The Return Of LeedleDee?

I’ve never really had a nickname, or at least not one generally known by anyone outside my immediate family.

My father is one of the few that uses my middle name, calling me “Tamma-Jean!” or sometimes just Tamma.

My little brother (who was born when I was 14) and I call each other by only our middle names, he calling me Jean and me calling him Joseph. No real reason.

I also used to call him Big Bri Stud, because as a pre-schooler he was constantly eyeing up the pretty girls (of any age, usually blondes) and hitting on them. My high school boyfriend had taught him to say “Hey Babe, what’s happenin’?” at the tender age of 3, so he was always a hit with the ladies. But over the years Big Bri Stud has gotten shortened to Big B. Or sometimes I just call him B.

My big brother was 1-1/2 when I was born, and he loved me. To my mother's dismay, he would sneak into my crib and try to hold me and sing me songs. At least he wasn't smacking me. That came later during The Teasing Years.

And as a toddler he called me “LeedleDee”, because he thought that sounded like a song. That was my first nickname: LeedleDee.

He called me LeedleDee often as we were growing up. He said it with a sneer during The Teasing Years. Those years ushered in new nicknames as well, such as Slammy and Meathead. I liked LeedleDee better. If memory serves, I simply called him Duane the Pain, or sometimes just Jerk or Idiot (said through tears, of course).

When my brother entered high school, he got a nickname of his own. My parents had named him after Duane Eddy, the guitarist my father loved so much. But he had never liked his name, because the show What’s Happening had come out in the 70’s with a main character named Dwayne, and that was perfect ammo for elementary school kids.

I’m not quite sure what my brother did in high school to earn the name “Doctor Love,” but I am quite sure there is more to the story than a simple fondness of the song by Kiss. To this very day, he is known as Doc. Most people don’t even know his real name and they get confused at his job when I call and ask for this “Duane” person.

In the days of my grandparents and even my parents, everyone had a nickname:
Lukey Lou (our crazy neighbor)
The Ground Mole (my uncle)
Beetle Bailey (another uncle)
Dob (my grandmother, and I have no idea why)
The Pheasant (my great-grandmother)
Tank (another guy from the neighborhood)
Mimi (my aunt)
Porky (my father’s friend)
Twinkie (Porky’s son)

One of my grandfathers was called Tiny, because he was so thin. My brother has a friend called Tiny as well, because he’s the size of a Mac Truck.

I’ve got a cousin named Buddha and a friend named Sully.

My father has two drinking mugs that he got when he was in the Navy. Both display the emblem of his submarine. But I remember asking him once when I was little, “Why does one say ‘Peachy’ on the back and the other one say ‘Tiger’?” He pointed to my mother: “Peachy!” And then he pointed to himself: “Tiger!” “No way!” They both nodded their heads. “Ooooooh…”

But for the benefit of us kids, my father gave himself a new nickname. “You know what you kids should call me?” he proclaimed one day. “Super-Fonzie-Austin.”

“What??”

“Super for Superman. Fonzie, because I’m cool like the Fonz. And Austin for Steve Austin, the Six Million Dollar Man. Super-Fonzie-Austin - that’s my new name.”

So we would giggle as we called my father Super-Fonzie-Austin. Soon after, he decided to add Genius to the end of his name. And so besides being known as “The King” (another self-nomer) throughout his castle, he also became known as Super-Fonzie-Austin-Genius.

“What should mommy’s name be?” we asked.

“The Old Bag” he joked.

That one always made us attack him, and a full-blown wrestling match would ensue. I was the more aggressive one though. “Go get him, Tam!” my big brother would say, pushing me toward the infidel who had insulted our dear mother, yet maintaining a safe distance from the melee.

I would run across the living room toward him at full speed, fists flying, and try to land as many punches as I could before he finally wrestled me to the floor, turned me around, and locked my head between his knees so he could continue watching TV. He never even had to get up out of the recliner. I’d still be karate-chopping at his legs, but I’d eventually admit defeat.

