Holy Sh*t &/or Twisted Me
April 12, 2011
So I’ve been thinking I should be a nicer person for a few reasons, namely the fact that my insensitivity and flippant comments can hurt people’s feelings when I don’t even know I’m doing it.
Especially sensitive peeps I love tremendously. There are only a few of those in the world and I need to make more of an effort to protect them from the fact that I open my mouth and let words spill out without considering their potential effects.
This is nothing new. I made my best friend mad as far back as grade school because I wasn’t good at keeping her secrets.
Now that I think about it, perhaps it’s not that other people are particularly sensitive. Maybe it’s that I’m a complete and total bitch. Fuck me. I am like my mother in so many freaking ways.
* * * * *
There was also a woman on this show “Heavy” who impressed me tremendously. She had the sweetest voice and demeanor I may have ever heard. She’d lost her mother and gained 100 pounds. Then she lost her son to suicide and gained 60 more. But if you saw her on the street all you would notice was that she could barely move from the weight collected in her butt and thighs.
She reminded me of the people I admire most, my grandmother and my mother-in-law, women who give nothing but love to the world around them even when they’re not getting it in return. Both of them just have/had the kindest souls you could ask for in a person. This woman was like them.
But how often do I blow off someone who isn’t perfect looking in favor of some jackass who impresses me for completely ridiculous reasons? Actually, due to my anti-social weirdness that can border on something needing diagnosis, I tend to blow off everybody. But you know what I mean.
I can also be cruel. My jokes are usually at someone else’s expense. But if it gets a laugh I keep going.
* * * * *
A friend of mine placed a poll on Facebook, just a silly thing, asking people to vote as to whether I should write a book. She was being sweet and complimentary and overblown in her kindness toward me. It was lovely.
It became a big deal in my head when another ”friend” of mine, an extended relative on my husband’s side of the family (who I barely know), a man in his late 70′s, replied: “You might as well write the book, you don’t seem to have anything else to do !!!!!!!!!!”
Now, mind you, the statement is completely true. But it still bugged the shit out of me. Clearly the fellow does not find me entertaining and thinks I’m an asshole. At least, that’s how I read that sentence.
Reality is I do spend a lot more time on Facebook than I should, I write more than some, a lot more than some. I actually feel like I’m being a drag if I don’t think of something entertaining to post.
Like I’ve told my husband, “You have a social obligation to speak to people.” This conflicts with the fact that I don’t answer my phone, but fuck it.
My initial instinct was to block the old bastard. But I didn’t. He is a fascinating conversationalist and has entertained me twice. If you’ve got good stories I’m pretty much yours for life. He’s also old and has health problems.
Plus, I knew what he said was the truth.
Wow! It’s not as funny when you’re the butt of the joke. You’d think I’d have learned that before fucking 50.
* * * * *
Later this evening I was yammering on about someone else and not being kind, not even a little. Complete truth be told, I’m jealous of the woman I was making catty comments about..
That’s when God spoke to me with a freaking bitch slap.
At the same exact time I was saying shitty things . . . she was writing on my Facebook wall that I should write a book because “you’re so funny, I would definitely buy it.”
Oh my God.
I began screaming about what a whore I am. Really, more of a slore, I have never been paid, a slutty whore.
I cannot even express the shame I felt over my nasty ass. This was no accident. It had such a direct connection to everything I’ve been thinking in the last couple of days about trying to be sweet instead of caustic.
It’s not even that I need to create a new persona, I need to tear down walls I’ve built for protection. If I’d grown up to be who I was meant to be, if I’d been true to myself, the sweet chick is me. She’s far more like my grandmother than my mother. I am far more like my grandmother than my mother.
Sometimes being called on your shit is a good thing.
The Twisted Nature of Life &/or A Conversation With Mom
March 31, 2011
Spring has sprung and in all the excitement I picked up the phone and called my mother. I know! What a bizarre way to celebrate. We’d had no communication since Christmas. I’d essentially cut all ties with her and my sister due to the most recent stupidity. When I say “cut all ties” I did it the virtual way, by blocking them from my Facebook page like a passive-aggressive dork.
I’d made a snarky comment about Mom on my page & she’d replied with something like “You must be talking about some other mother I’m unaware of, I don’t give a shit what you do.” Rest assured, her stories of my childhood would read oh so differently. Our communication patterns are clearly warped & then fried like a Twinkie at the county fair.
As for my sister, she let her boyfriend (we’ll call him “Sick Fuck”) back into the house after throwing him out due to the altercation relating to his comments about my niece’s breasts. Somehow I’ve gotten pulled into everything by virtue of the fact that I’m my niece’s #1 supporter. It’s not that I believe she makes no mistakes, it’s just that I’ve never understood this idea of kicking the underdog. Especially if she happens to be your daughter or my niece.
Anyway, my sister is incredibly pissed off that I am close with Samantha. She hurls curses at her and screams things like, “Go ahead, call Pammy! I know you tell her EVERYTHING!” She has some how turned everything around, when Sam is her daughter, not mine. I have become the moral arbiter in my sister’s eyes, not a position I applied for or qualified to fill.
So fuck it, I felt like neither Mom or Penny were happy to hear anything other than perhaps I’d (1) been run over by a car or (2) was working in the power plant demolished by the recent tsunami or (3) my husband had finally acknowledged my worthlessness and set me out on the road in ratty underwear to be hit by the aforementioned (1).
We’re not the kind of family that applauds one another’s successes. More often it’s the family tradition to jump for joy over a blatant mess. That’s the only way to get bumped up the ladder of success, climbing over each other’s backs, preferably in work boots or high heels.
* * * * *
By having no contact with the two of them, though, it put my niece in an awkward position. She found my mother reading my Facebook page on her own computer. I had skipped contacting Mom on her 70th birthday because of something she said to Sam. This weird silent split was only making it more difficult for my niece, the last thing I wanted.
So I called mom and she was of course surprised to hear from me. If my own daughter blew me off the way I do her, I’m not sure I’d be willing to just pick up where we left off. So although she never admits to any wrong doing whatsoever there must be some vein of guilt or conscience deep within that acknowledges she owns a part in our epic butt fuck of a mother/daughter saga.
We were on the phone for 90 minutes. It’s not how you would imagine it, as I am one of those nervous laughter types and after I call Mom on anything I cackle in the hope that she will do the same instead of call me names like when I was 10. It’s a laugh riot.
I can only hope that some of what I said will ring in her ears during the weeks and months ahead. It only matters because I need someone to realize Samantha is not the only bad guy, as she’s trying so hard and yet being treated as the devil’s spawn.
This is a girl who was addicted to crack and hasn’t returned to it since being released from prison even though she is consistently told (1) she doesn’t care at all about her kids and (2) she’s a worthless piece of shit. My mother stated several times, “Oh, she’ll never do that again.”
Duh, you freaking dumbass.
This led to a discussion about addiction and the fact that neither she or I can get off sugar or get our food in order, my brother is dead from the same shit, and my sister’s addicted to alcohol, cigarettes & gambling. Since we can’t rid ourselves of these substances, how is it possible not to deem Sam a huge success? Instead of being the black sheep she should be the shining star.
Although I repeated it several times, I’m not sure she could ever take it in. She’s too selfish to be able to give credit to anyone other than herself. She is so incredibly egomaniacal, egocentric, childish and warped.
