Twisted Dipshit

Either I do nothing or I do everything at once.

Every once in a while I will wake up and schedule myself and/or my daughter for 12 classes and 7 appointments that reach far into the future.  But most days I do nothing.

So last week I purchased 30 days worth of Isagenix to try and get my eating on track.  I had the option of ordering 11 days worth, but went all the way.  What could I have been thinking?

The lovely & extremely thin woman who is my “counselor” has provided me with all kinds of directions.  Oh my do I dislike being directed.  Tell me I have to eat a certain thing and not to eat other certain things and you will find me at 7-11.

Although I’m mostly harming myself this way, I slip into child mode and hide the fact that I’m cheating.  I find great joy in “getting over” on . . . who?  Me, myself and I.

Nothing really brings me more joy than lying to my husband.  He apologized last night for making chicken & mashed potatoes because he assumed I could not eat the meal.

Oh.my.God did that ever tickle me.  I’d just had a Slurpee, an ice cream bar and a package of donuts.  I thanked him for the chicken as I surreptitiously slipped mashed potatoes and gravy into the bowl.

Today I am following the fasting procedures, now that I’ve made it clear I have choices and options and “You’re not my mother!  You can’t tell me what to do!”

I just read a great book entitled: “You are Not so Smart.”

Clearly, this is true.

Twisted Job Applicant Looking For High Pay & Low Expectations

I keep looking for a job but it occasionally strikes me (after hours of perusing want ads and finding nothing viable) that I am the pickiest (or laziest) applicant ever to put in an application (or not).

For example, one of the very few things I love to do is care for babies before they can walk, talk or think for themselves.  I have this skewed image of myself as Aunt Jemima, a loving, caring baby mama.  Reality: I am happy to hold the baby, caress it, love it, speak sweetly to it, as long as it gazes into my eyes like a retarded deer.

The moment said infant does not appear to like me I go on the defensive.  I begin to notice negative qualities previously ignored, cradle cap and ear wax.  If the child continues to reject my love & affection I eventually forget I ever had a positive thought about that unappreciative, ugly baby.

When looking for positions caring for infants there are usually other complications, like older children.  Can I care for older children?  Yes.  But quite often parents who pay upwards of $15/hour for childcare want things like “occasional preparation of meals, bathing and help with homework.”  Those words freak me out as if I was being asked to install power in a nuclear plant.

Feeding people makes my head spin like a barn in a twister.  ”Good” parents think their children should be fed well, like on plates, at a table with healthy food.  I can’t even come close to pulling that off all at once.  No doubt one of the little tykes would dislike cheese or tomato sauce or meat.  I would be expected to express love and understanding and I can’t do that.  I have friends with picky kids and I’m tempted to throw them in my dryer and see if a few spins would teach them the beauty of sandwich crust.

Yes, I could make microwaveable macaroni & cheese, although sometimes measuring the water and perfecting the time is a problem.  Real meals stress me out.  And 3 times a day?!  I just don’t want to do it.  The expectations are too high.  The mess is too big.  The children are too needy.

Baths are like dusting, they’re only going to be dirty again tomorrow.  The kids cry when you poke them in the eye with the shampoo bottle or empty it over their heads while they’re screaming.  I get anxious and tired and want to drown myself in the sink.

The last time I gave my great nieces and nephews a bath they acted as if I was putting them in a pot to boil.  They kept crying “Waa, waa, waa.”  Self fulfilling prophecy. I used a wash cloth a little too roughly and before you knew it one of them was bleeding.  Seriously, are you fucking kidding me, kids are not supposed to bleed that easily.  Mine never did and that’s no doubt a good thing.

Cleaning someone else’s house while watching their children?  Oh my, I never did that in my own home.  You need to take a breather while they’re napping, even if it’s for five hours.  They might not sleep again for ages.  Also, I saw a story once about a kid drowning in a mop bucket and have PTSD.

I become completely depressed visualizing the drama of a child with reflux and what would no doubt happen when I forgot the rule about never laying the child flat on his or her back.  Calling for an ambulance, doing CPR, those are the kinds of things that call for an emergency trip to Dairy Queen on the way to the hospital.

* * * * *

Eventually I’m forced to say “fuck it” and move on to the legal area. I’ve been a secretary and word processor for attorneys in the past.  Except I always found placement in places where expectations were relatively low, which made me look unrealistically good.  Those kinds of positions don’t just come your way out of the blue.  You need either a spectacularly lazy lawyer who doesn’t really care what’s going on in the office or one with low self-esteem who takes on the boring tasks himself.

I imagine my employers asking me questions like, “Seriously, you were a legal secretary for how many years?  In what country?”  I imagine people pointing and laughing at my inability to make charts.  It’s not that I couldn’t eventually learn how, I just don’t want to make charts.  A little bitch inside my head thinks charts are for serfs.

If anything mentioned in the advertisement leads me to believe I’ll have to do menial labor, like make copies, that’s kind of a deal breaker.  I had one job where I had to make thousands of copies and got horrible paper cuts.  So now I go to the extreme and imagine that all jobs involving a copy maching will leave me standing in front of it for hours per day.

It’s just another ridiculous reason to skip to the next ad.

* * * * *

Sometimes I peruse the counselor listings.  I have no training as a counselor but I’ve always thought I would make a good one.  Except for the fact that I hate it when people complain repetitively and to a great extent crying freaks me out.

After an hour or so I’m down to dribs and drabs.

I begin looking at driver positions and things in the human services field.

But taxi drivers deal with vomit and in my OCD brain all strangers have bedbugs.

I would sell my plasma but am diabetic.

Employment is complicated.

The Twisted Nature of Life &/or A Conversation With Mom

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 Employee &/or What Was I Thinking

Today was the third day in a row I had to be somewhere before noon, a monumentally big deal since I often don’t go to sleep until 5 a.m. 

As I passed cars on the right and drove sometimes 25+ mph over the speed limit, maniacal thoughts racing through my head, words that should not really enter the realm of any person never diagnosed as schizophrenic or psychotic, I wondered what my new employers would think if they could “see me now.”

