Blog Fright

On Facebook it seems I cannot shut up.  I have so much to say and it never fits in that little box.

Then I come to WordPress and develop brain freeze.

It’s not like I get great replies or tremendous positive feedback for keeping the site going with my blathering attempts to make people laugh.  I post things that I think are way more entertaining than

“I found a great new brand of cheesy bacon popcorn.  Love it!” 

That fucking sentence got 8 replies.  I threw an absolute tantrum over it.  By God, I was going to quit posting.

Of course, I had just received an e-mail rejection from Wegman’s Grocery, a store I really do enjoy.  I’d applied a second time through their website (due to an advertisement) and this time was not even worthy of an interview.

Those bastards interviewed me previously on September 3, 2010, the day of my daughter’s 13th birthday party, and I was not hired.  Kind of thought it was because I was so completely scattered, what with 50 people coming to my house that afternoon.

What could that HR bitch have written about me on her tiny form?  I mean, granted, she’s such an important person. Maybe I just don’t get what it takes to throw some shit into a bag, give proper change and say, “Thanks!  Come again.”

It would probably be much better if I wasn’t a college graduate.  I wouldn’t have that cocky attitude that says, “This is so fucking beneath me.”  I can’t even say, though, that I really feel that way.  I’m from the freaking midwest.  I love to help people find things.  I kiss ass like a dipshit.  People run into me and I say “Excuse me.”

Believe me, I know my faults.  The ones that weren’t ingrained in my head as a child ( (1) you stink, (2) you have bad breath, (3) you’re a whore, (4) you’re the most indecisive person on the planet and (5) there is no bigger slob in history) I’ve discovered all on my own.

Perhaps HR chick wrote something about my outfit because I know it was atrocious.  However, that seems to be the way most of the employees there are dressed.  They’re wrapping meat for God’s sake.

Does that sound bitchy?  I think it might sound bitchy.  That’s when I come back full circle and think, “See Pam, there’s the reason you weren’t hired.”  Even if I don’t outwardly express my sarcastic egotistical mind-set some people can smell it on me.

*****

So back to the original subject, why do I continue writing on Facebook but not WordPress?

1. I always take the easy way out.  Writing a status message is so much easier than completing a blog entry.

2. Immediate satisfaction.  I’m much more likely to get a response on FB quickly.

3. I have always been afraid to shine.  In a screaming tyrannical voice I was told over and over again by (who else) my mother, “You think you’re so much better than everyone else,” specifically meaning herself.  I think I’ve spent my whole life proving her wrong.

4. I tend to be quite OCD about blog entries.  I hate just slapping shit up on the screen.  I can spend 4 hours on 700 words, writing and re-writing.

5. Blogging made me happy.  So I stopped.

*****

Here’s to doing all the things that make me happy again.

Twisted Fears

Lately when I write it sounds like I’m taking myself way too seriously, sort of like a 51-year old hormonal tight ass.  Nothing could be more completely unacceptable.

But even as I write those words I hear a voice in my head say,

“Well, it IS your only life.  It would be nice if you didn’t fuck it up.  You might want to take it a LITTLE seriously.”

Some people stop eating (not me), some people get ulcers (not me).  Fear simply paralyzes me.

I just had the most evil thought . . . I’m starting to sound like Oprah.

* * *

As Anni said in a recent comment, “So change your life!“  Oh, Anni, I would if I only knew how.  But I’ve become such a pussy.

MEOW!

Although being someone’s princess looks like a lottery windfall, if you listened closely enough you’d hear the “drip, drip, drip” of eroding self-confidence.  One day you realize your balls have withered and resemble an airless old leather football.

At 19 I stood on the wing of a plane and stepped off into nothing but air. I’ve always thought it was one of the dumbest things I ever did but maybe that’s not true.  Maybe the epitome of stupid is really the hesitation to act on your own behalf, fear of success and failure in equal parts.

“There are no mistakes” according to “Zen and the Art of Happiness” by Chris Prentiss.

Intellectually I believe it.  Acting on it is an entirely different story.

* * *

So for today I’m going to make a list of my most ridiculous fears, hoping it will explain why I’m so stuck.  Here goes:

1.) If ever given the chance to escape my eagle eye, I fear my 14 year old daughter will gain 100 pounds and stop brushing her teeth.  Her deodorant will sit unused.  She will begin dating on the sly (since all men love enormous girls with atrocious breath).  Her boyfriend will be a big nasty bruiser, his hobby will be pimping.  I will be entirely to blame.  My selfishness will have caused her downfall.

2.) When I move I will lose my hairdresser. (I know, can you believe this ranks right below my daughter’s life?  This is how completely shallow and vapid I am.) Although I rarely am happy with my hair today, it will be so much worse.  I will have to go to SuperCuts and they will scalp me and my big fat face will shine like the moon.  I will never have enough money for a decent dye job, so I will purchase boxes of dye in a discount food store like Aldi’s.  I will dye my own hair and whenever I sweat the color will drip down my neck.

3.) I will end up homeless and I do not like the out of doors.  Bugs and bright sunshine are my kryptonite.  Sleep and/or the cold will no longer be my friends.  When it rains I will get wet and my hair will smell like a fat man’s feet.

4.) Pharmaceutically speaking I’ll be screwed if ever I can’t purchase the ridiculous amount of drugs I take daily.  However, if I have no money for food I can stop taking insulin, which really could be a plus.  If I don’t overeat then I don’t need to take insulin.  And I’ll lose weight.  Things are already looking up.

As you can see, my mind works like a see-saw.  I argue with myself, just like schizophrenics in the street.  On the other hand, I already have a pack of homeless compadres waiting for me to join them under a bridge somewhere.

5.) My teeth will all fall out.  I will not be able to afford dentures, my face will cave in and I will look like I give BJ’s at a truck stop for a living.

* * *

“Take me for what I am, who I was meant to be. 

And if you give a damn, take me baby, or leave me.” 

From the Broadway musical

RENT

Twisted Fasting

So I started fasting today and wrote a blog entry about it.

Then I lost said blog entry. This did not go over well. However, I have not eaten a Twinkie or a HoHo yet and that alone is a success.

But I’m determined to post daily dammit.

So here’s the story condensed: the people in my family have a history of being fat motherfuckers, myself included. I never got into the 400 pound zone, like my brother, but I nearly made it to 250.

For some ungodly reason I decided it would help my look to cut my hair really short at that time. Take it from me, bad move.

Eventually my brother Jim had gastric bypass surgery, but it only helped kill him, not make him thin. My mother has had lap band surgery and it wasn’t successful either. She would snort chicken and intubate biscuits if need be.

There does not seem to be a quick fix, other than the horrible awful duo of vegetables and sweat.

I am an obnoxious donut-eating, ice cream licking, raw cookie dough consuming disaster. My addiction is sugar, not really all that different from a junkie.

As a kid I wasn’t fat. As a teenager I was really happy I didn’t look like my mother, who was utterly miserable with herself. I couldn’t imagine letting myself go. Then I did.

About five years ago I found out I was diabetic and took it seriously, probably because it killed my grandmother with a massive heart attack at age 57. I completely stopped eating white sugar and white flour. I lost enough weight to leave behind plus size clothing and the mockery of fashion designers decorating fat women with stripes and zoo animals and wooden beads.

Then slowly I began to cheat. Cheating begets cheating. Then suddenly one day you don’t think you can live without a Hundred Thousand Dollar bar. Today I’m back to the same intense cravings I imagine mice have when faced with a block of cheese.

So I’m fasting in an attempt to get back to the point where a sweet potato looks like a gastronomical delight and snow peas make me shudder with glee. By tomorrow I will feel disgusting, my head will hurt like a bitch as the detox hits full swing. If I can make it through the third day I will be home free.

Wish me luck! I need it.

The Twisted Bitch Blogs

I must begin blogging again or my head will explode and psychedelic shit will cover the surface of the earth.

There is no other way to take the pressure off my brain unless a doctor drills a hole, something like you might see at www.popthatzit.com .  I recommend clicking that link only if you have dermatological instincts which make you desire to remove the enormous yellow blemish of a stranger on a city bus, which I happen to possess.

Since it’s been a while since updating this blog I shall provide a quick synopsis:

1.) Unable to say much about my mother or sister since I haven’t spoken with either, even though yesterday was my mother’s 70th birthday. The fact that my sister allowed her boyfriend back into the house after he made comments about my niece’s breasts sickens me.

Add to that my mother’s input, telling my niece that she’s had more cocks than most farmhouse hens, and I hope you understand why I’m rotten enough to block both of them from Facebook, which is really my only communication with the outside world.

2.) My glucose levels reached a new high of 500 today thanks to fucking Girl Scout cookies. I will not be buying any next year, thank you very much.  It’s a constant struggle and I am loopy over it.

3.) My son is still living in San Diego and has A GIRLFRIEND.  I haven’t actually met her, but I love her.  I hope they get married and live happily ever after.  She is a Gemini, her birthday only two days after mine, and she likes me.  I must admit that pretty much my only criteria for liking you is that you like me.  But she’s funny, too.  He has been wonderfully successful in every other way, so why did I worry about who he would bring home?  I should have known.

4.) My daughter is now two inches taller than me and twenty pounds heavier.  I am not happy about the second part of that sentence.  We joined a gym, took a yoga class, and with her butt in my face I heard a loud putt and we ran out of that damned class, convulsing with laughter.  It turns out I do not like yoga.  I don’t like anyone bossing me around.  I certainly don’t like anyone telling me to get on the floor, then stand up, then get on the floor again.  Fuck that shit.  It completely sucks.

