Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

I come from a family of hoarders. We’re not as bad as the ones on the television show Hoarding: Buried Alive, but my mother’s side of the family tends to collect stuff. Lots of stuff. At one time, my mother owned enough wigs to open her own store, and she never passed up any chance to buy makeup. I wasn’t exactly my mother’s child. Instead of “girly” things, I collected shells, rocks, feathers, marbles, Lynda Carter pictures, miniature ceramic animals, and any item (e.g., shirt, pen, stationery) with a rainbow on it. Each collection had its own box, file, cabinet, or drawer. Although my mother protested that the ceramic miniatures were too expensive, she didn’t discourage my interests even when I needed another shoebox for my shells or I owned three rainbow shirts. As long as I kept my room neat (and I did), she was happy.

However, when my mother and I moved from Arkansas to Alabama, we took only what could fit in her silver Toyota Celica. Items had to meet two criteria: necessary for life and easy to shove into boxes. She sold her wigs; I threw or gave away my collections. Mother nixed the framed Degas print that she had bought me as a gift. In fact, I don’t remember taking any of the art in our house. She had this thing though about keeping my baby dresses; they were so important to her, which made no sense to me. However, I was allowed to bring all of my former dance costumes (the kind you wear one time) so I didn’t argue with her about how illogical it was to bring clothing that neither one of us could wear.

After five years of living in Alabama, I was ready to move across the country to attend college. It’s shocking how little time it takes to accumulate stuff. I repeated the same purging process because all of my crap could not fit into my Ford Escort. My criteria were simple: necessary and special. I sold all of the furniture in my bedroom including my television set. I opted to bring my stereo, my tapes, and my records. I brought few books as they took up too much space. Of course, I kept my clothes and jewelry. I took posters, letters, and mementos. Although I left several boxes with my mother including the one with my former dance costumes, I didn’t trust my pieces of nostalgia with her.

Fast forward seven years and I was a college graduate, a parent, and a person who had so much stuff that I needed a storage unit until I was able to move into a house in Burbank. In order to afford the increase in rent, I also needed a better job. Having made it past the phone interview for a possible teaching position, I was invited to attend a second group interview. The employer asked that I bring “one thing”—a material item—that best reflected my personality. I looked around. What’s my one thing? Then I remembered My Memory Box.

After a few minutes, I discovered my one thing: my first pair of ballet slippers. They are a size 10 (girls) and they are no bigger than my hands. The black leather ballet shoes have the crunchy texture of old age, and a prize of $4* is listed on the inside sole where I wrote my name in all caps—ANDREA WILSON—in red ink. I also wrote it in black ink in case someone was color-blind. Those ballet slippers, along with my first pair of pointe shoes, hang on my office wall as a reminder of my first love, my childhood dream, and my inner soul.

My sister Adrienne loved music the way I love dance. For her fifteenth birthday, she wanted a bass. In an email to a friend on February 10, 2001, she wrote, “I found the perfect Bass at Guitar Center. Fender Jazz, smaller space between frets and thinner neck, super light, $500. Great for my midget hands, aye?”

She begged my ex John aka “Johnny” Ceravolo to buy it for her. Every day, she nagged him though there was no need to do so. He had every intention of buying her the bass and teaching her to play it.

Upon receiving the bass for her birthday on April 8, Adrienne emailed the same friend, “I got the fucking Fender Jazz Bass. Woo-fucking-hoo!”

As promised, John taught Adrienne how to play the bass. She practiced religiously. When her fingers acquired blisters, she showed them off as if they were war wounds; “I’ve been working on my chords,” she would tell people smiling at the evidence of her hard work.

Less than six weeks later, Adrienne was diagnosed with cancer and in the hospital beginning treatment. John brought the bass to her room, but when visitors began playing it, Adrienne insisted that we take the bass home. “It’s my bass. I’ve hardly had a chance to play it. I don’t want other people touching it.”

When Adrienne died less than five months later, the bass remained in her room. When John and I ended our relationship two years after her death, the only thing he wanted that belonged to her was her bass. It made sense to me. They shared a love of music. He bought her the bass; he taught her to play it; he would now play it; and he would always keep it. I trusted him with Adrienne’s One Thing.

