Memoir Monday: My Life in France, or, The Summer I Came of Age

Want to write your own memoir and link up? Head over to I Like to Fish and visit Travis!

When I was 14 I traveled to France as an exchange student. I arrived confidently armed with my knowledge of textbook French I'd gleaned under the austere eye of Madame Barr. Yet somehow learning the language from a book with photos of goofy French people on the front

 is light years away from listening to locals speak it: foreign words sparking from their lips like lightning, then a questioning glance at me as I'd blush furiously and say, "Pouvez-vous parlez plus lentement, s'il vous plait?" (Could you please speak more slowly?) Probably the second most commonly uttered phrase I used that summer was, "Je suis desolee, mais je ne comprends pas." (I'm sorry, but I don't understand) Or, when all else failed, "Merde!" (Shit!)

It didn't matter though because there's one language that requires few words--the language of love. Unrequited, lusty powerful, teenaged love. Gautier was his name, wearing too much Farenheit cologne was his game. He wore glasses, had light brown hair, and was quiet and very intellectual looking. In my typical Amazonian fashion, I surpassed him in height by at least two inches. I remember bringing my ancient headphones and (insert cringe here) cassette player with me on the trip (after all, it was 1991), listening frequently to R.E.M. in a hammock overlooking the Mediterranean from our villa on the coast of St. Tropez in southern France:

Oh, life is bigger

It's bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no, I've said too much
I set it up

Dreaming of Gautier's lips on mine and unaware of the tragedy that would befall me a few months later (my father's coming out of the closet), I spent a blissful month in France coming of age.

One day Anne-Sophie, Gautier's younger sister and her BFF Caroline grabbed my doll, whom they'd affectionately dubbed "Puppeynette," from my sandy bed and we managed to sneak into Gautier's room to douse her with his Farenheit cologne. Caroline likewise fancied Gautier, but he seemed to despise merely tolerate us. Just then he caught us and yelled as we laughed our girlish laughs, our bare feet pounding the terra cotta floors while our hair, wavy from the salty ocean water, danced behind us.

Sometimes words weren't necessary.

Munching on French bread dripping with preserves for breakfast on the patio overlooking the boundless sea, the heavy smell of salt hanging in the air. The Mediterranean, which I'd only ever studied in school, was just a short walk from our nine-bedroom villa. Women's breasts on display, laissez-faire attitudes, loads of eateries and giant slices of Tropezienne, a local delicacy, to satisfy my sweet tooth.

Spending that summer with girls my age from another country taught me a few things....

(Anne Sophie, Me, and Caroline at the villa)

--First, that I should scour clean the tub after shaving my legs in order to avoid being the butt of their jokes.

--Secondly, that even though they don't shave and don't bathe as often, people are people and certain things are the same no matter where you are.

--That you will learn the most "real" French by just hanging out with the locals for a lengthy period of time, yet they'll still laugh at your accent.

--There's nothing quite like the stench of the French, especially closed up in a BMW sedan for eight hours without air conditioning (Actually, make it 16 hours, because it was eight hours to St. Tropez and another eight hours back to the family's home in Lille a few weeks later).

But sitting in the middle of the backseat with my arm occasionally brushing up against Gautier's was worth every minute.

Memoir Monday: Mr. JC, Mrs. Lucy, a Lizard Egg and a Seahorse; or, Life is Fragile.

It's Memoir Monday, folks! Please write your own & link up with Travis over at I Like To Fish!

When I was five years old, we lived in the grey house at 3003 Creole Drive in Houma, Louisiana, and had some sweet neighbors, Mr. JC and Mrs. Lucy, who were in their 70s. Though very nice, Mr. JC was a quiet, shy man who liked to tinker with his green pick-up truck while clad in his favorite worn overalls. Mrs. Lucy, on the other hand, was a tiny thing with wiry white hair and was far more engaging than her husband. Their Boxer, appropriately named Chaos, is the reason my brother and me developed an intense fear of dogs as children. Being so young, we hadn't yet grasped the concept that if you run, the dog will surely chase you.

