Perfectly Attuned to Twisted Humor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

My position?  I’m on the cleaning crew.

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

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

 . . . .  or not?

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

I am a horrible person.

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This entry and certain photos contained within are potentially offensive

& inappropriate for minors and/or the workplace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I mention she can be a little difficult?

(Or that they’re heartless bitches?)

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

BOOM!

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

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

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

This is why I love her no matter what.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OH MY GOD!” and “OH FUCK NO!”

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

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

It wasn’t happening.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

WTF?

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

You all know me so well.

Twisted Prank at the Empire State Building

If I love 10 things in life, pranks are included in the list. 

A few weeks ago I met a prank master who got me so good it was SICK!  It made me want a job like his just so I could f*ck with stupid people and get paid for it, too.

There’s always the option of standing on a street corner near the ocean this summer, like a block away, pointing people in a westerly direction when they stop & ask how to get to the beach.

* * * * *

The story began when my step-sister, Jodi, came to visit.  We haven’t spent time together since her father & my mother married, each bringing three children into the family.  We were the two oldest, the alpha females, forced to share a bed together for 7 years in FarmLand, Illinois.  We fought like cougars.  She moved one summer & disappeared off the face of my earth.

(In this photo she’s seated and I’m standing with my arms crossed, pissed off that she is holding the baby (who is now 35!).)

We got in touch again at my brother’s funeral last August, a bright spot in the nightmare.  A Chief of Police in Indiana, she’s now a freaking grandmother! 

(How f*cking old am I?)

The first day we stayed in our pj’s chatting until 5 p.m.  With her job she doesn’t get a chance to do such silly stuff very often.  She told great stories, like passing the Police Academy at the age of 35 & chasing down a flasher who maintained his erection throughout arrest (which included a freezing cold creek & a gun pointed in his direction). 

You know I love that kind of shit!

The next day we went to a garage sale at closing time & filled our car with free junk like an episode of the Beverly Hillbillies.  Yes, that’s me above.

We visited the 9/11 monument overlooking the bay & Manhattan’s skyline.

I didn’t feed her much.  My hostess skills really suck.

* * * * *

Sunday we went into NYC & did everything I could think of to see it all (minus downtown).  We started at the TKTS booth in Times Square, walked to the most cracked out flea market I’ve ever been to in my entire life, then took a cab to Central Park & rode in a horse carriage driven by a handsome young Irishman. 

It was 82 degrees. When it hits 85 the horses must be taken off the street & returned to their stalls or their owners are breaking the law.

Whenever I’m in Central Park I want to get a picture of myself lying on these rocks like a dead body in a Law & Order episode. 

Failed again.

 

Next, we  took a bicycle to Dylan’s (Lauren) Candy Bar (which is so unbelievably cool, the perfect place for a deliciously slow suicide at age 93).  This photo is what it looks like from the seat on the back of the bike.  Traffic at intersections is mind-bending.  It’s a squirrel’s eye view.

Happy to be alive, we ate hot pizza on the street.  My glasses fell off my face & into the cheese, which pleased Jodi to no end.  Time for dessert at the famed Serendipity 3:

Frrrrrrozen hot chocolate ($8.50) & a

Forbidden Broadway Sundae
chocolate Blackout cake, ice cream, hot fudge topped with whipped cream ($14.50). 

(Jodi, I apologize profusely, but I love the smile!)

Their website states that Madonna’s daughter, Lourdes, was recently there celebrating her father Carlos’ birthday with several friends.  Salma Hayek visited with her daughter Valentina after her recent wedding.  Cameron Diaz popped by, as did the Olsen twins (with their own champagne).

For some reason I did not see PAMAJAMA listed in the mix.

(In this photo we’re supposed to be imitating chipmunks.)

We saw an Off-Broadway show (The Marvelous Wonderettes).  I sat beside an insurance salesman from Louisiana.  He’d won a contest & was staying at The Waldorf on the company dime.   He let me quiz him on his thoughts about the government’s response to Katrina & its’ aftermath.  

Afterwards, we saw Jane Fonda signing autographs (no, I did not scream the word “Traitor!”), went to the Hershey’s store AND the M&M store, Rockefeller Center & then on to the Empire State Building at dusk. 

I was just a little loosey-goosey by this point:

After hoofing it a few miles we reached our destination & a dude at the entryway wanted us to buy expensive special tickets that would allow us to avoid the line, plus see a video.  I didn’t want to spend the extra money, but Jodi would have happily done so.  I totally annoyed the guy with my bad attitude. 

As we were wrapping up our discussion he said,

“Oh, there goes Tom Hanks, the man there with the hat!  He’s been shooting a movie in the area and I guess he’s heading for dinner.  We saw him earlier when he was walking to lunch.”

Classy chick that I am, I said

“F*ck the Empire State Building, let’s follow Tom Hanks!” 

So we did.  After two blocks we caught up with Tom, who was actually

an incredibly dirty homeless man, crazy as any bed bug.

So there you have it, something I’d be willing to get out of bed for, the opportunity to prank a middle aged jackass that thinks it makes sense to run down the street in pursuit of Tom Hanks,

a guy who would never walk alone or have the need to purchase his own meals during a movie shoot.

* * * * *

We did go up in the Empire State building & soon knew exactly what it felt like in the Octo-Mom’s crowded womb.  NYC tourists are often from ANYWHERE other than America & there is a difference in personal space expectations.  I don’t like to be touched.  It’s a problem!  I expected gigantor pink pigs to fly by the Empire State building at any moment.