5.) Still in New Jersey but planning to put the house on the market and move, quite a frightening proposition.  I’ve come to the conclusion I never should have gotten married, never should have had children.  But since the children are wonderful I’ll keep them.  The absolute certainty is I never should have stopped working, earning my own money, having a life of my own.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the economy sucks ass and getting a job is nearly impossible now, though I continue to look.  I watched a show about millionaires giving money away last night and when a soup kitchen was highlighted and many, many toothless people were on the screen, I began imagining an entirely independent Pam.  I am such a fucking pussy about things like shiny teeth and properly highlighted hair.

As always, I would love your thoughts and comments.  I’m going to start updating daily, I swear I am.  Comments will help make it happen.

Pamajama

Finding My Twisted Voice, Did I Lose It In Farmville?

Somehow, somewhere, my written voice has been choked to death.  It was always a problem that I wrote and re-wrote to such a ridiculous extent, but now I don’t even begin. 

There seems to be a connection to Facebook, since I spend hours and hours looking at the page over at that idiotic site, the one where people say dumb shit in 12 words or less (or more commonly nothing at all). 

So what am I doing there?

I play games with fucking YOVILLE and FARMVILLE and MAFIA WARS, activities a person with an IQ of 50 could participate in as they dribble saliva down their chins and wait for the next institutional meal delivery to arrive at bedside.  As I do this stuff there is a constant running commentary in my brain, like an MTV highlight line, that says:

“I need to do something that makes money.  This is retarded. 

What the fuck is wrong with me?”

The answer is that this Facebook stuff is like crack for the masses, non-thinking hypnotic activities manufactured to put your mind in that subconscious zone most desired by advertisers.  Many of my fellow beloved bloggers are on Facebook and that makes it even easier to remain there, although I no longer read their blogs since I’m instead staring at an empty page appropriate for a monkey.  (Don’t get me wrong, I love monkeys.)

I miss reading blogs, at least some of them.  More than likely I need to weed my list down and then I wouldn’t be so overwhelmed by trying to keep up with too many.  We’re all a bunch of wordy motherfuckers and wading through 20 entries a day can overwhelm me to the point where I’m completely done in.  You’d think I’d dug 20 ditches instead of read 20,000 lines. 

How did people survive when they had to wash laundry by hand (often for families of 10 or so), hang it on lines (all that upper arm strength) and beat the evening’s meat with a hammer before coating it with some kind of crap meal and cooking it in a pan that later had to be scrubbed with a wire brush?

The worst part about Facebook is that everyone is so NICE and BORING there and not many people ever say anything politically incorrect or add much detail.  There are pages I visit where no one says anything at all.  What the fuck is that about?  Seriously, how is it possible that no one has something to say?  I ALWAYS HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY!  Does that mean I’m the fucked up one?  When I start commenting on someone’s page it often seems I’ve taken it over completely (SO NOT COOL!). 

Most inane posts lack even a hint of creativity and contain either (1) game scores or (2) stuffed animals more appropriate for a nursery than a grown human being or (3) virtual beating hearts or (4) terroristic threats of the sort like this one:

“If you love your daughter like I love my daughter and you’re willing to say it (WHICH MOST PEOPLE WON’T BE WILLING TO BECAUSE THEY ARE NOT TRUE LOVING MOTHERS LIKE ME) then post this to your wall for 45 minutes.”

I want to gut the people who post that shit, one of whom is my sister-in-law.  Her daughter does it, too.  The worst are the religious posts.  Honest to God, she put this on her page last week:

“WITHOUT GOD… our week would be: Sinday, Mournday, Tearsday, Wasteday, Thirstday, Fightday, Shatterday, Seven days without God – Makes one Weak! (If you are not ashamed of God, post this to your status.)”

Seriously, I need a divorce just so I’m not related to anyone who could have posted such nonsensical drivel.

But I can’t escape it, even my niece recently wrote: 

“For all of you that aren’t too proud to say thank you to your moms for helping you be the great person you are today… please copy and paste to your profile!  I expect to see this many times on my page! Some people no longer have their Moms here to appreciate! (But we can still say THANKS for their love and support!!!  If you love your mother and are willing to acknowledge that she made you into the wonderful person you are today post this.  Most people will not have the nerve or heart to post such a thing.” 

Now, mind you, this is the girl who grew up to have 3 children before she turned 23, who began using crack at age 15, who went to prison and had her children all taken into foster care.  Ahem. 

Let’s get real, her mom made a few mistakes along the way, just sayin’.

Did she really think I would post such utter shit to MY FUCKING WALL?!  I pushed the limit by leaving a message saying I’d be checking my sister’s status line to see if she was thanking our mother yet for turning us into babbling nincompoops.  (I acknowledge the lack of personal responsibility in that statement because my psychologist insists I have to.  Yes, that would be the psychologist who has not fixed me yet.)

So today there is a viral thing going around that asks you to post a picture of a famous person you think you look like as your profile pic.  A woman I know peripherally has posted a very attractive blonde woman, who I do not recognize, as her photo.  SHE LOOKS NOTHING LIKE THIS CHICK!  Every time I see the photo I want to ask (1) Who is that? and (2) Are you fucking serious, that’s what you see when you look in the mirror? and (3)  Are you fucking kidding me?

How wacked out is it that I can’t stand myself for not writing what I want to write?  How do I find that fine line where I am honest but not so honest that no one will ever speak to me again? 

There are two voices in my head (the loudest ones).  One is saying, “Who died and made you God?”  The other is saying, “Just fucking do it you big fat pussy.” 

As I’ve already told you, I’m not a fan of religious messages.

My Alter Ego ~ A Twisted & Demented Superhero

Since I’m back to blogging I’m determined to post regularly.  Wish I could do it every day, but I’m a big fat loser and have permanent brain freeze when it comes to any kind of expectations.

I’m trying to quit my addiction to Mafia Wars but knowing my Cuban businesses are making money and that eventually the coffers will be full and unwilling to accept more if it’s not banked gnaws at me like a teething child at mommy’s boo-boo (or a grown man of a certain type).

So I’m going to make a list of things I could do instead of clicking that magical button that takes me to a comatose state similar to a quaalude (which I did ask my doctor for a prescription for but he refused).

1.) Bathe

2.) Clean the house.

3.) Take action toward earning money in the near future.

See?  I’m bored already.

4.) Send another text message.

5.) M*sturbate

We’re talking short-term here.  Neither of these take long at all.

6.) Wake up my daughter and make her day delightful.

7.) Send my son an e-mail that makes our lives sound like they are perky and wonderful and so much better than reality, in an effort to make him miss us desperately and realize that California is not that great if he can’t be near his adoring mother.

8.) Try and call my niece, who should be on her way to Kentucky right now in a car with my mother, the most hellish thing I can imagine!

9.) Read some blogs and comment so everyone knows I still love them dearly even though I seemingly dropped off the face of the earth.

10.) Call Roxanne & see if she’s going to laser tag tonight. 

Yeah, that’s what I’ll probably do. 

I really wasn’t meant to be unemployed. 

I need direction at all times, like an ADD-riddled child standing on the beach holding sand in one hand and a dirty cigarette butt in the other, wondering if he should eat the cigarette or throw sand in his sister’s eyes, therefore scratching her cornea and damaging her vision for the rest of her life.

* * * * *

Just so you know that I didn’t spend all my time on Mafia Wars just clicking buttons, there was an actual incident that occurred in which my assistance was helpful and I received a ‘Thank You” note regarding same yesterday.  Last week at 3 or 4 am, I forget which, I noticed someone leaving comments that sounded like “Help me,” “I can’t take this any more,” “I just can’t do this.”

Nosy bitch that I am, it was necessary to intervene mostly for my own mental health.  So I told the guy he was scaring me and asked what he meant by those apocalyptic messages.  After no response I instant messaged him and sent another request to his in-box, determined busy-body that I am. 

When he wrote back it was to ”Pamele.”  This was the first indication of his drunken state, such poor spelling.  Fortunately, since he was suicidal, I did not deride and mock him as I might have otherwise.  I did not tell him that my son won the whole school spelling bee in 6th grade & his current successes more than likely hinged on that fact.

BACK TO THE STORY AT HAND, MAINTAIN FOCUS PAMELE!

After half an hour of back and forth in the instant message box and repeated statements that he had to go because he needed to end it all, I finally looked up his profile page and called the police department located halfway across the country.  It took close to 30 minutes to explain the story, find his address & get an emergency unit to his house.  In the mean time I eventually had him on my house phone and a dispatcher on my cell phone asking if there were weapons in the house.  It was like an egomaniacal dream come true being in the middle of such chaos, a two-fisted chatterboxing life link.

He was quite soft-spoken and thanked me several times for talking to him, even though he continued saying he had to go.  I kept asking questions.  He told me I was such a kind person (clearly hallucinating at that point).  Then I heard male voices in the background.  They entered his home without even knocking, which seemed rather aggressive.   Then he REALLY had to go.  Afterwards I was instructed by a fireman who called my house that I needed to call the Emergency Room and give them any information I had. 

How do you explain at 4:30 AM that you live in NJ and you have never met this man from Illinois before, but you’re “friends on Mafia Wars“?  I felt like a certified lunatic.  Fortunately the game is so huge that the psych tech knew exactly what I was talking about.  Unfortunately she had a voice that made me think she could convince ME to commit suicide if I had to listen to her drone on for long. 

She instructed me to send copies of everything I could find regarding the things he’d written, then she gave me an invalid e-mail address to send them to.  It did not instill a feeling in me that my unskilled and off the wall crisis intervention would be followed up on properly.  Naturally I began thinking that maybe I should drive the 14 hours and give the only appropriate counsel available in North America, my own.  Because, you know, I am a fixer freak.  I’ve never truly fixed anything in my life, but in the back of my mind I KNOW that I’m PRACTICALLY the BEST at doing EVERYTHING.  That is because I am a GENIUS and all around me are IDIOTS.

