Mama Rabbit Got a Bad Carrot

I raised my kids in The Rabbit Hole.

While watching a mom and her two crotchfruit at 7-11, I realized how happy I am that my kids are teenagers. There is no way in heaven or hell I could have very little people now. These were the white, entitled version of Bebe's kids.

Flipping out because they couldn't get an orange colored Slurpee, and had to get blue, these goblins almost threw the cups on the floor. The mom was "having a discussion" with them about the orange side not working and she was "trying to get them the next, best thing," and could they appreciate her efforts in doing so.

See? Just, no. My inner, crazy, black mom from the projects would have come unglued and snatched those monsters into the car. They would be lucky if I used their seat belts. I would have strapped them to the roof like dead deer and we'd be headed home. (After Mommy got her 40 oz. and a carton of Newports.)

I own the fact that I am part June Cleaver and part Sharon Osborne, with a touch of Morticia Addams. This was never more evident than listening to my rugrats yesterday, as we drove to lunch. They were recalling their childhood memories of having me as their mother.

I laughed so hard, I snorted... repeatedly.

Thing 2 to Thing 1: "Remember when you were like 8 and you pissed off Mom while she was driving? She told you to shut it up or your movie was going out the window of the van? You kept yelling, so she yanked your movie out of the car player and chucked it into traffic on Rt. 7? Then... you kicked her seat because you were mad that she threw out your movie, so she grabbed another one and tossed it out the window. And, she said, "We can keep this up till the movies are gone, I don't care. Act crazy."

Laughing hysterically, Thing 1 and I could barely breathe. Yes, I did that. Don't piss me off when I'm driving, kick my seat like you're on a 12 hour flight, and need a tranq dart.

There were a lot of stories like that one. Numerous tales of pent up Mom-frustration, yelling stuff as if I had the worst case of Tourettes ever documented. Wonderful things my babies can recall, with the warmth of an Anne Geddes photo of babies dressed as sleeping flowers. Things like, "Keep testing me and I swear, I will have myself committed. I will tell them I eat paint chips and hear voices, if it means I get 72 hours of down time!"

So... when my kids ask, "What kind of Mom does/says this?," I simply tell them the kind of Mom who has kept herself from going all V.C. Andrews, locking the children in an attic, while poisoning their doughnuts.

They got me. The "not your average white girl" Mom. The one who wraps a hip scarf around my son's girlfriend and shows her how to shake the coins. The one who goes to every basketball game and cheers like she is a shareholder in the team. The one who saw a dad at the play area at the mall grab my 3 year old son by the arm and yank him off a seat, dropped all her shopping bags, purse, and diaper bag, run at full tilt and push him away from my baby, while screaming, "Get your hands off my son! I'm ready to go to jail today, a$$hole, but you're going with me!" The one who, when the middle school principal said my son "wore too much black" and "looked like a Columbine kid," spent an entire weekend drafting a missive that went to her, the school administration, all of his teachers, the school board, and the elected rep for my part of the county, detailing how her remarks were not only inflammatory, but discriminatory, and I would send a copy to the press if something wasn't done about her. The one who went to the next IEP meeting looking like a goth chick, and had his Dad and entire outside counseling team dress in black, from head to toe, and join me, as we made a visual statement in support of my kid.

I'm not a "traditional" Mom, but I'll go to the mat for my children, even if I just had to threaten to move their crap to a secluded section of the bike trail if they continued to make me insane.

So, that's why they can't have nice things, kids. But they *do* have a Mom who is a bit badass and loves them. <3

The Rabbit Hole found me on the way into the office today

I was happily taking myself to work, when I felt a distinct awkwardness in my right sandal. It felt like my bare foot was hitting the step without the benefit of a shoe. I looked down and saw that the thong between my toes had snapped and I had two halves of one shoe flapping around my naked foot. Seriously? What fresh hell is it when, attempting to walk into the office, I hook the front of my sandal, and it pops apart.

I took my shoe off (the same black sandal that tripped me last April when I fell over the giant flower pot and broke my fingers) and excused my "nekkid toes" as I walked in and sat down in my chair of two days. In an attempt to shod my foot, I asked my boss if he had an super glue. He did not. I showed my sad state of footwear, and we both laughed. My second idea brought me assistance. I called my sister, Julie, who brought me super glue to mend my sandals and an alternate pair of shoes to wear as I waited for the glue to dry. Thank you, JuJu.

