The Doll's Wig

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bisque_doll

One of my parent's favorite party tricks is retelling their supposedly impoverished childhoods that never really bore up to reality, and how could it? All of my grandparent's provided for their children excellently (and their children's children) for well beyond their years, every one of them going on to college, with the exception of my dad's sister Marilyn, who became an unwed mother and proud Go-Go dancer. Not exactly stellar, but what did they expect? American assimilation was rough for our poorly educated great-grandparents who were "fresh off the boat", back in the days when it was a truly rough ride indeed. My grandparents coped with an economic depression so profound it's infamous worldwide, with parents who may or may not choose to work again, because they couldn't read, write, or speak English.

It made the mundane and middle-class financial deprivations of my parents seem ridiculous in comparison to them and us, which they are. My parents came off the big economic boom that war always seems to bring to winning societies, without them ever really confronting hunger, starvation, or death, except when they did stupidly reckless things with their lives, which they sometimes still do. They were (are) like children to us, and that's how I treat(ed) their woes: like the children of privilege that I know them to really be, because without my grandparents and me, they'd be dead, something they can admit to when they are feeling satisfied, generous, and well-fed, which is all the time.

And so it came as no surprise to me and my brothers when my parents always lined their pockets plushly to over-filling first, questing to fill needs that are much more psychologically-based than true-to-life, severe as their disabilities can be at times. They pout, throw tantrums, threaten, intimidate, harass; they do everything short of murder, and on some days, I could see them in both of those roles, too. My dad used to tell me brief stories about his "Greaser" adolescence in Brooklyn that ended when his best friend was electrocuted for murder, forcing my grandmother to ship him off to the Navy, like she'd sent her husband to war many years ago.

Next to my father's unmarried mother "living-in-sin" and a missing alcoholic for a dad, my mom must have felt performance pressure keenly. And so she mined her roots for scenes that she could use during their resource-based arguments, like two children fighting over a bag of candy. The unfortunate effect for us caught in the middle was always the same result, though: there was way less available for us, and that's exactly what happened as a result of my mom's poverty stories. She told us that they were so poor, that one year the only thing she got for Christmas was a doll's wig for her old doll, and that was it. She used it to justify her tight pocket for each and every year that we presented our Christmas wish lists.

Of course, she neglected to tell me that it was probably one of the finest wig's money could buy, from a store that my grandmother must have pinched pennies to please her bourgeois daughter with the unreasonably pretentious airs, but that was the price my grandparents paid for a fancy parochial school education. They figured it was worth the price if even one of their disordered kids could get a job after college, and it panned out, like all of my grandparents really good plans do, and just like mine do. After all, I learned from the best. 
Life for us is a world of plenty.

Wild Turkey

"Wild Turkey Walking" by Wing-Chi Poon - Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.5 via Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wild_Turkey_Walking.jpg#/media/File:Wild_Turkey_Walking.jpg

It's hard for me to describe my parents to friends and acquaintances. How to tell them that, entertaining as they may seem, these were the young people who were supposed to comfort me after school with a big warm hug and cookies with milk? "Ohhhmigoshhh...", as that dawning recognition spreads over their faces, I know I freaked out my new friend with that particular little exercise. Puts it in a whole new perspective, right? Exactly. And so I began a tradition of prep work before any family interaction, or, if this friend of mine is also a little dense or arrogant, I may toss them into it fresh, with no lube (as they say).

My dad lives in a place so extreme, that the people who live there ask me and my friends the same question every time we pop up there, like celebrities from outer space just there for their intense scrutiny: what do we think of West Texas? The same question, every single time, from people who see Rockefeller Center and other famous things only on t.v. What do you think we think?! It's weird, and it's the complete opposite of our reality as native New Yorkers. I turned the tables on my dad's liquored up friends the last time I visited him on Thanksgiving, by revealing the deep dark secret that my father and stepmother are actually New Yorkers (!!!), and that my dad actually gave birth to his kids while living there! That really threw them for a loop. I then asked them how they felt about New York City when they visited, to watch them squirm uncomfortably in their chairs this time, thrown as we were together from holiday invitations given out in desperation, rather than any type of familial loyalty.