While climbing lots and lots of stairs — my decision, to save from waiting on an elevator — Jodi reminded me she has a heart condition, which developed after dealing with breast cancer and the meds she had to take for treatment last year.  I immediately visualized her falling over — with me to blame — being carried from the 72nd floor by EMS workers. 

I ordered her to maintain consciousness and stay alive for at least another 30 years, on the off chance someone remembered our errant trip up one of the tallest landmarks in America (at my insistence).  

On the way out we found the creative genius who directed us to Tom Hanks.  We lauded his mastery & success in the prank department.  This is a guy who knows how to entertain himself! 

I can only imagine the joy he experienced, watching my ass scoot on down the sidewalk at hyperspeed, purse flying behind me in pursuit of Forrest Gump. 

Whether he gets another big sale or not

who cares?

as long as he can see another ignorant tourista run down the street in the direction of the homeless Oscar winner.

Pamajama Questions: Twisted Investigator At Your Service

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

Twisted Freak Says: “Screw Valentine’s Day”

Yesterday I learned that I’m not the only woman I know who will be spending Valentine’s Day with no valentine.  It does not make me any happier, not at all, but it did make me laugh with glee. 

Roxanne of Owl Moon Studio woke her children up screaming, “You Rat F*cking Bastard” into the phone when her husband called to say he’s a last minute team replacement for a week long job in HAWAII and will be flying out as soon as they can get him on a flight.  Seriously, she’s a lovely girl & his new nickname will only be said with a smile, not more than 1,000 times.

* * * * *

My husband came home from work yesterday ready to do the monkey, since I might have said something on the phone that could have made him think we’d be dancing. 

Really, he was hoping to make up for the lost time he’ll be spending in a rental truck full of things no one would buy at the lowliest of garage sales, towing a piece of sh*t van, sitting next to his 275-pound, 6’1″ son, instead of comfy on our pillow-top mattress (where he belongs) next to me.

So my psychological chess move was to completely ignore him as I sat at the computer playing a word game.  I had to do that, just to put him in his place.  I’ve accepted that I won’t see him on this utterly stupid holiday, but I can’t let him have clear advantage.  He has to know this can never, ever, ever happen again.

Still, it’s uncomfortable having a puppy at your feet & eventually you give in to the adorable mutt and play ball.

Meanwhile, I’ve been tossing sh*t food in my mouth like a big ass baby, feeling sorry for myself, and so I forgot the green peanut M&M’s in the pocket of my sweatshirt.  This is how a pile of them ended up in the bed, looking like a leprechaun laid eggs.

Unbeknownst to me, the M&M’s were falling out of my pocket & hitting my husband on the head in the dark.  Really, it couldn’t have worked out better.  Boink, boink, boink.

It fascinates me that he could be kerplunked on the noggin, over and over again, yet say nothing about it.  Something hits me in the head in the dark, I gotta know RIGHT NOW what the hell is going on.  I mean, the weight of a peanut M&M could potentially knock out a front tooth.

* * * * *

So this morning he called me a freak. 

I couldn’t be happier with an Academy Award or a Nobel Peace Prize, coming up on our 13th anniversary.

I don’t have a paid job, I am really a terrible housekeeper & my cooking skills are practically non-existent. 

But as long as my beloved thinks I’m a freak, clearly I’m a major f*cking success.

The perfect tattoo: Freaky Pamajama

Should I do it?

* * * * *

Deep breath. God forbid I don’t stockpile enough meds & end up in a nursing home.  Attendants would bring family & friends in to laugh and point. 

They’d take pictures for e-mail forwards & there I would be, gumming an ear of corn with the words “Freaky Pamajama” barely readable next to a big purple bruise. 

Yeah, I don’t think so.

Sometimes I Want a New Head-Frame

I listened to this fantastic freaking song over at MTAE’s blog, entitled “I Hate My Life.”   Well, for a bitching, whining, complaining rant, the funny thing is how much it made me laugh with each re-play.

Yes! Give me some negative M*THERF*CKERS to make me feel at home, like I’ve found my place in the world.  Evidently I sometimes need that negative vibe for balance.   I feel good when others sound as bad or worse.

I’m a natural teeter-totter and will go to the opposite end of the earth to equal things out.  Overblown unhappiness and discontent in others, for whatever unknown reason, gives me the freedom to glow with positivity. However, when surrounded by happy saps I feel an incredible urge to run home and change into an all black ensemble.

I’m not saying this is a great way to be in the world, I’m just claiming it as mine.

As part of a smiling group collecting for the local food bank today, when one of the kids got an aggressive & nasty response from an adult & responded “Go to hell!” I felt absolutely gleeful about the entire exchange.  It was real and expressive and heartfelt, even when they both wanted to kick each other in the face.

It’s a little bizarre how life forces you to change & suddenly you wonder what happened.  I enjoyed being stupid & idiotic & irresponsible before I had children & married a man whose job depends upon never showing his ass in public. 

I thought I was one of the most positive people I knew, until I met the guy I live with, the one who could

step in horse shit

and then claim his foot had previously been cold

and the shit warmed his foot

and how f*cking lucky could a person be?

I really do love my life today and wouldn’t trade  it for the world. 

But sometimes I think I’d like to change things up and breathe different air just for the moment. 

Then I imagine it would be so much fun to:

Go to a country western bar and get drunk and scream karaoke before I fall on the sticky floor (I would so totally hate it when I woke up).

Or . . .

Flirt with a lowlife, or 12 (sloppy drunks with filthy sheets & long toenails).

Or . . .

Throw a bowling ball at the head of the bitch who threw a final strike & beat us last night by one single pin, thus exercising my competitive insanity (voluntary manslaughter, 10 to 12 years).