Yes, as of 5 p.m. I had completely finished training and been given a name tag with my picture on it.  I am a full-fledged employee again after 13 years away from the human services profession. 

The only other job held during the missing years on my resume’ was a legal transcription position which was usually performed in my pajamas at 3 a.m. with a deadline for 10 a.m. and 12 more hours of work to complete.

After six hours spent in the office today I’m so overwhelmed I can only put my index finger to my top lip and make noises that sound something like bub-a-bub-a-bub.  There was no down time, I must have put my signature on more than 50 documents, provided the entire world with my social security number,  and taken in several hundred kernels of information. 

They didn’t give us any breaks or snacks, which greatly upset one of the other women in my group.  Sometimes it inexplicably makes me happy when someone else gets bitchy.  I had two bananas in my bag and ate them both, thinking it was the perfect food since my ass was surely bright red from sitting so long and my brain was clunking along like a primate.

I liked the upset woman so much better once she started getting snippy.  During CPR training she asked some really dumb questions but redeemed herself today.  She is a “clinician” and higher up the totem pole than I, one of those “counselor types” who speaks very slowly, kind of like she’s learning disabled.  Probably she thinks before she speaks, something I never learned to do.

The head chick, the program manager, took us through a few hours of hand-outs.  She was a lovely chick and I hate that when she stood up I noticed her weight was minimally 350 pounds & the thought occurred to me that she probably had a drawer full of snack foods & could have shared with us.

* * * * *

The idea of going into the homes of complete strangers and giving people tips on child-rearing or behavioral issues makes me alternately burst into a laughing fit &/or need a Xanax. 

As our instructor described my position I began thinking how much I could use some help with the very subjects I’m charged to assist others in.  She mentioned things like anger management and organization, impulse control, aggressive behavior and social skills. 

I’m not strong in a single one of those areas.   In organization and impulse control I’m a freaking disaster.  It’s like everything else in life, I am expected to put on my public relations face and hide the real me. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m well-suited for the position in some ways.  It can be easier to be rational regarding your own issues when dealing with them in someone else.  It also makes it far easier to empathize.  If anything my mistake may be always making too many excuses, for both myself and others. 

More and more, though, I really do believe we’re all doing the best we can.  Nothing is a big deal, as long as we get to wake up and try again tomorrow.

The real deal-breaker will come when I have to actually do the job.  Whether that will happen is completely in question!  Seriously?  I’d rather brand myself with a hot iron than meet strangers and pretend to be a person who knows what the f*ck I’m doing.  Cause I have no freaking idea.

Twisted Job Interview &/or I Hate Pretending I’d Hire Myself

Oh, I present so nicely at an interview with my toothy midwestern smile & expensive highlights & thick silver rings.  My laugh is pleasant and I make comments that clearly show empathy for how difficult the interviewer’s job must be.  After all, I did hire a chick to replace me once and she was an absolute disaster. 

(Her name was Jameelah and she changed all the computer file names for multiple appellate death penalty cases, with a brief due the following week.  Then she quit.  The attorney nearly had a nervous breakdown.  Clearly, I am not personnel material.)

* * * * *

But let’s put it out there right from the start, I hate sitting in an interview pretending like I’m an employer’s dream, because it’s the rare job I’d ever hire myself for.  What can I really say that’s genuine?  “You’re taking a big chance here and I really appreciate it, I’m completely unreliable, totally unpredictable and even I consider myself a royal pain in the ass.”  Then maybe we could laugh together and have a shot of tequila.

There are a multitude of qualities that make me say such a thing with utter conviction:

(1) I rarely succeed at doing anything I don’t really want to do & quite often people want you to do such total shit.  Yes, I cleaned houses for a while and I was great at it, I remember being on my hands and knees with my head in some bitches toilet.  But later that day I did masturbate on her bed. 

I am laughing like crazy as I write this, knowing I should never admit to such a thing but fuck it.  The ultimate in passive-aggression.  But then I was also caught by a co-worker doing the same thing in a restroom stall at work on third-shift in a NYC law firm, so maybe it’s more about needing a better hobby.

(2) My moods are like a crazy, bumpy wooden rollercoaster ride.  Admittedly, it’s exciting.  You never know if I will show up on time, or at all.  You will hear entertaining tales of broken limbs, dead relatives and endless car problems, all explaining why it’s not my fault I am a complete loser.  You may call my home and I will say “This isn’t Pam, this is Pam’s sister.  But I can give her a message!”  in a friendly, melodious voice.  (One ballsy supervisor said, “Pam, I know this is you.”)

Or I might quit in the middle of a shift, like the day I tried dish-washing in a college residence hall or the night I left tables of customers wondering, “Where is that damned waitress?”  Oh, it was one of the most freeing experiences of my life.  I hated that fucked up job with people leaving me quarters for tips!

Granted, I sucked.  I can’t remember shit, my hearing is shot.  It can be difficult for me to serve my own children, let alone strangers.  I am amazed by people who put 3 complete meals on a table for the little buggers.  I mean, what the fuck, take a break!  Like everything else, I blame my lack of real nurturing qualities on my mother, but who the fuck wants to go down that muddy road again?  Not me! 

In my head I am the most nurturing person on the freaking planet!  I am so loving!  I am so giving!  It’s in translating those thoughts into action that the snags of reality occur.

As my beloved author Augusten Burroughs is so often quoted saying from his book Magical Thinking:

“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.” 

(3) I expect to be paid highly, very highly, for things like my spelling ability and knowledge of current events, even though those qualities are worthless.  I don’t like cooking, filing, copying, or being ordered around by anyone  . . . unless it’s a great looking man who laughs at my jokes.  Like my dentist.  I would definitely boil him up a pot of ramen noodles for, say, $25.  I would even pour it in a bowl.  But because of the increase in gas prices I would want mileage.  See, that’s where my current events knowledge comes in handy.  If I wasn’t paying close attention I could have lost out in that transaction.

