The Two-Headed,um, I mean Red-headed Sister

Good night Irene. I should have had brothers and sons. They're not petty. At ALL. (Unless they're gay and then it's okay). So, when my evil twin, Skippy, (that's my sister, and no she's not even a twin) read the lovely diatribe I wrote about my girls, do I get a "Oh! That was just beautiful?" or "It brought tears to my eyes," or "What a wonderful thing to put in writing about your daughters?" Hell no. It was "Well? Where's my tribute?" Oy vey. It's all about me, me, me. We're kind of alike in that way. No brother would have even read Fatima, let alone asked for his own story.

So, bear with me as I stroll down memory lane. Unlike many only children who would like to stay that way, I was unusual - surprise, surprise. I wanted to be normal, and normal families had tons of kids, especially all my Catholic friends. And all I wanted was ONE lousy sibling. Just one! Do ya think you could just spit out one, God? For the love of God (no pun intended). And then finally. I was 10 years going on 38 when she was born and I immediately nick-named her Bookie. No idea why. My first impression was that she looked like an American flag. White skin, blue eyes and red hair. What the hell? I loved her immediately, but I kinda wanted a mini-me; brown eyes, light brown hair and light brown skin; tans up pretty well; tall. Oh well, that lasted about a day or two until I figured out that just wasn't gonna happen. And then all the relatives kept on and on and on about the red hair - like they'd never fucking seen red hair before!!! Did they go on and on about my baldness and then the tufts of mousy brown hair I managed to grown when I was finally two? I think not. But I don't remember - I'm just going to assume they didn't.

Our mother never was, nor has she ever been even slightly hippie-ish or an earth mother, but for some torturistic reason she insisted on using cloth diapers for Bookie - even tho the plastic ones where out then. Why? I guess she thought I'd love washing out baby shit in the toilet, over and over to the point of puking and swearing I'd never ever have rugrats - or at least if I accidentally had kids, I'd give them a lot of cheese and bananas and then they'd never shit.

Bookie was fun, and more importantly a good sport because me and my father played innumerable tricks and pranks on her. We put life-sized tarantulas in her dollhouse, threw blankets over her head when the poor little thing was trying to learn how to walk and then howl when she'd walk into a wall. Nowadays, I think they call that child abuse, but I think we're well past the statute of limitations on that. We'd let her watch "Fantasy Island" which scared the be-Jesus out of her every Friday night. I would always make the big mistake of laughing at her and making fun of her, so mom would then let Bookie sleep with me. Thanks mom. I also tricked her into getting me things I was too lazy to get myself (no wonder I'm lazy), Mom made me take her EVERYWHERE I went so that made it a little trickier to score, uh, unmentionables when you're 16 and you're toting your 6 year old sister with you. My friends thought it was hysterical. I did not. There was the one time she so innocently wanted to see the high school I went to. So I took her. And locked her in my locker. OMG. If anyone did that to one of my kids, they would get their asses kicked pronto, but I don't really remember that fact getting back to mom and dad, so I'm sure I either had to bribe or threaten Bookie. It's amazing now that she'll even walk into an elevator - you should have heard her scream in that locker.

In addition to all the silly pranks, she was my little buddy. My parents let me watch her a lot - in fact, I think a little too much as dad was climbing up the corporate ladder. We were only 10 years apart, but let's face it, a 14 year old doesn't exactly know what to do in a crisis situation. However, we both made it through, like most of us did. We hung out and even with a 10 year age difference, we kept each other company. Me telling her the clothes that matched her babydolls, and her telling me the clothes that matched me! We watched cartoons and I made her watch I Love Lucy and Gilligan's Island even tho she hated them. She'd ask stupid questions, like "if the professor can do this or that, then why can't they get off the island?" I believe she was 5 or 6. So for punishment for her steadfast logic at everything, I used to let her stand up in my car and hang out the sun-roof! Oh, my. I almost faint with "what could have happened if we were in an accident" daydreams.