That “Old Bag” thing got him in trouble once, though. My little brother had just started pre-school, and he wasn’t feeling well. They needed to call my mother.

“What’s your mommy’s name?” they asked him.

“Mommy.”

“What does your daddy call your mommy?”

“The Old Bag.”

They got quite a chuckle out of that one over at the pre-school. My mother didn’t know whether to be mortified or hysterical with laughter.

But I’ve always thought it would be fun to have a nickname, a real nickname that everyone knew. Friends have called me different things over the years like Tamma-Lama or Tammie-Tam or Tabitha. Boyfriends have had pet names for me of course, and my husband does as well. My daughter and I have a million different silly names for each other.

But I’ve never had a real nickname. Perhaps I’ll take a cue from my father and name myself. I just have to come up with something good…

Kids at the Bar

Having children makes you no more a parent than having a piano makes you a pianist. – Michael Levine

I hate hate hate when I see a kid in a bar. It’s not an appropriate environment for a child. They absorb every aspect of the bewildering spectacle with their innocent, impressionable little eyes.

I don’t care if you came here straight from your softball game with the team and you weren’t planning on staying long.

I don’t care if you think your little 5 year old is having a ball galloping around the dance floor to the overplayed tunes of the garage cover band.

Didn’t you notice that she almost got stepped on by the big drunk guy who was backing away from the bar with a pitcher in each hand, yelling to the bartender that he would be right back for two more?

Didn’t you notice your little one stopping and staring, mouth agape and eyes wide with astonishment, at the young couple leaning against the pole, her kissing and clawing voraciously at the man's neck, him clutching her barely-covered breast and eagerly grinding into her?

Don’t you see the other patrons shooting looks of disgust at you? They came here to let loose and have a good time, but those who aren’t already inebriated are now hesitant due to the unwelcome presence of your adorable little buzz-kill.

Don’t you realize that it’s 11:30 at night, and she’s rubbing her eyes as she walks in circles around the bar looking for you? It’s bad enough that you have subjected an innocent, doe-eyed child to this loud, clumsy, sticky den of beer and expletives, but to not even be keeping an eye on her is absolutely unconscionable.

I get so disgusted by people sometimes.

And what about the bars? I’m sorry, but if it’s 21 to get in, then it should be 21 to get in. Period. I’m sure if I showed up at our favorite watering hole with my 15 year old in tow, we would be turned away because she’s too young to be admitted. So why is it okay for a pre-schooler? Is a toddler any less vulnerable to the pandemonium of adult night life?

********

Maybe I feel so strongly about this because I was once the kid at the bar.

For those of you who are familiar with my blog, you know that I speak very highly of both of my parents. I was (and still am) blessed to have them, and I have few complaints about my upbringing. But I’ve never said it was perfect.

My mother was the champion shortstop on the local pub's softball team when she was in her 20’s. More than once the players ended up back at the Trails End Tavern for a victory celebration after the game. And since I was at the game, sometimes entertaining myself on the swings and the monkey bars, sometimes cheering on the team from the bench, sometimes off picking flowers for mommy - I ended up at the bar.

Yes, the team had use of the back room, so we were somewhat isolated from the other patrons.
But all the women were drinking and laughing and carrying on. I have an image in my head of my mother’s friend Kathy on her knees up on the table, shaking her very generous maracas and everybody howling and cheering. I probably didn't understand most of the conversations or the jokes.

But when they wanted to discuss something that even they had the sense to deem inappropriate for my little ears (I understand this in retrospect, of course), they asked me to get them pistachios out of the vending machine. The vending machine was out in the bar, so I would have to leave the relative safety of the back room, traverse the chaotic span of cacophonous drinking and merriment, around the guys playing darts, past the shuffle board bowling game and the cigarette vending machine, and over to the tall red machines with the nuts.

