I've always loved to write. When I was a kid, I used to spend my free time writing and illustrating my own stories. It would take me hours...sometimes days to get my mini books just right, but I didn't care...it was a labor of love. When I had finished, I'd read them to an audience of Cabbage Patch Kids, Care Bears and Pound Puppies.
I dreamed of writing novels that people would rush out to the store to buy. I pictured myself going to the book releases in a series of disguises so that I could hear people's true opinions of my work, unfiltered and raw.
Sometimes, I'd have a head scarf on ala Laverne and Shirley with oversized glasses and a fake mole. Other times, I'd wear a long, dark black wig, an eye patch and a fat suit. Another getup I had in mind involved a handbar mustache, a trenchcoat and a fedora. I kept a running log in the back of my journal and any time I saw someone who had an interesting look, I'd write it down as a possible future alter ego.
March 3, 1986: Saw a lady today with skinny arms and legs, but fat middle; looked like a walking candy apple or the apple guy from the Fruit of the Loom commercials. Could use pillow to simulate apple-ness?
March 28, 1986: Man wearing ski mask, a vest with running shorts and knee socks. (This was the best discovery I ever made! I was beyond thrilled when I was able to find everything I needed to make a duplicate of this guy's look happen...as soon as Chris left for bowling practice one Saturday afternoon, I snuck up to his room and got the mask, the socks, and the shorts. Then I went on to Katie's room and found a green and orange striped puffy vest. Bingo! I grabbed it and headed back to my own room. I put all of the elements of the outfit together, and I turned to regard myself in the mirror. I jumped a little. My dog hid under the bed. I smiled triumphantly and moved this disguise from number 37 straight to number 1...)
April 4, 1986: Passed a lady in the grocery store today who kept the hood from her sweatshirt jacket fastened tightly in a knot so that you could only see part of her face and none of her hair. She also had on leggings and high-topped Reeboks. (Not sure if hood wearing was intentional or if knot was too tight....)
Aoril 10, 1986: Mom had a new friend over today. She had Farrah Fawcet hair; small, circular hippie sunglasses; tight-rolled jeans; and an oversized sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder. (Note to self: Cut bigger hole in neck of Rainbow Brite sweatshirt...)
April 13, 1986: Woman at 76 gas station: hot pink floppy bow, white lace gloves and tights, off the shoulders half-shirt and a stonewashed jean skirt. (Actually, I just wanted to wear this outfit in general...not necessarily as a disguise...but my prudish parents would never allow that to happen...I was forced to wear Oshkosh B'Gosh until my freshman year of highschool...)
Anyway, I'm getting off on a tangent again...maybe it's a good thing I didn't pursue that writing career after all...
My senior year of highschool, I visited several colleges with my parents and eventually decided on Purdue University in West Lafayette, Indiana. In the spring, we made the 2 hour trip south once again in order to meet with a guidance counselor. The purpose of the trip was to register for classes and to determine a major.
As I sat in the passenger seat of my mother's emerald green Chrysler Concorde, I listened to her give me the same lecture for probably the 89th time....that day.
"Education is so important. You need to take this decision seriously. Now, if you want to major in Psychology, that's fine, but you're going to need to make a committment to go on to graduate school otherwise you'll spend four years getting a degree...and for what? To work at JC Penney? I don't think so."
My mother had no shortage of opinions on a wide array of topics, and she never had any reservations about telling anyone who would listen exactly what she thought about pretty much anything. Her heart was always in the right place, but her delivery sometimes was a bit misguided.
Pamela Waterson was a heavyset woman in her 40s with yellow blonde hair that had been meticulously curled and sprayed. It was pulled back on either side with tortoise shell clips that were fastened behind each ear. She wore a red sweater with embroidered puppies on the front of it. The sleeves were a little short, revealing a gold watch on her left wrist that was barely visible between the massive amounts of skin on her arm. I noticed bumps on her other arm that looked similiar to the razor burn I got if I shaved right before I went swimming. I stared at the raised redness and wondered if she shaved her arms..and if she did, why.
"So we were thinking Psychology, then?" Pamela's voice reminded me of Mrs. Pool from The Hogan Family. It was sickening sweet, but persistent.
I cleared my throat and moved to the edge of my chair, resting my elbows on her desk. "Um, actually, I was thinking I might want to do creative writing instead."
Immediately, I heard my mother shuffling papers, sighing; looking confused and irritated at the same time. "We never discussed you doing writing. We talked about psychology, obviously, and you said maybe pharmacy?"
I rolled my eyes. "No, mom. You said pharmacy. I don't want to count out pills for people all day! I'm just not interested in that."
"Well, they do more than that, and they make really good money."
Pamela interjected. "Well, if you are thinking about Pharmacy, you will have to go over to the Health Sciences building. This is the School of Liberal Arts. Pharmacy is not a major in this school, I'm afraid, but if you wanted to do creative writing, I could definitely help you with that.
