GrizzBabe's Week in Review

Sorry that I've been absent from the blogosphere for the last couple of weeks but my life has been incredibly busy as of late. My 24-day housekeeping plan in preparation for The Boyfriend's arrival (now a mere 6 days away) was for naught as my activities this week have thrown a monkey wrench of epic proportions into said plans. Let's review exactly what GrizzBabe has been up to for the past 7 days:

• The week started off with 2 nights of overnight babysitting only I didn't find out about the second night until I had arrived for the first night (that kind of knowledge is always fun to learn at the last minute.) Like the professional that I am, I rose to the occasion but I was very tired at the end of those two nights.
  

• Wednesday night, after working my ass off on my day job, I went to dinner with a friend that I had not seen in a couple of months. We ate and talked for hours, catching up on all that we'd missed in each other's lives. A fun time to be sure but it wasn't a situation where my body could truly rest and rejuvenate. I came home and collapsed, too tired to even have a phone conversation with The Boyfriend.
  

• Thursday, again after working my rear end off at the newspaper, I went to the storage facility where I work on Saturdays to be trained on the new credit card processing software. Afterwards, I went to dinner with my boss and her husband at a local steakhouse where I pigged out on a ribeye steak, loaded baked potato and broccoli. Yum, yum. But once again, I was pooped.
  

• I actually had Friday off from work. The plan was to get the hole in the eave of my house fixed so the birds in my attic can find someplace else to call their happy home. The company I hired to do the repairs got my work number confused with my home number. When they called my office to confirm our appointment and received no answer (even on my day off, no one can find it within themselves to get to the office before 9 a.m.), they assumed that I was not at home and went to their next job. We rescheduled for next week.
  

• I had a 3 o'clock hair appointment (in preparation for The Boyfriend's arrival) and decided to laze about the house until 1:30. That's when I decided to take a long, hot shower. BIG mistake. Little did I know that the heat and moisture from the shower would open the pores in my scalp causing the straightening chemicals my beautician uses to burn. It felt like my hair was on fire. My hair dresser promptly rinsed the chemicals out of my hair but because she had overbooked, I still didn't get out of the salon until 7 p.m. Once I got home, I decided to sweat out my $60 hairdo by spending the next 2 hours cleaning up.
  

• Saturday I worked all day at the storage facility and then went clubbing with a friend at a honkytonk bar near my house. The last time I was at that bar several years ago, some drunk guy who smelled like vomit wouldn't leave me alone. I had hoped to experience a better time on my second visit. I was wrong. The weirdo magnet that has been surgically implanted into my brain was operating at full strength last night. Out of over a hundred patrons in that bar, some woman desperate for female companionship (the platonic kind) picked me to try and convince to be her new best friend. Do you like to read? I love to read. I read lots of erotica. I have over 50 books in my library. We could be book buddies and exchange books with each other and everything. Wouldn't that be fun? I really would like to get to know you better. You are so calm and I am so all over the place. I need to be around someone calm. I'm having a housewarming party on the 9th and I would really like you to come. You don't have to bring your friend if you don't want to. After spending five minutes giving me directions to her house, I know you have a pen in your purse. If you wanted my phone number, you could write it down.

It was a fitting ending to a long, tiring week.

My most painful childhood memory, part 2

I don't have much recollection of the conversation that occurred in the car immediately after dropping my aunt off at her home. I just remember that it started off angrily but calmly. The term "conversation" is a bit misleading because my mom hardly said a word; it was my stepfather who did all of the talking. He would make a snide remark here, a disapproving statement there. For 20 minutes, the argument was very constrained, that is until our vehicle stopped at the light of a busy intersection. It was there that my stepfather decided to let loose.

There were 3 lanes of traffic going in each direction of the intersection. Our vehicle was in the middle of the westbound lane, which means we were hemmed in by cars in front of us, behind us and on the side. By this time, my stepfather's one-sided conversation had gone from occasional nasty comments to an angry rant. My mother's continued silence seemed to bring confusion as to whether his points were getting across so he began to accentuate his statements with violence.

Right in the midst of talking, in front of God and everyone who had stopped at that intersection, my stepfather lifted the back of his hand and smacked it across the side of my mother's face. The first hit not only caught my mom by surprise but it had damaged her ear drums as well. She immediately placed her hands over her ears to protect them and to stop the intense ringing. My stepfather, undeterred by any injury he may have caused, continued to hit my mother again and again.

From the backseat, I began to scream and cry hysterically, partially because my mother was being hurt and partially because I was incredibly embarrassed. With each slap, I scooted farther and farther down in my seat until my head could no longer be seen through the car window and I was almost on the floorboard. I reasoned that if I could not be seen then this couldn't be happening.