On that visit, I gave my cousin a breast cancer tote bag that I bought for her, in support of her while she battled Stage Four lymphatic cancer (during which my dad frequently called me for advice), and she gave me her warm thanks, which is more than I usually get, strong-armed as I am into getting a two-way ticket to "Nowheresville", but not much else besides the obligatory room-and-board that comes with any hotel stay. My dad's weirdo friends gave my cousin obscene gestures behind her back when she wasn't looking (making her the focal point for their Conservative-fueled righteous indignation), choosing to attack her for being a societal dependent when, in truth, she doesn't choose to be an addict, which is weird coming from my father's mentally ill Vietnam vet friend with the long-term PTSD and his brittle yet openly mannishly aggressive wife. Who the fuck are they anyway? Better than us? They like to pretend New Yorkers are this disease that spreads, while they hide their trauma and sicknesses from full view, choosing instead to use them as weapons in their lives covertly. 

Me? I prefer the honesty behind my cousin's bubbly yet fake persona. Liar that she is ("When do addicts lie?" with the answer: "When they open their mouths", ba-dump bump), but at least I know that she's family. The rest of them try to pat me down for spare change that I don't have, while going on their expensively outfitted Californian pony rides and generically bland cruise vacations. Susan's at least upfront about her needs and what drives her real agenda. Not so with my dad and his crowd, people who buy heavily into the "rich white man game", which means they all pretend to be Conservative Right-Wing Christians* out west for money and job security. "Who's the bigger liar at the table?" is not a game that I like to play.

But, occasionally, when the moon aligns with the rest of the planets just right, we can have a good time, mostly by chance or my doing, or plain ole luck, because my family out west doesn't think I'm worth enough of their time to even plan events that I'd enjoy, open as I am about my lifelong preferences. I know, right? What's to miss?! Sometime our interests overlap, like my love of the outdoors and hiking, because it fits neatly within my dad's conformist "white man" persona, the one who likes to seem like a masculine hunting and fishing guy. And so, one holiday me and my ex (the upstate Indo-European) found ourselves in an old pickup truck following my dad and his family, while he picked up some domesticated animals to dump onto his ranch, because that's about as much as he does for other humans and lifeforms, sometimes. 

You just happen to be part of his schedule, like the delusional diva from "The Met" who thinks the spotlight is always on her. It's creepy, but that's his "Mad Man" generation to a "tee": they use old t.v. shows and movies like they're guidebooks to life, instead of entertainment with the occasional deeper fare thrown in, but mostly likely not, because my dad's wife doesn't "cotton to cussin'", which is part of the homespun act they put on for their new friends far out west, people who don't put together "New York" with "secretary" and "mistress" right away like we do. Wholesome, right? We usually play along with their routines because it's not worth pointing out, which is exactly why me and my ex made fun of my dad all the way from Colorado to New Mexico, about his next harebrained plan for restocking the world with hunted animals (like wild turkeys) on just his corner of the world, hoping that it spreads out from his ranch at the epicenter, so he can take all the credit for it. Professional, n'est-ce pas?

It's not exactly like working for the "Department of the Interior" for the U.S. government, is it? Nope, but that's exactly what he does: he forces his family and friends to witness him buying these poor animals and then releasing them onto his land (and his land only), to often be brutally slaughtered by the predators that live there, even as we tell him that animals migrate, and he doesn't own them or control them in any way, with extremely limited success. He may or may not understand the intent, or it might be him acting out in his delusion of grandeur because he simply doesn't care, so much does he want credit for his bizarre little experiments. It was horrifying actually. Over the years, he released Bighorn Sheep** and other animals without notifying anyone about his intentions, just to play G-d with His Creations.

That's why, over our Thanksgiving break, our dad made us watch him pick up some turkeys he bought to "grow" out at some dirty farm (the horses this farmer had were filthy up to their knees from the mud and feces he kept them penned in), by making us herd Wild turkeys onto his trailer. When we remarked on the unsanitary conditions to him as proof of his uncertain goals (he got caught behaving inappropriately and wastefully again, basically), he assured us that he would report the farmer he'd just paid thousands of dollars to do a job badly to the appropriate authorities, but I highly doubt that happened. We made fun of him with my youngest bro in the second truck all the way down to "his" ranch land (charmingly named "The Flying Asshole"), a place that's off-limits except to him and the county's Game Warden (by law), bumping over the hills and gullies to witness him doing yet another stupid thing that was waste of time and money.

