call her from time to time from within the same building. Oddly, her receptionist used to correct me when I would ask for “Diana McBride.” She’d say, “You mean Dee-ana.” Looking back now, I realize that at that point my mom’s metamorphosis into the blonde vixen of the Wiesbaden Military Hospital was already under way. But back then, I just thought the receptionist was being passive aggressive.
As my dad was no longer on TDY (away on business), the plan was for him to live with us at the apartment.
One big happy family. Not.
Dad was still drinking heavily and would come home late at night from his alcohol binges at the Officer’s Club. He’d wake up early in the morning and leave for work and return very late at night. We barely saw him.
My mother used this time to paint a terrible picture of how “bad” my dad was. One morning I woke up to her telling me that my dad had completely disgusted her. Delighted to have my mother confide in me and seeing it as a potential bonding experience, I asked her what was wrong. She told me she had gotten up in the middle of the night and had found my dad in the kitchen, masturbating while looking at the bra section of the Sears catalog.
Why my mother, any mother, would tell an impressionable adolescent boy this story—about his own father, no less—is beyond me. It skewed my view of masturbation and sex for years to come.
Soon after that my father moved out and lived away from home—though we were not allowed to admit that to anyone. If we did, we’d risk losing the military housing we were living in, since the service person in question wasn’t actually living there. Lori and I were instructed to act like we were the normal military family, which, ironically, we were—marital strife is quite rampant among military families.
So Lori and I pretended Dad still lived with us for the sake of our military-sanctioned housing. While I no longer had to be “Sue,” I was still the appointment secretary for my mom and dad. Eventually my mom instructed me to answer the phone with “Diana McBride’s residence.” And so I did. Every time the phone rang, I’d answer “Diana McBride’s residence.”
I was never as good at saying “Dee-ana” as my mom’s receptionist at the hospital. Perhaps that’s why Mom would acknowledge the receptionist’s presence in public, but would barely acknowledge mine.
Dad came around once a week, usually on Saturday mornings. He would pick up the grocery list and go shopping. I was responsible for compiling the list. Needless to say I couldn’t request any type of sweets or junk food—in fact, I was supposed to be on a strict diet assigned, via a badly Xeroxed handout, from a doctor at the hospital.
The diet’s day plan was a joke. That a doctor would put a growing teenage boy on a diet like that is a testament to what the medical community did not know about dieting or healthy eating at the time.
High School Gregg’s Joke of a Diet: Typical Day
BREAKFAST
2 pieces of Wheat Toast
Pat of Butter
½ Grapefruit
LUNCH
½ cup Cottage Cheese
Lettuce Leaves
1 sliced Tomato
1 Fruit of Choice
AFTERNOON SNACK
No afternoon snack, you’re fat!
DINNER
½ cup Tuna Fish
1 tbsp. Mayonnaise
Lettuce Leaves
Canned Vegetables of Choice
1 Fruit of Choice
EVENING SNACK
½ cup Bouillon
I developed my own interpretation of the diet.
High School Gregg’s Joke of a Diet: Typical Day (Gregg’s Variation)
BREAKFAST
2 pieces of Wheat Toast
Pat of Butter
½ Grapefruit
LUNCH
½ cup Cottage Cheese
Lettuce Leaves
1 sliced Tomato
Fruit of Choice
1 can Fresca Diet Soda
AFTERNOON SNACK
1 large bag of Potato Chips
2 Hot Dogs
2 to 4 Candy Bars (any variety)
DINNER
1 can of Zucchini in Tomato Sauce
1 can of Tuna Fish
1 large package of Cheddar Cheese, melted
1 can Fresca Diet Soda
EVENING SNACK
1 gallon of Chocolate Ice Cream
1 bag of Oreo Cookies
(Mixed together—way before “Cookies and Cream” was a thing—someone stole my original idea!)
6 cans of Fresca Diet Soda
The diet “additions” I would procure myself. My dad would only buy food at the market that he deemed “healthy or diet-approved.” Dad’s weekly shopping routine was always a drag.
After he brought the groceries home, we would gather in the living room as a family. This was when my mother would present my father with a list of what I had done wrong the previous week. Dad would then take off his belt. I would have to drop my pants and underwear. And then my mom would watch as my dad spanked me for a week’s worth of bad deeds.
It was horrible and I would always end up crying. I’m not sure which was worse—the physical pain or the mental anguish. One time I was crying so loudly that Mom told my dad to stop. For a moment I thought she was rescuing me from his forceful blows. Instead she said, “Hold on a minute. We don’t want the neighbors hearing him cry.” They waited for me to calm down and then resumed the spanking.
Lori didn’t suffer this wrath as often as I did. I was doing my best to form a protective layer around her. And for some reason, my parents seemed to respect that. It was as if anything my mom or dad had to say to Lori would be disseminated through me. I was basically in charge of raising both Lori and myself. Dad wasn’t there except for Saturdays, and Mom was never around, except when she brought stray men to the apartment for torrid sex sessions.
From time to time Lori and I did have major arguments. I was always “on” her to get dressed or to do her homework. I was the “parent” in charge of making lunches, cooking dinner, and doing everything else in between. But even during the arguments, Lori and I always remained a team—along with our Irish setter, Mac, who loved us both dearly.
All this time Mom and Dad continued harping about my weight. Cheating on my diet was worthy of a spanking or two on Saturday afternoons. My father took me to the hospital to have the doctor assign me a new diet (which equated to a new Xeroxed copy of the old one). Or when grocery shopping, he still purchased only what he deemed “proper diet food.” My mother, meanwhile, tried to threaten me by saying she wasn’t going to buy me any new clothes and that when I grew out of my current size, I would be out of luck.