H-IV Negative &/or Still Twisted After All These Years

It came up again today, which doesn’t happen very often.  Someone asked me how I could possibly be H-IV negative when I’d had a baby with a man who was H-IV positive.

I began to stutter.  The fear is never completely gone, it’s always there, at least the memory of it.

Such a crazy time it was, pregnant at 25 by a guy with this new disease I’d barely heard of but knew could kill me.  A disease I couldn’t talk about because people would run, shun, shy away, freak out, even those in the medical profession.  I had to keep it to myself and make life and death decisions and still go to work every day even though it felt like my world was ending.

I chose to keep the baby.  I chose to stay with the man.  I wasn’t brave, more like fearless.  I didn’t know enough to make informed decisions.

I was tested once, twice, three times, four, sure my luck was eventually going to run out.  But it didn’t happen that way.

* * * * *

Now I know the chance of transferring the H-IV infection through a single episode of heterosexual unprotected sex is 1 to 2 women in 1,000.  I know that I probably saved my own life by saying no the one and only time it really counted, when I refused to have anal sex, bluntly, loudly, definitively.

Say it loud, say it proud, don’t touch my ass.

I saved my kid’s life, too.

When I think of what other women went through, those who found themselves positive, discovered their children were positive, I could dry heave with sorrow and terror.

* * * * *

I kept this secret for so many years.  It didn’t even seem like a choice.

I’ve had some difficult things to get through, like every human being on the planet, but man have I been blessed.  I won the lottery of life.  The good by far outweighs the bad.

I would lose 1,000 parents rather than a child.  I would take a million fucked up mothers over finding out my baby was going to die from AIDS.  There is no comparison.

Some of the things that happened were scary and humiliating and sad.  But in the end I walked away with the most wonderful bouncing baby boy, who never gave me a moment of trouble, who has lived a charmed life as if protected by angels.

I have no doubt they are his father and his uncle, funny, bright, charismatic, beautiful men who made the simple mistake of putting needles in their arms to dull life’s pain, to catch what was once a random irresponsible high and became a life sentence.

They were behind me during his graduation from graduate school.  I swear I heard them laughing like excited boys, saying “Look at him!  You did good, Bub.”

It was all so worth it.  I need to remember all the ways in which I have been the luckiest bitch on the planet and forget the rest.

Update On Potato-Head Brother-In-Law &/or Thanks, Mom!

Scott (my step-brother) called yesterday laughing like a hyena and talking like he’s been on  a 100-day meth bender.  This is the norm, although he doesn’t even drink alcohol.  He does, however, spend weeks alone in a truck.  So when he finally speaks it comes out with volcanic force. 

Occasionally he picks up some chick and spends a few hours feeding his need for human contact, but then he kicks her out and goes back to being the most kind-hearted, adorable, funny, anti-social freak I know.

He was calling to say that he told the pseudo brother-in-law Mike (my sister’s boyfriend who is married for the 5th time, yet engaged to sis) a big fat lie about buying his own truck, which in turn got Mike talking to him again.  Talking so much that Mike called 7 times in a matter of 2 hours.

Somewhere in the mix Mike asked Scott, “Kin ah ask yew a question ‘n will ya tell me the Gawd’s honest truth?”

“Sure!” was Scott’s answer, although anyone who would believe him is nuts, since Scott is never completely serious.

Evidently the fact that I’d written on Scott’s Facebook page the words

“Scott Eric“

had come to Mike’s attention.  Since I don’t always have shit to say I just put down anything to simply express the fact that I’m thinking of someone.  After I’d written that, my niece wrote back ”Pamela Jo.”  Amazingly, she gets it.

Cause it’s my name, fer goodness sakes.  Nothing more.

Then I made the mistake of saying something else on my own page about my 50th birthday approaching and how I might just stand naked in the road for the purpose of trying to get truckers to honk their horns.  Utterly stupid bullshit.  You know, the kind of thing Facebook would die without.

Mike’s question to Scott was,

“Are you fuckin’ Pam?”

Scott’s reply:

“Pam who?” 

Then he thought for a second and said,

“YOU MEAN MY SISTER?”

I’m kind of at a loss as to where I can even go with this from here.  I knew Mike was a pervert, I knew his mind worked this way, but the absolute confirmation of same is icky and troubling. 

There really are times I wish I was wrong about people.

I should acknowledge that from a different perspective this should be a compliment.  I am nearing 50 and most of Scott’s chiclets are 35 or less.  I have wings under my arms that resemble an owl, my skin bears the remnants of carrying two big ass babies, and Scott’s ex-wife is a Scandinavian bombshell.

So it might be a compliment if Mike didn’t have the IQ of a pork chop.

* * * * *

Then Scott mentioned that Mom has had pneumonia and went for an MRI recently.  Does this mean I’ll be feeling sympathetic and send her a Mother’s Day card with a nice gift?

Aw, fuck it.  I’ll spend the cash at the psychologist’s on Friday, trying to figure out why I am the most unforgiving person I’ve ever met. 

I mean if Mom wasn’t so fucked up then my sister would think she deserved better than this piece of garbage she’s aligned herself with.  She might be with someone normal, like a tax accountant.  Her children might never have gone to prison or had sex with chicks whose parents were jailed for murder.  This would play havoc with my superiority complex.

My brother, without my mother’s hideous interference, might have played for the NFL and be living the life of riley with a mansion in Miami.  Can you imagine how hot it is down there right now, if I had to make that trip for the holiday, if he wasn’t dead?  My husband could be forced to sit at the pool with hot, young cheerleaders. 

My sister’s tax accountant might have an affair with one of them and she’d be devastated.  My husband might be having a threesome with that motherfucking cheerleader and the wimpy tax accountant this very fucking second!

And since Mike was from Florida and I’d be really pissed off, standing on the side of the road trying to get truckers to honk their horns, that ugly bastard might have picked me up and we’d be together now, with me caressing his flaccid un-muscled skin and bad Harley tats.

So thanks, Mom! 

Happy Mother’s Day!

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.

My Twisted Pseudo Brother-In-Law ~ One Sick F*ck

My sister’s boyfriend is so unattractive it’s hard to describe accurately.  It’s not that I hold that against him, it’s the fact that he thinks he’s hot that bothers me.  He combs his hair into this crazy David Cassidy style, wears gold chains on both neck and wrist, has massive Harley tats on his saggy, sallow, unmuscled skin, trims his fu manchu facial hair but doesn’t bathe.  He’s about 5’7″ and wears thick, dirty glasses.

You’d think he would be a little more understated & self-flagellating, considering that he’s still married to his fourth wife and on federal probation for the back child support he owes in 3 different states.  I had no idea this was even possible.  The amazing thing is that he found 3 women to sleep with him, let alone carry his seed.  The amount he must pay per month is about equal to what he makes in salary, sometimes more.  Yes, he’s a catch.  He and my sister are “engaged,” which I also think is a little tacky when it happens before the divorce.  She has no intention of marrying him, but did get his name tattooed on her ankle.  She seemed happy when she told me, “You can hardly read it.”

My husband is a lone wolf.  He does not have male friends who call and he does not sit in bars with pals.  (He might be much better off if he did.)  The only place Ray is really comfortable is in a bowling alley, where the reason for social contact is all about the ball, the reason to touch one another is all about the hand slapping.  Mike is a needy, social butterfly, who reminds me of a guy who works in a bowling alley setting pins & cleaning up beer bottles.  (These two are a match made in heaven.)