I found out last week that John no longer owns Adrienne’s bass. He allowed his son (who was like a younger brother to Adrienne for seven years) to use it, and he sold it without telling John. I almost fell to my knees when I heard the news. Even though he didn’t personally give Adrienne’s bass away, John is responsible for what happened to it. I trusted him with the one material possession that Adrienne cared about the most in this world. Her one thing. Music was so important to Adrienne that she stopped one of the chemo medications when it began to affect her hearing, claiming, “I would rather be dead than deaf.”

I cannot decide which is worse

• Adrienne’s bass is gone;
• John’s son sold it;
• John broke my trust; or
• I don’t even own a picture of Adrienne playing her bass.

I would trade my little, black ballet slippers for Adrienne’s Fender Jazz Bass. My one thing for her one thing. If only it were possible.

AWW — XoXo

*I believe my mother tried to sell my ballet shoes at our massive garage sale before our move to Alabama. Lucky for me, she overpriced them.

P.S. What’s your one thing?
Read 5 Surprising Objects with Sentimental Value
(added 11/30/11).

Posted under Adrienne & General | 4 Comments »

Last Sunday my husband and I went out to eat at Bea Bea’s, a restaurant known as the “Best Breakfast in Burbank.” It is always busy, but I was still surprised by the number of people spilling out the door. Then I remembered: it’s Mother’s Day.

As it turned out, my husband and I were the only party of two so we were immediately seated at the counter. When our waitress asked, “Are you a mother?” I hesitated.
I know she didn’t sense the pause because it only lasted less than one second, but for me it seemed like more than five minutes before I answered, “No.”
Smiling in her bright pink t-shirt, she replied, “Then happy Mother’s Day to your mother.” My mother? The one I don’t talk to. Who isn’t worthy of a card. I hate Mother’s Day.

Ten years ago, Mother’s Day was on Sunday, May 13. I remember because it was my last Mother’s Day with Adrienne. I remember because she made a big deal about it. She bought me a card and a candle composed of pink gel instead of wax. She cooked my favorite breakfast. Most of all, I remember it was our last Sunday of normal, and we didn’t even know it. Three days later, an ER doctor would say to me, “She [your sister Adrienne] has tumors in her liver and lungs.” I hate Mother’s Day.

My sister never called me mom or anything of the like. I was always “Sissy.” In fact, mother was a tainted word in our house. Mother was the woman who abandoned her. Mother was the woman who drugged her. Mother was the woman who lied without blinking, stole without conscious, and hurt without remorse. Mother was an addict. I hate Mother’s Day.

I looked up mother in the dictionary and discovered I agreed with its definition: “a female parent.” I didn’t call myself a mother, but I considered myself Adrienne’s parent. Even though our mother was still in the picture, I practically raised Adrienne from birth until I went away to college when she was four years old. Then I gained custody of her when she was eight and I was twenty-two. Our mother was, “Tired” and “Couldn’t do it anymore.” A Christmas vacation to Los Angeles turned into a permanent stay. I hate Mother’s Day.

To me, if you give birth or you contributed your seed, then you are a biological mother or biological father respectively. However, neither action makes you a parent. Being a parent is much more difficult. You are constantly worrying, doing, wondering, and questioning.

• Should I give into her tantrum?
• When can she walk to school by herself?
• Are her friends a bad influence?
• Is she too young to date?
• How can I help her with her math/science homework when I don’t understand it?
• Why does she push my buttons?
• Am I too strict? Not strict enough?

Children do not need a mother and a father. They need parents. Many kids are raised by their biological mother and father; some even experience happy childhoods. They are the fortunate ones. For others though, parents come in different forms: grandparents, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, strangers (e.g., stepparents). When asked in a survey who her parents were, Adrienne responded, “In my eyes Sissy and Johnny, but truly Myra and Terry.”*

Did you know that there is a Parent’s Day in America? You probably won’t find it on a calendar (I didn’t), but it was signed into law by President Clinton in 1994—the same year Adrienne came to live with me. U.S. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg said, “Replacing Mother’s Day and Father’s Day with Parent’s Day should be considered, as an observance more consistent with a policy of minimizing traditional sex-based differences in parental roles.” I guess no one heard her. Parent’s Day is celebrated the fourth Sunday of every July.

