Thieves & Heartbreakers &/or I Cried Like A Jackass in Johnny Rockets

Today I found out that someone I know spent $140,000 to get pregnant through In-Vitro Fertilization.

I told my husband about it and he said,

“To each his own.” 

What a stupid fucking thing to say.  I mean, yes, to each his own.

But isn’t that kind of a conversation stopper?

There are so many pieces of this subject we could discuss, ad nauseum.  Instead, he seems to think conversation is unnecessary, perhaps hedonistic.

How did I marry a man so adverse to communication when it’s so necessary for my mental health?

If you read my comments, though, you know that Soapbox Diva thinks I should stay here so the kids will visit on Thanksgiving!

Fuck that, fuck me, fuck everything.

Where do I even begin regarding my thoughts on that subject?

My 14-year old daughter is being such a complete shit that I’m not sure I’d pay $140 to get pregnant if I had to do it all over again.

Now I’m not saying I’m a gift to motherhood.  I’m a complete pain in the ass, especially when I burst into tears like eight times in three days, twice in different restaurants.

Abandonment, loss, grief . . . those are the buttons being pushed.  I know it’s selfish and I’m a professional victim.

As my daughter will tell you, I analyze the FUCK out of everything.  Similar in attitude to my brother, who told me the last time I saw him, ”If you’re going to ANALYZE everything, leave me out of it.”

An un-analyzed life seems so pointless to me and yet I’m surrounded by people who think otherwise.  I just don’t get it.  I want to know everything, I need to know everything, it’s the only way I can understand people.

To know all is to forgive all.

The girl was 2 when the boy hit 14 and she watched from from a front row seat.  He was so lucky to escape while I had another chick in the nest.

Nothing about my expectations were reasonable.  She fed into the insanity by telling me she would never act like a teenager and she said it with a tone of voice that almost made me believe it.

I love you, Mommy!

WARNING: CHILDREN ARE THIEVES & HEARTBREAKERS, DO NOT FALL FOR IT.

Now she just rolls her eyes and acts disgusted.  Disgusted by me.

I handle this about as well as a psychotic serial killer.

Me: Yes, I hear my own mental illness.

Alter Ego: Individuation, that’s the name of the game! 

Me: Fuck individuation.

I’m so goddam immature, she’s far more advanced in so many ways.

I refuse to look at her sometimes hours later as my passive payback, as if she cares!  I don’t want to talk to her even when she’s happy to talk to me, usually at bizarre times of the day about inane things.

Walk carefully when my feelings are hurt, I’m a grouchy injured hyena.

If I don’t think about how she used to be I’m fine for the most part.  But when I do allow myself to remember her looking at me like I was the smartest, funniest, prettiest woman who ever lived,

the sobbing is just gross.

I said I’m over it, that I don’t care if my kids spend much time with me at all as adults, and that’s true to some extent.  But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss the adorable little people they used to be.

So, surprisingly, it turns out I’m ridiculously good at creating children with fantastic self-esteem, kids who are independent and ready to take on the world.

I just didn’t realize what that meant.

All this time I think I believed if I simply loved my children, unlike my own mom, they would adore me to an unreasonable degree.

It never occurred to me they would never know the difference, that love would be their norm.

Really such a lovely outcome when properly analyzed.

On Books & Life ~ Part One

I read the book “Blue Nights” last month but unfortunately I’ve become a skimmer.  Similar to my recent attitude about relationships, my attention span is no longer capable of hanging in there unless I’m completely spellbound.

So it was interesting to find this quote today:

“When I began writing these pages I believed their subject to be children, the ones we have and the ones we wish we had, the ways in which we depend on our children to depend on us, the ways in which we encourage them to remain children, the ways in which they remain more unknown to us than they do to their more casual acquaintances; the ways in which we remain equally opaque to them.”

― Joan Didion, Blue Nights

* * * * *

Perhaps it only stood out to me after receiving a message from my son’s ex-girlfriend wherein she called him a “nymphomaniac” and stated that

“the joke is his heart belongs to me but his penis is community property.”

She could not have surprised me more if she told me I was growing a tail.  I think this means I’m a naive jackass or else Ms. Didion is correct in her assertion that our children remain unknown to us.

I recently read somewhere else that any 10 acquaintances could know us better than we will ever know ourselves, even as we spend a lifetime attempting to do so.

Perhaps the two issues relate to one another.

But this is my little boy, the kid I think of as a computer geek, the child who asked,

“What is birth control for? 

Why would you have sex if you don’t want to have a baby?” 

Clearly, he’s discovered the answer to his question.

Is it possible for children and their parents to see one another clearly?  Maybe not.

This is all new information.  I don’t think I’d have believed it even 10 years ago, definitely not 20.

* * * * *

I was surprised reading comments left to my mother on her birthday, it reminded me that she can be entertaining.  Her bitterness has clouded that part of her personality for me.

The older I get, the more I realize how harshly I’ve judged her, no matter the good reason.  My own bitterness scares me.  I want to cast it off and never pick it up again.

She cannot view me as just another person, either.  Everything I do reminds her of some flaw in me that she noticed when I was a child.  I’m indecisive and messy.  I’m promiscuous and always carry an air of superiority in her presence.

Of course, she’s almost always right.  She can read things about my behavior that no one else can, perhaps because we carry the same DNA.

Living across country from one another, out of millions of choices, we once sent the same Christmas card.

After all those years of hating her for correcting me, for pointing out my flaws, for telling me I had smelly feet and bad breath and body odor . . . I have a daughter and realize “Ofukme.”

It’s not that she was particularly evil, it’s that teenagers really do stink sometimes.

* * * * *

The other book I’m reading is “Excuse Me, Your Life Is Waiting (the astonishing power of feelings).” 

It’s a book I’ve had in the forefront of my mind to read for probably 10 years.  I read a few pages and then I look at it some more.  It doesn’t recommend just forgiving people, it recommends (insists upon) forgetting.

In other words, unconditional love for everybody.

“I will keep my valve open to well-being no matter what crazy thing you’ve done.” (Remember, you don’t have to change it or even like it; you just have to stop focusing on it!)

“It means ‘I don’t need conditions to be just right to be happy.  I’m not going to pay any more attention to your silly habits, because I don’t need everything to be perfect for my love to flow to you.’”

* * * * *

Well at least I know one person in this family has managed to get his love flowing.

Perhaps more than necessary.

(To Be Continued)

There’s A Burrito In My Pants

My daughter and I were on our way to meet friends at Barnes & Noble.  As always, I was running late.

The only time it would ever interest me to scrub out the tub is when the car is packed to go on vacation.  Similarly, I might start a blog entry when I’m supposed to meet someone, like today, in an hour.

The end result: I never take the time to properly put myself together.  I wear the same clothes I slept in more often than the average bear.

On this particular Saturday night, as Rachel and I flew down the road, I looked down at myself and discovered I was wearing (1) camo pants, (2) a scarf & (3) an old 4x sweatshirt of my brother’s emblazoned “Fat City Tavern.”

I said to her,

“Oh my God, what was I thinking when I got dressed?”

and laughed like a freaking loon.

She stifled a giggle and bit her tongue.  I could see her do it.  There was something she was about to say but she stopped herself.

“What were you going to say?  TELL ME!  TELL ME NOW!”

Quite hesitantly she said,

“Well, I think that every day when I look at you.”

This led into an uproarious conversation that made me laugh and scream in equal measure.

“What?!  What do you mean?!”

“Well, like when we go to bowling I think everyone there wonders if you’re nuts and why is Daddy married to you?”

This was truly one of the funniest things anyone had ever said to me.

I mean, if my presentation IN A RUNDOWN BOWLING ALLEY is that noticeably bad then I must be even worse than I realized.

I’ve always known that I do not dress like a normal middle-aged woman, not in the least.  But, I asked her,

“If it’s that bad every week, how could you not tell me this is what you’re thinking?!”

Her reply: “Well, I think it’s funny.  And I don’t want you to get mad!”

Me?!

I mean, yes, if she told me my ass looked like the cheesy side of Mars when I still had two games to go, 48 more times bending over at the foul line, it would have thrown me.  There’s a timing issue involved.

But she’s been sitting back laughing at me, enjoying my fashion ineptitude, never saying much of anything!  Meanwhile, she’s wearing one of my best sweaters and has the sweetest perfect face done up with expensive make-up from Sephora, looking like the princess of the lanes.

This was all quite thrilling, someone actually saying what they really think about me, a dream come true.

She went on to say that last year at Great Adventure I’d walked out to the car to get a forgotten item and upon my return she saw me walking toward her and literally cringed at my appearance, a sweatshirt in 90 degree weather.  No doubt a stained sweatshirt.

I was mortified at the idea I had embarrassed her.

“Oh no, I wasn’t embarrassed!  I looked just fine!  It’s kind of entertaining.”

I began asking about other specific items I’ve worn and asking her opinion.  Each and every item, some which I believed were better than others, left her hooting and hollering over their hideous factor.

“What about that sleeveless shirt with the ruffles?  And the black pants.  That looked good, right?”

“Oh, I HATE THAT SHIRT!  It’s just HORRIBLE!  The print looks like you’re covered in a mud puddle.  And those pants you wear, oh my God!  Really, you should just let me dress you.”

She also mentioned I should change my hair from blonde to brown and told me when it’s down I look like I have a mullet.  Her father was completely disgusted I would listen to her, said she’s a negative teenager who should not be taken seriously.

I think she’s just the most honest person I know.

* * *

The following Thursday, bowling night, I did not forget.

I called her into my room and we went through my drawers in an attempt to find a single outfit that might make people think I was “normal” or “attractive.”

Specifically, there is one uptight fellow, Rich, who always comments on my long-sleeved t-shirt covered with a paint-splattered Jimi Hendrix.  At least 12 times Rich has suggested I’m wearing an Obama tee, no matter how many times I tell him differently.

I wanted Rich to be surprised by my outfit.  So I began trying on clothes.

What the f*ck!  I must be brain damaged.  Who bought all this sh*t?!  Half of the items are hand me downs from my children, ripped jeans from my son and pink shirts with dancing monkeys and hoods from my daughter.

After emptying my entire closet and dresser drawers, Rachel had come to the conclusion that nothing could make me look better, as I appear to have “a burrito” around my waist.

Yes, that’s what she called it.

Exasperatedly she also said “You’re shaped like a man, with no curves!”

I looked in the mirror and agreed.  “I look lumpy.”  It’s not about the clothes, it’s me!

It was really a weird kind of relief, a confirmation that I’m not nuts or completely lacking in fashion sense.  There are perfectly good reasons why I dress like I do.

I’d rather look like a wackjob than a frumpy housewife.

