“We actually have a massage therapist available in ten minutes if you’d like to wait,” says Miss Front Desk.
“Sure.” I smile. “I’d be glad to.”
I go and take a seat and pick up my magazine where I left off. My relaxing read about “Spring’s Top Trends in Lip Color” is interrupted. I start to hear what I can only describe as a thudding sound and it is growing louder. It sounds like Big Foot is stomping through thick brush in the forest. It’s coming from the winding hall down the left. I recognize the heavy breathing and I immediately know who it is. The sight that hits me first is a quite large royal blue one-piece swimsuit with a white daisy on the front. The wet stringy hair is clinging to her head in all directions and her toenails are a fungal yellow. Let’s be clear here, they are not polished. She throws a white towel around her neck and stops dead in her tracks and we lock eyes. It’s Bath Salts Mary, my roommate. I want to look away, but I can’t. Through her skin-tight bathing suit, I notice her lowly hanging nipples are each pointed outward. One’s looking southeast and one is looking southwest. There are long strands of hair hanging out the crotch of her swimsuit. Someone needs to prune that bush. What a creature. She is still staring at me. I look down at my magazine. But she does not move. I look back up. She is still staring.
“Mary, how was your hot tub experience this morning?” asks Miss Front Desk.
Mary finally looks away and turns her eyes towards Miss Front Desk. Why does Bath Salts Mary get to be called by her first name and why is she deemed safe enough for the hot tub? I’m kind of pissed now.
“It was nice. The jets felt good on my genitals,” she says quietly and then looks back at me. I can feel myself about to gag. Mary turns towards me, like her bloodshot eyes are hungry for flesh.
I stand up. “Cancel me! I don’t feel good!” I say, and I run down the hall and out to the Social Room with the big T.V. So much for the fucking spa! I’ll never go back, and I have got to get my own room!
A Session about my Internal Dialogue...well...kind of...
Dr. Lipton, one of my two assigned therapists, pulls out a printed copy of one of my blog posts. He reads it out loud:
Doing the Mom Thing
Ladies, isn’t it fun going to the grocery store?
I took my three boys to the grocery store this morning as we were in need of diapers and other grocery items. I would have rather stuck a pencil in my eyeball and set the end on fire, but I had to get it over with. As usual, the kids were really hyper and I had to be on them the whole time to stay with me. Jordan hates sitting a cart, but he has no choice. I forced him in and clipped the belt. I’m sure it looked similar to how someone would look putting a feral cat into a kennel. A family’s got to eat and the food must be bought, so I had to do it. After filling my cart with milk and bread and meals for the week, I picked up some laundry detergent, the last thing on my list, and went to check out. There were only three lines open. I noticed that my shoes were slipping on something as I walked. Much to my dismay, the detergent lid had cracked and was spilled in a trail all over the floor. At this moment, a sweet faced Hispanic girl, who I would guess to be around seven or eight came up to let me know what had happened. Instead of saying “thank you” I looked right at her sweet face and said, “Oh motherfucker!” Seriously, why would I say that to a child? It just slipped out. It was now my turn to place items on the belt. I was trying to alert the cashier to what had happened, but he didn’t seem to understand. My kids were starting to yell. I kept putting items on the belt. Jordan was screaming. I looked over and Max had found an open bag of goldfish crackers from the diaper bag, and had dumped it out on the floor and into the pile of Springfresh laundry detergent with sweat trappers and stain fighters. Ben was now begging for a candy bar.
By the way, what kind of complete idiot puts all that candy and crap by the register? It was obviously someone without kids or a brain. I realize it’s the impulse buying scenario, but it is also just plain human decency not to put mothers through this. Does our happiness not mean anything to the corporations of this country? Please, continue to fill our minds with all this crap about living healthy and eating organic and raising our children to eat nothing but seaweed and vegetables. But while you are at it, please place one hundred different brands of candy and chips at every checkout line in America because you know that our kids will want it. I bought him a bag of M&M’s. So sue me.
Anyway, the checker was the slowest person I have ever seen in my life. Seriously. As I moved forward to pay, I was stepping on the soapy goldfish. Crunch, crunch. I began loading bags into the cart. Ben had won the candy battle so he was quiet. Max had one leg out of the cart and I was holding Jordan while he was smacking the credit card swiper as hard as he could. I was afraid he was going to break the machine. I swiped the card, but the checker had forgotten some items. I swiped again thinking the sonofabitch was finally done, and yet there was still another item. Jordan was still beating the machine with all his might. Finally I swiped. I was done. I picked up my last sack of bread that now looked like a fucking pancake, completely smashed. The man then, only after we were finally done, asked me if I wanted to go pick out another laundry detergent. Are you fucking kidding me? He should have called someone to bring one up! I said no. I wanted to say, ‘I’ll go get another one, but only if you take off your pants, hold up your dick, and let me slam your balls in the cash drawer.’ However, I simply smiled and carried on. I pushed the cart with one hand (Jordan was still in the other) and the weight of the cart crashed me right into the next checkout stand. Had there not been security cameras, I would have stripped butt naked and ran out screaming. I regained control. Max was still hollering and now riding standing up. I was carrying Jordan under one arm like a football. I bribed them out to my vehicle where I finally placed them in their seats and loaded up my purchases. Jordan was missing a shoe, yes that’s right, a shoe. Well smack my ass and call me Gary. I decided to cross my fingers that the $30 shoe was somewhere in one of those bags because unless Colin Farrell was inside signing autographs with his dick, I was not going back in there...until next time...because I still needed laundry detergent.