So Ray was kind of tickled when Mike started sending him daily texts that said, “Are you stel comin her [sic] ?”  [Translation: "Are you still coming here?"]  Some said things that essentially meant “Save me.”  After all, his boss is my mother.  He called and asked Ray for advice on handling my niece, asked him how he handled step-parenting my son.  (The one way in which my sister & I are completely alike is in the fact that you should protect your balls before making a single negative remark regarding our children, even if what you’re saying is true.)  We once mistakenly got involved in sending those ridiculous e-mail forwards of very bad jokes & nude body parts, but it got so out of hand with this creepy fucker that it was kinda scary.

My brother has told me great stories about fucking with Mike’s (soft like a bad potato) head.  There is no one I know who enjoys the psychological games you can play with a dimwit more than Scott.  I have always shared those stories with my husband, gasping with laughter.  The one time I didn’t think it was funny was when Scott called and told me that Mike had asked my sister if it was okay if he shouted ”Pam” during orgasm.  I still remember exactly where I was standing as I had to think it all through and eventually realize in this instance I was the dimwit.  Motherfucker got me for a minute!

Scott very nearly convinced Mike that our step-father drilled a hole in a wall and was watching my sister shower.  This was as payback for Mike’s continued repetitive statement: “Well, guess I’ll go home now and fuck yer sister.”  I’ve begged Scott to say, “I did her first & better,” but he won’t.  I also asked him to punch Mike in the face, but he wouldn’t do that either.  When we found out that Mom stayed in the house to watch the kids one evening & Mike came home & found her in his bed, the goofs were never ending.  Ray even joined in on the mother-in-law stuff.

The misspellings in the texts Mike wrote endeared him to both of us. We hooted in incredulity.  I was starting to really enjoy the guy!  As we drove there I actually said, “The only one I’m looking forward to seeing is Mike.”  That lasted all of 30 seconds.

It’s hard to describe my interactions with this guy because he’s like something from planet Venus.  I think he believes I owe him some huge amount of respect because he’s my sister’s man, or because he was part of the decision for her to take custody of her grandchildren.  Clearly, he expects me to be impressed by the rings he’s bought her, purchased in a pawn shop.  I know this because he often says, “Look at yer sister’s finger!  See what I gawt her?!”  I was unaware previously that you can only “trade up” at a pawn shop, but now I know.  This is not to knock used jewelry, just sayin’.

When you grow up with sick fucks you get a special gift for reading them.  I can walk into a room and immediately know who’s the freak of the bunch.  Well, it’s Mike.  This guy is a little Napoleon.  I think he stares at his dick in a mirror and is just so impressed & amazed that he has one that he thinks you should be impressed by it, too.  His vibe tells me there is a part of him who thinks I must be attracted to him, aren’t all women?  So he is constantly annoyed with me, confused by my actions, since I seem to (1) give him no respect and (2) laugh at him and (3) am so clearly just waiting for the dude to go away.  Yet he keeps waiting for me to stick out my tongue and beg to blow him.  That’s the kind of shit that goes on in this guy’s brain, I just know it.  Don’t ask me how, I just do.

My biggest issue is with his behavior around and toward the children.  When the big dog started nipping at my 4-year old niece’s dress flying in the breeze as she played on the new swingset Easter morning, Mike ran down the deck and began beating it with his fists.  He hasn’t bothered actually training the dog to behave properly.  The 2-year old stood looking at him from the deck, with a quizzical look on her face, like “Who the fuck punches a dog, you dumbass?”  He came back up on the deck and said something ridiculous about how he should have taken his rings off first.  It would sound stupid even without the southern accent that makes the words sound like I’ve been hitting the prescription drugs a little too hard.

Dogs are one thing, kids are another.  He knows that I’ve made mention previously about the fact that he should not be laying a hand on them.  So he intentionally will say things in my presence like “If you get out of that bed one more time I will beat your ass.”  Then he looks at me, just daring me to say something like “You fucking maggot, if I ever see you touch him I’ll crush your worthless, disgusting ball sack until it looks like you spilled a strawberry margarita down your pants.” 

Instead I am silent.  I follow the child into the bedroom, rock them to sleep & annoy the fuck out of the heartless bitches that are my family members, people who think you can spoil a child who’s already spent part of their life in foster care, a child whose father is in prison.

One day Mike will disappear.  The only thing I can do is laugh at him while he’s here.

If I was perfect myself, it would be a different story.  So many days I’ve been kinder to strangers on the street than I’ve been to my own son or daughter behind closed doors.  It’s easy to forget that fact, way more comfortable.

Mike was adopted.  When his brother moved out of the house, his mother told him his brother had died.  Somehow he later discovered it wasn’t true.  What kind of sick shit must he have grown up with, if this is just one example?

Life is so weird, no one gets out alive.

Twisted, Schizo & Not Even A Little Bit Classy

Without a moment’s notice I can go from happy as a motherfucker to angry as a bitch in a bar fight.  In this specific minute I’m so pissed off I wanna set things on fire.  An hour ago I had tears in my eyes from wild & depraved laughter, as I tortured the person who’s nicer to me than anyone else has ever been in this lifetime.

A random brainwave  is all it takes to switch my head from placid to manic.  I don’t even need to be consciously aware of what sets me off.  It feels chaotic, like trying to keep up with three freaking rings at the circus.  (Which I might add is total bullshit cause you just can’t do it.)

If only I could stick with a specific position on any given subject.  After I burn shit up the next word in my frontal lobe is something like ”Oops.”  You can’t change what you’ve done or just take it back.  This is especially true of relationships. 

My emotions are psychedelic and my husband is attempting to talk me off the roof.  I’m wearing a sheet for wings, raving about phantasmagoria.  He is monk-like and 90% non-verbal but committed to the cause.  His blank facial expression antagonizes me. 

Relationships are teeter-totters and he’s left me too long in the elevated position.  Sometimes (the third Thursday of October and 12th of March) I wanna be the grounded & sensible one, but who can compete? 

Here is a snapshot of today’s interaction:

First Call

Me: . . . you don’t have a temper.  Your mother must have been doing drugs that day.

Him:  Oh, I have a temper, I just keep it in check.

Me:  No, you do not.  Otherwise I would have seen it once in 17 years.  You’re disabled.

Him: No, I’m not.

Me: Yes, you are.  If you were missing a finger wouldn’t you say you were handicapped?

Him: Well, yes.

Me: OMG, I need someone to fight with me.  You are such a pussy, you can’t handle a simple argument.  You have no weapons.

Him: Oh, I have a weapon.

Me: There should be some spectrum between total complacence and shooting me.

* * * * *

Second Call

Him: I’m on my way home.

Me: Why so early?

Him: Because I miss you so much.

Me: OMG, that’s just disgusting.  (This was not a joke.)

Him: Can I bring you anything?  (Neither was this.)

Me: Ice cream!  (This screams volumes about my current mental health.)

* * * * *

Arriving Home to the Happy Housewife

Him: Kiss me.

Me: (Dodging Away) How gross do I have to be for you to want to be rid of me? (Laughing)

Him: You can leave.

Me: You can’t make me!

Him: I could push your buttons.  You get so mad, you’d hit me.

Me: What would you say?

Him: Oh, it would be easy.

Me: But it would be bad for our daughter to see me taken away in handcuffs!

Him: I would just buy her some more cookie dough ice cream.

Me: Like how many days do I need to go without a shower?  (Cackling begins) What if I started FARTING?

Him: Go ahead.

Me: (Hysteria ensues) In public!

Him: Well, I wouldn’t be there.