(4) I have a superiority complex infused with low self-esteem.  In other words, being my boss can be a nightmare.  I will nearly always believe I am smarter than my supervisor, but can’t handle the responsibility that comes with a position of authority.  I am a big fat pussy who thinks mean thoughts.  Luckily, people like me anyway because I tend to say those thoughts out loud and then laugh at myself and say how stupid I am.  It is my saving grace, the realization that my thoughts are insane and the ability to admit it. 

I thank my second grade teacher for this quality.  She wrote something on my report card about the fact that I would always honestly admit to my part in whatever misbehavior was going on.  It occurred to me, “You mean you can actually be rewarded for doing something wrong if you just apologize afterwards?”  This gave me tremendous freedom to continue to be a little shit.  Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.  It has taken me far in life.

* * * * *

So, anyway, I had this job interview today in a group home for girls, most who come directly from hospitalization, and I am positive I will not be hired.  The reason is I did something so incredibly dumb, I sat back and told Rodneisha all about myself. 

Oh, yes, I admitted I quit my last job and was re-hired 4 times.  I told her I can easily be intimidated and I curse a lot.  Although I did lie and say I can control it.  Fortunately I did not mention my obsession-like fear of bed bugs.  But I did admit my daughter is homeschooled.  Oh, that one is a doozy.  I might as well have said I believe in UFO’s and spend my weekends digging for gold in grocery dumpsters.

* * * * *

It’s a serious job.  I told her I have experience with many of the things these girls are going through and I do: the loss of a parent at a young age, inappropriate sexual shit, anger at the world, abandonment and PTSD.  (God only knows, I scream every time a family member walks unexpectedly around a corner, I cannot dry my hair without being freaked out by my own daughter.)

I told her I think a sense of humor can diffuse situations and it’s my preferred style.  But I doubt they’re looking to hire a comedian.  When I told her I’ve had lots of people die and so I consider it a success when everyone is alive at the end of the day she probably thought my standards were low.  Then when she asked me how I would handle aggression and I admitted I would rather sneak in cookies for the girls than restrain them it may have sealed my fate.

I’m not against holding children to keep them from hurting themselves or someone else, but I’ve seen where restraint can be overdone.  It can be contagious.  (For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it’s a way of taking a child down to the floor and holding their legs with your legs and their arms with your arms, like a controlling hug, as they try to fight their way out.  You can easily be hurt, children have been seriously injured and even died on rare occasions.  It’s commonly used with psychiatric disorders.)

I’m not big on discipline, even though I know there are occasions where it is absolutely necessary, particularly with certain types of children.  I know the rules must be followed or it can be disastrous.

But at my advanced age, 50 instead of 25, I feel motherly toward women in their 20′s and 30′s, let alone teenagers.  It’s no longer a competitive female thing, it’s about looking back and seeing why they should take it easy on themselves because they’re doing the best they can in this moment. 

For this line of work, though, that sounds like enabling.  These little chicks are going to have it rough for a long time and they have to be able to make it on their own.  Coddling is probably the wrong way to go.

I’ve even seen it happen with my niece.  The more love I show her, the more angry she becomes with her mother, the more she realizes how cheated she’s been.  Yesterday my sister screamed at her, “Call Pammy!  Tell her all about it, I know you tell her everything!” 

God forbid the dysfunctional chicks of the world were just loved and adored by their own mothers.  But then there wouldn’t be any dysfunctional chicks.  It would just fuck up everything.  There would be no whores.  Men couldn’t get blow jobs as easily from chicks begging for attention.  Tremendous self-esteem increase, lots of high-falutin bitches.  Think of the titty bar industry!  Lots of complications from that stupid idea.

Lord only knows, hiring me to work with twisted people is quite an oxymoron.  Yet, in this instance, I might be highly qualified.

Twisted Fasting

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

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

But I’m determined to post daily dammit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wish me luck! I need it.

Twisted Update On My Mother &/or Eek!

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.

The Twisted Easter Bunny Travels

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

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

 

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her house is much cleaner than my mother’s. 

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

Tomorrow’s entry . . .

Instructions For Being A Big F*cking Thanksgiving Turkey

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

So yesterday was the day after Thanksgiving.

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

Maybe I’ll try again later.

Summer: POTUS, Travel, Concerts & Taco Bell

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

  * * * * * 

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

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

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

What would you do?

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

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

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

 * * * * *

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

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

Turning 49 & Fine Tuning My Twisted Religion

Every year on June 16th there is a (SCHIZOPHRENIC) part of me that likes the idea of a sash and crown.  I have an alter ego who wants people to wave & honk at me from their cars, mouthing: “I KNOW YOU!  IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!”   This egomaniac wants others to thank me for gracing the planet, to love me with glee in their hearts. 

So it’s really f*cking disappointing when none of that ever happens! 

To change it up a bit, this year I decided to host my own First Annual Birthday Party.   (Hosting people in my home is one of the most stressful things I could ever do to myself).  I went with it anyway because this hideous number of 49, so close to 50, has given me the philosophy that I’ll be dead relatively soon (if I live to anything less than 99 I’m over the freaking hump & on the downhill side!)

so I should do EVERYTHING!  

To keep it interesting,  I brought in a hostess with www.pureromance.com and she demonstrated her wares for entertainment.  I’m way more of a prude & far less experienced in this area than my obnoxious mouth would lead you to believe.  Thus, I now realize that my husband and I have been living like neanderthals, using things like fingers and toes & Kool-Whip instead of C.rings and Pick.le Pleazers and Strawberry Cheesecake flavored whip. 

By the time it was over I was concerned that with some of the more complicated devices my husband & I might get twisted and wrapped up to the point where we’d need to yell for help.  (Some implements were more out of a Star Wars re-make by Larry Flynt, rather than anything romantic!)

I was hoping for silly, idiotic nonsense & laughter.  At that we succeeded.