The violence continued when we got home but the tool changed. Once home, my stepfather began beating my mother with a belt while he chastised her for actions like she was some misbehaving child. I watched in horror as my mother quietly fought off the punishment with her hands. Eventually, I decided to put a halt to this situation before an ambulance needed to be called.

I ran to the kitchen and called the only person I knew who possessed enough righteous indignation to get involved in such a messy situation -- my grandmother. She lived less than 3 minutes away and I knew she would put a stop to this nonsense immediately. In my hysteria, I managed to confuse my elderly grandmother and by the end of our conversation, she thought that I was the one being abused. It didn't matter because my call had the effect I had intended -- it made my grandmother mad as hell. She sent my uncle over to settle things down and to make sure that my mom and I were okay.

Once the incident was over and the dust had settled, my stepfather somehow convinced my mother that he was really, really sorry and that he would never do such a horrible thing again. He even apologized to me for behaving so poorly. Unlike my mother, I was not so easily swayed. His apology fell on deaf ears. All I could think about was how my mother was violently beaten for making such a personal and admirable decision. She didn't deserve that sort of treatment and I decided at the time that he didn't deserve my forgiveness.

Blogging vs. Cleaning House

Have you ever felt like you would rather clean house than blog? That's what I've been feeling lately. It's not that I have lost the desire to write. I have not. Like all good narcissists, I get life-affirming satisfaction from droning on endlessly to total strangers about the mundane details of my life. But, right now, I really want to clean my house.

The Boyfriend is coming to visit in exactly 24 days and I'd rather not be running around at the eleventh hour like a chicken with my head cut off trying to give the false impression that I am a paragon of domesticity. I prefer to slowly build that illusion over a period of weeks. Besides, it will take me at least that long to wash the mountain of dirty clothes that reside on the floor of my bedroom.

Not to worry, though. I'll be back in a few days. If past experience is any indication, this cleaning up business will get old really quickly. Until then, I'm gonna ride this wave of motivation until it crashes.

My most painful childhood memory, part 1

My mom and stepfather were not very big church goers. We rarely went when I was a young child. Like all good Southerners though, we believed in God and The Holy Trinity but we never exercised that belief by crossing the threshold of a church sanctuary. At least not until I was about 10 or 12. That was about the time my mother must have had some sort of spiritual epiphany because we started going to church more regularly. My stepfather tagged along, not unenthusiastically but not with fervor and commitment either.

During this time, my stepfather's aunt would often accompany us to church on Sunday mornings. We usually picked her up on the way to services and dropped her off when it was over. My aunt, a bitter, angry woman, must have decided she needed some religion too.

The church, pastored by one of the city's more popular ministers, was your typical predominately black, Missionary Baptist church. The music, easily the best part of the service, was soulful, spirited and uplifting. It's entertainment value was only occasionally surpassed by the flamboyant choir director's energetic and rhythmic arm movements. The congregation was always lively and vocal and could easily be whipped into a frenzy whenever the pastor yelled in a sing-songy fashion while simultaneously dancing up and down the aisles. The services were long (3 hours or more) but my mother and aunt seemed to enjoy them so we kept coming back.

On one particular Sunday, my Mom, being moved by the message, decided to accept the pastor's invitation. Invitation to what I don't exactly remember but, with tears in her eyes, she went forward for prayer and made a decision to become a full-fledged member of the church.

The church was so crowded that day that our family had to be separated. My mom and I sat in one section of the church while my aunt and stepfather sat in another. Even though I could not see where my stepfather was sitting, when my mom went up for prayer, I immediately sensed the intensity of his disapproval. I knew he would be angry that my mom made such a decision without consulting him. Our unusual seating arrangements coupled with the fact that no one ever plans to be moved by the Holy Spirit would mean nothing to him. His permission was not sought and so there would be hell to pay.

As I watched my mother receive prayer, the muscles in my stomach began to constrict into a large, tightly wound mass. I was concerned for my mother and secretly wished that she had not gone forward. Didn't she know what this would do to him?, I thought.

The ride home was a silent one except for the occasional nervous chatter from my aunt. Could she feel the tension in the air? Was that why she kept talking when no one else said a word? Was she aware of my stepfather's angry state? Did she sense that his wrath was being contained because she was in the car? Did she fear, as I did, what would happen once she was no longer in our presence? My aunt was not a pleasant woman to be around but that day, I wanted nothing more than for her to stay with us for as long as humanly possible. I knew that once she got out of that car all hell would break loose.

(To be continued)