The next time someone asks me if I am a mother, I am going to say, “I was … once upon a time, and I raised the best kid ever.”

AWW — XoXo

*Johnny was my ex-boyfriend who helped me raise Adrienne the last five years of her life. Myra is our biological mother; Terry is Adrienne’s biological father who died in a car accident before she was born. (Adrienne and I were half-sisters.)

Posted under Adrienne | 1 Comment »

I am embarrassed to admit that I watch the television show Little Miss Perfect, a reality series that follows child beauty queens and their stage mothers in their quest to achieve the title of—you guessed it—Little Miss Perfect (LMP). I stumbled upon this show last year, and my husband walked in the room when I was watching it. He shook his head when he saw a JonBenét Ramsey doppelganger grace the screen. I shouldn’t have told him, but I said, “Wanna hear something scary? I’ve been watching this show for four hours.” (It was a marathon of the first season). Before I could say, “I’m hooked” he left the room.

Later, I tried to understand my fascination with LMP by discussing the show with him. I don’t support “glitz” pageants because they send a message to young girls that hair extensions, false eyelashes, heavy makeup, spray-on tans, and flippers (i.e., a fake tooth mold that hides “unsightly” missing teeth) are necessary in order to be beautiful. However, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the TV that night. I explained to my husband that despite their shortcomings as parents, the mothers genuinely want what is best for their daughters, and they think beauty pageants are the way to a better life. He nodded and replied, “Sure. They’re [the mothers] just getting ready for the Big One.”
“That’s it,” I replied. “The Big One—Miss America, Miss USA, or even Miss Universe. They are thinking about the future.” The conversation with my husband may have ended there, but the one in my head had just started.

Even though I never participated in them, I have always loved beauty pageants. I watched the Miss America and Miss USA pageants every year when I was a child. At that time, the show would display each woman’s score on the television screen up to the thousandth decimal place (e.g., 8.345). My mother and I would sit with a notebook, add up the numbers, and calculate the winner before she was announced to the world. I still remember Bert Parks singing “There She Is, Miss America” until he was dismissed from the show after hosting it for 24 years. Bob Barker, best known for hosting The Price is Right, also emceed the Miss USA pageant from 1967 – 1987. The highlight of these two pageants occurred in 1982—the year my parents separated. I was still living in Fort Smith, Arkansas, with my mother. I’m sure that the entire neighborhood heard our squeals of delight when Miss Arkansas, Terri Utley, won the Miss USA pageant. A few months later, we screamed when Miss Arkansas, Elizabeth Ward, won the Miss America pageant. For years, Arkansas had plaques under its state-line signs at major border crossings; they read, “Welcome to Arkansas. Home of Miss America and Miss USA 1982.” Just like a parent, every state is proud of its beauty queens.

When it comes to their children’s dreams, I believe parents fall into three categories: the Mini Mes, the Better-than Mes, and the Wish-it-were Mes. All three types are on display at the LMP pageants. The Mini Mes are your former beauty queens; they want their daughters to be just like them. The Better-than Mes never experienced the beauty pageant circuit so they want their daughters to have the opportunities they never had. The Wish-it-were Mes fall somewhere in the middle. They either tried beauty pageants and failed or never had the chance to compete. Either way, they live their dreams vicariously through their daughters.

On a recent LMP episode, combination Wish-it-were/Mini Me mom Kelly had a full-blown meltdown when her seven-year-old daughter Trinity failed to place in the top five after forgetting the steps in her dance routine. During the same competition, Better-than Me mother Marie (who had to rent a dress for the Beauty portion of the competition because she couldn’t afford to buy one) beamed as her nine-year-old daughter Taylor became the second runner-up in her first glitz pageant. A tomboy who displayed her incredible karate skills during Wow Wear (i.e., talent) by breaking boards with her bare hands, Taylor is not your typical LMP contestant. She has her own short hair, her own teeth, her natural skin tone, and she wore little makeup until the end. However, Taylor exuded charm, charisma, and confidence. Unlike Trinity, who seemed to be desperately trying to please her mother, Taylor was on that stage because she wanted to be there, and that made all the difference.

