Knocked Over By A Feather




The Loudest Voice…

“You’re such a pretty girl. If you lost weight, you could be a cheerleader and date a football player. Wouldn’t you like that?”

My uncle said those exact words to me when I was around 14 years old and just starting high school. As much as I wanted to tell him to suck an egg, I had to bite my tongue.

Not only was he my elder, he was also my deceased father’s only brother.

I think that he approved of me until I started school. I didn’t bring home straight A’s and my “baby” fat didn’t go away. It wasn’t cute anymore. I was no longer just a pudgy little kid, I was now a bonafide¬†fatso.

He used to grab my belly fat and say, “I can pinch an inch!”

Fuck you, 1984 Special K commercial.

Getting pinched was an invasion of my personal space, not to mention that it hurt like hell. He wasn’t gentle about it at all. His fingers left red marks on my young skin.

He had two beautiful, blonde, skinny daughters who were already adults by the time that I was born. They were perfect female specimens in his eyes and there was no way in bloody hell that I was ever going to be able to live up to his high expectations.

I already had the boys at school who enjoyed teasing me for being overweight, the last thing that I needed was to deal with the same kind of bullshit from a grown ass adult man. Luckily, I didn’t live with him, but when I knew that he was going to be coming over, I’d have a panic attack and try to steer clear of him the best that I could.

He picked on my mom for smoking, which is where the comment, “you’re just like your mother, with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth” originated from when he stopped by the house one day unannounced. I was 18 when he caught me smoking a Cambridge Light.

I had thought to myself, I’m proud to be like my mom, you jerk.

Plus, she told me that he would also pinch her tummy fat as well. I had no idea, I had been under the impression that I was the only one that he ever mucked with.

He was always so intimidating, a Cleveland cop, the polar opposite of my gentle and soft-spoken father. I don’t know if he was ever nasty to my dad, but I imagine that he probably was, because people like my uncle love to prey on the meek and mild.

He’s still alive, in his mid 80’s now. I haven’t spoken to him in a long time and I don’t ever plan on it again.

I hate to say this, but I have no love for him at all.

I don’t give a shit if he’s my elder anymore or that we share the same DNA. In my heart, I feel nothing but emotional pain and an intense dislike for him.

Of all of the negative voices that swim around in my head, his is still the loudest.


The Dusty Passages of Memory

Sixteen candles might make a lovely light, but you can toast marshmallows over forty-three.

As you can clearly see, I’ve loved chocolate cake since an early age. Check out my chubby legs and that retro Pepsi bottle. I look like a mini sumo wrestler.


Because I secretly crave validation and attention, I must share the fact that today is my 43rd birthday. To some people, I’m still just a baby. To others, I’m as old as dirt itself.

I woke up today feeling absolutely no different from how I did yesterday. (Like shit, ahem.)

Aging is a gradual process and just because we celebrate the day of our birth, it doesn’t really mean anything in the grand scheme of things.

The only evidence that I’m older shows on my face, creases where none existed before and the glittery silver that streaks throughout my natural dark brown hair.

Also, my boobs just ain’t as perky as they used to be. Them’s the breaks.

My Aunt Merrie, one of my two namesakes, passed away of a brain aneurysm at the age of 36 while she was painting. I have outlived her by 7 years and I am grateful for that. I never got to meet her, nor my grandma Mary, who died of a heart attack in her early 50’s.

When I look at my 1st birthday photo up above, it makes me nostalgic for days gone by. My childhood was mostly a beautiful time in my life and I would give my entire Beatles record collection to go back for just one more day.

If I wanted to, I could buy myself a chocolate cake and eat the entire fucking thing (and then go into a diabetic coma.)

No, only a little baby with adorable fat folds has that right. Not a middle-aged women with a body that can’t process glucose correctly.

If I could, I’d crawl into that picture and give that baby a big hug. I’d whisper in her ear that life wasn’t always going to be that easy, but that she was strong enough to deal with it. I’d tell her to steer clear of douchebags, not to roast her skin in the sunshine using baby oil and to get better grades in school.

Then I’d grab a handful of that cake and skedaddle out of there, leaving 1975 forever in the dusty passages of memory.

Because no matter how we may wish that we could go back in time, that isn’t how any of this shit works.

Modus Operandi

I’ve had a lifetime filled with trauma and chaos starting way back when I was a young girl.

I’ve unintentionally invited some of it in myself, holding the door wide open when I should have blocked the entrance with my plenty ample enough body.

Mostly though, the bad things have come crashing into my “abode” much like the Kool-Aid man does when he wants everyone to sip from his pitcher of fruit flavored sugary goodness.

Due to the rise in popularity of flavored water, Kool-Aid man had no other choice but to find a way to make some extra sugar.

Kool-Aid isn’t healthy for us, though. The sugar rots our teeth, raises our chances of becoming diabetics and makes little kids fat, myself included. I drank the stuff like I do ice water now, all day long.

My favorite flavor was lime green, until the fateful day when out of nowhere I became nauseous and vomited it all up. Ever since then, I can’t even smell the scent of lime Kool-Aid without feeling slightly ill. I switched over to black cherry and didn’t look back, until I became a teenager and started to drink pop, specifically Mountain Dew. (Which I can’t drink now because it feels like it’s corroding my stomach lining.)

 As a young adult, my beverage of choice was orange juice and vodka, a Screwdriver. The last time that I had one, you guessed it, I hurled major chunkage.

So, now when I feel the urge to have an alcoholic beverage, I stick with beer. I can’t guzzle it fast enough to really get loaded, plus it gives me gas bubbles and turns me into a living belch machine.

You’re probably thinking, what’s all this talk about Kool-Aid, pop and beer? Get to the point already, for Pete’s sake!

Young businessman holding wine glass, (B&W), portrait
You can call me Pete, just don’t call me late for cocktail hour!

The point I’m trying to make is simple. You can think that something is the best thing ever, only to find out that you were totally fucking wrong the entire time.

We are always evolving, always changing our modus operandi.

My goals for the remainder of my days is to live the most peaceful, simplest existence that I can. In order for that to happen, I need to change my thinking about certain things.

  1. Accepting help doesn’t make me weak, it makes me human.
  2. Forgiveness is possible if I turn my heart over to it.
  3. What I can’t do physically anymore doesn’t detract from my value.
  4. I am truly loved, just the way that I am, flaws and all.
  5. Laughter is medicine and I’m great at providing it to people in need.
  6. I don’t have a pot to piss in (old sayings are fun) and I eat a lot of peanut butter because it’s cheap, but that’s just hunky dory.

Because I am rich in other ways.

I’m not sure if my rambling here is making any sense (I’m out of marihuana for the time being, so I can’t blame it on being high.) It’s just my random thoughts at the moment and acknowledging my need to do some rearranging of my brain furniture.

By the way, I love the smell and taste of fresh limes, it’s just the fake stuff that I loathe.

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