* * * * *

I knew there would be people who didn’t show up, people who didn’t even acknowledge the invitation.  My quite reasonable solution?  Girlfriends who didn’t appear would be written off like a tax exemption (no excuses, not free trips to Paris nor amputation).  But then Roxanne’s kids got swine flu and I couldn’t hold true to my very simple plans, just like always!  Well, except for Donna and Kathy & Diane, who . . . wait a minute.  Who?  I don’t know anyone by those names.

My ditzy wack job friend Kim replied with this nonsensical diatribe:

“Just realized your party was a fu.kkerware.  Call me old fashioned, uptight, a jerk, but make sure it starts with pro American and add Christian so it sounds even better.” 

Then she adds this little piece:

Call me when you want to go to church!

God bless your hubby!

My reply:

“Regarding church, there was a time you had gotten away from the sanctimonious bullshit . . . Otherwise, I love Jesus:)  But I’d rather deal in dil.dos than fake ass m*therfukers:) 

How’s that for honest?  I’m working on it.

49 is magical!

Love Always,

PAMAJAMA”

As for blessing my husband, what in the world does she think he prays for?  Cause I’m pretty sure you’re getting very close when it comes to cotton candy flavored massage oil that warms when blown on.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, I didn’t start party planning until the day before & we were driving the streets at 10 p.m. looking for an open liquor store so I could find brandy for marinating the sangria.  Our 11-year old was in the backseat yacking on and on about how “I can’t believe I’m driving around with my parents looking for an OPEN LIQUOR STORE!”  She’s never had to go out at 2 a.m. for a pack of Marlboros either, but it’s not like children don’t do that every night of the year here in America.  I’m sure there are roaming children on the streets right now!

The morning of the soiree I had old bowls of cereal still on the counter, books on the floor, garbage overflowing!  (To say nothing of cookies or cake or tiny hot dogs wrapped in bacon.)  In the end I remembered what I should have known from the beginning: women don’t eat!  No need to cook unless you’re inviting men and children.  Throw a vegetable tray on the table and open the wine.

* * * * *

My birthday brought about a level of negativity that made me nervous, a newfound depth of nastiness.  Even my blogging fell to the wayside as I sat in a chair, numb with the realization that my mommy days are ending and I need to get a life, one based on my own thoughts & desires & decisions.  I don’t want to.  I don’t want to succeed or fail based upon my own actions, I so prefer hiding behind my children.  I don’t want to get old, I don’t want to grow up, I don’t want to be mature, I don’t want to behave appropriately. 

I’m railing against an imaginary entity! 

I can do whatever I want! 

 I’ve got no f*cking idea what I want!

Sweet, simple people speaking of their normal non-obscene lives still make me cringe and feel nauseous.  If I hear one more young mother coo over her babies I will surely slam myself to the floor in an attempt to dull the pangs of jealousy, the annoyance at the naivete. 

We were supposed to go to New Mexico for a wedding August 1st and it’s probably a good thing that my husband has called it off.  The perfectly beautiful girl getting married AND her sister both have new infants.  They are psychotically happy, as fortunate in their current lives as any lottery winners.  Their mother (my husband’s sister) oozes with a syrupy sweet, orgasmic, grandmotherly glow that gags me. 

Recently on Facebook she replied to the utterly uncreative commentary between her two daughters with

“You two are hysterical!”

HYSTERICAL?  Jim Norton’s “Monster Rain” on HBO, created by a man who hates himself and everyone else, the blackest humor imaginable, that’s hysterical.  

The scene in “Jackass 2.0″ where a guy puts powder on the crack of his ass and then farts in the face of a sleeping dude, engulfing him in a fine white mist, THAT totally hits the mark for me. 

When I tell my daughter that’s how I’m going to wake her the next time she bitches about getting out of bed and then she punches me in the arm 27 times as we’re driving down the road screaming at each other & laughing maniacally to the point where we can hardly catch our breath upon such a disgusting thought, yep.

I seem to have found a dark place and I’m beginning to grow mold.

Mothers & Sons ~ As Twisted As It Gets

I’ve done so little in the past week that I had to ask my husband,

“Did I leave the house at all?”

All four movies I watched Saturday were great, providing no incentive to move.

I’m convinced it’s like a bear conserving energy for the days ahead.  Today the girl & I go into NYC to pick up the boy and my life will change for a little while. 

It’s all so bizarre, this adult child thing. Each time he moves I’m suddenly involved in his life again.  On the other hand, the first time he does not ask for my help I will be more devastated than I can even put into print. 

The kid can’t win.

For some unbelievable reason my husband isn’t willing to go into the city at 1:30 in the afternoon and battle traffic when we could have gone in at 7:30 in the evening.  Can you believe he’s so unfeeling about my son’s desire to make it home in time to go to a bar tonight and meet friends? 

Such insensitivity.

For some reason it also bugs the big guy that when we get there (in his truck, the one the boy will use while he’s home) nothing will be packed (before we have to haul it down 11 stories), which will no doubt be the case. 

The boy already verbally agreed that’s how it’ll be.  (He had such an impish grin in his voice and laughing tone.  Really, it was adorable!)

* * * * *

Things I do differently when my oldest child is home:

1.) Bite my tongue way more than usual.  (No harsh voice allowed, no irritation shown, no disagreement.) 

2.) Pretend to make motions toward homemaking activities like cleaning, organizing, laundry, etc.  Sometimes I actually do that stuff. 

(I just spoke to my friend Roxanne today and she was delivering a grilled cheese to the couch for her newly graduated 22-year old.  It’s nearly impossible to compete!  I think there may be private meetings where the guys all get together and say, “Hey, what did you get your mom to do today?” 

“Mine made my bed AND french toast.”

“Mine took money right out of my dad’s wallet for me & spoon-fed me peas!”

“Ah, that’s nothing.  Mine is driving into a city full of several million people with my little sister, in a pick-up truck.  She’ll move all my stuff down 11 stories and pack it up for me while I take my computer apart AND she’ll buy me food on the way home!  All so I can get to the bar on time!”

