Original Sin, Part 2 - Lela's Laugh

Just a warning, you may not want to read this post. It touches on a subject that is highly sensitive and may hit too close to home for some people. It will go down as one of the few posts I've written that has actually made me cry. Although that isn't necessarily a bad thing. It could be a healthy release of some underlying feelings of guilt that I seem to have. If you haven't read Original Sin, Part 1 - The Confessional, you may want to read that first. Below is the continuing part.

She smiled at me during reading class. I smiled back. I'm not sure what made me do that because normally I would of looked away, perhaps even made a face. I still found girls to be icky at that age. I kept my "Cootie Spray" on hand at all times, just in case a girl would get too close, or God forbid touch me. Lela was new in school. Flowered tennis shoes. It's all I can remember of what she wore. Pink and green flowers on white low cut canvas. Her laces matched the shoes. One lace pink, the other green. They were cute. She was cute. She was shy. Although, for whatever reason, she wasn't shy with me. Initiating eye contact and sharing a smile was a testament of that. Rotating from the swings to the monkey bars. It took just one recess and a handful of spins on the merry-go-round before we became fast friends. She lost her hairclip during all the dizzy fun. I promised her I would find it. I was late lining up to go back into class, but her once lost hairclip was now safely resting in my corduroy pants pocket.

I can still picture her like it was yesterday, if yesterday was 20 years ago. That small beautiful face. The pinkish hue in her cheeks. The warm chocolate color in her eyes. She had puppy dog eyes. Big and round. Soft and brown. They were adorned with the longest lashes I have ever seen. Her laugh - the kind that's contagious. She tried to conceal the dimple in her right cheek, but it made it's presence known even when she wasn't smiling. I secretly felt it was her best feature. It may of been a turning point for me when I started to discover that maybe some girls were not really icky after all, but rather adorable. How that single dimple in her smile now haunts me.

The smell of oranges. She loved to eat those. Her hands were always cold and sticky from the citrus. I feel her hand in mine as we race to the pool. Thorn bush scratches on our ankles, shins and knees. The thorn bushes were thick. We had to cross thru those. Beyond the thorn bushes to an empty pool. No water. Just cement. It all makes sense now. This is where she always wanted to go. To wash it away? But there was no water. Nothing was pure. Innocence was lost, long before the pool ran dry. There is no water pure enough to wash away the sin. I never told my Mom. I never told anyone. There was something wrong at Lela's house. Something was going on that wasn't normal. Something didn't feel right. Something felt piercing and comfortless there. Like the way worn cement from a drained swimming pool feels on the bottom of bare feet.

Her mother was soft spoken. She seemed to be kind and caring. That was all I could gather about her because she was hardly around. When I would go to Lela's house to play after school, her mother was always on her way out, either to the store or to work. Lela's father was always home. Back then, I didn't know why that was. I just knew my Dad worked long hours and Lela's father never had to. Or maybe he didn't want to? Looking back, I know he was an alcoholic. Looking back, I now realize he was alot of things, none of them good. If you would ask me to describe him in one word, I would choose "intense". He was a very, very intense man. I didn't like him and neither did Lela. Although he seemed to be very fond of her, too fond. Stuff it down and avoid the admittance of hard truths. That would be my motto to survival. She must of floated above her body and became numb to reality, or at least that is what I imagine. Sometimes you have to live that way in order to survive.

There is a law that states...if you see a car accident and you don't stop to offer help, then you are committing a crime. I may be guilty of keeping my hands clinched firmly in my pockets while witnessing a train wreck. What was occurring in Lela's home was nothing short of that. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't help but see there was something very wrong going on. In all honesty, I didn't want to know. I just wanted it to get better. I was only 7. I didn't know exactly what was wrong, I just knew something didn't feel right and she didn't talk about it. Lela's relationship wasn't normal with her father. (I use the phrase "wasn't normal" to spare myself from conjuring up the repulsive memories that to this day, still turn my stomach.) I wasn't fully aware of the situation. It was confusing to me. Lela just seemed unhappy, even scared. And it scared me. I stopped going to her house. I didn't want to play there anymore. I started inviting her over to my house after school instead. She never accepted. She said she wasn't allowed. That probably was the case, but I took it as "she didn't want to be my friend anymore."

School was out for the year. The summer came and went. I returned to class late in August eager to see Lela, only to find no Lela. After the first week of school was over, it became apparent to me. Lela wasn't in another classroom this year. She didn't enroll in the private school a few miles away. She was gone. I had no idea she was moving, where she had moved to or even if she had moved at all. I have no idea what happened to her. I just knew Lela and her laugh had vanished. I hope that Lela's Mom took her to someplace nice. Someplace where thorn bushes or anything else couldn't hurt you. A place where all the swimming pools were filled with fresh, clean water. A place where she became exhausted from laughter. Where she giggled so much that she got hiccups. Where her giggles echoed across the playground as she spun out of control on a merry-go-round of fun. I hope she packed her dimple with her. And I hope she left her Dad behind.

