Twisted Family Antics

We travel to NYC several times a year.  So I was really dismayed yesterday when I read in the New York Post that a specialist in bed bugs has actually seen these little freaks sitting on wooden benches throughout the city, especially in the subway.  I’d rather take home six mice or an insect-free homeless man.

Bed bugs are the worst.  Many of you probably know this already, but they are an epidemic in this country right now.  The Tropicana hotel in Atlantic City had to be closed to wipe out an infestation.  It’s nearly impossible to get rid of them.

Fortunately, we don’t do the subway too often, anyway.

The first time I ever made the attempt was with my friend Linda, we were both 19 and had on jackets loudly proclaiming “Illinois State University” on the back.  We asked for directions from a transit cop who totally blew us off until we turned to walk away.  He yelled, “WHOA, COME BACK HERE!”  Then he proceeded to give us the little yellow bus lowdown necessary when speaking to a slow, plodding midwestern girl on her first trip to the city, her eyes to the sky and mouth hanging open.

Two years ago I was there again with my mother, brother and nephew, and Mom was feeling particularly cheap. 

Here we are, what a duo:

Once she’d worked her way down about 150 steps into the bowels of the universe on a summer day, temperature in the subway at least 120, we switched our mode of transportation.  The subway in the summer is one of the smelliest places on earth.

To top it off, I didn’t hold on when the train began moving and took a nose dive down the middle of the aisle.  When I looked sideways I was face to face with the sole of a man’s shoe and could see the inside palate of his mouth as he laughed out loud.  I hit with the force of a rhino.  How dirty do you think a subway train floor might be?

Here Mom is with my brother.  On this particular trip George W. Bush was in town and there were no taxis to be had, not anywhere.  The poor dude driving the bike weighs about 150 and Mom and Jim top out at over 500 combined:

I love that there is a McDonald’s sign in the background.

We took a tour bus on that trip, covering both downtown and Harlem.  The guide was a German woman who kept shushing us.

We’ve done some spectacularly fun stuff.  At the top of the list I would include riding a 7-man circular bike from Times Square to Penn Station on a very busy evening, flying down 7th Avenue:

http://www.conferencebike.com/index.html

Here we are:

The dude in the middle steers and everybody pedals.  It was hard to keep up cause my nephew, I think, was hoping we’d hit 70 mph.  We did make our train, but I was very embarrassed when I frantically yelled to the train conductor, “Please wait!  We’ve got old people with us!”  My uncle was not entertained.  He just recently had full knee replacement surgery.

We’ve paid for lots of taxis for tired girls on birthday outings:

Exhaustion is inevitable when you’re playing the part of the Statue of Liberty in Times Square:

Here’s my sister-in-law way too close to a stop light, when we took a ride on top a doubledecker bus.  The lights whiz toward your head and it’s totally freaky:

Another day we had the kids with us, their feet got tired, so my friend and I both hired bicycles to take us to Serendipity 3, past the park:

It was pretty frightening when the trucks and buses rushed past us.

We’ve had some fun times on the train:

The top photo are my sister-in-law, brother-in-law and daughter; the bottom photo is my aunt and uncle, who will be visiting again for graduation.

The train can get a little slow and boring.  Except for when I woke up with a guy’s hand on my leg, kicked his seat, broke it, and sent his ass flailing onto the aisle floor.

Probably my favorite way into the City is by ferry, directly underneath the Brooklyn Bridge.  Unfortunately your hair will be standing on end the rest of the day, but it’s worth it.

When all else fails, a ride through Central Park in a horse and buggy, plus a portrait:

I’ve always wanted to lie on the rocks in the park, as if I’m dead in a CSI or Law & Order episode.  Just a quick pose for a picture.

Maybe next trip.