My mother sighed, crossing her legs, uncrossing them, then re-crossing them in the other direction. In a tone that was a mixture of thinly disguised disdain with a condescending flair, she said, "And what...exactly...does one do with a degree in creative writing?"
Pamela smiled, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Oh, WELL...lots of things. There are all kinds of opportunities out there! She'll just have to be creative!"
My mother rolled her eyes and shot me a look. Looking back at Pamela, she said, "I see. Well, we've spent a lot of time discussing this, and I think she wants to major in Psychology. I just worry because a girl at work has a son who majored in Psychology and now he's working as a bag boy at the grocery store." She paused, looking first at me, then at Pamela. My mom was a big fan of dramatic pauses. She waited for the impact of her last statement to soak in fully , and just as Pamela had taken a deep breath and looked poised to formulate a response, my mom continued, "We just don't want our daughter to waste a lot of time and especially money on a degree that isn't going to get her anywhere. There's no point in spending thousands of dollars on a college degree if you're going to end up working at the mall." With that, my mother crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, apparently satisfied that she had made a point that was impossible to argue with.
Pamela looked uncomfortable. She coughed and looked up at the clock on the wall as she swiveled in her chair to look at her computer before shooting me a sympathetic look. "The School of Liberal Arts is a broad major with lots of possibilities. Why don't we just sign up for some of the core requirements for now and worry about pinning down a major later?"
It worked. We decided to table the discussion of my future career (for now), and 30 minutes later, we were walking out of Pamela's office...me with schedule in hand; my mother with a renewed sense of purpose. Me bringing up writing had been a major blindside. My mother had mistakenly thought that whole "creative writing thing" was out of my system. She had no idea that I was still considering it as a major, and she definitely wasn't ready for me to drop that bombshell on the day we were registering for classes. On the flip side, I had niavely thought that the guidance counselor would convince my mother that creative writing was, indeed, a worthy major.
"Let's go to the bathroom. Then we'll go to lunch and discuss this some more." I nodded as I followed her into the public restroom that was in the hallway right outside Pamela's office. "Don't you have to go?" My mother looked surprised when I headed straight for the sinks instead of one of the stalls.
"No, I'll just wait out here for you." My mother shrugged and headed for the closest toilet. As she closed the door, she was talking again.
"Where do you want to go for lunch? I kind of have a taste for Mexican food..." I heard the door swing open behind me and turned to see Pamela. She smiled shyly at me as she headed toward the sink to work on a stain she must have just acquired on her pale green pants.
I pressed down on the soap dispenser at the sink next to Pamela when I heard my mother say, "Can you believe that lady? 'She can find a job. She just needs to be creative.'" My mother said the last part in a high-pitched, mocking tone that sounded similar to Minnie Mouse.
I swallowed, concentrating on lathering the soap in my hands. (Anyone watching me would have thought I was being paged for surgery..."Paging Dr. Erin...Dr, Erin, you're needed in surgery stat"...to which I'd respond, 'Tell them I'm scrubbing in, DAMMIT!
When I didn't respond to my mother's commentary, she started calling out to make sure I hadn't left her. "Erin? Are you still there? ERIN? ERIN!!! ERIN!!!"
Shit. My eyes darted toward Pamela, and to my horror, she was staring at me. I smiled apologetically, and yelled in my mother's direction, "I'm just going to wait for you in the hall."
As I walked out, I heard my mother shouting, "What? Why? How come you didn't answer me??" The sound of her voice faded as the door swung shut. I leaned against the wall and waited her to come out. The door opened. Pamela breezed by me and headed down the hall to her office without a word. A minute later, the door opened again and my mom walked out.
"Why were you ignoring me in there?"
I grabbed her arm and said, "Ok, ready for lunch?" I told her that I knew about a great Mexican restaurant on the other side of town and ushered her out of the building.
As soon as we had reached the safety of our car...the privacy of our car, I recounted the whole scene that had played out in the bathroom for my mother. Instead of looking just as humiliated as I felt, she roared with laughter.
I stared at her.
"Mom! It's not funny! I'm probably going to have to see her again, you know. That was so embarassing!"
This only served to make my mother chortle even more, tears spilling down her cheeks. It was contagious. After a few minutes, I found myself also giggling. Finally, she caught her breath, wiped at her eyes, and said, "I'm sorry, but it's true. Trust me. You'll thank me one day."
So, I ended up getting that degree in psychology...with a minor in creative writing. The semester before I was to graduate, I got a job at Charter Behavioral Health which was a detox center for recovering alcoholics, addicts and just plain ol' crazy folk. It was interesting, but not for me. I decided to stay for another year and a half as I added a degree in speech pathology to my agenda. Luckily, it, too, was in the school of liberal arts so I already had all of the core classes finished.
I also didn't have to switch guidance counselors...which I'm sure Pamela was overjoyed to hear...
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