29

I struck up a conversation with a 29 year old girl last night at a different watering hole, one that's not so filthy nor divey. When I found out she was 29, I quickly did the math in my head and realized this ain't going anywhere, but so what, conversation is fun anyway. Most of the conversation revolved around her not being able to find a guy that was worth it. What she wanted out of a guy was some stability, not employed “hunting gophers at a golf course.” I told here that was a cool reference to Caddy Shack and all I got was a blank stare. Ok...the meme but not the film survived.

“I'd like to find a guy, ya know...stable. Perhaps move into together.” In my head I said, 'Wait for it' and it came.

“maybe marriage...and I saw a house in Rehoboth that's sooo cute!” she says. There it is, the same ol' Princess fantasy.

She goes on.

“I look at the friends I have who are married and they're so happy.”

“Whoa, stop right there. You're making a wrong comparison.” I tell her.

I tell her, marrieds, like anyone else in a public setting, will put on a public face to advertise. “You can't know what's going on behind those closed doors and I'll tell you, that secret is more closely guarded than missile codes. They want you to think they are blissed out 24/7. It ain't that way! 20 Something marrieds have to prove everything's all fine and dandy, that it's succeeding...and it's worse if they're social climbers bent on maintaining an image.”

She agrees but it's that agreement to shut an older adult up, like teens will do to stop any more inquiries. She wasn't a bad sort, just hitting The Wall at 29, freaking out and making the mistake of comparing her life to others. The fact is life doesn't end at 29, but tell her that.

“What about you?” she asks. Oh Jesus, I think I can't condense all these decades into five sentences, but I try. As I tell her, I lock onto her eyes for about three to four seconds to see if there's any change in the pupils. There was, that instant widening. I think to myself “she's ready to go' either in a few hours or a week if I worked at it. But to tell the truth, I wasn't in the mood anyway to lead her on about any future she imagined. Plus, when I drink now, it's valium to me, I just further slump into the chair I'm sitting in. I lose energy! Add to that I wasn't entirely attracted to her to begin with. All I wanted this night was to meditate like sloth in a tree, with algae growing on me because I've slowed down so much.

After a bit, she gets up, and finds the girlfriend she was with to have that consultation. Those quick glances towards me then back to themselves was cute as it always is. “Gee, Sandra...how old is he?” I imagined that was one of the questions discussed. No matter, when you haven't put the money down on a particular pony, you don't care who places first. She finally came back to talk some more but the dynamic changed to Dad/daughter. I don't mean in the creepy sort of way but more of her wanting to know what to do. Ok, fine, I've lived that life since I was 13 pretty much. “Ok, here we go again, take charge, save them from drowning.”

“You know what happens when you turn 30?” I ask her.

“What?” As if she's waiting for some revelation.

“You turn 30, that's it.” I say.

First Crushes

I don't know too many 13 year old girls, in fact, I know none personally. Last night though I got a performance out of one while she bugged her Mom incessantly to take her to Randall Island's Panorama Music Festival. I had sat down by the keg to refill the cup and got pulled into the conversation.

“But MOM! Sufjan Stevens is SOOO cool! We HAFTA go!”

“Sufjan Stevens?” I thought. I then ask, “Who is Sufjan Stevens?” Before Mom can answer me, the girl cuts her off.

“You don't know who Sufjan Stevens is?”

“No, do you know who Stevie Nicks is?” I counter.

“Who's he?”

East is east, West is west and never shall the two meet.

Sufjan, I'm told, does “lo-fi folk” music. Shit, I'm so out of touch with what's coming out now. Then again, I still burn CD's and am a nutty adherent to FLAC digital. I don't care how large the files are, I want to hear every rasp of the guitar pick. On top of that, I still listen to radio.

“Mom...you just don't understand! Sufjan's helped me sooo much with his songs. I agree with everything he has to say!” she goes on. “If...if only I could go..see him live...maybe even get close to the stage...or back of it...maybe....” as she trails off.