Eventually I told her there was a reason I didn’t call on her birthday and asked if she wanted to know why. Did she remember saying something to Sam about how many cocks had been in her during a fight over a $300 electric bill?
“Well, I don’t know, I might have.”
REALLY, Mom? This is something you could FORGET saying to your beautiful beloved granddaughter?
I replied, “Mom, you’re 70! At what point do you realize you’re the grown up and these kind of hurtful words are inappropriate when screamed at your granddaughter? When do we learn a better way? You know this isn’t something you should be saying to her.” Mind you, I continue to laugh inappropriately because it is so ABSURD to need to say these words.
Her reply?
“Well, Pam! She fucked a black man for crack!”
She stated this as if she couldn’t imagine anything worse in the world, with such indignation you’d think she’d led her life by Dear Abby’s advice.
So I said, “Well, Mom, when I was about 11 you brought a black man into our van at the Indy Time Trials, got under a blanket with him and unzipped his pants then proceeded to jerk him off with me right there. How is that different?”
“Well, I was probably drunk.” And that part she said as if she were telling me she’d made me an omelet for breakfast and left it on the counter. Perfectly reasonable, oh well, not a big deal really.
I said, “Are you going to tell me that a lot of women in America don’t fuck a man they don’t particularly want to on any given night? At least Samantha got something out of it. We’ve all done our fair share of whoring around.”
Her reply: “Oh God, not like that!”
How the fuck do you argue against such ignorance?
So I asked: “Do you remember taking me with you to put notes in your boyfriend’s cars?”
“Well, yes, but at least I kept you with me! At least I didn’t leave you with a babysitter!”
At this point I just snort.
We talked about Sam’s current boyfriend, who is back in jail, probably getting more facial tattoos as I write this. Mom went on and on about how Sam had the opportunity to date “a nice guy” who wanted to take care of her and the kids but Sam wanted nothing to do with him.
My reply: “Mom, you married a man who has never, ever treated you properly or respected what you’ve done for him or even thanked you. And you left everything to be with him, gave up everything.”
She said, “Well, you’re probably right about that.”
I said, “Mom, you left my father and immediately married a man who had a drawer full of bills you paid off. You have never, ever been with a man who took care of you. It’s always been the other way around. And my sister, Sam’s mom, your daughter, left her second husband because he “was too nice.” So how can you expect more of your granddaughter, or for her to behave any differently than every woman in this family?”
“Well . . . “
Then I add, “And what about the babies, Mom? She had 3 beautiful children and our family tradition has always been to scream and cry and wring hands at the idea of a baby being born, as far back as my grandmother when she found out you were pregnant with me! Yet you wanted Sam to have an abortion and that baby is the most beloved of all of them since she reminds us of Jim (my deceased brother).”
Her reply: “Oh, I don’t know what I’d do without those kids!”
I tried to throw in some positives, mentioning that she at least never allowed a man to live in our home who would say negative things about us or cut us down at every turn, the way my sister’s boyfriend treats Samantha. It’s impossible to describe what a huge ordeal it is for me to see a way in which MY MOTHER is superior in any way to MY SISTER. But my sister has really lost her way.
Still, I felt I had to make the first move to patch that relationship up too because, once again, this situation is not helpful to Sam. So I sent my sister a Friend Request with a paragraph about knowing she is frustrated and stressed out. I mentioned that I don’t handle being screamed at very well and I apologize for that because I know she is in need of help. I told her I loved her and am sorry. She accepted the following day with a comparable paragraph.
Not that things have changed. Sam’s youngest one had a seizure day before yesterday and the idiotic boyfriend wanted to go with her in the ambulance. What the fuck?! This is a guy who’s still married to his fourth wife and has never taken care of his own children, on federal probation for having back-due child support in so many states.
My sister got pissed at her daughter for looking askance at this jerk-off and telling him she’d go with her own daughter, thank you very much. This was somehow considered “selfish.”
I have no doubt that this piece of shit is trying to do his best. His best is just really fucking similar to worthless.
One minute my niece is selfish, the next she doesn’t give a shit about her kids. The girl can’t win. I have no idea how she’s lasted this long.
* * * * *
Clearly what I need to focus on throughout all of this is my own part in it, my own foibles, mistakes and improper behavior. As angry as I am at my sister when it appears she is putting her boyfriend first, the reality is I have made and continue to make so many mistakes with my own children. More often than not, I am incredibly selfish and put my own needs in front of theirs . . . just like Mom.
It’s a balancing act and I will never be a 1950′s housewife type.
As this crazy aging process continues I’m not even sure if any particular balance is the correct one. We all have a limited amount of days on the planet and who is to say having children precludes our ability to ever again live life however we want, even if it displeases our kids (or anyone else)? I don’t know the answer to this.
Certainly in the past five years, since my son became an adult & my brother died, my perspective has changed 180 degrees. I don’t enjoy seeing the ways in which I am like my mother but I have to acknowledge I’ve done no better when it comes to some of her most outrageous behaviors.
I just thank God I have the ability to analyze and apologize.
Twisted Fasting
March 9, 2011
So I started fasting today and wrote a blog entry about it.
Then I lost said blog entry. This did not go over well. However, I have not eaten a Twinkie or a HoHo yet and that alone is a success.
But I’m determined to post daily dammit.
So here’s the story condensed: the people in my family have a history of being fat motherfuckers, myself included. I never got into the 400 pound zone, like my brother, but I nearly made it to 250.
For some ungodly reason I decided it would help my look to cut my hair really short at that time. Take it from me, bad move.
Eventually my brother Jim had gastric bypass surgery, but it only helped kill him, not make him thin. My mother has had lap band surgery and it wasn’t successful either. She would snort chicken and intubate biscuits if need be.
There does not seem to be a quick fix, other than the horrible awful duo of vegetables and sweat.
I am an obnoxious donut-eating, ice cream licking, raw cookie dough consuming disaster. My addiction is sugar, not really all that different from a junkie.
As a kid I wasn’t fat. As a teenager I was really happy I didn’t look like my mother, who was utterly miserable with herself. I couldn’t imagine letting myself go. Then I did.
About five years ago I found out I was diabetic and took it seriously, probably because it killed my grandmother with a massive heart attack at age 57. I completely stopped eating white sugar and white flour. I lost enough weight to leave behind plus size clothing and the mockery of fashion designers decorating fat women with stripes and zoo animals and wooden beads.
Then slowly I began to cheat. Cheating begets cheating. Then suddenly one day you don’t think you can live without a Hundred Thousand Dollar bar. Today I’m back to the same intense cravings I imagine mice have when faced with a block of cheese.
So I’m fasting in an attempt to get back to the point where a sweet potato looks like a gastronomical delight and snow peas make me shudder with glee. By tomorrow I will feel disgusting, my head will hurt like a bitch as the detox hits full swing. If I can make it through the third day I will be home free.
Wish me luck! I need it.
Twisted Update On My Mother &/or Eek!
April 10, 2010
I grew up in Illinois. During my senior year of college Mom introduced me to the derelict & useless motherfucker who would become her third husband. She followed him to his home state of Kentucky, a place she often spoke of with abject disgust during my childhood. Her imaginary competition, my step-father’s ex-wife, lived there & she believed it her job to eviscerate every detail of my step-sibling’s mother, including the geography upon which she maintained a home. People in Kentucky were the stupidest people alive.