Mrs. Lucy loved to work in her garden and one day brought me a treasure she'd discovered there. It was in a small white gift box perched lightly on a perfect square of white cotton. An impossibly small white egg lay inside. It couldn't have been larger than the eraser on the tip of a pencil.

"It looks like a lizard egg to me," she said, peering down her nose over her glasses. "Now take good care of it until it hatches." I gently took the box and placed it on my windowsill where the sunlight streamed in, warming it a bit.

Days crawled by like clouds while my curiosity grew quickly, like a pesky clump of crab grass. With my heart pounding, knowing life was inside, I tentatively touched the egg with the tip of my finger and jumped back in fear, expecting it to wiggle about. It did not. I became brave and gingerly placed the egg on my palm. I was desperate for the baby lizard to emerge. I don't remember when I determined I could bear it no longer. While holding the egg in my left hand and ever so slightly pressing on it with the index finger of my right hand, yellow liquid began oozing out. I gasped and choked and started to cry. Where was the baby lizard Mrs. Lucy had promised?

Just then Mom came in and realized what I'd done. Shaking her head sadly, she said, "Come on, sweetheart," and guided me to the bathroom to cleanse my crime from my shaking hands.

That day I learned that life is fragile and that I needed to take responsibility.

Soon after I was visiting my Grandma Frances' house in New Orleans and paused as I washed my hands in her bathroom. In the corner next to the hand towels, Grandma had a small bowl filled with beachy things like Conch shells, starfish, and a baby seahorse. I immediately plugged up the sink and filled it to the brim with water. I put the starfish and seahorse in, naively believing I could resuscitate them, breathe life back into them, undo the harm that had been done, or perhaps redeem myself for the baby lizard fiasco.

Obviously that didn't happen.

These memories and others have shaped me into who I am. I am overprotective and imagine that my own daughters are fragile, like baby birds in danger of falling out of their nest. "Be careful," and  "Don't do that, you could hurt yourself," are phrases I utter several times a day rather than letting them figure it out on their own.

I have also learned that I am capable of hurting things or people. I am scared to reach out, for fear I might crush someone. That my love will be overwhelming and too much, suffocating.

I also carry a heavy burden. I have an overwhelming love for all living creatures, big or small. It physically pains me to see them hurting or suffering. That is one thing about this oil spill that I cannot forgive myself for---because I have done this. We have all had a role in this---this need and greed for oil. We need it too much. I feel so guilty and responsible lately, with this crushing weight on my chest. I killed the lizard and I couldn't save the seahorse or the starfish. And I certainly can't save the pelicans, the turtles, the birds, the hermit crabs or the fish, let alone the beaches and the Gulf.

Life is so fragile. We are balancing on a precarious tightrope.

But is there a safety net?

Memoir Monday: My Fear of Flying (not Erica Jong's), or Why Pan Am Went Down (Literally)

It's Memoir Monday, everyone, so if you'd like to play along, go visit my pal Travis over at I Like to Fish and link up!




Like Erica Jong, I have a Fear of Flying. Only mine doesn't have anything to do with zippers, sex, or the voyage of self-discovery. Maybe Ms. Jong would disagree. At any rate, the first line of her novel reads:

There were 117 psychoanalysts on the Pan Am flight to Vienna and I'd been treated by at least six of them.



Coincidentally, my tale today revolves around my first, last, and only time aboard a Pan Am flight circa 1983 (I was seven years old). I was with my Gramma Frances and we were flying from New Orleans to Houston, which happens to be a quick 50-ish minute flight.

When we boarded, I was given a fun, fancy packet containing a coloring book, crayons, stickers, and even a pin with wings on it. All featured the Pan Am logo, of course, and I kept the coloring book for years afterwards, though I'm not sure exactly why.

We had to fly through a bad thunderstorm. Maybe we hit an air pocket. Maybe lightning struck our plane. I'll never know. All I remember is that suddenly we began bobbing around violently and then we plummeted at least 1,000 feet. A gaggle of teenaged girls traveling together all screamed simultaneously. The overhead compartments opened and the oxygen masks fell into our faces, the tubes hanging and writhing like snakes. Intensifying our fears, the lights in the plane went out, plunging us into darkness. The plane bucked and jumped, I screamed and cried. Gramma remained pretty calm (or she was trying for my benefit), and I remember her holding me tightly and telling me we were going to be fine.

