Fainting Maid and the MILzilla

It's spring, and apparently my closets need a bit of airing out, so I'm moving a few skeletons to the hallway to get some sunlight.

Shall I tell the story of Fainting Maid and the MILzilla, or a story from high school where I got revenge on a stalker wannabe?

Porque no los dos?

We'll start with Fainting Maid. Honestly, I'd forgotten her real name, my mom reminded me of it today, and it took way too long for me to place this "female" in my brain.

Who is she? My cousin's former wife.

Her nickname fits her much better.

FM has always been a dramatic type. Crafty? She'll try to outdo you. Have a disease? She has two that are sooo much worse. Oh and the meds have such horrible side effects, and it's just sooo hard, and it's suuuuuuch a burden. Considering her alcohol consumption has always been on the high side, and the serious side effects of those medications she's claiming to take are severe when interacted with said alcohol, some of us in the fam had rather interesting questions to the validity of her statements. There, how's that for some verbal CYA?

But what gave her the nickname was her reaction to not getting her way.

One Thanksgiving we gathered at my grandparents' farm as usual to have the Great Family Food-Off. We're Penna Dutch - if food's not involved, is it really happening? About forty people crammed into an early 1900's farm house...we ate in shifts.

And Cousin D brought FM to meet us all.

(I can call him Cousin D, because that whole side of the fam has a thing for names that begin with D. At least three generations have carried on the tradition, and can I tell you how much some of us cheered when various members of the fourth generation broke the sacred code?)

Now, we're farming stock. Blunt to a perilous fault, no-nonsense, pack on the calories because we'll be out in the fields burning it off as soon as we hear the noon weather report. FM, for all her faults, was neither Penna Dutch nor farming stock, and was not prepared for the swarm of locusts that was used to eating fast before the others took it. Even our salads have sugar and milk and chopped hard-boiled eggs for extra calories! She picked at tiny niblets of turkey and veggies, trying to make a good impression, while we dined on waffles piled high with turkey, mashed potatoes, peas, stuffing, corn, creamed corn, dried corn, green beans, more turkey so the first set didn't feel left out, and giblet gravy dribbled down every side and into every pocket of waffle that tried to pull itself clear of the food mountain that got dumped on its unsuspecting self. And everyone passing platters and serving bowls in front of her, asking with real concern, "Don't you want more? Are you feeling okay? We can fix a to-go meal for you if you like."

This wasn't a fish out of water, this was a fish trying desperately to create artificial wings before the gills dried out.

So, what do you do after consuming a Monolith O'Food?

Hike up to the singing bridge, of course. How else do you make room for all the desserts waiting on the side board?

And off we go. But, for some reason, the younger generation decided the walk wasn't enough for them, they were going to hike farther to one of the local caves instead. We have quite a few in the area, at least a dozen known ones, and though they've slowly been closed off over the years due to hijinks, this one was still open.

They took off. FM gamely went with them, though we warned her that it might not be the best activity for someone in flip-flops. And a nice dress. And makeup. Um.

Us older types take our regular walk to the singing bridge.

The first fire truck zoomed by, sirens wailing, while we were returning. We wondered if that had anything to do with anyone we know.

The second one zoomed by before we got inside.

Where we heard the scanner, because most of the men were on our volunteer fire company, and needed to hear if we were called out.

Farm people dress like they may have to wrestle a pig at a moment's notice. The jeans may not have holes, and the shirt may be a bit dressier than normal, but it's a holiday, you try to spiff up a bit if you can. Or, you may have to work an afternoon shift in your second job, once the cows are milked. FM was game - till they got to the cave itself, and she saw this wasn't one of those paved types. Natural home of mud, cave crickets, and corkscrew twisty tunnels.

So, of course she did the only sane, logical thing she could think of.

She faked a fainting spell.

Three different volunteer companies responded. Why? Because they were bored, and wanted a ride in the fire trucks, sirens wailing, to liven up the place.

What did they see?

My cousin, on his knees, giving FM a foot rub, "because that's what helps when she has a fainting spell."

Which she only has when faced with something she doesn't want to do.

And when no one's paying extra special attention to her.

And when she's not getting her way.

And when the wrong planetary conjunction is happening soon.

And when someone looks at her funny.

The other cousins found this out while the trucks were en route, because one called 911 out of real concern. FM wanted Cousin D to actually CARRY HER BACK TO THE FARM in his arms, all romantic like, to prove his twue wuvv in front of all his relatives.

