Wry and Ginger | Seriously Funny Cards | Greeting Cards

Life is really just a series of lessons.  These lessons begin almost as soon as we are able to take in our world. We learn that crying brings our mother to us, or a bottle of warm milk(ish), or people to come at coo at us.

While we may be  engaged in a learning process almost from the day we enter this world, can you think back to the first lesson you remember? I can.  It was all about not overplaying my hand.

My mother and me, on or about the time of The Incident.

This is my mother and me.  Look at that grin on my face! I was a pretty happy kid, especially, it seems, when plotting my mother’s downfall. Why? I have no idea. All I know is it began when I got a stiff neck.

If you have never had a stiff neck, I will tell you they are very painful. Knots in the muscles make movement nearly impossible. Very annoying as an adult, but for a four year old, they’re pretty terrible.  Most kids have no sense of “Suck it up, Doris, it’s not going to kill you” and I was no exception. I was in such misery that my mother finally took me to the doctor.

Important Note: When I was growing up, my father was in the Air Force, which meant that we moved a lot. We had only just arrived in this new posting and my mother was not familiar with this doctor, nor he with us. We lived on a military base, and these are small communities.

I was a fairly good child – played well with others, did not run with scissors –  but I was a talker. I know, very surprising to you all.  But there it is. My mother reports that at three years of age, I would sit on a swing set in the front yard and talk the ear off anyone who walked by. People took to walking on the other side of the street. I was that kid.  But up until this point, I had used my powers of speech and rapidly expanding vocabulary for good, never evil.  Which made The Incident that much more surprising to my mother.

There we are in the office of the brand new doctor. A kindly enough man, he talked to my mother for a bit and then decided to have me describe the pain in my own words.

Doc: So, Cheryl, you have a sore neck! What happened?

Me: [deadpan] My mother hit me.

My mother and the doctor no doubt locked eyes at  this moment, both thinking “WHAT?”

Doc:  She hit you?

Me: [still deadpan] Yes.

The doctor now gives me his full attention, I suspect he wants to make sure my mother can’t visually intimidate me into not telling the whole, terrible story. All I saw was a rapt audience, and I did not want to lose that.

Doc: Tell me what happened after that.

Me: Then [small pause] she pushed me down the stairs.

At this point, I am not entirely sure what my mother was thinking. I am pretty sure what the doctor was thinking: the new family have some issues.  As for me, I mentally illustrating the story like so:

It puts the BabySoft on its skin...

My mother is now fully aware of what is happening and knows the only way to stop this train is if she kills me herself. But that would only prove me right, so she sat there, beads of sweat beginning to prickle her scalp as the doctor, looking very concerned,  continues to talk to me. I am in my element now! A man of authority wants to hear what I have to say. I have nothing to say, but when has that ever stopped me?  I am, however,  young. Young and inexperienced. I miscalculate, and rather than adding details regarding the stair toss, I figure I need to step this up a bit.

Doc:  She threw you down the stairs?

Me: Yes.

Doc: Can you tell me what happened after that?

(Maybe I would have gotten away with this had I not embellished it physically with a wild sweep of the arms and a slight bugging of theyes. Maybe. Maybe not.)

Me: Then … [significant pause for dramatic effect] SHE THREW ME IN THE FURNACE!

In an instant I saw that I had lost him. The light of justice left his eyes, to be replaced with the light of wanting to smack a kid in the chops.  I no longer had his attention. I did, however, have my mother’s full attention.  Oddly, that’s where the memory ends. I assume that I internalized some lesson about this,  and I expect it had little to do with “Don’t mess your mother around with Child Protective Service” and had much more to do with “Incremental increases in the dramatic tension. Incremental.”

The heat. My God the heat.

My mother also learned a valuable lesson that day: that she was destined to spend another 14 years minimum, possibly much longer, fielding calls from various authorities who are somewhat concerned about her daughter. Which daughter?

You have to ask?

It has been suggested to me that I had a bit of a difficult childhood.  It’s true. I stumbled from one horrific incident to the next. I am unsure how this series of terrible events impacted my family – outside of that one time, during a doctor’s visit, when I accused my mother of throwing me down the stairs.  I am pretty sure how that impacted my mother. And how that impacted my butt later.

But there is one event that stands out from the mingling crowd of esteem crushing moments:

The day I went to school with no pants on.

You’ve dreamed it, I’ve lived it.

During the Kindergarten to Grade Two period, my family lived in Kingston, Ontario where my sister and I were tended during the day by Mrs. MacDonald.  She was not an attractive woman inside or out,  and often seemed less than interested in having children around, despite having two of her own.  I attended Kindergarten only in the afternoon, and in the morning I was often outside, entertaining myself.  That morning, I was puddle jumping. Having a blast going from puddle to puddle, leaping in the air and coming down with a terrific splash. It was exhilarating, until I misjudged that one puddle – not by distance, but by depth. And it was not so much a puddle as a ditch of some sort.

