In Memory of Aunt G and Uncle H

I stole this from my friend Jay's website.

Jay and I have been having an email discussion lately about writing -- particularly, being honest in your work. For example, as I've mentioned before, I have a serious problem with items #2 and #8 on the list. A lot of this comes from the fact that one of my mom's favorite pastimes when I was a kid was reading my diary. And then punishing me for things she found written there.

I remember one occasion when Mom read the notebook my best friend Janna and I used to write messages back and forth. Basically it was a bunch of notes with hearts and flowers drawn on them talking about who we loved that day followed by more notes with tear drops and profane messages regarding that bastard who we loved and who consequently broke our hearts.

So. It was right after graduation and I was packing for my big senior trip to Panama City. Five of my friends and I were having a slumber party and then driving down to Florida for a two-week, fake ID sponsored Wine Cooler-A-Thon. After I put my bags in the car, I went back inside to tell Mom I was ready for her to take me to Sondra's house and I found her standing in my bedroom holding the notebook which she has just pulled from underneath the pile of shit under my bed where I had hidden it.

Mom: Is this how you talk outside of this house?
Me (knowing what she's talking about): What are you talking about?
Mom: I can not believe you write things down like this for just anyone to come across and read! What if something happened to you? Is this the kind of thing you want me to find after you've died? Do you know what that would do to me?
Me: Ummm.
Mom: You called someone a motherfuckingcocksuckingSONOFABITCH! AND YOU LEFT IT UNDER YOUR BED! WHAT IF WE WERE ALL KILLED IN A CAR WRECK AND AUNT G AND UNCLE H FOUND THIS? YOUR UNCLE H IS A PREACHER! IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT THEM TO THINK OF YOU?

Naturally, this stuck with me and because I did everything in my power to not be an embarrassment to my mother (unsuccessfully), I started editing all of my writing using thoughts of my Mom as my inner censor. Journals from that day forward no longer were filled with words. Instead I made up codes and symbols and cryptic messages so that, if one day my family were tragically killed en masse, the ghost of my mother would not have to suffer the shame of her sister, the preacher's wife, knowing that her daughter had a potty mouth.

Uncle H and Aunt G passed on a few years ago, but my inner censor has not. I worry about what people will think and about what reactions might come from people I choose to write about. So I asked Jay how to handle it.

I think you have to say, screw it, I'm just going to write what I'm going to write.

No Sleep Til

This August I will have been living in New York for 10 years. Before I moved up here, I was living in Tallahassee, Florida, teaching at Florida State University and was a thesis away from earning my master's degree. Lupe (not her real name), a friend of mine from Study Abroad, had recently divorced her husband and had just bought a building. One day she called.

Lupe: I need a roommate, you should move to Brooklyn.
Me: Okay.

Two weeks later, my CRX -- stuffed to the point that there was barely enough room for me to drive and smoke without destroying all of my worldly goods -- and I were on our way to New York.
I crossed from Staten Island into Brooklyn via the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge on August 28, 1998.

I got a parking spot directly in front of the apartment (not realizing at the time that this was a miracle) and I started unpacking. When I took the first load to the door of what I thought was my new apartment, I learned that actually I was moving into a work-in -progress. A construction site, if you will. Complete with saws and lumber and a huge piece of steel covering the hole in the floor. Even better ... there were construction workers.

First there was Geoff. Geoff was a fantastic carpenter and could sheetrock like you can't believe. Geoff was also a fierce heroin addict and spent a lot of time in the bathroom with the water running, frequently followed by long sweaty "naps" on the couch which were then followed by frantic chocolate binges. Apparently, this is the way of the heroin addict.Then there was Jeff. Jeff was an average electrician who liked to boast about his ability to accurately bend pipe. Apparently this is a huge deal with electricians and so he was very proud of this fact. Jeff also was a bassist in several music endeavors all of which he was sure would be his big break. Jeff also had a heroin problem. Though he smoked it, so he viewed himself as being above Geoff who injected it. As a bonus, Jeff was an alcoholic with a cocaine problem.Jeff was what one would call a junkie.

Then there was Kevin. Kevin was someone who Geoff had hired as a general laborer. He had no drug or alcohol problems to speak of. He just had nowhere to live. Occasionally Kevin would ask to stay with us -- me and Lupe -- on cold nights. We never let him. Lupe was pretty strict about who could or could not even visit the construction area. (You could tell by her strict selection process for hiring workers.) There was no way she would allow some homeless guy who seemed nice and did help out a lot, but who might turn into a psychopathic rapist killer to stay overnight. Where would we be then?

Raped and dead. That's where.

After I unloaded the CRX and got settled in, we all gathered in the kitchen for Budweiser and Camel Lights. Me, Lupe, two heroin addicts and a homeless guy. I could not have been more thrilled. I was starting a new phase in my life. In this "apartment" I went on to learn how to rip up and install a floor. I mean from dirt, people. I also learned how to re-frame a window and hang closet doors. Plus now I can spot a heroin addict from 18 blocks away.