And then they laugh and laugh!

Young moms shouldn’t feel smug cause they start practicing this shit around age 6 or so.)

3.) I jump to make him special meals with lots of protein, fruits & vegetables.  I will make 100 cups of hot tea in the week to come, filling them with fresh lemon to soothe allergies.  (This does not go over well with husband and daughter, not at all.  It’s like I have a couple of puppies watching me.  Where’s mine?  Mind you, neither of them drink tea or like my cooking.)

4.) Turn my life around to make things convenient for him, break dates with friends & leave all my time free just in case.  (He leaves me hanging, puts everything off to the last second, like I am the “alternative plan,” which no doubt I am.)

5.) Occasionally find my head up my own ass after twisting and maneuvering and accidentally leaving it up there.

6.) Pray every time he gets in the car and drives away.  Worry about where he is and when he’ll be back and whether he’s safe.  (For some reason I am able to let go of this for the most part when he’s living elsewhere.  I am evidently far more afraid of vehicles than guns or muggers or street gangs or swine flu.)

7.) Ask question after question in an attempt to start a conversation, laugh at myself, converse with myself, smile like an idiot preparing to jump from a clown car.  (Those questions do nothing but annoy him, but silence feels even worse, like I’m showing no interest!  I can’t bear the idea that he might think I don’t care.  I’m looking for input from men here — tell me I should just shut up, would you?)

8.) Pick apart every single thing about myself & wonder whether it’s the one tragic piece of my make-up that makes him not like me very much.  (When normal people come to visit I tear the house apart thinking nothing is ever good enough.  When he comes to visit I tear myself apart, thinking nothing is ever good enough.)

Mind you, he says “Love you, Mom” every time we speak.

9.) Try my hardest never to bring up any of the above issues because it only makes it so much worse & removes all question as to whether I’m a complete wack job.

10.) Wonder how it’s possible the above nine items could be true and worry that the 11 year old (whom I have a relatively good relationship with today — just like I did with him) – will be just like him.  (She and I have already agreed that it might be best if we only hug from hereon in, no speaking allowed.  She told me yesterday that she believes “When you turn 50 you die inside and start staring at trees like Daddy.  I turn 49 in one month.)

* * * * *

It sounds so much worse when I put it on paper and I don’t think I’m explaining it all properly.  In person it’s really just a lot of silence on his part and perky paranoia on mine.  I need one other friend who’s had the same experience with an adult son.  Just one! 

Instead, I’m surrounded by people with beautiful babies.  I can’t bear it!  Just today one of my husband’s nieces wrote something about having “me time” and getting her husband to hold the baby while he napped!  How idiotic!  I am going to stop eating sugar & ensure that I do not go blind before I watch her cry that her son is a grown man!  I will love it so!  As she blubbers I will rub it in: “I remember when you wished he was in a crib, sleeping through the night!”  Cause, you know, you can say shit like that when you’re 70 plus!

* * * * *

He will be home for little more than a week, then I will be driving to drop him off at graduate school for a final summer semester.  We will leave early in the morning, really early, because he won’t be willing to go down the night before and stay in a hotel like civilized people, as it adds to the amount of time he must spend with me and cuts back on the time he has with friends. 

If it’s a repeat of last summer he will go out until late, drink more than necessary and want to sleep all the way there.  Then I will help him haul all the stuff out of the car, pack it into the new dorm room, make sure he’s set up and say “I love you!  Be careful!  Maybe you could call once a week, cause ya know I get physically ill when I don’t hear your voice after a while?  Good-bye!”

I will go from there to my sister’s to spend a few more days with the Kentucky peeps.  It seems silly to go again so soon, but I’m already in a southerly direction and it’s only eight hours more.

In a quick two months it will be time to return for graduation and move the boy back to NYC.  The summer will fly by, like it always does.  In eight weeks time I will get four phone calls and an e-mail or two.

This all sounds so incredibly negative & I wish it didn’t.  The boy has no tattoos of grim reapers or Disney characters.  He’s handsome as could be and has a million friends.  I just sent his cousin two letters yesterday addressed to a fucking women’s prison!  Are ya kiddin’ me?

He is perfectly normal and I’m fucked up.

It’s like that Chili’s commercial:

I want my baby back, baby back, baby back.  I want my baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back . . .

Seriously now, I want to hear

What’s your special brand of crazy?

Laughing At Mother’s Day

The problems I have with my husband are not like anything I’ve ever heard from other wives.  It’s part of why my frustration can come on like a tsunami, especially when pre-menstrual. 

He returns home from a long day of work and walks 5 miles at the local reservoir.  (The first couple of times I did the walk with him, but then I went up a few pounds and realized that walking causes me to gain weight.)  I know, it’s really weird.

Anyway, as soon as he walks in the door it’s the neverending saga of “What’s for dinner?” 

Last week I made something two nights in a row, so I’m guessing he might have thought I was going to do THAT again.  (It was very creative, especially the night I made a heart-shaped meatloaf and covered it with ketchup, making it look like a bloody heart.)

Tonight, after considering Pizza Hut take-out — which gets me as excited as most pervy dudes touching themselves while their computer screen displays some naked chick with hidden herpes sores – he instead decided to go to the grocery store. 

Break my heart, will ya?

He claims he’s trying to SAVE MY LIFE, the motherf*cker. 

Could it have been the order of Hershey’s Dippers that put him over the edge?

My sister just called & told me Mom ate a whole order of cinnamon sticks with powdered sugar dipping sauce when they last ate together.  She said Mom guarded them like a Rottweiler, refusing to share.  Mom insists pizza won’t go down because of the lap band procedure she had for weight loss.  Perhaps sugar is needed to grease the skids. 

In the aftermath of that story I see that not going to Pizza Hut may have been the best decision.

HOW F*CKING ANNOYING IS THAT?  HE’S RIGHT AGAIN?  DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN?