Needless to say, Mrs. MacDonald was less than thrilled with the sight that greeted her. Forty pounds of wet, sorry, deflated kid. She threw my clothes in the dryer, as her children and my sister  arrived home for lunch.   As lunch ended and we prepared to go back to school, I was left to assemble my outfit from the clothes in the dryer – the Edge of Night was on, you see.

This is the point in the story where I remind you all that I was four.

I put on my turtleneck, and my super thick tights. And my sneakers. Points to those who can tell me what item I forgot.

I WAS FOUR.

Off I head with my sister, up the hill and then over a few blocks to the school. (Let me point out that if I was four, my sister was six.  Six is definitely old enough to know about pants. If you haven’t learned the Rule of Pants by six, what have you been doing?)

At the top of the hill I achieved clarity in a hideous instant and truly saw myself for the first time since I put my clothes on. I HAD NO PANTS ON. NO PANTS. Look down at your legs…NO PANTS!!! Jesus God in Heaven EVERYONE HAS PANTS! Where are my pants where  are my pants ohhhh death take me now…

It is quite a thing, friends, to experience that feeling of the world falling out from under you when you are only four. To have frontal lobes well developed enough to know how this pants issue is going to affect your social standing in Kindergarten. To know that as a four year old you are now marked forever as a failure BECAUSE YOU COULD NOT EVEN PUT YOUR OWN PANTS ON!! I flipped.  I wheezed out  something about the lack of pants to my sister.

“We can’t go back now. We’ll be late.” I knew my sister. She was rule bound and she meant business. Still, I tried to argue my case, hysterically. A quick backhand to the chops settled the debate and we continued on to school.

So how did my day go? I’d like to think that this day help set a pattern for me. One where I learned to stop caring about what others think of me and the things I do. Where I stood at the front of the class, pantsless and proud, and declared my individuality to them all!

Artist's rendering of the moment Cheryl was freed from societal expectations.

But it didn’t.

I spent the afternoon trying to pretend my turtle neck was a mini-skirt, all the while accumulating  a therapist’s-second-car’s worth of issues that would haunt me well into adulthood.  But on the upside, it’s like lightning striking: once it’s happened, the odds of it happening again are significantly reduced.

Right?

There are many people in this world today who are in need…of a swift kick to the slats!

Before we get in to the details, I did consider making this part of the List of Grievances, but I believe if you have reached the point of deserving a kick in the slats, you’ve moved past grievance. And being a woman does not exempt you.  Just ask my friend R who got a (wholly undeserved) whale of kick to the slats during a basketball game. She crumpled to the floor in  pain so intense that when the  referee ran over to check on her, she could do nothing but look pleadingly in his eyes, before marshaling all of the air in her lungs to bellow “MY BIIIIIIIIIIRD!!!”

Confused? Who isn’t, friend?

What gets you on the list? It’s not a particular thing you do or event so much as a rating on my Sliding Scale of Annoyance (SSA). The SSA allows for those with more wealth or privilege to get an even swifter kick in the slats. Why? For being a new money gobshite.  I can, however,  reverse the SSA at any time, should a hillbilly really piss me off.  The problem is that hillbillies tend to congregate in little shirtless mobs, so you had better be ready to run if you deliver a swifter to their Appalachian berries. Mobby as fuck, those hillbillies.

All right, let’s start this list up with five. In no particular order  - though when I do attempt to rank, you all know that that Connery bastard comes in first, right? I’ll kick him and the shark he rode in on! Yeah, OK…no particular order:

1. Oh what the hell. SEAN CONNERY. He makes the list for reasons detailed here. I’ll not waste another character on that tartan numpty.

2. The Pope. Let’s just say this one is for the children. Note: Approach this target with care, as I have heard that underneath those robes is a mini-bar stocked with candy, juice packs and  sacramental wine ( to loosen things up). You won’t want to kick that by accident.

Statue commemorating the well known folk tale of L'il Leisel, the girl who saved her whole town with one well placed slat kick to a flip-flop wearing freshman.

3. People who move their lips while they read.  Like a fish drowning in air. If I see them at the book store, I have a decent urge to give them a swiftie and see if, while writhing on the floor clutching their nethers, they will mouth the words “WHY GOD WHY?” Don’t say it out loud, Goldie, just move your lips.