Truth in advertising.

Twisted Pieces of My Heart

I’ve been the kind of mother who is a pain in the ass to all authority.  I once wrote 2 pages of instructions regarding my daughter’s potential haircut.  After handing them over to the salon owner I proceeded to burst into tears.  She did not get her hair cut that day.

Oh, yes, I am a fucking freak. 

In my defense, I have had fine, straight, brown hair my entire life.  My daughter has magnificent blonde curls.  How can she possibly be mine?!  If you fuck with her curls, if you even tell her she should straighten her hair, you awaken a wildebeast that slumbers inside me.

There are other issues at play.  My sister-in-law gave my son his first haircut without my permission.  I came home from work and his hair was trimmed.  If I’d thought the police would take me seriously I probably would have filed assault charges.

I was forced to wear a short pixie cut with bangs my entire childhood.  My reactionary response was my daughter’s hair grew to her ass.  When she was little it sometimes took us as much as an hour to get the tangles out.  I will skip the details about getting lice twice.  Let’s just say, I am an honorary monkey.

But as much as I adore and love my daughter, my son is my moon and stars.  His father died when he was a year and two days old.  My father died when I was ten.  It made me doubly psychotic with regard to protecting him.  My focus was nuclear and that is probably part of why he now lives in California.  He was cognizant of the fact that I was living through him even before I was aware of it.

For over three years now I’ve been blaming a majority of my wack-a-doodle brain frack on my brother Jim’s death.  This morning I realized OOPS!

Yes, I’m sad about my brother but he lived across the country all my adult life.

Yes, I loved him like mad before I ever knew my kids would even exist, he was the one thing in my family I felt good about, that I was proud to be associated with.

I will love and adore that little boy forever, the one who drove my mother insane with his antics, breaking her prized possessions and gleefully telling her to go fuck herself.

But I realized this morning that the real earthquake in my life occurred when my son grew up.  There is no preparation for losing the love of your life.  And say what you will about him still being there, my little boy is gone.

I judge my self-analysis on one thing only, whether the thought that pops into my head makes me cry like a fool.  Well, I can think about my brother and laugh, remembering all the good things.  When I think about the fact that for all intents and purposes my son is gone I lose my shit.

I compare myself to friends whose sons are dead and I think I’m a dipshit for feeling this way.  But I can’t dispute the fact that the hole in me, the one that grew into an abyss in childhood, was filled by my son.  Suddenly I had a family, I had someone to take care of, someone to play mother bear to.  And I did.  I had a purpose for the first time in my life.  I hung onto that purpose like a lifesaver from the Titanic.

Then he left.  It would appear I should have transferred all my attention onto my daughter.  Instead, the old shit came back.

After my father died, then my grandmother, the two people who loved me most in the world, I was a mess.  I moved to California, I got pregnant, and then that fucking guy died.

It didn’t even make any sense for me to give my heart away again, but I did.  I gave it to my son.  And then I gave it to my daughter.

Although I’ve given the girl more love & adoration than many people get in a lifetime, sometimes I wonder if I’m slacking off because she has a father.

Today I began to wonder if it’s because I want to leave before she leaves me.

The complete & total devotion I’ve felt toward my childen was the one thing that made me proud of myself.  But recently I’ve been focused on me and surprised by my selfishness, ashamed of it.

Now I think it may just be survival instinct.  My chidren will always be my heart.  But I need to make room for myself in there.

Miserable Twisted Mofo

No doubt I probably should be placed on anti-depressants (plus anti-cholesterol meds and something to bring down my blood sugar) but fuck it.  I’m not willing to numb myself out to make other people comfortable, so they can live their lives with all the pawns in proper position.

Although I do occasionally use cake.  Oh, and I did take a recreational Vidodin yesterday.

I’m not enjoying my life. 

My daughter is in the basement, where she spends most of her time when we’re in the house.  The single time I mentioned the possibility of divorce she began to cry and that was all it took to shut me up.

My husband is staring at the TV screen.  He got flustered when I walked out of the room,”Where are you going?!” but barely noticed I was there otherwise.  He would have taken me anywhere I wanted to go, but there is nowhere.

I am an unhappy motherfucker. 

And because I am a co-dependent unhappy motherfucker I feel bad that you’re reading this.

The problem is in me and I know that, but nothing sounds enticing enough to make me take action to find happiness.  I can do anything I want.  I’ve been carrying around the book “Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway” for months now but haven’t finished it.

The things I want are things I should have done at 25 or even 35, and now at 50 they are becoming silly & embarrassing fantasy.  Ray keeps telling me how old I am and I wonder how he imagines that will make him popular.  But then that’s so typical of us.  He moved a couple tons of dirt today and we discussed how happy mindless tasks make him.  Mindless tasks are the bane of my existence.

I wanted children, I had them and lost myself, or maybe I never really existed. 

People freak out when I say my children don’t need me any more.  Maybe my vision is skewed because I really didn’t have a parent by the time I was 13, the age my daughter is today.  My dad had already been gone 3 years and my mother was never there.  Plus, I’m kind of a black & white sort of person.  I thrive on desperation and crisis, not love and harmony.

So, yes, my children need me in some obtuse kind of way.  But not really.  My son doesn’t call and I don’t like the idea of pressuring him to do so.  Even if he did, it wouldn’t change my life.  He is in a good place and I’m thrilled about that.  My daughter only wants food and money and to be allowed to sleep whenever she pleases.  That’s a pretty simple task. 

Would it fuck her up if I was gone? Of course it would.  But for 23 out of 24 hours a day I could sit a dummy in a chair and she might easily think Mommy was home.

Other people get excited about grandchildren or cleaning their homes or their jobs or some freaking homemaker project.  Nope, not me.  I wish I was back living in an apartment, as long as I could be near all the peeps I love.  At this point, they are spread across the country and it’s impossible.  I’d rather scratch at my wrists with a fork than plant flowers or tend a vegetable garden.  Fuck that boring ass shit.

I would love to make lots of money, I just can’t figure out how to do it.  It would absolutely make me happy if I could take my daughter into NYC every day or play craps in AC or Las Vegas.  I enjoy shopping and I love sharing cash with others.  I’d like to get my niece out of her predicament.  I’d love to take my son’s grandmother all over the world and pay off her many bills.

But I can’t do any of that.

The only things I enjoy otherwise are escapist: watching movies or tv or reading books.  But how long can I use escapism and not want something real?  Would anything at all make me content?  I really don’t know. 

Yet I’m happier than a lot of people.   I’m like a bi-polar bitch, laughing one minute and crying the next.  I do a lot of both.

I’ve even lost friends and let them go without making any effort to change things.  I’ve learned a huge lesson in the last couple of years about controlling other people.  I don’t want to control anyone and I don’t want them to try and do it to me.  Control is mistaken for love and we end up living our lives for other people.

I am a miserable motherfucker. 

Watching TV day before yesterday with big silent tears plopping down my face and onto my shirt.   No one noticed.  Usually a sign of PMS, although it’s been worse for a couple of years now.  Could definitely blame it on perimenopause, but then that’s just fucking disgusting.

Such a spoiled brat, daring to be miserable when I have every possible need taken care of without having to do anything at all for it.  We watched a show on HBO yesterday about children who were cast out on the street and called witches, some as young as 3 months, one little girl was all of 5.  I’d love to go to Africa and take care of those babies.  Well, actually, I’d need to bring them here.  The heat and flies and nasty smells would bother me.  God, sometimes I hate myself.  Once that 3 month old was 15 and asking for a car she would just completely piss me off. 

Too twisted to stay, too freaking scared to take action.  Never in my life have I felt so completely stuck.  I always prided myself on leaving, cutting my losses, never being willing to stay when I knew it was over. 

Where did that ballsy chick go?

I’ve tried to remind myself of the shit I’ve been through, the things I’ve survived:   the death of my father, a raving maniacal bitch of a mother, the death of my grandmother, loving a drug addict, having a baby with him & then his death from AIDS & all that entailed, losing him, moving across country alone five times, working in NYC, driving thousands of miles on my own, supporting myself, a blood transfusion during childbirth, my brother’s funeral, a 3-week marriage, being beaten in the head by that ugly bastard, a physical attack in the middle of the night, flat tires on freeways and finally calling my mother a c*nt  . . . it sounds like someone else’s life.

And then there are the catastrophic things other people are going through and I hear myself  whining like a fucking gnat that won’t go away. 

Oh, I am just so sick of myself.

 

Twisted Little Chick

Tonight is a sweet sixteen party and my daughter is invited.  I’m not sure how another child’s 16th birthday is costing us so much, but we must be moving in on $175 at this point.  The $25 gift card for the birthday girl has been the least of it.

Last night was dress shopping.  We were quite lucky to find not only a party dress but also a prom dress at the same store.  All I can say is thank God a single retail outlet in America realizes there are girls larger than a size 13, because the look on her face when we were looking in Lord & Taylor’s was something reminiscent of the kid who goes to an amusement park and discovers their favorite ride has been closed for the day, then drops their lunch on the ground. 

I wish every dress designer who only makes dresses for stick figures would be placed on a ship, bound together and left at sea.

Anyway, we did find beautiful stuff and she looked great and by the time we left the mall she was beaming and jumping up and down with excitement.  I wouldn’t have cared if we had to go bankrupt at that point.  Who gives a shit?  Not me.

This morning I got up early and went to our quarterly library book sale, where paperbacks are a quarter and hard covers 50 cents.  Seriously better than sex, way better, although I did buy one authored by porn star Jenna Jameson, just to keep my skills in check.  I also bought four for Rachel as she slept.  It’s nice to be a princess.

Upon return home we had to go purchase shoes.  She got two pair, one that perfectly matches tonight’s dress and another pair of sneakers covered with silver sparkles.  PayLess had a sale and we walked out with two pair of shoes and two pair of footies for $17.  Damn, I was impressed with myself.  When your feet are the size of paddle boats PayLess is a more reasonable alternative than nicer stores because they cater to the transvestite market.

On top of everything else we then took her out for her lunch, since the adults in the house are fasting.  Was that enough? 

No, I had to shave her legs.  Completely over the top.  I guess maybe in normal households mothers do things like this?  I don’t know, because I never lived in a normal household.  The only times I remember my mother being nice were (1) when I wrecked my bicycle and had to have rocks taken out of my face in the ER with a brillo pad and (2) when my girlfriend wrecked her car and we were both knocked unconscious.  During those two occasions she was stellar.  I guess I should have gotten better at self-injury.

Returning to present time, the girl is now complaining, “Do I really have to wear a bra?”  Oh my God, next she’ll ask if she really has to brush her teeth.  Sometimes I could easily confuse her with a 12-year old boy instead of a 13-year old girl.