Yeah, I tell myself that as I sit home contemplating whether to twiddle myself or brush my teeth.

So, anyway, Chris sent me a note yesterday saying that he was sorry he dumped his problems on me but was glad I was there.  I was tempted to write back and tell him it was the most important I’d felt all summer and could he recommend me to other suicidal peeps or would he prefer a cash remuneration? 

Instead I wrote something nice about how I would really freaking hate it if he was dead, all the while wondering if we panic at the suggestion of suicide because, hey, if we gotta stay here you do too!  Like, what if death is actually nirvana?  You just don’t freaking know!  I mean, he said he was in physical pain from an accident.  I really freaking hate pain.  I am a huge pussy, like f*ck that!  I would totally off myself if I was painfully miserable!

Yeah, not the kind of philosophizing you want to do with a dude who’s already questioning his commitment to breathing and blinking. 

I also stopped myself from saying “Call me any time you want to talk about your problems,” because I really wouldn’t like it if this was an ongoing thing and I couldn’t feel like I fixed him in 90 minutes or less.  That would just piss me off and eventually I would say something stupid like,”Stop with the f*cking depression bullshit!  I already told you, just go to sleep!” 

Pretty much the way I act as a mother when my children are unhappy.  Like, “DON’T FUCKING CRY, IT MAKES ME SAD & I HATE THAT!”

* * * * *

Growing up in constant crazy, my brain was permanently conditioned so that NOTHING makes me feel more content than contending with a crisis, as long as there’s nothing REAL I have to do, like cope with a dead body or clean up puke or see anyone completely losing their shit from injury or loss.  I don’t like illness or icky stuff or real human emotion. 

Who knew crises of a virtual nature would fit my criteria so well?  Good God, like I needed another reason to remain behind my computer screen, tucked safely within the folds of my superhero sweatshirt.

 

Summer: POTUS, Travel, Concerts & Taco Bell

Summer is supposed to be down time, but it hasn’t worked out that way.  It complicates my blogging cause there’s stuff to write about but my ass is kicked before I can put it into words.  I LOVE my blog and I’m not into the idea of slamming something out just to get it on-line.  However, my electrician is starting to complain . . . (look on the blog roll under “Naked On The Roof.”)

Just in the last week we’ve been to two concerts (Raven at Great Adventure & The Jonas Brothers at The Izod Center), Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum & Ruby Foo’s restaurant in NYC, and a show called Drumline at the Mann Center then lunch at Reading Terminal Market today in Philadelphia.  Each activity was worth the effort & worthy of its’ own blog entry.

* * * * *

In the mean time, my husband met President Obama this afternoon, shook his hand and had his picture taken.  I wasn’t invited.  Probably just as well cause he had to wait behind a stage in the heat for over an hour before his 15 seconds came along.  I would have been like “HELLO!  I’M HOT!  WTF?!”

Last October he was in the unusual position of meeting President Bush, which means we will now have two outrageously incredible photos to hang on the wall.  Fortunately, he has very little hair and so there is no issue in that regard, he always looks fab.  Forget the president, my hair would have been the focus of the day, that and my chiclet tooth.  North Korea could bomb us to smithereens and I would still be commisserating the fact that my bangs separated in the middle and my chiclet looks weird with a flash.

My husband voted for Nixon in 1968, that was it, before he met me.  (Nixon brought him back from Vietnam, a super-duper reason to throw him a vote.)  His relatively objective opinion is that Bush’s handshake and demeanor were more manly (firmer) and charismatic.  But then all around him people were passing out in the heat and being taken by ambulance to the hospital.  Perhaps Obama was wilting, too. 

  * * * * * 

This morning my worst nightmare happened, people showed up at my door while I was still sound asleep.  Yes, they were invited!  I even set the time.  These are my favorite peeps, not like those OTHER peeps, the ones I might want to purposely annoy.

I am notoriously late for everything, partially due to my insane sleep patterns but mostly just because it’s a character flaw.  In addition to the usual issues my alarm clock was meeting with Secret Service and SWAT teams this morning & so he forgot to call and wake me up.  Eventually the ringing phone or the door bell or the screaming people in my driveway woke me from my dreams!

After a 2-minute shower & a lackluster attempt with the blow-dryer we were slamming down the highway.  It took 90 minutes to make it to a free show that lasted less than an hour (30 minutes less than advertised)!  By 12 p.m. we were left wondering what we could possibly do to make up for hauling three pubescent teen-type people on an extremely hot wild goose chase.  (Did I mention the air stopped working once we were 50 miles from home?)

What would you do?

We did the sensible thing & drove into downtown Philadelphia in search of fireworks.  We parked in Chinatown and then found out that such things are illegal within city limits.  So instead we went to Reading Terminal Market and bought various and sundry food items like Philly cheesesteaks and a beautiful pink sprinkled cupcake and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in an extra-special cone and cherry butter and fudge and Whoopee Pies and iced coffee and one tiny little bag of sugar-free red candies for moi.  (F*ck me!)  I will be returning to the Reading Terminal Market.

On the way home we made just one more wrong turn & then followed signs for the single fireworks store advertised along the I-95 corridor.  We found it and made a 16-year old boy bounce with glee, which was worth it all as he so adorably said, “What a great day!” and then mocked the hideous show we forced him to attend just one more time. 

We also stopped at a 7-11 to get a Monster Energy Drink (against his mother’s best judgment) for the 14-year old, hopping him up on caffeine instead of the other posed option (a Wendy’s Bacon-ator.)  Do you burn out the brain or clog the arteries of a teen-aged boy first?  Which is preferable?  The quarter-pound of fudge he’d already eaten seemed to be the deciding factor.

 * * * * *

My daughter’s recompense for being pulled from bed at such an early hour? 

After her father met the President of the United States (known as POTUS or Leader of the Free World) he went back to life as usual: side trip to Taco Bell on his way home for the #6, two chicken chalupa supremes, no tomato, hard shell taco and a Cherry Pepsi.

The Great Adventure

As mentioned in tonight’s prior post, we went to see Raven Symone in concert at Great Adventure with the “new friends” I’ve named “Control Freak and DD.”  Well, sometimes it’s so much more ridiculous than you even expect. 

The mother seemed entirely sane this evening, in comparison with her daughter.  The first thing her girl said to mine upon arrival was, “I didn’t think your house would be this big.”  The mother noticed the Christmas tree, still up in July, and didn’t blink an eye.  The woman impresses me in unusual ways.

Then I made the fatal error and got in her car to drive to Great Adventure.  It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, and when she pulled out her handicapped placard in the crowded parking lot my face broke into a grin.

We went inside.  They rode the Teacups.  The other girl begged and wheedled to do the log flume.  (We have season passes and they do not.)  Her life was going to be over if she didn’t do the log flume.  The sign at the back of the line said “120 MINUTES FROM HERE.”  My daughter and I acquiesced because I am a jackass.  I find myself regularly doing things for other people’s children in situations where I would laugh at my own.  Her mother sat comfortably on a bench talking with another woman, a stranger, while we stood in line with 500 other people waiting to spend 90 seconds in a plastic log.  The girl had the nerve to ask me several times, “Can’t we cut the line?”  I told her we would either be thrown out of the park or punched in the face and she finally shut up.

I hadn’t been in a crowd like this in a while.  It’s an art to avoid such large groups of people and I’ve become a master.  People are dirty, nasty, disgusting.  They sneeze, they cough, they sweat.  Their arms display gang tattoos.  But none of those individuals even came close to being as disgusting as the woman in front of us.  She didn’t expose her piggy side until we were about halfway through the 75 minutes.  Then she proceeded to hold her 4-year old daughter between her legs & finger her way through the braids at scalp level.  There is only ONE REASON I am aware of that causes a human woman to pick at her child’s scalp like a monkey.  When she began picking things OUT of the hair and flicking them to the floor my meltdown was in full swing.

I began testing the wind velocity and direction.  Ten feet became the minimum I could bear between my group and these disgusting menaces to society.  We had another 30 minutes to go.  As other patrons stood shoulder to shoulder, the lepers stood out.  Suddenly it didn’t matter that another child was with us, as the words “PIG” and “SCUMBAG” and “I HATE PEOPLE SO, SO MUCH” began flying out of my mouth.  It’s really not great for my daughter when I get that crazy look in my eyes.  She might believe that I can shoot people with my finger or electrocute them with my steely eyed stare, that’s how tense she gets while waiting for me to take one more step toward insanity.  The other girl LOVED it.  Really, it was the happiest I think she was all evening.  And I must say that when she’s happy she’s delightful!

We survived but not before the little buggy girl also SPIT ON THE FLOOR.  Seriously, what in the hell is the world coming to?  I was truly shocked at the level of hatred I could work up for a pre-schooler.

Finally someone showed up with a Fast Pass and cut the line.  The bug people were no longer directly in front of us.  Those folks aside, if I get any kind of disease in the next 72-hours I know where it came from.

The girls enjoyed the ride, they screamed, they got wet, they said it was worth it.  Whatever!  We headed for the concert.  The 12-year old we were with is a very unhappy child.  I didn’t notice it so much previously, but tonight she was a monster.  Nothing made her happy.  She pouted and complained for hours.  Her mother is either a saint or a monster-maker, perhaps both. 

We bought 3 VIP tags for $10 each and headed for the front of the stadium.  It was great until she wanted to use my daughter’s camera, then my phone to take photos.  When the answer was “No,” the girl ended up sitting back with her mother in the stands as my daughter and I had a blast.  At one point she said, “I want to go now.”   I told them “Go ahead!  My husband will come and get us!”  I guess they didn’t think we had any other options and suddenly the girl was trapped in her own web.  So she proceeded to sulk for the next 90 minutes. 