Those were this mama’s issues for today. Thanks for stopping by…and ladies…go to the store ALONE!
~V-Bow
Dr. Lipton sets the paper down on his desk and sits back in chair all nice and relaxed, clipboard in hand.
“That’s quite an experience that day at the store,” he says. His little wire-framed glasses sit on the tip of his pointy nose. He wants to read my blogs because he thinks it gives him insight into my mind...how profound!
“Yes it is,” I say and nod politely. I’m in a recliner and the room is dim and cozy.
“I feel that your blogs have some sort of therapeutic value to you. Would you agree?”
“I think so.”
“Why do you refer to yourself as V-Bow? Why not use your real name?”
“Well,” I say, “I have three children and I am very involved in their lives. I don’t want everyone thinking that I am some raging psycho with a foul mouth.”
“So you are ashamed of what you have to say?” he asks.
Truthfully, well, kind of. I know I care too much about people thinking I am a bad mother, even though I know I take damn good care of my kids and it’s not like I talk this way in front of them. But I look at him and say, “No, not ashamed. I just like to remain mysterious.”
“Well, moving on, Vada, I have a few concerns about this post in particular. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“Ask away Dr. Lipton. I’m an open book, or blog.” I laugh.
“Well, I can see you had some strong opinions and emotions about taking your children to the grocery store, correct?”
This man is a fucking genius. No wonder he is a doctor.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“I am wondering if this tension you were feeling could be avoided by applying some coping techniques. Slamming someone’s testicles in a c
ash drawer is not a normal idea, Vada. I wonder if you could avoid this tension by learning to have better management of your children.”
I’m trying to hold back...I’d like to ask him if he ever took his kids to the grocery store. I can almost guarantee that he hasn’t. He’s probably one of those chauvinistic jerk-offs who believes that’s only the wife’s job. I’d like to offer him the challenge. Right now. I could have Eric meet me with the kids at the grocery store and bring Dr. Lipton along and have him complete this chore without an ounce of stress. If he could make it through the store without thinking the word “fuck” at least one time, I’d give him a hand job. Sounds like a fair shake to me (pun intended). I’d like to see him do it. I’d also like to see peace in the Middle East, but some shit just doesn’t happen. I hold back and let him talk.
“Tell me honestly Vada. Why so much foul language? Why do you feel the need to curse? Why do you feel so angry?”
I wish I could tell the truth and say I curse and have tension because my internal dialogue sounds just like Sam Kinison. I do not curse in front of my children, except for that one slip-up in the grocery store. The worst thing I may say is poop or darn it. That’s why I do it on the inside or in my blog. That day in the store I really wanted to throw bananas at the checker’s face and tell him to get a job down at the snail store because it was more his pace. But since I couldn’t say or do those things, I wrote them down. Isn’t that more socially acceptable than freaking out in public? I personally believe that every person has a little crazy in them. I believe that if we all said what we really thought our lives would turn out like a bad night of drinking. Everyone would cry and fight and then feel like shit the next day. So we don’t. We smile and act polite. Some of us can hide it better than others.
“Well, I guess it’s just anger, Dr. Lipton. I have so much anger built up inside of me. I have a lot of issues with my childhood and my life and it’s all just too much.” My words turn to soft cries. “I was left at a grocery store one day when I was seven. My parents were busy arguing about where my dad had been the night before. I wandered around to get away from them. I was just going to pick out some cereal, and when I tried to find them they were gone. They’d checked out and got all the way home before they realized I’d been left behind. I have always felt like I’m so easily forgettable. Can you imagine being a helpless child feeling like your parents had just forgotten you? I felt abandoned and scared. I can’t even go down the cereal aisle! My kids don’t even get to eat cereal, Dr. Lipton! It’s all because of that incident when I was a child that I have a hard time even walking in to a grocery store.”
There it was…verbal diarrhea, smoke, lies, and fairly good ones at that. I can’t believe what I just said. Although my parents did have issues, this never happened. They got divorced like many people. I saw my dad once a week and things were civil. I sure as hell had never been left in a grocery store, or any other store for that matter. If anything, I was glad they got divorced and didn’t put us through hell by staying together. The only reason I have a hard time going into a grocery store is because my children usually act like animals. Besides, they do eat cereal...a lot.
