Fat Shame

I wasn't kind to myself.  I believed that I was grotesque, that I was less-than, that I didn't deserve the same treatment as a "skinny" person. 
I believed I was ugly.  I believed that it was impossible for the words "fat" and "pretty" to exist in the same sentence, unless that sentence declared that I was "pretty fat." 
I forced myself into too-tight clothes, feeling miserable and uncomfortable, and desperate to hang onto the notion that as long as I didn't go up a size in clothing, I could feel less ashamed. 
I cried and cried, and cried some more, as I went on believing that my husband would never love me, not fully, not really, unless I weighed a certain amount. 
My journals filled with hateful descriptions of my soft, round, wavy body. 

And I am sad for all that wasted time.  I was lovely.  I AM lovely. 
And I am fat. 

And I am no longer ashamed of the word, as if it were something to hide from. 

Now that I have a clear head, and a rational grasp of the matter, the subject of fat shame enrages me. 

How many times have we seen the former fat guy on TV, holding up a pair of his gigantic pants like some kind of trophy?  Stuffing two people into those pants, and declaring victory over his former chub, while someone else looks on in awe, gasping, as if they'd never laid eyes on a fat person before. 
How many times have we seen the woman standing next to a cardboard cut-out of her former round self, giggling with glee over the fact that she can "wear a bikini now!"?  (She could wear a fucking bikini before, but we'll get to that momentarily.) 
I'm happy for these people.  If they felt so miserable and unhealthy before, then good on them for doing what they needed to do for themselves, to feel better. 
But these stupid scenes do nothing but perpetuate the idea that it's shameful to be fat.  It's wrong to be fat.  It's bad to be fat, and being thin is better.  Those "before and after" pictures...the subject frowning in misery over their own fatness, and then, grinning with glee in their second, "after" picture.  It asks us to accept that one of those things is bad.  That one of those things is unfavorable. That one of those things is just downright shameful.


 What the hell is so wrong with someone being fat, and *still* loving themselves?  What is wrong with feeling confident, or, heaven forbid, even sexy within one's fat skin? 

Confidence?  How dare you, Fatso! 

                                                               
Does this woman deserve our ridicule, our jokes at her expense?  Absolutely the fuck not.  No more than the black person or the gay person or the tall person or the person missing a finger deserve our ridicule. 

"But, being fat is a choice.  Those people should do something about their unhealthy habits, and then they wouldn't be so fat." 

Maybe.  Maybe it's a choice.  Maybe it's not.  Maybe they have some sort of metabolic disorder that causes their unacceptable condition, and they hate being fat just as much as *you* hate them being fat. 
Maybe they're gluttenous and lazy, and maybe they'd rather eat donuts for dinner than a salad.  Maybe it's been twenty years since they've bothered to take a walk or touch their toes. 
Maybe. 
But either way, isn't that *their* business?  Don't they have the *right* to choose fucking donuts over a salad?  Don't they have the right to decide not to take a jog? 

And while we're at it, they have the right to wear a bikini.  In public.  They have the right to dress themselves any damn way they please, and to not have some dirt bag boost his or her ego by making fun of them. 
Truly, that's all it amounts to.  By shaming someone else, by belittling someone else, a person is merely demonstrating their own insecurity, their own foolishness.  A person gains nothing by bashing someone else.  But the person receiving the bashing loses lots...

I grew up being ridiculed for my "fatness."  I was a size ten in 8th grade, and evidently that humiliated my mother enough to nickname me "Fatty Arbuckle", "Two Ton Tilly", and "Thunder Thighs", to name a few.  As a size 12 to 14 in high school, I believed I was sub-par.  I believed I was grotesque.  I believed that because I didn't look like the cheerleading squad, that I was less, and that I deserved less.  I thought my mother was right, and for being "fat", I was very, very wrong. 

I wasn't wrong.  The woman in the picture up there isn't wrong.  Not in the least. 