First of all, I must be really old if this is me, because that car is ancient.  My mother must be about 20 here:

And in this one I wonder if we purchased all our clothing at rummage sales, since it looks like we lived in one of those old fashioned gypsy carts that traveled from town to town selling linament oil:

I love this one.  I can remember the dress with the cherries and I like the fact that my sister looks a bit wobbly.  The picture makes me wonder why my bangs are ruler straight and my sister’s are randomly lopped off:

This is back in the day when my mother used to have her hair done.  I’m going to have to do an entire entry on her varied styles:

And this was my paternal grandmother’s incredible pincurl hairstyle.  We hated visiting her after my father died because all she would do was cry:

And here is my father, the Marine, looking spiffy:

 I love old pictures.

I’m going to use an e-mail from my husband as a sort of guest blogger today, but I have to give you the background information first.

We were supposed to be going to Kentucky in April on an archaeological field trip for my daughter, and had included a visit to my mother afterwards.  Because of gas prices, the questionable endeavor of making a trip to see a woman I called the ‘C’ word last time we saw one another, etc., we canceled.

Mind you, I’m not backing down from what I said.  It was appropriate noun usage.  But I do have the schizophrenia gene, which causes me to suffer daughter guilt, as well.  The woman is a bit of a mess and doesn’t seem to be able to help herself.

Anyway, when we realized that we’ll be driving to Virginia Memorial Day weekend for other purposes, I thought maybe we’d tack eight hours onto the drive and make the trip to Mom’s then.  I mentioned it to her.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

In the mean time, gas travels another dollar per gallon higher, a freaking abomination in conjunction with unnecessary road trips.

We were again going to back out and just do D.C.  Ixnay on the Entuckykay.

I have never visited my mother’s home; she’s lived there for 20 something years.  She’s rightly offended.  But I’m allergic to dogs and she has an entire pack that wander freely through her home.  I’ve been told the cleanliness factor is questionable, i.e. don’t get up in the middle of the night and walk barefoot to the bathroom or you may suffer catastrophic consequence.  (Dog poop under my toenails could put me in a mental hospital with a diagnosis of psychotic break.)

She’s not that easy to get along with, either.  She’s a master of the freak out, crying and screaming like a banshee, mascara running down her face, when my sister used the last of the coffee one Easter.  You never know what will set her off.

She’s quite financially successful.  But for years she coerced family members, every time they went to town, to take full garbage bags and throw them in business dumpsters rather than pay for pick-up.

Anyway, last night I got this e-mail from my mother:

. . . start proceedings to get kids to ky . . supposed to clear off land for the modular–it’s so hard to get anything done here–got loan and house paid for–got electric unhooked and water line marked–have to put in septic tank–clear land –tear down old house–almost more than we bargained for–

. . . looking forward to you coming to ky–tell me what you want to do while here–can take boat to lake–see grand ole opry–opryland hotel–got gardens in center of it–also a river can ride the boat –mammoth cave–locks at ky damn–they’re big—–give Rachel ride in semi–to name a few–got country music museum in nashville–p and m went to it–i haven’t been–got to get to bed–mom

Oh, fucking fudgesicle.  She sounded excited.

So I sent this e-mail to my husband and said:

I’m not sure how I can get out of the KY trip at this point . . It doesn’t look good. Are you going to punch me?

And here’s his reply:

As the eldest, dutiful daughter of the aging woman who brought you into this world - I do not understand your reluctance.

As for me - in grateful appreciation to my dear, sweet mother-in-law - the woman that provided me the love of my life – who gave me the loving and caring mother of the joy of my being - I am more than willing to throw my chain saw and sledge hammer into the truck, drive cross country and labor from dawn to dusk and into the night (if she has flood lights), side-by-side with my sister-in law and brother-in-law and step-brother-in-law and maybe-brother-in-law and ex-live-in-father-in-law and truck drivers and neighbors and … and …

to provide a good home for my nieces and nephews and sister-in-law and potential-brother-in-law and migrant workers and truck drivers.

Not going to punch you - probably just slap you around a little - maybe once up-side-the-head with a 2-by-4.

* * * * *

Now tell me, do you love this man as much as I do right now?

P.S.  Rachel will not be riding in a semi.

