Sometimes my name is still Woody

I've always been in slight awe of the fearlessness with which I approach life. I recall things I've done or said with a reverent disbelief. Not like drunken night before kind of fearlessness, but genuine risk taking. Don't get me wrong, it's bitten me too. Actually it works out probably less than it doesn't, and this story is a prime example of that.

Where did I get the kahunas to do that?! I would never do that now.

You must have related moments, where afterward you kinda just shake your head at yourself? This is one of my favorites.

I was seven years old. My best friend was Jimmy, and it was summer time 1977. (Yah, yah, you did the math, bastards.)

We moved a lot in those days and we had just moved onto Grenfell Street. This new address promised a good school, new friends, and a summer full of sunny crayfish catching at the creek. I had, however, learned at my old address that there were rules for play. Girls got to play card games, have lemonade stands, dress dolls up and if they were lucky, got to steal some make-up from their mothers and adorn themselves with it.

Oh Geez! Really?! Those things are all boring and stupid.

So I came to the only conclusion that seemed possible. I would have to be a boy this time. And there it was. The best plan of all time. I would simply tell all the kids that I was a boy and then I'll be able to do all of the super fun boy things. My favorite of which was dirt bomb throwing. Ah, nothing like a good dirt bomb fight, and no respectable girl would've been caught throwing dirt bombs. Besides, how well would she do when we all know that girls throw like girls?

And so I had my problems solved. My favorite band, when I was seven, was The Bay City Rollers. Yep.

What yours too? Shut up.

And my favorite member of my favorite band was Stuart 'Woody' Wood. So what do you think happened?

Hi.

Hi.

What's your name?

Mark. What's your name?

Woody.

And there it was. From then on the kids called me Woody. If anyone made fun of it, I didn't notice, nor would I have cared. I got to jump off the bridge into the creek with the boys. I got to go crayfish catching. I got to ride a cardboard toboggan down the biggest grass hill. I got to play with Hotrod cars. I got to drum in a band. I got to tease girls and pull their hair, and push over their lemonade stands when we were bored.

It was freaking fabulous!!

And then, of course, there had to be a snafu. My mom. How dare she call me for lunch or dinner or to come in at night by my real name.

Chelle! Dinner!! Richelle?

How come your mom yells Richelle?

I don't know. Does she?

Yah, like everyday.

I don't know. But I better go see what she wants.

Bye Woody

And that's all that was needed. The seed was planted and they were on to me. I had spent almost a whole month in playland bliss, but it was all coming down around me now. I could tell the kids were distrustful. I could see and hear them whispering and looking at me. The jig was up and I knew it, but what the hell do I do about it? Ride it til you can't.

And then came the fateful day. The kids had all been talking. Boys and girls. Crap. They had secretly planned to confront me. I walked in pretty blind, but not surprised.

Woody we know you're a girl.

No I'm not. Ewwww. Girls are gross.

We know that you're a girl. Cindy's mom asked your mom, and she said you were a girl.

She's lying. She does that.

You're lying. And your name's not even Woody. Who picks Woody for a name if they had the choice of any other name?

Shut up.

And I give him a shove

The next thing I know I'm running for my life. I have 7yr old legs, but some of the other kids had 9yr old legs, so I had to get home fast. I ran for what seemed like my life, and I made it home. I couldn't believe it. I was safe! I got to the door, I could hear the herd of kids behind me, I turned the door handle. LOCKED!!!

Uh-oh, Uh-oh

I keep running, unable to get to the spare key and back to the door on time. I run and I run, but they're catching up, and they don't look tired. I run behind a building and find the worst, barest, smallest stupid pine tree to not even attempt to hide myself in. It must've looked ridiculous; me crouched, fully visible behind this 'tree'.

They'll run right past.

But they didn't run right past. They stopped dead in front of me. Enraged.

We know you're a girl!!

No I'm not!

Yes you are.

No I'm not.

And then they said something I really did not anticipate.

Pull down your pants then.

No way.

Pull down your pants or you are a girl.

Busted.

Okay, you're right.

Say it.

No.

Say it!

I'm a stupid girl.

and there it is.

Although, the outcome only further ostracized me and left me with no friends and a huge desire to move again, there are days now, as an adult, when I wish I could simply call myself Woody or Mike or Dean and have more fun and get more respect. Hence the title of this piece, "Sometimes my name is still Woody"

Brothers

My brother is one of my favorite people hands down. He's awesome and handsome, and successful. I have so many hilarious, and heart warming stories of him and I. I share one of those now.

It was summer and the 1970's. It was a time when kids could still play outside unattended, and therefore have loads o fun. We used our bicycles for everything and this sad day, we caught a hitch. His bicycle chain had bitten the dust. One look at his sad little mug, and I had to think of something. In no time, we devised a plan to overcome this small problem because

"we will not be stopped."

There was always water or a creek near us growing up. This summer we had been working diligently on building a water dam with our posse of friends. Summers were unsupervised back then. It was a gift of childhood outdoor exploration and discovery that the newer generations, especially in a big city, don’t seem to have the benefit of. Boogiemen have become a reality (and that thought makes me sad.)

