The Bad Mom

“A man has been calling here all morning trying to locate you,” she said in a frustration as she handed me a name and phone number. It was Momo, Paulo’s brother who I had met in Rimini. Paulo and I had our moment on the catamaran, however when his brother came into town for a visit, he and I had a better connection because he spoke very good English. We were given a weekend pass to leave the estate. Momo was calling to invite me to Pisa, where he lived. Momo picked me up on his Vespa from the train station. We went for a spin around town, toured the leaning tower followed by a gourmet dinner. Momo’s roommate was the chef of this five -star restaurant where they had prearranged a menu. I didn’t order anything; food just kept coming to me. We went back to his apartment and Momo insisted on giving me a foot massage. He must have really liked me because my feet stank! He leaned over and kissed me.

“I’ve been with your brother,” I reminded him, just in case he thought it would be wrong, not that the brother was anything more than just sex but back home we have a phrase: “bros before hoes”.

We removed our clothes and for the first time I witnessed a man wearing a thong. I’ve seen man thongs in Fredrick’s of Hollywood catalogs but never in person. I demanded he remove his man thongs because it was kinda grossing me out. He revealed his leaning tower of Penis. It really did resemble the leaning tower of Pisa, how ironic.

Mia asked her dad if I could join them for dinner, “Of course,” he said.

At dinner I met a woman who taught high school Italian literature, she insisted we go Salsa dancing. We were the two old chicks that stood out on the dance floor off rhythm and looking pretty foolish amongst the young and restless. The trick to Salsa dancing, is all in the stomping, if you’re stomping you’re Salsa dancing. As the night got older, I kept asking, “Don’t you have to teach tomorrow?”

“No Problem!” She said. Italians love this phrase; everything is no problem.

I was really enjoying spending time with Paulo and Mia. Paulo and I went for a walk one night down to the beach. We sat on his catamaran and watched the sky for shooting stars. Having sex on a catamaran is similar to having sex on a trampoline, which I highly recommend maybe this is where the term “tramp” came from.

In the US, we have the dollar store, In Europe it’s the 1.80 Euro Store. Paulo took me to the 1.80 Store so I could replace some toiletries. I think it’s really funny to go into these stores and bother the clerk by asking how much everything costs. “Skoozee, how much?”

“1.80!” they would scream.

“Ahh, Gratzie, and how much for this?”

“Everything, 1.80!” they shouted.

For some reason I like it when they yell at me. Except at the Sistine Chapel, where I took a flash photograph of “The Creation of Life” An officer blew his whistle and shouted “NO PHOTO!” as he backed me out of the building. I thought they might cut off my hand or something.

I needed to buy a new backpack. Every corner has a man selling your choice of fake designer bags from Fendi to Louise.

The seller says, “Look, look” as he opens the bag “zipper inside.”

I want to say, “Whoa, a zipper! That’s a horse of a different color, why didn’t you mention a zipper.” As cheap as they were for what they were, I couldn’t bring myself to buy one without feeling fake.

I’ve found a new way to deal with aggressive Italian men. When they whistle or stare I lift my skirt and flash my penis boxers. At first glance, the penis looks real, the expressions on their face of shock and confusion…. Priceless.

Do you want to share a room and save some money, two beds?

We found a rustic Swiss chalet. Vigen insisted on paying.

“No, then I’ll feel obligated to have sex with you,” I joked

Vigen ceremoniously unpacked his bags placing a self-standing wood cross on the nightstand. He took off the crucifix necklace he was wearing, kissed it then hung it from the cross. He placed a Bible next to the cross after kissing it then lastly a box of condoms that he kisses and placed on top of the bible. He did the hand motion of Father, Son and Holy Spirit then said a silent prayer.

“Are you joking, where are the hidden cameras. You better be praying to get laid.”

After analyzing the situation, I came to the conclusion that I may have had sex with this guy if he hadn’t pulled out the box of condoms. I would have looked at him and his crucifixes and saw a challenge, the condoms were too presumptuous.

