This particular event involves Miss Headcase. It also involves Sergei. Again. I’m not speaking out of turn when I tell you that Sergei has not approved of one woman I’ve been with since I met him. I believe, however, that Miss Headcase was his least favorite. I’ve been treated to such comments as, “You know, that big WL on all those womens’ foreheads means they’re members of the Wicked Losers club.” Or how about this one: “I swear to God you’re a shit magnet.” That’s what I like about him. Direct and to the point. I can deal with people like that on any level. We’ve been friends for far too long for me to be insulted by him.

He had a lot of problems with The Headcase, not the least of which was the way she pilfered my hard-earned dollars. We’d be in the bathroom hanging out the window smoking ganja and he’d say to me, “Okay, Deb. Let’s look at this. You work sixty hours a week and get paid for forty. Granted it’s a shitload of money, but still. And here you are with a ten in your pocket while she spends the rest of what you make.” He’d just stare at me and say, “What’s wrong with that fuckin’ picture?” I had to admit he had a point.

And that whole hanging out the window smoking thing, that used to piss him off too. He’d say, “Who pays the rent? You. Who pays the electricity? You. Who pays the heat here? You. Yeah. So, what the fuck are we hanging out this teenie little window doing this for?” We were doing it because she had an issue with it being illegal, but really she was just doing it to make me miserable. She succeeded on most levels for nearly nine years.

The trip to Oz

Okay, so this particular flashback incident occurred during the time Miss Headcase was sleeping with her landlady out in Turners Falls (only I wasn’t quite sure of that at this stage). Remember that? Go here if you don’t (and keep in mind the Turners Falls posting is a multi-part posting). By the way, let me tell you that, although I was pretty upset at the time, I’m now eternally grateful to Barbara for taking Miss Headcase off my hands.

Sometime during this event, Miss Headcase decided to take a trip out to California to visit her mother and sister. Of course, I paid for it (in more ways than one, I might add). They’ve always had a tenuous relationship at best. I sometimes wonder if anybody but my sisters and I actually grew up in a family that wasn’t dysfunctional, and I often wonder why those who manage to extricate themselves from those dysfunctional families continue to put their freakin’ hands in the fire by going back for more. But that’s not for me to pass judgment on.

Several days after this visit began, I received the first box from Miss Headcase in California. She told me not to open it. It was full of Christmas gifts. Two days later, another huge package arrived. Same instructions. Don’t open it. Just put it in the back room. The back room was my office where I was, at the time, running a magazine called Counterpoint Publications. While I was at Millipore and in my twenties, I had decided to produce and publish a woman’s writing journal. I actually did pretty well with it. I had been a print buyer and had a lot of contacts in the industry, so it was easy for me to get my magazine put on a print run with other jobs and keep my costs down. I had a lot of contributors and subscribers for a while. I suspect if my personal life hadn’t been so messed up, it would have continued to be successful. But in the midst of my anguish, I gave it up and decided to focus on my Millipore career.

After the second box arrived, there was a lull in contact…until her mother called one day and asked if I’ve received any boxes. I told her yes and that Miss Headcase told me not to open them because they were Christmas gifts. Her mother had one response. “Open them.” Then she asked me to tell her what was in them. When we were done, I said, “Well, they can’t be Christmas gifts for me because I wouldn’t wear this stuff.” On the other hand, Barbara would. Apparently, Miss Headcase broke into her mother’s spare room and just basically stole a bunch of stuff, and her mother was pissed. She just plain wanted the stuff back and told me she’d take care of all the expenses. I had always gotten along with her mom and, in fact, would spend a week out in California after her daughter and I split. I had no problem taking care of returning her stuff.

I’m not even going to tell you what Sergei said when I told him the story, but the two of us were practically rolling on the floor laughing.

Fast forward…

It wasn’t long after that incident that Miss Headcase and I split. After that relationship, I was pretty much alone for four years. I spent the time hanging out with my friends at the bars and just enjoying life. I wasn’t looking for a relationship, not that I didn’t fall into one of sorts. My mom also passed away in that span of time and I started dating one of her nurses, a woman named Lisa. She was a perfectly wonderful person, but I wasn’t in love. It was as casual as you could get, but it was what I needed at the time. The next big relationship, however, was just around the corner, and this is where we get back into the Sergei Zone.

