There have only been a few times in my life when I've seen this much...I hate to say it, but...stubbornness going on all sides of a fight in my life. I can't start judging everyone because that's its own form of stubbornness, I guess. But, man. We're talking for ALL time and ETERNITY here, Internet! Come on! I really want to bring all parties together, but I'm making zero headway. It's all really serious, obviously, but it's starting to make me chuckle how little everyone's willing to budge. I'm taking a break. I'm taking a trip down hardheaded lane. Here's a list of the top three most stubborn moments I've ever witnessed, not counting this standoff between Bill & Barb (individually and collectively) and Nicki...in no real order:

1. Mom grew up next door to these kids named the McClures when she and her mom were living in Barstow. The McClures had two boys about her age that she was friends with: Jamesy and Louis. They were pretty darn close growing up and, like, twenty years later, once Mom had me and we were living in Colorado, Jamesy moved to town working on the HUGE construction crew that was building a bridge over the Westmoreland tributary...which took, like, three years. Part of that time, Mom and Jamesy dated...on and off, as usual. (I guess, real quick, I'll explain the name: he was called "Jimmy" as a kid and when he was getting older, he tried to get people to call him James or Jim, instead. Just to grind his gears, Louis and his friends started calling him "Jamesy"...and it stuck.) Anyway, Jamesy rented this cabin thing he shared with a Comanche guy named Clarence that was pretty much one big room, but it had a loft where Jamesy (and Mom, sometimes) slept. It had a ladder and, at the top, this railing with wooden balusters so you didn't roll out of bed in your sleep and drop the twelve feet or whatever to the living room below. Well, one day, I was downstairs playing Chinese checkers with Clarence and Mom and Jamesy were just lounging in the bed in the loft, chatting with us from up there. Jamesy peaked his face through the balusters to look down and tell one of his terrible (and dirty) knock-knock jokes¹ when he realized his head could fit in between them. Well, and you can see where this is going: he got his head stuck in between those two pieces of wood in the railing. It was all fun and whatever for a few minutes; we were all laughing it up and cracking jokes. Mom was unscrewing the posts, but she started talking a little too much trash as she was doing it and Jamesy was starting to get mad. They started to get into it and it got to the point where she was gonna make him say, "this is the dumbest thing I've done since the time I lit a car on fire because someone dared me to." But he wouldn't. I remember not remembering the time he set a car on fire because someone dared him to, but he didn't like her bringing it up, it seemed, and he refused. Time and time again. For, like, forty-five minutes. Then he started yelling. Then Mom started yelling, and Clarence and I looked at each other like you do when a situation's turned bad. Clarence left without saying anything to Mom or Jamesy, leaving just me to watch this stupidity unravel above me. "Do you want me to help your sorry ass out of this mess or not?" Mom asked. "Not," he said like a pouty kid trying act tough. "Go to hell."

Mom put the screwdriver down on the bed and walked downstairs. She told me we were leaving. I stood up. Jamesy, lying on his stomach with his head still stuck, crossed his arms on the outside of the railing in defiance. It looked more uncomfortable. He did manage to give Mom the finger, though.

"I'll stay here forever, if I have to," he said.

"Don't doubt it," Mom said, putting things in her purse.

"I hate that you're like this."

"Me, too."

She looked up at him as she took my hand. We walked out outside. I couldn't decide who was more stubborn, but I was pretty sure I'd never see Jamesy again. And, of course, I didn't.

2. This one involves me and a pair of rollerblades. First of all, I should have never been on rollerblades, ever. It is absolutely impossible to understand a young me (a) wanting to rollerblade so badly and (b) raising so much hell when I wasn't allowed to. At first, I wasn't allowed to because those things ain't cheap. Well, at least they weren't cheap then. Thankfully, I don't know now. Can't imagine they've gone way down in price, but I guess we'll see when the boys get old enough to be dumb enough to want a pair of rollerblades. But anyway, the price hurdle was overcome when I won a pair in a raffle at school. Mom was furious. "Stupid raffles...I swear..." Anyway, two weeks later...skating...crack in the sidewalk...broken arm. Pink cast. Six weeks. Summertime. It sucked.

The whole time I had my cast on: "I swear to God, Margene. I know what I'm talking out. Those things are a goddamn death trap. A death trap. Death on wheels...inline wheels. Just isn't right." I had to sign a contract with Mom and the doctor that said I wouldn't skate while I had the cast on, but I fought Mom on her philosophy about rollerblades all the while. She didn't get how cool they were, I thought...how much fun they were. She didn't care, I figured. She didn't know what that kind of fun was anymore. I insisted I wasn't deterred. I told her I loved rollerblading. I can't believe I said that, but I remember telling her, specifically, that I loved it more than anything else I did. (I was a stupid kid a lot of the time, you see.) She enjoyed the six skate-less weeks, but I hated them and couldn't wait to get that cast off and them skates on. She told me I shouldn't, but I was hearing NONE of it. Finally, the day came. They sawed the cast off. Two hours later, I put the skates on...crack in the sidewalk...same sidewalk...different crack...broken arm...other arm. Pink cast again. Six weeks again. Autumn time. It sucked...worse.

3. NELL! RIGHT NOW! WILL. NOT. EAT. Refuses, and it's driving me CRAZY!!!!!!

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¹Knock-knock/who's there/Emerson/Emerson who?/Emerson nice t*ts ya got there, lady.