Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Hell Hath No Fury Like The Rambling Lunatic Housewife

Hold on to your seats and swallow your coffee my dear friends and blog readers because I have yet another confession to make...I am NOT a natural redhead.  I was born brunette yet throughout my life I've tried many different lovely and unique shades; however, red - my red - seems to suit my sassy sensibilities.  And yes, as shocking as it may seem to many of you, I do need a little "upkeep" from time to time.  To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure if I've crossed over to that horrific period whereas I may actually now be (GASP) grey.

The reason for this awkward admission is that even though I'm not a natural "ginger" I seem to posses a characteristic normally associated with redheads in particular...a fiery temper.

I could, for argument sake, say that my storminess is an inherited quality which comes from a long line of intense Baxter women with a history of passionate personalities.  It's an "Irish Thing" and of course, that's an absolute blessing to be sure.  We are a tough and noble people. My mother was the oldest of six daughters, eight Baxter children in total. To this day, I have no idea how many first cousins there are in this clan and God only knows how many second cousins and now third cousins are currently being hatched.  Good grief, in essence, my grandparents produced their own sovereign nation. 

What I do know are the temper tantrums of my grandmother (nanny), AND her daughters (my aunts), AND my mother, AND my sisters, AND my nieces (my sister's daughters) AND of course...Oh dear Lord...myself.   Where do I begin?

To be fair, I will not share publicly any of the stories of the ladies above save perhaps two.  The first was between my mother and father.  You see, my mom and dad shared a love story for the ages which is why I believe I can tell it now and not offend my mother. My dad passed away over ten years ago and my mother continues to live on through his memory. I think she'd laugh at this story.

My parents never fought; however, they did bicker which when thinking back on it always brings a smile to my face. The things they rankered about were insignificant issues like how long mom would keep us waiting or the way my dad drove when someone upset him. Nothing major just minor annoyances but enough to have them curse back and forth at one another. Most days I would hear them laughing or catch a glimpse of mom rubbing dad's shoulders; sweet private moments between two people in love.

I was a sophomore in high school when "The FIGHT to end ALL FIGHTS" happened. My parents had gone out, went to a movie - and whether this is true or not is still up for debate - apparently my dad flirted with another woman in front of my mom. UH OH! This was when my mother's "red" roots came blasting through.  I can't imagine the drive home being a pleasant one for my pop.  I had just come home from a dance and strangely my dad's car was parked in the driveway with remnants of popcorn both inside and outside the vehicle.  Hmm?  Odd.  My dad drove a Porsche.  He would never leave it outside or messy.  Then, another strange situation was before me. My father, a man of self-control (well, sometimes), was snoring in the middle of the family room floor (he'd never intentionally be on the floor due to his weight and because he couldn't get himself back up on his own). I poked him, "Dad?"


"Are you okay?"

"Your mother locked me out of the bedroom."

"Um, oh.  Do you need me to get the spare keys?"  

"To Hell with it."

That was it. My parents were filing for divorce. I was certain of it. I was going to have to choose between them or worse, be shuffled back and forth every week.  My only solace was that hopefully my weeks would be offset with my dreaded sister, Kathleen.  

As it so happened, my parents didn't divorce.  They celebrated close to 40 years of marriage together. What did occur that fateful evening was that my pop got a swift punch in the belly while holding a bag of popcorn by a very jealous but loving wife. Afterwards, they came home, she locked herself in the bedroom, he poured himself a strong drink and passed out on the family room floor. I'm not sure who eventually helped him up but I'm guessing it was the lady with the iron fist.

My vase was bigger and heavier!
The other story, well - her name will be withheld because she's a very close relation. Let's just say for the record she likes to throw entire plates of food when she's angry.  I fondly remember trying to scrape off dried spaghetti from her wall once before a party. Yes, fury runs deep in my family. All I can say is - I hope the fellow had time to duck.

Now it's my turn.  As I begin, I shudder to think that this information just may terrify a few of you.  My authentic color should be RED. Ah me, it's true. I'm evil incarnate. You see, yes, I do share the standard Baxter temper tantrums. I've been known to throw things.  My ex-husband would testify that he was on the receiving end of a lead crystal vase hurled at a violent velocity directly towards his head.  Now, if you knew the story, you might understand and even perhaps sympathize with me.  Also, I'm still pissed off that I hurled it not because it might have killed him (sorry, Jeff) but because it was a beautiful vase.  Damn, I hate being impulsive.  I can also get physical like my punching mamacita. My ex-husband's gonads could also testify to this (again, if the situation were presented, I'm certain my actions would be justified).  BUT, in addition to these awful behaviors, I can manipulate revenge so vile that it produces in me the greatest of satisfaction. This, in itself, is why I consider myself La Diabla (Spanish translation: a female Devil).
This behaivor began when I was very young and sharing a bedroom with my before mentioned sister, Kathleen. We're now dear friends but in our childhood our mother could not have placed two more ill suited siblings together in one small room. In other words, we HATED each other. Kathy would say the cruelest things and, because of this, I would go out of my way to outsmart her at every opportunity. For instance, if she asked me to borrow something it was fine but when I asked her she'd say "no" along with a scathing "pig" or "heifer" comment. She was hurtful. So, I started "borrowing" to make her angry. Once our older siblings moved away, she demanded a lock for her door to keep me out of her things. No problem. I found the key, made a copy and every day I continued going into her room.  I didn't always "borrow" her things, not usually. By this time I had gained an enormous amount of weight.  I'd become that "heifer".  Instead, I would go into her closet and switch a black shoe with a blue shoe. I would angle her journal just a wee bit off inside her desk drawer. A piece of naughty lingerie would be turned inside out. How odd that must have been for her. I relished every minute of it.

My behavior didn't improve when I moved out.  My ex-husband also suffered from some of my awful mental warfare. He was an avid reader. How many books did I destroy? Sheesh! I'm almost ashamed to admit this because I too love a good book. Don't hate me my friends, just remember that it was a tumultuous relationship on soooo many levels. Well, when my ex really annoyed me I would take one of his books, open it to the middle and rip a page right down the center. YES! I DID THIS! I'm so bad. Sigh.

And finally, I'm sure you're all wondering what I've done to my dear current husband, Eric.  What horrible fate has my monstrous temper bestowed upon him? Outside of throwing a comb at him while sitting in a car (he refused to go and have his blood drawn. He downright REFUSED! No one REFUSES me ANYTHING DAMMIT!), we've only had maybe two fights in our twenty years together. The last one I simply drove off and went to a friend's house to spend the night and the first was actually laughable. We had a disagreement about one of the boys. I got angry (what else is knew?), went downstairs in a rage and decided to look up and book the most expensive spa weekend package in Denver.  THAT would teach HIM to disagree with ME!  A few moments later, Eric showed up at my door and said, "Sweetheart, why don't you look up spa packages for the weekend and get away.  I'll take care of the boys.  You deserve it.  I love you".  My eyes welled up in tears and I bawled like a baby!  I couldn't even have a proper temper tantrum without Eric ruining it for me! DAMMIT!