Or . . .

Get completely blasted on one of several substances I would never want my children to go near (brain damage).

Or . . .

Hit the pedal to the metal and get the Charger up to 120 in less than a minute and hold it there (wahoo!). 

Or . . .

Just say what I really mean whenever I want to, no matter the consequence  (even better yet).

Or . . .

Fly.

Know what I mean?

A Blog Critique By Chris, My Bowling Partner

A complaint has been lodged by Chris, a member of our bowling team.  He claims the last few blog entries have been both “too long” and “not funny enough“! 

Can you imagine?

I think he said something like,

“I get the whole dysfunctional family thing, I really do, but . . .” 

In all fairness, he did ask if “editorial comments” on the blog were allowed.  Of course I said “Yes!”  (I love compliments!)

I bowled a gutter ball immediately after hearing his thoughts.  (Being insulted in the bowling alley is like getting kicked by Santa while standing in the road watching your trailer be re-possessed.)

If Chris was some regular dipshit, ass scratching bowler, it wouldn’t mean as much, but this is a guy who totally kicks my ass in both Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble.  I’m not even saying I’m good at either of these games, it’s just that he makes me think my I.Q. is somewhere in the 64-72 range.

Since I’ve had similar thoughts about the blog myself, I have no choice but to agree with Chris, he’s just being helpful.  Really, too few people in this day and age are willing to crush another person with their honesty!

I mean, I do regularly think about the fact that I could be standing in some foreign stream, batting away flies, while attempting to drink my 100 oz. of fluid per day beside a bovine animal in the process of emptying her bladder.

I have so much to be thankful for, my life is like a soft cloud of mashed potatoes with a warm blanket of tasty gravy.

So, considering that Chris is 1.) Ridiculously intelligent (he married my friend Lynn), 2.) Sometimes allows me to beat him at bowling, 3.) Laughs at my long-winded sick stories every single time, and 4.) Even goes so far as to do belly bumps when I’m in the mood to be obnoxious, today I will follow his directions.

Well, I can do “short” but “funny” is always subjective.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my favorite people!  You know who you are . . .

Much love and kisses.

Trisha Truly’s Meme – File 4, Photo 4 and/or The Splits

The beautiful Trisha, mother of man-tastic blogger Dobeman and newly married bloggess Birdpress, picked yours truly for a meme.  I feel so incredibly important when these things happen, since it makes up for times when my popularity factor was a big fat -7 and I was regularly forced to wear a red and white striped polyester gym suit with crotch snaps.  Oh, the joys of childhood.

Like the time I lost the race for class president in 8th grade to a girl named Devra before she dropped out of school completely like three months later.  I’m a grudge holding bitch, aren’t I?

I was told that one of Devra’s brothers puked on the floor in their house and it wasn’t cleaned up for three months.  Does this give you a clearer picture of where my frustration lies?  I mean, yes, she was eons beyond the rest of us, coloring her hair before most shaved their armpits — actually, I don’t think she ever shaved hers – but I came from a f*cked up family, too!  Where was my prize?

That was just before I went to the 8th grade dance with Jim Ferguson, a dude who never brushed his teeth, not ever, and used gel (or maybe he just never washed it?) to flatten his hair into a point that stuck 6-inches out from his forehead.  At least he was nice enough to invite me to be his date, although I wonder where this dude got such self-confidence?  His mother must have been telling him he was the equivalent of Wonder Boy.  “Honey, don’t worry, that hideous acne will clear up in no more than 6 or 7 years & I can scrape that placque off with my thumbnail.”

I was a confused little bitch in 8th grade.  Here I am at graduation, age 13, an original Gunne Sax dress circa 1974:

I went on to lose the competition for cheerleading in 9th grade, since I could do the splits but nothing else.  This heart-breaking loss may have been the impetus for losing my virginity four months later, which did help with the popularity factor.  Somehow, Doug Hanshaw realized that one of the few ways I felt incredibly successful was with my legs spread.  He was a true humanitarian.

Meanwhile, if you are reading this as a teen-age girl, don’t do it.  Do not share bodily fluids, not even tongue juice.  Boys are dirty. 

I’m completely off the subject!  I need to get this meme posted so I can do the other one that’s overdue by an entire month.  If my lips were plumper I’d feel exactly like Angelina Jolie.

Directions say I’m supposed to pick the fourth photo out of my fourth picture file, post it & write a story in explanation.  So, ta-da, here it is:

My little sweetie.

The story is my daughter’s 6th birthday.  In a white-trash Martha Stewart moment I braided a crown out of three yards of gauzy material, tied it with ribbons, then decorated a wooden stick & called it a magic wand!  I’m a craft-astic magician!

One of these days I’m going to decoupage a baseball bat, one she can hit boys with and disable them for the rest of their lives should they enter her personal space.  It will more than likely include a taser feature & spray both mace & bullets.

It’s not much of a surprise that the fourth picture in the fourth file was of this little princess, since I have enough pictures of her to wallpaper the entire house and never repeat a shot.

Yesterday I put a file of 500 photos of her in scroll mode, then told her she could sit here and see them all.  I walked into the other room, then a few minutes later I returned and found her crying.  I asked, “HUH?  WTF?” 

She said, “I don’t remember any of this.  I want to be a baby again!“

Sigh.  Girl stuff.  I can’t imagine my son ever, not in a million years, having such a reaction.  It’s a lot like when I began to sob after the nurse told us we were having a girl and my husband said, with utter confusion, “But I thought you wanted a girl?”

Hormones versus testosterone, two completely different masters.