My diet, not that it's anyone's business but mine, consists mostly of food that comes solely from nature.  Whole food.  Good food.  But I have the same right to a donut, or four, that a thin person has.  If I choose to take a walk or a jog at the park next door, or if I choose to sit literally for hours in front of my TV watching a cooking show, it's my right to do either, and it's not the business of anyone who would shame me for it. 
The argument the fat-hate bullies like to make (to look like less of an asshole) is that it's "unhealthy" for the fat person.  They're worried about their health. 
Well, good.  Then pay for their membership to the gym of your choice, and go start making fun of smokers in the same manner, as their behavior is obviously unhealthy, too.  If they are genuinely speaking out of concern, there would be *action* and not hurtful, ugly words. 

The bottom line is, I'm fat.  I'm not ashamed of that word, and I'm not ashamed of my body.  Of course, I have "bad" days, just like anyone else, and wish I were smaller/taller/thinner/perkier...but I know that I am just as lovely as my thin sisters.  I am just as worthy.  I am just as important, or unimportant as the person who eats lettuce all day. 
My fat does not define my personality, any more than the tall guy is automatically a douche bag because he's tall. 

So in the words of bat-shit Tyra Banks, if you don't like it, you can "kiss my fat ass." 

Nervous jibberish

My heart might literally burst out of my chest. 
The phone will ring, and it will be terrible news...
Someone will come to the door...my uncle is outside in the field.  He might come to the door...
Breathing fast enough to make myself dizzy.
I think I'm having a heart attack.  I'm probably having a heart attack.  Chest pains.
I might faint. 
My heart might explode. 
I might die. 

I won't die.  I know this.  I'm not having a heart attack, and I'm not going to faint.  As abnormal as this is, this is normal. 
I know this.  Rationally, I know this. 

But in the midst of it, I know that something terrible will happen.  Someone will come to the door, and catch me...catch me what?  There's nothing illegal, or immoral, or humiliating happening inside my house.  I don't even have any dirty dishes in my sink.  What am I afraid they will see? 

I have no rational explanation.  I have no reason to be afraid, and yet I am.  Beyond afraid.  Terrified.  And I have no rational explanation.  My heart bumps rapidly as if I've just seen something frightening.  My hands are weak with tremble and fear.  My mouth is dry, and my chest aches. 

Over nothing. 
It's helpless.  And embarrassing. 

I am a woman, entirely in control of the demons in my past.  Fully aware that I have fought, and won.  That I do not exist within the grips of some emotional torment, struggling to continue despite every effort to stop me.  I won.   I am well.  I am whole. 

Until this.  It has the ability to knock me literally from my feet, and make me, for a few brief minutes of hell, question my entire being. 

Then, quick as it came, it's gone. 


Fucking panic attacks. 

Here comes the bride. Again.

Since my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer, a temporary "truce" has settled between my mother and myself.  Maybe not so much a "truce" as it is me not ignoring her completely.  She'll attest to the fact that I give an impeccable performance of the silent treatment. 
And I was happy to do so, because I didn't feel she deserved my acknowledgment.  She'd hurt me in a thousand ways, and depriving her of my attention was the kindest thing I could think to do to her to hurt her in return.  It worked.  We existed, absent of one another.  Happily, on my end. 
But the fact is, someone I love now has an imminent expiration date, and I don't care to hurt her with the coldness between my mother and myself. 
So I am personable.  I am pleasant, sort of, and instead of spitting my interpretation of "the truth" at her like venom, I now make an effort to soften what I have to say. 
It's uncomfortable.  But I love my grandmother.  And for her, I can be civil to my mother. 

My mother. 
If there were a broke, trailer-park version of Elizabeth Taylor,  it would be her.  With a lust for the most flashy and expensive things, while only being able to afford an occasional Wal-Mart knock-off. 
And an apparent wedding ring hording issue...

My father was the first one she married.  They went their separate ways before I was old enough to remember anything, and for the longest time, I didn't even know he was my biological father.  She didn't want me to know.  I remember him as being a man that I visited a couple of times a year, who let me pick the seeds out of his pot stash. 

And then my second father.  She led me to believe that he was my "dad."  I don't remember the precise moment I found out the truth.  I can, however, remember very vividly the day that he told me the truth from his own lips.  We were swimming, and I said "hey, Daddy, watch this!"  He froze, as if he was suddenly remembering for the first time himself.  "You know I'm not your real dad, don't you?"  I knew.  But it was alarming to hear him say so. 

