Forgiving Kevin Batey

Yunno, Kevin Batey, you were the source of major vexation back in the day.  You deprived me of dessert, caused me to do the walk of shame to Sister Irene’s office and ruined my white patent leather shoes.  In addition, you grossed me out and made me forever wary of germs.    

Let’s go through each transgression one by one, shall we?

Dessert Deprivation:  You used to get in trouble a lot.  And each time, you and Anthony Galindo did your time in the first grade cloakroom at St James Catholic School.  Cloakroom is such an antiquated little word.  It was antiquated even then.  That place hadn’t seen a cloak in years by the time I made it to the hallowed halls of St James.  Nope!  I do remember that I had a cool, bitchin’ red swing coat from Sears.

Kevin Batey, you created mayhem and mischief precisely because punishment provided unfettered access to our lunch boxes- specifically the Hostess Cupcakes lovingly packed in my Twiggy lunchbox by my momsky.  Do not deny it!  I saw that shit eating grin on your face each time you slunk back to your desk, newly released from cloakroom prison, not to mention the small bit of chocolate cupcake goo under your fingernails. 

Afternoon in Sister Irene’s Office:  I trace my penchant for bad boy love riiiight back to you, mister!  One day a small note appeared on my desk after recess.  Carefully unfolded and read during phonics with Mrs. Jones, the note informed me that you loved me.  You asked me to reply with denial or confirmation of reciprocal feeling on my part.

Flattered and fascinated by attention from the resident bad boy, I really did not stop to examine feelings.  Hell, yeah, I checked yes and promptly felt hot, warm breath on the back of my neck.  No, no, no, this was not due to a sudden, physical culmination of our newly found love!  Mrs. Jones noticed my inattention during her passionate introduction of schwa, came up behind me and read our first grade expression of torrid, forbidden love.

Not only did she find the note, she read it to the WHOLE class!  Now EVERYONE knew I was a 6-year-old hussy in love with a cupcake thief!  The repercussions were enormous.  Yanked out of my seat by the scruff of my neck and promptly shuffled off to Sister Irene’s office, later shunned from playing with the jump roping good girls, I was reduced to hanging out with fellow resident bad girl Regina Denham (Her parents were divorced and not Catholic).  She did tell me my first dirty joke.   She had an amazing arsenal of dirty jokes. (Actually, that part was cool in hindsight).

Ruined Shoes/Germaphobe:  There I was!  Dressed in bride like splendor in a dress placed on lay-a-way MONTHS before the actual event of my First Holy Communion.  Lacy, white, frothy beautiful with a veil, delicate white socks like little rich girls wore in beauty pageants and white patent leather shoes that were supposed to double as Easter shoes later in the month..  Honestly, I do not even remember anything about the actual ceremony.  For me, it was ALL about the dress.   

Full of heavenly hosts and a sip of wine, we were supposed to reflect on our second sacrament in a reverent manner.  To be honest, I was sort of thinking that the cardboardy hosts needed punching up with a little more sugar or something. You chose this sacred moment to ralph up that day’s school cafeteria offering of spaghetti.  Did I mention that I HATED spaghetti as a child due to the close association it held in my mind to worms?

Yeah, thanks for that.  I can still hear your retching and the site of upchucked noodle worms splashing onto the back of my beautiful holy girl shoes.  EEEEUUUUW!  I think I started crying.  I remember you definitely started crying.  For all I know, your sudden expulsion resulted from too many filched cupcakes or an afternoon spent binge drinking the Scotch from the liquor cabinet at your house. 

Whatever!  You left me bitter, barefoot and barren.  (Ok, that last one is not true.  I strictly wrote it for dramatic effect, but it COULD have gone down that way)

Years later, I asked errant altar boy/ local musician/ wise sage Steve Poltz for his wisdom and advice on whether I should forgive you during his stint as guest columnist on The Nervous Breakdown.  Here is what he advised, and I trust his opinion completely.

Dear SJJP,

Kevin Batey got sick to his stomach during my first communion and ralphed on my white patent leather holy girl shoes…I will be seeing him next month. Should I forgive him?