4. Soft Knockers. They  come to your slightly ajar office door and gently, ever so gently, graze their knuckles on the door. Will you hear this? Doubtful. It’s quiet in your office, yet you can just barely make out the sound. Was that the door? What was that?   Will they knock louder, in hopes that you will hear them? Will they fuck. They’ll start hovering. Moving slowly back and forth, from foot to foot, just out of your sight, but ensuring their shadow causes enough of a movement to catch your eye. Hover hover hoverhoverhover.  They don’t make a sound, for apparently I am like a gazelle on the Serengeti and may bolt wildly if they make their presence known. Do I call to them, invite them in? Do I fuck. Eschewing the Jane Goodall school of unobtrusive observation, I yank the door open, deal them their fate with the flat of my foot and then wait to see…if a soft knocker falls in the hallway and no one is there, do they make a sound? Yes. It’s wheezy.

5. People who do things like push their dog in the swimming pool and then laugh. I don’t have a comical story for this one, I have just always hated douchebags who do things like that to dogs or cats. Does that make you feel smarter than your dog? Yes? How does the flat of my foot sending your clackers back up their route of descent make you feel? Thought so.

Well that’s it for now. But there are more – so many more, that I’m sure we’ll have another installment of the Slat Kicking List in the very near future.

Do you know what a treat is? A treat is something that you don’t have a lot of or often. If you have it a lot or often then it no longer qualifies as a treat.

Many things in life are a treat … let me stop you here for a quick aside:  Sex is not a treat. You should get a lot of it and often. If you aren’t, well, then you are me.  Hahahaa!

Not so funny, really.

Yeah.

OK. Treats:

Ice cream is a treat and one that I particularly love. I love good ice cream, not shitty ice cream. Not that “modified milk ingredients” crap*.  No, no I like ice CREAM. If it’s a treat then by buggery let’s have it live up to its name.

Because it is a treat, I do not keep it around lest it become part of some mundane routine. (Again, folks, sex is not ice cream. You should be having it at the drop of a hat. Inversely proportional or something. Dammit. )

When I do eat it, by Christ I like it! I loved it as a kid and I love it as an adult. I ate it as a kid and I eat it as an adult.  However, despite having aged and matured in many ways, it would seem that I still eat ice cream like I am four. I don’t think I am eating like a four year old. In my mind, I am delicately lapping at my treat, laughing at the witty jokes of my companions and occasionally adding a ribald comment or two myself, in between dainty tastes.

This is how I see myself:

Ohhh look! A Sophisticate and her treat!

You bet your ass I wear pearls while eating ice cream! When made properly, this is a treat worth dressing for.  I have my triple scoop on a waffle cone and I am dazzling everyone with my elegant lactose intake!

Or so I thought. I have it on good authority – and the authority being in this case my stupid friends an their handy pocket mirrors, that I may be slightly less polished than the above picture indicates. I may look something like this:

The sad, sad reality.

I wish I were kidding. When I am having one of my really lucid days, I will be self aware enough to ask for the ice cream in a bowl with a spoon. This seems to help a great deal.

And yeah, I did notice how my boobs shrunk with the introduction of reality.

But thanks for pointing it out.

*Obvious exception to that rule is the ice cream sandwich, in which I find beauty and deliciousness in all its forms, from shitty corner store sammie to gourmet versions.

My youth was misspent, but not on booze and fresh young fellows.

…

Ha.

HAHAHA!

OK OK but I am not going to talk about that misspent section of my  youth.

I’m going to tell you something that will probably make you feel a lot better about yourself. A lot.

I could not ride a bike without training wheels until I was six.

Now some of you may be murmuring comforting words about late-blooming etc. Let me stop you right there.

The bike training sans-training wheels commenced when I was four.

That’s right, it took me two years to learn to ride a bike without training wheels. Granted, we practiced mostly in the Spring, so it’s not as if it was a full two years. And when I say “we” I am referring to my nearly sainted parents. And when I say “nearly sainted” I mean they failed to reach sainthood on account of the nightly arm-wrestling that would go on about who was going to take the kid out for the exercise in failure. The kid who, between blurting false yet incriminating statements to the family doctor, having a propensity for removing her pants at inopportune times, and being two years into learning something that is so easy to do after one try that there is a saying about how you never forget how to do it,  they were beginning to suspect was the slightly defective one.  The familial shame brought one by the child who could not stay upright was so great that my parents would take me up to the parking lot of a local fort, where they then compounded a problem caused by what was obviously some sort of inner ear issue with the uneven terrain of a gravel parking lot.

Uneven and mighty uncomfortable to land on like a little sack of shit, every time they let go of the bike.

I have no recollection of the day I learned to ride a bike – no memory of this victory. No footage in my head to look back upon, recalling how I raised my arms aloft and biked down the street to victory.  My only clear memory of these two years is a frozen image of a Mexican standoff.

Yeah I wish my bike was that cool. But my shirt was.

Feel better about yourself? I thought you might.