* * * * *

A trip to the supermarket means I’m forced to make a list of all the other things I want.

(HEAVY SIGH) 

White bread?  Brown  bread? 

Choices are just freaking annoying.

Obviously if you’re really trying to SAVE MY LIFE you’d buy the brown bread! 

If you’re planning to purchase the white bread, why not take in those calories as donuts?

* * * * *

He returns with the supplies for grilled cheese and asks if I want him to make me one. 

HELLO? 

Have I ever refused a grilled cheese in this lifetime?  So I tell him it’s a stupid ass question. 

He just delivered two to my recliner.  It’s hard to enjoy them after he’s made it all so complicated, but I try.

Other issues:

He insists on doing laundry.  He shrinks things.  He turns bras gray.  He overfills the washing machine.  His folding is adequate & he usually carries it all upstairs, but refuses to put it away.  More than once he’s confused my daughter’s clothing with mine. 

I wore one of her bras to bowling the other evening and the underwire jabbed me in the side every time I threw a ball.  It was painful.

He regularly cleans the kitchen, but I wish he wouldn’t.  It allows him to feel comfortable about complaining when I cook eggs and leave them crisping on the stove in a pan while I sit back down.  It sucks to sit here in the recliner, trying to relax after a trying day of talking to friends on the phone and drinking coffee, when he’s making all kinds of noise and moving pots and pans and dishes around. 

Sometimes I wish he’d just sit down and act like a normal person, maybe drink a beer or complain about something.

He never complains.  I hate that! 

It makes me seem like the world’s most negative person.  I can find something wrong with every minor item you could mention.  It’s one of my favorite hobbies!

When he pays for me to go on one trip or another, to a Broadway show or shopping, he stays home and does yard work.  He does ALL the yard work.  Do you know what it’s like to carry guilt around 24/7?  Heinous, I tell you.

So there it is: yardwork, shopping, laundry, cooking, cleaning.  Oh, yeah, he makes the bed, too.  He rarely farts and never curses. 

A couple of years ago I bought a set of lawn furniture that wouldn’t fit in the back of our truck, so I had to call him to drive across the county at 9:30 at night.  He made it fit.  He also paid for it.  He didn’t complain about that, either.

I hear women bitch all the time about husbands who go out with their friends, drink all the time, smoke and spend hours in stripper joints.  These chicks mow their own grass, make all the meals, break their backs doing laundry and know how to work the dishwasher.

While my husband is taking our daughter out for one more meal at Taco Bell, buying her another iTunes card, driving us to another dental appointment, those other chicks are cleaning their kitchens and making their own beds.

They must feel so good about themselves! 

There are times when I run out of good books to read, there are no new messages on Facebook & the DVR is empty of appealing choices.  I hardly know what to do with myself.

And THAT is why for me

Mother’s Day

is the silliest damned holiday of all.

The MF’ing Never Ending Twisted Food Battles

I’m still treating it like it’s my best friend. 

Shit food, that is. 

The stuff that has so conveniently & easily caused me all desired angst & misery.  I’m not saying it hasn’t been useful!  It’s helped me push people away, it’s provided a battering ram between myself & the rest of the world.  It’s kept me feeling inferior, which is comfortable, an easy excuse when there is no other.

I’ve never looked upon a salad with googly eyes, nor a head of broccoli.  I don’t eat tomatoes or cucumbers or celery.  I detest cantaloupe & watermelon & eggplant.  Don’t bother offering me spinach nor escarole or squash.

Even vegetables I like are in danger in this house.  It’s not unusual to find furry green beans or wilted lettuce or demented carrots in my fridge.  I’m better with fruit, but just barely.  I like apples but so rarely eat them, minus the coma inducing qualities of hot apple pie a’ la mode.  Grapefruit is fantastic, but lacks the panache of a soft, warm chocolate chip cookie.

Of course, none of the natural items contain the kind of addictive ingredients that are put into the processed products that make us crazy.  When my body is free of sugars & nasty fats my brain stops racing & screaming “More, more, more!  Now, now, now!”  (At least until I see cinnamon rolls in the very last aisle of the grocery store, practically being given away as a day old bakery item!)

After losing more than 50 pounds it’s easy to pretend that I’m thin when I’m not.  Although I’ve gone down four sizes, I could lose four more & just barely come close to my friend Donna’s proportions.  A picture taken recently shows us side by side and she looks like a tiny bunny I could turn into a stew.  Compared to what I was previously, sure, I’m in much better shape.  But compared to skinny chicks I’m a walrus or a plump old lazy dog. 

I’m tired of being the gigantor chunk of the crew, the tyrannosaurus rex, the lineman.  I’d like to be NORMAL.  I want to be thinner than my sister or JUST ONE of my sisters-in-law.  Those bitches have felt superior to me FOREVER.

Of course, I know the problem is really me.  I would no doubt find something else to feel inferior over.  Hell, I’d tend to pick a dude with a pot belly before I’d ever go for a skinny guy.  But as long as the weight exists it will always be my excuse, I can never dig deeper, I can’ t deal with the real issues.

I’m 49 in a month!  I used to think this was the kind of stupidity you grow out of; I know now that it’s just not true.  I don’t want to have to be sick or dying to find thin.  (“Damn, Pam looked hot in that casket!)   This is NOT an exaggeration.  My grandmother was overweight all her life and died of a diabetic-related heart attack at age 57.  My brother died after weight loss surgery & his third heart attack at 44.  He was started on diet pills at age 14, which he took during summer football practices when the temperature outside was near 100 degrees. 

We had actual screaming matches in my childhood home when one child or another would find Mom’s stash of butter pecan ice cream or chocolate bars.  Mom accepted shock treatments in a mental hospital, rather than tell doctors she was so addicted to diet pills that they were making her insane. 

CAN YOU IMAGINE THE DEDICATION?