•  

2011-04-11 14:21:54

Dear Susie,
You need to pay Kevin (mastur) Batey back. I suggest eating a bowl of granola with strawberries and sour milk and then spinning around in a circle a hundred times and then hugging him while simultaneously vomiting on his stupid shoes.
Only then will you be able to be his “friend”.
Cheerio,
Steve

Sooooo, Kevin Batey that works for me.  We can put the completely sordid, sorry, patent leather ruination, bad boy lovin’, cupcake free past behind us with a bowl of Kashi cereal and some twirling.    I feel better already!

These Mules Are Going Nowhere.....

 Today is about nothing and everything.  Sitting in my office crunching numbers when a man leading a 3 pack of mules wanders by my window to the world of Mission Valley.  Huh?  Huh!  He looked happy.  I wanted to run out and join him.  Not even ask him anything.  Just walk a little block or two with him and the mules and feel free and happy just to be here and there.

He was too fast!  Plus,  how would I explain walking down the street with a stranger leading mules dressed as I am today in a bright red sweater dress and high heeled ruby red Dorothy shoes?  Somehow, I think, I wouldn't have to explain to anyone who truly knows me.  Anyone else doesn't matter.  And right now, NOTHING matters.  And that feels somehow scary and wrong, but also somehow sort of okay.  It is what it is.  Just go with it and let it be.  Accept what comes to you- even if it feels weird or different......  Like 3 mules and a man walking past you.

There WAS a little sign on the arse of one of the mules. (I LOVE the word arse).  It said 3MULES.COM.  Oh, great, I thought to myself.  Everyone has a gimmick.  He's probably schilling shoes, or vitamin water for livestock or an End of The Worldy dude.

 NOPE!  Just a nice little message about trying to live in the moment, be aware and take it one day at a time.  So simple.... 

  3 MULES     To answer the most asked questions:  Who are we?  Where are we from? And where are we going?  We are mules. We are from the outside. We live outside all day , every day. Where are we going? Nowhere, we're here- the outside, the web of life- the beautiful earth, a place like no other.    We have come to this place-a place of golden sparkling light, a place for anybody and everybody.  Give your faith, hope and  energy to this place at which time you connect to it and receive the magic and endless possibility of infinity.   As you walk in this place with these mules you spread the awareness that this beautiful earth like no other can only be protected by the way we live one day at a time.

Pat's Last Vote

Pat was a pistol!  She rallied the troops at the senior community where she lived to sign petitions so that alcohol flowed at the monthly functions.  She loved QVC and ordered so many shoes her closet was overflowing.  She cursed like a sailor, had a sexy, smoky voice and loved the song “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.”

Father Frances comes every Sunday to say mass at this community.  Pat, in her words, “went all Thorn Birds,” and developed quite the crush on the retired priest.  She took the jacket he left behind one winter day, reasoning that he would have to come to her apartment to get it and that was her chance to get him alone.    She cackled with glee about her plan and kidded about finally having her own Rachel Warde/Richard Chamberlain afternoon of passion.

He never did get his jacket, and she never got her fantasy afternoon.  She grew ill from pancreatic cancer and fought a valiant fight to the end.    Even on her deathbed, Pat had something to say.  A few days before she lapsed into a coma, weak and feeble from her illness, Pat discussed her voting choices for the coming election.  She stressed the importance of her votes. She told her family that she received a mail ballot but “Couldn’t remember where she put that f*&&^%$ thing.”

We all came to say goodbye.  Father Frances came and even though Pat was in a deep coma, her eyebrow raised and she managed a smile when he came to her bed.  We all laughed hard at that! 

Her children found the ballot.  Even though Pat died a week before the election, they broke the law, filled in her choices and dropped it off.   And she voted!  Her voice counted!   

 I feel that you have to sell your soul to the devil to win an office.  I am jaded about the whole thing.  I missed a few elections.  To be honest, I didn’t even start voting until well into my twenties.  I appreciate it because of Pat.  I swear I hear her cigarette voice every time I vote.    Thanks, Pat.   

If happy little Bluebirds fly…………