Attic Attack

Recently, my mother hounded me into going home to root through her attic before she called a company to dredge through it and remove everything for a minimal fee. I did what any grown child would do to their demanding parent…I put her off for months. Finally, after she pestered me for the 400th time (my mother has the tenacity of a honey badger) I agreed to come out in two days time. See, two days was what I needed to fortify myself for this undertaking…well, that and to con a friend into helping me.

I immediately conned the friend. Then, I actually started to get excited about it. I would be digging through my childhood, and I distinctly recall the attic being a treasure trove of goodies and fabulous used clothes. In the least, I figured I could snatch some of my old toys for my kids, and pick some snazzy costume jewelry for me. We suited up!

We arrived at Mom’s at 9am. I pulled on the attic hatch and down came creaky old rickety stairs. We climbed up, and were greeted with the smell of neglect. I flipped the light switch and stepped into the harsh realities of my youth. Garbage bags filled with awesome ‘retro’ clothes were actually tattered, dirty and eerily creepy fur coats, threadbare nightgowns and polyester contraptions that no self-respecting human would put on in this day & age. I sighed. I was hopeful for a Halloween costume or two; I guess this year I’ll be donning something store bought once more.

I perked up, “OVER THERE! In the back…I think those are my toys!”

We waded through piles and piles of papers that my mother should have burned or thrown out decades ago. I knocked over countless stacks of books (and not good ones either – bizarre self-help books with accompanying audio cassette tapes). Finally, I think: the reason I actually came. [strange, the box was nowhere as big as I remember] In it were some pathetic things indeed. It was like a real-life Island of Misfit Toys. There was a pink opossum missing an eye, a dirt stained kitty puppet, random dollar store fodder and the only salvageable saving grace…Ashleigh.

Ashleigh was a disturbingly empty commentary on my battered childhood. Ashleigh was my red-headed Cabbage Patch. Ashleigh had a bag of homemade clothes. Ashleigh had ears I had pierced myself. Ashleigh was my best friend; hell, she may have been my only friend much of the time. Grown up Me stood, stooped in my mother’s attic, clutching this dingy piece of memorabilia; overwhelmed with the need to cry. The sum total of my childhood resulted in a singular shoddy piece of redemption…Ashleigh.

In the glaring moments in that dim lighting of the attic, I came face to face with the blaring realities of my life. I know I didn’t have much of a childhood (for reasons I shall not bore you with – other than stating my mom was sick and we were poor). I now understand it is different to know that behind closed doors, never really sharing it with anyone - and to stand amidst it clutching your one thing of value – long forgotten for over 20 years. I took Ashleigh home.

That night, I tenderly cleaned Ashleigh. I brushed her hair (which is very life-like). I delicately washed her clothes. I took a deep breath and took Ashleigh upstairs. My oldest daughter was playing in the living room. I asked if I could have a moment…

“I want you to meet someone special to me. This is Ashleigh. Ashleigh grew up with me. She keeps secrets better than anyone. She gives the best hugs when Mommy can’t. She’ll always love you, and best of all - she’ll never leave you. Would you like to have Ashleigh and introduce her to your other babies?” I waited nervously, hopefully. I wasn’t quite sure what I was anticipating. I held my breath. Then the most wonderful thing happened.

My daughter looked up at me, with her intelligent eyes and said, “You loved her? She was your friend? [nodding her head] Yes, I love her, Mommy. She’s so beautiful, and has such nice hair. She’s perfect! Are those her clothes?” I pushed the bag of clothes over. In that moment, my daughter changed everything. Her mere acceptance of a silly doll took a lifetime of loneliness and transformed it into something remarkable.

I’m glad Ashleigh has a new best friend…one who sparkles and laughs. She deserves it.

The Gas Company

I married into the gassiest family on the planet. No, not oil riggers who live in Texas. Think more like bean eating, fiber-loving, green cloud excreters. I knew this going in. It wasn’t a problem for me…I have next to no sense of smell. Although, I was sometimes embarrassed by the outright blatancy of these tooters, I was willing to over look the entire issue for love. …until recently.

Recently, it came to weigh very heavily on me that my goal of raising kids to the ripe old age of 18 before throwing them out of my house and changing the locks may never come to fruition. Not only does this sadden me, it leaves me with an impending sense of dread. The reason you see, is because my oldest child is going to live with me forever. I’m never going to be able to marry her off.

See, she’s not ever going to be a trust fund baby. The most I can hope for is that I will be able to one day purchase that 12th goat that will stand as the biggest dowry upgrade that anyone inside of Zanzibar has ever seen…either that, or finding some poor deaf mute in Papua New Guinea who is oblivious to their olfactory living conditions who won’t mind taking her in.

The in-laws find it appropriate to bust ass whenever the urge strikes. Walking through a store, in mixed company and most horrifyingly at the dinner table - all fair play for this quartet of flatulence factories. Each time this happens, I remind my husband that polite society dictate that no one anally omit noxious odors before witnesses. He merely giggles. Or so he did, until our lovely little girl "ripped a hole" in one of my dining room chairs while eating. It was like the heavens opened and shined a dawning light upon his psyche, he must have had visions of the fleeting Zanzibari goat herders slipping through his grasp and our dreams of a quiet homestead squashed…forever.

“Honey, if you need to make stinky tooters, you should excuse yourself to do it in the bathroom; not at the dinner table. It is rude.”

5 minutes later, my daughter loudly announces, “I NEED TO FART!” She bolts from the table. By going into the bathroom, I had actually meant – go into the bathroom, close the door and discretely break wind. My daughter’s interpretation was to barely aim her rear end into the bathroom from the doorway and cut the cheese as if her life depended on it. PPPFFFFFFT, POOOOOT, PFFFFFTBANG! [at this point, I’m certain that I will need to buy her new underwear]. “Ahhhhh, much better!” Then rampant giggling ensues…and not from my oldest, my pride & joy. Nope, I look over to find hubby’s shoulders shaking with mirth.

That night, I sobbed myself to sleep. I’m quite certain that the faint sounds of bleating goats floated away on the wind of my fitful slumber…