After I met Beth and had been seeing her for a while, I decided it was time for her to meet Maria and Sergei. He told me that he was going to have to make sure she wasn’t a Wicked Loser. I told him that I had expected no less, since I’d done such a piss poor job choosing women for most of my adult life. I can remember this like it was yesterday because it was so damned funny. He was already concerned for the match because I told him the day Beth and I first met, she had just come from her bankruptcy hearing. Sergei didn’t like the sound of that from the get-go and, trust me, his fears were not unfounded.

I decided the best thing was for me to make dinner in Melrose, so that’s what I did. The night was fairly pleasant and things were going well. Maria and I were out in the kitchen when we heard Sergei morph into his role as lesbian protector. We’re out there in the kitchen and all of a sudden he asks Beth, “Do you ever have the desire to steal from your own mother and sent it to women you might be sleeping with?” No shit. Maria and I were rolling out there, and we were trying so hard to not laugh out loud it was pathetic. Beth had no fucking idea what he was talking about. Of course, we explained the harebrained question out of nowhere to her and she laughed, assuring us that she had no such affliction. She didn’t. There was nothing to worry about where that was concerned. And the bankruptcy didn’t bother me either. I’m here to tell you that shit happens.

However, I probably should have worried a bit when she up and quit her job two weeks after we moved in together.

I guess if I were giving these flashback posts titles, I’d call this one “Oh, to be  young and just plain fucking dumb.” That would be the title. I have been in the workforce for a long time. In fact, I lied about my age so that I could work at Woolworth’s in Medford Square. I was fifteen and I told the manager I was 16. My mother was working there too, and she was pissed I did it, but as we found out when she died, she was in no position to give me shit about the age thing. It took us forever to figure out how old she really was after she died in 1992 because she had lied about it in so many places it wasn’t funny. Know why? She just plain didn’t want to be forced into retirement.

Anyway, the manager, a guy named Mr. Clark, wasn’t much for detail. Neither was his assistant, Mr. Benson. Neither of them asked me for a birth certificate, probably because they figured my mother was working there and wouldn’t let me work if I wasn’t 16. They loved my mother, but they didn’t know my mother. I did. What I knew about her was that she knew that, once I had something in my head, I was going to figure out a way to do it one way or another. If it wasn’t Woolworth’s, I would simply try it in as many places as I could until it worked. There were plenty of retail establishments around at that time. In fact, Strawberries was right near my house. I had applied there too.

Anyway, I’m not beyond living on the edge even now. (But I have to tell you that I’m just good at doing it. I think it through first. Plan. I have to. I’m married to a real crazy.) But back then, I really loved living on the edge. Totally. The whole gay thing was a head rush to me. I mean I knew I was gay by this time, but it was like some surreal thing floating around out there. I wasn’t sure how to connect it with real life. It was an alternative universe. When I look back at that now, it’s because things were so different then than they are today. From a societal perspective, it’s much easier today. Back then, it was tough. So, you tended to compartmentalize your life: (a) The normal part; (b) The gay part.

And this is how I would discern who would and would not have problems with part (b). Did they make crass gay jokes? Did they use the word ‘faggot’ or ‘dyke’ in a derogatory way. (Those terms are loaded, even though some gay people use them. They don’t mean the same when we use them as when ‘they’ use them.) Did they use the word ‘homo’? I have always hated that word. If any of those symptoms were present, I did not tell those motherfuckers about part (b). But I digress.

So, back to Woolworths and living on the edge (and the gay thing, in fact). I got hired at Woolworth’s. No problem. I was now working with my mother. And boy, did I give her a hard time. I used to piss her off on Saturday mornings because I had balloon duty. I used to have to fill the helium balloons. Pretty soon, it got to be some for the balloon, some for me. And it wasn’t that I got high on it. Hell no, it just made me sound like something out of the fucking Wizard of Oz. It was a blast talking to customers sounding like a munchkin.

What invariably would happen is that my mother would find a good product display (preferably a clothes rack) close to where I was, and then she’d get my attention and mouth to me, “I’m going to kill you when I get you home.”  See. That’s what happens after your dad dies. “Wait until I tell your dad” magically morphs into “I’m going to kill you when I get you home.”  Then, she’d try to appeal to my chickenshit side. “Don’t you know doing that can kill you?” I was not worried about such things at that time.

