Thursday, September 24, 2009

One Last Thing Before I Die

I was filling in some calendar dates on my iPhone yesterday when I realized that I was purposefully leaving clues so that, in the event of my murder or kidnapping, the authorities would be able to find me (or my body).

I sometimes fantasize about what my family would do without me, what kind of a eulogy I would get, who would pick out the music, will Kathy remember that she promised to remove and destroy anything that might embarrass me in my otherwise peaceful afterlife. I worry that I'll die before I finish each book so I try to read a little faster.

When I was seven I found a tiny little red spider in my bed. I had never ever seen one like it before so I considered it might be deadly. I also assumed it had already bitten me and I might be slowly dying. Even then I had a knack for the melodrama so I wrote a note on a piece of paper and tucked it under my pillow so it could be found during the discovery of my body. It simply said "it was a little red spider that killed me"

So just in case this is my last day, I need to tell you something important:

Watch "Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia" on FX tonight at 10pm. It's really good.

Monday, September 14, 2009

A Cowboy, a Blackout, and a Horse

I went to Texas for a family reunion when I was 19-years old. This was right after I did the hair show for Sebastian Hair products where they used me to introduce one of their newest colors: Banana Yellow. [what do you mean I haven't blogged that story yet! On it.]

To the average Texan, I looked like a wicked city girl straight out of that crazy MTV show on the TV. I was the closest thing they had ever seen to Cyndi Lauper and believe me, I was not embraced by adoring fans.

I walked into a Circle K for a pack of smokes and stood at the counter watching while the clerk rang up everyone in a pair of Lee's first. Then after everyone had left, it was my turn. The leper. I didn't get her standard southern greeting "How ya'll doin' today?". I just got a hateful stare right and silence. After asking for my brand again, she slid them across the counter so that she wouldn't catch my yankeeness (I'm sure they think its a real disease affiliated with that AIDS that came over from homosexual monkeys from Africa).

Back at the family home, one of the rancher's boys invited me out to a party. Or I might have just insisted so he took me. I probably forced myself on this guy with a promise of "a good time." Sucker.

The party was at a large hall with banquet tables, streamers, and lot of free beer. He walked in with me and quickly set me down one of the folding chairs. There was country music, cowboy boots, and line dancing. Some two-step too. But nobody would come near me. And that's the last thing I remember about the party.

Fast forward to 1:00am. The cowboy must have rolled me out of his truck in front of the family homestead where I managed to climb two flights of stairs in a house that's probably 200 years old. Most of my immediate family was sleeping there and my stumbling footsteps thundered through the quiet halls and into the tiny old bathroom with the light you turned on by pulling a chain.

I pulled my tight spandex pants down to pee and that's when I found my crotch was entirely a deep black and blue. I was horrified to think what must have just happened to me. All I could remember was a lot of pissed off cowboys and their bitchy uptight girlfriends giving me hard looks while I drank, and drank, and drank. Me with my banana yellow Flock of Seagulls hairdo and spandex rocker-girl pants.

I panicked and ran to my mother's room so she could panic too. Thud thud thud .... "Mom! Look what happened to me! What's wrong with me?!" I cried as I spread eagle for my poor mother who was still half dreaming in the moonlight room of her youth. I dragged her into the bathroom for another look and she was stumped. "Oh I don't know what that is Sharon!" she said concerned-like. "Does it hurt?" "Kind of" I replied, but there was no other information. No more answers or clues, so I passed out.

It wasn't until the next morning when I remembered I had gone horseback riding ... drunk. Instead of posting with he saddle, I just banged into it, again and again and again. I was kind of limp and rubbery so I hung on for a long time. Even though the horse tried hard to get me off by jumping over stuff, running me into the fence, and just refusing to budge.

Here we are twenty-something years later and I still don't know if it was the cowboy or the horse. Everything is big in Texas.