Number three was sort of an arrogant bastard, and the one I think most suited my mother.  He liked to be called "The King Daddy."  He wasn't.  He was an emotionally cold, and ego-centric asshole, and his brother was the creature who preyed upon me when the sun went down.  I think he might have stayed with my mother forever, were it not for the fact that she began an affair with number four. 

Number four...possibly even more convinced of his own importance than his predecessor, and possibly the most unusual man I have ever met.  He and my mother separated within a few years, however their divorce drug out for a decade, in what looked like a pitiful attempt to hold on to one another, without being obvious. 

There was also an engagement, one hundred years ago or more, to a man before my biological father. 
I don't know anything about him, except for his name. 

It seems apparent that my mother is either very bad at marriage, or very fond of wedding cake. 
(Not that I fault her for loving cake.  I love cake.  But when I have a hankering, I run to the store, not to the altar.)

I FUCKING LOVE CAKE!!

                                                      
Today's news shouldn't surprise me, really. 

"I'm getting married tomorrow." 

I literally had nothing to say, tho I might have a bruise on my chin from my jaw hitting the floor. 
Because I said nothing to say, she began explaining her reasoning behind her new nuptials.  There were insurance reasons, military benefits, medical reasons...but never, "I love him." 
Never, "we love each other."  No mention of love, whatsoever. 
Finally, I said to her, "this isn't my decision.  You don't have to keep trying to justify it to me.  If you think you're doing the right thing, then that's what you should do.  At the end of the day, it has nothing to do with me." 

Which is true. 
And I don't know why it's so hard for me to accept that. 
She could shave her head and join a cult, and it would have nothing to do with me.  It would have no affect on my day to day life. 
So why do I care?  I'm not fond of the man, it's true.  But I am not the one who has to sleep with him.  It doesn't affect me. 
I'm cringing at all the jokes that I know are coming. 
I'm embarrassed.  About what, I'm not sure.  As I said before, I'm fully aware that this has nothing to do with me.  Being embarrassed about it seems a little egocentric on my part. 

Part of me wonders if this absurdity isn't lurking inside of me somewhere, buried in my DNA, and waiting to leap out of me at an unexpected moment, destroying my marriage, and forcing me to begin hording wedding dresses. 
Silly, really.  My first and only marriage has probably lasted longer than all of hers put together.  But every time there is a bump in the road, I wonder, is this the day my maternal genes ooze to the surface, and ruin everything? 

My marriage has nothing to do with her.  Her past is not mine, and her future does not paint mine. 

But, fuck.  Five husbands?  Really?
How many weird step-dads do I need? 

"Let it ring."

I'm going to share something, that I find pretty embarrassing.  Actually, it's downright humiliating, and leads to even further awkward situations down the road. 

My telephone freaks me out.

Not in a "boogie man" sort of way, but in a "jeezus, that fucking thing is ringing again, and the thought of picking it up and actually talking to the person on the other end, is making my heart sink into my stomach," way. 
I'm not sure, exactly, what freaks me out about it.  Maybe I'm afraid I'll hear bad news.  Maybe I'm afraid the person wants something from me that I don't have to give.  Maybe I'm worried that I'll get "stuck" on the phone with them for an extended period of time, and won't have an excuse to hang up. 

When my mother still called, it was impossible to get her off the line.  She literally chattered on for up to three hours sometimes, about nothing but herself.  My least favorite subject.  And nothing shut her up.  "Oh, look, one of the kids is on fire...gotta go," would still leave me on the phone with her for another half hour, while she explained in great detail why she hated fire. 
Ok, maybe it's not that extreme.  But that's how it felt. 
That is, when we weren't screaming incoherently at one another.  Which was often. 

My father has been calling for weeks, and every time he does, a knot swells inside my throat.  "He's either shit-his-pants drunk and wants to ramble on for an hour about aliens, or he's sober, and won't have anything to say to me at all."  Both are equally unnerving.  His messages fill me with panic and guilt, and remind me what an asshole I am for not answering my phone when he calls. 