I remember thinking I was being very helpful as I slid the quarter into the slot, turned the metal handle, and received the red-stained seeds in my outstretched cupped hands. I felt proud as I brought them back and presented them to my mother’s friends, who thanked me and kissed me sloppily on my head and told me I was the best.

I thought it was fun at the time, and maybe I felt special to be out with Mom. But I do remember the cigarette smoke burning my eyes and throat, and I was always a little fearful of the drunken people because of my uncle, who was an alcoholic.

I was also a little worried that we were going to get in trouble with Dad.

Once we arrived home after midnight, and after I was put in bed I heard my parents arguing. My father was furious that my mother had me out at the bar. It was a really bad fight; my mother was crying. I remember thinking that I should go and tell my dad that it was okay, because I had fun being out. But I was afraid, and I stayed in my bunk and just listened and cried a little bit for Mom.

I remember other times when my father showed up at the bar and took me home. I was disappointed because I was having a good time with the girls and didn’t want to go yet. But I could tell that Dad was angry. He didn’t say much when he was angry.

Now that I’m older I can obviously see that my father was right.

When the subject comes up these days, my mother falls back on the fact that she was so young when she had us. “We were babies having babies,” she’ll say.

Hmm… I was about the same age, just before my 22nd birthday, when I had Mandy. I’ve never brought my precious girl out partying with me and she has never had to step over my passed out, hung-over body to use the toilet in the morning.

It’s an issue of maturity, not age.

But hey, I'm sure I'm not a perfect parent either. So I just nod my head and agree. “Yes, Mom, you were very young when you had us.”

Oh, well. Eventually my parents grew up. Although it was my father that didn’t approve of drinking or swearing around us kids, he was the one who had to learn patience and to keep his temper in check. They were both young. They both had their shortcomings.

It’s kind of funny to me now, actually, that I knew them both when they were young and immature. They watched me grow up; I watched them grow up.

But sometimes I wonder who my guardian angel was back then.

Through Thick and Thin

I just started walking. What else could I do? One foot in front of the other; that doesn’t take any thought. You just do it. You walk.

My feet were transporting me up Main Street.

I don’t recall paying at the counter as I left the building, or coming out into the light of a day that was going to be different than all those that preceded it. Things would be different from here on out. I think I was calm and polite to the woman who handled the transaction and handed me the receipt, but it was all a blur now.

Shock and confusion were like a warm liquid seeping through my body, from the area right behind my eyes, down my neck and my back, through my extremities and right to my fingertips and toes. I was alone and numb. It’s a good thing my feet knew what to do. They walked…

Main Street was humming with cars and people scurrying about. It was a sunny day, and I enjoyed, as always, contemplating the flocks of birds that ricocheted across the sky between the brick buildings of downtown. What made them change direction so suddenly? And how did they all move in unison like that, maintaining their tight formation through abrupt movements? Was there one bird leading the others, redirecting the energetic mass of fluttering wings this way and that? Or were they merely dancing across some hidden currents of air rising up through the bricks and concrete?

Ah, yes, this is good. Distraction will get me home. One foot in front of the other…

But then what will I do?

I know. I’ll call my mom.

My mom… hmm. I smiled in spite of myself. My mother is an opinionated, thick-headed Irish woman, and if she’s had a glass of wine she can get downright belligerent on you.

Oh, and she is never wrong. Not a chance. She will argue a point until the cows come home, even if halfway through the dispute she realizes that her argument is complete folly.

And she must have the last word! It’s enough to make you need some wine of your own.

But let me tell you something, my mother is truly awesome.

I will never forget the day I made that call to her.

I was just beginning my senior year of college, a time when I was enjoying every minute of my life.

I had befriended an entire cast of strange and entertaining characters at the bar where I was a cocktail waitress four nights per week, and it seemed a new misfit joined our odd little play every night.

Other weeknights plus Saturdays and Sundays, I worked for the local newspaper in a cluttered, disorganized office that pulsed with energy as we raced against deadlines, worked into the night, and stole snippets of sleep here and there on the threadbare green couch in the middle of the studio.