Mom has lived there ever since. She doesn’t even get the joke. (It’s just one of the many schizophrenic ways in which she took the basic tenets of our screaming mimi childhood and said, “Oops, changed my mind.”)
I’ve previously mentioned my first meeting with the man who would become my step-daddy, a devilish character straight from the 70′s tv program Hee-Haw. We had lunch in a pizza place and he drank a pitcher of beer as he grew louder and louder, telling a story about how black men can fuck white women all night long. Theoretically, white men cannot. It’s all because black men have a lower body temperature. I shit you not. Mom sat at the table like a cheshire cat, the pussy who’d won the contest for finding the biggest dick. No doubt, she was correct.
There have been times when I’ve considered the possibility that I should think of him in a kinder light since he does, after all, live with the biggest bitch in all the world. He is mean to her because that’s what she likes, it’s the only way to control her nastiness. But when I hear the stories of his cruelty it’s impossible to forgive him, even with that IQ of 38.
Quick bio: One of 14 children, grew up on dirt floors, no running water. Stabbed by his sister in the back with a 10-inch kitchen knife, just missed his black heart. Previously married to 300-pound Marlena, has 2 morbidly obese sons. He is a bean pole with alcoholic dreams even when he’s not drinking. Alcohol only intensifies his moronic flights of fantasy.
Speaks in a manner that would have you believe his tongue is too big for his mouth, with a southern accent that is hillbilly extraordinaire. Makes you go “HUH?” Baptist minister for a short time, found all the parts of the Bible that support racism, homicide & treating your wife like shit. Claimed to various family members (not me) he killed the black man who slept with Marlena before their divorce, plus that man’s wife (she was inconveniently present). [Interesting side note: Marlena's mother and my mother's father developed a romantic relationship and lived together for 10 years before being killed in a car accident in 2004.]
Mom and the jackass divorced a few years ago but still live together. Long story. He’s the only one evil enough that the stress of being with her hasn’t killed him yet. For 20 years I never visited, not once.
Every time they came to see me something awful would happen and I would remember why there are allowable exceptions to the overblown dogma that you love your parents no matter what. So I don’t say it, I never write it, I don’t feel it. It’s the one thing I never fake, the only way I’ve been completely true to myself.
Then my sister moved to Kentucky with the promise of a job in Mom’s company (an entity which should be named Puppetmaster, Inc.) She began as a truck driver, but then a year ago her 3 grandchildren arrived, straight from foster care. Now sis works in the office with Mom, they’re together what seems like 18 hours a day. Next, my niece got out of prison & headed in that direction to be with her babies. My step-brother Scott is only an hour away.
The house we grew up in now belongs to my deceased brother’s girlfriend, so home base in Illinois is gone. I’m the one who pushed for her to have it. Fuck me.
* * * * *
This Easter was my fourth trip down, my daughter’s second, my husband’s first. Rachel hates it, Ray thinks he might want to move there. He loves bowling alleys, is entertained by goofy people. She would push the button on a nuke if it meant she never had to go again. (She did have more fun with the kids this time & would assist me in kidnapping the baby. She does lust after my sister’s unbelievable array of snack foods.)
I purposely avoid speaking much with Mom before making these trips cause just hearing her voice could talk me out of visiting. But I decided to be nice this trip and took her not only an Easter bag of candy (since food is her heroin & she is more immature than the 2-year old), but also showed up with a box of the most delightful cupcakes you’ve ever seen.
She even found a way to complain ABOUT CUPCAKES. She kept mentioning how “grainy” they tasted, as she ate four over two days. These things were as heavy as leather shoes, my niece kept saying she didn’t think she could eat a whole one (even though I thought that was utter bullshit). Mom is a determined eater. No matter the taste or calorie content or that the balloon procedure she had to reduce the size of her stomach sometimes makes her throw up. My brother and I learned from the best. I don’t know how in the hell my sister escaped . . . the cigarettes I suppose.
* * * * *
Mom only kept our house clean as children because her second husband, Scott’s father, was a clean freak. He had such OCD he would wash himself to the point of being pink. He died when I was 18 and in college. I soon thereafter went across the country for 6 months. Upon return it blew my mind to see that Mom’s cleanliness was only a chameleon-like reaction to him. Perhaps it would have been better if husband #3 had the same affliction. He does not.
She doesn’t even bathe regularly, doesn’t wash her hair too often. Her house is such a disaster I cannot imagine anyone ever living in it again. This is not because it’s not a nice house, it’s because of the damage her five-plus dogs have done.
When I absconded with photo albums last time, the bottom one was her wedding pics and it was damp from dog urine. Niiiiice, Mom. If one of her kids had pissed on her shit she’d have killed us. Supposedly the dogs are more loving, however, which makes them forgiveable. Whatever. You get what you give. She says the dogs don’t judge her, they don’t ever say she’s fat. I think they’re smarter than that.
* * * * *
Since my husband is famous for downplaying any & every event (which is good in the instance of Viet Nam and serious car crashes, both of which he’s handled quite well), I use him as my tester. I’m known to be a bit dramatic, so I send him into situations and ask for his take. It lets me know if I’m based in reality at all or if, as my astrologer tells me, I’m living in fantasyland 24/7.
When Mom came over to my sister’s Easter morning she brought her biggest, oldest male Boxer, named after the Stephen King character Cujo. This dog is the father of my sister’s big dog, Socks, who is only barely 2 years old and just feeling his oats (or licking his balls). As my sister knew would happen, Socks didn’t handle it well at all when another male entered his territory. She had evidently warned Mom previously not to do such stupid shit, but Mom’s hobby is stupid shit, it’s part of her bone marrow.
So in the middle of Easter morn, pastel colors, small children, coffee on the deck & love in the air, Socks sunk his teeth into Cujo’s neck and splashed dog blood across the canvas. My sister handles it all so well, as my niece and I and the kids are running for the front yard so as to avoid the cacophony of screaming canines. Sis kind of gets off on being right. She considers herself a little bit of a dog whisperer. She doesn’t control them at all, but she sort of talks to them. She loves to say “I told you so.” For her it was a win.
Mom just kind of acts like it’s no big deal that we’re moving into Michael Vick territory on a peaceful holiday Sunday. I convince her she should put the dog in the car and take it home, sending my husband along for the ride so he can see her dog house. Sometimes it amazes me that he will do anything I suggest, doesn’t even question it. So off they go.
After they left it struck me, the story I’d heard about Mom’s Chrysler 300. I felt kind of bad that I’d set him up for something I wouldn’t have wanted to do myself, namely get in that fucking car. I mean, it’s beside the point that Mom’s vehicles are always filthy and covered in dirt and dog hair. She travels with a companion at all times and people don’t much like her. She has decided she doesn’t like people either, I think as a response. (If she told me one more time, “I don’t have time for that god damn Facebook,” I might have said, “Mom, you have no friends, why would you like something that highlights that fact?”)
So when Ray returned I apologized. I asked him about the trip, namely “Was I exaggerating?” His reply made me cringe, cause part of me wanted him to say “Yes, Pam, your mother is normal and I can’t believe you tell such lies about that sweet old woman!” Instead he said, “Oh, it was exactly as you described it.” Fuck.