Fortunately the VIP tags came with bags of Starburst, which they ate while we danced.  They both have metabolic problems that are the reason for their weight gain, unrelated to Starbursts in any way, also unrelated to the french fries purchased on the way into the concert.

Did I mention that my daughter told me this girl asked her, “Why don’t you straighten your hair?”  Did I mention that?  Because nothing could piss me off more than someone trying to convince my kid to make her beautiful curls disappear.  No doubt it was out of jealousy, but I don’t care.  This lanky-haired little bitch was trying to mess with my kids head in more ways than one.

The worst was after the concert ended.  First it seemed okay, the girls rode three different rides, one rollercoaster twice.  They were laughing and running and getting red-faced with excitement as I sat talking with the other mother on a bench.  As you may remember, she recently had a TIA, which has now been upgraded to a full-blown stroke (no surprise there).  She cannot ride rides and her doctor actually has recommended she should use a scooter.  She does not because her daughter told her it would be “too embarrassing.”  I don’t know what to believe.

The aunt who died last week?  She was 91!  She was the daughter’s great-great aunt!  This is worthy of histrionics on Facebook in an effort to obtain sympathy?  It came up that she also cried about something entirely different during the funeral event, actually I believe she said, “I just sobbed.”  I was looking at her, trying to imagine her face melting, trying to imagine my discomfort if she should ever do such a thing in my presence.  I might run.

The highlight of our conversation was mind-boggling.  I asked how her daughter’s appointment with the endocrinologist went.  She told me she hated the doctor.  The reason she hated the doctor is because she “had no personality” and at one point in their time together the doctor began “squeezing her n*pples.”  As she said that statement I felt a buzz of electrical shock flood me, no different than if I tried to pet a horse across an electrified fence.  I remember thinking, “Oh my.”  I said, “What?” with a dumbfounded spacy sounding voice.

She said, “Oh, she was trying to see if she was lactating!  She was trying to see if she could express milk, to find out if they were making milk!  Endocrine problems can typically make such things happen!  But she just began twisting her n*pples with no warning!  I was like, ‘Don’t you think you could have told her in advance you were going to do that?’”  She doesn’t plan on returning to that doctor again.  It was at that point she mentioned for the 7th or 8th time that her feet were now “covered in blisters.”  We had barely walked the length of the park.

But that’s not the bad part.  The bad part was that at 10:00 at night this girl became insistent that we go to THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY, three words she repeated a minimum of 27 times as her mother nearly drove off the road in frustration while yelling at her daughter to stop saying “THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY!”  This is after I had heard about her desire for MEXICAN FOOD over and over throughout the evening, across the park, in every venue we visited.

When the Mexican food was mentioned at 10:00 at night I said, “I suppose Taco Bell is not your idea of Mexican food?”  She went on a tirade regarding fast food restaurants.  She, this 12-year old girl, said, “I just want to sit down at a table AND HAVE A NICE MEAL!  I HAVEN’T EATEN ALL DAY!”  It was as if she were channeling a 60-year old woman.  The girl would not stop.

This is where I don’t understand my own behavior.  I should have just said, “Take us home.”  But there is a part of me who never wants to disappoint.  I want people to be happy.  This girl had been happy for maybe 30 minutes of the 6 hours we’d been together.  We finally found a Ruby Tuesdays open until 11 p.m.  She was not satisfied with TGIF, absolutely threw a shit fit, she would not eat there.  She would not consider Sonic, which both she and her mother thought would somehow damage their car!  I mean I’m making suggestions and the girl is acting like I’m an assistant to the devil.  She’s acting as if her palate and taste buds are worthy off an exquisite French vineyard.

So we go into the restaurant and her mother refuses to purchase her first choice, A SIRLOIN at 10:00 on a Thursday night.  So what do you think she orders?  What does her mother proceed to tell me she orders everywhere they go?  You guessed it.  MOTHERF*CKING CHICKEN FINGERS. 

For the 437th time in 6 hours the girl spoke to me and I said, “WHAT?”  She is a mutterer.  She talks fast AND she mutters with braces on.  I can’t understand a word she says.  The other mother asked MY daughter if she was ”in a bad mood.”  I think I may have heard her swallow the words, “No, your daughter is just an obnoxious idiot and my mom won’t let me speak!”

At that point I began texting my husband, “Please come pick us up.”  I had a horrible fear that when they drove us home they would somehow come into our house and never leave.  They would sleep over and the girl would ask me to cook up some quail eggs and escargot for breakfast.  She would cut my daughter’s hair off in her sleep, then suggest she’d done her a favor. 

My husband tried to call but I wouldn’t answer the phone as it would blow my covert operation.  He texted, “Call me.”  I text, “NO!  PLEASE!  I’M BEGGING!”

So my husband, who paid for this magical trip to Great Adventure, took off his slippers and pajama pants.  He threw on a pair of sweats and made his way to the car.  He did not complain, he did not get angry.

As we sat at the table the waiter asked ”Is that your car out there with the lights on?”  We both said, “No.”  Meanwhile, I was thinking “Superman has arrived & I’m f*cking Lois Lane.”  I didn’t tell her until we were out the door, “Oh, that’s my husband over there!  This will be so much more convenient for you.”  She couldn’t believe I would do such a thing.

I left actually feeling bad for the woman.  We’re supposed to see them again in 76 hours.  I’m flabbergasted by that fact.  Clearly, part of me feels good when I’m in a situation where I appear all together in comparison.  There’s gotta be a better way.

Once again I would like to thank my mother for pummeling my self-esteem into something that resembles a kernel of corn, a dull jelly bean that’s spent some time on the floor.

Updating My Status To Mood-Swinging Psycho &/or The Michael Jackson Saga Continues

Today I was home all day.  The Jackson funeral was on.  I couldn’t help myself.  Similar to the OJ trials, it was a “thing.”  I hate to miss out.

I watched it on Fox.  Does that matter?  Geraldo was quite riled up from the beginning and it was interesting cause it didn’t sound like he believed the reports of Michael Jackson’s various and sundry misdeeds.  Believe it or not, I kind of like Geraldo.  He’s got a short fuse and seems relatively honest, as least as far as reporters go.

It started and I was IM’ing with an old boyfriend I found on Facebook and haven’t seen in 25 years (DANGEROUS & BIZARRELY WEIRD EMOTIONAL TERRITORY).  So as it began I started watching without realizing what I was doing.

Mariah Carey came out and blew me away.  No matter how unusual she is, the girl can sing.  The song was “I’ll Be There.”  She’s just spectacular in every way.

When I saw Brooke Shields I thought she looked good in a very natural blotchy sobbing kind of way.  In recent years I’ve kind of come to think of her as a tight-ass and this made me expect very little from her time at the lectern.  Well, she kicked my ass.  She spoke sincerely and clearly and from the heart. 

It was then that I noticed tears streaming down my face and immediately thought, “Motherf*cker, now I have to admit this on the blog!”  It’s really not a surprise that death and sadness and the people left behind in abject misery are heartbreaking to watch.  We can all identify with that shit.

John Mayer came on and played what I think was a bass guitar.  Absolutely beautiful.  Magical.  I don’t think he spoke at all.  Magic Johnson told a story about eating KFC with Michael Jackson that was so, so funny.

Usher had a hard time making it through his song.  Smokey Robinson made me laugh.  He was great. 

Stevie Wonder, well, he’s like a god.  Same with Lionel Richie, who has one of my favorite voices on the planet.

The brothers all had sequined gloves on, which was kind of over the top.  Al Sharpton looks like he’s had weight loss surgery.  He’s lost at least 100 pounds and looks pretty bad. 

Queen Latifah started to choke back tears and even that was touching.

But when the little girl spoke of her father at the end, my heart broke for her.  The tears began all over again.

More than anything it was clear that everyone there really loved MJ and had nothing bad to say about him.  The commentator at the end actually mentioned something about how maybe we should take it easy on people who seem a little different and not judge them so harshly.  I couldn’t disagree.

* * * * * 

So I’m glad I watched it.  I don’t take back anything I said before, cause that would be renouncing my schizophrenia and it’s not going anywhere.  Michael Jackson did not define my life or my generation, but he was too young to die.  I’m not sure any age is acceptable, but especially not when young children are involved.

I still hate the news people who make millions off of saturating our lives with the story.

My husband’s statement when I told him about the tears was to be expected:

 “When does your period start?”

He knows me too well.

Twisted Mom & the Trip To Kentucky ~ (Part I)

It seems I will never be ready to write Mom’s piece in the Kentucky trip.

It’s taking too long & f*cking up my blog! 

It’s complicated & convoluted.  She saddens & disgusts me in equal parts.  I always thought she was very intelligent, but this trip changed my mind.  She understands numbers, not people.  She prizes collectibles & is utterly frustrated that people are not things. 

I feel sorry for her. 

Then she does something that exposes her horns.

Spending time in close contact with family makes it clear that writing about them in secret is as evil as many of the things Mom’s done.  I am especially torn over pieces of vicious mockery which include my sister & her children, albeit occasionally they’re funnier’n hell.  But would she think so?  Obviously, I love & adore my sister.  So I’ve password-protected several entries.

However, I am my mother’s daughter & a Gemini both, torn between two personalities: (1) soft & sweet as cotton candy & (2) the hidden razor blade within.  (If you want the password, just let me know.)

* * * * *

I didn’t tell Mom I was coming, no phone calls, no e-mails beforehand.  Any small, stupid comment would have changed my mind & left me in NJ watching reality TV, the kind of insanity that feels like home.  I’d have missed out on the good stuff, just like I missed out on most of my brother’s life when I left home & never looked back, something I didn’t realize until I sat in a pew at his funeral.

