Things I’ll Miss About Ireland:
1) The way the Irish say words like “Pub” (Poob) and “Pint” (Point) and “Ireland” (Oirland) and “You” (Yeh). So very charming.
2) The beautiful scenery of rolling mountains and rocky coastlines. It was a photographer’s dream. (Photos will be posted soon).
3) Sheep!! Or more accurately Black faced horny rams (that’s their official name). They were everywhere! Chillin in the roads and just hanging out, chewing on some grass. I wanted to take one home…and I did…in the form of a scarf.
4) The town, Carlingford. Greatest little village EVER. Every single citizen of this town was friendly and welcoming. It’s also home to King John’s Castle (You know, King John…from Robin Hood). Apparently, he loved this town as much as we did. Possibly more since he had a castle built there for him to come and visit frequently. But ya know what? If I had tons of money to blow, I would totally build a castle in Carlingford. And I’d call it Commoner Colleen’s Castle. And in a few hundred years, tourists would be snapping pictures of my old castle, marveling at how beautiful it was.
5) The radio station that we could never figure out. We titled it “Random FM.” It played everything from Mozart to an Irish cover of “I Will Survive” to some other Irish song we had never heard before with lyrics like this:
Kick me and lick me and spit on me corpse
Punch me and hunch me over in a hearse…
Well, those aren’t the exact lyrics, but it’s pretty close and absolutely hysterical. The song was stuck in our heads all week.
6) Irish coffee. And NOT the kind with whiskey in it. For some reason, Ireland has the best brewed coffee I’ve ever had. And I’m not talking about espresso or cappuccino or anything. Just a regular cup o’ joe. Every morning it was the part of breakfast I looked forward to the most….and now it’s gone. Since I’ve been home, I’ve attempted to recreate the frothy tan foam that collected on the top of my coffee, but it’s proven impossible. Perhaps with a French Press?
7) The Flake candy bar. Made by Cadbury (Yes, the makers of the eggs)…why the fuck don’t they market these in the US? And why does the chocolate over there taste so much better than Hershey’s? Oh that’s right, because Hershey’s SUCKS.
8) Pear Cider. So delectable. It was my lifesaver since there’s not a whole lot else to do but travel from pub to pub, and I don’t like beer all that much.
9) Rainbows. Yes, the weather was shit for most of our trip, but a couple of times when the rain ceased and the clouds parted, the most glorious rainbows would appear. Unfortunately, there were no pots of gold that I could find. Damn those tricky leprechauns.
10) (Most) Irish men. (Most) are very attractive in burly ways.
Things I Will NOT Miss About Ireland:
1. Lasagne. Last time I checked, Ireland is not known for its Italian cuisine…so why do so many cafés, restaurants and pubs serve it? And no—the lasagne I had did not taste good.
2. The price of, well, EVERYTHING. The Euro to US Dollar ratio is not good people. Want to know what else is not good? The fact that dinner at a pub will easily run you 16-25 Euro. EURO! That essentially means you’re not getting a burger and fries for less than 20 US Dollars. Oh, the insanity.
3. Tiny, curvy roads where people drive like nutcases at 120kpm.
4. Speaking of kilometers….the metric system. I know it makes perfect sense…but I had serious troubles converting metric into something I understood. Damn your totally sensible and easy to learn units of measurement proving how stupid Americans are for creating a system that is WAY more complicated than it needs to be.
5. Potatoes. I actually love potatoes—but not for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. Seriously? You’re offering me sweet potato pie after I had the lamb stew casserole topped with mashed potatoes and a side of French fries? Has Ireland never heard of these wonderfully crunchy and delectable things called vegetables?
6. The morbid death of the apostrophe in Ireland. Did St. Patrick chase those out too along with the snakes? (McCarthys, Whelans, Wards, Flannerys…) It seems as though the apostrophe has disappeared from all facets of Irish life.
7. The town of Nenagh where we stopped for lunch briefly. It has all the attractions of a funeral parlor and most certainly less life than one. If there is a bleaker or grimier town in all of Ireland…please let its existence be known to me.
8. The “tour” of the Titanic shipyards in Belfast. Belfast: I love you dearly. You were by far one of my favorite places to visit…but, you’ve had almost a hundred years and the shipyards look like one big island of junk. Turn this site into something worth seeing, PLEASE!
9. The Northern Irish accent. I could not understand a LICK of what they were saying.
10. (Most) Irish women. Let me just thank my mother profusely for not marrying another Irish man (Hi, Mom! Love you!). My genes would have been fucked.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Compromise
Me: Can I pack a few things in your bag?
The Boyfriend!: Depends what...
Me: Mostly things we're sharing. A towel, bar of soap, shampoo...
The Boyfriend!: Sure.
Me: ...make up, curling iron and tampons.
The Boyfriend!: Um, no. I draw the line at tampons.
Me: What? Why?
The Boyfriend!: What will the men at the security checkpoint think!?
Me: Clearly, they'll think you're a homosexual.(sarcasm)
The Boyfriend!: They WILL think I'm gay, won't they?
Me: (sigh) No...they will think you're traveling with a woman. Which you are. So you should probably get used to traveling with tampons.
The Boyfriend!: Fine. But then you're finding space in your own bag for make up and hair stuff.
Me: Deal.
The Boyfriend!: Depends what...
Me: Mostly things we're sharing. A towel, bar of soap, shampoo...
The Boyfriend!: Sure.
Me: ...make up, curling iron and tampons.
The Boyfriend!: Um, no. I draw the line at tampons.
Me: What? Why?
The Boyfriend!: What will the men at the security checkpoint think!?
Me: Clearly, they'll think you're a homosexual.(sarcasm)
The Boyfriend!: They WILL think I'm gay, won't they?
Me: (sigh) No...they will think you're traveling with a woman. Which you are. So you should probably get used to traveling with tampons.
The Boyfriend!: Fine. But then you're finding space in your own bag for make up and hair stuff.