By day I was absorbed in my classes, traversing the grounds of the university from one lecture hall to another, occasionally hitting the campus gym for a spin on the stationary bike, sometimes stopping in the food court for a snack to enjoy on the grassy hill outside.

I enjoyed my friends. Since it was senior year we were all living in apartments off-campus around town, most of us within walking distance of each other. The house I rented with two friends on Cleveland Avenue had a front porch and a cute fenced yard in the back. I used to lie on my belly on the lawn reading Ann Rice novels while my guinea pig “Wheatie” munched grass in a tight line around my perimeter. When he was done he would climb into the sleeve of my t-shirt and take a nap.

My life was good. And it was all about to change.

It wasn’t an easy call to make, that call to my mother. I’m sure she could hear the shakiness in my voice, the hesitance in my words.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Um… ah… I’m pregnant.”

I was thankful that I had someone I could turn to for help, or even just advice, because being the only one that knew, even for the hour that it took me to walk home from the clinic downtown, made me feel so alone.

There was a reason she was the first person I called. My mother has common-sense, and she’s level-headed and calm. And I knew that she would be there for me, without missing a beat.

I wasn’t wrong. She spoke very calmly as she laid my options out on the table. They were the options I’d already been mulling over in my head all the way up Main Street, down Grand Boulevard and over to Cleveland, but they became more tangible once she uttered the words. Hearing them spoken aloud made them more manageable somehow.

She said if I didn’t want to go through with it, she would help me. If I chose to welcome a new member to our family, she would help me. Of course there was adoption as well. She said the hardest part is making a decision, and once I made up my mind about what I wanted to do, we would take it from there.

Hearing her voice on the other end of the line, the voice that had quietly guided me my entire life, I felt brave, and strong, and capable. She had given all those qualities to me.

The most important thing my mother told me that day was that everything would be okay.

And she was right. Six months later, I gave birth to my baby girl, the light of my life.

Thanks, Mom, for being there for me during the biggest decision of my life, and for all the years after. A single mom needs a guardian angel, and you are mine.

A mother is the truest friend we have. – Washington Irving

S'more Questions

Today I'm going to start answering the questions crafted for me by my friend Kiyotoe...

What's one thing you learned from your parents that you hope to pass on to your daughter?

One word: determination. Both of my parents are hard workers, but my mother’s determination is unmatched.

My mother married my father, her high school sweetheart, and gave birth to my big brother when she was 19 years old. I came along 18 months later.

My parents had no money when I was growing up, but my mother worked hard to better herself (and her earning potential) every day.

When I was 5 she used to bring home vanilla milkshakes from her night shift job at McDonalds. She quickly moved up to working in a small restaurant, and then to a more upscale restaurant where she could earn better tips.

She worked many hours so that she could make some extra money to pay for classes at community college. Six years later she had her 2-year associate’s degree.

In the business world, she worked her way up from filing and data entry to a high-level executive assistant who can command an impressive salary.

But there were times that she would return to waitressing on the weekends to earn extra money, like when she wanted to send me to dance classes or summer camp. My mother has always been a hard worker with a can-do attitude, and she has been an amazing example of determination for me and my brothers.

I hope that I can be that example to my daughter as well. It's important to me that she realizes that with hard work and determination, no goals are beyond her reach.

Someone has given you the voicemail number for the little girl in We Should Have Been Friends (my favorite post to date). What is the message you leave for her?

Hello, my name is Tammie Jean. I’m sure this call seems out of the blue, but I remember you from when we were young children.

You may not recall that day we met on the playground while our fathers were playing softball, but I’ve never forgotten it. It was my first experience with the ugliness of prejudice and to my continuing disappointment, I bowed to it and decided not to play with you anymore.

