Piñatas, Blood, and Balls

Yesterday on my run, I saw a man on a bike with a child seat on the back of it. There was no child in it at the time, but it reminded me of the time I was in one of those seats on the back of my Dad’s bike. We were riding through the woods of eastern Pennsylvania, and it had been rainy, so the trails were quite muddy. I remember us hitting a puddle that ended up being a mud pit, so we almost immediately got stuck. The next thing I remember is my Dad hopping off the bike. Yes, that’s right, I was still strapped into my seat. Safety first!

That got me thinking that maybe this week’s post should be about funny stuff, with no tears and maybe only a few cringe-worthy items. Therefore, dear Reader, you are about to be regaled with stories from my childhood and teenage years; stories that might make you wonder if there isn’t maybe some black cloud over my head, and that make me wonder whether or not my life is the main show on God’s Comedy Channel. Anyway, without further ado, in chronological order………

So there I was, ready to celebrate my birthday (I think I was six), which I consider to be my second most favorite holiday of the year, right after Christmas. I am not one of those shrinking violets who keeps quiet about her birthday; I let EVERYONE know. And yes, it’s because I would like to receive presents and cards. Just being honest. Where was I? Oh, so the highlight of my party was a piñata that I had begged my parents for. I had a giant red wiffle ball bat that we were going to use to whack it (so many jokes, so little time). I’m pretty sure this was a family party, so there were only a few other children there, and they were my younger cousins. Bottom line, I was primarily going to be the one to beat the crap out of that piñata in order to free the glorious candy from its papier mâché pink donkey prison. I want to say that initially I was blindfolded, but once I started beating it and nothing came out (again, SO MANY JOKES), someone said they should take my blindfold off so I could just go to town on that thing the way Michael did on that printer in Office Space (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, please google it and watch the scene….now I can’t get the Geto Boys’ “Die Motherf**ker” out of my head). And that’s what happened, except the only thing coming out of that GD donkey was shredded newspaper, because guess what? My parents didn’t know the piñata didn’t come with candy. Oh no, you have to buy it and put it in yourself (possibly what she said). Now every time I see a piñata (which is quite often, as I live in Texas) my blood pressure rises and I want to beat the ever living shit out of it just for existing.

The summer before I turned 16, I was able to attend an Army JROTC summer camp at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. It was a week-long camp that allowed us just a little taste of what we could experience in the military. We lived in WW II style wooden barracks, and our cadre was composed almost entirely of newly commissioned second lieutenants. On the very first day, we had water survival training. We were told not to wear contacts to camp, but as I had only been wearing contacts for less than a year, and because the mere thought of putting my glasses back on sent me into a state of anxiety that surprisingly did not manifest itself into an ulcer, I ignored that rule. I do remember thinking “I hope I don’t lose my contacts” immediately before I jumped into the pool. The good news is that I didn’t lose my contacts. Oh no, I didn’t lose my contactS. I lost ONE contact. There was no way I was calling my parents to tell them that, so I suffered through the entire week squinting one eye at everything (I was terribly near-sighted). But wait, there’s more………..we were attending a briefing and sitting on some metal bleachers in the hot sun. All of us were wearing the old olive drab fatigues (think Vietnam era). When we got up to shuffle off the bleachers, I looked down to find that there seemed to be some sort of red liquid right where I had been sitting. Oh no, you say? Oh yes, I say. I had started my period. Back then I was notoriously irregular, with a flow heavy enough to rival Niagara Falls. Thankfully they let us go to the shoppette, where I promptly bought their entire stock of pads (I was terrified of tampons back then and the thought of sticking something up there with my own hand. My how times have changed). So yes, I went through that entire week with one contact and ridiculously painful cramps while bleeding like a stuck pig. Believe it or not, I was still selected as an Honor Cadet. I missed out on Distinguished Honor Cadet because my command voice wasn’t very good. I’m fairly certain that those of you who know me are now rolling on the floor with laughter, because one thing I do not have is a telephone voice. I am heard even when I don’t want to be heard, and I rarely speak at a tone below stadium level. Inside voice? What’s that? Okay, moving on.

My third story explains the lovely photo that accompanies this post. Picture it: Heidelberg, West Germany (yes, at the time, it was still West Germany), 1990. My slow-pitch softball team was playing at Patton Barracks against a team of female soldiers. I played short field (no, not because I’m short), which, for those of you who don’t know, is the fourth outfielder. Also for those of you who may not know, calling the ball is very, very important. Very. I cannot stress this enough. Here’s an example: perhaps there are two outfielders , waiting patiently for a ball to be hit in their direction. Perhaps a ball IS hit in their direction, right between the two. They are both so focused on catching the ball that they don’t realize they are making a beeline for each other at a high rate of speed. What do you think happens then? Well, the ball lands on the ground, and so do they. My head hit my teammate’s head and we both fell to the ground. She was actually knocked out for a couple minutes, but I, being extremely hard-headed, distinctly remember reaching up to touch my head, pulling my hand back, seeing what appeared to be a copious amount of blood, and then screaming and crying. My parents were actually at this game, and my poor Mom couldn’t even look at me because the wound was so deep you could actually see my skull. Those were my first stitches ever; ten on the outside and six on the inside. This injury is the reason one of my eyes is now just slightly smaller than the other when I smile; I think they pulled my skin too hard when they stitched me up, but at least they ended up making me look more half-Asian than I did before. Literally.