On his signal, we manned the bolts to his trailer, and on the count of "three" we opened the gates to the it, to see a fast flurry of feathers pass briefly before our eyes, before the turkeys did exactly what wild turkeys do, and roost high on the treetops of the only tall trees that exist around there because it's near a pond; atop the ranch's small stand of big Cottonwood trees. For years afterwards, we jokingly asked him if he'd had any signs that they were still alive, and he'd do his "little boy" routine: pout while looking down at his hands, explaining to us one more time that they'd probably been eaten by predators, just like his foolish dreams about the non-native Bighorn sheep that we knew became coyote fodder under his watch, but we still allowed his big public display of making a show about caring for them by hiking us atop "his" mountain (competing with us the whole way uphill), with binoculars to look for them from afar.

He released them to get them killed, because he's too arrogant to consult an expert who'd guide him through it, just like his horse riding "lessons" and during a dozen other really dangerous activities where people in my family (including me) almost died under his watch. So, you can keep Thanksgiving this year, peeps. You can leave me the turkey and the "Indian" boy, though. I know what to do what them. They're the kind of natives I like.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_turkey

http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/birds/wild-turkey/

*      https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christian_fundamentalism

 **   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bighorn_sheep

Pot Roast

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pot_roast

After college, me and my state school boyfriend once again lived in the same town; he after Montreal and McGill University, and me after R.I.S.D. and Providence, Rhode Island, except everything had changed. He struggled to define himself through MCAT's and what kind of grad school major he should choose from (he's now in that end of show business that enforces union contracts = ugh), and I was becoming an apprentice in publishing, which is about as far apart as the talent is from the office workers around them as it gets. One person watches the action safely from afar while hiding behind the scenes, or off-camera in the shadows, and the other person falls on her ass repeatedly in front of everyone, with jeers and cheers given out in equal measure.

Besides that, he hated art. After a time, my very open "Art Fag" fashion design friend from art school had moved into my aunt's apartment with me (I thought she could help me out with expenses), and he hated her, too, but he had opened the door widely to other personalities a while ago. He justified to me that his roaming eye for other girls was from being a virgin when we met, but that was years ago. He had attended a very expensive, all-boys Jesuit prep school in Manhattan, while I busted my ass working after-school jobs in a very good but very public school system here in 70s and 80s-era working class Rockland County. He lived in the house his grandparents had built for their family, with their prominently displayed, large, gilded Quebecois fleur-de-lis painted in the living rooms' four corners, while his very large French Canadian ex-Marine dad sat regally in his recliner watching whatever he said he wanted to, attended to by his much smaller and mousier Irish-American mother, who snapped briskly to whatever house chores needed doing.

They had six children who still lived with their parents, with the exception of their already-married sister, which is the tradition for most strict Roman Catholic families. His parents were very much that, and loudly proud of it, too. French Canadians, like Irish people, still suffer from the stigma attached to multiple child births without practicing birth control, which created a lot of largely impoverished families wherever we went around the globe, but such was not the case with his Union-funded father and his very large family. As the youngest, Bart did his chores like I did mine (he was assigned laundry duty = ugh), because all hands are needed to pitch in for a large house to run, and our families were no exceptions to the rule. Work hard, play hard. Got it.

Easy, right? But for him, it wasn't. He struggled with sometimes the simplest decisions, like what to eat and when to do it, or with whom and how many are invited? He justified his unfaithfulness to me in Montreal as necessary experiences that would satisfy me in his future as my husband, because I had been forced by circumstances not of my own choosing to become a "Lady of the Household" before I felt that I was really ready for it, which was part of the abuse behind it: to drive me out of the house and into much deeper adult waters in a world where I would get hurt and ultimately recover from, as is my natural way. I didn't really care about dating while attending in the world's hardest design university, as yet another high performing place where I worked three part-time jobs in between an unheard of school schedule that was just studio classes (please don't try it), which were much harder, longer, and labor-intensive, and which was the total opposite of his relatively easy studies that were typical for liberal arts students, where one could hide in the back of a darkened classroom taking notes and writing papers for grades; simple as pie on Thanksgiving for someone like me.

I knew back home in Brooklyn that I had to break up with him when school was done, because he wouldn't be able to move forward with me, and that he would make it prolonged for me to do so, by being his usual gruelingly overly verbal and excessively repetitive self, becoming highly difficult to handle emotionally because he cannot process change nor adapt to others around him well, or sometimes at all. It was painful and childish and I had grown up. Enough. He forced me into dating much more powerful academics than him while I was at R.I.S.D. and so I had, but that was that. I walked through a doorway you can't close shut, even as I warned him that that would be the case with me, because I know how to move on if I have to.