It just proves my point that The Rabbit Hole stalks me, waiting, watching for a chance to strike.

The first Rabbit Hole appears half a world away

It seems like I should back up and explain the first time I recall The Rabbit Hole finding me.  At the time, I did not know this was going to be a recurring port of call.

When I was 23 years old, I had just graduated from college and made my first trip outside the country... a little island country in the Indian Ocean, Sri Lanka.  It was an adventure that I made with my husband of one year.  We went to his homeland and lived there for several months before returning to the US.  It was an adventure for which no one could have prepared me, but the memories will last forever.

Travelling overseas was completely new to me.  I think I learned more about world geography during my flights than I ever did in school.  During the middle leg of my journey to Sri Lanka, we landed in Dubai.  We got off the plane and took our numerous bags to a quiet spot in the airport, while we waited for our next plane to take us to the "Jewel of the Indian Ocean."

My new husband and I were hungry, so we decided to get money changed at Thomas Cooke.  He took our dollars to the counter and left me with the bags.  I must have looked extremely out of place in that airport.  A young white woman with waist length red hair, a red pencil skirt, a face full of makeup, painted nails, sitting alone with a generous amount of luggage.  When a group of men came over and started talking to me in a language I did not understand, I simply smiled.  When one of them reached over and touched my hair and put a sizable amount of foreign currency on my suitcase, I felt uneasy.  I yelled for my husband to come over and make this group of "admirers" go away.  He did, and in doing so, found out that these men thought I was a prostitute.  The great white slut from America.  What the hell?  What had I gotten myself into?  How far away was home?  Could I get an emergency flight back to the US?

It was the only the beginning of my Rabbit Hole adventures, from half a world away.

Jessica is a redhead... and a rabbit

There have been so many "rabbits" in my world over the years that it is no wonder that The Rabbit Hole would want to make its presence known under my feet at any given time.

I have always loved Jessica Rabbit from the movie "Who Framed Roger Rabbit."  She's sexy, curvy, has an amazing voice, and let us not forget, she's a redhead.  Epic win on all counts.  My favorite quote of hers, "I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way."  I use that at times, when I'm getting looks of shock and surprise for making some comment or using a generous amount of wiggle while dancing.

Let me explain.  I am not ashamed to say that one of my favorite quotes by Marilyn Monroe is, "I'm very definitely a woman and I enjoy it."  I, too, enjoy being a woman.  I like the fact that I can laugh and use my eyes to flirt, and that I have learned to use music and dance to express myself.  Women have often been made to feel bad if they enjoy being curvy and sensual.  That is not a shame that I buy into.  I like being "girlie."  Being a gigglebox and a flirt has often brought The Rabbit Hole closer to me.  However, there are times when doing absolutely nothing has sent me into the world of the weird.  I don't really question it anymore.  I simply take a deep breath and watch how it plays out... then I write about it.

The Rabbit Hole's favorite spice is "ginger"

Being born a redhead in 1970 was always more of a curse than a blessing.  I have been called "carrot top" more times than I can count, and have heard "freckle face" every time the summer sun sent its rays towards my lily white person.  My ex-husband, being born overseas, in a country where having a year-round "Bain du Soleil tan" was the norm, did not know what to make of my freckles.  When we met, he looked at my arms and asked, "Why do you have these spots all over?"  I, being 21 and a smartmouth, replied, "They aren't spots!  They're freckles!  You don't know anything about white people, do you?"  Poor man.  I'm not certain why he continued to speak to me, much less ask me to marry him later.  I suppose he was not aware of the warning label that red hair typically is.

I am the stereotype of a redhead.  I am sassy, somewhat hot tempered, and have a cache of looks that I am able send to my face that can make a person want to do himself/herself a harm, or melt into a puddle of warm caramel.  Keenly aware am I, of the arsenal that I possess.  I use it to my advantage, without shame.  If people used my ginger tresses and fair skin for mockery as I was growing up, then I will use the powers given to me, for my own delight.  Did I mention that redheads have an "evil streak?"

People are not the only ones with a fascination with red hair.  It has become increasingly clear that The Rabbit Hole finds my ginger locks quite the cause for presenting itself.  More often than not, my hair is the start of an exchange that leaves me, or even the other person, staring blankly, wondering what on earth just happened.  I could not make up these things, especially with the frequency that they occur.  Random oddness has become part of my life, never knowing when it may occur.

These are the Tales From The Rabbit Hole.