Me: Deal.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Are Your Balls Bigger Than Your Brain?
Dear large (read: fat) man on the subway,
Why when you're sitting do you have to have your legs spread so wide that your fat ass takes up two seats? Is it so hard to keep your knees together? I notice, this doesn't happen with larger women. Women tend to cross their legs, their ankles, their arms, and hold their purses and bags in their laps...basically bending over backwards to make room for others regardless of what size they are. But you--you fat mother fucker--all you would have to do is close your legs just half as wide as you currently have them spread and that would be enough so that the old woman standing, stretching to hold onto the bar above your lazy head could sit down.
So why don't you? Would that be too taxing for you after a long day of watching the security camera at the Astor Place KMart while eating a McDonald's southern fried chicken sandwich? And please don't feed me this excuse that it's because you have two family jewels that can't be squashed. Men use their balls for SO MANY excuses and I am sick to hell of it. And let's face it, fatass...your balls are probably not even that big. No man's testicles need THAT much room that you are currently giving yours at rush hour on the A train. Now, I'm not saying you have to squeeze your scrotum between your massive thighs until they turn blue. I'm not even asking you to cross your legs...I know you're much too homophobic for that. Just adjust SLIGHTLY so the poor, old woman can sit down.
But no. You won't do that, will you? So, it's left up to me to offer the old woman my seat, three seats away from you, because you're too inconsiderate to move a few inches to the right. I grab my CVS bag full of crap needed for my trip this weekend, my Citarella bag of fresh cheese, my laptop, my purse, my B&H bags of film and stand so that the woman can hobble over and sit. I walk over to you and clear my throat. You don't even look up. I say "Excuse me," and still nothing. I say it again louder...nothing. I refuse to give up. I WILL be sitting down and you WILL be moving over. Give up, already. RELENT. So, I turn, lower my bags to the floor and force my bony ass into the seat, pushing your fleshy thighs out of my way.
I don't care that you smell like a combination of meat, cheese and sweat. I don't care that my shoulders, hips and thighs are pressed against yours. You will learn your lesson. You will learn that next time having a sweet old lady sitting next to you is the better alternative than me, the uber bitch, forcing her way into your personal space. And for the record: when I had to sneeze, though yes I covered my mouth, I still purposefully turned my head in your direction.
Please next time be more conscious of those around you...particularly the elderly and pregnant women.
Thank you,
Colleen
Why when you're sitting do you have to have your legs spread so wide that your fat ass takes up two seats? Is it so hard to keep your knees together? I notice, this doesn't happen with larger women. Women tend to cross their legs, their ankles, their arms, and hold their purses and bags in their laps...basically bending over backwards to make room for others regardless of what size they are. But you--you fat mother fucker--all you would have to do is close your legs just half as wide as you currently have them spread and that would be enough so that the old woman standing, stretching to hold onto the bar above your lazy head could sit down.
So why don't you? Would that be too taxing for you after a long day of watching the security camera at the Astor Place KMart while eating a McDonald's southern fried chicken sandwich? And please don't feed me this excuse that it's because you have two family jewels that can't be squashed. Men use their balls for SO MANY excuses and I am sick to hell of it. And let's face it, fatass...your balls are probably not even that big. No man's testicles need THAT much room that you are currently giving yours at rush hour on the A train. Now, I'm not saying you have to squeeze your scrotum between your massive thighs until they turn blue. I'm not even asking you to cross your legs...I know you're much too homophobic for that. Just adjust SLIGHTLY so the poor, old woman can sit down.
But no. You won't do that, will you? So, it's left up to me to offer the old woman my seat, three seats away from you, because you're too inconsiderate to move a few inches to the right. I grab my CVS bag full of crap needed for my trip this weekend, my Citarella bag of fresh cheese, my laptop, my purse, my B&H bags of film and stand so that the woman can hobble over and sit. I walk over to you and clear my throat. You don't even look up. I say "Excuse me," and still nothing. I say it again louder...nothing. I refuse to give up. I WILL be sitting down and you WILL be moving over. Give up, already. RELENT. So, I turn, lower my bags to the floor and force my bony ass into the seat, pushing your fleshy thighs out of my way.
I don't care that you smell like a combination of meat, cheese and sweat. I don't care that my shoulders, hips and thighs are pressed against yours. You will learn your lesson. You will learn that next time having a sweet old lady sitting next to you is the better alternative than me, the uber bitch, forcing her way into your personal space. And for the record: when I had to sneeze, though yes I covered my mouth, I still purposefully turned my head in your direction.
Please next time be more conscious of those around you...particularly the elderly and pregnant women.
Thank you,
Colleen
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
On Being a Target
I live in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. For those who don't know the New York areas well, Bed-Stuy is a primarily black neighborhood that was declared an impact zone in 2005 for having the most number of homicides in New York.
When Sean and I moved here, we didn't think twice about the fact that it was a mostly black neighborhood. It meant nothing to us...we really didn't even notice it until a few months after we moved in. We liked our neighbors--Miss Thelma, the (very) old woman next door who will get mad if we don't sweep our steps often enough. And Joan, the crazy woman a couple doors down who feeds the 30 stray cats in the neighborhood. Even the teenage and pre-teen kids on our block are always very friendly and respectful. We had a game going where the boys would ask me how old I was every night when I came home from work...I would tell them I was 35 with a coy smile. They knew I was lying and would burst out in laughter, yelling:
"No you're not, Miss Colleen!! Tell us! How old are you??"
The bottom line is, Sean and I love our block. However, every day I turn the corner onto Malcolm X Blvd to walk the six blocks to the subway, it's a very different story. The sweet street I live on is suddenly a ghetto with people hanging outside of store fronts drinking beer out of paper bags (nothing new to see when living in New York), but in this neighborhood, the people are much louder and much more confrontational.
