mnvnjnsn's Diary

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Found out

So, my mother now knows of this journal. Uh-oh. Now, let’s not play the blame game as to how she found out about it. I mean, it doesn’t do anyone any good to know I basically pointed her to it by crowing about being mentioned on, knowing full well that pamie would link here. I don’t know how long she stayed, or how much she’s read, and I only know she was here in the first place because of a hit from her IP address at work. Lord knows she will never mention it, unless she hasn’t read any of it, and doesn’t know it has stuff in it she just doesn’t want to know.

Like how well I give head.

Or, like how I feel about Estelle. I know I have made veiled references to her and how she is a Very Bad Person. Allow me to illustrate for you. And Mom, if you’re reading this, you’ve heard this before. I mean, you were there. That you have chosen to put all these awful things she has said and done in some Gore-ian lock box, never to be recalled or even acknowledged is just proof to me that you know she’s horrible and must forget for self-preservation.

But I digress.

The story begins in the fall of 1982. I am twelve and my father has just died. The pastor of my mother’s church suggests my mother, a 44 year old mother of three, commiserate with another new widow in the congregation: 32 year old Estelle, whose husband has just dropped dead in the produce section of the local market where he worked.

They meet. Some sort of demon is summoned that creates a “friendship” between them that leads to Estelle moving in to our house and taking over, with her ugly furniture, and her utter lack of understanding of familial ties, common courtesy or general pleasantness.

The quinessential Estelle story is from this early period, perhaps six months after she moves in. I am 13. My sister, home from college on the East Coast, my mother and I are in the kitchen. Mom is cooking something on the stove. Sister K and I are reading the paper. It is late Sunday morning. Estelle has been out doing fuck-all in her nasty smelling, uppity diesel Peugeot. She comes in to the house, slams the front door, and stops dramatically at the threshold of the entryway and the kitchen. Think Martha Stewart with twice the attitude and half the brains.

“Oh my god. What is that awful smell?!?”

“Oh, it’s probably something on the burner,” my mother says, and dismisses the rude entrance with a wave of her hand.

“No,” Estelle insists. “It’s, like, perfume.”

“Well, I’m 13. I’m not wearing any,” I say, not looking up from the paper.

“Well, I’m still in my pajamas,” says my mother dismissively.

My sister, through gritted teeth, mumbles “It must be mine.”

Estelle looks K straight in the eye and says “Well, it smells like shit.” She proceeds through the kitchen to her room and slams that door too.

Stay tuned for more limping down Estelle memory lane!

4:27 p.m. - 2003-05-08


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