It became crystal clear to me about what I had to do with him, during one afternoon at a park in Bay Ridge down by the water, as we sat in the warm afternoon sun discussing the next weekend's plans. My roommate was busy getting her ass kicked at a sweater company in the city, where she was pushed to the side by better designers with much bigger personalities who fought way harder for what they wanted, because working class native New York kids have to do that just to get a seat at the table at dinnertime, and she had none of that. Neither did he, but because of his exclusive roots, he didn't need them. Plush union jobs during school were easy to get for him, at a rich-kid $20/hour working the door. Irish? You're in!

Not so with me, and I was getting pestered regularly by my friend who was already not making it in the city, because the hungrier and more talented designers were ripping her apart on the daily. She needed enabling, and with the fast track I was on as a publishing apprentice, there was no way I could tend to her on my own anymore, what with the amount of mental problems and breakdowns she was having without a full circle of friends to prop her up anymore to keep her going through her own life. And so, one sunny afternoon in Bay Ridge, I tried to introduce her into his routine badly, or as good as it was going to get given the concrete infallibilities that hid his compulsive routines. Could she come to dinner with me at your parent's place? Uh oh. He immediately stiffened, bristling at the amount of work and smoothing over that the introduction of a new person would be into his insular family circle; a stale, old place where all the grown working men still lived with their parents, with the exception of his older sister who was married. No way. Not happening, Marie. Not enough time to introduce it and then groom them with this new information.

OK....fine. How about the three of us go to dinner somewhere, like the working young adults we'd become? That was even worse. He reddened, looking away at the water, struggling to disseminate this new information given to him in his old neighborhood, "B-b-b-but I look forward to my mother's pot roast all week! I have to have my mother's pot roast every Sunday! I look forward to it all week long!", and that was it. I broke up with him the very next weekend, and I had to nurse my crippled roommate into helping me inform everyone in my circle that I had just broken up with my best friend from school, because he can't go the places I can go, and that was that. I spent the next years (YEARS) coaching everyone around me about why Bart and I had to part ways, because he isn't gifted enough to be in my world, and isn't that the way for each and every mother out there in the world, reading this right now?

You're trying to have a good cry over a glass of white wine alone in a room, and also comforting the dysfunctional people around you through your major life change. I made it through (this site is proof enough of that), but this year, guess what this hard-working girl's gonna be doing in her own apartment? Whatever I want to, friends, and "Amen" to that! I made it through alive to tell you all the tale, and thank G-d for that. There was never enough air in his parent's stuffy drawing room for me, anyway. Have one on me this year, girlfriend. You deserve it, too.

Borderline

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Police_dog

Being an international drug dealer is nerve-wracking work, not that I had great credentials. My asshole boyfriend from Oneonta forced me into it as a student, like the babbling controlling douchebag he really is. One of his older brothers was taller and more handsome than he was, attending school at the same time. His boho musician lifestyle (he was dating John Cryer's half-sister at the time) fascinated his younger brother, without my boyfriend having any genuine talents besides smoking pot and talking on and on and on about it. He works in entertainment as a lawyer now. Being a "bullshit artist" is his true gift, which made him hate the arts (and people in the arts) even more. 
I knew I had to jettison him later on down the line, because of his obvious distaste for skill sets that he could never possess, but that didn't stop him from trying to use and abuse me while he could. 

When I told him I would be attending art school in some way in the near-future, he decided to act like I was a cruel deceiver to him that he could thwart by transferring to McGill University as a SUNY student first, like my life existed only in relation to him and his ego. Along with his weird baby-style head games came a huge host of other insecurities he had a very long list to, that he found extremely exciting to bore you with in overwrought detail, like how his musician bro could lure women to him, because he was a lover. It seemed to him to be this pretend magnet that other people had, as a greater superpower he couldn't deconstruct for himself, no matter how hard he tried.
I basically gave in to him and his whining, if he carried on long enough (he's the youngest of six children), like a harried exhausted mom with toddlers would. Yeah, fine, let's move on from this, will ya? 

