My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I once hid under my mother's bed while she sat on her hope chest waiting for me to come out so she could spank me. All the kids told me to ask her if it was OK to jump on the beds. So I went and stood in the doorway of the bathroom waiting to ask her. She was changing my retarded cousin and looked harrassed. Angry even. I decided to make an executive decision and ran back to the bedroom and said, yeah, it's OK. We were having a hell of a time, jumping from one bed to the other when she came in. Uh-oh. She was pretty mad and I was fingered, of course.

So I ran and hid. I think she was very patient. I looked at her shoes for a long time. I finally came out and got spanked for lying. Years later she asked if I was having it off with my boyfriend and I told the truth. So she threw me out of the house. Permanently.

Where is the justice in this? I now see that it involved beds amd jumping on them. I mean, teach your kids to tell the truth and punish them when they do? This might be the source of all my maladjustments. It is why I have futon beds. You can't jump on them. I also have a pathological fear of being homeless. I still imagine being able to put everything I own in a backpack. The cats would have a hard time being in there together. At this point the backpack would have to be pretty big. I would include the wooden Quan Yin, all the poetry books I own, my lucky penny, some underwear and extra glasses, in case I lost mine.

There is still a dent in my finger where my wedding ring used to be. It sucks.