And then as abruptly as it had all started, it stopped. The plane leveled out. The lights clicked back on. The pilot apologized for the turbulence, and said the oxygen masks wouldn't be necessary.

But the damage had already been done. To this day at the age of 33, I am still a Nervous Nelly when it comes to flying. I've made great strides in recent years (mostly because I know I need to show a brave face for my children and not pass my fear along), but every now and again there's a flight that will reduce me to sniveling, snorting, and shaking, gripping my armrests until my knuckles are white. Takeoffs and landings don't really bother me. If I can see the ground with its buildings, streets, grass, etc., I am pretty calm. But I despise being in the clouds where I can't see anything. I loathe turbulence. And if the fasten seatbelt sign is on, I'm on high alert.

I anxiously await the day when it will inevitably happen all over again, like it did in 1983.
What are you afraid of? Did something particular happen to trigger it? How old were you? If you have conquered your fear, how did you do so?

Memoir Monday: Even Stay-At-Home-Moms Do Karaoke (Badly), or, Bringing Mom Sexy Back Mommyologist Style

Today's the day, folks. Time to link up to Travis over at I Like To Fish!

So while today's tale doesn't truly qualify as a memoir because it just happened over the weekend, I am blatantly ignoring disregarding the rules of the genre and posting anyway. Because I'm a rebel like that.

The Mommyologist did a post last week about Bringing Mom Sexy Back. If you haven't done so already, please read it here. Ladies and gents, The Mother Load brought Sexy Mom back Saturday night. In a big way. And I have the dirt photos to prove it. I wore makeup (shocker), my new earrings and I even ditched my tennis shoes for a pair of black booties. I dared to wear a slinky Banana Republic top that's been hiding in the back of my closet for over a year with the tags still on it. I shook my money maker and belted out the lyrics to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" although I can't carry a tune and sound like a sick cat when I sing. I really wanted to do Madonna's "Material Girl," but I was out voted. Which was too bad because I was totally channeling Madge Saturday night. I might've even sounded better singing something I've known all the words to since I was nine. Oh well---next time, maybe (if there is a next time!).

My other Bringing Mom Sexy Back friends were right up there with me. We bonded over beer and a bad karaoke band. They didn't even have the tv's, man. No little ball bouncing over the lyrics. We had to strain and squint at a single piece of paper we all had to share. Not the ideal karoake situation, to be sure. But we didn't care because we were the shit.

(See? I'm always the Amazon in the middle. WTH?)


The Mommyologist describes her Bringing Mom Sexy Back Moment:

"Since I’d gotten over that initial “new-kid-in-school” first night fear, I was able to get into a better groove and let my guard down a little more last night. Actually, I think I let my guard down a LOT. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but as soon as Shakira started playing over the speakers, a feeling of empowerment came over me, and in that moment I went from being a stay-at-home mom with A-cup breasts, a bit of a muffin-top, and a dimpled tush to a complete and total sex symbol."

I really related to this. I'm not Karaoke Girl. I'm not Slinky Top Girl. I'm not Makeup and Skinny Jeans Girl, either. I'm usually Dirty Sweatpants Mommy, Three-Days-Since-I-Showered-Mommy and Mommy Who Yells A Lot. But Saturday night I threw that baggage out the window along with my sports bra. I put on that Mom Sexy persona. I walked the walk and talked the talk--for a little while. And you know what?

I had a blast.

How do you bring Sexy Back?

Memoir Monday: Shrinking to Fit, or Finally Growing a Nice Pair of Cojones.

If you'd like to participate, please go visit Travis over at I Like to Fish!

After my college graduation ceremony, my mom and her sister came back to my dorm room to help me finish packing in order to move me back home. My Auntie Maureen had a fabulous idea: she took the purple sheets off of my bed, spread them out on the floor, and began tossing my clothes, shoes, notebooks, cd's, and whatever else she could find on top of them. Then we wrapped the sheets up, twisted the ends and hauled the bulging Santa-like sacks out to the parking lot.

