To this day, I still don’t know why my stepmother had a problem with me. I think it had something to do with my mother, but before starting on that, a little background. My dad was married to a lady for what only seemed like a month’s time. Coincidentally, this lady was sisters to my Kindergarten teacher. According to dad, shortly after exchanging vows, she decided she didn’t want to work. Guess dad had other plans, and they didn’t work out.
My stepmother had a pattern where she would get pregnant, then get married. She got knocked up when she was sixteen years old and married the man. She held true to her traditions, because this is how she managed to catch my dad. After my parents split up, they remained friends. This is odd to me considering what my mother had been through, but I am not one to judge other people’s actions. They were actually quite close and talked about things. I guess some people just get along better when they aren’t together. I understand that personally, but I will leave that for another chapter in my life. That having been said, my mother and father talked about the Bitch, and when my dad told my mother he was remarrying for the third time and with such short notice, my mom asked if the Bitch was pregnant. Personally, this is not the order I wish to go about things, but then again, them, not me. My dad reassured my mother that wasn’t the case, but turns out it was, and he knew it. My mom just knew something was up with him wanting to get married so soon after the last one, but she bit her tongue.
In English, my mother’s name is translated to something similar to the Bitch's name. With my father being involved with a lady named similar to that of my mom, I suppose a slip of the tongue is possible. I remember him calling her my mom's name once, and I remember her getting pissed about it. I think this is where her problem with me started. I think she had something against me being a product of my mother and father, but mainly because I was linked to my mother. The Bitch seemed to be very jealous of her, and as a result, she was a bitch to me. She made my life very difficult, and as a result, the seven months I spent there were pure Hell.
The Bitch made me call her Ms. Bitch. Personally, I don’t agree with that. You should refer to someone as Ms. or Mr. that you respect, or someone you don’t know, but to someone that I didn’t even like, Ms. was a stretch. My mom and I decided to call her BB instead; Big Bitch.
Living in her house was similar to living as Cinderella, with the exception of the two evil stepsisters. I had a chore list and so did my stepbrother, but if one was to compare the duties, mine was worse. His chores consisted of dusting his room, vacuuming his room, shoveling dog shit, etc. My chores were everything except Step Brother’s room. It was so bad, that I would get yelled at for loading the dishwasher incorrectly. If I put a glass in the top rack, but in the front instead of the back, I got yelled at. I even remembering my stepmother checking my dust jobs with a glide of her finger, and if there was one thing I missed, I would have to go back and do everything all over again. You may think I am kidding, but I shit you not. Living there opened a new can of peas, and the wrong kind of peas; let me explain.
What I ate in that house was limited as well. I did not have access to the TV dinner macaroni and cheese, because that was too expensive; here, I’ll give you your dollar back. I even did wrong by her once by opening the wrong can of peas. She made a potato salad on occasion and the can of peas I opened were the expensive ones she used for that particular recipe, expensive meaning closer to a dollar than fifty cents. Anyway, back to the peas. I remember telling my dad that I was hungry and asked if I could have a can of peas. He said yes, and then I proceeded to ask him if I should microwave them all, or half the can, etc. He said that I could heat up the whole can and whatever I didn’t want, to put in a Tupperware container. BB (the Bitch) walks in the kitchen and throws a fit. She yells at me for opening the wrong can of peas, and then proceeds to yell at my dad for letting me. She then yells at me for heating up the whole thing instead of just a portion, grabs my baby brother from my dad saying “give me my baby”, throws something at him, and leaves the house. After all is said and done, I don’t think I even ate the peas once it caused such a commotion.
I also don’t know if she tried to get me sick on purpose, but every time she cooked, which was not often, I would get sick and throw up. My dad did the majority of the cooking, as well as brushing my hair, and when he cooked, I never got sick. I remember getting sick at least three times from BB’s cooking. I think she put something in my dish. I can’t help but think that just because it was only when she cooked that I would violently up chuck my food. Not only that, but I had to go to school regardless if I was puking or not. I remember having to call my grandmother to get me from school one day because BB would not. BB shouldn’t have sent me there that day to begin with, but then again, that is why she is BB.
In addition to the food restrictions, I also was not allowed to wear shorts until April or May. I can’t remember exactly, but from anyone knows what the weather is like on the Mississippi coast, this is a ridiculous and torturous rule. This was back in the day when colored jeans were in style and I remember coming home every day with my legs the color of my jeans from sweating so profusely. First off, I grew up in Texas, where sometimes the weather allows one to wear shorts in December, so this bitch was just trying to push my buttons. I did what any normal ten or eleven year old would do. I called my mom and tattled on BB. The thing I didn’t understand was that BB would let me wear skirts, but not shorts. Can anyone please explain to me how that makes sense? I am still trying to figure it out nearly eighteen years later. My mom confronted BB about the clothing situation and BB replied by saying that I wore pantyhose when I wore skirts. This is a lie. Either I had enough hair on my legs to pass for pantyhose, or this lady was trying to cover her tracks. After all, who wears pantyhose in ninety plus degree weather, especially someone in the fifth grade?
I am not sure what kind of spell BB had on my dad, but I remember him having to hide giving me money for good grades and stuff like that. I never really had an allowance, but he made sure to sneak money to me here and there without her knowing. Perhaps I should have given it to her for her grocery shopping inconveniences, but I didn’t. An eleven year old could find better things to do with five or ten dollars, like snow cones. Thinking of BB, I probably shouldn’t have been eating snow cones until May, when I could wear shorts, right? But I am not bitter, not at all. Yeah, right.
I can honestly tell you my dislike for her had nothing to do with the fact that she was with my father. I know that growing up in a divorced family takes a little getting used to, but I never felt this way with the second wife, even though that was short lived. I knew that whoever my dad was going to be with would never be my mother, and I was not trying to make her what she wasn’t. I truthfully hated her because of the way she treated me. I would be more understanding if she was an all around bitch, but I was the only one that received this treatment. She would never think to treat her own blood like dirt on the ground. I think she felt inconvenienced for me having to live there for seven months. If only she knew how displeased I was for having to deal with her, maybe she would have been a little more understanding. We both didn’t want me to be there. I can honestly think that is why she treated me the way she did, and maybe in some way she was jealous of what my father and I had before she came along and ruined it. Needless to say, she succeeded in breaking what my dad and I once had; something that we will never have again.
