Why I Wanted To Be Set On Fire By Fairies

I’ve always been a “writer.”  Even as a small child I would write letters to my parental-units expressing my displeasure about how I was being raised, or some horrifying injustice, or general complaints.  My mom saved these letters and ceremoniously bestowed them upon me recently. 

There were so many letters.  But, here is one of my favorites.  I posted this to facebook a few months back, but I think my adoring fans that may have missed this post deserve a chance to see it.. and I’ve added a *new* element that I had not shared before.

I was in 8^th grade when I wrote this letter:  (THIS IS THE ACTUAL LETTER, people!)

Dear Mom and Dad,

 Please don't make me play the piano.  I have no talent, I have no desire, and I have a deep hate for it.  I hate it so much that I lie about it.. I filled out a form for church choir, and it asked if you could play a musical instrument and I said no.

 I can't go thru another year of lessons and recitals.   I hate our piano, and the piano teacher is creepy.  Take the money from my piano lessons and buy groceries or something.

 I don't want to go thru another year of HELL and torment to improve this "wonderful ability" that I have... which is a bunch of garbage.  If I'm so great, then how come I can only play one song, I can't sight read music, and I can't even read notes...  and I've been taking piano lessons for THREE YEARS!

You told me I could quit, but I guess you lied.  Thanks, Kelly

 Obviously, anyone can see my early talent as a writer in this well-thought-out letter.   The reason behind the letter was multi-faceted, but I think it had to do with fairies….let me begin at the beginning..

My piano teacher was the crypt-keeper. 

*not actual picture, but close*

To my recollection, she ate small children who didn’t practice their piano.  There are missing kids everywhere, and they could probably all be traced back to her stomach.  A piano recital was coming up, and I knew in the darkness of my too-small heart…..this wasn’t going to be good.    She used her old, skinny, crooked fingers and fumbled thru some papers and pulled out THE PIANO PIECE that I WAS GOING TO PLAY.   It was worse than I thought. 

 Come, Fairies, Come.   

Yep, that was the name of the song that I had to play.  Surely God hated me.   

Come, Fairies, Come ??     Really?  Why God? WHY?

I hated that piece.  I hated the piano.  I hate recitals.  I had a PLAN B:  I was considering chopping off my arms and eating my raw flesh.  But, that didn’t seem too reasonable.  So, I sucked it up and went to the damn recital.

Picture this: A small, yet opulent auditorium.  A big black grand piano on the stage.  The students were sitting on folding chairs up on stage on the side.  All the parents were dressed up in their Sunday clothes, with their big, Baptist hair-do’s,  with their Polaroid cameras.

There was a microphone up on stage right in the front.  One by one, each piano student stood up and went to the microphone and said, “Hello, my name is ______.  The first piece I’m going to play is _______________.”    We had two different piano pieces.  I have no earthly idea of what my second piece even was.

So, in my mind I went over my line...over and over and over…

 “Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

*this is how I incorrectly pictured myself*

“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

CRAP, its finally my turn, I get up… walk over to the microphone.  I looked out at all the big- Baptist- haired- moms, and bored-as-hell-dads…..  and I summoned all my awkward-13-year-old-confidence, and spoke as loud as possible right into that microphone.

 “HELLO.  MY NAME IS KELLY WISE.  THE FIRST PLACE I’M GOING TO PEE.....”   

What?  Did that just come out of my mouth?

 “The first piece I’m going to play”  turned into “The first place I’m going to pee.”  

It was like God really hated me.  I wanted the fairies to come immediately and set me on fire.   COME FAIRIES COME!!  Please come set me on FIRE and put me out of my misery.

 I’m pretty sure I blacked out, because the next thing I remember… I had written the letter above.

This is where a normal person would end the story.  But here’s the REST of THE STORY:

My parents DID let me quit.  My mother was very angry and said emphatically "YOU'LL BE SORRY ONE DAY!"   Which I have to say.. I'm not sorry AT ALL.  I never walk by a piano and think "Wow, I wish my parents made me keep taking piano lessons.."  

NEVER.  NOT ONCE.  Not one single regret.

 My mother did NOT use the piano lessons for groceries.  She took the money and SHE took piano lessons, however my mom had even LESS talent at playing the piano than I did.  This provided me with a great deal of amusement at HER first piano recital... and guess what?  That's right...  she quit.

Satan Lived In My House

In honor of my mother's birthday, I'm posting this story - It's a classic and one of my all-time-favorites.

For any of you that don't know me, I was previously married to an idiot.  During the 5th year of our marriage, my parents came to stay with us one weekend.  (We lived about 3 hours from them)  For the most part, everything was as "normal."  The parental units spent Friday night at the house without incident.  We spent the entire Saturday doing parent/grown-children activities..  They spent the night Saturday night - and planned on leaving on Sunday morning after breakfast.  All seemed to go according to plan.