All potential difficulties are made up for by two things: (1) her loving nature and (2) her fantastic sense of humor. 

At bowling Thursday night she had headphones in, like she often does, which annoys the fuck out of me.  One of the older women, who is close with Rachel after having conversations lasting several hours each week for more than two years, got up to answer a phone page and passed out on the germ-ridden bowling alley floor.  People surrounded her and an ambulance was called.  She’d been lying in probable ebola virus for 15 minutes when Rachel said, “Who is that?” 

Oh my God, the entire bowling alley had come to a standstill and she had paid no attention whatsoever. 

A couple minutes later she called me over and said, “Is that MY Pat?”  I said, “YES.  Who did you think it was?” 

Her reply: “Oh, I thought it was black Pat.”  Now, mind you, “black Pat” quit working at the bowling alley about a year ago . . .  and her name was Jill.  I began laughing so hard I doubled over.  She turned an entertaining shade of salmon.  After I walked away she called me back.

She said, “I am warning you, I do not EVER want to hear this mentioned again!  STOP laughing, you bitch!  First of all,  I sound RACIST.  Second, I better never hear you tell anyone about this and you had better SHUT THE FUCK UP!”  Meanwhile, we were both laughing so hard we were holding our sides and I was about to topple over.  I had tears running down my face.

The words “black Pat” have now entered the realm of family history.

Oh, here we go.  She just entered the room and told me she doesn’t like her shoes.  They are not the exact color of the dress.  In other words, she’s wearing the silver sparkly sneakers instead.  Perfect!  Directions were “dressy casual.”  She is dressy up top and casual down below.  Very Gemini for a Virgo girl.

* * * * *

She has now been delivered to a nearby firehouse, my job for today is done.  Except for the part where I have to be available at her beck and call in case she texts or calls.  If I do not reply immediately she will assume I am dead.  Her preference was that I sit in the parking lot for four hours, but she capitulated to my wishes.  This recliner is far more comfortable.  And warm.

The boy she likes will be there.  We have joked endlessly about him.

 I remember being kissed for the first time at 12 by Dale Hansen at the bottom of the stairs in my house on Guthrie Street in Corn Field, Illinois.  Dale had a skin condition and wore black framed glasses.  When he moved in for the kiss I closed my eyes but then made the mistake of opening them and burst into laughter.  Dale looked painfully comedic with his face all screwed up and lips pursed.

Good luck with that, Rachel :p

 

* * * * *

She is home. 

The story of the night?  She was dancing in a circle with the birthday girl, flinging each other around and around.  This 16-year old happens to have a mild case of cerebral palsy and is half Rachel’s size.   One moment she was on her feet . . . the next moment she was on the floor, on her face, with her dress over her head.  Rach is mortified and feels responsible but thank God her friend is fine.   She summed it up with, “They remember me wherever I go.” 

To get a complete picture of the scene I asked, “Where was the boyfriend while this was happening?” and she said, “Oh, standing there like man candy, shaking his head.”  When I tell you this geeky boy should beg her to marry him NOW  because no one will EVER call him anything so flattering again, I am dead serious.

I could not get better entertainment if I paid for 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

Twisted Over F*cking 50 &/or Forgiveness Is For Pussies

It’s been a big week in Pamajama Land.  I turned . 

Someone had the nerve to tell me that “50 is the youth of old age.” 

Oh. My. God.  She seriously thought that would make me happy?  Some statements are so incredibly

(circle all that apply)

bad, insensitive, stupid

they should smell like old cheese or your pubescent child’s feet, as a warning they shouldn’t be repeated, not ever.

Who the f*ck would ever want to be 50?  I really never believed it could happen, didn’t even consider it.  This is not a number that in any way jives with the person living inside my head. 

In grade school I was convinced I would never make it to high school, couldn’t imagine being THAT OLD.  It kind of jived with the idea that I wouldn’t dream of walking away from my mother in a department store because I was certain she wouldn’t bother searching for me if I was lost. 

It’s the same reason I was afraid to ride my bike any further than a point where I could still see our house.  I knew the bitch would tell people, “I used to have a daughter named Pam, but she’s gone now,” and then she’d somehow use it as a sympathy ploy for free stuff or maybe some kind of tax evasion.

* * * * *

There are oh so many issues I could broach here regarding this momentous occasion, but for now I will just touch on the shoes, the magnificently un-feminine sandals my mother possibly paid $7.99 for at a Kentucky Wal-Mart.  She placed them in a manila envelope & spent $10.37 to mail them to NJ. 

She got me good, told me a package was coming.  I wanted cash & I got these:

I’m quite grateful that she can no longer shock me.  So after we laughed & snorted & screamed amongst ourselves over all the reasons the shoes are disgusting . . .  I figured what the hell, I’ll call Mom & thank her. 

I did it in front of my husband & daughter so they would know what a spectacularly gifted liar I am, how the words roll off my tongue without hesitation: “Mom, I’m calling to thank you for the package!”

“Oh, what did you think?”

“Well, I hadn’t purchased my summer sandals yet, so it was really a fortuitous gift on your part!”

Then she tells me this:

“Well, they’re GREAT, I got myself a pair, and the best part is they’re WASHABLE.”

I said, “You mean you throw them into the washing machine or what?”

“Oh no, you can just wipe them down.” 

She made it sound as if she’d never considered the idea that a pair of shoes could be kept clean. 

But of course, most shoes are not made by the people over at the famous Taiwanese factory PAU, experts in cloying plastic.  I’m guessing hot liquid (made from some kind of animal on the endangered species list (perhaps sea turtles)) is poured into these intricately designed shoe molds by 8-year olds. 

I don’t wear a size 10, like the shoes she sent, I’m an 11.  In actuality, these may be men’s shoes though.  They are so ugly that I feel I’m dirtying my blog by placing them on the page.

* * * * *

There are no doubt people who would say I’m incredibly selfish & ungrateful, that many no longer have a mother.  To them I say:

Perfectly Attuned to Twisted Humor

I love nothing more than saying inappropriate things to my pre-teen and getting her eyes to light up in abject fascination.  Will it make her a stable adult human being when it’s all said and done?  I have no freaking idea. 

It’s like being the teacher in the 2-year-old room at the nursery and using lesson plans that include surreptitiously scratching their little noses with their longest digit.  “Listen, kids, if Grandma won’t let you watch that 6th hour of TV when she babysits, here’s what you do.”

It seems to me that having fun with your mother has got to be a step up from having a tight-ass rule your life, dampen your spirit and bore you to tears.  Certainly there’s got to be a middle ground, but that’s not my strong suit.  Neither is singing all the correct words to any song and damned if my bitchy little chick doesn’t mock me unmercifully for that.  So I need to keep her on her toes.

On April Fool’s Day I was desperate to find a prank at 4 a.m., as too many years have passed without observing what is no doubt the best American holiday of all.  My husband was asleep in bed, my daughter and I downstairs in the hallway after brushing our teeth.  She wanted to know if we were going to a scheduled activity the following day.  (Not that we ever make it since we stay up till 4 a.m.)

I knew the plans had been canceled for other adult (boring ass) reasons and figured I’d been handed an April Fool’s Day gift.  Unfortunately, coming from the midwest I have a shit load of rich black dirt in my frontal lobe (after years of detasseling corn at ungodly hours of the morning, which I’m sure is why I still refuse to get up at a decent hour). 

The end result is I am a plodding thinker, related to the mule family.  But in this instance I had to think fast, which does not always end up with the best result.  (It is why I cannot be expected to order meals from snarky waiters in New York City.)

Now don’t get pissed at me, all up on your high horse, but I told her someone died.  She’s a fan of horror films and scary stories, believing herself a descendant from the makers of  “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” and “Saw.”  She loves to pretend that she has testicles the size of basketballs, even though it’s so completely untrue. 

But when her guinea pig died she acted sad for a minute and then asked “Can I poke it with a stick?”  I mean, come on, this is a kid you can f*ck with just a little bit.

The alleged dead person in question is not a close friend nor family member.  (I do have ethical standards.)  It’s another mom, someone who teaches in the co-op we attend.  I said she’d been . . .  killed in a car accident. 

Rachel replied “Really?” and looked at me with those beautifully naive eyes of hers.  I hesitated a moment and then said, “Well, I didn’t want to upset you.  Are you okay?”  Her heartless reply: “Yeah, I guess so.”  So that’s when I jumped in with, “Aww, it’s a lie . . .  April Fool’s!”

She began screaming and laughing and chasing me through the house as I cackled with joyous abandon. 

Her father woke up and began shouting, “What?  What?”  For the most part we just ignored him, as this has become kind of a common occurrence here in the middle of the night.  I think she told him the next day.  Yet he still fell for it when I told him I’d cut myself with a knife and would he please bring home bandage materials from the pharmacy after he purchased his White Castle dinner.

Emergency preparedness is his bag and he immediately began re-thinking his plans and insisted he could not go to White Castle as his wife bled to death at home on the kitchen floor.  Then I began hearing the “Clink, clink, clink” of his brain waves and, just as he was about to get it on his own, I said the obligatory line: “APRIL FOOL’S.” 

I think it’s actually the 3rd time I’ve used that kind of thing with him, once including a ketchup prop.  The favorite was when I made Rachel run outside and scream, “Mommy’s not moving!  She changed that light bulb in the bathroom that she asked you to change last week and she fell off the chair!”  He came in to find me appropriately splayed out on the bathroom floor waiting for a chalk outline.  If only I hadn’t started to laugh.  The guilt ploy was such a bonus.

As I write this I am trying to figure out how I can get downstairs to the plastic wrap, bring it up and cover the toilet seat, so that when he gets up he splatters pee all over himself.  It’s a gag I’ve been wanting to pull for the longest time. 

Well, that and cover the entire door frame with the stuff.  In my mind’s eye he would bounce off it like a trampoline.  I’m guessing it has to be a little more complicated than my visualization.  Complications bore me tremendously, so IXNAY on that idea.  It would be easier just to bring an ice cube upstairs and place it in the midst of his underarm hair.  No lie, I would probably break his nose if he did something like that to me, yet he would not even get angry if I did it to him.

* * * * *

So I went to find the plastic wrap and we only have pink and purple.  The pink is now tightly wrapped across the top of the toilet.  I really, really, really hope Rachel does not get up and have to pee in the next two hours.

The Twisted Easter Bunny Travels

It’s not like I don’t know visits to my family will suck.  It’s never a question.  There will always be highlights and lowlights and I will never fit in.  My actions & opinions will be in direct opposition with the prevailing familial thoughts on most anything at all.