It’s a good thing I can’t make my daughter’s wish really happen.  If I was Samantha Stevens (Bewitched), could twinkle my nose and make dreams come true, she’d be an identical triplet.

I’d do it in a heartbeat.

My Chicks & I Visit NYC

Yesterday two friends & I took the ferry into NYC to see an “art exhibit,” four man-made waterfalls along the East River.  Quite possibly the most fun I’ve ever had in Manhattan for the least amount of money.

The ferry costs $45 round-trip from New Jersey but the convenience and cleanliness, compared with the trains of New Jersey Transit, are beyond reasonable.  The trip itself takes an hour.

It gets just the tiniest bit windy (hurricane force) & relatively cold sitting on the upper deck.  I’ve lost sunglasses, ripped right off my face.  Hair can be a problem & Roxanne’s skirt was an issue.  Fortunately, she was wearing panties:

Sitting outside is a must when you consider yourself a professional photographer, as all three of us clearly do.  The Statue of Liberty looks close enough to touch.  Getting a really good shot is another story:

Soon we were traveling up the East River, nearing the falls.  One is directly under the Brooklyn Bridge, which is always a spectacular sight:

Considering my Illinois roots, I must tell you that I can’t think of a single farmer who’d be willing to call this art.  Instead, he might say something like, “Yep, my wife made me go over and take a look at this WATERFALLS ARTWORK, but it was really a bunch of scaffolding & some water.  I don’t know what in the hell these people are talkin’ about half the time.”  

(Although one-half of my personality wants to be utterly cool & metropolitan, I really love farmers.)

Once in the City we walked the shore line from the 35th Street boat dock to the South Street Seaport, a total of 3.7 miles.  The combination walking/bike path meanders along side the FDR Drive & widens into a beautiful park.  It was fantabulous, except for the part where we were exhausted & thought we might die.

Here’s a map of our route:

East River – Ferry to South Street Seaport

(The Prevention site I made the map from is incredible.  You can map anything in the world and it gives you your mileage.  I wanted credit for every single inch!)

Roxanne was feeling faint from lack of cheeseburgers and/or french fries found along the trail.  My knee brace was no longer providing much support & Aimee’s feet were screaming.  Fortunately, the Seaport provides every kind of sustenance you could find at any mall across the country.

We took at least 300 pictures of the waterfalls:

There is a wonderful deck with reclining chairs upon which you can sit for free while viewing the Brooklyn Bridge and all its’ beautiful surroundings.  The fact that I would not sit on anything that could possibly hold a bed bug did not bother Roxanne in the least:

Next, we checked out the shops.  I’m definitely going back before the holidays, two stores in particular.

We happened upon a silly clothing place that had a couch labeled “MAKE-OUT COUCH.”  What the hell?  Someone happened upon the idea that we should take our own pictures upon this oddity.  I was totally grossed out by how many people may have placed their asses on this thing, and what they might have been doing, but I could not allow my OCD issues to make me the dull girl of the group. 

The pics came out great!  It kind of looks like we’re about to eat each other’s faces off here:

I’ve been having a blast playing with my PictureIt! program.  Please explain to my husband that we’re not touching in this one, it’s all about the special effects:

For example, here’s another one taken of the falls, using the pencil drawing filter:

And with this one I just played around with the colors a bit.  The light was so bright that it was impossible to get faces AND the background properly in the same shot::

This is one of my favorites:

I really love this one:

Overall, what a great day.  Wish you were there!

Raising a Cultured & Bug-Free Humanitarian Beer Drinker

We went to NYC last Wednesday for my daughter’s 11th and her friend’s 15th birthdays.  First, we stopped by Fashion Week at the Bryant Park tents.  There were crazy hot models walking around covered in mud.  God, I love New York.

Next we went to the TKTS booth & eventually on to Broadway.  Grease is even better than I’d hoped, plus we scored fourth row seats.  Rizzo’s my girl & she stole the show.  They even got autographs. 

Remember Ace Young from American Idol?  Woohoo!

 

My son joined us for dinner, which made it even better.  I did have a difficult time when it came to leaving him there, in the city.  Like, I wanted to say, “Get in the car and come home, right now.”  I know that would be wrong, but I’m not sure why.

Afterwards, we were standing on the sidewalk waiting for our friends.  A man across the way kept waving two signs back & forth.  He clearly was asking for cash donations but no one was cooperating.  My daughter really wanted to give him her dollar.  I figured I’d let her do it while my husband wasn’t around, since he’s so completely unsupportive about handing his money out to strangers. 

So I said, “Go for it.”  Eventually she did.  Then he saw my camera & called her back.  This picture is the end result.  It was my favorite part of the day.  I’ve never been prouder of my little girl, the humanitarian.  Her heart is huge!  I think this may be a result of the time she’s spent with us in bowling alleys.

I was just a little bit freaked out by how close he put his hair near hers.  You know me, the bug thing.

It reminded me of the fact that when I checked into a hotel two weeks ago, strung-out, smelly & dirty from the road, I immediately questioned the desk clerk about bed bugs, whether the hotel had ever had a history of them, not just some bullshit about the last 48 or 72 hours.  She kept edging away from me as I informed her of the epidemic infestations on both coasts.  She was completely unaware!

Unfortunately, I had my reading glasses on as I entered the room.  There were black specks on the beds.  When I lifted the bedspreads there were even a few tight curly hairs.  I had to request that the sheets be changed immediately, both beds.  The women who came to the room were very nice about it and I tipped them $10 to make sure they weren’t purposely giving me even dirtier bedding.