Me: But I wouldn’t do it without you.  Since you’ll never be with another woman again [he says this all the time, since I've ruined his opinion of females] how bad do I have to be? 

Him: I wouldn’t put up with just anything.

Me: (Laughing to the point of tears I try to speak.  When I realize the capability is available I belch instead, which makes me laugh so hard I really do fart.  This is perhaps the 3rd time in 17 years I’ve done this in his presence.  Aided by sugar-free products (for diabetic reasons completely ignored in relation to the aforementioned ice cream) I blast from my ass in rhythm to the explosive laughter emanating from my gaping blow hole. )

Him:  Oh my God.  You can’t stop yourself.

* * * * *

I send my sister a text message of the conversation.  I tell her he’s standing outside the bathroom door continuing to ask if there’s anything he can do for me (he was).  I knew she would understand because she divorced her second husband for two reasons: (1) He cheated on her with her best friend and (2) He was too nice.  She mentions the second reason far more often.

In my defense, I have told him to ignore me.  I have given him numerous tips on handling my particular brand of mental illness.  (I did spend 17 years in training with my mother.)  He has refused my advice time and again.  It’s like refusing to listen to an expert bomb diffuser and playing eenie-meenie-miney-mo instead.

* * * * *

Final Act

Husband prepares to leave house to walk a 5-mile trail, run some errands & buy me stuff.  Kisses me good-bye and says “I love you.”

Clearly I must stoop to even lower levels of depravity to obtain a reaction.  Any concerns regarding self-respect must be faced down and eradicated.

* * * * *

You only get 5 or 6 monster laughs a year.  If it takes something disgusting for a kick-start, so be it.  I never claimed to be classy.

Within the hour I was again so pissed I wished I had a bat to beat the shit out of something.  Fortunately, it had nothing to do with the guy who should have thrown my ass out on the street earlier today.

There was a point in time when I thought perhaps I was getting my shit together.  I was pretending.  However, as I tell him regularly, he picked me and I picked him.  So who’s the nut?

Realistically considering my level of effort, I should be living in a hovel, driving a Hyundai or riding the bus.  I should be wearing retro stained clothing from the discount rack at Fashion Bug and have a gray stripe 3-inches wide across my cranium.

It could still happen.

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

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

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

Plus, it wasn’t my fault.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

taking a gourmet cooking class with my husband. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do I sound like a fucking gourmet to YOU?

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

* * * * *

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

She screamed, “NO!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

No fucking way!

* * * * *

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

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

This entry and certain photos contained within are potentially offensive

& inappropriate for minors and/or the workplace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I mention she can be a little difficult?

(Or that they’re heartless bitches?)

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

BOOM!

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

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

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

This is why I love her no matter what.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OH MY GOD!” and “OH FUCK NO!”

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

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

It wasn’t happening.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

WTF?

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

You all know me so well.

My Alter Ego ~ A Twisted & Demented Superhero

Since I’m back to blogging I’m determined to post regularly.  Wish I could do it every day, but I’m a big fat loser and have permanent brain freeze when it comes to any kind of expectations.

I’m trying to quit my addiction to Mafia Wars but knowing my Cuban businesses are making money and that eventually the coffers will be full and unwilling to accept more if it’s not banked gnaws at me like a teething child at mommy’s boo-boo (or a grown man of a certain type).

So I’m going to make a list of things I could do instead of clicking that magical button that takes me to a comatose state similar to a quaalude (which I did ask my doctor for a prescription for but he refused).

1.) Bathe

2.) Clean the house.

3.) Take action toward earning money in the near future.

See?  I’m bored already.

4.) Send another text message.

5.) M*sturbate

We’re talking short-term here.  Neither of these take long at all.

6.) Wake up my daughter and make her day delightful.

7.) Send my son an e-mail that makes our lives sound like they are perky and wonderful and so much better than reality, in an effort to make him miss us desperately and realize that California is not that great if he can’t be near his adoring mother.

8.) Try and call my niece, who should be on her way to Kentucky right now in a car with my mother, the most hellish thing I can imagine!

9.) Read some blogs and comment so everyone knows I still love them dearly even though I seemingly dropped off the face of the earth.

10.) Call Roxanne & see if she’s going to laser tag tonight. 

Yeah, that’s what I’ll probably do. 

I really wasn’t meant to be unemployed. 

I need direction at all times, like an ADD-riddled child standing on the beach holding sand in one hand and a dirty cigarette butt in the other, wondering if he should eat the cigarette or throw sand in his sister’s eyes, therefore scratching her cornea and damaging her vision for the rest of her life.

* * * * *

Just so you know that I didn’t spend all my time on Mafia Wars just clicking buttons, there was an actual incident that occurred in which my assistance was helpful and I received a ‘Thank You” note regarding same yesterday.  Last week at 3 or 4 am, I forget which, I noticed someone leaving comments that sounded like “Help me,” “I can’t take this any more,” “I just can’t do this.”

Nosy bitch that I am, it was necessary to intervene mostly for my own mental health.  So I told the guy he was scaring me and asked what he meant by those apocalyptic messages.  After no response I instant messaged him and sent another request to his in-box, determined busy-body that I am. 

When he wrote back it was to ”Pamele.”  This was the first indication of his drunken state, such poor spelling.  Fortunately, since he was suicidal, I did not deride and mock him as I might have otherwise.  I did not tell him that my son won the whole school spelling bee in 6th grade & his current successes more than likely hinged on that fact.

BACK TO THE STORY AT HAND, MAINTAIN FOCUS PAMELE!

After half an hour of back and forth in the instant message box and repeated statements that he had to go because he needed to end it all, I finally looked up his profile page and called the police department located halfway across the country.  It took close to 30 minutes to explain the story, find his address & get an emergency unit to his house.  In the mean time I eventually had him on my house phone and a dispatcher on my cell phone asking if there were weapons in the house.  It was like an egomaniacal dream come true being in the middle of such chaos, a two-fisted chatterboxing life link.

He was quite soft-spoken and thanked me several times for talking to him, even though he continued saying he had to go.  I kept asking questions.  He told me I was such a kind person (clearly hallucinating at that point).  Then I heard male voices in the background.  They entered his home without even knocking, which seemed rather aggressive.   Then he REALLY had to go.  Afterwards I was instructed by a fireman who called my house that I needed to call the Emergency Room and give them any information I had. 

How do you explain at 4:30 AM that you live in NJ and you have never met this man from Illinois before, but you’re “friends on Mafia Wars“?  I felt like a certified lunatic.  Fortunately the game is so huge that the psych tech knew exactly what I was talking about.  Unfortunately she had a voice that made me think she could convince ME to commit suicide if I had to listen to her drone on for long. 

She instructed me to send copies of everything I could find regarding the things he’d written, then she gave me an invalid e-mail address to send them to.  It did not instill a feeling in me that my unskilled and off the wall crisis intervention would be followed up on properly.  Naturally I began thinking that maybe I should drive the 14 hours and give the only appropriate counsel available in North America, my own.  Because, you know, I am a fixer freak.  I’ve never truly fixed anything in my life, but in the back of my mind I KNOW that I’m PRACTICALLY the BEST at doing EVERYTHING.  That is because I am a GENIUS and all around me are IDIOTS.

Yeah, I tell myself that as I sit home contemplating whether to twiddle myself or brush my teeth.

So, anyway, Chris sent me a note yesterday saying that he was sorry he dumped his problems on me but was glad I was there.  I was tempted to write back and tell him it was the most important I’d felt all summer and could he recommend me to other suicidal peeps or would he prefer a cash remuneration? 