Losing weight makes sense for so many reasons: (1)  Summer is coming and I’m a miserable motherfucker in the heat, (2) The fatter I am, the more I look like my mother, which is beyond hideous, (3) I have more energy when my body is not in the process of digesting food 24/7, (4) I wouldn’t have weight as my reason to feel “less than” all the time, (5) I could lose the diabetes diagnosis & all the things that entails, and (6) 127 other things.

I tend to give up if I can’t be perfect.  Rationally, I don’t think of tiny as perfect.  I like the look of a girl who is 5’7 or taller, who weighs 140 or more.  Women should not look like boys.  Yet it’s all mushed together in my psyche.  I lose focus in the time it takes to turn my head.

In the mean time I’m going to make a list here of things that ARE NOT MY FRIENDS and hope that I remember that fact:

1) Hostess Powdered Sugar Donuts (Why commit suicide any other way?)

2) Brownies (Especially when covered with ice cream, fudge & Godiva chocolate at The Cheesecake Factory or Serendipity III)

3) Any food that’s in the house for my husband or daughter (My husband has to keep his frosted mini wheats in the garage.  I ate my daughter’s frozen chocolate brownie yogurt, but left just enough . . .)

4) Crackers, Toast, White Flour Products (entire sleeves of Ritz product can’t go down fast enough)

5) Cake (all ooey-gooey warm cake, especially with vanilla frosting, but chocolate will do, including on birthdays)

6) Soda (It’s such shit!  And POT is illegal?)

7) Black And White Cookies (The perfect combination for indecisive fools)

8) Ice Cream (including sugar-free, which does absolutely disgusting things, take my word for it)

9) French Fries (Why not drink Mazola Oil from the bottle or eat Crisco by the spoonful?)

10) Anything that comes from a fast food restaurant, anything at all

11) Candy (Valentine Candy, Easter Candy, Christmas Candy, Halloween Candy — FUCKING HOLIDAYS)

12) Potato Chips (Everyone needs at least one video of themselves eating these damned things)

13) Cheese, cheese and more cheese  (It’s from COWS)

14) Tubs of Kool Whip Free (when eaten at a single sitting)

15) 40 slices of bacon at a clip (No matter how fast you eat it, the calories remain the same!)

16) Cinnamon rolls (Even when still ooey-goody & on the day old/discount rack – they’re way too expensive in ways that have nothing to do with money)

17) Hot dogs, corn dogs & sausage (All tacky, disgusting, phallic-shaped objects that are oh so unnecessary & don’t even taste any better than your average old carnival meat)

There are such better options.  Focus, girl, focus!

McFatty the Blind Attention Whore

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.

The Chick Picnic

There were nine of us at the pool-side soiree, which I previously mentioned here.

Everyone was late.  I can’t even begin to tell you how much I love that in a person.  It is a very under-appreciated quality in these United States.

I might have overdone it with the food, definitely the brownies, snickerdoodles, oreos & graham crackers w/ brightly sprinkled frosting.  To balance out the sugar rush we had a chicken caesar salad & not one but two vegetable platters. 

Everyone pretended to be impressed with my kitchen mastery & could have won Academy Awards for their performances.  Truly, there is no better way to keep the tacky courses coming.  If they’d stayed any longer I’d have eventually brought out my famous baked beans with brown sugar and a side order of corn dogs.

As for the women themselves - I know you want to ask but don’t wish to sound impatient - it may be a disappointment.  There were no motorcyle jackets, tattoos or nipple rings. 

We’re talking middle-aged chicks who drive an SUV and could pass as kindergarten teachers or the wives of two brothers who own a trucking firm.  My straight friend Roxanne was the hottest of all, flaunting a “Stonehenge Rocks” t-shirt & matching hippie skirt.

In reality our new friends from the island of Lesbos are real estate magnates, they own a boat, their children are only 8 years old and doing sixth grade level work.  They were easy to talk to & interesting, with a better track record than most heterosexuals: together 22 years. 

They’ve avoided the homeschooling community because of the uptight people who seem to dominate same. 

(Honestly, I recently read this message: “I know most of you homeschoolers would never allow your children to watch the Disney Channel . . .”)

Actually, these chicks were the opposite.  Not once did they attempt to use religion like a dildo, never ramming it down my throat screaming “Swallow this!  You’ll love it!” 

Even better yet, they don’t do that to their kids, either.

Unfortunately, I do not believe they watch reality TV.  Sigh.  Perhaps I can drop a few hints.  I do realize I cannot expect everyone to enjoy the kind of low-life pursuits I favor. 

Midway through the party I decided to impress our guests with my incredible swan (a/k/a turkey) dive.  My old phone was wedged between my sweaty breasts inside my roomy swimsuit top & forgotten.  It was very hot, my hair looked like shit anyway, and I figured a dip would show off my finely tuned athleticism.

Gliding mermaid-like along the floor of the pool, I saw something shiny.  A new toy?  A rubber boat or plastic starfish?  I only wish I had a video of myself flying through the air, specifically to document the trajectory of the phone as it flew from my top & landed in the shallow end.  If it had ended up near the drain we could have been searching & calling the number for days.

Did I mention the husband somehow managed to make it home early to check out the chick picnic?  What a surprise . . .

He responded quite typically: “You never liked that phone, anyway.”  I’m married to the embodiment of Richard Gere & the Dalai Lama, as one.

Unfortunately we had two other minor incidents:

(1) the 13-year old boy was stung by a wasp and his leg began to swell; he then was forced to tell his brother to “fuck off” in front of the other tiny ones. 

I consider this a homeschooling English lesson & EMT class all wrapped into one.  We used the internet to look up the proper treatment for a wasp bite (ice & Benadryl).

(2) One of the girls accidentally stepped backward while playing with the 15-year old boy & landed in the pool after bouncing her hip off the cement. 

Another lesson: When poolside sword-fights & snickerdoodles are competing for adult attention, sometimes the cookies win.

The chick picnic was a great success.  I can only hope they’ll all return.

A New Campaign

I went to the health food store yesterday and purchased several of the items I need for my new health assault.  I didn’t purchase quite everything due to the bankruptcy factor.

