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Badmovies.org Forum  |  Other Topics  |  Off Topic Discussion  |  The New BMDO Home of Anecdotes, Life Stories, Erotic Tales, or Alien Encounters. « previous next »
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Author Topic: The New BMDO Home of Anecdotes, Life Stories, Erotic Tales, or Alien Encounters.  (Read 3325 times)
ER
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #60 on: November 02, 2017, 09:45:17 AM »

Yesterday afternoon my daughter, who is turning nine Saturday, went out front after she got home from school, to get this leaf off the driveway, which was slick after rain, and she slipped and hit her head. She came in and said, "I think my scalp is bleeding." And it was, it was bleeding badly from a small gash the rough pavement had made.

I thought about taking her to the emergency room, which was my first inclination, head injuries being tricky things, but it really was more of a surface scrape than an impact injury with a knot or like that, so I cleaned it up put a band-aid on it said take it easy the rest of the day.

Her first reaction: "I can't take it easy, I have to do my homework and job chart stuff."

"I'll do your jobs for you, and don't worry right now about the homework."

"No, I can't, I have to do it all."

"You got hurt, just rest for now."

"I can't, I have to do my jobs."

"Well you're not going to do either for now, so lie down before dinner and watch TV and let me know if your head hurts any worse."

She looked at me like I was out of my mind and seemed more upset by me letting her out of everything than she did by the fact she'd scraped her scalp open after falling. Free pass out of homework and yet she was throwing a fit about wanting to do it? What alien life form hath I delivered unto this world?

So she sat tight but every few minutes she'd say, "I'm better, so can I start my homework yet?"

Me, I'd put my homework off as long as I could when I was eight (or eighteen), she wanted hers out of the way first thing. Finally I said fine, sit there and do your homework. As soon as I said that she looked relieved and dove into it. 

The evening wore on and she didn't feel dizzy or sick at her stomach or the like, it was a scrape not a knock to the head, but it still worried me enough to where I got a second and third opinion about whether she should be seen by someone. She, however, kept saying, "I'm OK." And she did seem fine, so we never went, I did put my foot down and would not let her do her job chart tasks (little things around the house we all do off a chart) she relaxed the rest of the day and fell asleep on the sofa by me and stayed downstairs til I went up late at night.

I told her this morning, "I'd like you to stay home from school today. We'll get your assignments later."

Well, you'd think I'd told her to throw away her every creed and value she held dear. She really, really wanted to go to school and made no secret of it. I tried to explain to her this was a GOOD thing, a day off, free time, fun, it's almost her birthday, we'd do something nice. It was a gift in itself.

Nooooooo, she wanted to go to school and worked herself up into a lather telling me she did.  Didn't I understand, she HAD to be there, she HAD to go.

Why, I asked? Was it a special day?

"Because I HAVE to, it's what I'm SUPPOSED to do!!! I have to be there EVERY DAY!!!"

Fine....

I ended up driving her in after all and she only got a tardy, not an absence, and even the tardy was bugging her.

Man, I just do not get why that child feels the sense of responsibility she does, but she never wants to miss church, soccer practice, school or anything else she feels she is obligated to attend. She not only does her own little chores around the house but goes beyond it and makes her bed prettier than I have ever made a bed in my life. At school she even seeks out extra credit on her own!

It just isn't natural at all, and I am scared. A teenage flirtation with Swedish Death Metal you expect, but this stage at her age....it's something freaky indeed.
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"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
316zombie
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« Reply #61 on: November 02, 2017, 04:44:33 PM »

nah, it's just her karma to be like this in THIS lifespan.
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indianasmith
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« Reply #62 on: November 02, 2017, 10:51:00 PM »

So I am reviewing my sophomores today for our World History test on the Roman Empire, and I'm summing up a definition of the Emperor Nero for them.  I mentioned that, besides likely poisoning his uncle/adoptive father Claudius, he also killed his pregnant wife Poppea Sabina by kicking and stomping her to death.  Besides the usual expressions of disgust/horror, there were a couple of looks of puzzlement.
"How do you kick someone to death?" someone asked.
"Basically you throw them on the floor and jump up and down on them till they die," I explained.