Just ever so absurdly pushing the envelope

Almost three years later my mother and I were still working at Woolworth’s. By then, I was pretty much ‘out.’ When my girlfriend turned sixteen, I told her to come in and apply for a job. The thing was, she really was my girlfriend. It’s just that nobody knew it except she and I. (Definitely not my mother.)  As messed up as this might sound (even to me all these years later), she and I were together for almost two years. Anyway, she got the job. Talking about complicating your life just a bit.

You know, this post is a testament to the stupidity of youth. For all intents and purposes, this girl (her name was Linda) and I were in a real relationship. It was emotional and it was physical. And there were definitely times when we were arguing or disagreeing. Trying to work those days with both she and my mother around were merciless. I almost immediately began to ask myself, “WTF were you thinking, Deborah?????” On the flip side, when things were going well and we could find ways to flirt with each other, it was exhilarating. You know, like everything else in life. Yin and Yan.

Ah, but as all things go when you’re young, my first relationship was about to crash and burn. Luckily, I had moved on to other things before it did, and she would move on soon after, leaving my mother at peace once again. Poor thing.

Have I mentioned my dog yet? Well, I’ve had two in my adult life. The first was Sundance.  She was a shepherd/husky mix and she was great. But my second adult life dog was something else. Her name was Simone. She was a miniature schnauzer with a great personality. I had bought her for Miss Headcase. When we picked her up, you could hold her in the palm of your hand. The photo here is not actually Simone. I wish I could find photos of her, but I can’t seem to locate them. However, this photo is pretty damned close to what she looked like. When Miss Headcase and I split, the one thing I made sure of was that she didn’t take Simone.

When Beth and I first met, Simone was jealous. The morning after Beth’s first night staying over in Melrose, Simone jumped up on my bed and unceremoniously took a dump. Just to let me know what she thought of this intruder into our lives. I had a hard time getting angry. She was pretty funny. Ah, but that isn’t the most vivid memory I have of little Simone. The one from Gloucester is even better.

Beth and I got home from work one night. We knew something was amiss when we opened the door because Simone was usually right there waiting for one of us to pat her and then take her out for a walk. Not this night. She barely picked her head up off the floor. She didn’t look very well, but we couldn’t figure out why. We looked at all the logical stuff. It had to be something she ate while we were gone. She wasn’t a trash dog. That wasn’t it. She did have a past history of eating cat shit. That was pretty disgusting, but it only took one time and she learned her lesson. She was, as they say, sick as a dog for two days. Besides, we ended up closing the door to the bathroom where the cat box was kept, and we had put a hole in the door that only the cats could get through. That wasn’t it. We knew for sure she couldn’t open the refrigerator door, and we kept cleaning stuff in a locked cabinet. That wasn’t it.

We were watching the dog trying to walk. It would have been funny if we weren’t worried. (Okay, we laughed anyway.) She literally was swaying back and forth when she tried to stand up. And forget the three stairs leading down to the kitchen. Couldn’t handle those. Now, I’m not going to lie. I think they should just legalize pot. There are many reasons for this  that we won’t go into here. That’s a different post for a different day. But let’s just say that I’m a supporter (and a party animal). I thought about this as a possibility, and immediately went for the ashtray that we hid under the living room chair when we left for work.

Seems that Simone got to to that ashtray before we did and partied on her own. Oh, yes. Ate every freakin’ roach in the ashtray. To put it bluntly, our little Simone was stoned. (And hungry, I might add. She couldn’t stop chowing on that dog food. Can’t imagine why.) The cats must have been getting a laugh out of this because they were down from the bedroom shaking their little heads at her undignified behavior. I can imagine what they were saying to each other, “Only a dog would do this.”

Okay, this is when Beth says, “Honey, you’ve got to call the vet!”

I looked at her for a few minutes wondering WTF she was thinking, then replied, “Oh, really? And tell him what? The dog ate all the roaches? Somehow, my dear, I think that might be a bad idea.”

“Yeah, you might be right.”

“Oh, I am definitely right. Let’s just go turn ourselves in instead.”