Additionally, she would have wanted us to stay at her home and I’d been forewarned that I wouldn’t be able to handle the smell.  (When we visited on our second day it was actually worse for my daughter.  The poor little unscathed soul kept asking for a gas mask between gasps of putrid air & gagging noises.)

If I hadn’t visited then I’d have missed some of the most bizarre oddities of my lifetime, like the fact that Mom has her own full-size tanning bed circa 1982.  She seemed surprised that I was awestruck.   I couldn’t have been more confused if I’d found a time machine in her home. 

Evidently she believes it’s common to stumble upon such items sitting along side mounted fish and a nearly 30 year old photo montage.  (There was even a yellow plastic carousel to hold spray bottles & moisturizers!)

I’m in the dark as to whether the dog wears a little plastic eyepiece when he tans.

The only thing more bizarre was when she opened the door to her ex-husband’s room & I immediately noticed my senior pictures on the wall, right where he might see them just as he awakens or falls asleep (YUCK). 

However, he likely doesn’t even realize what’s there, since he hasn’t noticed the white petrified dog turd I immediately zoned in on as it sat near the entrance to the room, greeting us both “Hello” and “Good-bye.”

* * * * *

Let’s start at the beginning:

Upon arrival at my sister’s home I stepped out of the car, heard a sucking sound & almost lost my shoe in the mud. 

My step-father (hereafter known as “Jackass”) was way too involved in the set-up of my sister’s modular home.  He didn’t bother to level the concrete properly when the foundation was laid.  No grass seed was sewn, there are no green shoots coming up in either the front or back yards.  Each time they lay another load of gravel in the driveway it disappears. 

I did not see Jackass during the trip because at nearly 70, trying to dry out from years of alcoholic stupor, he’s back driving a truck full of livestock.  Although divorced, they continue to run a business together & live in the same home. 

He is a moron in every possible sense of the word.  He was a preacher for a short while.  His creative interpretation of the Bible is masterful.

Since my brother is no longer available to place his massive hands around Jackass’s throat, chase him around the truck garage or squat his 400 pound body upon Jackass’s head and fart into his perpetually open mouth, Jackass is no longer afraid to show the true depths of his monumental idiocy & his hatred for our mother. 

In turn, this makes her desperate for his love & approval.  She is only willing to show kindness to those willing to kick her in the head or sh*t on her face. 

Hopefully Jackass will drive his truck off a bridge in a spectacular blaze of glory & a massive shower of cow dung.  If lucky it will fill his snout & in the after-life he will finally have good reason for speaking like a mush mouth.

* * * * *

When we arrived at my sister’s, Mom was there waiting.  We were greeted at the door by two Boxers lunging for our throats.  They’re loud & sound quite vicious, which entertains Mom to no end & makes her giggle, her eyes sparkle.  I’d forewarned my daughter that it would take time for the dogs to get used to us, but even I was nervous when the big one put my hand in his mouth.  He’s barely a year old & gives me an inkling of what it was to play with a T-Rex.

It was late and the kids were in bed already.  Although clearly happy to see us, Mom had little to say.  It would be easier, more understandable, if one of us didn’t speak English.  A valid reason for our inability to communicate would bring it all into a sensible realm.  She is as wary of me as I am of her.

I’d brought lots of clothes and books from home, so I immediately distributed it all to make myself appear useful, creating the pretense of a purpose for this surprising trip that no one ever expected would actually happen.  Sort of like Halloween, with me dressed as the UPS man.

No one mentioned the 26-foot pachyderm in the room, no one said, “Gee, it’s interesting that you’re here in Kentucky after . . . . what is it?  23 years?”  Everyone pretended it was completely normal to see my daughter and I in my sister’s living room. 

We talked about our drive, the weather, and then my mother went home for the night.  It could only go downhill from there.

(To Be Continued)

Twisted Black Humor & A Side of Pungent Odor

Sometimes I read other blogs and think I am the most boring bitch on the planet . . . so I write about my mother.

My girlfriend sent out an e-mail this morning about her husband’s aunt, recently divorced after discovering the uncle doing gay porn on the internet.  The aunt is already dating but didn’t bring the newest boyfriend to the last family get together and her kids (in their late 20′s and early 30′s) wanted to know why.

Her response reminded me so much of something my mother might say: “Ah, I blew him twice and the next move would have been to f*ck him, but he smelled really bad.”

My husband and I were laughing about the fact that it really did sound like something my mother would say, but then he added: “Except I don’t think your mom would care about the smell.”

He’s right.

The Absolute Best Twisted Book I’ve Ever Read

Various and sundry things take me away from blogging, like collecting 294 Flair on Facebook.  Now that’s dedication!

I’m into philosophical sh*t, too, & humanitarian aid (for chocolate rabbits).

Also included in my busy days are book sales.  I hoard books & place them in piles around the house, a kind of eccentric decor that’s welcoming to those who like dust & eau de musty.  Occasionally I rearrange just for fun, taking extra care not to confuse mine with the library books, of which I rented 21 just yesterday.

I sit and peruse books while watching the big screen TV, with my laptop — where else — in my lap.  Multi-tasking is a joy to the scattered Gemini brain.  (My husband, in direct opposition, enjoys commercials & re-runs, watching with the glazed eyes of a bloodhound observing a Milk-Bone commercial.  He dozes off, then wakes himself with a snort.)

Sometimes, I get frustrated.  We have quite a heavy viewing schedule.  The person in charge of the remote control is expected to hit the button as fast as possible whenever fast forwarding is an option.  (We’ve had actual altercations.  What is the proper waiting time (in seconds) before the person without the changer is allowed to derisively suggest the fast forwarding option?)   It’s a heavy burden.

When the television schedule is weak we have Blockbuster movies.  (For example, The Changeling with Angelina Jolie last week scored a 9.5 with all of us.  Milk, for me at least, was a full 10.  Sean Penn was outrageous!)  If the movies have run dry, we turn to recorded shows on the DVR. 

The kitchen is nearby for snacking purposes.

Momentarily moving away from the original subject at hand, recently my bowling partner, Lynn, informed me that she has seen “less than 100 movies in her entire lifetime.”  I’d have been less shocked to hear of a vine extending from her vagina, eating away at her leg. 

She is 50 years old & computer literate, not visually unusual in any way I can surmise.  She is not Amish.  Mathematically speaking — and I’m no genius — we’re talking fewer than 2 movies PER YEAR.  Surely Patty Hearst was allowed more than that even while kidnapped.

* * * * *

Anyway, my point is I recently found

 THE BEST BOOK I’VE EVER READ:

Emergency!: True Stories From The Nation’s ERs

Mark Brown, M.D., collected these stories from around the country.  It’s truly fantastical.  I’ve always abeen a fan of reality, but this is super-charged. 

WARNING:  Read no further if you lap up milk with your tongue & frequently make meowing sounds . . .

Let me give you just a sample from a piece titled “The Wish” on page 14:

“In an upper-income community hospital Emergency Department, a fifty-year-old matron complained of mild abdominal pain and fever.  The patient was on an antidepressant, but she had no other significant medical history.  Her physical exam was unremarkable.  Lab tests did little to further the diagnosis.  I decided to proceed with a pelvic exam. . .

“The pelvic exam revealed that the patient’s labia were pinned together with three large, rusty safety pins.

“The patient apparently had a long psychiatric history, including obsessive behavior focused on her inability to bear children.  Two weeks earlier, the patient had purchased a small chicken at the market and had inserted it, piece by piece, into her vagina.  She had pinned her labia to keep the chicken in place and was waiting for it to develop into a baby.

“The patient was subsequently admitted to the psych unit, but not before she was washed out with two liters of Betadine douche and the entire chicken carcass was accounted for.”

GREGORY DAVID POST, M.D.  New York, New York

* * * * *

Here’s one more that explains the previously mentioned “vagina vine.”  It’s entitled “The Human Vineyard” (pages 72-73):

“An elderly female comes to the Emergency Department complaining: ‘I got the green vines in my virginny.’  The patient reports a two-week history of a vine growing from her vagina.  On physical examination it is discovered that she does indeed have a vine growing out of her vagina, about six inches in length.  A pelvic exam reveals a mass which is easily removed from the vaginal vault, vine still attached.  Upon extraction, the patient reports that her uterus had been falling out and that she ‘put a potato in there to hold it up’ and subsequently forgot about it.”

JOHN RIORDAN, M.D.  Charlotte, North Carolina

The book gets better with each page.

* * * * *

I am so completely jealous of ER nurses now.  The germ factor would be an issue, but I think I’d be willing to get over it.

Pamajama Questions: Twisted Investigator At Your Service

For most of last week I was designing questions instead of blogging, after posting Twisted Red Questions.  I made the offer to interview other bloggers without a thought, not realizing my psychosis would take this mission as seriously as any currently underway at NASA.  

I didn’t feel comfortable asking questions if I hadn’t read the ENTIRE BLOG, so I did, six times.  Starting at the beginning is the best way to “get it.”  Just as I can’t imagine becoming a fan of ”The Office” in season four, it makes a difference in blogland, too.  I wish I could always start with post #1; however, the time involved is insane.

If you’d like to check out my victims, here’s the list:

1.) Birdpress  (A newlywed who currently lives in Kentucky, I especially love her insights on life & addiction issues.  Can you imagine how much more evolved the world would be if we all went to rehab just once?  She’s a smart cookie who’s both thoughtful and so understated.  Fabulous photos on her site, often of a dog grooming “before and after.”  Answers posted.)