I asked, “Did she put her seat belt on, so it wouldn’t ding continuously with you in the car?” He said, “No, she didn’t. It dinged the entire way. That didn’t really bother me as much though as that enormous dog’s head so near my face.” I’d forgotten that he’d be traveling with Cujo, who I’m sure was annoyed that Ray had taken his spot in the front seat.
I asked what he thought of the house. He was kind of tickled by the way all five dogs followed Mom as she gave the tour, but he was pretty grossed out by the intensity of the smell in her bedroom. The dogs all sleep with her. He noted that the laminate flooring she’s putting down upstairs won’t do so well with the damp wood left to rot underneath.
He got the giggles, like a guy remembering an acid trip, when describing the mangy cocker spaniel peeing on a throw rug as Mom & he watched. His amazement wasn’t so much that this old dog was evacuating her kidneys in plain sight, more that he expected Mom to do something about it & instead she stepped over it & kept right on with the tour. When they reached the living room he saw multiple puddles, both wet & dry. At that point it all came together and made a psychedelic kind of sense.
(When I visited the following day the same dog peed on the indoor/outdoor carpeting in the sun room. She didn’t clean that up either.)
He mentioned that the room Mom had built onto the house as an office didn’t seem to be very sturdy, he wondered who would build such a thing without putting the proper supports on underneath. These are the kinds of details that escape me as I look at things like senior pictures and the heirloom pieces Mom is constantly pointing out, stuff that doesn’t mean shit to my sister or I. I’m just fascinated that it all means so much to her, how physical things are more important than people in her fucked up head.
For instance, she brought a refrigerator from Illinois to Kentucky, a relic that is so dirty and old I wouldn’t want to touch it, let alone keep food in it. She keeps it in the garage. That’s how it got so filthy. My grandparents never would have had anything in such disgusting condition.
Ray mentioned the garage. He stated that there was so much dog food and bird seed in there that it’s no wonder about the
mice.
See, Mom mentioned that she’s had problems with rodents this past winter. She had a few mice in her house. I have no freaking idea how they escaped the dogs. Then one day she got into her car and noticed a really bad smell. When mom notices something with those horribly abused olfactory senses of hers, you know it’s fucking atrocious.
So she went out to the shop and asked the guys there to find what she assumed was a dead mouse in the car. Amazingly, people are willing to do these kinds of chores for her. They found the dead mouse.
But they also found a nest of live mice. They were living inside the $30,000 Chrysler 300. Let me reiterate, in case your mind could not wrap itself around that last sentence: my mother had mice living in her car.
When she told the story, Mom really didn’t make it out to be a big deal. Shit happens. When you own 5 dogs & are an insatiable overeater it happens a lot.
* * * * *
When we stopped by to say good-bye I noted a dead mole, shredded & hairy, lying on the cement apron at her home’s entryway. A gift from her best friends. Mom said she’d already put it in the garbage can 3 times and they continued to retrieve it. (Some of these dogs are as tall as men.)
Now, I know I can be dramatic and take things too far in my distorted brain. I think about Legionnaire’s disease. I think about snorting a mist of rodent turds when the air conditioner is turned on the first hot day of summer. I find myself wondering what lives in Mom’s bed after the dogs run through fields and lick their balls and then her neck.
Not only do I never want to ride in that car again, I think it was incredibly insensitive that the doctor didn’t do a c-section & instead forced me to travel through her nasty ass vagina.
* * * * *
The woman is intelligent in odd ways.
She told me how stubborn I was as a child & said I’m crazy to think she could have changed a single one of my decisions. She’s big on the idea that my perceptions of her were created to escape my own responsibility.
Her theory seems plausible until it gets fucked up remembering that if she tried to change my mind it would have been through violence, the way she accomplished everything: making dinner, carrying in groceries, cleaning the house. Either she thinks the whole loving mother routine is for pussies or she’s just incapable. Probably both.
Still it jarred my reality. I would so prefer to remember myself as a tough little bitch and not her victim. She’s not the only one who’s said things that make me wonder about the huge blanks in my memory. Pieces of me got lost along the way. She’s probably right, I’m too sensitive & need to toughen up.
Except for the part about the furry creatures. No fucking way.
Follow Your Heart, Aunt Rose &/or Home Alone – Edition 49
December 7, 2009
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
November 28, 2009
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.
Yesterday I returned from my second trip to Kentucky. Typically, after purposely avoiding the place for 25 years, I visit twice in less than three months.
Really, I should leave home more often. This time my husband opened the pool, painted the kitchen AND a bathroom. It looked so different that I said, “Oh my God, I even love the new light fixture!” As it turns out, it wasn’t new, I just hadn’t noticed it in the three years we’ve lived here. The previous wallpaper was so ugly I could see nothing else.
He also dealt with the 11-year old (who suddenly acts 17), the one who grew an inch taller than me in only a week’s time after counting the minutes until my departure. (“Not to hurt your feelings or anything Mom, you understand!”)
It’s so unusual for me to be completely alone that for a good portion of my initial driving time (after dropping my son off at his university dorm) I continued to catch myself believing my daughter was in the backseat. I would turn to check on her or begin to say something and then remember she wasn’t there. After the fifth or sixth time I wondered how long it would take to get the hint, so I could stop feeling really stupid.
* * * * *
After 25 hours in the car, I’m not so good with adjusting to the return home. My body continues to quiver as if I’m still moving at hyper-speed. Actually, being on the road was fun. I love driving 80 mph in the Charger, blowing people away with the hemi, pretending I’m part of a video game.
Of course, there’s the other piece where I’m crossing myself and begging God that I don’t die until my daughter grows up. The various personalities in my head begin arguing, one suggesting she’d be better off without my influence TODAY, IMMEDIATELY! Now I’m flying down the road with two bitches slugging it out as to whether my influence on her is positive or negative. Actually, I’m sure it’s both.
I am certain of NOTHING after spending a long weekend entirely on my own with a 1, 2 and 3-year old.
When the voices become annoying I put on the radio or a CD. Sometimes I listen to books on tape, but it’s hard finding something to love & most are disappointing. For this trip two new music CD’s, Duffy (it’s been years since I’ve fallen in love with someone the way I have with this chick, especially the song Mercy) and Elliot Yamin (my boy).
I do not stay in hotels on the road, preferring to sleep in my car (with embarrassingly dirty hair & a look that screams CRACKHEAD with a secondary donut addiction) rather than deal with bed bugs or filthy phones or invisible jism on the walls (cause you KNOW it’s there).
(Side Note: Does anyone reading this communicate with Red (who convinced me that every coffee pot in every hotel in the USA has been shit in at least once)? Has anyone heard from her or know she’s okay? I think of her daily, since she deleted her blog, and miss that crazy chick.)
I did get stopped once. I’d been on the road since 9 a.m. & after 18 hours a young, slow-talking Tennessee Sheriff’s officer wondered why I was weaving in a confused manner. I’m sure he expected me to slur my words and stumble, but it was just a case of serious darkness in the middle of nowhere and no clear lines on winding asphalt. I was tickled pink when he asked, “Ma’am, do you carry a concealed weapon?“ Even the idea gave me a thrill! I laughed out loud & said, “No one would EVER give me such a thing!” (My dear friend Roxanne claims I should have said, “Only my rapier-like wit!” but I don’t think nearly that fast.)