Needless to say, I did not call the vet. In fact, Simone was back to normal within a few hours. While we were waiting for that to happen, she did provide some comic moments, and we did find another hiding place for the ashtray.

The Blizzard of ‘78 was an unbelievable weather event. In 1978, I was 24 years old and this is what I looked like. (Not a great photo, but it’s probably an old Kodak Instamatic.) I had been employed at Millipore since June of 1974. I was at work when the snow started on February 6. The next day was my birthday and it would certainly be a party night, so I had taken February 8th as a vacation day. At the time, they were talking about maybe 6″ or more — they weren’t talking about a blizzard.

I had already been through my first big relationship with a woman. It had a disastrous ending. (Wait until you hear that one.) So, I moved in with my sister, her husband, three kids…and my mother. By the time I got home from work that evening, it was coming down pretty hard. Although I was still anticipating being able to get to work and go out the next night, I made sure I parked legally on the street. Everyone parking on the street (and it was a very narrow street) had to park on the left-hand side only to make it easy for the plows.

I don’t remember it being a very eventful evening. I was an early riser, like maybe 4:30 a.m. because I loved getting into work early before anyone else was there so — on a snowy night when I had no plans — I more than likely went to bed early. I got up as usual around 4:30 a.m. with the intention of going outside,  shoveling myself out and getting on the road. It would also be easier getting around in the snow if nobody else was on the road.

“Where the hell are you going?”

That was exactly what my brother-in-law asked as I walked into the kitchen to leave for work. Okay, I hadn’t even looked outside. I just assumed it was over and that was it. “I’m going to work like I always do. Why?” He started laughing and asked if I had seen it outside. Of course not. WTF? This was going to be a party night. There was no way anything was going to get in the way. (Except the State of Emergency that the Governor of Massachusetts, Michael Dukakis, would declare.) The 6″+ Nor’easter had become the Blizzard of ‘78.

I couldn’t even see my car. I can’t remember exactly what I was driving at the time. It was probably the white Buick Skylark. I could only see a small portion of the antenna, and that was only after I went outside. Every single car on the street was buried. They were completely buried. There was no way to get onto the highway and it didn’t matter anyway because the highway was a giant parking lot. People had been trapped in their vehicles all night because snow fell at a rate of several inches per hour. The plows couldn’t keep up, and there were reports of snow plows breaking down under the strain.

On the morning of February 7, the snow continued to fall — in fact the storm stalled over New England. A State of Emergency was declared. Businesses closed, and no cars were allowed on the road. The National Guard was called in to help clear the snow. People walked to the food stores with sleds. Instead of buses, there were skis. On Fifth Street in Medford, we found out that there would be no plows — at least not that day. They simply couldn’t get down the streets without perhaps inflicting a tremendous amount of damage to the parked cars. We were told that we had to get the cars off the street and into driveways in order for the plows to come.

The one thing everybody remembers about the Blizzard of ‘78 is how people came together. It was no different on our street. People who barely talked to each other from one end of the year to another were getting together to figure out how to make this work. We set to work clearing everyone’s driveway. Then we dug all the cars out (had to be about 15-20 up and down the street) and moved them into whatever driveway was the closest. Those that weren’t out shoveling were inside the house cooking. We also had fortifications — cases of beer and bottles of alcohol of various types.

I was totally into Janis Joplin at the time and drinking Southern Comfort Manhattans at an alarming rate, but who had time to mix drinks while shoveling.  Instead, I simply bought myself a bottle of Southern Comfort and stuck it in the snow bank to make it nice and cold. I cannot even remember how much Southern Comfort I drank that day, but it was a lot. A pantload, as it were. I went to bed smashed and woke up with a magnificent hangover. Even my teeth hurt.  Luckily, I would have more than one day off to recover. I’d be out of work the entire week. It took that long to return the state to some semblance of normalcy.

I was happy to be out of work without having to use vacation time. I needed a break. I had been burning the candle at both ends and it was a chance to slow down a bit. It was unfortunate that my party plans blew up, but that’s life. (We made up for that later. ) For the record, the Boston area received 25+ inches of snow, but other areas received as much as 54 inches. More than 2,500 homes were damaged or destroyed, and 54 people died.