We’ve been buying alkaline water from a candy shop for a few months now (long story), so I’m jumping off the cliff and will be eating a mostly alkaline diet, hopefully forever.  The pH Miracle Diet.  I’m going to need a miracle to stick to it! 

I won’t be purchasing any candy at the shop.  No more chocolate-covered raspberries, which I must add are sinfully delightful.  Unfortunately, they make my head spin and my eyes blur after I inhale 4,000 calories worth.

I’ll now be eating lots of green stuff, more green stuff than I can probably handle, so I’ll just stick with the basics.  I’m a bit of a picky eater, unfortunately.  I don’t eat cucumbers, tomatoes, very little broccoli, no heavy duty greens.  No watermelon, no cantaloupe.

Actually, grapefruits, lemons & limes are the only fruit allowed.  Too much sugar in all the rest. 

I’m going to try to convince myself that I love broccoli, but I think I might die if I ate a raw tomato or cuke. 

One of the things is this green drink that some people call swamp water.  I had my first glass last night and it is incredibly dirt tasting.  You’re supposed to have a liter of water with dirt per every 30 pounds of body weight.  I might be able to follow that dictum if I weighed 67 lbs.

I’m giving up meat, too.  Everything except tuna and salmon.  No white flour, no sugar.  No coffee, either!  Holy shit-ola.  I’ve been told that vegans have ridiculous energy levels, and that’s what I want for myself.

Last night I had brown rice with snow peas, a bit of Bragg’s Amino Acids.  It was freaking delightful, better than marshamallow Peeps, if you can believe that.  I was kind of sliding into the Peep diet, which was causing heavy depression.  I decided it wasn’t for me.

Cinnamon capsules, healthy fats, a variety of tea, varied vitamins, salads, water, green drink.  This is my life.  And lots of exercise.

I bought the cinnamon about a year ago and never opened the bottle.

I’m feeling very positive about it, like this is finally going to be the real deal.  I need to take care of myself, to feel better, both physically and psychologically.  I want to like myself.

Wish me luck!

Culinary ADD

We eat out a lot because my cooking sucks.  Actually, I can’t seem to plan a real meal and I think it’s because I have Culinary ADD.  It’s an undiagnosed condition but extremely detrimental to our family’s health.

Simple procurement of proper ingredients is a huge part of the problem.

A trip to 7-11 could take 30 minutes.  Other family members have turned it into an angry game, betting on the number of minutes I will be inside any given establishment.  I like to know the details of their merchandising & that takes several trips down each aisle. 

So a trip to a regular A&P, ShopRite or Pathmark is like going down the rabbit hole.  That’s why my husband has become our designated shopper, even though he has the creativity of a stone.

I had to stop coupon clipping because of the time issue and for sanity’s sake.  I would stand in the aisles muttering to myself, flipping through coupons, eating my own hair.  No lie, three hours on average.

During one such trip I noticed the lights were flickering, the rain sounded particularly heavy on the roof.  I just kept shopping.  I missed a mini-tornado traveling through our neighborhood, ripping up trees and sending our trampoline through the bedroom window. 

No matter the time expenditure, I don’t seem to be able to walk out of the store with the ingredients for any real meal.  My organization is so incredibly sub-par.  I’m feeling actual physical pain as I just think about it.

I have cookbooks galore, Taste of Home magazines out the ass.  I love to imagine myself cooking in a cozy kitchen, catering to my family.  It just doesn’t ever happen.  I get overwhelmed by the number of recipes that look like a good idea, and I can’t seem to choose an individual one to focus on.

My husband cooks pretty regularly.  But he makes stuff that isn’t particularly healthy, basically a meat meal, just meat.  He’s from Pittsburgh and the food there is so, so bad.  I’ve been to parties where there was not a single thing on the menu that I would consider eating.

If only I had grown up there!  I would be so thin!

They make this stuff called chipped ham, heated in a sauce pan.  The ingredients include: an incredibly fatty type of deli ham, chili sauce & relish.  Throw that on a potato bun and my husband is thrilled.

See what I mean?  ACK!

He doesn’t cook the culinary delights of PA for us, but on occasion he pleads to make other creepy stuff like Hamburger Helper Lasagna with corn & corn chips.  I won’t eat that either.

He likes a home-cooked meal from Boston Market, which I think is the most disgusting place ever.  I just ask for mashed potatoes, thank you.

Alter Ego: You see, I’m too classy.  I’d rather eat Ben & Jerry’s Americone Dream from the container while the veins in my legs wither away, playing Russian Roulette with amputation & blindness.

(Wow, that was a dark paragraph.)

Now back to our pre-scheduled programming . . .

I think the biggest detriment, the real reason for my problem, is the decision-making factor. 

It takes me 15 minutes to order lunch in a restaurant.  When there is no menu, no end in sight to the options available, my brain hits overload.  I am just incapable of making so many decisions at once.   

So I don’t.  When I do cook I use several pans, I make triple entrees, I bake two desserts.  I turn the kitchen into a mess hall.  It looks like I’m cooking for 12 or 24.

On the few occasions I’ve actually tried to make something from a recipe, it always comes out really bad.  I turn the burners up high, add a few degrees to the oven, and before you know it I’m on the computer and there is smoke coming from the kitchen.

I’m also not good at cleaning up the mess.  And after I’ve done one of these mess hall capers it looks like a pre-school class did crafts in our kitchen with no adult supervision.

But restaurants have become so expensive that I choke on my food as I eat the crap they serve.

It’s time I get my act together, grow up & feed my family properly.

Wish me luck!

Any favorite suggestions?

P.S.  I’ve had a freaking epiphany during the writing of this entry!  Clearly, instead of planning healthy meals for my family I’ve been treating food like it’s for entertainment.  I’ve been looking at this as if I must create the perfect circus of flavors instead of making chicken & broccoli with lemon on the side.

It took me 47 years to figure this out?

Thirty pounds . . .

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!

Disney Exhaustion