Scaaaars!

danielle chose scars as this weeks topic; for some reason, when i say it in my head, i close one eye, make a hook with my finger, and say it like a pirate - scaaars!

the other night i watched the end of jaws on tv. as the the three men on the orca sat around the table drinking, they were comparing scars. and, it was not the size or shape of the scar that made it superior to other scars, it was the story of how it came to be. and perhaps that's why scars are cool - they each have a story. not always a cool story, mind you, but a story nonetheless.

scars are reminders of what we've endured and that we indeed heal; i think that's why i really like them. i don't have many - one on my left leg from a steam burn (i call it the hawaiian island), and about five up and down my left leg from surgery i had about five years ago. the largest one is on my ankle, and the area is still numb to the touch. but every time i look at those scars, i remember how they got there, how much they once hurt, and how amazing it is that they are all that's left.

and if we didn't heal and have scars, we would be walking around with unsightly oozing wounds like massive head-wound harry (see picture, if you don't remember him). which brings me to emotional scars, wounds, and healing, not so obvious, not so automatic. where our tissue succeeds, our minds and hearts often fail - i wonder if these wounds and scars could be actually seen like our fleshly ones, if we would all be grotesque, stinking, oozing messes. and we would say, "hey, where'd you get that one?" and unlike the cool stories swapped in jaws, the answers, the stories, might make us very sad.

I Want to be Wilma (not Flintstone)

will (who needs to come see us) picked TV remix.

my sister and i used to make bracelets out of kleenex colored with magic markers and pretend we were electra-woman and dina-girl. i should note, that in our tv role playing, this was the one instance where she actually let me be a girl character. but i don't want to get into it.

i think i want to be erin gray. erin gray had the two best roles on television - wilma on buck rogers, and kate on silver spoons.

buck rogers was my all-time favorite, and i should note that i did have a BIG crush on buck. so, to be his leading lady, complete with laser pistol and shimmery white spandex body suit... well, let's just say i've had daydreams.

and of course, who wouldn't want to live in ricky stratton's house complete with arcade video games and alfonso ribiero? i wasn't keen on ricky schroeder per se (and he's hideous all grown up, but i did cry when i watched the champ) but the dad was cute, and of course, so was jason bateman. what i would have paid to have been erin gray, riding on the miniature train that ran through the living room.

imdb tells me that erin gray has gone downhill since these roles i coveted; some baywatch, some port charles... and it's really no surprise. there was really no place to go but down.

Summer of Love

yay, v! she picked summer flings.

the summer i fell in love with rick tuttle, i was ten and he was 46. it wasn't that kind of love.

the tuttles had been our next door neighbors for as long as we lived in our house, but i can't say i ever saw them much. they had kids much older than me who, by the summer of love, had all moved out. they had a dog named j.j. that i saw a lot and loved like my own until he ran away. mrs. tuttle was always kind. mr. tuttle had multiple sclerosis and was paralyzed from the neck down. he spent his days in a lawn chair in his living room.

i don't remember exactly what brought me to their house that summer day, but mrs. tuttle invited me in where she was playing computer games with mr. tuttle. they had an apple IIe (ha!) and so did we, so i was familiar with it. she asked me if i would like to play, so i sat down while she escaped to do other things, and for two hours, i became mr. tuttle's hands, pushing the keys he told me to push. we played chess and cribbage, but his favorite game was wizardry. for the rest of the summer (and the next three years) i went to the tuttle's house and played computer games with rick.

he could barely speak; it took a lot of effort. when he laughed, he would open his mouth wide and no sound would come out - he would only make noise when he sucked air in. he had a catheter, and his urine bag hung off of his lounge chair. i could occasionally hear pee trickle into it. when he got thirsty, he would say "drink" and i would grab his glass of watered down cranberry juice and hold the straw to his lips while he gulped. his hands were fixed in tight fists across his thighs, and occasionally, he would shake involuntarily. he told me jokes. he taught me how to play chess and cribbage. he had graph paper in a special folder - when we played wizardry, we mapped out all nine levels so we would know where the doors, pits, and teleporters were. it took a long time. when i had to go home, i would kiss his forehead, and he would thank me. i hated going home.

looking back, i imagine i was a great help to mrs. tuttle, giving her free time to do other things. but they were a great help to me. there is something so pure about love from a man who is completely incapacitated and vulnerable, who exists to just, well, exist. i know i brought him joy and brightened his day, but he loved me in a way i needed at that age - his house was my escape, and his friendship was the safest i'd ever known.

the tuttles moved to clearwater beach when i was thirteen. i occasionally went to to see them, but not very often; by then, a book had come out with all the maps to the levels of wizardry. when i was sixteen, rick tuttle died. i hadn't seen him in a while, but at his funeral, i sat in the very back and cried more than his family. i understand he was probably a burden to them. but he was never that to me. i went to his casket and kissed his forehead one last time.

why do the good ones always get away?

and that, my friends, is as melancholy and nostalgic as i get. i'm now going to go have a good cry and put my broke ass on ice.

Teacher Top Ten

sorry for the late post on b's excellent topic, teachers; i blame the delay on my broke ass.

TOP TEN teacher memories that may have messed me up just a little:

10. androgynous high school volleyball coach known just as "yengel" (like "prince" "madonna" or "yeti") called me "lead-butt o'brien" during suicide drills.

9. mr. gray, high school IPS teacher, pulled me aside and threatened to sue me for slander because he read "button your shirt, mr. gray is a pervert" written in pencil on my black lab desk. my friend kim wrote it, and when he went to show me, he couldn't find it. and, i think he meant libel.

8. senora fernandez cried in front of my honors spanish II class when she learned that eric beyer stole the midterm exam and we all had a party and memorized the answers. "how you do this to me?" if i wasn't sad for cheating, she broke my heart.

7. mrs. neumeier shamed me in seventh grade for jokingly kissing a boy. she grabbed my wrist hard and said, "i can't believe you did that!" i wanted to die for days. i recently saw mrs. neumeier in clearwater at a picnic. she said to my friend cate and me, "i have always LOVED you girls. i just LOVE you." she got up to wipe her eyes, and i looked at cate. "wasn't she really mean to us?" she laughed. and nodded.

6. in sixth grade, my science teacher mrs. golding intercepted a note i was trying to pass to my friend jannette. unfortunately, all the note said was "Mrs. Golding is UGLY!"

5. a favorite pastime of young parochial school children filing down the hall is to hold up one hand and make the peace sign in the little windows in the doors of classrooms. in first grade, my teacher mrs. donahue got tired of this one day and slammed her hand through the window. the glass shattered and her hand was all bloody. who puts these people in charge of small children?

4. as a senior i took anatomy with mr. gasper. he relentlessly picked on me. once we were discussing the hardware in the penis. he asked the class how the penis knows to release semen or urine, then he called on me (i did NOT raise my hand). i said, "um, there's a flap." he said, "oh, no, susie baby, the girls are the ones with the flaps!" i turned very red. and, there IS a flap. jackhole.

3. last night i had class with dr. blankety-blank. i don't know if it was my broke ass or his incredibly long, boring lecture, but i tried to slit my wrist with the edge of a page of tennyson's poetry.

2. mr. calise taught me eighth grade english. he made me love writing. in my yearbook (several pages after my ugly mug) he wrote, "you are a very talented writer. i'll be looking for you to win the pulitzer prize... you can do it!" is that why i'm here? oh, good gracious, i hope not. but, i did love mr. calise.

1. in freshman religion class, sister deborah told us if we were struggling with sexual desire, it is best to masturbate rather than sin outwardly with another. now that i think about it, she was always such a happy nun...