I don't believe I was born before or after my time or even in the wrong city or state. But today, I'm going to make a confession that I have never revealed to anyone else. I came up with it just a minute ago.
I think I was born in the wrong hospital.
If I had been born in a different hospital, things might have turned out completely different for me. But no, I had to be born in the hospital where they give you to the correct parents.. Ah to have been switched at birth! My childhood might have been like a fairy tale instead of a nightmare. I might have gone to sleep away camp instead of having to earn .25 an hour baby sitting for infants with colic that liked to vomit on my shoulder two or three times a night. I might have learned how to use a hula hoop or a baton instead of how to burn the feathers off of a chicken. I might have taken piano lessons instead of learning the tuba.
Back to the movies.
Do you remember that house that everyone wanted to hang out at because the parents were really nice and friendly, there was a great pool, a rumpus room with a ping pong table and a pantry full of Twinkies, Coca-Cola and potato chips? I do. It wasn't mine. As I young girl, I bemoaned the fact that kids rarely came over to my house to play more than once.
Mine was the house with the plastic covering on the sofa that stuck to your thighs when air-conditioning didn't exist. We had not one, but three fireplaces that were filled with books instead of firewood. Yes, our fireplaces were libraries. No happy hearth, smokey charm or warm and friendly fireside chats for us. It was more like a screaming at the top of your lungs match. I swear I once heard the TV asking my parents to turn the volume down.
At our house, if you weren't yelling, you were reading a book, suffering through geometry or learning about germs. We had a pet vacuum cleaner named "Spotless". Our house was so clean that it looked like it was wearing a condom at all times. Unprotected visitors had to be cleared through an agency known as my mother before being allowed to enter our hallowed hallways.
"What are you doing on Saturday?" my friend Sally would ask.
"I'm learning how to shine and polish shoes," was a better response than "My sister and I are cleaning the mosaic tile in the shower with a toothbrush" .
Unfortunately, both were true.
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And trust me, he's the better looking of the two of them. I'm almost positive Jim Unger modeled his cartoon "Herman" after my parents. My siblings and I referred to my parents as "Herman" and "Mrs. Herman" behind their backs. They didn't bicker so much as they cut each other down with quick quips. Mrs. Herman gave my dad a run for his money. She is still waiting to outlive him so she can collect it. With each argument, the louder of the two was declared the winner. And then we discussed Winston Churchill. In short, there was a lot of yelling that went on in my house. There was some occasional axe throwing too. Maybe Lizzie Borden and I are related after all.