I would classify myself as a combination Better-than/Mini Me parent. While I was raising my sister Adrienne, my goal was not only to give her more than I had, but also to lay the foundation for a higher self-esteem at an earlier age. I wanted her to achieve better grades in school than I did, to excel at her art in a way that I never did, and to feel okay in her own skin at a younger age than I did. On some level, I experienced some Mini-me moments because I encouraged her intellect, talent, and creativity—things we had in common, but I never desired a carbon-copy image of myself. I wanted Adrienne to be the best person she could be, and she exceeded even my high expectations.

• She earned a 4.0 GPA after one year of high school.
• She had her art displayed in three Los Angeles galleries by the age of 15.
• She didn’t love every aspect of her body, but she realized that she was attractive even if she was not a size zero.

By comparison, I never achieved a GPA above 3.75 in high school, I never danced a solo, and I still struggle with body issues.

However, I sometimes wonder if I gave the impression—like many LMP moms—that being perfect was the only acceptable outcome. As Adrienne’s drill team coach in elementary school, I pushed her and her peers to perfect every step in their routine. With only seven weeks of practice, I knew we didn’t have a chance of winning since most teams had nine months to work on their dance. However, part of me hoped that the girls could pull it off. As I watched them perform, I kept smiling despite the missed steps, the wrong timing, and the occasional frown. When they finished, I praised them for doing their best even though they had performed much better the day before when they debuted their routine for the school. Adrienne shook her head; she knew the truth—they had failed to be perfect. After a long day, we rode the bus back to school. Even though they had lost, all of the girls talked and laughed—except for Adrienne. She looked at me as tears slid down her face. I still don’t know if she was more upset about losing the competition or disappointing me. I never asked.

Even though it would never occur to me to enter my child in a beauty pageant, I can relate to the LMP mothers. Sure, some of them go too far, push too hard, especially the Wish-it-were Me moms, but I understand wanting your child to be a winner. Pageants teach children how to be disciplined and how to compete—two valuable skills that are necessary in the real world. In many ways, participating in pageants is not that different from being on an athletic team; except the last time I checked, soccer was much cheaper.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. My husband was right. In last night’s episode of LMP, a grandmother said, “This [Little Miss Perfect and other pageants] is something we’re doing until Asia gets Miss America.” Better-than Me grandma may be correct because five-year-old Asia was crowned Little Miss Perfect Nashville after an outstanding, military-inspired Wow Wear routine.

Posted under Adrienne & Beauty/Fashion & Entertainment | 3 Comments »

Note: This blog entry is a continuation of a previous blog titled: Flying the Unfriendly Skies: Part One—The Ignorant Mother so I suggest you read it first to fully understand my disagreement with Miss Sourpuss and Continental Airlines.

The passengers remained quiet after I had confronted the mother regarding her son’s behavior. I don’t know what I expected. I guess I was hoping at least one person (besides my husband) would applaud my courage, but instead, I had become the older, malicious bully who had verbally attacked the younger, innocent mother. I’m glad I waited until the end of the flight to say something because I swear our captain took the scenic route around the Houston/Bush International airport. Finally, our plane found its gate, and I made sure the boy and his mother exited the cabin ahead of us. I thought it was best to put as much distance between her and me as possible. As my husband and I walked off the plane, I told him to go ahead and wait for me. I wanted to speak to our friendly stewardess Miss Sourpuss.

Before I go any further, I should tell you that even though I’m not afraid of confronting people, I don’t make a habit of it. I’ll admit I am the woman who sends back her dirty martini when it isn’t quite dirty enough. I will also return food at a restaurant if my meal isn’t correct (I rarely order straight off the menu) or if the cuisine doesn’t taste good. When a hairdresser once hacked my hair to pieces a few weeks before I had to be a bridesmaid in two weddings, I got my money back. However, until this incident, I had never said anything to a parent on an airplane besides, “Could you please tell your child to stop kicking the back of my seat?” I had also never complained about a flight attendant’s bad service, but there’s a first time for everything.