I would like to tell you that I am truly sorry for the way I acted that day. I allowed my fear of what others might think to influence the way I treated you, behavior that is not only uncharacteristic to the way I am now, but even to the person that I was back then at 5 years old. I immediately regretted it and have ever since.

I’m hoping that you’ll allow me to take you out to lunch so we can sit and chat, and so I can apologize to you in person. Besides, I’ve always thought that we should have been friends, and I’m hoping that you’ll give me a second chance.

Samson Syndrome

When Mandy was young, she slept with her long blonde hair up in a bun so it didn’t get in her face. (She still does this actually, and so do I). In the morning after breakfast, I would bring her over to the closet with the mirrored doors, and we would sit on the floor together while I brushed her hair. She would admire herself in the mirror for as long as the project might take, and we would chat.

Why didn’t my mother ever do this for me???

When I was growing up, my mother had long brown hair that reached all the way down her back. It was long and straight and shiny. So was mine. Except mine wasn’t so straight or shiny, because it was usually all knotted up.

(This photo is from the 3rd grade. I think my mother brushed my hair for this, because it looks like my barrettes are evenly placed.)

Probably once a week my mother would sit me down and start tearing into what she affectionately called The Rat’s Nest. This was a ball of knotted hair at the back of my head. It didn’t take long to develop. Heck, one night of tossing and turning in my bed and my hair was wrecked. I never knew about sleeping with my hair in a bun.

She used to threaten that if I didn’t take care of my hair, she would cut it all off.

The problem was, I knew nothing about the finer points of hair care. Sure, I brushed it. But I only brushed what I saw. I didn’t see the back. Or the “underneath”. I slid the brush down the visible surface of my hair. In the front. That was it.

I would cry when my mother started tearing into my hair with a comb at the end of the week.

Sometimes I would try to conceal The Rat’s Nest. When I realized it was there, I would carefully brush and smooth the surface hair over it. She always seemed to notice, though. Perhaps because there was a huge smoothed-over lump on the back of my head. Kind of like an elephant hiding under a throw rug.

Sometimes my mother would bring me to my grandmother’s house on the weekends, and my Aunt E would brush The Rat's Nest out for me. She brushed carefully. It never hurt when she did it.

When I was in 4th grade, my mother decided she’d seen enough of The Rat’s Nest. She took me to the salon, and my hair was cut short. It wasn’t too bad, though. I didn’t mind it. And my mother went on and on about how easy it was to take care of.

“Just wash it and go,” she would say.

My hair was getting pretty long again by the end of 5th grade. I was a cute kid. I had a few admirers. I thought maybe I might be one of the prettiest girls in my class. Boys snuck notes into my desk. A boy named Jamie wrote “I (heart) Tammie” on the fogged window of the school bus. Then David, not to be outdone, wrote David + Tammie = (heart). I blushed and looked out the window.

Then sixth grade came. In our school district, all three elementary schools converge into one middle school, and 6th grade is the first year you go there. This was a huge big deal. We would meet a whole bunch of kids we didn’t know. There were new boys to have crushes on, and new girls to give dirty looks to.

We were to be thrown into the social gauntlet.

Mom took me to get my hair cut again at the beginning of the school year. “I don’t want it cut short,” I said.

“You need something easy to take care of,” she said. “Besides, I’m the one paying for this, not you.”

That’s when I got The Boy Haircut. This is how I started the 6th grade.

No need to worry about admirers any longer. Or popularity. Or anyone wanting to be my friend.

Bad enough the acne was starting.

Bad enough I wore the same hand-me-downs year after year until my ankles were peeking out of my jeans and my socks were showing and everyone asked "Where's the flood?"

Bad enough everyone was wearing white Nike high-top sneakers with the laces undone so you could make the proper scuffing sound as you strutted down the middle school hallways with that perfect scowl that says “I’m cool and you wish you were”, and I was rockin’ those grayish-blue no-name sneakers with suede insets straight off the Caldor’s clearance rack.

But The Boy Haircut too?

