Circles Joined to Circles
Real Stories by Real Women on Mothers, Daughters & Sisters
A companion to the web series My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation
Edited by Alexis Niki
Published by Alexis Niki at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Alexis Niki
Cover photograph by Marc-Olivier Souder
Watch the web series:
My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation
http://www.bitchywitchythefilm.com
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to email it to your friends provided the book remains in its complete original form. Please do not reproduce or copy the book for commercial purposes or post it on your web site. If you’d like to point people to the book from your website, please provide a link to its page on Smashwords.com. Thank you for your support.
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Table of Contents
Introduction - Alexis Niki
The Roach Motel - Pelham Spong
And Now You Are One - Becky Sherrick Harks
Jump Off That Bridge - Ann Jacobus
Excerpt from “Banana” - Caroline Cheng
To Smoke Or Not To Smoke, That Is The Question - Lisa Gurney
A Day In The Life Of My Daughter - Kate Michaels
When You’re Hot, You’re Hot - Erzsi Deàk
Four Weddings And A House Full Of PMS - Melanie Kissell
Wish Upon A Star - Nancy Julien Kopp
The Operation - Mina Zaher
Warning: Two-Year-Old On The Premises - Rebecca Joyner
The Button Cupboard - Vikki Stark
The Inner Bitch Club - Alexis Niki
Connect with My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation online
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Introduction
This ebook is a companion to My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation, a sweet and touching mother-daughter web series shot on location in Paris, France. A web series is a series of episodes created for distribution on the Internet, or a mobile phone or other device. Another way to think of a web series is as web TV.
My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation tells the tale of a mother, Diane (Kate Michaels) and her two daughters, Miranda (Esmée Buchet-Deàk) and Ashley (Pelham Spong). Each is at a threshold in a woman’s life. Diane feels too young to be entering menopause. Miranda feels too old to be waiting for her first period. And Ashley feels both too young for the arrival of her first child and too old to be playing family peacekeeper. Stressed out and on edge, the trio travels to Paris hoping to stop fighting and reconnect. Instead, cultures and hormones collide.
On the surface, you might think Bitchy Witchy is about female hormones and how they seemingly define women. But to me, it’s a sweet, painful, and humorous exploration of mother-daughter relationships, the bonds of sisterhood, and the pain and anxiety of the transitions we all go through. It’s the kind of story women of all ages can relate to and share with each other.
To expand upon the themes of the web series, I thought it would be fun to reach out to women writers and ask them to contribute real stories from their lives on the general theme of mothers, daughters, and sisters. The response was enthusiastic and immediate, and the result is this collection of life-affirming, funny, poignant, and touching stories.
On behalf of the cast and crew of My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation and the authors represented in this book, may our stories inspire you to connect with your own mothers, daughters, and sisters. And may they—along with our web series, which you can watch for free at http://bitchywitchythefilm.com—be one of many bright spots in your daily lives that you enjoy sharing with one another.
Alexis Niki
Creator of My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation
December 2010, Paris, France
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The Roach Motel
The Roach Motel is a perfect parallel to the mother-daughter dynamics in My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation.
I’m 16 and my sister has just turned 13. Two hormone-charged teenagers, a menopausal mother, and the worst cherry to top it all off: a divorce in the background. This was my mother’s home. We lived on the family farm, a 40-minute drive to school, which was also a 40-minute impediment to joining in on the social activities of our friends who lived in town. Our TV had six channels, which meant no MTV. This was no help to my artistic mother, who was trying to cope with the end of her 20-year marriage, one teenage daughter who was moody and absorbed with her budding social life, and another who was depressed and showed signs of ADD. Our home was a chaotic mess.
My dad, on the other hand, had a house in the suburbs near all of our friends, full cable service, and the pizza place actually delivered to his house. Not only did he live closer to the schools and our friends, there wasn’t the tension with him that there was with my mom. And Dad would take us on cool vacations: trips to the beach, camping in the mountains, and Thanksgiving in Colorado. I think my mom felt like she got the short end of the stick, and she did, looking back. My father walked out on their marriage, but ironically it was she who felt our wrath the most. It didn’t help that my sister and my father have the same minds. Mom couldn’t understand her. Dad could.
So when Mom tried to take us on vacation, it was only met with grumbling from us. We complained as we put our backpacks in the ageing minivan, moaned when we told our friends we couldn’t come to the movies that weekend, and made sure she knew her destinations were less thrilling than Dad’s. A history buff, my mother loved trekking through rural towns in search of old ancestral homes or taking us to museums. At 16 and 13, this wasn’t our idea of fun.