Thankfully, I left with no ticket, possibly because he was pleased I was about to leave his state behind, thus becoming Kentucky’s problem. He happily provided me with directions.
* * * * *
I went back because I was already making a trip south. When I came up with this brilliant idea the extra eight hours of driving time sounded utterly reasonable, sort of like making pancakes for breakfast. So I told my sister, “I’ll watch the kids! You just make a plan to have fun.” She’s had her grandchildren for three months now. The entire situation is truly mind boggling once you are there and realize the difficulties involved. The magnitude of issues & complications does not translate well onto paper.
Well, when I said, “Make a plan” she took me literally. I thought
perhaps an afternoon of golf,
she thought
53 hours in the Smoky Mountains, 300 miles and six hours away, with two overnights booked in a hotel.
We never bothered to compare our visualized experiences until I was standing in her living room and her boyfriend was carrying enough clothes to the car for a Mexican honeymoon.
It was about then that the 2-year old little boy plucked a tick off the dog bed and said, “Here, Gramma!” She told me then that they’d just treated the two huge Boxers for an infestation and went on to say with pride and amazement: “He’s been finding them everywhere! He’s really got an eye for it!” (It took me several hours to sit on anything other than a coffee table. I never did pull the cover down and climb into the bed, choosing instead to stay on top the bedspread fully clothed.)
An hour later they left and I found myself looking at 3 children under 4 years of age, all completely dependent upon me to behave as a mature adult & keep them alive for an entire weekend.
It was quite a learning experience. If I ever had any fairy tale dreams about (1) how I should have had more children closer in age or (2) how my (fill in the blank) makes me somehow superior to my sister in any way . . . they’re gone.
Twisted Joyful Springtime Snowflakes
March 20, 2009
There is only an hour and nine minutes of winter left as I begin to write this entry. I have a heinous secret to confess, similar in degree to the heavy-set blonde woman marrying a death row inmate (who perhaps killed a bunch of big blondes), the dude she met as a prison pen pal.
(Deep breath) . . .
I am one of the few freaks who likes winter. I wish it would snow more, a lot more. In Illinois the flat land allowed wind to blow the snow into huge, beautiful drifts on my grandparent’s farm.
I’ve been driven home from O’Hare Airport through a snow tunnel, my step-father driving on ice with his beer cooler between the seats, scaring the utter shit out of me. I don’t miss that jackass, but I miss the snow.
It’s one more annoying way in which I don’t fit in. Do you have any idea how much people bitch about cold, how often they complain about snow? This winter it was unending. I smiled. I am FAR more likely to throw a flip-flop at the TV when a toothy grin says, “It’s so beautiful! It looks like we could hit 90 degrees today!” Just the thought makes me want to puke.
I love sweatshirts & blankets. I like layers & scarves & crawling under the covers in a freezing room at night. We rarely put the heat higher than 65. It’s fantastical natural air conditioning, what we pay for all summer. When my son came home for a visit he looked at me with wild eyes & I ran for the thermostat. Even at 23, I can’t let my little boy freeze. Our daughter is never cold, like her mother & grandmothers before her, all relatively big women. She wears flip-flops all year round.
It used to be that spring was my favorite, then I changed to fall (the pink & orange leaves won me over). This winter I enjoyed myself so much in-doors that its’ taken over as #1. I love the low expectations! Staying home is what’s expected!
I am happy with my books, my computer, my big screen, vegetating like a sprouting potato. A simple vacation throws me so out of wack it takes a month to recover. I have finally come to the realization that this is just me: I am happy at home with my little family.
As other people imagine moving south I dream of north or west, where the heat never rises above 75. I’m not a fan of sweat. Although I like a little color, I do not worship the sun. I do not want more wrinkles. My son had a basal cell carcinoma at 14. It changes how you think.
Not to be a whiny bitch, but even the fluorescent lights of a mall or department store often necessitate that I wear shades. The bright sunlight of summer highlights my eye problems & depresses me enough that I want to live like a vampire.
More than anything, though, I think it’s the disgusting happiness that summer brings to other individuals that bugs me. I am forced to listen to enthusiasts go on and on about “the great weather,” “the beautiful weekend,” or how they biked 50 miles on a Saturday and took their kids to the park 12 times last week.
For years I’ve dealt with the perky bullshit as I wore long sleeves & pants, my thighs chafing with each sweaty step. It’s nauseating. Although I weigh less now, I can’t imagine it will be all that different. I just hate the heat. So does my daughter. Her face turns beet red, her freckles begin to pop. Before you know it, she’s bursting into tears of abject misery. Really, it makes us both such nasty bitches.
So what I want to know is where is MY weather forecaster, the one who says, “Good God, when will this f*cking heat disappear?“ They act as if two inches of snow is quite possibly the end of the earth as we know it, but broiling like a slab of bacon is utter joy. F*ck Me!
Summer days are like holidays, filled with ridiculous expectation. Ninety degrees out & I’m faced with the overly enthusiastic ”Aren’t you loving this weather?” God forbid I say “Just shut the f*ck up already. You smell like twat! Take another hike in the sun with the 3-month old & leave me be.”
Perhaps because we live at the shore it’s worse. When others run to grab surfboards I’m thinking of the riptide that nearly killed me two years ago. I’d prefer my kids never enter the ocean again. It’s beautiful to look at, but a bitch at heart.
* * * * *
Although I totally freaking hate death anniversaries, my father died 39 years ago today & it no doubt filters my view of this day. I remember thinking how he would never experience spring again.
It fascinates me how those early years are set in stone. No matter the twists and turns chosen later in life, the original caste remains. In one way or another, each and every day, I am the the end result of what began at the hands of my parents, neither of whom I’ve spent any real time with during my entire adult life. Regardless, my father has lived a very full life inside my head & heart all this time.
Quite surprisingly last week it even occurred to me that there was one single thing I appreciated about my mother. I know, it’s quite shocking.
If she hadn’t been crazy then I’d likely be normal, which is so hideously boring, a fate far worse than death.
* * * * *
7:44 A.M. and it is now officially spring . . .
Suddenly it begins to snow.
Twisted Numbers, Hidden Benefits
February 5, 2009
One of these days I’m going to drag out my worst fat pictures and post them here. In the mean time you’re going to just have to trust me when I say I’ve lost 60 pounds. It didn’t happen all at once, I was only at the top weight for a relatively short time and then I went back down twenty pounds or so and stayed there for a few years.
Then I found out I was diabetic and had to either be more careful about eating sugar or go on medication and potentially go blind. I seriously didn’t want to do either of those things, so for the most part I stopped eating junk food. Occasionally I have a cookie now, but not a box of cookies. I used to eat a pint of Ben& Jerry’s several times a week. I no longer eat ice cream at all. It was literally killing me.
I’m better not having even a taste of most things. There is no joy in a taste, I want to slather myself with it until I pass out and then start again. I am a binger extraordinaire. One bite is a tease, even one slice or one serving. Portion control is utter bullsh*t for an addict.
I struggle with the numbers. Women are “supposed” to weigh 125 or something utterly ridiculous like that. I weighed 126 in the 6th grade and was just as perfect as could be. My “thin” weight as a senior in high school was 150.