Instead I wrote something nice about how I would really freaking hate it if he was dead, all the while wondering if we panic at the suggestion of suicide because, hey, if we gotta stay here you do too!  Like, what if death is actually nirvana?  You just don’t freaking know!  I mean, he said he was in physical pain from an accident.  I really freaking hate pain.  I am a huge pussy, like f*ck that!  I would totally off myself if I was painfully miserable!

Yeah, not the kind of philosophizing you want to do with a dude who’s already questioning his commitment to breathing and blinking. 

I also stopped myself from saying “Call me any time you want to talk about your problems,” because I really wouldn’t like it if this was an ongoing thing and I couldn’t feel like I fixed him in 90 minutes or less.  That would just piss me off and eventually I would say something stupid like,”Stop with the f*cking depression bullshit!  I already told you, just go to sleep!” 

Pretty much the way I act as a mother when my children are unhappy.  Like, “DON’T FUCKING CRY, IT MAKES ME SAD & I HATE THAT!”

* * * * *

Growing up in constant crazy, my brain was permanently conditioned so that NOTHING makes me feel more content than contending with a crisis, as long as there’s nothing REAL I have to do, like cope with a dead body or clean up puke or see anyone completely losing their shit from injury or loss.  I don’t like illness or icky stuff or real human emotion. 

Who knew crises of a virtual nature would fit my criteria so well?  Good God, like I needed another reason to remain behind my computer screen, tucked safely within the folds of my superhero sweatshirt.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

So how was your summer?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate being predictable.  

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

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

I have no idea.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you think it could be the tequila shots?

* * * *

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

Really, though, how often can you redecorate?

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

The Great Adventure

As mentioned in tonight’s prior post, we went to see Raven Symone in concert at Great Adventure with the “new friends” I’ve named “Control Freak and DD.”  Well, sometimes it’s so much more ridiculous than you even expect. 

The mother seemed entirely sane this evening, in comparison with her daughter.  The first thing her girl said to mine upon arrival was, “I didn’t think your house would be this big.”  The mother noticed the Christmas tree, still up in July, and didn’t blink an eye.  The woman impresses me in unusual ways.

Then I made the fatal error and got in her car to drive to Great Adventure.  It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, and when she pulled out her handicapped placard in the crowded parking lot my face broke into a grin.

We went inside.  They rode the Teacups.  The other girl begged and wheedled to do the log flume.  (We have season passes and they do not.)  Her life was going to be over if she didn’t do the log flume.  The sign at the back of the line said “120 MINUTES FROM HERE.”  My daughter and I acquiesced because I am a jackass.  I find myself regularly doing things for other people’s children in situations where I would laugh at my own.  Her mother sat comfortably on a bench talking with another woman, a stranger, while we stood in line with 500 other people waiting to spend 90 seconds in a plastic log.  The girl had the nerve to ask me several times, “Can’t we cut the line?”  I told her we would either be thrown out of the park or punched in the face and she finally shut up.

I hadn’t been in a crowd like this in a while.  It’s an art to avoid such large groups of people and I’ve become a master.  People are dirty, nasty, disgusting.  They sneeze, they cough, they sweat.  Their arms display gang tattoos.  But none of those individuals even came close to being as disgusting as the woman in front of us.  She didn’t expose her piggy side until we were about halfway through the 75 minutes.  Then she proceeded to hold her 4-year old daughter between her legs & finger her way through the braids at scalp level.  There is only ONE REASON I am aware of that causes a human woman to pick at her child’s scalp like a monkey.  When she began picking things OUT of the hair and flicking them to the floor my meltdown was in full swing.

I began testing the wind velocity and direction.  Ten feet became the minimum I could bear between my group and these disgusting menaces to society.  We had another 30 minutes to go.  As other patrons stood shoulder to shoulder, the lepers stood out.  Suddenly it didn’t matter that another child was with us, as the words “PIG” and “SCUMBAG” and “I HATE PEOPLE SO, SO MUCH” began flying out of my mouth.  It’s really not great for my daughter when I get that crazy look in my eyes.  She might believe that I can shoot people with my finger or electrocute them with my steely eyed stare, that’s how tense she gets while waiting for me to take one more step toward insanity.  The other girl LOVED it.  Really, it was the happiest I think she was all evening.  And I must say that when she’s happy she’s delightful!

We survived but not before the little buggy girl also SPIT ON THE FLOOR.  Seriously, what in the hell is the world coming to?  I was truly shocked at the level of hatred I could work up for a pre-schooler.

Finally someone showed up with a Fast Pass and cut the line.  The bug people were no longer directly in front of us.  Those folks aside, if I get any kind of disease in the next 72-hours I know where it came from.

The girls enjoyed the ride, they screamed, they got wet, they said it was worth it.  Whatever!  We headed for the concert.  The 12-year old we were with is a very unhappy child.  I didn’t notice it so much previously, but tonight she was a monster.  Nothing made her happy.  She pouted and complained for hours.  Her mother is either a saint or a monster-maker, perhaps both. 

We bought 3 VIP tags for $10 each and headed for the front of the stadium.  It was great until she wanted to use my daughter’s camera, then my phone to take photos.  When the answer was “No,” the girl ended up sitting back with her mother in the stands as my daughter and I had a blast.  At one point she said, “I want to go now.”   I told them “Go ahead!  My husband will come and get us!”  I guess they didn’t think we had any other options and suddenly the girl was trapped in her own web.  So she proceeded to sulk for the next 90 minutes. 

Fortunately the VIP tags came with bags of Starburst, which they ate while we danced.  They both have metabolic problems that are the reason for their weight gain, unrelated to Starbursts in any way, also unrelated to the french fries purchased on the way into the concert.

Did I mention that my daughter told me this girl asked her, “Why don’t you straighten your hair?”  Did I mention that?  Because nothing could piss me off more than someone trying to convince my kid to make her beautiful curls disappear.  No doubt it was out of jealousy, but I don’t care.  This lanky-haired little bitch was trying to mess with my kids head in more ways than one.

The worst was after the concert ended.  First it seemed okay, the girls rode three different rides, one rollercoaster twice.  They were laughing and running and getting red-faced with excitement as I sat talking with the other mother on a bench.  As you may remember, she recently had a TIA, which has now been upgraded to a full-blown stroke (no surprise there).  She cannot ride rides and her doctor actually has recommended she should use a scooter.  She does not because her daughter told her it would be “too embarrassing.”  I don’t know what to believe.

The aunt who died last week?  She was 91!  She was the daughter’s great-great aunt!  This is worthy of histrionics on Facebook in an effort to obtain sympathy?  It came up that she also cried about something entirely different during the funeral event, actually I believe she said, “I just sobbed.”  I was looking at her, trying to imagine her face melting, trying to imagine my discomfort if she should ever do such a thing in my presence.  I might run.

The highlight of our conversation was mind-boggling.  I asked how her daughter’s appointment with the endocrinologist went.  She told me she hated the doctor.  The reason she hated the doctor is because she “had no personality” and at one point in their time together the doctor began “squeezing her n*pples.”  As she said that statement I felt a buzz of electrical shock flood me, no different than if I tried to pet a horse across an electrified fence.  I remember thinking, “Oh my.”  I said, “What?” with a dumbfounded spacy sounding voice.