2.) SassyMamaSays  (Sassy Mama is a perfectionist at heart.  I imagine her clipping the yard with a pair of scissors, looking absolutely beautiful while she does it, two gorgeous dogs standing guard.  Reading all her entries highlighted my belief that — although Jimmy Kimmel and Brad Pitt look quite different – we’re all the same at the inner core.  However, Sassy Mama’s baby pictures are unequaled.  Answers are posted.)

3.) Craving Silence  (I had never read this blog, other than a post here and there, so I really was at a loss.  Once I dug into it, holy crap.  These questions were the most over the top & totally inappropriate, kind of like walking up to a stranger on the street who you’ve been tailing for months & mentioning the most intimate of details.  Answers pending)

4.) FontanaJourney  (I know Aimee in real life.  She’s at home with three beautiful kids, tearing her hair out, sewing felt vests & baking beautiful cakes.  Usually she’s out-numbered with an additional 3 or 7 children on hand, just for fun.  In fact, she’s in the process of adopting a teenage daughter from Haiti.  She’s supposed to be posting her answers here, cause she’s not anonymous and plans to REALLY answer them.  I can’t wait.)

5.) BaconIsMyLover  (My girl, Heather, is where I go when I want to laugh like a wack job.  She has become an addiction, I can’t miss an episode detailing her f*cked up neighbors or crazy friends or screaming nephews.  She has a heart of gold & her family totally rivals my own, maybe even wins.  She’s just so much nicer about it all.  Her use of the English language is kick ass & extaordinary.  Answers posted.)

6.) TheGirlFromTheGhetto  (Most of you probably have visited this blog, she’s recently surpassed 1,000,000 hits!  She’s honest and often skips the PC bullshit, which is what I love.  Her life has been more than amazing, from growing up in “a mouse house” to marrying the man of her dreams after a 24-hour engagement.  Reality show fans will love her reviews.  Answers posted.)

Just received another request, this time from the beautiful, funny, intelligent & insightful Pammy Girl.  She’s a combination of modern day Mary Tyler Moore & Lucille Ball antics.  Amazingly she’s single and – although I usually am a tremendous defender of the male species – this is the one fact of the universe that convinces me all those wacky e-mail forwards from bitter women must be  right, men are really stupid.

* * * * *

In person I’ve been asked if I’m an investigator or a reporter.  Limited to five questions, this exercise made me nuts.

My inner yapper is oh so frustrated by societal norms, unsatisfied with the conversational subjects I’m limited to with most people.  If I discover you’ve recently visited China, I don’t want to know about the temples, I’m interested in the toilets.  “How was your squatting experience?”

I think we’ve reached a place where loneliness is common, even in a crowd.  I hate that.

So I’d like to say THANKS to those of you who joined in on this escapade.  I love you for it.

Twisted Red Questions

Recently I asked Red to send me questions, like most every other blogger in the universe has eventually capitulated and asked of someone.  Except in this instance I picked best!   Red (a/k/a Sam) is a shy girl extraordinaire, blowing our minds with her honesty, making poetry out of life (real life, not pretend).  She’s the heroine who warns us about people who sh*t in hotel room coffee pots, the chick any sane man would love to call his own.

Here we go:

1.) It’s 30 minutes before your last breath; describe your final meal.

My immediate thought is “Oh, f*cking food, even at the end it’s got to be an issue.”  There have been many instances where I’ve still been looking at the menu 30 minutes into a restaurant visit.  I really hope I would choose nothing at all, but more than likely I’d go with a Cheesecake Factory Godiva Chocolate Brownie Sundae.  I am a gulper, and since I’d be nervous, that would only take a couple of minutes to gorge myself on.  Follow it up with an entire assorted cheesecake to include slices of Oreo & Cherry.  If time allows, warm apple pie a la mode would complete the picture.

If I wasn’t hungry for food — not likely, considering , but then I’ve never died before — I’d lick my husband one last time.

2.)  How do you feel about the “If it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down” rule? 

Interesting & odd subject matter, dear Red.  As it turns out, we live in a house with a septic system, no public sewer.  We are quite careful not to upset the delicate balance and so the answer to this question is entirely different than it would have been just a few years ago.  I personally am a frequent flusher.  However, with the other family members yellow tends to sit, sometimes longer than I think it should.  The real issue is that when people are drinking the proper amount of water urine should be clear and practically colorless.  When it’s not, I harass people. 

Worst of all, when the power goes out the toilets are unflushable.  It’s totally nasty.  Brown needs to disappear immediately, but that doesn’t always happen either.  Our upstairs bathroom, even once flushed, has the tendency to leave floaters behind as gifts from others to me.  I’m totally unappreciative.  Lastly, we are a wet wipe family & flush no paper, it all goes in the can.  We dump the garbage frequently.

3.) Would you rather lie, cheat or steal . . . and why?

I’m against both cheating and stealing, but it’s my opinion that lies are utterly necessary for life on planet Earth.  Sometimes I lie just to get through the day.  My thoughts are quite often not appropriate for sharing.  I’ve never enjoyed hurting people’s feelings, even those of people I don’t like.  So I lie just to disguise my real opinions about things that could ultimately cause upset, anger, disagreement or complete loss of a relationship.  I lie to escape nearly anything I suspect will end in confrontation, something I usually avoid at all costs.  

I also lie for excuses about things like work, attendance & timeliness.  I can be incredibly lazy and a bit of a social misfit, so I regularly lie about things I don’t want to do, places I don’t want to go, people I don’t want to see.  I even ask family members to lie for me when the phone rings & I don’t want to answer it.  I’ve gone so far as to crawl on all fours and pretend not to be at home, rather than open the door and say “Hello.”  I’m pretty f*cked up, considering I have no qualms about any of it. 

Finally, I think creative lying is highly under-rated as a fun & entertaining activity.  I especially love telling lies to small children, convincing them of things that are completely untrue.  My son believed I was able to turn into the big bad wolf if he misbehaved.

4.)  List five good things about yourself.

  (1) Those crazy thoughts that I can’t share are very entertaining. 

  (2) I’m not particularly hairy.

  (3) I have no warts at this moment in time.

  (4) I seem to be a relatively understanding person.  Like I could meet a murderer and within 30 minutes I’d be explaining why he couldn’t help himself, his mother made him do it.

  (5) If spelling was a job, I’d be the president of a very important company.

  (6) (Bonus Answer) If I had to save my own life by writing 700 words of utter stupidity, I’d live.

* * * * *

Now, if you’d like me to ask YOU questions, I promise to make them real doozies.

Bowlers Are Interesting, Bloggers Are Best

I love my fellow bloggers. 

After the last entry I entered WordPress and found 14 fantastical replies. Just like multiple O’s with chocolate peanut butter ice cream & Godiva chocolates (no jelly, no hidden fruit).  Believe me, people in diabetic comas can die happy.

In the midst of all that reverie my nagging husband forced me to leave for league bowling, a scene better than imagination could conjure. 

There stood my competitor, a woman sporting just one tooth up top & a dangerously low-slung brassiere barely holding her mammoth pendulous breasticals down below.  In my mind’s eye this undergarment was a dingy gray with but a fringe of dried elastic left, waiting to disintegrate in the next over-heated laundromat dryer session.  She is the same woman we watched from across the lanes on the memorable evening her nipples were pointing in opposite directions, one up/one down, like a nightmarish philosophical choice with no good option.  By the end of the evening I’d decided she must have had the hardest life of anyone I know, sleeping under bridges & eating gummy worms for breakfast.

Please understand, I’m not trying to sound hoity-toity here.  I am this woman’s sister in questionable fashion & gum disease.  I have a personal periodontist!  For an entire decade I believed the bullshit advertisements suggesting a bra can be both functional & comfortable!   I have worn clothing that belonged only in a landfill, underwear that would have been degrading & offensive if donated to Katrina survivors. 

Don’t call me a bitch just cause I’m concerned about my fellow athlete. 

She bowls with her boyfriend, who is nearly blind.  He’s not a bad looking guy — certainly not a good looking guy — but it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the very thick lenses of his glasses.  It’s not even the fact that his eyes appear huge and distorted, like looking into the wrong end of a pair of binoculars or a magnifying glass, it’s because the lenses are so filthy dirty.  I wonder how can he possibly see through the greasy film & fingerprints.  Does he not know they can be cleaned?  If I took them from him and wiped them down would he look at me with amazement and call me Messiah?

The two of them brought snacks, a huge bottle of iced tea & nuts.  They slurped and sloshed together out of the same drink bottle and once his spittle shot a nut particle across the table and I felt it hit my skin.  His cursing was phenomenal, every sentence loaded with ‘F’ bombs and creative English.  Most people will tone it down a bit with an 11-year old three feet away, but not this excitable dude.  When my daughter mentioned it I thought perhaps we should spend more time with this guy, as he made me look so much better than when we limit our friends to serious folk with a bent for morally scrupulous behavior.  I could feel a halo begin forming above my head & I liked it.

I started asking questions when I tired of his insane political diatribes.  We got stuck on the the subject of fish.  For two hours I was schooled in the details of fish tanks, fish behavior, fish costs, fish & coral, fish eggs & fish poop.  Were you aware that sand is often the end result of fish ingesting coral?  Neither was I.

At some point his teammate wandered over.  He has a heart condition, high blood pressure & cholesterol problems.  I can’t help but be concerned.  The arguments with his girlfriend — their fourth bowler – are causing extra stress he surely doesn’t need.  I also question his dietary choices, including the enormous smelly steak he bought from the snack food stand, then stood & ate at the counter with a plastic knife & fork.  The girlfriend left after the first game, claiming knee injury.  However, I believe she was really there just to get her share of the beef, which she practically snorted with enthusiasm.

I left feeling a little like Mother Teresa of the bowling community, anxious to return to the sanity of WordPress.

