Hell hath no fury

Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned - There are very few of us that have experienced the true meaning behind this saying, and even less that have lived to tell about it. Well this blog entry is my short story of survival…a true recollection of when I tried my mother’s nerves, and drew her to the brink of insane rage.

From third grade on, I was known for my speed, my humor, and my short height…most likely in that order. When it came to my speed, all one had to do is point at a 60 yard dash line and I was daring them to race. Put me on a track and I was almost guaranteed to make mince meat out of all those who challenged my mad running “skillz”. It was my uniqueness, my one way of proving myself worthy to those laughing at my short stature. My skillz of speed were so mad, I remember dad always telling me “Dynamite comes in small packages.” I believed every word and often reused these words when talking to other kids who doubted my talents. I remember it was always the last thing I had to say before they would take me up on a dare to race.

It was a warm summer day back in 1984. I was 14 years old, 5’3” tall, and weighed in at a skinny buck fifteen. It was one of those days you could just sit out on the front porch with your shirt off to catch some rays. I’m pretty fair skinned, so my time on the porch usually involved covering my entire head with a towel. Having a bad sun burn on my head was, and has always been unbearable.

So, there I was, sitting on the front porch, not a care in the world except for catching a nice tan (or burn in my case). All of a sudden I was rudely interrupted by this screeching noise. “Dave, get in here and clean up that room of yours…NOW!” I quickly responded, with attitude in my voice, “I will”, then recovered my head with the towel and proceeded to enjoy what I considered “my time”. Five minutes later there it was again “David Patrick, get in there and clean up your room”…this time it sounded like that siren on the hit series Ba-Ba Black Sheep. Some of you know what I’m talking about. The crank to her siren was definitely turning faster this time. The pitch was much higher and a tad bit louder. This time she added the “David Patrick”. She only broke that one out when she was serious. Nonetheless, I decided to crank my own siren up and said again. “I will mom…jeeez!.

By this time, I could hear the footsteps stomping towards me from the kitchen to the front porch. There was no escaping confrontation, and it was coming fast. The trip from the kitchen to the front porch was at most 20 steps. Mom seemed to be making good time from what I could tell. Sensing the seriousness of the situation I tried to get up before she reached the front door, but instead was caught off guard by her early arrival. There she stood, glaring down at me with those eyes of hers, a glare even Clint Eastwood would have back down from. It didn’t take long for me to get on my feet and start past her towards my room, saying “I am Mom!”. Unfortunately, after passing her I did the unspeakable. I mumbled out a cuss word under my breath, something that was apparently heard by mom’s keen ears. It was at this point in my life, I learned the true meaning of “Hell hath no fury.”

As soon as I figured out Mom heard me, I decided to put a little dynamite in my small package and make a run for it. I was able to make it out the back door without trouble, thinking that if I could make it that far, Freedom was merely a 60 yard dash away followed by a fence I had to jump. Nothing to it, I’ve been under this kind of pressure many times and always pulled through with a win. As I approached the fence I looked back, and to my surprise there she was, gaining ground fast, at most 2-3 steps off my backside. Finally, a worthy adversary I thought. Well no…Not actually. I was so terrified by the thought of her catching me, that I lost all focus on the task at hand…clearing that fence. Needless to say, I was a few steps to late with my jump, and an inch to low. Damn my short stature!

There she stood, looking down on me again with that glare. She didn’t have to say a word as I was laying there nursing a sprain wrist and messed up ankle. She simply shook her head in anger, and then turned toward the house. She might as well have said, “The fact that I was catching you is enough for me.” Mom…beating me at my own game. What a bruise to my adolescent EGO. How could I ever enjoy spanking others at the 60 yard dash, knowing my mom could easily summon, from the depths of her hell, the ferocity of a world class sprinter? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.