Time marched on - she played soccer, was a child prodigy, read 24 hours a day, always made straight A's, knew about shit at 13 that I still can't even pronounce, went to MANY years of college - in fact I think she has 3 or 4 degrees of some sort and is now an attorney. She also happens to be married to a hunk, although I can't really think of him like that, because, well, it's just not right. She has a sharp, quick wit - not to outdo mine - but it's not bad all things considered. And, she's beautiful. Her hair turned into a strawberry blond, she still has fair skin, and light cerulean eyes with dark edges - the kind most girls dream of having.

I'd like to take just some of the credit away from our "Fairly Odd Parents" and hope that some of Bookie turned out the way she did just partly because of yours truly. Enveryone needs at least one bad influence in their life.

And my sentiments toward her are the same as our daddy's would be if he was still alive to say: "I'm very proud of you kiddo."

Bookie - I love you.........even tho you still have that damn red hair.

Sister Fatima

Bad Way to Start the New Year!!!

I didn't win the damn lottery!!! Not that I really expected to win anything, but still. I was so hoping to check my numbers this morning and at least win one of the measly $500 prizes. But, no. I guess I'll always have to earn my money the hard way - work. Sucks.

Then, I talked to my oldest daughter who lives in Italy - and now I'm even more depressed. I'm happy for her and my son-in-law, but sad for us cuz we miss them.

On the flip side, I'm taking our little one to see Charlotte's Web today, so that will involve fun and popcorn and spilled soda and "Mommy! I have to pee!" episodes, so I'm sure that will prove entertaining as always.

I have been trying exceptionally hard NOT to obsess or even think about food, or my choices for right now - that can come later. I've got to get my mind off food (good food vs. bad food) as if food holds some sort of evil or good character to it. At any rate, once I stop obsessing over it and find other "interests," then I feel I can begin to really evaluate and make some good choices for my health's sake, not my weight's sake.

Okay, dudes, I'm out for right now. Gotta go make breakfast, do dishes, etc.; all that boring crap that comes with waking up in the morning!

Peace!

Fatima-still-poor!!!

What I Love

My crazy right-wing husband, sleeping in late, waking up and thinking it's a workday and then realizing it's Saturday, the way Riley wakes up next to me and immediately smiles when she sees me, cuddling with all three of my girls - or any one of them at any given time, the smell of coffee more so than the taste of coffee, Chai tea, any kind of milk (not dark!) chocolate, loud family get-togethers, laughing so hard I can't breathe and it leaves my face and my stomach hurting, crazy funny emails between me and my sister, or between me and my friend, Paula; snowmen decorations, getting my nails done, purse and/or shoe shopping, jewelry, singing a Christmas song in church on Christmas eve and then suddenly finding myself tearing up because of the tradition of Christianity that has been part of my life forever, the scene in Steel Magnolias when Sally Fields gives her gut-wrenching speech at the cemetery after the death of her daughter, freshly fallen snow; funny, mean things that Alex says, when Stephanie has her "blond" moments and we all make fun of her over and over again, being loved even tho I'm frequently a bitch to everyone in my life at some point or another, having multiple TVs in our home now so that I no longer have to watch "Strongman Competition" shows with my husband with glassy eyes as he gives me all their life stories and statistics (Oy!), soft cotton pajama pants, CSI (it rocks dude!), but only the original with Grissom, Dave Matthews Band, REM, my dog Zoe (cuz she's a little simple), getting an unexpected package, going to bed early, getting out of a jacuzzi when it's really cold outside, anxiously awaiting the next Dean Koontz or Stephen King novel; cartoons, books by Augusten Burroughs, the compassion I have toward gay people and the struggles they must endure in this life and the comedy they use to overcome; Spongebob Squarepants and Patrick Star, making fun of Polka music, well, pretty much making fun of anything has always been a favorite past-time, cooking something fun, fond memories of my mom and dad when we found something funny, buying a new book or CD, a piece of beautiful classical music that brings tears to my eyes, my crazy extended family, my immediate family, my friends, old and new, you.

