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January 4th, 2000
The Supporting Cast

And here they are! These are the people I talk about most often in my journal. A few of them I won't mention -- such as my sister in Florida who I don't talk to very often although I love her -- but here are the rest!

In no order of importance, the supporting cast of my life!

My Mom: My mom is a wonderful woman. Always ready to doll out the advice, she is now delighting in observing my suffering through the "I Just Can't Wait Until You Have Kids Of Your Own" curse that she evil-eyed on me back in the early 70's. No wonder those three heart attacks didn't get her five years back. Who would want to miss watching me go gray and bear witness to my sanity spinning out like Richard Petty at the Indy? She's a clever lady. She moved close enough so she can, no doubt, hear the din of noise emanating from my house but far enough away that the kids can't find her.

My Dad: Well. How do you write about someone you don't know? My dad -- so the man who masquerades as my father has told me -- is the giver of cottage cheese, the supplier of milk and the Sainted Patron of all that Moo. I'm the milkman's kid. This dad just lets me pretend he's my real dad. Good thing for me. He's a delightful ass. And I say that with the sweetest of affection.

My brother, Nic: You've all heard me talk about him. You've all seen me say hello. You've no doubt seen my subtle yet resilient appeals for money. Now let me introduce you to Nic. My older brother by thirteen years, he is as handsome as he ever was. A cross between Harrison Ford and Brad Pitt, he has the wisdom of Gandhi, the patience of a saint and the business savvy of Bill Gates. He gets my nomination for Time's Man of the Century. After all, what did that stupid Einstein know? My brother knows everything. (How am I doing there, Nic? Any closer?)

My husband, John: My family would not be complete without this wonderful parental unit. I truly adore and worship my husband. (Author's note: I must say a kind thing now on the off chance that, while searching for Pamela Anderson one day, he happens to stumble across this page. Having a short attention span, I am sure he has already clicked himself away to www.Hooters.com, so now I can continue.)

It bemuses me to no end that this man can remember all the sports statistics of any given football player clear back to his elementary school accomplishments but still remains incapable of accurately recalling our anniversary. Maybe if I celebrated each date by donning a cheerleader outfit, spiking a football into the carpet and doing a series of back-flips into the bedroom it would be more memorable for him?

Okay, in all honesty now. Regardless of the abuse he seems to take nonstop in this journal, he is THE MAN! John is, without a doubt, the finest person I've had the privilege of knowing. So all of you who send me hate mail cause I am "so mean to him," can stick that in your pipe and smoke it. If it wasn't for John, I'd have nothing at all to write about, and you'd have nothing to read. If I only said nice stuff about everyone I knew, I wouldn't be too freaking funny, would I? There. That should take care of the ragging once and for all. I love you, John. But you already knew that.

My son, Josh: Joshua is fourteen. What can a woman say about a young man in the throws of adolescence that does not have to be said while shouting through the backside of a sealed bathroom door? He spends many an hour in the sanctity of this room. I did catch him once as he emerged from a forty-minute stint. It was a toss up between immediately placing a call to Unsolved Mysteries or talking to him. I decided I should seize the moment.

"You know I know what you're doing in there, don't you?"

He looked at me almost stricken, unable to speak.

"Ever since you were two-years-old and I caught you balancing a Lego on the tip of your nether-region, I knew you were destined for a perverse fascination with it." I remind him again, "One of these days I shall share that Lego story with your prom date."

"Then I'll just never go to the Prom, Mom." he offers defiantly.

"Well, then I'll save it for your wedding." I counter.

"Then I just won't get married," he pronounces victoriously.

With a smile I inform him, "Honey, even if you grow up to be homosexual I am going to share this with someone."

I watch him leave the room defeated. As a parent, you must always maintain the upper hand.

My Daughter, Sarah: Sarah is eleven. What a spectacular experience it has been having a young woman in my household. Never in my life did I think I would enjoy the wonderment of all my personal hygiene items disappearing from beneath my very nose without having to go through the hardship of domesticating and training a squirrel. At the tender age of eleven she has managed to achieve many amazing accomplishments, the most startling to date being that she has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO WEAR! I was thirty before I nailed that trick down.

She came out of her room one morning clad in a tattered sweat jacket with a gaping hole in the zipper where the teeth weren't meshing any longer.

"What is that!" I asked, pointing to her aghast.

"It's my jacket, Mom. I have a shirt underneath it."

The next day she came out in the very same jacket and I could see the wink of bare skin beneath the zipper opening.

"Do you have a shirt under that?" I almost shouted

"MOM! THIS IS MY SHIRT!"

She is so out of clothes she is forced not only to recycle but to also reclassify them daily.

My daughter, Allison: Allison, as mentioned in Monday's entry, just turned five on the dawn of this new year. She is our preschooler. Children of this age have many latent talents. I am sure Alli shall grow to be quite the prolific artist. Either that or a circus performer. After I slipped her into bed for a nap one afternoon she emerged an hour later naked but for her underwear, colored purple and green from head to toe with permanent marker. She had obtained these markers from a latched closet by piling many toys into a precarious stair like monstrosity and then scaling to the top of it like a reincarnated Walenda. As I sat there that evening scrubbing my blossoming Rembrandt with lotion and buffing her with a cloth to a nice lavender sheen I found myself fantasizing that she was a Porsche just to make myself feel better. For the next seven days, I was living with a walking Doodle Art.

Lastly, our baby - Nicolaas (or Bubba, Nico, Pookie, whatever suits my mood that given day): Nico just turned three in October. Babies are the most fun. When I was young and dreaming of my perfect family and my perfect future, I never envisioned that I would become quite so skilled in the artistic presentation of green beans and sprouts. I am beginning to think that I should now disguise all of his vegetables as buttons or rocks just to get them in his mouth. Most of the small baby years are behind him now but I must talk to my husband about pitching in more with his potty training. He is "shaking it off" before he is done and I'm running out of Lysol.

The oft mentioned players in the comedy known as my life. Hope you enjoyed them

Have a good one. See you mañana.

   

Unless otherwise specified, all material
Copyright 1999 by
Marijke Hildreth

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