1.) I am the most annoying person I know, relatively unreliable and unpredictable.  My bad attitude gets in the way of most everything other than eating boxes of chocolate cupcakes and holding down chairs, waiting for the world to change.  I wouldn’t live with myself if I had a choice.

2.) I once allowed a woman to move into our house for a short period of time.  One day that warm spring I began yelling to my husband, “What is that smell?  Do we have fish in the house?”  He kept trying to downplay my concern.  I was crazed over the smell & kept yelling about fish. 

The woman needed a ride somewhere, so we left in the car.  The fish smell went with me.  My husband wanted to beat me with a stick.  He knew where the smell was coming from, all along.  I think he might have actually called me a dumbass, and he doesn’t even curse, ever.

3.) I describe myself as a person who likes to travel, but as soon as I get into a car I want the trip to be over.  Just an example of what a contrary bitch I am, even in my own head.

4.)  When I was a teenager I found out that my aunt, a teacher, had a girl in her class named Ovary.  This stays in my mind even when I cannot remember my own name.  I am also fascinated by the names Doctor and Fallopian Tube.

5.) I tried being one of those people who cuts themselves.  But I could never fully commit and only used serrated butter knives.  I’m totally serious.

6.) I attempted to seduce a dude who was a paranoid schizophrenic.  He seemed pretty normal to me, other than for the fact that I lost him in the grocery store and found him hiding in the dairy section, unable to move.  And then, of course, when he lit his clothes on fire in his dryer and had to be taken away by ambulance.  Said seduction was never consummated.

7.) My ex-boyfriend once locked me in a motel bathroom and would not let me out until I apologized for laughing at him and making fun of the fact that I heard him masturbating in the middle of the night.  We were on vacation and sleeping in separate beds.  He was really mean and very mad.  Not a good scene.

8.) I have been in a car with a girl who drove directly into the side of a pizza truck while changing her sweater, I’ve spun a full 360 hydroplaning on a wet road, and a 180 in snow & ice while swerving to miss a rabbit.  But I’m most embarrassed about hitting the side of the car wash.

9.) When I was 14 my step-father got an inkling that I was allowing my boyfriend to stay overnight in my bed, since he thought he heard him cough during the night.  He told me I had to run to the grocery for him, with the intention of catching the boyfriend in my room while I was gone.  So I hid him in my sister’s room, then left.  The boy told me that the minute I left the house he heard pounding feet on the stairway, running full speed ahead, then silence when my room was empty.

10.) When I was working in NYC, and dating a guy in my office, we got pretty drunk at the Christmas party.  He walked me to the train station, where we proceeded to make out near the big information sign.  A police officer approached us and said he would arrest us for lewd and lascivious behavior if we didn’t stop.  I left on a train that stopped in the middle of nowhere and had to spend $80 for a cab ride home.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe I’m the same person that did all this stupid shit.  And then I remember that three of them are current day . . .

I would like to make a Mother’s Day post wherein I document the beauty that is my mother.  Here goes:

She taught me that I could do two things well, only two things. 

One was scrub the kitchen floor by hand and the other was peel potatoes without losing much of the potato. 

This has been an incredible ego builder throughout my life, knowing that I am specially equipped with secret talents.

Thanks, Mom!

My son graduates from college in 17 days. 

I think I’ve been holding my breath since Christmas.

I remember my first thought when he was born: ”Oh my God, I can’t believe you gave me what I wanted most of all.”   

When he played in Little League I would visualize a hit until my vision blurred; passing out and falling under the bleachers was a possibility.  Even though, of course, I knew I was completely powerless to fix it for him.

Fifteen years later I continue to visualize and cross myself with abandon.

When dreams come true it’s a ridiculous shock, making your mouth hang open, your heart beat faster, your brain slow down. 

I could not have wished for more.

Augusten Burroughs’ new book, A Wolf At The Table, was released yesterday.  Months ago I was reading his website and noticed that an event would be held at the Union Square Barnes & Noble in NYC.  I put it on my calendar.

I imagined a simple book signing, but discovered it included a reading by the author himself.  And my heart began to pitter-patter.

