Of Parents and Weirdos

            by Ariel Krizack

 

            My mother spanked me when I was a child. And not just when I was bad. No, she spanked me when I was nervous, anxious, tired, hungry; pretty much for anything. This one time, when we were at Waterworld, she spanked me because I spilled nacho cheese on my inner tube that she stole from some other kid. Now when I say spanked, I really mean tooshie-tapped. Yes, a nice, good tooshie-tap. I think she believed they were appropriate in any situation. They were her way of saying, “Stop that,” or “We’ll be there soon,” or “Quit stickin’ your finger up there.”

            My mother was a little loopy. Actually, that is an extreme understatement. She was bonkers, off the walls, a grade ‘A’ nutso. I guess anyone would be if they worked as a door to door salesman for potpourri. I’ve spent countless hours listening to her describe the difference between the smell of Ocean Breeze and Mountain Air. “See now, Ocean Breeze has that sandy smell to it. Do you smell that dear? Do ya? Come on, smell the damn potpourri.”

             My mother would make ridiculous claims, like she knew the formula for human cloning and that she was the secret love child of Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan. She would also accuse our dog of using the microwave to bake muffins that he would later throw up because he was secretly bulimic.

            It’s interesting, because my father, on the contrary, was quite normal. Almost too normal. He disregarded most things my mother would say or do, but always enjoyed her company, and the sight of her giant chest which was exposed more frequently than Paris Hilton’s… well, youknowwhat. My father simply went on with his life as a lawyer, loving father and husband, and lawn bowling champion. You know that saying, “Everyone eventually becomes their mother?“ Well, unfortunately for me, this was true.

            I think one of things that makes my mother so interestingly crazy is the random encounters she has had with people even more random. When my mother was in high school she decided to take a philosophy class at the local community college. She thought she could earn her credits quicker and thus make the rest of high school easier. Now, this class was open to anyone, and boy do I mean anyone. She soon began to mingle with the offbeat philosophy crowd; consisting of hobos, recovering drug addicts, drug addicts, and the usual whack job hanging around downtown. She befriended the guy who was somehow always on an acid trip, coming down from and acid trip, or about to begin his acid trip. Plays with Squirrels, is what he usually liked people to call him. Although my mother never told me if he actually played with squirrels. After class my mother would braid his long, tangled hair and weave in the colorful beads he liked to collect. My mother loved the attention she received from Plays with Squirrels, but when he went to rehab she had to find another way to satisfy her craving for attention.

            She soon teamed up with Diane, the friendly, homeless, guitar-playing, 44 year old from the class. They wrote songs together and performed them by the BART station on Diane‘s guitar. My mother says their sound was a bit of the Indigo Girls mixed with Madonna. I try to imagine what that would sound like,… oh yes, not good at all. Diane was a kind woman, but a bit unapproachable. The gypsy clothes and makeup caked face made her look witch-esque.  Not to mention the giant mole to the left of her giant nose. I met Diane once and may I just say, I don’t think it’s healthy to have a mole that big on one’s face. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. It was like a big, pussy pimple just waiting to be popped, or in this case, sliced off. I literally had to hold myself back from grabbing a knife and cutting it right off her face. But I suppose that didn’t bother my mother. Her and Diane were music partners for two years. They grew apart though when Diane decided to switch her drug of choice from Tylenol to heroin. Mother said she had found a better way to ease her pain. I was young when my mother told me about Diane, I didn’t know what pain she was talking about, so I just assumed the giant mole on her face became heavy and her cheek fell off. Simple enough for me.

            So have you ever heard of people who aren’t necessarily weird, they just attract the weirdos? Well, that’s me. And it’s one of the many things my mother and I have in common. My father always told me that he didn’t approve of hard drugs: ecstasy, meth, crack, etc. But he was a firm supporter in the fight for the legalization of marijuana. “Now I don’t really see any downside to smoking pot, but whatever you do, just don’t get caught up with the police for it.” He talked to me about marijuana when I was very young, so naturally I started smoking it at a young age, around eleven I think it was. You’ll have to excuse me, my memory is a bit hazy. So, having a stoner dad + smoking at age eleven = having stoner friends. And having stoner friends = random shit happens with random people.

            One day a couple of my friends and I were walking around, smoking some joints, and contemplating what to do with the day. We settled on tree climbing, a regular activity  among  the stoners in our town. We weren’t in an ambitious mood, we just wanted to sit and look at the view. Bench In A Tree became our destination. And yes, it is an actual bench in a tree. I don’t know how it got there, or why it’s there, but I can tell you that it is an excellent site for three types of people: tree huggers, stoners, and tree-hugging stoners. So, we’re sitting in the bench, Billy Joe is rolling another joint, and suddenly we hear, “Getonoutthereyouyouyoudamnkidsandyourdamnpot!” And it sounded just like that too. The words were all jumbled together and coming out of the mouth of an overweight, woman version of George Clinton of The Parliament Funkadelic. Her hair was dreaded with every color of the rainbow, her face and arms were stained with what looked like glitter glue, and her hippie attire had obviously not been washed since Woodstock. Billy Joe gave the woman an angry glare with a well used, “Fuck off.” Now this only made lady George Clinton even angrier. She proceeded to yell louder, shake the tree with unbelievable strength, and make noises that I did not know were physically possible to come from a human. At this point, we were already really high and every time I looked down I saw a crazy, colorful monster opening her mouth wider and wider like she was going to eat us. My heart started pounding. I didn’t know what to do, and without even thinking I jumped from the bench to ground (about 20 feet). Of course, I didn’t land on my feet. No, I landed on my stomach and slid down the hill like a lost snowboard on the ski slopes. “Oh shit!,” I hear as I lied there with a face full of dirt. My friends were still in the tree, trying desperately to hold back their laughter. I attempted to get up and make it seem like it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Unsuccessful. “Damngirlyougothurtyoudidwoooooo.” Oh no, she was coming for me! I could hear her lard legs thundering down the hill, her beads and baubles swishing every which way. I screamed, “Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Then I quickly stood up and ran, didn’t know where I was running to, but I ran. “Bitchbetternotcomearoundmytreenomore,“ I heard her screaming as I frantically raced away. I stopped after about a half a mile. I could hear Mitch and Billy Joe calling my name as they appeared around the corner and stopped to catch their breath. “What the hell was that thing?,” I asked. “Some crazy woman,” Mitch replied. “No… that was a monster.”

            I still believe that woman was not simply a human. Sometimes I lie in bed and replay that situation over and over again in my head. And every time I just see this big, colorful blob opening her mouth wider and wider. Bench In A Tree was tainted after that, but sometimes I go back there and look for lady George Clinton. Well, it’s less of looking and more of smoking joints then getting really high and forgetting why I wanted to go there in the first place.

            At this point you might be wondering, why I’m telling you these strange stories? Well, the moral is: Stay away from weirdos or eventually you will become one. Everyone becomes their parents, like it or not. And if you’re parents are the weirdos, you’re pretty much screwed.