After all of the passengers had collected their carry-on luggage and left the plane, I approached Miss Sourpuss who was standing next to the co-pilot. I told her that I would like to have a word with her about our flight. With the same “My-life-sucks-I-wish-I-were-dead” expression on her face, she just shrugged her shoulders and said okay. Although I had intended for our conversation to be private to avoid embarrassing her, I started talking since she made no effort to move anywhere. The co-pilot shifted his weight and leaned forward.

“My husband and I were seated in row 10, in about the middle of the airplane. In front of us, a young mother sat with her little boy who wouldn’t stop singing the entire flight. Why you didn’t say anything to her about his behavior?”

Miss Sourpuss’s expression changed. Her mouth opened, her eyes blinked, and I could see her searching for the correct answer in her brain. “I … I … could never ask a parent … I’m just not able to … confront people.”

I already knew she was passive, but the fact that she admitted it surprised me. I responded, “Well, his behavior was inappropriate, and it was your job to do something about it.” The co-pilot looked at her. She furrowed her brow.

“Uh … it’s not my job. People can use their cell phones …” I raised my eyebrow. Right then the captain walked up and joined our group, and Miss Sourpuss realized her mistake. “I meant people can talk as loud as they want on the plane.”

I laughed because the conversation was getting so ridiculous. “Really? So I can yell at the top of my lungs during a flight and you’re not going to say anything to me?” The captain grimaced and looked at Miss Sourpuss who must have been sweating through her uniform.

She replied with as firm a tone as someone like her can muster, “Well, I wouldn’t do it because I didn’t hear the boy at all. And I went up and down that aisle the entire flight.”

“First of all, that’s not true. My husband and I couldn’t find you anywhere when we wanted a refill on our sodas. Secondly, you changed your story when the captain arrived.” I looked at him, then the co-pilot, and then her. “Just so we’re all clear, you went from not being capable, to not being responsible, to sheer denial.”

Miss Sourpuss pursed her lips. “I didn’t hear him!”

“And apparently, you’re deaf as well.” I looked at the captain. “Thank you so much for getting us to Houston on time, but please tell your bosses, I will remember this incident. By the way, I’m a writer, and I will let people know that it’s okay to sing at the top of their lungs on a Continental flight.”

Okay, so I didn’t say that last part, but now I know how to solve the problem should it happen again. The next time a lazy stewardess refuses to hush a chirping child, I have a plan. I’m going to belt out (and I’m tone deaf) the most obnoxious children’s song I know. My sister Adrienne taught it to me. In fact, she and my (then) boyfriend’s four-year-old son got in trouble for singing it in the car during a road trip. I was driving, and after 15 minutes of Bananas in Pajamas, I told them to pick a different song. When they didn’t, I yelled, “Shut your mouths, or I will shut them for you.” They stopped singing immediately.

After years of teaching, I can raise my already-loud voice over a room full of 100 noisy children so out-singing one kid on an airplane will be easy. My husband is appalled by my idea. He intends to begin divorce proceedings if I should proceed to break into song. I told him that he should pretend that he doesn’t know me or tell people that my “medication” doesn’t work at high altitudes. He didn’t laugh. My theory is that even a passive stewardess like Miss Sourpuss will have to tell me to shut up, and when she does, I’ll point to the child and say, “He started it!”

Who knows? Maybe I’ll incite a sing-along:

Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down the stairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down in pairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are chasing teddy bears
cause on Tuesdays day … they want to catch them unawares!

AWW — XoXo

P. S. I wish I had gotten Miss Sourpuss’s real name so I could file a formal complaint.

Posted under Adrienne & General & Travel | No Comments »

On the hot, humid afternoon of Friday, July 10, 2009, my husband and I boarded Continental Airlines Flight 2292 * with service from Birmingham, Alabama, to Houston/Bush International. Our flight was supposed to leave at 5:50 p.m. so we, along with 42 other people, were in our seats by 5:30 p.m. The reason I know the exact number of passengers is that our plane, the ERJ 145, was at its maximum capacity; it is the smallest commercial airline I’ve ever flown on. The overhead bins are so tiny that the popular wheeled travel bags that are designed to fit into them do not. Part of our delay included passengers giving up their “carry-on” luggage and receiving a ticket to retrieve their bags after the flight. Although I’m not claustrophobic, I started wondering if there was enough oxygen in the cabin for all of us.