“Vada, I feel we have hit on a very important subject matter here and I want to hear more. Right now though, I think you should go back to your room and take a nap. Do you have any visitors coming this afternoon?”
“Yes,” I said, “my best friend.”
“Very good then. Get some rest before she arrives.”
Hells yes I will get some rest. Thank you Dr. L. I’m going to follow doctor’s orders and go off to shut my eyes. I haven’t had an actual nap since recovering from my c-section with Jordan. I trot with joy down the hall and find my door shut. I carefully open it as not to disturb Bath Salts Mary, but I find she’s not here. Hopefully she’s off getting electric shock treatment; if not that, then maybe at least a good wax. I curl up into bed and set an alarm for three. That should give me a good three hours and I don’t want to miss a minute of it.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot a blue piece of paper on the floor. It’s a note:
Vada-
I’m on to you. Meet me in the Social Room at 9:00 p.m.
~Jessalyn
Oh crap. What the hell does she mean she’s on to me? Oh well, this girl is not going to ruin my siesta. She’s probably just one of those bullies like they have in the prisons and she wants to make me her bitch. I’m not scared. I could snap her wrists in two just by flicking them. Besides, I’m past the point of giving a damn. I shut my eyes tight and the anxiety medicine that Dr. Lipton prescribed me fills my dreams with little pink sheep.
Sabrina the Bestie
The alarm wakes me and I immediately look around for my kids, thinking we are late for school. I see the white sheets and remember where I am. Although the chill pill is good, it leaves me groggy. I shake it off and try to make sense of my hair and face before my friend Sabrina arrives. I slip on my flip-flops, a white t-shirt with a big red heart on it, and a pair of gray baggy boyfriend sweats. I go in and find what make-up they let me keep and dab some concealer under my eyes. I swipe on a quick coat of mascara on to look more awake. It’s amazing what mascara can do. A dab of cherry vanilla gloss and my shoulder length brown hair in a high pony and I’m good. Not that I have to look good for Sabrina, but I don’t want to just totally let myself go. I mean my outfit is bad enough. I can at least touch up my face.
Katelyn comes in and tells me it’s time for my visitor. I start to wonder about that note from Jessalyn. What in the world could she want? Maybe she’s wanting to bribe me, but for what? Maybe she wants to scare me or something, although she didn’t seem like the kind of person who would cause trouble. Who knows? But I can’t shake this feeling that something is wrong. I walk in and see Sabrina sitting there waiting with a box of something. She is wearing a cute orange and gray color block shirt and jean capris. Her naturally blonde hair is in a loose knot behind her head.
Sabrina is the kind of friend who would literally pull an I.V. out of her arm if she was in the hospital to come help you change a tire. I don’t worry about her knowing I am in here. She is also going to help keep an eye on my boys and I very much appreciate that. I’m glad she’s here.
“Go home and change and put on something ugly and then come back and see me,” I say as we hug hello.
“Whatever. You look fine,” she says.
“Well, for the love of God, you don’t walk in to the nuthouse looking all cute. Why don’t you make us feel even worse about ourselves!” We both laugh and Sabrina grabs my arm.
“What?” I ask.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She looks at me trying to be serious.
“Sabrina, come on. I always told you I was going to end up here one day.”
“I know, but I thought you were kidding...as in funny kidding.”
“Sabrina, look at my eyes…what do you think?”
She looks back at me and I know she gets it. Sabrina has known me for thirteen years. We’ve been through everything together and she is literally like my soul sister. I know she is slightly concerned as she always is for me, but her smile tells me she understands. She asks me if we can take a walk and I nod. We walk out to a trail that runs throughout the property. It’s peaceful and pretty. I think that’s part of the “help.” This is not your average mental institution. This is the cream of the crop, one of those nuthouses you see commercials for on television. There are fountains. There is an art studio. There is even a tennis court, although I don’t play. The accommodations are very hotelesque. I’m able to get “luxury help” because I have really good private insurance and my mother received a settlement after her “accident.”
A few years back, my mother was in a big department store when a wooden palette filled with paint cans landed on her leg. After being taken to the hospital where they found she’d suffered a broken femur and ankle, she got a nasty infection and they had to amputate her two little piggies; the one that didn�
�t have roast beef and the one that wee wee’d all the way home. She recovered after a few months and some physical therapy. Although she looks ridiculous in flip-flops, she turned out okay. She did get a huge settlement. The rest of the family calls it an accident; she calls it “taking one for the team.” So she helps out financially whenever she can, like paying for the kids’ sports and things. Thank you, Mama. God rest her toes.
We reach a bench on the trail and have a seat. Sabrina opens up a box that looks like it came from a bakery. There’s got to be a lot of calories in there.
“Did you bring cupcakes?” I ask. “How did they let you in here with those?”
“No, I brought brownies. And...I have my ways. Besides, I think the security guys want me.”
“They probably do,” I say, taking a brownie. “You know I’m going to throw this up right?”
The Unbalancing Act Page 4