All this less than a month after Holocaust denier, and resident madman, Ahmadinejad spoke at the United Nations declaring 911 an inside job, a direct and astounding insult to us as a nation...

I am amazed that I still hear snickers among American, just like the ones we heard as we watched the rag tagged Taliban fighters in the black and white training videos from Afghanistan shortly before 911....little did we know they were systematically plotting the most horrific assault ever on US soil.

We treat Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as a spoiled out of control toddler in the checkout line at the grocery store, snicker, point and ignore.

In 2009, I had issue with the fact that President Obama was willing to engage in talks with Iran without pre-conditions, not because I don't believe in diplomacy , but because I was stunned by his audacity.

Did he really think that he would be the ONE who would convince , through his super ultra intelligence, this rabid Iranian leader to put down his unwavering beliefs and weapons and listen to him? Did he really think he would step in and show us how it's done..that the leaders and diplomats before him were rubes, and he was so much smarter then they?

Who did this half term Senator-Oprah-book-club-pick-idealogue think he was fooling? I guess he was banking on the fact that if we were naive enough to elect him to the highest office in the land, that we were indeed not as smart as he.

Obama, along with David Axelrod, packaged a finely tuned Too Smart For the Room campaign. Levied by hatred for Bush and buoyed by the promise of a decent candidate post John Kerry, they slid this inexperienced man right on through to the Oval Office.

The mere mention of negotiating with mad man Mahmoud Ahmadinejad showed no working knowledge of foreign policy and left half of the country thinking..."Does this guy read the newspapers?".

What kind of open dialogue can you have with a Holocaust denier, Sharia stoning death enforcer, and someone who wishes to "wipe Israel from the face of the earth"?

As this administration fiddles, Iran has slowly and PUBLICLY assembled the biggest nightmare imaginable; nuclear capability owned and operated by an unstable hateful theocratic leader... Ahmadinejad can't wait to fire the first shot and it won't be across the bow...

In the meantime, Obama has conducted drone wars in Afghanistan, pulled down troops in Iran and distracted the country with a deeply flawed and, according to 67% of Americans, unwanted Health Care Bill...

he turned Washington into his spending-taxing-cash printing press...

bolstered division among parties through speeches,

and sunk to a new low in popularity polls among his own adoring fans...

and we watch as his economic advisers,

like the proverbial rats jumping ship over their own failure,

trip on each other as they run from the White House,

His leadership as CIC saw the deadliest 18 months in Iraq/Afghanistan since the beginning of the war

...and faced with opposition and exposure of his term's failures, he draws George Bush like a loaded blame gun every chance he gets.

Which can only cause this voter to say."You need to cowboy up and stop the whining and get yourself some help from people who know what the hell they're doing, because you certainly don't."

Sure, along with Ashley Judd, Obama is a Harvard grad, and he's a great community organizer, but to put it in plain speak...I would rather have the licensed qualified surgeon who's operated before do the operation than the guy who studied a book on medicine and has the audacity to raise the scalpel, and bluster his superior knowledge of the procedure he's never done.

Our president now faces a real and dangerous threat from a man capable of carrying it out...the rest of the world, who has no delusions about the intentions of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and his sinister nuclear ambitions, waits to see if the leader of the free world will stand by his title.

My guess would be that president Obama, whose leadership negating liberation theology, is uncomfortable with the responsibility of having to vanquish this enemy and become in turn, a benevolent victor.

So we are left as a nation, led by the falsehood of audacity and the time bomb that is Iran.