They had no more than walked out of the room when I accidentally flipped an ear ring down the sink drain.  I’m sure the staff there must think I was a “mystery shopper,” checking out their ability to remain calm.

Clearly, the beer dude’s hair is the least of my daughter’s problems.

Concert Hijinks

Last week we went to a Sheryl Crow concert, which included an opening act by James Blunt.  Everybody seemed to dig on James, but he’s not really my thing.  I actually loved the very first group, a reggae band called Toots & the Maytals.

I managed to get my grubby hands on 12 free tickets.  It always sounds like such a great idea in the beginning.  I don’t even like arranging to meet someone at the mall, let alone dealing with 11 other personalities & a big deal venue.

Eventually it all came together.

Of course I could not drive directly to the concert due to the fact that I continually repeat the same insanely expensive sentences: “It’s no problem, I’ll come pick you up.”  Or this one: “Yes, I’ll drive your tickets over so you don’t have to come here.  No, really.  It’s too far!  I can drive south first, then re-trace my steps, head in an easterly direction & then scoot up north.”  No more than 50 additional miles.  Maybe 60.

I have two completely separate voices in my head.  I choose to represent myself as a kindly sweet woman externally, while the bitch rules my inner world.

Yes, I invited the sister-in-law who has no car.  Well, she had a car for the short time that she stole her boyfriend’s Cadillac for a single evening last weekend.  Now she will never have a car again unless she buys one, which is so completely unlikely considering she has no job, needs a third shoulder surgery & is addicted to pain pills.

It gets worse.  The car caper resulted in a break-up & now she’s got two weeks to get out.  Never call your 70-year old boyfriend & have him paged in a casino because you think he’s screwing hookers, due to the fact that he took his prescription Cialis along for the trip.  How did she know?  She counted his pills, of course.  I was completely in the dark when she screamed into the phone, “HE TOOK HIS FUCKING CIALIS WITH HIM!”  Evidently this is another brand name for — you guessed it — Viagra.

It’s a crazy scene.  She called his brother & his friend, too.  Embarrassed the shit out of him.  So he wants her out.  She has nowhere to go.

In reality, it was much better that I offered her a ride rather than invite her to come & live in my house.  Sheryl Crow concert – Yes.  Houseguest – No.

The people who actually have lives were the first to commit to attending.  The relatives who have absolutely nothing better to do on any given day were the ones who left me hanging until 18 hours before the first note rang out.

We made it to the concert, drank a Corona in the parking lot – which was quite enjoyable even for this non-beer-drinker - then entered to find people in our seats.  I made them move, to their great disdain.  So they sat immediately in front of us.  I had to force myself to stop looking at this guy’s dirty hat.  It got worse when he removed it & began shaking his head & running his fingers through his messy mop, as I visualized millions of microscopic dandruff kernels flying through my breathing space.

My sister-in-law didn’t experience this, since she refused to sit in her assigned seat.  She is not a rule follower.  Unfortunately the seats began to fill up.  When some newcomers arrived & had to walk around her, in the seat she should never have been in, the first fellow trampled on her foot.  She immediately screamed, “MOTHERFUCKER!@”  There were some other words, too, but she was sitting so far away that I didn’t catch them.  Her reaction was such that you’d have thought he set her on fire with a blowtorch.

And then she disappeared, for at least an hour and a half.  I thought maybe her foot was broken & she’d gone for emergency medical attention.  Maybe she went to the parking lot?  I sent her text messages that went unreturned.  I did not over-react because I know the woman.  My daughter, however, was getting nervous.

She was very surprised that we were looking for her.  She was up having drinks with a stranger.  Free drinks, of course.

Later, I looked over & happened to catch her giving her sister’s husband a lap dance.  She is 57, the brother-in-law is a very serious fellow of 49.  At another point I was enjoying watching an extremely inebriated dude dance with a chick.  I looked over again & my sister-in-law had turned it all into a wacked out threesome.  Obviously this is why I’m willing to go out of my way to take her with me.  The entertainment value is priceless.

The music was great.  Sheryl’s heels were at least 4-inches high.  I can’t imagine how she does what she does in those shoes.  They never stopped to take a break during the entire two hours.  A lot of people left before the two-song encore, which I thought was the best of all.  Stevie Wonder’s song “Higher Ground” was magnifico, along with “Soak Up The Sun.”

But best of all was my chick friend Roxanne & her husband.  They stepped out into the aisle & began dancing, then drug the rest of us out there, too.  Have you ever seen a middle-aged couple that’s still just as in love as the day they were married or maybe more?  It’s a beautiful thing. 

These two hippy-dippy lovebirds were doing a happy dance.  She looked 17 & blissful.  Her husband is now one of my 10 favorite men in the world, cause he so clearly brings his wife utter joy.  I actually had tears in my eyes, watching the two of them.  It was way cooler than anything happening on the stage.

My daughter then got embarrassed by one of my dance moves, which she said was making a woman near us give me the stink eye – the bitch who originally was sitting in our seats.  My girl got mad at both of us, yelled at me, & then gave the woman the big “L” for “Loser” sign & stuck her tongue out at the old bat.

Pre-teen embarrassment is deadly.

Next week we’re taking a train into NYC to see the Jonas Brothers at Madison Square Garden.  Thousands of screaming pre-teens.  Some goofy dudes who are the hottest nonsense of the moment.

It makes my sister-in-law look so calm in comparison.

Wedding Plans

Today I took my daughter to a 9 a.m. class, a glass fusing art course.  I don’t know who could possibly feel artistic flow at such a ridiculously early time of day, but this is what we have to deal with. 