I’m not crazy for concerts.  Autograph hounds and paparazzi turn me off.  The idolization factor all seems so gauche.

Augusten is different.

He’s like my beloved sibling, the one willing to talk about the damage, past and present.  He doesn’t pretend it didn’t happen, he doesn’t act like it doesn’t matter.

Books are my first love, my thing, and he has written five of my favorites.  And since four are memoirs it feels like I know him.  I love words and he uses them in indescribable ways, fantastic ways.  He’s captured my heart & head, all in one, which is nearly impossible.  I adore him.

So I traveled by train to the City, reading excerpts of his other books beforehand.  I hurriedly walked the 20 blocks from Penn Station to Union Square so that I could arrive by five, two hours before the event would begin.

I scored front row aisle, the best unreserved seat in the house.  HOLY SHIT! 

There were 300 seats, probably 100 filled upon my arrival.  I would like to thank them all for not stealing my chair before I got there.

The dude who came out and spoke to the crowd several times kept pronouncing the author’s name wrong and I wanted to yell, “It’s Uh-GUS-ten, you ass!  Show some respect for the greatest author of our time!”  He did it like three times.  Incredible.

I read half of the new book before Augusten Burroughs took the stage.  I will not try to describe it, as I would fail miserably.

As I read, the seats filled up behind me.  Once they were all taken, a line began to form in the back.  This is part of what it looked like:

I’m guessing there were minimally 300 more people standing in line at the back.  We were allowed to bring as many as TEN books for autograph purposes, which seemed a bit much to me.  I’m not crazy about people taking advantage of my Augusten like that.

Promptly at 7:00 the star of the show came around from the back and took the stage.  And this is what he looked like:

Beautiful, indeed.  But then I love him a ridiculous amount.

At times his voice shook a bit.  He was very nervous and mentioned it up front.  This is the first time he’s written a book that’s not intended to be funny, not at all.  He read a chapter and took a few questions from the audience.  He gave very long answers, quite entertaining.

One of the subjects mentioned had to do with the fact that the press appears to be out to turn every memoirist into a liar, particularly since the whole James Frey incident.  As I search the internet today I’m sick to see that the average moron apparently feels free to question and mock Augusten’s authenticity.  Motherfuckers.

I had a question, but was too nervous to ask it.  I would like to know how he handles the schizophrenic experience of being a little boy who received very little attention or love, then a man who so many complete strangers adore beyond all reason.  It has to be weird.  And difficult.

My own personal dislike of intimacy makes me cringe, just thinking about it.

Since I was in the front row, when he began to autograph books I was one of the first 15 people in line.

I could probably write 5,000 words per day easily, yet I am a verbal idiot.  There was not a single appropriate thing I could think of to say during my 30 seconds with my author hero.

I am completely embarrassed that by the time I was about fourth in line I began to cry.  How fucking hideous is that?

When my time came I mumbled, “I love you, Augusten,” as tears streamed down my face.  I don’t know if he even heard it.  He looked at me with questioning eyes, like “What the fuck?”  Only it was a very nice “What the fuck?”  I’m sure I’m not the first or last to exhibit such insipidly stupid behavior in his presence.

I can’t exactly put my finger on a specific thing that makes me feel this way.  My favorite of his essays is called Tiny Crucifixions.  My favorite of his books is entitled Dry.  After viewing the movie Running With Scissors I was depressed for days, his experience is all so real to me, crazy as it is.

I adore the story of how a locksmith came into his apartment and thought he’d been robbed because of the mess inside, leading him to finally deal with his alcoholism and write his first book in a week’s time.

I cry for his best friend/lover Pighead, who died of AIDS.  I completely identify with his love of Dennis, his partner, as their relationship reminds me so much of my own.  The before and the after.

*****

As I walked back through the crowd I felt a little stupid, my tears were noticeable and initiated a few giggles as I took off for the escalator.  A middle-aged chick showing her hormones right there on her face.

Aw, fuck it.  Augusten is my Beatle, he’s my John, Paul, George & Ringo all rolled into one.

It was great.

 . . . the less likely it’s real.

