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Back when she was Sandy
By ELB | December 29, 2003
Lately my mother’s favorite leisure time activity is poodles. She’s got three now. Until recently it was four, but one of them was just so fucking old and blind and heart-murmmery that he had to go. Now there are just the three. This is all very new to me. In fact, in the ten years since I lived at home it’s safe to say that I no longer know the woman that lives there.
When my sister and I were growing up there were all these strange “good for you” rules; we couldn’t play with Barbies because they’d give us negative body image. No Miss America for the same reason. We couldn’t watch Speed Racer or eat Fruity Pebbles. Instead we got Upstairs Downstairs and All-Bran. I realize that this is a far cry from the children who were given names like Lyndon Skye and taken to live in the communes of Washington State, but as far as central Oklahoma goes, we might as well have been eating bricks of hash while living in a converted school bus. Incidentally my dad was still a little wacked from his time in Nam and looking to name his next little girl Lyndon Skye, that is until Johnson pulled out in ’75. On the day the helicopters landed on the roof of the American embassy, dad disappeared into the Wichita mountains for a week. When the time came I was named Erin, Gaelic for peace.
They divorced, Amanda and I grew up, we moved away. It’s only when we came back that we realized things were somehow off. In addition to the poodles the house is now filled with collectable Christmas ornaments and University of Oklahoma memorabilia. One entire spare bedroom is filled with Star Trek toys and no one is allowed to touch them. There may very well be something in her will regarding said toys. I hope to god they don’t come to me because I will forever be haunted by the voice of my mother telling me never to remove them from their original packaging. She won’t listen when I try to tell her that the extensive water damage does take the value down a touch.
I guess everyone’s mother goes a little nutty. This weekend as we walked through the mall (we had to go so she could buy me my own collectable Christmas ornaments) she turned to me and said the following:
Sandra: You know Sheila?
Erin: No.
S: Well, she’s having a hard time. Apparently a crippled retard is claiming to be pregnant.
E: Um, what?
S: Her son, Sheila’s son, dated this retarded girl with a crippled arm and now she’s saying she’s pregnant.
E: Is she pregnant?
S: Yes. She can’t be all that retarded. Think of that next time you feel shit on.
Topics: Unnatural History | Comments Off
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