At which one kid said: "He probably thought 'Man, this trampoline SUCKS!' "

 Buggedout Buggedout Buggedout Buggedout Buggedout

I told him that was wrong on a quantum level.
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"Carpe diem!" - Seize the day!  "Carpe per diem!" - Seize the daily living allowance! "Carpe carp!" - Seize the fish!
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Trevor
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« Reply #63 on: November 03, 2017, 07:22:18 AM »

"How do you kick someone to death?" someone asked.
"Basically you throw them on the floor and jump up and down on them till they die," I explained.

At which one kid said: "He probably thought 'Man, this trampoline SUCKS!' "

 Buggedout Buggedout Buggedout Buggedout Buggedout

I told him that was wrong on a quantum level.

 BuggedoutTeddyR TeddyR TeddyR
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As time goes by, you will see
That we're going to be free, you and me
We'll touch the sky
Can you see in your mind's eye that we are one
We're all the same and life is just a simple game.
AoTFan
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« Reply #64 on: November 05, 2017, 12:44:43 AM »

I haven't yet read all the way through this thread, but I'm hoping someone Eve posted an erotic tale or two....
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ER
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #65 on: November 05, 2017, 11:29:05 AM »

I haven't yet read all the way through this thread, but I'm hoping someone Eve posted an erotic tale or two....

For you, an erotic tale.

Once upon a time in the days when Byron was but a boy and the king was mad, there did live upon the generous bosom of the green and fertile land of Merry Olde England a highwayman named Percy Lowerbulge, who enjoyed a reputation far and wide as a lover of most extreme deftness, so that all the ladies from the inner garment district to the moist lowlands swooned at the mere whisper of his infamous name.

"Percy...." they'd secretly coo in the dark, abed but fully awake. "Percy...."

One moonlit evening this handsome highwayman, well-endowed with a storied reputation, mounted on a heaving black stallion named Dickin, stopped the Brighton to Somerset coach, and as he pointed his long, long pistol and called, "Stand and deliver!" a comely lass named Lacey Bottoms, from the town of Maidenhead, stepped forth and said from behind the fan which modestly covered her face, "I am merely a poor soul, sir, and have but one jewel to my name. Surely you would not pluck my jewel by force?"

The virile highwayman let his eyes travel from this girl's crown to her ankles and slowly back up again, noting that her curves were like that of the Thames as it snakes toward the sea, and her skin was as unblemished as the moon reflected in a mountain spring. He smiled and saucily replied, "Indeed, lass, I would not, for never in my career have I had to steal that which ever would freely be given me."

"Well, first sir," the young lady said with a demure batting of her eye and a flush upon her bosom, "you needs must locate my jewel."

"Into the woods let us go then," Percy the Highwayman called up lustily. "And I shall find it in three seconds, though taking it I assure you shall require pleasantly longer."

A moment later the other passengers were intrigued to hear such a stirring in the dark woods as to raise all eyebrows and quicken every heart. There was the noise of cloth ripping and sighs echoing, followed by a bashing and crashing amid the trees as bushes shook and birds flew and some said the ground itself quaked through many upward thrusts....of the hands of a clock.

At last just as from some direction a cock did crow there came a throaty scream so that the coachman poked the baggage handler and said, "Well that's done then, ain't it?"

A moment later the lass, Lacey Bottoms, returned, her dress wrinkled, her hair undone, and all were dismayed to see it was with the highway's severed head, swinging it from a length of rope.

As the other passengers stared aghast, this young girl, whose name was not truly Lacey Bottoms, but Sweet Mary the Bounty Hunter, explained, "Well I 'ad to give 'im one last swivvy 'fore I got me twenty Guineas 'Dead or Alive' reward, didn't I?"

And that's how my six times great grandmother paid for her passage to America, and how my five times great grandfather was born nine months later.

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"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
AoTFan
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« Reply #66 on: November 05, 2017, 03:39:01 PM »

I haven't yet read all the way through this thread, but I'm hoping someone Eve posted an erotic tale or two....