My friends call, and my husband looks at me as if I've done something terrible when I say, "let it ring." 
"But, why don't you want to talk to them?" 
The short answer is, I don't know.

                                       


In high school, most of my hours were spent on the phone.  With a boyfriend.  With a best friend.  With wrong numbers, even.  Several times, I literally spent the entire night on the phone, only to be surprised by my 6am alarm.  I would wander thru the day exhausted, nap after school, and wake in time for dinner and phone.  The thought of that now makes my insides twist. 

Talking on the phone with my husband is not particularly a problem.  I think I could talk to him all day, and feel comfortable.   I can even handle making "professional" phone calls, to deal with our personal business, because I have an agenda, I can say my peace, and I can hang up when it's over. 

But the thought of an unsolicited phone call from a friend, relative, or otherwise, leaves me feeling a weird, anxious and embarrassing feeling.

I feel as if I'm well-spoken, thoughtful, and thought-full in text.  I can read an email, take a few minutes to think on it, compose a response, re-read the response, and delete or reword what doesn't come across the way I wish.  I can double-check myself for anything that I might wish to take back.  I can triple-check for anything that seems insensitive.  I can be sure.  Very, very sure.  And then, send. 
There is no "undo" over the phone.  Once I say it, I can't un-say it.  It's out there in the universe, and I can't take it back.  It's done. 
Fuck. 

More than once, this has lead to friends feeling alienated.  Ignored.  Left behind.  It has led to an angry father, frustrated loved-ones, and a very confused, and embarrassed me. 
I'm happy that they want to talk to me.  I'm happy that someone loves me enough that they want to hear my voice over the phone.  And I feel ridiculous that I can't (or don't) reciprocate.  I'm anxious when they do call, and scared to death that one day, they won't.  My fear is that one day, the phone will finally fall silent, and no one will bother with me anymore. 
Gross. 
 

Mother(fucker)-in-Law

Heart falling out of ass. 
It's the only way I know how to describe the feeling I get when something unpleasant takes me completely by surprise.  One second I'm fine, and the next second, my heart has plummeted from my chest, and threatens to fall right out of my ass. 

If you read regularly, you'll know that my husband and I are estranged from our mothers.  With good reason.  So I don't need to go over that again. 

Last weekend a phone call, at nearly midnight, led us to think someone must be dead, and so rather than ignoring it as usual, my husband answered it.  His mother claimed her phone was blinking his name, as if he had called.  (An obvious lie, since our flip-closed cellphones are physically incapable of "butt dialing.") 
She talked as if nothing had happened between us.  As if she hadn't been banished to Shitty-Mother Island, and as if she hadn't been told to "never darken our doorway again", after the disgusting things she said to my husband...
She asked about coming up to visit, "if I stay in a hotel," and my husband told her that we would just have to see how things go, since his schedule is weird.  

I shrugged it off, hoping that it was a way for him to blow her off, hoping he would ignore any further communication from her, and hoping that neither I, our children, or my precious husband would have to endure the black cloud she always carries with her...the chaos and darkness she will inevitably spread thru our house with her bitter comments, her racism, homophobia, and her general nasty disposition...
And sort of knowing that my husband is torn. 

Then, nothing.  No more calls, no emails or letters, just the ever-present nagging sense of her presence, somewhere deep in my brain. 

And today, in a "heart-falling-out-of-ass" moment, we receive this email:

"(Your grandmother) and I are going to come up to see the kids and you guys sometime before they go back to school.  When do they start back?"

The fuck?  Did she just invite herself back into our home?  Did she just tell me that they are arriving, and ignore the fact that she's forbidden to show her face on our property?  Talk about balls.  She definitely has a pair of big fat hairy ones. 


My immediate reaction is to call my husband, and say something along the lines of "guess who's coming to dinner," and hope he freaks out as badly as I do, so we can agree as a unit not to allow her back.  But I don't.  I stare at the message, instead, and panic. 
If my husband wants to see her, I won't stop him. 
I don't want to see her.  Ever, at all.   She's wretched.  She's miserable, and only finds happiness in making others miserable, too.  And the bitch was hateful to my children.  That alone is grounds for immediate and permanent dismissal. 