It began with nothing too horrible. People calling me "gorgeous" and "hey baby, do you have a boyfriend." I always had my iPod in my ears and could pretend that I either didn't hear them, or sometimes I would just nod and wave in return. Then, the younger kids (high school probably) started following me, walking closely behind me for a block or so. They called me "Katie," I guess what they assumed was a typical "white girl" name. At one point I stopped, turned around and simply asked..."Oh, are you talking to me? Katie's not my name...you must have the wrong person." So then, they started calling me Marcia Brady (which I actually find kind of funny).
The thing I've noticed is that if it's a group of guys, nothing too bad happens. Maybe some of them trying to get my attention, but that's it. If there are girls in the group, or god forbid, a group of only girls, then it's usually much worse.
So, things grew increasingly worse. The innocent "Marcia Brady" calling advanced to kids pulling my hair and then running away as I'm walking. People purposefully bumping into me and pushing me into the street. Usually when I'm with Sean, nothing too bad happens, but one time, kids behind us started following and yelling: "Is that your boyfriend, white girl? Do you fuck him? Do you like it from behind?" That was the first time Sean really saw first hand what I go through on a daily basis....because hearing something like that definitely did not shock me. I was used to it...but he was appalled.
Then the other night, we were coming home. It was about 9:00. We passed a group of girls sitting on their front stoop. We heard one girl say, rather quietly, "white bitch." We ignored it, as we tend to do. Within two minutes, one of the girls was riding a bike (on the sidewalk...a huge pet peeve of mine) and blatantly ran me over with the bike. As in, she was riding straight...there was plenty of room on the sidewalk and as she came up on us, she turned the handlebars and ran directly into me--not Sean--me. I was ok...a few bruises, two broken toenails. But this is pretty much the last straw for me.
I try so hard not to generalize. I never considered myself to be racist, but I fear that having lived here for a year, I am becoming that which I hate. If I'm in this neighborhood and I see a group of black girls as I'm approaching (I specify their race because in the rare case when there is a white girl or guy in the group, nothing ever happens to me), I now cross the street. I avoid them. If I'm walking past a man dressed in baggy pants and a hoodie pulled up around his face (he can be any race), I will hug my purse tighter to my body. And I hate that I do this...but I need to protect myself first and foremost. These are actions and habits which have been conditioned in me BECAUSE of how I have been treated. I moved here with no judgments about the inhabitants of the neighborhood...and I am leaving hating almost every single person I pass.
Here in this neighborhood, it would be very hard to dispute that there is a definite correlation between race, education and poverty and the actions of the people on this street. I am a target because I am white...and I don't deserve that.
When Sean and I moved here, we didn't think twice about the fact that it was a mostly black neighborhood. It meant nothing to us...we really didn't even notice it until a few months after we moved in. We liked our neighbors--Miss Thelma, the (very) old woman next door who will get mad if we don't sweep our steps often enough. And Joan, the crazy woman a couple doors down who feeds the 30 stray cats in the neighborhood. Even the teenage and pre-teen kids on our block are always very friendly and respectful. We had a game going where the boys would ask me how old I was every night when I came home from work...I would tell them I was 35 with a coy smile. They knew I was lying and would burst out in laughter, yelling:
"No you're not, Miss Colleen!! Tell us! How old are you??"
The bottom line is, Sean and I love our block. However, every day I turn the corner onto Malcolm X Blvd to walk the six blocks to the subway, it's a very different story. The sweet street I live on is suddenly a ghetto with people hanging outside of store fronts drinking beer out of paper bags (nothing new to see when living in New York), but in this neighborhood, the people are much louder and much more confrontational.
It began with nothing too horrible. People calling me "gorgeous" and "hey baby, do you have a boyfriend." I always had my iPod in my ears and could pretend that I either didn't hear them, or sometimes I would just nod and wave in return. Then, the younger kids (high school probably) started following me, walking closely behind me for a block or so. They called me "Katie," I guess what they assumed was a typical "white girl" name. At one point I stopped, turned around and simply asked..."Oh, are you talking to me? Katie's not my name...you must have the wrong person." So then, they started calling me Marcia Brady (which I actually find kind of funny).
The thing I've noticed is that if it's a group of guys, nothing too bad happens. Maybe some of them trying to get my attention, but that's it. If there are girls in the group, or god forbid, a group of only girls, then it's usually much worse.
So, things grew increasingly worse. The innocent "Marcia Brady" calling advanced to kids pulling my hair and then running away as I'm walking. People purposefully bumping into me and pushing me into the street. Usually when I'm with Sean, nothing too bad happens, but one time, kids behind us started following and yelling: "Is that your boyfriend, white girl? Do you fuck him? Do you like it from behind?" That was the first time Sean really saw first hand what I go through on a daily basis....because hearing something like that definitely did not shock me. I was used to it...but he was appalled.
Then the other night, we were coming home. It was about 9:00. We passed a group of girls sitting on their front stoop. We heard one girl say, rather quietly, "white bitch." We ignored it, as we tend to do. Within two minutes, one of the girls was riding a bike (on the sidewalk...a huge pet peeve of mine) and blatantly ran me over with the bike. As in, she was riding straight...there was plenty of room on the sidewalk and as she came up on us, she turned the handlebars and ran directly into me--not Sean--me. I was ok...a few bruises, two broken toenails. But this is pretty much the last straw for me.
I try so hard not to generalize. I never considered myself to be racist, but I fear that having lived here for a year, I am becoming that which I hate. If I'm in this neighborhood and I see a group of black girls as I'm approaching (I specify their race because in the rare case when there is a white girl or guy in the group, nothing ever happens to me), I now cross the street. I avoid them. If I'm walking past a man dressed in baggy pants and a hoodie pulled up around his face (he can be any race), I will hug my purse tighter to my body. And I hate that I do this...but I need to protect myself first and foremost. These are actions and habits which have been conditioned in me BECAUSE of how I have been treated. I moved here with no judgments about the inhabitants of the neighborhood...and I am leaving hating almost every single person I pass.
Here in this neighborhood, it would be very hard to dispute that there is a definite correlation between race, education and poverty and the actions of the people on this street. I am a target because I am white...and I don't deserve that.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Going to get me some Lucky Charms!