Instead of going to Spain and drinking sangria and beer like the majority of my high school classmates for spring break my senior year (1991), I went with my parents to Italy. We visited Pompeii and Naples, but my memories of this trip are tainted by the image I saw one day on the train during our journey that I will never, ever be able to get out of my head. My parents were sitting across from me, talking about something, and I was looking out the window. At some point I started looking around at the other people on the train, and I noticed a man leaning against a pole right next to the doors. He was very dirty, hairy, and quite swarthy looking, but not in a good sexy pirate way, more like in a he hasn’t taken a shower since the last time it rained way. He was looking down and appeared to be sleeping. I looked away and continued people watching. We came to a stop, and I looked towards the doors. The man was staring directly at me. He slowly began grinning, showing me his somer teeth (some are here, some are there, some aren’t there at all). Then he pointed down, and, being the young impressionable naive girl that I was, I did. And what did I see? That’s right, I saw his other hand waving his equally dirty and swarthy penis right at me. I looked back up at his face in shock and then he ran off the train with a final wave of his member. My parents were so engrossed in conversation that they didn’t notice that my mouth had dropped open and then closed again quickly to prevent the flow of vomit from escaping. I think I’m still traumatized.

My final story involves softball once again. This time it was merely practice, almost one year to the day after the collision with my teammate. The outfielders were off on our own with the assistant coach. He was hitting high pop flies for us to field. He hit one towards me, I called it (you didn’t have to teach me that lesson twice), and opened my glove, waiting for the ball. Unfortunately, something happened. Whether I blinked or lost it in the sun I’ll never know, because I don’t remember. All I remember is spitting three teeth out into my hand and yelling “Coath!” (I had quite the lisp with three front teeth missing and all that blood spurting everywhere). Apparently I turned my head just enough that that ball didn’t split my upper lip all the way through, but if I hadn’t, it would have. I guess I also dented the ball, but I don’t have any proof of that since I didn’t keep it. I started walking towards the dugout (no tears this time, for some reason). My parents were at an event that evening, and I’m certain they were freaking out when they received a call that their daughter had had yet another softball accident. I vividly remember the drive to the hospital; there was a German bus in front of us, and a little boy was staring at us through the back window. At some point I took my hand off my mouth and waved it at him. Quite understandably, he freaked out at the sight of all that blood and did not look out the window again. When we got to the emergency room, they put two of my teeth back into my mouth because they had come out in their entirety, i.e., root and all. The third one, however, did not, and I was informed that not only would I have to have oral surgery to remove the root tip, but I also had to have root canals on the other two teeth. When did they schedule all these lovely procedures? On my 18th birthday, of course. They made me a makeshift brace thing to which they attached the broken tooth so I wouldn’t have to walk around looking like a Beverly Hillbilly. Eventually I had something called a flipper made, which is essentially a plastic tooth attached to a plastic retainer. The very first time I ever got drunk in my life was in College Station, Texas, my fish (freshman) year at Texas A&M. We rented a hotel room and partied like rock stars (not really………basically we partied like 18 year olds). Let me tell you, those Bartles and Jaymes tropical wine coolers taste great going down, but coming back up? Not so much. So what do you think happened? Well, I went into the bathroom and I threw up into the toilet. And then I flushed it. And then I threw up again. And then I ran my tongue along the roof of my mouth. Something was missing. I ran my tongue along my front teeth. Again, something was missing. I have to give credit to my friend, because she helped me search for it by sticking her hand into the toilet (it helped that she was drunk too……..and yes, my second round of vomit was still in the bowl). However, it was all for naught, as it seems I flushed my tooth on the first round of prayer (I guess I sacrificed it to the gods). Until I got an implant for that tooth, I never again got so drunk that I didn’t remember to take that damn flipper out before I threw up. Ish. I did have quite a good time with that flipper, though. I could move it up and down using just my tongue (that’s what she said) because it was attached to a solid piece that covered half of the roof of my mouth. I would routinely freak people out by slowly moving it up and down (that’s what he said), particularly creepy guys who would make the mistake of staring at me just a little too long. It really is a shame I didn’t have it on that Italian train. Sometimes I sure do miss that flipper. But I digress….this accident continues to haunt me. One of the two teeth they put back into my mouth that day ended up almost quite literally falling out of my head a couple years ago, so I now have a second implant in my front row of teeth. Before this accident, I didn’t have a single cavity and never needed braces. Since then? Let’s just say that the dentist doesn’t scare me in the slightest. I’m a professional.