In college I began to gain. Sophomore year I did an exchange program and went to the University of Oregon. This photo was taken on the trip there. I think I weighed 168. I felt like a whale.
Yeah, this is what 168 on a female looks like. I imagine I would have been kind of emaciated at 128, yet that would have been a much more attractive number.
I swore that I would lose weight once I arrived in Oregon. I was going to transform myself. It was an obsession. Somehow I never managed to consider the fact that I am extremely shy around strangers and knew no one. After the first meeting of exchange students, where I sat silently by myself, I left the meeting and went directly to Baskin & Robbins. I knew friends there, 31 to be exact.
Did you know that a large B&R Heath Bar Milkshake contains:
On the other hand, I was thrilled to discover during my time there that I really do have big bones. Yes, if you are over 5’5″ and your wrists are larger than 6.5 inches around (mine are 7 inches), you can claim this ridiculous advantage. If you are wondering how that’s a positive I’ll explain it: people will never, ever believe that you weigh as much as you really do.
The negative, of course, is that you will hate yourself anyway.
* * * * *
So I’m two pounds away from the weight at which my husband met me. He’s never known me thinner than this. For lots and lots of years I wore clothing size 22 and 24. After I lost quite a bit I had to get new pants because the old ones were literally falling off of me. I was really, really shocked to find I was a size 16. Those pants are now loose.
Surprisingly, there is no thrill to all of this. I still feel like me, I still feel fat and I think my face is looking older as it thins out. I still wish I could eat ice cream daily. I now focus a lot of thought on hating my hair. Old habits die hard.
Another 20 pounds and I’ll be where I was in that picture up there. But that’s not good enough. I want to lose another 30-35 because of the numbers.
* * * * *
I’m sure this will sound insane, but the most positive single thing that has come from the weight loss is that I’ve started sleeping n*ked.
I can’t believe what I was missing out on all these years, wearing sweatshirts and gowns and quite often the clothes I wore that day when I fell into bed. I’m talking tactile experience, not p*rnographic content. The closer you are at night, the closer you remain all day. The benefits are far reaching.
Of course, your spouse has to participate or it’s skin on flannel, which doesn’t work nearly as well.
My recommendation, no matter what your weight, if you sleep with your spouse then you absolutely have to try it. I feel like I lost out on 15 years of one of the best parts of marriage.
Even better than Ben & Jerry’s. I’ve heard they sleep together n*ked, too.
A Complaint Has Been Lodged . . .
November 12, 2008
I’ve been informed by my ridiculously successful and normally complaint-free cousin, Tara, that it’s a drag to look at Ted Danson’s head every time you come to visit this blog and realize nothing has changed. I’m not surprised that this is the case and so I’m here to fix it.
What happened to my desire to blog?
I’ve got no flipping idea.
I guess I’ve been trying to live life somewhere other than in front of the computer screen. It eventually becomes lonely here, hour after hour, re-writing words in an attempt to reach utter perfection. Besides, it’s not even possible.
So, I shall quickly update with ten things currently going on in my life, try and pull it all together as simply as possible, thus erasing Ted Danson’s head:
1.) Yesterday was my husband’s birthday. I’d like to thank Bud & Joyce for creating their splendid son just for me. I made him a meat loaf & mashed potatoes. He is easily pleased & I work hard to keep his expectations low. No jumping, cooking, cleaning, or serving nonsense. Sometimes my total lack of movement could signify actual death to a less secure man.
Still, he gets more attention when I don’t blog; whether he wants it or not is the question. The more affection he receives, the cockier he gets. Now that I think about it, maybe he’s just not sniffing at my ass like a dog? No matter. The lack of cold nose at my twat makes me feel needy.
Sperm makes women weak-kneed and doe-eyed; release of sperm triggers thoughts of lawn tractors & leaf bagging in the male species. It’s a sick dance.
(WTF is with men & their obsession with fallen leaves?)
The other day I was in the library & suddenly imagined him walking in with another woman holding his enormous man hand. (Not that he’s ever willingly set foot in a library, to my knowledge.) It was both devastating & thrilling because I suddenly remembered how wonderful he is & how insane I am (plus completely unwilling to share).
It’s bizarre: the more dependable a person is, the more you tend to take them for granted. I forget he’s a big shot when he’s folding my clothes.
Anyway, I looked at him this morning & realized that I love him so much I can’t allow myself to really feel it because if I ever acknowledge how lucky I am then I’m afraid he will immediately drop dead. Fear sucks. It also rules my life.
2.) I’ve joined a group of local chicks, pseudo-heathen moms who bonded when a couple of nutjobs decided to push their extreme-o religion & homophobia a step too far. It’s been a wacky girl’s dream come true. We had a rough spot over the election but came out the other side better than ever. Currently we’re discussing things like the taste of vagina juice (some like it better than others) and masturbation. The lesbians were uncomfortable with all the talk about blow jobs, so we switched off & went a different direction.
3.) I talked to my sister’s boyfriend today, Mike, and he filled me in on the family. I haven’t spoken with anyone since returning from the wedding. No real surprises, the twisted antics continue.
My mother has sent me some terroristic e-mail forwards though, things like this:
“You’ve probably seen this before, but I think it’s so CUTE!!!
Send this to six of your friends and let them know you love them, including me. Because there is no promise or insurance that anyone you love WILL STILL BE ALIVE TOMORROW!”
4.) My niece’s face is now displayed on the Illinois Department of Corrections website, two versions, front and side view. It’s very exciting. According to reports, my sister is still mad at me for admitting that I am the one who reported my niece to authorities from 1,000 miles away. My brother Scott, with a laugh, says it may take her 20 or 30 years to get over it.
At first I felt bad about that & wished I’d kept my mouth shut. Then I started thinking about how I used to longingly look at the phone book, thinking “Surely there’s someone we could call to come & save us from this scary bitch named Mom.” But I didn’t know how to find the number. My niece’s kids are just babies & this time I would have been the negligent adult who chose to look the other way. I knew it was bad. So fuck my sister’s ignorant ass.
5.) We survived Halloween. It’s been confirmed, I still hate holidays. The girl had three costumes: Ballerina, Witch & 50′s Girl. Here are two favorite pictures:
Below she’s with the lovely & newly ordained High Priestess Roxanne & her two perfect sons Riley & Griffin. Roxanne is the kind of mother who makes chocolate-covered strawberries just for snacks, decorates with abandon & allows her children to TeePee their own yard. It’s a hard act to follow.
6.) One of my four favorite days of the year was last Saturday, the local library book sale. I purchased $47 worth of paperbacks at 25 cents per and hard-covers at 50 cents each, plus a couple high-priced $2 items. It is a multi-orgasmic experience, a joy to behold. Except for the part where you’re stuck in a tiny room with heavy wheezing mouth breathers who purposely avoid deodorant, mouthwash &/or Head’n Shoulders for a full week before attending the extravaganza. Yes, I love cheap books just that much.
7.) A local family officially has bedbugs. This wonderfully eccentric mother continues to greet others with a hug & a kiss. I have been told that I over-react to such things & I’ve been trying my best to maintain, like not screaming in public. However, when I spoke with my excellent friend, Mary, she completely went the other direction & I love her for it. During her teen years she still lived in Ireland & spent some time with members of the IRA. I believe she’d call them in for a special deployment if anyone ever came near her family with such hideousness. She is a bright spot in my life, a safe port in a storm.
