I Love This Prank So Much It’s Sick

(This entry is a blast from the past.  I have added some content and made a few edits.  I find it hard to believe I really played a part in this crazy story.)

* * * * *

We have a request from a visitor named Jay, regarding 101 Things ~ About Me.

“’68. I love playing practical jokes. 69. Once the police were called to one of the practical joke scenes I was involved in. It was bad.’

This deserves a post of it own!!”

So, Jay, this post is for you.

* * * * *

I went to college in a place that was rather unbelievably named “Normal, IL.”  By the time senior year rolled around I’d fallen in with an abnormal group much more to my liking. 

Although the previous year I’d lived with my best friend Linda, she was now living with her lover Cindy and my ex-boyfriend Jeff.  I met Linda and Jeff when I was 20, while working in a runaway home.  We all worked there.

This was the same place where a man attacked me in the middle of the night, after I failed to get the door locked properly, and the teens in residence ran the bad guy off with a baseball bat.

It’s the same place where the 14-year old sat having a very mundane conversation with me, maintaining a totally straight face, until I noticed his penis was sticking straight up out of his pants like a totem pole.  Almost 30 years later I can still see that little freak’s business.

I also seem to remember a scene at the kitchen table where some of the staff were grinding up sleeping pills and putting them in brownies, so the kids would leave us alone. 

We’re not talking about a group of Nobel prize winners working at this establishment.  I think the pay may have been $5/hour.  We were “counselors,” after all, making the big bucks back in 1980.

I was not entertained that my nemesis, Cindy, was living with my two best friends.  She was a little too happy, a little too blonde, a little too comfortable stealing my favorite people and making them hers.  It sucked.  (It’s probably a small issue, but I should mention that I was sleeping with both of my best friends and didn’t actually tell either of them before it all blew up in my face.)

Jeff blamed me for the break-up just because I slept with Linda.  How unfair is that?  I think he initially thought we’d get married soon after college.  I’m not sure how he missed noticing the instability that hovered over me like a cloud.  To put it lightly, I was fucked up.

This is a picture of Jeff and I from that time period.  He looks like a logger.  In reality, he was more of an intellectual, less a fan of hard work:

As for Linda, she was my first lesbian acquaintance and therefore the most fascinating single individual ever to cross my path.  I’d never met a real live homer-sexual.  When Linda told me she was gay it was like discovering my best friend was a martian.  I felt the need to search for her martian antennae and bring the information back to my homeland.  (I come from a small town where a loose dog on the grammar school playground merits mention in the newspaper.)

I probably asked her somewhere in the realm of 3,000 questions.  As long as her 12-pack still had a beer left in the box, she was happy & willing to fill me in on all the details.  Remember, this wasn’t long after Watergate and I fancied myself Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein.  It was great, one of the best experiences of my life.  Just a hop, skip & a jump until we were both naked and then I was being a bitch. 

Would you really expect me to treat a female any differently than I treated the males in my life?  I was unstable like a 3-legged table.

* * * * *

So ultimately what happened was Jeff came into some money and bought a brand new television plus stereo equipment.  He was very excited about these purchases, a little too braggy about his good fortune.  We all thought he was a bit full of himself and we were probably jealous.

I got a call one night from Linda.  She was getting drunk (as she did daily) with the new chick & Linda’s ex-boyfriend Pete (she gave it a shot).  They were laughing and begging me to assist in a practical joke.  I was to come over and help hide the TV and the stereo in the basement, then tie Linda and Cindy up to make it look like there had been a home invasion, Jeff’s stuff had been robbed and his roommates immobilized.

Really, how could I resist? Like a good dumbass, I immediately agreed to commence with this idiotic idea.  “I’ll be right over.”

Peter & I tied the girls together with rope, back to back, and left them lying in the middle of the living room floor.  I believe we may have even put gags on their mouths.  Yes, I’m sure we did.  We also knocked over a lamp or two and messed up the room.  As Jeff’s car pulled in the driveway my cohort and I ran upstairs. 

Things did not go exactly as planned.

When Jeff walked in, instead of freaking out over his stolen TV, he believed the girls had been raped and actually began to cry.  He was flipped out.  He was sobbing!  We were upstairs peeing ourselves.

When the restrained girls saw tears in his eyes, they also began to cry.  We could not see them from our vantage point, but could hear a weeping chorus, Jeff asking if they were okay.  They were struck mute by his grief. 

Suddenly the worm had turned: the two chicks who came up with the idea were considered victims and I was a perpetrator!  Somehow our pre-planning had never made it to this stage of the game.

Pete and I were looking at each other in disbelief.  WTF?  What do we do now?  We could hear Jeff dialing the rotary phone, calling the police, and the “victims” were completely silent.  We could hear him talking with a police dispatcher.  We were stunned at what was happening to our genius-level prank.

Suddenly, Jeff heard a noise upstairs.  (I’m pretty sure it was the pee running down my leg.)  He believed the intruders were still in his house.  He came running upstairs like a rhino, red-faced and nearly hyperventilating, with a baseball bat leading the charge.  Pete and I were both hoping spontaneous human combustion was a real phenomenon, that we might burst into flames rather than face this nice, friendly, funny guy who we just made cry like a big pussy. 

Jeff saw me, I saw the look of recognition in his eyes, the gig was up.  Police immediately began knocking at the door.  Oh – my – God.

After explanations were provided, the officers told us they never expected to get another call involving any of our cast of characters again or we’d definitely be doing some time in a box.  They left.  We were left to face one another.

Jeff never forgave me.  He felt that I was the only responsible one of the crew and thought it would never have happened without my involvement.  I’m still confused by the utter ridiculousness of expecting me to be the mature one.

He forgave Linda and Cindy, continued living with them.  Of course, the fact that he could tell people his roommates were lesbians gave him a cache’ that I could not touch. 

It really was very unfair of him.  And that is why I will now report to you the fact that he is the only man I’ve ever known who preferred to climax with both feet sticking straight up into the air.

I love that f’ing prank.  Freaking guy had no sense of humor.

Gotta Have It

Warning:  This entry is rated NC-17.

My thoughts on sex are many and varied, practically schizophrenic (like everything else in my twin Gemini personality).  I can’t even say it’s one of my favorite subjects, it’s so overdone, to the point of stupidity.  Anything a goat can do is not worthy of such constant attention.  So girls have tits!  Woo-woo!  Get over it already.

Sometimes I’m just not in the mood to get naked.  I’m not one of those girls who screams for hours of foreplay.  Ten minutes is really enough, thank you so much.  I know there are also women who have a hot, kicking testosterone stream.  God bless them.

When I was 15 I dated Larry, who was 23.  He was so impressed that he could do it all night.  I was so sure I never wanted to date anyone like him again, anyone who would chafe me raw to prove himself.  I like a guy who’s so excited to see me he comes in his pants.  Now that’s adoration!  No effort involved!

I’m a fan of interesting conversation, something analytical, less sweating and hyperventilating.  I love Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit!  Something that deals with the brain, please.  (And, yes, I know the brain is the most important sexual organ.  It’s just that you need to interest me in another way before I’m going to be thrilled with all your manliness.)

Conversely, I am convinced that sex is the number one element in a relationship.  (There’s the schizo aspect.)