But apparently three companies' worth of firemanly attention was a tad bit too much even for her, because once she realized all those swirly red lights were for her, she jumped up and booked it back to the farm as fast as her tight skirt would let her.

She forgot her flip-flops.

The firemen had to treat some extremely serious cases of eye-rolling, it was a bad epidemic that was remarked on for years. We ignored her as much as we could.

I'm not saying that I'm the one who coined her nickname, but let's just say that I am a huge fan of Barry Hughart's writing, and if you haven't read _Bridge of Birds_, I highly recommend you stop reading my childish twaddle and go and devour a copy. I'll wait.

Back to the story...

FM didn't know for years that she'd acquired a nickname, till one of the other cousins accidentally addressed her as such. There may have been a repeat of the behavior that gave her the nickname. She did not see the irony of the situation.

Now, FM was definitely quirky, and post-partum it did develop into a full documented psychosis. But at this time, her mother was well into her third decade of I'M NOT CRAZY NO ONE'S CRAZY HERE I'M NOT GETTING MY WAY NO I WILL NOT STOP YELLING BECAUSE I'M NOT YELLING! FM's mother was, what we call in the fam, "a piece of work."

She took over Cousin D's wedding plans. Because FM was her only daughter, and NOTHING IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME TO LOOK GOOD - I MEAN MY WITTLE GIRL NO I'M NOT YELLING WILL YOU STOP TELLING ME NOT TO YELL I'M NOT YELLING!

Ahhh, wedding plans falling from the lips of a MILzilla.....

We were told where. We were told when. We were told where to stand, where to sit, when to smile, and how expensive the gifts had to be for her daughter. We were told who made the cut to ride in the rented limo flotilla.

Cousin D was treated like a prop. We were ignored till it came time for monetary contributions.

Then, we were were told what to wear, and what not to wear.

Cue record scratch.

Want to tick off a Penna Dutch? Tell them what they have to, or cannot, do. Ordering us to not wear black for a Tuesday night wedding in December? Ohhhhhh, honey, you're cute. We're farm stock. We only have one good outfit, fit for Sundays and funerals. Of course it's black.

(We buried Cousin D's grandfather today. Every single male over the age of fifty wore a nice black suit, and a well-worn baseball cap. It's what we do.)

We all showed up to the wedding wearing black. Those that amazingly didn't, borrowed items. I saw more shawls and sweaters and skirts that I knew belong to one person on other people's persons that I wondered if there was a guy in a (black) trench coat outside, hissing, "Psst! Wanna borrow something black instead of blue?"

Cue the MILzilla.

Apparently when MILzilla didn't get her way, she got physical. Not it a hitting way, in a literally-bowl-you-over way.

After the ceremony, some of us chatted in the pews while the formal pics were taken. My other cousin, Cousin D's little sister, the flower girl, The. Groom's. Sister, was standing in a pew waiting her turn. I saw MILzilla charge down the center aisle like a steam-snorting bull, see a whole bunch of empty pews she could have cut across, but which one did she pick? Take a guess. She charged into Little D so hard that Little D got launched.

And then the witch wondered why every single picture with the wedding party had Little D crying in it?

I was mad. I told people at the reception. Our fam was mad.

It's a wedding, we had to keep a lid on it.

But things weren't going well. MILzilla wanted a "perfect" wedding. Well, those only happen if you don't have people in them, because people are little chaos vectors. And now half the people there are building a slow-rage against the MILzilla. People are talking, and word is spreading.

MILzilla's response? Start charging around again, because it worked so well the first time.

I was standing in line for the buffet when I heard the CLANG and looked over to see a guest spread-eagled on the floor, wearing her plate of food. Gravy stained her beige lace dress.

Okay, I've officially Had Enough.

Most stayed out of her way. My mom watched the antics getting worse, and the booze piling higher, and decided to leave for home just as the cake dance was starting.

For those of you who don't know, it's allegedly a time when you pay a dollar to dance with the bride. MILzilla was collecting the money.

I'm not sure if her daughter ever saw the money, but Mom and Dad and I were thoroughly done with her. We got up to take off.

We were dragged back in.

We left again.

We were dragged back in.