8.) I reached a total weight loss of 56 pounds last week & immediately gained back three. My right knee continues to swell up like a football & makes exercise a questionable endeavor. My flabby ass still blows my mind when I can grab globs of gelatinous blubber on either side of the toilet seat. WTF?
I hate my fat now more than ever, much more than when there was so much more of it. I love being able to buy clothes anywhere, any time, with no giraffes or beads or boats decorating the hem lines. I still love 3X sweatshirts, including the orange one that says “Krispy Kreme Donuts,” but they look kind of silly & now I can wear my son’s old mediums. I am obsessed with fiber.
9.) I am overwhelmed by blogging, reading & commenting on blogs & commenting on blog comments. I don’t know how to do it all and still have a life, i.e., play the game Book Worm for six hours in a single night and score over a million points, save it & play again the next day. Does anyone else love that game as much as I do?
10.) My favorite new shows of the season are: Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew Pinsky (it makes me high), The Office (Dwight & Angela should totally make a porno), Survivor (could a strong player win just once? How is Krystal possibly an Olympic medal winner?), ER (Neela & her love interests leave me breathless), Redneck Weddings on CMT (A guy took his teeth out for a hot dog eating contest – OMG), WifeSwap (the obsession continues), Housewives of Atlanta (an utter train wreck, so hideous I can’t stop watching), and America’s Next Top Model (How could they possibly keep that gangly chick over the Russian?).
* * * * *
My life in a nutshell!
McFatty the Blind Attention Whore
September 13, 2008
About three years ago my doctor told me I was diabetic and needed to go on a sugar-free, low-fat diet. My cholesterol could still spackle a wall. At the time, my twat was experiencing a yeast overflow like normally only happens in bakeries.
The saving grace is that I don’t smoke, like my sister, and I don’t have high blood pressure, like my brother. However, I do have an 11-year old & that takes all the fun out of just letting myself go to pot. Fuckity, fuck, fuck.
I was relatively fanatical about the diet for maybe six months. My grandmother died of a massive heart attack at 57 due to diabetic complications, so I took it seriously. I’m 48 now. I cried over turkey sandwiches on brown bread w/ mustard as my husband ate his fries.
I was worried about going blind; my vision had gone to shit after always being perfect. Supposedly that happens to lots of people at 40. However, I assumed it might have something to do with eating whole boxes of ice cream sandwiches in one sitting. Impossible to know.
I did not permanently stick to the diet. One day I just started eating again. I’m not sure what happened to the fear. I might have accidentally eaten it during a frantic drive-thru experience.
So the doctor wanted to put me on medication three months ago. I refused & decided I’d go back on the diet instead. All the medications have side effects that make it just really stupid to keep eating PLUS take meds.
If you can imagine, one of the side effects of diabetes medication is WEIGHT GAIN. Kind of similar to those anti-depression meds that take away your ability to have an orgasm. DUH. I gained weight on those, too.
Although I don’t follow any diet 100%, I’ve lost about 50 pounds and haven’t been the weight I am now for about 15 years. My boobs are like deflated tennis balls on the road after being crushed under a truck tire. Fortunately, the nipples still work just fine.
I thought that when I got to this point it would be some kind of milestone, that I would feel really fantastic, but it’s not true. I think I may be waiting for a fucking parade. I want accolades and a key to the city. All cities. Even though I’m still fat.
This is exactly the kind of problem I have when it comes to cleaning the house. I expect my husband to come in the door, do a round-off, a cheer, and call a few people to come over and look at the kitchen floor.
I’d like him to say things like, “Damn, my wife is HOT, plus she can sure as shit make a floor shine! What can I buy you today, sweetie? I’m so LUCKY! Your ass is looking TINY today!”
Once isn’t enough, though. He needs to compliment me like a cuckoo clock. Then I would probably complain that he sounded like a big pussy because of his annoying repetitive compliments, so he would stop . . . until I returned to complaining that he wasn’t complimenting me enough.
The simple fact is that I’m . . .
. . . an attention whore.
There is never enough to fill my open, empty spaces.
The people who made the most comments about me getting fat have said nothing about the loss. My father-in-law loves to say shit about how good looking I “used to be.” Things like, “You should have seen her figure! The legs!” The sister-in-law: ”I didn’t know you were pregnant again! Congratulations!”, with a snarky grin.
My niece, Sam, who I visited in jail when I went to Illinois, immediately said, “Wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight, haven’t you?” I never felt more love for the girl, and I’ve always adored her! The last time I saw her I weighed close to 100 pounds more than she did. She was doing crack at the time, which had something to do with it. She’s gained & now only about 10 lbs. separate us.
I like her so much more than my bitchy bitch sister-in-law.
Sam was sentenced to four years in prison last week, after being thrown out of a drug rehab for writing a letter to one of the boys in the juvenile unit. It was nothing serious, just a goof, but they kicked her out anyway. Now they’re probably going to revoke her parental rights. My sister will get the kids.
It really puts the psychotically over-analyzed issues of diet & weight loss in perspective.
Unless, of course, you accidentally kill yourself via yeast rolls & butter.
Humpback Whale
April 3, 2008
My daughter is on the floor beside me and just found this picture. She said, “Wow! You look like a humpback whale!” God, what a little comedian:
The fellow beside me is my adorable little brother, the one mom gave diet pills to when he was 14. It worked really well, huh? He had two heart attacks before 40, then the gastric bypass surgery.
We’re both a little smaller today than this picture shows.
Fuck it. I look happy:)
Fat, Fat, Fat
April 1, 2008
So you know I’ve been dieting. Blah, blah, blah. Like every other fucking woman in America, it seems. My orthodontist is on Jenny Craig. Since he’s a man he calls it “Jerry Craig.”
I’m 33 pounds less than my highest ever documented Weight Watchers number, which was incredibly fat cow zone. If I could just lose a few more I could potentially lose the diabetic label, too.
I weigh 8 pounds more now than when my husband and I first got together. This means maybe I’ll see my cooch without a flashlight and mirror soon.
I’ve been scanning a lot of old pictures lately. And I am sick over the fact that when they were originally taken I thought I was ridiculously obese.
I am so pissed that we continue to convince girls they’re fat unless they’re bone thin. Magazines, television, men. Women are considered worthless if they’re not emaciated. It’s a head trip beyond repair.
Take a look at me when I was soooo fat . . .
This picture was taken on the way to Oregon and I probably weighed 162. I was desperate to lose weight before arriving on the coast and meeting new people. I was a nervous wreck.
I actually remember running into my very first real boyfriend and him saying to me, “Why did you let yourself get fat?” I never questioned that he was right. Motherfucker.
Here’s another:
I was dating this hideously creepy guy when this picture was taken, he probably took it. He was dating someone else and I thought I wasn’t good enough to be his number one. We finally ended it after he punched me in the head a few times. God, I wish he’d get fucked up the ass by some big guy in an alley.
Senior Prom:
I remember feeling gargantuan next to the girl beside me, yet my arm could not be thinner than it appears to be without showing bone. You’ll notice I’m taller than she is, but that still equates as bigger, it doesn’t matter.