I think the average chick, however, is not sexually obsessed.  Before marriage I was more of a social worker, a Mother Teresa type, giving aid to those with erections.  I started out as an attention seeking people pleaser.  In high school I once did it with a guy named Mike at a drive-in just because his feelings were hurt that I’d let his best friend, also named Mike, slip it in on a previous occasion.  I couldn’t stand the whining and hang dog face.  “Go ahead (heavy sigh).”

I felt like it was unfair that my job was to say “No” to all those boys who seemed utterly bereft and completely desperate.  I still don’t understand why it’s saintly to give food to the hungry, but slutty to give sex to the horny.  WTF?   Men are right out there with their penis doing the begging.  It’s surprising that they don’t draw tears and a sad face on it with a magic marker.

As a little girl I remember imagining that on my wedding night we would sit by a fire and drink hot chocolate while eating popcorn.  I had no idea it was so much more complicated than that. 

When an older family member first told me that all men care about is sex, I really and truly thought she was a fucking idiot.  I was 24 years old and couldn’t believe this old woman was even saying the word “sex” to me.  After all, my own maternal grandmother slept with a Siamese cat wrapped around her neck and the word “pussy” never came up in our conversation.

Today, 23 years later, I realize the old broad was trying to do me a favor by giving me the heads up.

Now when other women tell me things aren’t going well at home, my first question is whether they’re doing it.  The answer is almost always no.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t bode well for the marriage.  I now completely believe that sperm is an icky, sticky paste that holds two people together, another reason to think really hard before doing it with a jackass.

I was just lucky to escape without an idiot super-glued to my ass.

As a married woman, my time performing humanitarian aid in the vast sexual peace corps complete, I lose interest if much time goes by between rides in the saddle.  My vagina is a fan of the extended vacation.  Once the big guy is patted down and put away in the stall, I’m not thinking about him any longer.  Hubby’s horse could die of thirst & hunger while I’m reading a good book, completely forgetting that I even own a pony.

The flip side is the funky biological connector that goes missing without sex.  It’s a hormonal combination lock that alters my “Bitchy” and his “Fucker.”  If either one of those two alternate personalities is allowed to rule the roost for long, we’re in trouble.  And of course the reality is that once you get started it’s fun!  “Why don’t we do this more often?!”  This stated as my husband beats his head bloody against the headboard.

Suddenly I’m in love again and his mind is on mowing the lawn.

The truth is that women need sex as much as men.  I occasionally need to be put in my place on a biological level.  I don’t feel a connection to him when we’re not regularly getting connected.  There is a caveman thing that is still in play.  I’ve suggested to my husband that he just say, “Shut the fuck up and blow me.”  He’s way too urbane and mannerly.  And, truth be told, I’d probably bite his dick if he did this.

There is a need for constant give and take.  My husband will not do laundry, wash dishes or fix dinner if his balls are turning blue.

Several of my friends & acquaintances have grown tired of their husbands, married life & the inherent sexual expectations.  While living in lovely homes, raising beautiful children, their men somehow became more annoying than interesting.  Of course, I think that happens to everyone occasionally.  It just seems like a special situation, when it is not.

Once divorced, instead of five minutes in the sack it’s an 8-hour shift on your feet.  Instead of doing a husband in the bedrooom, it’s serving drinks to strangers in a bar or eating shit from a boss (just a different type of servitude).  The children move from house to house & the shocking truth sets in: you will remain co-parents for the rest of your life.  There is no escape.

Eventually an on-line profile is prepared.   Shockingly, you discover what men on the internet want most of all!  Sex, of course.  Now divorced, working a job or two, living as a single parent, there are very few decent guys to date.  No one is perfect enough.

For God’s sake, I’m not interested in taking this alternate route.  And if you say that sounds like I’m equating marriage with prostitution, I’ll agree with you.

All of life is yin & yang.

Several of my friends have small children and blame their lack of any sex life on the kids.  But for the sake of the relationship you cannot say, “We have children and there is no time or privacy.”  If you want your children to have two loving, happy parents, buy a lock.  Let the children cry at the door.  Do the deed.

When I’m feeling like a spiteful bitch, wanting to do pretty much anything in the entire world other than touch my husband’s dick, I try to think again.  There are unwanted results from such posturing.  Bad shit begins to happen.

Did you know that your ass grows exponentially in your husband’s eyes when you stop being kind to his penis?

Dicks actually control all thought, after 12 days without orgasm (some after 7).

Girls who like to eat need to pretend there’s a chili dog in the room.

Girls who love animals need to imagine their dude’s pubic hair is a fluffy baby shih-tzu.

Are you disgusted with me, completely annoyed with this subject?  Then think about this:

Your children standing up at his wedding to the second wife.

His second family, your children’s half-siblings.

You, home alone, while he’s living in his new apartment with a convertible parked out front.

Are you getting horny yet?

I can’t listen to one more woman bitch about how her husband doesn’t do anything around the house, never washes a dish.  When is the last time you tasted some fleshy penis roll-up?  As Dr. Phil says about children, “You must find their currency.”

Don’t even tell me that you don’t give head and then bitch about his rotten moods and nasty attitude.  Because it’s true — sex is all that matters when it comes to the male species.  A recipe for a happy marriage?  Penis on your breath.  It’s that simple.

Say you’ve got a yeast infection plus an impacted wisdom tooth?  Lube up your breasts and make a man sandwich.

You say you’re not in the mood and you shouldn’t have to do such a thing?  You just don’t feel like it, he hasn’t been nice to you lately, you think it’s disgusting and degrading?  If your kids knew that divorce might be looming on the horizon they would save up their quarters to buy you busty lingerie.

You don’t like the taste?  Try a condiment!  Slip some Ben & Jerry’s on that bad boy, make it taste like a caramel sundae.  Or is chocolate your thing?  Powdered cocoa mix, Hershey’s syrup or fudge sauce will do the trick.

There’s something in the female brain that starts out saying ”No,” but halfway through turns into “Yes, yes, yes!”  I wish I knew what the fuck that was about.

Do you enjoy wiping your ass?  Probably not.  But you do it anyway.  In the end you’re so happy it’s sweet-smelling, perfumed and smooth as a baby’s butt. 

Today I told my husband I wish he’d love me even if my vagina were sewn shut, my fingers chopped off and my jaw broken.  He answered my statement with a question: “Was your broken jaw set open or closed?”

Men in a nutshell.

Later this weekend he’s papering our bedroom walls with this entry.  When he points out specific lines I’ve written, I will likely tell him to go fuck himself.

Women in a nutshell.

Those damned goats make it all look so incredibly simple.

Parenting Tips for those with Youngsters

Dear Abby posted a letter today on parents of adult children.

It was from a woman married to a man whose family wanted to see him more than she thought necessary.  They pressured the daughter-in-law to get together on holidays.  So the young couple purchased a home in another state.  They were very excited to escape the family situation. 

Then the in-laws told them they’d purchased a vacation home — in the state their son and daughter-in-law were moving to.  The young woman no longer wanted to move, since obviously the problem was going to continue.

Abby regaled the letter writer with her advice that distance is healthy.  She told her they were going to have to address the situation verbally and set boundaries.

Since I now have a 22-year old I suddenly think Abby is an unreasonable whoremonger.