Waiting to Die

That pretty much describes my childhood and my early adulthood (until around 33 or so). I seriously thought that I was going to die - soon - of something. And if nothing reared its ugly head at the mammography place or the pap place or the X-ray place, then I figured I just had something that the doctors couldn't detect yet - BUT IT WAS COMING! Surely, I was not meant for a lengthy stay before it was my turn to shuffle off this mortal coil. Most people call this being a hypochondriac. I called it normal. My husband called it fucking crazy. They're all just adjectives to me.....so who cares?

At any rate - after MUCH therapy, I realized that when I was a kid I was often under a lot of anxiety and stress and didn't know how to deal with it. Let's face it, how many 6 year olds do we see walking around with a gin & tonic and a cigarette to help them with their stress? None. Kids don't handle stress all that well; they internalize it. Us adults know all too well how to medicate our stress away. I digress. Getting back to me (!) as a kid, I just figured I was going to die and that was how I handled my stress. I must have done something bad and that was why my life sucked, therefore I'd be gone soon - somebody "up there" must hate me. So I overdid a lot of things in hopes of "getting it all in" before the end of the earth struck. Or if not the end of the earth, then perhaps a limb of a tree striking just me, or a rabid dog bite, or a roller coaster flying off its tracks.

Now mind you - I have a family history of bad habits, disorders of alcohol, drugs, food, etc., so it shouldn't be any surprise that I too fell victim to many of these. But my epiphany the other day - on I-95 somewhere between Maryland and South Carolina - was that perhaps I overeat "just in case" it's the last time I can have pecan pie, or Honeybaked Ham, or Aunt Ethel's famous pie or dip or whatever. What if this upcoming office party is my last? What if this wedding next month is the last one I'll go to? What if this is the last cruise I go on? Well, then damn! I better just set up a cot at the buffet if that's gonna be the case!!

So, apparently I've still got just a "tad" of that doom & gloom in me that I had as a kid/early adult (about my early demise) - that I've got to simply let go of. Because if this is indeed the last Snickers I eat, and I get run over by one of the local commuter buses out of Baltimore this afternoon - so the hell what? Something tells me that as I drift out of consciousness and begin to see the white light (hopefully!) - that freaking extra portion of mashed potatoes or hot fudge sundae isn't going to have quite the same appeal or interest it did last week.

What say you?

Fatima

Holidaze

We leave tomorrow for the South with its many deep fried wonderfulness and rich foods made with much sugar and butter - YUMMMM. So, I'll be gone from here for a little while.

My oath to myself is that I will snack on fresh fruit in between meals, drink lots of water - but that I will allow myself the pleasure of enjoying the large family meals with glee and love. Oh, and one dessert, not my usual sampling of all 40. Oh, and a few drinks.

I might even try to work in a few long walks............I'll let you know how I did when I return.

Merry Christmas!

Fatima

Dysfunction Junction

Someone once said that friends are God's way of saying sorry for the family you got. Yes, there was and is dysfunction both in my original family, as well as the one I've now raised for 20 years. I don't think it's escapable, not on this earth anyway. We're all broken to some degree, so naturally, our relationships are going to show that. And, we're all looking to be fixed in some way or another. Is that where the term "fix" came from with addicts I wonder....

I've learned two things: 1) that we all "fix" ourselves in different ways, most of which are ironically detrimental to our overall health and 2) that at my age, I can no longer blame my family for how I turned out. It's okay to think or act that way 22 - but at 43, it's simply redundant and pathetic. When people start blaming their parents or spouse (or whomever) for the outcome of their lives, I quickly tune out. Been there, done that. And it doesn't even solve the problem - whatever it is. And to be truthful, I didn't turn out so damn bad. Just a few quirks and kinks here and there. I suppose the usual adjustments could be made - but overall I'm peachy most of the time.

So, what dysfunction was in my family of origin? It would be quicker to talk about what wasn't. But the usual suspects were there: alcohol, eating/weight issues, drugs, emotional barriers, criticism, blah blah. But when I think of my upbringing compared to others' stories I've heard or read about over the years, mine was a walk in the park.

I don't like what's left. It only leaves me to blame. Dammit. That's what I was afraid of.....

Out here.

Fatima Pissed Off