Wapner Pt. 2

* * * *

WELL, this woman was a little nuts.  But not in a terrible way.  But she was definitely overtly SEXUAL, in that it just didn't matter that she was slamming her giant breasts into me in the most overtly PUSHY manner I'd ever experienced - EVER!  I MEAN, HONESTLY. 

I've had a lot of haircuts, mostly by women.   And sometimes you get a little  tit-nudge here or there but this woman was OUT OF CONTROL, so I never forgot her!  She was a character, and she had a big story about her goal being to be ON JUDGE WAPNER and THE PEOPLE'S COURT.  You don't forget somebody like that. 

Plus, she gave me a singularly shitty haircut so I never forgot that, either.

ANYWAY….FAST-FORWARD 3 YEARS….

Me and my husband, Chris, are out on Long Island taking a vacation weekend.  We're in a bar/restaurant, and for some strange reason we start talking about odd semi-sexual experiences.  And I remember this haircut broad.  So I tell him about it:

Me: "This broad was DRAPING her tits on, me, man.  Like - VERY forward.  But her MAIN THING was that she was gonna get on JUDGE WAPNER and sue her boss."

Chris is joyously intrigued:  "Really? She was ALL OVER YOU?  And she was REALLY VOLUPTUOUS…?"

And can you believe this.  At THAT MOMENT…the T.V. SET that's OVER THE BAR JUST BEHIND OUR HEADS is blasting…and THERE SHE IS!

At THAT VERY MOMENT - THREE YEARS LATER - AS I AM TELLING CHRIS THIS STORY - HERE IS THIS WOMAN - ON JUDGE WAPNER - THE PEOPLE'S COURT - SUING THE WOMAN SHE SAID SHE WAS GOIN TO SUE.     She is living the dream.   And I am there to witness it.

We sat watching the show, our mouths hanging open.

Wapner seemed to really like her:  She won the case.

But, Holy SHIT....

Life.

 

 

 

 

FOUR MINUTES TO WAPNER

I have a very strange story to tell, so I'll just tell it.

Once I went for a 'spur-of-the-moment-haircut' on Jamaica Ave., here in Queens.   I just was walking around Queens one day, and my hair was making me sick, and I go into this tiny, hole-in-the-wall shop.

There's this broad there who looks like a Puerto Rican Dolly Parton.  A little ragged, in her late 30's or possibly early 40's.  Bleached-blonde WALL OF HAIR.  Big red lips.  Tiny little waist and gigantic breasts busting out of a gold lame` tube top - I don't think they were implants, they were just gigantic is all.   

So she's in this little storefront, standing by the one decrepit barber's chair, a little Yorkie dog snarling at her feet.  She's got a glass filled with water and a couple of scissors….I dunno what the hell.  

As soon as I walk in off the street, her Yorkie starts attacking me and I'm like: "I'm sorry to bother you…let me go…"

And she's like: "NO SIT DOWN," grabs my arm, her dog is now BITING at my feet, but…"SIT DOWN, WHAT DO YOU NEED, MAMI?  I'll give you a nice STYLE…"

So I do, I sit down.  The Yorkie settles.  And this woman starts snipping away at my hair, she goes:

"You have a beautiful face, you know.  But you dress like a hippie.  But hippies are good, too."

Gee.

Me: "Well, thank you.  (???)  So, please don't cut too much."

Hair Broad: "Well, you need a lot. Sorry. But it's all dead.  Your hair is all dead."

Me: "Oh.  Well, wow.  Really?"

HB: "Do you know that I'm going to go on JUDGE WAPNER?"

Me: "What?"

HB: "The woman I once worked for…she owned a salon in Manhattan.  And I was her most POPULAR SYLIST.  And then - for no reason - except because maybe her husband was in love with me - she FIRED ME…."

* * * * * * *

TO BE CONTINUED….

 

 

 

 

Ask 'im, Why Don'tcha

Is 'e truly happy, Millie?

I dunno -

D' you?

Asking 'im, it sure seems silly

Knowing whatcha do.

 

Is 'e happy, Tessy? Tara? T~ ?