“Just so there aren’t any further misunderstandings, I’m getting my own room.”

from my book:  Scars of Paris  available at Borders  Barnes & Nobles  Amazon

“Come on!” He shouted as he pushed Parisians out of the way.

I don’t know what this guys deal is, but I’m walking. I never saw him again.

It was a warm evening and I couldn’t be in Paris one more minute without finding the Eiffel Tower so I got on a bus that would take me there. The bus was crowded with commuters and I had to hang on for dear life, I couldn’t see out the window. I got off the bus and followed the crowd to an overlook of the Tower. My mouth dropped as I gasped for air while the sun was lowering. People covered the lawn with picnic blankets, dogs caught Frisbees, kids laughed and the air smelt clean. I made my way toward the tower and began the climb. When I got to the top I couldn’t control my tears, I just cried.

I felt like I had been struggling the last thirty years to get to this metaphorical spot. I was on top of Paris, on top of the world and finally free from my dysfunctional family, free from my alcoholic husband. My body was soothed by complete peace and for the first time I felt love for myself. I reflected on where I’ve been and where I’m going. I was proud of my accomplishments. Deeper into this story you’ll meet some of the demons I had to let go of on the top of the Eiffel Tower that day.

I made my way down the stairs and sat on the lawn were the sky was turning shades of pink and lavender. I lit up a cigarette when a man approached me saying something in French.

“I have no idea what you just said, but I’m guessing you need a light by the universal thumb flicking motion.” I handed him my lighter and he said,

“American.”

“Don’t hold it against me,” I said.

He proudly points to himself and says, “Egyptian.”

He looked down at my lighter, which had a marijuana leaf print on it. He asked if I wanted to go back to his place and smoke some Hash. Looking back, this goes against my better judgment of not trusting anybody, but I was in a risk-taking theme so we walked to his apartment, a few blocks from the tower. We stopped at the corner market (good, witnesses) and picked up some wine and cheese.

Our conversation was limited due to the language barrier but after the Hash, wine and cheese, conversation wasn’t necessary. We spoke the universal language of love.

I found the condoms I had got for free from the PSU health clinic and rolled it on. I’ve seen a lot of penis. I had never seen one of this size and caliber. His penis was ridiculously large and I wasn’t sure that I could handle it. Before I could find out he was finished. He went to remove the condom and we discovered it had broke. We both went into panic mode and he pulled me to the bathroom and pointed to the shower. I took a shower and jumped up and down. We fell asleep and the next day exchanged information. He wanted me to stay but anything more than one night would start to feel like a relationship.

I was on a mission to find the morning after pill. It was hard enough explaining to the pharmacist that I needed a laxative where I found myself doing charades of going to the bathroom. I was unsuccessful in acting out the morning after pill. I decided to let it go and whatever happens happens.

from my book- Scars of Paris  available at Borders and Barnes & Nobles

“Can I call you back in about twenty minutes; some guy is here to have sex with me now.” There was something for everyone, from the little to the big in every flavor; some were the ugliest women you could possibly imagine. Hairy, teeth missing mentally challenged looking women. There were men posing as women and women who were pregnant. Do you think the politically correct Dutch people call black people African Dutch?

Then there were Barbie dolls with angel wings, the most beautiful women in the world. Never in a million years would I have thought about participating in the activities. My curiosity overcame me; this is the trouble about traveling alone, there’s nobody around to stop you. After close observation, I figure out how the system works. If you see a girl you like, you open her door and negotiate a price. There’s a level of anonymity, which could give one permission to do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do. Fuck it; I went up to the door of a chubby girl and knocked. I thought it would be more polite to knock. She shook her head no in disgust and shooed me away.

Strike One.

Ouch that hurts the old confidence level. Fuck it, next time no knocking, I’m going in and I’m gonna tell her it’s not what she thinks. I’m not looking for sex (even I have to draw a line), I was interested in a massage; that and I’m dying to talk to one of them. I noticed a beautiful Swedish woman wearing a skimpy bikini, blond pigtails and high heels. Golden bronze skin and a cute smile she danced in her room to some trance music. She was approachable because she wasn’t on her cell phone. I bet the cell phone cuts down your clientele. “Sorry to bother you, I see you’re on the phone but would you like to have sex, when you’re done.”