It’s especially noticeable with regard to children.  I miss my niece’s three, 2 girls & a boy, now aged 2, 3 & 4.  My hope is to convince them they’re perfectly wonderful, it’s the adults that are the problem.  It’s what my grandmother did for me.  I have no idea if it’s even remotely possible.

 

I miss my brother, Scott, the only person there who feels like real family.  (It makes sense that he and I are step-siblings and share no DNA.)  He’s nuts, too, but more of a richly flavored macadamia than a simple rancid peanut. 

He drives his damned bass boat so fast that I found myself counting it out & discovering I am now the same age Grandma was when she used to hold on for dear life as we all screamed “Go faster, Grandpa!”  I was holding my breath, just waiting to die.

* * * * *

The 14 hour drive seemed easy, since previously I’ve done it on my own.  My husband and daughter went this time.  He is always agreeable and she is almost always not.  However, she is the one who laughs at my snarky comments & understands them immediately.  I identify most closely with 12-year old girls (and the potty humor of 6-year old boys).  There was a tremendous amount of training involved to get her to this point & if she turns on me now I will be completely devastated.

Pointing out fashion faux pas as I travel in my son’s green over-sized camos is both fun and paradoxical.  I think I even peed a little on my purse at that stop, yet it did not stop me from mocking others.  Dedication to the art is a necessary component.

I swear there was a female Keebler elf in an Ohio Cracker Barrel bathroom.  We could hardly contain our glee without pointing or jumping up & down.  Another chick looked incredibly happy with herself while wearing a patriotic track suit from 1990.  A good looking man walked in with a cowboy hat and boots.  You just don’t see that in New Jersey.  When I mentioned him to Rachel she called me a cougar.  Ick.

All this giggling & whispering may get my ass shot in a state that permits concealed weapons.

Please do not comment that I am mean or self-deluding.  I already know that.

* * * * *

30 miles from our final destination my sister & her boyfriend were waiting for us in a Sam’s parking lot.  He was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt which caused us to confuse him with the cart boy.  The red Harley between his legs was the clue.  It’s my sister’s bike, he just gets to drive it.  Most noticeable to me was the fact that they don’t wear helmets.

 

They carry that most important safety gear inside a box, for driving in states with helmet laws.  The sticker on the back was my favorite part:

“My nipples get harder than most men’s dicks.”  A true classic.

Watching my sister fly down the road at 60 mph, drinking a Big Gulp, under the total control of a man I wouldn’t want picking up my garbage, left me wondering in fascination.  How is it possible we came from the same parents, grew up in the same house & became such different people?  I know it happens, but damn.

I am terrified of most everything, practically cautious in extreme.  She loves to say things like, “Everybody dies some time.”  Part of me thinks her way sounds so much better.

She does not carry a purse, wears men’s jeans & sleeveless t-shirts, lets her short hair fly in the wind.  I often carry more than one bag (OCD impulses), tend to wear women’s clothing & am forever obsessing about the state of my hair even without the complications of Harley head. 

She is a chain smoker & I am allergic to cigarettes.  I used to complain but it caused so much damage to our relationship that I now block it out and say nothing at all, really it’s hardly noticeable when there aren’t two other people in the same small house doing it too (the boyfriend & the niece).  The kids live with it year round, so who am I to bitch?  (Well, I think we all know the real answer to that question.)

My sister has two enormous & poorly disciplined Boxers, I have to wash my hands every time I touch them.  I’m allergic to their saliva, which flies through the air without restraint.  I’m pretty sure that means I’m a big fucking pain in the ass.  Last time the male began biting me, so this time I brought tennis balls along.  He got so tired in the heat that he hid under the trampoline in the shade.  I discovered that I like playing with small canine horses when they’re not trying to eat me.

I scream like a banshee if my screen door is left open for 5 seconds because I do not want bugs in my house.  My sister leaves her patio door wide open for the kids & dogs, doesn’t bother making any effort to keep insects out.  They fly in, they nosh a bit on food left uncovered on counter-tops, they fly out.  It seems to work.

Her house is much cleaner than my mother’s. 

But this year Mom’s car was the mind boggling issue, the beautiful Chrysler 300, a vehicle she drives with no seat belt and a constant dinging warning sound.

Tomorrow’s entry . . .

I’m So Surprised When People Allow Me Near Their Children

Recently we joined a co-op.  Families gather once a week from 9-3.  Unlike myself, the proactive, responsible mothers choose a topic in which they have some level of expertise, a subject both educational & entertaining.  Then they teach a class and “cooperatively” share their knowledge.  At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.  (Two families have already dropped out, leaving people in the lurch a bit.)

My position?  I’m on the cleaning crew.

A smattering of the folks involved include: a multi-talented polymer clay artist, an attorney, a ridiculously fit & flexible yoga master, an amazingly down to earth woman who earned her doctorate working on an AIDS vaccine, and a breast-feeding  guidance counselor (who was actually Roxanne’s first wedding client after her internet-ordination as a minister).  I so completely love it when I’ve pigeon-holed someone as a regular moron & then discover they’re not, in the process confirming  I truly am a jackass.

Even in my position sterilizing the nursery I must fight the devilish urge to shirk my duties.  Who would ever know if I really bleached the fingerprints & spit off tiny toys  

 . . . .  or not?

My 12-year old’s courseload is on the heavy side: Art, Yoga, Cooking (vegetarian cuisine which disgusts her to a place where I believe she wants to bring contraband beef jerky in her pockets and gnaw on pork chops during breaks), Lunch & Science.

I am a horrible person.

I do not kid myself, my awareness continues to grow in leaps and bounds.  I have oodles of knowledge about things of no importance (pop culture, obscure spellings, bizarre news items), and practically none in intellectual pursuits (mention Shakespeare or another haughty author held in high regard by academicians & my eyes roll to the back of my head.  However, I read everything Truman Capote ever wrote & would be happy to lead a discourse on ”In Cold Blood.”)

Most of all my lazy & belligerent attitude spells disaster.  “Commitment phobic” downplays what happens once I’m locked into even the things I WANT to do.  The 9 a.m. arrival time is nearly equivalent to asking me to snake your toilet or re-attach a severed limb.  My students would eventually be found playing near double yellow lines or hanging in the tops of trees. 

After years of fighting my own nature, I no longer volunteer to jump from cliffs or corral children whose parents may be standing nearby.  I have control issues that flash like the lights on a patrol car and the standard for reasonable behavior falls across such an enormous continuum. 

I am reminded of hated classmates when a child believes they are more adorable, intellectually gifted &/or worthy of special treatment than all others, as no doubt convinced by a self-absorbed mother.  Even worse is when the aforementioned parent is present & ignores behavior that would have been included in the script for “Problem Child” if only the writers had better imagination.

Coming from a dysfunctional wack-a-doodle family, it seems I have what some consider a heavy hand, unreachable standards, & ridiculous expectations.  Like I want the kids to decline from eating boogers (no matter how tasty or protein deprived) & never, ever, emit a high-pitched scream without accompaniment of a rodent or splintered bone (spiders are not rodents & gleeful best friends do not have pediatric orthopedic surgeons).  I’ll agree, my margin for error is slim.

* * * * *

But occasionally the cosmos grabs your groin, twists and giggles.  At 11 p.m. last night I heard the voice message: “We need you to teach the “Numbers” class for 3-5 year olds.  No one else can do it.”  I was the only slacker with flexibility in my schedule even though “assisting” this week with “Letters” and “Poetry.”  My lackluster motivation has been completely ignored.

I never went to bed.  It was the only way to assure gremlins could not disconnect my weak link to punctuality.  The perfect combination: A hopped-up nutjob with a class full of moldable minds. 

Upon arrival I pulled out the items I brought for my curriculum.  Two “friends” began to laugh.  “Pam, they’re 3!” 

Okay, so I tempered my expectations once I noticed the adorable little chick with her finger in her nose to the knuckle.  I wanted to heave when I remembered the affection small children have for sharing their own germs.  But more than half the class looked like they’d stepped out of a Mary Poppins movie: perfect hair bows, striped knit dresses & bright tights.  My favorite pattern contained wiener dogs wearing sweaters.  I could not fight the cuteness quotient.

It was fun & it was exhausting.  A captive & appreciative audience is the stuff of my dreams (mostly prison scenarios with tremendously grateful muscle-bound bald men).

I could have told these kids they were frogs and made them hop.  Actually, I did make them hop.  Does it get better than that?  Oh, it does.  They laughed at my jokes, the way my 24-year old used to when he was a tiny little thing who believed my lies & distortions. 

They agreed that it’s not a good thing when your name is “Pam” and it rhymes with “ham.”

When we went around the table telling our names and ages, then counting and shouting it loud and proud, Besamela claimed she was eight.  We took it for granted she was telling the truth, even as her grandmother in the corner sputtered something about the veracity of her answer.  When I asked the class which cost more, sneakers or a laptop computer, it came to a 50/50 split decision.  No one asked for the correct answer, so I didn’t give them one.

At one point Dominic appeared a bit annoyed with the goofballs.  As an oldest child myself I could completely identify with his frustrations.  Emily’s little sister, Abbie, had trouble with her scissors but was happy after chopping up 30 paper towels I held taught while dodging her shaky weapon. 

If only I used that much patience when dealing with my own kids more often.

In a stroke of genius I’d thrown the tape measure in my bag as I ran out the garage door.  These excitable little doe-eyed moppets wanted their height measured, along with their hair and their eye sockets.  We measured feet and fingers and shoulders.  Could I do it twice?

It escapes me how belly buttons became part of  the mix (mostly 1-1.5 inches).

Most importantly, all children were alive and accounted for at the end of the day.  To my own amazement I didn’t swear a single time, not even at their mothers. 

Twisted Siblings &/or Pre-Teens Prefer Solemn, Serious, Silent Parents

It’s true, my laugh can be obnoxious as hell, a hooting kind of cackle that’s embarrassing as shit if I hear a recording of my own voice.  However, my daughter seems to think it emanates only from a desire to personally attack her, as if I’m wielding a comedic weapon, trying to ruin her life with my joy. 

In the car tonight she lay back, turned on her side and covered her ears as if they were bleeding.  It’s just ridiculous. 

Plus, it wasn’t my fault.

I was on the cell talking to my brother Scott.  He was driving an 18-wheeler and regaling me with familial tales from the Kentucky front.  One story after another, the amusement and disbelief continued to build. 

It wasn’t enough that my mother’s third husband drove his pick-up truck into the ditch of their dry driveway once last week and blamed it on his dog.  Three days later he drove it into the ditch on the opposite side of the same driveway, a straight 200-yard path he’s maneuvered daily for 20 years.  A tow truck had to be called to pull him out.  Twice.  (No further explanation available.)