Opps, that should be someWHERE. 

Yeesh.
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316zombie
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« Reply #67 on: November 06, 2017, 11:42:01 PM »

i admit, i WAS a little curious about who you were calling eve, lol!
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AoTFan
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« Reply #68 on: November 06, 2017, 11:54:14 PM »

i admit, i WAS a little curious about who you were calling eve, lol!

ER's real name is Eve.  I think it's kind weird to call someone "ER" so she said I could call her Eve.  :)
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316zombie
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« Reply #69 on: November 07, 2017, 12:08:58 AM »

i probably knew that in the past and forgot..btw,you can call me barri, if you like. :)
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Dark Alex
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« Reply #70 on: November 21, 2017, 04:05:17 PM »

In my prior life as a roadie, we'd often find ourselves drinking after the gig and quite often partying with the locals. It wasn't unusual for us to wake up spread all over a city with whoever we'd ended up going home with instead of our hotel (or in the back of the tour / bus or van on the less well funded tours) and then have to try and gather everyone up for the next days travelling (or sometimes even when you were travelling later that night). This was in the days before mobile phones became ubiquitous and could be quite a challange.

One particular night we ended up going back home with a group of young ladies. I've always assumed the house belonged to at least one of them, but for all I know they could have been squatting there. I think we were somewhere in south eastern Europe in the middle of winter, but to be honest when you are touring places blur into one another and for I know we could have been in Siberia in summer time and I would have been none the wiser. I can't remember if any of us actually spoke the same language but we all seemed to be having fun regardless. I was drinking my usual poison and various pills and other sundries were being passed around the others.

Can't remember that much about the house we went back to, although it did seem to be on the large side. At some point I went to sleep on the floor. When I woke up later it was still dark and I could hear someone walking around. My throat was dry and I was fumbling around trying to find a drink when a feminine scented hand pressed a finger to my lips and pushed me back down to the floor, unbuttoned my trousers and slid my clothes off me before climbing on top of me.

We made love for several hours in the darkness until we fell asleep wrapped up in each other arms, exhausted and sastified.

In the morning (ok, fine mid afternoon) I woke up and with a few others of the road crew made our way to the tour bus. I never knew her name, I never saw her face in the dark. I never laughed and boasted with the other guys about what'd happened that night. I can remember how her scent but I always knew that if we ever made love again I'd know her just by running my hands over her body and breathing in her presence the way we did in the dark that night long ago.

Does she ever think of, or remember me? I was single perhaps I'd dig out the old tour schedules, figure out where I was that night and take a trip to where ever it was. I'd go for a walk around and perhaps we'd see each other and remember. A slight mischevious smile would play over our faces and we'd pass each other by as the memories came flooding back then go on our seperate ways.

Somehow not knowing though makes the memory better.

Got the anecdotes, life stories and erotic tales part covered. Now all I need is an alien encounter and I have the full set. Some day though I will have to tell you about the moustache compitition we used to have on tour (and it wasn't to grow one or shave one off). I am really not sure where that one would fit in though. Maybe ER would have to do a Seedy & Sordid Stories thread to bring that one out lol. Or when we had to stop that one and what we replaced it with...
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AoTFan
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« Reply #71 on: November 21, 2017, 05:47:29 PM »

I haven't yet read all the way through this thread, but I'm hoping someone Eve posted an erotic tale or two....

For you, an erotic tale.

That was a funny tale!  Course, I'd hoped you would have posted something in first person, starting along the lines like, "I'd never thought of doing something with another woman before, until one day back in college when I joined a sorority/had a sleepover/hired a new secretary..."

 TeddyR TeddyR
« Last Edit: December 07, 2017, 01:35:27 PM by AoTFan » Logged
ER
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #72 on: November 24, 2017, 10:47:29 AM »

“Give it half a chance and the Knife’s Edge Trail on Mt. Katahdin will kill you as fast as anything in the Rockies.”