She said, “Oh, she was trying to see if she was lactating!  She was trying to see if she could express milk, to find out if they were making milk!  Endocrine problems can typically make such things happen!  But she just began twisting her n*pples with no warning!  I was like, ‘Don’t you think you could have told her in advance you were going to do that?’”  She doesn’t plan on returning to that doctor again.  It was at that point she mentioned for the 7th or 8th time that her feet were now “covered in blisters.”  We had barely walked the length of the park.

But that’s not the bad part.  The bad part was that at 10:00 at night this girl became insistent that we go to THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY, three words she repeated a minimum of 27 times as her mother nearly drove off the road in frustration while yelling at her daughter to stop saying “THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY!”  This is after I had heard about her desire for MEXICAN FOOD over and over throughout the evening, across the park, in every venue we visited.

When the Mexican food was mentioned at 10:00 at night I said, “I suppose Taco Bell is not your idea of Mexican food?”  She went on a tirade regarding fast food restaurants.  She, this 12-year old girl, said, “I just want to sit down at a table AND HAVE A NICE MEAL!  I HAVEN’T EATEN ALL DAY!”  It was as if she were channeling a 60-year old woman.  The girl would not stop.

This is where I don’t understand my own behavior.  I should have just said, “Take us home.”  But there is a part of me who never wants to disappoint.  I want people to be happy.  This girl had been happy for maybe 30 minutes of the 6 hours we’d been together.  We finally found a Ruby Tuesdays open until 11 p.m.  She was not satisfied with TGIF, absolutely threw a shit fit, she would not eat there.  She would not consider Sonic, which both she and her mother thought would somehow damage their car!  I mean I’m making suggestions and the girl is acting like I’m an assistant to the devil.  She’s acting as if her palate and taste buds are worthy off an exquisite French vineyard.

So we go into the restaurant and her mother refuses to purchase her first choice, A SIRLOIN at 10:00 on a Thursday night.  So what do you think she orders?  What does her mother proceed to tell me she orders everywhere they go?  You guessed it.  MOTHERF*CKING CHICKEN FINGERS. 

For the 437th time in 6 hours the girl spoke to me and I said, “WHAT?”  She is a mutterer.  She talks fast AND she mutters with braces on.  I can’t understand a word she says.  The other mother asked MY daughter if she was ”in a bad mood.”  I think I may have heard her swallow the words, “No, your daughter is just an obnoxious idiot and my mom won’t let me speak!”

At that point I began texting my husband, “Please come pick us up.”  I had a horrible fear that when they drove us home they would somehow come into our house and never leave.  They would sleep over and the girl would ask me to cook up some quail eggs and escargot for breakfast.  She would cut my daughter’s hair off in her sleep, then suggest she’d done her a favor. 

My husband tried to call but I wouldn’t answer the phone as it would blow my covert operation.  He texted, “Call me.”  I text, “NO!  PLEASE!  I’M BEGGING!”

So my husband, who paid for this magical trip to Great Adventure, took off his slippers and pajama pants.  He threw on a pair of sweats and made his way to the car.  He did not complain, he did not get angry.

As we sat at the table the waiter asked ”Is that your car out there with the lights on?”  We both said, “No.”  Meanwhile, I was thinking “Superman has arrived & I’m f*cking Lois Lane.”  I didn’t tell her until we were out the door, “Oh, that’s my husband over there!  This will be so much more convenient for you.”  She couldn’t believe I would do such a thing.

I left actually feeling bad for the woman.  We’re supposed to see them again in 76 hours.  I’m flabbergasted by that fact.  Clearly, part of me feels good when I’m in a situation where I appear all together in comparison.  There’s gotta be a better way.

Once again I would like to thank my mother for pummeling my self-esteem into something that resembles a kernel of corn, a dull jelly bean that’s spent some time on the floor.

Updating My Status To Mood-Swinging Psycho &/or The Michael Jackson Saga Continues

Today I was home all day.  The Jackson funeral was on.  I couldn’t help myself.  Similar to the OJ trials, it was a “thing.”  I hate to miss out.

I watched it on Fox.  Does that matter?  Geraldo was quite riled up from the beginning and it was interesting cause it didn’t sound like he believed the reports of Michael Jackson’s various and sundry misdeeds.  Believe it or not, I kind of like Geraldo.  He’s got a short fuse and seems relatively honest, as least as far as reporters go.

It started and I was IM’ing with an old boyfriend I found on Facebook and haven’t seen in 25 years (DANGEROUS & BIZARRELY WEIRD EMOTIONAL TERRITORY).  So as it began I started watching without realizing what I was doing.

Mariah Carey came out and blew me away.  No matter how unusual she is, the girl can sing.  The song was “I’ll Be There.”  She’s just spectacular in every way.

When I saw Brooke Shields I thought she looked good in a very natural blotchy sobbing kind of way.  In recent years I’ve kind of come to think of her as a tight-ass and this made me expect very little from her time at the lectern.  Well, she kicked my ass.  She spoke sincerely and clearly and from the heart. 

It was then that I noticed tears streaming down my face and immediately thought, “Motherf*cker, now I have to admit this on the blog!”  It’s really not a surprise that death and sadness and the people left behind in abject misery are heartbreaking to watch.  We can all identify with that shit.

John Mayer came on and played what I think was a bass guitar.  Absolutely beautiful.  Magical.  I don’t think he spoke at all.  Magic Johnson told a story about eating KFC with Michael Jackson that was so, so funny.

Usher had a hard time making it through his song.  Smokey Robinson made me laugh.  He was great. 

Stevie Wonder, well, he’s like a god.  Same with Lionel Richie, who has one of my favorite voices on the planet.

The brothers all had sequined gloves on, which was kind of over the top.  Al Sharpton looks like he’s had weight loss surgery.  He’s lost at least 100 pounds and looks pretty bad. 

Queen Latifah started to choke back tears and even that was touching.

But when the little girl spoke of her father at the end, my heart broke for her.  The tears began all over again.

More than anything it was clear that everyone there really loved MJ and had nothing bad to say about him.  The commentator at the end actually mentioned something about how maybe we should take it easy on people who seem a little different and not judge them so harshly.  I couldn’t disagree.

* * * * * 

So I’m glad I watched it.  I don’t take back anything I said before, cause that would be renouncing my schizophrenia and it’s not going anywhere.  Michael Jackson did not define my life or my generation, but he was too young to die.  I’m not sure any age is acceptable, but especially not when young children are involved.

I still hate the news people who make millions off of saturating our lives with the story.

My husband’s statement when I told him about the tears was to be expected:

 “When does your period start?”

He knows me too well.

I Hate The News Media &/or Michael Jackson Did Not Define My Childhood

I apologize profusely to those fellow bloggers who are grieving over recent deaths in the news.  You may wish to move on to a happier, less evil blog than this one today . . .

(Let me know if I say anything that offends you.  I might want to offend you again later.)

If only I wasn’t a balless wonder and that was really my attitude!

* * * * *

Was Michael Jackson’s life a sad one?  Yes, desperately tragic.  He was a psychotic egomaniac who apologized to carrots before he ate them, then (allegedly) had little boys for dessert.  

He had 50 long years to deal with whatever made him hate himself so intensely that he chose to disfigure his own face and skin.  FIFTY YEARS!  That’s way more than a lot of people get, children with cancer or soldiers on the front line in Viet Nam or Iraq.

The man died with almost 500 million dollars worth of debt, which is utterly sickening, selfish, hideous.  Self-hatred aside, he lived as if he were God, clearly believing he deserved everything created under the sun.  He even believed he could buy people, as evidenced by his adventures in that arena.  He bought his own children.