It’s a half-hour drive, I tried to make it in 12 minutes.  With the air set on “High,” traveling 84 mph, it cost approximately $47 in gas to get there.

I was trying to make cheery conversation, since the poor child looked like she’d just come off a bar stool with a bottle of tequila only a few hours ago.  She is not an early riser & often I have to wake her up by screaming, “I’m going out!  You’ll be fine, home alone!”  Fear is the greatest energizer of all.

As she huddled in the fetal position on the passenger seat, a relatively sappy country song, “I Loved Her First,” came on the radio.  I began to chatter on about the fact that many brides have played that song at weddings during their father/daughter dance. 

She cut me off & said, ”I’ve already got my wedding planned.”

I pulled onto the highway without yielding & almost hit an oil tanker as I whipped my head away from the road.  She’d never before mentioned anything about this. 

I didn’t think she even planned on getting married because 1.) She’s so completely grossed out by anything shaped like a mushroom projectile and 2.) Her intense dislike of the letters p-e-n-i-s. 

She refuses to have “the talk” & prefers to ask questions about baby “implants.”  As soon as she heard about in vitro fertilization she jumped at the idea. 

She doesn’t even turn 11 until September.

If I’d been stopped by a police officer at that moment while speeding toward oncoming traffic, I’m sure I’d have looked like a hopped up crackhead, screaming “My daughter made her wedding plans without me!”

I’m still having a hard time accepting that she actually has thoughts separate from my own.  I don’t like it.

As we continued on down the road I maintained an exterior pretense of bored disinterest.  This is a technique I learned with the 22-year old, absolutely necessary if you want to get the whole story. 

So I yawned & said, “Really?” 

She said, “Yep.” 

I asked, “What’s the plan?”

With a very straight face & no hesitation whatsoever she launched into the following details:

1.) “Well, first three midgets will dance down the aisle.”  The moves she began demonstrating reminded me of Patrick Swayze in “Dirty Dancing.”  However, she seemed to be set on some form of hip-hop beat.  (I get the impression that dwarves would be an acceptable alternative.)  

2.) She let me know her dress will be purple & she will put on quite a show as she dances toward the groom.  Rather wisely, I thought, she has not determined the song yet.  She wants it to be something current, her favorite song of the future moment. 

3.) I was completely surprised to hear that her husband-to-be will not merely stand at the altar, he will catapult from a side door by doing either a somersault or flip (depending on his physical capabilities, I presume).  I hope he’s cool with this or she might just return the ring.

4.) The minister will be dressed as – who else – Flavor Flav.  (If you’re not familiar with him, you probably want to keep it that way.)

5.) An Elvis look-alike will sign autographs.  (I guess this is a nod to tradition, since he was there at her parent’s wedding – I’m getting a tear in my eye.)

She never cracked a smile throughout any of this.  She seemed serious.

Later, upon arrival at our friend Roxanne’s home, I asked her to reiterate her wedding plans & she added several more details (some of which I believe may have been created on the spot just for the benefit of audience approval):

6.) An artist will provide henna tattoos to guests at the reception.

7.) There will be several famous people impersonators in attendance.

8.) A bull-riding machine for entertainment.

9.) Fried chicken.

In the end, it seemed to very closely resemble a bad episode of CMT’s “My Big Redneck Wedding.”  I am really not in favor of this last one, as it seems tacky:

10.) She and her new husband will ride out of the reception atop a pair of pigs.

I told her that I don’t think pigs allow for riders.  Roxanne suggested a cart pulled by pigs.  The bride thought that was a fine idea.

As you can probably surmise, Roxanne is a little bit of an instigator.  Before it was all over she’d somehow finagled her way into the role of bridesmaid.

* * * * *

I came home & informed my husband of the plans.  He had the audacity to suggest we get rid of the premium channels in our cable package.

I forgot to tell him about the top hat and tails.

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.

Did You Just Call Me A Prick?

I was hyper this morning, listening to music & cleaning house.  I like to do everything backwards, so I clean on holidays but don’t lift a finger on regular days.  It turns my husband on to see me clean, it’s so amazing.  So he tries to get me to turn off the vacuum.  Nope, not when I’m cleaning.  I’ll never get back to it.

But I was feeling especially mushy toward his good looking self, so I admitted to him that I knew I wanted him from the moment I laid eyes on him, even though it took him a whole year to ask me out; that I still look at him and think, “Oh my God, how did I ever end up with the one guy I wanted the most, who I never thought I could have?”  Then I remembered I should never admit to shit like that.

It was practically sickening.  I have no idea how I ended up in this love fest. 

My husband is so kind as to actually play with our daughter, something I’m a little weak on.  I enjoy lots of things, but play is not one of them, not even when I was a little girl.

My son was a serious sort, too.

However, our daughter is a player.  She would play hide ‘n seek for six hours and complain that you were quitting so suddenly.  I’m talking totally pissed off. 

Thank God for her father. 

He does stuff with her that they don’t usually do when I’m around.  Last week he sang a country song in the car as we were driving down the road & my mouth actually fell open.  He was giving me a glimpse of the personality that peeks out when it’s just the two of them.  He never sings to me, but according to her this is a common activity. 

When Alan Jackson sings “Remember When” my husband really plays it up on the line that says, “When the children grow up and move away we won’t be sad, we’ll be glad,” which makes my daughter scream at him.  Honestly, he’s a very funny guy when he actually speaks.  I think the shyness he feels around adults, even me, disappears with kids. 

Unfortunately, sometimes the daughter can take advantage of his kind-hearted nature.  She knows she’s got him wrapped.