Go an' ask 'im - have some brass…

And if you can't,

Then ask 'im, shan't

And quit bein'

A pain

In my

Ass.

 

 

MOTHER, MAY I?

Roughly 18 years ago, I was carted off from an insufferable day-job at an import firm where I had literally slaved as Office Administrator for a family of racist, unethical, power-crazed lunatics, one of whom also had an insidious penchant for sexual harassment.

I suspect that being around these wonderful people for close to 10 years was a good part of the reason I was carted off in the first place. But anyhow, one day I up and keeled over, right at my desk:  A devastating panic attack, my very first.  Scary, horrid.  Thought I was dying.  You know the drill.  An ambulance was summoned and the carting commenced. 

The experience - while abjectly terrifying - is not something I will ever forget and in fact, one that I am essentially grateful for.

My journey into emotional wellness and spiritual healing officially began on that fateful day.   I soon quit that job and found myself a good psychotherapist:  The extraordinary Doctor D., who even merited his very own song which I've performed many times over the years to appreciative audiences who could relate to the benefit of "finding yourself a decent shrink".

I will never forget my mother's clearly agitated reaction when I told her that I was starting therapy:

"You really need that?  Well, just don't you go talking about THE FAMILY with him.   He doesn't need to know all of our personal business."

Needless to say, Mother Dear happens to be another reason why I was carted off in the first place.

* * * * * *

I often observe

That "life is not perfect",

Each bears a cross in some form or another.,,

But one heart-ache of mine

That does not find relief

Is the fact that my cross

Is my

Mother.

* * * * * *

 

As I write these words, my Catholic Girl Guilty Voice is methodically condemning me to Hell - and yet…

We got along famously until I was about 5.   After that, my precocious opinions and head-strong tendencies horrified her and it has been an often ugly battle of wills ever since.   

The peaceful times together are few and far between.  It's not for lack of trying.  It simply is what it is, and it is the one area of my life that continues to plague me, no matter how many self-help books I read or how much I meditate and try to "let go" and heal.

I'm not alone in this phenomenon:  The Mother/Daughter Odyssey of Miscommunication, Angst, Crossed Wires and Misunderstanding.   We are such different women.  A BAD MATCH, as it were. Go ahead, GOOGLE "Mother Daughter Dysfunction" - the text is endless on the subject matter. 

But being in good company doesn't make it any easier.  In fact, it makes me feel more helpless than ever because so far NOT ONE TECHNIQUE I have attempted to initiate with Mother Dear has borne the fruits of a truly functional, adult relationship between us.  Her mantra being: "YOU SHUT UP - I'M THE MOTHER - I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT."  Always a crowd-pleaser, to be sure!  But with me - eh - never really goes over too well.

And I know, I know - it's up to ME to change HOW I REACT to the situation.  Well, I try that too.  I try really hard.  And you know what?  I pretty much suck at it where my mom is concerned.   She gets me going like nothing and nobody else can.

Doctor D. sat across from me those 18 years ago, and kindly offered these words:

"Lynn, this thing has the power to destroy  your spirit.  But only if you let it.  And that would be a shame.  You will never change your mother.  None of us can ever hope to change anyone.   She's never going to be the parent you want her to be and you are never going to be the daughter she wanted you to be.  You can look at it as a sad thing, because it IS a sad thing, for you both.  But it is a real thing and it happens to many people in this life - not just you.  And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you'll be able to move on and be truly happy with yourself and find some inner peace."

It sure sounded good coming from that gentle, wise man at the time.  It sounded right and real and solid.  And boy, how I wish I could do like the man said.  I soooo fucking wish that.  But I still have not been able to.  18 years ago...

So I hate it, yeah.  But I won't give up, or I can't.  Today I'm having a bad day, but I'll just go back to my corner of the ring and steady myself.  My husband can throw that boxer's bucket of water over my head and I'll be downright perky for the next go-'round.  You watch. 

I don't need to WIN, or be "right".  I'd be thrilled for a draw.  It's all I dare hope for.

And maybe - just maybe - as Mom always says: "Everybody can just be nice."