And then I get it. Here's a case of long distance puppy love and that fervent crush that girls of that age can feel. Her life will not be complete unless Sufjan Stevens gives her her first kiss, then marries her on the spot. I get it, I wanted to marry and give Kristy McNichol a thousand babies when I was that age.

Now that I have been drawn in, the daughter has to elicit my help in turning Mom's mind around. The problem was that Mom would have to take the Friday off for that upcoming weekend to do it. If she does, she loses out on $350 on some real estate deal.

“Well,” I tell the young girl, “if you can replace Mom's lost $350, you easily can get her to take that day off.”

The reality of that answer never really sunk in to her. She stared ahead, not quite getting the adult need to keep that money rolling in. It was the perfect answer to satisfy everyone, just get that lost income replaced. The problem was where was a 13 year old girl who babysits for a few $20's a weekend get that kind of cash?

Young minds, even if they don't grasp all of life yet, still can have epiphanies.

“Mom...I'll work if off...I can get $350!”

“By next February you might have it all.” says Mom.

“Arrrrgggh! You always have something negative to say!” the girl nearly shouts.

I have to ask, “Do you listen to anyone else? Do you like other music?”

Mom tells her and winks at me, “Take him, show him your room.”

So I'm led inside to her bedroom. It was what I thought it would be. It was lavender with every style of teddy bear piled on her bed. The bureau piled high with tween perfumes, mascara and more teddy bears.

On the walls, taped to the ceiling, where posters of Sufjan. On the nightstand, there were books, magazine articles clipped out or printed off her computer, all of Sufjan.

I was looking at a shrine.

I thought Sufjan was a might bit old for her. He looked like he was in his late 30's but then I remembered when I was 7^th grade, all the girls were giddy over a substitute teacher who sort of looked like Barry Gibbs back then. Swoon is the word I think.

She then shows me her latest find she printed out, Sufjan looking pensively into the sunset.

I might have had a stupid smile on my face as I was shown all this. I kept time warping back to when I was her age and my fascination over McNichol. I then sort of understood her devotion, although it's been decades since I felt this idolization.

We get back to the party outside and Mom asks me, “Well, what do you think? Understand it now?”

“Yeah, she's locked onto this guy and nothing will shake her off. If you take her to Randall Island, she might wash your car and do your laundry for two months straight.”

“We aren't spending $350 plus to see him. Gas, hotel, tickets, food...and God knows what else.” she says.

“If you take her, she might get it out of system, then again, she may latch onto someone else.”

Mom thinks, “Well, that's not my main worry now.”

“What is?” I'm clueless.

“I worry she'll latch onto a real, live 13 year old boy from her classroom that she can't stand to be away from.”

True dat.

In my defense, here's a pic of Kristy. No, I never met her backstage, got my first kiss and then had a thousand babies with her. Jesus, I do remember the crush. “God...she's...so...pretty!” 

Inequities of the Father

The last time my Uncle and I spoke more then forty words it was under dire circumstances which doesn't lend itself to much sharing of stories, just what' s needed at the moment. That would be 1983. We both were involved in a family interview (over my Mom) at Butler hospital and that wasn't all that fun.

The other two times where forty words were spoken between us were funerals. But that happens at them right? You run into someone you haven't seen in a while and it becomes Old Home Week.

Yesterday I spent eight hours in a nice, modest home in Rehoboth going over every possible thing I could remember, any detail, or half story he could have filled me in on about the families. Not only that, he was an adult observer to the many goings on in my family whereas I was just a kid or young teen.

Why weren't we talking?

“Ronnie, your Dad, Mom were very private people, few words and defended their cloistered worlds to the end. They've always been like that, as far back as I can remember.” Joe tells me.