As for my friend George, well, he got bored at home in Medford, so he decided it was time to head into Allston to see our other friend, Joe. He never came home (except to visit his family).

February 7, 1978 also marked the last time I ever put a bottle of Southern Comfort to my lips. Ugh.

I spent more than eight years involved with Miss Headcase, and not many of them were positive. This fact is just testament to both my perserverence and stupidity. She had her problems and we’ll get into some of that later, but for now the first trip we took together was one for the books. It was to Newport, Rhode Island. The first thing I remember — and it’s absurd — is that we both just bought new sneakers and it was pouring rain. We walked around with plastic bags on our feet.

I remember that I took Friday off and we headed down early in the morning. We had reservations at a place called Cliff House, a really beautiful bed & breakfast run by two elderly lesbians. They were really so sweet, and the place just had so many twists and turns, like a hidden staircase. On the very top floor, there was a common kitchen where you could cook dinner if you preferred staying in. We did that the first night we were there. You could climb out to a balcony through a window in the kitchen. The view was just unbelievable.  I can’t find the place anymore. I’m sure it’s under new ownership but I really cannot seem to match the memory to anything I can find on the web. It’s been a long time. The place was called Cliff House because it was right near Cliff Walk, of course, a beautiful mile-long walk overlooking the Atlantic. This was a walk you should not miss even in the dreary weather. We held off until the second day.

The second day, Saturday, was the best. We got up early and ate breakfast at the inn, then we walked downtown for a while and visited the shops. We had lunch at the Brick Alley Pub (and this place is still there). Then we headed toward Bellevue street and toured the International Tennis Hall of Fame. We went to a few of the mansions, the most opulent and absurd was The Breakers, the summer home of the Vanderbilts. The place had hot and cold running sea water or fresh water for the baths. I think it had something like 70 rooms, and it was a summer home only. That’s fucking crazy. I can’t remember where we had dinner that night. It could have been La Forge Casino on Bellevue. That restaurant would be a favorite of ours and it would figure in a later trip to Newport. Just wait for that one. We were driving back  on Sunday, so we were in early Saturday night. The funniest thing happened Sunday morning.

Sunday was just beautiful. The sun had returned on Saturday, but Sunday was really bright. The night before, the place was buzzing because two people from Rolling Stone magazine had checked in. The guy was pretty notable, but I cannot remember who it was all these years later. All I know is that it wasn’t the sun that woke us up that morning. Apparently, the two writers from Rolling Stone had spent the night together — in a room right next to ours, and now they were engaged in wanton sex.

They were so loud it was hysterical. We could hear everything they were yelling. They were moaning; she was shrieking. We were laughing so hard we had to put the pillows over our faces. This went on for what seemed like hours and we just couldn’t move. Every time we thought it was over and we stopped roaring, they’d start up again. I mean, wtf were they thinking? This was a b & b. The place was old. The walls were thin. I’m willing to bet the whole freakin’ place heard them. I could imagine the entire place with people hiding their faces under their pillows that morning, just roaring laughing.

We wanted to head back early on Sunday because I had to be back at work early Monday morning. Our last visit was to Brenton Point State Park and a trip down Ocean Drive where people hang out and fly kites all day in the summer. The International Kite Festival is held there in July. The colors and images are just beautiful. It was a great ride that morning with the sun so bright. After that, we headed back to Boston.

That was the first time Miss Headcase and I went away together. The relationship was new; things were great. It was very romantic and a wonderful time. There was absolutely no hint of things that would to come several years later.

This is quite the flashback. One of my very good friends says this is something that could only happen to me. I’m not sure about that, but given my track record there’s no reason why it shouldn’t happen to me. And it just so happens that this all started in a gay bar.

My friends and I spent a considerable amount of time in the bars at the time this took place, and I’m talking about the 70s to 80s time frame here. We spent a lot of time in Boston at Buddies, Somewhere, Darts and Our House (which was actually in Allston, I believe). Now it’s damned near impossible to find a gay bar, and that is very sad. Some places are ‘gay’ one night of the week. The only problem is most gay people are pretty much ‘gay’ full time.