When the family had been whole, we loved to go to the mountains in the fall to see the changing of colors of the leaves. It was one of our favorite times. Mom and Dad would set up camp while my sister and I would ride our bikes around the campsite. We’d go hiking in the woods, and Dad would walk ahead with my sister and hide in the bushes only to jump out at Mom and me screaming “Boo!” We made Smores and played Go-Fish by the light of the electric lantern. The mountains were happy memories for us.
So when Mom dragged us to Asheville, a small artsy college town on the Blue Ridge Parkway, we recalled the happier times and were somewhat willing. We packed a tent, a blowup mattress and a cooler full of food. Friday night we arrived in Asheville hungry and giddy. Mom splurged on a Caribbean restaurant where we stuffed ourselves fat before realizing the sun had gone down and we still had a tent to pitch. Mom had forgotten one thing, however: it was Memorial Day weekend and she hadn’t made reservations at a campsite.
We drove from campsite to campsite, our eyes getting droopier. At each stop, Mom would get out of the car to inquire about availability only to come back shaking her head in disbelief. Not a spot left! One of the site’s rangers had suggested that she pitch her tent in the woods. We started scanning the side of the road for somewhere promising. Then it started raining.
With us in the back seat whining away, Mom finally caved and decided we would go to a motel. “We can’t afford anything nice though girls, so don’t get your hopes up,” she warned. Yet when she turned at the billboard advertising a $25 rate and featuring “Color TV” into a poorly-lit parking lot, we were sure she couldn’t be serious. But she got out of the car, pocketbook in hand, marched up to the exterior front desk, and pushed her credit card through a slot to an Indian woman sitting behind bullet-proof glass. As she crossed the parking lot back to the car, a raccoon darted out from the bushes and mom jumped. That was our first glimpse of her doubt. Yet she pressed on. “Come on girls,” she said with military determination.
The rusty room key opened the door to a smoky dump. The fluorescent lights flickered ominously, protesting our arrival. There were dead roaches on the floor, a concrete slab covered by thin, unraveling carpet. We pleaded with Mom not to make us stay there, that the car would be better, but she remained firm. Yet when she pulled back the shower curtain to take a shower, I think even she regretted her determination. Hairballs clogged the drain, and it was clear the bathroom hadn’t seen bleach in ages. Mom had to call the front desk for toilet paper. The Indian woman refused to leave her fort so our mother braved the raccoon crossing one more time to fetch it herself.
We were in Motel Hell.
I laid out my towel on the bedspread, shaking at the thought of what I was sleeping on. The sheets were stained, and at 16, I knew full well what went on in those beds. I tried not to imagine the sort of people who copulated in such a disgusting setting. We turned off the lights and listened to the cars on the highway, making small talk until sleep finally overcame us. When the sun came up, my sister and I got ready faster than we ever had since we discovered makeup and boys. Longing to put the motel behind us as quickly as we could, we made like that raccoon and hightailed it out of there.
Over breakfast, with the coffee starting to thaw our horror, we began giggling about the previous night’s adventure. We laughed at the number of dead roaches and made fun of Mom’s scream when she discovered the hairball in the drain. Our relief at having escaped the unsanitary room and survived our experience at the Roach Motel melted the tension. My sister and I forgot we were supposed to be teenage brats and relaxed into balancing spoons on our noses and making fart jokes. Mom booked us into a cleaner establishment for the rest of the weekend, and we had a good time exploring Asheville, indulging in cheesecake at coffee shops, and buying trinkets in hippie boutiques.
Our
trips to the mountains have become a tradition, and now that we’re
older, we all pitch in to help pay for a decent hotel room. My sister
even gets an employee discount at a nice hotel chain, so our last
trip to Asheville was a far cry from that weekend we slept in the
Roach Motel. We’ve outgrown the fighting and bickering, and Mom no
longer has to pull teeth to get us to do things with her. We’re
happy to spend time together, especially since flying the coop has
made those occasions a little rarer. Though you couldn’t pay me to
spend another night in that dump of a motel, I am rather proud of us
for toughing it out that night. I know that our weekend roughing it
helped Mom realize that even though she couldn’t afford to treat us
like my Dad did, she still had our love.
Author Bio: At the age of 6, Pelham’s mother sang “They’re Gonna Put Me in the Movies” to her—and the rest is history. A Performance Major Graduate from the College of Charleston’s School of the Arts, Pelham moved to Paris, where she appeared in My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation, Prodigy’s “Run with the Wolves” music video, and other roles. Under her stage name Plume de Paname, Pelham is a founding member of the Charleston, SC-based troupe, Ménage à Trois Burlesque. The troupe aims to bring back the glitz, glamour, and gritty humor of classic Burlesque entertainment.
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And Now You Are One
And Now You Are One first appeared on Becky Sherrick Hark's blog, Mommy Wants Vodka.