Rusty, Micheal and Cory were already bound to be there, on the banks of the creek collecting debris, trash, rocks and whatever else that presented itself to complete our dam. They would be wondering where we were. We also only had the daytimes before dinner to work on it.

After dinner we played marbles in the corners of the small squares of lawn belonging to each of our city subsidized townhouses.Or we played “Hotbox”; a game that had 2 kids with baseball gloves, facing each other on each of the sewers, that acted as bases at a distance of about 50ft. Another kid “the runner,’ would position themselves on one of the sewers. The catchers would start throwing a ball back and forth, and when one of them would overthrow or undercatch, the runner would take the opportunity to run to the opposing sewer. If they made it, the runner would receive a point. If the catcher was fast at retrieving the ball and made it back in time to tag the runner, the runner would be considered ‘out’ and would now have to become a catcher. The person who had tagged them out would now have point opportunity as a runner. It was crazy fun, for the times we had to remain in the neighbourhood, within sight should one of our mothers look out the kitchen window.

The creek though was only for the daytime. Besides, teenagers sharing a fifth of gin and a joint they got from their mothers room were always at the creek at night. Who doesn't hate stupid teenagers?

I remembered some skipping rope that we had received last Easter as one of our presents. It paled in comparison to the chocolate, so it still had its packaging, although idle and in the back of the garage. It was hot pink with handles that were thicker and stripped with white. We used the 25 ft rope as our towing vessel. I tied one end to his bike just beneath the handlebars so as not to affect his steering, and the other end to my bike at the seat post. Chain Shmain. We were off.

I looked back in on Rob often to make sure he was still behind me. He appeared unsteady but still behind me none the less.

See Chelle?! I'm doin' it.

The elastic rubber rope, created a fun effect. Robbie would be dragged behind slowly and sluggishly until the rope was taut, and at that moment he would be propelled slightly by the stretched band’s strength. I used the times he was propelled to pedal slowly or not at all so I could work harder the other times.

Between our house and the creek was a small hill. Small to me now as an adult, but as a child it was significant. I started down the hill and was instantly concerned for Robbie. I had picked up enough speed to be nervous for him, and out of genuine concern and complete stupidity, I stopped, stepped down and turned to make sure he was okay. Given that he had no chain, on a one-speed bike, that also meant that he had no brakes. A small detail it seemed.

I looked back just in time to see him pile into me with a hail of yelling that was both terrified and comical. I remember his mouth fully open, eyes crazed looking straight at me as he came crashing into the rear of my bike and on from there to be thrown fully from his seat and over his chopper handlebars, into and over me to meet the pavement face first. He lost most of the skin of the left side of his face, including some of his eyebrow, to the gravel.

Crap.

The road rash and therefore constant parental attention, affection and punishment for me existed for about 2wks. The dam was also put on hold that day. Stupid brothers.

Santa & The Easter Bunny Are Real

In the walk we all take from time to time, through our memories to figure out why we are who we are, I discover that, in my memory there are some both endearing and disturbing images. Don't worry, I'm not going to get all, "My mother's the reason I'm a serial killer," on you.

But I will share a candy cane memory.

My Papa (hee...french for Grandfather), was my best friend when I was a little girl. Even though his mail carrier hat smelled of sweat when I wore it around, and he tickled me to death, I thought he was a superhero. Who could've known how close to the truth that that was?

It was Christmas time in Shwaville. The entire week my mum used the promise of a visit to Santa to parent us into being good. We tried our best to be good; my stupid brother and I, and I made my list for Santa, made my bed and even dried the dishes.

My mum would instruct, Think about what you want for Christmas, and then you'll sit on Santa's knee, and you'll tell him what you're hoping for. But he'll only listen if you've been good!

Holy crap, this is practically a lottery! I had listed my very most coveted things; a drum kit, a puppy who doesn't grow & stays a puppy, and for my real family. Yep, my real family. I was convinced that my mum had stolen me, and that my real family, who were royalty and had crazy cash and a new bike for me, were out there somewhere, looking for me to no avail. Santa had to know about this, and he must want me back where I belonged. Besides, my mum had my stupid brother.

Six sleeps and finally, Saturday came. We combed our hair and brushed our teeth and wore the clothes that made us itchy, but we didn't care. Today, was Santa day.

Off we went to the Midtown Mall where there was sure to be an awesome appearance by Santa himself.

Will there be reindeer Mum?

Probably not because they have to rest up for the big night. Christmas Eve the reindeer travel the entire world you know. Maybe they're in training?

We entered the mall all aglow. (I've always wanted to use me and 'aglow' in the same sentence.)

The lights, the wreaths, the garland, the sparkly shiny 1970's. Let's put in the scent of chocolate too, what the hell.

We walked down the longest hallway and got in the longest line up that was bordered with swooping garland with intermittent silver base bars.

I made sure to be so good. No spitting, no poking my stupid drooling baby brother in the eye, no impatient requests. Just making sure that my wish list was handy for Lap Time.

After a few of the longest minutes of all time, I felt a chill.

I heard the bells of Santa.