Would anyone really take a riding lawnmower for repair, pay a large amount of cash for the job, then allow it to fall onto the highway while transporting it home, more messed up than before you started?  Yes.

* * * * *

I was already laughing too loudly for Rachel’s taste when Scott informed me he’d been thinking and had the perfect answer for perking up my marriage . . .

taking a gourmet cooking class with my husband. 

It was then that I erupted into the kind of hee-haw that sends cats running for cover & makes my daughter long for a place of her own.

For some background, both Scott and this guy I’m married to are into cooking (they don’t have much choice cause nobody’s doing it for them).  Scott has a classier, more refined taste.  He was making a Cornish Hen just for himself the last time we discussed one of his menus.  Let me repeat, there were no guests invited.  He’d been off the road for 3 weeks and was moving in the general direction of metrosexuality, even while living in such serious backwoods that he does not get cell phone reception or an internet connection from home. 

I have never eaten a tiny bird with a special name, never considered buying it or even investigating such a purchase.  Scott grew up eating the same 7 meals I did, so I have no idea what happened. 

Here in New Jersey, Hamburger Helper Lasagna (with added corn) would regularly be on the stove if I didn’t put my foot down.  My extended Italian relatives would disown me.  I mean, they know I’m no cook but there are lines that cannot be crossed. 

Still, last week our household shopper brought home bologna and white bread.  He can’t seem to help himself.  He says I am haughty for insisting on serving chicken caesar salad or a nice pasta fagiole when people come over, claiming hot dogs and Ruffles are the perfect party menu.

If potato chips, ketchup or a can of ridiculously soft mixed vegetables can be added to the mix, the man who lives in my house becomes nostalgic for his Pennsylvanian youth.  That’s the type of  recipe he’d copy off his browser while sitting behind the Chief’s desk, wearing his police uniform & a sidearm.  (I’m desperate to ticket the whole freaking world but don’t have the power; he’s searching dinners that use Campbell’s soup as a binder.)

In the past six months or so I have cooked next to nothing.  It’s one more thing I’ve just given up on completely.  So the idea that I would go to a gourmet cooking class is snort worthy.  The only possible purpose of such a thing would be to find my husband a gay boyfriend.  I can only imagine how happy a nice guy might make him.  I’m not being a bigot here, I totally support gay marriage AND prostate massage.

But seriously, is there really a reason for ME to go to the class?  It seems that having a wife in attendance would only slow the courting process.

Especially because all the gourmet peeps would HATE me so completely.  My eating habits are pretty much that of an unhealthy 9-year old boy.  Do not put mushrooms on my plate or I must tell you their texture makes me think of penis, something you’re not supposed to bite.  Tomatoes make me gag, even the seeds left behind after picking out most of their pulp. 

Most vegetables sit along side the edge of my plate, ixnay on the zucchini, cucumber, cauliflower, & broccoli.  I don’t know anyone else who doesn’t eat watermelon, cantaloupe, peaches, nectarines, capers or eggplant.  I would no more eat sushi than take a bite out of a beached porpoise.  Meat with the slightest hint of pink is raw, I see no difference between bloody prime rib and a tampon.

Do I sound like a fucking gourmet to YOU?

I understand his point.  Scott thought maybe it would give R. and I something to talk about.  I think it would just be easier for Scott to call every Sunday and he and R. could discuss culinary technique and anal sex.

* * * * *

My poor daughter.  The laughter only increased.  I told Scott how Rachel was horrified by the sound of my voice, that she hates it so much when I laugh, when I’m happy, when I make a gleeful utterance.  He wanted me to ask her if she was crying, like she did when he drove us on a winding road through the Kentucky wilds at a rather fast rate of speed, crossing over the yellow line on more than one occasion.  So I asked her. 

She screamed, “NO!” 

Now that I think about it, she was pretty loud, too.  But if I’d drawn myself up into the fetal position and held my head the car would have left the road and then I couldn’t make fun of my step-father.

Scott then did me in completely.  In his deep voice with the drawling southern accent he managed to somehow remain serious as he said,

“Yeah, remember how awful that was when our parents laughed and laughed?  Oh man, I’d go up to my bedroom just to get away from the noise of them laughing so damned loud.  Man, it was terrible.”

The single funniest thing I have ever heard, made perfect with his quick, dry delivery.

The idea of his father or my mother happily annoying us with laughter was so ludicrous it took my breath away.  I mean Mom might wickedly chuckle after making someone so sufficiently miserable it momentarily satisfied her sadistic urges.  Scott’s dad would let out a sigh of relieved joy when Mom went away overnight for the State Bowling Tournament. 

But happiness instead of angry screaming expletives and/or an incredibly high misery quotient plus tears? 

No fucking way!

* * * * *

I still have a smile on my face as I think how lucky I am to have him in my life.  One single person who understands your perspective on the world makes everything so much better.

Follow Your Heart, Aunt Rose &/or Home Alone – Edition 49

This entry and certain photos contained within are potentially offensive

& inappropriate for minors and/or the workplace.

For the last two plus months my pseudo sister-in-law Rose has been staying in my son’s basement bedroom (the size of a small apartment with queen-sized bed, wall-sized flat screen & laptop with wireless internet).  Although in the past decade she once lived in a motel paid for by the State of NJ, next door to the schizophrenic owner of  a dog that bit her, she still managed to complain incessantly about a musty odor that my ridiculously sensitive nose cannot smell.

She is my son’s aunt, his deceased father’s oldest sister, the craziest chick I’ve ever known.  She has no connection to my current husband or daughter (other than driving them nuts & assisting them in creating an unbreakable bond of misery that instigates great eye rolling & whispered complaints).  I have known her for 25 years & love her like the sister you think might have been secretly adopted.

After she had COMPLETELY demolished the room with such an incredible amount of pure crap that it seemed to have exploded from a magician’s trunk (she has a touch of the hoarder) we sent a cell phone picture of his room to Bobby in California.  From 3,000 miles he seemed almost excited, so thorougly entertained he was by the chaos & unease I’d brought into our little world.

How do I possibly describe her?  A heart the size of Montana and a mouth larger than Alaska.  I am so completely entertained & tortured by both.  Following her around, I stay two steps back to (1) jump up & down with glee at her unbelievable antics, talking to total strangers & saying outrageous shit and (2) cover my face & pretend I don’t know her as I groan out loud, twisting with a reflective shame that can’t handle it at all.

As the oldest of 8 children, mommy’s helper from the age of two, she is a worker bee, she makes things happen.  She is a f*cking force of nature.  However, supposedly her heart was broken when I used those words to describe her after 48 hours in our house.  This from a woman who once walked in and yelled, “Pam, you’re pregnant!  I had no idea!” as a comedic way of mocking my recent weight gain.

She talks . . . A LOT.  Sometimes it’s more entertaining than others.

* * * * *

I moved to North Carolina at her urging in 1985, made a cross country move with a 3 month old and her sick brother.  It was monumentally stupid.  We were there a week when she realized there was no way she could fulfill the promises of help made to entice our nightmare into hell.  It didn’t seem to really phase her as she told me, “Yeah, well.” 

Along those same lines were a few other episodes in our bizarre decades long connection.  She once cut my toddler son’s hair while I was at work, did not call and ask if it was okay, thought it was ridiculous when I lost my mind.  (I can’t really explain why this is equal to felony assault, but IT IS.)

She invited her grandmother to NC, my son’s great-grandmother & someone I’d never met, then became annoyed with the woman & left her at my house for 3 days without even a phone call.  At that point her brother was already deceased & I was on shaky ground.  It didn’t sit well when I called to my toddler and asked, “Do you want a slice of cheese?” & got the reply “Sure!” from a shaky 80-year old.  It was not a good time for extra care duties.

After 72 hours Rose came by to take advantage of our community pool.  When I got angry she locked herself in her car & wouldn’t discuss the situation.  In a burst of maturity I kicked her car & screamed like a maniac.  She has seen me at my worst and accepts me as I am, something I can’t say about many people on planet earth.  She really, really knows me, far better than my own family.  It’s not always an impressive sight to behold.

Her life has always been chaotic, beginning with a 25-year marriage to an alcoholic, but recently she’s been living with a 71-year old Italian who fancies himself Tommy Soprano.  She left twice, he begged her to come back, it’s a rollercoaster.  When they hit bottom again at the end of September she told me a few specifics.  We hadn’t really spoken in months, yet my reply was, “We’re coming to get you.” 

For more than 2 years I’d controlled my impulse to say or do such a thing.  His mocking her appearance was the last straw.  He’d done worse & I’m not sure what instigated those unthinkable words escaping my mouth.  (It happened once before, more than 10 years ago, when I invited the school librarian and her two daughters into our home for a month.  We later found out she’d stayed in someone else’s home for over a YEAR.) 

I should mention Rose has FOUR SISTERS, none of whom have stepped up, who from my perspective have let her down beyond belief. 

Did I mention she can be a little difficult?

(Or that they’re heartless bitches?)

In the mean time, while nearly homeless, she’s still spending money on food & cigarette deliveries to her parents, giving her mother money for unpaid bills when she calls crying.  At least she was until her father chased her out of their senior residence with a skillet because she wasn’t willing to give him the cigarettes he saw in her purse.

This insanity is what my son’s father described as utter nirvana, a family equal only to royalty.  I believed him.

* * * * *

Surprisingly, after a rough start, I really liked having her here.  My daughter & her father did not.  He went along with it, actually went with me to move her things, due to the domestic violence element &/or because he can’t bear confrontation or disagreement with me.  Rachel chose to stay in the car, not carrying a single bag of crap down the three flights of stairs.

That first night, sitting in our den, this child of mine asked, “How do you spell ‘psycho?’” 

Rose asked her, “Do you think I don’t know you’re talking about me?”  Rachel blushed & snickered.  It didn’t get better.  The following day Rose grabbed her in a hug and whispered, “I’ll kill you, ya little bastard!”, then released her with a laugh & said, “You know I’m just joking!”  Rachel took a baseball bat to bed that night, ever the drama queen, although I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.

Obviously we would have stepped in if we didn’t think the girl totally deserved it.  She was unwilling to be civil, the expressions on her face mind boggling in their vehemence toward a 59-year old guest.  Time and time again she tried to convince me that Rose was smoking in the house as a way to get rid of her, evidently unaware that I have dog senses when it comes to nicotine.  I did wake up one morning in my upstairs bedroom to the smell of incense from two floors below. 