I recently read a Vanity Fair article on Doris Day.  She’s so cute & perky, rich and famous, most would imagine her life’s been marvelous. 

According to the author, David Kaufman, today Doris wishes to speak only about pets & animal rights, never about her movie career. 

He actually documents her bursting into tears with a female reporter who wanted to focus on the past.  Doris yelled, “You don’t get it, do you?”  And then she said all she’d ever wanted was a man who truly loved her, a baby and the happiness that could potentially come from such.

Wow.

Her son was raised by her mother while Doris worked.  The son recently died and Doris did not attend the memorial service or the funeral.  I think she was just too devastated.

She’s been widowed and divorced, both.  Divorced more than once.  Her money was mishandled and more than 20 million lost.

While filming, she and Rock Hudson used to pretend they were partners on a bowling team. 

I knew I had it good, but I didn’t fully appreciate that my life was the stuff dreams are made of!

On top of all the rest, the article mentioned the fact that not a single one of the famous actors she appeared in movies with had their original name, nor did she.  It’s as basic as this: They were told that even their names weren’t good enough. 

The camouflage of perfection was complete. 

And I think this public relations nightmare, the attempt to hide the dirty details, relates in many ways to our own neighbors, friends and acquaintances.  Due to a great PR job, a chick can look like she stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad when internally she’s really just barely holding it together.

I need to remember this fact when I’m wearing my oldest sweat pants, have a baked bean stain on my t-shirt, and see a hot mom traipse past me wearing wedge peek-toe heels in the grocery store.  Rather than think about the fact that I look like shit it’s so much more fun to speak up and say, “Wow, I love your outfit!  You look great.”

I don’t think women get a lot of compliments from other women, and it’s sad because so many could shine with just a little bit more support.  I try to do my part.  Sitting in traffic the other day a woman was obsessively checking herself in a mirror.  I gave her the thumbs-up sign.  It was great.

We all think we want what we don’t have, instead of appreciating the things that are ours.  Poor Doris, fantasizing about being on a bowling league.

I swear, last year I watched a guy wearing no underwear scratch the crack of his own ass, then give my husband a high five.

I’m so lucky I can fall asleep at night holding my husband’s hairy balls, my saggy pendulous boobs against his back.  He gives out a little snoring snort and that’s my heaven.

Thank God for the few things that are real in this lifetime. 

I read a copy of Family Fun magazine this morning and was so anxious and intently aware of my shortcomings by the time I hit the ads in the back that I could barely get out of my chair afterwards.

The families all look so happy and ecstatic to be together!

Travel expenses alone would kick your ass if you followed the dictates of this magazine.  And then there’s the cost of everything else . . .

In one picture a mom looks serenely beautiful as her four daughters wear different shades of pink and orange.  Their shoes, tights, skirts and sweaters all combine for a magical look of sweetness and innocence.

I have ONE daughter.  Before we left the house she would be sitting on her floor screaming in agony that the tights were climbing up her crotch, we would never be able to find the matching sweater, and if we did she would refuse to wear it.  The word “cooch” would be volleyed back and forth several times.

I immediately begin flogging myself with certainty in the belief that if only I’d had one or two more children our lives would be perfect.  I’m practically catatonic with grief that I’ve ruined my daughter’s life by raising her with no siblings near her own age.  I’m in a panic that now it’s just the three of us and that somehow is not good enough.

Then there’s the fact that my daughter doesn’t even LIKE other children.

There are recipes for shrimp quesadillas and grill your own salsa, and I wonder if other people’s kids eat such things.

Because mine would not, ever, in this lifetime. 

I discover that the WACKJOB West family of Kissimmee, Florida, painted their kitchen cabinets with chalkboard paint so their kids can draw and play games while Mom and Dad cook. 

Do you think they ever considered the burn factor?  I can see myself explaining to the doctors in the ER that I had this great idea regarding chalkboard paint.  The look on their open-mouthed faces spells M-O-R-O-N.

The magazine also contained a recipe for making a racket with 12 pieces of PVC pipe and 30 large rubber bands.

