Eating My Feelings Page 2

  “Yeah. Seriously.”

  “You’re such an asshole, Jeff,” I said.

  “You’re just calling me an asshole because I’m deaf, aren’t you?”

  “No, Jeff,” I responded. “I’m calling you an asshole because you’re an asshole. And my father is still pissed that your parents put up that sign that says Caution: Deaf Child, right in front of our mailbox.”

  “You two suck! Get off of my property! And while you’re at it, wash that crap off your face, Mark. I may be deaf, but you look like a fool!” Jeff said as he slammed the door in our faces.

  “God, I hate that kid,” I replied. He was almost as bad as that fucking Russian family that lived down the street who continued to refuse to take part in our American tradition of celebrating Halloween. We knew they were home; they just wouldn’t answer the door when we knocked. We then walked to the house directly next to ours, the Goodmans.

  The Goodmans were like the Huxtables from The Cosby Show. The father was a doctor, the mother was just plain fabulous, and they were the only black family within a three-mile radius. I really liked Mike, their son, but he went to private school because they were cooler than us. Katie-Kelly-Katherine and I rolled up to their home and knocked on the door. Dr. Goodman answered.

  “What. The. Fuck?” Dr. Goodman said.

  “Trick or treat,” we said in unison.

  “What the fuck is this?” Dr. Goodman asked.

  “I’m Sleeping Beauty,” Katie-Kelly-Katherine said.

  “And I’m Homey D. Clown,” I said. “Homey D. Clown. Homey D. Clown. Don’t mess around. Don’t mess around!” I sang.

  “Nice costume, Cassie,” Dr. Goodman said.

  “IT’S KATIE!”

  “Mark, your costume is … interesting. Do your parents know you have been walking around in blackface?”

  “Ummm … I actually can’t be sure,” I replied.

  “Interesting. I am going to have to have a little talk with them,” Dr. Goodman said. “You know, that’s very racist.”

  “I just didn’t want to be a hobo again,” I cried. My plight for the homeless continued: “I just feel so bad for them. I mean, they have nowhere to live. Essentially, they are homeless. Without a home. Hence why they are called homeless people.”

  “Yes, I understand, being homeless is a bad thing,” Dr. Goodman said. “Come inside.” Katie-Kelly-Katherine and I entered the Goodman home and Dr. Goodman gave us a forty-five-minute rundown of the tribulations of the African American and why blackface was racist. We did however get to enjoy a few musical numbers from The Jazz Singer, so it was not only educational, but entertaining as well. Just like a killer episode of Reading Rainbow.

  I went home and washed the shoe polish off my face. I began counting the treats that I had acquired that evening. I always counted and categorized my Halloween candy so that my brothers wouldn’t get their grubby little hands on it. As I was sorting, my mother came into my room in a panic.

  “MARK! DON’T EAT THAT CANDY!” she yelled.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “There is a rapist or a serial killer or a child molester or something on the loose and he’s poisoned bags of candy,” my mother said. This was coming from a woman who believed pretty much anything she was told. Earlier that year, she was convinced that Bat Boy had given birth outside of the National Cathedral, so all of her children were told to steer clear. She was also an advertiser’s dream come true. If JoBeth Williams told my mother to buy Playtex, you better believe she bought it.

  “Are you hammered right now?”

  “No.” She paused. “Well … a little. But it’s true! Now give me your candy before you’re poisoned too,” she said as she gathered all of the candy that I had just categorized on my bed and dumped it into the trash can. Knowing I was not above eating out of a trash can, she took the can and dumped it into the garbage outside.

  “DAMN THAT WOMAN!” I yelled. She had taken my candy away, and with it she took my childhood as well. All I wanted to do was acquire as much candy as possible so I could gorge like a pig and not get judged for being a fat-ass, and now my mother had totally ruined my plan.

  Because of this experience, I learned never to judge people by the color of their skin, what they look like, or where they are from, even when I was trying to use it to my advantage to get free food. I hate everyone regardless of any of that.

