Relation-Ship: My Muse

I see situations in a certain way and I see people in a certain way. I like to study and then come up with an idea of just what these insights mean to me. Usually, the way I see things is through a quite honed but deeply dark sense of humor. I have been accused of using my humor to mask how I feel. Hey, I say what ever gets me through my day. Sometimes I have encountered events too painful to look at head on. If I didn’t look for the humor in those events perhaps I would shrivel up and live full time on a salad of anti psychotics whilst locked in an institution.

I’d rather mask out the pain through a bad joke…or a lifetime of bad jokes. It’s more fun. And if that is an unhealthy way of coping then let me advise that it is also through years of trying other coping therapeutics ( which have included; in no particular order, booze, food, drugs, kickboxing (yeah I really sucked at that), smoking, Tai Kwon Do, partying, shopping, acting, sleeping through a depression (twice), working non stop producing shitty TV, thankfully I have always been too vain to try cutting or thowing up after meals) most of which were fun but failingly ungratifying that I have come to the conclusion that through a more moderate application of beer, yoga and writing and humour I would find my outlet.

And thanks to a kick in the ass from two of my dearest friends…who have within the same week said. “Why are you dancing around, dabbling in art and in a writing group when you should sit down while you have this opportunity and write a damn book.” And “Stop being a pussy, what you write is funny. Especially because your style is so proper.”
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At writing class we were given a cue: My Muse. Immediately I knew who my muse was. It was my family and the people who have been drawn into and out of its circle over the years.

I have been a great collector of stories and have often thought I would like to write about my experiences as a member of this family- my family- I can say what I want about them because they are mine and will duel you to death if you dare to pass comment on them -family.

I am a great one for having multiple beers while out with friends and when I am encouraged or just distraught over a new family occurrence I will launch into one of my stories or upon request retell an old favorite. Rest assured it's never for the amusement of others - well the retellings can be - mostly it's just theraputic.

- Hey did ya know I was burned when I fell in a BBQ when I was 15 months old? Each member of family claims they pulled me out. Yeah - see the scars - my sister says they look like chicken skin.

- The neighborhood kids would gather at the end of my drive way and then send one kid to the door to call on me. I would come outside thinking they were inviting me to play. As soon as the door closed and my mother was out of earshot they would, on cue, burst into a wonderful song they had made up…a play on my name. Me-Smell Shit-ley…then one kid would push me to the ground and run away. Yeah that was a good one.

- When I was in grade three, my dad bought me a woman’s blue 3-speed bike. He added training wheels because the bike was too big for me and then to make me look like more of a loser he added a giant florescent orange flag on an flexible pole to the back – so cars to see me while riding he said. I am positive it was so I would never, ever, ever, in the history of teenage hood ever, never get a date. My sister got a huge teddy bear. No Flag.

- Also in grade three I was sent home on the school bus carrying my sister who was in grade one. She had fallen at the playground and had BROKEN her ankle. I wore the family’s house key around my neck – so I go to take her home. What the hell was I gonna do with her when I got there? Paper Mache a cast?

- When I was 19 got hit by a drunk driver while driving my dad’s station wagon over to a friend’s house to watch a movie. He sideswiped me. The drunk driver was my friend’s father. How ironic is that. Also, my father’s station wagon was being traded in the next day on a new car – now it had a beautiful dent in it and it’s light was hanging out. I had to go to court and testify against friend’s dad. While sitting in the courthouse beside the officer who had a tagged 60 ouncer of crown royal on his lap as evidence, my high school law class walked by. They all stared at me and one of them said - “ohmigawd there is Michelle Shipley is she a drunk driver?” The friend’s dad was a no show – his lawyer pleads guilty on his behalf.

- Did I tell ya about the time my family went and had family pictures done at the church – but- did not include me? Yes! I swear it’s true. And I was living with them at the time too.

- When my mother was dying and had not been awake in days I went to visit her. I had a melt down and pulled my chair closer to her so I could lay my head on her chest while I sobbed. I was alone in the room with her at the time. As I pulled the chair forward it shrieked along the floor. My Mother who had not spoken an audible word in more than a week yelled” MICHELLE PICK UP THE DAMN CHAIR!” It’s true.