Learning How to Fish

As I was walking to the train this morning a guy came up to me and asked where Remsen Street was. I didn't know.

Once I continued walking, I noticed two busses pull up to a stop right next to us. It was guaranteed that at least one of them would know where Remsen was, if not both. My first instinct was to ask the bus drivers and then go back to the guy (who was walking the same direction as I was, but not as quickly) and tell him how to get there. Then I heard the Al-Anon detachment flyer in my head telling me, "Don't do for others what they can do for themselves."

Then. I thought, it's not like I'd be paying this guy's rent for him. I could have even just said, "Hey! Ask the bus driver." You know ... teach a man to fish and all that. I continued to analyze the .25 second interaction for the rest of my walk. I finally decided I was being insane and that he was a grown man and could find Remsen Street on his own and had long since forgotten that he had even asked me.Moments later I'm riding on the train and have the sweet seat at the end of the car that folds down and seats one person. This seat is the absolute best. It's roomy, it's separated, it's the best. Unless, that is, the train is so crowded that you end up with some kid's backpack resting atop your left shoulder all the way from Borough Hall to 14th Street. As I'm sure you've guessed, that is what happened to me this morning. A woman standing in front of me saw my predicament and gave me that face that says, "That totally sucks. I'm sorry." I gave her the, "What are you going to do?" shrug and continued my crossword puzzle.

After about three stops she looked down at me and said, "Tell him." And I did.

And he apologized and moved it.

I'm having some issues writing these days. There's a part of me that feels if I think it, I should be able to write it. But then there's the part of me who is still very Southern and would hate to hurt anyone's feelings. Or, for that matter, give them any fodder for gossip about me to talk about with others who know me. I also learned that in the South. Small town livin' teaches you things.

Did I ever tell you guys that I was 15 the first time I got pregnant? Believe me, I was as shocked as you. Plus, no one knew who the daddy was. I was pregnant again around 17 (after I got through that bout of crabs in '86. The result of attending a Motley Crue concert, no doubt.) -- this time we knew who the father was. Curt. I talked to Curt about it.

Me: Curt, I just heard that I'm pregnant with your baby.
Curt: But we've never done it.
Me: Yeah. That's what I thought.

The craziest part was that I was a virgin until I was 19 and very drunk in Atlanta.

Him: You smell like rum.
Me: I imagine I do.

I'll save the rest of that story for another post.

Anyway. You can see where I might be suspicious of others talking behind my back and going so far as to create an alter-reality for me. And now, after living in New York for almost ten years, I've learned that "small town" is based on relativity not on population counts.

When I was growing up I believed that it was the fact that only 5,000 people lived in Fitzgerald that made it a small town. I've now realized that it was just my first experience in life, so I assumed. Turns out, the fact that there was a low population was simply a coincidence.

New York City -- one of the most populous in the world -- is actually just an enormous bunch of small towns crammed into a five-borough area. For native New Yorkers, their neighborhoods are their small towns.

Say someone asks Joey the Native New Yorker where he's from. He will answer based on his position geographically.

Joey's answer to, "Where are you from?" if he were in;

China: America.
Texas: New York
Albany, NY: The City (New York State code for: New York City)
Manhattan: Brooklyn
Brooklyn: Bushwick
Bushwick: Between Melrose and Jefferson on Knickerbocker

And let me tell you. Everyone who lives within a 10 block radius of Knickerbocker between Melrose and Jefferson knows all of Joey's shit.

100 Posts!

I wrote this last weekend. I apparently was called away with an emergency or my ADD kicked in and I found something even more productive to do than write the blog. But, since it was the 100th post ...

Welcome to the 100th post of HRH And The Princess. I should have planned something significant for this occasion. I didn't.

So, I'm in Baltimore and I've finished working for the day. Because I've been on my feet stripping roses since 9AM, my coccyx is in agony. Actually, the pain has moved from my coccyx down to right below my butt cheeks. Maybe the muscles are over-compensating to try to protect my coccyx. Anyway. The point is, I'm finished working at 5PM -- usually unheard of on an event -- and I'm thrilled because my ass hurts.

I get to my room and find something on TV -- Judge Judy. It's an old favorite, and something I can tolerate while I nap until dinner time. Except. I can't relax. Every time a commercial comes on I instinctually reach for the remote control to fast forward. The Baltimore Waterfront Marriott does not offer DVR or Tivo in its guest rooms. I'm well aware of this, and I know that I can't fast-forward live TV under any circumstances on any piece of equipment. Yet. Every time.

Time Warner Cable has destroyed my ability to watch live TV. I don't even care about the schlock cases on Judge Judy, but I have an insane urge to get through the show as quickly as possible. It's like the more convenient and accessible life becomes, the faster we can get things, the less I am able to relax. I'm constantly in a hurry even when there's nothing to hurry for. I've put in a full day of work, I've accomplished everything I was supposed to accomplish today, but because the other guys haven't finished, I can't settle down. I try to watch crap TV and can't handle commercials so I have to come post about it because at least that's being productive.