I walked in; she stopped dancing and looked at me strangely as if I was lost looking for directions. I had a feeling this might be strike two. “Can I help you?”

I stuck out my hand and introduced myself; I said I would like a massage.

She shook my hand and apologized, she had never been approached by a woman.

“How many other women have you asked?”

“Just one chubby girl, but I knocked; I think that’s where I messed up.”

“No No don’t knock,” she said. “But I will have to charge you what I charge for men, sixty Euros.”

“You’re worth more,” I said as I kissed her hand I was still holding, “Hey time is money and I’m sure you keep busy as cute as you are.”

She locked her door and closed the blinds, still holding hands we walk up some stairs where I noticed the angel wings tattooed on her butt cheeks leveled at my face.

“I like your ass, I mean tattoo.”

“So you are a lesbian?” she asked as we entered her bedroom dimly lit in black lights.

“No, I like men too; I’m an equal opportunist in the love department.”

We got naked and crawled into her pink satin sheets. I’m on my stomach she straddled my butt and began rubbing baby oil on my back.

“Why did you come here?” she asked

“I wanted a story, so when in Rome. Do you say that expression here?”

I think she had mistaken me wanting a story for me wanting her to tell me her life story.

It felt nice to have her greasy hands all over me and I was interested in what she had to say but I was hoping for less talking and more touching. I offered to return the favor and gave her a massage. Her body was so beautiful; I loved rubbing it. I flipped her over and educated her on the importance of massaging breast tissue to prevent clotting.

“My husband would be jealous,” she said.

“Why, because you’re enjoying yourself” I asked as she placed my hand at the entry of her vagina where moisture oozed.

“You’re so wet.”

“I never get wet at work,” she whispered, “I will never forget this.”

“I hear that a lot.” I joked as I put my clothes back on.

“What will you do after this?” she asked.

“Go smoke a joint.” I said as she girl slapped my arm.

“That’s bad for you!” she lectured

“I like to be bad” I teased then I quoted a T-shirt I saw in a souvenir shop that said, “Good girls go to heaven, Bad girls go to Amsterdam.”

Next thing I know I’m being admitted where I was induced due to my high blood pressure and risk of preclampsia. I called mom, who rushed to my side.

My pain plan was to wait and see if I really needed an epidural thinking I should be able to breathe my way through the pain. I’ve always prided myself on my high threshold for pain as you can see by my various tattoos.

Mom took me to get my first tattoo when I was sixteen years old. At first she said, “Over my dead body!” I threatened that I was going to do it anyway so she could either take me or I’d go alone. She said she wanted to get one herself and that we could do it together. I picked out a clover and mom picked out a dolphin that we were having injected into our ankles. Mom chickened out so I got hers tattooed on my other ankle where again she was by my side holding my hand.

Eight hours later I was demanding an epidural. Mom got in my face and asked, “Do you want some Chap Stick?”

“Why the Fuck would I want Chap Stick! GET OUT! GET OUT! There’s no point in you watching me roll around in pain with your silly Chap Stick. GET OUT!”

Mom left to see about that epidural. She came back with the anesthesiologist, “I can tell how much pain a woman is in by the number of pillows she’s clinging to.” He chuckled.

“Don’t try to be funny, you’re wasting time!” I snapped at him.

He asked mom not to watch as he threaded the tube down my spine. The idea of this kinda freaked me out but it was totally worth it. I was in pure ecstasy and any woman is crazy not to get it.

I closed my eyes feeling completely relaxed as the heart rate monitor had a steady beeping noise. A few hours later I heard the beep go flat line. “beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.”

Two nurses, two residents and a med student all ran into my room in a panic unplugging the monitors and yelling at one another to push the bed down the hall to emergency. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your baby is in danger, you need an emergency C-section,” as the nurse held a clipboard for me to sign. I was numb all over, so she placed the pen in my hand and moved the clipboard for a scribble of consent.