In about a week, Sean and I are jet-setting to Ireland! I am extremely excited about this trip...not only because I have been waiting in anticipation since the day Sean mentioned it as a part of my Christmas and Valentine's Day gifts, but because this is the first time I have ever stepped foot off of American soil.
That's right, I have never been outside of the country. Seems odd, no? Travel is SO important for young people in this country. The cultures you are exposed to and the experiences to be had contribute greatly to creating a culturally sensitive society…something very important and rarely valued in America today. Fewer and fewer young adults are traveling abroad these days due to high gas prices, inflated plane tickets, the value of the Euro, and low entry-level salaries. Regardless, as a result of the reasons listed above, I have never managed to leave the country.
When I mentioned this to the boyfriend! he seemed confused.
Him: But, didn't you go to the Bahamas once?
Me: Yeah...but that doesn't count as an international trip. I was working the whole time and hardly left the boat. Plus, it didn't require a passport.
Him: Neither did Mexico or Canada until just recently, but that would count as an international trip.
Me: Yes, but I haven't even been to Mexico or Canada either...(these points all seem valid in my mind)
Him: But the Bahamas is British territory. Therefore, you technically have left the country.
Me: Ok, maybe TECHNICALLY, but we all know that technicalities don't count.
Him: What? Why don't technicalities count?! They should count the most!
Me: They just don't!! I wasn't exposed to any new cultures! There's no stamp in my passport! It wasn't even a vacation! I could have been in Key West and it would have felt exactly the same!
Him: Fine. I agree that maybe the experience wasn't necessarily an "international" one, but you have technically left the United States.
Me: Fine. (under my breath) But not really...
Him: YES, REALLY!
So what, dear internet, do you think? Is Ireland my first true trip outside of the United States, or does the Bahamas Cruise count as a worldly and international experience?
That's right, I have never been outside of the country. Seems odd, no? Travel is SO important for young people in this country. The cultures you are exposed to and the experiences to be had contribute greatly to creating a culturally sensitive society…something very important and rarely valued in America today. Fewer and fewer young adults are traveling abroad these days due to high gas prices, inflated plane tickets, the value of the Euro, and low entry-level salaries. Regardless, as a result of the reasons listed above, I have never managed to leave the country.
When I mentioned this to the boyfriend! he seemed confused.
Him: But, didn't you go to the Bahamas once?
Me: Yeah...but that doesn't count as an international trip. I was working the whole time and hardly left the boat. Plus, it didn't require a passport.
Him: Neither did Mexico or Canada until just recently, but that would count as an international trip.
Me: Yes, but I haven't even been to Mexico or Canada either...(these points all seem valid in my mind)
Him: But the Bahamas is British territory. Therefore, you technically have left the country.
Me: Ok, maybe TECHNICALLY, but we all know that technicalities don't count.
Him: What? Why don't technicalities count?! They should count the most!
Me: They just don't!! I wasn't exposed to any new cultures! There's no stamp in my passport! It wasn't even a vacation! I could have been in Key West and it would have felt exactly the same!
Him: Fine. I agree that maybe the experience wasn't necessarily an "international" one, but you have technically left the United States.
Me: Fine. (under my breath) But not really...
Him: YES, REALLY!
So what, dear internet, do you think? Is Ireland my first true trip outside of the United States, or does the Bahamas Cruise count as a worldly and international experience?
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Adelynn Turned One!
Dear Adelynn,
Happy Birthday, beautiful girl! You’re a whole year old. Just think…only 20 more to go before you can buy vodka ALL BY YOURSELF. Goals are important; remember that.
I just returned from my trip to NC for your birthday party. It was a total blast. There was family and presents and fried chicken and CAKE! Oh, the cake! It was your first taste of sugar and let me tell you, BOY, are you a Katana. You took to that cake like a duck takes to water; diving right in!
I unfortunately have only seen you four times in the first year of your life. I met you for the first time at your baptism when you were about six weeks old. Basically, you were a lump who cried and ate and slept and pooped. Don’t worry, though…you were an adorable little lump. I stayed awake three nights in a row to feed you every 2-3 hours so to give my sister a much needed break. They were easily three of the most horrible nights of my life. But whenever I picked you up from that crib and cradled you while you sucked the bottle’s nipple, I forgot about my exhaustion and became captivated by your little sucking lips and heavy eyelids.
The next time I saw you was at Christmas, at five months old. You were already such a curious little thing. Any time someone walked into the room you HAD to see who was there and fussed until we turned you so that you could see. You liked to watch people and you loved when I blew raspberries on your tummy.
In April when you were about nine months old, your mommy and daddy brought you to visit New York. And me. You were still very curious and such an active baby. You loved playing with all the toys at FAO Schwartz and we bought you three new toys from the store. The first was a little blue elephant. We all thought it was adorable how much you seemed to love this elephant. We couldn’t tear it out of your hands the whole time we were in the store. Any time we tried to show you something else, you gave it a look like, “Yeah, yeah, ok. I see the stuffed dog. Very nice.” But the blue elephant seemed to be IT. Regardless, we bought you a jack in the box Curious George toy and a teddy bear with an FAO Schwartz t-shirt. You showed little to no interest in the teddy bear, but we wanted you to have something with the toy store’s logo. As soon as we got to the hotel and cut the tags off, you no longer had an interest in the elephant. Apparently without the flavor of cardboard and ink, it was a dull toy. The teddy bear, however, has since turned into your absolute favorite toy. His name is Eddie. That’s right, Eddie the Teddy.