The third time, I took her hand off my arm while digging my thumb into her tendon. She tried not to wince, and I said, through gritted teeth, "You do that again, you'll regret it. We. Are. Leaving. And I saw you dragging my grandparents back in when they tried to leave as well, you touch them again, you'll regret it even more."

Now she was mad, and didn't have a target.

Mom stopped near the entrance, where some cousins were getting sloshed at the bar. I can't blame them, really, this "dream wedding" was slowly morphing into a nightmare. MILzilla was back to charging around again, and people were slipping out when she was charging at others. Hubby and I were forming a central block to the main doors, so people could sneak out.

MILzilla charged away. I turned my back to her.

And she targeted me.

Now, I'm not dumb. I knew she couldn't resist. But I learned some aikido years ago, and my peripheral vision is better than people think.

I reset my center of gravity by flexing my legs and dropping my hips.

Now, Mom's no slouch in the perception department, and she has a triple case of My Daughter's About To Embarrass Me Itis. The slight movement caught her eye.

She looked behind me, and her eyes got wide. She plucked at my sleeve.

"Meredith, you gotta move. Meredith, you gotta MOVE. MEREDITH, You Have To Move!" All said while pulling on my black-sweatered sleeve.

I blinked wide eyes at her, and said with all the innocence I could muster, "But, why, Mom? I'm not doing anything-"

BAH-WHONG-NNGGG-NGGG-GGG

I felt her hit the right side of my back. I was centered, so all I felt was someone pushing into me. But when I turned around to look, along with the dozens of people in the room, they saw MILzilla sprawled on the floor, spread-eagled, with the most absurd look on her face.

I said, "Whoopsie!" in that certain tone of voice, and turned back around.

The looks on people's face, when they realized what just happened....

I let Mom drag me out of there before the bellowing started. A wave of giggles followed us, swelling into full-throated guffaws.

Many years, and one awesome kid later, FM decides to walk out on my cousin. She left the kid behind.

She came back weeks later to collect said kid, saying out loud that she realized that she could extract more money out of Cousin D for child support.

Cousin D and kiddo promptly went to court.

That Thanksgiving, we were at Cousin D's house. It was quite a nice place, without FM there. All the perfect-family pics decorating all the walls had post-it notes over her face, vastly improving the quality. And yes, some of those wedding pics were on display, with Little D crying in each and every one.

As the festivities wound down, someone asked how the court case was going. Cousin D mentioned his lawyer's name, and how he went to school with me.

I nearly choked on my after-meal gourmet peanuts.

Ohhhhhh, I know that name! I know that name very well!

So I told them about RJ.

RJ was a classmate of mine.

You remember the sex game, famed in song and story and rumor? Well, it was actually played at my high school. The boys had a system set up with points. If I recall (hey, it's been over thirty years!), five points for sleeping with a virgin, two points for the first time with a girlfriend, a point for every other time you slept with her, three points for banging someone from another school / older than you were. Points doubled on prom night (and we had two, junior and senior), and points doubled again after the senior trip - in our case, a cruise. I'm sure there were other points negotiated for other stuff, but those are the ones I knew about.

The girls weren't supposed to know.

But when I started being harassed after beginning to date the senior uber-nerd, and was hissed at for ruining the game, and other vague threats, and I did some asking and didn't get any answers - but some boys were happy and stopped bothering me when I made it clear I was dating the boy, not sleeping with him. I had a suspicion. I put one of the guys up against the lockers and made him fess up. They were ticked when it seemed the class nerd would win the game, till I made it clear that my virginity was still my own, thankyouverymuch.

Ohhhhhh, I was furious. I was steaming.

And then, I realized.

Wait. If virgins are worth all these potential points, and I was worth a few hundred at this point - that means *I* will win the game!

I told all the girls. Small town, few people.

The virgin girls were suddenly the most popular girls in town.

And oh, they had such fun! With the tables turned, a handful of us hold-outs would win, and the guys didn't have nearly enough points to come close to beating us! We completely ruined the game! Even guys with steady girlfriends and fiances could never catch up, even if they could get some every night!

Back to RJ. He was mildly sleezy, mildly creepy, and didn't stand a snowball's chance of winning the game.

Unless....

He could convince one of the virgins to sleep with him?

He decided to choose me. Fool.

Every time I said no, in public, I got a point.

RJ asked me every day at least once. He learned other languages to ask me, and I had to learn about ten different ways to say "I will not have sex with you!" in those languages.