My ornery grandfather and one of my brothers were already waiting for us there in my car, a Nissan Altima. Mom and Auntie Maureen sat in the front, and I sat in the back in the middle (I was in no shape to drive, having just said a tearful goodbye to my boyfriend), flanked by Grandpa on one side and my brother, Kevin, on the other. As soon as Mom careened the car onto I-55 South, Grandpa started jabbing me with his bony elbow.

"Move over," he grumbled at me.

"Grandpa, there's not a ton of room back here, I'm doing the best I can," I assured him, as I scrunched myself up smaller to appease him. Annie Altima wasn't a large car to begin with.

After more grunting and grumbling, he says it, words I can't forget:

"Well maybe if your shoulders weren't so broad and you weren't so big," he barked.

My mom's eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. Don't listen to him, they said. Yet it was too late.

I had never noticed my broad shoulders before, but ever since I catch myself---hunching, shrinking to fit, trying to make myself smaller. More agreeable. Passive. Invisible. All because of a thoughtless comment uttered 12 years ago.

I won't do it anymore. For anyone. You see, I am cultivating a nice pair of cojones. You can't step on me anymore. You can't whittle me down and force me to fit into the space you've provided.

This is the end of an era. It's been a long time coming.

I will not shrink to fit.

Memoir Monday: My Big Fat Greek Life

Kelly over at Speaking From the Crib inspired me to do a post today about my Greek experiences in college. I'm going to cheat bend the rules a bit because this also coincides with Memoir Monday hosted by Travis over at I Like to Fish. Please go check these peeps out to see what the fun is all about!

**I must preface this by saying I was the first female in my family to go Greek. As such, I was not a legacy and did not have any recs because I didn't have a clue.**

In 1994, I was a freshman at Millsaps College in Jackson, Mississippi. I was delusional determined to become a sorority girl to nullify the negative experiences my high school nerdom had brought about. There were four houses on our small campus. Being slightly stupid naive, I thought I would simply attend the rush parties and determine which house I liked best and join there. I quickly chose Kappa Delta and even called my mother on Pref Night to inform her that I would be running to the KD house on Bid Day the following morning. I had gone to KD and Tri Delt prefs, and logically assumed the choice between the two was in my hands. WRONG.

The scene: My dorm, Becky Bacot Hall, 2nd West, Bid Day morning. Enter my Rho Chi, or Rush Counselor, bearing our bid cards. My roommate got hers first (Tri Delta, her first choice) and began jumping around excitedly. My heart started thumping as I tore open my envelope next. I figured I must be going blind because I saw Phi Mu written inside rather than KD. I began to sob. Hard.

And that's when I heard it: the loud wailing coming from the hallway. There were four others like me on 2nd West, four other girls who had desperately wanted to be something besides Phi Mu. We bonded over snot and Kleenex and then dutifully donned our pink and white. We trudged over to the Phi Mu house with tear stains on our cheeks while the other girls clammored over one another to get to their houses.

Fate is a funny thing. I grew to love Phi Mu. I wore my jersey with a big pink ribbon in my hair. I proudly put on goofy costumes year after year:

Yep, me in the middle. Dressed as Piglet. My Big Sis was Winne the Pooh, not pictured here.

I got involved with the chapter once I realized it wasn't all about swaps and parties and baking cookies at the house. I became Spirit Chair. I was Co-Pledge Educator, and then served on the Executive Board as our Panhellenic Representative (which taught me why I couldn't simply "choose " my sorority & how I fell into Phi Mu). But you know what? If I had it to do all over again, I would choose Phi Mu first. I was lucky to have an instant and fabulous group of friends who didn't judge me. Who loved me for being me. And because of our bond, my many walks of shame nights of debauchery will remain secrets they will carry to their graves.

That is me in the middle in the top row. Yes, I am wearing overalls and pigtails.

Yes, they are part of the costume theme thing, but I also wore them regularly

& thought this was acceptable.