Eddie the Teddy is INVALUABLE in your house. You may not know this yet, but you are quite the high maintenance baby. And Eddie is your parents’ savior. He calms your tears and puts you to sleep and when you’re acting fussy, if we hand you Eddie, 9 out of 10 times, you will calm down. This most recent trip for your birthday was quite the eye opener. I love the little person you are becoming. When I first arrived, you went right to my mom—your Oma. Only, you don’t call her Oma; you say “YaYa” because when she says “Yeah, yeah” in conversations it sounds like “Ya, ya…” And she apparently says this a lot. And you love your YaYa. You smile and laugh for her and it takes a good 20 minutes before you’ll leave YaYa’s arms and go to anyone else. It’s as though YOU NEED YOUR YAYA TIME. You finally came to me for the first time since I had last seen you. You gave me a little smile, but then coyly dropped your head into Eddie’s neck. Then, peeking out from behind your teddy, you smiled and laughed.
Your smile, Adelynn, may just be the cutest thing I have ever seen. It’s crooked with teeth sticking out in several directions and your nose scrunches up to your eyebrows. I also love how much you enjoy looking at pictures of yourself. You’ll point to the photos and smile, and look back at all of us saying “Behbeh!” (That’s toddler language for “baby”)
You are learning words and sign language now too. When we are feeding you, we ask you to say and sign “more please” to which you say “Moh, moh” and press your fingertips together. However, if after you’ve asked politely, we don’t give you what you want, you scream. What a temper you have! If you’re not getting your way, we all better just plug our ears because OH MY GOD, THE SCREAMING. I think blood trickled out of my ears once because I wouldn’t allow you to snap my glasses in half. Oh, the injustice. I’m obviously a horrible aunt and totally don’t love you. So, you screamed. And—I’m sorry, did I mention the screaming?
You also love to read books. You can sit with several surrounding you and flip through the pages happily. And since you can’t read yet, of course, the books are usually upside down and the only words you can get out are DOG and DUCK and BABA and DUHDUHDUH! even though the book has no mention of dogs or ducks or duh’s.
This whole weekend, I tried to get you to say my name. I’d sit in your face as you were trying to watch Baby Einstein and I’d say, “Who am I? I’m Aunt Colleen!” over and over and over again until you—yes, you guessed it, screamed. But eventually, you started to get it. And once as we were playing with barnyard magnets, I asked you, “Adelynn, who am I?” And you answered: “Ayn CaCa.” Now…this is pretty close. But I’m really not a fan of being Aunt Poo Poo…so we’re all trying to change this into Aunt CoCo. Because if anyone knows me at all…Aunt Chocolate is WAY more appropriate than Aunt Poo Poo!
The last night I stayed with you this weekend, I woke up at around 2am and snuck into your bedroom to watch you sleep. I watched your chest rise and fall with each breath and loved to hear your life in the air. Adelynn, if there is a God…you are certainly proof that he or she exists.
I love you, baby girl.
Love,
Aunt Coco.
::sigh:: Oh, fine. Aunt Caca.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Halloween In July
Merry is having a contest about supernatural/paranormal/slasher/ghost stories. Pretty much, tell a scary story. Well, Merry, mine is a true story, or at least those who were involved believe it’s true…but not one that I necessarily remember. I was just a baby. But it has been recounted to me numerous times by both my mother and siblings.
_________________________________________________
Sharon Katana tore open yet another brown box labeled “Kitchen Junk.” It was written in messy cursive with a sharpie by her husband. It had been a busy week. In the past ten days she had moved her family and all their belongings to a new city, given birth to her third child, and her husband had started a new job.
This new job was a demanding one. They kept him busy night after night with meetings and welcome parties. And what was worse, they expected her to be at his side for these events. They apparently didn’t care about the fact that she had a newborn hanging off her nipple and barely had the energy to sip her coffee, pack lunch for her seven-year old son, and chase her four-year old daughter all day, let alone attend party after party. “It will calm down soon,” Bob had said as he kissed their newborn’s forehead and rubbed his wife’s shoulders. “I promise.” And with that, he turned to leave for another black tie benefit, thrown by his new office.
Bridget ran after him, her chubby thighs brushing against each other. “Daddy!” She shrieked, her arms extended toward her father. Tears gleamed in her eyes and her bottom lip jutted out, quivering. “Don’t go tonight, daddy! Stay home and read to me!”
Bob bent down and lifted the tiny child into his arms. “Tomorrow night, princess. I promise.” He kissed her cheek with two quick pecks and placed her back to the floor. “Take care of the ladies, while I’m out, Bo!” He called upstairs to his oldest son and Bridget ran up the stairs to join her brother.
“Bye sweetheart,” he kissed his wife on the lips and was quickly out the door.
Later that evening, Sharon rocked her baby, Colleen, while humming her best rendition of Stevie Wonder’s “You Are the Sunshine of my Life”. She saw her tiny daughter’s eyelids flutter within a dream and she slowly stood up to put the baby in her crib and check on the other two. She hadn’t seen them since dinner and the house had been unusually quiet. With Colleen cradled against her breast, she turned off the lights and quietly made her way up the stairs.
She could hear whispering coming from the nursery. They know they’re not supposed to be in the baby’s room, Sharon thought, preparing herself to lecture her offspring. She followed the whispers into Colleen’s room and sure enough there were her kids, standing over a broken bassinette. “Bo! Bridget! What did you do?!” She tried to whispered as threateningly as she could without waking the sleeping baby.
“Nothing! We swear!” They each shrieked. “We heard someone singing in here,” Bo continued, “We thought it was you and followed the singing into Colleen’s room. The cradle was already broken!”
“We swear!” Bridget repeated.
Sharon sighed and placed Colleen in her crib. Luckily she had mustered up the strength to put that together earlier today. “Ok, help me clean this up and then let’s all go watch a movie together.” She knew a cry for attention when she saw one and with the guilt of their father’s busy schedule and the demands of having a new baby, she decided to let their actions go unpunished. Just this once.
“Mommy, you should have heard this voice,” Bridget whispered, her eyes wide. “It sounded loud…much louder than you sing.”
“And it didn’t sound like no grown up either,” Bo interrupted.
“Didn’t sound like a grown up, Bo. Not “No grown up.” Sharon scolded. She would not have her kids sounding illiterate.