And that's exactly how his hare-brained scheme involving pot came to be. Once he found out that I was willing to take a train from Grand Central Station all the way to Montreal, he thought he had a real "live" one on the line. He seized onto this idea that his classmates would be driven wild with fan appreciation over his securing real weed for them, because all they had in Canada was hash, and I knew by the way he drove me to it, that he had a real hidden agenda, which was this: getting me arrested and derailing my college career by getting me thrown into jail, because I got into a great Ivy League school, which proved that I'm smarter and more talented than him, despite all the tall tales he'd been feeding to his friends up there, where he thought he could lie his way to success, and that's exactly how it went down. 
He thought he got "the jump" on me by using his superior mental powers to browbeat me into buying a quarter bag of pot that I carefully hid among my stuff. 

Sure, it was a tense half an hour or so of waiting, when the train stopped at the borderline between the states and Canada, but, of course, he'd actually schooled me in their exact time frames (because actual criminals are not as smart as the cops who catch them, in real life), because luckily for me, he couldn't resist the urge to prove to me how brilliant he was in his plan, by actually talking me all the way through it. Sure enough, Border Patrol came through with bomb/drug-snuffing German Shepherds and everything, but because my suitcase was stowed high above my head on the racks above me (and out of reach of anyone else), the cops took one look at my angelic little face, read my passport and paperwork, and then moved on down the line. 
It took awhile for them to go down the entire length of the train, but scour it they did, until the final lurch of the car that signaled we were moving on. Whew! I made it! 

He'd also done the same strange contest with me about pot in Amsterdam during a summertime trip to Europe, hoping that I would get caught and he wouldn't, but all that happened was that he smoked pot over the rest of his summer at his family's home in Bay Ridge, while I rode it out empty-pocketed in New City, because my pot portion was nabbed by a stoner mail carrier, and his was not. That was it. Once I got to his school in Montreal, all that happened as a result of my pot stash was that we got high with his friends while drinking Canadian beer, instead of smoking hash in Oneonta while drinking New York beer. Like, wow, dude. It was kind of like driving across the border to buy beer with a higher alcohol content in Canada, and then driving it back to O-town: all we did with it was have a party. That was it. 

He tried his hand at a few other petty con games, like saying that his rather ugly (but, like, wayyy smarter) Canadian friends had given him the bad news that I was incredibly beautiful but, like, unfortunately for me, not as smart as him, like they were some college board I hoped to "ace", but that the good news was that they could totally see why he was attracted to me, which he delivered in a rather sour, downcast way, like a doctor giving his patient bad news. Awwww, that's too bad, Bart....<insert frown face here> In another unfortunate coincidence for him, I was already accepted into the best art and design school in the world with the lowest admission rates on Planet Earth (as well as every other high-ranking art school I applied to), while his "brilliant" friend Jean-Paul was relegated to a small-time Nova Scotian art school for his next college degree, in this highly ironic Acadian twist that's all me and my true grit, done for you in this century, y'all. You in my country now, boy! And that's exactly how it all goes down in this girls' real life "Game of Thrones": game, set, match. Done! See you on the beach 'round the bonfire, mes amis. This mama's coming home.

Throwaway Culture

Many Americans have been trained by advertisers, promoters, and marketers to see their time as so valuable (like the President of these United States) in this busy, busy, busy world, that they need shortcuts to every single chore on the planet. Too tired from working three jobs to wash your face? No problem! We've got you covered. Want to remove dust and harmless fluffies from your hardwood floor? Hey, that's too lowly a chore for someone as "exceptional" as you. Use these throw-out sheets instead. It's fun, and any idiot can do it. 

The only problem with constant convenience-themed living is that you actually need to have something really valuable to replace what you stole from nature. Want to see what your stupid fucking dryer sheets look like in our ecosystem? Here you go, ass-wipe:

http://www.cbs46.com/story/27431955/disposable-wipes-clogging-equipment-increasing-costs-for-customers

That kind of quick, easy fix doesn't seem so appealing anymore, does it? It's really disgusting, and you're not worth it. Believe me. You're not the center of the universe. Hard to fathom, but true. Instead of using paper napkins, I use cloth ones that I wash. Weird, but yes. Instead of wiping floors with throwaway wipes or paper towels, I use my old t-shirts that I dampen with water. Being evil just doesn't seem as fun anymore, right? I know.