His voice, his dancing ability, those were GIFTS.  He was not thankful. 

Did he join in with Jimmy Carter & build housing for the homeless?  No, he built Neverland and took rides on ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds with an ape.  Fer Christ’s sake, are ya f*cking kidding me here people?  He no doubt treated his monkey so much better than the abused children of the world.

How is it we as a society have come to adore these morons who drive half-million dollar cars and wear shoes that cost more than a year’s salary in a third-world country?  Even as they scream their Democratic beliefs from the rooftops and insist they are humanitarians!  It’s such bullsh*t!

* * * * *

How many women would choose to have ass cancer if their entire lives they could look like Farrah Fawcett?  A helluva lot of them, I would bet.  I understand wanting to offer a bit of humanity to any other living being, but this woman had a freaking exceptional life.  Heap your pity on the cleaning lady or the garbage man.  Throw out an extra $20 in tips this week.

* * * * *

Do I give a rat flying f*ck about a TV pitch man I never heard of, who made his fortune selling shit in infomercials on television, compared with children making trips to Disney through the Make-A-Wish Foundation, their parents dazed & confused as they try to figure out how to have FUN?! 

Or the children whose fathers will never come back from Iraq?

F*CK NO!

* * * * *

I have become obsessed with Facebook and so I read many, many comments a day, a good deal of them made by people I don’t know, simpletons I would never want to know.  People who say things like “My childhood ended this week.” 

Well, my childhood ended when my father died.  He was 33.  I was 10 years old and in 5th grade.  What I would have given for another 17 years with him!  Neither Farrah Fawcett nor Ed McMahon nor Michael Jackson had even an ounce of impact upon my life then or now.

* * * * *

Years ago I wanted to get my master’s degree and become a therapist.  Then on reality TV the other day I observed a woman completely lose it, sobbing in agony, the kind of pain I feel regarding my father.  I wanted to peel my skin off with a dull carrot peeler rather than observe the expression of that kind of agony. 

It was a bonus moment.  I realized I saved about $60,000 since I would never have been able to use the therapist’s license if people dared express that kind of agony in front of me.

And that is why I can’t bear people expressing supposed grief over famous figures who don’t really touch their lives in any way compared to loved ones who die and rip your heart out.  It so totally denigrates the kind of pain a daughter has when she loses her father at the age of 10, the kind of pain everyone has at some point in their lives, the kind that is real. 

It makes my heart hurt, too, just thinking of my blog roll and things people have suffered silently — and still do — with little or no sympathy sent their way.  Just know I’m thinking of you.

There is plenty of agony in life.  Don’t take a share that doesn’t belong to you.

Reasonable Resolutions ~ No More Maggots

(POSSIBLY INAPPROPRIATE FOR A WORK ENVIRONMENT)

* * * * *

THIRTY FREAKING YEARS OF FAILED RESOLUTIONS CONDENSED:

Eat right!  Fruit, vegetables, protein (fiber added after 40)!

No cursing or screaming, well-modulated voice, don’t be a bitch! 

Diet plan: “No sugar, no flour.  Weigh 142 by June 16th!”

1982, 1984, 1987, 1991, 1995, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2007

* * * * *

On January 1st, 2008 I published REASONABLE RESOLUTIONS FOR 2008.  I’m overdue for a review.

I will not be writing new resolutions for 2009.

At this rate, these should last another 50 years.

(Updates are written in bold italics!)

* * * * *

1.) I will continue to avoid all dutiful obligations of a wife and mother until it is absolutely imperative that I perform (i.e. cooking, cleaning, playdates), as I profess a profound love for my family.

No doubt I’m following through.

My husband shrunk a “dry clean only” sweater I tried to wear this morning (laundry incident #2 this week).  I called him at his high-stress important job, let the phone ring eight times  & called him a mother-f’ing Pennsylvania hick.  There was maybe some off the wall comment about his poor grammar, too, but detailed memory & black rage are incompatible.

He was not angry when I called later to apologize, so I said nothing when he forgot two chicken breasts in the oven this evening (for 3 hours) after working a full day at the office.  I am thoughtful like that. 

During a conversation with my daughter today, as she tried to speak from her heart, I told her to please use her finger to comb her eyebrows.  I can’t think until each tiny hair is aligned perfectly.  As she continues to ramble on about something or other I wonder how long before I can have her waxed, wonder who I can trust.  I think, “I am mentally deranged.”

Last week she fell asleep on the couch at the pseudo-in-laws, so afterwards I told her she drooled & snored, then her head fell on someone’s shoulder.  She kept asking “REALLY?!”  Saying, “NO, I DID NOT!”  I kept doing imitations and thinking of more hideous possibilities.  It was her fault for getting so excited, cause that totally egged me on.

Check.

Hey, at least I didn’t do THIS!

2.) I will keep my ass shaved to the point that it will not hide dingleberries in the bush, my underarm hair at no more than one-quarter inch.

Not really an issue, I am more like a hairless cat every day.  The problem is I hate hairless cats.  I will commit suicide if I ever remind myself of one of those hairless dogs with a crest on top of my head.

3.) I will refuse any and all sexual advances from strangers who find me incredibly fascinating, no matter how badly they beg or plead for my attentions.  I will continue to protect my “Exit/No Entry Zone” at all costs.

I was only approached by two strange men this past year, both at my brother’s funeral, one with quite a large beer belly plus a heart condition.  Both appeared to find me intoxicating & that’s a trait I’d like to whole-heartedly endorse, even under such tacky circumstance.  Show me adoration & you can capture my attention for at least 12 days while I pretend your buddha belly is a magic 8-ball instead of impacted feces. 

I’m not into perfection. 

(If I wasn’t married, I mean.  The dude I sometimes call “MO” or occasionally “BABY JESUS” has enthralled me for 15 years, which means he’s more magical than the spawn of David Blaine & Sylvia Browne.)

I have most certainly protected my Exit/No Entry Zone, other than that damned hemorrhoidectomy.  In that singular instance my direction was “FULL SPEED AHEAD” before losing consciousness. 

4.) I will never watch television for more than fourteen hours in a single day.  I will uphold the standards of all in-bred midwestern white trash as I avoid anything educational unless it relates to bi-sexuals like Tila Tequila or naked dwarves.  I will continue to try to find a way to work “That’s what she said” into all conversation.

I can’t prove it, but I think the computer was an even bigger issue this year.  Many times I just never went to bed.  There’s not enough time in the day to blog AND read blogs.

Plus that extra piece called life. 

How do YOU do it?

As for television, I still stay far away from the Discovery Channel in favor of “Housewives of Atlanta” & every other freak show.  That damned Vicki on ”Housewives of Orange County,” Real & Chance of  “Real Chance Of Love” and my beloved Sugar of this year’s ”Survivor” are so much better than actual pain in the @ss family members. 

Like these . . .

 

Are you wondering who those people are?  Look closely . . . 

5.) I will bathe more often than my mother, so that my brother’s girlfriend never says that I reek of butt odor as bad as my brother when he just comes off the road.  If I can smell my tampon I will acknowledge the need for a new one.

Do I get a ribbon for succeeding at this one? 

I’m sure my brother would be pleased he’s still getting named in the resolutions.  Well, maybe not.  I’m leaving it in anyway.  By the way, anyone know where the term P.U. came from?

6.) I will not beg my husband this year to take me out in his police car for my birthday & run the siren & lights, nor will I ask him to pull over & ticket people of my choosing (even though if he really loved me he would do this).  I will not search for his gun when visiting children jump on my good furniture with shoes & sticky fingers.