That was the revelation my roommate’s brother, Trey, home on vacation from Wyoming, offered me eighteen summers ago as he and I, part of a larger group of his old friends, set off together to Baxter State Park in Maine, to hike the crest of the mile-high mountain that marked the end (or start) of the Appalachian Trail.

“Knife’s Edge,” Trey described as we drove, “is the most well-named trail out there, since it’s a meter wide, slippery half the time, and some of its granite cliffs are so sheer if you stumble you can fall five-hundred feet before hitting the side of the mountain. Hell, you can get blown off in the winds that come through there. Half the people who go up Knife’s Edge turn around mid-way and come back the way they went up, that’s how badass it is. I’ve done K.E. seventeen times, the first time when I was fourteen, but anyone scared of heights should stick to one of the other ways up. Besides,” he said, maybe sparing my pride, “the other approaches have more to see.”

As we headed out to meet the others, he told me about being caught on Knife’s Edge one time in a sudden thunderstorm, lightning flashing all around them, striking Katahdin itself with noise like bombs. They laid flat on their stomachs, he said, and covered their heads with their jackets while grabbing onto heavy rocks just to hold on to something in the gusting wind. Right before his eyes he saw a fork of lightning set a tree on fire not more than three hundred yards away.

Without a segue from that he named some of the various trails that crisscrossed the mighty peak, ticking them off like prayer beads, each sacred memories of a past he clearly cherished despite the excitement of his present life.

“Cathedral Trail,” he named, “Dudley, with its big rocks, Saddle Trail, the Slow Easy, the Old Trail….” Then he mentioned (as all Maine natives seem to do) that Katahdin was the first place in the entire United States to see the sun each day, and hearing that reminded me of the lyrics to the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ song Californication, new that summer that went, “….the sun may rise in the East, at least it settles in the final location….”

But before we reached the top on the less daunting path we were taking I knew a rough day’s climb would be waiting, a climb that I admit proved harder than I’d let myself believe it’d be, and while I made it with no problems, I wouldn’t tell anyone else how sore the backs of my legs were, and from somewhere within I heard my younger, fitter teenage self scoffing at the ruin the twenty-year-old version of me had become, four pounds heavier and much less motivated.

“Hey,” I told her, “a tennis court is one thing but you try lugging a forty-pound pack a mile into the sky…”

Yes, I am haunted by the ghosts of past versions of myself, and sometimes converse with them. Is anyone actually surprised?

On the way up I’d be shown some bear scat of recent vintage, deposited right in the center of the trail no more than a day before, pellets that were filled with seeds but also had hair---likely field mouse or chipmunk---in them, surrounded by clawed tracks the size of my hand.

However we saw no actual bears.

Still: “They see us,” a woodsy, cocky boy named Mitch promised in an accent that held the slight twang of the famed Down East dialect. If he’d tossed out an “A-yuh” it would’ve been perfect. “They’re watching you all the time you’re here. Have been since you first stepped into their woods. Barely out of hibernation a month, they’re good and hungry. Likely,” he turned and pointed behind us, “they’re there, following.”

If he was trying to intimidate me, (and based on the stories he told in front of the fire that night he liked scaring others) he failed, since I actually wanted to see a bear.

“Bears will eat your Midwestern ass,” Mitch said. “They’ll hold you down with a paw then chew on you while you’re still alive. When they kill you at the end, it’s a mercy.”

“Yeah, right,” I finally told him with all the confidence of a biology major who lacked real world experience, “black bears don’t eat people.”

“Right….” He said giving me a look like I was a total idiot.

Around me Trey and the others laughed in a way that made me wonder. I cocked an eyebrow at Trey and he shrugged noncommittally.

Huh, I thought, this better not be an elaborate snipe hunt.

Aside from bears I wanted to see a moose, a riskier encounter than might at first be thought, since of the two species moose are actually responsible for more deaths and injuries to humans each year, but in the end I had to content myself with deer, a woodchuck, even an eagle, which flew not above but actually across from us, riding the currents, a panorama of a thousand square miles spread below it.

