It’s STILL not Friday

Okay, couple things:

1) Y’all are the bestest. Thank you, thank you for the wonderful comments. I just now have logged in again after posting late yesterday (Thursday morning). I am touched. Have I said thanks yet?

2) I can’t leave that post at the top, nosir, so in keeping with the ‘we put the fun in dysfunctional’ theme, here’s a Christmas song that’s been running through my head. You may have heard it, you may not have, it’s really funny when you hear how Robert Earl kinda drones it along.

3) I hope I didn’t leave the impression I was scarred for life. That is too strong of a term for whatever it is that I feel. But you know how you have moments that leave a true impact on you, your character? Perhaps witnessing something, perhaps when something happens (good or bad) to someone very close to you? It’s kinda like that. It colors your world.

From Robert Earl Keen…

Mom got drunk and Dad got drunk
At our Christmas party
We were drinkin’ champagne punch
And homemade eggnog
Little sister brought her new boyfriend
He was a Mexican
We didn’t know what to think of him
Til he sang Feliz Navidad
Feliz Navidad

Brother Ken brought his kids with him
The three from his first wife Lynn
And the two identical twins
From his second wife Mary Nell
Of course he brought his new wife Kaye
Who talks all about AA
Chain smokin’ while the stereo plays
Noel, Noel, The first Noel

Carve the turkey turn the ball game on
Mix Margaritas when the eggnog’s gone
Send somebody to the Quik-Pak store
We need some ice and an extension cord
A can of bean dip and some Diet Rite
A box of pampers , some Marlboro Lights
Hallelujah everybody say cheese
Merry Christmas from the family

Fran and Rita drove from Harlingen
I can’t remember how I’m kin to them
But when they tried to plug their motor home in
They blew our christmas lights
Cousin David knew just what went wrong
So we all waited on our front lawn
He threw the breaker and the lights came on
And we sang Silent Night
Oh Silent Night o’ holy night

Carve the turkey, turn the ballgame on
Make bloody marys cause we all want one.
Send somebody to the Stop ‘N Go,
we need some celery and a can of fake snow,
a bag of lemons and some Diet Sprite,
a box of tampons and some Salem Lights.
Halleluja everybody say cheese,
Merry Christmas from the Family.

Feliz Navidad…

And yes, I’m posting a lot of lyrics lately, prolly cuz I’m missing Gary and his song of the day quiz…

Suitcase

I’m one of those people that pretty much try to please everyone. All. the. time. I really don’t try and cause trouble. This is such an in-grained and automatic part of my personality that I have to really try not to be the ‘facilitator’ or to try and stop conflicts happening around me.

– Long boring post in here if you want it ->

When I was in eighth grade, back when mastadons roamed the earth, our class was going to go away on a field trip. Far away, like get on an airplane and go. This was, of course, a big deal because up to that point I had been on an airplane only a couple of times in my life.The night before we were to leave, it was time to pack, and my mom had sent my dad up into the attic to fetch the suitcase I was to use. Several times. They were bickering about which one would be better, which turned to arguing. I don’t remember what the argument was even about, maybe size, or maybe one had more pockets, or locked, or something.

Then my dad insisted that I pick which suitcase I wanted to take. I froze. Choosing one meant picking my mom or my dad. That was clear to me. “I don’t care,” said the thirteen year old me.

Dad: “Do you want us to get a goddamn divorce!?”

26 years later I can still hear these words, like it was yesterday. I couldn’t reply, not coherently. In my head I was screaming “no, no, no, god no, why on earth would I want that? Why would anyone want that? Can’t you see I just don’t want you to fight? over a fucking suitcase?” I finally picked one, I think, or maybe they did, and clothes were packed and I went on the trip and we never talked about it again.

But in my mind, in my heart, I was somehow convinced that I had somehow obtained a mystical power, the power to tear my parents apart. I can’t say for sure that this is why I rebelled in high school (kids do that, ya know, lotsa kids). But the incident was there, just under the surface, in countless other arguments we had over the next five years or so. All because I didn’t want to pick a suitcase, all because I didn’t want to seem like I was picking sides. And I still didn’t want them to get a divorce.

Unfortunately, I still have that paralyzing problem, of wanting to please too many people, of not wanting to seem too opinionated, of not wanting to choose if it means hurting someone’s feelings. Of knowing that what I want or don’t want might somehow magically screw up somebody else. Logic has nothing to do with it; I can’t let go of the terror I felt when my dad was screaming at me about the suitcase.