In reality, of course, I can see both sides of this issue, as a daughter who left my mother in the dust, never to return.  I’ve been proud of that fact, even recommended it to others.  I guess karma really is a bitch. 

Of course, Mom is a bit different than me, never attempting to follow me cross country.  She would follow men, boyfriends and husbands, to the end of the earth.  Kids were not her thing.  However, she did show up once and sleep in a truck in front of my house.  It was a big truck, the kind with a sleeper, driven by step-father #2.  It was sort of embarrassing.  I’m glad they didn’t stay.

Obsessive mother love meets the end of the road.  Continue at your own peril.  

It’s like being an expert in a single subject, an all-consuming job no one else can fill.  On the twenty-second year, one hundred and fifty-third day, you’re fired and don’t see it coming.  Suddenly, if you keep doing everything you’ve done up to this point, you will smother your beloved project, it will blow up in your face.  The situation is a brain fuck.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I was supposed to be learning and growing over the past 20 years.  Piss on that.

Interesting side note:  I asked my husband to read this out loud for proofing purposes and he refuses to say the curse words out loud.  Good Lord.  How did I end up with this guy?  Are you kidding me?  Cursing is joyous abandon!

I was just entertaining my son and his friend the other night with stories of how I might get a job at his place of employment, probably as a cleaning lady.  Or I might fill up a moving van and secretly plant myself in the apartment next to his, shocking him some morning with tea delivered to his door.  I was thrilled when the friend said he could see his mother doing the same.

Obviously, if I follow Abby’s directives, I’m not allowed to do either of these things.  I’m not even allowed to expect my son over for Christmas dinner, his birthday or a summer barbecue with my grandchildren.  Do you know why the word “motherfucker” is so popular?  Because mothers are fucked.  I am a fucked mother.  It’s fucking unbelievable.

Although he’s not married yet, doesn’t even have a girlfriend that I know of, I already see myself in the role of dreaded bitchy mother-in-law.  Once they’re grown, it’s all the same.  Mother, mother-in-law, either way it’s akin to being nothing more than a royal pain in the ass.

About the only thing he looks for now is food and I suck as a cook.  He’s beginning a job soon and will have plenty of money to eat in the best restaurants.  My crispy omelets will lose their appeal.  He will turn up his nose at my dry mashed potatoes, my burnt chicken cutlets, my preservative-laden casseroles.

He will move into a beautiful home with a young chick who wants to spend time with her own fascinating & beautiful parents.  She will shudder at the thought of visiting my silent husband and his angst-ridden wife.  I will be forced to learn some new and interesting skills to make us appear interesting, perhaps hang a trapeze between the trees in the backyard.  I will use my husband’s ability to string spaghetti in one nostril and out the other to attract grandchildren for visits.

Since this has been a shocking travesty in my life, I’d like to make a few suggestions to those of you with teeny infants, magnificently beautiful toddlers, and beaming 10-year old comedians.

Stop yourself.  Discontinue the adoration.  My sister, who provided only domestic violence as entertainment, has children who adore her.  Forget the fucking ballet and multi-hour sessions of catch.

Feed them potatoes and tuna, preferably out of a box or a can.  You must abso-fucking-lutely refuse to cut the crust off of their teeny-tiny sliced bread.  Cram peas and spam down their little throats.

Yes, I know you love them so much that your brain is melting and your heart consumed.  Unfortunately you must treat these little bean bags as what they are, selfish trolls who want to suck your blood and eat your bone marrow.  They are very similar in nature to your ex-husbands of tomorrow.  They will take your cash and move away in the dark of night.

Think of the years you spent unable to visit a movie theater or a nice restaurant.  Count the days you’ve been unable to open a novel or the newest non-fiction bestseller.  Then put that kid in his or her room and let them cry it out.  Hire a crusty old babysitter, a mean one.  She will make you look like a fun and pretty mommy.

Go to the movies!  Read books!  Blog!  Spend money on yourself! 

Dress those little weebles in clothes from rummage sales.  Dress yourself in Ralph Lauren.  Refuse to purchase items they will use only to fill the suitcase as they are headed out your door.

Buy day old food at the supermarket, the kind with the big orange discount tag, and feed it to the children as you eat filet mignon.  They will not be returning to your home for barbecues anyway, once they’re living the high life in London or in the movie business in LA with the expensive diploma you purchased.

If you are forced to purchase glasses for your son, refuse to replace them when they break.  Tape them with duct tape, preferably black duct tape.  This will keep girls away, girls who would like to treat you like shit once they’ve married your son.

What is the point of purchasing braces for your daughters?  Some sonofabitch will move her to Hawaii and you will never be able to see her shiny smile again.  He will hold your grandchildren hostage unless you can come up with the cash for a round-trip ticket.  You will have no money because you spent it all on the daughter you can no longer see.

Instead of kissing the children again, kiss your husband.  Drop to your knees and keep him happy.  He is all you will have left.  You will be living in a small trailer after selling the big house to pay for multiple weddings to people who are just waiting for you to die so they can rummage through your jewelry and call it junk.

Parenting is not for pussies.

Alternatives to Bed Bugs on the Subway

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

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

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

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

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

Here we are, what a duo:

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Here we are:

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’ve had some fun times on the train:

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe next trip.

Random Pam

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

2.) Once, when a visitor was over, I began yelling to my husband: “What is that smell?  Do we have fish in the house?”  He kept trying to downplay my concern.  I was crazed over the smell & kept yelling about fish.  My visitor & I later left in the car & the fish smell went with me.  My husband wanted to beat me with a stick.  He knew where the smell was coming from, all along.  I think he might have actually called me a dumbass, and he doesn’t even curse, ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother’s Day

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Mom!

The More Perfect It Appears . . .

 . . . the less likely it’s real.

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

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

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

Wow.

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

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

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

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

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

The camouflage of perfection was complete. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would You Reply?

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

This was my reply:

There are THREE now.  2 year old K., 1 year old O. and newborn J.  They are all in foster care.  My niece finally got on probation and then two weeks later gave a dirty urine test and went to jail.

 

She told her mother and mine that she had an abortion last summer, but really she didn’t.  In October my mother told me about how fat my niece had gotten, as we stood in line at a grocery store with people all around.  When I asked if she might be pregnant Mom said, “BY GOD, SHE’S NOT NOW!”  Sis got a call in February that her daughter was in labor.  She had hidden it the entire time.

The boyfriend is serving something like 12 years, no option for parole.

One of my niece’s best friends – from OUR LITTLE HOMETOWN - is now serving time for something called juvenile pimping.  She was using her younger sister as a way to obtain crack.

My sister is now living down south and working side by side with my mother in the office.  I don’t know how she does it.

Sis’s boyfriend is in the process of obtaining his 4th divorce — I think — from a woman with cancer.  He already gave my sister a diamond.

My brother has become an alcoholic since having the fat surgery.  He drives a truck and was recently held at a weigh station when the officials found empty beer cans in his semi.

I speak with Brother Scott more than any of the rest.  He’s pretty normal.

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

 

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

           

Aren’t you glad you asked?

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I’m guessing this was too much information.