This is true, I think my Dad had but one friend in his life and that was his co-worker at First Federal. My Mom had none but Dad and that was her world. Because it was like this our family rarely visited the other relatives, even though they were no more than 9 miles away. When your a kid, you have little recourse but to do as your parents say. These circumstances were “normal” to me as I was born into them.

But I found out some killer stories.

Apparently I had no idea that my Mom's Dad was completely against the marriage of his daughter to my Dad. It was so bad that he wasn't going to give his daughter (my Mom) away at the wedding.

Joe tells me:

“Ronnie, your grandfather, my dad, was one of those hard working, hard drinking Irish men of back then. He drank, but also provided for his family, but many of the first wave Irish immigrants did. But above all, he was a Catholic.

“You did know your Dad was an Anglican...Right?...Protestant Irish?”

I look at Joe with some dull surprise and said, “No.....”

“He was...and when he started dating your Mom, my Dad was ripping pissed off. No girl of his was going to associate with a scumbag Protestant. However, your Mom and Dad managed to keep this relationship going till they became married.”

He tells me this.

“I saw this on numerous occasions. Your Dad and Mom would sit on the couch, watch TV and that's how you “dated” back then, by spending time together like that. My Dad, coming home from the bar stumbled upon those two when he entered the house and upon seeing your Dad, shouts rather loudly...and I remember it clearly:”

“GIT OOT OF MY HOUSE YOU FOOKIN' PROT BASTARD! DOON'T EVER TALK TO MY GARL AGIN!!”

“Your Dad left w/o causing a scene or a fight. He never did want a confrontation with our family. He figured if he got into a fist fight with our dad, that would kill any hope of his staying with Maureen. Your Dad was an expert politician too...he manage to walk through many fires w/o so much as being burned.”

Joe goes on. “Our Dad couldn't stop your Dad or Mom from seeing one another, they snuck behind his back, got his wife to eventually 'bless it' and one day, your Dad proposed to you Mom. When our Dad found out, he refused to go the the church to give your Mom away.”

“You have to understand Ronnie, your grandfather was raised in County Monaghan about five miles from the border of Northern Ireland..he saw a ton of shit during the rebellions...he'd strangle an Englishman with his hands if he could...Protestants were worse than child molesters.”

Apparently my grandfather was good to his word up until 18 hours before the marriage when he caved in and did go to the wedding. Why he changed his mind is unknown.

“Your Dad swore off Anglicanism, did some special dispensation with the Catholic parish and I'm not sure of it completely, but managed to convince the priest to marry a nominal protestant to a catholic girl.”

“The one thing that made our Dad happier about it all, your Dad let you two kids, Kenny and you, be raised Catholic.”

“Even with that though, our dad, your grandfather, said about 54 words to your Dad here on out, till the day he died.”

I never knew this.

**

If you read this blog, you will know my Mom suffered from decades of depression and how I had to prop her up emotionally for the same amount of time. I had to ask Joe, where there any signs of this prior to us kids being born? Was she like this long ago. He had said no but there was one thing that always perturbed him.

“Ronnie, you remember anything from 1973 and your Mom?” I had claimed nothing stood out.

“Your Mom underwent ECT therapy then....I think, but I can't prove it was the ECT, but she was never the same after it. There was always something “off” about her then.

I tried to remember that time and all I could come up with was that she was stoned on Valium seven days a week on Dr's orders. Then again, you have to understand, this was normal home life for me, it was always was like this. Plus I was kept in the dark about any medical treatments my Mom was going through. 1973 wasn't one of those years where advancements in psychotherapy either.

Here's ECT therapy in action, a bit from One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest. Careful, it's rough!

Again, I never knew...

**

As we were talking, I had to tell Joe that one of the most fun, memorable moments I could remember about our families, when they were tighter, were his Christmas Eve parties that the threw at his house. When they first started, we kids were well behaved and quiet. But we kids also knew this. All we had to do was wait till the adults started drinking. In about an hour we'd know the parents would completely give up on their supervision and my cousins and I could tear through the house like Vikings hitting a seaside village. We tore through that house so much we were sweating.