Finally, my back knotted and my shoulders dented from the straps of the pack I nicknamed Torquemada, we arrived with the evening yet ahead of us and got to see cloud-dappled blue skies that seemed to go on and on without limit, and breathed air that was gloriously clean in a way that was almost intoxicating. From the height the entire world showed what an incomprehensively vast place it was, rolling granite-spired mountains, spines merging one into the next until the earth itself curved somewhere just barely out of sight.

Truly, we had nothing quite like this back home.

After a lingering sunset, I laid back on a warm rock jutting from the earth as it likely had for a million years, and watched clouds roll in to smother the blinding brilliance of the stars, leaving us in the absolute darkness of the peak, a place that had never known the violation of electric lights and seldom the intrusion of human presence. Except for airplanes it was the highest I had ever been, or would be to this day. Even the air was slightly thin, not quite delivering the same blessing a lungful would back in the valley. Here, I meditated, was the world at its very oldest….

I picked up the howling of wolves from somewhere in the darkness as the bunch of us who’d made the summit camped in front of a blazing fire, necessary since even in mid-June a mountaintop is a chilly place, with hoarfrost common. I listened above the tipsy laughter of camp (a bottle of whisky was produced and passed around) as the wolves made their mournful howls from the distance, and a moment later another cry would pierce the night off from someplace else, echoing across who knew how many miles.

Though no rain was forecast, the mountaintop was always at least slightly windy, and in the shivery cold morning of the same day Stephen King would be hit by a van off in another part of Maine, I’d have a sore throat that’d linger for several days, but knowing I was seeing the orange sunrise before almost anyone else in America, perched atop a venerable mountain, so high I was looking down at clouds, made it worth it.

In the end the hike back down, always easier than its predecessor, was over too quickly, leaving me to ask Trey, “When can we go up again?”

“Anytime,” he said. “Katahdin isn’t going anyplace in our lifetime.”

In the end, though, way led on to way, as Robert Frost defined the natural flow of life, Trey went back west when his vacation ended, the last summer of the century unfolded, and I was never to do Katahdin twice, or at least I haven’t so far, and if I did it wouldn’t be the same experience, of course, making that day and night spent on the tallest mountain in the state all the more special in memory.

A memory I thought I’d share with all of you here.

« Last Edit: November 24, 2017, 10:51:27 AM by ER » Logged

"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
indianasmith
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« Reply #73 on: November 24, 2017, 12:18:55 PM »

And a beautiful memory it was!

I'd share the tale of the time I climbed Mt. Fujiyama in Japan, but it doesn't end as well.
Altitude sickness sucks!
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"Carpe diem!" - Seize the day!  "Carpe per diem!" - Seize the daily living allowance! "Carpe carp!" - Seize the fish!
"Carpe Ngo Diem!" - Seize the South Vietnamese Dictator!
ER
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #74 on: December 05, 2017, 10:46:57 AM »

When I was a kid my aunt was always giving us open boxes of cereal.

The story went that my cousin would want the prize listed on the box, but was never sure a single purchase would get her the one she wanted, (“I want the Smurfette refrigerator magnet, not the Handy Smurf one! Handy’s so gay-looking he should be in the Village People.”)  so rather than deal with my cousin’s pouting and kvetching my aunt would buy a case and open it and pour the contents into spaghetti strainers so the prizes could be removed, then she’d funnel the cereal back in the box, but she’d be left with more cereal than her family could use before it went stale, so… Yes, she’d give it to us.

So I often had free cereal, usually the ultra-sweetened kind with oddly-colored marshmallows that turned your milk a sort of gray-purple with tie-dye swirls, but I never got the cool prizes mentioned on the outside. No Top Gun mini-frisbees, no Ghostbusters tattoos, no Pac-Man stickers. Saddest of all no Inspector Gadget pen-light. (And I really did want an Inspector Gadget pen-light.)

I swear, I was probably five before I realized cereal didn’t come from the store with little clothes pens sealing up the bag inside.

I guess this was practical, us taking used cereal, I don’t know, I never quite caught an attitude of noblesse oblige from my cousin or her mother, but it was one of many symptoms in a relationship in which my cousin’s parents were rich, and we were merely middle-class.