He thought he'd wear me down. I laughed in his face.

My points accrued, and the guys were getting really ticked off with RJ.

By now, most of the girls were so ticked off with all the boys that a sex strike was going on till graduation (the finish line for the game), and the boys were miserable for oh so many reasons.

RJ was as determined as ever to win. Oh, honey, you stood no chance. I didn't have the word "demisexual" back then, but you'd better believe I am one.

Graduation rolls towards us with the force of an inexorable tidal wave. RJ is getting more and more desperate. Grades are in, caps and gowns bought, parties finalized.

We're in Latin class together. Of course. Our teacher decided to take us out for a "culture day" to use up the last of the class money. We take a half-day trip to Pizza Hut up the road.

RJ realizes that it ain't gonna happen. Now he's mad at me for wasting his time.

Um, dude, I'm still dating the class nerd? No means no? Whatever.

At the restaurant, RJ sits at the center table with some of the "more popular" girls. That's unusual, but hey, me, boyfriend, and best friend grab a booth for some privacy and chat. The chaperone is still keeping an eye on everyone, so no big deal. Not like I'm going to be so crass as to do anything anyway except chat about graduation plans.

And RJ decided to start talking filth. Really nasty, dirty, slutty talk, about what he'd like to do to me. In graphic detail.

Yeah, sure, like that's gonna endear me to him at the eleventh hour??

Whatever. The girls are pretending to hang on to his every word, we're rolling our eyes and talking about other stuff, and my boyfriend's getting agitated. Like, should he do something? Defend my honor? Why can't RJ just shut up? I quietly tell him to relax, if anyone will do something about this, it's me.

We finish our pizza, slurp our sodas within those wonderful nubbly cranberry plastic cups, and get up to get back on the bus.

And doesn't RJ get some sugar-caffeinated courage, and comes swaggering over to my both, shaking his belt buckle, and saying "Right here, baby, right here."

I take a step, so my body blocks the table. Behind me, my hand dips into the cup, and grabs a large fistful of ice. "What did you say?"

My boyfriend tries to stop me. My bestie tells him to Shut. Up.

RJ steps closer. "Right he-"

And I grab his jeans, right behind the buckle, pull, hook his underwear with my pinkie, pull harder, and bring my other hand around. I drop my payload, and hold on to his pants. I start counting seconds.

RJ turns red, then purple, and starts to blur in front of me.

At about seven seconds, I say, "That should be enough," and let go.

There's a puff of smoke in front of me. The door to the men's bathroom bangs shut.

Everyone howls, and we get on the bus.

My boyfriend's so mad "for embarrassing him" that he won't sit with me. Bestie and I wait, because someone seems to be missing. I'm sitting on the aisle in the front. Waiting.

About ten minutes later, RJ comes out. He's looking blue, and there's a very wet stain at his nether regions.

When he crawls aboard, there I am. He freezes - just enough time for me to stare him in the eyes, flick my eyes to his zipper, and back to his eyes. "Problems?"

There's another puff of smoke, and he's teleported to the very last seat, hiding below the back rest.

The next day, the teachers knew before the rest of the school found out, because teachers had this magical thing called a phone tree for snow days. Our chaperone had called every single one, informing them of what happened. RJ was that pokety-poke annoying type of class clown that you couldn't quite punish, because he never went over the line. I got the revenge they'd all been craving our entire high school career. The whole staff knew, from principal down to janitorial staff. Small town, folks.

Every teacher made sure to reference the incident in some way. The Spanish teacher asked, in Spanish, if it was too hot in here, and what he wouldn't do for a tall glass of soda with lots and lots of ice. The history teacher would write on the board, then spin around, stare at RJ, flick his eyes down towards RJ's nether regions under the desk, back to his eyes, and spin around again to write on the board. Lather, rinse, repeat. I heard RJ sprinted out of every classroom that last day, red in the face, as his comeuppance was felt.

And this was now my Cousin D's lawyer.

I told my cousin to ask for a drink with lots and lots of ice if RJ didn't do his best to make sure his kid stayed safe.

I saw Cousin D today, and his amazing kid, about to turn sixteen. They were sad, they were grieving, with the rest of us. But we'll get through this, like we've always done. You know how you always say, at funerals, "It was good to see you, we should do this again, under better circumstances?" We already have plans in the family chat for a July 4 party.

My drink will have lots and lots of ice.