Even in Blogland I’m A Twisted Brat

There’s a familiar voice that pops into my head, an incredible brat.  Lately she’s been noisy as hell.

We bowl on a league & last week the brat was in charge.  Without fail, I walk in hating our opponents before we even meet.  Part of it’s competitive, the rest a defensiveness against unknowns.  Bowlers are odd to begin with, all the hand slapping & talk of balls.  We competed against a 60-year old woman with a cheerleading fetish.  If she’d fallen on the floor into a coma I’d have just stepped over her to take my next turn, that’s how annoying she was.

I make it all worse by not attempting conversation.  I’ve been rejecting others before they can do it to me for 30 years now.  As a final act, I secretly mock the woman with dandruff on her sweater or a bra so lacking in support that one breast points toward the belly button & the other in the direction of the stars.

Magically, everything changes before the end of each evening.  Somewhere along the way conversation begins & I am instantly hooked, empathy engaged.  I leave knowing about their children, their dogs & the vacation to Alaska, which package I should go for.  My personality changes as if a switch on my ass has been flipped.  My own behavior is as bizarre as anything I’ve ever seen.  It really is true, there are no strangers, only friends I haven’t met yet.

* * * * *

It’s not always so simple to flip the switch. 

One of my favorite bloggers has become as popular as a minor rock star in recent months.  Whereas I used to be the dedicated roadie, there’s now a crew as excitable as the chicks traveling with Brett Michaels!  The larger the reader contingent becomes, the harder it is to leave comments.   

Brats are competitive AND immature, so if I’m number 16 of 37, or 72 of 112, f*ck it.  If every other post says, “This was a great entry!  You are so cool!”  what purpose is there to chime in with repetition?  I laugh at my own ridiculousness, but it’s true.

I did not anticipate that blogging would bring about the same sh*t experienced in the hallways of my high school.  Still I gag at sitting in the stands with the Pep Club.  

No matter where you go, you take yourself along (neuroses included).

A miniscule 14 months as an only child and it ruined me for life.  I want to be “only” and “special” like a whiny crack addict or loud alcoholic. 

I don’t share well AND I have an extra jealous gene. 

Not in this particular instance, but more than once I’ve found interesting bloggers with practically no comments at all.  It was fun adding to their blank pages.  Then two of those bitches took me off their blog rolls, as soon as their blogs took off.  They broke up with me!  I wanted to write and ask if I did something offensive, but I’m far too cool for open honest communication.  Instead, the brat says: 

F*ck’em.

Like my rock star pal, sometimes I want to be adored by masses, too!   It can’t be my goal, though.  My craving for approval is already a little too great. 

If I should fall, hit my head, be knocked unconscious & wake to find myself the accidental third in a threesome, s*xual pleasure would be the least of my concerns.  I’d be too focused on being the favorite.  I’d ask the other chick if she thought his weiner was crooked or I’d whisper “I smell funky fish” in his ear.  If they seemed too into each other I’d ask who farted or maybe secretly pull a tootsie roll out from between the cheeks of my ass & accuse one or the other of a massive dingleberry.  

Realistically, I know people love you or hate you & success is being true to yourself either way.  It’s just that I have to fight past the brat to hear myself think.

You need to be just a little bit f*cked up to really get me, to enjoy what’s often based in dysfunction and human stupidity.  It’s part of why there will probably never be 27 commenters per post here, nor 270.  In some ways that’s a good thing.  I’m not even all that comfortable being loved by family members.  Too much sweetness & I gag as if drinking maple syrup. 

Still, I find blogs I really like & worry what the author will think of me if they visit here.  How much will I offend them just by being me?  It’s like small talk in real life.  I can choose to smile & fake it, which I sometimes do, but invariably I eventually blurt out something like, “My mom shot a dog once” or “My step-brother sent me a picture of his p*nis & believe me when I say he’s not exaggerating!”

It’s a delicate equation.

 

Twisted Thoughts, Tissues & Time Management

The winter doldrums are here & I’m questioning the way I spend my time. 

I am not one of those women who love to say, “Oh, I am so busy, busy, busy!”  The longer I’m on this planet the more I wonder why anyone would want to live that kind of life, let alone admit to it.  I’ve dropped out of the race to do the most, have the most, be the most, blah, blah, blah.

Now I’m not talking about working two jobs to barely pay the mortgage, I’m talking about people who fill their calendars by choice and then brag under the guise of complaint.

In the end, we all still die and none of it matters for shit.  (I don’t think I need to be on anti-depressants at this point, but if you disagree I’d be interested in your opposing opinions.)

HOWEVER . . . there is a need for a happy medium, as exhibited by the fact that my accomplishments this winter include:

(1)  A game of Bookworm that reached almost 4,000,000 points;

(2) Convincing my husband to leave the Christmas tree up all year long as a conversation piece;

(3) Forty-eight episodes of Trading Spouses & WifeSwap;

(4) Tears spilled over Dr. Drew Pinsky’s Sober House;

(5) Learning the basics of Facebook, something I never, ever needed to do; and . . .

(6) A single dinner party for nine guests, five of whom were children. 

We cleaned for 10 hours beforehand and I screamed at least 28 times over inane things that were purely caused and created by my own failure to keep up with the basics.  I’m not a fan of daily, repetitive, mundane upkeep, not at all. 

I even complained to my husband that he must stop buying “such ugly f*cking tissue boxes that sit on the counter for a year collecting dust.” 

In reply, I received this from a UPS truck two weeks later:

 

Yes, my husband purchased specially ordered boxes of Kleenex just for me.  You can, too, at www.kleenex.com!  Briana, the girl above with curly hair, is not a member of our family.  She was mistakenly included and we got to keep her.

Obviously, I don’t budget my time wisely.  The real problem is that I’m not sure what’s important enough that it matters.

Cooking?  Augh.

Cleaning?  Ack.

No one seems to notice the cobwebs when you’ve got funny tissue boxes all over the house.

* * * * *

What I’d really like to know is how much time other people spend on blogging.  I can write and re-write for hours.  It’s not working for me. 

When I’m writing and reading and commenting and tracking there is no time for mothering and cooking and cleaning and showering.

(Obviously I don’t really do a lot of that stuff, but sometimes I think I should at least pretend.)

How do you find time for both blogging and regular life?

Twisted Holiday Condensed

Occasionally you come across something so fantastic you must share it with your friends.  “Fantastic” plus ”dysfunctional” equals “Pamajama’s Favorite Things.”

Two posts in particular, holiday hang-overs, meet that definition.  To find them please visit NathalieWithAnH (whose sister has gone so completely over the edge of creative insanity that it very nearly took my breath away) and Keltic Kaos (a description of Christmas antics that had me choking with delight & in tears from laughter).  If you bother reading anything at all this year, these two clicks are my recommendation.

As I’ve shared my own crazy stories, more people have shared their own experiences with me.  It’s been a gift to realize it’s a rare family that escapes qualifying for an event in the Dysfunctional Family Olympics.

Like everything else, I’m usually more than happy to stick with my own medal arena.  Just in the last few months I’ve come to realize that so often the people who had it the worst speak about it the least.  When they do tell their stories I wonder (1.) how they survived and (2.) why I’m such a whiner.

* * * * *

I have just a smidgen to report regarding my own family’s hijinx. 

My niece is still in prison & her children have not yet been released from foster care to my sister.  I would attach the picture we received of the three kids visiting her, but honestly it’s so pathetic I can’t stoop quite that low.  I believe the scrawled handwriting at the bottom of the instamatic photo is what completely did me in.  (I know, it’s hard to imagine a low place I’m unwilling to go & I wonder what in the hell is happening to me.) 

As for Christmas day itself, my mother took her favorite dog to my sister’s house Christmas Day and it of course peed on the new carpet.  (I’d rather spend the day alone in a movie theater with just a single other patron, a guy with his hands in his pants.)

Mom also sent us two enormous boxes of gifts that I did not return.

Evidently I can be bought for a price and (previously unbeknownst to me) that dollar amount equals: 12 books, his & hers XL green sweatshirts, a hideous polyester pull-over with attachable tacky necklace & matching jacket, a purple pillow that says “Princess,” three horror flicks, a John Deere t-shirt, cash for the kids and a check with my name on it.

Also included was a bag of soaps & air fresheners from Pier One Imports, enough perfumed product to suggest my family expels noxious fumes at the same rate as any airport or toxic waste dump.  (I’ve been told the air fresheners are so popular in Illinois that more than once they were stolen right off the toilet tank by dirt bag pals.)

In total, said items bought her a Christmas card, photo montage & two e-mails.

I’d planned on sending any checks I received to my brother’s girlfriend, but as it turns out she’s already dating someone new.  So like I’m cool with that, but I’m not utterly stupid.

As would be expected, my sister’s son received $1,000 and mine got $250 for Christmas and birthday combined.  The fact that my son has grown up without this particular grandmother’s influence  is worth so much more than a $750 annual fee.

* * * * *

On New Year’s Eve the favored grandson got drunk,  punched a female bar patron in the face & went directly to jail without passing “Go.”  We’ll find out what else comes of it in court on February 10th.  The boy is an absolute monster when he drinks.

In other words, please butter my butt and call me a biscuit if I ever lose sight of how lucky I’ve been in this lifetime.

If Only ~ Words For a Twisted Little Girl

There’s never a time when Aunt Becky over at Mommy Wants Vodka doesn’t have something funny and interesting to say, plus a question. She’s like a machine, pumping out entertaining blog entries beyond my abilities or imagination, even as she parents two young boys and prepares for the arrival of the first girl (yippee!).

Today her question was so intriguing I just had to turn it into a blog entry.

What do you wish you could tell your younger self?