To Heather J., Kim T., "Red", and the others in my pledge class of '94: Thank goodness for you! To my big sis Amanda: I miss you & I'm sorry we grew apart once I got engaged. To my three little sisters, Tammy, Christy, and Ann: I LOVE YOU! I also had an amazing Grand Big Sis (Jennifer C.) and Great Grand Big Sis (Rachel A.)--you know how crazy all the family trees can get, right? But it filled a void for me since I never had a real sister. Suddenly I had 50-something. It was overwhelming and lovely and fun.

As sisters, we shared so much. However, it wasn't until right before graduation that we realized exactly how much. At a special ceremony for the seniors one night, we spilled lots of juicy secrets. We realized there was a common male denominator. A certain fraternity boy who shall remain nameless. Apparently he had an affinity for Phi Mu's and made the rounds without our knowledge. A sneaky one, he was. I think at least 5 or 6 out of the 10 of us (including yours truly) who were about to graduate confessed to having fooled around with this guy at some point. I generally don't have a problem with leftovers, but these left a rotten taste in my mouth!

Were you in a sorority/fraternity? Which one? Was it the one you really wanted? What are your favorite memories of those years?

Memoir Monday: The Cool Girl in Grad School, or Why Gravity's Rainbow is My Least Favorite Book

Today is Memoir Monday, hosted by Travis at I Like to Fish. Head on over and check him out to see what all the fuss is about!

When I was in grad school, there was a girl in my program whom I idolized. She epitomized everything I did not: strength, confidence, intelligence, and independence. She had a funky cropped haircut, wore tiny glasses, and came to class wearing her vintage cowboy boots almost every day, no matter the weather. Coincidentally, her name was Erin.

I remember the day she officially became my girl crush don't worry Natalie Portman, you will always be # 1. Sitting in our Postmodernism class discussing Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, she was completely at ease, while I was sweaty and nervous. I remember curling into my chair trying to disappear so the professor wouldn't call on me. If you've never read this book, don't bother. It's unbelievably complex with about a bazillion characters, dialogue that drons on and on, and lots of talk about sex and drugs and weapons of mass destruction. I never finished reading it because I couldn't comprehend a word of it. Stupid didn't even come close to describing how I felt in that class on this particular day.

The professor started a discussion and I remember Erin was the first to respond. The words that tumbled out of her mouth took my breath away. "I found this really accessible," she said, crossing one leg over the other. She continued but I didn't hear a word of it.

I dropped out of the Postmodernism class later that day after dissolving in a puddle of tears in my advisor's office.

I've been carrying this around for so long--this feeling of not being as good/as smart/as fun/as awesome as the next person. And you know what? I'm done.

I'm not a quitter.I am not going to be intimidated by cool girls in cowboy boots anymore. Or anyone else, for that matter. I am learning what I'm worth.

You'd better watch out. I'm gettin' a pair of cowboy boots.


**Congrats to Mindy of The Inquisitive Mom who won my Funky Mama cd giveaway! Mindy, it will go out in today's mail! Thanks for entering, everyone!**

(Picture) Memoir Monday, or Random Thoughts on the Degrees I'm Not Using

Today is the first ever Picture Memoir Monday hosted by Travis over at I Like to Fish. Please go check him out and link up to play along!

Millsaps College Graduation Day - May, 1998

I'm the goof on the left with the bad hair who's still sporting my Freshman 15 20 25. I was a regular old graduate. No cum laude, summa cum laude, or magna cum laude for this girl just *crickets* when they called my name. I majored in English, minored in French, failed out of Intro to Cell Biology my freshman year and squeaked by with mediocre grades in my lit classes. I overdosed on extracurricular activities: wrote for the campus newspaper, taught elementary-level French to second & third graders, and was on the executive board of my sorority. I worked in the Millsaps Writing Center, co-chaired the No-AIDS Task Force, and submitted anonymous poetry to the campus literary magazine. I was well rounded to be sure, but maybe if I'd focused on my classes more I'd have had a decent GPA excelled. There were so many things I wanted to dabble in, I couldn't possibly choose one or two.

