Chapter Four ~ "Mommy...is it salt, shot, lime or lime, shot, salt?"

Autobiography written by shaunamont on Saturday 17, July 2010

Member Avatar
Description
Stories of a Family Too Dysfunctional to be Fiction

Overall Rating: 93.4%

This writing has been rated by 3 members, resulting in a rating of 93.4% overall. Below is a breakdown of these results:

Concept/Plot:94.666666666667%
Imagery:95%
Spelling & Grammar:92.333333333333%
Flow/Rhythm:92.666666666667%
Vocabulary:92.333333333333%
Coming into this world so close in age to the parental units who were supposed to teach, lead and guide my way through adolescence put me more in the role of sibling and less in the role as child. I found myself time and again experiencing things for the first time just as they were as well. Considering the fact that my mother's youngest brother was fifteen when I was born, I was easily slipped into the role of little sister to my parents. I was witness to many an occasion that would never be deemed standard or even acceptable for a child of my age to be a part of. Do you recall the kegger parties that your parents threw when you were five? I can so vividly remember the keg in the bathtub and not being able to take a bath until they managed to suck it dry. Do you have pictures from the Halloween when mom and dad took shrooms and dressed you up like Snoopy? I have them framed on the mantle. Do you have childhood memories of comparing pot plants to those of your neighbor's dad's and being able to tell which were better? I can still smell the pungent aroma today. Did you ever have to go into the local liquor store and buy cigarettes for your mom who waved from the car to motion they were for her and not me in all of my five years of age? I didn't think so. My childhood never seemed wrong or out of place until now; it was all I knew. The era that I was conceived in, however, was purely fate. I was born into the Madonna - Cyndi Lauper time of the 1980's. This was an era of ugly clothes, uglier hair-do's and even uglier styles of make-up. Being the youngest out of the group that was comprised of my mother and her friends, I was always the one they nominated to play dress-up on and the results were never anything I am proud of. From the micro-mini skirts to the hair that had been sprayed with enough Aquanet to be the cause of the hole in the ozone layer to the blue eye shadow matched with red or magenta lipstick that would frighten anyone. It was definitely a period of time when fashion was more into pushing limits than to what actually looked good. Anyone who tries to argue otherwise should be carefully watched and constantly questioned of their ulterior motives for only evil could spawn such a belief/ To some, this scenario sounds all to familiar: little girl playing dress-up with the help of her mother and girlfriends in tow, there was a part, however, that played a big role in our playdates that I doubt ever came into being fathomed for others...liquor. Remember, my mom turned 21 and had me 18 days later. When I was the formative age of five, she was just hitting 26. She had never been legally able (not that it ever stopped her) to drink booze without me being there. Me and booze, booze and me. I guess it was a fitting scenario. As the day would progress, the white wine would change to whatever had been stashed in the cupboard and survived the last party intact...this typically mean tequila. I have never been a fan of the old Mexican hooch. It has always led to me crying and my husband fighting...which then would turn to me crying because he was fighting and him fighting because I was crying. That, however, is a tale for a different chapter of life, back to the story at hand. The get-ups would get funkier as the day would unfold...leading to shots of tequila that led to funkier outfits to dress me up in. Mommy never wanted to leave her cute little girl out of any fun, though, so I was always a part of it all. While mommy and whichever blitzed friend present were taking shots of tequila, they would have me taking shots of fruit punch. I could never get the order straight of when I was supposed to lick the salt, when I was supposed to suck the lime and when I was supposed to shoot the hooch. It was too bad that mommy was too wasted once the day hit that point, and would always end up asking what the correct order was before I could ever ask her. Perhaps that knowledge was better left unknown at that point anyway.
   

Post Comment

Please Login to Post a Comment.

Comments

    Excellent continuation. This is so sad and so compelling. I hope you continue to write so freely.
    This is, as Don says, excellent; sad and compelling.

    Very, very, well written.
    mommy - should be Mommy. Capitalize.

    Superb. You're writing improves with every posting.
    You keep just the right level of stress to hold the reader's interest.
    This is excellent. Glad to have you on board Shaunamont.
    "of age? I didn't think so."

    I like the story, although I feel like you shouldn't directly adress the reader in any manner. That is you shouldn't assume anything of the reader's way of life. What you are doing is stereotyping your audience and putting off anyone who doesn;t fit the stereotype.

    Now your story is not unique to you you should understand that events like the ones you describe are bound to repeat infinite times within a large enough test group. In Eastern Europe for example it used to be acceptable in teh nineties for kids to buy cartons of cigarettes for their parents and teh parties you describe remind me of my own childhood minus the drugs and ugly clothes.

    You should focus on what is really unique in your story, which is not the facts themselves, but how you percieved them. Take as much time to describe the small details of it to build a better picture. Tell us how the Snoopu costume was different than any other Snoopy costume, in what way have you remembered your mother drinking tequila that would distinguish her from any other tequila drinker etc. etc.