My Hometown

Many of you have written to me and told me how much you enjoy reading my blog.
And I thank all of you for stopping by and reading and leaving your comments.

Many have also remarked that I am "funny" and or "very funny".
To them I say, "Why yes, yes I am. Thank you so much for noticing."
But I wasn't born funny. I was born blotchy, jaundiced and bald.
Actually I suppose that is sort of funny.
I was NOT a cute baby kids.
My poor dear mother taped ribbons to the side of my head until I was four.
"SHE is a GIRL!" was a phrase repeatedly yelled to strangers who were prone to remark on my "handsomeness."
But anyway, I digress.

The "funny" didn't begin to flourish in me until some years later when the other kids at school chose me as their token object of ridicule.
In retrospect I suppose I was a fairly obvious choice.

I grew up in Haddonfield, New Jersey, a suburb of Philadelphia but also a place that seemed to exist beneath a glass dome of protection/isolation. Haddonfield was one of those lily white places where people have sprinklers on their lawns and indifference in their hearts.

Our town had a historic society which was run by terrifying blue-haired women who could make Catholic nuns tremble in fear.
These women had D.A.R. cards and they were not afraid to use them.
In school everyone's mother drove a Range Rover and all the kids had their initials monogrammed onto their L.L. Bean backpacks.
The girls of my era wore penny loafers, and then keds, and then docksiders with boat knots, and then whatever Lisa Madden switched it too the next week.
Their sweaters were from J. Crew.
They went on ski vacations to Killington.
Their mother's wore slacks and turtlenecks.
Their father's had affairs with other mothers and played golf.
My father's favorite hobbies were listening to NPR and napping,
often at the same time.

I was different.
My family was different.
None of us really ever fit in with the "Townies" as we called them.

I can recall my mother one year sending me to a "Holiday Cookie Exchange Party" with a box of Entenmann's Chocolate Chip Cookies that we grabbed at the 7-11 on the way.
"No recipe card needed!" I joked to Kelly's mother attempting to lighten the dark look that glared down on me from atop her Rudolph Christmas sweater.
It was neither the first, nor the last disappointed head shake I was to receive from a Haddonfield Soccer mom.

My home town is only six miles from Camden, New Jersey, which was named the most dangerous city in the nation in both 2004 and 2005.
Camden is one of, if not the worst ghetto in the country, and standing in the middle of Haddonfield's downtown colonial shopping district you would never, ever know that you were that close to so much suffering.

These people shopped at Talbot's.
They stenciled pineapple borders on their living room walls.
They were on the mailing list for the J. Peterman Catalog.
They voted for Reagan...twice.
The place was pure fucking evil, and needless to say I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there.

So my backpack had no monogram, my sweaters were not from J.Crew, and no one saw my family in Stone Harbor during the summer.
My backpack came from Clover damn it and I was proud of it.
This may be impossible for some of you younger folks out there to imagine, but there was a time when there used to exist other stores aside from Wal-Mart, K-Mart and Target.
And Clover was one of these stores.
You could buy shoes, a Trapper Keeper, a Gem and the Holograms lunch box, and even get an Icee and a soft pretzel on your way out the door.
We didn't have Starbucks.
We didn't want Starbucks.
We had Icee's and they came in two flavors, blue and red and if you didn't like it well then you were just un-American.

So me and my Clover shoes and Strawbridges' sweaters became the kid that got tortured in junior high.
And that's how I eventually got "funny".
When the teasing first started happening I responded by hiding in the library during lunch time, and eating my ham and cheese sandwich among the racks of National Geographic and Highlights.
Then eventually, slowly, I started to figure things out.
I had a weapon that I could use to fend off these cretins.
I was funny.
I was pretty god damned funny!
Every class needs a funny kid, right?
And if I could be the "funny girl" then maybe the other kids wouldn't put gum in my hair and call me "Butterball". (I still hate those Turkeys.)
Instead of fighting back or trying to befriend these morons I would make them laugh.
The fools! Laugh I say! Bwa Ha ha ha ha ha!!!

So that's what I did.
And wouldn't you know it...it freaking worked.
It's kind of difficult to keep mocking a girl when she's laying out killer material to a packed crowd by the monkey bars.
And since most of the children were too stupid, or just not drunk enough yet to heckle me, I managed to survive junior high with a shred of self-respect still intact.

And I don't care who knows it, I still miss Clover.
Icees are awesome.
And monogrammed backpacks are for losers.
So there.