University of New Orleans Graduation Day, December 2000

Wait a sec, am I having deja vu? No, this is my graduation from my Master's program. English again. I went back to school because I didn't know what else to do with myself after college.

And I still don't.

But this blog is a start. I can write what I want, hone my mad skillz, and best of all I don't have to deal with those super smart intellectual people who made me feel rather like a chump.

I am starting to realize less is more. I don't post here every day anymore. Perhaps the quality of my posts will improve as a result? Maybe I'll start to get somewhere and figure out where I'm going.

Because it's NOT back to school again.

Because the reality is I can't be a professional student, and the two degrees I've gotten were for nought.They're lying unused, tossed aside in some forgotten corner.

Because I have this nagging need to know where I'm going, what I'm doing, and who I am now that this motherhood gig is well underway.

Because I'm in my 30s and I don't have a career to call my own and I feel useless and small some days. Okay, many days.

Because if I'm not heading somewhere, towards something, it means I'm stagnating. Right?

***DISCLAIMER: this post is in no way intended to bash SAHM-hood. I am a SAHM. I do not mean to imply that our jobs at home are any less important/significant than those who are in the workplace. It just sucks that we don't get paid.

Memoir Monday: The Aqua Net in My Purse, Or Why Those 80s Bangs Didn't Work Out So Well For Me

Despite what you might think, I haven't always been the smashing success I am today. Sadly, I haven't always been this calm, cool, collected, drop-dead gorgeous and intellectually superior woman. No sirree Bob, back in the day I was just a lowly Wannabe. You know that book about the Wannabes and the Queen Bees and how much cliques and junior high girls suck? Well, I was lucky enough to fall into the Wannabe category. The one nobody wanna beez in. Get it?!

I crack myself up.

Anybee, it's 1986, so I'm 10 years old and in 5th grade. This was a stellar year for me because my mom hadn't bought me my first bra yet (which was very obvious given the starched, white blouses we had to wear with our hideous red plaid uniform skirts), but all the other girls had them. Didn't so much matter that I had nothing to put in said bra, but I was already feeling singled out. Fifth grade began the Spin the Bottle parties, UNITS outfits, the rise of Forenza and Girbaud jeans (another thing I didn't own but everyone else did, not that I'm keeping track or anything), lots of hair spray and bangs the height of the Empire State Building.

(See? I wasn't kidding. UNITS + Big Bangs = FAIL)

For my tenth birthday, a friend had given me a new purse. I used my allowance to buy a bottle of Aqua Net like all the other girls whipped out during break to tweak their coiffures. Unfortunately for me, it was not in an aerosol can, it was one of those archaic pump spray bottles. You know, the ones that are better for the environment?

We're in math class with Mrs. L. She's up at the board writing some problems for us to work on. Her arm jiggles like crazy and everyone suppresses giggles while her ample behind sways from side to side. She finishes, turns around, and you can hear her pantyhose-clad thighs rubbing against each other as she heads back to her desk. Suddenly she freezes in her tracks and opens her mouth in horror.

"What is that?" she hisses, pointing to a previously undetected puddle next to my desk. Everyone begins twisting this way and that, trying to see what she's looking at. I look down and blush furiously. I instantly realize that the entirety of my beloved bottle of Make Me A Queen Bee (aka Aqua Net) has somehow leaked through my purse and onto the classroom floor. Everyone titters because it honestly looks like I had an accident, like some brand new puppy.

I apologize to Mrs. L and race to the girls' room to get some paper towels. As my classmates' snickers turn from Mrs. L to me, I sop up the mess and put the soggy paper towels in the trash can. Next, I toss in the now-empty bottle of hair spray. I can feel my face burning, I can't look at anyone, and deep down I already know I'll never be a Queen Bee.

Looking back I can honestly say I'm glad I wasn't a Queen Bee. I'm just not built that way. And I never picked up another bottle of Aqua Net again. Hair spray is just not my friend

Memoir Monday (I Like to Fish Style)

Today I'm participating in Memoir Monday, hosted by Travis over at I Like to Fish. Check out his blog for more info! Basically it just has to be something true hiding deep in the recesses of your memory. So here goes!