Today they were playing in the pool.  I could see them playing ball, out the window, as I cleaned.  They’d been out there about an hour when my husband huffed in the door.  I didn’t pay him much attention.  I already know that she can frustrate him well past the point I’m able to.  He claims he knows I’m already ruined but he’s still got hope for her.

Then he made a comment about “Your daughter.”  So I asked, “What happened?”

“Well, I was in the pool with her for a long time and then I got in the hot tub.  She kept asking me to get back in the pool.  I kept telling her to stop asking. 

Then she said, ‘Daddy, why are you being such a prick?’”

Uh-oh.  I wonder where she learned that word?

It’s been a long time since her mouth was that dirty . . .

He told her she was getting a punishment and that’s when he stomped into the house.  She was flabbergasted & had no idea why he was fuming.

I said, “Did you ask her if she knows what it means?” as I attempted to muffle my hysterical giggles.  He said, “I’m sure she doesn’t know.”

Of course she doesn’t know!  So I had to sit her down and explain that “prick” is not the same as “jerk,” it’s the same as “penis.”  She began groaning in agony, turning red, hiding her face in her lap.  I think she was at least relieved that I was laughing so hard she knew she wasn’t really in trouble.

I don’t hold much stock in the whole “dirty word” thing.  A word is a word is a word.  My husband can’t even remember me ever saying it.  I remember.  She remembers.

Oops.

My family today is the opposite of my childhood family.  My husband refuses to argue, so that’s out.  He doesn’t ever curse.  He doesn’t ever yell.  The ratio of laughter to anger is about 100:1.  But my dear husband needs some kind of outlet, for goodness sakes, and so he’s been known to call me a “jerk” on occasion with a twinkle in his eye. 

And then I have to lob SOMETHING back at him . . .  and clearly he’s not even listening anyway!  I guess I should be happy that someone’s paying attention to me?  Well, probably not.

You can bet she won’t say it again.  She’s totally not a fan of that appendage.  I’m really hoping it stays that way.

Our fireworks are over for the day . . . Happy 4th!

Am I Being Punk’d?

After my husband read yesterday’s two-part blog entry he said, “I didn’t think we had such a bad weekend!”  (You can find those entries here: #1 and #2.)

So of course I said, “Did you really read it?  Cause that’s not even close to what I said!”

Then I showed him this picture as proof that the kid was looking pretty mean when we were on the beach yesterday, like she might kick my ass at any moment, perhaps after she finished her chocolate rice cake:

He said, “It looks like she’s giving you the thumbs up.”  And I said, “No, she’s thinking about gouging both my eyes out, the way they taught her in that karate class last year.”

He really wasn’t even interested in being helpful because he was way more concerned that we might be missing Password with Regis Philbin.

I have specific expecations when he reads this stuff: 1.) Laugh & 2.) Say you loved it.  How hard is that?

He was particularly happy that someone had suggested it might have been appropriate to leave me in the river on Saturday.  For some reason he finds all of your reader comments SO MUCH FUNNIER than the stuff I write.

In the mean time, our daughter had been downstairs for hours working on a craft project.  I had no idea what she was specifically creating. 

It’s impossible to spend as much time on the computer as I do & actually pay much attention to anything else that’s going on around me.

When she brought up the final result I was kind of dumb-founded.  I can read my husband’s mind, but I DEFINITELY cannot read hers.

Would you like to see it?

Go ahead.  Take a peek:

One of us may be officially diagnosed as schizophrenic before she’s a full-fledged teenager.

At this point I think it’s possible she’s purposely trying to confuse me, then record my reactions with a hidden camera & put it all on Youtube.

Making the Girl Happy – Part One

Perhaps I should have just beaten my head with a hammer this weekend, stepped on a nail or tried using a power saw while sitting on a tree limb.  My daughter would have definitely enjoyed a dramatic call to EMS.  Anything but normal kid stuff, even great kid stuff. 

As I think about it, I do remember she loved watching me have blood drawn at my last physical, sticking her nose in the midst of it all.  She giggled & got closer, then looked hopeful when I suggested the nurse let her stick me.  Her eyes got big from the thrill of the idea.  No question, she’d have done it & been happy.

In normal daily life, “happy” is not something I can just make happen.  I know that after this weekend.  It’s a black and white fact.

Saturday we went tubing down the Delaware River.  I doubt that my husband & I would do this on our own, with no child, although maybe we should.  Yes, definitely we should.  We do very little without child & that’s probably stupid.  Yes, it’s definitely stupid.

We’d originally planned the trip with our bowling partners, four other adults total.  Our daughter would have been the only kid.  However, as a parent, the pressure is intense to provide playmates for every single event in their young lives.  I have no idea why, that’s just the way it is.  When parents don’t follow the rules they are deemed “bad,” which makes them feel “guilty.” 

So I begged, pleaded & coerced my fantastic friend Aimee to bring her husband and four children along, ranging in age from 4 to 14.  She gave in at the very last minute to this questionable plan.  “Let’s see, drive an hour & a half both ways, take my beloved children out onto a river & see how it goes?  Sure!”

God, I love that about her.  I can only pray for more crazy friends, now that Aimee is getting to know me better.  She will not fall for this Lucy & Ethel shit forever.

So in the end we had 8 adults and 5 children, 10 tubes & a single yellow inflatable boat, floating along when the rain began, followed by thunder & occasional lightning strikes.

It wasn’t really as bad as it sounds.  But then I wasn’t floating near the 4-year old who, I was told, cried for the last 35 minutes of the trip.  The four-hour tour took more like six hours due to the strong head winds going in the opposite direction of the current.  Who knew the tiny little Haitian boy, used to 120 degree summer days, would get cold when the sun went behind the clouds, the wind picked up & rain soaked his adorably fat-free body?  The freaking weather forecast called for a 100 degree day.