  CHOOSE YOUR OWN RELIGION

  Every good story needs a good villain, and Mark found his in his evil whore of a stepmother, Stacey. Our heroine’s father is about to drop the biggest bombshell of all time on Mark and his beloved siblings. As our journey through Mark’s fatness continues, he finds the answer to the question philosophers have been plagued with for years: What’s so fucking great about being Jewish anyway?

  There is always a lot of confusion as to who belongs to what religion in my family. So let’s clear a few things up: My mother is Catholic. When she had her first child—my oldest brother, Tony—he was baptized and raised Catholic. While all of this was going down, my father—who is a Jew—was married to his first wife, a lovely woman named Faith. They had two daughters—twins, my sisters Kimmy and Jamie—and raised them Jewish. Then my father married my mother and adopted my oldest brother, Tony, because his father had apparently been abducted by aliens and left my mother shortly after Tony was born. Then my parents got together and had me and my little brother, Kevin. So the Rosenberg clan is essentially the quintessential American family with a mixture of different religions, beliefs, and levels of guilt. When you mix Irish Catholic and Jewish, you have one drunk, guilty household on your hands.

  When I was very little, my parents’ religious differences never interfered with everyday life. Kevin and I were both baptized and went to Catholic school and my father never seemed to mind. To appease my father our family even celebrated the important Jewish holidays, so he could teach his children about his own beliefs. All was quiet on the religious front. That is until my parents got a divorce and my father decided to remarry a Jewish whore named Stacey.

  Stacey was more like a high-class escort with a law degree and less of a whore, but I hated her nonetheless and my hatred for her began early on. She was, in my eyes, evil in its purest form. She had the air of Cruela De Vil every time she walked in the room, except she had an even worse hairdo. I’m also pretty sure she had murdered a puppy or two before meeting my father. I believe that I hated Stacey so early on because my mother had this unwarranted assumption that she and my father had had an affair before he divorced my mother. With no evidence to prove her story as truth, I took my mother’s side without any question of whether she was right or not, as anyone would do. Shortly after Stacey and my father began dating, they got married and didn’t tell anyone. That is, until the day of my elementary school graduation. All five of my father’s children and Stacey’s son, Paco (who shared with me a mutual love of Julie Andrews films and cake. I liked him and would have considered him an ally if his mother hadn’t danced on the devil’s playground), gathered at our favorite Chinese restaurant for what we thought was a casual evening of moo shu and shooting the shit, until my father dropped the biggest bombshell ever.

  “We have news,” my father said as he bit into an eggroll.

  “Your father and I got married,” Stacey said as she showed off the huge ring my father had given her.

  “Is this a joke? I said. “Are we being filmed for Candid Camera or something?” Where was Dom DeLuise when I needed him most?

  “Nope, when we were on vacation in Orlando last weekend, your father and I decided to tie the knot. We brought pictures!” Stacey said as she began passing around photos of “the big day.” I sat there in disbelief. At the tender age of eleven, I could not picture my father with anyone other than my mother, even though they had tried to kill each other at least five times each. No eleven-year-old wants to see his father married to someone other than his mother, especially not if that certain someone is the whore of Babylon. I also di
dn’t want him to be with a woman who was so emotionally unhinged that a blind man could sense her craziness at twenty paces. “Well, I certainly have lost all desire to visit the state of Florida ever again,” my sister Jamie said as she passed the wedding photos to my brother Tony.

  “I don’t get it,” my little brother Kevin said. “What about Mom?”

  “Your mother will move on,” Stacey said. “Or you can call me Mom now, if you want to.”

  “I am not going to be able to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth for the rest of the day. Thanks, Stacey,” my sister Kimmy said.

  “Kimberly!” my father barked. “Please try to treat your new stepmother with a little respect.” Had Stacey done anything to garner any ounce of respect, perhaps she would have.

