When I was ten or so, I was in Europe with my grandparents and Aunt Sharon. On these trips, Sharon and I were always roomed together, which sometimes was fun but her moods could be quick to sour and I’d often end up sulking in my bed, wishing I was home. I was feeling particularly unloved and neglected one night — I think it was in Florence, maybe — so I decided to pretend like I was lost or kidnapped by gypsies. ”They’ll all be sorry,” I thought bitterly. After dinner, I ran ahead of everyone and made it to the room before they had even stepped off the elevator. The windows in the room were blanketed by floor-length drapes and I slipped behind the heavy folds, making sure the tips of my toes weren’t peeking out.
It didn’t take long before Sharon made it back to the room and noticed my absence. I remember her leaving the room but I was determined to stay hidden. The excitement of the game had my bladder in a tizzy, and I had to press my thighs together to keep from leaking. What a way to spoil my ruse, am I right?
Soon, I could hear the harried voices of my grandparents, chastising Sharon for letting me run ahead of her. I could hear the dinging of the elevator and a British accent as our tour guide ran to join my family, probably all smooshed together in one big huddle of fear. Muffled voices melded together into a frenzied choir of panic and I hiccuped back my mischievous laughter. My chest swelled a little, relishing the idea of being sought after and missed. I heard Sharon run back into the room to retrieve something — maybe something she might have needed on the search and rescue mission, like a flashlight or a bag of crack to bargain with my gypsy captors – and I stumbled out from beneath the curtains in a fit of giddy laughter.
My prank was not as well-received as I would have liked – especially not since the tour guide had called hotel security – but instead was met with roiling umbrage.
I did this a few years ago, as a grown woman. Henry and I were at my mom’s for one of her summer cook-outs and Henry wasn’t lavishing me with tongue-wagging attention, so I dramatically ran off with stomping feet. I stowed myself underneath the desk in the unused living room, my limbs tucked into my crouched body. I hid there for at least twenty minutes before Henry’s kids finally discovered me. (They, evidently, were also the only people looking for me.) The boys sat with me while I sniffled and sniveled, wailing that their father was an asshole who didn’t care about me, and they heartily agreed that they hated him as well. “He’s a fucker, we hate him too!” they lied, telling me what they knew I wanted to hear. A small part of me gloated.
(This is probably why my mom is always canceling her cook-outs.)
Sometimes I still get this overwhelming desire to hide, to just dig a fucking trench in ’Nam and lay in it until I die, maybe stuff a Ziplock bag with some uncooked tortellini and little tubs of jelly to prolong the process a little.
Found that randomly in that archives and it made me LOL because I’m still always hiding. But now it’s usually just in attempts to scare the piss out of my kid.
In other news, I spent a good portion of the weekend doing autumnal things outdoors with Jessy and Tommy. We went to the Covered Bridge Festival on Saturday where I finally got to see authentic Amish people up close. And one of the Amish men was absently jutting out his tongue while inspecting his rustic wooden wares, and I had to look away because it was so erotic. I thought it was just me, but then Tommy started to say something and then changed his mind out of respect for the Amish. It was an uncomfortable moment.
Also while we were there, Jessy was nearly raped by a wigged-woman selling stuffed animal heating pads. Later, Jessy put a ring on my finger and I said, “I feel so bonded to you now,” and Tommy got all possessive. Yes men, you SHOULD fear me.
Sunday morning, Henry, Chooch and I met Jessy and Tommy for breakfast at the Beach House, where Jessy tried to kill Tommy with her chair and Tommy arranged Chooch’s Ben 10 figurines in pornographic positions. Henry sat around in a bandanna, being Henry. Chooch was ornery, and Tommy only served to exacerbate that.
Then we went to Trax Farms where I ran into an old friend and Jessy made Tommy buy her stuff and Henry wouldn’t buy me SHIT. Not even a Halloween candle that looked like a dildo coated with menstruation. Chooch got a small pumpkin though.
I love that my pig has a bandaid.
I love hanging out with those guys. Getting to know Jessy again has been just what I needed. She’s helping me remember who I used to be. I feel like I’ve stolen back some of myself, slowly let some of my walls come down, stopped letting other people push me over. It’s been nice and comforting. I didn’t realize how disoriented and sealed-up I had been feeling the last few years.
What the fuck is Indian Henry supposed to be holding in that picture, anyway? Is he bringing popcorn to our Thanksgiving dinner?
Last night after work, I met my old friend Stacey at Mad Mex for some apps and big ass margaritas. We laughed a lot, then the alcohol kicked in and we had heart-pouring conversations. I’m going to have her brother tattoo a sacred heart-esque grilled cheese on my arm.
Apparently I’m not a recluse anymore.
My son is watching Will & Grace. I tried to turn it and he screamed, “NO I LIKE THIS SHOW!” This is one disjointed blog post. But so is my head lately. (Not in a bad way. Just in the busy way.)
Is it Halloween yet?