Dear Amelia,
The first thing that I thought when I saw you in the spotlight that had been aimed at my vagina was “holy shit, I gave birth to a statue!” But please remember that I was in extreme pain and had just found out that there was potentially something wrong with you. And, well, you were covered in white goo.
My second thought was, “holy shit, that baby is PISSED the fuck OFF!” It sounds indelicate, saying that about a brand new baby, but I assure you, my girl, you have the lung capacity and vocal control of someone who is going to either be an Olympic swimmer (providing you’re not physically gimpy like me) or an opera singer (providing your not singerly gimpy like me).
It was a good thing they’d put us in the back corner of the Labor and Delivery unit, or you’d have probably scared all of those women OUT of labor. THAT is how loud you were. Which, I can't blame you for. Had I been removed from my comfortable aquatic home, I'd have been furious, too.
Your temper is legendary in our house, but so is your sweetness. While both of your brothers had first years on the planet that made my hair go grey and my hands trembly, you were sweetness and love.
And thunder of doom.
I think that combination will serve you well, actually. It’s always served me well.
I know as a mother, I’m supposed to be terrified of having a daughter. My own mother and I have a relationship that can at best be described as “complicated,” but with you, well, it’s just not. It will be perhaps, when you’re a surly teenager, but now it’s not.
I'm still proud to be able to say, “I have a daughter,” because I always figured it was my lot in life to have a mess of sons. To me, having a daughter was the holy grail. The pink light in a sea of sausages. I am so privileged, so unbelievably honored to have you as my own, that I can’t imagine a day that I wouldn’t gnaw off my arm to give it to you.
(I’d do the same, of course, for your brothers.)
The ways that you’ve changed me over the past year, I can’t even begin to put into words. If I could go back to those weeks when you were a wee embryo and have your neural tube fuse properly, I don’t think I would. Because through you, I’ve become a better person.
The world is a good place, Amelia, and you don’t know it, but you have made yourself quite a lot of friends already. People in all kinds of places have been praying for you since you were a wee thing and they’ve been watching you grow, cheering you on as you reach each milestone, and celebrating each victory.
You are so, so blessed.
As you grow, there are going to be times and places where people tell you that you can’t do something. Now, I’m not talking about spray painting your room silver or something stupid (the FUMES! GAH!), I’m talking about your dreams, your hopes, your aspirations.
Listen to me, my girl: IGNORE THEM.
Absorb every single bit of negativity into your soul and let it strengthen you. Let it fortify your resolve to do it. Let it feed you. Only you know what you need to do. Only you know the path you must take. And you do everything in your power to get there. Stop at nothing.
Live a life of no regrets, my love. Don’t say yes when you mean no. Say no when you mean no and don’t feel ever slightly bad about it.
And remember that when you’ve taken over the world, call your mother. She loves you with all of her heart.
So today, my darling girl, on your first birthday, we shall eat pink cupcakes with hearts and pink sprinkles and we will play trucks and cars and trains because that is what you love.
Happy Birthday, big girl. I love you with all that I am.
I am so, so honored to be your mother.
Love,
Mamamamama
Author Bio: Becky Sherrick Harks has won the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness for her work in curing cancer and AIDS, or, at least she will, once she stops polluting the Internet from her blog Mommy Wants Vodka. Her interests include encased meats, cherry lip gloss and single-stranded reverse-transcribing RNA viruses.
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By Ann Jacobus
Mothers, daughters, sisters—and weddings. Need we say more?
“That’s him over there,” said my baby sister, Sarah.
I looked. The skinny father-and-husband-to-be, dressed in a white suit, was framed by a gigantic arrangement of tiger lilies on the grand piano behind him.
“And you wouldn’t consider, um, an abortion,” I stated, rather than asked, since tables were being set around us for the wedding reception lunch. Twenty-six years-old, I had just flown into Dallas from New York to be maid of honor and sole attendant for Sarah, who was almost nineteen.
We were in the “Camp House,” where dark wood paneling lined the walls and wide picture windows looked over White Rock Lake to the Dallas skyline.
“Yep. I want this baby.” She patted the waist of her cream lace dress.
“How could you do this! Ruin your life?” I blurted.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s a little judgmental, don’t you think?”
I was not to be deterred in my judgments. “There are less dramatic ways to avoid going back to college!” I shrilled. She’d spent one semester in New York, but refused to return after Christmas. Now she probably never would.
She didn’t get mad. “I’d already burned that bridge when this…came up.”
“You mean jumped off,” I said. We always said, ‘I’ll jump off that bridge when I get to it,’ instead of “cross.” Normally, it was good for a laugh.
I exhaled. “I just want more for you.”
“Your idea, and my idea, of more, are different,” she said. “Annie, meet Skelton.”