To her credit, Rose reacted instantly to any request she make a change, including the incense, flowery perfume & speakerphone conversations below the bedroom door at 3 AM.  She completely avoided the TV room.  (It was the only way she could keep herself from chattering throughout entire episodes of favorite shows & unheard movies, a relatively unforgivable sin to every single member of this household.)  We overlooked the cooking smells in the middle of the night and a crazed drunken message left on the counter, something she didn’t even remember writing.

She’s suffering from shoulder injuries (two years now), takes a good deal of pain medication(s), drinks more booze than she probably should considering that fact.  Add in the Sudafed she took multiple doses of daily due to the basement allergy, which made her hyper as hell.  No doubt she’s got Attention Deficit Disorder to begin with, as bad as any out of control grammar school boy.

* * * * *

She was the perfect accompaniment to the gay bar, minus a few nerve-wracking situations. 

Once I went to the car and got this text: “In bathroom, fight with tranny.”  I don’t know anyone else who would ever send me just such combination of words.  She met people, got phone numbers & used them!  After telling us about going to this same place previously with her sister

and pushing her into the pool with both cell phone & flip-flops,

which then got stuck in the filter and had to be retrieved by an employee, we carefully avoided standing near the water.  Now remember, we’re talking about women in their 50′s, late 40′s max at the time.  Both are really attractive, you would not guess their ages accurately, even minus the behavior factor.  This is me on the left, you’ll have to guess which of the other two is Rose and which is really a man.  Seriously, would you guess anyone in this picture is 59?

The first night she came along we immediately lost her.  Eventually I realized she was the woman on stage doing a spectacularly nasty humping move with a cute young man.  Since then not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES I have watched her dance with such enthusiasm & creativity that she accidentally ended up on the filthy floor. 

BOOM!

On Halloween I headed for the stage once again to see the costume contest.  There stood Rose with a husky man, his arm wrapped around her tightly, blonde hair cascading down his broad sweaty shoulders.  He was wearing gloves & a cute skirt with tights. 

We’ve since learned John’s preferred name is Tiffany, that he has Asperger’s & believes he lived previous lifetimes as (1) a German SS officer and (2) an extra-terrestrial on a planet where people morphed from bears instead of monkeys.  He was thrilled I’d done a past life regression myself once.  He desperately wants to make me over.  I’m not glam enough for his taste.  Yeah, no shit.

During our last conversation at the bar he used a vice grip to hold my attention.  His spiked wrist band was causing me discomfort, as was the fine mist of saliva he sprayed me with more than once.  His breath was horrendous.  When I mentioned it to Rose in the car she said, “Oh God, I told him he smelled like a gremlin as soon as I walked in the door!  Why didn’t you say something?!”

This is why I love her no matter what.

Can you believe it?  He later told Rose he thinks I have Asperger’s, too, because of my ability to concentrate on his words so completely. 

It’s not fucking Asperger’s, it’s called growing up in the midwest.  It’s having ridiculous manners, non-existent boundaries, and the concern that people like me to such a ridiculous extent that I don’t even want to offend some crazy dude in a dress.  (As I write this I want to puke.)

* * * * *

But that’s not even my favorite story.  She met another dude who took a liking to her, one who dresses like a man.  He’d rented a room in the attached hotel so he could avoid driving home drunk.  Evidently ATTORNEYS are very careful about DWI’s.  She had no interest in him as a date, but he was perfectly acceptable as long as he kept buying her drinks.  When I found them she already knew his life story. 

He was quite inebriated & got thrown off the dance floor for unzipping and allowing the ventriloquist’s dummy in his pants to take a peek around.  As the bouncer escorted him out of the room, Rose’s new pal yelled out his room number & requested after hours party-goers.

She felt bad he’d been forced upstairs before closing time (by just 5 minutes) & immediately began assembling a ragtag group of young people to accompany her to his room.  (Her fantastic sales skills are transferable to any occasion.)  I was laughing so hard I was crying.  Next I knew, I was standing in an elevator & Rose was nowhere to be seen.  I was surrounded by what could only be described as a group meant for casting in the next John Waters film (if he hadn’t died recently): men who look like women, women who look like men, varied colors of the rainbow & me (prior pale PTO secretary). 

I felt a moment of panic as I reconsidered my decision-making abilities & thought about what the fuck I was doing.

These things don’t happen when I go places with Roxanne.

When the doors to the elevator opened Rose had already arrived via the stairs.  She began rapping on the door as the diverse crew stood around, excited to see what was behind curtain #1.  They had no idea what prize awaited.  When a 300-plus pound man opened the door naked & excited there was a screaming chorus of

“OH MY GOD!” and “OH FUCK NO!”

and an avalanche of 20-somethings running for the exit signs.

Rose couldn’t believe they were so disappointingly appearance-oriented, yet she would no more go out with this guy than she would date a woman.  She probably would have been willing to enter the room if I had even given a HINT I might spend time in that potentially bedbug-infested cave with a man carrying a minimum of 30 pounds of impacted feces in his colon. 

It wasn’t happening.

* * * * *

I know you’ll be surprised to hear this, but she did a few things that left us nervous about leaving her in the house alone for long periods.  She lit candles & left them burning, forgot to lock doors.  So when a trip to Florida was planned back in October it was with the presumption Rose would be gone.  Otherwise, it was agreed that I would stay home.  I am not a huge fan of heat, pavement, traffic, or sheets previously used by multiple patrons, so it wasn’t like I was denying myself some fantabulous pleasure-filled treat.

I didn’t care for her story about paying for car repairs with Vicodin (the whole police thing).  So when I woke up Wednesday & the car dude was in our driveway using spray paint I was not happy.  She went to her son’s for Thanksgiving weekend and upon return mentioned the boyfriend had called.  It didn’t seem like a big deal until she left the house Tuesday on a date & never came back, for practical purposes disappearing from our lives in a matter of 12 hours.  I did call to make sure she was alive.

Just the day before my husband had actually had his first real conversation with her & advised he believed it was a serious situation worthy of a restraining order.  When she almost immediately chose to do the opposite it really pissed him off, not an easy thing to do.  More than once I suggested she come back & simply date the guy until receiving reassurance that things were really better.  She would hear nothing of the sort, not surprising since when she’s with him her personality undergoes a radical change that’s all about meeting his extensive needs.

She’d actually been surprised at how much she came to enjoy living in our house, the most low-key environment she’d ever experienced, my husband different than any other man she’s ever known.  No anger, no raised voices, no insistence that things be done a certain way in a specific time-frame. 

But Rachel’s advice?  “I think we should tell her to follow her heart!  CACKLE-CACKLE-CACKLE!” 

* * * * *

The trip was set for Friday.  Rose’s STUFF (3,000 small items and a busted up car bumper) is still in our house.  She also still has a key, thank God, or I would have had to get in the car and head south.  Instead, the girl and her father are staying in a 2-bedroom suite with 3 TV’s, 2 bathrooms and a kitchen, while I am home alone in New Jersey.

I am incredulous over what it feels like to be completely alone, loving it beyond my possible imagination.  Now I remember why people like living alone, choose to have no children and no spouse.  The rabbit in a hutch outside is a little more commitment than I’d choose at this moment.

It seems that even though I knew my daughter’s attitude and presence had an effect on me, I was unaware of the extent to which it changes everything.  As a pre-teen she does not like going anywhere, does not want to do anything I want to do, and is quite verbal with her complaints.  It’s like having an anchor around my neck.  I love her dearly but the experience of being on my own is so freeing.

My husband is another story.  When we are apart he tends to get a whiny tone to his voice that indicates he doesn’t like being alone.  Fuck me.  He has been instructed on how to deal with me but refuses to listen.  “Ignore me, don’t call me.  Be mean.”  He can’t do it.  This will be his downfall, the refusal to take my advice. 

On the other hand, he is the dreamiest father you could imagine.  She will have a better time alone with him than if I were there.  He is more outgoing, comes up with his own ideas to have fun & even sings in the car in my absence. 

WTF?

They had not yet been there 4 hours when he asked about finding a cheap ticket and flying me down for the week (they drove).  Meanwhile, I’d already been to a book sale, had lunch with Roxanne & watched “Slumdog Millionaire” until 5 AM.  What do you think my answer was to the idea of getting on a plane during a winter storm & leaving behind this opportunity to breathe on my own? 

You all know me so well.

Instructions For Being A Big F*cking Thanksgiving Turkey

The holiday season has begun and I’m in rare form.  Whereas previously I’ve done things like gone to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in Manhattan (spectacularly awesome) or shopped my ass off on Black Friday (exciting enough that I’ve very nearly sh*t myself)  . . . this year would have none of that.

* * * * *

I bought Thanksgiving cards, none of which I mailed or even addressed.  Well, I did send one, probably to the person least likely to care, cause that’s how I roll.

In my refusal to participate in this thankful thing I didn’t buy food, cook anything, or even wash a dish.  Pretty sure the reason my daughter hasn’t spoken to me in over 24 hours is that I didn’t want to sit at a decorated table, not when there are only 3 people, no dead grandparents, no screaming babies, no conversations of  political dissension, no familial hatred, irritation or annoyance.

Yes, I realize some bizarre oddballs would do it just for themselves, put out a big fat brown paper turkey and a plastic tablecloth, but personally I prefer to make myself and everyone around me miserable.  It’s a mind-set and you have to work at it to really perfect something so wicked.  If I cannot have the agony of family past then by God I will re-create it for a new generation.

When the phone brought Thanksgiving greetings I didn’t answer it.  Although I always think I will make calls on holidays, be a good friend or relative, I never do.  I’m more likely to just stop talking to the elderly blind woman who enjoyed my company so much that I decided I didn’t have time for her.

My niece called twice — the kind of enthusiasm I appreciate when I’m not thinking about how annoying it is when people love me & want to tell me about it – but I didn’t answer.  Maybe if she’d tried 5 or 6 times I might have acquiesced out of exhaustion.

(I’ve been supportive since she got out of prison, but could no doubt have done so much more.  I like telling her stories about what a fuck-up I am.  I make sure she knows details of ALL the familial sins, not wanting her to fall into that addictive thought thing where she believes she’s an original.  There is hope for the future.  She too can marry a decent man then years down the road ruin his perfectly controlled life when she lets her personality come to light after years of denying it.)

My brother Scott called too, but I missed it entirely.  At least that way I don’t feel guilty.  He’s decided he no longer wants a life of depravity & brought up religion recently.  If that wasn’t a downer I don’t know what could classify as such.  I mean REALLY?  You’re going to go from stories of swinger escapades where you accidentally left a condom inside another man’s wife to tales of meeting potentially sweet chicks at church, just as I’m ready to tell you I’ve gone off the deep end?  It seems so unfair!

When my son rang, of course, I answered and put on a smiling face and perky attitude that must have made him think I was popping amphetamines while decorating the tree with a martini in my left hand. 