Take it to the bank

Traditional banking is going away for good, and I mean that sincerely. Why put your money in a safe house that's compromised? You don't. Banks were supposed to be the place where your paycheck was protected from the bad guys, but a fortress is only as good as its' security. As recent as two years ago, anyone could deposit money into any type of account, under any name, with no I.D. check. Yeah, that means what you're thinking. Your nice grandma with the fly car also has a grandson who deals drugs, and every week he'd put stinking cash reeking of pot smoke into her account, without anyone doing anything about it.

But that's why criminals worked as "inside men" at banks nationwide: that's where the money is, and that's what robbers steal. The banking industry has become such a magnet for illicit use (Off-shore banking, anyone? Sweden?), that the notoriously criminal firm of Goldman Sachs* recently announced their entrance into the banking game, for rich people only, of course: http://www.businessinsider.com/goldman-chair-writes-anticorruption-letter-2015-2.

I had my own run-in with the old crime syndicate a few years back, one that has its' hooks into every con in town, real estate and the city court systems included. The system temporarily bankrupted me, but not before I made each one of their key players do every financial tap dance there is, because no one messes with me and gets away with it. I am always a native New Yorker, no matter where I go.  

As the world's capital, we've always been a very wealthy area. Commerce was my dinner table conversation growing up, hence the lack of a business school on my curriculum vitae, but you didn't know that about me, did you? No, you didn't. That's because my dad was a greaser who played suckers for pool, one of my granddads' was a bookie during the Depression (in between pony rides), and they both taught me how to shuffle a deck of cards, just in case that junkie in Times Square wanted to shake me down playing "Three Card Monty" back in the day. So, we're back to the beginning, right? Not exactly.

After a corrupt system robbed me of all my pocket change, I was forced to do what I do best: improvise under the gun in the tightest of squeezes, which is exactly what I did. It's called "High Performing" in the circles where strong games are played. I ditched all my accounts, ran on cash, lived off my tax refund with a debit card from a chain tax service, then ditched that debit card the next year for a hard check. 

Of course, the well-known tax service couldn't cash it for me, because they aren't a bank. I knew that already, because I know businesses from the inside-out, and that's exactly what was told back to me: my own answer coming out of some admin's mouth (sorry, I meant "Office Manager"), which is certainly not my first ride around the block.

So, if you think financial calisthenics is the type of bloodsport you can handle, have at it. I know I can do any kind of weird gymnastics the system wants to throw my way. Sick and tired of being played? I got your back.  Read, learn, then do.

http://comptroller.nyc.gov/takeittothebank/

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thou_shalt_not_steal

   http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/cake/shortskirtlongjacket.html

Christmas Movie

Two little Christmas trees: one for Bernard, and one for me (2014).

After my father left his family for points west, seeking fame and fortune with a new model wife that was (and is) his secretary, we were left to our own devices, and we knew that, because our mom repeatedly told us so. Mommie Dearest wasn't just some histrionic soap opera of a movie that appealed to gay men; we lived its' truth each and every day. Not long after my father left with his money, borrowing against the home we lived in, we almost immediately fell onto hard times financially, which was the exact revenge he was looking to put upon our heads, as a price for his supposed long term suffering. It was cruel, childish, spiteful, and mean, which was exactly what he wanted, because he wanted us to feel the same hurt he felt as the child of alcoholics, except this hurt he would deliver by alternating giving and then withdrawing money from us, giving him the power to hurt us and then publicly pretend to heal us whole with his generosity, as he saw fit: a cheap phony publicity stunt that fooled no one, and it still doesn't.

Suffice to say, my mother began having nervous breakdowns, which was the burden he wanted to fall on us, like reigning blows down upon our young heads, except this wasn't something he and my mom could get caught for by the local child protective services. It was cleverly vicious, secretive, and mean, which again, was the whole point: to make us feel that, whenever he wanted to, he could bring a sharp blade down upon our necks to hurt us from afar, if he so choose, for whatever reasons he saw fit, so that we could never win and "beat" him, sick as that is. And so began his pattern of control with money as a resource, always keeping us needy and afraid, the exact opposite of the comfort a father is supposed to provide for his children, so that we would forever relive the horrors of his childhood over and over again, using my mother's mental illness as the delivery mechanism he employed through covert manipulation. It became a simple equation: squeeze her = hurt us. Easy. He would continue to do that forever until his death that would reach to extend long after he was gone, until I finally put a stop to it, but more on that story some other day. His sneaky nasty behavior would be done quickly, shakily, and hastily, like that of a furtive sidelong glance over the shoulder, looking for witnesses to his crimes. He refused health care for his mental problems, again, to cause suffering through his arrogance and spite, like the mean drunks who so harassed and terrified him in his youth.