  While looking at the wedding pictures, Tony said that they needed to change the city’s name from Orlando to Whorlando now that Stacey had visited. My father quickly realized that news of his wedding was not getting the warm reception he had hoped. I could see defeat in his eyes. All he really wanted was to move on from my mother, but everyone else at the table knew that the person he had chosen to move on with was evil in its purest form. Tony handed the wedding pictures to me and I glanced through them. I quickly stumbled upon a picture of Stacey’s son, Paco, hugging Mickey Mouse.

  “Wait … what?” I gasped. “Why is Paco hugging Mickey Mouse? Did you all get married and stop at Disney World on your way home?”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” my father replied.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me with this right now,” I replied. I had been pushing for a trip to Disney World for the last eighteen months.

  “We needed a witness for the wedding,” Stacey replied.

  “Seriously, bitch? Don’t play me like that,” I said.

  “Are you calling my mother a bitch?” Paco asked as he got up from his seat in anger. I quickly shut my mouth before getting my ass kicked.

  “So wait a second, you took Paco on vacation, told none of us about it, then decided to get married?” Jamie said. “This is bullshit.”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” my father replied. “We needed a witness.”

  “I’ve been to Florida plenty of times,” Kim said. “Give a Cuban a few bucks and there’s your witness.”

  “We wanted it to be special,” Stacey said.

  “Wait a second,” Tony said as he looked at his watch. “I have about three weeks left to deal with all of you in person before I go off to college and decide whether or not I pick up the phone when you call,” he said. “And I drove here, so I don’t need to sit through this.”

  Tony grabbed Kimmy and Jamie and left Kevin and me to fend for ourselves at the Chinese restaurant with my father, the whore-bag, and Paco. The waitress came by our table to refill our water, but quickly fled as she saw my older brother and sisters leave the restaurant in a frenzy. I don’t know if I was more pissed that my father, Stacey, and Paco had taken a trip to Disney World without me or that my father had married quite possibly the most evil person in the world and opted not to let any of his children in on it until the day of my elementary school graduation, the most important day of a young man’s life. Saying I was pissed was an understatement. For the first time in my life, I had lost my appetite. I had a plateful of chicken-fried rice sitting in front of me and I couldn’t eat. Stacey’s marriage to my father had made me anorexic. Well, at least for the rest of the evening.

  My father drove my little brother and me to my elementary school graduation, where my mother was waiting for us. Before accepting my diploma, I told my mother I had some serious gossip for her after the ceremony. As I walked onto the stage, I heard her yelling: “WHAT THE FUCK?” I realized that there was no need for hair braiding, cookies, and gossip afterward because she had already found out the news.

  Little did I know my elementary school graduation was not going to be the only important day ruined by my arch nemesis. She went out of her way to ruin everything for me, and my father allowed her to do it. A few years into their marriage, the big question of “Who is going to die Jewish?” came into play. I believed that my father wanted to pressure Kevin and me into becoming Jewish to stick it to my mother one last time.

  When I was around twelve years old, Stacey broached the subject for the first time.

  “How would you like to have a Bar Mitzvah?” she asked.

  “How would you like to go fuck yourself?” I replied.

  “MARK!” my father yelled. “Watch your language and listen to what your stepmother is asking you.”

  “It would be fun,” Stacey said. “You can have a big party and get lots of gifts,” she continued, “and if you do a good job, you can take a trip anywhere you want to go. I hear Disney World is lovely this time of year.”

  “Seriously?” I asked. I knew what they were doing. At this point, they both should have known where my loyalties lay. I was on Team Trish and nothing was going to sway my vote. I knew if I had a Bar Mitzvah, it would crush my mother, and that was exactly why my stepmother had proposed this idea in the first place.

  “You’re both retarded,” I replied. “I know your game, woman,” I said to Stacey, “and I ain’t playin’ it!” The only reason I even spoke to my father or stepmother was because I was court ordered to. I literally had to see them every other weekend and once a week. That period in my father’s life was miserable for everyone involved. I hated Stacey, if not for conversations like this one, then for the fact that she was a straight-up cunt.