“Yes, son, we can’t wait for you to come home at Christmas!  This family is all about happy tradition & by God we’re looking forward to seeing you my dear.”

* * * * *

I fantasize about holidays spent serving turkey to AIDS patients and wiping the asses of foster children, burning gravy while sporting gray hair that hasn’t been tended to because I’m so busy caring for others.  But none of that has ever really come to pass.  Well, it’s never even been attempted.  My mind is so much busier than my legs or arms or dialing fingers.

My alter ego believes in tending to others so much more than my real self can conjure up the motivation to actually do it.  Oh, but the thoughts of humanitarianism I’ve had could fill an orphanage with children who love me beyond words AND a homeless shelter with dirty bed-bug ridden strangers who would no doubt speak very highly of my loving nature.

* * * * *

I did eat a lot, all things that I am not supposed to: the french silk pie (a deep dark chocolate cream) was cut into around 4 AM the night before the day, but still technically on Thanksgiving.  Then it was creamed corn casserole (made incorrectly), stuffing (to perfection), mashed potatoes and gravy, plus vitamin & fiber-free white rolls with butter.  It’s a dreamy kind of diabetic recipe for leg loss.  (I hope if I ever do end up in a wheelchair someone just wheels me out to a deserted location and dumps my ass near a red ant hill.)

During most of the festivities I watched 8 hours of a Godfather marathon.  Part I was great, Part II not so much.  It ended at 4:30 a.m., so I finally went to bed.  The marathon was a lifesaver, all that blood & sadness, cause I didn’t think too much about anything else as I worried about Michael & poor, poor Sonny the emotional hothead who’d fuck anything that walked.

It did however annoy me that my husband stayed up until 3 just to keep me company, when I didn’t want it.  Instead I’d prefer he disappear into thin air.  That’s a whole other story and of course I don’t want that for my daughter.  He needs an invisibility cloak that works only for me.

Yes, I know I should be on anti-depressants but they make me gain weight and take away my ability to orgasm, which obviously would depress me.  Stupid, stupid fucking pharmaceutical companies.  Combine an anti-depressant with a diet pill that makes me orgasm without a penis and now you’re talking.

* * * * *

Holidays don’t bring out the best in me, if you hadn’t noticed, instead they make me want to fall in a hole and be covered by just enough dirt that I can continue to breathe.  I’m not QUITE suicidal, I have too much hope for the future.  It’s that schizo thing that alternatively saves me and frustrates me until I want to peel my skin off with a fork.

* * * * *

So yesterday was the day after Thanksgiving.

First, I slept until 11.  When my husband brought me the phone I looked at him with the hatred of a terrorist at Guantanamo facing her captor.  I spoke to my great friend Roxanne for a few moments from the toilet, nearly falling back to sleep on the bowl.  Promised her I would call back, which I never did.  (She puts up with a lot.)  Checked for a text that wasn’t there, then slept some more.

Coffee is the only thing that makes me smile every single day.  So I had some.

Eventually Lucille Ball and Henry Fonda were on the tube with “Yours, Mine and Ours.” It was beautiful & I cried tears of joy instead of the other kind.  But when it ended I was back to my real life and didn’t have 16 children and one on the way (because you know I am really incredibly fond of laundry and making sandwiches in bulk).

So we put in another film to further escape our hideous lives in this home that’s practically a mansion with its two acres, pool and flat screen televisions, a refrigerator full enough to feed a Sudanese tribe.  (Fortunately they were not here during my eat-a-thon because I might accidentally have popped one or two of those tiny people in my mouth without looking, mistaking them for licorice or beef jerky or a slim jim.)

I should be ashamed of myself but I’m way too white trash for that.

* * * * *

Did I mention I woke up this morning weighing 179 instead of the 249 I was at some point during a Weight Watchers weigh-in before the diabetic diagnosis?  179 might sound like a lot to those of you who live perfect American lives with women wearing jeans in a size 0 after a pregnancy that ended 90 days ago.

For me it’s a loose size 14 and the best I’ve looked in two decades.  It’s trading clothes with my 12-year old and doing dumb shit like wearing a t-shirt with a Miley Cyrus tag from Wal-Mart when I’m in the mood to be an asshole.  If I get any thinner my skin will further hang like fancy draperies.

My crooked bangs and big chiclet front tooth are still all I see.

Yeah, happiness comes from weight loss & a great house & a husband who adores you beyond his ability to express it without weeping (which if you’re like me will disgust you to no end).

Believe it & get a big surprise.  Happiness lives inside your head & you can make yourself totally fucking miserable in any situation at all.

* * * * *

So after Billy Bob Thornton and his dumbass movie “Daddy & Us” pissed me off completely I took 2 Xanax after sobbing on the toilet (back to my favorite place).  I went to bed at 8 p.m. and woke up & headed downstairs just as my husband was coming up at 12:30 a.m.

Holiday’s over.  Time to get back to normal life.

The problem is I haven’t known what that is for the past five months, ever since my brother died, I turned 49,  my son moved away, my daughter hit puberty & I lost any and all purpose I once pretended to have.

So that is why I haven’t been blogging funny entries that are supposed to be entertaining and make you laugh, although this one did do it for me in spots.

Maybe I’ll try again later.

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.

 

The End of My Twisted Summer Vacation &/or The Memorial Tour

Tomorrow the pool will be closed.  My summer was spent mostly on Mafia Wars, not poolside, but I like looking out the window and seeing the attractive blue color.  The husband spent an inordinate amount of time keeping it that way.  Fortunately he likes that kind of mundane task, the sort that make my eyes roll to the back of my head.  There were people actually in the water less than 12 hours total.  Personally, I did not spend an hour, not half an hour.

Except for a week on the road I sat with my laptop and cell phone in front of a big screen.  I learned to text message this summer, sending hundreds of them.  It would not have been a really big deal if I’d had no use of my legs.  (As it would happen, my favorite story this season was that of a man who met a woman on Match.com, then found out she was in a wheelchair only when he had to carry her to the car on their dinner date.) 

I thought living in a big house with all the associated accoutrements would make me happy.  Well, if finding out interesting things about yourself brings joy then I’m a gleeful mofo.  My mid-life revelations have all been surprising.  There are so many things I previously observed other people do and judged harshly,  insisted “NO WAY.”  Then I did them.  Pretty sure I would have eventually made the same revelations in a studio apartment. 

I am like my mother in so many ways that if I was really, really consistent and true to myself I’d commit suicide.  I am also unlike my mother in so many ways that it just saves me.

In August I drove to Kentucky (again) and took stops along the way in Pennsylvania and Illinois.  My daughter stayed in Pittsburgh with her paternal aunt and hated it.  It was her very first time being away from either parent.  She told me she believes I am “like a queen” now after “living in anorexia.”  We all live these private lives & have different ways of doing things that we don’t even share with our closest relatives.  They’re as foreign as if we were born in different countries. 

A single tiny chicken cutlet served with applesauce and canned carrots might as well have been a serving of pig’s feet in my daughter’s experience.  Her aunt actually told the rest of the family, “R is ALWAYS hungry.”  R no longer wants to call her “Aunt” Bev and insists I change our will so that she is not ever left in her care again.  For crying out loud, the girl grew 6 inches in the last year and is nearly 5’8″.

I drove on to Illinois and visited with a cast of characters.  My aunt and uncle, as always, were a happy highlight of the trip, reminding me that there are close family members who have never (1) spent time in jail OR prison or (2) resembled something off a “Po’ White Trash” calendar or (3) played pornography on the television during daylight hours with young children in the vicinity.  I hope that doesn’t make me sound too ultra-conservative or uptight.

It was interesting meeting my brother Jim’s girlfriend’s new lover, a guy that’s both living in his house and doing his chick.  It would take approximately four of the new guy to even come close to Jim’s size.  He was utterly lovely and answered every single one of my very nosy questions without batting an eye, including being quizzed about how soon they got together and at what point he moved into the house.  No one could ever take Jim’s place, not even with Julie.  I was surprised to discover that her oldest daughter still calls Jim’s cell phone every single day to hear his voice.  Of course then I had to do the same thing, not knowing previously that the account still exists.

* * * * *

It was my delight to be the person who picked up my niece from prison and took her home after nearly two years.  The end of that story has not been written, as she will be heading to Kentucky on Wednesday into the snake pit that consists of my mother, her mother (my sister) and a multitude of f*ckery.

Yep, this is the face of the prisoner.  WTF?!

When we arrived at my nephew’s house, where S would be staying until court, we were met by his beautiful 2-year old amidst the 20 or so broken down vehicles parked in the yard.  Hailee had used an electric razor to shave a 2-inch swath down the middle of her head, making a reverse mohawk.  According to my sister’s ex-husband, who also lives there, it probably happened when her mama was posing naked in front of the living room webcam.  He’d caught her entertaining someone that way a few days before our visit.

That would be my nephew’s fiancee, the girl whose parents were both on death row before her mother died in prison last year.  She’s both beautiful and crazier ‘n hell.  I’m sure that’s how she found our family, with dysfunctional sonar.

* * * * *

Kentucky was the last stop before saving R from Anorexia.  It was my sister’s birthday and the anniversary of my brother’s death two days later.  Our plan was to get matching tattoos, but the day to day details of taking care of three children ages 1, 2 and 3 made that impossible.  However, I’m still getting the freaking tattoo.   

Since this was my third trip in less than six months I was able to see a little clearer picture and experience more of the anger my sister barely contains.  She is miserable without her friends nearby, stuck in a house with either my mother or the kids at all times.  Her boyfriend is such an idiot that he’s jealous if the man next door stops by to play horseshoes, as if she would blow him on the kid’s trampoline.  (If she did it might at least take away a bit of her isolation and hatred for life in general.)

By the time I’d stayed just two nights I had both sister and mother in stereophonic sound stating that I wanted the kids to like me too much, acting as if I was being a show-off for trying to keep them happy even during things like clothing changes and bedtime.  Always a fan of the underdog, the boy is my favorite and it rubs everyone the wrong way when I make it clear I think he’s perfect in every way, when I insist he does not have ADD or anything of the sort.  However, arguing with my sister does not make it better for him when I eventually get in my car and drive nearly 1,000 miles to the east.

* * * * *

My niece has been out of prison for almost a month now and last weekend was her first time to Kentucky, her first time to see her kids.  She, too, was accused of being “too nice,” told she needed to “toughen up.”  When she took the baby to my mother’s house the toddler stepped in dog pee the moment she walked in the door.  My mother was angered by the ridiculous idea that her feet needed to be washed off thoroughly, what was the big deal?