Oh, we weren’t poor, not at all, my father had an important job, we lived in suburbia, had two cars, a swimming pool, I was in private school, my mother dabbled at making art, I did summers out of the country (where I had to say a rosary “with earnestness” before I was allowed to have dinner), but it was a comparison thing, we for instance never went to Aruba on a private jet, and my dad never had Susan Sarandon speak at his political fundraiser as her dad did, and so as a way of life I grew up being given my cousin’s cast-off clothes, magazines, sometimes once-worn shoes, and yes, her gently used cereal.

At least they never gave us used milk, right?

My cousin may have been generous in the cereal department but she still wasn’t above yanking my hair or once in a while trying to drown me while we were swimming at our grandparents’. I have a memory from 1987 of her holding my head under and in a Jimmy Swaggart accent shouting, “I BAPTIZE THEE IN THE NAME O’ THE LAWRD, HEATHEN CHILD!!!!!”  while I sputtered away the contents of my lungs. Mostly, though, she was nice, and she’d kick the ass of anyone else who hassled me.

When did she stop harassing me? I don’t know, but I recall when she got her first breasts implants she used to sneak up and whack me in the face with them real hard, and I was about fourteen then. (Ever been coldcocked with a rubber glove filled with water? That’s what those felt like.) In fact just yesterday she soaped my car windows while I was at work, but since she spelled “creepy” with an “a” the joke was on her. Forty-three and still soaping car windows. Gotta love the b***h. Also she used Irish Spring, so nice smell.

When she got her driver’s license, life opened up for me because of her, and she was always dropping by in her sporty, pricy cars (yes, that’s plural, one at her mom’s house, one at her dad’s) and asking me to go places with her, and she’d buy me stuff, let me infiltrate her cliques, and more often than not I had a good time finding out how the slightly older set lived, them and their conversations about graduation and SATs, cosmetic surgery and negative pregnancy tests. These girls all had their own credit cards, their own beepers, their own custom license plates that said things like: STOPH8. And below that there’d be bumper stickers for trendy causes like freeing Tibet and boycotting the vivisectionists at P&G.

(One of these girls, Christina, had a pink Energizer bunny hanging off her rear view mirror, and I liked her because she’d talk Jane Austen with me and said if she lived back then she’d have stayed a virgin til she got married. She ended up living in Japan and having a child who is a music prodigy, this little girl who could play Mozart’s violin concerto number one while still in her single digit years.)

My cousin, of course, also had parking passes for a couple upscale country clubs slapped on her bumper like badges of honor for all the world to see. As if driving her convertible at sixteen did not announce her status clearly enough to planet Earth, she had to have those as the cherries atop the sundae of her biography.

She’d explain: “Jews have their clubs, WASPS, too, but the golf course we Catholics use was co-designed by Arnold Palmer’s personal architect, and Cardinal Bernardin blessed it when it opened. Half the busboys there are Episcopalians.”

I’d kind of go, “Uh-huh” and wonder what was the shallowest the human race could actually go. What, I wanted to inquire, did the toilets flush with Evian water, too?

But I guess it wasn’t her fault she was born rich, and she wasn’t a snobby princess, having no problem dirtying her hands one weekend a month working with Habitat For Humanity in the uptown, and one June going to Haiti to nail metal roofing onto a school. She had to get about four shots for that and said the ocean around Haiti was so polluted you risked your life if you went to the beach. She lived off canned Vienna sausages rather than brave the local fare, and came back happily four pounds lighter, though also depressed about how sad AIDS orphans were, all wanting to go home with her group.

“So many….” She told me. “So horribly many.”

She told me the Haitians were the kindest people she’d ever met, even though they had nothing at all.  On a bus ride through Port-au-Prince she saw a funeral where they carried the dead person wrapped in palm leaves, no casket, not even a shroud.

“Are you going to form a charity to give poor people coffins?” I asked. “I know the dead would appreciate that.”