Anyway, it just so happens that there was a pretty healthy bar scene in the suburbs as well. One place that served gay clientele (and still does to this day) is the Randolph Country Club. Been in business for years. We had been frequenting Boston bars week after week, then someone told us about this place called DiRocco’s in Tyngsboro. (I can find almost nothing on this place no matter where I look. However, I offer proof that it existed!) We tried it and liked it and went more than once, I believe. I remember the turn of events vividly on one particular trip there.

This woman asked me to dance. Well, we ended up hanging out together most of the night. She came over and sat at the table with me and my friends, the whole nine yards.  The whole evening it really drove me crazy that she looked vaguely familiar to me. At the time, I was working for a Fortune 500 high tech company and had been there for quite some time, but her face didn’t really ring that bell. The long and short of it is that she ended up coming back to my place in Melrose. Without going into the details, let’s just say it was a long, active and eventful evening. We really didn’t talk about much of anything pertaining to work or our personal lives. Until morning, and that is precisely when the bell rang on her familiar face.

Oh, yes. Turns out my new friend, we’ll call her Ilene, just so happened to be married to a guy that I interacted with pretty regularly in my job.  Yep. Same last name. And, guess what, totally unbeknownst to me, she also worked there.  Quaint. No? I can’t exactly remember what my reaction must have been that next morning as I was getting ready to go to work, but I know Ilene spent a considerable amount of time telling me not to worry because she had an “open relationship” with her husband. He wouldn’t care. Hell, she and I could even continue to carry on without fear! Fucking wonderful! Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. (Although, to tell you the truth, I had one hell of a time that night.)

This singular event in my life had so much potential for ugliness. It really did, considering that the three of us worked in the same building. I was lucky on this one. I told her that there was no way there would be a repeat of the prior evening because my Catholic guilt would get the better of me. (That was a crock of shit. I just didn’t want to deal with being in the same building with the two of them.) I was lucky that Ilene accepted that decision. And, even if her other half knew about the incident, he never let on. Bullet dodged. I would survive to make other really dumb mistakes. Stay tuned.

Writer’s note: The photo in this post is borrowed and depicts gay bar life in The Castro. It is used here strictly for effect. Some of what’s out there is really cheesy.

How freaking stupid were we? Does anybody but me remember this little ritual? This is what you were supposed to do if someone unleashed a nuke. Duck and Cover. Are you kidding me? More like bend over and kiss your ass goodbye. There’s not much else to do, even today.

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Yeah, we can look at this now and laugh but we really believed this crap. Remember that? We never questioned a thing back then. All you have to do is listen to the narrator’s description of what the exploding bomb looks like to figure out you don’t have a chance in hell of surviving.

You know, the one thing a blog does is allow you to remember things as flashbacks. That’s probably the only way I’ll be able to remember my early life. This flashback requires the way back machine. I must have been around nine or ten years old, my dad had passed away and we were living in Everett with my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle.

My grandmother was pretty old at that time, and she had suffered several strokes and heart attacks over the years. Oddly enough, I was the only one who could tell when she was going to have a heart attack and that’s because it was usually preceeded by what I now call “nonsense talking.” She would be awake and alert and carrying on a conversation with you but she was making absolutely no sense.

Around this time she also began to hide eggs in her bureau drawers. This is never a good sign, people. If this isn’t an indicator that something is seriously amiss, then there’s something seriously amiss elsewhere as well. In my mind, eggs didn’t get hidden in drawers or anywhere else unless the Easter Bunny was coming.  However, I was just a kid so I accepted whatever I was told and/or asked to do.

So, they asked me to sleep with my grandmother since I was the only one who responded to her heart attacks. Okay. So, if anyone is wondering why I have this thing about sickeness and death, don’t wonder. I mean, seriously, no thought was ever given to what psychological effect this might have on me, particularly so close to losing my own dad to cancer. Of course, it wasn’t that my mom and aunts were callous. They just didn’t get it. There was no focus on psychology whatsoever.

When people ask me about my childhood, I genuinely have no complaints. I consider myself fortunate to have had the parents and sibilings I have, particularly after I see what others have been subjected to. But you’ve just got to admit that this kind of request of a child is a bit over the edge. No? I mean, it could very well be why I avoid doctors and health care in general. Who knows. I don’t like psychiatrists much either, so we’ll probably never find out.