 

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

 

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

XO

PJ

**********

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

*

*

The Wooden Freaking Bowl

Two days ago my incredibly psychotic mother sent me an e-mail forward entitled “The Wooden Bowl” and stated at the top of this missive, “Thought my kids might like this.”

I might like it if I were into things like hemorrhoids, scalding burns, ringworm and/or limb loss. 

The other family members don’t seem to get quite as worked up as I do.  I’ll never understand why.  Am I just a haughty bitch, extremely sensitive, or wired poorly?  Or are they so de-sensitized that she could spit in their faces, fart and tell them it’s a thunderstorm?

The e-mail goes something like this:

“A frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law, and
four-year old grandson. The old man’s hands trembled, his eyesight was
blurred, and his step faltered. The family ate together at the table.”

Long story short, the old man can’t keep his food on his fork, spills a lot of shit, so they make him eat his food out of a big wooden bowl at a separate table.  Grandpa cries a lot.

But then this happens:

“One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood
scraps on the floor. He asked the child sweetly, “What are you making?”
Just as sweetly, the boy responded, “Oh, I am making a little bowl for
you and Mama to eat your food in when I grow up.” The four-year-old
smiled and went back to work.”

Again, I’ll make it short and sweet.  The son craps his pants, realizing his kid is going to one day make him eat from a wooden bowl, sitting in a corner, and Grandpa miraculously returns to the table.

As if the fucking story in itself is not stupid enough, she goes on to say:

“I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she
handles four things: a rainy day, the elderly, lost luggage, and tangled
Christmas tree lights.”

The insight this woman has is virginal.  Seriously, this places me in the path of a schizophrenic break.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that my mother would kick your ass red & green if you tangled her Christmas tree lights.  She might very well wrap them around your neck and hang you out the motherfucking window. 

Christmas is her favorite holiday.  The fact that she has cried, screamed, cursed and been an incredible bitch every single December 25th in history is besides the point.

If you are elderly she will plan every which way to somehow end up with your cash, property & jewelry.  If you complain of physical ailments or your life’s tribulations she will minimize your plight and describe at length why her situation is much worse.  If you disagree, she will probably kick you. 

If she believes she needs your cane or walker or television more than you do, it may disappear entirely.  You will find it if you ever visit her house.

As for lost luggage, if I were the baggage handler I’d point toward someone else and run in the opposite direction.  This is despite the fact that she probably has placed $1,000 insurance on a piece of luggage with $30 worth of Wal-Mart clothing inside it.

I got particular joy out of discussing the next paragraph with my brother Scott:

“People love that human touch — holding hands, a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back.”

During our entire childhood, neither of us can remember her ever holding our hand, giving us a hug, or doing anything physical but a slap to the head.  No kind words, never even a love tap.

My fondest memories are of violent injuries like car accidents or bicycle crashes.  She was very competent in emergency situations.

My friend Mary, who had a lovely relationship with her parents, thinks I’m being a bitch.  She’d like me to go find a crystal bowl with gold leaf and mail it to my mother.

She’s just fucking nuts.

Mom was right about one single line in this forward, which stated:

“I guarantee you will remember the tale of the Wooden Bowl tomorrow, a
week from now, a month from now, a year from now.”

That’s for damned sure.

I may very well bury the woman with a beautifully wrapped box from Pier One Imports, contents unknown.

It would be the perfect ending to a perfectly ridiculous mother/daughter relationship.

 

She can’t decide . . .

Crazy pre-teen rocker chick?

Or sweet little girl?

  

Museum Overnight . . .

Last night four of us slept on the floor of a museum surrounded by hundreds of other little girls and their mothers (or their wacky Girl Scout leaders).  When I signed up for the trip it sounded like a dreamy idea, a childhood memory that could not be missed. 

Like everything else, it’s one of those things that seems like a fantastic plan for the future. 

Yesterday that imaginary fun-filled trip became my sudden & immediate reality. 

That would be the day I had to actually pack a garbage bag with all our personal items, fill a box with food, label each & every item, drive two hours through traffic & rain squalls, carry all our worldly belongings up and down 423 stairs more than once, and eventually sleep on a cement slab in the Electricity Room. 

If you should ever come up with a crazy idea like this one, I want to be your guardian angel.  I want to prepare you for reality and let it really sink into your brain before you make your decision:

You will leave your home at 4 p.m.  You will stand in lines, conduct experiments, watch IMAX theater and study exhibits.  You will observe giggling girls and harried looking women.

After eight exhausting hours it will be time to rest.  And if you are at this mean old museum that does not provide cots, you will lay out your thin sleeping bag and rest your weary bones on a floor that has been walked on by thousands and thousands of people every day, an extraordinarily hard, hard floor.  And it will become cold.

Your entire body will ache as you turn one direction and then another.  If you have a bad knee it will throb from exertion.  You will pray for sleep because you don’t seem to actually be able to get there, what with your pockets filled with a cell phone, camera, dental floss, walnuts & a flashlight; one arm wrapped around the purse holding 27 credit cards and the other on your daughter.

That would be the daughter who does not sleep at all, who plays with a flashlight and reads a book that she would never dream of reading in her room at home, the daughter who becomes more hyper with each passing moment. 

You will have the fantasy experience of brushing your teeth in a public washroom as your hair stands on end (as it always does at 6:30 a.m.).  Only considering the fact that the clock jumped forward an hour during your sleep (or lack thereof), you are really brushing your teeth at 5:30 a.m. surrounded by strangers. 

When you attempt to use a commode there will be a line 50 deep.  You will probably decide, as I did, that you can just hold it a while longer.  I mean do you really need to pee first thing in the morning?

And when you begin to feel as if you may survive, as though you can actually see clearly and are thinking, “This isn’t so bad, it’s almost over!”, you will discover that the little girl who has traveled with you, who will be returning home in your car, has diarreah and is now vomiting at regular intervals.

The museum industry is not as prepared for nausea-related incidents as the airline industry, so you will see your friend, the sick child’s mother, walking toward you with an industrial size black garbage bag intended for accidental discharge. 

She will be forced to use said bag in the planetarium.  The little girl will insist on riding the museum train before leaving, at which point she will exhaust herself and insist that she can no longer walk.

You will bite the bullet and decide to get into the car and wing your way home as quickly as possible.  Your windows will remain open in the 45 degree weather.  You will make a wrong turn in your panic, as you hear her heaving behind your headrest, a sound you never dreamed possible.

Your daughter will decide that this is a good time to open the plastic surrounding her breakfast muffin.  She will actually say, “I forgot how great apple juice tastes!”

And you wonder, “Can this child possibly be my progeny?”  You will begin to scream silently.

The sick child will fall asleep in the car and you will make it home safely.  You will survive another silly decision you’ve made as a mother, believing that your offspring must do everything under the sun or her childhood will be ruined.

You will be oh so happy to be home!

Soon the memories will dim and you will think of the good times you had, sleeping at the museum.  You will begin planning a trip for the future . . .

(Read here for Roxanne at Owl Moon Studio’s explanation of how we all seem to think nothing of screwing our future selves: http://owlmoon.blogspot.com/2008/01/ive-been-tagged-ive-been-tagged-ive.html  It is absolutely hysterical and so totally true.)