I don't know exactly what went on in Lela's house, but over the last 20 years, I'm 99% sure her father should be serving time in prison if he isn't already. I am nearly positive that something evil took place. Things that should only be heard in a confessional. I don't like watching the movie Forest Gump. Lela is Jenny. The scene where she runs into the field and asks Forest to pray with her. "Dear God, make me a bird. So I can fly far. Far, far away from here." I hope that is all that happened to Lela - that she was turned into a bird and flew far. Far, far away from here.

to be continued...

For Jessica

Not pity. Just sympathetic.

Enough said.

Kissing, Petting, Fucking...And It Gets Better

The key to real estate is location, location, location. So how would you like to call these towns home? There is a town in Austria called "Fucking". If you locate it on Google maps, you will see there are a number of Fucking roads there. A big problem is that American tourists keep stealing their street signs, returning to the states and saying "hey look, I've been to Fucking Austria." The village is known to have existed as Fucking since at least 1070 and is named after a man from the 6th century called Focko. "Ing" is an old Germanic suffix meaning "people." Therefore, Fucking in this case, means "place of Focko's people." There is also another town called "Oberfucking" or "Upper Fucking", for those who like to be on top I guess. Coincidentally just over the border in Bavaria, Germany you will find two small municipalities called Kissing and Petting. So just a word of advice, you might want to start with Kissing and Petting before you race to Fucking. If you don't know the ins and outs of Kissing, Petting and Fucking, you may want to look for a German bus tour operator named "Fücker". He can show you all you need to know.

If you plan on visiting Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany may I suggest you stay away from a village called "Killer". The locals say it isn't the best place to camp. For the homosexual tourist, you may want to stop in Manly, Australia. It's on the other side of the harbor from Sydney. If you want to get straight to the point, you can always just visit Intercourse, Pennsylvania right here in the states. You'll definitely want to reach Climax, MI also. But be careful, because it's only 33 miles from Fertile.

There is also a town in Northern Portugal, Spain called Feces. The town is actually called "Feces de Abaixo" (Lower Feces), adding to my amusement factor. If reading about all of these lewd town names is making you feel like you will go straight to hell, then let me point you in the the right direction. You will find Hell in Norway and let me warn you, it's not hot like you may of imagined. Their winters can get below -20C! Yes folks, hell DOES freeze over.

Who Says You Can't Look Hot For $3.14

Women make me laugh. They get sooo excited over a great shopping deal. They turn into giddy, giggling little girls. Case in point, today I get this txt on my phone...

The sweatr was orig 89.50 markd down 2 9.99 then 30% off so 6.99. Belt was 36.00. I had 2 20.00 off coupons. Total w tax 3.14! Yay me!

My reply...

damn, you would make my shopoholic sister proud!

I imagine she was feverously typing that away to me, half out of breath because the thrill of the shopper's high was still fresh in her bloodstream. I suppose shopping is to women what NFL playoff games are to men. I mention to her that I think it's cute she is all excited about her great shopping deal and congratulate her. She then sends me a photo of the $3.14 outfit with the caption "$3.14 I swear 2 God."

My suggestion to her..."just a fashion tip, you can take it or leave it, but you should try it without the undershirt." Looks like she liked my advice. Remember, a little cleavage is never a bad thing, especially with a form fitting black sweater.

She gave me permission to post her pics and tells me that I should mention the sales girl and another customer were very impressed. Considered it mentioned, to the entire blogosphere.

Original Sin, Part 1 - The Confessional

There is a tiny room with one small window. Not a window that opens to look out, but one that opens to look within. As if the light pierced a stained-glass window and sliced right thru me. Illumination is not always pretty. The light is not always kind. But cold hard truths are something we all have to deal with. My Mom made me venture in. "You're big enough now that you don't have to sit in front of the priest. You can talk to him thru the window screen." I recall rolling my eyes. Just the thought of going in there made my skin crawl. The queasiness in my stomach. Beads of sweat forming on my palms. I was visibly scared. I didn't know what I should say. What exactly does an 8-year-old need to confess? What sins could I of possibly committed at that age? I was a little young to be smoking crack and sleeping with hookers. Plus I had forgot parts of the "Our Father" prayer. Would I get in trouble for that?

I dropped to my knees, slid the window screen open and began my anonymous confession. Beyond the screen Father John listened intensely. Our church was small and surely he knew who I was, hiding behind a patch of mesh. Recognizing the nervous jitter in my voice, he told me to take a deep breath and start again. He coached me along, asking leading questions. "Have you fought with your sisters? Have you said any naughty words?" Next thing I know, I find myself lying to the priest! I'm actually making-up sins to confess because I have few real sins to confess. That alone is surely a sin in itself. I could hardly breath in there and it wasn't because of claustrophobia. To say the room is just 6x8 is being generous. To Catholics, it is known as the Confessional. A place where you bare you soul. Confess your sins and ask for forgiveness. A form of emotional, mental and spiritual cleansing. Ironically, you will find the Confessional room beside the Holy Water. Even more ironic, not even the purest water can wash away original sin.

