Y Me History

Just to have a little "get to know me" time, which is not because I am the "Me Monster" as Brian Regan so aptly named an ego maniac, I thought I'd add a story here and there about the old me. Again...cheaper than therapy is a good old home remedy (a blog). I grew up down the way from where I currently live with a house full of females, one crazy male, and a father who didn't spend much time at home. (does this sound familiar, anyone?) I was number two of five with the lone male tailing behind the Hormonal Four (would've had a band if any of us had talent.) My poor mother, bless her locked bedroom door heart, had to do much of the raising alone. I liked to sleep in, unlike my three sisters, and would get up long after they had wiped out what little food we had to eat. By the time I went to the kitchen for breakfast, all that was left were remnants of store-brand sugar cereal lining the cracks of the wall behind the curtains where my sisters would think they were sneaking the cereal at dawn. I, of course, was left with store-brand Cheerios, or what we called Toastios, or some shredded wheat business. When I did resign to eating such blandness until I dumped a half pound of sugar on it, my sisters would go further to have fun with me. Just as I go to put the first bite into my mouth with all that was left of the silverware (an enormous serving spoon meant for Thanksgiving Day only), I would hear "bwahahahas." Looking back, I should've kept going, but in my naivety, I had to ask what the deal was. My older sister (see photo insert), who still apologizes profusely for acting on behalf of Satan my entire adolescence, bursts out laughing again. In between snorts, I hear her say something about having stuck that last spoon in her bum. I look at the giant spoon then back at her, questioning the unquestionable, wondering how and why she would do such a thing. Again, naive. In my hunger, which was desperate, I shrugged my shoulders to show them I didn't care, only to lift the spoon high above my head, then drip the contents into my mouth so as not to touch the spoon with my lips. It was okay, I guess, to allow my food to go down with bum juice on it, just as long as it did not touch my lips. And I remember thinking, this spoon does smell a little like her bum. The power of the mind, or lack thereof.