-----------------------------------


I grew up in New Orleans, and my parents have some really good friends, John & Chelsea, who live in Houston. John and Chelsea have two kids, Brian and Teres, who are close in age to my brothers and me, so trips & visits always worked out well. They would often come to New Orleans to visit us and we'd go to Houston to visit them.


Back then, all of our parents smoked heavily. John and Chelsea would walk into our kitchen after the six-hour drive from Houston and suddenly my parents would light up and the heavy haze of smoke began to descend like a blanket. There was always a lot of loud, obnoxious laughter and it was only recently that I learned marijuana was sometimes involved, that it wasn't just Benson & Hedges the grownups were smoking! My parents pretended to be Ward & June Cleaver, but it was apparently a convenient disguise.


Sometimes the four adults went out to dinner and left Brian in charge. He was the eldest of all us kids, but he still knew how to have fun. As soon as the door shut behind them, we'd go up to my room and haul out the twin mattress from my trundle bed. We would take turns dragging the mattress to the top of the stairwell and riding on top of it all the way down. It was great fun. My parents often wondered why the bench and potted Schefflera at the base of the stairwell were always in different positions once they returned, but we never 'fessed up until we were older.


Anyway, we were in Houston once when I was probably seven years old. We were staying at the Adams Mark Hotel and had two rooms: one for my parents, and an adjoining room for Mark, Kevin, and me.


The trauma began early that Saturday morning when I wandered into my parents' room still wiping crust from my eyes. I discerned something very suspicious going on under the covers. Though I didn't really see anything, it was what I didn't see that was so disturbing. There was a lot of motion, rolling around, (thankfully no noise, as I'm sure they were trying not to wake us up) elbows jutting out here and there, and sheets being stretched this way and that. While I didn't exactly know what was going on, I had a pretty good idea since my parents had recently bought me a copy of this book, Where Did I Come From?. Its laughable cartoony images of naked parents will haunt me forever (I once brought this book to school to share with my friends at recess--but that is another Memoir Monday)!

I quietly backed out of their room and tried to erase what I'd just seen from my brain. I also told my brothers not to go in there and lied that mom and daddy were still sleeping and suggested we stay in our room quietly. I think I turned on some cartoons. And I began to stew about what I'd seen.

My parents got up, we all got dressed and went to grab an elevator so we could head over to John & Chelsea's house. An elevator opened up and my brother, Mark, hopped right in. The elevator quickly gobbled him up, its wide mouth closing before any of us realized what was happening. Hysteria instantly set in, as we were in a very large hotel with many floors and several elevators. We hoped that Mark had the common sense to at least stay in the same elevator and not get out somewhere. My dad went to alert the front desk to see if they could stop the elevators, etc., while my mom and I stayed right where we were. I think we were all hysterical, there was a lot of running around, panicking, and trying to get other people to help us look out for Mark on other floors.

Within about five very long minutes, the same elevator that had swallowed Mark whole returned to the lobby. It opened its mouth up wide and in one breathless moment my mom swooped in and grabbed him. Mark was grinning ear to ear and had apparently had a great time (or at least this is how I remember it, but he may have a comment or a different memory??) while the rest of us were running around like crazy people.

Once we finally left the hotel and headed over to John and Chelsea's house, my mom's radar went off and she could tell something was wrong with me. While the elevator debacle had temporarily distracted me from the debauchery I'd witnessed in the wee hours of the morning, I hadn't forgotten. I'd only grown more distressed about it. Mom finally asked me what was wrong and in a mess of tears I confessed what I'd seen. I think she was a little embarrassed herself, but she laughed and admitted that they'd been having sex. My worst fears were confirmed---MY PARENTS HAVE SEX. LOTS AND LOTS OF SEX. And not just procreational sex, which in my childlike mind was at least somewhat acceptable. This was recreational sex, sex for no good reason! Parents are not supposed to do that! Ewwwwwww!

I shudder to think of what will happen when our kids walk in on us. Perhaps that is an incentive to lock doors?!?!