Back home a lot of her boyfriends seemed to be working class types, and she eventually married one, though before him the half-life of most of her relationships matched the brevity of the lit-wick on a firecracker. I needed to take notes just to keep track of who was still happening and who was yesterday’s news, as boys and boys and boys passed through her, uh, life, in a long stream of names and descriptions.

“If you ever get pregnant,” I said one time, “you’re not going to have any clue who to send the child support bill to, are you?”

For some reason she didn’t like that.

There were a lot of men from outside her income range, though. There was Josh, whose mom was a cashier at Walgreen’s. Ray, who was missing a tooth. Brad, who went to community college. Evan, a guy with the back tattoo. Also a red-haired student teacher who, adorably, according to her, was going to teach in the inner city. One of them lasted a record-shattering two months, Glenn, who used to hit on her in middle school and dropped thirty pounds after Air Force ROTC sent him away one summer to get in shape. Glenn seemed to fascinate her, but not enough for exclusivity. Only one ever got her to that rarefied level of commitment, and now they have five children together.

The truth was even though my cousin perceived herself as impressively cool she was also nice to almost everybody, and I saw her take attitude off servers and cashiers because she said their lives were already tough enough, she didn’t want to add to it, so she had a heart somewhere under her designer bras. And you couldn’t be with her half an hour without her spending money on you, buying you things she knew you wanted. So…she wasn’t a bad sort, just out of touch with how self-centered she could be.

She was also an incurable know-it-all, outmatching Emma Woodhouse when it came to telling you how to run your life. In fairness, she tended to be right, and if I had listened I would have been closer to sainthood than a straitjacket, so oh, well.

As I’ve mentioned before, one day, well, I can tell you, it was February 15, 1992, a Saturday, she took me along while she consulted a palm reader in an eclectic borough called Northside, and this pseudo-hairless Creole-looking woman rubbed our palms with a crystal and held a savagely-constructed rag doll while she proceeded to reveal our entire lives to us. To review, she said I would fall in love three times. The first time my love will be strongest, the second time it will be shortest, and the third time the best. (Hmm.) I would not marry the man I love most but I would love the man I marry. I was to have two daughters and always want what I can’t have. (I also have a son but it’s true I have two daughters.) I would have enough money to be happy and be happy because I would always have something to wish for that I did not have. (Like more money?) I had, she claimed, a psychic eye on my right heel of my hand but there was a line in it which means I have a gift for hunches but my hunches aren’t clear to me until I think back after they happened. (Oh, yeeeeah…)

All in all I have to say she didn’t do too badly for an obvious charlatan who relied on two-penny theatrics to impress a couple of silly white girls.

As for what she said to my cousin, I couldn’t tell you, since my cousin made me wait outside while she got her reading, so I imagine the things she wanted to know were just dripping with sex. In the car afterward I decided to play rough by NOT asking her, when I knew she wanted me to. I just turned her Camper Van Beethoven tape up loud and refused to give in. (Not giving in was also how I originally got the man I married obsessed with me, but that’s another story.)

When the lottery song off Key Lime Pie came on, with its lyrics about “…when I win the LOT-ter-eee…” I said to her, “Like you need to win the lottery.”

To which she fired back a line, “Yeah, but I’d walk away from it all tomorrow to get more.”

Which brings me to my point. No, not some Buddhic parable about being happy with that with which life has endowed you, since ambitious is good, it gave us the invention of the wheel, after all, but instead this….

About five years in the future past that day I’d be watching The Simpsons one night in my senior year in high school, and I almost choked, because Mr. Burns stole my cousin’s line! In the scene Homer had just reminded Mr. Burns he was the richest man in Springfield, and Mr. Burns replied, “Yes, but I’d trade it all for a little more.”

Holy crap, was Matt Groening, like, spying on us that day? The line was so close to my cousin’s it was too weird to be a coincidence, so all I can figure is either her life or my life has been a sort of Truman Show, them observing and listening-in and us giving inspiration to Hollywood, which has probably been stealing our quotes unbeknownst to us since at least the early ‘90s.

I want my royalties.


« Last Edit: December 05, 2017, 10:57:42 AM by ER » Logged

"If I should meet thee after long years,

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