But I also know how many times I have given my own disgusting mother a "second chance."  Lots.  Of course she's a sociopathic lunatic,  and she blows it every single time, without fail.  So I am familiar with the cycle of forgiveness and heartbreak.  He is not.  After a lifetime of abuse, his first and only confrontation with his mother resulted in two years of not speaking to her. 

My fear is that this will drive a wedge between us.  That she will drive a wedge between us.  She has before.  Even going so far as to tell my husband "next time, you'd better marry for looks!"  I want her to go away, take her miserable cloud with her, and stay away. 

And now, she's just declared that she will come.  "You have no say in the matter, and I will be there.  Kindly go fuck yourself in preparation for my descent." 

                                      

  I want to move.  I want to hide.  I want to run away.  I want to escape the chaos she brings, simply by being.  I want to tell her that if she shows up at our door, I'll meet her with swear words and a fist to the teeth.  I want to shove her in a box with my own mother, and ship them off to Abu Dhabi, Garfield style. 

I want to be supportive of the needs and wishes of my husband.  And I'm sorely afraid that this will be an instance where I come out looking like a huge dickhead. 

Fuck. 

Andy walks with me, Andy talks with me...

We watched one of those TV news specials tonight.  Not a particularly noteworthy event, however the content of this particular program left me feeling incredibly...
Without. 

I'm not sure what was supposed to be the main focus of the program.  It seemed to jump around a lot, or maybe I was just so lost in my own thoughts that I didn't catch on.  But basically, it was focused toward religion, and faith. 

Unquestioning faith.  Unrelenting faith.  Just plain old blind faith, that never wavered or weakened. 


They all looked a little nuts to begin with.  Hands open to the sky, tears flowing freely.  Hundreds of people who climbed mountains, or waited in lines for hours, hoping for just a glimpse of someone claiming to be a healer.  Collapsing into hysteria or unconsciousness when touched by such a person. 
People claiming visions of, and even conversations with the Virgin Mary. 

All of them so sure of their faith.  So unmoved by how they appeared to the "outside" world. 






And I felt sad. 
I felt left out. 
I felt sorrow in my own lack of faith. 

What is it that they have, that I don't?  It isn't that I haven't tried.  I went to church as a little kid.  My mother tucked four quarters into my little palm every Sunday, and sent me off to Sunday school to get my Jesus on.  I got up early on Sundays to attend services as a teenager, and even sang in the church choir for a number of years.  Even in my adult years, I've sat thru sermons, sometimes even arriving an hour early to sit in the sanctuary, and hope for something "holy" to fill me up. 
I prayed. 
I talked right out loud to whatever deity would listen. 
I let my seven hundred year-old preacher dip me in the magic water. 
I even dove nose first into a bible a time or two.  Or twelve.  Or more. 

I wanted to have faith.  I wanted to feel what it seemed the church-goers around me were feeling. 

I didn't.  Even a little. 
Oh, sure.  I felt good singing hallelujah songs, and being "joyful" near those people who were more righteous than I.  I liked the company, and the happy feeling I got when my adorable and feeble preacher put his hand on my shoulder at the end of every sermon, and told me how special I was to him, and how happy he was to see young people like me in church every Sunday. 
But as far as being hardcore, dead sure about anything "godly," there was nothing. 

I questioned the bible.  I questioned it's authenticity, and it's authors, and it's messages that I found to be, at times, entirely contradictory.  I questioned the sincerity of people I encountered who preached love, while using it to justify hate.  I questioned my own sanity and morals, wondering why my naughtiest thoughts took place in church.  I questioned why, if all of this was "real", was I allowed to feel such doubt.  And why nothing I did was enough to "make" me a believer. 

Not that I'm not a believer.  It's just that I'm not sure what I believe.  I don't know the answers, and I find myself feeling a sense of longing when I run into those who seem so sure. 

I ran away when I was seventeen.  With a man.  I stayed gone for somewhere near a week, calling once or twice to let my family know that I was ok.  It was a weird time.  I returned to a lot of very angry people, naturally.  It was hard to articulate what I'd been thinking, and I know I must have been asked that question at least a hundred times. 