  I could see panic in my father’s eyes. He wanted so badly for his younger boys to be Jewish to impress his new wife and knew his window of opportunity was closing. I was already thirteen, was a borderline racist, and had a mouth like a sailor that could preclude me from ever setting foot in any temple. Watching One Life to Live every day allowed me to spot a crook from a mile away. I knew Stacey’s trickery and certainly wasn’t dumb enough to fall for it. So my father focused on my little brother, Kevin. He was always an easier target because he was younger and did not watch as much television as I did.

  Shortly after our conversation, Kevin came back to my mother with exciting news: “I am going to have a Bar Mitzvah!”

  I think my mother may have done a spit-take in response to this, but regained her composure with, “Okay, Kevin, whatever you want to do.”

  I sat there wishing I had been able to shield my little brother from my evil stepmother’s clutches, but knew it was too late.

  “Stacey said that I could have a big party and take a trip wherever I wanted to go. It’s going to be so much fun,” Kevin replied. Little did he know about the three years of rigorous work he was going to have to put in before having this big party and taking this wonderful trip. Kids are so stupid. Shortly after Kevin left the room, my mother picked up the phone and called my father.

  “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS ABOUT KEVIN HAVING A BAR MITZVAH?” she yelled into the phone.

  “It’s his decision,” my father said.

  I know what you’re thinking. How did I know what my father was saying on the other end of the phone? Two words: Erica Kane. She taught me everything I needed to know about the art of eavesdropping, so naturally, I was listening in on the other phone with my finger on the mute button.

  “He told me that you and”—she stopped herself—“I can’t bear to say her name, but that woman, promised him a big party and a big trip. Is that true?”

  “Of course not. I mean he would obviously have a big party. That’s what a Bar Mitzvah is.”

  “No it isn’t, you idiot!” my mother said. “You don’t even know your own fucking religion. Having a Bar Mitzvah is not just a huge party. Thank God my father is not alive, because he would kill you right now.”

  “Calm down, Pat.”

  “You know that if my father were alive right now, none of this would be happening. But I will not get in the way of what is going to make Kevin happy, and since you’ve already put it in his head that he’s going to do
this, I guess I can’t fight it or I’ll be the bad guy.”

  “He has made his mind up and we should just let him do what he wants to do,” my father said.

  “No, you and that bitch made his mind up. I cannot believe that you are doing any of this, but I will tell you one thing right now. I am not paying for any of this shit. You and that slut can take care of it and don’t forget to invite my side of the family. You know they like to party.” With that, my mother hung up the phone.

  My father had won this round, and my mother knew it. She looked at me after I rejoined her from the other room and asked, “Why aren’t you having a Bar Mitzvah?”

  I didn’t want to tell her it was because I would forever remain on her team, so instead replied, “It’s too much work. That and I hate Stacey, so I try to do the opposite of what would make her happy.”

  The news of Kevin’s impending Bar Mitzvah spread like wildfire on my mother’s side of the family—mainly because I have a big mouth. My cousins and I all stood as a united front to poke jabs at Kevin whenever we got the chance. Now, not only did we have his big head to make fun of, we had his Judaism as well. When the holidays rolled around, I became particularly irritated.

  “I don’t understand why Kevin continues to get Christmas presents when he is clearly a Jew now!” I said to my mother.

  “Because I celebrate Christmas and if your brother is with me for the holidays, then he will get presents.”

  “This is bullshit!” I replied. “I don’t get to have a big party or take a trip, but Kevin gets whatever he wants from both parents. It’s not fair!”

  “Life isn’t fair, Mark,” my mother told me, as if by now I hadn’t already gotten the memo on that one.

  “My loyalty to you obviously means nothing,” I said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  After realizing my mother didn’t know that the only reason I had decided not to have a Bar Mitzvah was because I wanted to remain loyal to her, I quickly retreated to my room.