While the sun was still shining we stopped at the famous yet over-priced refreshment shack that rests in the middle of the river.  We paid four dollars each for hot dogs & watched the 5-year old quickly drop his into the water.  I think it made it worse that he could still see it down there in the rocks, covered with ketchup, yummy & watery all at the same time.  He’d become so engrossed in fighting for his exact share of Skittles that he could not possibly focus on hot dog safety.  

I think it was at that very moment that Aimee said, “Yep, it doesn’t get any better than this.  These are the good times!”  And we laughed hysterically.

I decided to be awkwardly adventurous and lay on top of my inner tube for the second half of the trip, then couldn’t get back in when we reached the small rapids section of the river, the current rushing from behind & rocks up ahead.  I got separated from everyone.  My daughter was composing a eulogy, convinced her fears had finally come to fruition.  I was a little concerned myself, a middle-aged woman without enough muscle tone left to heft her fat ass back into the tube.  What an f’ing tragedy!  I obviously survived.

You might ask, why was our daughter not occupied with fun & pranks, playing with the other children, spraying one another with cloudy river water?  She was free to worry about me because she ignored the other children completely.  She attached her tube to her father’s & never ventured a foot from his side.  It would have been impossible for her to successfully torture him AND spend time with anyone else. 

She so completely prefers the drama queen role to that of a carefree young girl.  Who would control our lives if she were not here to do it for us?  Who would yell “Get a room” every time my husband kisses me, if she were otherwise occupied?

It wasn’t enough that we devoted 11 hours (9 a.m. to 8 p.m.) to ramming “fun” down her throat.  We pulled in the driveway and, miraculously revived, she wanted to go in the pool as darkness fell.  We were not inclined to supervise the pool, so much as collapse into recliners inside the air-conditioned house.  So in a fit of insanity my husband told her, “You can invite someone over tomorrow for swimming.” 

How he thought I could pull a friendly & available child out of my ass on a summer Sunday, I have no idea.  Obviously that would be my problem, not his, since I am this family’s social director.

Would Sunday bring about happiness?  Find the answer in “Making the Girl Happy – Part Two.”

Matt’s Meme

Matt from Licensed to Blog tagged me in this very funny entry. 

It’s amazing how his sense of humor has maintained throughout the whole bloated leg situation and the fact that his company forgot to tell him he was fired until he showed up at the drug store & his insurance had been canceled.  You can read about that here.

I am honored & touched that Matt thought of me because, really, the only thing I’ve ever wanted out of life is popularity.  There is very little depth to my personality.  I also like making people laugh, no matter what degree of personal degradation necessary.  It’s a separate issue, yet forever linked.

I have to add that I am so impressed with my new ability to write links.  It only took 17 months . . .

Anyway, this is the deal with the meme, or at least this is what I think I read:

“Blah, blah, blah . . . blah, blah, blah . . . blah, blah, blah . . . Write your own six-word memoir.”

So I came up with something.  After hours of deepest thought, personal insight, and intense psychoanalyzation into the dank yet sunny core of my soul, I came up with something profound.  Rather incredibly, just as I was putting it on the page, the electricity blew.  I think that means I really hit it on the head.

Here it is:

“I touch myself . . . my finger stinks.”

This could be my favorite six word combination ever.  It’s raw, brutally honest & heart felt.

Rather than pick & choose, I’m tossing it out there to every single person on the blog roll. 

What will you come up with?

Thanks, Matt!

I Love This Prank So Much It’s Sick

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

* * * * *

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

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

This deserves a post of it own!!”

So, Jay, this post is for you.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

Things did not go exactly as planned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stumbling Upon the Blue Ridge Mountains

Memorial Day weekend was a blur.

The kid was dropped off in Virginia.  It all went very well.

The dorms at UVA were not what I expected, looking something like bad public housing with frantic green counter tops from 1982.  But he’s there.

On the way back I decided to take a side trip and ventured to what I thought was going to be some kind of mountain overlook.  The sign on the side of the road just said “Skyline Drive – 15 miles.” 

Instead it became a tour through the Shenandoah National Park, which is relatively magnificent.  Here is a description: “Skyline Drive.  More than a mountain road in Virginia, it is the main artery for visitors to the Shenandoah National Park on the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

I’m just a little embarrasssed to tell you that I did not even know there were mountains in Virginia.

I drove for four hours, totaling 65 miles, and saw more deer than people.  It was completely fantastic.  I’m not anything close to a nature buff, usually preferring my house to the out of doors.  This was completely different.  I felt like Davey Crockett’s sister.

On my own, I was able to stop at every single overlook.  No one complained.  Unfortunately I did not see any bears, although they’re there.

The northern tip of the drive is less than an hour from Route 95 and D.C.

I stopped inside this tunnel to take a picture and was completely freaked out inside all that blackness when I heard a noise that sounded like a person.  It was probably just water.

It was really a blast.  I even took video on my phone and sent it to my husband.  It scares me to watch the video, since it seems really irresponsible that I’m flying down the road holding a camera out the window.

It was so much fun until I ended up on Route 66 after dark, then in D.C. and Baltimore at 10 p.m. with drivers who were clearly trying to kill me.  I could understand if it was rush hour, but I thought I’d avoided that problem.

So I slept in a parking lot from about 1-4 a.m.  No bed bugs and it didn’t cost anything.

Arrived home at six.

It was a fantastic adventure.

 I’m definitely going back in the fall.