“This is perfect!” my mother beamed. “Just wash it and go!”

Great. My life is over.

We attended a boring family gathering soon after I got The Boy Haircut, and one of the older relatives I didn’t know thought I was my older brother. “I haven’t seen Keith in so long!” she said. I glared at my mother.

I never got my hair cut that short ever again. In fact, I started paying for my own haircuts with my babysitting money by the 7th grade. By then, my hair was growing out and I feathered it back or curled it into those banana curls that framed your face like Farrah Fawcett.

But it didn’t matter. First impressions are everything, and I started my first year of middle school looking like short-haired, zit-faced, ankle-showing dorky mess.

It would be a very long time before I had to worry about a boy noticing me again.

Toys in the Attic

I get the call on Saturday at noon. I have lots of plans for the weekend, as I usually do, but I have to drop everything. This is an emergency.

“I’m cleaning out the attic today over at the old house,” my mother announces. “If you want any of this stuff you’d better come down here.”

The “old house” is the house I grew up in. I moved out years ago, and my mother had moved out several years before that. The house has been vacant for a while. But recently, my mother decided to fix the place up so she can rent it out. Step one, of course, is to get it cleaned out.

“I don’t think you’d want any of that old crap anyway, but I just thought I’d check.”

As a matter of fact, I do want that old crap. It’s MY old crap. My Childhood Old Crap. I’m talking about the Hollie Hobby Oven here. I’m talking Atari with all the old games. I know when she says “old crap” she is not EVEN referring to Space Invaders. That game is awesome.

And what about my Baby Chrissy doll? Or the Farrah Fawcett Barbie with the white halter pantsuit? And Wonder Woman! Dear God, this stuff is priceless!

I am in my car in 5 minutes flat. I don’t even shower.

This is an emergency!!!

The old house is about an hour away. Traffic laws are meaningless in a situation such as this.

As I pull in the driveway, I know that my concerns are not ill-founded. My mother has been here since 7am this morning, and there is already a huge pile of stuff out at the curb.

And what do I see at the top of the pile, the Garbage Pile, still in the original box that Santa gave to me back in 1976? As I get out of the car, I am shaking my head in disbelief.

“For crying out loud, Mom, my Lite Brite? How could you?!”

“What would you want that old thing for?”

The woman just doesn’t understand.

Not that she doesn’t understand about being a packrat, mind you. Oh no, she knows plenty about that. She is, of course, saving those boxes full of files from the company she used to work at five years ago. Because, well, you never know. And she’s trying to salvage that old desk that is literally falling into unrecognizable pieces as she drags it outside into the front yard.

And yet, she sees no value in my Dino Bank???

“I’m on my way home to get some lunch,” Mom says. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”

So I have an hour. One hour to go through the refuse pile she has amassed by the mailbox. I dig right in.

An hour later, my car is loaded to the top. The Six Million Dollar Man has been reunited at long last with the Bionic Woman. Charlie’s Angels have been spared the cruel fate of the dump. Ditto for their van.

What am I going to do with all my old crap? Well, I’m not quite sure. I suppose anything I’m not necessarily emotionally attached to will probably find its way to ebay.

I wonder if there’s anything I’m not emotionally attached to? I’m a very emotional person.

Later on at home, I am trying to explain to Mandy just how awesome my favorite toy is. I don’t know why she’s not getting it. I’ve even turned out the lights so we can get the full effect. Maybe if I sing the jingle…

"Lite-Brite, makin' things with light!
Outtasite, makin' things with Lite-Brite!"

“Can I go back to playing World of Warcraft now?”

“No, c’mon! This is great! I still have all the pegs! Let’s write your name in different colors, and then you can put it in your room if you want.”

So now Lite Brite is on top of the entertainment unit in Mandy’s room, in between the lava lamps. It’s a fitting place for it. And although it used to say Mandy, a few days ago it was illuminating a colorful flower, and now there’s a picture of a bunny.

Lite Brite lives on!