Change my mind on this one.  Some resolutions are stupid.

7.) Since I made my husband purchase a large house with a huge & expensive swimming pool, I will take a dip at least twice next summer.  I will attempt to invite people over at least once for a pool party & will not spend more than $1,000 on accoutrements for the get together, namely cookie cakes and new patio furniture.

We managed to find a middle ground by inviting lesbians instead of in-laws, which pleased the husband.  Perfect.

8.) When I am feeding the smelly, squealing guinea pigs multiple heads of Romaine lettuce I will consider the possibility of making a salad for our human family.  I will cook a single meat loaf for my husband at least once during each season & I will not insist that he applaud, although it would be good if he did.

F*ck that.  I live for an appreciative audience.  I must have been on drugs when I wrote some of these (or at a minimum, high on chocolate peanut butter ice cream.)

9.) I will keep trying to find a job where I will be greatly appreciated and highly paid for knowing a little bit about everything but not much about anything in particular.  I will try to perform work daily and not tell lies like I did at my last job, i.e. broken arm, broken collar bone, dead relatives, electrical failure.

No such job exists.  Since Target refused my application, I give up.  The humiliation factor is ridiculous.  Plus, one of my few talents is the ability to create believable lies.  Why should my skills be denied? 

I like making others feel good when they compare themselves to me.  Unfortunately, it’s a non-paid volunteer position.

10.) I will maintain a level of cleanliness in my house that does not invite insects of any species, I will spill nothing in the car that could cause maggots to breed again.

SCORE!  Success at last. 

Low expectations, better than anti-depressants.

* * * * *

My Husband Can Be a Funny MFR

This morning we slept in, a normal Sunday.  Once we were both awake, although still in bed, there was a lot to talk about.  I thought so, anyway.

On the rare occasion we’re alone, with no questions to field from the third person in our marriage (an 11-year-old), I tend to broach every subject known to mankind.  Perhaps I go overboard, filling him in on each recent thought that’s crossed the vast wasteland of my mind.

We had people over for dinner last night & didn’t have time for the usual play-by-play of the evening, so I started with that.  From there we discussed a phone call, a dream & at least 37 other subjects, all initiated by yours truly.

When I say “discuss” it’s probably really 50 of my words to 5 of his, not by my choice.  However, he had one very pointed remark that’s worth repeating, a real winner.

I nearly missed it when he slipped in, “You could work for a Rape Crisis Center.”  There was no “CLICK” that immediately made sense or let me put two and two together.  On first instinct it sounded complimentary.

Then he added, “They could put you on the phone with the rapist” and I no longer misunderstood.  Evidently my voice does not have a melodious pitch that sends him into “spasms of lovin’.”

He is so completely lucky that my favorite animal is the lowly & under-appreciated jackass.

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?

Most Men Get Better Looking As They Age ~ and/or ~ Vaginagate

What in the hell happened to Ted Danson’s looks? 

This is a guy who was the male lead of one of the highest rated shows ever on television, Cheers.  The whole show hinged on him being funny & sexy.

Now I occasionally see him on Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm, a show I love beyond words.  He looks absolutely awful. 

Did he just get tired of being too attractive or what? 

Did he completely give up? 

Not only did his looks go to hell, I found a reference where he told Conan on live television that he has terrible intestinal gas due to his vegan lifestyle.  This is not a particularly positive attribute to advertise, when you want women to overlook your overly thin & crumbling body.

Contrastingly, Kelsey Grammer was a dweeb on Cheers.  Yet here’s a recent family photo of him looking nearly the same as he did 20 years ago, not to mention the hot wife and the fact that he was a drug addict for a good portion of his life:

 

Ted Danson has gone on to date Whoopi Goldberg and marry Mary Steenburgen, who is sometimes great looking, until she opens her mouth and that voice is revealed. 

Maybe that’s what did it?  The velocity & pitch of Mary Steenburgen’s voice have stressed Ted out to the point of complete disintegration.  Voice lessons are highly under-rated in our society (as is kindness, yes, I know).

Then I found this:

If you’ve ever caught the episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm wherein an old girlfriend says Jeff Garlin’s penis is miniscule, you will remember that the position Ted’s hands are imitating in this photo is the EXACT position Larry David used to describe a woman with a huge vagina.

Through a minor investigation of Ted Danson, I may have accidentally uncovered the reason behind Bill Clinton’s philandering ways. 

Ted, you are a nasty, nasty man for revealing this kind of information on a national stage.  I can only hope & pray that I don’t have reporters at my door tomorrow morning.

Which sounds better, Pamajama Woodward or Pamajama Bernstein?  Just like Watergate, Vaginagate could be a very big deal.

Boy Toys, Ex-Wives, Creativity & Questions

This post has been rated X by Lego enthusiasts. 

Read at your own risk.

I got an e-mail from a mother who’s starting a 4-H Legos group.  It meets for two hours at a time, WEEKLY.  Even though it has absolutely nothing to do with me, I wanted to send a reply immediately about the fact that no one in my house would dream of joining such a thing!  Yippee!

Now, I adore the incredibly smart & artistic woman who sent the information.  I even believe her son is far advanced beyond most kids his age, with engineering sensibilities & talents I will never have.

But if I had a child obsessed with Legos I would be suicidal.  I dislike Legos so much it’s not even reasonable.  The only thing I like less than Legos are Bionicals. 

I like pretty, which makes boy toys kind of gross.  (I just told my husband the other day that I think what would bother me most about prison is the fact that there’s just nothing pretty there.  Otherwise, with enough books I think I could handle it.)

I apologize in advance to those of you whose penultimate moments consist of the time 37,200 blocks combined to create your ultimate Star Wars scenario.

* * * * * 

Oddly enough, my husband’s first wife loved the things and he occasionally bought her Lego kits for her birthday & anniversaries.  I shit you not.  I think he once had to get her a really expensive set after he accidentally bought himself a sports car.

Alter Ego Speaks:   YOU’RE FUCKING KIDDING ME, RIGHT?

Nope.  When she died a couple of years ago she had garbage cans full of blocks.  Surprising she never re-married, isn’t it?  She was really a lovely woman.

This blog has become the outlet where I can express things like my thought that maybe that first marriage would have worked out if he’d figured a way to place his penis inside a Lego fort, then convince her he’s some kind of Fort Commander with orders that she immediately give him humanitarian aid.

Fortunately for me, the two of them were not that creative together.

* * * * *

My alter ego also told two three of my friends last week that I convinced some guy (who will not allow me to speak his name connected with this subject (wink,wink)) to take a picture of his penis knocking against my forehead.  The picture is on my phone and it proves that

I am truly a proud dickhead. 

I think it’s the best picture ever taken of me.  It conveniently covers up my crooked part & my fake front tooth.

The problem is I keep worrying that I could send that picture to someone accidentally, like my husband’s sister.  She could not identify the other member (lol) in the picture, but either way it would be a problem.

* * * * *

Out of all this, I have 2 questions to ask of you in blog-o-topia:

1. How do you move a cell phone picture to your computer?  Anybody know?  (Now that I think of it, the Lego boy probably knows the answer to this one.)

2. How in the hell do you join one of these groups where you get notified when someone on your blog roll has posted or commented on a comment?  Is any one better than another?  I’m missing everything people on Blogger write in response to comments & it’s devastating.

That is all.