She looked up to the shelf high above Colleen’s crib where her collection of teddy bears was starting. She had three for her baby, so far. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. All three bears had their heads ripped off. The bodies of the teddy bears were sitting as normal and next to each bear was its decapitated head. She looked at her children, oblivious to the bears. No guilt read across their faces. Besides, the shelf was too high for either of them to reach. She looked at their dog, Bear, laying next to the crib. She found it odd that her dog, usually so lazy, seemed to be in full alert mode. His muscles were tensed despite the fact he was laying and his ears stood straight up from his head staring at the closed window.
A chill ran down her spine despite July’s heat.
* * *
Later that night, all the kids were finally asleep. Plenty of tears and nightmares about some young child singing kept everyone awake. But finally, she lulled everyone into a deep sleep. She tiptoed out of Bridget’s bedroom and crept downstairs. When she reached the bottom step, she froze. Every single light in every room was on. Even rooms that she hadn’t been all day had lights on. Table lamps, floor lamps, the chandelier over their dining room table…all were shining brightly.
“Bob?” She called out praying that she would hear her husband’s voice. No one answered. She knew that 10pm was way too early for him to be home. She’d be lucky if she saw him home before 1am tonight. Slowly, she made her way first to the dining and antique rooms to turn off all those lights. Then, in the kitchen, she shut off the overhead lights…even the oven light was on. Moving into the television room, she switched off those as well, leaving the hallway light on, so to be able to see her way back upstairs. As she turned to head back to bed, she noticed the lights in the laundry room were on and a low, humming buzz was coming from one of the bulbs. Sighing, she walked in and as she put her hand on the switch, she heard a noise. Singing—coming from the garage. A voice just like her children had described. A young girl, singing the Stevie Wonder song she had lulled her daughter to sleep with hours earlier. Only this little girl’s voice was loud. Abrasive even. She sang Stevie Wonder like a gospel hymn out of a Baptist’s church songbook. Sharon flipped the lights off in the laundry room and through the cracks of the door leading to the garage, she could see those lights were on too.
“H-hello?” Sharon’s voice cracked. The singing stopped and the lights in the garage went out.
Within moments she heard the voice right behind her. She could feel the breath on her ear as the voice whispered: Mama?
None of her children called her Mama, ever. It was always Mommy. Tears welled up in her eyes and she ran out of the laundry room, through the living room into the hallway reaching the bottom of the stairs.
Woof Woof Woof! Upstairs, Bear began barking and growling. Sharon ran, taking two steps at a time. When she reached Colleen’s room, her dog was standing on his hind legs barking into the crib. “Bear!” Sharon yelled, no longer caring about waking her sleeping children. She grabbed the dog by the collar and pushed him out of her way. Her baby was lying face down in the crib. She lifted the child who immediately began crying, her face bright red. She looked into the crib and could see indentations where her baby’s face was. As if the back of her head was being pushed into the mattress, suffocating her. A breeze danced around Sharon’s body and she noticed the window was open—not her doing. She held her crying baby and patted Bear’s head. “Good boy, Bear.”
She heard keys in their front door and crept to the top of the stairs. “Bob?”
He peered at her over the banister. “Hi honey,” He called up. “Sweetheart, you left all the lights on down here! Even the garage light!”
* * *
Over the next few months, peculiar things continued to happen. Sharon and her children would hear singing, always in the same voice, repeating whatever song Sharon had sung earlier. Windows would be opened and slammed shut in the middle of the night. Sharon stopped buying Teddy Bears for her kids because they would be mutilated during the nights. Lights were turned on and would flicker at odd moments. And every so often, she would hear Mama being whispered in her ear. Even Bob, who never believed in any sort of ghost or supernatural stories admitted that something odd was happening in their house and with their “electrical system.”
Colleen caught pneumonia from the open windows and while her older children were frightened, no one was so much as Sharon. She feared the nights Bob worked late.
One November night, Bob was working late again. Bridget and Colleen were both asleep and Bear was patrolling between the two rooms. Bo was playing in his bedroom when he called for his mom. “Mom, can you get me a glass of milk?”
“Bo, you’re old enough to get your own milk. I’ll go with you to the kitchen, though.”
“No, that’s ok. I don’t want to disturb Martha again, Mom.”
Sharon’s body stiffened. “Martha?”
“Yeah,” He said, not tearing his eyes away from his Nintendo game, ”She’s our ghost.”
“And you’ve—run into her?”
“Not exactly. I went downstairs once in the middle of the night to look for my birthday presents and all the lights were on. I thought it was weird and then that night I had a dream where Martha talked to me.” He spoke nonchalantly, as if she was a houseguest sleeping on their couch he didn’t want to disturb.
She breathed a sigh of relief that his run in with her wasn’t anything more. “I’ll get your milk, buddy.”
At the bottom of the stairs, she could see all lights were on again and Bridget’s coat was on the floor. She hung it on her daughters small coat rack (one that Bridget could reach, herself) and turned to get the glass of milk. Behind her, she heard the coat fall to the floor. She turned and hung it up again. As soon as she stepped away, it fell to the floor with a rustle. Sharon had had a long day, this was the last thing she needed right now. She stomped over to the coat picked it up and shook it in the air before hanging it roughly back on the coat rack. “So help me if you knock this coat off one more time…” Before she could finish her sentence, the coat dropped to her feet, halting the words within her mouth. The hall lights flickered around her.
She swallowed and goosebumps rose on her arms. “Martha?” Sharon whispered.
Mama?
The breath traveled across her ear and tickled her neck.
Sharon closed her eyes. “No. I’m not your mama, Martha. I’m sorry.”
Mama…
The voice sounded further away. Sharon followed it into the kitchen. “You can be a part of our family. You are welcome in this house, but no more scaring us. No leaving the lights on.”
Mama…
Again, further away. Sharon followed the voice into the family room. “No more opening windows and tearing apart toys.”
Mama…
Further away, still.