So, I'll have to keep in touch, the sins of the father/mother/whoever shouldn't be visited upon the child.

Summer Camp

“Psssh! That's nothing new...I saw that at the clam bakes on Plymouth beach in the 50's. All the adults got drunk on the 4^th and started flirting like hell with one another's spouses.”

I ask. “Yeah, but do the husbands just stand there and take it?”

“No...eventually they go after someone else. It's something to do to liven things up...marriages get boring. Musical beds was a great sport in Plymouth then, probably still is for all I know.”

**

I had known her before, when I had an entire summer off not too long ago. She was by the outdoor bar and I stood there, after the fireworks show and wondered if she remembered? It was nice middle class 4^th of July party, the guys in the obligatory khakis and polo shirts while the women were in their sheer summer dresses. The hem length determined by their boldness. Talk of 401k's, private high schools and “is so and so coming tonight?” dominate the conversations.

I walked up behind her, grabbed a bottle of vanilla vodka off the bar and was about to dump it right into her cranberry juice she was pouring. “Remember this?” I asked. “You drank the whole thing down when I did this before!” I had my thumb over the opening, a sleight of hand when I “dumped” it into her glass.

“Accck! No! Not again!” she yelped.

The Yuelings I was drinking half the night emboldened me further. I nuzzled my face right up into her hair, to speak softly into her ear for a good 45 seconds. The humid breath, trapped and roiling about her ear, hair, made her tilt her head back some. I loved it. She liked it too.

I say. “Don't worry, I'm causing a 'scene.' I'll just softly talk about lawn mower maintenance to you while everyone stares.”

She laughed. And it was true, when I pulled my head away from hers to look behind me, about 15 heads snapped the other way.

Everyone knew what happened several years earlier, we two put on a show without any regard for tact or etiquette. She was recklessly flaunting herself while the husband was there, perhaps to stick it to him. I and others played along like 15 yr old boys. Hot, humid outdoor parties that run till dawn, with enough alcohol and it's Summer Camp time. We get to be kiddies again. But I knew that this time, it wasn't going anywhere tonight. We had learned enough about each other to know. Those years ago she needed the attention she was starving for, I got to play in the sandbox like the boy I still can be. She wasn't in deep need of validation this time around, though. That's ok, we still flirted like rutting hogs.

“You're still married to him...why?

“The house, the income...and I know him intimately...you're the devil I don't know about!”

“BS, you know enough about me..you're a girl and your girl spies have all the info they got on me and told you!”

“HA...in that case...I'll just say I don't want legal difficulties!”

Good answer.

I had talked to him earlier that night, her husband. I knew he wasn't going to do a damned thing. We skated past the obvious and spoke of the Red Sox, old Cadillac cars when he excused himself to move onto others. The funny thing, he was big enough to slam me into the deck if he wanted too, yet I knew that wasn't going to happen. The poor guy was defeated years before I came along. In truth, I didn't want to know the dynamics of that marriage too well. The less I knew, the better.

The Catholic Marriage Vow...

Priest: (Name), do you take (name) for your lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?

Groom: I do.

Priest: (Name), do you take (name) for your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?

Bride: I do.

What horseshit...really.

Some of the other husbands, wives there, who I know nothing about their statuses, were the same in mind but not actively pursuing anything. (Well, that I know of)

Married hubby #1 to married hubby #2: “You see Leo's wife? Shit..she's still hot! She had the best body at 18 and she still has it!” It was true, she was still able to fit in her jeans she had at 18 even though she was 45 now. But her Leo, stood by her side most of the night, putting off “Don't Touch” vibes to all there. No matter, the other husbands were eyeing her with hunger, shooting badly timed sideways glances at her shape and curves. So was I. Leo caught these predatory stares and peeks and stuck close to her more so.