And so, my mother told us during one very histrionic episode, when my young teenage brother and I tried in vain to console her, we said we would chip in for all our household expenses by financially carrying our own weight, which we already did through household chores in excess, supposedly to "earn" our "allowance", but really, we kept the entire house going through our continued labors. In retaliation for the gift of offering her our services readily, (My brother: "Come on, Mom. It won't be that bad. We'll get jobs and chip in. It'll be okay."), my mother burst into childish angry tears, turning bright red, bringing forth the veins on her forehead, horribly contorting her features into a wrathful mask of hate, and spitting out curses at me when I backed him up. "YOU STUPID BITCH!" she screamed as she turned on me, "You don't get it!! We're broke!", slamming her bedroom door in both of our freshly frightened faces. My brother and I stood in mute horror for a moment, in the hallway outside her shut door, before slowly and quietly walking back to our rooms alone, to sit in quiet contemplation of our lives and this new found responsibility as heads of household. I was just 14 years old, and my brother 15. "What are we going to do?" I softly asked him. "I don't know. I guess we have to find jobs this weekend." I wearily sat down on my small twin bed, keeping my door slightly ajar so my Irish twin could see me and come talk to me, if he so chose. Oh. Yes. That. Work.

We had worked on and off since childhood, with our kiddie elementary school work permits for paper routes, but this was different. If we didn't figure it out, we could die, and neither of us really wanted that. We wanted to live. I began my official work history with Social Security services at age 15, as did my brother, which found me and my mother alone one Christmas day, because he had to go to work. You see, for many Jews in New York, Christmas is just another inconvenience of closed shopping malls and restaurants. Their holiday fare eventually became Chinese food, after discovering their shared non-Christian status in the "Open" sign glowing brightly in the window of the local Chinese restaurant in their neighborhood, such is the close proximity that is our vast Melting Pot in New York City, thus beginning their own New World tradition. 

But, that still left us to tend to them here in Rockland County, just as we tended to ourselves and every other person around us who needs us, and there were legions who sought us out, even back then, tender and young as we were as new parents, but we did do it, by the grace of G-d's gifts bestowed upon us, the least of which are our extraordinary patience, incredible work ethic, kind and generous compassion and empathy, with a deep sensitivity and regard for the suffering of others. I still thank G-d for keeping those qualities intact in us, especially in the soft bright blues eyes of a young boy who went to work for the local Jewish people here in our home county, as a clerk in a movie theater one rainy afternoon, returning home with a huge bag of popcorn to surprise us with, when we let out a sigh of relief at his safe return home, finally beginning our true Christmas Day together as a family, a holiday we could only start after his labors ended, alone and derided by the very people who understood our suffering the least. 
They mocked him for being slow behind the food counter (because he was working alone on a holiday, as a teenage movie theater manager), or if he got their order mixed up due to the sheer volume of their derisively snorted requests, or because he didn't take their money fast enough for their tickets, mocking him when he swept up the aisles of the theater for having the decency to tend to them on his holiday, while they rested in comfortable darkness to watch some banal movie onscreen, like a zoned-out legion of half dead zombies.

I want you to think of him this holiday, when you belligerently complain about the delayed or postponed or cancelled release of some stupid ass-kissing buddy comedy that you've been so "cruelly" deprived of this year. You see the pure face of a beautiful blue-eyed boy in a dark theater on a dark Christmas morning opening some mall theater alone, as I had to see him, with tears in his eyes, cleaning up the garbage that you threw at him when he walked past you slowly up the aisle to do yet another task for you, like clean the bathroom you fouled up with your mess of mocking graffiti and strewn toilet paper, mixed with piss and vomit and shit and stink and mess. You think about that this year instead, and May G-d have mercy on your soul for your cruelty, selfishness, false pride, and injustice. May G-d help you during His Final Judgement when He weighs your sins in front of you one by one, when you cannot turn away from them. May G-d be with you then. 

Amen to you on this Christmas in the year of Our Lord, 2014.  Amen to you, with my blessings for a safe, healthy, happy holiday.