Mom then offered S, a 22-year old, her old bras and underwear.  S gained weight during her prison stay, but she is still under 200 pounds.  My mother is over 250 & a filthy pig.  Mom advised her that her jeans were inappropriately tight.  This is the same c*nt who used to insist that I should buy my clothing in the men’s department. 

End result, my niece is no longer excited about going to Kentucky.

Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that she got drunk with her mother the last night she was there.  According to her reports she “only drank four beers” but then “threw up all over” her own shirt.  Yes, my 48-year old sister got drunk with her daughter the paroled crackhead.  Did she think it would be a bonding experience or was she just in the mood to tell her how completely she’s f*cked up both of their lives?  Either way, her motivational efforts had the opposite effect.

Although S has signed away rights to the children, assigning them directly to my sister, the idiotic familial expectation is that she will step right back in and begin taking care of them.  My sister and mother both feel so strongly about this subject that I could not speak up against it, could only stand there waiting for flies to occupy my mouth and throat.  In reality, after all the craziness, it might even be the best plan.

I did make a discovery that made it all worthwhile, the stash of photo albums hidden in my mother’s sunroom.  The scanning will take me weeks or months, but some of the pictures are priceless.  Here’s a sample:

This is at my mother’s wedding to her second husband in 1967, all six of us.

Penny (6), Scott (6), Jodi (8), Pam (7), Jimmy (3) and Shannon (3).

* * * * *

In the meantime, my son graduated with his Master’s degree and moved to San Diego.  He’s doing really well and seems happy, which is pretty much the best I could ask for.  He lives on the beach and tells me the people are “ridiculously beautiful,” then laughs.  Here’s a before and after of that, too:

* * * * *

Driving back to New Jersey late at night on the anniversary of my brother’s death, I decided to call Jim’s cell phone again.  As I listened to his voice the car lights lit up a big green exit sign that said “Pewee Valley.”  Our father’s nickname was PeeWee.  Dad died when Jim was only six years old and the sadness of that loss permeated his life.  It was the perfect wrap-up to my memorial tour, acknowledgment that Jim is with Dad and happy at last.

* * * * *

So how was your summer?

My 49th Summer: Facebook, Games, Gay Bars & Old Friends

Life is unpredictable and it’s necessary to roll with the changes.

God only knows, it couldn’t have been easy for this guy!

My son is apparently moving across the country within weeks.  My daughter has hit puberty with the speed of a gazelle and sometimes the charisma of a rattlesnake.  My husband is either at work, on a lawn mower, or snoring in his recliner (some things ARE predictable).

In August my little brother died a full year ago.  I kept wondering when this reality would hit me & suddenly it did.

I turned 49 in June and believe it was the beginning of a disgustingly trite & overdone mid-life crisis. 

I hate being predictable.  

As I sit here at 3:00 a.m. with my 11-year old watching “Slither” (one of the greatest & most bizarrely insane movies I have ever seen – www.slithermovie.net) I’ll agreeably acknowledge we’re living an experimental lifestyle.  We stay up all night on computers, watching recorded movies & playing games.  We rarely see the sun, except through a window. 

If we keep staying up later we’ll eventually be on a farm schedule, like that of my grandparents.  The real issue is I can find no reason to change the situation.  Does it really matter? 

I have no idea.

* * * * *

Facebook has brought many interesting people back into my life, one of whom is Linda, my old girlfriend.  She will be visiting soon and you will absolutely love her.  Finding people I adored years ago is like discovering a piece of my heart long abandoned, left to rot like green meat or black lettuce.  WTF?  How did I lose them?

No doubt it’s because I slept with most, cheated and abandoned them before they could do it to me.  Never mind that I did not choose people as cruel as myself, but instead eviscerated those with huge hearts.  I could not handle being loved.  I ran cross country both to escape my mother AND so I wouldn’t have to face my own behavior, in the hopes that no one would beat my ass like I deserved.

The people I didn’t particularly enjoy knowing before?  I clicked off 3 of those annoying bitches just yesterday.

The first full day I actually spent as a person at 50% of age 98, I found someone I’ve looked for off and on for 25 years.  I knew him before I moved to San Francisco, childless & barely out of college.  How strange that he appears when I again have little purpose, as I slowly but surely lose my chosen role.   After half a lifetime I’m back at square one.  He is able to fill in blanks that confirm how lost I was at age 23, how determined I was to self-destruct.  His memory is exacting, mine nearly non-existent. 

Anyone who attached themselves to me might as well have strapped C-4 on their chest with duct tape.  The question today is whether that statement still holds true.

* * * * *

Rather than complete annihilation, I began numbing myself.  As a result, in some ways I feel I’ve wasted half my life.

In an effort to live my final days (you think I’m joking?) with joyful abandon, I went out with my girlfriend to a popular bar catering specifically to gay men.  (There are also straight couples & lesbians, so we don’t look like total freaks, never fear.)  I walked in and immediately knew one of the bartenders, then saw an old neighbor on the dance floor.  Kiss, kiss!  It was like I was channeling Nathan Lane and screaming, “I’m home!”

We’ve gone twice and I’m thinking of applying for a job so I never have to leave.  It’s in a hotel and there are bars out by the pool, with lounge chairs and an upstairs deck.  Perfection, indeed.  Dudes humping dudes humping chicks.  It’s a free for all and I love it.

Dancing for a good portion of the five hours we spend there (Saturdays from 10 pm-3 am), surrounded by adorable boys who are alternatively (1) dancing shirtless or (2) dancing in thong only or (3) making out like they haven’t eaten in a year and their boyfriend is holding a hidden cheeseburger under his tongue, it’s the most fun I’ve had in forever.

The first time we actually stayed and closed the place down, eating breakfast in the adjoining restaurant.  A gay bar that also serves french toast dipped in Captain Crunch?  Is this heaven? 

Leaving the place at 3:30 we were approached by a young man on a bicycle peddling some type of “powder.”  It’s impossible to describe how grateful I was to discover I looked cool enough to be a crackhead.  I mean, honest to God, I should have tipped him for the compliment!

This past Saturday night we did not go to the bar.  I also did not make it to the video store, my husband did.  The only thing more depressing than watching movies where people get fingers chopped off and bleed incessantly, then spread the blood all about their bodies, is knowing I could have been dancing & laughing & jumping in time to great music along side men with what look like cucumbers in their panties. 

They’re just so sweet!  Last week a man bowed in our direction and called the two of us “Queens.”  Personally, I appreciate being considered royalty

even if it’s because I bear some resemblance to Prince Charles.

Most people go ga-ga over two chicks together.  I must disagree vehemently.  I am a devoted & incorrigible fag hag.  Those boys want nothing at all from me and I LOVE that about them.  They are welcoming, they look me in the eye and smile.  What more could I want?  

Fortunately Roxanne let me in on the fact that I have an unfortunate habit of opening my mouth and letting my tongue hang out while I dance.  I’m working on it. 

Do you think it could be the tequila shots?

* * * *

When I haven’t been bar hopping I’ve spent approximately 18 hours a day with my laptop, first in a virtual word called Yoville, decorating my apartment and my virtual self in bright colors, playing with penguins and robots. 

Really, though, how often can you redecorate?

So I opened an account in Farmville and added crops, cows, rabbits and pigs to my menagerie.  It’s a game that perhaps uses 64 of my IQ points.

When my new/old friend invited me to play Mafia Wars it was instant addiction.  Sometimes I’m only sleeping 4 hours in every 24 hour period.  Problems with insomnia?  I have the answer.

* * * * *

Things have to change soon.  My son graduates with his master’s degree on August 8th and I’ll make the trip south. 

In the mean time, you can find me on Facebook. 

Even better, Sunday mornings around 4 AM I’m playing Mafia Wars under the influence of tequila after spending the night at the bar.  Come join me.

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.

Off To Great Adventure with Control Freak and DD

My daughter is perfectly happy sitting in her room 12 hours a day on the computer (she sleeps the other 12, mostly during daylight hours.)  She is a content little carbon copy of moi.  I’m not saying that’s a good thing, believe me, but it works.

She’s become such a book reader that she hit me and called me a bitch when I took her book off her bed last weekend when she wouldn’t get up.  I was quite impressed with her ethusiasm and commitment, considering the girl wouldn’t read a single page a year ago without sighing and twirling her hair and rolling her eyes.  My relief is palpable.  It just would not do for me to have a child who didn’t love books, completely unacceptable.  I don’t care that she’s reading the “Clique” series and the “It Girl” collection instead of “Little House on the Prairie” or Nancy Drew. 

A book store salesgirl attempted to steer us in a direction of something where “these girls really care about ISSUES and not just SHOES and PURSES.”  Rachel rolled her eyes and I dropped the book by the wayside somewhere in the non-fiction area.  I couldn’t care less if she was reading Enquirer magazine as long as there are words on the page.  I mean, she’s an emotional wreck over whether one of the characters is going to be suspended from school, ready to burst into tears.  YES! 

Yesterday I did convince her to leave the house for a Disney beach party and a hip-hop class.  It started at 8 p.m.  How perfect for our schedules.  Who ever decided that the early ours of 6, 7, 8 a.m. are when the day should begin . . . well, I don’t like those people.  We sit up and laugh at 2 and 3 a.m. and that doesn’t happen when pulled from bed at an early hour, doing fine imitations of fire breathing dragons.  Would I like to see a sunrise on the beach this summer?  Yes.  I plan to make it happen by staying up all night.

So our new “friends,” the control freak and her daughter, are coming to our house today for the first time.  Purposely, I have not cleaned it.  There are dishes in the sink.  However, the yard looks great!  They are obsessive-compulsive about cleaning and organizing. 

I am doing my best to disgust them in the hope that phone calls will cease.  (The ringing of the phone is like an air raid siren for me.  I just hate it.  Recently I left a message on my phone not to leave voice mails, either, because I don’t listen to them.  I had such fun creating this crazy recording about how you might want to send me a text or an e-mail instead.) 

We will be headed off to Great Adventure to see Raven Symone in concert.  They want to stand in line for an hour and a half before hand to get great seats.  I want to walk in at the end and take the left overs.  We’re leaving the house and I guess that’s a good thing, so I have to remember that fact.  Even though Big Brother starts tonight and I am an obsessed fan extraordinaire.  DVR has improved my life beyond belief.

Monday is the wax museum in NYC.  This chick canceled an MRI so she could go on a day we were free.  I’m not happy about that.  It seems utterly ridiculous.  On top of that, NYC can be difficult with the best of people.  We shall see how it goes.  We’re taking the train in.  No doubt, I’ll have a story for you.

37 minutes to go and I haven’t showered yet.  Yes, this is how I roll.