Finally, we appeared ready for takeoff. Though we were running 15 minutes late, the pilot assured us we would land in Houston at our scheduled arrival time of 7:37 p.m. My husband watched through the window as the plane soared into the air. Sitting next to him, I had the aisle seat since there are no three-seat rows on the ERJ 145. Directly in front of me was a young mother sitting with her son, who appeared to be about four years old. I usually notice where kids are sitting on airplanes because even though I like children, I worry about their behavior. Given that the passenger section of this particular plane could fit into our house (only a slight exaggeration), I could probably have told you where everyone was sitting. Anyway, I leaned back into my seat, opened my magazine, and that is when the “noise” began.

I wish the noise had been crying because as aggravating as a sobbing child can be, I can control my urge to interfere. My opinion about children crying on airplanes is they may be sick, scared, hungry, tired, or their ears may be popping, which hurts like hell. I actually empathize with those frustrated parents who are embarrassed by their children’s tears, but who are also sad because they cannot make the pain, fear, hunger, or even exhaustion from traveling magically disappear. Whenever I see that look of utter despair in a parent’s eyes, I give my most encouraging “you-can-do-it” and “we-don’t-all-hate-you” smile. Crying may be irritating, but I can handle it. However, there are some noises no one should have to endure—especially in cramped quarters with no way out.

You see, the little boy in front of us began singing. Loudly. Not only did his mother not stop him, she encouraged him to continue. I sighed, but then I remembered I had brought my portable CD player with headphones. Problem solved! I turned up the volume all the way (something I never do because loud music makes it difficult for me to concentrate on reading), but I could still hear the boy’s high-pitched voice over the rock music blasting in my ears. I couldn’t believe it. I gave up on the music and found my ear plugs; they didn’t work either. I looked at my watch. I glanced at my husband who shook his head. I made eye contact with other passengers who appeared equally as annoyed as I was. Meanwhile, the boy’s tune—imagine a modern day version of the Smurfs theme song—echoed in my head.

The boy never stopped singing, and no one said anything to his mother—not even the stewardess whom my husband and I nicknamed Miss Sourpuss for her lovely demeanor. I bit my tongue the entire flight, but as we were approaching our gate, I felt compelled to say something to the mother if only to save fellow travelers from future torture. I tapped her on the shoulder; she turned around.

I smiled and said, “I want to tell you something that I hope you won’t take the wrong way. You have a lovely son who is clearly a very happy boy, but he has been singing loudly this entire flight.”

She nodded so I continued. “I’m a former teacher and it isn’t appropriate for him to be so loud on an airplane. He needs to learn to use his ‘indoor library’ voice.”

I could see the muscles in her face twitch. “Look, I’m only saying this to you because no one else on this plane will, but trust me, we are all irritated.” I could feel the eyes of our fellow passengers watching us.

Then the mother exploded, “Well, I paid for a ticket just like you did!” She jutted her chin forward and glared at me.

Until that point, I had remained calm but then I lashed out, “We all paid for our tickets! (You stupid bitch) It doesn’t give you the right to allow your son to sing at the top of his lungs for two hours. He doesn’t know any better, but you should. You are his mother; it’s your job to teach him manners.”

The whole situation disintegrated from there. I backed off, but I didn’t apologize. I’m glad I said something, but then I realized I should not have had to. If our stewardess, Miss Sourpuss, had done her job, I’m sure the mother would have been less defensive and more cooperative regarding her son’s actions. I’ll continue this story in my next blog titled: Flying the Unfriendly Skies: Part Two—The Lazy Stewardess.

AWW — XoXo

* Operated by Expressjet Airlines Inc doing business as Continental Express

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