Several months later I called my parents to let them know that I was filing for divorce from the idiot.  After they FREAKED OUT, my mother and I had the following strange conversation:

MOM:   I KNEW something was wrong when we stayed with you a few months ago.

ME:   Really?  Were we acting weird?

MOM:  No.  On our last night there, I woke up in the middle of the night, and I was freezing.  I got up and walked thru the house, and there was this strange feeling surrounding me.  It was Satan.

ME:  Are you sure? Maybe you just needed a fluffy blanket.

MOM:  No, I’m certain it was Satan.  And, now that you tell me that you’re getting divorced, this confirms that Satan was definitely in your house.

OK.  Fine.  Let’s just go with her story.   I then took a moment to reflect on the morning after her demonic encounter.  On that Sunday morning, we got up, made yummy eggs, pancakes, bacon, biscuits. We drank coffee on the back porch.  We had fresh orange juice.   There was not a single mention of Satan the entire morning.  They packed up their crap – hugged, kissed – and off they went. 

Now, 3 months later – I find out that Satan lives in my house!  REALLY??!!

So, I called her back to let her know that if she thought Satan lived in my house, I think a reasonable person would MENTION such an encounter to the homeowner.  For example, maybe that Sunday morning we could have had this kind of conversation:

ME:   So, mom.. how’d you sleep last night?

MOM:  Fine, except for the fact that I was woken-up in the middle of the night by the very presence of Satan.  These pancakes are extra fluffy.  I’d like another cup of coffee.

Maybe Satan WAS there… that’s not really what I’m disputing.   I just think it would have been considerate to have been told.   So, if any of you plan on spending any time with me, and you feel any demonic spirits in my house, I would freakin appreciate a heads-up.

Why I LOVE Skating Rink Cheese

Oh readers, it's way past my bedtime, but I feel like I will let you all down if I don't blog something tonight.  So, here goes.  I'll probably edit it tomorrow.

There comes a time in your life when you realize that your life completely sucks.  That particular moment happened to me at the skating rink.  My daughter got an invitation to a birthday party at the local skating rink...  She was in first grade, we had just moved here.. and she wanted to go...    This seemed perfectly reasonable to me. 

We arrived at the skating rink, and at this point I was TOTALLY unaware that this whole experience would completely BLOW.. so in the midst of my naivety... I'm thinking there are still rainbows, unicorns, and lollypops at this party.   Then I pull the GIANORMOUS dirty metal door open with all my strength...and that's when *IT* happened.  That moment.  If you're a parent, and you're reading this, you know the moment I'm referring to...    The moment when you know with all certainty that YOU. ARE. SCREWED.

With the aroma of decaying feet compounded by the darkness and strobe lights, AND the deafening techno-rap music.. I was certain that God hated me, and this was my punishment for all the bad things I had ever done.  My survival instincts went into over-drive... how the hell will I endure FOUR HOURS here.  DEAR GOD -   they don't even serve alcohol here like they do in Chuckee Cheese... what will become of me?  Panic and Fear replaced my Rainbows and Lollypops.

Now, here's my favorite part... the birthday kid CAN"T EVEN SKATE.  REALLY??     He put on his skates, desperately grabbing at other skaters for dear-life during his one lap around the rink... and that was it.  He took off his skates and he just walked aimlessly in the dark in his bare feet for the rest of his VERY.LONG.PARTY.   Ummmm, did these retard parents not know that their kid couldn't skate? AT.ALL?  Hey parents...  here are some more great ideas:

Birthday Kid:  "Hey mom and dad, I want to scuba dive for my birthday party."
Retard Parents:  "Ok, son.  That sounds super awesome..even though you don't know how."

OR...

Birthday Kid: " I would like to fly a real airplane for my birthday."
Retard Parents:  "Super idea! Let's send out the invitations."

Don't misunderstand... up to this point.. I loved skating rinks.   I spent my Saturdays during my childhood inside the Cassat Avenue skating rink.  I made big colorful homemade yarn pom poms on my skates, sporting my Farah Fawcett hair, and I skated my pre-teen, misguided heart  to "Blinded By The Light" .... and during couple's skate.. I would lean on the wall of the rink hoping that Andrew Flemming would ask me to skate to "Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady"....     Then, my skating gang would skate on over to the concession stand.. and there we would partake in some yummy nachos with Skating Rink Cheese....   Yes, this was the answer!

Now I'm in my 40's, so I can't see very good in the dark, but somehow I made my way over to the concession stand .. although briefly I thought I would siezure from the lazer beams and strobe lights...  but I made it there... and  spent the best $3.50 of my life.. on The Skating Rink Cheese Nachos.   If I stuck my nose right over the nachos, it even temporarly covered the decaying buffalo carcass smell.  

I used to love the skating rink.  Now I just love cheese.