My body went into shock and my mouth wouldn’t stop shivering, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I could hear the anesthesiologist shout my name shaking my arm. I could hear what was going on I just couldn’t keep my eyes open. I heard the panic in their voices, “he’s not breathing,” one said as I heard them slapping him without a cry. I began preparing myself for the worst, he wasn’t going to make it, I thought. I just kept saying to myself that it’s going to be ok and this is just what was destined to happen. I was happy to have the experience that I’ve had with him growing in me for nine months and if that is all I get it was still worth it.

“Is the mother on narcotics?” the doctor resuscitating him asked.

“Prozac,” the anesthesiologist replied.

My physiatrist warned me that the risk of taking Prozac during pregnancy could result in difficulty breathing at birth as well as low birth weight. I chose to take that risk, to keep myself emotionally stable. When I found out I was pregnant the suicidal tendencies came back to haunt me. I stopped wearing my bike helmet and hoped something would kill me. Mom argued with me about taking the medication while pregnant, but I convinced her that it would be more risky taking me off rather than keeping me on.

One of the doctors handed my mom a six pound two ounce bundle and said, “He’s fine now, he’s just not crying.” Mom held him and cried, I guess somebody had to.

The look on mom’s face reminded me of the night my fourteen-year-old sister went into labor. Scarlett and I got high in the parking lot then passed out in waiting room. We were woken by a security guard nudging us with his nightstick, “This isn’t a Motel 6,” he said as he shined his flashlight in our face. “Our sister is having a baby,” I said surprised I remembered where I was. “Oh, Yeah? What’s the name?” he asked suspiciously.

“O’Brien.”

“Oh, the fourteen-year-old? That makes sense.” He says with looks of judgement in his eyes, “congratulations, it’s a girl.”

Scarlett and I looked at each other than ran down the hall to Beth’s room. There she was. The most precious baby girl surrounded by my parents and grandparents. We all cried and hugged one another. This baby would have no idea that she helped save my family. This little girl became the glue that held us together. She was the reason Scarlett didn’t kill herself that night. She reminded us that we were a family through the good times and bad we loved each other unconditionally.

The hot doctor poked her head over the paper divider, covered in my blood and freshly applied make-up to congratulate me.

Mom turned the baby so I could see his face. I wasn’t sure what to expect maybe bushy black hair and brown skin. Mom pulled down the blanket unveiling the most beautiful angel I’d ever seen. My only thought was, “Oh Shit… HE’S WHITE!”

from my book   Scars of Paris  available  at Borders or Barnes & Nobles

“High five” he says with his hand in the air. I grabbed his hand and pulled him in ghetto style.

“So how’s the pot brownie thing going?” He asked.

“Did you drug test me?”

“Not yet, but I want to.” He says.

“Go for it, I’ve been good.”

“Good girl, ok then let me give you a pelvic exam, do we need a chaperone? I can go get Debbie if you want” he asks.

“No I’m cool,” I say as I spread open my legs thinking I’m so glad I shaved this morning! This is the most “inter”action I’ve had in six months.

“It appears you have a lot of discharge, I’ll get a swab and test you for a Yeast Infection.” He says. I would know if I had a Yeast infection that’s just cum. The test came back negative.

from my book:  Scars of Paris   available at Borders or Barnes & Nobles

“I just got off work. I clean up pretty good” I said in my cocky voice.

“No, I meant you’ve exploded, you look really pregnant. How much weight have you gained?” he asked.

“Almost 20 lbs.” I can’t believe he’s calling me fat,” I thought.

“What do you just eat all the time?” he asked.

“I listen to my body” I grunted

“We don’t recommend women going over 25 lbs., so just something to be aware of,” he warns. “Is your mom going to be your birth coach?”

“No, she will need the birth coach; I just want to do this alone.” I protest. Having friends and family in the delivery room would just make me feel uncomfortable. I’m a loner. I want to have this last moment alone.