100 All-Time Favorite Movies

Updated 10/10/2011

After hours of combing through varied websites, I have finally determined my list of 100 favorite movies.  They are not in order, since depending on my mood I would rank them differently nearly ever single day of the year.   The top 10 are in bold, the favorite tear-jerkers are in italics.

Although I think of myself as a chick-flick kind of girl, the list is full of action movies, too.  Who knew?

Drumroll, please . . .

1. Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner (Sidney Poitier) - I will love this until the end of time.

2. Brokeback Mountain (Heath Ledger & Jake Gyllenhaal) - The rare film I can watch again & again.  Both actors were brilliant, the final scene emotionally devastating.  Just utter perfection.

3. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (Jack Nicholson) Watched this again recently and was awed by it.

4. Men of Honor (Cuba Gooding, Jr.) - One of the best movies ever, it was never given the credit it deserves.

5.  A Perfect World (Clint Eastwood/Kevin Costner) - I freaking love this film.  I still could cry if I thought hard enough about the final scene.

6. The Departed (Leonardo DiCaprio & Mark Wahlberg) - A masterpiece.  I never understood the hype over Leo, then suddenly I did.

7. Death at a Funeral – A black comedy beyond compare.  Hysterical.

8. Harold and Maude (Ruth Gordon) - A piece of genius, magnificent, fantastic black humor.  They somehow made a May-December romance seem entirely romantic & reasonable.  Harold’s multiple fake suicide scenes are not to be missed.  Best musical score of all time by Cat Stevens.

9. Terms of Endearment (Debra Winger) - An all time favorite.  Shirley Maclaine’s character is more memorable than some of the real people in my life.

10. The Parent Trap (Hayley Mills) - My  favorite since childhood.

11. Best In Show (Christopher Guest) - The characters in this film are some of the funniest ever created.

12. Pride and Prejudice (Kiera Knightley) – Loved it beyond words.

13. Rudy (Sean Astin) – I’m a fan of the sports genre, especially underdogs.

14. Carrie (Sissy Spacek) – My all-time hero.

15. Same Time Next Year (Alan Alda, Ellen Burstyn) – I can’t believe I forgot this one, I love it!  “The Last Time I Felt Like This” makes me swoon.

16. The Birds (Tippi Hedren) – Scariest film of my childhood.

17. Hoosiers (Gene Hackman) – This will make you stand up and cheer!

18. Cinderella Man (Russell Crowe) – Combination of underdog plus romance equals perfection.

19.  Dirty Dancing (Patrick Swayze) - What can I say?  I’ve probably seen it 100 times.  It’s embarrassing how much I love the duo of Johnny & Baby.

20. Slumdog Millionaire – A recent addition to the list!  I put off watching this because so often Academy winners are not as great as claimed to be, but in this case it’s true.

21. Gone With The Wind (Clark Gable)

22. Pretty Woman (Richard Gere)

23. The Last King of Scotland (Forrest Whitaker) – Wow, what a movie.

24. An Officer And A Gentleman (Richard Gere & Debra Winger) – It’s a white trash classic.

25. The Deer Hunter (Robert DeNiro) – The scene where he’s squatting against the wall in the hotel room is seared in my brain.

26. Jesus Camp (Documentary) - If you haven’t seen it, get it.  Scary.

27. Willie Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (Gene Wilder) – I’m not sure anything ever touched me as deeply as Charlie finding the golden ticket.

28. The Notebook (Ryan Gosling) - Beautiful!

29. Yours, Mine & Ours (Lucille Ball & Henry Fonda) – These two are just such a class act.

30. Clerks (Kevin Smith) – Black humor at its’ absolute best.

31. Cast Away (Tom Hanks) - He’s just brilliant.  A 3-hour movie with a volleyball as your co-star.  Incredible.

32. Coming Home (Jon Voight & Jane Fonda) Added 5/10/10 I have no idea how I missed this the first time around.  Jon Voight is so perfect in this movie it’s magical.  I love him.

33. Gran Torino (Clint Eastwood)

34. The Sixth Sense (Bruce Willis) – One of the best movies ever written, the twist is so unexpected.

35. Dirty Harry (Clint Eastwood) – I love Clint, I love ass-kicking & payback.

36. Death Wish (I, II, III, IV & V) (Charles Bronson) – Vigilante extraordinaire.

37. Midnight Express (Billy Hayes) – Brilliant.  This movie stays with you forever.

38. The Bridges of Madison County (Clint Eastwood) - This was both heartbreaking & beautiful.  Meryl Streep & Clint Eastwood were perfect together.

39. East of Eden (James Dean & Julie Harris)

40. Definitely, Maybe (Ryan Reynolds & Isla Fisher) -  Loved it from start to finish.

41. The Silence of the Lambs (Anthony Hopkins) – Freaks me out.

42. Jaws (Roy Scheider) – Scary every single time.

43. Annie Hall (Diane Keaton) – One of the nicest compliments I ever got was a boss who told me I reminded him of Annie Hall.

44. Into The Wild (Emile Hirsch)

45. Meet The Parents (Ben Stiller) – Hysterical.

46. Shawshank Redemption (Tim Robbins & Morgan Freeman) - I’m tempted to put this in the top 10, that’s how much I love it.

47. Scarface (Al Pacino)

48. Mystic River (Sean Penn)

49. Shaun of the Dead (2004) – I had no idea I could love zombie comedy.

50. When A Stranger Calls (Camilla Belle) – I’ve never been more frightened in a theater than when I was watching this movie.

51. Pillow Talk (Doris Day & Rock Hudson) – These two are perfect together.

52. The Sound of Music (Julie Andrews) – They made it over the mountains.

53. Urban Cowboy (Debra Winger/John Travolta) – I love this soundtrack, I love Debra Winger.  I am evidently a hick at heart.

54. Borat (Sacha Baron Cohen) – The balls in the face scene – perfection.

55. Secretary (James Spader) – The hottest sex scene I’ve ever seen.  And very weird.

56. The Birdcage (Robin Williams) I watched this again recently and loved it even more.

57. The Towering Inferno (Paul Newman)

58. Bonnie & Clyde (Warren Beatty)

59. The Blind Side (Sandra Bullock)

60. Driving Miss Daisy (Morgan Freeman)

61. To Sir, With Love (Sidney Poitier) – Huge Sidney fan.

62. American Gangster (Denzel Washington & Russell Crowe)

63. Forrest Gump (Tom Hanks) - It seems hokey until I watch it again, fall in love again, cry again.

64. The Guardian (Kevin Costner)

65. Love Actually (Hugh Grant)

66. Little Miss Sunshine (Steve Carr3ll) – All in the character development.

67. Heathers (Winona Ryder)

68. The Prince of Tides (Nick Nolte) - A heart-wrenching story.

69. The Godfather (Al Pacino) – Although the first is my favorite, I don’t think separating them is proper.

70. Titanic (Leonardo DiCaprio) - I can’t reconcile the final scene.  They both could have fit on the float.

71. Legends of the Fall (Brad Pitt) – Really a beautiful film.

72. The People v. Larry Flynt (Woody Harrelson) – Completely unexpected.

73. The Shining (Jack Nicholson)

74. Where The Heart Is (Natalie Portman) – It really doesn’t get any better than having a baby in Wal-Mart.

75. Sex, Lies & Videotape (James Spader)

76. Gone Baby Gone (Casey Affleck) – Do you make the call or not?

77. A Time To Kill (Matthew McConaughey) – Never was there a more sympathetic character than the father in this movie.

78. While You Were Sleeping (Bill Pullman) – One of Sandra Bullock’s best movies.  Pullman unexpectedly pulls off the leading man thing really well.