Wedding Post II – Tripping Out On Bison, Brownies & The Ramifications Of A No-Show

Each time I leave on a trip it takes at least 12 hours to pack & prepare for departure, some kind of OCD thing that kicks in & completely overwhelms me.  To add a kinky twist we went to our Wednesday night bowling league — we are dedicated athletes – then drove all night.

By arriving on Thursday we were able to visit with my aunt’s family before the onslaught of wedding guests.  We got to see their new home, which started out like this:

As if that wasn’t nice enough, they turned it into this:

My daughter got to visit with the new baby AND his big sister, my favorite grandmother’s namesake.  She was in heaven:

My uncle is one of the funniest, most interesting people in the entire world.  His entertainment center holds a total of seven televisions, which he watches simultaneously.  This masculine multi-tasking makes him THE MAN in my book, which is why he gets this incredibly creative picture collage along side his favorite girl:

Even the poolside cabana is perfectly groovy, smells like cedar & has its own flat screen.  I half-expected Robin Leach to appear with a flute of champagne in hand:

 

The following day we helped decorate tables for the wedding, checked out the park venue & observed the rehearsal.  It had been planned with the precision of a military operation.  My daughter may have no choice but to get married in Vegas like we did.  I have no idea how my aunt choreographed the actual live bison to approach the fence line immediately following the ceremony.  She might possibly have been carrying raw meat in her pockets.

On to the rehearsal dinner!

. . . . .

Reality Sets In

Lurking in the back of my mind, it was impossible not to be aware of the fact that my mother would be in attendance.  It’s like Godzilla is on her way, you’re waiting for the air to be sucked from the room.

We stayed in the same hotel, four rooms separating us, way too close & uncomfortable for oh so many reasons. 

My sister’s boyfriend didn’t want to come & share the room because he was sure Mom farts in her sleep.  All overeaters are notorious for methane release; the gastric band has not slowed down Mom’s love of ice cream, garlic bread & all things chocolate.  Coming out her ass in a waft of particulate waste, it’s toxic.  Boyfriend Mike is smarter than he looks.

My husband & daughter were on high alert for more than one type of accidental cross-fire.   For 40 years there has been an unspoken rule that Mom can say & do whatever she likes; no one will call her on it or question her motives.  I haven’t been following that directive.  Mother & I had been battling by e-mail since my brother’s funeral just a month ago.  However, hand to hand combat is a different story. 

Fear is a mental stun gun.  It took me 35 years to realize I can out-run this woman if necessary.  She can’t walk very far without taking a puff on her inhaler.

I arrived at the rehearsal dinner first, she came later.  We looked like boxers in a ring.  No robes, no pretend hugs & kisses.  She blew any possibility of my kissing her senior citizen ass when she balked at paying her son’s funeral bill.  I might have flunked “Personal Health & Weight Control” in college, but I got straight A’s plus bonus points when my husband privately tutored me in “Once I Am Done With You I Will Hold A Grudge Forever.”

* * * * *

Moronic Ram-ificiations

You will possibly remember that Mom’s third husband did not attend the wedding due to his idiotic commitment to some Bible verse that supposedly claims inter-racial marriage is a sin.  Mom agrees with this stupidity. 

(Even Jesus is trying to figure out a way to convince these idiots to leave the flock.  I’ve heard He’s considering putting out a book that emphasizes his origins as a Jew, the fact that his skin is more black than white, & the unpopular reality that Mexicans are doing God’s work in the lawn care & carpentry industries.)

Here’s a picture of Mom & her Bible Beater, looking very normal about 25 years ago:

This was back when I’d just met him for the first time, they told me they were getting married . . .

And then he somehow worked it into the conversation that black men could “go all night long” with white women because of their scientifically unproven “lower body temperatures.”  He gave the impression this was a hot commodity with obese nymphos like his first beloved wife. 

I kept thinking that in his drunken state maybe he was confusing this with her desire to spend a long night with a big ol’ warm pan of brownies.  She’d keep saying, “No, honey!  That’s not what I meant!  Brownies!  BROWNIES!”

Anyway, due to the snide feelings regarding the black/white issue, at the rehearsal dinner I repeatedly mentioned how beautiful the bride & groom looked, how happy they appeared with one another.  It was utterly & completely true.  Plus, the joy I find in ball-busting is immeasurable & priceless.

Unfortunately we were unable to discuss the scientific conclusions of my step-father in his absence, nor their potential for a possible Nobel Peace Prize. 

I am hoping some big dude will eventually get him on all fours & consider all the RAM-ifications.

A Family Wedding ~ Part One

TWISTED TIP #101:  Happy occasions like weddings, specifically along side the dance floor, are inappropriate places to express your condolences to people who have recently lost a loved one.  It’s super tacky, uncomfortable and you just might get punched in the face.  No matter how much you think it might be a good idea, a way to get out of sending a sympathy card, just don’t do it.

* * * * *

We are back from a family wedding. 

The last one of these things I attended, I had a sudden vision of the groom brutally forcing his penis into the young bride’s mouth.  We were in a church and I felt like a wackjob for having such weird thoughts.  I felt creepily vindicated when the couple had separated by Christmas of the same year.  He was a real freak, it turns out, and my perv indicator was working on high frequency.

This wedding could not have been different.  The groom began to choke up and got tears in his eyes during the “I Do’s.”  It was magnificently perfect.

In both instances, the bride was quite beautiful.  In the long run, that doesn’t matter so much.  The choice of shoes and gown, although a big deal during the planning stages, matters so very little if your groom sucks.

However, the cake at this one was infinitely better than the other, so additional food points were added to the total tally.  I ate only a miniscule piece because I was afraid one of the hooks on my girdle might pop, starting a cascade of undergarment troubles that could send me careening around the room.

As for my family situation, in normal circumstance this event would have constituted the annual pilgrimage to hell, my personal appointment with the devil, time spent with Mary Lou, my mother.  Minimally, each year it would take the full 365 days for memories to fade & guilt to collect over missed holidays, before I began thinking “Maybe she’s not so bad, perhaps I’m over-reacting.”

This trip, however, was unusual due to the fact that everyone was together just a month ago at my brother’s funeral.  If anything, our family is more twisted than ever now that there are even fewer of us to despise one another.  Out of the basic unit, only females are left.  My sister opted out of the trip, which left . . . my mother and I.

In the name of all that is holy, fuck me.

Why did my sister cancel at the last minute?  It wasn’t a Harley rally and there was no mud wrestling scheduled.  The bride had all her teeth, she was not six months pregnant, her drug counselor did not stand up as the maid of honor.  She wore heels, her belly button did not make an appearance, she did not flick a cigarette butt into the bushes upon hearing the opening notes of the wedding march.  Where’s the excitement?

To top it off, sister and her boyfriend would have been sleeping in the same room as my mother.  When they spent the night together in a travel trailer recently (the Harley rally) boyfriend Mike could not sleep for fear my mother could possibly send a shart flying about said trailer.  Just as he would nod off he’d awaken to the rat-a-tat-tat escaping my mother’s broad & deadly ass.

There were a few minor points on which my mother and I agreed:

1.) The man wearing the all white suit did indeed appear to have a divining rod in his pants.  She pointed it out to me and I confirmed it.  This was surprising from the perspective that, although mom does not believe in inter-racial marriage, she is not above checking out a brother’s pocket rocket.

2.) Mom’s friend, Kay, ate a helluva lot of food.  Plates and plates full.  (My husband mentioned that both Mom and Kay went back and forth to the chocolate fountain enough times to leave a trail.)

3.) The macaroni & cheese served was quite tasty.

Other than that, there were a few problems.  But that’s for another entry . . .