I wonder if anyone told these people about the new invention called a “tennis racket.”

The Lin family of Dyer, Indiana has converted their dining room into a craft studio.  The mom says that the happy look on her daughter’s face makes it all worthwhile.

My friend Nancy turned her living room into a space for the family cat, which is about as practical.  Her cat is especially pleased.

And then I fondly remember my own mother taping a crayon-colored picture over the hole in the wall behind my father’s head at the dining room table, where she’d thrown the sugar bowl at him.

It’s such a weird twist of fate when my own childhood starts sounding normal and provides me with unexpected solace.

I’m looking for my own personal politician, a complete original.

Below are his or her expected accomplishments, none of which really gel toward any particular party. 

I’ll be waiting with breathless anticipation for:

1.) Legalization of nudity, any place, any time.  This will solve two problems: (1) Air brushing will no longer be believable and (2) The more fat asses I see in person, the better I’ll feel about myself.  Both of those are completely separate from the joy factor and entertainment purposes.  Plus, it’s educational for the children.  What’s the big deal?

God, I’d love to see a couple of old naked folks out for a stroll.  Plus, no hidden weaponry.

2.) Legalization of drugs, with a clear warning that they will damage your brain, making you wonder by age 45-plus whether you would remember more of life’s details without all the prior marijuana and hallucinogens.  The issue, of course, is whether you really want to remember.  How is this different from alcohol?

On the flip-side, vehicular homicide would be treated as a real murder, which it should be.

3.) Implementation of a plan wherein our military are removed from the Middle East entirely, while bombarding the area with planes full of Penthouse, silk panties, Playboy & pot.  We could call the plan “Masturbation and Munchies.”  There are so few violent stoners. 

4.) Turn all prisons into work camps with no conveniences like TV or radio.  Fill them with educational materials.  Feed prisoners nothing but sardines, spinach, liver and bat soup.  Shorten sentences drastically.  Study recidivism rates.

Kill child molesters/kidnappers on the spot, in the town square, with parents having the option to play the part of executioner.

5.) Implementation of immediate mandatory military conscription for all children of politicians.

6.) Sentencing of all wasteful pork & spend politicians to some special kind of hell, perhaps Guantanamo, where they would be policed by bankrupt small business owners.

7.) Legalization of prostitution.  Politicians have no business regulating anyone else’s body, particularly when they are the best customers.

8.) Enactment of a law that proclaims anyone previously active against medical marijuana shall never be allowed anesthesia or pain medication of any kind.  (This one just makes me completely crazy.)

9.) Implementation of a plan whereby organ donors can be rewarded for donation, whether monetarily or otherwise.  In other words, stop wasting organs! 

10.) Change our tax structure to a flat tax, whereby everyone pays an equal percentage of their income.  No escape clauses.  No rebates.

11.) Tax fast food/junk food at the same rate as cigarettes.  Tax legalized drugs triple.

12.) Express original thought, even if it might piss off a few voters.

13.) Pronounce all words accurately.

14.) Improve public transportation.

15.) Legalize polygamy & gay marriage. 

16.) Actually pay attention to these five words: “Separation of church and state.”

*****

What would you like your personal politician to take care of?

Thursday was Take Your Child To Work Day.

So while the kid and husband were out playing with guns and police dogs I was home alone.

In my usual productive manner, out to save the world and all, I stayed home in the dark and watched three movies: August Rush (9 stars), I Want Someone To Eat Cheese With (7 stars) and Death at a Funeral (10 stars).

Read the rest of this entry »

I’m on a few Yahoo groups and get requests for unusual things occasionally, as evidenced by the following:

Hi, all,
I have been very stressed out for the last 2 days. I am not going to get into details, but please say prayers for my whole family and for me. I need to get rid of this stress.
Thanks

First, I should tell you that I know this woman only slightly.  Second, you should know that she made my daughter cry once. 

I will only pray for her if she tells me the details, for example:

1.) I have such a bad yeast infection that I could mass produce dinner rolls.