Sharon looked out the back window into the yard. It was a clear, calm night. The tire swing circled, gently rocking. In the center of the yard was a foggy patch, which looked slightly blue in hue.
All the lights downstairs shut off.
Later that night as Sharon climbed into bed, she whispered: “Goodnight, Martha.”
Silence.
* * *
Small things happened from time to time. Every now and then, the family would hear something in the garage. Or a light would be left on, but it wasn’t very frequent. Bear relaxed and felt less need to patrol the bedrooms. Colleen’s pneumonia got better and Teddy Bears stopped being ripped apart.
For five years, the Katana’s co-existed with this…spirit? Ghost? Dream? Call it what you like.
Every night as Sharon tucked in her three kids, she would also whisper goodnight to Martha, mentally tucking in the disturbed spirit. Every now and then she would hear “Mama” whispered in her ear, but it was rare.
As Colleen grew, she was the only child who ever called Sharon Mama instead of Mommy and still does to this day.
When Colleen was five years old, a body (skeleton) was found in the woods at the end of their neighborhood. An article was released stating that the victim, Martha Jones, was a girl who used to live in the neighborhood. She was ten years old and had been beaten to death by her stepfather. The article also featured a picture of the girl holding her favorite Teddy Bear and stated that she had finally been buried with her favorite toy, her stuffed teddy bear, named “Bear Bear.”
Two days prior to the article, Bridget was nine, Bo was twelve and Sharon—well, Sharon would never reveal her age—everyone stated how calm and peaceful the house felt. They knew Martha was gone before they knew why.
_________________________________________________
Sharon Katana tore open yet another brown box labeled “Kitchen Junk.” It was written in messy cursive with a sharpie by her husband. It had been a busy week. In the past ten days she had moved her family and all their belongings to a new city, given birth to her third child, and her husband had started a new job.
This new job was a demanding one. They kept him busy night after night with meetings and welcome parties. And what was worse, they expected her to be at his side for these events. They apparently didn’t care about the fact that she had a newborn hanging off her nipple and barely had the energy to sip her coffee, pack lunch for her seven-year old son, and chase her four-year old daughter all day, let alone attend party after party. “It will calm down soon,” Bob had said as he kissed their newborn’s forehead and rubbed his wife’s shoulders. “I promise.” And with that, he turned to leave for another black tie benefit, thrown by his new office.
Bridget ran after him, her chubby thighs brushing against each other. “Daddy!” She shrieked, her arms extended toward her father. Tears gleamed in her eyes and her bottom lip jutted out, quivering. “Don’t go tonight, daddy! Stay home and read to me!”
Bob bent down and lifted the tiny child into his arms. “Tomorrow night, princess. I promise.” He kissed her cheek with two quick pecks and placed her back to the floor. “Take care of the ladies, while I’m out, Bo!” He called upstairs to his oldest son and Bridget ran up the stairs to join her brother.
“Bye sweetheart,” he kissed his wife on the lips and was quickly out the door.
Later that evening, Sharon rocked her baby, Colleen, while humming her best rendition of Stevie Wonder’s “You Are the Sunshine of my Life”. She saw her tiny daughter’s eyelids flutter within a dream and she slowly stood up to put the baby in her crib and check on the other two. She hadn’t seen them since dinner and the house had been unusually quiet. With Colleen cradled against her breast, she turned off the lights and quietly made her way up the stairs.
She could hear whispering coming from the nursery. They know they’re not supposed to be in the baby’s room, Sharon thought, preparing herself to lecture her offspring. She followed the whispers into Colleen’s room and sure enough there were her kids, standing over a broken bassinette. “Bo! Bridget! What did you do?!” She tried to whispered as threateningly as she could without waking the sleeping baby.
“Nothing! We swear!” They each shrieked. “We heard someone singing in here,” Bo continued, “We thought it was you and followed the singing into Colleen’s room. The cradle was already broken!”
“We swear!” Bridget repeated.
Sharon sighed and placed Colleen in her crib. Luckily she had mustered up the strength to put that together earlier today. “Ok, help me clean this up and then let’s all go watch a movie together.” She knew a cry for attention when she saw one and with the guilt of their father’s busy schedule and the demands of having a new baby, she decided to let their actions go unpunished. Just this once.
“Mommy, you should have heard this voice,” Bridget whispered, her eyes wide. “It sounded loud…much louder than you sing.”
“And it didn’t sound like no grown up either,” Bo interrupted.
“Didn’t sound like a grown up, Bo. Not “No grown up.” Sharon scolded. She would not have her kids sounding illiterate.
She looked up to the shelf high above Colleen’s crib where her collection of teddy bears was starting. She had three for her baby, so far. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. All three bears had their heads ripped off. The bodies of the teddy bears were sitting as normal and next to each bear was its decapitated head. She looked at her children, oblivious to the bears. No guilt read across their faces. Besides, the shelf was too high for either of them to reach. She looked at their dog, Bear, laying next to the crib. She found it odd that her dog, usually so lazy, seemed to be in full alert mode. His muscles were tensed despite the fact he was laying and his ears stood straight up from his head staring at the closed window.
A chill ran down her spine despite July’s heat.
* * *
Later that night, all the kids were finally asleep. Plenty of tears and nightmares about some young child singing kept everyone awake. But finally, she lulled everyone into a deep sleep. She tiptoed out of Bridget’s bedroom and crept downstairs. When she reached the bottom step, she froze. Every single light in every room was on. Even rooms that she hadn’t been all day had lights on. Table lamps, floor lamps, the chandelier over their dining room table…all were shining brightly.