- I have no idea if this was legal or not but, it’s funny as hell. My sister Sue and I were hanging out in the living room watching TV one night in the middle of winter when we were bombarded by snowballs – they were coming at us over the back fence from the bike path and were slamming furiously into the glass patio door. This had been happening on a regular basis and my father had clearly had it. He was in a business meeting with a dude discussing some new fangled 90’s pyramid business plan. Sue and I jumped up grabbed coats and headed for the door. I had just gotten my driver’s license and waving my dad’s car keys at him as a form of asking permission and so as not to further interrupt the meeting we dashed out the door to catch the snowball assailants. We drove up the road and slowed when we saw a group of boys about age 13. I rolled down the window and asked the kids if they knew where the next town was. Yeah – back the way you came one kid said. This gave us permission to pull a U-turn landing on the shoulder of the road beside the boys. My sister flung the door open and grabbed one of the boys by the arm. Did you throw snowballs at our house? No. The kids said terrified. Michelle get the tape and the rope from the trunk. This kid is a liar. We’re taking him home to dad. By now the other kids are a good 20 feet back. The boy Sue is holding onto is crying and the other boys are promising to never throw snowballs again if we would just let their friend go. I carried the rope over to Sue and together we bantered back and forth about how beat up the last kid was after throwing snowballs at our house and getting caught. We deliberated where we would dump his body. Maybe near the tracks. Then I asked the kids if they were serious about not throwing snowballs at the house. If so we would let him go. They all agreed. We died laughing all the way home and proudly retold the whole story to dad and his business associate. All was well until the next night when a snowball hit the house. This time dad went after the kids on foot. He caught one boy and the kid said, “Your daughters beat up our friend” my dad said – go on that’s not true they are just girls. Throw another flake of snow at our house again and I will dump you on the tracks! We never had another incident…that I know of.

- My grandma had a beautiful candy dish on her coffee table. She said it was for the guests. We would curiously take the lid off of it to find it full of rubber spiders. She also had money stashed all around her house. I found $900.00 in an armoire she had given me two apartment moves and two years post humus. She was an interesting lady and I could write novels on her life alone. She was asked by the pastor of St. Anthony’s church to donate to the repair of the church stairs when they were on a door-to-door canvass of the neighborhood. Why? My grandma asked them, would I give you money? I don’t go to that church, I did not wear out those stairs. She also called me one time to let me know she was now a widow. You’re a widow Granny? Yes she said laughing. I haven’t seen that jerk since your father was 2 years old and I got a letter today saying he has died and now I am a widow. My condolences Granny.

- When my mother died - which was after a very very very long battle with cancer, we were at the funeral home sitting with the funeral director. He was trying to up sell us lockets with little pieces of our mother’s cremated ashes in them and other ridiculous trinkets that we had no need or want for. This experience was far was pushier and more unpleasant than shopping for a vehicle. I decided to have a little fun with this insensitive guy who was feining sensitivity for our family in this “great time of sorrow.” My mother who was not a sports minded person had been in a wheel chair for the last year of her life. When the funeral director asked us what we would like to include on the prayer cards for our departed I piped in and said –“well she was an avid golfer and I think she would like us to mention that. Also. She loved to run long distances and was always winning medals for record times.” My family all looked at each other and then at the table. The funeral director said well this is all very excellent but I think this would be better placed in the obituary in the paper. How about we use the poem “Footprints” for the mass card?” My boyfriend squeezed my knee as a sign to shut up before I could say anything more. We agreed to a poem but it was not FOOTPRINTS.

- At my mother’s funeral we had created boards of old family photos and had put a few of my mother’s favorite things out. She was an avid gardener and really prided herself on her green thumb. We placed her floppy straw garden hat and her pruning shears near her urn. Perfect we thought. All of her is here now. Slowly through out the course of the day people who had come to pay their respects pulled me aside and asked in their own polite -I am not intruding- kind of way why the florist had left their shears and hat beside my mother. Seriously people – it was – DECEMBER. Clearly they were not the florist’s hat and pruning shears. – In the same polite tone I would explain they were my mother’s. Of course that would make sense she like to garden came their reply.



I have a ton of these stories. This writing scrapes the surface of each story. I think it will be a launch pad, a test zone. So far the writing has come easily as an indication to continue onward.

My sister and I have a bunch of nicknames for people in our life’s stories. Whether flattering or not, each moniker was carefully chosen based on a physical or other characteristic or attribute. It’s not like we think our family members have not done the same with us. Want an example? Old Leather Face, Dynesty Nails, Drama, Uncle Cliff (after Cliff Claven), just to name a few.... Will those nicknamed be offended when they recognize them selves in my writings? Will the truth, my truth, of my history be seen as hurtful or disrespectful to those who may find them selves an active part of my world in print? This is what I struggled with – this is why I dance around the idea of writing a collection of short stories based on memory.

The truth of the matter is this. I can’t broil up a work of fiction with nearly as rich and full a plot line, with as much humor or depth of character as I can source from the years I have interacted with my family. I can take a humorous and self-deprecating look at whom I am and the life I lead. If it’s all on a level playing field is it then okay to state my truths? Perhaps I should ask Susan Jane Gilman or David Sedaris or Augustine Burroughs.