I let out a dirty little secret here last month. A shameful secret. I was an Oops - Dammit! baby. (Brother and sister have confirmed it was no secret to them that our mother hated my being born.) During this long blog silence I've been digesting the fact that her rejection said a lot about her and nothing about me. It had everything to do with her capacity to love, her depression, her alcoholism. I mean, this is embarrassing. " Even your own mother couldn't love you!" Yes, yes, yes, my husband assured me the idiot was her, not me. But, without him here... shame crawled right back onto my back. The last straw was being the butt of a family joke for doing the very thing my husband would have been thrilled to do with me - hug the statues on Easter Island.
Obviously I need assertiveness training with the old crowd. Those hulking egos, swaggering about with sharp claws and non-stop chatter when I elbow in, are mere shadows of their former selves. Aren't we all. So. Time for a little target practice. Not on whoever is left of my dear family. Nope. The target's those three idiot monkeys my mother shoved on when I was within spitting distance. The fur is going to fly! One monkey is called the Patronizer, who says, 'You're weird.". One called the Greek Seer, warning "Rejection ahead! " And the third, of course, is Shame "Even your own mother didn't love you. What do you expect?" Together they supply enough apprehension and anxiety to make me pee in my pants.
I have complied a list of options for dealing with such monkeys.
- Do battle with them. This is best done at night; You're awake anyway
- Join the Monkey of the Month Club. If that gets boring, join the Monkey of the Day Club
- Write them off with a tell all memoir
- Recycle them onto someone else's back
- Give them something to knock them out. Xanax, Chocolate, Whiskey, Haagen Dazs
- Starve them. You'll lose weight, too
- Smoke them out. Works for moles, maybe monkeys too
- Make hay of them. Slice, dice, mince, chop. Then leave outside to deodorize
- Make fireworks of them. Tonight!
- Put them in back in the stork's sack. Tie it airtight and watch it fly
- Tie a big helium balloon to their toe. Release
- Add clay and shape into a cross
- Tune out. What monkeys?
- Leave the office door open. SUPERMANAGER inside
- Teach your monkey how to paint or sing. Add tin cup
- Call Monkey Removal. 1-800-shitbegone
- Educate the Monkeys. Monkeys with law degrees live in nice homes
- Read up on Monkeys. Earn your PhMonkeyD
- Tack your monkey to the bullseye. Now load your rifle
Hey, I would hug the statues on Easter Island, too, if I ever go there. That's not even close to being weird.
ReplyDeleteI would bury your monkeys in a Mason jar in the back yard and not give them another thought. You don't need them anymore, now that you've had your childhood memories validated by your siblings. Why allow your mother's mental issues and alcoholism continue to rob you of your self-worth? Being patronized and rejected---in varying degrees---is unavoidable in life for everyone. If you know your own self-worth then other people's opinions can't matter.
The Mason jar is a great idea. Bury it where the sun don't shine.LOL Anyway, this post was very cathartic and fun to write. It's good for the soul to give these monkeys the boot and restore my self worth. I have noticed a change. This past month I've been making more overtures and spotting possible new friends.
DeleteGood for you!
DeleteI would have hugged the stones too--I hugged a couple of very old, tall trees in the Redwood forest in N. California--it was wonderful!. Why is that considered weird? I have another suggestion, piss on the Monkey (or the Monkey's grave), you have no idea how satisfying that can be. Just be sure no one else is around when you do it--or you carry the urine there in a Mason jar and just slowly let it pour out on the Monkey's grave and her/his headstone--if anyone sees you, they will think you are watering the grass!
ReplyDeleteLOL I love it! When you think of all the indignities those monkeys submit us to...
ReplyDeleteTo fill out the hugger story. Rules are tightening up the on Easter Island, lest some graffiti artist paint day glow eyes on the heads. Our tour leader read my sister and I the riot act after I >>> !touched ! <<< the stone beneath the giant heads. Reverently, mind you. So this little rascal got in mind to HUG a head after this little prepackaged tour was through. We rented a jeep, explored the rest of the island, and I hugged away. The best part of my trip!
There was a time when I would not have hugged the statues but wished I had when I got home. Now I'd do some huggin'. Live and learn.
ReplyDeleteExactly! No more missed opportunities. Glad to hear from you!
ReplyDelete