This subject could easily be a bottomless pit, considering the number of things I’ve done wrong over the years, so I’m holding myself to a total of ten random pieces of advice for Baby Pamajama.  Here goes:

1. Do not pee in small bottles for other people.  First, it’s illegal.  Second, you should already be running, fast and far.  Although it may be confusing at first, drug addicts are not better partners than alcoholics.  Accept neither as appropriate for a single wasted minute of your life. 

2.  There is at least one extraordinarily kind man out there who will adore you appropriately.  Life can be both wonderful & simple, no raised voices, no arguing, no name-calling.  Hard to imagine, huh?

He’ll have to make a detour through Vietnam but will eventually find you.

3. Pay your bills on time.  Bad credit & bill collectors are more humiliation than anyone needs.  Do not loan money, never, ever, not even the first time.  Be a hard-assed selfish bitch & enjoy the role.  If you have enough to lend, put it in savings instead.  Better yet, spend less & just give it away.

4. Be an easy-going mom.  It doesn’t matter if they flunk out of school in 4th grade or plug up the toilet with your jewelry, as long as they’re still alive.  Never raise your voice to children.  It doesn’t work.  Silence is more frightening.  Screaming women look like idiots.  It’s a horrible way to live.

By the way, don’t worry, your relationship with your daughter will be NOTHING like yours with your mother. 

The more babies, the better.

5. Never allow yourself to get really fat, like belly rolls & sh*t.  It’s totally heinous.  The best way to accomplish that is by not comparing yourself to other girls, especially girls who are barely five feet tall, girls whose bones are the size of fork tines, whose heads are the size of thimbles.

Trim your bangs!

 

Wear high heels & eat your vegetables.  Strut your stuff with attitude.  Ignore Mom’s attempts to make you buy men’s clothing & cut off your hair, she is psycho.  When she tells you that your personality is not fit to make a good beautician, stab her.  By the way, it’s not true, make-up does not make you look like a slut.  Refuse any & all diet products, find a sport instead.

6. You are beautiful, funny & worthy of the best in life, no matter what anyone says.  She’s just jealous.  The only opinion of you that matters is your own and it’s contagious.  Do not share yourself as easily as smokers do a Bic lighter or a pack of Marlboros.  Stray body fluids kill. 

7. Stay in school until you find the thing you love.  Do not take the easy way out & skip statistics, do not smoke pot before every geometry class.

 After childbirth you will need every extra brain cell, there are none to spare.

8. Remember birthdays, spoil your friends, stay in touch.  Girlfriends can last 50 years but almost all boyfriends eventually marry someone else who will get both child support AND alimony if he keeps calling.  Your own marriage will be in jeopardy if you attempt to help him through it.

9. Do not allow fear to rule your life.  Death is just a thing, you will eventually see them again.  I’m sure of it.  Most of all, tell Grandma how much you love her, right now, today.  Tell her she’s wonderful & beautiful & let her know her love made all the difference.

10. Last but not least, don’t wait 40 years to tell your mom she’s a c*nt. 

Go ahead.  Do it right now.

If you don’t like how she’s treating your siblings SAY IT or you’ll live with the regret forever.  Grow wicked verbal balls.  Let her beat the sh*t out of you and smile while she does it.  It’s a much better choice than cowering from words that will stay in your head forever, crushing your soul. 

Always stand up for yourself, never back down.  It’s the only way to live.

Reasonable Resolutions ~ No More Maggots

(POSSIBLY INAPPROPRIATE FOR A WORK ENVIRONMENT)

* * * * *

THIRTY FREAKING YEARS OF FAILED RESOLUTIONS CONDENSED:

Eat right!  Fruit, vegetables, protein (fiber added after 40)!

No cursing or screaming, well-modulated voice, don’t be a bitch! 

Diet plan: “No sugar, no flour.  Weigh 142 by June 16th!”

1982, 1984, 1987, 1991, 1995, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2007

* * * * *

On January 1st, 2008 I published REASONABLE RESOLUTIONS FOR 2008.  I’m overdue for a review.

I will not be writing new resolutions for 2009.

At this rate, these should last another 50 years.

(Updates are written in bold italics!)

* * * * *

1.) I will continue to avoid all dutiful obligations of a wife and mother until it is absolutely imperative that I perform (i.e. cooking, cleaning, playdates), as I profess a profound love for my family.

No doubt I’m following through.

My husband shrunk a “dry clean only” sweater I tried to wear this morning (laundry incident #2 this week).  I called him at his high-stress important job, let the phone ring eight times  & called him a mother-f’ing Pennsylvania hick.  There was maybe some off the wall comment about his poor grammar, too, but detailed memory & black rage are incompatible.

He was not angry when I called later to apologize, so I said nothing when he forgot two chicken breasts in the oven this evening (for 3 hours) after working a full day at the office.  I am thoughtful like that. 

During a conversation with my daughter today, as she tried to speak from her heart, I told her to please use her finger to comb her eyebrows.  I can’t think until each tiny hair is aligned perfectly.  As she continues to ramble on about something or other I wonder how long before I can have her waxed, wonder who I can trust.  I think, “I am mentally deranged.”

Last week she fell asleep on the couch at the pseudo-in-laws, so afterwards I told her she drooled & snored, then her head fell on someone’s shoulder.  She kept asking “REALLY?!”  Saying, “NO, I DID NOT!”  I kept doing imitations and thinking of more hideous possibilities.  It was her fault for getting so excited, cause that totally egged me on.

Check.

Hey, at least I didn’t do THIS!

2.) I will keep my ass shaved to the point that it will not hide dingleberries in the bush, my underarm hair at no more than one-quarter inch.

Not really an issue, I am more like a hairless cat every day.  The problem is I hate hairless cats.  I will commit suicide if I ever remind myself of one of those hairless dogs with a crest on top of my head.

3.) I will refuse any and all sexual advances from strangers who find me incredibly fascinating, no matter how badly they beg or plead for my attentions.  I will continue to protect my “Exit/No Entry Zone” at all costs.

I was only approached by two strange men this past year, both at my brother’s funeral, one with quite a large beer belly plus a heart condition.  Both appeared to find me intoxicating & that’s a trait I’d like to whole-heartedly endorse, even under such tacky circumstance.  Show me adoration & you can capture my attention for at least 12 days while I pretend your buddha belly is a magic 8-ball instead of impacted feces. 

I’m not into perfection. 

(If I wasn’t married, I mean.  The dude I sometimes call “MO” or occasionally “BABY JESUS” has enthralled me for 15 years, which means he’s more magical than the spawn of David Blaine & Sylvia Browne.)

I have most certainly protected my Exit/No Entry Zone, other than that damned hemorrhoidectomy.  In that singular instance my direction was “FULL SPEED AHEAD” before losing consciousness. 

4.) I will never watch television for more than fourteen hours in a single day.  I will uphold the standards of all in-bred midwestern white trash as I avoid anything educational unless it relates to bi-sexuals like Tila Tequila or naked dwarves.  I will continue to try to find a way to work “That’s what she said” into all conversation.

I can’t prove it, but I think the computer was an even bigger issue this year.  Many times I just never went to bed.  There’s not enough time in the day to blog AND read blogs.

Plus that extra piece called life. 

How do YOU do it?

As for television, I still stay far away from the Discovery Channel in favor of “Housewives of Atlanta” & every other freak show.  That damned Vicki on ”Housewives of Orange County,” Real & Chance of  “Real Chance Of Love” and my beloved Sugar of this year’s ”Survivor” are so much better than actual pain in the @ss family members. 

Like these . . .

 

Are you wondering who those people are?  Look closely . . . 

5.) I will bathe more often than my mother, so that my brother’s girlfriend never says that I reek of butt odor as bad as my brother when he just comes off the road.  If I can smell my tampon I will acknowledge the need for a new one.

Do I get a ribbon for succeeding at this one? 

I’m sure my brother would be pleased he’s still getting named in the resolutions.  Well, maybe not.  I’m leaving it in anyway.  By the way, anyone know where the term P.U. came from?

6.) I will not beg my husband this year to take me out in his police car for my birthday & run the siren & lights, nor will I ask him to pull over & ticket people of my choosing (even though if he really loved me he would do this).  I will not search for his gun when visiting children jump on my good furniture with shoes & sticky fingers.

Change my mind on this one.  Some resolutions are stupid.

7.) Since I made my husband purchase a large house with a huge & expensive swimming pool, I will take a dip at least twice next summer.  I will attempt to invite people over at least once for a pool party & will not spend more than $1,000 on accoutrements for the get together, namely cookie cakes and new patio furniture.

We managed to find a middle ground by inviting lesbians instead of in-laws, which pleased the husband.  Perfect.

8.) When I am feeding the smelly, squealing guinea pigs multiple heads of Romaine lettuce I will consider the possibility of making a salad for our human family.  I will cook a single meat loaf for my husband at least once during each season & I will not insist that he applaud, although it would be good if he did.

F*ck that.  I live for an appreciative audience.  I must have been on drugs when I wrote some of these (or at a minimum, high on chocolate peanut butter ice cream.)

9.) I will keep trying to find a job where I will be greatly appreciated and highly paid for knowing a little bit about everything but not much about anything in particular.  I will try to perform work daily and not tell lies like I did at my last job, i.e. broken arm, broken collar bone, dead relatives, electrical failure.

No such job exists.  Since Target refused my application, I give up.  The humiliation factor is ridiculous.  Plus, one of my few talents is the ability to create believable lies.  Why should my skills be denied? 

I like making others feel good when they compare themselves to me.  Unfortunately, it’s a non-paid volunteer position.

10.) I will maintain a level of cleanliness in my house that does not invite insects of any species, I will spill nothing in the car that could cause maggots to breed again.

SCORE!  Success at last. 

Low expectations, better than anti-depressants.

* * * * *