One evening after church choir practice, I found myself sitting on the steps outside with our song leader, smoking together, and talking about my brief ordeal.  He listened intently, and with great empathy.  He advised me, he hugged me, and he warned me, gently, about the potential folly of my path.  He finished with "men can be real bastards sometimes." 
I didn't know he was allowed to say that.  He was religious, after all.  And they don't say words like "bastards."  Do they?  They're not real people, are they?  Not flawed and messy, like me... 

From there, I began to wonder if perhaps that isn't the "real" god.  Maybe he was, in that moment, some kind of "god" in a sense.  A real person, with real compassion, and real concern, reaching out where he knew he could help.  What if it's truly that simple? 


And if it's not, then what is so wrong with me, that I can't just accept all of these things on faith, without questioning the logic of it all?  Without noticing the contradictions?  Without being constantly bombarded with my own inner voice, saying, "something about this doesn't jive..." 

Do "good" believers feel this uncertainty?  How do they settle within themselves the seemingly endless list of questions that I have asked for so long?  How do they just believe it all, without question?  Part of me is glad that I have the capability of independent and logical thought, and have not been swooped up with the religious "crazies," climbing some foreign mountain to touch someone claiming to talk to angels.  And another part of me is a little sad that I can't be filled in such a way.  That I can't just "know" what they seem to know.  That I can't feel sure, the way they feel sure.

 












Our song leader died a few months later.  And while I missed him so terribly, I felt such a sense of great gratitude for having been able to share such an altering and important moment with him on the steps of our church.  I think of him often, and wonder where he is now.  If he is now.  I wonder if he is with his deity, or if he's currently a fourteen year-old sheep herder in New Zealand.  I wonder if he's just ceased to be, infinitely, and secretly hope like hell that's not the case. 

And that's all. 

I am Ophelia

I am Ophelia. 
Today, my young friend, Alice, and I were blown by the wind, far away from our familiar home (never mind where) and into a strange and mysterious new land, where everyone and everything was unfamiliar and new. 

(I am Krystal.  I am an irritable, lately miserable, frumpy housewife, and this afternoon, after the most miserable morning, as the wind nearly blew us off our feet, my daughter declared, "thank goodness we're too heavy for it to blow us away" to which I responded, "maybe we're not.  Maybe the wind can pick us up and carry us far off, somewhere where we don't know anything or anyone.  We can start brand new.  We'll pick new names, and speak in funny accents!  What's your new name?" 
"Alice,"  She replied.  "What's yours?" 
"Roger,"
"MOM!  You can't be a boy's name.  Pick a girl one."  Sometimes she has no sense of humor. 
"Ophelia," I declared, as I threw my arms to the wind, secretly hoping it could carry me away.)

"Ophelia," she began, in the most charming British accent, "where can we go for some water?"  Finding myself parched as well, I decided we'd venture off into this new land, meet the locals, and see if our "home" money could buy us a few refreshments. 

We found ourselves nestled inside a cozy little hamlet (Applebees) where most of the locals seemed friendly enough. 
"Look at that pretty little baby boy there.  What do you think his name is?"  I asked Alice.  "I'll bet it's Francisco." 
"That's not a boy."  She insisted.  "That's a girl." 
"In disguise?"  I asked.
"Yes.  It's a girl, disguised as a boy.  Her name is Sarah.  She's a princess."  Alice looked worried, as she looked around, suspiciously. 
"Are they looking for her?"  I whispered. 
"I think they are." 

(The waiter, Joshua, appears.  "What are we up to today, ladies?" 
I reply, in character, "my young friend Alice and I are out in search of adventure today."  Alice covers her mouth to hide her obvious giggle. 
"We're pretending," she whispers, and our waiter doesn't seem as if he entirely gets it, but is friendly enough, and goes along with our silliness. 
"Ahhhh!  Well, what kind of adventure are we looking for?  Where are ya headed today?" 

To which Ophelia replies, "where the wind takes us!"  Alice erupts into laughter, as we order three desserts "two cherries on this one, please," and two gigantic waters.  Joshua disappears.)