2.) My third nipple and tail are growing hair.

3.) I’m having an affair with a hot dwarf circus performer and desperately want to desert my family for a life on the road.  Please help.

***

Should she admit to any of the above, I will befriend her for life.

Otherwise, no deal.

I’m not crazy about clicking on links.  Often they take forever to load, last too long, or just aren’t worth the effort.

But Reverend Ramona finds the best videos EVER! 

You have absolutely got to visit Ramona’s site and watch the three linked videos of Cleveland’s Next Top Model.

Even if you’ve never seen the original show, it’s funny as hell.

Be very careful if your children are asleep, your boss is listening, or you’re drinking anything that could go up your nose.  I promise you will laugh out loud.

Then, if you love me at all, you will leave a message detailing your favorite scene.

I believe when the Cleveland Tyra gleefully says, “It’s cold as a muthafucka” I swallowed part of my esophagus in a choking fit.

I can’t wait for episode 4.  The preview, alone, was worth clicking on the link.

My best friend from grade school sent me a simple e-mail today with a question.  It said, “How is your sister and the grandbaby?  How did all that work out?”

This was my reply:

There were some pretty entertaining blog entries from the vacation we all had together on the Outer Banks last October.  My sister’s boyfriend came.  My brother never touched foot on the sand, even though the house was a beach house, on the water.

 

When I took my daughter onto the sand dunes, the largest on the east coast, which were beautiful and wild and fantastic, Mom stayed in the car and Sis stood in the parking lot and smoked a cigarette.  I love that story.  I can’t help myself:) 

           

Aren’t you glad you asked?

 

If any of them had asked me, I would have taken the kids.  I actually offered to drive home and get the infant from the hospital but they didn’t take me up on it.  My niece used drugs throughout the pregnancy, so there is no way of knowing what damage she’ll have.  Social workers took her from the hospital.  Here’s her picture:

 

 

Mom and Sis keep playing like they’re going to eventually do something to get them, but they are moving very slowly.  Mom bought land and is putting a modular home up on it, with the hope that my niece will one day come down there and all of them can live in it.

 

My sister’s son, who’s having a baby next month with his girlfriend — the one whose parents are both in prison for murder, her father on Alabama’s death row — is living in Sis’s house with her ex-husband, who came back home from living in Massachusetts for about 10 years.

 

So, in other words, she can’t live in her own house!

 

I’m guessing this was too much information.

 

Mom divorced her husband due to financial issues.  He was in debt so badly they thought they might lose both business and house, so instead divorced.  Last time I was with her she told me that when he gets an erection his penis bends into a knot, due to some type of urinary problem he refuses to address by going to the doctor.  She was hoping to lose weight and get a boyfriend.

 

Okay, I have to stop myself.  You’ll never write me again.

XO

PJ

**********

So I’m asking, dear blog readers, would you (A) send a reply to such blathering idiocy or (B) quickly hide your valuables and consider moving to an unknown locale?

*

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I’ve been reading about this recent worldwide food crisis and it’s got me thinking some crazy thoughts, along with wishing I could feed some of those poor starving people.

We have so much extra stuff.  I seem to buy fruits & vegetables just to let them rot in the refrigerator.  Actually, sometimes I just leave them in bags on the kitchen floor.  Again, my homemaking skills are in need of adjustment. 

Also, I’m thinking that those of us with a few extra pounds may finally appreciate this fact when models and actresses begin fading away in the streets.

And who ever thought the morbidly obese would begin to look like forward thinking geniuses?

The few people left on the planet will one day sit around talking about the good old days when you could buy cupcakes and burgers on every street corner.  Their mouths will salivate and eyes turn glassy, a wild pack of old sugar addicts with no fix. 

They will appear as mutants.  Everyone will have large layers of sagging skin that they can use as blankets to cover newborn infants.

And then this brings up a question I’ve always wondered about: Why in the hell do family members bring obese bed-ridden loved ones buckets of fried chicken, potato chips, pancakes and cookie cakes?

These are the thoughts and questions I ponder on this Monday afternoon.