“Bob?” She called out praying that she would hear her husband’s voice. No one answered. She knew that 10pm was way too early for him to be home. She’d be lucky if she saw him home before 1am tonight. Slowly, she made her way first to the dining and antique rooms to turn off all those lights. Then, in the kitchen, she shut off the overhead lights…even the oven light was on. Moving into the television room, she switched off those as well, leaving the hallway light on, so to be able to see her way back upstairs. As she turned to head back to bed, she noticed the lights in the laundry room were on and a low, humming buzz was coming from one of the bulbs. Sighing, she walked in and as she put her hand on the switch, she heard a noise. Singing—coming from the garage. A voice just like her children had described. A young girl, singing the Stevie Wonder song she had lulled her daughter to sleep with hours earlier. Only this little girl’s voice was loud. Abrasive even. She sang Stevie Wonder like a gospel hymn out of a Baptist’s church songbook. Sharon flipped the lights off in the laundry room and through the cracks of the door leading to the garage, she could see those lights were on too.
“H-hello?” Sharon’s voice cracked. The singing stopped and the lights in the garage went out.
Within moments she heard the voice right behind her. She could feel the breath on her ear as the voice whispered: Mama?
None of her children called her Mama, ever. It was always Mommy. Tears welled up in her eyes and she ran out of the laundry room, through the living room into the hallway reaching the bottom of the stairs.
Woof Woof Woof! Upstairs, Bear began barking and growling. Sharon ran, taking two steps at a time. When she reached Colleen’s room, her dog was standing on his hind legs barking into the crib. “Bear!” Sharon yelled, no longer caring about waking her sleeping children. She grabbed the dog by the collar and pushed him out of her way. Her baby was lying face down in the crib. She lifted the child who immediately began crying, her face bright red. She looked into the crib and could see indentations where her baby’s face was. As if the back of her head was being pushed into the mattress, suffocating her. A breeze danced around Sharon’s body and she noticed the window was open—not her doing. She held her crying baby and patted Bear’s head. “Good boy, Bear.”
She heard keys in their front door and crept to the top of the stairs. “Bob?”
He peered at her over the banister. “Hi honey,” He called up. “Sweetheart, you left all the lights on down here! Even the garage light!”
* * *
Over the next few months, peculiar things continued to happen. Sharon and her children would hear singing, always in the same voice, repeating whatever song Sharon had sung earlier. Windows would be opened and slammed shut in the middle of the night. Sharon stopped buying Teddy Bears for her kids because they would be mutilated during the nights. Lights were turned on and would flicker at odd moments. And every so often, she would hear Mama being whispered in her ear. Even Bob, who never believed in any sort of ghost or supernatural stories admitted that something odd was happening in their house and with their “electrical system.”
Colleen caught pneumonia from the open windows and while her older children were frightened, no one was so much as Sharon. She feared the nights Bob worked late.
One November night, Bob was working late again. Bridget and Colleen were both asleep and Bear was patrolling between the two rooms. Bo was playing in his bedroom when he called for his mom. “Mom, can you get me a glass of milk?”
“Bo, you’re old enough to get your own milk. I’ll go with you to the kitchen, though.”
“No, that’s ok. I don’t want to disturb Martha again, Mom.”
Sharon’s body stiffened. “Martha?”
“Yeah,” He said, not tearing his eyes away from his Nintendo game, ”She’s our ghost.”
“And you’ve—run into her?”
“Not exactly. I went downstairs once in the middle of the night to look for my birthday presents and all the lights were on. I thought it was weird and then that night I had a dream where Martha talked to me.” He spoke nonchalantly, as if she was a houseguest sleeping on their couch he didn’t want to disturb.
She breathed a sigh of relief that his run in with her wasn’t anything more. “I’ll get your milk, buddy.”
At the bottom of the stairs, she could see all lights were on again and Bridget’s coat was on the floor. She hung it on her daughters small coat rack (one that Bridget could reach, herself) and turned to get the glass of milk. Behind her, she heard the coat fall to the floor. She turned and hung it up again. As soon as she stepped away, it fell to the floor with a rustle. Sharon had had a long day, this was the last thing she needed right now. She stomped over to the coat picked it up and shook it in the air before hanging it roughly back on the coat rack. “So help me if you knock this coat off one more time…” Before she could finish her sentence, the coat dropped to her feet, halting the words within her mouth. The hall lights flickered around her.
She swallowed and goosebumps rose on her arms. “Martha?” Sharon whispered.
Mama?
The breath traveled across her ear and tickled her neck.
Sharon closed her eyes. “No. I’m not your mama, Martha. I’m sorry.”
Mama…
The voice sounded further away. Sharon followed it into the kitchen. “You can be a part of our family. You are welcome in this house, but no more scaring us. No leaving the lights on.”
Mama…
Again, further away. Sharon followed the voice into the family room. “No more opening windows and tearing apart toys.”
Mama…
Further away, still.
Sharon looked out the back window into the yard. It was a clear, calm night. The tire swing circled, gently rocking. In the center of the yard was a foggy patch, which looked slightly blue in hue.
All the lights downstairs shut off.
Later that night as Sharon climbed into bed, she whispered: “Goodnight, Martha.”
Silence.
* * *
Small things happened from time to time. Every now and then, the family would hear something in the garage. Or a light would be left on, but it wasn’t very frequent. Bear relaxed and felt less need to patrol the bedrooms. Colleen’s pneumonia got better and Teddy Bears stopped being ripped apart.
For five years, the Katana’s co-existed with this…spirit? Ghost? Dream? Call it what you like.
Every night as Sharon tucked in her three kids, she would also whisper goodnight to Martha, mentally tucking in the disturbed spirit. Every now and then she would hear “Mama” whispered in her ear, but it was rare.
As Colleen grew, she was the only child who ever called Sharon Mama instead of Mommy and still does to this day.
When Colleen was five years old, a body (skeleton) was found in the woods at the end of their neighborhood. An article was released stating that the victim, Martha Jones, was a girl who used to live in the neighborhood. She was ten years old and had been beaten to death by her stepfather. The article also featured a picture of the girl holding her favorite Teddy Bear and stated that she had finally been buried with her favorite toy, her stuffed teddy bear, named “Bear Bear.”
Two days prior to the article, Bridget was nine, Bo was twelve and Sharon—well, Sharon would never reveal her age—everyone stated how calm and peaceful the house felt. They knew Martha was gone before they knew why.
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