And in this one:
I can’t even tell you what a fucked up place I was in at this point, dating three different people, none of them appropriate. My main boyfriend at the time, again, was dating several people and didn’t want a commitment. I was hanging out with a chick who was so stick thin I thought my own body was disgusting.
I was 21, working in a group home. One of the boys was 17. Any fucked up young girl who thinks social work is a good place to find a job, bad idea.
And finally:
This is maybe 7th grade, my sister in 6th. I think it’s hysterical that her legs are open and you can see the crotch. We’ve had a lot of laughs over this pic.
Mom had all of us on Diet Pepsi at this point. Soon she’d have my 14-year old brother taking diet pills while doing football practice in 100-degree heat.
Where does it end?
Ten Questions
March 8, 2008
I went to my second Bunco party last night and only knew about half the people there.
Spending time with strangers is always a questionable endeavor. It can be uncomfortable.
I want to ask an immediate set of 10 simple questions, but it might be social suicide. On the other hand, it could be the best freaking party I ever attended.
Here are the questions:
1.) Are you a fun girl? Will you laugh at my jokes? If not, don’t bother answering the rest of these questions.
2.) Favorite curse words, how often? Do you offend easily? Do you realize they’re just words?
3.) Sex life, how often, oral, anal? Details, please. And, by the way, how old were you when you lost your virginity? How many partners total?
4.) Do you watch television? Detailed list of all shows, please. If you do not watch television, I’m not sure this conversation can continue. You may be far too creative and great at time management, thus damaging to my self-esteem.
5.) Do you have children? If not, why not? Details, please.
6.) Good or bad childhood? Current relationship with parents? If it was good, do you realize you won the lottery? If it was bad, I’d like to hear all about it.
7.) How do you maintain your cooch? Natural, shaved, manicured or waxed?
8.) Please give me your detailed history of drug & alcohol usage, including cigarettes. Please relate all embarrassing stories in detail. Also, if you still do any of these things and ever ask for a ride in my car, please empty your pockets and allow for a quick frisk.
9.) What is your position on pets? Do you allow them to lick you or sleep with you?
10.) Political party, please?
Most of these women are concerned about allowing their children to watch a PG-13 movie and I sit around watching Rock of Love with mine. Where better for her to learn about life than with me?
They complain about how little their husbands do when mine does absolutely everything. I wonder if I should make up complaints, tell huge lies about him being an asshole just to fit in.
They talk about being thrilled to send their children off to school, camp, anywhere possible. I keep mine with me every single day.
I think most people probably never feel like they fit in, but when it’s happening it seems like you’re the only one in the world.
I especially love it when the skinny girls start talking about shoving themselves into their “fat clothes.” Honest to goodness, one of these days I may throw someone out a window or smother them with my huge dimpled ass.
One of the women stated that when she was a little girl her mother went on vacation. Before leaving she wrote letters to all her children in case she never made it back. The kids found the letters and it was devastating.
I burst out with, “Man, I thought I was neurotic but that is fucking crazy.” The look on the girl’s face was less than enthusiastic. So I tried to cover. “Are you still close with your parents?”
“Yes, I talk with them every day.”
The conversation continued as they all decided to vent about everyone they currently know with a fatal disease. Of course that followed with stories about people who have recently died of hideous ailments at a young age.
I wanted to set my hair on fire just to get out of the room, but I was trapped on the back side of the table with nowhere to go.
The subject then changed to people who hug and people who don’t, people who say “I love you” and people who don’t.
The neurotic mother’s daughter asked me specifically, “Well, you tell your parents you love them, right?”
My first instinct was to yell, “MY FATHER’S BEEN DEAD SINCE I WAS 10!” But instead, I said, “My mother and I don’t have a great relationship, so no.”
I could see her watching the horns on the top of my head peek out from under my hair.
I was glad to hear that she talks to her mother daily because of course that’s what I’m hoping for with my own daughter. She was a really cute girl, but I doubt she would ever be a regular blog reader of mine.
I went out to the porch to get some fresh air. The heat in the place must have been on about 75 and I could feel germs breeding for one of those hideous diseases previously spoken of.
Unfortunately the home I used to live in was right across the street, which sent me into a downward spiral of melancholy for the days when my son lived with us in that tiny house.
I was hit with an emotional shit wave as I drove home in pouring rain.
The best part about the bunco party?
Watching the crazy dog with bulging eyes stand on his hind legs and manage to get a toenail on the plate of cheese at my table, beginning to pull the plate toward herself.
And winning my $10 back.
If I am to continue with the bunco I think I may have to start asking the questions.
What the hell?
Junkie
February 7, 2008
After posting my last nasty entry about my hatred of heat, I had to laugh when I traveled to the lovely blog at Owl Moon Studio, as noted on the blogroll. She mentioned what lovely spring weather we’re having!
I think what I need to admit, to myself and whoever is listening, is that I’m on the stuff again. The attitude is all about the addiction. I’m on the shit. I’m a junkie. The sugar has taken a hold once more and it’s got me in its grip.
Every day I try to get back on track and every day I fail. It affects every part of me.
Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.
Last Rant of 2007 – Part II
December 31, 2007
So, to reiterate, it’s all about the skinny bitches, the size zero, the obsession with thinness.
I started this rant regarding something I read at http://mamavision.wordpress.com/.
And I’m still thinking about how pissed off I was to read the blog by the dipshit mother unhappy over no longer being a size zero. Get the fuck out of here.
If being a size six is the biggest problem you’ve got, get on your knees and sing Hallelujah! Someone else’s kid has 12 toes and a missing testicle, but you’re thinking about your muffin top.
Give me a chunky black chick with attitude over a pasty-faced skinny white girl any day.
Sadly, some ad campaign or brainwashing technique has made it impossible for the words chunky white chick to ever sound appealing. We just can’t seem to pull it off.
Last Rant of 2007
December 31, 2007
There is such a great blog entry regarding skinny bullshit at http://mamavision.wordpress.com/ It’s got me raging.
The obsession seems to continually get worse with the magic of airbrushing. Our sons are made to believe that real girls don’t have acne, Oprah is beautiful, and starving chicks are always sexually excited (if you look closely, they’re so hungry that chicken wings are reflected in their pupils).
They may very well be trying to get their mouth on a penis in their body’s quest for nourishment.
According to this site, a size 8 is now considered plus size. I wasn’t an 8 when my wrists were bony and my cheeks prominent.
I get it that a small guy would want to be with a small girl, but most guys aren’t tiny. Thank God. I like a big brute, a hulking bastard, a man with hands the size of hams. Of course, sometimes the smallest guys are with the biggest girls.
Thirty pounds . . .
December 28, 2007
So I’m down 30 pounds from my fattest ever. Another 20 and I can trampoline naked whenever I feel like it.
Tonight the kid got ice cream and I had coffee. I survived. Peanut butter and chocolate ice cream is my morphine.
This weight loss thing is not brain surgery . . . stop eating and exercise.
The only way for me to stop eating is to get the sugar out. It’s so fucking addictive that I literally can’t think straight when it’s flooding my brain.
Replace ice cream and cinnamon buns with bananas and apples.
Oh, and don’t forget the life threatening diagnosis that scares the shit out of you.
Ta-da!
Excessive
December 13, 2007
The excesses of American life are never far from your line of sight at Disney.