79. The Perfect Storm (Mark Wahlberg) – No fishing boats for me.

80. Home For the Holidays (Holly Hunter) – Dysfunction at its’ best.

81. The Family Stone (Diane Keaton) - Great ensemble of actors, Sarah Jessica Parker plays her role so perfectly.

82. It’s A Wonderful Life (Henry Fonda)

83. Caddyshack (Bill Murray)

84. With Six You Get Eggroll (Doris Day) – My favorite Doris.

85. Sleepless in Seattle (Meg Ryan) - I absolutely love this movie.

86. Brian’s Song (James Caan)

87. French Kiss (Kevin Kline) – The chemistry with Meg Ryan is great.

88. Raging Bull (Robert DeNiro)

89. Unforgiven (Clint Eastwood) – Unforgettable.

90. Fried Green Tomatoes (Kathy Bates) – The scene in the parking lot.

91. Sudden Impact (Clint Eastwood)

92. Love Story (Ryan O’Neill) - The first movie that made me cry.

93. You’ve Got Mail (Tom Hanks) – Another Meg Ryan.  She’s adorable.

94. Sabrina (Harrison Ford) – Both versions are great movies.

95. Sling Blade (Billy Bob Thornton) - This guy is really a genius.

96. Jurassic Park (Jeff Goldblum) – The dinosaurs continue to scare me every time I watch it.

97. Please Don’t Eat The Daisies (Doris Day) – Just for fun.

98. Juno (Ellen Page) – It’s all about the writing.

99. God Grew Tired of Us (Documentary) – Should be required viewing by every American citizen.  Tremendous.

100. Christmas Vacation (Chevy Chase) – It’s funny every single time. 

Savior Complex . . .

My family of origin would drag me under with them in a tidal wave, not push me to safety if they had the chance.  None of us is immune from this lethal centrifugal force. 

My niece, S., has sucked me back in more during the past two years than anyone in the entire twenty previous.  I think I loved the idea of her, because the reality is so completely disastrous.

Every single time some new drama manifests, I am tempted to step off the safe ship that is my current home and family.  I am drawn to swim with the sharks of my past.

Bitch Extraordinaire

Many of you have read the entry wherein I admitted to giving a child with peanut allergies a Nutter-Butter cookie.  I want to express clearly that this was done in error, I did not do it on purpose.  You will understand why I state this right out front after I write what comes next.

I received an e-mail from another mother about a Valentine activity coming up on Monday, wherein she states, “Please do not bring food with nuts, even for your own consumption.  Daniel is very allergic!”

And I am embarrassed to admit that the first thought that popped into my mind was the idea that I should fill my pants with peanuts, as many peanuts as an elephant trainer could carry in his alternative costume, the clown suit with 12 pockets.

I promise I won’t really do it.

But I wonder, would Daniel smell the peanuts in my pockets?  Would the party be more exciting?

I am fascinated by the human mind.  The other day my daughter and I were driving down the road and she was inhaling chocolate covered raisins.  I thought one dropped in her shirt.

I told her that if a chocolate covered raisin fell into her shirt and melted just a little bit, then stuck to her nipple, she might think she had a tumor.  I would remove the tumor and be her hero, never letting her know it was actually a chocolate covered raisin.

This led us into a rather hilarious discussion about covering her father with chocolate covered raisins in his sleep, using super glue to either put one between his eyes or cover his entire body as though he had strange brown raised measles.

I’m still thinking this is a great idea. 

Would the chocolate melt?  Would he think he was bleeding and begin to scream like a little girl?

Where do thoughts come from?

Psychotic Break

In Fried Green Tomatoes, one of the best scenes ever filmed, Kathy Bates rams the car of some teen-age beauties who stole her parking space and then laughed at her.  It is an age old battle cry for middle-aged women over the edge.

I didn’t go quite that far.

It all started because I just simply wanted to wash the car and vacuum its’ interior.  I love my car, a hot Dodge Charger with a hemi that will blow away anyone attempting to cut me off at an entrance ramp.  I had great intentions.

First, I stepped out of the car into the wash bay, sneezed, and immediately peed myself just a little bit.  I was wearing a skirt. 

I was relatively surprised by this turn of events.  The sneezing/peeing thing is kind of new for me.  I first noticed it when we got a trampoline.  Two babies, one 9 pounds, the other 10 lbs., 11 oz., did something to my original organ design.  Suffice it to say I will never be the same and maybe those chicks who schedule cesareans to keep their vaginas in tact are not that stupid after all.

Fortunately, on the other hand, it also damaged me psychologically to the point where a little bit of pee does not affect me in the least.  As a young girl I was embarrassed to wipe my own ass; today I could do any stranger on the street with a handy wet wipe supply.

Second, I decided to see if I could just finish the job by stuffing a big wad of paper towels in the general area.  I had always wondered if this was a technique that would work.  How many times in life are you in your car, need a bathroom & can’t find one, but a roll of Bounty is tantalizingly nearby?  I figured I would probably sneeze again in the near future, let’s just take care of business.

Unfortunately, even the plumper picker-upper does not have the same absorbency as Pampers.  It was something akin to a homeschool science experiment gone awry. 

Third, when I noticed the lack of containment issue, I quickly jumped out of my good shoes.  Then my feet got wet due to the fact that I was standing in a dirty car wash.  So when I put my feet back into the Birkenstocks . . . dammit.  I now had to fill my shoes with paper towels.

Fourth, I washed the car.  No problems.  Except for the fact that I was wearing those previously mentioned favorite shoes, the Birkenstocks, which had some water, a little bit of soap, and specks of pee on them by the time it was all said and done.

It was time to vacuum the carpet.  I pulled into an end bay and after 40 tries realized that the damned thing didn’t work.  Now I was forced to get back into the car and move to another spot.  I have major spatial issues, I do not like parking near others, but I had no alternative.

The space I moved to had the vacuum hose laying in the middle of the parking spot, since some jackass had not wound the hose up.  I had to stop the car, with the intention of getting out and moving the vacuum.

The young girl parked next to me, with two passengers, pulled out as I was attempting to pull in.  I waited for her to move to the left and leave.  She chose to head to the right, which put me in her travel path.

The bitch then laid on her horn as I waited for her to drive on by.  I wasn’t thinking clearly, didn’t realize she was waiting for me to make a move.  And I obviously did not move fast enough for her pleasure.

I do not remember any conscious thought from that point forward, only a simple-minded fugue state.  Remember, I’m wearing expensive but damp shoes that will never, ever be the same.  And, now that I can clearly see things with a rational mind, I realize I was in the heavy-handed grip of late stage PMS. 

I put my car in park, stepped out of said car, faced the offending honker and gave a double-barreled, two-fisted “Go fuck yourself!” to said honkee. 