"Alice!  I've just remembered!  It's your twenty fourth birthday!" 
Alice looks surprised.  She should.  She doesn't look a day over six. 
"Oh, thank you, Ophelia!"
"We should do something to celebrate.  Perhaps a nightclub later.  We can dance." 
We break into finger-pointy, shoulder wiggly, seated style chair dances.  Alice is briefly mortified as Joshua returns with our water. 

"I WAS SO THIRSTY!"

"Yeah!  Hydrate!"  Joshua cheers.  People are strange here. 

Alice and I pass the time by drawing rainbows on her place mat, and by inventing secret hand signals, in case we soon discover that this land is a hostile one.  However, we didn't get much past the signal for "I love you," because attention spans are short when one is six.  Er, twenty four. 
I remind her again of her birthday, and we realize suddenly that today is my twenty fourth, too. 

A waitress arrives with our desserts.  A hot fudge sundae, some sort of warm pudding concoction, and a strawberry shortcake.  All three piled with whipped cream, and stuffed into over-sized shot glasses.  Our eyes widen as we survey our sugary lunch, and thank the messenger profusely in our terrible accents.  "Oh, how loveleh!"

Quickly, I notice that there is only one cherry on the sundae.  Ah well.  Nothing was perfect in our old land, either.  That won't spoil our feast.  We grab spoons, and dive right in. 
Joshua arrives, as Alice and I are both in mid stuff, cheeks full of whipped cream. 
"How is it?  Did they remember to give you two cherries?"
"They didn't," I said, "but that's alright.  Everything looks totally pleasant." 
"Well, that just won't do!"  He said, and he disappeared again...

"Oh, this was just a lovely idea, Mommy.  I mean, Ophelia."  Her face was sticky with chocolate and whipped cream and ice cream, and some sort of strange mixture of all three.  Her pretty hair still in tangles from the wind that had sailed us over. 

Joshua returns, with two shiny cherries, resting on a dainty little plate.  "It's not a party unless there are enough cherries!"  Alice is beside herself, and immediately snatches one up, and dangles it in front of my mouth. 

"Look around at all the people who came to celebrate your twenty fourth birthday."  I say. 
She's pleased. 

Sarah, the baby girl in disguise as a boy, is carried by. 
"There goes the princess!"  I say.  "Do you think Joshua is looking for her?" 
"I think he is!" 
"And he brought us those cherries..." 

We both look at the plate with the single cherry.  "I'll bet they're poisoned!"  I say. 
"No they're not!"  Alice insists.  "I ate one already, and it wasn't poisoned." 
"Well, then.  You eat it.  You eat that one, and tell me if it's poisoned.  I don't want it." 
Unaffected, she snaps up the remaining cherry, and chews it defiantly. 
I feign wooziness, and pretend to faint.  She isn't fooled. 

Midway thru our third dessert, Alice decides she can't eat anymore. 
"Ugh.  I can't get thru it, Mom.  If I eat anymore, I'll blow up."
"Like a blow-fish?" 
"What's a blow-fish?"
"It's a fish.  It fills up with air and gets big and round and fat.  Like this (puffy cheeks)." 
Alice looks unimpressed.  "No, not like that." 
"Well I don't want to look like that.  Who knows what might happen in this weird new world.  You'd better help me finish this, so I don't blow up like a blow-fish." 


We finish our dessert, and immediately break into more finger-pointing, wiggle dancing, pausing only when Alice thinks someone might be looking.  She is briefly mortified once again when Joshua returns, and asks her if she was doing the Karate Kid maneuver.  She stares at him, blankly when he remarks on the generation gap. 
"Oh, no," I reply.  "She's twenty four today!" 

(I am Krystal.  I am an irritable,  lately miserable, frumpy housewife, back at home again, wishing things could be different.  Hoping that my little daughter will be able to remember the fun adventures of Alice and Ophelia, and forget the shit that drags on in between.  Knowing full well that isn't how it works.
Wherever we were, it was lovely there.  I hope she'll ask me back soon.) 

I am Ophelia.  I was blown here by the wind.