I heard them jingling in the near distance. Being only 6 yrs old, I couldn't see over the stupid people, but I knew it was him. My premonition was confirmed when I heard him laugh. A deep and hearty and wonderful laugh. Ho Ho Hoooooo Meeeeeeerry Chrrrrrrrristmas.

Oh my goodness, Here he comes.

Will he see me? Does he know my name? Does he think my brother is as stupid as I do? I love Santa.

I heard his boots coming my way. Underneath the shiny garland, I saw the black boots up to his knee with the bag of presents he was towing hitting against them. I saw his hand filled with full size candy canes for all of us. Not those stupid cheap little ones that break when you try to get their plastic off. I was practically peeing myself.

And then, and then

And then I saw his face. His angelic, wait, no angelic but red face. A face with a nose. A face with a nose that looked exactly like my Papa's nose. A face with eyebrows that looked just like my Papa's eyebrows. A laugh that sounded like my Papa's laugh. A belly that was as distented and as hard looking as my Papa's belly.

My head titled, my brows furrowed, my list fell from my hand.

Oh my freaking goodness, Papa IS Santa!!!

The world spun around a few times and my eyes welled with tears. I looked to the devoted elves to make some sense of this, only to be further mortified. The elves with the freaking Polaroid to snap my happy picture were my aunties. My freaking evil, gum chewing, middle school, torture your niece, aunties.

My aunts were only 6 & 7 yrs older than me and therefore involved with my childhood hazing. They were my intermittent older sisters. Their idea of fun was to have me in the stroller and push it over a curb, taking bets on which direction I would fall. Aunts who put clumps of margarine on my hand while I slept so I would stop sucking on my fingers in the night. Aunts who were SANTA'S FUCKING HELPERS??

I pinched my brother to make sure I wasn't dreaming. He cried his stupid baby I- need- something- cry. Crap. Not dreaming.

Mum. That's Papa.

She looks down at me with ha-ha written all over her face. Is it? Noooo.

Liar.

Mum, that's Papa.

He's one of Santa's helpers. Santa can't be in every mall on every Saturday. He's resting up for Christmas Eve. Tell Papa what you would've told Santa and Papa will give him the message.

Give him the message?! About the drum kit that I want to keep in Papa's garage, the non-existent puppy that stays a puppy when I know damn well that Papa hates dogs, oh and don't forget to mention to Papa about my real freaking family. Yeah, that's gonna work.

To this day, I am sure that this event is at the root of any of my neuroses.

ps I love you Papa

Ass Trouble

Okay, today's exert is rather personal but when have you known me to not be?

Tuesday of last week, I'm spending some time on the scoots driving around people watching, when I notice my ass hurts.

And for no good reason. I hadn't been on a cross country trek on the scooter, I hadn't had any strange drunk sexual encounters (that I know of), and I didn't have my favorite Ethiopian dish the day before. Hurting for no reason. Or so I thought.

When I spoke to my friend Lazlo, and said I had a proper pimple in my ass, she didn't even make fun! She didn't console my ass either.... but that sounds like another story.

On Wednesday the pain was unmistakable. If I sat with legs crossed and a slight hip tilt I could forget it momentarily. Good thing I was golfing that day, as sitting isn't usual when golfing.

After a couple of holes (no pun intended) I decide that Jacquie, my golf pal, could use the comic relief that my ass could offer, so I disclose.

Jacquie laughs and tells me that I'm in big time denial.

Dude, that's not a pimple, it's a hemorrhoid.

At that moment, life as I knew it, was over. My first freaking hemorrhoid. I was reminded of one of the first South Park episodes where Cartman gets abducted by aliens in the night and they give him an ass probe. He farts fire streaks the whole next day. Dude, the aliens gave you an anal probe!!

No they didn't. It was just a dream.

Insert fire fart.

Dude it's a hemorrhoid.

No it ain't. It was just a dream.

Buy some Preparation H. (Even the name is old and from the 1950's and they use an 'H' like a big 'C' for cancer both said in a whisper. Not even the producers of the remedy want to say hemorrhoid fully.)

Hell no. If I buy it, I'm old. If I buy it and it works, I am old and I have a hemorrhoid. No good can come of it. If I think it's a pimple, then it's a pimple. Or maybe an ingrown hair.

If you're growing hair IN your ass, you have other problems pal. It's not a pimple or an ingrown hair. Just buy some stupid Preparation H. Do you want me to buy you some?

No, I wasn't anal probed. This is just a dream.

And then it was Thursday. When I woke up I heard someone asking for more blankets and demanding that I get up to make coffee and bacon. It was the freakin hemorrhoid! Yes, hemorrhoids like bacon, (which is also a legume. Fact.)

Based on the pain involved and the fact that it didn't seem to be getting smaller, I decided I would have to take a look. The important part of this scenario is that no mirror in my place is full length. (I know, how I do get dressed without one??) This means that a chair is necessary. I also make sure the lighting is adequate.

So there I am, ass cheeks spread, bright lights, bent over on a chair, looking through my knees at my ass. Is it looking back at me?? And of course, I fall over. Naked, I land in the bathtub, ripping off the shower curtain and smarting from hitting my shin.

I hear laughing. It's coming from my ass.

It was just a dream.