I had on an old blue & gray sweatshirt pulled from the trunk, inside-out, over a brown skirt.  I am sure I looked practically homeless, definitely mad and completely deranged.  I walked past the open passenger window of the car and screamed at the smoking occupant, “Go smoke another cigarette and hopefully you’ll die from cancer!”

I do realize the second comment came out of nowhere.  I apologize in advance to my smoking friends.  I worry that this is an indication I may one day be a roving, screaming schizophrenic like the ones that marched in front of my home in San Francisco years ago.  If only those screams could be turned against myself: “Don’t pick up that fucking fourth donut, you fugly big-assed bitch!”

After removing the vacuum hose from the middle of my parking space — first, I tripped over it in my blithering state of funkadelic mania – I noticed that the SUV had disappeared into thin air.

I later realized that, if someone had called the police about the raging middle-aged woman at the car wash, my husband might have been too embarrassed to claim me.  And I couldn’t blame him, not in the least little bit.

It’s really not that surprising that my bout of PMS lost the “pre” status within hours of this ordeal.  I didn’t realize that until my husband pointed it out.  It’s his favorite part of the story.  He thinks he’s so freaking superior.

I’m thinking this may be the beginning of those oft mentioned “golden years.”  I just never realized before that the colorful adjective relates to pee.  Who knew?

Election Commentary

To see my favorite election commentary go visit Reverend Ramona and watch the Betty Butterfield YouTube video at:

http://reverendramona.wordpress.com/2008/01/23/election-2008-commentary-by-betty-butterfield/

It was great. 

And Ramona is pretty entertaining, herself.

The Boat

My Culinary ADD entry was initiated by a trip to Famous Dave’s BBQ joint last night. 

We probably go to restaurants at least twice a week, but I don’t enjoy it very much lately.  The food seems to get more expensive as the quality lessens.  We’re looking at a bill for $60 and ate chicken strips & french fries for dinner.

This should be the simple definition for “assholes.”

If you’re spending that kind of cash, I feel like you should have a great experience.  Consider these factors, however: I spend all day, every day, with my daughter; my husband only speaks about 1,500 words per week, at least half of those at work.

So their expectation is that I entertain them.  My expectation is that they entertain me.  Sometimes that doesn’t work out so well.  If I bring a book or a newspaper to the table they stare at me, waiting with longing looks for a comment or two.  It’s too pathetic, so I had to stop.

I initiated last night’s topic of conversation by telling my husband about my friend A.’s adopted Haitian son and the ensuing medical issues.  Suffice it to say there are things that have to be taken care of, paperwork and bureaucrazy mostly.

That’s not what my daughter heard.  She began to cry, thinking I could possibly “catch” something from the little guy.  I don’t think she had time to consider that she’s been with him as much as I have!  I may have mentioned that at some point, attempting to increase her hysteria.  I can be really stupid, obviously. 

She’s got tears streaming down her eyes and I’m pissed that dinner is now ruined.  My husband is sighing, since he’s the one who actually pays the bill and has to sit with these two females for nearly ever meal he takes. 

He cannot wrap his head around the fact that anyone could burst into tears at Famous Dave’s, the happy BBQ place.  He cannot believe his wife’s anger quotient can go from 1 to 10 in a heartbeat, when he’s had to deal with the public for 35 years at work.  He could accomplish an arrest, takedown & trip to jail with less angst then I express in a simple mother/daughter conversation.

So I tell my daughter: “You had better be nice to that little boy, because you know what?  If we were in a boat, and the boat began to sink, which one of your little friends do you think I would save first?  Who do you think is my most favorite?”  And she says, “I don’t know.”

And I say, “J.!,” my little Haitian friend.  In your head you must try and imagine me practically spitting across the table, I have such a thing for this kid, his lilting French accent & his giggles.

She looks at me with confusion, partly because she never really listens to every word I say.  Maybe only ever fifth word.  I will admit that I speak too much and so sometimes a filter is necessary.

We leave the restaurant and get into the car.  While traveling home, R. says, “What about Daddy?  I thought you would save Daddy on the boat.”  Her voice is still cracking.

WHAT?

I begin trying to explain that Daddy will never need my saving, that I was only talking about children, not grown-ups.  Of course I would save Daddy or her brother if they needed saving.

The fact that I am a mediocre swimmer, a middle-aged woman with no lifesaving certification, never comes up.

She begins to argue that if I didn’t save Daddy then I should save her friend T. instead.  “Who would save T.?”

I begin to argue back: “T.’s mom would save her.”

My daughter says, “What about S.?” 

Realize that this conversation is all spoken with the utmost seriousness.

We will never, ever be able to take a cruise with these people.

My husband should run for his life.  My daughter will become a teenager at about the same time my ticket for the hot flash train arrives in the mail.  Our conversations are bound to deteriorate from here.

Funky Freecycle

I recently joined one of these freecycle lists where people offer stuff on a Yahoo site to others, obviously for free.  These are some of the nuttiest people on the planet.

The first hint I had that maybe this wasn’t the group for me was a listing for paper sacks.  With gasoline at $3 per gallon am I going to drive cross county to pick up some grocery bags?

Today’s list is ripe for hilarity. 

Someone is actually offering “L’Oreal Kids Tangle Tamer (1/3 left in spray bottle).”  I’m sure the “Suave For Kids Detangling Spray – Never Used,” is the real prize.  She even has the nerve to state: “Prefer one person take both.” 

Better yet, someone has actually taken them up on it.  Pick-up is pending!

There is also the offer of a “hardly used” Water-Pik.  I’m gagging just imagining putting this implement in my mouth as I wonder who used it first.  Did they have a disease?  Are they even still alive?  Is it a left-over from an estate sale?

Next, “a box of baby hangers, some with clips, some without.”  How far would I consider driving for such items?  Would I walk across the street?

Almost all of the listings state: “Quick Pick-Up Requested.”  What’s the rush?  How long did this stuff sit in someone’s musty basement before they decided it was time to put the merchandise on freecycle?  But they want it gone immediately and they actually get kind of bitchy about it.

After all, people get really crazy when stuff is free.  Most of these items get multiple offers of acceptance.  Suddenly a bit of power is involved when the offering party gets to choose who gets the used mattress or the pants with a broken zipper.

How about an “Evenflo Electric Breast Pump, no nipples for the bottle”?  I’m not sure I could ever get this thing clean enough to stick my bosoms in there without wondering whose curdled breast milk has crusted in the seams.

Or here’s a real puzzle: “Pine scented candle, never burned, in a red and green paisley tin. The top is a little cracked but I wouldn’t display it with the top on anyway. Its very pretty but I can’t burn candles here so I’d rather see it go to someone who can enjoy it.”

Now, that’s quite a description for a cracked candle.  And where is she living that she is unable to burn candles?  Perhaps a mental institution or maybe a prison.

In addition to offers there are also requests.  I think the following is my favorite:

“A few members of my family and I are gonna have a weight loss challange to help my 17 yr old sister lose weight. If anyone has a scale that hold at least 275 pds please let me know. I can pick up whenever Thanks in advance to all”

It’s so pitiful it’s fantastic.

My favorite as far as total honesty goes is this:  “Diaper Champ – Used and therefore somewhat stinky. But better than just throwing in the garbage can nevertheless. You may be able to scrub it with bleach or something to get the smell out.”