It's amazing what you see at summer romps.

 click and play...most i find do have a pearl inside there somewhere.

Hello? uh..Hello?!...HELLO!!!!

French Canadian girls have a certain look and it's in the cheekbones. They're rather high without being freakish and definitely speak of European breeding without having been watered down yet. Gabrielle was her name, about 27 years old and from “woon-SAH-ket.” She had slightly wavy, dirty blond hair, calm blue eyes highlighted by those same cheekbones and a bit of that malnourished skinny look. She needed some more sunlight, a few pizzas to be healthy again.

I've heard of that pronunciation before but ONLY in Woonsocket. I had asked if she had been in Pawtucket before and she had said rarely, but she was down here to see the McCoy fireworks, a three day show that'll culminate tonight's blowoff around 9 PM. They'll stuff another 70,000 people in and around McCoy stadium in a city whose population to start with, is 70,000. I can get in and out of there in 10 minutes, but that's only because I live here and know which backyards I can drive through! Yes, I said “backyards.”

Gabrielle goes on. “I do everything in woon-SAH-ket...I got my stores, bars, my job...it's all there! I don't come down here much.”

Woonsocket is a self sustaining asteroid all unto it's own.

While we were outside talking, she kept reaching up to scratch her head, kinda like when a dog goes full on to scratch some fleas.

“I”m sorry...it itches like hell...I've got psoriasis and it's kicking up again.”

I say, “No problem, I know exact--” Too late, I can't complete my sentence before I'm cut off.

“People are so judgmental! It's psoriasis...it's a self....self-immune disease!”

“You mean auto-immune dis---” I'm cut off again.

“They think they'll catch it...they can't! I'm not contagious! You'd think people would listen to me!”

I try to get a word in edgewise. “I understand why it itche---” Cut off again.

She pulls up her summer dress to show me her legs. “”Look..people think I'm a freak! These spots! They're can't hurt you!” Her legs weren't covered in anything much than just a sparse, few psoriasis plaques that mimic mosquito bites.

I try again. “I'm on your side. I have....”

“I'm OK with my body...I know some think I look too skinny but I hate judgmental people..why get on me because of my genetics..I can't stop this psoriasis!!”

Now I'm looking at this chick and sort of amazed at how she's completely wrapped up into her own head to the point of being unable to hear anyone but herself. So I try to reach her, to see if wakes her up.

“Look, I understand! I HAVE psoriasis too..I know what...” (That's true, I do) No help...she never heard me.

“The other girls..they compete with me all the time! I can't seem to get a break here and I can't help that I have psoriasis!”

Shit...her reception radar is turned completely off! I try this, in a louder voice.

“Blue. Monkey. 15!”

“...and those girlfriends...sometimes they too dump on me because I scratch my head a lot...I have medicated shampoo that helps calm it but I can't ever stop this..I have it forever!”

She never heard that strange thing I said. Most others would look at me weirdly if I said “Blue.Monkey.15”

I was attracted to her about twenty minutes ago. I was feeling my way towards her, figuring her out, seeing if she was seriously boy-friended or not. After this little conversation I came to realize she embodied the worst of that Millennial trait, self-absorption with the added success of being able to make the entire Earth orbit herself.

“Ewwww” I though to myself. '”You're way too much work!” I imagined screwing her and her yapping on and on about why the other girls at work plot against her and why her boss promotes via nepotism...that or texting about herself to a waiting, rapt world on Twitter.

I thought to myself...”God..imagine having to spend a weekend with that non-stop narcissism?”

Still..those eyes were hard to ignore. But the smarter part of myself won out. I went back inside, she followed and I excused myself to disappear into the men's room for a few minutes. Coming back out I found she have found another audience to perform too, a group of younger girls. They were all actively trying to steal the spot light from one another by interjecting their own, VERY important stories over one another.

When I was a kid, it was called, “Lookit-ME! Lookit-ME!”