My stepson is transgender. When Ian was born, he got stuck in the wrong body. Since I pretty much ignored science after fifth grade I’m not sure if this kinda thing is the fault of the stork, the universe, or some argument between a sundry of sperm and the single egg.
Our CPA is in prison and yesterday his firm accidentally shredded our taxes. There was a “miscommunication” and our returns sat on a computer, never got filed, and “sorry for the inconvenience” and can we come back down and “re-sign”?
Sure Doug and I have a spare moment to just traipse down for the fourth time in two weeks. We don’t have a choice our taxes due in five days.
“Cancer feels like the flu.”
“What did you say back?” I asked my husband, the person who actually has cancer.
Doug has Stage IV throat cancer the kind of cancer men get from oral sex. Ok, well, not always from oral sex. It’s an environmental cancer, you can also get it from smoking or having too many slumber parties in a coal mine.
‘I smell the devil. He’s been right here!’ My mom snapped her fingers just like Beulah did to validate that the devil’s presence had been wafting through our house.
Beulah played the piano at our church. She wasn’t an exceptional piano player, but she was exceptional at being dramatic. I was eavesdropping on my mom as she was telling my dad all about Beulah’s visit to our home earlier that day.
“…..and after she said, ‘I smell the devil,’ she sniffed like this.….” and then my mom sniffled real loud to give my dad the full essence of Beulah’s revelation. Beulah was the self appointed spiritual goddess of our church.
I was ten years old and I didn’t like Beulah too much. She yelled “amen” during the sermons like it was a competition and she barged in on everyone’s business.
We called the police on our babysitter. Not because she was mean (because she was) and not because she made us cut coupons (because she did). We called the police on our babysitter because we thought she was a murderer.
I was in fifth grade, my sister in fourth, and our brother in a baby grade.
A dead body was found in the creek one mile upstream from our house. We were used to dead bodies. And we have our school to thank for that.
It started in second grade when the principal barged into our lunchroom with an announcement, “I’m sure you’ve seen on the news there is a serial killer on the loose…”
The lunchroom went silent.
Our homeless babysitter wasn’t a normal kind of homeless person. And she wasn’t the kind of homeless person you see in a B grade movie who lives under a bridge in a box that happens to stay clean year round. She was a different kind of homeless.
My mom’s a social worker. Not the paid kind. But the heart kind. These kind of social workers create their own case files.