I also really love: “large wooden checker board but no checkers very nice.”  How frigging nice can it be with no checkers?

Freecyclers are their own special breed, saving the world from further landfill expansion.

But sometimes you just have to throw shit out.

It’s a Chick’s Life!

A letter to the editor in our local paper today made me laugh.  A man with a heart condition wanted to know if he would benefit in any way from the Feb. 1 “Wear Red” campaign that’s focused on women with heart disease.  In other words, when will there be a campaign that focuses on anything related to men?

That would probably be considered sexist. 

God only knows, if men can’t somehow pull it together to march on Washington when they’re raked over so regularly in family court, they’ll never start massaging each others balls and crying together over prostate cancer.

Men get ignored pretty regularly these days.  And it’s all about the P.R. campaign females continue to plug.

Women are so busy, women are so stressed, women do so much for their children & families that they have no time for themselves.  The whining is intense.

So much of it is a choice.  I do know women who work very hard, but they also find time to do the things they deem important.  I know I do.  I am so much more selfish than my husband would ever dream of being.

I catch myself bitching about some minor situation as I come around the corner and see him loading the dishwasher.

And I think, “The best offense is a good defense!”  It’s because my guilt is huge!  He’s such a better husband than I am wife. 

This is why I choose to think of myself as a geisha.

My husband comes home and immediately launches into some chore or other.  He only has a few hours to get them all done, since he has that pesky work schedule.  I’m sitting in the chair reading the newspaper. 

My hair is standing on end since I didn’t make it into the shower yet.  I mean, it’s only 5 p.m.  It’s barely lunch time for me.  I didn’t get to bed until 3 a.m. last night, due to my heavy television viewing schedule.

I was laying in bed when he was on his way to work this morning, leaving the warmth and love of his family to get into that cold car.  And I feel bad about that, very guilty, but I cannot for the life of me become an early riser.

If my husband wasn’t such a great provider, I would be more self-sufficient.  He’s sucked me into his grasp and won’t let go.  He’s forced me into the princess role.  It’s agony.

I have friends with husbands who are completely unacceptable.  For some reason, they stick it out.  I don’t know if I’m just fortunate or if my expectations are different.  I don’t do sports addiction, alcohol, drugs, orders, or take direction well.

The real reason for explaining all this is that I got a comment from http://theramblinghousewife.wordpress.com/ and she stated that my life makes hers seem perfect.  

I felt kind of bad about that because clearly I didn’t do a very good job of explaining that, although a lot of bad shit has happened in my past, today I am so totally freaking lucky, like Charlie holding the golden ticket.

I’ve had 15 years of living in the candy factory.

My rivers flow with chocolate and my bubblegum is everlasting.  I can hear the oompa-loompas singing in the background:

“Oompa-loompa, doo-ba-dee-doo, it’s incredible how it all worked out for you!”

Tough Chick(en)

As kids we rarely cried in front of my mother.  It would have been like providing a wolf with the bloody scent of a wounded animal.  Never show weakness.

I never, ever thought of myself as “sensitive.”

Then I became a mother.  Maternal hormones are wicked.  I developed fears & emotions that never previously existed.

Me, the girl who would drive my red Dodge Charger like a pro (except in confined spaces), became terrified of car accidents.  I was convinced an 18-wheeler was going to drive over the top of us & crush my infant.  I had to obtain prescription drugs just to take long trips.

My vagina stretched & my tear ducts did too.  I know it would not appear that the two are connected, but they are.  There is a tiny invisible cord.  The vagina regained a semblance of its former self but the tear ducts did not.  

There are times when my husband & daughter stop watching a movie just to watch me sob.  It’s like they’re observing a science experiment.

My anxiety level can reach ridiculous proportions with very little prompting.  If you notice me crossing myself with abandon, know that my fearful self is in overdrive.

But there’s no logical reason for it.  Several things have happened in my life which prove that I can survive anything.

So I’m going to list them, as proof that fear is unnecessary torture & survival almost always the likely outcome:

1.) Flat tire on the Garden State Parkway before cell phones were popular.  A very kind police officer fixed it for me.

2.) Flat tire on an overpass in the middle of the night in northern New Mexico while traveling cross-country with a 3-month old baby.  It was snowing and my car was packed to move from CA to NC. 

My sister was being a complete bitch.  The car was a hatchback.  The spare tire was underneath all my belongings.  I accidentally broke all my dishes on the side of the road.  A tow-truck driver took us to a closed gas station, where we had to sleep in the car all night.

3.) Vaginal childbirth of a 9 lb. boy and a 10 lb., 11 oz. girl.  Just one epidural.  (Who the hell would refuse one a second time?)

4.) 18 years of living in the same house with my mother.

5.) My father’s death when I was 10.

6.) My grandmother’s death in an instant, just before Christmas 1978, barely six months after high school graduation.

7.) Attacked by a large man while asleep working at the runaway home.  Screamed loud enough to scare him away.  Unable to close my eyes to wash my hair for years afterward, thinking someone might appear while I wasn’t looking.

8.) Passenger in a car that broad-sided a pizza delivery truck.

9.) Walked into a convenience mart and looked right into the eyes of a big dude I recommended for a prison sentence while working in probation.

10.) Survived finding lice in child’s hair — twice.

11.) Knee surgery.

12.) Gall bladder attacks, hideous agonizing pain and eventual removal.  I was pregnant when the attacks began, so had to wait for surgery until after giving birth.  Refused to stay overnight, since I was nursing baby.

13.) My partner’s AIDS diagnosis.  Getting tested again 12 years later.  Living with the fear.

14.) Leech on my leg while swimming in Wisconsin when I was about 6 years old.

15.) Several mice.  Threw a book at one when I saw it coming in under the door.

16.) Baby bunny’s death.  Woke up to find it alive with a broken neck.  Also, guinea pigs death from heat exhaustion.  Totally traumatic.  And let’s not forget the cat/taxi incident.

17.) Son’s trip to emergency room after he ran head first into the steel bumper of a delivery truck while catching a football pass in the street.  Definitely one of the 10 worst hours of my life.

18.) Near drowning in riptide.  Ridiculously near.

19.) More than one loss in a board of education election.  Public humiliation decreases with each ensuing incidence.

20.) Daughter’s trip to the ER and five day hospital stay at three months of age.

21.) Placing daughter on school bus for the first time, losing the bus when I tried to follow it, leading to hysteria & belief that she had been kidnapped by a man named Bob driving a yellow bus.

22.) Airplane flight to Las Vegas with heavy turbulence & humiliation of 12-year old son when his mother’s loud sobbing commenced.  His mother would be me.

23.) The loss of my purse and all the money I had in the world, $1,000, when I drove away from a car wash with the bag on top of the car.  I had just moved to New Jersey.  Someone turned it into the police station, money included.

24.) Moving alone to Eugene, Oregon at age 19 and suddenly realizing I am not good at speaking to strangers.

25.) Accidentally hitting “Reply All” instead of “Forward.”  I was a member of a homeowner’s association & wrote that one of the lead members was a “fucking asshole,” that the rest of the group were “stupid idiots.”  Getting thrown out of said association.

Nothing in life is enhanced by worry.  The fear of most things is so much worse than the reality.

We are all survivors.