Nearly every religion has their own definition of what "original sin" is and is not. However, they seem to all agree on one thing - original sin is the first sin. I am not deeply religious. I don't pretend to be. I don't try to be. I don't even want to be. I was raised Catholic though. It's all that I've known. Although it's not all that I'm open to. Perhaps that statement right there is a sin? To look into other religions. To veer away from the Catholic church. The same church I don't even attend these days. Sometimes I don't know what I am. Obviously, I'm not a good Catholic boy. Apparently, there are many "sins" I have committed. Sins that I have carried with me well into my 20s. Sins that started when I was in the 2nd grade. Similar sins that have reoccurred throughout my childhood and into adulthood. Sins I've never before confessed. Sins I've never asked for forgiveness from. Not forgiveness from God or anything like that. Forgiveness from myself.

They are often in the back of my mind. In that unbearable lump I swallow in my throat. In the weight that lies on my shoulders, the weight I can't shrug off. I've seen their faces in my sleep. Maybe that is my punishment. For not speaking up. For not stopping it. For not doing something. Anything. Their cries for help were quieter than a whisper. Their pleas in fact were silent, but not unnoticed by me. It was just that I failed to act on what I witnessed. They didn't ask for help. Although they needed it. And I never offered it. I ignored the signs even though many of the signs were right in front of my eyes. Candid accounts I can't pretend didn't exist. Even if I close my eyes, I see them...and even more clearly. For years I pushed those memories down deep inside me, only later to find them resurfacing. In the form of a new face. With a new name. Same scenario. Rewind and repeat. I feel as if I'm watching my life on a film and I hate the role I played. The bystander.

Her name was Lela. That is where it began. The original sin.

to be continued...

No Pants, No Problem...Almost

Move over Naked Cowboy, there is a new breed of nakedness in the city - the Naked Subway Rider. More than 200 people dropped their drawers to participate in the 6th annual "No Pants Subway Ride", which has been a yearly tradition since 2002. Over 200 participants (50 more than last year) gathered at the Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall station, boarded the 6 train, de-pantsed and exited at different stations. Then they re-boarded other uptown trains to the shock and amusement of fellow subway riders. Unlike last year's ride which resulted in arrests, this years annual event was "pulled off" without a problem.

It's subtle at first and it's hard for people to explain what could possibly be happening. By the end of the ride, when there's 20, 30, 40 people in their underwear, it becomes something that's obviously meant to be funny. However, not everyone sees the humor in it. Last year a police officer stopped a train at 59th Street, ordered all the passengers off and handcuffed 8 of the pranksters on the platform. A judge later threw out the disorderly conduct charges, noting that it's not illegal to wear underwear in public.

Although I tend to feel it should be a crime for a 250lb hairy dude to be pantless in public. Further more, I think it should be a felony for this man to have nothing but a thin layer of tighty-whiteys between his nuggets and me on a crammed subway. That's just a little too close for comfort, even by New York standards.

New York Spa Offers "Blackberry Thumb" Massages

The Dorit Baxter New York Day Spa is offering Blackberry Thumb and Tech Neck massages to help you release the muscular tension brought on by your gadgets. For real? Yes, it's for real. The city's high-end spas are selling fixes for such ailments as "BlackBerry thumb", "tech neck", "tech hand" and "cell phone clog". (Don't ask me what cell phone clogs is, I have no idea.) According to Dr. Thomas Scilaris, an Upper East Side orthopedic surgeon, these are repetitive-stress injuries that people once got in their 50s and 60s. Now they are afflicted in their 20s and 30s, all thanks due to our obsessive need for being connected to the digital world. Located in the heart of Manhattan on West 57th Street near 5th Avenue, Dorit Baxter's New York Day Spa recommends aching techies get these treatments done weekly. The service is offered at $59 per half-hour for each, which combines hot compresses and acupressure to relieve inflammation and "pins and needles".

When I was a kid, it was called "Sega Thumb". If you were a video game playing junkie, the skin on your thumbs would literally start peeling away from all the button smashing on your Sega Genesis controller. Eventually your thumbs would calis over to help protect you from an extra spirited game of Madden. Today, people are clicking their mouse, scrolling their iPod wheel, typing away on their laptops and txting on their cell phones. It's no wonder that all this small joint movement is beginning to catch-up with us. Remember, ergonomic exercises can be very beneficial to preventing the aches and pains related to Repetitive Strain Injuries such as Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. But when even these exercises don't seem to relieve you, then perhaps it's time to put the gadget down. Yes, put it down like a bad drug and stroll on over to The New York Day Spa and give your ailing BlackBerrry Thumb a little T.L.C. for a change. After all, if you have enough cash to drop on a BlackBerry, you can afford a $60 thumb massage.

One spa receptionist remembers the first time she got a call asking if they offered BlackBerry finger massages. She thought it was something dirty and slammed down the phone. I don't have BlackBerry thumb, but the meterosexual in me does love a good full body spa massage. It's not gay. It's heaven! A massage at a good spa is like sex...the longer it goes on, the better it gets.

Related Post Of Interest

• 6/27/05 - Ergonomics Exercises Are Important