I actually have a few ideas for some thought provoking articles, such as, discipline, censorship, the plight of women, and how I hate technology- but not his week. I have had another busy week so I thought I would opine on that. For those of you that get tired of my craziness, go ahead right now and turn to Wade or Ron's article.
What my son, Fletcher, said he wanted more than anything for his graduation gift was a party, preferably at Berea. He wanted everyone he'd ever met to be there (remember last week's article) from Jesus Christ to the garbage man. My best friend Neal and I knew that would be physically and financially impossible, so we decided to do the nest best thing and throw him a surprise party at the Dream Depot. I didn't know how I was going to pull this off because my son was going to be home with me all week. How was I going to call people, buy decoration, bring food into the house that I don't normally buy, and be able to sneak off to the Depot to clean and decorate?
Then there is the problem of being born with one of those “I can't keep a secret” genes. Sometimes my mouth falls open, that little lever trips, and stuff just falls out. It's not my fault, it's a disease.
The week actually came off without a hitch, mostly because Fletcher stayed gone, playing tennis or spending nights with friends, so I was able to to sneak around and get everything done without him catching on. Friday arrived (party night) and Fletch was home all day, which made me a nervous wreck. Neal had concocted a plan to take Fletcher to Bowling Green that night for dinner and to find some reason to stop by the Depot for a minute before heading out.
I played my part to the hilt. I whined and carried on about how Neal was my best friend and we always did Fridays together. Why couldn't I go to Bowling Green too? Fletch kept telling me to stop acting so spoiled and selfish. The lies just tripped off so easily off my tongue- I felt like a teenager again. I had to keep t he phone glues to my hip all day, as it rand incessantly with people wanting to know what to bring, what time to be there, etc. With Fletch sitting across from me I would jump up and saw that I had to pee and run to the bathroom with the phone so I could talk privately.
As many times as I ran to the bathroom you would've though he would've realized that something was up or at least been concerned that I might have an urinary tract infection.
Almost everyone I invited came to the party and the place was packed. Some of his buddies from Berea even came.
When Neal and Fletch walked in and everyone screamed “Surprise!”, the look on Fletcher's face was like that TV commercial, “Priceless”. The atmosphere at the party was great we had an over abundance of food and everyone had a wonderful time.
At the end of the night Fletcher took me aside and told me that I couldn't have given him a better gift. He said he should have known that I wouldn't have acted spoiled and selfish because I have grown up a lot in the past year. Little did he know that was a premature statement.
I woke up Saturday morning with only a couple hours sleep, a bad headache, and in an all together bad mood. I was also born with one of those “pity party” genes.
When I'm feeling low I make everyone around me miserable. You know “misery loves company”, I've had it since birth. When I was growing up someone would say something and I'd take it the wrong way. I'd go to my room, intending to stay until someone would come in to baby me or throw me a donut. That didn't work with my family. I'd sit in that room listening to life going on outside the door, hearing footsteps coming close and thinking someone was finally coming to see about me. Sometimes I even made moaning sounds like I was dieing, but it never worked. No one ever came and after what seemed like days I would hang my head and crawl out and they would all laugh at me.
Saturday was to be a busy day. Fletcher was taking the crappy red car and going to Columbia early to get ready, register, and practice for the American Idol Fair Contest being held at the Depot. I was to come over later in the crappier (my word for the day) white car. It had been in the shop earlier in the week and was still giving me problems and I was really fearful of driving it. Plus, I was concerned about Fletcher going up against the best singers around. He's had no training and has only been singing for a year or so (unless you count those many nights serenading sleeping neighbors)
So, I called Neal, thinking maybe he'll offer to come and get me. I couldn't reach him. He has a real piece of crap phone- sometimes you get through sometimes you don't. Only minutes before the show is set to start, Neal called, “Where are you?'
I explained that I tried to get him on his crappy phone and that my car is acting up and I'm not coming. Easily detecting one of my pity party moods, he nonetheless offers to have someone to come get me. Pitifully I replied, “Nope, I'll just stay home.” He tries again, same reply. He starts to say something and I abruptly hang up on him and instantly regret it.
Knowing I'm upset, I figure he'll call me right back or better yet, just send someone for me.
I sat sulking in my chair all evening, wondering about all the fun that was being had without me. How could they? “Pity party” disease is much like grief, it has many stages. I sat there going from crying to anger to remorse and back again.
I thought that when the show was over they'd come and get me or call but they didn't. Finally, the phone rang and I though 'Aha, there they are'. I answered the phone only to hear Wade Daffron say, “Ms. Bell, have you heard?” I immediately looked around to see if Garry's mom had slipped in the house.
Wade, honey you don't call a woman in the throes of a pity party, “Ms. Bell” or “Ma'am”. He then went on to tell me that Fletcher made the cut of 6 and would move on to the next stage of Fair American idol.
Happy now, I just knew they would call, but they didn't. I told myself to grow up, go to bed, tomorrow is another day, but I couldn't. I cannot sleep when there is upset or discourse in my life. I tried calling Neal's phone over and over again, and finally at 2 am I got in the crappy white car that I was to afraid to drive earlier and drove over there only to find that they were perfectly fine. It was all me.
Having a core group of friends that I truly value and don't wish to lose, I have managed to “exorcise” the “I can't keep a secret” disease, but I have a long way to go on the “pity party” problem.
I am the most ultra sensitive, insecure, wear your heart on your sleeve person in the world. Sometimes I hear things incorrectly and then all the voices in my head get it all confused.
I'm thinking of forming a PPA group. Anyone out there who has these same kind of problems can call 1-800-CRY-BABY.
Till next time- Forward Ho